The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 6 - September 1920)

I

A woman, young, handsome, richly dressed, lay dead on

"Great Heavens, Casey!" he exclaimed, as his glance fell upon the face of the woman. "Do you know who she is?"

Casey touched his cap respectfully. "This chap here says that she's Mrs. Augustus Winters, the young wife that old Winters, the millionaire, married a couple of years ago. Used to be an actress before she married him, I understand. I don't know the lady myself, inspector."

The big man nodded. "He's right, Casey. It's Mrs. Winters all right." He caught himself with a start. "No, by George, it isn't!"

The bareheaded young man with the bruised face interrupted. "You are wrong, sir. I know that it is Mrs. Winters."

The inspector gave him a quick look. "You mean that you think it is she. The fact of the matter is that Mrs. Winters died suddenly yesterday afternoon."

"You must be wrong," argued the other stubbornly. "I have waited on Mrs. Winters hundreds of times. I know her as well as I know myself. And she was alive and well ten minutes ago."

"Couldn't you be mistaken? I'll admit that this woman looks enough like her to be her double. Must be her sister."

"I insist that you are wrong, sir. I'll take my oath that this is Mrs. Winters lying there."

Inspector Des Moines scratched his chin reflectively. "It's got me beat!" he declared. "There's only one thing to do, under the circumstances, Casey — get the body to the morgue and send for old Winters to identify it. Ask him if his wife was a twin. And," turning to the young man, "you get your hat and come on with me to the station. I want to have a talk with you."

II

Seated at the big, flat-top desk in his well appointed office, Des Moines lighted a cigar in silence, offered another to his companion, then suddenly demanded:

"Now, come clean, young fellow. What's the story behind this affair? Let's have the straight of it"

The lad — he was scarcely more than a boy — gulped to hide his agitation.

"I–I—" he stammered.

The inspector smiled kindly. "Don't get scared, my boy. Don't get scared. Bless your heart, sonny, I know that you didn't kill the woman. I only want to get at the facts in the case as speedily as possible. Just forget my gruff way of speaking — it's ray natural voice."

"I hardly know how to start," began the other, his fears vanishing under the inspector's kindly manner. "The lady — Mrs. Winters — came into Harden & Company's store, where I am employed as head salesman in the jewelry department, and asked to be shown something rather 'nifty' in a diamond brooch. That was yesterday afternoon. She looked at a number of pieces, finally selecting one valued at thirty thousand dollars. She asked me to lay it aside for her, stating that she wanted her mother, who was buying it for her for a birthday present, to look at it before she made her final decision.

"This morning she returned and, coming into the store, requested that I accompany her to the curb with the brooch, as her mother, who was an invalid, was outside in the limousine. Of course it was irregular, but she is an old customer — you know Harden & Company's policy — so I did as requested. I handed her the jewel case just as we reached the machine and she passed it in to the woman — whom I supposed was her mother — who was leaning back against the cushions. The curtains were down and the interior was in semi-darkness, so I did not get a clear view of the face of the lady.

"Just as she handed the other the jewel, the chauffeur, who had been keeping his engine running, leaned out and slugged me with something — a sandbag, I imagine. At the same time Mrs. Winters made a quick leap for the interior of the machine. But, involuntarily, as I fell I grasped her, and we went down in a heap together.

"The chauffeur immediately started his machine and, before I recovered my wits, which had been largely knocked out of me, he was around the corner. I didn't even have an opportunity to get the number of the auto."

"We have already attended to that," interrupted the inspector. "Casey'll have it down in his notebook if anyone in the vicinity chanced to notice it. Were there many people on the sidewalk at the time?"

"They were constantly passing — the usual ten o'clock crowd."

"Um-m-m. All right, go ahead with your story."

"There is nothing more to tell. When I came to my senses — and I couldn't have been dazed more than a second or two — the machine was disappearing around the corner, as I just told you, and the woman was lying on the sidewalk beside me — dead. It must have-been apoplexy, inspector, for I'll swear on a stack of Bibles that I didn't seize her hard enough to kill her." He hesitated, then continued, haltingly: "But what puzzles me is why Mrs. Winters — a woman of untold wealth — would stoop to aid in a crime like that."

He looked at the inspector for an answer to his question. The latter smoked in silence for a second. "That's what we've got to find out, my boy. You said your name was—"

"Johnson — Adolph Johnson."

"Oh, yes. And she got away clean with the jewelry did she? The other woman — the one in the machine — and the chauffeur?"

Johnson nodded.

They were interrupted by a rap at the door. In response to Des Moines' gruff "Come in!" Casey entered, his good-natured, red face glowing with excitement.

"What the dickens do you know about it, sir?" he exploded. "Winters has identified the body, positively, as being that of his wife."

"But Mrs. Winters died yesterday afternoon."

"She did. But sometime during the night her body disappeared. And this morning they found the body of her maid, dead, in the casket from which the mistress had been taken!"

"Good God! Murdered?"

"Not a mark on her body."

III

Before the inspector could recover from his astonishment, the door burst open and a man, grey-haired, tall, angular — beyond the middle age — rushed in without the formality of rapping. His wrinkled face was drawn and haggard, his eyes bloodshot and red from weeping, his whole appearance that of a man almost bereft of his senses.

