The Silent Death

CHAPTER III. THE TRAP ACTS

THE watchers high in the Brinton Building were studying the penthouse scene with renewed interest.

Their evil eyes were upon the corner window, where light had now replaced the former blackness.

Beyond the framework of the studio window, plainly visible through the small panes of glass, sat Alfred Sartain. The millionaire was busy at his desk.

While Thomas Jocelyn and Larry Ricordo stared in silence, Professor Folcroft Urlich spoke in low, continued tones, still maintaining his lecture style.

“Our man is in the trap,” he explained. “As yet, he has not experienced its effects. That time is coming shortly. Here is the means whereby we may study him more closely.”

The professor drew a pair of opera glasses from his coat and focused them upon the scene across the street. He tendered the glasses to Jocelyn, who drew nervously away. Ricordo, however, seized them eagerly.

The former gang lord laughed gruffly as he gained a close-up view of the doomed man within the studio.

He noticed a perplexed look that appeared upon Sartain’s face. Then the millionaire stepped from the field of vision as he suddenly arose from his desk. Ricordo passed the glasses back to Urlich.

“He has noticed the noise from the radiator,” decided the professor, as the three men watched Sartain go toward the corner. “The noise is due to the air-dry attachment which is now being used on many radiators. These devices were installed throughout the penthouse, during the renovation.”

While Sartain was stooping by the radiator, the professor continued his theme.

“The air-dry attachment,” he explained, “is a commercial device which is designed to remove moisture from the atmosphere. By experimenting with these articles, I learned that they could be adjusted so that they consume oxygen very rapidly. Sartain does not know it, but that piece of mechanism is sucking the life-giving element from the air in his studio.”

“What if he detaches it?” inquired Jocelyn, in a weak voice.

“He cannot,” responded the professor. “It is firmly fixed in place. He might manage to smash it, if he understood its purpose. But he simply considers it as a noise-making nuisance. He will decide to forget it.”

Professor Urlich’s statement was proven when Sartain went back to the desk. Nevertheless, the millionaire continued to glance impatiently toward the corner. They saw his hand press a button upon the desk.

“He is ringing for some one to attend to the radiator,” observed Urlich. “The call will not be answered. Brooks has plugged the bell. Neither he nor the secretary will hear it.”

A FEW minutes passed; then the watchers saw Sartain raise his hand to his forehead. Ricordo, taking the opera glasses, observed that the millionaire’s face seemed a trifle pale. Professor Urlich chuckled as Sartain again pressed the button on his desk.

“He wonders why no one comes,” remarked the scientist. “It is not the noise of the radiator now. Sartain is beginning to feel a faintness, due to the lack of oxygen in the atmosphere. He will go to the window next.”

The prediction proved true. Sartain went to the window and tried to open it. He tussled with the fastening to no avail. The framework would not yield.

“It is firmly fastened,” stated Urlich. “Jammed into place, by the painters. He will give it up. Watch him go to the door.”

Alfred Sartain staggered momentarily as he crossed the room. The effort at the window had weakened him. He tried the knob of the door, and tugged furiously. The portal failed to open.

“That knob is ingeniously arranged,” explained Urlich. “This is the first time that the door has been shut since it was fixed. It will not turn the heavy latch at present. After some one opens the door from the other side — as Brooks or the secretary will do later on — the action from the outside will make the inner knob function perfectly. There will be no clew — after Sartain is dead.”

The millionaire seemed groggy. Urlich chuckled. Ricordo looked on in admiration. He was gaining a great respect for Urlich’s ingenuity. Jocelyn, trembling, but fascinated, put an anxious question.

“Suppose that he breaks the windowpanes?” asked the financier. “If he realizes that he needs air?”

“That will be next,” lectured Professor Urlich. “It will prove futile” — the scientist paused as they saw Sartain stride unsteadily toward the window — “because the original panes were all removed during the renovation. The new ones are all of bullet-proof glass.”

Sartain had seized a large book. They watched him throw it at the window. The volume rebounded from a pane. The millionaire hurled a small ash stand. It, too, dropped back.

