The Shadow - The Whispering Eyes Part 6

"All of which proves," declared Cranston, "that Professor Bogardus is a genuine hypnotist. Good logic, my friend, except that there are plenty of your sort who don't mind tests of that type."

Larry's eyes went beady. This man, whoever he was, knew too much about the hypnotism racket, as judged from its seamy side. But there was a peculiar twitch to Larry's lips that Cranston did not fail to detect. Larry the Horse wanted to say something, but was afraid he wouldn't be believed.

"Pins shouldn't bother you," stated Cranston, "not if they are pushed through loose flesh. The skewer stunt is an old one, even with the no bleeding feature. I have seen Hindus with a hundred punctures in their cheeks and the trick of holding back the blood is very simple. If the skewer is drawn out slowly, the wound has time to close. In that case, no bleeding follows."

Cranston's crack-down of the hypnotic act impressed Larry greatly. Still, the pasty-faced man wasn't willing to admit too much to a stranger. Besides, he still showed the urge to say something in defense of the part that he had played. Observing this, Cranston prompted Larry's urge.

"Bogardus should pay you well," Cranston told Larry, "because you are the high spot in his act. His only other good stunt is the one that follows, when he has a subject keep calling a busy number. Of course, that depends on you, too."

Larry licked his lips.

"How do you know, mister?"

"I happened to learn the number that the man called," replied Cranston. "A neat trick, for Bogardus to use the lobby telephone, after giving you time to get there and take the receiver from the hook. But you slipped tonight. You went away and left the receiver off."

"I did?"

"You did. Perhaps you would be wise to tell me why."

There was a slow, steady emphasis to Cranston's words as though they furnished a preliminary answer to a question that was tormenting Larry's mind. Darting a quick look about, Larry saw that everyone had moved forward to watch the television screen. With n.o.body close enough to hear him, he could talk to this stranger. Gripping the lapel of Cranston's coat, Larry blurted out his problem.

"It's this, mister, if you'll only believe me!" There was something plaintive in Larry's tone. "The prof has really been putting the hyp on me. "No"-thinking he saw Cranston smile, Larry became earnest- "I'm not trying to kid you. I never did go for those needle tests, but I let Bogardus talk me into trying the stuff.

It was easy the first time and still easier the next. Now I don't notice it at all. That would be hypnotism, wouldn't it?" "To a degree, yes."

"That falling stuff," continued Larry. "I'll admit I'm used to faking it. Only there's times now, like tonight, when Bogardus really has to grab me. And if he didn't snap his fingers, I don't think I'd snap out of it.

Maybe tonight I didn't, quite."

Cranston nodded as though he understood. His calm sympathy encouraged Larry to go into particulars.

"You ought to understand," said Larry, "on account of what you said about the telephone. I don't remember leaving it off the hook, because I don't remember taking it off, honest. I ought to have remembered both though, because it's my regular job. But there was something had me woozy."

Cranston's eyebrows lifted in query. Meeting Cranston's gaze, Larry went the whole way.

"It was the eyes," stated Larry, "and the whispers. Like eyes that whispered, whispering eyes. Don't think I'm goofy when I talk about it, though maybe I am when it happens. But it seems like something that's been creeping up on me and tonight I really took the jolt."

"When you speak of eyes," observed Cranston, "I suppose you mean the professor's."

"Not when I look into them," returned Larry, quickly. "I mean not when he's giving me the usual routine.

He's like a fish when he gives you the straight stare. It makes you feel clammy, I'll admit, but I thought I was used to that part. But it's what happens afterward that bothers me. I feel like I'm floating off somewhere. I'm not looking at Bogardus, I'm not hearing his voice, when all of a sudden, those eyes are s.h.i.+ning out of nowhere and the whisper comes like part of them."

"Tell me what the whisper says."

"I don't know what it says. I can't remember it. Somehow, it's always different."

"If it differs, you should remember why."

"Only I don't remember, honest."

