THE elevator reached the fortieth floor of the Marimba Apartments and Clyde Burke was left alone in the anteroom. He had already been announced. Now the newspaperman studied the door before him with observant eyes. He was impressed by the massiveness of its construction.
He rang the bell and waited. There was something uncanny in the way the door opened.
Entering, Burke felt a sinking feeling. The dimly-lighted hallway, with its huge bookcases, seemed like the entrance to a medieval castle.
As the newspaperman walked along the thickly carpeted passage, the door opened at the other end, and he beheld a robed figure standing there.
The form of the man seemed like some inquisitor, until Burke had approached more closely. Then he identified the man’s garment as a physician’s gown, but instead of being the usual white, the gown was a deep yellow.
“Mr. Burke?”
The question came in a modulated voice. As Burke acknowledged it, he realized that he was in the presence of a most unusual person, and surmised correctly that it was Doctor Palermo.
The physician ushered Burke into the paneled room, and invited him to take a chair. Burke accepted the cigar that was offered.
These ceremonies over, Doctor Palermo stood in the center of the room, his hands behind his back, and waited. There was nothing questioning in his attitude. He merely expected the visitor to state his business.
“I appreciate this reception,” began Burke. “It occurred to me, to-day, that you might be willing to grant me an interview—”
“On what subject?” came the doctor’s interruption.
“On the subject of Horace Chatham,” answered Burke frankly.
Doctor Palermo laughed, without changing the steady impression of his lips.
“I have stated all that I know about Chatham,” he said, in carefully accented words. “He was here the afternoon before he visited Seth Wilkinson. You will find my statements in the newspapers. That is all that I have deemed it necessary to say.”
He bowed slightly, as though he wished the interview to be concluded. Burke merely leaned back in his chair, blew a puff of smoke from his cigar, and eyed the doctor rather curiously.
“There are certain factors in the case of Horace Chatham,” he said, “that brought me here tonight. I understand perfectly that you have given a complete statement of Chatham’s visit in this apartment.
“But I think — in fact, I feel sure — that Chatham was governed by certain emotions unknown to you.”
“If so,” returned Palermo coldly, “it would not interest me to know them now.”
“And it would interest me to know your opinion regarding them.”
THE young journalist met the physician’s gaze unflinching. Burke’s physical appearance was deceiving, but his indomitable spirit could be seen in his eyes.
Palermo recognized it. He realized that he was dealing with a man of purpose. For a moment a trace of anger came upon his features; then he suddenly softened, and seemed to express real interest in Burke’s words.
“Very well,” said Doctor Palermo, in an indulgent tone. “Tell me what you have ascertained regarding Horace Chatham.”
“Doctor Palermo,” said Burke, “I have met many men who have committed crimes. I have invariably found that they are either extremely hardened, or excessively emotional.
“If — as is well conceded — a murder was committed by Horace Chatham the night after he was here, it seems to me that you would have detected something in his manner that would have warned you.
“That has been covered in my statement to the police,” retorted Doctor Palermo. “Chatham was emotional that evening. But the inspiring motive of his emotion was money. He could talk of nothing else.
He was almost incoherent—”
“Yet,” interposed Burke, “it now appears that Chatham did not lack money. His finances were in reasonably good shape. If he killed Wilkinson for the sake of thirty thousand dollars, he was wasting his efforts.”
Doctor Palermo shrugged his shoulders. Burke was inwardly pleased. He had forced the physician into a position that made a quick reply impossible.
He waited for the doctor to speak. But Palermo artfully changed the subject.
“You must pardon me for a few minutes,” he said. “I can discuss this with you later. I was working in my laboratory when you called, and I must return there.”
He started away, then motioned to Burke.
“Come along, if you wish,” he added. “My laboratory may interest you.”
He led the way through two curtains at the side of the room. He unlocked a strong door, and Burke followed him. They entered a large room, fully equipped with apparatus.
Doctor Palermo stopped at a white-porcelain table where a bowl of green liquid was boiling above a gas burner. The physician took a small vial from a shelf, and poured a few drops from it into the bowl.
Immediately the bubbling ceased, and as the liquid simmered, it changed from green to a deep red.
“One of my experiments,” explained Doctor Palermo. “It may develop into a great scientific discovery.
Hassan!”
His last word was a loud exclamation. It startled Burke. He could not understand its significance, until he saw a huge brown man appear through a door at the side of the laboratory.
The man was dressed in a white robe, and wore a white head-covering. To Burke’s imaginative mind, he might have been a jinni of the “Arabian Nights,” summoned at his master’s command.
Doctor Palermo uttered a few words in a foreign tongue. The servant bowed. He removed the glass bowl with his white gloved hands, and carried it into a smaller room that adjoined the laboratory.
“Hassan is my assistant,” explained the physician. “He is an Arab who does not understand a word of English. More than that, he has lost the use of his tongue and cannot speak.”
