Don Diavolo saw the figure on the bed and the dark, turbaned form beside it in a split instant before his feet parted company with the floor. His body arched in a long curve above Woody.
He glimpsed the gun rising in Shivara’s hand as he sailed through space, then felt the solid thump as he connected. The force of the impact bent Shivara in the middle like a hinge. Both men caromed off the side of the bed and bounced against the floor.
Don, underneath on the first bounce, twisted his body with a quick heave of his shoulders and came down on top the second time around. His fingers clamped around the wrist of Shivara’s gun hand.
He grinned — for exactly one quarter of a second.
He stopped because he heard a voice say, “When you guys get through playing hopscotch, you can give me some attention.”
Don’s head jerked around. Karl Hartz stood just inside the door with his hands in the air. He was staring into the business end of an enormous blue steel automatic. Behind it there was a little man whose hard bony face was every bit as ugly and threatening as the gun itself.
There was no argument as to who held the whip hand.
Don obeyed orders. He stood up and joined Karl and Woody against the wall. The Hindu pulled himself slowly to his feet, breathing heavily from the impact that had taken all his wind.
He gave Don one long dirty look and then wasted no more time on him. He took a gun from his pocket and turned to face the motionless figure of the man on the bed. Don’s eyes gauged the distance to Shivara’s back, rested for a moment on the steady hand that held the big automatic, calculated his chances, and got a result of zero.
He could only wait.
Shivara said, “And now, VanRyn, you’ll decode the message inscribed on the dagger you took from the temple at Lahore. It led you to the true site of Alexander’s treasure. Since you decoded it once, I have no doubt that I could do it again. But I have been unable thus far to obtain the knife.”
VanRyn’s voice was weak, his face pale beneath his tan. “The inscription is nothing more than a Buddhist prayer to Vishnu, written in the Pali language and added by the Temple priests.”
“You lie,” Shivara said flatly. “That knife was once part of Alexander’s hoard. The inscription, purposely garbled, tells exactly where the knife was found.
“You went directly from Lahore to Bahawalpur and thence into the Derawar desert. When your luggage was searched at Bombay, passages in your notebooks told us that you had found certain objects that could have come only from Susa and Persepolis. Because you could not bring your find out alone, you left it there.
“With a translation of that inscription and a radio-induction divining device similar to the one you used, I can find it again. I want—”
A shrill penetrating sound from outside brought Shivara to a sudden stop. Low at first, but rising rapidly, it came — the high whine of a police car’s siren!
Shivara swung around. His gun pointed at Diavolo, and for a second that seemed as long as time itself he hesitated. Don braced himself to meet the shot he was sure would come.
Then the Hindu snarled. “You win — for the moment. But I don’t think it will last. Once the Inspector arrests you, I shall be free to—”
The gunman cut in on him. “Are we going, or aren’t we?”
Shivara nodded, turned and marched quickly down the corridor. His hired man followed, backing out. Then, after the Hindu, he quickly sidestepped through the door at the hall’s end and slammed it behind him.
Don, Woody and Karl surged forward together down the corridor. Don shouted, “Hey, Doc! Watch it!”
Dr. Bent heard the cry, but Shivara’s gun was already on him. A second later the other man stepped up and brought the butt of his gun down on the doctor’s head in a neat efficient manner that spoke of long practice.
Diavolo yanked at the door and found it locked. Woody backed and threw himself against it. Then he shook his head. “No soap. It’s at right angles to the corridor. I can’t get enough of a start.”
Don dropped swiftly on one knee before the door, picklocks in hand. He fumbled hastily at the keyring that held them, failed to find the one he wanted, said “Damn!” and looked again.
He got it this time, a slender L-shaped piece of metal that he inserted quickly into the lock. He probed cautiously, handling the instrument with the swift, sure, but delicate precision of a surgeon using a scalpel. A good up-to-date lock company had taken considerable pains to make that particular model pick-proof and they had done a pretty fair job. A long minute passed before the magician finally gave a final careful twist and heard the bolt inside move over. He pushed the door in.
Woody raced through, hurdled Bent’s body and vanished beyond the door.
