Flattening his sleek hair, Hildrow produced a tight-fitting wig, with heavy black hair. He donned it and surveyed his face. Then, with a final leer, he produced a chunky black mustache. Dabbing his upper lip with spirit gum, he put on the last article of disguise.
As an afterthought, the plotter dug in a small box and found a small gold tooth. He slipped this over the upper bicuspid; then grinned at his reflection in the mirror. The fake gold tooth glimmered as Hildrow smiled.
Arising, Hildrow faced Marling. The tool stared. He would never have recognized his chief. The disguise, though exaggerated, was perfect, so far as a concealment of the plotter’s normal features.
“Call the Western Garage, Marling,” ordered Hildrow. “Tell them to have Mr. Collender’s coupe ready. I have the licenses” — he tapped his pocket — “and they have never seen Mr. Collender in person. They will see him now for the first time.”
“All right, chief. Only one thing. When Nuland sees you—”
“He will recognize me. This is the disguise that I have always used with him. Moreover, he will recognize his countersign when I give it.”
Marling nodded as he went to call the garage. Hildrow remained in front of the mirror. He adjusted his disguise; then reached in a table drawer and produced a pack of cork-tipped cigarettes. They went with the character that the plotter had assumed. Hildrow smoked panatela cigars only when he was himself.
TEN minutes later, a black-haired, mustached man strolled unnoticed from the lobby of the big apartment hotel. He hailed a passing cab and ordered the driver to take him to the Western Garage. Arrived there, he found a gray coupe standing just within the door.
The mustached man produced his license cards and handed them to the attendant. While the garage man was reading the name of Logan Collender, Hildrow was lighting a cork-tipped cigarette. The attendant returned the cards.
“All right, Mr. Collender,” he said. “Here’s your car. The tank’s full. We changed the oil.”
A nod. A glimmer of a gold tooth. Then Eric Hildrow, alias Logan Collender, entered the coupe and drove from the garage. The master plotter was on his way to Lake Marrinack.
CHAPTER II
ON DEATH ISLAND
EARLY evening had arrived. Gloomy darkness had settled upon the waters of Lake Marrinack. A silent surface, undisturbed by ripples, had replaced the sparkling blue that distinguished this sheet of water.
Secluded from traveled highway, Lake Marrinack was a seldom-visited spot. Even the residents of the near-by town of Marrinack shunned the lake, for the place was one of evil superstitions. Weird rumors persisted regarding Lake Marrinack; and they centered chiefly on the solitary isle that rested in the midst of the lake.
Death Island it was called. The name had double significance. Not only had doom befallen upon certain persons who had lived there; the island also gave a foreboding appearance of death itself. Looming a mile out in the lake, the front cliff of Death Island bore a remarkable resemblance to a mammoth skull, grinning above the level of the waters.
Viewed in the paling twilight, Death Island was a fearful spot. Approach was impossible by the front, for the huge cliff offered no landing place. At one side of the island was a secluded cove. There, a small dock formed a landing spot. Beyond that, there was no visible sign of human habitation on the island.
Thick woods obscured the lone house that stood behind the cliff. Yet the house itself was large. It was located in almost the exact center of the small island; and those visitors who had actually approached it agreed that the house was as spooky-looking as Death Island itself.
With walls of blackened stone, the house loomed forbidding among the trees. Long and high, it was flat-roofed, save for a square tower near the rear of the building. That tower, a white-walled addition to the house itself, looked like a ghostly form that had sprouted from the level roof.
Dim lights shone from the windows of the house on Death Island. Bars showed on those same windows. The strange abode was one in which uninvited visitors could expect no welcome. Curious people stayed away from the house on Death Island.
WITHIN the house was a room that contrasted oddly with the dull exterior. This was the front room on the ground floor. It was the private study of Professor Arthur Whitburn, the old inventor who owned the house on Death Island. Professor Whitburn’s study was a cheery, well-lighted room.
This room was in great disorder. A large bookcase ranged along one wall, and fully half of its volumes had been removed. These missing books had not gone far. They were strewn about the study. Stacks on the tables, stacks on the chairs, stacks on the floor; besides these were other books, dropped at random, here and there.
In addition to the books, the floor and the furniture held mussed heaps of papers. Glass jars, pieces of metal tubing, odd-looking mechanical contrivances added to the chaos. There was a shelf in the corner where these articles belonged; it was a disorderly as the room. Professor Whitburn had piled bottles and tubes haphazardly upon that shelf.
There was a desk near the center of the room. It was also a hodge-podge of books, papers, and apparatus. The only object that appeared to be in its proper place was the telephone. It stood at an angle, however, for it had been propped upon a crazy stack of handwritten manuscripts.
A wide window sill was also well littered with papers; but this spot showed some semblance of order. A large tiger-cat had chosen the sill for a resting place. Nestled there, the creature looked over the room with an expression of part ownership. The cat seemed quite at home in its select spot.
In fact, the cat was quite alert despite its assumed laziness. This was proven when the animal rose and arched its back when it detected the sound of footsteps from the corridor outside the study. Then, as the door opened, the cat nestled back on the window sill. It had recognized the approach of its master.
PROFESSOR WHITBURN entered the study. Old, stooped and thin, he was a man of curious appearance. His hair formed an untrimmed mass of white. His mustache — also white — was long, with drooping ends. But the professor’s eyes were keen. His sharp gaze noted the cat settling back upon the window sill.
“Hello, Quex,” chuckled the professor, approaching to stroke the cat. “What is the trouble? Has something disturbed you?”
The cat responded with a plaintive meow. The old man studied the animal closely. Quex blinked and emitted another meow. Then the cat subsided under the professor’s friendly strokes. While he quieted his pet, Whitburn stared about the room in suspicious fashion.
A glare appeared upon the old man’s countenance. With sharp eyes, the professor surveyed the stacks of books and heaps of papers. He moved away from the window sill and approached the desk. He lifted the telephone and looked at the manuscript beneath it. He picked up books and replaced them. Nodding, the old man turned toward the cat.
“You are right, Quex,” declared Professor Whitburn. “Some one has been intruding here. You know when matters are wrong, don’t you, old fellow?”
Pausing, Whitburn again looked about the room. He muttered to himself, then spoke half aloud, as if addressing the cat.
“Whoever came here was a fool,” asserted the Professor. “He thought that I would not know. He believed that this disarray was pure carelessness on my part. Others have thought the same. They do not realize that I remember the exact place where I lay each object.”
Again, a brief inspection. The cat watched the professor go to the bookcase and look at volumes that rested there, at an angle. Then the professor chuckled. His tone, however, betrayed anger along with mirth. Wheeling, he stalked to the door and opened it.