The Shadow (8 page)

Again the sound interrupted him. But all at once it seemed to be coming from the vicinity of the coffin. Rats, he decided, a common enough freeloader in packing crates.

“The lullaby of Broadway—”

The sound returned, loud enough to startle him. “Uh, Professor Newboldt, sir?” he called, in a weak voice.

When, after only ten seconds, Newboldt hadn’t answered, Nelson slipped from the stool, drawing his revolver. The coffin’s uppermost latch sprung open as he approached.

Holding the gun in one hand, he reached over his head and palmed the latch shut—only to see the lowermost of the five snap open. When he stooped to close that one, the top latch opened once more. And when he slammed his hand against that, the third undid itself, then the fourth, then the fifth, snapping open and closed, faster than he could attend to them, ultimately with such fury that the coffin started trembling and bucking.

Nelson backed away, his revolver raised, and gradually the latches’ deafening tattoo subsided. But now he could hear a kind of thudding emanating from
inside
the coffin, and as he watched the unlatched doors parted, with a pneumatic hiss and an issue of what could have been smoke or a cloud produced by rapidly evaporating dry ice.

Inside the coffin, encased by moiré padding, stood the figure of a man. Powerful-looking though of medium height, the figure was panoplied head to foot in antique green silk that was studded with bronze disks and Chinese coins. It wore an elaborate, conical headpiece, whose quilted sides draped the figure’s ears; a short cape emblazoned with flame and dragon motifs; and a black lacquer mask.

The figure raised its right hand and removed the mask, revealing a fierce, dark-complected Asian face, trimmed with a short, black beard. It inhaled deeply and let go of the mask, which shattered on the cement floor.

“I don’t know how you got in there, buddy,” Nelson managed, “but the museum’s closed. N-next time, do like everybody else and pay your admission at the front door.”

The Asian regarded him and stepped from the closet-size interior of the coffin. “Join me or die,” he intoned in accented English.

“Say again?”

The man took another step in Nelson’s direction. “Join me . . . or
die.”

Nelson tried to avoid looking at the man’s eyes but found himself transfixed, unable to turn his head, let alone to triggger the revolver. He swayed, holding the gun in front of him. “You’re trespassing on private property.”

The Asian showed him a look of utter contempt. “Your mind is
weak.
You aren’t
worthy
of my presence.”

Nelson swallowed and found his voice. “Don’t come any . . . any . . .”

The Asian continued to close in on him, lifting his right hand and giving it a curious twist. “Fall to your knees and kowtow to me.” Nelson dropped to his knees. Suddenly the Asian’s hand assumed the profile of a gun. “Now, place the gun to your temple.” The Asian’s hand did that, forefinger for a barrel.

Horrified that his own hand was obeying, Nelson did as ordered, lifting the revolver to his head.

The Asian closed his eyes serenely and growled: “Now, sacrifice yourself to Shiwan Khan.”

“Yes, my Khan,” Nelson said with little hesitation, his trigger-finger free at last to execute his intent.

Newboldt and Berger were returning from one of the offices in the cataloguing section when they heard the report of the shot and quickened their pace to the receiving area. Newboldt had tried to contact his immediate superior but hadn’t gotten through. Just as well, he had been telling himself. Naturally, the coffin would have to be authenticated. Then, too, there was the mystery of its late-night arrival—

“That’s Nelson’s gun!” Berger said.

Newboldt was second through the doors but the first to halt. Revolver in hand, Nelson was lying facedown in the middle of the cold floor, a pool of blood spreading around his head. Berger ran to him, winced, and shook his head at Newboldt. Newboldt turned away from the grisly scene and saw that the coffin was open.

And empty.

It was then that a disquieting feeling began to ladder through him. On first entering the room, he thought he had glimpsed an unrecognized figure standing amid the cluster of life-size statues of medieval warriors. His hackles up, Newboldt performed a cautious turn in the direction of the statues, but there were only the six of them he knew by heart.

W
ith evil afoot, it was not a night for sleeping.