Don turned to Karl who had started to follow, caught him by the arm and said, “No. You stay with VanRyn. Church doesn’t want your scalp.”
He added a few more rapid words of explanation — words that made Karl’s eyes bulge, and then was gone.
The siren outside that howled like an angry malevolent banshee was near now. Don sprinted after Woody in a mad pounding dash toward the big red Packard on the corner.
To the girl who stood on the sidewalk by the car, Woody said, “In with you, Pat! Church is on the warpath. And I’m wanted for murder!”
She hesitated and started to object, “But wait—”
Woody said, “No. Mickey will have to take a bus. We haven’t got time—” He took her arm and swung her aboard as Don kicked desperately at the starter.
The big car jerked forward and swerved around the corner just as the howling siren rose in a last shriek and the Inspector’s big black Lincoln shot into the street behind them.
Three of the red car’s occupants breathed audible sighs of relief. But then the girl spoke and Woody knew that once again he had failed in the nearly impossible task of distinguishing between the twins. This was not Pat, but Mickey!
“Pat,” she said. “Where is she? I was in the drugstore phoning. When I came out she was gone!”
Don Diavolo, hearing that, knew without benefit of any crystal ball that Patricia Collins had left her post because she could not help it — because Shivara and the gunman had taken her!
Every squad car in town would be searching for Shivara by now, but they would be looking just as hard for Woody and Don. They would be very lucky indeed if they could go as much as half a dozen blocks in the big Packard whose flaming red paint job was known to every cop on the force.
A half dozen blocks — if they only could get that far and if Don’s hunch that he knew where Shivara would go was right …
Don turned another corner and the car leaped forward.
CHAPTER XIII
The Great Indian Rope Trick
“WOODY,” Don said, “You bail out as we go past the front door. I’ll cut around into Sixtieth Street and watch the service entrance and that library window. If he’s here, maybe we can trip him up on the way out.”
Don braked the car long enough for Woody to drop safely off and then pulled hard on the wheel and skidded around into the side street.
“You’re staying here, Mickey,” he commanded as the car screeched to a stop. “The landing party may get a warm reception. I hope so. Because if Shivara isn’t here, we’re sunk.”
But Shivara was there. Don went in the service door and through the kitchen. A white-faced butler peered from behind a cellar door.
“The Hindu’s in there with a gun,” he quavered. “He’s locking Mr. Sayre, the lieutenant and the detectives in the collection room.”
Just as Don reached to arm himself with a carving knife he heard the running footsteps coming toward him. The butler’s head popped back into his hole faster than a groundhog who has just seen his shadow.
Diavolo flattened himself against the wall. As Shivara ran out, Don thrust out his foot and caught the Hindu’s leg. The man stumbled, swerved, half righted himself and brought up his gun. But Don was already on him. The magician’s right a
rm hooked around Shivara’s throat and Don let himself fall in a jiu-jitsu roll that sent his antagonist spinning.
The gun exploded once and then Diavolo’s right hand reached it and with a quick twist tore it from the slenderer man’s grasp. Don rolled over on to his feet.
Shivara looked up into the round muzzle of the gun and said, “Om vajra—”
Don fired, just above the Hindu’s head at the tall stack of dishes on a table. They showered down around him.
“No, you don’t. One more word like that out of you and I’m going to find out if those powers of concentration of yours are strong enough to shed bullets. You shouldn’t have come back after that dagger. Get up! We’re going in and release Brophy; you’re going to hand over the dagger, and then—”
Don jumped as the door behind him swung open with a crash. His finger tightened on the trigger.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said as Woody tumbled in with the Horseshoe Kid behind him. “You’re late. The party is over.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Shivara’s voice said suddenly. “Unless you put that gun down at once and let me leave, you will not see your young assistant, Miss Collins, again. I rather thought she might prove useful.”
Diavolo hesitated a bare second, hoped Shivara hadn’t noticed it, and said confidently, “That’s his last card, Woody. But what he thinks is an ace is only the joker. Go get Brophy.”
