“I took him up to Times Square. . . . No, I never seen him before. He gave the address ‘Regal Athenian, Park entrance.’ . . . Sure he seemed all right; nothing wrong with him. When we get here he says: ‘Go in to the desk and ask if this man is in the hotel’—and slips me the piece of paper through the window. ‘Give ‘em the paper’—that was what he said. ‘It’s a hard name—’
“Sure of that?” rapped Nayland Smith.
“Dead sure. I took the paper and started. . . . There was nobody about. As I moved off, he pulled out of his pocket what looks like a notebook. I guess it’s out there now. . . . Next minute I hear his first yell—mister, it was awful! He had the door open in a flash and falls right out on to the sidewalk.”
“Where were you? What did you do?”
“I’m half-way up the hotel steps. I started to run back. He’s lashing around down there and seems to be tearing his clothes off—”
“Stop. You are quite certain on this point?”
“Sure,” the man declared earnestly; “I’m sure certain. He had his topcoat right off and ripped his collar open. . . . He’s yelling, ‘The scarlet spots!’ like I told you. That’s what I heard him yell. And he’s fighting and twisting like he was wrestling with somebody. . . . Gee!”
The man pulled his cap off and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“I run in here. There wasn’t a cop in sight. Nobody was in sight. . . . What could I do, mister? I figured he’d gone raving mad. . . . When we got out to him he’s lying almost still. Only his hands was twitchin. . . .”
The night manager came into the office.
“All heat turned off on this floor,” he reported, “and all doors closed. . . .”
Outside the Regal-Athenian the atmosphere was arctic. Two patrolmen watched Mark Hepburn with an electric torch and a big lens examining every square foot of sidewalk and the carpeted steps leading up to the main entrance. Residents who arrived late were directed to a door around the corner. In reply to questions the invariable answer of the police was:
“Somebody lost something valuable.”
The death cab had been run into an empty garage. It had been sealed; and at this very moment two men wearing chemist’s masks were pumping it full of a powerful germicidal gas.
Later, assisted by Dr. Scheky—both men dressed as if working in an operating theatre—Hepburn stripped and thoroughly examined the body and the garments of James Richet. The body was then removed, together with a number of objects found in Richet’s possession. The night manager’s room was sealed, to be fumigated. The main foyer, Nayland Smith ordered, must be closed to the public pending further orders. Dawn was very near when Dr. Scheky said to Hepburn:
“You are not by chance under the impression that this man died of some virulent form of plague?”
Mark Hepburn stared haggardly at the physician. They were dead beat.
“To be perfectly frank, Doctor,” he answered, “I don’t know of what he died. . . .”
Chapter 12
NUMBER 81
In that doomed room, amber lighted through curious Gothic windows, the white-haired sculptor sat smoking Egyptian cigarettes and putting the finishing touches to a sinister clay head which one might have assumed to be his life’s work. Pinned upon a wooden panel beside the tripod on which the clay was set, was some kind of small coloured picture, part of which had been masked out so that what remained resembled a tiny face surrounded by a margin of white paper.
This the sculptor examined through a powerful magnifying glass, and then lowering the glass, scrutinized the clay. Evidently his work was to attempt to produce a life-sized model of the tiny head pinned to the board.
Seeming to be not wholly satisfied, the sculptor laid down the lens with a sigh and wheeled the clay along to the end of the table. At which moment the amber light went out, the dim bell rang. A high-pitched, imperious, guttural voice spoke.
“The latest report from the Regal-Athenian.”
“Received at 5.10 a.m. from Number in charge. Foyer closed to the public by Federal orders. Night manager’s office sealed. Taxi in garage on Lexington. The body of the dead man identified as that of James Richet, late secretary to Abbot Donegal, removed at 5 a.m. to police mortuary. Cause of death unknown. Federal Agents Smith and Hepburn in their quarters in the tower. End of report.”
Followed some moments of silence, broken only by an occasional faint ticking from an electric clock. Then:
“Fix the recording attachment, Number 81,” came an order. You are free for four hours.”
Amber light poured again into the room. Number 81 stood up. Opening a cupboard in the telephone table, he attached three plugs to a switchboard contained in the cupboard. One of these connected with the curious electric clock which stood upon the desk; another with a small motor which operated in connection with the telephone; and a third with a kind of dictaphone capable of automatically recording six thousand words or more without change of cylinder.
As he was about to close the cupboard, a dim buzz indicted an incoming message. The faint hum of well-oiled machinery followed; a receiver-rest was lifted as if by invisible fingers, and a gleaming black cylinder began to revolve, the needlepoint churning wax from its polished surface as the message was recorded. A tiny aluminium disc dropped into a tray below the electric clock, having stamped upon it the exact time at which the telephone bell had rung.
Number 81, as if his endless duties had become second nature, waited until the cylinder ceased to revolve. The telephone-rest sprang up into its place; from the electric clock came the sound of a faint tick. Number 81 pressed a button on the desk. The cylinder began to revolve again and a voice spoke—that of the man whose report had just been recorded.
“Speaking from Base 3. The Abbot Donegal reported missing. There is reason to believe that he slipped away during the night and may be proceeding to New York to be present at the debate at Carnegie Hall. All Numbers along possible routes have been notified, but no report to hand. Number 44 speaking.”
Presumably satisfied that the mechanism was running smoothly Number 81 closed the cupboard and stood up. Thus seen, he was an even bigger man than he had appeared seated; an untidy but an imposing figure. He took up the clay model, lifting it with great care. He slipped a tin of Egyptian cigarettes into a pocket of his dressing-gown and walked towards one of the panels which surrounded the seemingly doorless room.
This he opened by pressing a concealed switch. A descending staircase was revealed. Carrying the clay model as carefully and lovingly as a mother carries her newly-born infant, he descended, closing the door behind him. He went down one flight and entered a small, self-contained apartment. A table littered with books, plans and all sorts of manuscripts stood by an open window. There was a bed in an alcove, and beyond, through an open door, a glimpse might be obtained of a small bathroom. Clearing a space on the littered table, Number 81 set down the clay model. He crossed the room and opened a cupboard. It showed perfectly empty. He raised a telephone from its hook. In German:
“The same as last night,” he said harshly; “but the liver sausage was no good. Also, I must have the real German lager. This which you send me is spurious. Hurry, please, I have much to do.”
These orders given, he crossed to the table and stared down dully at a large open book which lay there, its margins pencilled with numerous notes in tiny, neat handwriting. The book was “Interstellar Cycles” by Professor Albert Morgenstahl, Europe’s greatest physicist and master mathematician, expelled a year earlier from Germany for anti-Nazi tendencies and later reported to be dead.
At this work Number 81 stared for some time, turning the pages over idly and resting a long tobacco-stained finger upon certain of the notes. There was a creaking in the cupboard and a laden wagon occupied its previously vacant space. Upon this wagon a substantial repast was set. Taking out a long-necked bottle of wine and uncorking it, Number 81 filled a glass. This he tasted and then set it down.