“That must be a disadvantage,” observed Burke.
“Not at all,” returned Palermo. “In my studies of the human mind, I have noted that the loss of one faculty invariably develops the others.
“A deaf man uses his eyes better than the rest of us. A blind man has a wonderfully keen sense of touch.
Those who cannot speak become wise because they are silent.
“Hassan is faithful, willing, and — necessarily — discreet. Come.”
HE took the newspaperman to a corner of the laboratory, and showed him a row of glass jars, each containing a mass of white substance. He brought down one of the jars, and opened the top.
“A human brain,” he said. “A human brain, with its furrowed surface. A brain that once had ideas — that once created thoughts— now nothing but a mass of idle mechanism.
“This brain”—he set the jar upon a table—”may have caused all types of impulses; but now one could not identify it from another.
“Let us suppose, for instance, that this is the brain of Horace Chatham. Can you see anything that would indicate a mind for murder?”
There was a daring challenge in Palermo’s voice. Burke suddenly remembered the words of George Clarendon — that unended sentence which had led to the supposition that Chatham had suffered ill at Palermo’s hands.
Burke became suddenly tense, and suspicion surged through him. Then he caught Palermo’s steady gaze.
Burke laughed.
“The police would like to have Chatham’s brain in a glass jar,” he said. “If they ever catch him, and give him the third degree, his brain won’t be much use to him after they are through.
“By the way, doctor”—Burke was artful as he changed the subject— “where do you obtain all these brains?”
“From various sources,” replied the physician quietly, “but those that I prize most highly are willed to me.”
“Willed to you!”
“Yes. By patients whom I have benefited. I have often made that bargain with them.
“Their brains are useful to them when they are alive. I have enabled them to overcome mental disorders.
More than one has agreed willingly that some day his — or her — brain may repose in my collection.
“Here”—he went back to the shelf—”is the brain of an eminent lawyer. This”—he indicated the side of another brain—”is the cerebral mechanism of a man who was once a most prominent artist.
“I don’t believe I have the brain of a journalist in this exhibit. Perhaps —” he looked speculatively at Burke.
“Perhaps newspapermen have no brains?” questioned Burke, with a forced laugh.
“No,” replied Doctor Palermo seriously, “not that. All men have brains. I thought perhaps you might be willing to some day contribute your brain to my collection — provided, of course, that you should die young.”
Burke was silent. There was something ominous in the physician’s tone. The ex-reporter felt ill at ease.
He decided to bring the discussion back to the subject of his visit.
“Regarding Chatham—” he began cautiously.
“Ah, yes,” interrupted Doctor Palermo. “Horace Chatham. I was just mentioning his brain. I already have the brain of one murderer.
“But you are interested in the living, not the dead. Therefore you would like to discuss Chatham as he was the evening he called upon me. My experiments are finished. Come.”
As Burke followed the doctor from the laboratory, he recalled a subtleness in the man’s last sentences.
Palermo had said that he would discuss Chatham “as he was.” Did that mean that Chatham no longer lived?
The newspaperman realized that he was dealing with a genius who spoke with double meanings.
Therefore, he resolved upon extreme discretion.
Hassan met the men outside the laboratory. Doctor Palermo made a sign with his right hand. The servant assisted him in removing his laboratory garments. Then he brought out an Oriental robe of deep crimson, embroidered with gold dragons. Evidently a Chinese dress, thought Burke.
Doctor Palermo donned the robe, and his whole appearance changed. He looked more like a mandarin than a physician. A strange man, thought Burke. Yet Palermo’s next action was more remarkable.
He snapped his fingers, and as though in answer to a command, a panel slid open in the wall beside the laboratory door. It revealed a circular staircase.
With a motion to follow, the crimson-clad physician went up the staircase, with Burke at his heels.
They reached a penthouse on the roof. Here was a gorgeous room, bizarre in its Oriental furnishings.
Doctor Palermo seemed to fit into the surroundings, while Burke felt out of place. The physician sat in a large chair that was almost thronelike, and Burke took his position on a high-backed couch.
“This impresses you as odd?” questioned Palermo, with a smile. “You would not wonder if you understood. It is my method of complete relaxation.
“I realize the dire results of high nervous tension. When I have completed work in my laboratory, I invariably come here. It completely changes my mental attitude. Hassan!”
At the command, the Arab seemed to appear from nowhere. Like his master, he was clad in Oriental garments. He seemed to know what Doctor Palermo desired, for he went to the French doors at the end of the room, and swung them open.
Burke could see out over the city below. Myriads of twinkling lights shone in the distance. It was a wonderful vista that was beyond the most imaginative dream of an ancient writer.
“Come!”
Burke walked to the roof of the building. It was flat, with a railing. Doctor Palermo led his visitor to the rail, and pointed out beyond.
“Here,” he said, “I am monarch of the world. The trivial affairs of mankind”—he pointed to the street below, where toylike automobiles rolled along a street that seemed no wider than a ribbon—”those affairs seem very small and futile.
