Master of Death

CHAPTER VIII. DEATH WINS AGAIN

A TAXICAB pulled up in front of an old building near Tenth Avenue. Wycroft Dustin alighted, paid the driver, and entered a doorway that showed in the side of a dingy wall. The chemist ascended a flight of gloomy stairs and reached the top.

Here the scene changed. The ground floor of the building was a dilapidated place; the second story was modern and well equipped. Wycroft Dustin had chosen this spot for his experimental laboratory; he had spared no expense in planning it to suit his needs.

In the first room which he entered, Dustin encountered a peaked-faced little man clad in a white coat.

This was Garfield, Dustin’s assistant. The aid looked up in surprise when he saw his employer.

“I had not expected you so soon, Mr. Dustin,” said Garfield. “You told me that you would not return until after half past nine.”

“I changed my plan, Garfield,” replied the chemist. “Has anything occurred during my short absence from the laboratory?”

The assistant glanced at a large clock on the wall. It registered half past eight. Garfield nodded thoughtfully.

“There was a telephone call,” he said. “Not more than ten minutes ago.”

“From whom?”

“I do not know, sir. The man who called left a return number, and wanted you to call immediately upon your arrival.”

“Call him, Garfield. When you get the number, summon me and I shall speak to the person. Was there anything else?”

“Nothing important, sir. A man came to collect those old beakers and bottles. I helped him pack them in the inner laboratory. An odd-looking chap, Mr. Dustin; he gave me the creeps. A funny-jawed face and stary eyes—”

“Never mind the details, Garfield,” said Dustin. “Call the telephone number. I am starting work in the inner laboratory.”

The chemist walked through a doorway and came to a bench in the inner room. The bench was located in a sort of alcove; electric incandescents projected from three walls and the ceiling. Wycroft Dustin turned on the lights one by one. Two bulbs refused to glimmer. Dustin merely ignored them. The illumination was more than sufficient.

This was Wycroft Dustin’s chosen spot. At this bench, he conducted all his final experiments and tests.

Dustin was exacting in all his methods, and he had adapted this alcove to his use chiefly because it offered the best place for complete illumination.

THE brilliant bulbs produced considerable heat. Dustin did not mind that fact. He was used to it. He stood in a glare that rivaled the Kleig lights in a motion-picture studio.

Equipment for the final tests lay close at hand. Wycroft Dustin, as he began to set up apparatus, recalled that he had worked here once in Eric Veldon’s presence, and that the promoter had expressed his admiration for the excellent arrangements.

All that Dustin now needed were compressed gas tanks that he kept in a side room. Garfield could bring them later; at present there were preliminary details that required attention.

Dustin arranged a row of hydrometer tubes; he examined a vaporizing device, and found it clogged.

While he worked to clear this piece of apparatus, Garfield entered the room.

“I have called the number, sir,” informed the assistant. “There is no reply.”

“Try it later on,” ordered Dustin.

Garfield departed. Dustin finished his work with the vaporizer. The chemist felt annoyed. Garfield should not have allowed the piece of apparatus to remain in a clogged state. The assistant had evidently been lax in one of his appointed details of inspection.

Wycroft Dustin mopped his forehead; it was becoming quite warm, here in the alcove. The chemist looked at the brilliant incandescents, and turned out two of the offending lights. Thus made four blank bulbs altogether.

Dustin wondered at the heat. He had never been troubled by it before. With four lights out, however, he should experience no further trouble.

As the chemist reached for a beaker, his hand wavered. Dustin gripped the edge of the bench. He had been here no more than ten minutes, yet the heat from the accustomed lights had suddenly reached mammoth proportions. Dustin’s brain began to burn.

The man became incapable of action. He wobbled as he clung to the bench. He felt his hands slipping.

He reached out wildly and knocked two glass containers to the floor. The crash of the breaking jars brought Garfield on the run.

“What’s the matter, sir!” exclaimed the assistant. “What has happened to you!”

Dustin’s form was slowly sinking. Garfield appeared ludicrous as he attempted to support the heavy weight of his crumpling employer. The effort was too great; Dustin, leaning upon Garfield, caused the assistant to stagger backward.

Together, they moved away from the alcove. Out in the center of the room, Dustin collapsed completely, and slipped from Garfield’s grasp.

