A TAXICAB had stopped on a secluded street in the West Eighties. A man was peering from the window. His was the face of the hunted. The driver turned to open the door. The man calmed himself, stepped out and paid the fare.
The cab pulled away. Cuyler Willington stood alone on the curb. He repeated his quick glances in both directions. No one was in sight. Willington ascended brownstone steps and rang a bell.
A full minute passed while Willington waited, close against the door. Then came the clatter of a lock. The door opened. A nervous, pasty-faced man stepped back as Willington entered.
“Hello, Brophy.” greeted Willington, quietly. “Close the door.”
“Very well.” Brophy’s voice had a slight quaver. “I–I didn’t expect you. I–I thought that maybe Mollin was coming—”
“Didn’t you read today’s newspapers?” questioned Willington, abruptly, as they walked toward a flight of stairs.
“No,” replied Brophy. “I have been busy packing.”
“Congo Mollin is dead.”
“Dead! You — you mean murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Who is responsible?”
“The police are trying to find out.”
“Mollin,” mumbled Brophy. “Mollin — dead—”
“But he talked to me before he was killed,” interposed Willington. They were at the head of the stairs.
“That’s why I’m here, Brophy. Where can we talk?”
“In my laboratory,” faltered Brophy. “In here.”
He led the way to a small room that was fitted with electrical machines and other equipment. Willington took a chair; he drew a cigarette from a case and placed it in his holder.
Willington was not in evening attire tonight; but he was fashionably dressed. He made a contrast to Brophy. The electrical expert was wearing a shabby suit with baggy trousers.
“So you’re packed up,” parried Willington. “Does that mean you are going somewhere?”
“Only if you permit me,” responded Brophy, quickly. “I–I could see no harm in packing while I waited to hear from you.”
“Where are you going? That is, if you go.”
“I haven’t decided. I need a change. I’ve thought of Bermuda. But I haven’t bought tickets yet—”
“That’s good. We have a little matter to settle before you leave. A question of a thousand dollars a month. My expense money, Brophy. I need it. I’m going on a trip myself.”
“I–I do owe you a thousand, Mr. Willington. That is, I would owe it, according to our agreement. But they have cut off my advance royalties.”
“So Mollin told me.” Willington’s tone was a velvet purr. “He said you were cut down to the amount that you receive from your investments. Unfortunate for you, Brophy. You will have to sell some of your securities.”
“I can’t do that!” exclaimed Brophy. “They are part of a trust fund left me by my uncle. They bring me in very little, Willington. Very little.”
“I am ready to consider a cash settlement, Brophy. Five thousand dollars. No more payments.”
“But I don’t have the five thousand.”
WILLINGTON eyed Brophy steadily. He could see that the man was telling the truth. Brophy would have jumped at this chance to clear himself from further blackmail.
“I know you can ruin me, Willington,” pleaded Brophy, suddenly. “If you let it out that I was mixed up with that electric belt fraud, five years ago, I would go to jail. I don’t want to go to jail.”
“Cut it, Brophy,” put in Willington, abruptly. “You’re not going to prison if you’re telling the truth. I can do without your payments, provided that you are not getting them. But that yarn you told Congo Mollin did not impress me. I want to hear it straight from you. About the Q-ray.”
“It is true, every word.” Brophy’s pasty face looked worn. “The experiments were halted when the ray proved dangerous at high intensity.”
“It killed two men?”
“Instantly! They were melanochroids.”
“Melanochroids?”
“Yes. That is Huxley’s division for one class of the Caucasian race — those of darker skins. Spaniards, Italians, Sicilians, and others of that group. Those of lighter skin — you and I, for instance — are called xanthochroids.”
“I see. I’ve heard the distinctions. But I thought they called light-complected persons Nordics and dark ones Mediterraneans.”
“You are mixing two authorities,” explained Brophy, with a solemn smile. “Deniker and Ripley. Deniker used the term Nordic, to mean xanthochroid, or light-skinned. Ripley used Mediterranean to indicate the dark-skinned melanochroid. There is another class — the Alpine — but we can confine ourselves to the two that I have mentioned.
“Basically, the Q-ray was intended to give light skins the structure of dark. We tried it on xanthochroids and found that it worked. It seemed to strengthen the skin structure. The ray seemed to have no harmful effects whatever.
