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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Wonder Stories, November 1931, with "The Superman Of Dr. Jukes"
IT was Wells, in his "New Accelerator," who pointed out that our world is created by the quality of our sense perceptions. Sight, hearing, feeling, smell all combine to form our picture of our universe. And, as Wells showed in that amusing story, if our sense perceptions were altered, our world would be altered also. This fact has been made vividly clear to us by the motion picture. When pictures are slowed up or accelerated, their meaning may change entirely.
It is quite possible that our own senses could be speeded up or slowed down. If we studied the animal world carefully and discovered what qualities gives the cat its swift movement and keen hearing, the dog its delicate sense of smell, the panther its grace and strength, we might be able to utilize them to make supermen of ourselves.
And if we could do that, a series of adventures might open such as Mr. Flagg pictures in this fast moving story.
HE was slim and of medium height, with the phenomenon of cold grey eyes in a dark face and under a thatch of black hair. His father had been an Italian immigrant and his mother a descendant of "dark Irish," those sons and daughters of old Erin in whose veins ran Spanish blood—the blood of the crew of the great Armada that Philip sent out in pride and pomp to subdue Elizabethan England, that Drake and Frobisher scattered, and that storms cast away on the inhospitable shores of Scotland, and on the rock coast of the Green Isle.
Chicago had bred him, and in the Windy City he was known as "Killer Mike." He did not look the killer, but in his case looks were deceiving. As a matter of fact, he was as deadly as a rattlesnake, but he struck only in the matter of business and never for the mere love of slaughter. Young, he was, under thirty, and personable, with the smatterings of a fair education. It was only when the "Big Shot," whose bodyguard he was, tried to put him on "the spot," that he left Chicago hurriedly. The Big Shot held organized gangsterism in the hollow of his hand and to attempt, openly, to live and function without his permission, and protection was suicidal.
So the Killer had fled, conscious that the long arm of his erstwhile chief was reaching out to slay. East to Boston, and from Boston by steamer to Halifax. Here he breathed easily for a moment; but one night a shot stabbed at him through the dark; so he sneaked aboard a train for Montreal. From Montreal he swung across the border to Detroit; and from Detroit zigzagged west to Arizona, losing himself in the vast armies of unemployed that rode freights. By this time his money was gone, his sleekness, and he wore frowsy overalls and a jumper. Lolling on the grass by the Fourth Street subway in Tucson, not knowing what moment he might be bagged by a policeman, an elderly gentleman with a pronounced Jewish nose accosted him. "I suppose work is pretty hard to get these days," he remarked.
"Yes," said the Killer. He was properly suspicious of all strangers, but a cursory inspection served to show that here was no likely henchman of the Big Shot. The elderly man was well-dressed in clothes of a good cut and quality, but carelessly, as if clothes were of little importance to him.
"It must be hell on those poor devils with wives and families to support."
"I've no one but myself," said the Killer.
"But you need employment, I presume?"
"In the worst way."
The elderly man studied him thoughtfully. "My name," he said at length, "is Jukes—Doctor Jukes. Ever hear of it?"
"No."
"Ah, well," said the Doctor, "it isn't quite unknown to science. I am by way of being a physicist of some reputation. My papers on..." he brought himself up with a jerk. "What I meant to say is that I am interested in certain experiments for which I need a human subject. Nothing dangerous, you understand; mostly a matter of routine. But still important." He stroked his chin. "I'm willing to pay a young man like yourself forty dollars a week for a few weeks' employment at the most. Food and lodging included. You would, of course, lead a secluded life under my supervision for the duration of the experiments. What do you say?"
The Killer thought swiftly. Here was an opportunity to drop from sight for some time to come, a sanctuary in which to rest up while recouping his pocketbook. The old guy was lying, of course; there must be some risk to the experiment; But not as much risk as dying of lead poisoning. "All right," he said briefly, "you've hired me."
The Doctor smiled benevolently. "And your name is...?"
"Brown," said the Killer without the least flicker of hesitation.
"Very well, Brown," said the Doctor, "if you'll follow me to my car..."
But the Killer shook his head. It was not likely that he was being observed, yet one never knew. "Just slip me your address," he said; "I'll be around later."
DOCTOR JUKES' residence was out St. Mary's road, in
the foothills of the Tucson Mountains. Five acres of land
were enclosed by a high fence of net-wire. Four buildings
stood in this enclosure. The Doctor introduced the Killer
to one of them, really a wing of the main residence, but
only connected to it by a roofed passageway. This annex
contained a suite of rooms which, if not luxurious (and
the Killer was accustomed to a certain amount of luxury
and refinement in his surroundings), were comfortably
furnished.
There was a bedroom, bath and sitting-room, and a door led to a small patio or garden, some yards in extent, which was surrounded by a six-foot concrete wall. "I believe you will find everything comfortable," said the Doctor. A manservant, middle-aged, taciturn, prepared a bath, laid out shaving gear, and provided fresh linen and a suit of white duck that fitted him fairly well. The Killer wondered from whence they came, and if he had known might not have felt so easy in his mind.
