The Shadow - The Whispering Eyes Part 10

Cranston gave it and after a few minutes, he was ushered into an office, where Fontaine rose to greet him. The bearded psychologist was wearing a white coat, which gave him the look of a physician, though Fontaine made no claims of that sort.

Indeed, Fontaine must have been conscious that the thought was in Cranston's mind, for he went to immediate pains to nullify it.

"I am doing some laboratory tests, Cranston," declared Fontaine. "I like everything to be spick-and-span.

Come with me, if you wish, and see how they are making out."

They went to a big rear room that befitted the t.i.tle of laboratory. Here, three of Fontaine's a.s.sistants, all in white jackets but without beards, were testing various animals for their reactions. Cranston counted dogs, monkeys, rabbits, and even guinea pigs among those present, but no cats. He commented on the fact.

"Cats are excellent for regulation tests," stated Fontaine, "but not for the sort that I conduct. I am working in animal hypnosis. This instrument"-he indicated an upright disk, four feet in diameter, which containeda clutter of inner wheels-"is my new automatic hypnograph. Watch its results."

Fontaine reached up to the hypnograph, started its wheels in motion. Fontaine, though an imposing man, was not tall, as was apparent when he stood beside the pedestal on which the hypnograph was mounted.

In fact, Cranston doubted that Fontaine was even an inch taller than Bogardus; but unless the pair were actually together, Fontaine would give the impression of being much taller. It was a matter of build, of course. Fontaine, though not thin, was definitely slender, lacking the chunky mold that made Bogardus look ridiculously small.

Spinning wheels of the hypnograph were blurring their colors into a grayish pattern with flickers of white and black. As Cranston watched the wheel, he heard Fontaine's dry voice beside him: "It won't hypnotize you, Cranston. More color is needed to impress the human eye. It will hold your interest, that's all. But you will be more interested in the effect on the animals."

Turning to study the animals, Cranston noticed a monkey staring hard, while two dogs were quivering as they watched the wheels. Some rabbits were motionless, but the guinea pigs were paying no attention at all.

"There you see the varying levels of intelligence," expressed Fontaine. "The effect is greater as it descends from monkey to dog to rabbit, but the guinea pig is of such a low order that it ignores the hypnograph."

Fontaine turned off the machine. The monkey relaxed, the dogs whimpered. Fontaine picked up a rabbit.

The creature was rigid, stiff as a board. Fontaine defined it: "Complete catalepsy."

It was just the opening Cranston wanted.

"This test should prove then," stated Cranston, "that hypnotism can cause catalepsy where human beings are concerned."

"Very possibly," returned Fontaine, "but I would say that it depends on cases."

"On cases?"

"As determined by individuals. Certain people are subject to cataleptic fits or conditions resembling such.

There are records of prolonged trances, but they invariably involve some physical cause, such as electric shock or an ailment like sleeping sickness. I doubt that hypnotism could produce such results alone."

"You should visit the Orient, doctor," declared Cranston, "I have seen instances there of suspended animation, produced by the spell cast by a yogi, wherein bodies can be stretched rigid and heavy weights placed upon them."

Fontaine gave a disdainful laugh.

"Professor Bogardus claims he learned that stuff in India," recalled Fontaine. "I saw him give such a demonstration only a week ago. He stood on the man's body while it was rigid, but that was not a great enough strain. I still term the demonstration at least a halfway fake."

"In India," said Cranston, reflectively, "I have seen them place huge paving stones on a rigid man's body and crack them apart with sledge hammers."

"You have?" Fontaine's eyes glittered, eagerly. "You can produce evidence of that?"

"Attested evidence," confirmed Cranston, "within the hour if you wish it. But such evidence wouldsupport the claims of Professor Bogardus, rather than challenge them."

"Not as I see it," was Fontaine's prompt response. He glanced at his watch. "If you can get me that data in an hour, I'll still have time to challenge Bogardus before tonight's demonstration. I'll prove once and for all how much of his work is fakery!"

Leaving Fontaine's office, Cranston phoned his New Jersey home and ordered Stanley, his chauffeur, to pick up the file on Yogi Ordeals and speed it to Fontaine. Stopping off at the Cobalt Club, he found Weston there, learned that the check-up of the mailing lists was underway. Then Cranston remarked: "What is this inst.i.tute that Fontaine has incorporated? I just learned about it today."

