Invisible Death Page 4

  Re-entering the room, he asked as to the weather.

  Sherrinford was too discreet to permit curiosity to show in his imperturbable visage, but he repeated the question with a rising tone indicative of a query.

  “It has been clear and dry for some days, sir,” said Sherrinford at last.

  Zarkon nodded and turned to other matters.

  “Sherrinford, I would like from you a complete list of every person on the estate — everyone who was here the night your master died, down to the least important servant. Can you do that for me?”

  “Certainly, Your Highness; it will be a pleasure.”

  The butler departed to draw up the list; Zarkon turned to Naldini, who had just let the bodyguard leave.

  “Nothing much from him, I gather?” he murmured.

  Nick shrugged. “Seems like a straight guy, but you never know. Want me to check him out with the authorities?”

  “Later. After I’ve had a look at the complete list of the staff which the butler is making for me now; we may have several names to check on.”

  A pert-faced maid ducked around the door. “Excuse me, sir! Telephone for you; you c’n take it in the foyer, if you wish.” Zarkon did so. It was Scorchy Muldoon; obviously, he and Ace Harrigan had wasted no time in driving out, themselves.

  Zarkon told them to unpack and circulate: talk to bartenders and old men sunning themselves on park benches, and other good sources of information. “I’d like to know if any strangers were in the vicinity a day or two before Streiger’s murder,” he said.

  The silence at the other end of the line was deafening.

  Then —

  “So ye do be after thinkin’ it wuz murder, chief?” asked Scorchy excitedly. Whenever the feisty little Irishman became excited, he “got his Irish up,” as he himself would put it. This generally took the form of a bit of the old Irish brogue, which tended to creep into his voice on such occasions.

  “I know it was,” said Zarkon evenly. “In fact, I know how it was done — I think.”

  CHAPTER 6 — Another Victim

  It was mid-afternoon by now. As neither Zarkon nor Nick Naldini had been able to afford the time for luncheon, they accepted Sherrinford’s offer and let him serve them an early dinner. As they ate, Zarkon read over the list of the staff of Twelve Oaks which he had asked the butler to prepare for him; he had made a special request that Sherrinford note which of the staff members were recent additions, and how recent.

  This information looked to be rather disappointing, at first glance anyway. Only two servants had been added to the staff within the last six months, and neither of them seemed to amount to much. One was a Chinese boy, hired to help the gardener, the other an upstairs maid named Brigid O’Toole.

  After their meal, Zarkon briefly questioned each member of the Twelve Oaks staff in the study, spending only a couple of minutes on each. Nick Naldini watched, smiling to himself: he admired the smooth way Prince Zarkon set each servant at his or her ease. A simple handshake did it, a smile, and a friendly clap on the shoulder. In no time such tactics had them telling him their life histories. From none of them, however, did Zarkon learn much of anything that was of bearing on the case, as far as Nick could tell.

  Canning, Streiger’s secretary, was a cold, personable young man with a pronounced Harvard accent and a manner in which, oddly, both obsequiousness and superciliousness were blended. Mrs. Callahan, the housekeeper, Cramden the chauffeur, Halloway the chef, these people contributed little or nothing of value. Streiger, they said, kept to himself, never entertained, had few friends. He had been a frightened man in fear of his life since the first of the little gray envelopes had appeared with the morning mail. None of them had ever seen the Grim Reaper’s notes, but all were aware of them.

  Borg, the surly bodyguard, and Sherrinford the butler, Zarkon had already interviewed; but Chandra Lal, Streiger’s devoted valet, proved useful. The Hindu was tall and swarthy and bearded, his head wrapped in a turban of yellow silk. Zarkon addressed him in Hindustani, and his eyes lit up at being spoken to by a sahib in his native tongue.

  “To be certain, sahib, this person has seen the little gray letters,” the Hindu said in reply to Zarkon’s question. “Very often one would still be about my master’s quarters when this person came to array him for the day. But never for long; always he burned such in the place-of-fire.” By this he meant the black marble fireplace in Streiger’s suite, most likely.