As it was, he relaxed, and over a tastefully-served meal studied his surroundings. Bars criss-crossed the high windows, he noticed, and when the servant finally went away by the passage door and left him to a magazine and a cigarette, the door automatically locked behind him. But these trifles failed to disturb the Killer. Of course the Doctor could not be expected to give every stranger the run of his place. He congratulated himself on his luck in finding as secure a hiding place.
THE next morning he was made rather ill by the injection
of a solution into his arm.
"You'll be all right tomorrow," said the Doctor.
But every day there was a new injection, and a week past before he felt himself; then he picked up surprisingly. It was a quiet existence. He walked or read in the little patio and sunned himself. Sometimes the Doctor's assistant, a stout nervous individual of uncertain age named Doctor Burdo, walked with him, taking notes of his condition. He was an old school-mate of Doctor Jukes and devoted to his interests. All this he told the Killer in his pleasant inconsequential chatter. "Doctor Jukes is a great man," he said. "Famous, a genius."
Day by day the Killer found himself tingling more and more with the zest of living. His wits seemed to clarify. He thought of a thousand ways in which he could have disposed of the Big Shot and wondered why they had never occurred to him before. Also his sight became keener, almost microscopic in its keenness, he thought, and laughed at the conceit. But nothing escaped his eyes. The little lizards darting up the wall, and the activities of certain small bugs and insects. He spent hours watching them. His increasing ability to hear was almost uncanny; the creaking of the floor, the soughing of the wind, and a myriad of small things rubbing wings and crawling. He was not alarmed. He knew these phenomena were the results of the Doctor's injections. The assistant quizzed him about them, made interminable notes.
One day in the garden he turned on him with a swift movement, a movement almost as swift and as lithe as that of a panther.
"Lord, I feel strong," said the Killer. He flexed his arms. "I feel as if I could lift you over my head like an Indian club."
He caught the assistant playfully by the-waist, and to his huge surprise (the assistant weighed nearly two hundred pounds) whirled him aloft like a feather.
Once more on his feet, the assistant laughed shakily. "I'll say you're strong!" But that evening he spoke at length to Doctor Jukes. The Doctor nodded. "The experiment has been a glorious success. There's no need to carry it further. Give him the quietus in the morning."
The assistant hesitated. "Such a splendid fellow! It seems a pity to..."
"Come, come, Charles," laughed the Doctor. "No mawkish sentimentalism. Tomorrow," he said more seriously, "I am to meet Asbury, so I must leave the giving of the quietus to you."
THE Killer was restless, his mind abnormally active.
For the first time he resented being locked in at night.
He gave one of the window-bars a tentative twist and
it came away in his hand. With the sinuous grace of an
animal he swung through the aperture and dropped to the
ground beyond. It was cooler in the gardens than in his
room. His nostrils quivered with delight. The night was
intoxicatingly odorous, filled with murmurous sounds.
For awhile he paced back and forth; but soon it occurred to him that he had never seen beyond the confines of the walls hemming him in. On the other side was the laboratory, and the quarters of the assistant. Why not surprise Burdo with a call? He scaled the wall with ease. The laboratory door was latched but not locked. Unfortunately, however, the assistant had chosen that evening to dine out. Filled with curiosity the Killer struck a match and turned on an electric light. It dimly revealed a long room almost meticulously neat. White porcelain sinks set against the wall, and stands and shelves with orderly rows of test-tubes and bottles containing chemical compounds or cultures.
Beyond was still another room, and when he opened its door something moaned and flashed by him with a screech. There was a crash behind him. Turning, he perceived that the creature, a monstrous pink rat, had taken refuge on a shelf over a sink, upsetting a number of bottles in doing so. At his approach it leaped from the shelf and fled through the outer door into the night. None of the bottles were broken. As nearly as possible, he rearranged them in their niches on the shelf, and somewhat ashamed of his misadventure, returned to his apartment and went to bed.
The bottles were similar in size, their contents colorless as water and identifiable by the numbers over the niches in which they stood. A corresponding number was labelled on each bottle, but for the most part were small and almost illegible.
Still drowsy from the unaccustomed lack of sleep (it had been after midnight when he turned in), and reaching automatically and with hardly a glance for a certain bottle, unwittingly the assistant filled his hypodermic with, not the lethal dose intended, but the pure, undiluted secretion, minute quantities of which the Doctor had been injecting into his patient over a series of days,—and it was this solution he shot into the Killer's arm!
TWO men were seated in the uptown office of Joshua Jukes, famous surgeon and scientist. One was Doctor Jukes himself, slim, with well-spaced eyes and a towering balded brow. The other was no less a personage than Vincent Asbury, Secretary of War. In some circles it was more than hinted that he was Frazzini's man. The Doctor either didn't know this or didn't care. He was a scientist, not a politician. His own motives were clear enough. He had made known his discovery to the War Department, offered his formula for sale, and as for the rest...
Vincent Asbury was speaking. He was a handsome man of fifty, with narrow, crafty eyes, and when standing carried his tall figure with noticeable distinction.
