She had unconsciously adopted every one of the hypnotist’s brutal suggestions.
There was not a vestige of her famous grace in any of her movements. The most ungainly slattern could not have been more awkward.
Her words were spoken parrot-like, as if learned by rote, without the slightest understanding of their meaning. For the most part, they succeeded one another without any attempt at emphasis, and when emphasis was used, it was invariably in the wrong place.
It was her voice itself, however, which gave Nick and Chick their greatest shock.
The Lund, as she was generally called in Europe, had always been celebrated for her remarkably musical voice; but this sorry-looking creature’s voice was alternately shrill and harsh. It pierced and rasped and set the teeth on edge, just as the sound of a file does.
Nothing could have given a more sickening sense of Grantley’s power over the actress than this astounding transformation, this slavish adherence to the conditions of abject failure which he had imposed upon her.
It seemed incredible, and yet, there it was, plainly revealed to sight and hearing alike.
A subtler or more uncanny revenge has probably never been conceived by the mind of man. The public breakdown which Grantley had so mercilessly caused had only been the beginning of his scheme of vengeance.
He doubtless meant to hypnotize his victim again and again, and each time to impose his will upon her gradually weakening mind, until she had become a mere wreck of her former self, and incapable of ever again taking her former place in the ranks of genius.
There was nothing impossible about it. On the contrary, the result was a foregone conclusion if Grantley were left free to continue as he had begun.
The very emotional susceptibility which had made Helga Lund a great actress had also made her an easy victim of hypnotic suggestion, and if the process went on long enough, she would permanently lose everything that had made her successful.
Outright murder would have been innocent by comparison with such infernal ingenuity of torture. It seemed to Nick as if he were watching the destruction of a splendid priceless work of art.
He had seen enough.
He withdrew the little periscope from the keyhole and straightened up. One hand went to his pocket and came out with an automatic. Chick followed his example.
They were outnumbered two to one, but that did not deter them.
Helga must be rescued at once, and her tormentors caught red-handed.
IX
What was to be done, though?
To burst into the room and seek to overpower the four doctors then and there, in Helga’s presence, would place the actress in additional danger.
Nick was convinced, however, that that risk would have to be run. He had seen evidences that more than one of the men were tiring of the cruel sport, and it might now come to an end at any moment.
He swiftly considered two or three possible plans for drawing the four away from their victim, but rejected them all. They would only increase the danger of a slip of some sort, and he was bent upon capturing the four, as well as releasing the actress.
Furthermore, he did not believe that even Grantley would dare to harm Helga further in his presence, even if the fortunes of war should give the surgeon a momentary opportunity.
He, accordingly, motioned to his assistant to follow close behind him, and laid his left hand on the knob.
He turned it noiselessly, and was greatly relieved to find that the door yielded. Their advent would be a complete surprise, therefore, and would find the four totally unprepared.
Nick paused a moment, then flung the door back violently and strode into the room.
Grantley was the ringleader, the most dangerous of the lot at any time, and the fact that he was an escaped convict would render his resistance more than ordinarily desperate. The periscope had told Nick where the fugitive stood, and thus the detective was enabled to cover him at once with the unwavering muzzle of the automatic.
‘Hands up, Grantley! Hands up, everybody!’ cried Nick, stepping a little to one side to allow Chick to enter.
His assistant took immediate advantage of the opening and stepped to his chief’s side, with leveled weapon. Chick’s automatic was pointed at Doctor Chester, however. After Grantley, the man whose house had been invaded was naturally the one who was likely to put up the hardest fight.
The guilty four were spellbound with astonishment and fear for a moment, then the three younger ones jumped to their feet like so many jacks-in-the-box. Grantley had already been standing when the detectives broke in.
‘Did you hear me, gentlemen?’ Nick demanded, crooking his finger a little more closely about the trigger. ‘I said “Hands up!” and it won’t be healthy for any of you to ignore the invitation. One – two – three!’
Before the last word passed his lips, however, four pairs of hands were in the air. Doctor Willard’s had gone up first, and Grantley’s last.
‘Thank you so much!’ the detective remarked, with mock politeness. ‘Now, if you will oblige me a little further, by lining up against that right wall, I shall be still more grateful to you. Kindly place yourselves about two feet apart, not less. I want you, Number Sixty Thousand One Thirteen’ – Grantley winced at his prison number – ‘at this end of the line, next to me, with Chester, alias Schofield, next; Graves next to him, and Willard last. You see, I haven’t forgotten any of my old friends.’
This disposition of the trapped quartet was designed to serve two purposes. In the first place, it would remove them from proximity to Helga Lund, who, crouched in the middle of the floor, was watching the detectives with bewildered, uncomprehending eyes. In the second place, it would enable Chick to handcuff them one by one, while Nick stood ready to fire, at an instant’s notice, on any one who made a false move.
It looked, for the time being, as if the capture would be altogether too easy to have any spice in it, but the detectives did not make the mistake of underrating their adversaries – Grantley, especially.
