There was a reason for Doctor Sayre’s attitude. Although he had gained an enviable reputation as a practicing surgeon, Rupert Sayre was far younger than Joseph Barratini. He wondered why he had been called here at Barratini’s urgent request.
The older man seemed to understand the other’s mental question. Yet Joseph Barratini was loath to speak. He arose from his chair, strolled to the window and peered out toward the lights of the city, while Rupert Sayre wondered. At length, Barratini swung and gazed steadily toward the young physician before him.
“Sayre,” he said, in a thick voice, “I called you here this evening to discuss a matter which is of vital importance to my welfare. It involves a question which cannot be considered purely from an ethical standpoint.
“I want to talk to you. I want to ask your advice as a friend. Let us forget that we are medical men — except for the fact that you may understand certain impulses that guided me under unusual circumstances. So I have your confidence?”
Barratini’s tone, more than his words, caused Sayre to nod his head. It was evident that the elder physician was troubled. His frank statement was one which Sayre could not follow by refusal.
Barratini seemed relieved. He sat down.
“You know my reputation,” began Doctor Barratini. “Despite the fact that ill fortune has followed me throughout my medical career, I have gained international fame through my accomplishments in brain surgery.
“I made a fortune during the regime of the Russian czar. I lost it when the empire fell. A refugee, I found a suitable abode in Spain. There I gained new wealth until the monarchy ended and King Alphonso went into exile. A royalist by necessity — for my practice depended upon the support of the nobility — I was forced to flee the country. I went to South America; finally, I reached New York.”
RUPERT SAYRE had heard the story of Joseph Barratini’s misfortunes. To him, this international surgeon was a man who deserved admiration. Barratini, with his knowledge of medical science, had always found his services in high demand and had always managed to recoup his losses.
“In the course of my travels,” resumed Barratini, “I found varied customs in different lands. I saw specimens of our race who could scarcely be classed as higher types than gorillas. I learned to hold contempt for individuals of brutish caliber — the type which constitutes the average American criminal.
“Here in New York, where freedom of speech is prevalent, I advanced a theory which I long had held: namely, that brain surgery performed upon criminals would be justified by its results. Others had advocated the same practice; yet my recommendation was greeted with disapproval. Americans, it seems, are governed by a maudlin sentiment, even where science is concerned.”
Rupert Sayre smiled. He knew of Barratini’s statements, of the furor they had created in limited surgical circles. There had been antagonism toward Barratini; he had been advised to keep his suggestion to himself. Under this protest, he had refrained from further discussion of the subject.
“One man, however,” resumed Barratini, “appeared interested in my suggestions. It was due to his reactions that I became involved in the strange circumstances which now entangle me in their mesh.”
“A physician?” questioned Sayre.
“No,” replied Barratini, lowering his tone. “The man’s name is Eric Veldon. He is a promoter of scientific inventions.”
“I never heard of him.”
“Probably not. Veldon is very secretive in all his actions. He is something of a scientist and an experimenter. His knowledge of medicine — and surgery — is surprising.”
“Veldon took to your theories?”
“Yes, He came here to my apartment. He talked persuasively. He stated that he had taken in a criminal who had been seriously injured; that an operation upon the man would be necessary. He asked if I would perform it.”
“And you agreed?”
“No. I simply agreed to visit the injured man. Veldon insisted that I wear a blindfold while I rode in his car, I agreed, purely because of my curiosity. I have always enjoyed adventure; and I could understand why Veldon wanted to keep the subject’s hiding place a secret. That, Sayre, was the beginning of the network which has entangled me.”
Barratini arose from his chair. He drew long puffs on his cigar as he paced the room. He wore the expression of a man who feared he had said too much; then, observing Sayre’s sympathetic countenance, Barratini paused to resume his story.
“WE arrived at an isolated house,” he stated. “I believe that it is somewhere on Long Island. That is all I know. I took no instruments for a surgical operation. It was to be an examination — that was all.
“Imagine, Sayre, my amazement when I reached Veldon’s unknown place. He took me into a completely fitted operating room. There, bound to a table, was the criminal. The man was uninjured, Sayre! He was in a perfect state of health!”
“Veldon had deceived you!” exclaimed Sayre.
“Exactly,” resumed Barratini. “That was not all. He proceeded to threaten me. He drew a revolver and a fierce expression of malice appeared upon his face. He told me that he had listened to my theories — he repeated many of my statements word for word. He ordered me to operate — or die.”
“For what purpose?”
“To reduce the criminal to the state of a mere human mechanism — to perform the miracles which I believed were possible through brain surgery. I was called upon to remold a brain to its primitive state.”
“You refused?”
“That was impossible. Veldon could have killed me. I saw that I must accede to his demands. Then, Sayre a deep interest seized me. I was willing to proceed, that I might test the proof of my theories. I regret the desire — exceedingly — yet the circumstances offered me no choice. I performed the operation. Veldon drove me, blindfolded, back to New York in my car.”
“And after that?”
Sayre’s question had a marked effect upon Barratini. The tall physician slumped into his chair and pressed his hands against his forehead.
“Sayre,” he whispered, “I heard nothing for two weeks. Then, one evening, there was a rap upon my door. I opened it. Imagine my amazement to see the very man upon whom I had operated!”
“The criminal?”
“Yes, but a criminal no longer. An automaton — a figure who moved with grim, mechanical determination, a creature who approached me with staring eyes. The man gave me an envelope. I opened it. Within, I found one thousand dollars.”
“Payment from Veldon.”
“Yes. But the man remained. He looked at me with steady eyes and said one word: ‘Come.’ I shrugged my shoulders. The staring man produced a revolver. He would have shot me where I stood had I not promptly obeyed his order.
“I accompanied this transformed crook to the street. There the human automaton pointed to a large automobile. I entered. The door shut. I could not open it. I could not see through the windows. Sayre, I was a prisoner!”
“Amazing!” exclaimed Sayre.
“That is not all,” resumed Barratini. “The car started. I knew that the automaton was at the wheel. I found a light and illuminated the interior of the car. When the journey ended, the door opened and I found myself at Veldon’s house. He was awaiting me. He wore his vicious smile. He told me that there was a new task. Another operation.”
“Another criminal?”
“Yes. I performed the operation. The first man drove me home. Two weeks passed. Then came an unexpected visitor — the second man.
“Imagine it, Sayre — to see this living proof of how effective my skill had been — a criminal, possessing all his intuition and instinct, but lacking all initiative other than that supplied by his master, Eric Veldon!”