"You mean to tell me, Doctor Jukes, that this thing is possible?"
"Indeed, yes."
"But it sounds like a miracle."
"And one not to broadcast to the world. First my country..."
"Oh, yes, your country." Asbury carefully kept the smile from his face. "And if you can properly demonstrate your discovery, your country will reward you well. But how does it work?"
"That's rather difficult to make clear to the lay mind. But you know the glandular theory?"
"Slightly."
"Well, it's through the injection of extracts, of course. Certain ductless glands have a secretion lately analyzed which empties directly into the blood. This secretion is what keeps the nerves of the body normal and healthy. It has been ascertained that too little flow produces nervous depression, sciatica, rheumatism, while too much brings about that abnormal condition which is usually diagnosed as genius or insanity. Walters of England, and Grötzbach of Germany, have made important discoveries in this field. Indeed their folox extract is now being used to heal certain types of mental disorders. What I have told you so far is the secret of no particular scientist or country."
"But this other?" asked Asbury anxiously.
"Is. You must know that I have devoted the last ten years of my life to the same research work engrossing Walters and Grötzbach. Curious things in relation to ductless glands early claimed my attention. Some of my findings I published in medical and scientific journals, but others I kept to myself. First, because I had not substantiated them with the proper amount of proof; second, because I did not wish to be anticipated in the thing I sought to discover.
"But I have produced rats as large as cats, mice as large as rats, and other things which I had better not mention. Dogs grown into nightmares, rabbits that a little lack of manganese rob of the 'instinct' of mother love, and even of the desire and ability to mate. But enough! You understand that I worked, that I spared nothing in my investigations. Not even," said the scientist coolly, "men."
"Good God!"
"What would you? Some of them died, of course, and others went mad and had to be killed. But one must verify certain conclusions on the human; there is no other way. They were poor devils; martyrs to science, if you will. At any rate, they made possible what I have finally achieved."
Asbury made no audible retort, though he could not keep the distaste out of his face; yet Doctor Jukes was right. The ethical value placed on human life is an uncertain thing. For reasons they knew nothing of, and that might not even concern them, he would send millions of soldiers to die and think little of it.
The scientist went on: "If one could handle the process which caused an increase in secretion in the ductless glands I have alluded to! Would not that open the way to speeding up every function of the human body? That was at first a wild surmise on my part. But consider that man is a creature of his nerves. The sense perceptions, the reflex actions, even speed of thought itself, is dependent on the nervous system. The glands speed up the nerves, the nerves every sense and faculty of the human organism, including that of mind, and mind reacting back upon the nerves and glands again keys up every sense and organ of the human body.
"This was the basis on which I worked. Failure after failure but increased my determination to succeed. Finally I met with some success in the case of animals. Then it was that I used, and am still using men. No need to relate the successes and failures there. Even the successes it was necessary to kill. I see you do not like that, but consider: Could I allow my experiments to be bruited around? After years of work I was intoxicated with victory. See this bottle? Ten drops of its contents is enough to raise the normal powers of a healthy man ten times in excess of what he possesses. There is folfox in it, of course, and a portion of adrenalin, and... but that is my secret!"
THE habitual calmness of the great scientist returned
to him. He placed the bottle carefully back on the desk
and regarded the Secretary of War. "Well, my dear sir," he
questioned.
Vincent Asbury said slowly, "I am thinking," and he was. He was visualizing a picked body of men with their physical powers raised to the zenith. What power could withstand them? His eyes narrowed. "If you can prove this secretion..."
"I can."
"Then listen...."
Doctor Jukes came from his interview with Vincent Asbury with a feeling that everything was well in the best of all possible worlds. He did not like Asbury, but money was to be his for further scientific investigations, and just in the nick of time, since his other resources had well-nigh dwindled away. Blithely he entered his home.
"Well, Charles?"
The assistant glanced at the clock. "I gave him the quietus at nine-thirty and never saw a man pass out so suddenly. I left him lying on the bed until your return."
The Doctor nodded. "I'll take a look at him before lunch."
He walked through the open passage. "A nice day," he thought, "but hot." Nothing warned him that he was making his last observation on the weather.
How strong the accelerating secretion injected mistakenly into the Killer's arm was will never be known, but it must have been tremendous. Had his system not been accustomed gradually to increased doses over a period of days, the results would have been fatal. As it was, the sudden acceleration of heart and lung action brought him to the verge of death.
Darkness struck at the base of his skull with the suddenness of a sledgehammer and he collapsed into an inanimate heap. The assistant felt for his pulse, but the beat of it was so incredibly rapid as to register as no pulse at all. But the Killer was not dead, and during the hours he lay in a state of coma his whole bodily organization underwent a miraculous change. As suddenly as it had left him, consciousness returned and found him staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Giddy, he was, and sick, but this soon passed, and in the moment of its passing Doctor Jukes entered the room and knelt by his side. The first thing the Doctor found remarkable was the heat radiating from the supposedly dead body and the flexibility of the wrist he took.