  Zarkon looked the tall Rajput over thoughtfully, liking what he saw. The Rajput were a warrior race; the blood of ancient kings ran in their veins. Seldom was a Rajput willing to accept such menial labor as becoming a bodyservant; but when one did so, it was for life. Their race worshipped the principle of loyalty as other races worship gold or pride or power.

  “You are a friend to Ram Singh, who works for my friend Wentworth, are you not?” inquired the Man of Mysteries, still speaking flawless Hindustani.

  The tall Rajput grinned, white teeth flashing.

  “Is it possible that the sahib knows Ram Singh, my friend and fellow-countryman?” he asked. Zarkon shook his head.

  “I have not had that pleasure, Chandra Lal,” he said quietly. “But I know that Ram Singh is loyal to my friend Wentworth, and I know that my friend would unhesitatingly trust your fellow-countryman with his life, if need be. Is it possible that I can trust you to the same extent?”

  Chandra Lal drew himself erect. His eyes were proud, like a hawk’s. “My master was a hard man, but fair and just; I loved him. And he respected Chandra Lal and gave him his trust. Now he is dead and you seek the lowly pig who struck him down. For that reason, you may ask anything of Chandra Lal — even his life!”

  Zarkon nodded. “I thought as much. Listen to me, Chandra Lal: someone who lives here at Twelve Oaks murdered your master. I want you to be my eyes and my ears — watch, look, listen! Will you do that for me?”

  “Sahib, I will do the thing you ask,” said the tall Hindu simply. Zarkon smiled, clapped him on the shoulder; the Hindu saluted and left. Nick, who knew nothing of the language in which they had been speaking, asked, “Now, what was all that about?”

  “I think we now have an ally in the servants’ hall,” Zarkon said. “A man whom we can trust ... would you send in the next one, Nick?”

  Nick ushered in the next servant and then went to check the car to see if the data Zarkon had requested was coming over the facsimile setup yet. Finally it did come rolling out of the slot; he brought it to Zarkon, who was chatting with the young Chinese undergardener at the moment. Seeing the fax print-off in Nick’s hand, Zarkon dismissed the youth with a friendly smile and a clap on the shoulder. The youth displayed white molars in a delighted, if toothy, grin and sidled from the room. The Lord of the Unknown studied the police report briefly.

  “A bad business, Nick,” he said grimly. “But about the same as with Streiger. Threatening letters in little gray envelopes warning Pulitzer Haines to sign over his controlling interest in Trans-Iranian Oil to a third party, or be visited by the Grim Reaper. He was terrified, but blabbed about the threatening letters to the authorities. The Grim Reaper came for him, just as he came for Jerred Streiger. Died of a stroke; no known history of heart trouble, and the coroner’s report shows his arteries were in fine shape and his heart a remarkably healthy one for a man of his age. Get the car.”

  “Yowsah, boss! Where to?”

  “Dr. Grimshaw’s office. It’s a bit late to find him in, but doctors don’t keep bankers’ hours. Oh, on your way out, ask Sherrinford for the name and address of the employment bureau or bureaus he uses to fill positions on the staff, will you?”

  “Will do,” said the lanky magician.

  One of Streiger’s servants brought the long black limousine around to the carriage drive where Prince Zarkon and Nick Naldini were waiting. Just as they were getting into the car, Sherrinford joined them on the steps.

  “Will you be back this evening, sir?” the butler inquired. “I mean, will
you be spending the night here? I have taken the liberty of asking the housekeeper to prepare rooms in the east wing for you and your associate.”

  “That was thoughtful of you, Sherrinford. Actually, I cannot say for certain, but it is more than likely that we shall be back by nightfall.”

  “Very good, sir.” The butler started to turn away but Zarkon called him back.

  “Oh, Sherrinford, there is one more thing I would like you to do for me.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Is it possible for anyone here at Twelve Oaks to leave the grounds without your knowledge?”

  The butler considered the question. “Yes, sir, it is possible. But rather unlikely. I am by way of being in charge of the staff, as I’m sure Your Highness will understand; it is I who apportion the work and see that it is done. At any given moment, I know where each member of the staff is and what he or she is then engaged in doing. Certain members of the staff do leave the grounds from time to time, with my knowledge and permission, either to have their day off, according to a fixed schedule, or to perform an errand. However, of course, one or more of the staff members could leave the grounds clandestinely, which is to say, without my knowledge or permission.”

