The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  Nancy uttered a choked cry. Val swore under his breath, and a chill crawled down his back. For that stooped figure holding the little gleaming knife was Carl Zaken, the Black Doctor.

  “So?” said Zaken mildly, gesturing with the scalpel. “These are our visitors. This is a surprise.”

  And the very mildness of his voice made the words sound worse. For Val and Nancy had seen what the man could do, and had heard tales of what he was capable of. Standing there holding the surgeon’s scalpel he looked like a smiling fiend.

  Norah Beamish’s harsh whisper to Nancy was audible to all of them. “Who—who is that man?”

  Nancy’s face was pale. Val saw the fingers of her free hand curling tightly into her pink palm, and guessed the terrific effort she was making to keep a grip on herself. But her voice was steady as she spoke.

  “That is the man who attacked me in the hotel this evening. His name is Carl Zaken.”

  “Oh!” said Norah weakly, and for once she seemed at a loss for words as she stared up at Zaken.

  Zaken leaned against the railing, toying with the scalpel. He betrayed no surprise at Nancy’s knowledge of his identity. His greenish eyes seemed to blaze and glow as the light from the hall fixture struck into them.

  “What were you doing to that fellow?” Val asked harshly, nodding at Ramey.

  “We were having a little confidential talk,” the Black Doctor said smoothly, and his lips parted in a ghastly grimace and he slowly tapped the back of the scalpel against a thumb.

  “You mean,” asked Val thickly, “you were torturing him?”

  “Persuading,” Zaken corrected. “Unfortunately he knocked my man down, seized his gun and tried to leave us, forgetting entirely his woman friend. But then, cheap criminals of his type think only of their own skins.”

  * * *

  —

  All the tales Val had ever heard about the Black Doctor flashed before him now. He understood the terrible fright and agony on Ramey’s face as he had plunged down the stairs. This lonely house was being given over to things too horrible to contemplate. And Nancy was thinking the same, for he saw her smooth white throat flutter as she swallowed convulsively.

  “He was in New York this afternoon,” Val said mechanically.

  “Yes. He and his friends should have stayed there instead of hurrying here as soon as he was through with Sir Edward Lyne,” Zaken said contemptously.

  “You came quick enough. How did you get out of that room and down here in Virginia so fast?”

  Zaken grimaced again with amusement. “I have found that he who moves fastest moves safest, Mr. Easton. Leaving the room was a small matter. My man, who had tied you up so I would not be interrupted, had lowered a thin silk rope from his room just over Sir Edward’s, to call our late friend by his right name. I left you via the rope, the fire escape from the roof below, and a taxicab that I hailed at the mouth of the alley. I picked my man up at the hotel entrance a few minutes later. We passed the police car as we turned into Fifth Avenue. A fast ride out to a chartered plane. A faster trip to Washington and out here. Voila—and the thing was done. I presume you came by plane also?”

  Val nodded. “I didn’t expect to find you here,” he confessed bluntly.

  “Touché—the surprise is mutual. I did not believe you had been able to find out where Galbraith was going. I killed him for that reason—so the matter would end there for you—and him. Had I suspected otherwise I would have used lethal gas.”

  “Like you used on those poor devils aboard ship,” Val charged swiftly.

  Zaken gestured delicately with the scalpel. “The steward was an accident. The gas lingered in that closed room longer than I thought it would. He walked into it. The wind must have blown in through the door he left open and aired the cabin thoroughly before he was discovered. You found no trace of it?”

  “No,” said Val shortly.

  “Just as well,” Zaken murmured. “It is very deadly. It had to be because of the small amount I was able to inject through the keyhole.”

  “Why do it?”

  “He was a member of the British Secret Service, dispatched as an unofficial guard over Sir Edward Lyne. We bumped into each other on deck that evening, and I think he recognized me. I couldn’t take chances. You understand how it is in delicate matters like this, Mr. Easton?”

  “In a small way,” Val agreed sarcastically. “I suppose you found out what Lyne was after when you searched his hotel room. And then put him out of the way because you needed him no longer.”

  “But I knew what he was after,” Zaken declared humorously, showing his fanglike incisor teeth as he smiled. “But I did not know where it was. You are quite right about the rest. I simply—ah—eliminated competition which might have proved embarrassing. He would have come here at once, of course. You would have followed—and my plans might have been upset. I have only three men with me. The whole matter broke so suddenly I barely had time to get passage on the same boat with Lyne. No matter what I pay for information, my sources are not always infallible.”

  Zaken’s casual manner changed abruptly. “Bring them upstairs,” he commanded. “Shoot the first one who makes a wrong move. Are you sure they’re alone?”

  “Yes. I was waiting near the gate when they stopped their car.”

  Zaken nodded, waited until they were almost up to him and then preceded them. He turned to the left at the top of the stairs and led the way to the back of the house, to a long, high-ceilinged room with a great bay window, curtained now, opening out into the night.

  Standing beside the door and furtively fingering a swelling eye was the man who had posed as a waiter only a few hours earlier. “Did you get him?” he asked Zaken uncertainly.