There was something helpless in the way that Larry stared at Cranston. Meeting his questioner eye to eye, Larry was gaining a new experience. Unlike Bogardus's eyes, with their gla.s.sy bulge, Cranston's had depth and in their gaze was a probing power. Riveted by Cranston's gaze, Larry did not try to turn away, perhaps because he couldn't. Gradually, Larry's own eyelids flickered, his eyes went shut.

Larry the Horse had spoken truly when he said that he had adapted himself so that Professor Bogardus could put him into a hypnotic state. For Cranston, a real master at the art of hypnotism, was finding Larry an excellent subject, the sort that even a student of hypnotic methods could put to sleep.

Those flickering eyelids showed that Larry was entering a state of somnolence. By the time that Larry's eyes were shut, he was fully in a trance. Yet it all took place in a matter of mere seconds. During the process, Larry was muttering to himself and now his words became coherent.

"s.h.i.+ning eyes-I see them." Larry panted each phrase. "Whispering eyes- I hear them. They are telling me something, telling me something -"

Cranston's low voice came with controlling force, as if adjusting a cracked phonograph record that couldn't get out of its groove: "State what those eyes are telling you." "They tell me what to say," declared Larry, in his breathless tone. "Over the telephone-while I am answering it-here in the phone booth -"

Larry was giving a play by play description of his earlier experience. He was living over the events of a few hours before. Cranston was projecting Larry back into that scene, a neat yet not uncommon demonstration of skilled hypnotic work. Again, Cranston spoke persuadingly: "You are talking to someone."

"Talking," repeated Larry. "Yes, talking -"

"Talk to him now."

A spasm quivered Larry's puny shoulders. He came upright, his hands making motions as though to pick up a telephone. Larry's eyes were open now, but gla.s.sy, sightless in their stare.

"Zero. Be at zero." Larry's tone came in an exaggerated whisper, hoa.r.s.e and urgent. "No. Zero. You remember, zero-zero-zero. Go there at midnight. No. zero. Midnight. Zero-zero-zero -"

Larry would have kept on with this, like a cracked phonograph record, if Cranston hadn't called a halt to it. Cranston's process was to press a thumb and finger against each base of Larry's jaw, tilt the fellow's head at a perfect balance. Then, while Larry was again voicing the words, "Be at zero- No. Zero.

Midnight. Zero-zero- zero," Cranston supplied a sharp finger snap.

There was a blink of Larry's eyes. He came out of his trance so suddenly that he swayed off balance, began to corkscrew downward from the stool, his hands spreading as though dropping the imaginary telephone into which he had just spoken. Cranston caught him, steadied him. Larry squinted at the calm face of the man in front of him as if he had never seen it before.

"You talking to me?" demanded Larry. "What's it about, mister?"

"I was asking you a question," said Cranston. "Did you ever hear of No. zero?"

Larry stared, then shook his head.

"Tell me," continued Cranston. "What does the word zero mean to you?"

From Larry's puzzled look, his limited vocabulary did not include the term. Larry was giving a right answer without realizing it when he replied, "Nothing."

"You wouldn't be expecting something to happen at midnight," suggested Cranston, "at a place which we might call No. zero, or zero-zero-zero, which means nothing in three figures."

"You're giving me more than double talk," returned Larry. "That sounds like triple talk."

There was no use trying Larry further. He'd gone through his phone booth conversation purely by rote, under hypnotic persuasion and Cranston had recaptured all of it that he could. Larry would be useful in the future, perhaps, as a human pipe line that could be tapped again, but only within its own strict limitations.

The present, not the future, was Cranston's immediate concern. The telecast had ended at the front of the Castle Grill; above the screen, the two hands of an old clock were meeting to mark the hour of midnight.

Whatever might be done regarding the mystery of No. zero would have to be accomplished right now.

"No. zero." Softly, Cranston undertoned the words. "Zero-zero- zero -" In a flash, the answer came. It had to be something in the simplest of terms, for the man who had received Larry's message had been hypnotized, too. Thinking in terms of a destination to go with the time of midnight, Cranston could visualize the exact spot meant by No. zero, particularly with its triple twist. It might be of small importance, that midnight tryst at No. zero, but there was also the chance that it foreboded crime. Therefore, there was no time to lose.