"What the devil!" he cried, starting up. "Here, Charles; the lad isn't dead." He stared at the wide glowing eyes. "You couldn't have given the quietus; you must have..."
But he never finished the sentence. Like a flickering shadow the Killer's hand shot out and took him by the throat. There was a sharp snap as the neck broke, and in the same instant the body hurtled across the room to crash against the far wall. The Killer surged to his feet. He had heard the Doctor's words, understood the situation and all that it implied.
"Kill me, would he, the dirty rat!" The motion of the Doctor's body fascinated him. It seemed to loaf along at snail-like speed. In reality its transition through the air occupied not three seconds. But everything in time and space had altered for the Killer. The assistant running for the door seemed a figure shown on a screen by a slow motion-picture camera. The lifting of his feet, the bending of knees, in fact, every motion of flight, was almost painfully slow and measured. Each detail could be watched.
The Killer had seen pictures of animals running like that. Long-legged giraffes sailing gracefully over African landscapes; slender deer slowed up in their flight so that audiences in theaters might study their methods of locomotion. For a moment he was startled; then working at lightning speed his mind grasped the explanation. For weeks they had been speeding up his bodily organization, and now, now...
He moved. It was done with such swiftness that one might be forgiven for comparing it with that atom or electron which is said to shift positions without any intermediate action. In mid-stride he caught the assistant. One brush of the hand. It was like pushing over a mannequin that refused to fall, save as a feather topples. Then bare-headed, and clad in but trousers and a soft-collared shirt, he was out of the building, the grounds, and striding up the road.
An automobile crawled towards him, a taxi-cab, doing twenty miles an hour. Now was the test, his own strength against that of the gleaming car. Deliberately he blocked its way. The driver screamed at the sudden materialization of this slender, dark-faced man. Almost wildly he bore down on the brakes, sought to swerve, but the yawing machine was brought to an abrupt stop that catapulted him over the wheel, that flung the white-faced man in the rear seat forward across his shoulders. With one negligent hand the Killer held the taxi motionless while its engine roared under a shaking hood, while its wheels still bit impotently at the packed dirt of the road.
WHEN Doctor Jukes left Vincent Asbury, the latter went to his apartments in the exclusive Green Hotel and dismissed his secretary and valet. "I'll not be needing you, Robbins," he told the man-servant, "until dinner-time. You may have the afternoon off." He was in Tucson incognito and, save for one or two discreet individuals, unknown. Assured of privacy, he placed on a table a dark case that looked not unlike the container for a portable typewriter and raised the lid. The case certainly contained a machine but not of the typewriter variety.
At first glance it might have been mistaken for a radio; and indeed it was that, and something more; in fact the contrivance represented the last word in radio-television devices, the invention of a great inventor who had sold it for a price—five million dollars to be exact. The inner surface of the upraised lid was a burnished screen. Connecting the device to a light socket by means of an extension cord, Asbury threw a switch and twirled a dial.
Instantly the room was filled with a sputtering noise. 302 M-9b, he spelt carefully. The sputtering fell, rose, died away. He leaned so that his face was fully caught by the light of a bluish bulb. The burnished screen clouded, clarified, and in it grew the features of a man. "Hello," said a voice faintly, as if from an immense distance. "Hello yourself. This is Number Two speaking. Yes, Number Two. Is the Big Shot there?"
"Sure," said the faint voice. "He's been waiting for your call. Just a moment." The features faded, and in a minute was succeeded by those of a man whose face expressed ruthless power. The eyes were wide-set, with heavy lids, and even in this television picture, which gave no distinct colors save white and black, you knew that they were greenish.
The cheeks were fleshy, the lips thick but well-shaped, and one cheek was scarred as if by an old burn. The newspapers of the world bad broadcast that face; it had been shown in newsreels and magazines. A nationally known face it was, as familiar as that of the President of the United States, or of a movie star;—the face of Frazzini, millionaire bootlegger, king of racketeers. It smiled genially now, showing a set of white, even teeth. "That you, Vincent?"
"Yes. I'm speaking from Tucson."
"How is everything?"
"I saw Doctor Jukes about that discovery of his he offered the government—through me." He laughed softly. "Of course he thinks he's doing business with Uncle Sam."
"And the discovery?"
"It's a wonderful thing. Listen, Frazzini, a shot of it would make our boys irresistible." He went into details. "The effect wears off in time, but while it lasts..."
"You made him an offer?"
"Of a million cash—with a hundred thousand yearly for further research work. He understands that the deal is secret—for reasons of state, ha, ha!"
Frazzini spoke incisively. "See the Doctor at once and tell him you will have a government official and two secret-service men call on him tomorrow for a practical demonstration. I shall leave here with Landy and Cococetti almost immediately. Reserve rooms for us at your hotel. Understand?"
"Yes. On the top floor, I suppose? Chicago is twelve hundred miles away as the crow flies. That means you will get in..."
"In twelve hours at the outside. Have everything arranged. Good-bye."
Thoughtfully Vincent Asbury removed the connections and closed the case. Lighting a cigarette he moved over and stared unseeingly out of the window. Frazzini could make him president of the United States—and would. But nevertheless he irked under the gang chieftain's control. Given the opportunity, he would blot out Frazzini—like that. But right now he needed him, and the organization he controlled.
