Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol.122, No. 6, October 1, 1938

This story began in Detective Fiction Weekly for Sept. 17

No cry of “Help! Police!” can aid the enemies of an evil genius, and the Police Commissioner himself stakes his life in a desperate gamble.

At the time it all began, Bob Larkin was a copywriter in an advertising agency. His place was an bumble one, but he looked forward to promotion and marriage to Paula Lansdowne. Paula was the only child of the widowed Professor Alfred Lansdowne, head of the Department of Applied Psychology at the University.

As so frequently happens before events of tremendous importance, no one recognized the first faint signs of what was to come. Even after two demonstrations of Skull’s sinister power, only a handful of people realized that something out of the ordinary was occurring.

The first was an elevated train collision. No one was killed, but the motorman’s statement was incredible. “When I came abreast of the stop signal,” he said, “something happened to me. I guess I stopped thinking. But it seemed like something took hold of me and made me go through that signal. What I mean is. I couldn’t help it! I couldn’t!”

He had been employed by the company for fifteen years and had no black marks against him. A test for drunkenness showed him to be entirely sober.

Discussing it with Paula and Professor Lansdowne at dinner that evening, Bob succeeded in getting the Professor to give his views on psychic phenomena — but in a purely general way.

“You know, Bob, I once knew a couple of chaps in Tibet who could do things that would make you doubt your own senses. We Westerners have been very busy developing a purely mechanistic civilization, and we’ve been highly successful. But we’ve neglected sciences that are understood by inhabitants of countries we consider backward.”

“If this knowledge were properly applied, it could do a great deal of good, eh?” asked Bob. “But if a man were to apply it the wrong way, he could do lots of harm, too, couldn’t he?”

“Indeed he could,” said the Professor. “It is because they fear the consequences of misuse that the secret brotherhoods of the Orient keep their knowledge so well hidden.”

“And let’s hope it stays hidden,” laughed Paula.

The next circumstance was the affair of the Wall Street broker, Edward J. Walker, who handed ten thousand dollars in cash to a woman who said she was solicitor for a charity. Later, Walker told the press, he couldn’t understand why he had done it. An even more baffling turn was given the case when the woman was found, a suicide.

Then one evening Bob Larkin got a phone call from Paula, and hurried over to learn the Professor had been taken off to jail on a charge of murder. They visited the Professor in his cell and he calmly admitted having killed in a frenzy of hate his best friend and associate, Dr. Amos Carter.

“Why?” demanded the anguished Paula.

“I wish I knew,” replied her father. His attorney, Norman Howard, hoped only for an insanity verdict.

The next morning Bob awoke to find sensational headlines in the newspapers: Maniac Demands Control of City — Threatens Reprisals Unless Power Granted.

The newspaper article went on to quote a letter purporting to be from Dr. Skull. In it he warned the city officials that he would make his presence known at the meeting of the Board of Estimate in City Hall that afternoon.

Although some were inclined to ridicule any serious consideration of the threat, there was tension when the Board convened. Bob got in through his friendship with a reporter, Curly Smith. The meeting progressed in its usual dreary way until suddenly Mayor O’Hara began speaking in a soft, peculiar voice. He seemed to fancy himself as Dr. Skull, and when no one replied to his demand for power, he said that J. Homer Warren, well known city greeter and man-about-town, would die at midnight. Afterward Mayor O’Hara could give no explanation for speaking as he had.

Police Commissioner Gallagher and Inspector Tom Higgins commanded a heavy guard at Warren’s home that evening, but at midnight Warren stabbed himself with a letter-opener and died.

“You and the other executives of the city have three days in which to come to your senses,” said an open letter to the police which the newspapers received from Dr. Skull the next day. “If, at the end of this period of grace, there has still been no effort to meet my terms, your life, Commissioner, will be forfeit. On this basis, you may calculate the possible time of your death at between seven and eight p.m. Monday.”

Bob Larkin continues the story:

Chapter VII Madman on the Loose

I called Norman Howard and asked him to make arrangements for me to see the Professor that same night, but, as might have been expected, the lawyer merely stated coldly that such a visit was beyond the bounds of possibility and that I would have to wait until morning. Even Inspector Tom Higgins could do nothing to help, so it was necessary for me to cultivate the gentle characteristic of patience until the next day. Paula and I spent the evening together, but I didn’t tell her about the conviction which had without warning obsessed me, fearing to arouse a hope that might not be realized. The first thing next morning, I headed down to the Tombs and was soon in Professor Lansdowne’s cell.

“Professor,” I began, “I want to talk to you about Dr. Skull.”

The scientist raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Indeed,” he said, “and what about Dr. Skull?”

“You remember my asking you if you thought he could have anything to do with you and Dr. Carter?”

“Yes.”

“Well, although I couldn’t give you a motive for his action, I’ve not been able to get rid of the feeling that he did. Last night, when I read the letter he addressed to Commissioner Gallagher through the papers, this feeling — for some unaccountable reason — became terribly strong. Surely it can’t be wrong! And here’s something else I’ve also wondered if you have the same idea. Have you?”

“Suppose you tell me what makes you so sure about Dr. Skull before I answer your question,” suggested the scientist.

“All right,” I agreed, “but there are plenty of blank spaces in my explanation. Here goes: some time ago, an elevated motorman crashed his train into the back end of another one, although it was a clear day, the signal was plainly set against him, and his brakes worked perfectly. When the man was given a third degree, he had no idea why he hadn’t stopped his train. He said something had come over him, or words to that effect. Later on, when he was examined, they couldn’t find anything wrong with him, mentally or physically, which would account for his actions, and he wasn’t drunk at the time. Check?”

Professor Lansdowne nodded.

“Okay. Next comes our friend, Edward J. Walker. He suddenly goes berserk and gives a perfect stranger ten thousand dollars in cash. Later, he can’t explain why. You look him over yourself and can’t find anything wrong with him. He just had an irresistible impulse to do what he did, that’s all. Nobody knows why, least of all Walker.

“Then what happens? A guy who calls himself Dr. Skull writes a letter to the Mayor threatening disaster unless he’s given New York City to play with. At the Board meeting Mayor O’Hara goes off his nut and talks like he never talked before. Why? He doesn’t know. The words came to his mind and he had to say them. No other explanation, and so far as we know, he was neither drunk nor insane at the time.

