Death out of Thin Air (17 page)

“This fingerprint that shows on the notepaper, Woody. Explain that.”

“The lab gave the note the once over with their iodine fumes and developed that print. One thumbprint with a half inch scar across it. But it's not in the files either here or in Washington. Now what sort of hocus pocus is this Invisible bloke using? You're the expert on that subject. I want a signed interview.”

Don was only half listening to Woody's request. He was more interested, and considerably startled by the curious expression that he saw on Patricia Collins' face.

Pat, his blond young lady assistant who gets sawed in two, burned alive and generally mistreated at each performance only to come up smiling again at the next, had entered the room in time to hear most of Woody's story.

When she saw the reproduction of the note her face had gone completely white. Her hand as she reached and took the paper for a closer look trembled.

Don Diavolo

Woody

Mickey

Pat Collins (we think)

Inspector Church

Karl

Slow suffocation, Don Diavolo thought, was not the easiest way to die

C
HAPTER
III

$10,000 An Hour

D
on pretended not to notice Pat's trembling reaction and he turned quickly to Woody. “At the auto show a week ago,” he said, “The Lord Motor Company displayed their new V-12 and a Dr. Valeski Palgar trained an electrical gadget of his invention on it six times a day. He called it an Invisibility Inducer.

“The Lord car promptly, in full view and under bright lights, faded out of sight except for the chassis and the running motor. When the doctor threw his switches into reverse the Fisher body slowly materialized again. The night before I had intended to go take a look at it someone burgled the Grand Central Palace and walked off with the doctor's machine.

“The next morning it was discovered that Dr. Palgar too had vanished. The papers were full of it. And now, I don't need to be a mind-reader to know darned well that you're going to tell me next that Sergeant Healy was working on the doctor's disappearance. Right?”

“Right,” Woody replied at once. “That's what puts the finishing touch on the story. If it wasn't for that vanishing invisible ray the D. A. would have had Inspector Church laced in a straitjacket before now. It's the only thing that gives him an out.”

“Palgar's invisibility gimmick was an advertising stunt, wasn't it?” Horseshoe asked. “Why don't you ask the Lord Company's advertising department what the gaff was? I should think they'd—”

“But they don't.” Woody answered. “I got on to them right away. They've had cops in their hair ever since last night, and they couldn't tell any of us one blamed thing. They were pretty pleased about the publicity when their invisible ray vanished as if it had backfired, but now, with a murder tacked on, they don't like it.

“Palgar spent a couple of days before the show opened setting up his gadget, but he wasn't giving out any secrets. He worked behind closed doors and he yelled bloody murder every time anyone even tried to poke his nose into the place. He—”

Chan who had gone to answer the phone in the other room returned and announced, “A Mr. J.D. Belmont downstairs asking to see you.”

Woody blinked. “J.D. Belmont. Holy cats! You do move in society, don't you, Don? What causes this?”

“Without looking in my crystal ball,” Don said, “I wouldn't know. I've never set eyes on the man before. Have him sent up, Chan.”

“Who,” Horseshoe asked, “is J.D. Belmont?”

Woody stared at him. “So,” he said, pretending to be greatly offended, “you don't read my column. Or maybe you just don't read. Try it sometime. J.D. Belmont is a millionaire about six times over — or is it sixty? I always get lost at that altitude. He is a sort of invisible man himself — the unseen mastermind behind a couple of dozen corporations and scads of holding companies. He spends his ill-gotten gains on his art collection. He's gathered in half the Old Masterpieces of Europe, his jewel collection has never been equalled, his library of Shakespeare First Folios, Gutenberg Bibles and illuminated manuscripts is—”

The Horseshoe Kid, obviously interested, asked, “Does he play poker?”

“He does,” Woody said. “But when he plays the stakes are so high you wouldn't be able to buy into the game unless you got a finance company to back you.”

“Hmm.” Horseshoe replied. “I'll have to give that some thought. I haven't met the sucker yet that I couldn't—”

As he heard the door to the corridor open Don got up. “You folks sit tight,” he said. He went out and started to close the door behind him.

But Woody Haines slipped through after him, piloting his hefty frame with amazing agility. “No, you don't,” he whispered. “I'm cutting myself in on this. It looks like a story.”

J.D. Belmont stood in the center of the room. A stony-eyed gentleman who was obviously a private detective stuck close to his side and a uniformed chauffeur stood in the doorway, blocking it. They both had their right hands in coat pockets that bulged suspiciously.

The chauffeur was nervous. He kept looking back over his shoulders. Both of them acted as if they had itchy trigger fingers.

Mr. Belmont seemed a bit nervous himself; his short, gruff manner was even a little grouchier than usual. He was a large, heavily built man with bushy jutting eyebrows and a vast frown. He chewed irritably at a long cigar whose gold band bore his own initials. He emitted smoke like a Chinese dragon and there were sulphurous sparks in his deep voice.

“Mr. Diavolo?” he grunted.

Don nodded and introduced Woody as J. Haywood Haines without mentioning that he was a newspaper columnist. J.D. Belmont had a reputation for throwing things at reporters.

“Sit down, won't you?” Don asked.

“No,” Belmont said. “Can't stay. Much too busy. I've got a job for you. Don't have confidence in the police force in this town. Bunch of nincompoops. Hmmmph!” The Finance King, like a destroyer trying to hide from a submarine, exhaled another cloud of smoke.

“But I have a job,” Don started to object. “I—”

J.D. said, “I know. Damn good act too. Fooled
me
completely.” He said it as if that was the first time anything like that had ever happened. “That trick of yours where you put the girl in the box, slide steel plates through her neck and hips, and then show us her head and her legs with nothing at all between. How do you do it? Mirrors, I suppose?”

“I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Mr. Belmont,” Don replied. “You see I've never been able to figure it out myself. It isn't mirrors though, I'm sure about that. First thing I thought of too. I looked. There aren't any.”

The financier almost produced a grin, but the heavy black eyebrows and his brusque, pugnacious manner killed it, half formed. “Yes. Of course. Quite right. About this job. It'll last about an hour. I'll pay you five thousand dollars. Be at my home at Oyster Bay at ten-thirty tomorrow night. Do you have a pen?”