THE doorman of the Marimba Apartments on Park Avenue stared long and hard at the face of the stranger. As the man turned in toward the apartment entrance, the doorman uttered a stifled exclamation.
There was something about the visitor’s appearance to startle any one.
The features of the gentleman were haggard with fear, terror-torn and gray, and his lips trembled in spite of his efforts to keep hold on himself. It was fully five seconds before he was able to speak to the hall attendant.
“I wish to see Doctor Palermo,” he said in a tense voice. “Is — is he in his apartment?”
“Wait here a moment, sir,” replied the attendant. “I must phone upstairs. Your name is—”
“Chatham. Horace Chatham.”
It was not more than half a minute before the hallman received word that the visitor could come up; yet, even during that brief period, Horace Chatham showed signs of unrepressed nervousness.
Pacing back and forth, he clenched and unclenched his fists, and completely betrayed his fearful impatience.
The hallman ushered Chatham into the elevator, instructing the operator to take his passenger to the fortieth floor.
“Sorry about the delay, sir,” he apologized to Chatham. “It’s our orders, you know.”
HORACE CHATHAM did not reply. As the door closed, he leaned against the wall of the elevator, and fought to gain composure.
The smooth, rapid speed of the elevator seemed to restore his confidence. When the operator opened the door at the fortieth floor, he was amazed at the change in Horace Chatham. The man stepped from the elevator with a springy stride, his expression of worry completely gone.
The visitor stood in the anteroom of an apartment that occupied the entire fortieth floor of the building. A single door faced the elevators. There was a bell beside the door. Chatham rang it, and the door opened, released by some mechanical means.
Chatham stepped into a long, dimly-lighted hallway, and the door closed behind him. On the left, the entire wall was fronted with massive bookcases, filled with rows of bound volumes. On the right were several armchairs, and a writing table.
Evidently this was a library. But before Horace Chatham had time to make a minute study of his surroundings, a door opened at the far end of the hallway, and the figure of a tall man stood outlined in the brighter light of the room beyond.
Horace Chatham stepped forward eagerly. The man in the doorway was none other than his host, Doctor Albert Palermo. The two men shook hands; then Palermo took his guest inside and motioned to a comfortable armchair in the corner of the room.
Chatham mopped his forehead as he took his seat. Then he looked up to see Doctor Palermo studying him with quizzical eyes.
THERE was something about Doctor Palermo that commanded instant attention. His face was smooth, and sallow. His hair was short-cropped and slightly gray. His eyes, dark and piercing, seemed powerful, and keenly observant.
It was impossible to estimate the man’s age. Chatham knew that he must be past forty — but beyond that he could venture no opinion.
Like his guest, Doctor Palermo was garbed in evening clothes. Except for their facial differences, one might have passed for the other. Yet no one would ever have mistaken the haggard, careworn features of Horace Chatham for the firm, well-molded countenance of Albert Palermo.
The two men faced each other without speaking.
The room was amazingly silent. None of the uproar of the city’s streets reached that apartment, five hundred feet above the sidewalks of Manhattan. Yet the silence was expressive.
Doctor Palermo seemed to be mentally questioning his visitor, and Horace Chatham seemed incapable of speech.
Palermo finished his quizzical study. He went to a table, opened a door beneath it, and drew out a decanter filled with a light-brown liquid. He poured out a small drink, and offered it to Horace Chatham.
The man in the armchair gulped the contents of the glass. It was some potent liquor that was unfamiliar to him. Doctor Palermo smiled as he witnessed its effect.
The drink was a bracer for Horace Chatham. It seemed to bring sudden light to the man’s face. He looked about him with a wan smile; then he laughed, forgetful of his nervousness.
For the first time, he became fully aware of his surroundings. He saw Doctor Palermo smiling back at him, standing in the center of the small den, with its exquisite furnishings and paneled dark-oak walls.
“Have a cigar,” said Palermo, in a smooth, suave voice.
He proffered a box of expensive perfectos. Chatham took one, and Palermo extended a lighted match.
