Invisible Death Read online

  “Sure, I know where it is. Hang on!”

  The limousine tooled away from the curb, glided around the corner, and merged into the stream of heavy traffic that flowed along Fifth Avenue.

  “I guess nobody at the Cobalt Club saw Streiger much these days, eh?” asked Nick, conversationally. “I mean, the Times obit said ‘former member ...’?”

  Zarkon nodded. “I spoke to the porter, the steward, and the doorman, on my way out of there, and to the treasurer a bit earlier,” he admitted. “Jerred Streiger hasn’t been to the club in a good six years, and stayed pretty much to himself, according to one of the members, Wayne, who has a summer home out in Holmwood. And another fellow, Cranston, directed me to Streiger’s country club. Maybe we should follow these leads up before going out to the Streiger estate.”

  “Okay,” grinned the former illusionist. “Here we are, chief. Chief, I can’t park in this block, so I’ll just drive around and keep circling till I see you come out, okay?”

  “That will be fine, Nick. I won’t be long,” said Zarkon. The limousine pulled up to the curb and the Man of Mysteries got out and entered the lobby.

  The Grandville Building had once been one of Knickerbocker City’s newest and tallest skyscrapers. But that had been in the thirties; forty years had passed it by, and buildings taller and newer had long ago eclipsed its eminence.

  By now, however, it had assumed something of the importance of a relic. With the Chrysler, the Graybar, and the Chanin buildings, it was one of the few surviving architectural masterpieces of the Art Deco style; lovingly preserved and thoroughly refurbished, it was now a prestige address. Just to have an office in the Grandville Building meant something to the tradition-minded old families of the social register.

  Josiah Seaton’s office, suite of offices really, occupied most of one of the upper floors. Zarkon entered into a blond reception room. Everything was of almost the same color, which created a striking effect. The sumptuous carpeting was dark gold, the window drapes of a metallic bronze, the furniture Swedish Modern done in blond oak.

  The receptionist, quite in keeping with the general décor, was also Swedish — and blond. She accepted Zarkon’s card with murmured thanks. Although her eyes widened slightly on recognizing his name, she was too well trained to gasp or ogle. She vanished into an inner office, leaving Zarkon to admire a fine Van Gogh — one of the famous “sunflowers” sequence. A moment later she emerged.

  “Mr. Seaton will see you now, Your Highness.”

  Nodding his thanks, Zarkon entered, to find the inner office as richly old-fashioned as the reception room had been starkly modernistic. A wine-red Bokhara carpet was on the floor; the walls were oak-paneled from floor to ceiling; rows of legal tomes marched along mahogany bookshelves, gold titles glinting in the subdued lighting.

  “Prince Zarkon? A pleasure, sir! How may I serve you?” boomed a hearty voice. Behind a massive inlaid desk, a portly man with a round, beaming face framed in crisp, snowy hair rose ponderously to grasp Zarkon’s hand.

  His face was merry and crimson, his small eyes cheerful, shrewd, and ice-blue. He wore a dark gray suit with a vest and a string tie. A gold watch-chain stretched across his rotund middle; among the several fobs which dangled therefrom was an Elks insignia. Such an outfit had scarcely been seen in the city in forty years: Josiah Seaton was very like the building in which he maintained his offices. Both had mellowed with time into a tradition of elegance and quality, without aging or ever becoming quaint.

  “It concerns your late client, Jerred Streiger,” said Zarkon quietly. The merry, red-faced man sobered; his cheerful smile died on his lips.

