The Murderer Invisible

by Philip Wylie

  She stood in his second laboratory. No effort had been made to secure any effect—even the effect of cleanliness. There was a long bench, a jumble of unarranged apparatus, a dirty cement floor, a smell of chlorine.

  “We’ll go up stairs,” said the voice at her side. She nodded acquiescence.

  The rooms on the third floor were not unlike those in Sinkak. They were comfortably furnished—although these lacked the grace lent by Mrs. Treadle’s care. Carpenter said, “My new home.”

  “It seems nice enough.” She found that if she did not try to see him, it was easier to talk to him.

  “You are welcome in it.”

  “Thank you. Is Baxter here?”

  “No. I lied to you about him.”

  “I thought so. At first I believed you. But after a minute—I didn’t.”

  He made no immediate response.

  She said, “Well——?”

  “I suppose you will want to know why I brought you?”

  “One is curious.”

  “Sarcasm on pretty lips.” He laughed. “I’m sorry. I brought you here, Daryl, because I could not live without you. Because I love you.”

  She did not reply and presently felt his hand on her arm. Instantly she recoiled.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “But——”

  “Not yet. Not now.”

  “Not yet—” he repeated.

  “Of course not yet. What do you think I am? You say you love me. You say you want me. What have you ever done to make me care for you? Certainly getting yourself into the shape you are in is not calculated to woo the tender heart of a girl——”

  “You mean—” his voice trembled.

  “I mean that I’ve known all along how you feel about me. But a woman like myself cannot tolerate this tyranny, this physical conquest”—she fought desperately for grounds—“and for myself, I’m not certain. I liked Baxter. I liked you. He was kind to me and considerate. A woman appreciates those things. You were cruel and rough. A woman hates that. Do you understand?”

  “I had no choice——”

  “Perhaps not. How can I tell? And now you are invisible. What must I think of that? Do you realize that, aside from making you great, it also makes you superficially very terrible? You bring me by force and false strategy to this place. You tell me you love me. Very well. You can force your attention on me. You are stronger. I am caught in a net—the net of your arms and your ability to move where I cannot follow.”

  “But—Daryl——”

  “I know. You have aims, ambitions, ideals. You tried to force them upon me. Your confidences were all those of a wild man—not the expressed hopes of a gentleman. You frightened me then—and you still frighten me. I am here—as you are always saying yourself with that gloating mysteriousness of yours. Well—I’m here. You can chain me here. You can beat me. You can do anything you wish. But a man of your great attainments—a man of your fine idealism—a man of your understanding of the greater principles of life should be susceptible to the understanding of the smaller ones.”

  “You mean that?” She was saying the things he had told himself he would make her some day believe—the things he had secretly doubted she would ever believe.

  “Of course I do. Will you let me go now?”

  “No,” he thundered.

  She laughed bitterly. “See? How do you know that I want to go?”

  “Don’t bait me!”

  “I’m not. It’s you who are baiting me. You are stupid, unkind. You think you can take anything—but some things in this world must be created—not taken. All I want you to realize is that you cannot force me to anything. You could kill me, you could vanquish me physically—what satisfaction would that be to a man like you, a man with a mind like yours? I would be the same as any girl whom you stole from the streets and victimized. It is that difference I wish to maintain. Do you see?”

  “You are glorious,” he said.

  “Then treat me so. No. Go away from me! I would be glad to remain here as your prisoner—if you think that is necessary. Glad to be given a chance to know you better. But if you love me, then you must teach me to care for you—not attack me or grab at me from the cloak of your invisibility. That only makes me fear. Let me have time to become accustomed to you—can’t I make you see?” She folded her hands and lifted a tearful face. It was radiant with a smile of pitiful holiness, of heartfelt supplication.

