Part 8 (1/2)

He replied amiably, ”Indeed? Did you try pressing the b.u.t.ton which frees the locks?”

”I certainly did!”

He examined the intricate array on the dash, and said, ”Why, the master-switch seems to have been open. I hope you weren't inconvenienced.”

It seemed a thin explanation. I believed he had locked me in the machine merely out of a childish whim he could show me that he could make me stay put. I was also riled inwardly by his inscrutability, the lack of an emotional display on his features; I was curious to know his thoughts, and his face told me nothing.

”What did you ask the costume shop man?” I demanded sharply.

He pretended not to hear my query. He started the engine, and the car joined the traffic. He drove with the sort of carelessness which characterizes taxi drivers in New York City, the ease which some people feel comes from skill and experience in coping with traffic, but which always makes me nervous.

”What did you ask the man?” I shouted.

”Henry,” he said thoughtfully. ”Do you suffer from pains in the chest, headaches, nightmarish dreams, and do you occasionally awaken from sleep with violent starts?”

”Certainly!” I snapped. ”I am a nervous sort.”

”You should,” he advised, ”take things less seriously, including yourself.”

”All right, don't tell me!” I yelled.

THE man Savage had a fabulous laboratory. I had heard rumors of it, exaggerated, I supposed. But they weren't exaggerated. The laboratory was really superb, and particularly remarkable in that it was equipped for scientific research in many fields-it was not just a general lab; it was one in which a man could specialize in chemistry, electro-chemistry, electronics, metallurgy, surgery, and Heaven knows how many other things.

It was dumfounding. One had to be a scientist to appreciate the place. It occupied, on the eighty-sixth floor of a midtown skysc.r.a.per, the entire floor with the exception of a reception room and another room containing a scientific library that was also breath-taking.

”Goodness!” My tone was awed. ”Who designed this place for you?”

”It's my own arrangement,” he said, not as though he was boasting, but as if he was preoccupied withother thoughts.

I hardly believed that. It was even improbable that the mind of one man would acc.u.mulate enough variety of specialized knowledge to use all this apparatus.

Moving over to a section devoted to metallurgy, which is my field, I was amazed to note the advanced nature of the equipment, and also of the experiments that had obviously been performed there. Enough signs of the sort of work done were lying about to inform me that some of the work exceeded my own knowledge considerably. I was aware of a bitter jealousy, combined with envy.

It just wasn't possible that this man Savage had such scientific ability. There had to be another explanation.

I was speechless.

The telephone rang.

Savage was on the instrument instantly. ”Yes. . . . Monk? You have? . . . That's a bad break. We'll be there in a hurry.”

He hung up, turned to me, and said, ”Let's go, Henry.”

”Where?”

”Monk has found your friend.”

”Friend?”

”The one we've been calling polite-boy.”

”No!” I gasped. ”Found him? But Mayfair couldn't have! He had no clue!”

Not until we were northbound in that tank-like automobile-which, incidentally didn't much resemble the rolling fortress that it was-did Savage condescend to explain.

He said: ”Finding the fellow was no trick. As you know, we planted midget radio transmitters in the cabs he was likely to take, and also a radioactive powder where he was likely to get it on his shoe soles.”

”The powder would have worn off his shoes by now!” I said skeptically.

”Here's what someone forgot to tell you, Henry. There was some preparation before the fellow left the hospital. One of his shoe heels was hollowed out, and an ultra-short-wave exciter placed there. In other words, another radio gadget which can be traced.”

I was speechless some more. Such devices were preposterous, but I was getting to the point where almost any wild thing seemed logical.

THE house was a brownstone in the upper Eighties, west of Central Park. The street was dark, fairly quiet, although a newsboy was hawking his wares at a distant corner. Savage parked and waited a while, his eyes searching different directions.

In a moment, the Mayfair fellow separated from the slightly blacker shadow of a doorway. He waddled to us, opened the door, leaned inside, said, ”Ain't nothing new happened.””Seen anyone around?”

”Nope.” Mayfair jerked his cowcatcher jaw at the house. ”Ground floor. Front room. Not bad diggings.”

Savage said, ”We'll have a look.” He alighted from the car.

Mayfair gazed at me. ”Henry going in with us?”

”If he wishes,” Savage replied.

I had been thinking of polite-man with terror. After all, the chap had endeavored to kill me.

”Aren't you going to call the police?” I demanded uneasily.

Not answering this, Mayfair said, ”Henry's liable to throw one of his whing-dings.”

He was aspersing my courage, naturally. ”I was struck on the head!” I snapped. ”I wasn't hysterical at the Farrar apartment-it was a dazed condition.”

Mayfair grinned. ”Your nerve is all right, then?”

”Absolutely!”

”Okay. You can lead the way for us,” Mayfair said.

Savage said impatiently, ”Cut it out, Monk. Henry isn't accustomed to this sort of thing.”

Not until we were in the house, and in polite-man's rooms, did I understand the grisly death's-head humor Mayfair had been indulging.

Polite-man was dead.