The little assistant stared into his employer’s face. Dustin’s eyes were staring. His face was dripping with beads of perspiration. His lips were dry and parched. They moved weakly.

“Water!” he gasped. “Water! Bring it—”

Garfield bustled away and returned with a glass of water which he placed to Dustin’s lips. The chemist choked as he gulped the fluid.

“More!” he gasped.

Garfield brought up another glassful. Dustin trembled as he tried to seize the tumbler. Half of the liquid contents poured over the chemist’s face. Dustin sank prone upon the stone floor of the laboratory. He panted fiercely and stared with glassy eyes.

“You are ill, Mr. Dustin!” cried Garfield.

The chemist offered no reply. His breath was coming in long, wheezy groans.

Realizing that he could do nothing further to aid his stricken chief, Garfield hurried to the outer room and seized the telephone.

When Wycroft Dustin had chosen this building for his laboratory, he had made arrangements with a physician who lived only a few blocks away. The doctor was prepared to render emergency service, should an accident occur in the laboratory.

Garfield was calling the physician. He received a prompt response across the wire. Quickly, he told the medical man that Wycroft Dustin had met with an accident. The doctor promised to come at once.

Garfield went back to Wycroft Dustin’s side. He did all that he could to aid his stricken employer. He shoved a rolled-up burlap bag beneath the chemist’s head. Dustin seemed in a terrible state of agony. His dry lips formed a single word, which he repeated soundlessly.

“Burning,” he gasped. “Burning — burning—”

Each minute increased the man’s misery. It seemed to Garfield that he could feel a tremendous heat that emanated from Dustin’s body.

The assistant brought a new supply of water. Dustin was too week to even reach for it. The pupils of his eyes were dilated. He was staring toward the ceiling as though picturing strange and terrible fantasies.

FOOTSTEPS made Garfield turn. He recognized the physician whom he had summoned. The doctor had arrived promptly. He knelt beside Dustin, and placed his hand upon the man’s forehead. With an expression of amazement, the physician stared at Garfield.

“This is beyond belief!” he exclaimed. “I never experienced a case of such terrific fever—”

A hoarse scream came from Wycroft Dustin’s lips. Vainly, the stricken man clawed at the stone floor.

With a mighty effort, he raised his body from the floor. He stared at the men beside him, as though his wild eyes pictured them as demons. Then, with a spasm of agony, Dustin sprawled his body sidewise, and crashed to the floor. He did not move again.

The physician was bending over the chemist’s body. Garfield, weakly and anxiously watching, put forth a question.

“Is that — is it a good sign, doctor?” asked the assistant. “Do you think we can get him to a hospital?”

The physician raised his head and looked at the assistant.

“There is nothing we can do,” he declared. “The man is dead.”

“Dead!” cried Garfield.

The physician’s face was serious. Garfield’s expression showed intense amazement. While the two men who had witnessed death faced each other, neither thought of turning toward the door. Hence they did not see the strange phenomenon that occurred at that spot.

A figure had appeared at the open doorway. Tall, black, and spectral, it had arrived at the moment of Garfield’s cry. Had either the assistant or the physician seen that form, they would have taken it for a ghoulish monster from another world, come to view the passing of a human life.

Silently, The Shadow had reached his destination. He had sought to prevent the death of Wycroft Dustin.

He came in time to witness the death of the man whom he had arrived to save.

Fate had tricked The Shadow. Wycroft Dustin had returned an hour early; he had stepped into the insidious trap which had been arranged for his doom.

The stone-floored laboratory; the kneeling men beside the inert form of the dead chemist; the brilliant lights shining from the little alcove which housed the workbench — these were the sights which The Shadow viewed.

The cloaked form stood motionless. Keen eyes surveyed the scene. No laugh came from hidden lips.

Grimly, The Shadow sought an explanation of Wycroft Dustin’s sudden and unfortunate demise.

When the physician arose and beckoned to Garfield to follow to the outer room, the spectral shape of The Shadow no longer stood on guard. The master of darkness had stepped away from view. Yet his presence still gave its sign.

A long splotch of blackness projected upon the floor of the outer room, coming from the doorway that led to the dingy stairs. The physician was using the telephone to call the police. The law would study the strange death of Wycroft Dustin.

After that, The Shadow’s turn would come. As in the case of Merle Clussig, The Shadow would seek for methods too subtle for Joe Cardona to detect.