Harry Vincent sensed that their arrival was known. The clang of the gate had been loud. It was almost as if watchful eyes were peering from one of the dulled windows. Arrived at the front door, Harry pulled a bell cord. The action produced a muffled clang from within the house.
A few minutes passed. The front door opened inward. Harry and Terry both stepped back in momentary alarm as they faced one of the most grotesque persons that either had ever seen.
The man answering the door seemed all shoulders and head. His body, although stalwart, was spread out like a mushroom at the top. From his massive shoulders extended powerful arms.
The overproportion, however, did not end there. The man’s head was gigantic. It seemed much too heavy for his weight. This illusion was increased by the fact that his head sagged forward. The man’s huge chin rested upon his chest and seemed to cover half his body.
Tall and standing on a raised floor, this uncouth individual looked like a monster conjured from some fantastic dream. His facial development was in proportion to the size of his head; hence his features were large, coarse, and repulsive. His glaring eyes were challenging to the visitors.
The fierce creature started as though he expected the two men to take to their heels. In fact, both Harry Vincent and Terry Barliss had the inclination to do so. It was apparent that this man’s purpose was too discourage visitors. Terry, however, altered the situation by drawing a calling card from his pocket and thrusting it into the hand of the big-chinned fellow.
“We want to see Mr. Eli Galban,” stated Terry.
The uncouth servant did not even glance at the card. He glowered while he held it in his left hand. He stepped slowly inward from the doorway; then, with a fierce gesture, slammed the door itself. Harry and Terry found themselves staring at the barrier.
IT was a short while before the two visitors recovered from their surprise. Harry Vincent was the first to make a comment.
“Pleasing chap,” he remarked sarcastically. “I wonder if he’s coming back?”
“I guess he’ll take the card to Galban,” returned Terry. “Only thing to do is wait and see.”
“A nice house to go into.”
“Well, there’s two of us.”
“I’d just as soon have a squad.”
While Harry and Terry continued their comments, tense minutes went by. At last, the door again opened. The doorway revealed the same fierce servant. He was as repulsive as before. His spoken words alone betokened welcome, although their tone was defiant.
“Come in,” rumbled the huge-headed man.
As the big servant stood aside, Harry and Terry entered. They found themselves in a short but wide hallway; beyond it was a curtained arch.
The uncouth servitor made a jerky wave with his arm. Harry and Terry walked solemnly through the dim hall toward the curtained opening.
Harry was the first to pass through the curtains. He stopped short with an exclamation of surprise, then stepped forward as Terry joined him. They were in another hallway, longer than the first, and in the dim illumination the place was grotesque to the utmost.
Arranged about the hallway were life-sized figures in wax. The expressions of their molded faces were amazingly realistic. There were at least a dozen of the figures; they had evidently been brought here from some museum.
Men in military uniform, gowned beauties, a bejeweled rajah with dark-waxed face, an Indian chief holding a heavy war club — these were specimens in the impromptu museum of waxwork curios.
Harry felt uneasy in the place. His feeling was increased as he stared back toward the curtains and saw the huge attendant standing there. The man had followed the visitors; his eyes were evil and his big chin rested heavily on his chest.
There was a menace in the servant’s attitude that prevented Harry from making another view. Harry gave a warning sign to Terry. The two visitors remained near the waxwork figures wondering what they should do next.
There was a stairway ahead, but Harry did not care to ascend it until the servant gave the word to do so. It was a peculiar stairway; it went upward through the opening in a paneled wall. There was a landing a dozen steps above, with a turn to the right. The stairway probably made another turn before it reached the second floor.
While Harry Vincent, forced to bewilderment, stared from servant to waxworks to stairway, a sliding noise attracted his attention. A panel, situated alongside the stairs, slid back. Harry and Terry looked with surprise at a new arrival.
A TALL, stoop-shouldered man was coming from a small elevator. He was dressed in a black suit that gave him a funereal air. His hands and face, pallid to the extreme, were a contrast. He was rubbing his hands together in a benign air; he held his head ridiculously erect above his thin, hunchbacked shoulders.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said this arrival, in a wheedling voice. “Good evening. Which of you is Mr. Terry Barliss?”
“I,” answered Terry. “Are you Mr. Galban—”
Terry broke off as the man from the elevator shook his head. Then came another statement.
“My name is Mercher,” said the man from the elevator. “Lycurgus Mercher. I am Mr. Galban’s secretary. He asked me to invite you upstairs.”
The man pointed to the elevator as he spoke. Harry and Terry advanced. Over his shoulder, Harry saw the big-headed servant follow; then Mercher stopped the grotesque servitor with a wave of his hand.
“Stay here, Fawkes,” he told the servant, in a strained whine. “I am responsible for these visitors.”
Fawkes grunted a gruff acknowledgment. Mercher joined the visitors in the elevator. He closed the panel. The little car started upward. It stopped after two flights. Mercher pushed aside the panel.
Harry Vincent and Terry Barliss stepped into a comfortable sitting room. The place appeared to have no entrance other than the panel through which they had come. It was furnished with oddly-shaped furniture. Twisted andirons stood beside a lighted grate. Distorted pictures, of futuristic trend, adorned the walls.
More amazing than the room, however, was the man who occupied it. Seated in a chair by the fire, his legs outstretched upon a large footstool, was a kindly-faced, gray-haired man who had a sparkle of youth in his eyes to belie his advanced age.
“Good evening!” exclaimed this man, in a cheery voice. “Good evening, Mr. Barliss. You are welcome here and your friend is welcome also. I am Eli Galban.”
With a motion of his hand, Eli Galban waved his visitors to chairs. Harry Vincent and Terry Barliss seated themselves amid this odd room which, by its very cheeriness, seemed to belong elsewhere than in the gloomy mansion which contained it.
CHAPTER VII
GALBAN’S CLEW
THERE was a friendliness about old Eli Galban that made an immediate impression upon the men who had come to see him. Galban’s eyes were sparkling as they surveyed Terry Barliss.
“You remind me of your uncle,” declared Galban, in a modulated tone. “I was sorry, indeed, to learn of his death. Shattuck Barliss and I were scarcely more than acquaintances, yet I always regarded him as a friend.”
“It is about my uncle that I have come here,” stated Terry soberly. “In fact, he mentioned your name just before he died.”
“In reference to a manuscript?” questioned Eli Galban.
“Yes,” returned Terry, picking up a small brief case that he had brought with him. “I have it here.”
“I know,” nodded Eli Galban sagely. “The Villon manuscript. I saw it at your uncle’s home several months ago. When was it, Mercher? Do you recall the exact date that I went there?”
“I disremember, sir,” said the secretary, in his plaintive tone. “It was shortly after one of your severe rheumatic attacks.”