Since the Castle Grill had no telephone, Cranston moved swiftly to the street and cut across to an old hotel on the other side. As he went, he recognized a cruising cab, signaled for it to stop. In the hotel, Cranston found a phone booth, put in a quick call to police headquarters and was lucky enough to get Inspector Joe Cardona on the line. But it wasn't Cranston's tone that Cardona heard.

The voice that reached Cardona across the wire was the sibilant whisper of The Shadow, carrying the slightly sinister touch that stirred listeners to action. While The Shadow's cab was waiting to race him to a scene where doom might threaten, the master of justice was urging the law to the same quest.

For midnight had already struck and every minute might prove precious in meeting the menace of the Whispering Eyes!

CHAPTER IX. MURDER AT MIDNIGHT.

IT was midnight, the exact time of The Shadow's emergency call to Inspector Cardona. At that very moment, Clyde Burke was sitting on a park bench in Was.h.i.+ngton Square, near the north side, which marked the lower end of Fifth Avenue.

There, Fifth Avenue stopped at a cross street which answered to the t.i.tle of Was.h.i.+ngton Square North.

Traffic continued, however, down through the Square, hence a fairly frequent flow of taxicabs and other automobiles kept whisking by while Clyde watched. Clyde's bench was slightly to the east, hence across Was.h.i.+ngton Square North, Clyde could see a solid row of four-story houses that covered the short block between Fifth Avenue and University Place.

At night, the houses gave the appearance of a single building, but their fronts had individuality. Old houses, dating probably from the Nineties, or earlier, but still well kept. They made a fitting backdrop to Was.h.i.+ngton Square; in fact, they seemed a traditional part of its setting. One of those houses, Clyde had heard, had once been the home of a celebrated detective named Nick Carter, the horse-and-buggy crime doctor of his day.

But Clyde wasn't interested in that row of houses, except as a pa.s.sing thought. He was wondering how Nick Carter or any other sleuth would have handled a man whose trail had become utterly aimless; namely, W. Chester Hudson.

For an hour or more, ever since leaving the hall where Bogardus had given his show, Clyde had tagged along on a wandering excursion. Hudson had zigzagged back and forth across Fifth Avenue and had finally gravitated to Was.h.i.+ngton Square. He'd been looking at houses, studying their street numbers, never finding the one he wanted. Now, at the corner where Fifth Avenue met Was.h.i.+ngton Square North, Hudson was looking across from one blank wall to another, apparently trying to find some door that didn't exist. That was why Clyde had decided to take a park bench and sit it out.

As Hudson walked across the avenue again, to take another stare at a building wall, it dawned on Clyde that the fellow hadn't a chance of finding a numbered door. This was where Fifth Avenue began and its numbers started from this point. Hence, if Hudson did find a door, it would be No. zero, Fifth Avenue.

Since Fifth Avenue was the dividing line between the East Side and the West, the side streets also began their numbers from that point, marking them off in opposite directions. Therefore, Hudson would drawanother zero, either way he tried to turn.

In brief, Chester Hudson had picked the one perfect blind spot in Manhattan. He'd whittled his trip right down to nothing. Apparently, he had stopped here because there wasn't anywhere else to go. This was the nearest place to nowhere.

Clyde was no longer worrying about Hudson's hat. As it happened, Hudson wasn't wearing it, but was holding it in his left hand, which was bent against his hip and in the darkness, the hat was well obscured.

Hudson was continually running his right hand across his forehead and through his hair, as though trying to rouse himself from a perpetual daze. Clyde had just about decided to give up the whole thing as foolish, when Hudson's manner underwent a sudden change.

Standing on the west side of the avenue, Hudson swung about, instantly alert. Then, as if in answer to a spoken command, he started across the avenue at an angle, with long mechanical strides, staring straight ahead. Cars were pa.s.sing at the moment and, amazingly, Hudson seemed to walk right through the midst of traffic. He couldn't have timed it himself, for he wasn't looking at the cars. Someone else, from the darkness up the avenue, must have gauged Hudson's action for him.