"A very commendable project," declared Weston. "Fontaine intends to determine the exact status of hypnotism through laboratory experiments. He even intends to establish chairs of hypnotism at leading universities."

"How far has he succeeded?"

"His plans have been approved. But so far none of the universities have been willing or able to divert endowment funds to such a purpose. So Fontaine is raising subscriptions on his own, through the Fontaine Inst.i.tute." From his pocket, Weston brought a slip of paper. "Here is one of the blanks."

While Cranston was looking at the subscription blank, Weston unfolded a big sheet of paper that looked like a playbill, printed in crimson on a background of circus yellow.

"Here is the way Bogardus solicits funds," declared Weston, in an outraged tone. "Look at this sheet, with applications attached, for membership in the Bogardus National College of Hypnotic Art, at ten dollars, complete with diploma. Every time Bogardus wants more money, he cooks up another phony organization. But he knows the letter of the law, or his attorney does, so he gets by with it. Fontaine's inst.i.tute will help to counteract such despicable enterprises as this."

It was logical, after Weston's outburst, that Cranston should stop at the upstairs studio where Bogardus gave lessons and worked on his ninety-eight lesson course. A half block from the hall where Bogardus gave his demonstrations, the studio looked like the corner of an old abandoned gymnasium. It had a platform which had once been a boxing ring, and the part.i.tioned office appeared to have been an old shower room.

Half a dozen callow youths were practicing hypnotism on each other when Cranston entered. None of them had been put to sleep, for all thumbed to the office door when Cranston asked for the professor. At Cranston's knock, the door opened and Bogardus looked up quizzically from the threshold. His bulgy eyes showed no sign of recognition.

Introducing himself as a friend of the commissioner, Cranston added that he had seen last night's demonstration. At that, Bogardus delivered what he probably considered a pleased smile.

"The commissioner was much impressed, I understand," declared Bogardus. "And that, despite an unsympathetic presence." His smile went very sour. "You understand the man I mean, of course. Dr.

Gerald Fontaine."

Cranston nodded.

"I shall invite the commissioner again tonight," continued Bogardus, "so he can see how little this Fontaine knows. Bah! These psychologists. Their knowledge is all from books. They understand nothing about practical methods. Fontaine has just begun to find out the sort of things that are done in India and haschallenged me to duplicate them."

"You mean the rock test?" queried Cranston. "That's curious. I was mentioning it to Fontaine."

"And you could trust him to pick it up," a.s.sured Bogardus. "I'll make him show his evidence, though, before going through with it. I told him that, when he called me up just a short while ago."

"Why should the evidence be necessary?"

"So I can induce someone to go through with the test," explained Bogardus. "I am all ethics, Mr.

Cranston. No monkeys, dogs and guinea pigs for me. I do my tests with humans, only, and never without their full consent. But don't worry about my finding some person for a subject. I think I know of one who will surely be there."

"You mean the little chap?" queried Cranston. "The one Inspector Cardona said was called Larry the Horse?"

Bogardus glared at him.

"I choose my subjects by their minds," he said, "not by their names. I shall need a st.u.r.dy man for the rock test." He gave Cranston an appraising look. "Don't worry, I am sure that a suitable subject will be there."

After his chat with Bogardus, Cranston paid a brief visit to Margo Lane. Washington Mews purred happily at seeing Cranston again and while he stroked the cat, Cranston detailed some of the day's activities.

"That's amazing about Hudson's hat," said Margo. "Naturally, the murderer would have to pick it up, to keep Hudson in the clear. But how did he get it back to Hudson; that is, the man whose name isn't Hudson?"

"Remember the tall chap who blocked traffic at the cloak room, last night, when Bogardus gave his show?" inquired Cranston.

Margo nodded.

"That was Hudson," said Cranston. "He was looking for his hat. The girl found it on the floor."

"Then someone must have planted it!" exclaimed Margo. "Somebody who knows too much about hypnotism."

