It was to the shrine of The Master that Des Moines always journeyed when confronted by a puzzle past his comprehension. For the clear, reasoning power of the sage untangled riddles which, to the ordinary mind, appeared beyond solution.
So, it was to The Master that the inspector hurried as rapidly as his high-powered car would carry him after the Broadway horror had shown him the futility of his reasoning.
IX
He found The Master walking in the garden, a faraway look in his soft, dreamy eyes, in silent communion with nature. Upon the policeman's arrival, however, his face lighted up and he shook hands warmly. For Mohammed Gunga had none of the methods of the charlatan: to his friends his life was an open book to be read by all who cared to take the time.
"Greetings, my friend," he smiled. "What new problem brings you here this morning? For I dare not hope that so busy a man as yourself would deign to make a purely social call. Come walk beside me and tell me all about it." He laughed sadly as he continued: "Will you never remember, my friend, that every atom has its master and recognizes his intelligence? Have we not been taught to know that we have but to seek the way by making the profound obeisance of the soul to the bright star that burns within?"
Des Moines fell into step at his side and hastily sketched the events of the past thirty-six hours. For Mohammed Gunga did not keep in touch with the world; newspapers never passed his doorway.
When the inspector completed his tale, The Master turned in his tracks and, placing his hands on the big man's shoulders, said in a voice that quivered with emotion:
"Dear friend, you have rendered the cause a greater favor than you realize by bringing your problem to me. For Lessman, in his egotism, has at last unmasked himself. Now we can fight him in the open. But I forget that you do not understand. Sit here on this bench with me and let me explain.
"Professor Darius Lessman is, without a doubt, the greatest intellect this or any other century has produced. He was employed at one time as teacher of psychology in a small, inland college. His great ability soon brought him to the attention of The Holy Men to whose cause we are all devoted. You know the lengths to which they will go to further the spreading of the great work. They sought him out. He became the favorite pupil of one in whose footsteps even I am not fitted to walk. He was tried in various ways and found not wanting. He was taught all — everything. His wonderful brain grasped in a few years that which others have spent a lifetime in learning. So proficient did he become that plans were made to send him across the waters for final instruction from those, the hem of whose garments you and I may never hope to touch.
"The Creator of all things never intended that a man should have the brain that was bestowed upon Darius Lessman. The man is an anomaly. The devil must have had a hand in his making and, when his training was completed, took him for his own. For Lessman, crazed by the power he found was within him, conceived the idea of living forever. He believed that he was greater than the God who created him.
"For months he practised in secret, attempting to transfer his soul from one human body to another at the command of his will. Failing, he sought his old Master, told him his secret and begged him for help. When the Master turned upon him in horror and loathing, he killed the good old man to protect his own devilish secret.
"Then he fled with a woman he had captivated by means of his diabolical wiles — a pure girl named Meta Vanetta, who, too, had been an humble pupil of the murdered Master. She became Lessman's tool — his accomplice.
"Together, they worked out Less-man's plans in some secret place, spreading death and destruction wherever they Went in order to gain the human clay with which to work. We have followed them, tracking them from country to country, yet seldom daring to strike because of our knowledge that he was our superior. For Lessman is a monster — a man who laughs at death. And none has been found strong enough to kill his twisted soul. The cell was never made that could hold him. For he has but to discard his body and seize upon that of another. Many men of our faith have met him. He has killed them all by the power of his will.
"The brain has not been made that can match his in a duel of wills. Even I am fearful of him — and I am backed by the united intelligence of the Holy Men who are with me in spirit night and day. His is a mind gone wild — amuck, as you would say in the vernacular. For years I have prepared myself for the meeting. Am I fitted for the ordeal?
"I tell you, my friend, the time has come. Lessman must die! We must kill him for the sake of humanity! Not as one man kills another. We must kill his soul, even though we are forced to call upon the Holy Ones for aid. For the time you must forget that you are the policeman, and become the protector of mankind. We must gird ourselves for the battle, trusting m God to protect the right. Now do you understand?"
Des Moines drew a trembling hand across his brow, from which the sweat was pouring. "God," he muttered, hoarsely. "It's horrible — unbelievable."
The Master patted his shoulder affectionately. "I realize it, my friend. Yet, to a certain extent, you have been trained to see that which, to the ordinary mind, appears obtuse. Multiply that which you know, and understand, by hundreds, and you comprehend my wisdom. And I am but an infant in intellect compared to Darius Lessman."
"The man cares for but two things — riches and power. Seek for the man who would profit most by the death of Augustus Winters. And, when you have found him, return to me. Further than that I can tell you nothing. I must go now and. in prayer and meditation, prepare myself for the inevitable meeting."
X
Inspector Des Moines left the home of The Master, his head in a whirl. Although his years of experience in grappling with criminality in all of its sickening forms had made him a man far beyond the ordinary in point of intellect, his brain was too well acquainted with the wonder-worker he had just left to doubt his veracity.
He had seen the terrible power of Lessman in the case of the unfortunate Ryan. The other officers who had battled against the unseen force were unable to add any information to what he already knew. They could only say that, for the instant, a will more powerful than their own had held them in check. What it was, they could not explain. Nor could they describe their sensations. Pondering over the matter as he whirled city-wards the inspector could only shake his head. He was face to face with the greatest mystery he had ever tackled — a mystery so big that only The Master himself could fathom it.
As he came to a cross street, he suddenly changed his mind and directed the chauffeur to drive to the Winters home. He would again study the millionaire at close range. He was unable to reconcile himself to the belief that the slow-witted, hysterical man of money was the enormous intellect described by Mohammed Gunga. Yet, everything fitted in to make a case against Winters — only to tumble to pieces at the next turn.
There was the telephone call. His men had investigated. Not only was the operator ready to swear that it had been Winters who called from booth number fourteen, but the cigar girl as well. The man had stopped at the cigar stand for an instant. He was well known to the girl in charge, who had addressed him by name, as had the clerk on duty at the time. Yet, three minutes later, Winters had answered the telephone at his own home ten miles away. Clearly, a man could not be in two places at the same time. Nor was it within the power of any human being, by any modern means of transportation, to transport himself that distance within the time given.