To be sure, they were probably unarmed, and had been taken at such a disadvantage that they would hardly have had an opportunity to draw weapons, even if they had worn them. Still, any one of a number of things might happen.
The four doctors had been caught ‘with the goods,’ as the police saying is, and they might be expected to take desperate chances as soon as they had had time to collect their scattered wits and to realize the seriousness of their plight.
Nick Carter had shown his usual generalship in the orders he had given so crisply.
Grantley himself, the most to be feared of the lot, was to be placed nearest to the detective, where Nick could watch him most narrowly. That was not all, however. The detective meant that Chick should handcuff Grantley first, and thus put the leader out of mischief at the earliest opportunity.
After him, Chester was to be disposed of, and the two that would then remain were comparatively harmless in themselves.
Grantley doubtless saw through Nick’s tactics from the beginning, and if the detective could have caught the gleam behind the wily surgeon’s half-closed lids, he would have known that Grantley thought he saw an opportunity to circumvent those tactics.
With reasonable promptness, hands still in the air, Grantley started to obey the detective’s order. He moved slowly, grudgingly, his face distorted with rage and hate.
Chester started to follow the older man toward the wall but Chick halted him.
‘Hold up, there, Schofield-Chester!’ the young detective ordered. ‘One at a time, if you don’t mind!’
He wished to prevent the confusion that would result from the simultaneous movement of the four scoundrels.
Chester paused with a snarl, and Grantley went on alone. He was making for the corner nearest to Nick, who still stood close to the door. In doing so, he was obliged to pass in front of the det
ective.
It had been no part of Nick’s plan to have the fugitive take to that corner, and he suddenly realized that the criminal was crossing a little too close to him for safety.
‘Here, keep to the left a little –’ he began sharply, when Grantley was about four feet away.
But before he could complete his sentence, the escaped convict ducked and threw his body sidewise, the long arms were already above his head and he left them where they were. Their abnormal length helped to bridge the distance between him and Nick as he flung himself at the detective.
Nick guessed the nature of the move, as if by instinct, and when he fired, which he did immediately, it was with depressed muzzle. He had allowed, in other words, for the swift descent of Grantley’s body.
In spite of that, however, the bullet merely plowed a furrow across the criminal’s shoulder and back, as he dropped. It did not disable him in the least, and, before Nick could fire again, Grantley’s peculiar dive ended with a vicious impact against his legs, and claw-like hands gripped him about the knees in an effort to pull him down.
The convict’s daring act broke the spell which had held his companions. Without waiting to see whether Grantley’s move was to prove successful or not, the three of them threw themselves bodily upon Chick, while the latter’s attention was diverted for a moment by his chief’s peril.
Doctor Chester, who had been looking for something of the sort from Grantley, was the first to pounce upon Nick’s assistant. He gripped Chick’s right wrist and began to twist it in an attempt to loosen the hold on the weapon.
‘Help Grantley, Willard,’ he directed, at the same time, between his clenched teeth. ‘Graves and I can handle this fellow, I guess.’
Willard started for Nick, while Graves shifted his attack, and, edging around behind Chick, seized him by the shoulders. At the same moment he placed one knee in the small of the young detective’s back.
There could be only one result.
Chick was bent painfully back until his spine felt as if it was about to crack in two; then, in his efforts to relieve the strain, he lost his footing and went down, with Chester on top of him, and still clinging doggedly to his wrists.
A few feet away Nick was being hard pressed by two other rascals.
The pendulum of chance had swung the other way, and things looked very dubious for the detectives – and for what was left of Helga Lund!
X
Chick had thrown himself to one side to ease the pressure on his back. Accordingly, he struck the floor on his left side.
Chester and Graves dropped heavily upon him before he had more than touched the boards, the former at his feet, the latter on his shoulders.
Their bony knees crushed him down, and Graves used his weight to try to pull Chick over on his back.
Nick’s assistant had twisted his left wrist out of Chester’s grasp as he fell, but the renegade physician had clung for dear life to the hand which held the automatic.
Chick allowed himself to be pulled over on his back – for a very good reason. His free arm had been under him as he lay on his side, and he wanted an opportunity to use it.
Graves grabbed at it at once, but Chick stretched it – all but the upper arm – out of his antagonist’s reach.
Graves would have to lean far over Chick in order to reach the latter’s left wrist, and, in so doing, he would expose himself not a little. Or else he would be obliged to edge around on his knees, behind Chick’s head.
He chose to try the latter manoeuvre, but Chick feinted with his left arm. Graves dodged, and Chick’s hand darted in behind the other’s guard, grasping Graves firmly by the hair.
Almost at the same instant the young detective jerked his right foot loose and gave the startled Chester a tremendous kick in the stomach.
The master of the house gave a grunt and doubled up like a jack-knife. His grip on Chick’s right wrist relaxed simultaneously, and its owner tore it away.
Chester had involuntarily lurched forward, and the act had brought his head well within the reach of Chick’s right hand, which was now once more at liberty.