"Inspector," he shrieked, "who is the guilty man? Who has desecrated the poor, dead body of my wife? Who stole it from the casket? Damn them! Damn them! Damn them! Who murdered Dolly, her maid? She was murdered, I say! I know it! I know it!"

He glared about him for a second. Then: "Give him to me, I say! I'll tear the scoundrel to pieces with my naked hands! Give him to me! I demand justice!"

He dropped into a chair and burst into hysterical sobs. For an instant there was silence. Des Moines chewed thoughtfully on his cigar. Johnson, white-faced, unused to scenes such as this, fidgeted nervously, his fingers twitching. Assuming the quieting tone of a mother addressing her child, the inspector turned to the weeping man.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Winters," he began, slowly. "I know that it's hard — it's awful, terrible. But we'll get at the bottom of it some way. I promise you on my word as a man that I'll capture the guilty wretch and hang him. Yes, curse him! I'll hang him higher than a kite, or I'll quit the force! But the affair is growing more puzzling every minute. I can't make head nor tail out of it as it stands now. Won't you let me hear your story?"

Winters sat up and dried his eyes. "What can I tell you?" he sobbed. "How shall I begin?"

"Start with the death of your wife."

"There is little to tell. She was stricken, suddenly, yesterday afternoon while dressing to go out. Dolly Matthews, her maid, who was with her at the time, hastily summoned assistance. But she passed away before the doctor arrived — in fact, even before the servants, who responded to Miss Matthews' cries, could reach her. The physician — Doctor Bennett, the well known specialist — gave as his opinion that the cause of death was heart failure.

"The body was prepared for burial in the usual way. I sat beside the casket until nearly morning. Then, in response to the urgent appeals of the friends and relatives who had rushed to my side in my hour of trouble, I surrendered my post to Miss Matthews. The poor girl loved my wife devotedly and was terribly grief stricken over her untimely death. And now she's gone, too!" He burst into another paroxysm of sobbing. Des Moines waited until he regained control of himself, then motioned for him to continue.

"I could not content myself. My nerves were nearly at the breaking point, although the physician had given me an opiate to quiet me. After lying on the bed and tossing around for an hour or two, I arose and again sought the side of my dear one. I was surprised not to find Miss Matthews in the room, which was empty, although there, were several people in the study just across the hall.

"I stepped to the casket. As there is a God in Heaven, the body of my wife was gone! In its place was the body of Dolly, her maid, cold in death!"

"There was no evidence of foul play in the case of the maid?"

"No, although I am certain, under the circumstances, that she was murdered. She couldn't have died a natural death and crawled into the casket herself, could she?" He glared at the inspector as if expecting a denial. Receiving no answer lie continued:

"My cries brought those who were in the other room and we immediately summoned Doctor Bennett, who made an examination. He would not even venture an opinion as to what caused death.

"Meanwhile, I was almost beside myself. Can you blame me? We searched the house from cellar to garret, looking for the remains of my wife. Failing to find her body, we were about to call up police headquarters — which we should have done in the beginning — when I received the call to go Jo the morgue. There I found the poor dear. I demand that immediate steps be taken to bring the perpetrator of the hellish deed to justice! I am a wealthy man. I will spend every cent I possess to hang the wretch. Damn him!"

Inspector Des Moines scratched his chin reflectively. "It's got me beat, Mr. Winters. I'll confess that I never came across a case like this in all of my twenty years on the force. You are ready to swear that your wife died yesterday afternoon and that you saw her body in the coffin. A reputable physician made an examination and pronounced her dead. Yet— Are you sure that the body you examined in the morgue is that of Mrs. Winters?"

"Positively. I identified it, not only by her sweet girlish face, but by a small birthmark on her left shoulder."

"She had no sister? She was not a twin?"

"She was an only child."

"Then, Mr. Winters, how do you reconcile your story with that of Mr. Johnson, here, who swears that the woman whose body you saw in the morgue, and have identified as your wife, was alive and well at ten o'clock this morning? Yes, he even goes farther and asserts that he talked to her and that she, aided by two others, robbed Harden & Company of a valuable diamond brooch."

Winters leaped to his feet, his eyes blazing, his face aflame with rage. "He's an infernal liar and a blackguard—"

Before he could continue, there was a rap at the door. Des Moines' secretary entered. He handed the inspector an envelope marked "Important. Winters Case."

The policeman tore the envelope open and glanced hastily over the contents. Then, with an oath, he read it aloud to the others:

IV

The Winters' mystery was the most interesting news event of the day and the afternoon papers made the most of it. At its best, the city administration was not a favorite with the press. Augustus Winters was wealthy and popular, his wife had been one of the leaders of the faster young society set. As a result, the police department was grilled to a turnover for what was termed the laxity of its methods.

Inspector Des Moines, accustomed to the vagaries of journalism, used to being praised one day and reviled the next, gave little heed to what was said or written about him or his department. Yet he read every detail carefully in the hope that the reporters had gathered some new evidence that would tend to help in working out the solution of the puzzle. For in the past he had secured much valuable help from the newspaper men. But this time he was doomed to disappointment. They could find nothing — absolutely nothing — that gave him any additional light.

Nothing had been left undone. Men from the inspector's office had combed the city in search of a clew to the mysterious Lessman. But without avail. Only the machine used in the Harden & Company robbery had been found. Stolen earlier in the day from a garage in the outskirts of the city, it had been abandoned by the side of a country road when the users were through with it. Beyond that one small detail, no headway had been made.