The doctor also took a cigar, and drew up a chair to the center of the room. There he sat, watching Chatham blow puffs of smoke.
He was a singular man, this Doctor Palermo. His name indicated Italian ancestry, but his nationality was elusive. His words were perfect in enunciation as he spoke to Chatham.
“Worry has brought you here,” he said. “Yet you fought against that worry until it became — terror! I am right?”
Chatham nodded.
“You had no worries the last time I saw you,” remarked Palermo.
Horace Chatham hunched himself in the chair. He looked speculatively at Doctor Palermo.
The quiet demeanor of the tall physician called for confidences. Chatham shook off all hesitation.
“I have a lot of faith in you, doctor,” he said. “Not only because of your skill and reputation, but because of our friendship.”
Doctor Palermo bowed and smiled.
“I couldn’t trust any ordinary physician with this matter,” continued Chatham. “I know what’s the matter with me. Partly imagination, and partly real danger.
“When it finally became too much for me, I had to come to you. Up here— away from every one — well, it’s the only place I can talk, and you’re the only man to whom I can talk!”
DOCTOR PALERMO rested languidly in his chair. He made no effort to hurry Chatham in his discourse. That fact seemed to encourage the visitor.
Well did he know Palermo’s reputation. As an analyst of mental disorders, none could compare with this remarkable physician. Doctor Palermo specialized in psychoanalysis alone.
All his time not devoted to consultations, he spent in his experimental laboratory, here on this fortieth floor. Chatham knew of the laboratory; yet he had never entered it, nor had he ever known Doctor Palermo to admit any one, not even a close friend.
“I’ll have to tell you the whole story,” said Chatham. His words were coming freely now. “It goes back two months — when I was in Florida. Just before Lloyd Harriman committed suicide. You knew Lloyd Harriman, didn’t you, doctor?”
The doctor nodded. “But not professionally. If I had—”
“Perhaps he wouldn’t have killed himself,” supplied Chatham.
“Well, doctor, that’s exactly why I came to you. I am experiencing the same ordeal that Harriman went through.
“I’ve come close to the brink myself. I’ve thought of suicide—”
“Stop thinking of it!”
“But the danger that menaces me! It has followed others before. Harriman was not the first victim!”
Chatham paused, and his face was that of a hunted man. He gripped the arms of his chair, and looked pleadingly toward Doctor Palermo. The calm-faced physician was solemn, yet reassuring.
Chatham moistened his lips. He puffed at his cigar. Then he began his story. A slight quavering of his voice alone betrayed his secret fear.
“I met Harriman in Florida,” he said. “He seemed very morose. Sick and tired. All he wanted to do was drink and gamble. Borrowed money from me. Lost money to me.
“I began to think the money was bothering him — although Harriman was supposed to have millions. But, of course, all his borrowings were at gaming tables, after he had had runs of bad luck and was only out of cash in pocket.”
Chatham stared straight ahead, lost in thought for a moment.
“One night, Harriman asked how much he owed me. I told him— somewhere between three and four thousand dollars. He laughed.
“He brought out a jewel case, and opened it. The case contained a magnificent sapphire — a deep purple color. He told me that it was worth far more than the money he owed me. He asked if I would take it.
“The jewel fascinated me. I accepted it.”
As Horace Chatham paused, a slight expression of surprise flitted over Doctor Palermo’s features. His eyelids flickered for an instant.
Chatham did not notice this. He was too intent on his story.
“Then Harriman came back,” said Chatham. “He wanted me to return the purple sapphire. He offered me twice the amount he had owed me. He seemed insane, the way he pleaded for that cursed stone.
“I refused to give it up.
“Then he told me that the purple sapphire brought ruin to all who owned it. Ever since he had gained it, bad luck had followed him. He talked of the curse of the purple sapphire. He didn’t want it to ruin me as it had ruined him.
“He claimed that attempts had been made on his life — all because of the sapphire. He had virtually given it to me to be rid of it!