Oddly, Clyde Burke felt himself caught by the same impulse. It was as if a silent voice had spoken the one word: "Come!" Up from the bench, Clyde was crossing the street, hoping to overtake Hudson and learn the cause for his sudden action.

Then, as Hudson crossed the path that Clyde was taking, the fellow seemed to walk right through a blank wall. Ten seconds later, Clyde reached the spot in question and discovered the reason. There was an opening here, to a broad s.p.a.ce behind the buildings that fronted on the Square. Further back was a row of lower houses, but Clyde did not notice them. Clyde was looking for Hudson; he saw the man, a dozen or more paces up ahead. Hudson had halted stiffly in the gloom; now was Clyde's chance to overtake him.

Something whispered in the darkness as Clyde approached. An electric tingle quivered along Clyde's spine, but its warning came too late. Clyde heard a voice speak one word: "Go!" and with that, Hudson turned, strode straight past Clyde, brus.h.i.+ng his shoulder without noticing him. If Clyde had thrown out an arm he could have blocked the fellow, but Clyde didn't budge.

There was good reason.

Clyde was meeting with Hudson's own experience. The Cla.s.sic reporter was staring squarely into a pair of cold, glowing eyes which had been obscured until Hudson turned and stepped away. Above those eyes, Clyde could see the rounded outline of a hood and he realized that the man's entire head was covered, except for an opening through which the eyes glared. Then, Clyde's brief discovery was absorbed in a strange limbo, ruled only by those eyes.

They were eyes that whispered, unless the sounds that Clyde heard were caused by a faint, pa.s.sing breeze. They were growing larger, those glowing eyes, because Clyde was moving closer, though he was unconscious of his slow, mechanical steps. Something lifted Clyde's chin, as effectively as if a hand had reached out to tilt it upward, but Clyde felt no touch; indeed, there was none. It was all due to the power of those focused eyes, commanding Clyde to meet their full and forceful gaze.

A voice spoke, aloud, repeating the word that Clyde thought he had heard before. It said: "Come."

Clyde seemed to float, but slowly, through vast s.p.a.ces. Actually, he was walking into the darknessbehind the row of low houses, guided by the controlling power of the hooded figure that stalked beside him. In a matter of mere minutes, Clyde had been transported from the realm of reality into the same void that had enmeshed him the night before.

Now Clyde stumbled over a slanted obstacle that stood waist-high in the darkness near a wall. Clyde's clumsy action brought a m.u.f.fled growl from below. The obstacle was a large dog kennel and from it emerged a huge Great Dane. The big dog bounded toward Clyde, flinging its forepaws toward his shoulders as he gained his balance. Just then, a driving arm shoved Clyde aside and the hooded man took the brunt of the Great Dane's spring, clamping his hands around its muzzle, twisting its snout upward.

The dog's eyes met the human optics that glowed through the opening in the hood. With a whimper, the Great Dane settled to its haunches, stayed there, rigid.

This was nothing, however, compared to the post-hypnotic control that the man with the whispering eyes exerted over Chester Hudson. The tall young man had rounded the front of the low-built buildings and was following a narrow street that was blocked off with a chain, except for its sidewalks. This was a one-block thoroughfare called Was.h.i.+ngton Mews. The houses that lined it had once been stables, but had long ago been converted into fas.h.i.+onable studio apartments, with only their low, blocky structure a key to their origin.

Some of these building fronts varied and Hudson, walking with a long, mechanical stride, automatically paced the distance to a house front that had a truly formidable look. In its wall was set a great square window, stretching two thirds of the distance from ground to roof. The frosted gla.s.s panes were protected by a great set of upright bars, strengthened by steel cross-braces at four foot intervals.

Despite his powerful shoulders, Hudson couldn't have bent those bars, though that seemed his purpose as he gripped them. Then, like an automatic figure, Hudson hoisted himself upward; used the cross-irons as the steps of an exaggerated ladder. With a clang-clang-clang, Hudson mounted the improvised rungs, stretched a long arm upward and grasped the roof edge. His feet impelling him with an upward kick, Hudson reached the roof.