The newspapers had assigned their best man to the case. They could secure not even a trace of the unknown perpetrator of the startling crimes — for Des Moines had not thought it advisable to take the press into his confidence in so far as the threatening letter he had received was concerned.

Tired and disgruntled, he was about to leave the office, for the night, when the 'phone on his desk thrilled. He picked the receiver from its hook and answered.

"Inspector Des Moines?" queried a heavy, male voice.

Des Moines answered in the affirmative. The man at the other end of the line chuckled to himself.

"Well?" growled the Inspector. "Did you call me to the 'phone at this time of the night to tell me a joke?"

Instantly, the quiet laughter ceased and the voice came clear and strong across the space. "No, inspector, I beg your pardon. This is Lessman speaking! — Lessman, the Man Who Will Not Die! I imagined that I would catch you in your office. I had a notion to call around and see you, then thought better of it. Can you understand me all right?

"Now, listen to me carefully, Des Moines. I told you that I would give you fair warning when I was ready to make my next move. I always keep my word. Are you listening? Tomorrow morning, on the stroke of ten, I am going to kill a man! Where? Oh, no, I have no objection to telling you where — on the street in front of 1416 Broadway — yes, 1416 Broadway! Probably a policeman! No, no, not you. But be on the job, inspector. I am doing this for a purpose. I hate the police, damn them! But it will give you an opportunity of studying my methods. Ha, ha! You and I will match wits frequently from now on.

"Oh, yes. Before I say good night I'll make you a promise. If you'll be present tomorrow, I'll promise you that I will do my best to hunt you up and talk with you. You need not go to — the trouble of notifying the papers, for I have done that myself. I've asked them all to send their best men. That's all for this time. Good-bye!"

The receiver at the other end was hung up with a click.

Then Des Moines was galvanized into action. Frantically he jiggled the hook up and down until Central answered sharply.

"Quick!" he demanded. "This is Inspector Des Moines at Headquarters. Where did that call come from just now? Get on the job and find out. Fifty dollars in it for you if you'll find out immediately!"

"Hold the line, please!"

Thirty seconds later his vigilance was rewarded.

"This is the Chief Operator. The call you inquired about came from booth number fourteen at the Biltmore. Send the reward to Operator One-hundred-and-Six, please."

To secure a connection with the switchboard operator at the Biltmore required only an instant.

"Inspector Des Moines, Headquarters, speaking. A man just called me up from booth number fourteen. There's a ten in it for you if you'll get a description of him for me inside of a minute. Do you understand? Move fast!"

"You can send the ten right along, inspector. The man who used booth number fourteen stopped at the desk and gave me a tip as he passed out. He just went through the door a second ago."

"Fine! Fine! His description? Quick!"

"You know him, inspector. It was Augustus Winters, the millionaire!"

V

Inspector Des Moines was a man of action. While even his best friends did not claim for him the brilliancy of a Sherlock Holmes, a Cleek of The Forty Faces, an Arsène Lupin, or any of the other celebrated sleuths of fiction, yet, once given the slender thread of a clew, he followed it to the end. The taunting telephone call led him to believe that, in Augustus Winters, he had the master mind who was directing the crimes in the millionaire's own household. Why Winters would make way with his wife and her maid — for the detective was firmly of the belief that both women had been murdered — he did not attempt to reason out. He only knew that a crime had been committed and that he, as an officer of the law, was pledged to find the murderer, regardless of who he might be. Just now all straws pointed to Augustus Winters himself.

He believed that Winters had overlooked a point in telephoning from a public booth in a hotel where he was so well known; that he was likely to recall his indiscretion and, in an effort to retrieve his lost ground, hasten home in order to provide himself with an alibi, the officer believed, would be his next move. Consequently, to checkmate that alibi and prove it false from its very inception was the obvious thing to do.

He reached for the telephone again and called the number of the millionaire's residence. Not over three or four minutes had elapsed since Winters — or Lessman, as the inspector believed him to be — had talked to him from the Biltmore. To drive from the hotel to his home would take the better part of an hour, even with a fast car. It would take nearly as long to go from Headquarters. And there was always the danger of an accident. Des Moines thought rapidly, then made his decision. The telephone was faster and better than making the trip in person and standing the possible chance of having the aged criminal — and the inspector now had no doubts on that score — reach there first.

A sleepy voice answered his ring. "Augustus Winters' residence," it said.

"Who is this?" he demanded.

"Wilkins, the butler, sir."

"Has Mr. Winters returned, yet?"

"He has not been out, sir."

"Let me talk to him then." Des Moines chuckled softly to himself as he made the demand. He knew that there was no possibility of the millionaire replying. And the testimony of Wilkins would support his charges when the time came to prove the falsity of the alibi.

"I'll connect you with his room, sir," answered the butler. A second later the inspector was astonished to hear the clear, calm voice of Winters at the other end of the wire. It nearly floored him. He was almost too nonplussed to reply. For Winters, obviously, could not be in two places at once. If this was Winters, then the man who had called him up from the Biltmore must, necessarily, be an impostor. And what manner of man was he who could disguise himself so cleverly that even those who were personally acquainted with the millionaire mistook the counterfeit for the real?