  Daryl had brought her acting to a climax. She had behaved as she imagined the heroines of his story-book youth had behaved. She had been sweet and contrite and full of pathetic urgencies. And she had measured Carpenter’s greatest weakness to the dot. She exhibited the same tendencies he expected the whole world to exhibit when it had suffered sufficiently at his hands: a chastised and willing resignation to his superiority. And he became pontifical and beneficent toward her as he counted on becoming toward the world.

  She heard his heavy breathing before he answered. “I see. Daryl—let us be friends.”

  Again that eager smile. “You are improving, William.”

  “Wonderful woman that you are—you have shown——”

  “I’m not wonderful. There are others like me.”

  “None,” Carpenter murmured. “A kiss then, to seal it.”

  She shook her head. “Some day, perhaps. Not now.”

  She could feel the pressure of his hesitation. “You are right,” he said humbly. “I am a fool.”

  And he was.

  That evening he took care of her. Fatuity leaked from him—a fatuity that Daryl encouraged with all the strength of her new-found assurance. She led him toward destruction with every wile that she possessed. They fixed up “her room.” He made fantastic promises of the house they would some day share. They talked about his future greatness. And when at last he locked her into the room it was with the words, “Just so I won’t lie awake thinking you’ve changed your mind.”

  She answered. “That’s right. I like to feel that you want me.”

  She even managed to sleep a little before morning. Her thoughts were fiery and intricate. She was shocked and amused by the ease with which her audacity had held him at bay. Little knowledge of women, years in the laboratory, a fundamental philosophy of life based on adolescent dreams—that was as much a part of him as all the parade of his clinical intellect. Blue eyes, blonde hair, red lips—they had threatened other empires. Daryl was, perhaps, the last woman to believe it.

  She knew that the struggle with Carpenter would be ceaseless, that her chances of victory were slender, that Baxter would be in agony from the moment he learned of her disappearance, that the whole colossal drama rooted in this shadowy house was by no means near to any sure climax—but for the first time since the night after her last at Sinkak she felt a return of self-confidence.

  Baxter arrived at Quail’s house like a man brought by anger from his grave. He passed Amy without seeing her and stalked to the study. Quail was waiting for him. Sorrow was in his features. He did not smile at his former pupil and gestured toward a chair. Baxter dropped into it.

  “Shoot, Howie.”

  “Last night, before dinner——”

  “Good God! Last night!”

  “I’ve been trying to get you ever since——”

  “I know. I was out of the hotel.”

  The Professor sighed. “Not that. Couldn’t arrange for a connection. Lines jammed. Well—she came down from her room—with a hat on—and said she was going for a little walk.”

  “Agitated?”

  “Didn’t notice. We’ve considered it safe—for a block or two in the vicinity. You can’t stay in doors all the time in weather like this——”

  “Go on.”

  “She went out the door and never came back.”

  “What did you do?”

  “When half an hour passed, I became uneasy. Went out and asked everyone if they had seen a girl in a blue and yellow hat. The boy who sells papers at the corner said he thought he had. Sai
d he saw a lady get into a cab. Said she was very pale and looked scared—so that was why he remembered.”

  “He was with her!”

  Quail shrugged. “The boy didn’t know the number of the cab—and couldn’t remember what kind it was or whether it had turned down town or gone on up. I came back. I notified the police.” He smiled ruefully. “They asked me if I was crazy—informing them of a missing person at a time like this.”

  “As bad as that?”

  “Things in town are indescribable. I put the call in to you. And I went over the house—you understand?”

  “Yes,” Baxter said dully. “Find anything?”

  “I did. At the top of the hall landing, on the edge of the long carpet, was a little slice of soap. The end-product of much washing. Amy had been at the painted mop-boards to-day and the soap had escaped her vigilance. Across it were a number of curved, parallel, lines. The soap took a good impression because it was still moist. A glance with the reading glass was enough. There was grime in them, too. Been made by his bare foot—beyond doubt.”

  Baxter’s voice was low. “Then—he was in here——”

  “Obviously.”