His mind busy with all its tortuous thoughts, he called up the desk and asked that a taxi be summoned. At the same moment he reserved the rooms. It was summer and not difficult to get the location desired. Descending, he took his seat in the taxi and giving Doctor Jukes' address sank back with closed eyes. Up Congress the car sped; then north; and then west again. Suddenly the car stopped with a jerk and he was hurled violently forward into the back of the driver. The shock nearly dislocated his neck. "What the devil!" he cried when he had recovered his breath. "What does this mean?" and then paused with mouth half open, staring into a dark expressionless face and cold grey eyes!
Every atom was rioting in Killer Mike's body. By almost imperceptible degrees the potent solution was increasing in intensity. There was no reckoning how fast the Killer's faculties were functioning. He laughed sardonically, an eerie laugh.
"Ha, ha! If it isn't Number Two!"
Even in that almost split second of stopping the car, and while Asbury was yet engrossed in his own thoughts, the Killer heard him thinking. Yes, heard; for to him it seemed that Vincent Asbury had been talking aloud. The Behaviorists claim that all reasoning is a matter of sub-vocalization, that literally one does talk to himself when thinking. To the ears of the Killer this sub-vocalizing process was audible as sound.
He heard the war secretary mention the Big Shot's name, the Doctor's, think of the coming of Frazzini, mouth over his own plans, ambitions,—and all in a fraction of time quite long to him. The taxi-driver, knocked limp for the moment, recovered with a curse, and took his foot from the gas. "Hey, you!" he bellowed, hinging at the Killer with intent to grab him by the collar. "What do you mean by this, hey?"
THE Killer watched the lunge with impersonal interest.
God, the fellow was slow! He seemed to float through space,
split seconds being minutes. He brushed him away lazily,
and watched him going backward in the same leisurely
fashion to collapse in a heap from which he did not stir.
But to the war secretary the action had taken place with
almost unbelievable swiftness. He had recognized Killer
Mike, as Killer Mike had recognized him, and knew that he
was condemned by the Big Shot and his life forfeit.
In the very instant that the driver surged forward he drew his automatic and fired. But the Killer's eyes caught the gesture. Without trouble he avoided the bullet and threw out his fist. Struck by what he never had a chance to see, Vincent Asbury sagged back.
Again the Killer laughed, an eerie whisper of a laugh, and turned and was gone so swiftly that to the staring occupant of the second-hand Buick that had pulled up behind the taxi, and to the man in the office of the greenhouse bordering one side of the road, he seemed to flicker and vanish into nothing. The taxi stood with throbbing engine. "What the hell!" said the driver of the second-hand Buick, rubbing his eyes. Then he clambered from his seat and peered into the taxi. At what he saw, he gave a gasp of horror. The man from the greenhouse came running across the road.
"What's the matter?" he panted.
"Matter... matter... Can't you see what's the matter?" He pointed wildly at the bloody features of the taxi-driver, at the horribly crushed in skull of the secretary of war. "That's what's the matter! Murder! Two men have been killed!"
But the Killer did not hear. He was gone like a wraith. The world seemed to stand still as he glided along. The scent of mankind was heavy in his nostrils; but above all the individual odor of Asbury. It hung in the hot air like a thin, evil trail. It smelled, thought the Killer sardonically, like one might expect the crooked, oily mind of Asbury to look. It was not difficult to follow. In a few minutes he was at the hotel.
The clerk did not see him, nor the bellhops sitting in a braided row. The fat man coming down the stairs to get the exercise his doctor ordered, wondered what it was that brushed by and nearly sent him sprawling. He could have sworn that a voice said, "I beg your pardon," but no one was in sight. Much shaken in mind and body he waddled to the elevator shaft and rang the bell. Damn the doctors! It was a hot day and too much exertion made a man feel queer.
Still following the trail, the Killer came to the correct door and opened it by the simple expedient of pushing. Yes, there was the television-radio. His face twisted into a deadly grin. Every atom and fibre of his body was dancing. Put him on the spot, would he? Why nothing could touch him now, nothing; neither men nor guns; and if he wished...
With a swift, lithe motion he opened the television case.
IN the underworld of America they spoke of him with
bated breath, his friends admiringly, fawningly, his
enemies bitterly and with curses. Rumor had it that he
had started his career in a bawdy house. When Big Tim was
chief he had been his favorite guard. When Little Arne
broke through Big Tim's defense, those in the know said
that he had first fixed it with him. If that were the truth
it hadn't kept him from driving past Little Arne's flower
shop one day and riddling him with lead. He was ambitious,
ruthless, and with more than a touch of organizing
genius. The result was that where other gang leaders went
to the graveyard or abroad, he built up a vast illegal
business of forty millions a year. Over his immediate
followers he ruled with an iron hand, the whilst he wiped
out competition with bribes—or a machine-gun. He
was king, despot, the one and only chief of racketeers,
Frazzini, the Big Shot, the most feared and powerful man in
the country.