"Des Moines speaking. When did you get back?" he asked casually, making an effort to hide the agitation that he felt.

"When did I get back? I was not aware that I had been away!" answered the other testily. "What was it you wanted, inspector? Must be something important to call up at two o'clock in the morning. Have you secured some new information? Or, possibly you have the guilty wretch under arrest?"

Des Moines knew that he was defeated. The least he could do was back out gracefully. It was not necessary to divulge his suspicions. He informed Winters as casually as he was able of the telephone message he had received from "The Man Who Would Not Die." reserving, however, the information that the other had been masquerading as Winters. Then, he abruptly hung up the phone.

The case was growing more puzzling every minute. Instead of the telephone call clearing up the mystery, he was forced to confess to himself that it only made it darker.

VI

Who was Lessman, the man who termed himself "The Man Who Would Not Die"? Was there such a person, or was it an alias? Des Moines, humped up in his chair, chewing his dry cigar, went over the case detail by detail. Figuratively speaking, he held it up to the light and dissected it bit by bit, piece by piece. And, when he had completed the process, he was obliged to confess himself as much in the dark as ever.

Who was Lessman? Who was the man of iron nerve and diabolical cunning? Could it be Winters? The inspector had been inclined to suspect the aged moneybags — was still disposed to do so — but what was his motive? Was he insane? Had he the ability — and the nerve — to carry out such a plot? And there, too, was his alibi, cast-iron, puncture proof.

If Winters was not Lessman, who was? Could it be Doctor Bennett? The physician admittedly had more opportunity to commit the murders than any one else. But, in his case, too, there was lacking the motive. Could young Johnson, the diamond salesman, be the man? In his case there was a motive — the theft of the brooch. But, on the other hand, there was nothing to show that he had ever visited the Winters home under any pretext. And it was natural to suppose that the person who could cause the death of both the mistress and the maid must have had, sometime at least, entrée to the millionaire's residence. Des Moines had had both the physician and the salesman investigated. The reports of his men, lying on the desk before him, showed nothing against them.

Who had spirited the body of Mrs. Winters from its casket? How could she, a dead woman, be alive? And Johnson, as well as other employees of Harden & Company, swore that she had been? They had seen her — talked with her — nearly twenty-four hours after her reported death. How had the body of the maid been placed in the casket the mistress had occupied? Who was the disguised man who had so cleverly passed himself off on the employees of the Biltmore as Augustus Winters?"

It was not until dawn was breaking that Des Moines gave up wrestling with the problem. And when, at last, tired and stiff from his long vigil, he arose and stretched himself, he was forced to admit that he knew no more than when he had first been called into the case.

There was nothing to do but wait.

VII

Human nature is peculiar. A circus always advertises a thriller as its chief attraction; people attend in the hope of seeing the performer make the one little miscalculation that will end fatally. The newspapers had heralded the announcement sent them by Less-man in huge type. Their front pages shrieked forth in colored ink and huge type the news that at ten o'clock the mysterious man who in his letter confessed to the murder of Mrs. Winters and her maid would take another life.

For miles people came for the purpose of enjoying what promised to be a thrilling spectacle. A score of policemen attempted to stem the tide, but without success. Around 1416 Broadway, the street was packed for blocks in either direction. Even the reserves were called into action.

In front of 1416 a knot of policemen, headed by Inspector Des Moines in person, waited stolidly, silently, in a suppressed fever of excitement, like soldiers waiting the signal for an attack. About them the crowd surged and stormed. But bent upon keeping the fiend from carrying out his threat, Des Moines had cleared the street for a space of nearly a hundred feet, holding the curiosity seekers back with his cordon of bluecoats.

Hundreds of automobiles were caught in the vortex of humanity, their drivers unable to either go forward or to back out. The officers were forced to let well enough alone; to handle the jam was a task beyond the power of the guardians of the law.

In one of the machines Des Moines recognized the pale, haggard face of Augustus Winters. The millionaire, huddled up in the back seat, his every movement showing the mental strain under which he was laboring, caught the inspector's eye and beckoned. Des Moines shouldered his way through the mass of humanity to the side of his automobile.

"I've been caught in the crowd, inspector, and we're unable to get out. Can't you help us? You can understand the awful agony that I am suffering at such a time."

Des Moines shook his head. "Don't you realize, Mr. Winters, that if it were humanly possible, I'd have this street cleared and keep it cleared? My men are working in from the outside — but it'll be a job of hours, I'm afraid."

"But, my God, man! You are not going to allow this murder to take place, are you?"

Des Moines shrugged his shoulders. "Out of the hundreds of thousands of people packed in this vicinity, Mr. Winters, show me how to pick out the one man — the man I want. My hands are tied. There is nothing for me to do. I must bide my time and wait for the fiend to strike."

Suddenly, the aged millionaire clutched the other's shoulder. His eyes dilated. He leaned forward, his muscles twitching, his face ashen and drawn. "Oh, God!" he shrieked. "It's happening! Look! Look!"

His long, skinny forefinger pointed far out over the heads of the crowd. And then he fell in a heap on the bottom of the car in a dead faint.

Des Moines leaped upon the running board of the machine and gazed in the direction Winters had pointed. Then, with a yell, he jumped to the ground, and, hurling people to the right and left, plunged through the mass of humanity like a maddened bull.

