Master of Death

CHAPTER XI. A STRANGE VISIT

THE SHADOW was in his sanctum. Before him, on the illuminated table, lay a report from Cliff Marsland. One day had elapsed since Cliff’s meeting with Punks Gumbert. During that time. Cliff had communicated with The Shadow and had received orders in return. This message was the assurance that tonight Cliff would certainly meet Duke Scurley, the racketeer who had put Spud Jagron on the spot.

Another report appeared between The Shadow’s hands. This was from Rutledge Mann. The investment broker had followed instructions, but so far had received no replies to his attempt to interest financiers in new inventive products.

There was grimness in the whispered laugh that come from The Shadow’s unseen lips. The Shadow knew that he was dealing with a master plotter — a man who moved with convincing precision. Merle Clussig — Wycroft Dustin — both had known the identity of the supercrook; both had died.

Would Duke Scurley also prove a blind clew? The future alone would tell. It was probable that the unknown plotter behind the game of insidious murder had been cagy in his dealings with Duke Scurley.

Much depended upon Rutledge Mann. If the investment broker could discover a financier linked in any way with either Merle Clussig or Wycroft Dustin, a definite step would be taken.

Again, The Shadow laughed. His weird mirth betokened a further thought. The unknown plotter had duped both Clussig and Dustin, because they possessed scientific skill which he required. Were there other persons, of similar ability whose services had also been turned to usage?

The Shadow was seeking to uncover such persons. A new report appeared as evidence of that fact. This was from Clyde Burke. The reporter had been accumulating all the data that could be gained through the Classic office. His lists, however, were apparently of no importance.

A typewritten column gave the names of various men whose scientific accomplishments were recognized.

Columned beside these were the particular branches of work which these individuals had performed. It was not in the lists themselves that The Shadow gained the thought which inspired his next action. It was in the lack of data that he found the inspiration.

Across the bottom of the typewritten sheet, he wrote two words in ink: Medical Developments.

The words dried, then faded.

Their meaning was plain. In his quest for data which might be useful to The Shadow, Clyde Burke had uncovered news of no scientific devices which might be used in crime; also, however, he had produced no information referring to recent developments in medical science.

Ear phones appeared. A tiny light flickered from darkness. Burbank’s voice quickly responded as The Shadow spoke.

“Instructions to Burke,” ordered The Shadow. “Obtain names of all physicians who have produced new methods or theories. Report complete data as soon as obtained.”

Darkness pervaded the sanctum. When this order had been accomplished, The Shadow would have at his disposal the final details that would enable him to eliminate all possible fields wherein the hand of the master plotter might be found.

Somewhere in Manhattan, isolated from discovery, might be a third dupe who shared the knowledge which Merle Clussig and Wycroft Dustin had possessed, namely, the ability to point out the evil man whom The Shadow sought! Until the last possibility had been eliminated, The Shadow would seek for such an individual.

EVEN while The Shadow’s keen brain was working on this problem, definite proof of his theory existed in another section of Manhattan. A tall, dark-haired man with furrowed brow was nervously pacing back and forth within the confines of a sumptuous living room.

A phone bell jingled. The tall man strode to a table and picked up the receiver. He spoke in short, brusque terms:

“This is Doctor Joseph Barratini,” were his words. “Who?… Oh. Yes. You say Doctor Rupert Sayre is waiting downstairs?… Very good. Tell him to come up immediately.”

Doctor Barratini hung up the receiver and walked over to the window. From this room, high up in a mammoth Manhattan apartment building, he could see the myriad lights of the vast city. Something in the scene made him shudder, as though he feared hidden places among those lights.

There was a knock at the outer door. Barratini steadied himself with an effort. His face became composed. He strode across the room and opened the door to admit a serious-faced young man who gave a friendly nod and extended his hand.

This was Doctor Rupert Sayre.

Barratini invited his guest to sit down. Cigars were lighted; the visitor looked quizzically toward his host.

