Maxwell Grant
The Death Tower
CHAPTER I. THE PURPLE SAPPHIRE
THE doorman of the Marimba Apartments on Park Avenue stared long and hard at the face of the stranger. As the man turned in toward the apartment entrance, the doorman uttered a stifled exclamation.
There was something about the visitor’s appearance to startle any one.
The features of the gentleman were haggard with fear, terror-torn and gray, and his lips trembled in spite of his efforts to keep hold on himself. It was fully five seconds before he was able to speak to the hall attendant.
“I wish to see Doctor Palermo,” he said in a tense voice. “Is — is he in his apartment?”
“Wait here a moment, sir,” replied the attendant. “I must phone upstairs. Your name is—”
“Chatham. Horace Chatham.”
It was not more than half a minute before the hallman received word that the visitor could come up; yet, even during that brief period, Horace Chatham showed signs of unrepressed nervousness.
Pacing back and forth, he clenched and unclenched his fists, and completely betrayed his fearful impatience.
The hallman ushered Chatham into the elevator, instructing the operator to take his passenger to the fortieth floor.
“Sorry about the delay, sir,” he apologized to Chatham. “It’s our orders, you know.”
HORACE CHATHAM did not reply. As the door closed, he leaned against the wall of the elevator, and fought to gain composure.
The smooth, rapid speed of the elevator seemed to restore his confidence. When the operator opened the door at the fortieth floor, he was amazed at the change in Horace Chatham. The man stepped from the elevator with a springy stride, his expression of worry completely gone.
The visitor stood in the anteroom of an apartment that occupied the entire fortieth floor of the building. A single door faced the elevators. There was a bell beside the door. Chatham rang it, and the door opened, released by some mechanical means.
Chatham stepped into a long, dimly-lighted hallway, and the door closed behind him. On the left, the entire wall was fronted with massive bookcases, filled with rows of bound volumes. On the right were several armchairs, and a writing table.
Evidently this was a library. But before Horace Chatham had time to make a minute study of his surroundings, a door opened at the far end of the hallway, and the figure of a tall man stood outlined in the brighter light of the room beyond.
Horace Chatham stepped forward eagerly. The man in the doorway was none other than his host, Doctor Albert Palermo. The two men shook hands; then Palermo took his guest inside and motioned to a comfortable armchair in the corner of the room.
Chatham mopped his forehead as he took his seat. Then he looked up to see Doctor Palermo studying him with quizzical eyes.
THERE was something about Doctor Palermo that commanded instant attention. His face was smooth, and sallow. His hair was short-cropped and slightly gray. His eyes, dark and piercing, seemed powerful, and keenly observant.
It was impossible to estimate the man’s age. Chatham knew that he must be past forty — but beyond that he could venture no opinion.
Like his guest, Doctor Palermo was garbed in evening clothes. Except for their facial differences, one might have passed for the other. Yet no one would ever have mistaken the haggard, careworn features of Horace Chatham for the firm, well-molded countenance of Albert Palermo.
The two men faced each other without speaking.
The room was amazingly silent. None of the uproar of the city’s streets reached that apartment, five hundred feet above the sidewalks of Manhattan. Yet the silence was expressive.
Doctor Palermo seemed to be mentally questioning his visitor, and Horace Chatham seemed incapable of speech.
Palermo finished his quizzical study. He went to a table, opened a door beneath it, and drew out a decanter filled with a light-brown liquid. He poured out a small drink, and offered it to Horace Chatham.
The man in the armchair gulped the contents of the glass. It was some potent liquor that was unfamiliar to him. Doctor Palermo smiled as he witnessed its effect.
The drink was a bracer for Horace Chatham. It seemed to bring sudden light to the man’s face. He looked about him with a wan smile; then he laughed, forgetful of his nervousness.
For the first time, he became fully aware of his surroundings. He saw Doctor Palermo smiling back at him, standing in the center of the small den, with its exquisite furnishings and paneled dark-oak walls.
“Have a cigar,” said Palermo, in a smooth, suave voice.
He proffered a box of expensive perfectos. Chatham took one, and Palermo extended a lighted match.
The doctor also took a cigar, and drew up a chair to the center of the room. There he sat, watching Chatham blow puffs of smoke.
He was a singular man, this Doctor Palermo. His name indicated Italian ancestry, but his nationality was elusive. His words were perfect in enunciation as he spoke to Chatham.
“Worry has brought you here,” he said. “Yet you fought against that worry until it became — terror! I am right?”
Chatham nodded.
“You had no worries the last time I saw you,” remarked Palermo.
Horace Chatham hunched himself in the chair. He looked speculatively at Doctor Palermo.
The quiet demeanor of the tall physician called for confidences. Chatham shook off all hesitation.
“I have a lot of faith in you, doctor,” he said. “Not only because of your skill and reputation, but because of our friendship.”
Doctor Palermo bowed and smiled.
“I couldn’t trust any ordinary physician with this matter,” continued Chatham. “I know what’s the matter with me. Partly imagination, and partly real danger.
“When it finally became too much for me, I had to come to you. Up here— away from every one — well, it’s the only place I can talk, and you’re the only man to whom I can talk!”
DOCTOR PALERMO rested languidly in his chair. He made no effort to hurry Chatham in his discourse. That fact seemed to encourage the visitor.
Well did he know Palermo’s reputation. As an analyst of mental disorders, none could compare with this remarkable physician. Doctor Palermo specialized in psychoanalysis alone.
All his time not devoted to consultations, he spent in his experimental laboratory, here on this fortieth floor. Chatham knew of the laboratory; yet he had never entered it, nor had he ever known Doctor Palermo to admit any one, not even a close friend.
“I’ll have to tell you the whole story,” said Chatham. His words were coming freely now. “It goes back two months — when I was in Florida. Just before Lloyd Harriman committed suicide. You knew Lloyd Harriman, didn’t you, doctor?”
The doctor nodded. “But not professionally. If I had—”
“Perhaps he wouldn’t have killed himself,” supplied Chatham.
“Well, doctor, that’s exactly why I came to you. I am experiencing the same ordeal that Harriman went through.
“I’ve come close to the brink myself. I’ve thought of suicide—”
“Stop thinking of it!”
“But the danger that menaces me! It has followed others before. Harriman was not the first victim!”
Chatham paused, and his face was that of a hunted man. He gripped the arms of his chair, and looked pleadingly toward Doctor Palermo. The calm-faced physician was solemn, yet reassuring.
Chatham moistened his lips. He puffed at his cigar. Then he began his story. A slight quavering of his voice alone betrayed his secret fear.
“I met Harriman in Florida,” he said. “He seemed very morose. Sick and tired. All he wanted to do was drink and gamble. Borrowed money from me. Lost money to me.