For Officer Ryan, a strapping figure of a man, with the muscular figure of an athlete, who, a second before, had been in the prime of health, had suddenly thrown his arms in the air. For an instant he wove backwards and forwards, his face twisted, every muscle tensed, as if struggling against the unseen hands that were pulling him down. Then he gave voice to a shrill, hideous, agonized scream, and, lurching like a drunken man for a pace or two, crumpled up in a heap on the pavement.

A dozen of his brother officers leaped to his assistance. They were hurled back as if by an electric shock. Arising, they fought against the invisible force that held them in its power, but without avail. Open-mouthed, their feet fastened to the pavements as by steel bands, they were forced to stand and watch the torture of their comrade.

As Des Moines broke through the, edge of the crowd, the unknown power that held them in check lessened. In a body they dashed to the stricken man's side and turned him on his back. His eyes were already glazing. His hands were cold and clammy. On his forehead was the sweat of death. He shivered spasmodically. Then his jaw dropped. Lessman had struck. "The Man Who Would Not Die" had won another victory.

Silence. Tense, nerve-racking silence. Eyes were peering, heads moving. On all sides excitement was visible on every face. But no one spoke a word. The agony was too great.

"Boom!" High up in a tower a clock was striking. Every eye was turned towards it. But still no word. Only the soul-straining, awful silence.

"Boom!"

"Boom!"

The clock was striking ten. Lessman had kept his word to the minute. A woman screamed. Her shrill, hysterical shriek broke the spell.

Then over the heads of the silent, awe-filled crowd rang a burst of laughter — cold, haunting, diabolical laughter — weird, mysterious — the gloating of a fiend.

Pandemonium broke loose. Those in the front lines, frozen with supernatural terror, turned, white-faced, from the horror that they had witnessed and sought an avenue of escape. None knew but the arch-fiend might continue — that, any moment, others might fall, blasted like a tree after a lightning stroke.

Men fought and struggled to flee from the invisible. Who knew? Lessman might be he who stood beside you. Even now he might be seeking another victim! Nothing could stop him. He was omnipotent! Every man suspected his neighbor. The police labored with club and fist. It was like stemming the ocean's-tide with a shovel. It was a panic, a riot in which the stronger trampled the weaker under foot. There was no mercy — only a desire to escape from the spot. Men and women dropped, fainting, exhausted, dying where they fell, beneath the feet of their maddened fellows. Their dying screams only added to the fright of those who rushed over them. Automobiles, their drivers stricken by the fear that mastered all, dashed madly ahead, slaughtering and crippling. The pavement, covered with dead and wounded, was like a battlefield. It was a miniature hell — an inferno created by the diseased brain of a devil in human form.

When the officers had finally completed their task and the street was cleared — when the last ambulance had departed with its ghastly load — Des Moines looked about him for Winters. He was gone. An officer remembered seeing the millionaire's machine driving away, its owner huddled up in the back seat, shrieking and babbling, his shoulders shaking with hysterical sobs, his face wearing the look of a man who has just escaped from Hades.

The inspector stood deep in thought. "He said that he'd speak to me! And yet — dammit all! The man never lived who could act such a part. It can't be him!" And, with a shake of his head, he returned to his duties.

VIII

In a lonely house in one of the outlying districts — a house set down in the midst of great trees and gardens, surrounded by a high stone wall — dwelt a man of extraordinary powers. To his neighbors he was merely an Oriental gentleman of wealth and refinement, who preferred solitude in an alien country to a position of magnificence and power in his own. But to the initiate — that little band of followers selected from every walk of life — he was the ambassador of a tiny group of learned men who, for centuries before Jesus, the Christ, walked upon this earth, have been striving to bring about the regeneration of the world. Their representatives are to be found in every large center of population, working quietly, unostentatiously, teaching, preaching, gaining an occasional recruit, ever content to bide their time, knowing that years are but seconds in the general scheme of the universe.

Mohammed Gunga, the Master, as he was known to those who loved and obeyed him, was a truly wonderful man. Taken, when a child, by The Holy Ones, his life had been dedicated by them to the service of his fellow creatures. Masters of mystery, delving far beyond the comprehension of ordinary humans into the phenomena of life, they had poured their combined wisdom into his open ears. And, their task completed, they had sent him out into the world, as they had sent many others before him, to spread the propaganda of the great work to which they had pledged themselves.

None knew the limits of his power, none the depths of his great learning. To him all things were possible. To him life's mysteries were but commonplaces. Master of theosophy, philosophy, and the sciences, what, to the novitiate, seemed to savor of the weird, the mysterious, the occult, was to his mighty mind but the working of nature's laws.

It was to the shrine of The Master that Des Moines always journeyed when confronted by a puzzle past his comprehension. For the clear, reasoning power of the sage untangled riddles which, to the ordinary mind, appeared beyond solution.

So, it was to The Master that the inspector hurried as rapidly as his high-powered car would carry him after the Broadway horror had shown him the futility of his reasoning.

IX

He found The Master walking in the garden, a faraway look in his soft, dreamy eyes, in silent communion with nature. Upon the policeman's arrival, however, his face lighted up and he shook hands warmly. For Mohammed Gunga had none of the methods of the charlatan: to his friends his life was an open book to be read by all who cared to take the time.