"Don't look at me," remarked Cranston, with a smile. "I didn't go out to the lobby while Hudson was making that phone call later. Nor was I on the platform."

"Bogardus hypnotized Hudson," said Margo, slowly, "and Fontaine watched Larry the Horse. But wait, Larry was up on the platform first. Bogardus did some work with him -"

"And left him in a partially hypnotic state," added Cranston. "I checked that and know that Larry told Hudson what he was supposed to tell him, over the phone. But in this game of hypnotism, the partic.i.p.ants use one human weapon against another, and may even borrow them. The question is: Where is Hudson now?"

"Have you any way of finding out, Lamont?"

"Yes," replied Cranston, in a confident tone, "unless Hudson has been tossed into the discard. I'll let you know later how I make out, Margo. I'll see you at the show." It was dusk when Lamont Cranston reached the street, the hour at which he so often switched to the guise of The Shadow. But when Cranston entered Shrevvy's cab, he did not draw out the secret compartment beneath the back seat, where he kept the cloak and hat. Only by the softly whispered laugh that Cranston uttered, could he have been momentarily identified as The Shadow.

Whatever Cranston's present game, he preferred to play it as himself.

CHAPTER XV. MIND MEETS MIND.

A TALL figure crossed the street, pausing openly to pick his course. Then, a trifle more warily, the man edged toward a doorway, worked his way from it to another, went past a narrow pa.s.sage between two buildings; then hesitated in a patch of light and returned.

Lamont Cranston was playing a dodging game.

It was artful in its way, the game of a man who suspected nothing, yet at moments decided to be wary.

Now, abruptly, Cranston entered the pa.s.sage, came to the arch where Clyde had picked up the hat.

There, Cranston made measurements, used a flashlight to study the paving, all in the same half-guarded style that made it look as though he were seeking to avoid the very attention that he was trying to attract.

Finding a trail to Hudson was apparently Cranston's motive. Actually, he was hoping to have himself found by someone who was hiding Hudson and, therefore, would be watching to see if anyone tried to pick up the trail.

When Cranston finished, it looked as though he had gained results. He made himself properly conspicuous when he returned to Shrevvy's cab. Looking back as he rode away, Cranston saw another cab pull out from a corner.

It just might be that a pair of whispering eyes had been on the lookout. If so, Cranston intended to bait them more.

Cranston let Shrevvy roll him around town. Purposely, he pa.s.sed the building where Fontaine had his inst.i.tute. From the rear street, Cranston saw that the laboratory lights were out. When the cab hit Broadway, Cranston looked for the window of Bogardus' upstairs studio. It likewise was black.

However, Cranston did not forget that trailing cab. He identified it effectively during his first glances back.

At times, he noticed it on the trail, but it had a way of dropping the chase. Evidently its pa.s.senger had ordered the driver to take short cuts. The other cab wasn't even momentarily in sight when Cranston pa.s.sed the places represented by the absent Fontaine and Bogardus.

That only told Cranston more.

Whoever might be in the trailing cab, and the rule could apply equally to Bogardus or Fontaine, had guessed exactly where Shrevvy's cab was going when it had neared those particular spots. Therefore, the trail was easily dropped and picked up again. But what applied to Bogardus or Fontaine could equally apply to other people, even Inspector Cardona, if he happened to be in a mood to spend city money on a merry-go-round chase.

There wasn't a sign of that other cab in the bright Broadway traffic. It had ducked and wisely. To give it time to resume the trail, Cranston told Shrevvy to nose along slowly in the Thirties. On one of those streets, Cranston a.s.sumed The Shadow's attire, eased himself from the cab as it hit a darkened stretch, and became the equivalent of gliding invisibility. Cabs pa.s.sed, but none were the one The Shadow had identified earlier. It might have dropped the trail or its pa.s.senger could have switched. So The Shadow let Shrevvy cruise a while, giving himself time to complete some more of his evening's plans. Finding a spot he wanted, The Shadow looked up through an opening between two buildings, caught a full view of Lang's penthouse, from the rear elevation.

The study windows were open. Beyond its bars, The Shadow could see Lang, piling books and papers on his desk. Sidling into the doorway of an office building, The Shadow found a phone booth in the deserted lobby. He called Lang's apartment, but when he spoke, The Shadow used Cranston's voice.