Woody went out and Don, still careful to keep the gun centered on Shivara’s wishbone, crossed the kitchen to a window. His left hand picked up a plate and sailed it at the window pane.
“Pat!” he called through the gaping jagged hole that appeared in the glass. “Come in here!”
Shivara blinked and Don said nothing more until Mickey appeared.
“You see,” he said then. “You can’t drive a bargain like that. You’ve nothing to bargain with. We’ve got Pat. And that ugly-looking pal of yours got a bullet where you’ll get one if you don’t behave.”
It worked. Shivara wilted visibly. That had been his last card and Don had trumped it.
Brophy with a bandaged shoulder, Woody, and two other detectives hurried in.
They had handcuffs on Woody and they took Don’s prisoner off his hands. Brophy had a good notion to handcuff Don too, but the latter talked fast. “For one thing,” he said, “you know darned well I’d take them right off again. And besides Church wouldn’t like it. A lot of water has gone under a lot of bridges since we saw you last. I think we’d better get him.
Diavolo saw a phone on the kitchen wall. He lifted the receiver and put his finger above the dial. “Shivara,” he said calmly. “Church is still down there having your pal boxed up and shipped out. What’s the phone number?” Don held his breath as he waited. It was a long chance at best. If Pat and the gunman had merely been told to cruise around and wait, then Shivara would catch wise, or if Church arrived too soon …
The Hindu’s sharp eyes probed Don’s. A hint of suspicion crept into his glance.
But Brophy tipped the balance. He stepped up to the man and gave him a sharp crack across the face with his good hand. “Talk!” he commanded. “Or do you want me to rough you up? I can do it even with a bum arm and it would be more fun.”
Shivara talked. “Central Park 9-6657.”
Don grinned as he turned to the phone. His fingers flew around the dial. Finally he heard Ugly Face at the other end.
Don’s imitation of Shivara’s smooth accents was so good it made Brophy jump, wondering if maybe the magician wasn’t Shivara’s astral double in disguise.
“Bring the girl at once,” Don ordered. “Meet me at Fifth and Seventieth. Hurry!”
He dropped the receiver and turned to Brophy. “Get the idea, Lieutenant? I want a gun and a man or two. I’m going to be waiting for Shivara’s pal and take Pat off his hands.”
Brophy had to agree. “It looks like your party,” he said.
Diavolo pointed toward Shivara. “Don’t, for Pete’s sake, take your gun off that guy for as much as half a minute. You’ll regret it.” Then as he went out he told the still puzzled Hindu, “You aren’t the only one who has an astral double. My Western imitation magic as you call it can also play at that game.” He indicated Mickey. “This young lady has one too — and a much better-looking one than yours!”
Inspector Church arrived a few moments later, Karl Hartz and a bandaged Dr. Bent with him. The siren of his car was going full blast as he drove up. It expressed the way Church felt. He had heard a story from Ted VanRyn that he did not like at all. He didn’t like it because there were big pieces of it that he didn’t understand.
Ted VanRyn had told him, first, that he couldn’t understand how the report of his death had arisen, that he had, throughout the past year, written letters to Judith Allison regularly. It had not been until a few weeks ago that he had come down out of the desert and discovered that letters from her which he expected to find waiting him at Bombay were not there.
Shivara, he said, was the agent for a Central Asian Fascist party that was gathering forces in northwest India with the intention of taking over India, Turkestan, Tibet and Western China while Britain and the other powers had their hands full with trouble at home.
Other agents, suspecting that he had discovered Alexander’s buried hoard, had followed him from India and reported in New York to Shivara. He had lost them en route to the Winfield Hotel but Richards had answered the phone when he had tried to call Miss Allison and, he realized now, had apparently tipped off Shivara. Anyone, having the phone number, could phone back, hear the switchboard girl say “Hotel Winfield” and know where he was.
After his attacker had stabbed him, Delaney had put his head in at the door and gotten knocked out. The Hindu, after that, had left in a hurry and failed to make sure that VanRyn, playing ’possum, was dead. He had taken the dagger.