“What next? J. Homer Warren — who looked like he was in his right mind to me — stabs himself. You can’t make me believe he did that only because he was scared stiff. Something made him do it.

“And hold on a minute — I’ve forgotten the ‘mystery woman,’ Agnes Russell. She was found dead, supposedly a suicide.”

“Well?” demanded the Professor. He was regarding me intently.

“Well,” I echoed, “consider yourself. One evening you go to call on a friend of yours — a friend of twenty or thirty years standing. You have a discussion, the kind you’ve been having for years without even as much as a black eye exchanged, when all of a sudden, out of a clear, blue sky — you brain the guy. Why? You don’t know. You had a sudden, irresistible impulse, nothing more. You’re perfectly sane, too, presumably.

“The parallel is too obvious to mention. The motorman, Walker, O’Hara, and yourself are all possessed by crazy desires you can’t control. I’ll give you ten to one that both Warren and the Russell woman were, too. Assuming for sake of argument that I’m right about them, that makes six people obsessed. Skull appears in the picture with two of them — O’Hara and Warren. Why not with the others — the motorman, the broker, the mysterious woman, and yourself? Anyhow, that’s the way it lines up to me. Of course, I can’t prove anything. I can’t even offer an explanation of why or how it’s all happened. I don’t know how this Skull creature works, and that’s a big stumbling block in the path. I’ve thought of hypnotism and dismissed it because there was no one around to hypnotize you when you were with Dr. Carter, and I saw no one waving any hands at either the Mayor or Warren. If this were Haiti or some such place, I’d lay it to a voodoo charm. But I stand or fall with my belief that Skull is behind the whole mess.”

After which I had to stop for breath Professor Lansdowne was looking very serious.

“I think,” he said quietly, “you’re right, and it’s up to me to plug up the holes in your theory. Perhaps you’d now like to hear my ideas on the subject in question.”

I assured him there was nothing I’d rather hear.

“Then I’ll start from the beginning,” he said. “I haven’t spoken about this for the very obvious reason that you can’t expect anyone to swallow what appears to be sheer fantasy unless you’re in a position to provide proof. I have not been, and still am not, in that position, but your own deductions make me feel I can confide in you.” The scientist pulled a venerable briar out of his pocket and began filling it.

“I knew nothing of your elevated motor-man until you told me about him, the evening after I’d seen Walker. So my first contact with the current wave of inexplicable phenomena was the financier, Walker. As you know, the man feared for his sanity. Through a mutual friend, he was sent to me for examination. In the course of this examination, I could discover no mental ailment that would explain his unprecedented gullibility. But I did discover something, and I believe I mentioned it to you at the time.

“There were unmistakable indications that Edward J. Walker had recently been under a hypnotic influence of a most powerful nature. It was no ordinary posthypnotic state that I found him in, but rather a state of severe nervous shock and psychic trauma. As you will understand later, I had reason to recognize these particular symptoms, though I could find absolutely no reason for their appearance here in New York City. When you told me of the motorman, my curiosity was again aroused, but by no means satisfied.

“Now, the circumstances of my killing Amos Carter were, as you pointed out, not without similarity to Mr. Walker’s giving away his money. They were, in fact, even more similar than you could know. Besides the overwhelming lust for murder that came without warning, there was also an after-state of mental and nervous exhaustion which was very nearly identical with Walker’s. After I’d recovered my balance enough to attempt an analysis, I noted this. Yet, the possibility which I could not fail to visualize seemed so remote that even to myself I attempted to explain my state by assuming it to be the natural consequence of remorse.

“With the peculiar behavior of Mayor O’Hara, and the appearance of the person known as Dr. Skull on the scene, my original fears were strengthened. I was not present to examine the Mayor, but from what you told me, I gathered that his affection was similar to mine, both in its initial and after stages. Although I told myself it was utterly impossible, another link was forged in the chain of my theory.

“The murder — for I believe it was murder — of J. Homer Warren — again indicated that the impossible had occurred.”

Professor Lansdowne stopped talking and sucked at his pipe. I found myself sitting on the edge of my chair.

“What do you mean, sir?” I asked.

“I mean, Bob, that I agree with you. All of these queer occurrences have the same cause, and the cause is undoubtedly our friend, Dr. Skull. Had I not been included among his victims, this explanation might have eluded me altogether, but the opportunity to study first hand the methods this lunatic — I think he must be slightly cracked — uses cinched the case, in my own mind. Viewing the matter from a purely selfish standpoint, I’ll have a great deal of proving to do before I can help myself, and that isn’t going to be easy. From a larger and far more important angle, this entire city — perhaps the world — is facing a very ticklish problem.”

I was entirely unable to follow him, but I tried. “You mean,” I said, “that Skull is just a hypnotist?”

Professor Lansdowne shook his head, smiling.

“I don’t mean that he’s — as you say — just a hypnotist. That is a gross understatement. Let me go on with my hypothesis.

“As you know, certain mystical societies — I use the term, mystical, purely for convenience — are to be found in comparatively isolated sections of Northern India, along the Tibetan frontier. These societies have conducted researches along lines unknown to western minds, and they have made many strange and wonderful discoveries. As you may also know, I spent quite some time, many years ago, in a kind of lamasery which was located to the northeast of Sprinagar, in the Karakorams. This was known as the Lamasery of the Golden Throne, so named for the great mountain on whose slopes it was built, and it was maintained by initiates of the Three Brotherhoods. This organization is perhaps the most esoteric of the mystical orders, and its more profound mysteries were never opened to me, nor, so far as I know, to any other white man. Their greatest knowledge, I’ve been told, is far too dangerous to be given to any ordinary mortal.

“However, the lesser secrets of the Golden Throne are open to certain selected students. By a devious path which I’ll not outline now, I was fortunate enough to be chosen as one. I know of only one other white man who enjoyed the same distinction, and I have reason to believe that he went deeper into the mysteries than I did — that, in fact, he learned the secret of a peculiar and superior kind of mind control known only to the Three Brotherhoods. Because there have been unmistakable signs that my own experience with that organization enables me to recognize, I believe this man may now be in New York, using his great knowledge and power for wrong purposes. I think he calls himself—”

“Dr. Skull!” I finished for him.

“Exactly,” nodded Professor Lansdowne.

