Master of Death

CHAPTER XVIII. THE COUNTERPLOT

RUPERT SAYRE was not mistaken in his apprehensions. Alpha, the taciturn servant, was leading him to another portion of the building. Instead of starting back by the corridor through which Sayre had come, Alpha, with a beckoning motion, drew the physician toward the farther end of the long corridor.

Alpha opened a door. Sayre entered. The servant closed the door. Sayre stood alone in a little anteroom. Beyond this, a door stood ajar. It was obvious that the physician was to advance alone.

The moment that he pushed open the door, Sayre stopped short. He had not expected the scene that lay before him, even though Doctor Barratini’s account had forewarned him of what might be seen here.

Sayre was at the threshold of a brightly lighted operating room. Two figures garbed in white were standing on either side of a wheeled table. The physician recognized them as a pair of Veldon’s stolid, mechanical-moving men. Upon the table was the prostrate form of a young man.

This was the result of Sayre’s pact with the living skeleton! The surgeon had expressed his willingness to operate upon criminals. One had already been provided! The recollection of the returning car and the rhythmic pound of feet flashed through Rupert Sayre’s mind. Eric Veldon’s minions had been returning with another victim!

The situation was grotesque. Former criminals, reduced to primitive, steady-moving machines, served Eric Veldon as their master. With their intelligence brought to a mere instinctive level, they went forth to bring in others of their ilk that the fiendish controller might have new servants in his retinue.

The two minions stepped aside as Rupert Sayre approached the table. The physician bent above the outstretched man. He gained a puzzled frown as he surveyed the face of Clifford Marsland.

Cliff was still under the influence of the anesthetic which Veldon’s henchmen had used to stifle his outcry.

In repose, Cliff’s face had lost some of the harshness which it usually displayed. When dealing with mobsters, pretending to be one of their ilk, Cliff always played a hard-boiled part.

Rupert Sayre had felt a keen reluctance even in faking consent to perform an operation under Eric Veldon’s auspices. Had the surgeon found a tough-faced crook awaiting him, he might have fought against his inner feelings, knowing that his own future welfare would be at stake. When he viewed Cliff Marsland’s clean-cut countenance, Rupert Sayre experienced a surging antagonism toward Eric Veldon.

The physician became set in his determination to cause a definite delay.

THE sound of a ticker attracted Sayre’s attention. Turning, the physician saw a pedestal close by. It resembled the teletype apparatus in the room where Sayre had been kept a prisoner. Going to the pedestal, Sayre saw letters forming on the tape.

“PROCEED WITH THE OPERATION,” were the words he read. “I AM WATCHING YOU.”

In response, Sayre boldly stretched out his hands to the little typewriter and printed his objection to the order of the fiend.

“THIS MAN,” the physician typed, “DOES NOT APPEAR TO BE A CRIMINAL. HIS CASE IS NOT IN OUR AGREEMENT.”

“YOU ARE MISTAKEN,” came the ticker reply. “I KNOW THE MAN’S HISTORY. HE IS A CROOK WHO DOUBLE-CROSSED HIS PALS. PROCEED.”

Sayre walked back to the operating table. He made a brief examination. He solemnly returned to the typewriter.

“THE MAN HAS SLIGHT INJURIES,” was the message he dispatched. “HE HAS BEEN GIVEN TOO MUCH ANESTHETIC. AN OPERATION MAY CAUSE HIS DEATH.”

“PROCEED,” came the words on the tape. “REGARD THIS CASE AS AN EXPERIMENT. OTHER SUBJECTS ARE AVAILABLE.”

In the face of this order, Rupert Sayre gained a sudden inspiration. He knew that Eric Veldon, whom he had seen as a living skeleton, was a man who had small regard for human life. At the same time, Sayre also knew that Veldon was anxious to assemble the most capable of human machines. The physician resolved to make an appeal along this line — following a course that would make him appear to be in harmony with Veldon’s wishes.