  “Please, sir, have a seat. There are some excellent perfectos in that humidor beside you,” said the lawyer. “Jerred Streiger ... yes, it was a terrible thing. Always understood his heart was strong as a dollar — not that the dollar itself is any too strong these days, with the world monetary situation what it is! ... but forgive me for admitting that I don’t understand why you have concerned yourself with Jerred’s affairs?”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “The former Prince of the small Balkan state of Novenia,” nodded Josiah Seaton amiably, returning to his place behind the heavy inlaid desk and folding his chubby hands together on the blotter before him. They were exquisitely manicured, those fat-fingered hands, Zarkon noticed; and the solitaire that flashed on one thumb was at least ten carats of diamond. “As I recall, Novenia controls the world’s only known source of some rare heavy metal or other which is vital to the manufacture of nuclear weapons and to the production of atomic power. You restored the healthy economy of your country by introducing a cheap, fast, and easy method for refining the vital ore, then established a model democracy, wrote a constitution that is still a marvel to the students of political science, and abdicated to enter this country on a permanent visitor’s passport with full diplomatic immunity. You reside on the West Side, own a small island in the Hudson River, where you maintain a miniature fleet of private planes and ships, and are reputed to have an immense private fortune that makes the Rockefellers look like parvenues by comparison.”

  Zarkon could not help being impressed. He grinned and ducked his head in tribute. “That’s the best thirty-second dossier I’ve ever heard,” he smiled. “I begin to understand, Mr. Seaton, why you have the reputation you do.”

  The lawyer chuckled good-humoredly. “In my profession, Your Highness, it pays to know a lot — about a lot of things! But come, sir. You wanted to see me in connection with Jerred Streiger. What is it that I can do for you?”

  “I need information, and badly,” said Zarkon. “There is reason to assume that Jerred Streiger’s death was not, well, not a natural one.”

  “Murder, you mean?” The lawyer’s voice was a mere whisper. He looked shocked. “I’ve heard nothing of this! The police made no such suggestion. I understood it was a stroke of some kind ...”

  “Apparently it was, but possibly one induced by some exterior means. I have yet to see the coroner’s report, or talk to Streiger’s doctor, who was the first to examine the body after his demise.”

  Josiah Seaton’s eyes remained shocked, his voice shaken, but his round red face assumed an expression grimly truculent.

  “If someone killed Jerred Streiger, sir, I will lend you every possible assistance, merely for the asking, to apprehend the villain. We were attorney and client, yes; but we were also the best of friends for nearly thirty-five years. Anything I can do to assist you in discovering the scoundrel —!”

  “I will accept your offer of help with gratitude,” said Zarkon. “First, I would be interested in learning exactly who will benefit the most from his death. If you were close personal friends with Streiger, then you must know his family quite well.”

  “Of course,” nodded Josiah Seaton. “What’s left of the family, that is. Jerred’s wife, Eleanor, predeceased him by more than twenty years. And their only child, a son named Obadiah, was killed in the Second World War. A major in the Air Force, as I recall. Jerred has no living brothers or sisters. There is a nephew, but Jerred and he haven’t been on speaking terms for ten years. The young man, Caleb Streiger by name, has not the slightest interest in stocks and bonds and securities; his one consuming passion is radio. He is something of an inventor in that line and maintains a small laboratory downtown on Graumann Street, I believe.”

  “Is the nephew Jerred Streiger’s only heir? As Streiger’s attorney, you must know the terms of his will. I suppose I’m asking you to betray a confidence, but if you don’t mind bending the ethics of the bar just a bit, learning who will profit from his death might go a long way towards establishing just who had the strongest motive.”

  Josiah Seaton fingered his chin unhappily, then shrugged. “Ethics, be hanged! Murder is murder, in my book. But you can forget about Caleb Streiger, Your Highness: he inherits a modest income from stock in Worldwide Steel, but nowhere near enough to murder a man for — even if ‘that tinkering idiot’ �
�� as poor Jerred used to refer to him, with an invariable snort of derision had it in him to commit murder, which I can’t believe. No — there are a great many minor bequests — old servants, old friends, various charities. But no one individual stands to inherit any truly substantial amount, I’m afraid.”

  “To whom does the bulk of the fortune go, then?” asked Zarkon.

  “Well, to the Streiger Foundation. The foundation will inherit almost everything except for the estate house and its furnishings and the minor cash or stock bequests. The house and the furnishings go to Caleb Streiger. Not that they aren’t worth a tidy sum, of course, what with the current value of Long Island real estate these days.”

  After a few more questions, Zarkon inquired if Josiah Seaton had heard the rumor about the so-called threatening letters which Jerred Streiger had supposedly been receiving for the two weeks prior to his death.

