  It was Roger’s plan to consult his list of “sound” evidence and try to make it tell him whatever secret must be hidden there. No other plan seemed so likely to be fruitful. If he was supposed to be in the dark-room, his presence in the office must show to some guilty person that Roger was equally alert and crafty. He wanted to “start something” in the open. Underground methods, secret attempts to do away with him, were hateful to open-natured, frank Roger. Strolling up from the cellar, he watched the effect of his arrival from that unexpected quarter. Mr. Millman, discovering him, looked up with a start. “Hey! Thought you were developing the stuff Zendt took up.” Zendt—Millman. Roger connected the two mentally. “Those speed pictures are important.” Mr. Ellison scowled, and Roger began to wonder whether his anger was genuine or if he, himself, was giving too much importance to a mere annoyance. “I was just testing my new ‘cloak of invisibility,’” Roger put on a careless manner. He would give them something to puzzle about. “Science is just the reality that used to be fairy stories,” he said, with a grin. “Pegasus, the flying horse, was just another way of prophesying airplanes. And if a magician could wave a wand and turn a beast into a Prince, doesn’t chemistry transmute base elements into wonderful, modern products? I got an idea that the cloak or helmet of invisibility, like the Helmet in Wagner’s opera that I heard on the radio, is just the prophecy of some Omega-ray, that makes things transparent and invisible without hurting them. It works, too. Did you see me go out?” “No,” Mr. Millman snapped out the word, adding: “But we will see you go out—to the observation ward of the psychopathic division in some hospital if you waste any more time with this crazy talk.” Roger, thinking quickly, decided that he was hearing a threat. Millman was not joking. If an astrologer, coming into the office, had recognized the man, either facing him or hidden under the desk, and for that knowledge had come near to being “sent West,” then it would not be put past such desperate people to believe they would deliberately put him into the ward where supposedly insane people are kept, while doctors studied their mentality. That, he reflected swiftly, would effectively get him out of the way; and it would discredit his ideas. “I was only joking. What’s the matter with everybody? Snap me up because I chased out past you to see what the shooting was for.” “Well, get back to your work. Potts isn’t here. It’s up to you to keep things going till the Chief says differently.” Roger looked defiant. He meant to see how far the man—or the pair, would go. Doctor Ryder and Mr. Zendt, who had evidently been conferring on the upper floor about some biochemical condition of the disease the doctor was studying, heard the raised voice of the electrical engineer and came down the stairway. “What’s going on?” asked Doctor Ryder, twisting his watch chain, which hung across his ample chest. Roger, who saw the big charm, which hung on the chain, flicking its golden back in the light, realized, with an inward start, that the doctor seemed to be telegraphing with that “heliographic” flicker, as a Boy Scout would use a mirror to send a message from his camp to another, from a hilltop. “Oho!” Roger’s mind was alert, “So he’s telegraphing somebody.” He hid his smile of triumph. “So you’re in it, are you?” he mentally accused. “Well, two can play that heliograph game. I can read if you can send.” While he listened to Mr. Ellison’s angry commands to get that film developed or the Chief would be called up, Roger mentally received the flickers of the heliograph-like gold back of the twisting charm. “B-e c-a-r-e-f-u-l.” “Warning him,” Roger’s mental comment was not audible. “More?” He saw the charm continue, as if the doctor was nervous. “R-o-g-e-r,” it told him. “He’s warning me!” Roger, grateful, and glad that his first suspicion had been unwarranted, waited to see if more would come, while his facial expression was meant to infuriate Millman and Ellison. “B-e-h-i-n-d y-o-u.” Roger, turning his head, realized that there was good intention plainly apparent in that peculiar flicker-warning. In the office doorway stood a stranger. Whether he meant good or ill Roger did not know. But he swung sharply, about to demand the stranger’s right to intrude beyond the railing when he saw that the stenographer, Miss Murry, had sent him in. Roger, taking him in, saw a short, bald-headed, thin gentleman in a frock coat, striped trousers and a high silk hat. “I am looking for a Roger Brown,” the man studied the group. “The office girl thought I ought to find him in what she calls a dark-room up some stairs. Can you tell me?” “I am Roger Brown, sir.” Roger stepped forward. “Can I see you in private?” Roger saw that Doctor Ryder’s watch ornament, emblem of a secret fraternity, was flicking around again. “S-a-y l-i-t-t-l-e,” it seemed to counsel. “I can take you to my cousin’s private room, sir.” He nodded to show the doctor that he understood. “But I can say little about our work until my cousin is here.” He led the way to the private door. He had told the doctor that he caught the two words. “So you are Roger Brown.” The man was seated in the “thinking den” opposite Roger, who stood by the window and admired the sumptuous limousine with its chauffeur, waiting outside. “Yes, sir. How do you know my name, and what do you want to see me about?” “I know your name—no matter how. As for what I came about, I want to dicker with you direct, instead of with anybody else.” “Dicker?” “For the Eye of—er—Aum or Ohm.” “Why do you think you can dicker with me, Mister——” The man did not reveal his name. “You have the thing.” “Who says I have?” “I know you have it, Roger. The point is,” he glanced at his watch, “and I must hurry—the point is, you got it. Somebody else offers to get it from you and sell it to me but I think I may get a better price from you, direct.” “Well, you can’t. Who says you could get it from him?” “Young friend of yours—Tobias or something like that.” “Toby Smith, huh? Well, he can’t sell it because I can’t turn it over to him. Only saw it in the Buddha’s head, and in a man’s hand. Maybe Toby already has it. Let’s go ask him.” “Can’t waste time. What’s your best price?” “Well——” Roger had an idea. “You leave your card and I’ll get in touch with you.” “I won’t go higher than ninety thousand. If that suits, call up Clark, on Fifth Avenue, and say you are ready to close. He will understand, and will arrange everything. Good day.” Brusquely, abruptly, the man left. Roger let him go. But when the limousine had drawn away, Roger marked down its license number, and within five minutes, from the Bureau of Motor Vehicle Licenses he had information. That license plate on the limousine belonged to a wealthy man, often mentioned in financial news. Roger, from a book of “Who’s Who” learned more; he was a collector, among other things. But, Roger asked himself, was his wealth, position and hobby any reason not to place his name among those suspected, or at least connected with the Eye of Om mystery? And Toby. And Clark. They came uppermost again. If only he could get the hidden clue in his list! |
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