There was a reason for Doctor Sayre’s attitude. Although he had gained an enviable reputation as a practicing surgeon, Rupert Sayre was far younger than Joseph Barratini. He wondered why he had been called here at Barratini’s urgent request.

The older man seemed to understand the other’s mental question. Yet Joseph Barratini was loath to speak. He arose from his chair, strolled to the window and peered out toward the lights of the city, while Rupert Sayre wondered. At length, Barratini swung and gazed steadily toward the young physician before him.

“Sayre,” he said, in a thick voice, “I called you here this evening to discuss a matter which is of vital importance to my welfare. It involves a question which cannot be considered purely from an ethical standpoint.

“I want to talk to you. I want to ask your advice as a friend. Let us forget that we are medical men — except for the fact that you may understand certain impulses that guided me under unusual circumstances. So I have your confidence?”

Barratini’s tone, more than his words, caused Sayre to nod his head. It was evident that the elder physician was troubled. His frank statement was one which Sayre could not follow by refusal.

Barratini seemed relieved. He sat down.

“You know my reputation,” began Doctor Barratini. “Despite the fact that ill fortune has followed me throughout my medical career, I have gained international fame through my accomplishments in brain surgery.

“I made a fortune during the regime of the Russian czar. I lost it when the empire fell. A refugee, I found a suitable abode in Spain. There I gained new wealth until the monarchy ended and King Alphonso went into exile. A royalist by necessity — for my practice depended upon the support of the nobility — I was forced to flee the country. I went to South America; finally, I reached New York.”

RUPERT SAYRE had heard the story of Joseph Barratini’s misfortunes. To him, this international surgeon was a man who deserved admiration. Barratini, with his knowledge of medical science, had always found his services in high demand and had always managed to recoup his losses.

“In the course of my travels,” resumed Barratini, “I found varied customs in different lands. I saw specimens of our race who could scarcely be classed as higher types than gorillas. I learned to hold contempt for individuals of brutish caliber — the type which constitutes the average American criminal.

“Here in New York, where freedom of speech is prevalent, I advanced a theory which I long had held: namely, that brain surgery performed upon criminals would be justified by its results. Others had advocated the same practice; yet my recommendation was greeted with disapproval. Americans, it seems, are governed by a maudlin sentiment, even where science is concerned.”

Rupert Sayre smiled. He knew of Barratini’s statements, of the furor they had created in limited surgical circles. There had been antagonism toward Barratini; he had been advised to keep his suggestion to himself. Under this protest, he had refrained from further discussion of the subject.

“One man, however,” resumed Barratini, “appeared interested in my suggestions. It was due to his reactions that I became involved in the strange circumstances which now entangle me in their mesh.”

“A physician?” questioned Sayre.

“No,” replied Barratini, lowering his tone. “The man’s name is Eric Veldon. He is a promoter of scientific inventions.”

“I never heard of him.”

“Probably not. Veldon is very secretive in all his actions. He is something of a scientist and an experimenter. His knowledge of medicine — and surgery — is surprising.”

“Veldon took to your theories?”

“Yes, He came here to my apartment. He talked persuasively. He stated that he had taken in a criminal who had been seriously injured; that an operation upon the man would be necessary. He asked if I would perform it.”

“And you agreed?”

“No. I simply agreed to visit the injured man. Veldon insisted that I wear a blindfold while I rode in his car, I agreed, purely because of my curiosity. I have always enjoyed adventure; and I could understand why Veldon wanted to keep the subject’s hiding place a secret. That, Sayre, was the beginning of the network which has entangled me.”

Barratini arose from his chair. He drew long puffs on his cigar as he paced the room. He wore the expression of a man who feared he had said too much; then, observing Sayre’s sympathetic countenance, Barratini paused to resume his story.

“WE arrived at an isolated house,” he stated. “I believe that it is somewhere on Long Island. That is all I know. I took no instruments for a surgical operation. It was to be an examination — that was all.