"You're holding a crystal seance this evening?" inquired Cranston. "If you are, I'd like to recommend a friend."

"Of course," acknowledged Lang. "But it won't be until after Bogardus's demonstration. He's giving another show to-night, you know."

"I hadn't heard. Should I go?"

"Most certainly. I understand he will deal in genuine Hindu hypnotism, something I have long wanted to see. I'll be looking for you, Cranston. Anything else?"

"Nothing else."

"Then you must excuse me." The Shadow could hear a chiming sound across the wire. "My servant has just rung the dinner gong. I can't afford to be late at Bogardus' this evening!"

The light in Lang's study was blinking off when The Shadow was going past again. Soon Shrevvy's cab came along with no one tailing it. The Shadow swung in and ordered Shrevvy to gravitate, by a zigzag course, to the foot of Fifth Avenue. Here was the last chance, that blank spot of Manhattan, the absolute zero that could be the only destination for a memory-lost mind like Hudson's, providing the hypnotic master who controlled him had been unable to contact him elsewhere.

Cloak and hat packed away, The Shadow was Lamont Cranston again, when he alighted near No. zero.

In leisurely style, he strolled about, playing the part of an amateur sleuth who, if challenged by police, could boast that he was the commissioner's friend. Soon a cab pulled up, uncertainly, as Shrevvy's had.

A tall young man alighted; began to study the buildings as if looking for a concealed doorway.

It was the man called Hudson.

Hat in hand, Hudson rubbed his head as he stalked about. Nearing the s.p.a.ce behind the Mews, he recoiled; then, as if following the command given him the night before, he walked away, with a slow mechanical stride. Cranston followed, making himself less conspicuous now. Soon Shrevvy's cab eased into the scene, guided by Hudson's course, which was easier to note than Cranston's.

Hudson was cutting across Washington Square. He attracted no attention from b.u.ms sprawled on benches; they, too, were lost in their own little worlds. Hudson reached MacDougall Street, below Washington Square West. Here was Greenwich Village at its strangest, with odd cafes, tiny night clubs and Calypso joints. The music of a jam session was screeching from the doorway of a deadfall, a few steps down from the sidewalk. The discordant wails punched through the veneer of Hudson's dulled senses. Pausing the fellow rocked, turned slowly, then tottered into the place.

Cranston was right behind him. Springing down the steps, Cranston caught Hudson as he pitched headlong against the far wall of a tiny entrance. The wall, crudely painted to resemble a tropical scene, gave way like a door, spinning them both into a cubicle that served as a box office on dance nights.Automatically, Hudson came around with a snarl, grabbing for Cranston before he could turn about from his own spin. Before Cranston could lunge away in this limited s.p.a.ce, Hudson had him gripped. Arms pinned behind him, Cranston was being bent backward by the dazed young giant.

This was under the glow of a single light, set in the ceiling. Now, as Cranston stiffened to resist Hudson's strength, the false door closed, at least a dozen seconds after it should have. The reason: Another man had stepped into the tiny room, a figure that stooped forward to direct a pair of eyes directly into Cranston's. Eyes were all that Cranston could see of the face, for the rest of it was hidden under a tight-fitting hood. But from lips beneath the opening through which the eyes peered, there came a hiss which a distraught mind could easily attribute to the eyes themselves.

The Whispering Eyes!

Low words spoke, as if the eyes had uttered them.

"You are helpless," came the whisper, as disguised as it was m.u.f.fled. "You must yield your mind, or you shall die. Your mind must obey my commands. That is understood!"

Cranston's lips phrased the word: "Yes."

Glowing, the eyes of the hooded man came closer. Cranston had offset Hudson's clutch, by using a back brace against it. His right hand, against the side of his vest, could have gained an automatic from a hidden holster. Yet either a break from Hudson, or a thrust against the Whispering Eyes, would be precarious moves. As long as he retained the existing status, Cranston could use them as emergency measures. So he let the situation hold.

"Your mind is now at large," the whispered voice proclaimed. "You have no name. Repeat that, for yourself!"

Slowly, Cranston's lips lost their resistance and spoke: "I have no name."