In room 2512 of the Federal Building, one in a copse of tall structures that comprised the heart of downtown, Dr. Reinhardt Lane was up late, tinkering with the device that had been his grail for the past decade. That the U.S. government had a strong say in what went on inside top-floor 2512 was evidenced by the two Marines who stood guard at the door to the laboratory, guns on their hips and hands clasped behind their backs. The door’s glass panel read:
WAR DEPARTMENT, RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT. REINHARDT LANE AND AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Evil or no, it was Lane’s habit to work early into the morning, amid tabletops cluttered with chemical glassware and technical instruments, wheeled chalkboards filled with esoteric scrawl, seemingly haphazard stacks of open textbooks and hastily scribbled jottings. Lane was in his mid-sixties, rangy, mustachioed, large-featured, and somewhat rumpled-looking in a brown wool tweed jacket with suede elbow patches and, that night, a finely striped, deep-red, cotton-flannel shirt. He wore oval wire-rim glasses and sometimes spoke with a slight brogue. The sort of hands-on scientist whose pockets were likely to hold an assortment of small tools.

Lane’s wife had died years earlier, and his only child had moved into her own brownstone apartment. So why not work late, he frequently asked himself.

Lane was seated at his desk, bent over a soccerball-size orb of royal-blue alloy, into whose surface were secured some thirty or more relays that resembled spark plugs—the entire device held in place by a rig Lane had cobbled together using two plumber’s helpers. Off to one side of the desk sat Lane’s largely untouched dinner: a sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of Pepsi Cola. His mind was shut off from all distractions, including his chief distraction of the moment, Farley Claymore, colleague and reliable nuisance, who was hovering about, determined to make conversation.

“Didn’t you hear me, Lane?” Claymore was saying. “I’ve completed work on the beryllium sphere. All that’s left to do is run some submersion tests to verify the pressure calculations. I’m telling you, the army is going to eat this thing up.”

Lane had a soft cloth in hand and was cleaning each plug before screwing it into the orb. He exhaled in irritation and swung to Farley. “Farley, our grant stipulates we’re to engage in
energy
research, not weapons research. How many times do you have to be told that I’m not interested in discussing the potential military applications of our project?”

Claymore planted his hands on his hips and barked a laugh. “Don’t kid yourself, Lane. This isn’t Consolidated Edison we’re working for, this is the
War
Department. They’re not interested in ‘viable’ energy. And once they get their hands on that precious implosion orb of yours, you can bet your life they’re going to find a military application for it. So all I’m saying is why not position ourselves to reap the financial benefits of our work by advising them of the potential?”

Lane was a physicist and chemist. Claymore’s specialty was munitions, but he was also an engineer. He had a rectangular face, baggy though bulging eyes, a weak chin, and an unctuously ingratiating manner, well served by a mane of greasy black hair and a midnight-blue, single-breasted, wool serge suit with chalk stripes. The past five years had seen Lane and Claymore partnered on Lawrence’s cyclotron project, Sherrington’s research into subatomic particles, and Fermi’s investigation of quantum states.

Claymore had lifted one of the plugs from their test tube-like rack and was fiddling with it. Lane wrenched it out of his hands and set to work cleaning it. “What the War Department does with the device is their business. I’m certain, however, that once they realize its potential for deriving useable energy from implosion that they’ll do what’s right. All that’s required is a suitable fuel source.”

Farley looked imploringly at the ceiling. “How naïve you are, Doctor.”

Lane bridled. “I would have gone to the private sector for funding if you hadn’t convinced me that working for the government was the answer to our prayers. Who’s to blame for that, Farley? Certainly not me.”

A crazed grin split Claymore’s face. “But the government could
be
the answer to our prayers if you’d only listen to reason. Your problem is that you don’t think big enough. If you’d only let me handle things, the world could be our oyster.”

Lane put his glasses on to examine one of the orb’s threaded seatings. “Oysters give me a rash,” he said, returning to his work.

“Ten
-hut!”
Farley barked, with a crisp salute for one of the Marines stationed in the corridor. The pair of them, in green woolens and white leggings, snapped to, straightening their shoulders and bringing their hands smartly to their sides.

Farley moved down the long corridor, a spring to his step, beaming in self-amusement. He wasn’t halfway along when the elevator doors at the end of the hallway opened, revealing Margo Lane, wearing the same crisscross, cream satin gown she had worn to the Cobalt Club.