“THE MAN IS AN EXCELLENT SUBJECT,” typed Sayre. “HE IS MORE SUITABLE THAN ANY WHOM YOU NOW HAVE. IT WOULD BE UNWISE TO RISK HIS LIFE WHEN A DELAYED OPERATION WOULD MEAN SUCCESS. HE IS TOO GOOD A SUBJECT TO LOSE.”

There was a pause; then came methodical words from Veldon — statements that made Rupert Sayre smile inwardly.

“YOUR ADVICE SHOWS FORESIGHT,” printed the ticker. “I COMPLIMENT YOU UPON IT. HOW LONG A DELAY DO YOU CONSIDER NECESSARY?”

Sayre pondered. He wanted to make the time as long as possible, yet he did not care to arouse Veldon’s suspicion. After a thoughtful pause, he typed out:

“FORTY-EIGHT HOURS.”

“AGREED,” came the response on the tape.

That was all. Rupert Sayre stood beside the teletype apparatus, wondering what would happen next.

Cliff Marsland was moving weakly.

Turning, Sayre saw the young man’s eyes open. The physician stared directly into Cliff’s face; even in his groggy state, Cliff sensed that the surgeon was a friend.

Cliff’s lips moved. They made no intelligible sound and Rupert Sayre was ignoble to reply, knowing that Eric Veldon might still be watching from some hidden loophole. The physician, however, gave a slight nod, which served as a silent answer to whatever question Cliff might be asking.

Then came footsteps. Sayre turned to see Alpha entering the room. The servant beckoned to the physician and pointed toward the door.

As Sayre prepared to leave, Alpha gave a guttural word and the other two mechanical men picked up Cliff Marsland’s body to carry it away.

With Alpha at his heels, Sayre paced through the long corridor and ascended the stairs. He walked directly to his own room and entered. Alpha followed. Framed within the doorway, the minion watched until the physician had taken his chair. Then he prepared to close the door.

INSTANTLY, Rupert Sayre responded to a new inspiration. Impulsively, he raised his hand and uttered a command of his own. He looked directly at Alpha as he spoke.

“Wait!” was the physician’s order.

For the first time, the automaton showed a definite return of human initiative. The power of the word seemed to have a marked effect. His own eyes meeting those of Rupert Sayre, the minion seemed to yield to the physician’s superior intelligence.

“Close the door.”

Sayre uttered the words in a slow, steady tone. Without hesitation, Alpha obeyed. Not once did the waxen-faced henchman take his eyes from Sayre.

In a trice, Sayre decided that this must be the system which Eric Veldon used in controlling the brain-dulled henchmen.

The surgeon was well acquainted with the methods which Doctor Barratini had advocated. With brains reduced to primitive activity, it would be possible to remold them. This was exactly what Eric Veldon had been doing; but he had made no effort to obliterate the criminal instinct. Instead, he had turned it to his own usage.

Did Alpha recognize Rupert Sayre as a master? The physician believed he did. Sayre beckoned. Alpha approached. Again, Sayre gained an important thought.

Alpha was evidently the first of the henchmen whom Veldon had obtained. In all probability, his intelligence had returned in a fuller measure. He had reached the stage where he served almost as Veldon’s lieutenant. Sayre decided to test the man’s response to suggestions.

“Tell me your name,” he ordered, being careful to phrase the sentence as a command, not as a question.

“Alpha,” said the motionless minion.

“That is your new name,” declared Sayre. “Tell me the old name — the one you had before you came here.”

“I do not remember it.”

This was encouraging. The man must have some recollection of the past. If it could be stimulated, Alpha might be turned into rebellion against the domination of Rupert Sayre.

“I am your master,” asserted Sayre solemnly.

“Yes,” returned Alpha.

“There is another man,” said Sayre, cautiously, “who has called himself master.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me his name.”

“I do not know his name.”

The monotone of the man’s reply convinced Rupert Sayre that there was a wide gap between Eric Veldon and all his henchmen — even this chief lieutenant. It was probable that Alpha and the others responded to orders but hesitated when they were questioned. Holding this theory, Sayre was sure that no word of this episode would return to Eric Veldon.

