A MAN entered the lobby of the Marimba Apartments, carrying a suitcase. His stride betokened familiarity with the place. He passed the lobby attendant and entered the elevator where he stepped out of view into a convenient corner. The hallman came questioningly toward the elevator.
“It’s all right,” said the operator, leaning from the door. “Going up to that party on the thirty-fourth floor.”
The hallman nodded. The door of the elevator closed and the car moved upward. Had the hallman noticed it, he would have seen that the indicating dial above the elevator door moved very slowly and that the car made a rather long stop at the thirty-fourth floor.
Inside the elevator, the passenger was working rapidly. Immediately after the door had been closed, he stooped and opened the bag. From it he drew a black cloak which he donned and raised so that the collar completely hid his face. He also drew out a pliable black hat which he adjusted to hide his forehead.
By that time, the car was at the thirty-fourth floor. It waited there while the black-garbed man produced two automatics from his bag. He deposited these beneath his cloak and tossed his original hat into the bag.
The elevator operator looked at him. The car went upward, to the fortieth floor.
Here, the door opened. The man in black remained hidden in the elevator. The operator stepped from the car. He walked across the anteroom of Doctor Palermo’s apartment and pressed the button.
The door swung open, and the huge form of Hassan blocked the entrance. The Arab looked questioningly at the elevator man.
“Important letter for you,” announced the operator, in a brisk voice. “Got it here with me.”
He fumbled in a right-hand pocket of his uniform. Not finding the letter, he tried a left-hand pocket. He brought out an envelope and extended it toward Hassan.
The huge brown man inclined his head slightly as he reached for the envelope. Like a flash, the elevator operator pulled his hand from his right pocket. He swung his forearm in a quick, short motion. A blackjack landed just behind Hassan’s left ear.
The Arab fell.
The blow had not been a hard one, yet it had momentarily stunned Doctor Palermo’s servant. Before Hassan could recover, the man in the black cloak had sprung from the elevator, carrying the black bag.
As Hassan groaned and opened his eyes, the man pulled a rag from the bag and held it to the Arab’s nose. The odor of chloroform pervaded the anteroom. Hassan lay still.
“Going down,” said Burbank, the elevator operator. His voice was methodical. His face was calm and expressionless. “Will fake a call when Palermo returns. Telephone bell will warn you,” he added in a guarded tone.
The door of the elevator closed while the man in black was still nodding his approval.
FROM the bag, the mysterious visitor removed two straps. He dragged Hassan’s body into the apartment and closed the door behind him. He used the straps to bind the Arab.
He left the bag at the door and began to walk about the apartment. The place seemed unfamiliar to him.
Cautiously he tried the door to the laboratory. It was locked. He could not find the key on Hassan.
He abandoned the search and walked through the apartment. He came to the panel that concealed the secret stairway.
Here he made no pretext at the theatrical finger-snapping performed by Doctor Palermo for the mystification of his visitors. He simply sought the floor plates beneath the rug. When he stepped on them properly, the door slid open.
The man in black went up the stairs. There was something cumbersome about his movements. He was proceeding cautiously.
In the mellow light of the Chinese room, the man’s shadow spread across the thickly-rugged floor. He turned around to study every feature of the room. He inspected each article, but touched nothing.
He gazed carefully at the bronze image of Chong; that silent, glaring idol from far-off Cathay. The figure was hideous; its arms and legs were thin carvings. The fingers of its bronze hands were long-nailed talons.
The sculptor who had perpetrated that image must have been governed by a morbid imagination, for it looked like no creature that had ever lived.
The man in black went to the Chinese chair. It aroused his curiosity. It was built like a throne, with a broad seat and solid, upright arms.
The man placed his gloved hands on the arms of the chair. His fingers found two buttons. He pressed them.
With a smooth mechanical motion, the seat of the chair broke in half. Both portions dropped. At the same instant, a cloud of steamlike smoke arose and enveloped the black-clad man.
His eyes caught a full view of a room below, where a springy net was set to catch a falling body. Then two panels fell from the arms of the chair. They formed a new seat to replace the one that had dropped.
The secret of Doctor Palermo’s mysterious disappearance was revealed!
Covered by the rising smoke, Palermo had dropped from view and the heavy Oriental chair had become an apparently solid structure. Evidently the room below communicated with the small elevator shaft up which Palermo had risen on that eventful evening.
The investigator made a short further inspection. He stepped out on the roof, which seemed very large in the darkness, its further rail showing white at the opposite end of the building. The penthouse was at one end of the apartment house.
The man in black came back. He stood listening. For a moment he hesitated as though about to descend the stairway and make a search below. Then his head turned directly toward the taboret.
This article of furniture was of Chinese manufacture, an exquisite piece of woodwork. The corner of the room was vacant. The taboret stood about four feet from the corner. The image of Chong was the same distance from the corner, but set against the adjoining wall.
There was no mistaking the taboret. It was the only one in the room that contained a closet beneath it.
The image of Chong was also on a taboret — there were several of the little tables in this Oriental chamber. But the one near the corner was the largest of them.
The man in the black cloak approached closely. He appeared a trifle nervous. He bent low and cautiously extended his hand.
His glove trembled slightly as it touched the knob of the door beneath the taboret. Then the fingers clutched the knob. They moved slowly to the left. The door came open. It revealed a stack of ebony boxes.
The black-gloved hands removed the uppermost box and opened it. The man hesitated. He half rose and looked quickly about him, to make sure that no one had entered. The room was silent.
He removed the papers from the box. He closed the box and replaced it in the hollow beneath the taboret.
AT that moment, a strange event transpired. The bronze image of Chong began to move. Silently, gruesomely, the hideous figure came to life! It stretched its long arms and rested its hands beside its body.
With a hopping motion, the image slipped from its pedestal. Its bare feet were noiseless as they reached the floor. The living monstrosity crept forward. Its staring eyes and grinning lips did not change their expression.
The fantastic being stopped behind the man in black. He was removing the second ebony box. He drew back from the taboret.
The long emaciated arms of Chong shot swiftly forward. Tentaclelike, they clutched the neck of the stooping man.
With a choking gasp, the victim reached for his throat and tried vainly to rid himself of that terrible grasp.
The hands clutched more tightly, the long nails sinking into the flesh through the folds of the black cloak.
The victim writhed and tried to roll upon the floor. The hideous dwarf did not relax its grasp. With a last effort, the man in black-raised himself; then failed and sprawled head down upon the rug. His hat fell from his head. He lay still.
Slowly, the bronzed hands of the living image released their hold. The prostrate man did not respond.
Stepping backward, Chong withdrew to his pedestal.
He placed both hands upon the table. He lifted his body to its old position. There he sat, motionless again, the perfect representation of a metal idol. The only change in the appearance of the figure was the direction of its gaze.
Steadily, unflinchingly, this guardian of the sanctum waited in readiness for a new attack, should its victim show the slightest sign of regaining consciousness.
A telephone rang in the apartment below.
No one answered it, although there were three living beings within hearing distance.
One, Hassan, lay bound. Another, the man in black, was unconscious. The third had become a statue of bronze.