“It is a long way down there. It would seem long if one should fall. Moments would seem like hours. To a falling man, all the past events of his life flash through his mind.”
The doctor’s hand gripped Burke’s elbow, and the newspaperman stepped back from the rail in alarm.
Palermo smiled broadly, and Burke saw that smile in the light from the Oriental room.
He noticed the ugly expression that came to the corners of the physician’s mouth. Burke shuddered instinctively.
“Come!”
THEY went back into the penthouse. Hassan arrived with two small glasses, containing a browning liqueur, that shone with specks of glistening gold. Burke took one glass, the doctor the other.
When Palermo raised the glass to his lips. Burke did likewise. The drink was new to him. It had a potency that he had never before experienced.
“Regarding Chatham,” said Doctor Palermo suddenly. “I regret very much that I did not have time to study his case. Had I done so, I would have possibly prevented a murder. I expected him to return at a later date.”
“Did you notice anything peculiar about his actions?” ventured Burke.
“In what way?”
“Did he — did he seem like himself? Or did he, perhaps, seem to have assumed a different personality?”
Doctor Palermo’s eyes narrowed, and Burke could almost feel their scrutiny. He regretted his question.
Perhaps it had been too leading.
“You mean,” asked Palermo, “you mean — was I sure that he was Horace Chatham?”
“No, no,” came Burke’s hasty reply. “Of course it was Horace Chatham. His actions have been thoroughly traced by many witnesses who saw him. I just thought he might have seemed well, different, that evening.”
“He was nervous,” said Doctor Palermo thoughtfully. “Outside of that, he was his usual self.”
Burke was feeling the effects of his drink. He seemed to have a new boldness that led him to press the issue. His cautiousness was in conflict with his usual good judgment.
“Did Chatham”—Burke’s voice was slightly agitated—”did Chatham mention anything about a — a—purple sapphire?”
“A purple sapphire?” The doctor’s voice registered slight surprise. “Why, no! I thought all sapphires were purple.”
“They’re a deep blue,” said Burke. He swayed slightly in his chair. “This one was — a deeper blue. It was — purple. It belonged to a man named Harriman— Lloyd Harriman — friend of Chatham’s.
“Harriman died in Florida — suicide. The purple sapphire was bad luck. Perhaps — perhaps Chatham got that sapphire. Bad luck, you know. I wondered—”
The evil grin spread slowly over Doctor Palermo’s face. Clyde Burke saw it, as one might see a phantom in a dream. He seemed to be living through a nightmare, now. He tried to speak again, but words refused to reach his lips.
“The purple sapphire.” Doctor Palermo’s words seemed to come slowly, as from a distance. “Was it valuable?”
“Very — very — valuable,” murmured Burke thickly.
“I must consider this—” said Doctor Palermo. “You must come again, and tell me more. But tonight — you do not seem well. Hassan!”
THE Arab entered softly. Doctor Palermo pointed to Burke, now sagging limply in his chair. Hassan left the room and returned with a glass of water. Doctor Palermo then left the room.
Burke did not see him go. He was drinking the water with Hassan’s aid. When the physician returned, Burke was sitting upright in his chair, looking like a man who had recovered from a daze.
“Ah! You feel better?” The physician’s voice expressed concern. Burke nodded, and grinned.
“That drink was a bit stiff,” he said sheepishly. “What were we saying?”
Doctor Palermo smiled mildly. This time there was no malice in his expression. He impressed Burke with his kindliness.
“It is too late to talk now,” he said. “You seem tired. Call the apartment tomorrow, and I shall arrange another appointment for you. I have just been telephoning. I have called a cab to take you home. I thought you were unwell.”
“Never mind the cab,” protested Burke. “I take the subway home — up to Ninety-sixth Street.”
Doctor Palermo shook his head.
“The cab is paid for,” he said. “It would be best for you to ride in it. Besides”—he pointed to Hassan, who was closing the doors to the roof—”it is raining now. I have made all the arrangements. Come!”
Burke followed the physician down the spiral staircase. He felt steady now. The door at the bottom was open; a minute later they were standing by the elevator.
“The hallman will show you to the cab,” said Doctor Palermo, as the elevator arrived.
“Thanks,” replied Burke.
The elevator door closed, and the newspaperman began his downward trip.
Doctor Palermo turned, went back into his apartment, and up the spiral staircase to his Oriental room.
There he rested in his thronelike chair, for all the world like an Eastern potentate.
“There are big fish,” observed Doctor Palermo softly, “and there are little fish. Big nets for the big. Little nets for the little. This one was little. Perhaps there is a big fish, also.”
Hassan appeared with another glass of the gold-flaked liqueur. Doctor Palermo drained the fluid in one swallow.
Then, with the glass still in his hand, he looked straight across the room, and his lips spread to form a demoniacal smile — a smile that betokened evil satisfaction.