His Chicago home was a fortress. It stood on the top of a skyscraper. The approach to the roof was cunningly guarded. Frazzini knew, none better, that there were envious souls who would like to bump him off; some for the honor of doing it; and some to step into his shoes. At the particular moment we see him he has turned from speaking to Asbury on the television-radio. He is a big man with broad shoulders, forty years of age. "Get in touch with the boys at once, Jim," he directs his lieutenant, "and tell them we leave for the west within the hour. Have the planes made ready." Jim Landy nods and leaves the room.
He is a man of few words. Soon Frazzini hears the mechanic tuning up the engines of the specially constructed autogiros. With rotating wings of the most advanced design, they could take off in a fifteen yard run, land at twelve miles an hour, and carry twelve passengers apiece in their comfortable cabins. For a moment Frazzini hesitates and then rings a bell. To the man answering, he says tersely, "Tell my wife I wish to see her."
She came at length, a queenly creature in a trailing robe, with sleek, dark hair and a colorless face. "Well?" she questioned tonelessly.
"Nothing," he said, "only I thought you'd better know..." He broke off abruptly. "Why in the devil are you going on like this?"
"Am I going on?"
"You know what I mean."
Her eyes flashed.
He said stormily: "It's me who ought to be sore. Who picked you out of a dance hall, made you what you are?"
"As if I should be grateful for that! What am I any way?"
"You are my wife."
"Oh, yes, your wife. How wonderful! The vice-king's wife."
"You didn't talk like that when I asked you to marry me."
"Would to God I had!"
He paced the room for a moment. "Gloria," he said more softly, laying a hand on her shoulder, "you used to love me a little. Isn't there some of that liking left?"
She shrugged from his hand. "Don't touch me, please; your hands are dirty."
"Because I run booze?"
"You know what I mean. I don't care about that. It's the other vile traffic."
"I swear to you..."
"Please don't lie," she said contemptuously. "You lied to me before. I found out..."
HIS mouth narrowed into a thin slit. "From that
traitorous rat Killer Mike! But he won't betray any more
secrets."
"What have you done with him?"
"Ha, ha! So that touched you, eh? Worried about your lover!"
"You know that's a falsehood."
"Yes," he almost whispered at length, "I believe it is. If I didn't..."
With a gust of hungry passion he swept her into his arms.
"Gloria, Gloria! Look at me, girl! You're mine, see! And you love me in spite of yourself! Yes, you do. I'm bad and vile, but you love me! I've got to go on; don't you see that? I can't stop—and Killer Mike is in my way. It wasn't only that he spoke to you—I could forgive that—but he actually plotted," he freed her and stepped back, "plotted to split the gang and rule in my shoes." He raised a fateful hand. "Do you think he can do that and get away with it? No, I must make an example of him for the benefit of others. Killer Mike is doomed." He stopped abruptly. "What is that?"
The whirr of the television-radio sounder filled the room. He stepped forward and threw the switch, standing so that the blue light irradiated his features, scanning the burnished screen set against the wall. "Hello, Frazzini speaking. Is that you, Asbury?"
A thin eerie laugh swept out of the device. "No," said a metallic voice. It seemed to come from an immense distance. "This isn't Asbury; this is..."
Frazzini's wife gave an audible gasp. In the burnished depths of the screen grew a face, a cold, dark face with frosty gleaming eyes.
"Killer Mike!" exclaimed Frazzini.
"Yes," said the metallic voice, "Killer Mike." Again the eerie laugh swept the room. "You'll never see Asbury alive again. I was obliged to remove him. Do you understand, Frazzini? Place him on the spot—as I intend to place you! No," went on the metallic voice, "I'm not crazy, not all hopped up as you think;—not with coke. I can read your mind, Frazzini. You are thinking you'll wire the police to hold me until you come. How clever you are! But not as clever as me, Frazzini! Not as clever 'as the Man-plus'."
THE sensational automobile murders, the slaying of the famous Doctor Jukes and his assistant, were headline news. Within an hour of their discovery a half dozen extras were being sold. "Mystery Murders on The St. Mary's Road," screamed one black streamer; and others shrieked "Fiendish Murders Shrouded In Mystery; Police Baffled."
The two witnesses of the automobile murders were quoted. "The taxi suddenly stopped, just like that," said the driver of the second-hand Buick. "I had to jam on the brakes hard to keep from running into it."
"Yes," corroborated the other, "I was looking out my greenhouse windows and saw the whole thing. A man was clinging to the side of the taxi, though I don't know where he came from."
Both witnesses described the man as being of medium height, clad in white trousers and a soft white shirt. Neither saw the actual killings. One was too far away, and the other's view was interrupted by the rear of the taxi.
Doctor Jukes' servant testified that a young man answering such a description had been a patient of the Doctor's.
But the greatest sensation transpired when one of the bodies in the taxi was identified as that of Vincent Asbury. The identification was made by Robbins, the valet, and by his private secretary. "Yes," said the latter. "Mr. Asbury had been in Tucson incognito on government business." No, he didn't know what that business was, but it had to do with the department he headed and a chemical discovery of Doctor Jukes.