“Then,” I said eagerly, “you know who he really is!”

“I think I do. You see, after I’d finished college, I spent two years getting practical experience in a mental clinic in Vienna. There I met a very unusual young man. His name was Franz Ehrlich, he was also doing clinical research and though he was about ten years my junior, his background was already better than mine. Never have I encountered, before or since, a mind with such potentialities. His ability was amazing, though he was considered rather eccentric by his associates. A few of them went so far as to believe him insane.

“One of the most remarkable things about him was his power over the minds of others. He was even then a hypnotist of almost supernatural ability, and when I think of this innate power coupled with the occult secrets of the Three Brotherhoods — but I’m digressing. Unfortunately, Ehrlich allowed himself to be embittered by the jibes of his fellow students — jibes which came in large part from their envy. I dare say I was the only man in the clinic that he would talk to, and even that was little enough.

“It was some time after I met him that he disappeared, and I never heard of him again until I went to become a novitiate of the Golden Throne order of the Three Brotherhoods. There I heard of a white man who was also a student, but I never saw him. From descriptions of his appearance, I felt this man must be Ehrlich, but I didn’t really know until years later I ran into him on a return trip to Srinagar. He remembered me, but talked very little. He told me of his being a chela in one of the Three Brotherhoods, and indicated that his studies were not yet completed. That was the last I ever saw of him. At the time, I decided he was quite mad.”

“Then,” I cut in, “you think Dr. Skull is this man Ehrlich?”

Professor Lansdowne nodded. “No native member of the Three Brotherhoods would dare to disobey their laws and break his vow of secrecy. He would fear the consequences of such sacrilege. Only a white man would have the necessary contempt, and that characteristic fits Ehrlich perfectly.

“Of course, there is always the possibility that it could be some other white man, but I feel that this is obviated by the fact of Dr. Skull’s honoring me with his intentions. Since there is no logical reason for his singling me out, I feel there is only one explanation — Ehrlich, or Skull, wanted to renew an old acquaintance.”

“But,” I interposed, “what makes you so positive that this type of hypnosis is that of your Three Brotherhoods?”

“The signs are absolutely unmistakable,” said the Professor firmly. “Absolutely so. In each case we have to consider, hypnosis was achieved without the necessity of the hypnotist being in the presence of his subject. Moreover, in each case, the hypnotist must have had a clear picture of his subject’s surroundings — enough to direct the subject’s conversation and actions accordingly. Witness my behavior before Amos Carter, and the Mayor’s conversation with Warren at the Board meeting. These things could not have been brought about unless the hypnotist could know what was going on around his subject, unless he could, in short, see through his subject’s eyes, hear through his ears, and talk through his mouth. This knowledge is a monopoly of the Three Brotherhoods.”

Struck by a sudden thought, I inquired: “Do you understand this hypnotism business yourself, can you do these things?”

“No,” said the scientist, “I cannot approach the power of Skull, though, God willing, I may be able to oppose him — in time. My participation in the ancient mysteries was much less than his.”

“Well,” I said with heat, “it’s a cockeyed cinch that nobody else is going to know anything about him. They’ll have to let you out of here, immediately. Why, there’s no telling what may happen!”

“Hold on, now, Bob!” The Professor raised a restraining hand. “Not so fast! I’ve told you what I think. I do not feel certain enough, even yet, to say that I know. You can imagine what people would say if I advanced this theory without something to back it up. In order to clear myself, I would have to convict Ehrlich, or Skull. That’s not likely to be simple. We first have to find him, and that’s going to be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Having found him, it is not going to be easy to prove my charge. Skull undoubtedly has made his plans well, and we have a very formidable opponent to fight.”

“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. It was another inspiration. “Skull has threatened to kill Commissioner Gallagher unless his terms are met. You know they’re not going to be met and that puts the Commissioner right on the spot.”

“Yes?”

“So — there are only two days or so grace. You undertake to save the Commissioner in return for your freedom until you’ve proved your innocence.”

Professor Lansdowne knocked the ashes out of his pipe. “I appreciate your eagerness to help me, Bob,” he said, “but your suggestion isn’t very practicable for several reasons. Primarily, no police Commissioner, or anyone else, can turn loose a man charged with murder, whatever the inducement. In the second place, I haven’t yet formed a plan for checkmating, or even opposing, Skull. I don’t even know for a certainty that Skull and Ehrlich are one and the same person, although I have every reason to believe they are. I know a good deal of the sources of his power, but I need more time.”

“Anyhow,” I said, disappointed, “let me have a talk with the Commissioner. I certainly think he ought to know about your ideas. Do you agree?”

“It wouldn’t do any harm,” acknowledged the Professor thoughtfully, “although he’s likely to consider me crazy. Which will strengthen my defense, if I have to use insanity as a plea.” The scientist grinned at me. “Just one thing. Pledge him to keep absolute silence in regard to all that you tell him. I don’t care to have this get out yet.”

“I understand,” said I. “I’ll do as you advise.”

While the jailer, thanks to strong influence, was lenient about Professor Lansdowne’s visitors, it was apparent that I’d overstayed my time considerably, so I now got up to leave.

“Have you told Paula about your theory?” I asked.

“No, because I haven’t felt certain enough about it. But I will now. Perhaps it will cheer her up a bit.”

As I was about to pass through the iron door of the cell, Professor Lansdowne caught me by the arm.

“You might tell the Commissioner for me,” he said in a low voice, “that if he’s smart, he’ll pretend to capitulate and play for time. If he doesn’t, I feel that nothing on earth will be strong enough to protect him from Dr. Skull. A madman on the loose with powers which stagger the imagination is nothing to be taken lightly.”

I saw that the Professor was very much in earnest.

“I’ll tell him, sir,” I said.

Chapter VIII The Drug

The office of the Commissioner of Police was, as might naturally be expected, in a state of wild activity that morning. Telephones jangled at about ten-second intervals, secretaries bustled from one room to another with official-looking documents, and over all hung the atmosphere of a fortress preparing for a siege. I made my appearance shortly before eleven o’clock, but it was ten minutes after one before Commissioner Gallagher found time to receive me.

“I don’t mind telling you,” he said, “that I’m bothering with you at a time like this only because you’re a friend of Professor Lansdowne’s. I take it you’ve read the papers and understand what I mean.”