  Josiah Seaton’s reaction to the question was alarming, even startling. He turned pale and his hands jerked suddenly in a spasm which sent a heavy carved malachite ashtray thudding to the carpet. Zarkon retrieved it, replacing it on the desk. Breathing hoarsely through half-open lips, Josiah Seaton stared beyond Zarkon into empty space. From the haunted expression in his eyes, he obviously dreaded what he saw there.

  “That explains it, then,” he breathed gaspingly.

  “Explains what?”

  “Explains why he said nothing of this matter to me. Why, the first thing Jerred Streiger would have done, had anyone been sending him threatening letters, would have been to call me and tell me about them. But ... of course! ... he remembered the murder of Pulitzer Haines!”

  “Who was Pulitzer Haines?” asked Zarkon.

  The attorney fixed him with a glance of surprise. “The Iranian Oil millionaire ... he died the better part of a month ago ... of a massive stroke, they said. But it was common knowledge that his life had been threatened by some madman calling himself ‘the Grim Reaper.’ And everyone knew that the notes from the Grim Reaper were written on gray paper in little square gray envelopes ...”

  Zarkon frowned; it was not like him to have missed hearing of such an odd occurrence. But a moment’s reflection made him realize that about the time that Pulitzer Haines had been receiving letters from the mysterious killer, he and the Omega men had been thousands of miles away in California, hot on the trail of the mad scientist, Lucifer.

  The Grim Reaper ...

  Something about that odd name sent a chill up Zarkon’s back.

  CHAPTER 5 — Zarkon Investigates

  Another of those interminable king-sized cigarettes was smoldering in the long metal cigarette holder clenched between Nick Naldini’s teeth as Zarkon left the Grandville Building and entered the black limousine.

  He directed the stage magician to drive him to the estate of Jerred Streiger in Holmwood, Long Island, and settled himself in the rear seat. A slight frown of thoughtfulness knit his brows; his magnetic black gaze was brooding. Then, reaching a decision, he opened a compartment in the back panel of the front seat and took out the receiver of a mobile telephone. He dialed the private unlisted number of Omega headquarters:

  A moment later Doc Jenkins was on the line.

  “Doc, this is the chief. I have just concluded a meeting with Josiah Seaton in the Grandville Building; he was Jerred Streiger’s attorney. He informs me that Streiger’s only surviving relative is a nephew, Caleb Streiger. The young man stands to inherit a small sum, but check him out anyway. The works, including the District Attorney’s office and the Justice Department in Washington. Oh, you might ask Menlo if he knows anything about him. The boy is something of a radio bug, and an inventor in that field. Check the patent office when you’re on the line to Washington and find out if he holds many patents on inventions, and what the inventions are.”

  “Right, chief!”

  “Then call Herrimann at the Securities Exchange Commission and find out all you can about the Streiger Foundation — its worth and its holdings.”

  “Right again, chief.”

  “I’m going out to Streiger’s estate now, and will he there the rest of the afternoon. I’ll be talking to the doctor who examined the body — what was his name, again?”

  “Grimshaw. Ernest Grimshaw, it says here.”

  “All right. You might send Scorchy and Ace out in the Vanzetti. Have them register at the local motel or whatever. They should check with me when they arrive, either at Streiger’s phone number or on the mobile unit, as I may be in transit.”

  “Sure — Scorchy’s right here, rarin’ to go,” chuckled Doc Jenkins. “Ace says to ask you what equipment you want him to bring.”

  “I really don’t know what we’ll be getting into,” said Zarkon, “so tell him to bring all the standard gear. Oh yes; equipment case three might come in handy.”

  “Case three it is, chief. Good hunting!”

  “One thing more,” Zarkon added. “Check your newspaper files for accounts of the death of another millionaire named Pulitzer Haines, who died almost a month ago under very similar circumstances, according to Josiah Seaton. Make a digest of all pertinent data, then call Ricks- at Homicide for the official police file on Haines’ death. You can shoot it to me on the fax outlet here in the mobile unit, or have Ace and Scorchy bring it out when they come, whichever is quicker. Got that?”

