The Plot Master

CHAPTER II ON DEATH ISLAND

EARLY evening had arrived. Gloomy darkness had settled upon the waters of Lake Marrinack. A silent surface, undisturbed by ripples, had replaced the sparkling blue that distinguished this sheet of water.

Secluded from traveled highway, Lake Marrinack was a seldom-visited spot. Even the residents of the near-by town of Marrinack shunned the lake, for the place was one of evil superstitions. Weird rumors persisted regarding Lake Marrinack; and they centered chiefly on the solitary isle that rested in the midst of the lake.

Death Island it was called. The name had double significance. Not only had doom befallen upon certain persons who had lived there; the island also gave a foreboding appearance of death itself. Looming a mile out in the lake, the front cliff of Death Island bore a remarkable resemblance to a mammoth skull, grinning above the level of the waters.

Viewed in the paling twilight, Death Island was a fearful spot. Approach was impossible by the front, for the huge cliff offered no landing place. At one side of the island was a secluded cove. There, a small dock formed a landing spot. Beyond that, there was no visible sign of human habitation on the island.

Thick woods obscured the lone house that stood behind the cliff. Yet the house itself was large. It was located in almost the exact center of the small island; and those visitors who had actually approached it agreed that the house was as spooky-looking as Death Island itself.

With walls of blackened stone, the house loomed forbidding among the trees. Long and high, it was flat-roofed, save for a square tower near the rear of the building. That tower, a white-walled addition to the house itself, looked like a ghostly form that had sprouted from the level roof.

Dim lights shone from the windows of the house on Death Island. Bars showed on those same windows. The strange abode was one in which uninvited visitors could expect no welcome. Curious people stayed away from the house on Death Island.

WITHIN the house was a room that contrasted oddly with the dull exterior. This was the front room on the ground floor. It was the private study of Professor Arthur Whitburn, the old inventor who owned the house on Death Island. Professor Whitburn’s study was a cheery, well-lighted room.

This room was in great disorder. A large bookcase ranged along one wall, and fully half of its volumes had been removed. These missing books had not gone far. They were strewn about the study. Stacks on the tables, stacks on the chairs, stacks on the floor; besides these were other books, dropped at random, here and there.

In addition to the books, the floor and the furniture held mussed heaps of papers. Glass jars, pieces of metal tubing, odd-looking mechanical contrivances added to the chaos. There was a shelf in the corner where these articles belonged; it was a disorderly as the room. Professor Whitburn had piled bottles and tubes haphazardly upon that shelf.

There was a desk near the center of the room. It was also a hodge-podge of books, papers, and apparatus. The only object that appeared to be in its proper place was the telephone. It stood at an angle, however, for it had been propped upon a crazy stack of handwritten manuscripts.

A wide window sill was also well littered with papers; but this spot showed some semblance of order. A large tiger-cat had chosen the sill for a resting place. Nestled there, the creature looked over the room with an expression of part ownership. The cat seemed quite at home in its select spot.

In fact, the cat was quite alert despite its assumed laziness. This was proven when the animal rose and arched its back when it detected the sound of footsteps from the corridor outside the study. Then, as the door opened, the cat nestled back on the window sill. It had recognized the approach of its master.

PROFESSOR WHITBURN entered the study. Old, stooped and thin, he was a man of curious appearance. His hair formed an untrimmed mass of white. His mustache — also white — was long, with drooping ends. But the professor’s eyes were keen. His sharp gaze noted the cat settling back upon the window sill.

“Hello, Quex,” chuckled the professor, approaching to stroke the cat. “What is the trouble? Has something disturbed you?”

The cat responded with a plaintive meow. The old man studied the animal closely. Quex blinked and emitted another meow. Then the cat subsided under the professor’s friendly strokes. While he quieted his pet, Whitburn stared about the room in suspicious fashion.

A glare appeared upon the old man’s countenance. With sharp eyes, the professor surveyed the stacks of books and heaps of papers. He moved away from the window sill and approached the desk. He lifted the telephone and looked at the manuscript beneath it. He picked up books and replaced them. Nodding, the old man turned toward the cat.

“You are right, Quex,” declared Professor Whitburn. “Some one has been intruding here. You know when matters are wrong, don’t you, old fellow?”

Pausing, Whitburn again looked about the room. He muttered to himself, then spoke half aloud, as if addressing the cat.

“Whoever came here was a fool,” asserted the Professor. “He thought that I would not know. He believed that this disarray was pure carelessness on my part. Others have thought the same. They do not realize that I remember the exact place where I lay each object.”

Again, a brief inspection. The cat watched the professor go to the bookcase and look at volumes that rested there, at an angle. Then the professor chuckled. His tone, however, betrayed anger along with mirth. Wheeling, he stalked to the door and opened it.

“Polmore!”