“Yes, I have, Commissioner,” I said, “and as a matter of fact, that’s exactly why I’m here. The Professor has some information directly pertaining to Dr. Skull which he feels you should have too. Since he couldn’t very well come himself, he sent me as messenger.”

Commissioner Gallagher pushed a pack of cigarettes across the desk within reach of my fingers.

“Is that so?” he said. “Suppose you continue.”

As quickly as possible, I outlined the story Professor Lansdowne had told me, while the Commissioner listened with unwavering interest. In conclusion, I said:

“The Professor thinks your only safe course of action is to pretend to fall in with Skull’s plans long enough to gain a few days’ extra time. In those few days, it may be possible for him to hit upon a way of combating Dr. Skull. Professor Lansdowne believes that if you fail to do this, you’re as good as a corpse right this minute.”

Commissioner Gallagher blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling.

“I wish it were as simple as that,” he said.

“You mean you won’t do it?”

“I mean,” replied the Commissioner bitterly, “that I can’t do it. Can you imagine what the public would think upon learning that the head man of their police department were carrying on negotiations pursuant to turning them over to the tender mercies of a madman? Why, there’d either be a panic such as the world has never seen, or else there’d be a lynching mob waiting downstairs for me. Very likely both. And this, mind you, if I had the power to carry on any such negotiations, which I haven’t. Neither has any other single man, whatever his capacity. I even doubt if the whole cockeyed Assembly could do it.

“Besides, how do we know Professor Lansdowne is right? If anyone else had offered such a cock-and-bull explanation of what’s been happening, I’d have called for the wagon. As it is, I value the Professor’s opinion highly enough to give his theory the benefit of the doubt. Which doesn’t mean that anybody else would, so if I tried to offer it as an explanation for fake conversations with Skull, I’d be laughed out of whatever room I was in.”

“Professor Lansdowne,” I said, “seemed genuinely concerned about your safety, Commissioner. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“Yes,” he laughed shortly, “I can pray that the Professor is wrong, that we’re dealing with a regular flesh-and-blood assassin, and that a bodyguard will keep him away from me. Beyond that, not very much.

“I don’t want Professor Lansdowne to think I don’t appreciate his help, because I do. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than following his advice to the letter. In fact” — he grinned broadly — “I’d like nothing better than to hop the first boat for South America. I’m no hero, and I’ve got a wife and two kids. But so what? My hands are tied.”

“Well,” said I, rather heavily, “I guess that’s that.”

“I’m afraid so. We’ll have to continue as we’ve been doing, plugging along ordinary lines, trying to get the finger on this lunatic. Even so, be sure and tell Professor Lansdowne that I’m anxious to have every new idea he gets, and that I’ll cooperate with him as much as I can, as long as I’m here to cooperate. Of course, under the circumstances, I can’t appear to be conferring with him, so you’ll have to continue as liaison man, if you don’t mind. And of course, if there’s anything I can possibly do to help the Professor, or to make his situation any more comfortable, tell him not to hesitate to let me know.”

“I won’t, Commissioner,” I replied, “and thanks a lot.”

“Now,” said Gallagher, rising and extending his hand, “get to blazes out of here and let me go to work.” As I went through the door, I heard him mutter, “I’ve got a will to write.”

In the corridor immediately outside the Commissioner’s office, who should come galloping at me with the momentum of a charging buffalo, but Curly Smith.

“Gangway, mug!” he shouted, breathing with difficulty, “I’ve got business to do!”

I stepped aside quickly to avoid being trampled under foot and turned my head to see him plunge through a group of men and disappear into the Commissioner’s private office. Animated by an overpowering desire to see what all the excitement was about, I followed the reporter as rapidly as possible. Whatever made me think I could get into Gallagher’s office again, I don’t know. Probably the idea didn’t enter my head, and that may have been why no one interfered with my progress. The Commissioner was putting down his telephone. He appeared to be angry.

“See here, Commissioner,” Curly began, before the official had time to speak, “what have you got to say about the coroner’s finding poison in Warren’s stomach?”

Commissioner Gallagher’s face had been red when he put down the telephone receiver. Now it became purplish.

“What the devil do you mean, running into my office like this?” he raged. “And who the hell are you, anyway? Get out, get out! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“C’mon, Commissioner,” urged Curly. “I’m Smith, from the Express. Gimme a break on this, won’t you? Everybody knows about it now, anyway. I got my dope from the coroner and now I want your comment. Have a heart, Commissioner!”

With apparent effort, Gallagher got hold of himself.

“Would you mind telling me, please,” he said, between clenched teeth, “when you obtained your information?”

“Oh, half an hour ago. Why?”

“Half an hour ago?” echoed the Commissioner. Whereupon he began filling the air with a choice collection of invectives, aimed more or less at the absent coroner who talked to a reporter at least fifteen minutes before reporting to his own superior. Then his eyes fell on me. “You’re in again, too?” he demanded, going on without waiting for a reply: “Now if we just had some tea and a fourth, what fun we could have!”

“Commissioner,” began Curly once more, softly, “would you care to give me a comment? We got to print something, you know.”

“All right, all right,” said Gallagher, wearily. “I surrender, dear. What do you want to know?”

“The coroner says the drug found in Warren’s stomach must have been taken only a short time before his death, and that it was a kind of drug that could have affected his brain. Do you think this accounts for Warren stabbing himself?”

“Now, look here,” grated the Commissioner, “if you want to print something print this: the police department is making a thorough investigation of the latest developments in the Warren case. As soon as this is completed, a statement will be issued. Meanwhile, there’s nothing I have to say. Now, get out — and the next time you come back, knock before you come in!”

“Aw, gee, Commissioner,” wheedled the reporter, “don’t you even want to say whether you think somebody deliberately put that stuff in Warren’s drink so he’d kill himself?”

“I told you there’d be a statement when we’ve completed our investigation, not before. Now, scram, d’you hear? Scram!” the Commissioner yelled the last word, so Curly reluctantly started off, and I with him. Gallagher, however, called me back. When the door had closed on the reporter, he said:

“I guess it’s just as well you came back. You heard the latest. I got it over the phone just as that guy busted in. The coroner had an analysis made of the contents of Warren’s stomach, and he found this drug — never mind, I’d better write it down.” He did so and handed me the slip of paper. The word meant nothing as far as I was concerned. “Tell Professor Lansdowne about it. I don’t know whether it will shake his theory or not, but the coroner says this drug might have induced suicide. If this is an indication that Skull uses drugs in his dirty work, it puts a bit of a crimp in the Professor’s explanation.”