“But we had never thought what might happen to melanochroids. We discovered the truth most unfortunately. Two members of the Universal laboratory staff were killed almost instantly by the Q-ray. That ended the experiments.”
Willington looked impressed as he eyed Brophy. Incredible though the statements seemed, he was on the verge of believing them. Brophy persisted.
“I swear that what I have said is true,” he declared. “Absolutely true! The skin structure of xanthochroids will absorb the Q-ray perfectly. But the dark-hued melanochroid cannot resist its power. The Q-ray machine covers a radius of thirty feet. Within that circle, death for a person of truly dark-skinned texture.”
“Anywhere within the circle?”
“Practically. A person at the fringe of it might survive. Yet the second man who died at the laboratory was killed when almost thirty feet away.”
“You say that death is instantaneous?”
“Yes — if the ray is at full intensity.”
WILLINGTON stroked his chin. Then he shook his head and delivered a sour laugh.
“You’re an inventor, Brophy,” he remarked, “and like most of them, you’re a bit balmy. You thought that electric belt would work, even though you would never be able to make a court believe that such was your true opinion.
“I am beginning to think that Universal Electric wanted to get rid of you and took an easy way out. Some wise gentleman decided that you were cracked and told you this fable. You believed it—”
Seth Brophy drew himself up to his full height. For a moment his eyes were glaring; then he delivered a crackly laugh. He clutched Willington’s coat lapel.
“I can prove it!” ejaculated Brophy. “I can prove it — to you alone! You already have evidence that would send me to jail. I do not care if you gain more. I shall show you the Q-ray machine!”
“What are you going to do?” quizzed Willington, stepping away. “Crack the laboratory of the Universal Electric Company? You are crazy, Brophy!”
“Do you think so?” Again the wild laugh. “No, Willington. You are wrong. We do not need to go to the laboratory of the electric company. I have a duplicate machine right here.”
“Where?” demanded Willington, looking about at Brophy’s equipment. “I don’t see it. You will be telling me next that it is invisible.”
“Look!” Brophy hopped across the room and stopped at a tiled wall. He removed a loose section from the white tiling, digging it free with his fingernails. He pressed a switch.
“There is the duplicate machine!”
A section of the wall slid up as Brophy spoke. Willington, staring, saw a small secret room. From its interior gleamed a square, pillared device — the duplicate of the machine that James Sundler had shown to Lamont Cranston.
“Where did you get it, Brophy?” demanded Willington.
“I stole it,” chuckled Brophy.
“Stole it?” Willington eyed the man. “Why, it must weigh a couple of hundred pounds.”
“I stole it piece by piece.” explained Brophy. “While I was working at the Universal Electric laboratory. I claimed that certain parts were defective and demanded that they be replaced. New parts were obtained. The old ones were discarded.”
“You took them out one by one?”
“Yes. I smuggled them in sections. Not all, you understand. I was too clever for that. I took only those parts which I knew could not be obtained elsewhere. I had mechanics make the other sections according to my description.”
“And this machine works?”
“It does. See” — Brophy pointed into the little room — “I have a crate there to pack it for shipment. But I am not taking it with me. It is safer here.”
Willington nodded. He was thinking deeply.
“Would you like to have me demonstrate the Q-ray?” questioned Brophy.
Willington nodded.
CHUCKLING, the electrical inventor pulled a chair over by a bookcase. He clambered up and pulled a shoe box into view. Stepping down, he showed a pair of guinea pigs: one white, the other brown.
Brophy carried the box into the little room. He turned on an electric light. Willington stepped in after him.
The visitor eyed the machine carefully.
“I should think shipment would damage this device.” he remarked. “Those glass panels look fragile.”
“They are shatter-proof,” said Brophy. “The whole machine is strong. Even the tubes. The operation is simple. A mere attachment to an ordinary floor plug, as I have it here. Then this lever.”
Willington started back. Brophy laughed and clutched his sleeve.
“Have no fear,” said the inventor. “You are a pronounced xanthochroid, like myself. But it would be wise to close that panel.”
He did so. The two men stood in the little room, under the single light. Brophy took the guinea pigs from the shoe box and placed them on the crate. He pointed to them as he pressed the lever.