"Greetings, my friend," he smiled. "What new problem brings you here this morning? For I dare not hope that so busy a man as yourself would deign to make a purely social call. Come walk beside me and tell me all about it." He laughed sadly as he continued: "Will you never remember, my friend, that every atom has its master and recognizes his intelligence? Have we not been taught to know that we have but to seek the way by making the profound obeisance of the soul to the bright star that burns within?"

Des Moines fell into step at his side and hastily sketched the events of the past thirty-six hours. For Mohammed Gunga did not keep in touch with the world; newspapers never passed his doorway.

When the inspector completed his tale, The Master turned in his tracks and, placing his hands on the big man's shoulders, said in a voice that quivered with emotion:

"Dear friend, you have rendered the cause a greater favor than you realize by bringing your problem to me. For Lessman, in his egotism, has at last unmasked himself. Now we can fight him in the open. But I forget that you do not understand. Sit here on this bench with me and let me explain.

"Professor Darius Lessman is, without a doubt, the greatest intellect this or any other century has produced. He was employed at one time as teacher of psychology in a small, inland college. His great ability soon brought him to the attention of The Holy Men to whose cause we are all devoted. You know the lengths to which they will go to further the spreading of the great work. They sought him out. He became the favorite pupil of one in whose footsteps even I am not fitted to walk. He was tried in various ways and found not wanting. He was taught all — everything. His wonderful brain grasped in a few years that which others have spent a lifetime in learning. So proficient did he become that plans were made to send him across the waters for final instruction from those, the hem of whose garments you and I may never hope to touch.

"The Creator of all things never intended that a man should have the brain that was bestowed upon Darius Lessman. The man is an anomaly. The devil must have had a hand in his making and, when his training was completed, took him for his own. For Lessman, crazed by the power he found was within him, conceived the idea of living forever. He believed that he was greater than the God who created him.

"For months he practised in secret, attempting to transfer his soul from one human body to another at the command of his will. Failing, he sought his old Master, told him his secret and begged him for help. When the Master turned upon him in horror and loathing, he killed the good old man to protect his own devilish secret.

"Then he fled with a woman he had captivated by means of his diabolical wiles — a pure girl named Meta Vanetta, who, too, had been an humble pupil of the murdered Master. She became Lessman's tool — his accomplice.

"Together, they worked out Less-man's plans in some secret place, spreading death and destruction wherever they Went in order to gain the human clay with which to work. We have followed them, tracking them from country to country, yet seldom daring to strike because of our knowledge that he was our superior. For Lessman is a monster — a man who laughs at death. And none has been found strong enough to kill his twisted soul. The cell was never made that could hold him. For he has but to discard his body and seize upon that of another. Many men of our faith have met him. He has killed them all by the power of his will.

"The brain has not been made that can match his in a duel of wills. Even I am fearful of him — and I am backed by the united intelligence of the Holy Men who are with me in spirit night and day. His is a mind gone wild — amuck, as you would say in the vernacular. For years I have prepared myself for the meeting. Am I fitted for the ordeal?

"I tell you, my friend, the time has come. Lessman must die! We must kill him for the sake of humanity! Not as one man kills another. We must kill his soul, even though we are forced to call upon the Holy Ones for aid. For the time you must forget that you are the policeman, and become the protector of mankind. We must gird ourselves for the battle, trusting m God to protect the right. Now do you understand?"

Des Moines drew a trembling hand across his brow, from which the sweat was pouring. "God," he muttered, hoarsely. "It's horrible — unbelievable."

The Master patted his shoulder affectionately. "I realize it, my friend. Yet, to a certain extent, you have been trained to see that which, to the ordinary mind, appears obtuse. Multiply that which you know, and understand, by hundreds, and you comprehend my wisdom. And I am but an infant in intellect compared to Darius Lessman."

"The man cares for but two things — riches and power. Seek for the man who would profit most by the death of Augustus Winters. And, when you have found him, return to me. Further than that I can tell you nothing. I must go now and. in prayer and meditation, prepare myself for the inevitable meeting."

X

Inspector Des Moines left the home of The Master, his head in a whirl. Although his years of experience in grappling with criminality in all of its sickening forms had made him a man far beyond the ordinary in point of intellect, his brain was too well acquainted with the wonder-worker he had just left to doubt his veracity.

He had seen the terrible power of Lessman in the case of the unfortunate Ryan. The other officers who had battled against the unseen force were unable to add any information to what he already knew. They could only say that, for the instant, a will more powerful than their own had held them in check. What it was, they could not explain. Nor could they describe their sensations. Pondering over the matter as he whirled city-wards the inspector could only shake his head. He was face to face with the greatest mystery he had ever tackled — a mystery so big that only The Master himself could fathom it.

As he came to a cross street, he suddenly changed his mind and directed the chauffeur to drive to the Winters home. He would again study the millionaire at close range. He was unable to reconcile himself to the belief that the slow-witted, hysterical man of money was the enormous intellect described by Mohammed Gunga. Yet, everything fitted in to make a case against Winters — only to tumble to pieces at the next turn.

There was the telephone call. His men had investigated. Not only was the operator ready to swear that it had been Winters who called from booth number fourteen, but the cigar girl as well. The man had stopped at the cigar stand for an instant. He was well known to the girl in charge, who had addressed him by name, as had the clerk on duty at the time. Yet, three minutes later, Winters had answered the telephone at his own home ten miles away. Clearly, a man could not be in two places at the same time. Nor was it within the power of any human being, by any modern means of transportation, to transport himself that distance within the time given.