I’ll admit to feeling slightly sick at the prospect of seeing the scientist’s carefully constructed case threatened, and I must have shown it, for the Commissioner added:

“Of course, we have no proof, one way or the other. In any case, keep this under your hat. I don’t know what good it’ll do with the coroner blowing his mouth off to every Tom, Dick and Harry he sees, but keep quiet anyhow.”

Curly Smith was waiting for me as I emerged from the office, but there was little I could have added to the information he already had, even if I’d wanted to, so he soon gave up.

“So long,” he said, when we reached the street. “Remember me to the Professor and Miss Lansdowne. The only reason I haven’t been in to see him is because I’ve been up to my ears in this Skull mess. But as soon as it eases off a bit, I’ll be around.” He flagged a cab and was whirled away in the sea of traffic. I smiled to myself at the thought of Curly’s being too busy with the “Skull mess” to talk to Professor Lansdowne, the one person who could shed any light on it. Then I remembered the drug taken by Warren and sobered right up.

I went straight to the Tombs, and after a good deal of arguing, got in to see Professor Lansdowne. It was with mixed emotions that I discovered him chatting lightly with Paula and Norman Howard. However, after a few rather labored pleasantries, the latter got up to leave.

“Goodbye, Professor,” he said, in his flat, clipped way. “The fact that, through our mutual friends, I’ve secured such an early date for the trial will greatly shorten these tedious days of waiting. Whatever the outcome may be — and I believe we can make out a fairish case — we will certainly be able to get you into more comfortable surroundings.”

“Thank you, Norman,” said the Professor, “I appreciate all you’re trying to do for me.”

“Oh, don’t think anything of it,” answered Howard. “It’s all in the day’s work, you know.”

The lawyer bowed himself out and his short steps tapped themselves beyond hearing range. Then I opened up and told Professor Lansdowne what I had learned from Commissioner Gallagher.

“Dad!” cried Paula, alarmed. She’d evidently been told about the Professor’s hypothesis. “This may mean you’re wrong about Dr. Skull. If they prove that Warren killed himself because of a drug that was slipped in his drink—”

“Hold on a minute,” I interrupted. “Give your Dad a chance to think it over. It may not mean so much.” I hoped fervently I was right. Professor Lansdowne stared vacantly at nothing for a full minute, rolling into a ball the piece of paper the Commissioner had given me.

“As much as I hate to admit it,” he said heavily, “this new development may possibly upset my theory. If it is true, that is, that somnocephalaine was administered Warren, and if it is also true that the drug disturbed his mind sufficiently to make him take his own life. Also, if the same drug were given O’Hara and the others who were strangely affected, including myself.”

“But, Professor,” I said, puzzled, “how could any drug make a person commit suicide? That seems impossible to me.”

“Somnocephalaine is a relatively new discovery,” the scientist explained. “It has been used successfully to make a person amenable to suggestion, particularly those suffering from various forms of insanity. The drug has a peculiar effect on the brain, numbing to a large extent its natural impulses — those which come from within — and making it highly susceptible to outside influence. Thus, a patient suffering from delusions, say, of persecution, is given a small quantity of somnocephalaine. This is followed by a period during which the psychiatrist suggests the absurdity of the delusion, a suggestion which has a marked effect in restoring the patient’s mental equilibrium — as long as the effects of the drug last. This is usually about two hours. There is more than one school of thought on the permanent benefits, if any, of the treatment.”

“But,” wondered Paula, “what could it do to a man like Warren?”

“This,” replied her father. “With the surroundings as foreboding as they were, with all the guards on hand, and the possibility of sudden death within a short time, the drug could have greatly increased Warren’s natural pessimism and fear. In fact, these emotions could have been emphasized to the point of profound mental depression which might have made him want to die.”

I hauled a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket and passed them around.

“How would you account for the motor-man and Walker and the Mayor, though?” I asked. “Could this somnocephalaine explain their actions too?”

“It’s within the bounds of possibility, yes. We really know very little about the potentialities of the drug and it may have more effects than we think it has. I can’t give any explanation of how it could have been administered to any of the people in question, but if it was, then it could have had a lot to do with their actions. Though, come to think of it, it’s pretty hard to account for that speech of the Mayor’s except by my hypnosis theory. Still, I can’t say for sure that somnocephalaine couldn’t have been an influence.”

“In your case, though,” I pursued, “wouldn’t you have been able to tell, with all your experience, that you were under the influence of a drug like that?”

“Not necessarily,” was the reply. “My perceptions would have been dulled to a considerable extent. The after-effects of somnocephalaine and the kind of hypnotism practiced by initiates of the Three Brotherhoods are quite similar, I should say, though with much less shock resulting from the drug. It is this last factor that makes me continue to hope for my original theory. Walker, for example, was suffering from shock to an unusual degree.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said Paula. “You can’t let anything break up your case like that, Dad!”

The Professor patted her hand. “I’ll try not to, dear,” he promised. “I certainly can’t afford to have it proved that Skull works with drugs and not with a kind of hypnotism superior to any ever seen before. It actually isn’t possible that I was under the influence of somnocephalaine when I struck down Amos Carter. It couldn’t possibly have been given me because the only food I take is at home and only you or Martha could have administered it.

“Therefore, as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t make any difference how many others may have been under its influence. I was not, and if Dr. Skull doesn’t work with hypnotism, then I killed Carter as the direct result of a very real criminal insanity that may return. So you see, my theory must not be disrupted. Frankly, I don’t believe it will be. I don’t believe that Edward J. Walker had been given any drug, or Mayor O’Hara either. Nor the elevated motorman nor the poor woman who was found dead.

“What I do believe is this:

“Franz Ehrlich, or Skull, developed a hypnotic ability greater even than that of his teachers themselves. Fearing death if he broke his vow of secrecy and used his power in India, he came to America. I can’t say for sure, but I believe that that motorman may have been only a sort of proving ground for Skull. Before attempting anything on a grander scale he must have wanted to be sure. In the case of Walker, he may have needed the money. In my case — well, it may have been sentiment, or the desire to try his power on someone he thought might be rather difficult.

