The Murderer Invisible

by Philip Wylie

  As soon as she had given her order a bell boy knocked on the door. His arms were filled with bundles and he carried a huge basket of roses.

  “Miss Carpenter?”

  She had nothing with which to tip him. She smiled—it was only her face which looked around the door—and said, “You’ll have to set them down outside and come back in an hour for your tip.”

  He lifted his eyebrows slightly, shrugged, set down his burden. She waited until he was in the elevator and then hastily scooped the articles into her room.

  There were three notes from Baxter. One said that herewith were a few items of clothing to supplant her blasted wardrobe. Another that he had sent the matron to her room three times and decided that her period of sleep would last out the night. The third gave her a telephone number at which he could be reached in the morning.

  She opened the packages. That act was followed by two very definite emotions—one of delight at the completeness of the daytime costume and accessories Baxter had bought for her, and the other of annoyance that he should have so complete a knowledge of the inner and outer garments of womanhood.

  She had slept in a slip—one shoulder strap of which had been broken during her night of manual labor. Her dress was so badly torn and soiled that she realized only Baxter’s presence and efforts had gained her admission to the Clariena at all. She had had no hat.

  Here, however, were all the ingredients of the complete costume exquisitely folded in the bandboxes that bore the label of a fashionable couturier. Kayser silk underwear, a blue dress of crepe silk, a light coat with an attached cape of a darker color and a hat that matched it on top and was yellow underneath. A yellow necklace and bracelet. Stockings with a faint copper tinge. Dark copper shoes that were just a little too long and a very little too wide. Pajamas—yellow and purple—that was Baxter’s joke. She remembered guying him for wearing pajamas of those colors—and a yellow negligee. Mules. A pocket book in the blue of her coat with a canary colored clasp.

  She spread the clothes out on the bed. They were infinitely better than any she had ever possessed. The seams were tiny and hand sewn. The pleats were small and excruciatingly accurate. The label inside the hat bore a famous name and underneath it, “Rue de la Paix, Paris. Original model.” She began to imagine what she would be like when she wore them. No one on Fifth Avenue would be dressed more smartly, could walk with an ounce more of that poignant self-confidence which perfect clothes give to a woman.

  The last package contained a fitted over-night bag. Daryl had seen pictures of such treasuries of female beauty tools in magazines. Besides the regular matched fittings was a large bottle of Chanel’s Number 5, a small selection of cosmetics, a dozen handkerchiefs.

  She sighed. For one day she could be the perfectly appointed woman. She realized that it was unkind to allow herself to be the slightest bit jealous of Baxter’s intimate and complete knowledge of things. To the insinuations of that thought she shut her mind.

  Her breakfast arrived. Hastily, then, she put on the negligee. The tray was brought in. She signed the check and repeated her formula about tips to the waiter. The meal waited while she looked at the garment in the mirror. Then she ate hungrily.

  Sometime later the telephone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, darling. ’Tis I. I thought you’d never wake up.”

  “I’m sorry. But when I did, Santa Claus was outside the door. You shouldn’t have sent all those things. I can never pay you for them. And how you managed to get so near my size——”

  “Ah. Well—there’s a story about that.”

  “Story?”

  “Sure. Did you find your rather depressed dress of yesterday?”

  She glanced at the chair where she had left it. “No!”

  “Ah! The matron who inspected your slumbers filched it yesterday afternoon. By my orders. There’s a fellow who belongs to one of my clubs who runs a shop on Fifty-seventh Street. I went to him with the dress. ‘Raymond,’ I said, ‘there’s a girl at the Clariena who had the misfortune to lose everything she owns except the dress she had on in a fire yesterday and the dress she had on was somewhat damaged by her escape from aforesaid fire. If I brought it to you as a sort of guide to her figure et cetera, do you suppose you could slap something together that would put her in condition for a public appearance?’ I added a little more explanation and Raymond dug in with the scissors and the pins. Voila!”

  Daryl laughed—at him, at herself, at the clouded fancies which vanished with his story. “The things are heavenly.”

  “Good. If you’ll come down in them, we’ll forge out and fix you up with a shift.”

  “But——”

  “Don’t use the word ‘but’ early in the morning. You’re in the pay of Bromwell Baxter now. Secret agent. Tell you all about it.”

  “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes. Oh—could—that is—well—when the boy came up—I didn’t have——”

  Baxter’s interruption was amused and drawling. “I see. In fact. I foresaw. There is a pocket book in the dry goods?”

  “Yes.”

  “There you are. Hurry up.”

  “But——”

  Baxter had hung up. Daryl opened the pocket book. Her cheeks paled. Inside was a hundred dollar bill, two fifty dollar bills, ten ones, five dollars in change. She took the comb from the overnight bag and ran it through, her hair. The hum of the city came in from the window. Down stairs Baxter was waiting for her. Her breakfast had come up on a tray. A sunken tile tub in a modernistic bath. Thick carpets. Two hundred and fifteen dollars in cash in her pocket book. Paris clothes lying on the huge bed. Hers.

  She laughed unevenly and looked at herself in the mirror. “I can see—I can see clearly—why girls go wrong in the big city.”