Wilkins answered the inspector's ring. His master was in the parlor sitting beside the body of his beloved wife. He would announce the inspector.

A second later he returned and ushered Des Moines into the big reception hall. The inspector shook hands with the millionaire. Then, his eyes on the other's face, he plunged immediately into the reason for his call.

"Mr. Winters," he said. "I believe that I am on the right track at last. But I need some information which only you can give me. Will you do it?"

There was no hesitancy on the part of the man of wealth. "Ask me anything you wish, inspector. I will answer your question lo the best of my ability."

Des Moines bored on.

"Winters," he said, sharply, "who is your heir?"

The millionaire started.

"Why, er — I don't understand what you are getting at?" he exclaimed.

"Just this. If I am correct in my guess, your life is in danger. In view of this morning's happenings, I am at last firmly convinced that Mrs. Winters' death was nothing more or less than a coldblooded murder! So, too, was the death of the maid! I will admit that several times I have had my doubts. Now I know!"

Winters started back, aghast. "Horrible! Horrible!" he cried. "It is hard to believe — yet it must be true. But who could have so hated my poor wife as to take her life?"

The inspector continued relentlessly. "With Mrs. Winters out of the way, it is my belief that you will be the next to go. We must protect you. Now who is going to profit by all this deviltry? Have you made a will?"

Winters put his hand to his head. "Surely, it cannot be true. You cannot believe that they — mere children—"

"Who are they, man? Speak up!"

"My nephew, Thomas De Pew, and my niece, Cora Dayton, his cousin. Everything I have will go to them. Mrs. Winters had no near relatives. My will has been made for months. Of course, had my wife lived, she would have inherited all."

"Do they live in the city?"

"They make their home with me. They have lived here since childhood. Both are orphans."

"I would like to talk with them, question them, without their knowing the reason. Will you kindly summon them? Tell them that I am merely seeking additional data for my report."

Winters, white-faced, arose. "I will do as you wish, inspector," he said, slowly. "But you are wrong in suspecting those children. Thomas is but nineteen years of age. His cousin is nearly a year younger. Theirs cannot be the brains that planned this horrible outrage."

He stepped into the adjoining room, only to reappear, an instant later, with the information that both of the young people had driven downtown for the afternoon.

Inspector Des Moines left the Winters home feeling that he had made no material progress.

XI

The funeral services for the late Mrs. Winters had been held and the body tenderly laid away in the family vault in Rose Hill cemetery. At the same hour, in another part of the city, amid more humble surroundings, was held the funeral of Dolly Matthews, the maid.

Alone in his office, Inspector Des Moines sat scanning the afternoon papers. They were still filled with criticisms of the police administration. Nor did the inspector blame them greatly. For he was obliged to confess himself beaten — defeated at every turn of the road. He had attended the funeral of Mrs. Winters in person. Several of his best plain clothes men had mingled with the crowd. Others had been present at the funeral of the maid. Their reports were one and the same. There was nothing — absolutely nothing — to report.

Over the telephone, he had given The Master the results of his interview with Winters. Mohammed Gunga had advised him to say nothing, do nothing, until Lessman again showed his hand.

Lost in reverie, he went over every phase of the case. A stone wall confronted him. There was nothing upon which he could even base a theory. Even though he succeeded in pinning the crimes on Winters, what jury would believe the incredible story? There was not even a motive. He would be laughed out of court. Mohammed Gunga was his only hope.

The telephone tinkled jarringly, startling him oat of his day dreams. The voice which answered his gruff "Hello!" was that of a stranger, agitated, jerky.

"Inspector, this is Thomas De Pew, Augustus Winters' nephew. For the love of God, come out here quick! Something awful has happened.

"I don't know what it is. I can't explain. I only know that a stranger called here shortly after we returned from the funeral and inquired for my uncle. Wilkins, the butler, heard him request a private interview. Uncle Gus took him into his study and closed the door. We supposed that he had departed, for, later, my uncle left the house for a short stroll — or, at least, we so imagined.

"A few minutes ago Wilkins entered the study. He found the body of the stranger lying on the floor — stone dead! No, there is not a mark of violence on him. The physician — Doctor Bennett — has just completed his examination. "And my uncle has not yet returned."

XII

Over die telephone, Des Moines reported the latest angle of the case to Mohammed Gunga. Then he drove to the latter's residence and picked him up on his way to the Winters home.

The white-faced butler admitted them, trembling like a leaf as he ushered them into the presence of young De Pew, a slender youth trying hard to appear manly in spite of his agitation. A moment later they were joined by Miss Dayton, the niece, a beautiful girl whose eyes were swollen and red from weeping, although she seemed to hold herself under better control than did the boy. The inspector briefly introduced The Master as one of his men versed in subtle poisons, brought along for the purpose of detecting if any such had been used in making away with the stranger found in the study.

A hasty examination of the dead man proved the correctness of young De Pew's report. He was a rough appearing individual, evidently a laborer, far from the sort of person a man of Winters' refinement and wealth would be likely to be on intimate terms with.

Mohammed Gunga arose from the stooping position over the dead man and turned to De Pew.