  “Yes,” returned Zaken coldly. “And the next time you grow careless, Stubbs, it will be the end. I stand for blundering no more than once.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stubbs replied uneasily, his eyes dropping before the greenish glare that transfixed him. And pallor swept over his face as Zaken led the way into the room.

  * * *

  —

  It was an upstairs library, with bookcases along the walls, comfortable chairs, and a large brick fireplace against the end wall. Over the fireplace hung a large copy of the Stuart painting of George Washington, and the inscrutable eyes of the stately figure seemed to look down and ponder this strange scene that was taking place.

  Six people were seated in that room, as strange and heterogeneous a collection as Val had ever seen. Every one of them was marked with the sickly brand of fright and terror.

  Sitting in the bay window were two; a pretty, slinky, tawdry young woman dressed in flashy clothes, who was slowly rubbing an angry red wrist; and a hard, sophisticated man of about thirty, wise, worldly, and at this moment pale and haggard as he wet his lips and stared at them.

  On a bench beside the fireplace were a lanky negro in overalls and a fat negress, the whites of their eyes rolling.

  Two chairs near the end of the library table held a stiff, severe, waspish woman of about forty-five, and a small, slight man with a bulging forehead and shrewd eyes, a strange mixture of intelligence and pomposity. He was haggard also, with sunken, feverish eyes and a limp appearance, as if worry and fear had crushed him.

  * * *

  —

  Standing near the doorway, a gun in his hand, was a cool, self-possessed man in his early thirties, his face cast in a shrewd cold mold, with a cruel mouth under a small black mustache. He looked foreign—was foreign Val found out a moment later.

  For Carl Zaken, continuing with the same mocking politeness, gestured at them with a scalpel. “The people you came to see, Mr. Easton. Study them at your leisure. In the window there we have Miss Dolly Mae Hall, as perfect a sample of your shopworn New York night-club siren as one could wish to find. Her spec
ialty is understanding love, and she seems to be good at it.”

  Val saw the pompous little man with the bulging forehead wriggle uneasily in his chair, and glance fearfully at the severe woman at his strive, who pursed her mouth and glared at him.

  Zaken flashed them a humorous glance and went on.

  “With her is ‘Badger Bill’ Marcus, a sterling partner, I understand. Those two negroes work about the place. And in these chairs by the table we have Professor Henry Long and his gentle wife. This man guarding them is Vollonoff, who has been with me for some years, under one name and another. You recognize these three, Vollonoff? Easton, Miss Fraser, and a Mrs. Beamish, of the American Secret Service. They worked faster than we thought possible. Don’t underestimate Easton and the girl, Fyodor. They are dangerous.”

  Vollonoff flashed a cold smile under his black mustache. Val judged him to be almost as dangerous as Carl Zaken himself.

  “The man you saw on the front porch,” continued Zaken, “is Sammy McGee, alias Tillson, a partner of Ramey and Marcus. The story, as I gather it to date, is that Professor Long, to celebrate the successful culmination of several years’ work, and the undoubtedly trying company of his wife in this isolated spot, went to New York to taste the bright lights. Or, as I have heard your countrymen say, ‘to throw a bust.’ He drank not wisely but too well, talked indiscreetly about what he had been working on and had accomplished, and in that alcoholic daze found himself in the grip of an undying passion for Dolly Mae. They progressed to her apartment—control yourself, Mrs. Long—the flesh is weak at times.

  “The play that was staged must have been masterly, Easton. When it was over Professor Long found himself apparently laboring under the onus of having shot his new love’s husband, with Ramey, one of her men friends in the role of rescuer, who hustled him away from the police net to safety. It developed that the price of continued safety and silence was a share in the fortune that Professor Long stood to gain from his invention.

  “Under duress Professor Long was constrained to turn the marketing of his invention over to the gang controlled by Ramey, which had him in its grip. They sent Sammy McGee down here under the name of Tillson to keep an eye on the professor and make certain he did not forget that at any moment he might be hauled back to New York for murder. And Ramey took up the marketing of the invention, not with his own country as any patriotic citizen would do, but with the British government, who could be counted on to pay almost any price for it. The upshot of the negotiations was the hurried dispatch of Sir Edward Lyne, with instructions to look into the matter and offer anything up to a million pounds on the spot if he considered the claims correct.”

  Carl Zaken shrugged.

  “And that’s where we came in, Easton. Ramey had evidently stipulated a secret rendezvous in New York with the man sent over, with more directions there. His intention was to bring Lyne down here, convince him, wait until the money was paid over, and probably decamp with all of it. After giving Lyne directions, he and his confederates hurried down here instantly. We found them here when we arrived. The dog barked as we came up and had to be put out of the way. McGee rushed out, and Vollonoff dispatched him with his usual skill. And so we came in and went to work. I had just finished a little session with Ramey in the other room, finding out that Professor Long has been canny enough to keep the final drawings of his invention hidden. And now I am ready to take that little matter up with him.”

  * * *

  —

  Zaken smiled without mirth as he stood there in his shirt sleeves, drawing the gleaming little knife through his fingers. Professor Long’s face went grayish as he met the grimacing smile the Black Doctor gave him.