While Nick’s assistant held the struggling Graves at arm’s length by the hair, with one hand, he brought down the butt of the automatic, with all the strength he could bring to bear, on Chester’s lowered poll.
He had juggled the weapon in a twinkling, so that it was clubbed when it descended. The blow was surprisingly effective, considering the circumstances.
Chester groaned and toppled forward, over Chick’s legs.
The detective’s assistant was ready to follow up his advantage at once. He wriggled about until he was facing Graves, and then he began pulling that individual toward him by the hair.
Tears of pain were in Graves’s eyes, and he struck out blindly in a desperate effort to break Chick’s relentless hold. The attempt was a failure, however. Despite all of Graves’s struggles, he was irresistibly drawn nearer and nearer. The fact that he wore his hair rather long helped Chick to maintain his grip.
Presently the young physician’s head was near enough to allow Chick to strike it with his clubbed weapon. He drew the latter back for the blow, but his enemy, seeing what was coming, suddenly changed his tactics.
Instead of trying to pull away any more, he ducked and threw himself into Chick’s arms.
The revolver butt naturally missed its mark and, for a time, they fought at too close quarters to permit such a blow to be tried again.
Graves had seized Chick around the body as he closed in, and he drew himself close, burying his head on Chick’s chest. Chick still maintained his hold of his opponent’s hair, however, and now retaliated by rolling over on Graves, working his feet from under the unconscious Chester as he did so.
Graves snuggled as close as he could to avoid the dreaded blow, but Chick, now being on top, was able to hold Graves’s head on the floor by main force, while he arched his own powerful back and began to tear his body from his antagonist’s straining arms.
Graves was game; there was no doubt about that. The pulling of his hair must have been torture to him, but he did not relinquish his hold about Chick’s waist.
His eyes were closed, his face drawn and twisted with pain, but he clung obstinately, and without a whimper.
Slowly but surely, nevertheless, Chick raised himself, and the space between their laboring breasts widened. Graves’s hold was being loosened bit by bit, but it had not broken.
As a matter of fact, Chick did not wait for it to break. It was not necessary, for one thing; and for another, he realized that it would be a kindness to Graves to end the painful struggle as soon as possible.
Accordingly, as soon as he had raised himself enough to deliver a reasonably effective blow with the clubbed automatic, he struck downward, with carefully controlled aim and strength.
The butt of the little weapon landed in the middle of the physician’s forehead. A gasp followed, and the tugging arms fell away.
Chick had floored his two opponents.
He got quickly to his feet and looked to see if Nick needed him. Chester and Graves ought to be handcuffed before they had time to revive, but that could wait a little if necessary.
It was well that Chick finished his business just when he did, for Nick was in trouble.
Doctor Grantley was not an athlete, and his long, lanky build gave little promise of success against Nick Carter’s trained muscles and varied experience in physical encounters of all sorts.
On the other hand, the convict was possessed of amazing wiriness and endurance, and, although he was not cut out for a fighting man, his keen, quick mind made up for most of his bodily deficiencies.
His original attack, for instance, was an example of unconventional but startlingly successful strategy. On the surface, it would have seemed that such a man, without weapons, had precious little chance of gaining any
advantage over Nick Carter, armed as the latter was, and a good four feet away.
But Grantley followed up his impetuous dive in a most surprising way. His long arms closed about Nick’s legs, but, instead of endeavoring to pull the detective down in the ordinary way, Grantley unexpectedly plucked his legs apart with all his strength.
The detective’s balance instantly became a very uncertain quantity, for the surgeon’s abnormally long, gorilla-like arms tore his legs apart and pushed them to right and left with astonishing ease.
Nick felt like an involuntary Colossus of Rhodes as he was forced to straddle farther and farther. He threw one hand behind him to brace himself against the wall, reversed his automatic and leaned forward, bent upon knocking the enterprising Grantley in the head.
The fugitive had other plans, however. Just as Nick bent forward, Grantley suddenly thrust his head and shoulders between the detective’s outstretched limbs, and heaved upward and backward.
The detective was lifted from his feet and pitched forward, head downward. His discomfiture was a decided shock to him, but he neither lost his presence of mind nor his grip on his weapon.
Had he struck on his head and shoulders, as Grantley evidently intended he should, the result might have been exceedingly disastrous. The detective would almost certainly have been plunged into unconsciousness, and his neck might easily have been broken.
Nick saw his danger in a flash, though, drew his head and shoulders sharply inward and downward, and at the same time grasped one of Grantley’s thighs with his left hand.
The result would have been ludicrous under almost any other circumstances. The detective’s lowered head went, in turn, between Grantley’s legs, and their intertwined bodies formed a wheel, such as trained athletes sometimes contrive.
This countermove of Nick’s was as much of a surprise to the surgeon as the latter’s curious mode of attack had been to the detective.
They rolled over and over a couple of times, until Nick, finding himself momentarily on top, brought them to a stop. So awkward were their positions that neither was able to strike an effective blow at the other.
American Sherlocks Page 10