"Darius Lessman," he said, in the conversational tone of one polished gentleman addressing another, "the time for unmasking is at hand! We meet at last! It is your soul or mine! Prepare yourself for the ordeal! Summon, if you are able, the powers of darkness. I warn you that behind me lies all of the great strength of the Holy Ones — and only you know what that means. Are you ready for the trial?"

For an instant there was silence. Then, with a wild shriek, the girl ran screaming from the room. Des Moines stepped back a pace, startled by the sudden accusation. Yet he knew the Master too well to doubt the correctness of his charges.

De Pew's eyes glared angrily. He seemed about to leap at the throat of his accuser. Then, with a shrug of his thin shoulders, he chuckled — a throaty, diabolical, gleeful burst of mirth.

"As you wish, my dear Mohammed Gunga! As you wish. I will warn you, as you have warned me. I intend to kill you, damn you! Yes, and the infernal meddler with you, too. I'll kill you as I killed the others."

He rubbed his hands together gleefully, giving way again to his unholy mirth. "Yes, and. by God, I'll use your carcasses as I used this piece of carrion on the floor, there. Think you that you can stop me — that you, in your littleness, can end a career such as mine? I am Lessman, The Man Who Can Not Die! I'll be chief of police for a day! Ha! Ha! Yes, and I'll wear the robes of The Master.

"Listen, fools. Meta, the woman I love, is she who has just left the room. Together, we killed Mrs. Winters — blasted her as we will blast you. Yes, I'll blast you, curse you! I can throw my will across the continent. Think you, then, that you can defeat me? I got Des Moines here to end him, knowing that he would bring you along. With you gone, the world is mine!

"In the body of Mrs. Winters, Meta left this house. She came here in the body of Dolly, Ha! Ha! It was a puzzle for the fools of policemen, trying to figure out how the body of the maid got into the coffin of the mistress. I love puzzles. I worked it all out to attract your attention — as I knew it eventually would — my dear Mohammed Gunga. You were getting too close to my tracks — you and your hellish gang! With you gone, none will be left on this side of the water who can hope to match their strength with mine.

"My only regret is that I didn't blast that damned salesman, Johnson, who blocked our game when we stole the brooch. I was the chauffeur, as you have already guessed. I grew tenderhearted — fool that I am. When he seized Meta, he forced her to quit the body she was occupying and enter that of the dead woman we had in the machine, ready for just such an emergency. I'll get him yet, though, damn him!

"I killed Winters, inspector, the same night that I telephoned to you. Ha, it was funny. I left his body hidden in a room I keep downtown for just such purposes. Then I threw my soul across the space and into the body I now occupy in time to answer your telephone call. I knew that you would trace the call and seek to trap me. I wanted to puzzle you. It has been a real pleasure for me to play with you. For I give you credit for having more intelligence than the average detective. I knew that sooner or later, though, you would get beyond your depth and call for aid from Mohammed Gunga.

"Where is Winters' body hidden now? That's my business, fools! It's hidden away where I can use it again if the occasion ever demands — after Meta and I get through using the Winters millions, possibly. Your policeman? O, yes, I killed him — blasted him from the automobile while I was talking to you. I kept my promise, did I not?

"And now, both of you, prepare to die! I, Lessman, the Man Who Will Not Die, will it!"

XIII

Des Moines felt an icy sensation creep over him. Then came a peculiar numbness. He struggled against it. Clammy fingers seemed to clutch his throat! He was choking! He staggered like a drunken man, seeking an avenue of escape. A veil of darkness seemed to weigh upon his eyes. Tighter and tighter grew the bands about him. And, then, screaming like an hysterical woman, he fell to the floor, unconscious.

How long he lay there he never knew. Probably only a few seconds. He awakened suddenly. For an instant he imagined himself dead. He opened his eyes. Over him stood the Master, calm, self-reliant, facing the monster. Silently the two men, only a few yards apart, waged the greatest battle the world will ever know — the battle of wills — a duel between the Powers of Darkness and the forces of Good.

Slowly — slowly — slowly, Lessman seemed to weaken. Great drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. His breath came in asthmatic pants. He struggled to save himself, to concentrate his powerful will for a final effort, but in vain. Opposed to him was a will greater than his own — the united will of the thousands who had devoted their lives to the work of uplifting mankind — the will of the holy men of India.

His legs trembled. His fingers twitched jerkily. Then, as he sank to the floor, he made a final effort to escape. From his body emanated a thin vapor — an aura. It was his soul attempting flight. It spread across the room like a nauseous miasma, smoke-like, cloudy, repellent — hellish!

In response to The Master's will, it drew itself together. Slowly — oh, so slowly — as if fighting to the very last, it drew nearer and nearer to the man to whose mind it acknowledged the mastery.

At last, it was but a tiny, smoky, grey ball of vapor. The Master held forth his hand and it hovered over his palm. He pressed his fingers together. When he opened them a tiny particle of grayish power lay within his hand

Through the house rang the bloodcurdling shriek of a woman — a single, despairing wail of anguish! Then, through the door floated another wraith. For a second it hesitated. Then it mingled with the ashes of its lover in the Master's hand.

Mohammed Gunga blew upon his palm. The powder vanished into nothingness.

He extended his hand to Des Moines and assisted him to his feet.

"That is the end! Only you and I know the truth. Let us depart. The Monster is dead!"