"Secretary of War Murdered For War Secret," captioned one paper. Excitement was running high when the chief of police received the following telegram from Chicago authorities:
CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION THAT ASBURY, WAR SECRETARY, KILLED OR INJURED. ARREST AT ONCE MICHAEL FLIANI, ALIAS 'KILLER MIKE,' NOTORIOUS GUNMAN AND GANGSTER. DESCRIPTION: HEIGHT, 5 FEET,7˝ INCHES; WEIGHT, 150 POUNDS; COMPLEXION DARK, WITH BLACK HAIR AND GREY EYES. LOOKS LIKE AND IS AN ITALIAN. OFFICERS ARRIVING BY AIR. ANSWER."
"Well what do you think of that!" muttered the chief of police; but he was canny enough to keep the telegram from the reporters; and in the early hours of the morning a big autogiro fell silently out of the heavens and settled on the flat roof of the Green Hotel.
From it stepped Frazzini and went at once to the suite Asbury had reserved, surrounded by a bodyguard of slim hard-faced men with hands on ready weapons. With him was a prominent member of the Chicago detective force, really a henchman of Frazzini. The latter sent word to the chief of police that he wanted to see him. It was actually a summons from the gang chieftain. The chief stared with reverent awe at the king of racketeers. Frazzini did the talking.
"This Killer Mike used to be a member of my organization, see? But he raised a ruckus and I threw him out. Why he wanted to kill Asbury is a mystery to me." (The chief had his own opinion about that; he knew of the rumors connecting the war secretary with the man who spoke.) "Now I want my men to co-operate with the authorities in hunting him down and through you offer a five thousand dollar reward for his capture. Understand?"
The chief nodded that he understood.
"There's another planeful of my men coming. Will be here in an hour or so. This Killer Mike must be captured. He...."
The low whisper of a laugh filled the room. "What's that?" cried Frazzini. The gunmen were on their feet, weapons in hand.
"Ha, ha, ha!"
Frazzini whirled. Behind him, almost against the wall, stood the figure of a man in white duck trousers and a light shirt. He hadn't been there a moment before, no one had seen him enter, and yet he had walked through a corridor dominated by armed men, entered the open door of the room with a stride.
"Ha, ha, ha!" It was the Killer laughing. He saw the weapons of the gunmen go up—slowly—as if manipulated by men scarcely able to move; and when Frazzini whirled it was as if the evolution would never be finished. Lazily he sidestepped the loafing bullets; but to the astounded gunmen it appeared as if he had flickered out of existence at one point and into it again at another. The bullets buried themselves in the wall. There was a splintering of plaster, and from somewhere beyond frightened cries.
"It's no use, boys," said the Killer, "bullets can't hit me."
The guards shrank back with scared faces. At bottom they were a superstitious lot. Knowing nothing of Doctor Jukes' accelerating solution, the phenomenon witnessed admitted of but one explanation. The Killer was dead. They were fighting the Killer's ghost!
But Frazzini understood. The marvelous discovery of Doctor Jukes was being utilized by Killer Mike. He was speeded up in every sense and faculty.
"So you realize the truth," hissed the Killer. "Yes, I am speeded up; I can even hear your thoughts. Compared to me, ordinary men are as snails. I can out-move, out-think, out-fight...... Ah, you would, would you!" His hand flicked out and the Chicago detective, of sterner metal than his fellows, went back with a crash and lay in a still heap upon the floor. "I have waited for you, Frazzini, as I said I would, to put you on the spot; but the spot isn't here. First, I'm taking you for a ride, Frazzini." He moved. Chairs went over with a crash. A gunman fired. There was a stifled scream, and then seized in an overmastering grip and carried forward at tremendous speed, the king of the racketeers lost consciousness.
THINGS were happening to the Killer. Bearing his burden
he strode through the night like a wraith. First he went
north until he reached the desert, and then north-west.
He was Killer Mike, the Big Shot and the empire of
gangsterdom was in the hollow of his hand. And not alone
the empire of gangsterdom—that of America, the world.
He laughed, and his wild eerie laugh echoed through the
night. White-faced men and women paused to listen. "A
coyote," said some. "No coyote ever howled like that," said
others.
Official Tucson was in a ferment. Posses were being formed. But the Killer strode on. Not only every sense and faculty was now accelerated, not only every atom and molecule, but under his clothes the flesh was shimmering, expanding, as the atoms and molecules whirled in ever increasing orbits. The heat was unbearable.
He tore the binding clothes from his body as he walked. Where the Oracle Road turned off from the main highway he paused, and passing motorists saw the gigantic figure of a naked giant brooding under the stars. This giant carried the limp figure of another man in his arms. Stopped by policeman, the motorists related what they had seen. But when the former, armed with machine guns and gas bombs reached the spot, the Killer had vanished.