  Baxter saw her first. Involuntarily, he ejaculated, “Good God!”

  He rose and went to meet her. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thanks to your elaborate and terrifying generosity.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “If I had a father he’d be asking you your intentions over the leveled barrel of a shotgun.”

  Baxter chuckled. “Honorable. Very honorable. I intend to keep you safely until a certain little difficulty we are aware of is allayed—and then that scenario of the Lido and Venice I talked about the other day—day before yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

  “Gee. It seems like a month ago.”

  “Hours crammed with incident. Well—the first part of our program is a little serious shopping.”

  “Serious? What did you call this?”

  “Froth.”

  “And what do we have to get? I’m all right.”

  “You can’t wear one dress for a month.”

  “Who said anything about a month?” He held the door open and they walked out on Fifth Avenue. “I’ve got to find some work right away.”

  “You’ve found some, young lady,” Baxter said.

  “Occupying a hotel room?”

  “Partly. Don’t you see that you and I only begin to function at this date. The first part of our acquaintanceship, while not exactly pastoral and static as far as employment is concerned, merely led up to this.”

  “You mean—my uncle?”

  “Exactly. We’ve got to be sure of him. We should never have let him get away.”

  “We couldn’t help it.”

  “No.” They waited for a traffic light. “Daryl—I mean what I’m going to say. I love you and I want to marry you—but until Carpenter is surely done in—you aren’t safe, I’m not safe. Not for an instant. I consider it at once my duty and my privilege to make sure what happened to him. Yesterday about dawn he disappeared into thin air. He may never come back. He may be dead. He may be right behind us now.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “And you’re important. He’ll come to you—or for you.”

  “Then why don’t I hide?”

  “Because until he comes—or
unless he comes—we’ll never be sure he still exists.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s a dreadful idea.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if you say so—I can put you where he would probably never find you.”

  She glanced at him. “You know I’d never do that.”

  “Yes. I know it. This getting of clothes—this settling down in New York—is a gesture. I want you to be as comfortable as you can be. Quibbling about the fact that I am spending my money to do it is nonsense. And that will end for all time the financial discussion. I want you to have some fun. Personally, I put a good time high on the list of human achievement. But we have also a purpose—the grim purpose of Miss Carpenter and Mr. Baxter which underlies the frivolity of their daily circuit of Manhattan.”

  “All right.”

  “Here is an emporium we might visit. What do you say?”

  She glanced at the façade of the store. “I say—good.”

  They had lunch at the Ritz. “You might as well begin your tour to-day,” Baxter had said. They sat together on the elevated part of the dining room. Half a dozen people nodded or spoke to Baxter. Daryl and he talked about what they had thought of each other during their first days at the Mortland farm. Afterward they continued the replenishing of her wardrobe. She was appalled at the number of things he insisted on having her buy. She could not know that he was carefully and gently introducing her to the world in which he had been born, to the attitude and customs of that world.

  For dinner, he took her down town to a restaurant on lower Fifth Avenue. After that they went to the motion pictures together. He said good night to her in the lobby.

  “I’m staying at the Ace Club. It’s the number I gave you in my note. If anything crosses your mind—or if you get lonesome—call me up. I could introduce you to a lot of people—but I don’t think we ought to get social quite yet.”

  When he had gone, she went up stairs in the elevator. Her room was filled with boxes and packages—the result of the day’s shopping. One by one she opened her purchases and put them away. Then she undressed and lay on the bed in the negligee. She was not sleepy. She was very happy. For an hour she lay thinking of him, or her life, of her strange adventures. Then she called down stairs and had a magazine sent up to her room.

  She opened it and began to read about clothes. She turned out every light except the one which was provided for reading. It was not very long after that when the voice spoke.

  “Daryl!”

  She knew the voice. Deep, resonant, powerful. In the room. She drew in a sharp breath. Her hands clutched the magazine to her. Her flesh crept. Her blood ran cold. That incredible, ghastly and imponderable thing—the voice speaking out of thin air—like God, like the devil—uncanny almost beyond human endurance—and here, in the quiet privacy of her bedroom.

  “Daryl!”

  Still she could not speak. He had come. He was standing there. He had found her. He was alive. He was invisible!

  “Daryl!”

  Not to scream. Not to do anything wrong. Yet to protect herself. To talk to a thing she could not see.

  “Daryl!”

  “I hear you. You have no right in here. Get out!”

  The sound of his cold laughter. “Not any more. No one can force me to leave—because no one can see me.”

  “Go away. I’m sick with fear. I can’t stand it. I’m going to scream—now!”

  She opened her mouth. There was a rustle on the floor and a hand was pressed against her lips. She caught the arm above it. Her senses reeled.

  “Will you be quiet?”

  “Anything——” she panted—“to—keep you from touching me.”

  “Ah? Once it was the sight of me that was revolting. Now it is the touch.”

  She lifted herself on trembling elbows. “Go away from me.” She began to sob. “Are you mad? Do you think that a woman would—would—would even be able to bear having you in the room with her?”

  “You are very lovely. You tempt me——” She felt his weight touch the edge of the bed and lashed out in its direction. She struck nothing.

