Эрл Гарднер - The Human Zero. The Science Fiction Stories of Erle Stanley Gardner

Ealy perked up his ears.

“You speak as though you had something up your sleeve,” he said.

The officer nodded grimly.

“I have,” he said.

The telephone rang. Captain Harder cupped his ear to the receiver.

“Funny,” he said, “Soloman’s residence says he’s not home yet.” Then: “Keep calling. Tell him I want to speak to him. It’s important.”

They went to the all-night restaurant, lingered over coffee and sandwiches. They were all nervous, with the exception of Sid Rodney. That individual seemed to be utterly relaxed, but it was the inactivity of a cat who is sprawled in the sun, keeping a lazy eye upon a fluttering bird, trying to locate the nest.

Charles Ealy watched Sid Rodney narrowly. Once he nodded slowly.

They finished their meal, returned to headquarters.

“Heard from Soloman?” asked Captain Harder.

Sergeant Green, at the desk, shook his head.

“They keep saying he hasn’t returned. But we’ve unearthed some stuff about Crome from our department files. He wanted a permit to establish an experimenting station in a loft building downtown. Had the lease on the place and was all ready to go ahead when he found out he had to have a permit to operate the sort of a place he wanted.

“He was turned down on the permit after it appeared that his experiments were likely to increase the fire hazard, and he was bitter about it.”

Captain Harder grunted.

“That doesn’t help much.”

“Did he send in any typewritten letters?” asked Sid Rodney.

“Maybe. I’ll look in the files. Most of those things would be in another file.”

“Got the address of the loft building?”

“Yes — 632 Grant Street. That’s down near the wholesale district, a little side street.”

Sid nodded.

“Yeah. I know. What say we take a run down there, captain?”

“Why? He was turned down on his permit. There’s nothing there for us.”

Rodney lit a fresh cigarette and resumed.

“The man’s a scientist. He hates Dangerfield. He impresses me as being very much unbalanced. He’s got a loft that isn’t being used. Now if he should happen to be mixed up in the kidnaping, where would be a better place to keep a prisoner than in an unused loft building, that had been taken over and fitted up as an experimental laboratory?”

Captain Harder grinned.

“You win,” he said. “Get me half a dozen of the boys out, sergeant. I’m going down there myself and give it a once over. Better take along a bunch of keys.”

“Do we go along?” asked Ealy, his eyes twinkling.

Captain Harder grinned.

“Certainly not,” he said.

Sands took him seriously.

“I’m glad of that. I’m simply all in. I want to go and get some sleep, a bath, and a shave.”

Captain Harder looked sympathetic.

“I know, Sands. Ealy and I were kidding. But if you feel all in, go home and get some sleep. We’ve got your number. We’ll call you if there’s anything there.”

“How about an escort?” asked Rodney. “Those threats, you know...”

Sands vehemently shook his head.

“No. I don’t want to advertise to the neighborhood that I’m afraid. I’ll go on home and sleep. I’m safe for twelve hours yet, anyway. If you think there’s any danger at the end of that time, I’ll move into a hotel and you can give me a guard.” Captain Harder nodded in agreement.

“Okay.”

The two police cars slid smoothly to the curb before the loft building.

The first streaks of dawn were tingeing the buildings in the concrete canon of loft buildings, wholesale houses and nondescript apartments.

Captain Harder jerked his thumb.

“This is the place. No use standin’ on formality. Let’s go up. He had the whole building leased. Looks vacant now.”

The men moved across the echoing sidewalk in a compact group. There was the jingle of keys against the brass lock plate, and then the click of a bolt. The door opened. A flight of stairs, an automatic elevator, a small lobby, showed in the reddish light of early morning. There was a musty smell about the place.

“Take the elevator,” said Captain Harder. “Then we won’t have so much trouble... funny he leased the whole building in advance of a permit. This lease cost him money.”

No one said anything. They opened the door of the elevator. Then they drew back with an exclamation.

“Look there!” said one of the men.

There was a stool in the elevator. Upon that stool was a tray, and upon the tray was some food, remnants of sandwiches, a cup of coffee, the sides stained where trickles of the liquid had slopped over the side of the cup.

Captain Harder smelled the cup, jabbed a finger into the crust of the sandwiches.

“Looks like it’s less than twenty-four hours old,” he said.

The men examined the tray.

Captain Harder snapped into swift activity. It was plainly apparent that the curiosity which had sent him down to the loft building for a “look around” merely because there were no other clues to run down, had given place to well-defined suspicion.

“Here, Bill. You take one of the boys with you and watch the steps. Frank, get out your gun and watch the fire escape. Go around the back way, through the alley. We’ll keep quiet and give you three minutes to get stationed. Then we’re going up.

“If you see any one, order him to stop. If he doesn’t obey, shoot to kill. George, you go with Frank. The rest of us are going up in the elevator.”

He took out his watch.

“Three minutes,” he said.

The men snapped into action.

Captain Harder held a thumb nail upon the dial of his big watch, marking the time.

“Okay,” he said, at length. “Let’s go. You two birds on the stairs, make sure you don’t get above the first floor without covering every inch of ground you pass. We don’t want any one to duck out on us. If you hear any commotion, don’t come unless I blow my whistle. Watch those stairs!”

He closed the door of the elevator, jabbed the button marked by the figure “1.”

The elevator creaked and swayed upward at a snail’s pace, came to the first floor, and stopped. Captain Harder propped the door open, emerged into a hallway, found himself facing two doors.

Both were unlocked. He opened first one, and then the other.

There were disclosed two empty lofts, littered with papers and rubbish. They were bare of furniture, untenanted. Even the closet doors were open, and they could see into the interiors of them.

“Nothing doing,” said the officer. “Guess it’s a false alarm, but we’ll go on up.”

They returned to the elevator, pressed the next button.

There were three floors, narrow, but deep.

The second floor was like the first as far as the doors were concerned. But as soon as Captain Harder opened the first door, it was at once apparent they were on a warm trail.

The place was fitted up with benches, with a few glass jars, test tubes, some rather complicated apparatus enclosed in a glass case. There were a few jars of chemical, and there were some more trays with food remnants upon them.

“Somebody,” said Captain Harder grimly, making sure his service revolver was loose in its holster, “is living here. Wonder what’s in that room on the corner. Door looks solid enough.”

He pushed his way forward through the litter on the floor, twisted the knob of the door.

“Locked,” he said, “and feels solid as stone.”

And, at that moment, sounding weak and faint, as though coming from a great distance, came a cry, seeping through the door from the room beyond, giving some inkling of the thickness of the door.

“Help, help, help! This is Paul Dangerfield. Help me! Help me!”