IT was four o'clock in the morning when he came to
Oracle. Sleep hovered over that mountain hamlet of
eighty-nine souls and no one witnessed his coming. He had
covered hundreds of miles in his wandering, quartering this
way and that. Once he had even stood on the peak above the
"window" in the Catalinas and looked down upon Tucson far,
far below. He approached Oracle from the south, over the
hills and ranges, and on a rocky eminence behind the small
town set his burden down.
Frazzini was not dead. He came to himself in the clear mountain dawn lying on a stubble of rock and coarse grass. His uncomprehending eyes at first took in the sky, the rugged scenery, and northward purple distance. He sat up, and in the act of doing so saw the Killer. But was this Killer Mike, this naked, seven-foot giant whose silvery flesh seemed to seethe and churn? Frazzini was a brave man, he possessed undoubted physical courage, but in this situation was something so strange, so weird and uncanny, that the heart fluttered in his bosom, the blood ran cold, and for the first time in his life he really understood the meaning of the word fear.
In the ever deepening dawn a Mexican lad passed with a string of burros and stared fearfully at the two figures on the crest of the hill. "Madre de Dios!" he cried. His ragged heels beat a frightened tattoo into the sides of his mount as he urged it by at its best speed. Where the narrow trail crossed a dirt road a half mile beyond, he met a car full of armed men and a woman. "Si, seńores," he said, in answer to their questions, "I saw two hombres." He crossed himself devoutly. "One naked. Surely the devil himself! And the other——"
But the armed men and the woman were running up the trail down which he had come.
Madness, or perhaps it was a clarity of vision beyond that of earth, had the Killer in its grip. The acceleration of every sense and faculty was sweeping swiftly towards an incredible climax. Earth and sky were shifting, changing. The thoughts of Frazzini beat on his ears. Who was this Frazzini? Frazzini was his enemy. But what meaning could that phrase have for him when the whole world was heaving, churning. His glowing eyes chained those of the other. "Be still," he commanded: Frazzini was silent. Even his thought was stilled. It was good to be free of the clamoring noise that was the other's terrified mind, twisting, turning.
Even as it ceased, he forgot Frazzini's existence, for Frazzini disappeared; the rugged hillside, the sweep of brown landscape going down to the river and sweeping up again, miles away, to the Mammoth Range, was also blotted out, and he was looking into a new world, another dimension! It was an ethereal place, a place of indescribable loveliness, and far away under the rays of an emerald sun formed the spires and domes of a mystical city. Out of the crystal clarity of western sky, just after the sun has dipped below illusive hills and before night comes to mantle the desert, seemed this city fashioned, and almost as impalpable and remote—a crystal city in an opalescent world.
Was it the figment of a delirious mind, or did it actually exist an octave or two beyond the vibration of earthly matter? If the latter were true, then only the Killer's vision achieved a note high enough to glimpse it. For his body never passed beyond the fleshly rhythm that chained his feet to this world.
Though he ran like the wind and came to the environs of that mystical city, though he saw celestial beings of a god-like stature and beauty, and wonders indescribable, though he wandered through the space they occupied, everything remained that to him—space, and nothing more. Sometimes things were below him, sometimes above, and sometimes all around; but wherever they were, he could not touch, he could not handle, he could not make himself real, and in the end they faded. As the accelerating fluid in his system reached its weird climax and began to recede, it was with devastating swiftness. The giant body shrunk in on itself, the eyes became burnt out coals. Searching for the vision he had lost, the mystical city always beyond the horizon, hungry and thirsty and mad, the Killer wandered through the desert, until at last he stumbled over a mound of earth and lacked the strength to rise.
THEY found Frazzini sitting dumbly on the hillside.
But the Big Shot only stared at them uncomprehendingly. "What's the matter, chief?" begged his henchmen. He did not answer. His wife who had come to Tucson on the second plane, sank beside him and took him in her arms. Forgotten was her bitterness. "Tony," she wept, "Tony! Don't you know me, dear?" But no recognition or intelligence would ever look out of those blank eyes. The perverted genius that would have made the very government of the United States a department in an empire of vice was dead—and ironically enough, the man who had willed this mind, this genius to cease, and who alone could bid it again to exist, had forgotten the fact, was himself a madman.
But though they found Frazzini, the Killer was never found. Rewards were offered for him, dead or alive, the desert was scoured, but all in vain. Once a group of searchers paused at an old Mexican woman's abode. This was near the New Mexican border. No, the old woman said, then tended the sheep, she and her son out there, but they had never seen any one.
But she told them nothing of the one great experience of her life; of how her son had died from a snakebite the week before and in her loneliness and grief she had prayed the Virgin Mary to restore him to her. Nor how she had dreamed that this prayer was answered, and when she went to the grave, it was to find a man's body lying across it. He did not look like her son, it is true, but she was old and superstitious and persuaded that a miracle had happened. So for her the dead had risen, and the Killer became her son. Only somewhere in his befogged brain remained the memory of a celestial city (the old woman who understood English and who listened to his mutterings, thought he talked of the heaven he had left to return to her), and as he tended the sheep he would stare longingly at the blue distance; and sometimes the old mother would have to come and lead him home.
But of other things, he remembered nothing.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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