“I have confidence in you, Benzig,” declared Valdan. “I chose you as an assistant chiefly because I was sure you would not pry into my private experiments.”
“I have never done so,” reminded Benzig.
“I am sure of that,” agreed Valdan, “but I also had faith in your discretion, Benzig. I am disappointed. You must be more careful in the future. You must not permit delivery men to prowl about these laboratories.”
“I am sure that they touched nothing, sir—”
“How can you be sure? You admitted that you went upstairs to speak to Crowder.”
“That was yesterday, sir. But today, I remained in the outer laboratory while the men brought the crate in here.”
“Stupid of you! You should have came in here with them.”
“But they were only in here long enough to leave the crate of guinea pigs. I entered as they were leaving. That was when I transferred the extra guinea pigs and called the men back to take the old crate.”
“That is sufficient.” Valdan moved over toward the table. “Where is my afternoon newspaper, Benzig?”
“It should be on the table, sir. Crowder invariably brings it here.”
“Did he do so today?”
“I think so, Mr. Valdan.”
“Think!” cackled the chemist, in an irritated tone. “If you did any real thinking, Benzig, you would know whether or not Crowder placed the journal here. I hired you as an assistant, Benzig, not as a dummy.”
Valdan was rummaging among the boxes on the table. He uncovered one that was partly obscured by others. He raised the lid and peered inside. The box contained two guinea pigs. Both of the cavies were motionless. Valdan rapped at the side of the box, tapping with his fingers upon punctured air holes. The guinea pigs did not budge. Valdan replaced the cover of the box.
The chemist turned suddenly, expecting to see Benzig. The assistant was no longer in view. Valdan stared about suspiciously; then closed the door of the laboratory and shot the bolt. He stooped and peered below the table. There, an old piece of carpeting was draped over a wooden box. Valdan chuckled and began to rise. Then, to make sure, he stooped again and pulled away the old carpet.
A gasp came from the chemist’s lips. Apparently, this was not the box that Valdan had expected to find. He was puzzled by its shape and its appearance. The lid was nailed in place. Seizing a hammer that lay upon the table, Valdan pried away a board. He stared into the box. Its only contents were some short lengths of rusted iron pipe.
THE chemist scrambled to his feet. He stared wildly at the door that he had bolted; then looked toward the file cabinets at the end of the room. Hurrying in that direction, Valdan seized the little ladder and mounted to the highest step. With quivering hands, he pulled open a drawer that bore the numbers: 96-115.
Large folders filled the drawer. Valdan rummaged through them, muttering numbers half aloud. His voice became a hoarse, anxious whisper:
“One hundred and nine — one hundred and ten — one hundred eleven—”
The chemist stopped short. The number that he had just named was missing. He gripped an envelope that bore the number 110. The next one in the drawer was 112.
“Benzig!” The chemist blurted the name, in a wild call for his missing assistant. “Benzig!”
Valdan had forgotten that he had bolted the door. A slight sound from behind him made him think that his assistant had returned. Scrambling downward from the ladder, Valdan began to turn. A click from the door; the little laboratory, windowless, was plunged in darkness. A form sprang forward; Valdan grappled with an unseen assailant.
The struggle was short-lived. Valdan toppled to the floor. Hands gripped his head and pounded it fiercely upon the stone flooring. Fierce panting sounded in the darkness. Then the vicious assailant held his breath and listened. No further sound came from Troxton Valdan.
The killer arose. Though he tiptoed, his footfalls clicked strangely in that darkened room. Then came the grate of the bolt as Valdan’s attacker drew it back. Eyes peered into the deserted outer laboratory. The killer moved forth and closed the door behind him.
Deep stillness reigned in the inner room. Minutes passed; then the door opened and an astonished exclamation came in the voice of Benzig. The assistant seemed surprised to find the room in darkness.
“I–I thought Mr. Valdan was in here!” Benzig was speaking to Crowder, who had come with him. “But — but the light is out—”
Crowder’s hand pressed the switch. Then came blurted exclamations from both servant and assistant. Standing just inside the doorway, they stared at the prone form of their employer. Troxton Valdan was lying face up on the floor, at the bottom of the ladder. His feet were beside the lowest step.
The chemist’s head was resting in a pool of blood. His skull had been fractured by that smash against the floor. Crowder and Benzig staring, both had the same thought. The servant was the first to voice it, in an awed gasp.
“Dead!” whispered Crowder, tensely. “The master — Mr. Valdan — someone has killed him!”
CHAPTER VI
TWO GUINEA PIGS
ONE hour after Crowder and Benzig had discovered the body of Troxton Valdan, Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth emerged from a telephone booth at the Cobalt Club. He hurried excitedly to the cloak room and thrust his head across the counter while he pointed out his coat and hat. He wanted the garments quickly.
Seizing his coat from the attendant, Barth began to put it on as he hastened toward the outer door. As he neared the exit, the commissioner bumped into another person who was entering. Grasping his spectacles just as they were about to drop from his nose, Barth found himself face to face with Lamont Cranston.
“Sorry, commissioner,” remarked the millionaire, in his quiet manner. “What is the trouble?”
“An important police case,” responded Barth, pausing long enough to explain his haste. “A strange death that requires my personal investigation.”
“You have your car here?”
“No. I intend to take a cab.”
“Not at all. My limousine is outside. At your service, Mr. Barth.”
Turning, Cranston accompanied the commissioner to the sidewalk. Stanley caught the door man’s signal. The limousine rolled over to the curb. Cranston motioned Stanley to remain at the wheel. While the Cobalt Club attendant was opening the door of the car, Cranston gave instructions.
“Drive Commissioner Barth wherever he orders,” said Cranston, to Stanley. “Keep the car at his disposal. Simply telephone me, Stanley, so that I shall know where to reach you.”
“This is fine of you, Cranston!” exclaimed Barth, as he was stepping into the limousine. “But I shall not accept the latter part of your offer. As soon as I have reached my destination, I shall send the car back here. That is” — the commissioner paused — “unless—”
“Unless what?” queried Cranston, quietly.
“Unless you should care to go along,” completed Barth. “Perhaps” — the commissioner’s tone was slightly condescending — “perhaps you might be interested in observing the law at work.”
“Very well,” responded Cranston, with the slightest trace of a smile upon his thin lips. “Suppose I accompany you, commissioner.”
With that he entered the car and passed the speaking tube to Barth. The commissioner gave Stanley the address of Troxton Valdan’s home. The limousine rolled northward, while Barth talked to Cranston.
“I WAS summoned last night,” explained the commissioner, “to view the scene of an extraordinary mystery. Of course you have read about it in the newspaper, Cranston. I refer to the strange death sleep that overpowered four victims.”