  “With her when she went out.”

  “Probably.”

  “Why didn’t she do—something—say something——”

  Quail smiled. “The first thought. And the first answer—to spare my life.”

  “What!”

  “She was afraid he would attack me.”

  “Oh. Gritty—even then.”

  “But”—and Quail spoke softly and kindly—“I don’t believe that was the real reason she didn’t cry out.”

  “What then?”

  “Because—you see—she had found him. And she thought, maybe—take it easy, Cannonball—that if she went along—eventually—she could put us or some one on the trail—you see?”

  “But——”

  “By submitting—by giving in—by——”

  Baxter’s face was ashen. His lips were as dry as a corpse’s. His tongue circled them.

  “If that ever happens—” he began.

  “Was there any alternative? Could we suggest a scheme?”

  “No.”

  “Did we find any trace of him—anywhere?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t something more at stake than—well—herself, boy?”

  Baxter choked. “Yes.”

  “And couldn’t you look on it as——”

  “As what?”

  “Is your love for that girl so damn small——”

  Baxter’s head sank on his breast. “No, Howie. I hope not. Perhaps this—this feeling I have is because I lack the courage to consider doing the same thing.”

  “There are some deeds the valor of which escapes most men. I see that you appreciate—” his voice died away.

  Suddenly Baxter was on his feet.

  “Howie! What in the name of God Above are we sitting here killing time for? Come on.” He snatched up the telephone. He jiggled the hook for several moments before he was answered. “Operator! Get this right. I want a call put in to the President of the United States. Yes, that’s right. Now, listen. I suppose many people are trying to call him. Get this. My name is Bromwell Baxter. Baxter. B-A-X-T-E-R. Tell the operator in Washington and the operator at the White House to get my name through. The President will speak to me at once. This call is important. It has to do with everything that is going on. Understand?’”

  It was not much later—Baxter had thrown his third cigarette into the cold ashes of the fireplace—when the phone rang.

  “Hello!” No answer. “Hello—oh, for God’s sake, hello! Excuse me, Mr. President. Baxter speaking. I’m in New York. Call came immediately after I left the White House. Took a plane. Yes. Good time. Well—I have no definite news—but I have a clue. I think I may get something out of it. I need your backing. I wonder if you would send by plane a man with credentials which will give me carte blanche for any condition or situation here in New York? You will! Praise God.

  “I’m at—what the devil is the number, Quail?” He repeated it. “Thank you, Mr. President. Pardon this informality. Yes. Yes. That’s kind of you. Yes. I’ll wait here. And if anything happens—the honors you mentioned won’t be due to me, Mr. President. No. No. To a girl. Good-bye, sir.”

  Baxter hung up.

  “Now—Quail—we’ve got to wait. And that is going to be sheer hell.”

  CHAPTER 9

  FINAL WARNING

  Four days had passed and nothing had happened. For all Baxter could discover, Daryl might be lying somewhere dead. His was not the sort of militant and martyring Victorianism which considered that she would be better dead. But to him it seemed that the possibilities of surviving the frightful ordeal to which she had submitted herself were small. He thought of her as a girl—never as a woman. The difference is considerable.

  Carpenter had made no move, uttered no public pronounciamento, disturbed no person or property. Guessing the reason for that was simple—to Baxter. The invisible man was having his diabolic honeymoon somewhere—in the world.

  In the afternoon of the day Baxter had returned from Washington a deputy from the President had arrived at Professor Quail’s house with the papers required. At police headquarters Baxter was introduced and later he was presented to the military authorities in the city. The powers given to him by the President were broad. He used them immediately to complete the work he had commenced—a thorough checkup of every one who knew Carpenter, of every firm with which he had dealt, a microscopic search of those places, an examination of their books and records, a careful series of interviews. The yield of this winnowing was nothing at all.