“Watch.”
Vivid sparks flashed about inside the dull-red tubes of the machine. Silently, the Q-ray began to develop its full power. Brophy spoke after an interval.
“It is time. Watch the guinea pigs.” Willington did so. Both of the little creatures were moving about on the crate. Suddenly, the brown one stopped. It twisted sidewise and lay still. The white guinea pig kept crawling about.
“That is all,” said Brophy, quietly.
He turned off the machine and picked up the brown guinea pig. Willington examined it. The creature was quite dead.
Red tubes were subsiding in the death machine. Brophy opened the panel. He put the white guinea pig in the shoe box and dropped the brown one in a corner of the little room. Stepping out into the laboratory, he mounted the chair and shoved the shoe box out of sight atop the bookcase.
Willington had also stepped from the secret room. He watched Brophy descend from the chair. Then he spoke his tone solemn, but friendly.
“You intend to leave tomorrow?” asked Willington.
“Tonight,” returned Brophy. “If I have your permission.”
“There is no boat for Bermuda tonight.”
“I shall stay at a hotel. In the morning I can give the key to an express man and have him come for the baggage.”
“Where are your trunks?”
“In the front room, downstairs.”
“Brophy,” decided Willington, “you have told me the truth. Your demonstration with the guinea pigs prove it. As proof of my friendship, I shall claim no further payments for my silence regarding your past.”
“Do you mean that, Willington?”
“Positively. But there is one condition. I want that machine that you have in your secret room.”
“No!” cried Brophy, hotly. “You can’t have it, Willington! Much of it is my invention. It protects me, should the electric company try to deprive me of my due!”
“I want the machine only while you are away,” purred Willington. “It will be safe with me. You should not leave it here.”
“No one will find it—”
“There might be a fire.”
Brophy looked startled. Then he considered. Finally he gave a nod.
“I shall lend you the machine,” he declared. “But you must take care of it. Only, how can I arrange its delivery?”
“I shall explain that. Come. Pack the machine. We will carry it down with your trunks.”
Brophy nodded. He and Willington stepped into the secret room and hoisted the Q-ray machine into its box. They clamped the lid; then carried the box out through the laboratory and downstairs.
“Let me have the key to this house,” suggested Willington.
Brophy, puzzled, passed it to him.
“You will go out with me tonight.” explained Willington. “Arrange your passage in the morning. Call me at the Hotel Royal. I shall send the express men. They will deliver your trunks at the pier. The box will come to me.”
Brophy nodded.
“Let us go upstairs again,” remarked Willington. “You left the secret panel open.”
Brophy nodded. They went upstairs. They crossed the laboratory. The light was burning in the secret room. Brophy stepped through the panel and reached up to extinguish the light.
“Wait,” ordered Willington. He had stepped into the secret room also. He pressed the switch that closed the panel. “I want to tell you something, Brophy.”
Brophy turned. His eyes bulged with horror as he saw a gleam in Willington’s fist. Then Willington jabbed a stub-nosed revolver into Brophy’s ribs and pressed the trigger.
A muffled report. Brophy slumped, gasping. Pungent fumes filled the room.
Willington lifted the switch. The panel opened. Willington stepped out into the laboratory. He looked at the gasping form of Brophy.
“Sorry,” said Willington, suavely. “I could not let you get anything on me, Brophy. You would know too much if I had let you live.”
Brophy made no reply. His gasps ended. The pasty-faced inventor was dead.
WILLINGTON closed the panel and replaced the loose tile, jamming it in tightly. The secret room had become Seth Brophy’s tomb.
Quietly, Willington turned out the laboratory lights. He went downstairs and extinguished the lower lights also. He left by the front door, locking it behind him with Brophy’s key.
Cuyler Willington had used craft in his murder of Seth Brophy. He had chosen the secret room as the spot for the fatal shot, knowing that the revolver report would not be heard outside the house, thanks to the muffling panel.
Then the same room had served him for his disposal of the body. It would be a long time before any one would discover the corpse of the electrical expert.
Willington’s lips wore a smile as the murderer entered a cab. He told the driver to take him to the Hotel Atlantic. Then, settling back upon the cushions, Cuyler Willington adjusted a cigarette in his fancy holder and gazed dreamily at the lights of Broadway.