This singular climb remained unwitnessed, but not entirely unnoticed. A patrolman, going past the opposite end of the Mews, heard the clanging sound and paused to listen outside a gate that blocked off entrance from University Place. The sound of Hudson's take-off was loudest of all and the patrolman came through the gateway to investigate it. By then, Hudson was out of sight. Puzzled, the patrolman studied the bars, but couldn't connect them with the noise.

Meanwhile, Hudson was moving crouched along the roof, still mechanically counting paces, though they were shorter, because of his crablike gait. He came to a skylight covered with a metal grating and here Hudson's strength came into play. Working his arms between the bars of the grating, he lifted his shoulders with a powerful spiral twist. Rusted rivets yielded; the skylight came free. Then, planting his hands upon the sides of the opening, Hudson let his long body downward; dropped, with surprising lightness to a floor at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. He descended the stairs, step by step, reached a small barred door and unbolted it.

There stood the hooded man, arms folded like those of an executioner. His eyes leveled straight to Hudson's. He spoke two words; the first was "Turn" and as Hudson obeyed, the man with the glowing eyes added: "Go." Then, as Hudson stalked out through the back areaway, the hooded man turned to Clyde who stood motionless nearby and commanded: "Come."

It was at that instant that the eyes wavered in their glare and instead of a whisper, a snarl came from lipsthat were m.u.f.fled by the hood. From two directions came the approaching wails of sirens, that seemed to close like a distant pincer grip upon this very neighborhood. They annoyed the hooded man, but largely because they might have disturbed the hypnotic slumber of the two subjects that still were close at hand: Clyde Burke and the Great Dane. But Clyde was entering the doorway blankly and the seated dog did not stir. The snarl became a short, ugly laugh.

Now, though, the hooded man showed speed. He moved Clyde rapidly up the steps, halted him at a door just past the turn of the hall. Here Clyde's companion rapped sharply; then stepped back out of sight. There was a grating sound of a drawing bolt, the door swung inward and Clyde's staring eyes were facing the muzzle of a big, old-fas.h.i.+oned revolver.

Though Clyde hadn't been conscious of the great dog outdoors, sight of the gun muzzle stirred him. He didn't recoil; instead, he went into a nervous tremble. It was like a thing in a dream, that gun. Clyde didn't even notice the person who was behind it.

That person was a sharp-faced woman whose indeterminate age could at least have been placed beyond fifty. She was heavy of build, dominating in manner. She was wearing a fluffy blue negligee that she probably thought went well with the blond dye of her hair, but if she considered that the combination made her cute, she was wrong. Her manner was hard, her voice a metallic clang, like the jangle of the gold bracelets that adorned her wrists. Around her neck, the woman wore a three-strand necklace of magnificent pearls, and her fingers glistened with diamond rings.

"Who are you?" the woman demanded. "How did you get in here?"

Clyde did not answer. He scarcely heard the voice. The gun muzzle still held him frozen.

"Somebody must have let you in here," the woman continued. "Timothy, no doubt, the fool. I told him I was expecting a visitor, but it was his business to ring me instead of unlocking the door."

Sirens now were pa.s.sing the place; their sounds told that they were halting on Fifth Avenue, but the woman paid no attention to them. Sirens were too common a thing in Manhattan.

"You are not the man I expected, but I'm not surprised he didn't come here." The woman gave a hard, knowing laugh. "He wouldn't want Timothy to know that he had been around. And yet-" She paused, tilting her head to give Clyde a suspicious look. "Why shouldn't he? Timothy wouldn't have known what he came for, or would he?"

Getting no reply from Clyde, the woman demanded: "Do you know Timothy?"

Slowly, Clyde shook his head.

"It wouldn't matter if you did," the woman decided. "He couldn't have found out anything. But you do know my friend, the man I expected here tonight, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And he sent you in his place?"

"Yes."