“Tonight,” said Sayre calmly, “I saw a man who is a prisoner here. Remember, Alpha, I am your master. I wish to see that prisoner. Take me to him.”

The human automaton hesitated. Sayre wondered what medley of thoughts could be passing through that befuddled, primitive thinking brain. He repeated the order.

“Take me to the man.”

As Sayre arose from his chair, Alpha turned and stalked toward the hall. The physician followed. The automaton stopped before a door farther down the corridor. He opened it. Boldly, Sayre entered.

He found Cliff Marsland seated in a chair. The room was a counterpart of the one which Sayre occupied.

Alpha stood within the doorway. Sayre was afraid to dismiss him. Instead, he ordered him to close the door and remain where he stood. Alpha obeyed.

Taking a chair, Sayre seated himself by Cliff. The Shadow’s agent seemed weak, but be had regained some of his mental alertness. Sayre lost no time in opening the conversation.

“MY name is Doctor Rupert Sayre,” he explained, in a low tone, talking rapidly so as to elude Alpha’s comprehension. “I am a prisoner here. I am anxious to escape. I have made some progress with this jailer. He brought me here; perhaps we can escape.”

“Let’s hope so,” nodded Cliff. “My name is Marsland. A gang of mobsters took me for a ride. I landed here.”

“Were you one of the crew?” questioned Sayre.

“They thought I was a crook,” admitted Cliff. Then, seeing Sayre’s puzzled expression, he added: “I was looking into their affairs.”

“A detective?”

“No.” Cliff was deliberate. “A private investigator. Working on a special case.”

“Good,” said Sayre. “I can rely upon you. Would you advise our making a break for it right now?”

“Is that fellow” — Cliff nodded toward Alpha — “the only one whom you have lined up?”

“Yes,” admitted Sayre, “and I don’t know just how valuable he will prove to be. He may balk—”

Cliff shook his head.

“Hold it,” he said. “Wait until we’re sure of ourselves. If we’re up against it, we can make a break. But if this fellow balks — and with all the others—”

“You’re right,” agreed the doctor. “These men, Marsland, are nothing more than machines. Their brains have been altered. They obey commands to the letter. They are criminals, who have come under the control of a master fiend.”

“His name?”

Rupert Sayre leaned close to Cliff’s ear before he pronounced the name of the master plotter. He was afraid that Alpha might hear the utterance.

“Eric Veldon,” whispered the physician.

“His purpose?” asked Cliff.

“So far as you are concerned,” said Sayre, gravely, “he is anxious to have you join his crew of minions. He ordered me to perform the necessary operation upon your brain.”

“And you refused?”

“I gained a delay of forty-eight hours. That means, Marsland, that we must act before that time has expired.”

Cliff Marsland smiled. In a firm voice, he gave Rupert Sayre new assurance.

“Do not think,” he said, “that our capture will be forgotten. Forty-eight hours is ample time. We shall be rescued within that period.”

“By the police?” questioned Sayre.

“Perhaps,” rejoined Cliff. “But the one who will come to our aid has a power all his own. I cannot give his name. I can only assure you that he will find some way to this place. He will learn the name of the fiend who has imprisoned us. He will find some clew that will bring him here.”

Cliff’s tone was so convincing that Sayre nodded in instinctive understanding. The physician realized suddenly that it would be unwise to prolong this meeting. He arose and turned toward the door.

“I am returning,” he said to Alpha.

As the servant conducted him to his own apartment, Doctor Sayre felt a new hope. He had talked with Marsland, his fellow prisoner. The man’s positive conviction that aid was coming made the future seem somewhat brightened.

At the same time, Rupert Sayre was determined to continue his experiments with Alpha. He believed that he could gradually turn the minion’s dawning intelligence into complete obedience.

Back in his room, Cliff Marsland, too, was elated. The short conference with Doctor Sayre had given him proof that he had, at least, two more days to live. Within that space of time, The Shadow would be here!

Cliff Marsland had never lost firm confidence in The Shadow!