  Baxter and the men whom he directed had talked with scores of persons who had known Carpenter or known about him. Many of those people were extremely difficult to locate, as a large proportion of Manhattan’s inhabitants had taken refuge outside the city during or after the days of terrorism. The searchers had found Carpenter’s Sinkak address in many files, as well as the addresses of former residences—but an investigation of those places was fruitless. The invisible man had used great cunning and foresight in eradicating traces of himself.

  On the morning of the fourth day Baxter’s discouragement was absolute. He had exhausted his patience and his highly charged battery of nervous energy. At eleven o’clock, alone in Quail’s study, he made a series of telephone calls to his various assistants, accepted their blank replies with a morbid nonchalance, and when he had finished, he helped himself to a half tumbler of straight whiskey.

  He followed the first drink with a second and a third of equal proportions. As the liquor permeated his body, numbing his mind, relieving his taut nerves, the activities of the past weeks took on the aspect of a bad dream.

  Quail found him sitting on the couch, his feet stretched out on the seat of a chair, a glass in his hand.

  “How are you, Howie?”

  “What in hell are you doing?”

  “Having a drink, just a little drink—” he waved his hand and began to sing the words.

  Quail sat down slowly. “Give me that liquor, Bombshell.”

  The younger man shook his head. “Nix, nay and no, Howie. Leave me alone with my thoughts and my beverage.”

  “Come on, old egg. You shouldn’t do that now.”

  “Not now? Why postpone it? Don’t put off anything to to-morrow that you can possibly do to-day. Lemme tell you something. Amusing story. Just thought it up this minute. Of course—it’s impossible. Couldn’t take place—but amusing, nevertheless. It seems there was a pretty blonde girl named Daryl Carpenter. Nice name for a girl, don’t you think? And it seems there was an invisible man——”

  “Baxter! Come out of it!”

  The other man shook his head and blinked owlishly. “You see? I predicated your gross and insulting incredulity. I proceed. An invisible man. Great scientist. Great mind. Touch of megalo—megalo—can’t say it, Howie, but take it for granted that he was t
ouched with—that he was touched. Put it that way. Well, it seems this invisible man whom we will call Mephisto for want of a better name was very fond of blowing things up. You’d be sitting peacefully in your solarium under the rays of your vitaglass windows or your vitamine lamp when all of a sudden—whango! Up you’d go, Howie. Up.

  “Bango! Smoke and fire! Ploppo! Old man Carp—beg pardon—old man Mephisto—would have stuck an invisible cannon cracker beneath the sweet pea enclustered trellises of your porch-o. Suppose you were in love, Howie. What would happen under the prevailing circumstances which I have so wittily evolved? What, indeed, you may well ask. I shall inform you. Your girl would snag off with the invisible man. And you would be left in the cold.”

  “That’s absolutely lousy, Baxter,” Quail said.

  “Isn’t it?” He helped himself to another drink. “The Scotch in these diggings is of a superior sort.”

  Quail stood. “Go ahead.”

  “Seriously—what else is there to do?”

  That question could not be answered. The Professor went wearily down the stairs. His wife was sitting in the front room, staring out the window. She smiled at him.

  “Hasn’t Bromwell gone to bed yet? He was up all night.”

  He shook his head. “No. He’s not in bed. He’s sitting in my study getting soused.”

  “Howard!”

  “My dear, under the circumstances, I think it’s the very best thing he could do.”

  “You don’t mean that!”

  “I do. For ten days he scoured the town in that disguise of his. Quixotic—and useless. For the last four days he has been nearly crazy. Just now—he’s feeling a little bit sorry for himself. I might say that he was maudlin. I bawled him out—but I was never more glad to see a man in that condition in my life. Instead of going crazy, or dropping in his tracks, he’ll sleep off the booze and wake up feeling like the devil—but ready to go on again. It’s like letting an athlete break training when he gets too fine.”

  “It’s tragic.”

  “Tragic? I presume it is. There are a good many tragedies taking place these days for the same reason.”