The professor paused after calling the name. He waited a few seconds; then heard a response from somewhere in the house. Footsteps followed. A frail, peak-faced man appeared from the corridor.

Whitburn beckoned the fellow into the study.

“Polmore,” he cackled, “you are my secretary. Your services, however, are limited to handling my correspondence. You would find it difficult to locate objects in this room, would you not?”

“Yes, sir,” responded Polmore.

“Do you think that I could discover anything if I looked for it?” demanded Whitburn.

“Perhaps, sir,” assented the secretary. “But I should class a search as difficult.”

“You are wrong, Polmore,” chuckled the professor. “I could locate any book — any paper — almost instantly! That surprises you? I thought it would.”

“Is anything missing, sir?”

“No. But articles have been moved. Polmore, I tell you some one has been prying in this study!”

“Impossible, sir! I was in here only a short while ago—”

“And you saw nothing amiss? That is no argument, Polmore. Not unless you disturbed my arrangements.”

“No indeed, sir. I came in here only to learn if you had instructions for this evening.”

“And you saw no one?”

“No one, sir.”

The professor eyed his secretary sharply. Then, in a raspy tone, he demanded:

“Where is Stephen?”

“In the laboratory, sir.”

“And Bragg?”

“Upstairs, I believe.”

“Summon them, Polmore. At once.”

The secretary departed, closing the door behind him. Old Whitburn advanced to the window sill and began to stroke the cat. All the while, the old man’s roving glance kept moving about the room. Then, with a crafty smile upon his face, Whitburn went to the desk.

From a drawer, he produced an automatic. Placing it on the desk, Whitburn drew a large watch from his pocket. He detached the timepiece from its chain. He opened the back and removed a tiny key that lay within.

Turning to the bookcase, the professor ran his hand along an ornamental molding at the top. His fingers stopped and pressed; then moved to the left. A portion of the molding went inward and slid beneath the next section. An opening showed; within it was a strip of metal, with a tiny keyhole.

WHILE Whitburn was going through this procedure, the door of the room was slowly opening. Some one was peering into the study. A watcher was observing the old man’s actions.

Whitburn turned to the desk and picked up the key with his left hand; the automatic with his right. Intent, the old man did not know that a spy was watching everything he did.

Swinging to the bookcase, Whitburn unlocked the metal strip that had been hidden by the woodwork. The metal slid away. With his free left hand, the old man drew forth a small stack of papers. Chuckling, he brought his prize into the light. All the time, the man outside was watching.

Quex was looking toward the door. From his perch on the window sill, the cat noticed the moving barrier. Slowly, the animal had begun to arch its back. Suddenly, Quex emitted a fierce spit. Instantly, the door closed.

Professor Whitburn swung about. Holding the papers in his left hand, he leveled his automatic toward the door. His sharp eyes caught a tremble of the knob. Grimly, the professor waited. Silence followed; then a slight creak, from far beyond the door. It meant the departure of an intruder.

Across the study was a fireplace. The glow of a dying flame showed from burned logs. Stepping across the room, the old man stretched out his left hand and let the papers fall into the fireplace. The flames caught the dry sheets. Fire crackled as the papers burned.

Satisfied that he had destroyed his documents, Professor Whitburn went back to the bookcase. He locked the metal slide and closed the molding. He replaced the little key in the watch and put the timepiece in his pocket.

Footsteps from the corridor. This time, the professor caught the sound of approach. Quex arched his back. Whitburn chuckled in challenge. Then some one knocked at the door.

“Who is it?” rasped the professor.

“Stephen, sir,” came the response from beyond the door.

“Come in,” ordered Whitburn.

THE door opened. A stocky, honest-faced man stepped into the room and stared puzzled as he saw the gun in Whitburn’s hand. The professor lowered the weapon. He moved over by the window sill and began to soothe the tiger-cat.

“Where is Polmore?” inquired the professor, mildly.

“Looking for Bragg, sir,” replied Stephen. “He called me from the lab a few minutes ago. He said you wanted to see me.”

“I do. Have you a gun?”

“No, sir.”

“Open the lower drawer of the desk. You will find three revolvers. For yourself, Bragg and Polmore. Have them ready.”

“Very well, sir.”

Stephen complied. Whitburn motioned for him to retain one gun after he had laid the three weapons on the desk. Stephen started to pocket a revolver. Whitburn shook his head.

“Have it ready, Stephen,” he ordered, in a warning tone. “Danger threatens.”

“Here?” questioned Stephen, anxiously. “On Death Island?”

“Yes,” returned the professor, solemnly. “But we shall be prepared for it. Four of us, Stephen.”

With this admonition, old Whitburn again turned toward the closed door.

Automatic clutched firmly in his clawlike fist, the aged inventor awaited the arrival of Polmore and Bragg.

With three henchmen at his bidding, Professor was ready to cope with the prowling enemies who had entered his abode.