“I laughed at all this. It seemed ridiculous — such stuff coming from a man of Harriman’s intelligence.
“When he found that I would not give the sapphire back to him, he made me promise that I would tell no one that I possessed it. Then he went away.
“I never saw him again. He shot himself a few weeks later. No one knew why — but now, I am sure—”
Chatham leaned forward and spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“- it was the curse of the sapphire!”
ONLY the restraining eyes of Doctor Palermo kept Horace Chatham from losing control of himself. His eyes were wild; his lips twitched. He gripped the arms of the chair.
“The purple sapphire,” said Palermo musingly. “I have never heard of it. It is strange that this obsession of Harriman’s should have gripped you, Chatham. You are simply the victim of applied suggestion.”
Chatham’s lips moved, as though he were trying to make them ask a question.
“Harriman believed that the gem carried a curse,” continued Palermo calmly. “His belief was so strong that you were subject to it, also. Your promise to keep it a secret unnerved you, after Harriman’s suicide.
“Now that you have told me of it, you will experience relief. With a few treatments, I can cure you of all fear. Your terror is not real.”
“It is real!” Chatham’s voice was a hoarse scream. “It is real, I tell you! I have never felt safe since I took that gem from Harriman.
“I have been followed. People have entered my apartment while I was away. I have never seen them — but I have found evidence that they have been on my trail. Not more than a week ago, a car followed mine as I came into New York.
“Everywhere — at the theater, at the club — eyes have been watching me.
“Tonight, when I came here, I was followed! I changed cabs, and managed to avoid pursuit. All because I own that cursed purple sapphire!
“I can never lose the curse of it. Harriman died because of it—”
“What have you done with the gem?” questioned Palermo quietly.
“I hid it!” whispered Chatham, in a tense tone. “I hid it, where no one could find it!
“Then I was afraid. Afraid that some one might capture me, and demand the purple sapphire. So I carried it with me, and my fear has been tenfold!”
“Where is it now?”
Horace Chatham hesitated. He stared fixedly at the physician. For a moment two wills were at odds; then Chatham yielded. The friendly, urging influence of Doctor Palermo seemed to overcome his fears and suspicions.
With a gasp of relief, Chatham reached into a pocket of his coat, and brought out a small jewel case, which he held in his tightly clenched fist.
“Let me see it.”
Gently, as though dealing with a child, Doctor Palermo removed the jewel case from Horace Chatham’s clutch. He opened it, and the purple sapphire, a huge, exquisite gem, glowed with weird beauty in the soft light of the room.
“Shall I keep it for you?” questioned Palermo, in subtle, alluring tones.
“No! No!”
Chatham made a grasp for the jewel case with its precious contents. Palermo drew away, and stopped the other man with raised hand.
“Easy, Chatham,” he said. “Remember, I am your friend.”
“But it is mine!” exclaimed Chatham. “I must keep it! I shall always be cursed with it!
“Harriman did not die until he lost it. While I carry it, my life is safe. Once out of my hands, it will bring me death—”
“Relax!” commanded Doctor Palermo. “Let me talk to you, Chatham.
“I can help you. I can put an end to your troubles and your fears. Sit back in your chair.”
Horace Chatham obeyed. He lay back in the chair and reclined his head so that it nearly rested against the oak paneling of the wall. He watched Palermo deftly remove the purple sapphire from its case.
“A beautiful gem,” observed the physician. “Strange that those who hold it should fear it. I would not dread its curse, if it were mine!”
The words soothed Chatham. He half smiled as he looked at the gem which Doctor Palermo held. So intent was his mind on it that he was utterly oblivious to all else.
THE panel behind Horace Chatham’s head slid noiselessly to one side. The action followed a motion by Doctor Palermo — a simple gesture in which the physician raised the forefinger of his left hand.
As the panel opened, two thick-set brown hands came into view, one on each side of Chatham’s chair.
