Physicist. Born Milwaukee, 1892. Student, Randall Scientific Foundation, 1910. Graduate University of Munich, 1914. Awarded Hopkinson Prize 1919 for bombardment of lithium with atomic hearts of hydrogen. Author: “Spectroscopy and the Variable Stars”; “Man’s Dependence Upon Matter.” Professor of Physics at City University.
A city directory passed next through the Agent’s hands. Once again he found the name de Graf, then left his office quickly and sped across town in his car.
FOR the moment he was not concerned with the beautiful Vivian de Graf. It was her scholarly husband whom he sought, the man who spent his time in classroom and laboratory, experimenting with the mysteries of the universe, while his wife experimented with human emotions.
There was a compelling double motive behind the Agent’s desire to talk to Emil de Graf. In the first place, the man was Vivian de Graf s husband. In addition to that, he was a brilliant and original worker in experimental science. He must have some theory concerning such a phenomenon as this weird darkness which had been used as a cloak for crime.
The Agent’s mouth was grim. He felt he was working in a darkness almost as impenetrable as that which the raiders so mysteriously created. Never had he encountered any crime quite so baffling.
Two things he must find out, before he could combat it. One, the identity of the men who operated behind the weird darkness; the other, how that darkness was created. He knew now from Thaddeus Penny’s statements and from the pictures Hobart had made, that the sun shone even while the darkness fell — two inconsistent happenings which nevertheless formed a theory in the Agent’s mind.
The address given in the directory proved to be an ancient, brownstone house — a very different residence from the pink stucco apartment which Vivian de Graf maintained separately.
A slatternly servant on squeaking shoes let the Agent into a hall that smelled of dust and mothballs. She bade him wait, squeaked off into the rear of the house and returned in two minutes.
“The professor will see you. This way if you please.”
The rear room, converted into a laboratory, where de Graf worked, was as modern as the rest of the house was ancient. Gleaming scientific instruments stood about. Shelves of books on mathematics, chemistry, astronomy and physics lined the walls. A man with a thin face and stooped shoulders came forward, peering at “X”. He had faded blue eyes, a vaguely sweet smile. He extended a dry, cold hand, said:
“Yes. What can I do for you? I didn’t catch the name?”
Agent “X” studied the man for a second. It was hard to picture the dazzling Vivian de Graf married to such a person. One of nature’s little jokes that these two had been thrown together — the withered student and the gorgeous butterfly. The Agent handed his card, bearing the name A. J. Martin, to de Graf.
“From the press,” he said. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about a thing which vitally concerns the public at the moment.”
Emil de Graf made a weary, harried gesture. “I’m sorry — please! I never like to give out statements of my experiments except to authenticated scientific journals. No offense meant, but the newspapers have a way of misquoting, you know. Most embarrassing.”
The Secret Agent interrupted. “This is not about your work. Perhaps you don’t read the papers, but you must have heard of a bank robbery that took place today under odd circumstances — after the coming of darkness.”
“Darkness,” echoed de Graf. “Of course. I heard some of my students talking about it. But really, I’m not interested in crime.”
The Agent was watching the professor intently. De Grafs eyes were vague, expressionless. No sign of emotion was betrayed in the thin face.
“You’re a scientist,” “X” said. “Have you no theories as to how such darkness might be created? A statement from you would be interesting.”
De Graf laughed wearily. “Interesting perhaps to a thrill-seeking public. But hardly to scientific men, for I have made no study of this darkness you speak of. I don’t—”
The Agent cut him short again, a frown of annoyance on his face. De Graf’s attitude was irritating. “Since your own wife was at the scene of the crime I thought perhaps—” the Agent began.
DE GRAF chuckled. “Vivian, of course! A woman with very modern ideas, but still a child at heart. Full of zest, always getting herself into predicaments. We understand each other perfectly, she and I.”
“Then you have no statement to make about this darkness?”
De Graf waved his hand. “My dear fellow, if I had any, you as a layman would hardly understand it! But, as I said, I have no interest—”
The Agent saw the uselessness of talking to the man. He thanked him and left.
But as he drove away, “X” found a vague suspicion gnawing at his mind. De Graf had been almost too offhand. Even though he were a man lost in a world of experiment and theory, it seemed incredible that any scientist could feel such utter lack of interest in a phenomenon so directly allied to his own field.
The Agent had sensed strong undercurrents in the man’s personality. De Graf was the suppressed type, of course, one whose brain had driven human emotion into the background. But emotion was there, lurking. And there was no saying into what strange channels it might be diverted. The Agent decided to order Hobart to have a man keep track of the scientist’s comings and goings.
Two hours later “X” had received reports on Lorenzo Courtney from both his investigating groups. These reports were not as complete as he would have liked. Yet they contained much valuable information. It would take days or weeks to unearth all the details of Courtney’s life.
The whole matter of the dead man’s connection with a crashed bank was there. Hobart had sent him a newspaper clipping including a statement made by Norman Coe, head of the Citizens Banking Committee, giving the details which had caused Courtney’s indictment before a grand jury.
This statement proved conclusively that even at that period of his life Courtney had gone in for unethical practices. He had taken part in the misappropriation of depositors’ money. He was on his way to becoming a criminal then.
And the reports from his two investigating groups had given “X” a list of Courtney’s friends, of the clubs he frequented, the restaurants he patronized, the names of his tailor, his barber, his doctor. Bates and Hobart had done good work. Until a counter order from “X” stopped them they would go on collecting data until a clear picture of the man had been constructed.
But “X” could not wait longer. Every hour that passed complicated the difficulties of the situation. Courtney was dead, and those interested in his welfare might wonder where he had disappeared, grow suspicious. That must not happen.
Eyes staring into the dark streets before him, hands clutching the wheel of his car. Agent “X” drove back to the secret hideout where Courtney’s body lay. He had a plan in mind — a scheme that no other investigator of crime would have thought of, much less undertaken. This was to create a disguise more daring, one fraught with greater possibilities of danger, than any he had attempted in his whole career — the disguise of Lorenzo Courtney.
Chapter XII
IN the seclusion of his hideout he set feverishly to work. A small electric clock on a shelf marked off the seconds, warning “X” that the thing he planned was dependent more than anything else on time. The impersonation he was about to make was not like the stock disguises he had used many times before.
To create this disguise, all his artistry, all the amazing scientific skill of the Man of a Thousand Faces, was required. Lorenzo Courtney’s features had changed completely now. Rigor mortis had set in. The face of the sleekly groomed ex-banker had the masklike rigidity, the pinched nostrils, the sunken cheeks of death. The strong mineral poison he had taken had added a horrible grayish hue to his face. Courtney could not now be used as a pattern for disguise.