“With Mayor O’Hara and Warren, his real campaign has begun. I am very much afraid that it has just begun, and that we may be facing a reign of terror such as the world has never known — unless this maniac can be checked.”

Professor Lansdowne stopped talking long enough to light his pipe. Then he added:

“I hope, more than I can say, that the man whom Skull has selected for his next victim — Commissioner Gallagher — may escape the fate which overtook Warren. But, as matters stand, I don’t believe he will. In the manner of his death, we will surely find evidence, either to further weaken or greatly strengthen, my theory of hypnosis. There are now less than fifty-three hours to wait.”

Chapter IX Condemned to Death

Paula and I spent that Saturday evening worrying over the latest developments in the Warren case. The fact that there was the barest possibility of Professor Lansdowne’s not having been the unwilling tool of Dr. Skull when he struck down Amos Carter was enough to cast a pall over our thoughts.

“Just think, Bob,” said Paula that evening, “if Skull uses drugs instead of hypnotism to control his victims, that means Dad killed poor Dr. Carter because he really did go out of his mind. And if he did once, he might again. What if that should be true!”

“But it isn’t, Paula,” I said, and in my heart believed it. “The Professor is as sane as anybody in the world. If he went out of his head, it was because Dr. Skull had him hypnotized. Your dad wouldn’t go crazy that way. He’s no homicidal maniac.”

“I hope and pray you’re right, darling.”

“I’m right. As your father says, we must keep our eyes on Gallagher. What happens to him, if anything does, may be the proof of our argument.”

If it seems cold-blooded of me to take such an attitude toward the possible death of a fine man like the Commissioner, it should be remembered that the happiness — perhaps the lives — of those I loved best were at stake. At that moment, I think I would have been willing to sacrifice all the people in the world, if by doing so I could have saved the Professor from a lunatic asylum and Paula from the misery which gripped her.

The next morning as I sat down to breakfast at the restaurant over on Broadway, I rambled through the Sunday papers. The front page was full of the threat that had been made to the police official, and in another column appeared a statement that a thorough investigation into the cause of J. Homer Warren’s death had been launched. Also on the first page, a smaller item announced that the selection of jurors for the Lansdowne trial would begin almost immediately. The article went on to say that the State would undoubtedly refuse to permit a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity, and that the prosecution would probably be conducted by District Attorney Harkness himself. The thought that anyone in the world could be planning ways of putting Professor Lansdowne in the electric chair caused a chill to run up and down my spine. It came to me with a rush that the scientist would have to work fast to build up a satisfactory defense, in the short time left before the trial.

Professor Lansdowne had asked me to have another talk with Commissioner Gallagher, and to pass on to the official several last-minute suggestions. Although it was Sunday, the Commissioner was hard at work in his office when I telephoned for an appointment, and set a time a couple of hours away for our conference. Meanwhile, I dropped around to see Paula. A few minutes after I arrived, Curly Smith put in an appearance. After we’d discussed the forthcoming trial and Paula had thanked the reporter for several very sympathetic articles he had written about her father, Curly said:

“You won’t be seeing me around for a while. I’ve been assigned to the Skull case on a full-time basis, and from the looks of it, that means twenty-four hours a day.”

Paula and I exchanged a swift look, but said nothing of Professor Lansdowne’s concern with the mysterious doctor. Curly went on:

“My paper is all set to offer a big reward for Skull if anything happens to Commissioner Gallagher and I don’t mind saying I intend to have a whack at it.”

“Better be careful,” I warned. “Shrouds don’t have pockets, you know.”

“And live people don’t have shrouds,” Curly grinned back at me. A time was to come when I would remember that remark.

I reached the Commissioner’s office a few minutes before the time of our appointment, but it was thirty minutes after the hour set before the door of the inner sanctum opened and I was admitted. I was pleasantly surprised to find Tom Higgins already seated in a deep, leather chair and puffing a cigar. We exchanged nods.

“All right, Larkin,” said the Commissioner brusquely, “what do you know?”

“I had a talk with Professor Lansdowne,” I said, “and he has some suggestions for you.”

“Let’s have them.”

Whereupon I passed on a list of precautions outlined by the scientist: that at the zero hour, Gallagher should surround himself only by trusted men; that he should instruct these men to watch him every second, ready to stop instantly any effort on his own part to injure himself; that lethal weapons should be kept out of his reach. There were several other things, as well.

“Tell the Professor I understand perfectly and am grateful to him for his help,” said the Commissioner when I had finished. “In view of what happened to Warren, I’d decided to take somewhat similar precautions myself, and I’m glad to hear that Professor Lansdowne agrees with me. Of course, the finding of that stuff in Warren’s stomach may have changed the complexion of things materially, but we certainly don’t know that the Professor’s explanation has been disproved — not by a long shot. My own disposition should shed light on that question, and I have an idea Professor Lansdowne is quite interested in seeing what happens to me.”

“As a matter of fact, Commissioner, he is,” I admitted.

“Well,” said Gallagher with a rather bitter laugh, “I can’t say I blame him, but I’m going to do my damnedest to see that nothing happens. Now, while you’re here, I have a few things I want to say to you.”

The Commissioner leaned back in his chair and appeared to think a few moments before continuing. Then:

“Should Skull get to me regardless of all we do to stop him, and should the way I die prove Professor Lansdowne correct, his importance in this case will be tremendously increased. In fact, as perhaps the only person in New York City who knows anything about the man we’re fighting, he will be the most important factor in the campaign. It’s unthinkable that such a person should be in jail where he can’t give us the greatest benefit of his knowledge, and if this case cracks his way, he won’t be there long.

“Meanwhile, though, you can be the link between Professor Lansdowne and the police. It might even be better that way than for Skull to know the Professor is working with us. He might kill him. Be that as it may, Tom Higgins here is directly in charge of all operations against Skull. If I die, he will be the man for you and the Professor to work with. You two had better make arrangements to keep in close touch with each other. If things break the other way, and the Professor is wrong, you can forget about it.”

Commissioner Gallagher rose, to indicate that the interview was closed. “Good luck,” he said, “and tell that absent-minded Professor of yours that I expect to cheat him out of his proof by staying alive.”

“Of course, sir,” I replied, “and the best of luck to you, too.”

“Thanks, son. I’ll probably need it.”