  Zarkon absorbed this thoughtfully.

  “But the gatekeeper would be aware of their leaving, wouldn’t he?”

  “He would, sir. There is no way to leave the property, other than by the gate. And, as the gate is kept locked at all times, Mr. Pipkin would have to let them in or out.”

  “I see ... In that case, Sherrinford, I would be obliged if you would call Pipkin just as soon as I leave, and ask him to inform you the moment any member of the staff leaves the grounds for any purpose. Will you do that for me?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Very good.” Zarkon took out one of his cards and wrote two numbers on the back, handing the small pasteboard rectangle to the butler.

  “The first number is that of the mobile telephone unit installed in my car. Call me at that number first, should anyone leave. The second number you will perhaps recognize as that of the inn in town; if you are unable to pass the information to me, call the second number and ask to speak to either of my associates, Mr. Muldoon or Mr. Harrigan.”

  “I will follow Your Highness’ instructions to the letter.”

  “Thank you, Sherrinford!”

  They pulled away from the steps. Gravel crunched under the wheels as the big limousine traversed the length of the drive. The silver-haired gatekeeper opened the gates for them and touched his brow respectfully as they drove out.

  “You think it was an inside job, then, eh chief?” inquired Nick Naldini.

  “It seems very likely. Streiger’s security arrangements are quite thorough and professional. It would, have been pretty difficult for an outsider to gain entry unobserved.”

  Zarkon took out the mobile phone and called his headquarters in Knickerbocker City. A dry, irritable voice, which he recognized as that of Mendell Lowell “Menlo” Parker answered.

  “Menlo, I’m going to need you and Doc out here after all. Take the big copter. In my private laboratory on the first sublevel you will discover the new long-range location-finder I have been working on. It will be set up on the lab bench near the generator. You should be able to dismantle it without trouble, I am sure.” ,

  “Okay,” said Menlo, sounding somewhat more amiable than usual at the prospect of seeing a little action.

  “We will also need the big city grid which includes all five boroughs. I don’t know how you’re going to get that into the copter —”

  “Oh, we’ll manage, chief,” said Menlo. “Chief, you tested the new setup yet?”

  “Not yet, unfortunately,” Zarkon admitted. “But I have a feeling that we’re going to be giving it a workout very soon. When you land.at the Streiger estate, ask the butler, Sherrinford, for a large room in which to set up the new location-finder. A studio room with a skylight, or one of the stables or other outbuildings might be best. Keep in touch with me on the mobile unit; if I’m unavailable, call Scorchy or Ace at this number.”

  Again he repeated the number of the Holmwood Inn. Then he signed off.

  The big limousine purred quietly through winding, tree-lined lanes. They had nearly reached town when an incoming call aroused the Omega Man from his thoughts. It was Menlo Parker.

  “Just about to leave, chief, when we got a call from the office of the publisher of the Daily Sentinel,” said the acerbic little scientist. “Seems urgent. Shall I patch it through the net to your unit?”

  “Go ahead,” said Zarkon. A moment later he heard the pleasant contralto voice of a young woman.

  “Prince Zarkon? This is Miss Case speaking; Mr. Reid’s secretary?”

  “Yes, Miss Case?”

  “Mr. Reid had to leave this afternoon on private business, but before he did so he asked me to keep you apprised of any new developments in the Streiger case.”

  “That was very thoughtful of him,” said Zarkon warmly. “I assume from your call there is something new on the case?”

  “I believe so, sir. One of our reporters investigating the matter has called in with word that a second wealthy industrialist has just received a threatening letter on gray stationery from someone who signs himself ‘the Grim Reaper.”‘

  Zarkon’s magnetic eyes blazed with black fires. But when he spoke his voice was controlled. “His name?”

  “Ogilvie Mather. He owns the Magnum Publishing Syndicate.”

  “I see. His address?”

  “We are uncertain just where he is at this time,” the girl confessed. “Mr. Mather has an estate in Beechview, Long Island, overlooking the Sound. He also maintains a suite in the Metrolite Hotel in the city, and has a summer place upstate on Lake Carlopa. We’re checking right now to find him.”