  “Got it. Pulitzer Haines! Jeez, boss, what a moniker! How could I have missed that one ... guess we were out spookin’ around Mount Shasta after Lucifer and his gang about that time, is how. Well — good hunting, once again!”

  Zarkon hung up the phone and sat back to do some thinking.

  He put through three more phone calls, one to the Constable’s office in Holmwood to find out the location of the coroner’s office and the town morgue where the body of Jerred Streiger supposedly was, and also for the street address of Dr. Grimshaw’s office.

  The body, he learned, was already in the hands of the local undertaker and preparations for the funeral were underway. That was regretful, for once the body had been embalmed he could not perform an autopsy to discover the precise cause of death. Well, he could only hope that Dr. Ernest Grimshaw had done a thorough autopsy on Streiger’s corpse, and kept detailed records or his findings. The Constable’s office gave him the address of the physician.

  Then he sat back and thought long and hard.

  Nick took the Midtown Tunnel and then the expressway, turning off at Herkwell. As they drove along, the greenery got progressively more cultivated, the houses larger and more elaborate, the streets more rustic and also more immaculate. It was obvious that these homes were in the hundred-thousand-dollar bracket, and the further out they went, the more expensive everything became. Finally, they were driving past walled country estates built on property so extensive that the houses were not even visible from the road.

  They came to the fieldstone wall surrounding Streiger’s estate, Twelve Oaks. They followed it to an elaborately worked gateway consisting of twin pillars surmounted by heraldic lions, with a scrollwork gate of wrought iron that must have been a dozen feet high. Naldini hopped out and rang the bell. An elderly man with clear tanned features, sharp blue eyes, and silvery hair emerged from the gatehouse to look them over. Under one arm, fully cocked, he carried a twelve-gauge shotgun, and a Webley pistol was holstered at his hip. Zarkon and Naldini displayed their credentials, which bore several startlingly famous signatures, including those of the Governor and the President. They had no trouble in gaining entry.

  They drove slowly up the winding gravel driveway to the huge Colonial house. The drive took all of ten minutes, which may suggest the extent of Streiger’s private acreage. The drive was lined with trees on either side, spaced about twenty-five feet apart. Nick Naldini whistled in awe.

  “Wonder why the old fellow called this joint Twelve Oaks,” he murmured. “Twelve Hundred Oaks would be more like it! This guy owned enough land to build another whole town as big as Herkwell, back there at the turnoff.”

&nb
sp; The butler, Sherrinford, opened the door as they were coming up the steps; obviously Pipkin the gatekeeper had called the house to announce they were on their way. Zarkon said nothing, but he admired Streiger’s thoroughness in the matter of security measures; obviously, it would have been considerably difficult for any outsider to get in unannounced and undetected. The height of the walls surrounding Streiger’s property, the guard dogs he had seen roaming about from the car, and carefully positioned floodlights which illuminated the exterior of the house at night, all of these suggested this would not have been the easiest house in the world to burgle.

  The police had left long ago, concluding their investigation of the house and the grounds. But Sherrinford had been apprised by them of Zarkon’s impending arrival, and of his authority to investigate the case. Inspector Ricks of Homicide must have called the local Constable, an officer named Oglethorpe Gibbs, as soon as Zarkon had replied favorably to his request that the Omega men look into the matter of Streiger’s death.

  Sherrinford escorted them to the study where the body had been found, and summoned Borg to be interviewed. The heavy-set bodyguard was surly and belligerent, but subdued. Zarkon let Nick Naldini ask him the more obvious questions, listening keenly all the while, as he prowled about the room with Sherrinford hovering at his elbow. The position in which Streiger’s body had been found had been outlined by the police with white chalk — to the considerable detriment of a fine carpet. The body had lain about thirteen feet from the French windows.

  Zarkon went over to examine them.

  “Were these drapes drawn at the time of Streiger’s death?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the butler. “Exactly so; nothing in the room has been changed. Everything is just as it was the evening the master died.”

  Zarkon studied the fabric of the drapes, held them to his nostrils, then drew them aside and examined the windows themselves. He studied them under a powerful lens with the aid of a small but intense flashlight beam; then he opened them and stepped outside to look around the neatly clipped shrubbery and examine the ground.