As I left the office in the company of Tom Higgins, I could not still the feeling of apprehension that swept over me, a premonition that I had seen that pleasant and capable man for the last time. The mental picture I had of the way he looked, standing there behind his desk, convinced me that he felt the same way himself. He wore the expression of a man condemned to death.

Tom and I were silent as we drove uptown together. He undoubtedly felt his grave responsibility, and must also have seen the grim expectation in his chief’s eyes. We parted at the corner of 47th and Broadway after making arrangements to keep in touch with each other. I then continued northward to Riverside Drive and the Lansdowne apartment, where I had a dinner engagement with Paula.

That night we went to one of the so-called “concerts” that take place in New York on Sunday evenings, when the regular theaters are closed. In reality a glorified variety program, these affairs provide an entertainment rather higher than the level of the average movie stage show, and are quite popular. We probably wouldn’t have gone out at all except for the fact that Professor Lansdowne had been pleading with us to get a little relaxation. I was glad he’d suggested it, because the strain was beginning to tell on Paula. The Professor himself, strangely enough, did not now give any appearance of being under pressure. Rather, he acted like a man who is very much absorbed in an interesting experiment. There was nothing about the scientist’s behavior to betray the fact that he, himself, was part of the experiment, and that failure might well mean death.

The concert was fairly good, and for a couple of hours we were able to forget the shadows that hemmed us in. We could even laugh at a well-written skit burlesquing Skull. When the show was over, however, Paula preferred to return home rather than go to a restaurant for a late supper.

It still amazes me that the lights on Broadway that night sparkled just as brightly as ever; that the same crowd of people could saunter up and down the famous street, looking in shop windows and at each other with the same expressions they’d always worn. Nowhere was there anything but the commonplace. There were, of course, occasional snatches of conversation about Dr. Skull. But these were carried on, for the most part, in tones of amusement or merely mild interest. Only in rare instances was there the faint tremor of voice betokening alarm.

Paula and I reached the apartment in time for the midnight news broadcast, to which we listened. I remember that the first item read was one concerning a hurricane in Cuba, and that not until midway of the fifteen minute bulletin was any mention made of Dr. Skull. Then:

“The attention of seven million New Yorkers,” said the announcer, “is focussed tonight on a mysterious person known as Dr. Skull, who has threatened to murder Police Commissioner Michael A. Gallagher unless negotiations are begun which would mean the virtual surrender of New York to him. With the zero hour — seven p.m. tomorrow — drawing closer, many citizens ask themselves, ‘Will Commissioner Gallagher be alive at this time tomorrow night?’ The Commissioner himself has refused to be alarmed by the threat, which he terms that of a madman, but he has admitted that special police have been assigned to guard him. So far, all efforts to locate Dr. Skull have been unavailing, but police officials state an arrest is expected momentarily. And now for news of the sports world. In Detroit tonight, the Interstate Basketball League has—”

At which point, Paula clicked off the radio.

All indications pointed to my having a restless night, but sleep came quickly and I even snored through an eight o’clock alarm to awaken not until twenty minutes of nine. Clouds had come up and the day was a dismal one, with a fine drizzle of rain which looked as though it would go on for the next week.

Instantly, my thoughts reverted to Commissioner Gallagher. This was the day, and there were ten hours and twenty minutes until the fatal hour, during which the Commissioner was slated to die. The dark sky impressed me as a gloomy omen, and my whole being was weighted with a feeling of dull foreboding. In thinking back to that morning, it is clear that nowhere in my mind was there the slightest doubt that Commissioner Gallagher would really be killed. I may have been concerned as to the exact manner of his passing, insofar as that would reflect on the Professor’s theory, but I was absolutely sure he would die. Moreover, my faith in Professor Lansdowne’s hypnosis idea was now stronger than ever. Such are the unpredictable ways of the human mind.

But to continue:

At eleven o’clock, Paula and I taxied downtown and, a few minutes later, we greeted the Professor and Norman Howard at the Tombs. Paula’s father looked as though he had slept soundly, and not by so much as a flicker of an eyelash did he show any nervousness. Norman Howard was his usual bantam-y, meticulous self. Clearing his throat in his best courtroom manner, he pulled several sheets of foolscap out of a briefcase and handed them to the Professor.

“Here is a preliminary outline of the argument I expect to make,” he said. “It is, of course, based on the premise that you were temporarily insane when you struck Amos Carter.” He cleared his thoat again.

“I see,” said Professor Lansdowne, shuffling the sheets with his fingers. “It certainly takes a lot of material to make such a short argument, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” replied Howard, head cocked to one side, “this is an outline of the entire case. In a couple of days, I’ll bring you the complete brief, but I wanted you to see this first, in case you have any suggestions to make. You see that I have indicated the line of questioning here. It is intended to establish the fact that you had no motive whatever for wanting Dr. Carter dead, and that for years you have been the victim of repeated attacks of insanity.”

“I see,” said the Professor again, absently.

“Not being familiar with the history of your earlier years, I have merely suggested incidents, the details of which you can supply yourself. Miss Lansdowne will, naturally, be the principal defense witness. She can testify that you’ve had — ahem — various flights of fancy, shall we say, during her own lifetime. You, being a psychologist, can hit upon any number of ways in which this unfortunate tendency manifested itself, I presume.”

“I dare say,” murmured Professor Lansdowne.

“I have been able,” Howard continued, “to round up several disinterested witnesses, including former pupils of yours, who seem willing, if not eager, to testify as to your insanity.”

The Professor looked up and grinned like a schoolboy. “You should subpoena the Dean. He’d really clinch the case for us!”

“Dad!” reproved Paula. “Please don’t joke about such a serious thing as this.”

“You think I’m joking?” he shot back. “Why—”

Norman Howard was clearing his throat again.

“Now, Professor,” he said, “the examination of veniremen will begin at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. We can expect to have a complete panel in a day or two. There’s no reason why the State should waste much time in challenges. Thanks to a number of very influential people, all friends of yours, it is possible that the trial itself will get under way before the end of the week. That means that we’ll have to round off our case between now and then, preferably at the earliest possible moment. I ask you to examine this outline carefully, you and your daughter together. We’ll go over it tomorrow afternoon, late. Now let me see, is there anything else?”