And VanRyn, so as to avoid being finished off, had had to let him go. But he knew that once they found that the inscription on the dagger was coded, that as soon as they found he was still alive, they would be after him again. He knew that they would stop at nothing, that even a hospital would not be safe.
The only safety — at least until he had recovered enough from his wound to defend himself — lay in vanishing so completely that they could not know for sure that he was alive nor where he was.
He had bandaged his wound with his extra shirt and had managed to escape from the hotel inconspicuously. He had reached a taxi and a refuge at Dr. Bent’s before he keeled over.
VanRyn had told Inspector Church all this and then one thing more — one thing that the Inspector knew, as he marched again into the Sayre house, was going to give him gray hairs. But he had no more time to puzzle over it just then.
When he saw Brophy with the gun trained on the subdued Shivara, his eyes popped. He eyed Woody and Mickey and looked around for Don. Failing to see that thorn in his flesh, he bellowed. “Brophy, what has been going on here and where is that magician?”
Lieutenant Brophy told him in detail. He was just finishing when Don returned, bringing Pat and a thoroughly sat-upon gunman, securely handcuffed.
Church had never before seen Pat and Mickey side by side without the brunette wig that one of the girls customarily wore to conceal their likeness from the public eye.
He choked. “Have you — have you gone in for astral doubles too?”
Don grinned at him cheerfully. “Sure. Why not? I had to meet Shivara’s competition. I hated to let you in on the secret of the twins, but Pat was in a tough spot. Inspector, meet her sister Mickey.”
It was Brophy who spoke up then as he got a good look at the handcuffed prisoner. “Well! Well!” he said. “My old friend Monk Schneyder, the best second-story man in the business. I’m glad to see you on a couple of counts. You’ll get ten years for each of them.”
And Mickey recognized Monk too. “That’s our burglar!” she exclaimed. “The man who was listening in our upper hall this afternoon and who jumped out the window on
to Detective O’Hearn!”
“Good,” Don said. “That explains the first of Mr. Siddahshivara’s little parlor tricks. The secret is simple now. Monk here followed Sayre and Richards this afternoon when they came to take up my ten thousand dollar challenge. Then, on orders from Shivara, Monk did a little eavesdropping. He reported back to his boss what he heard and who we were. And Shivara, when we arrived, had no trouble at all in penetrating our aliases. Concentration of the mind, my eye!”
Inspector Church looked at Diavolo with a faint hope in his eyes. “That explains the first of his parlor tricks,” he repeated. “You sound awfully cocky. Maybe you can explain a couple more of them?”
The Inspector got his wish. Diavolo replied, “Yes, I think maybe I can. It’s about time I rolled up my sleeves and took some rabbits out of the old hat of a sort that will keep Sayre from collecting my ten thousand dollars. I need it worse than he does. Shivara made a brass poker move without visible cause, he projected a thought-image or astral double of himself, and he faded into invisibility in front of the Inspector. Good tricks, all of them, but still tricks. And I think I can duplicate them.”
Don Diavolo bowed as if he were beginning his routine of streamlined sorcery on the stage of the Manhattan Music Hall. Then he made a mystic pass before the Inspector and intoned, “Om vajra guru padma siddhi hum!”
Church scowled, “What the hell is this?”
Don ignored him. “Inspector,” he said. “Watch my feet. I am going to float in midair. I am rising now slowly. There is an inch of space between my feet and the floor. I float higher, higher. There is a foot of space—”
Church interrupted. “Are you completely crazy?”
Don, whose feet were still solidly on the floor, merely said, “Oh. Then it doesn’t last indefinitely. The effect has worn off.” Before Church could stop him he had turned and hurried into the library.
He came back a second later carrying the water carafe from Sayre’s desk and a glass. He poured out a glass of water. “Inspector,” he said. “Drink this.” Church looked at it. “I will not. How do I know what you’ve put in it?” “I’ve put nothing in it,” Don insisted. “You drank some before, when you were in there questioning Shivara just before he vanished. It’s the same stuff now. Here, Pat. You’ve let me saw you in two and chop off your head. You trust me. Drink it and show Church there’s no cyanide in it.”
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