“Imagine, Sayre, my amazement when I reached Veldon’s unknown place. He took me into a completely fitted operating room. There, bound to a table, was the criminal. The man was uninjured, Sayre! He was in a perfect state of health!”

“Veldon had deceived you!” exclaimed Sayre.

“Exactly,” resumed Barratini. “That was not all. He proceeded to threaten me. He drew a revolver and a fierce expression of malice appeared upon his face. He told me that he had listened to my theories — he repeated many of my statements word for word. He ordered me to operate — or die.”

“For what purpose?”

“To reduce the criminal to the state of a mere human mechanism — to perform the miracles which I believed were possible through brain surgery. I was called upon to remold a brain to its primitive state.”

“You refused?”

“That was impossible. Veldon could have killed me. I saw that I must accede to his demands. Then, Sayre a deep interest seized me. I was willing to proceed, that I might test the proof of my theories. I regret the desire — exceedingly — yet the circumstances offered me no choice. I performed the operation. Veldon drove me, blindfolded, back to New York in my car.”

“And after that?”

Sayre’s question had a marked effect upon Barratini. The tall physician slumped into his chair and pressed his hands against his forehead.

“Sayre,” he whispered, “I heard nothing for two weeks. Then, one evening, there was a rap upon my door. I opened it. Imagine my amazement to see the very man upon whom I had operated!”

“The criminal?”

“Yes, but a criminal no longer. An automaton — a figure who moved with grim, mechanical determination, a creature who approached me with staring eyes. The man gave me an envelope. I opened it. Within, I found one thousand dollars.”

“Payment from Veldon.”

“Yes. But the man remained. He looked at me with steady eyes and said one word: ‘Come.’ I shrugged my shoulders. The staring man produced a revolver. He would have shot me where I stood had I not promptly obeyed his order.

“I accompanied this transformed crook to the street. There the human automaton pointed to a large automobile. I entered. The door shut. I could not open it. I could not see through the windows. Sayre, I was a prisoner!”

“Amazing!” exclaimed Sayre.

“That is not all,” resumed Barratini. “The car started. I knew that the automaton was at the wheel. I found a light and illuminated the interior of the car. When the journey ended, the door opened and I found myself at Veldon’s house. He was awaiting me. He wore his vicious smile. He told me that there was a new task. Another operation.”

“Another criminal?”

“Yes. I performed the operation. The first man drove me home. Two weeks passed. Then came an unexpected visitor — the second man.

“Imagine it, Sayre — to see this living proof of how effective my skill had been — a criminal, possessing all his intuition and instinct, but lacking all initiative other than that supplied by his master, Eric Veldon!”

“Incredible!” gasped Sayre.

“That was not the end,” said Barratini in a weary tone. “More operations followed. Always the same procedure. Each subject appeared in person, bearing my payment, to summon me to a new task. I was afraid to disobey. I feared Veldon’s enmity. Now, Sayre, I have reached a terrible dilemma.”

“Has Veldon made new demands?”

“No, but I have come to a fearful realization.” Barratini paused. He picked up a newspaper. “I have read of two strange deaths. An electrical experimenter named Clussig has been murdered. A chemist named Dustin died mysteriously. Can these deaths be the work of Eric Veldon?”

“Possibly,” admitted Rupert Sayre. “From what you have told me, the man must possess fiendish traits.”

“He is a fiend,” asserted Barratini. “I must learn the location of his hiding place. Sayre, I am counting on you to help me—”

Barratini’s low whisper died on his lips. The black-haired physician stared at his companion with bulging eyes. Rupert Sayre heard the cause of Barratini’s alarm. Someone was knocking at the door. Raps were coming in steady, rhythmic beats.

“It is the summons!” whispered Barratini. “Another victim has come to Eric Veldon’s abode. Help me, Sayre! Help me!”