Howard tapped his teeth with his fountain pen and gazed thoughtfully aloft.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’d almost forgotten. Dr. Rudolph Kleinschmidt has also offered to testify that you are mentally unbalanced.”

“You don’t say?” Professor Lansdowne’s tone was ironical. “Another friend in need, I see. I’ll bet Kleinschmidt has waited twenty years for this chance. Anything else?”

Once more Mr. Howard contemplated the ceiling. “No, I believe that about takes care of everything for the present.”

“I suppose, Norman,” said Professor Lansdowne, “that you’ve gone to a good deal of trouble to get your brief and your witnesses all lined up, haven’t you?”

“There has been considerable time involved, yes,” agreed Howard, “but of course that’s part of my work.”

The Professor extended the papers to him. “Well,” he said, “that’s too bad, because I’m afraid you’re never going to have a chance to use them. Here.”

The lawyer drew back a step. He looked from the Professor to Paula, to me, and back to the Professor. “Why, what do you mean?” he demanded. “I assure you—”

“I mean,” answered Professor Lansdowne, “that I have decided against letting you enter a plea of insanity in order to keep me out of the electric chair.”

“But,” faltered Howard, “There’s no question of first degree murder in any case. I don’t—”

“Of course you don’t, Norman,” said the scientist, kindly. “You just run along back to your office and come in to see me again tomorrow morning, first thing. At that time, I expect to present to you my real case. Or perhaps I won’t. In any event, there’s nothing further you can do at the present.”

Howard looked as though he expected the earth to open up and swallow him.

“Why, why—” he choked, “you’re running the risk of going to prison for the rest of your life. Yes, possibly the electric chair, at that! Temporary insanity is the only possible—”

But he was again interrupted.

“Norman, you stop trying to think. Run back to your office and stay there until tomorrow morning, like I told you. Get yourself interested in some other case. Now run along. I mean it.”

The lawyer turned to Paula. “Miss Lansdowne. I want you to know that I can accept no further responsibility until you can talk some sense into your father. Apparently,” he added maliciously, “it would be only too easy to establish insanity in his case!”

“I think you’d better do as Dad asks, Mr. Howard,” suggested Paula. “I’m sure he’ll have something quite rational to give you, when the time comes.”

“Very well, Miss Lansdowne. But I wash my hands, you understand? I wash my hands! Good day!” With which he picked up his briefcase, grabbed the outline out of the Professor’s hand and marched off down the corridor.

“Now see what you’ve done!” said Paula, bitterly.

“Never mind, dear,” her father soothed. “I don’t think any great harm’s been done. His pride is a bit dented, that’s all.”

“What do you intend to do, sir?” I asked, not sure of his purpose.

“For the present, some hard thinking. Bob,” was the reply. “By tomorrow morning I may have arrived at something.”

“You mean that by then, you may know more — about the Commissioner, and Skull?”

“Exactly. And now, I’d appreciate it if you two would kindly clear out of here. As I said, there’s hard thinking to be done.”

He would have it no other way, so we left. Although a bit nervous at the Professor’s sudden dismissal of the one thing, the only thing, that was certain to get him off, we were both buoyed up by the confidence in his voice.

Shortly after one o’clock, I telephoned Tom Higgins from a public booth. Neither of us had anything new to discuss.

“I’m standing by downtown until after eight tonight,” said Tom. “Tell me where I can get you then.”

I gave him Paula’s number and hung up. As I did so, a pall of deep depression and premonition of disaster fell upon me again. Quarter past one. Five hours and forty-five minutes to go. It was the Warren business all over again, and I didn’t like it. Rejoining Paula, I piloted her into the subway, and it seemed like going down into a tomb. The express shot uptown to 72nd, 96th, 103rd, 110th, and finally, 116th Street. The big university buildings loomed up in the misty rain as we came out on the street. Silently, we walked down the hill to the Drive and crossed over to the parapet overlooking the broad Hudson. The river was a wide sheet of dismal gray. On the Jersey shore, the Palisades pushed their bulk into the drizzle. From time to time, a dead leaf would fall to the ground, wet and sodden.

“It’s a great day for a murder,” I remarked.

Paula nodded, shuddering a little.

We stayed there a few minutes longer and then, pretty well saturated, we went up to the Lansdowne apartment.

Hour after heavy hour dragged by. We tried to talk, but couldn’t. Nor were we in any mood for the radio. Try as we would to get our minds off it, our eyes kept going back to the electric clock on the mantel. Outside, the rain continued, the same constant drizzle that had lasted all day. Probably, I thought to myself, it would never stop. The little light that was in the sky faded. By five o’clock it was gone.

Paula turned on a lamp and sat down beside me, her cold hand in both of mine, very nearly as cold. We could think of nothing much to say, so we just sat there, smoking innumerable cigarettes. At six-thirty we mixed a couple of whiskey highballs.

“Did Tom Higgins say what time he would call you?” asked Paula, a few minutes later.

“Eight o’clock. When it’s — settled.”

“Oh.”

Now it was seven.

“It’s started.” I said.

“Yes.”

I wondered how Gallagher felt. I wondered if, like Warren, he was trying to pass the thing off lightly, trying to hide his natural fear, trying to face death smiling. I knew that no matter how many men he had to guard him, he didn’t feel safe. No one could feel safe. I wondered if he were drinking highballs, and if there were any drug in the liquor — the same drug that had been found in Warren’s stomach — the same drug that might send the Professor’s theory crashing down.

“Seven-thirty,” said Paula. “Do you think he’s—”

“I wish I knew.”

This was different from that night at Warren’s. If you have to die, it’s nice to do it in style, with reporters, and good whiskey, pleasant conversation and a nonchalant air. Of course, that might be the way Gallagher was waiting, but here in this apartment, just the two of us, it seemed as though he must be as silent, as tense and alone, as we.

Seven-fifty. In ten minutes, it would be over. I swallowed to ease my dry throat.

“If he’s held through this long,” I said, “he’s got a good—”

The sharp, electric ring of the telephone cut me short. In the instant between the first and second ring, Paula and I stared at each other.

I took a deep breath and picked up the receiver.

“Hello...”

“Bob Larkin?” It was Tom Higgins.

“Right. That you, Tom?”

“Yeah.” A pause.

“The Commissioner—” I began. “Has anything happened?”

“The Commissioner,” said Tom Higgins, “is dead.”