  Again he laughed and at length he said, “Here. I’ll sit in the chair. I came to talk to you.”

  “What—what do you want?”

  “You.”

  “I’d rather die in torment—a thousand times——”

  “You’ll become accustomed to me. In fact——”

  She had picked up the telephone.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to put it down.”

  She replaced it without replying.

  “Now.” She could hear him breathe. “Now. I want you to come with me. I wanted to apologize for what I was compelled to do the other night. I hated to lay hands on you—but what else could I do. You and Baxter—by the way—I’ve seen him.”

  “Seen him!”

  “Oh, yes. I spent some time within arm’s reach of him. He’s been very open handed with you, eh?”

  “He’ll kill you!”

  “It is much more likely, my dear, that I will kill him. A point I meant to mention. I’m not a jealous man. But you are mine. And this mawkish courtship you and he are carrying on must stop. I hate to threaten a person with whom you are infatuated, but I’m afraid that if you see him much in the future—I’ll be compelled to leave his body lying about somewhere.”

  Daryl’s face was ghastly. “And you think that, after a thing like that—I would do anything but kill you, too, on sight.”

  “On sight. Really, a rather profound pleasantry.”

  She turned her face to the pillow. Shudders racked her. His voice continued.

  “This little visit will be a lesson to you. I am not quite ready for you. But my ardent heart could not be deprived of the pleasure of seeing you. Baxter has set you up rather well. But I hope you will convey my warning to him. If he continues to trespass on my property—I shall regret the necessity but I shall not restrain the act of undoing him.

  “Remember—I am above mortal law!”

  There was a silence. She turned over, staring wildly around the room. Suddenly she felt a kiss on her forehead.

  “See you soon—although you can scarcely say the same for me. Good night, my love.”

  The door to the hall opened, seemingly of its own accord. Then it shut. Through the transom came a voice.

  “Again—good night.”

  She tottered to the door, shut the transom, locked it. Then she went back to the bed and picked up the telephone. Soon she was connected with the Ace Club.

  “Mr. Baxter, please.”

  A pause. “Not in.”

  “Is there any way I can reach him?”

  “Who is this, please.”

  “Miss Carpenter.”

  “Just a minute. Yes. I can have him call back.”

  An eternity of trembling minutes. Finally the ring of the bell.

  “Hello—Daryl!”

  “He’s been here!”

  “I thought so.”

  “Oh—sweetheart——”

  “Hold on! Hang onto yourself. He’s gone?”

  “I—I think so. Oh—I thought they’d never reach you.”

  “I was in the hall on your floor of your hotel.”

  “What!”

  “Waiting to see if you came out—apparently alone.”

  “You knew!”

  “I guessed he would come.”

  “But then—why——”

  “Because, dear, I was afraid to tell you my plan. I was afraid to let you know to what extent you were being—bait. Love and duty—the old war of the heart and head. I had to be sure he was alive.”

  “He was—near you to-day.”

  Baxter’s voice was more tense, more grim. “I didn’t dare stay close enough to your door to hear anything. He was near me, eh?”

  “He said so.”

  “Bad.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Still on your floor. I have a room here. If you want me to, I’ll dr
op in——”

  “Want you to! Hurry!”

  “The proprieties——”

  “I said hurry. And be careful in that hall.”

  “Good girl. When I knock, open the door about one inch.”

  CHAPTER 6

  REVENGE IS SWEET

  Baxter’s knock came almost immediately. She opened the door a little way, as he had instructed. His hand came through, the crack widened, he squeezed his body into the room and instantly pressed the portal shut behind him.

  “I guess he didn’t follow me then. The way he did the bell-boy with the magazine.”

  “Oh—darling—if you had been here——”

  Baxter embraced her in a way that was at once tender and businesslike. He was a person whose emotions never became absolutely embogged; the fact was no reflection on his feeling for Daryl—it showed him, rather, a man predominated by intellect. Had he said, “This is no time for loving,” he would have been a man who contained certain stupidities. What he did had neither rapture nor fatuity in it; his arms were for the time being a physical support and an immense moral comfort.

  Afterward he led her back to the bed, spread the quilt over her, and sat down in a chair. Without being told, she realized his mental state and the state which she should try to induce in herself. It was not easy. Her nerve ends were crawling inside her flesh. Her tongue was disobedient. Those emotions were physical and they were complicated by an inward puzzling over his behavior. He sensed that, and presently commenced to explain.

  His tone was easy and bland. The expressions he chose held his ordinary mocking good humor. “I’ve been hanging out in the room down the hall since you came. I thought I was furnishing adequate protection. But the thing you keep forgetting in dealing with invisible men—don’t shed a tear—is that you can’t see them. I didn’t dare hang around your door—but I left mine open and fixed a mirror so that I could see who and what came and went. If it had opened by itself—I brightly thought—I’d jam out in the hall and form a relief squad of one. I never suspected that the bell boy had a seven foot man up his sleeve.

  “Of course, I didn’t know that he’d come. I just thought he would. And now I’m troubled about things. For instance, I’ve exposed you to a shock—and——”