  Mrs. Long sprang to her feet and cried shrilly: “You’d better leave Henry alone! You—you’ll suffer for this outrage, whoever you are!”

  Vollonoff stepped forward and shoved her roughly back in her chair.

  Val hardly saw the play. His mind was on the astounding revelations Zaken had made apparently under the impression that he knew almost as much about it. What could that shrinking, pompous little man with the bulging forehead control that would be worth almost any price to a foreign government?

  He said casually: “I doubt if Lyne would have offered much for it. And you probably won’t get anything for your trouble, either.”

  “No?” Zaken mocked. “Not for the answer to the problem that every general staff in the world has been seeking for fifteen years? An infallible range finder that will locate and bring correctly to bear anti-aircraft guns by day or night, or in fog? Your own army engineers have been working on it for years. And according to Ramey, the professor here has solved the problem with a sensitive finder that picks up the spark emanations from the motor timer, calibrates their distance and height and speed by instant triangulation, and brings the guns hooked up to the system to bear instantly. With it a fleet of bombing planes can be located whether seen or not, and shot down at once. It will make the country that controls it safe from aerial invasion. Think what that will mean to England—to know that she is safe from attack by air! Millions saved in defensive air fleets, and probably the winning or losing of the next war.

  “Japan, with her great cities near her island coasts, will pay any price for it. The general staffs of every great power will be bidding wildly for it, once the information gets out that Carl Zaken can turn that invention over to them.”

  And Val knew with a sickening feeling that the man was right. If this Professor Long had perfected an invention like that—and it looked as if he had—no price was too much to pay for it. And Carl Zaken, master spy, would offer it to the highest bidder. The chances were that some other country would get it, possibly a future enemy of the United States. In this lonely house tonight a world issue was being decided. And in the balance were only himself, Nancy Fraser, and Norah Beamish.

  Zaken’s mocking glance was on him. “You don’t agree?” Zaken questioned.

  Val shrugged. “Perhaps. D’you think Long will tell you? He doesn’t look like the type of man who would give as important a secret as that into the wrong hands.”

  Professor Henry Long sat up and spoke for the first time. “I’m not!” he burst out passionately. “I didn’t know what Ramey was going to do! He said he was dealing with our government! I won’t turn it over to another country! I won’t….”

  Zaken showed his fanglike incisors in another grimace. “Your sentiments do you credit, professor. We will see what a short consultation will do. I have been very successful in the past as a persuader. Kroner, bring him in. We won’t embarrass the ladies by doing it in here.”

  The powerful fellow who had posed as Tillson pushed to the professor’s chair without a word, seized his arm and hauled him up. When the little man tried to struggle, he received a blow in the face that knocked him limp and mumbling. And in that state, while his wife wailed shrilly and the others looked on with horrified helplessness, the professor was half dragged, half carried out of the room.

  The Black Doctor slowly scraped the edge of his scalpel across the matted hairs of his left arm. The gesture was casual, but the effect was ghastly as he grimaced and turned to follow.

  “I shall write Gregg tomorrow and compliment him on his agents,” he said to Val and Nancy. “A pity I can’t let you live to tell him about this. But a million pounds is too much to risk…”

  CHAPTER NINE

  GAS TRAP

  Norah Beamish cast a venemous glance at Vollonoff and went over and tried to comfort the nearly hysterical Mrs. Long. Twin spots of color were vivid on Nancy’s face as she looked at Val silently. Stubbs stood outside the door, fingering his gun. Vollonoff lounged inside, his eyes watching every move they made. The couple in the window seat huddled together miserably. And the fat negress began to mumble, “Oh, Lawd—Oh, Lawd—Oh, Lawd…”

  A piercing shriek suddenly rang through the hou
se, the cry of a man in torment and agony.

  Professor Long’s wife gasped and fainted, which was perhaps best, for more shrieks followed.

  Norah Beamish whirled on Val, her eyes blazing. “Can’t you do something about it?” she cried.

  Vollonoff smirked expectantly.

  And Val stood there with his shoulders slumped, the picture of dejection. “And get shot for trying?” he answered Norah helplessly. “You saw what happened to that chap downstairs.”

  Norah glared at him. “I thought you were a man!”

  “Val—” said Nancy helplessly.

  “It’s no use,” Val said wretchedly.

  “We’re going to die anyway,” she reminded through stiff lips.

  “Perhaps they’ll let us go if we promise to let them get away. They could tie us up—”

  “Oh!” Norah blazed contemptuously.

  Even Vollonoff was affected by this show of helplessness. “Sit down,” he advised, with a curl of contempt on his lips. “Not so dangerous, after all.”

  Val shrugged helplessly and turned toward the nearest chair. And as he passed slowly in front of Nancy, with his back to Vollonoff, words slid almost inaudibly from the corner of his mouth. He didn’t even look at her to see what their effect was.

  Nancy’s face suddenly twisted in helpless grief. She fished for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes as she turned toward the other end of the room.

  “He c-can’t help us,” she wept. “Come over here with me, Norah.”

  Norah stared at her in amazement and then swiftly followed her. “Don’t you cry, honey,” she begged bruskly “There’s a way out of this.”

  “No, there’s not!” Nancy wailed.