  “Thank you very much for this information, Miss Case! I would appreciate hearing from you just as soon as you locate him.” He gave Britt Reid’s secretary the phone number of the mobile unit.

  “Just a moment, sir,” the girl said suddenly, just as Zarkon was about to hang up. When her voice came on again, it was vivid with excitement.

  “One of our reporters on the case, Ned Lowry, just called in. Ogilvie Mather is spending the weekend at his Beechview estate!”

  “That’s not far from here, chief; we can be there in a half hour or so,” muttered Nick Naldini from the front seat, where he was listening in on the headset.

  “Thank you, Miss Case,” said Zarkon. “Let me return Mr. Reid’s favor by passing along an item of information which I have recently learned. Jerred Streiger was not the first to be threatened and then murdered by the Grim Reaper; have your man Lowry look into the death of Pulitzer Haines about three weeks ago. He received the same kind of threatening letters, and he also died of a stroke or heart attack, without having any prior history of coronary trouble.”

  The girl thanked him and hung up.

  “What d’you say, chief, shall we look into this Mather thing?” inquired Nick Naldini, eager for a little excitement.

  “I think we should,” said Zarkon keenly. “We can always interview Dr. Grimshaw later; it’s really just a routine followup.”

  “If it’s that routine,” grinned Nick, showing his long horsy teeth, “let Muldoon handle it. The pint-sized pugilist can’t possibly bollix up anything that simple!”

  Zarkon repressed a smile. Actually the warmest and closest of friends, the Mephistophelean vaudeville magician and the feisty Irish bantamweight had been conducting an open-end verbal duel for years. “I think I will do just that, Nick,” he said, reaching for the phone again.

  The long black limousine turned into a private driveway, backed out, turned around, and headed down the road toward Long Island Sound and the exclusive Beechview community.

  CHAPTER 7 — The First Warning

  Sunset blazed gloriously in the west as the long black Supra pulled up before the Mather estate. A police car was parked in the drive, the re
d light atop its roof revolving. Nick and Zarkon were greeted at the door by a beefy, broad-shouldered young man with china-blue eyes and straw-yellow hair. His neatly pressed chinos, Sam Browne belt, holstered revolver, and badge denoted him as Oglethorpe Gibbs’s deputy.

  “Yassuh,” said the youth with a pronounced Dixieland drawl, giving Zarkon a snappy salute. “Constable’s inside a-talkin’ t’Mister Mather. Y’all come along in.”

  “Is this Long Island or Manure Pit, Georgia?” asked Nick Naldini in a hoarse whisper which terminated in a chuckle. “I haven’t heard an accent like that one since the Swamp Monster affair in Okefenokee!”

  They entered a paneled hall. Crystal chandeliers shed a brilliance upon gilt-framed oils of the Hudson River School and the fine bindings of an excellent collection of first editions. Before a Florentine fireplace of carven marble, the Constable was deep in conversation with a nervous, rabbity little man in an expensive Bond Street suit. His garb was impeccable, but he himself was considerably less than prepossessing. Pallid scalp showed through carefully arranged wisps of dingy hair; melting brown eyes that looked as if they belonged to a spaniel blinked continuously. He clasped and unclasped clammy-looking hands, and his mouth, thin, lipless, and colorless, worked with a nervous tic.

  “— My nerves can’t stand it, I tell you! I’m not going to die as poor Streiger did — no, not me — I’ll give him whatever he wants, I will — oh, dear, what is it now?” the rabbity little man squeaked as he spied Zarkon and Naldini enter.

  “Oggie, this-here’s Prince Zarkon an’ his ‘sociate,” drawled the tall blond deputy.

  The Constable turned to greet the Ultimate Man. Where his Georgia-spawned deputy had been immaculate, the county Constable was slovenly. His chinos were wrinkled and had grass stains on their sagging knees; his paunch bulged over his scratched black leather gun belt and strained at the shirt-buttons. He had a two days’ growth of beard, a long knobby face, and wore a sweat-soaked and disreputable Stetson hat. Even his badge, Nick noted, was unshined and dingy-looking.