Lifting a chair, the trapped man began to pound at the barrier. The iron framework and the panels of special glass withstood his effort. Sartain staggered back to the desk, almost on the verge of collapse.

“He is nearing the end of his resources,” observed the scientist, taking the opera glasses from Ricordo.

“Ah — he is using the telephone. That, too, will be futile.”

Sartain, leaning on the desk, had the receiver to his ear. The line was dead. He was joggling the hook with his other hand and anxiously listening while he tried to establish connection with the operator. A queer chortle came from Urlich’s lips.

“What is the matter?” questioned Jocelyn.

“Nothing,” answered the professor. “I am merely glad that we came here tonight. Sartain’s present actions have given me an excellent idea. This is but one death, Jocelyn. There will be others, and some may be emergencies. What I have just seen has given me an inspiration — a sure way to deal death even though I prefer the silence that we are viewing now—”

The speaker stopped suddenly as Sartain fell across the desk. Ricordo laughed hoarsely. Jocelyn gasped. They saw Sartain roll sidewise and rest with his back slouched against the desk, his eyes staring upward.

“The end is near,” announced Professor Urlich. “The oxygen supply has not only decreased; the room also contains a considerable quantity of carbon dioxide. That gas — which we emit when breathing — will not sustain life.

“Should Sartain lose his hold upon the desk and fall to the floor, the end will come more rapidly. However, it is well within my expected schedule. Our victim is doomed. There is no possible source from which he can gain fresh air.”

“Is he dying now?” quizzed Jocelyn, in an unsteady tone.

“Not quite,” replied the professor. “One burst of fresh air would revive him quickly.”

“He is staring upward.”

“Yes. Toward the skylight. He realizes his predicament, and he would like to reach that spot. He does not possess the strength, however. Furthermore, it would afford him no outlet. The skylight, like the window, is firmly jammed. There is no object high enough— even a chair upon the desk — to let Sartain reach it with more than his finger tips. The thick glass would be almost impossible to break.”

“I can’t see it,” said Ricordo.

“The room is quite high,” remarked Urlich. “The skylight is in the sloping roof.”

“He might have managed that way,” observed Jocelyn.

“Might,” returned the professor dryly. “But that, Jocelyn, is where I counted exactly upon probabilities. I not only regarded the skylight as almost inaccessible to a man trapped in the room; I also knew that no one would choose it save as a last resort. Could you read Sartain’s mind at present, you would learn that he is regretting the fact that he did not think of the skylight as the first means of egress. He possessed strength then; it is failing him now.”

A PAUSE; then a wicked chuckle as the scientist again focused the opera glasses upon the doomed victim. In a low voice, he explained the cause of his glee.

“Sartain’s face is hopeless,” declared Urlich. “His lips show that he is panting. The prolonged gasps of a dying man. Ah! This is wonderful, my friends! It, too, gives me a thought of new and scientific death — of sure death — of silent death.”

He laughed; then added:

“But I must not digress with scientific ideas. I retain all that I gain by way of inspiration during my experiments. Our chief concern now is the final moment of Alfred Sartain’s existence. It will not be long deferred.

“Those eyes, my friends, are staring heavenward, looking for hope, seeking help” — the professor chuckled mirthfully — “and seeing nothing but the closed pane of a skylight!”

Larry Ricordo joined in the professor’s laugh. Thomas Jocelyn, though unnerved by the sight of approaching death, also managed to emit a halfhearted tone of mirth.

“Perfection,” murmured Folcroft Urlich. “Death by misadventure. A man who realized too late that his air supply was gone. One whose strength had failed so greatly that he was unable to ring for help, or call by phone, or open door or window. That will be the coroner’s verdict.

“Guns in the hands of gangsters cannot match this subtle scheme. They are crude. They reveal murderous design. We have stayed them for tonight. You, Jocelyn, see the safety of my ways. You, Ricordo, can appreciate their artistry.

“Staring eyes that look for hope will soon stare upward no longer; Alfred Sartain is doomed!”

The professor paused to deliver a cackle of elation; then his lips formed a triumphant phrase:

“Doomed by silent death!”