“You will forget your fears, Chatham,” came Palermo’s dulcet voice. “In an instant they will vanish — and they will never return. I can promise you that—”
The physician spoke on, gazing intently at the gem in his hand. But Horace Chatham never heard the words that followed. For while Palermo talked, the brown hands slipped suddenly forward, and, coming together, gripped Chatham’s throat.
A slight gurgle escaped Chatham’s lips. He clutched and clawed at the strangling hands, but his efforts were without avail. The grim talons were victorious. The pressure never yielded while Chatham gasped away his life.
When the man in the chair became motionless, the brown hands slipped back into the darkness, and the panel closed in the wall.
Doctor Palermo was still speaking, and his voice was gloating. He was talking to a dead man in the chair.
He stopped suddenly, and looked at Chatham’s body while he smiled. Then he turned away, and opened the drawer of a table. Replacing the purple sapphire in its case, he tossed the gem and its carrier into the drawer.
He walked forward to Chatham’s limp form. He removed various articles from the dead man’s pockets and inspected them.
A smile flickered on his face as he discovered a theater ticket. Doctor Palermo placed the bit of cardboard in his own vest pocket. He also transferred Chatham’s wallet and several cards to his own clothing.
From a table drawer, Palermo brought out a long, flat metal box, which he laid on a stand, close by the chair in which Chatham had died.
Then followed a most amazing procedure.
Opening the box, Palermo produced articles of make-up, and with swiftness and precision, he began to apply cosmetics to his face.
He looked closely at the dead man’s face as he went through this operation. At intervals he paused, and turned to a mirror. He looked back and forth, comparing his own visage with that of Chatham.
The mysterious physician’s face rapidly underwent a surprising transformation. More and more it came to resemble the countenance of Horace Chatham, until it was impossible to distinguish any great differences between the face of the living man and that of the victim in the chair.
The only contrast was the hair. Doctor Palermo overcame that discrepancy by bringing forth a box full of wigs. He selected one that closely resembled Chatham’s dark, bushy hair.
When he had placed this on his head, Palermo stood before the mirror and chuckled maliciously as he studied his handiwork.
Palermo snapped his fingers twice. A panel opened in the wall, and from this concealed door stepped forth a tall, powerful, brown-skinned man. Palermo pointed to the body and uttered a few words in a foreign tongue.
The dark man placed his massive hands under Chatham’s shoulders, and lifted the victim with ease. He carried the body through the panel, and it closed after him, leaving a solid wall.
The murderer had taken away his victim. No trace of the tragedy remained— except Chatham’s hat and overcoat, which lay upon a chair in the corner.
Doctor Palermo disposed of these by donning them. Then he went to a small filing cabinet, and ran through the cards to the letter C.
“Chatham, Horace,” he read, half-aloud. “Spends much time at the Argo Club.”
The physician chuckled. “A good place to be after the theater,” he observed.
One last glance in the mirror. Then Doctor Palermo stood in deep thought. He went back to the filing cabinet, and again glanced at the card that bore the name of Horace Chatham.
He referred to a list of names in the lower corner of the card, and made a quick inspection of other cards in the cabinet.
Something that he discovered there pleased him, for he momentarily forgot the part that he was playing, and his expression was far different from any that had ever been displayed by Horace Chatham. It was an ugly, leering grin, that was most evident at the corners of Palermo’s mouth.
The look passed away, and Palermo again became the double of Horace Chatham.
The physician went to the anteroom, and summoned the elevator. His face was haggard and worried as he looked at the operator.
In the hall, he summoned a cab, and stayed within the door until the vehicle had reached the curb.
Then, with a furtive glance, Palermo hurried across the sidewalk, entered the cab, and was driven away.
“Funny bloke,” observed the elevator operator, speaking to the hallman. “You’d remember him if you saw him again, wouldn’t you?”
“I remember faces, and I remember names,” was the reply. “I’ll know him if he comes again. Horace Chatham — to see Doctor Palermo.”
The disguise had stood its first test. Already two men were positive that the man who had left the Marimba Apartments was Horace Chatham.