Farley sucked in his breath at the sight of her, practically gagging himself, and threw his arms wide as he hastened toward her. “Oooh, Margo . . . What a beautiful dress,” he said, standing in her way. His eyes went straight to her cleavage, and he forced two short, lecherous exhales. “And s-such a
clever
neckline.” He made that ga-ga sound again.

Margo smiled tightly. “Excuse me, Mr. Claymore, but I’d like to see my father.”

She stepped around him and continued toward the office, but he wasn’t long in catching up. He moved past her and leaned an arm against the wall, preventing her from passing.

“Uh, uh, Margo, authorized personnel only. But I suppose we can make an exception in your case.” He was the would-be suave playboy now. “But first, tell me, when are you going to come down and see my beryIlium sphere?” He cut his eyes to the dress, then showed her a dopey grin.

“I’m not interested in your . . . spheres, Mr. Claymore.”

Once more she stepped around him, and, undaunted, he pulled exactly the same move, playfully wagging his forefinger in front of her. “Margo, you don’t return my calls anymore.”

“That’s not true,” she said, leading him on before lowering the boom. “I never did return your calls.”

Farley slumped in exaggerated defeat. “I know. And I can’t imagine why.”

Margo leaned toward him and lifted his chin, her touch enough to induce a moment of staccato panting. “Because I don’t like you,” she said in a slow, falsely intimate whisper that emphasized each word.

Farley’s eyes were fastened to her bare back as she walked away; then he folded his arms across his chest and gurgled a laugh. “Fascinating woman!” he said, more to himself.

Margo made directly for her father’s desk—which was never an easy task, what with the distillation experiments in progress on every countertop, the beakers full of bubbling liquids, the electrical current jumping between galvanic spheres. Lane, his tweed jacket hung on the back of the chair, was still leaning over his work, muttering to himself, oblivious to her entry. Quietly, she set her stole and beaded handbag down, moved around behind him, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Margo, what a nice surprise,” he told her. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“Dad, it’s two
A.M.
”

He glanced absently at his pocket watch. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said evasively. Her gaze drifted to Lane’s flannel shirt. “Dad,
where
you get this shirt?”

He studied it for a moment. “You said you liked me in green.”

Margo nodded. “I do. But
that’s
green,” she said, pointing to his drinking mug. “This—” she pinched hold of the shirt “—is red.”

“Green, red, what does it matter so long as the shirt’s clean?”

She rolled her eyes and gave him another peck, then took the apple from his desk and walked the few feet to his cozy reading chair, settling into it with her legs crossed over the rounded arm.

“Dad, do you believe in telepathy? As a scientist, I mean.”

Lane glanced at her while he worked on the orb with a small pair of pliers. “Mind reading?”

“Do you think it can exist between certain people?”

Lane stroked his chin. “Thoughts are not substantial things that can simply be passed along. We’re talking about the electrical activity of the brain. Oh, perhaps with the aid of a device that could record those electrical impulses, then decipher and somehow transfer them. But between
people
—unassisted? No, I don’t think it’s possible. Though your mother certainly did. It was uncanny the way she sometimes knew what I was thinking. But I suspect that her gift was nothing more than a product of her powers of observation. No, I’m afraid I’d have to side with the Great Dunniger and say that telepathy is simply a case of stage magic.”

Margo was fiddling with the stem of the apple and gazing contemplatively at the ceiling, where the banks of fluorescents, the city light through Venetian blinds, the humming arc lamps, and the Bunsen burner flames had conspired to create a dizzying chiaroscuro of flickering light and shadow. She reflected on her evening with the inscrutable Lamont Cranston, the chief cause of her insomnia.

“Somehow, I expected you to say that,” she told her father at last. “But it’s so strange. I’ve always had the feeling that there was this . . . indescribable connection out there, just waiting to happen to me. And tonight, suddenly, there it was.”

Lane surfaced from a moment of intense preoccupation, “That’s nice, dear. Although what you’re saying suggests a belief in predestination—another scientific implausibility, unless we choose to posit the existence of faster-than-light particles to vouchsafe—” He caught himself running on and looked at her. “What exactly are we talking about?”