The Time Mirror Part 11

"But you would have no memory of your life in this century! Remember what Vance said--"

"Right. That's the one thing that might stop me. I'm counting on you to take care of it, though. Is there anything you can do?"

There was a long moment of tension-studded silence. Then:

"Perhaps there is. I have been working on equipment to prevent fighter pilots 'blacking out' during power dives, and I believe there is a relationship between time travel and terrific speeds in s.p.a.ce. It is possible that I could insulate you--"

"That's all I need, then. Make me a mirror, professor, and something to insulate me--"

"But you have no focal point! You might go through time to a place a thousand miles and a thousand years from where Elaine is captive--"

Mark laughed harshly.

"Wrong, professor! I've got the most accurate focal point in the world.

Or I will have--"

"The most accurate--? What do you mean?" The old man's face was bewildered.

"I'll have the same focal point Elaine had, sir: Gustav Jerbette's painting, 'Elaine Duchard's Escape'." Again that laugh. "I'm going now to steal it from Adrian Vance!"

The house of Adrian Vance was one befitting a professional dealer in antiquities. It set far back from the street, towering against the sky like the black bulk of a medieval castle. A high iron fence surrounded it.

At this moment Mark Carter stood surveying the estate from the shelter of a nearby clump of trees.

"It's like a d.a.m.ned fortress!" he muttered to himself. "He's taking no chances on anyone getting in."

Turning, then, he gripped a branch of the nearest tree. Swung up into it. Clambered out, cat-like, until he lay beyond the fence and above the grounds of Vance's home.

The limb bowed under his weight as he proceeded until at last he was able to drop lightly to the ground.

One hazard pa.s.sed!

"And with no worries about that fence being wired for an alarm system, either!" he told himself triumphantly.

He hurried toward the house, thankful for the darkness of the night.

On one side of the big building lay a terrace. French windows opened onto it.

Like a wraith in the night, taking advantage of every shrub and patch of shadow, Mark crept close to the cas.e.m.e.nts.

They were locked.

The trespa.s.ser stripped off his coat. Wrapped it around his hand, a bulky, protective wad of cloth covering the flesh. Then, as silently as possible, he pressed on one of the small panes of gla.s.s close beside the lock. Harder ... harder ... harder....

With a faint tinkle of falling gla.s.s, the pane gave way.

Tense seconds crawled by on leaden feet. Mark's mouth was dry, his throat cottony. He stood taut, his back to the wall, waiting fearfully for some sign that Vance had been aroused.

At last he relaxed again. Reached through the broken pane and unlocked the big window. Swung it open, ever so gently, and stepped inside, fading swiftly into the thick blackness of the nearest corner.

Once Mark had interviewed a burglar as a feature a.s.signment. He remembered the man's words now.

"Gettin' in ain't the hard part," the second-story worker had explained.

"It's gettin' out that's tough. The first thing you gotta do on a job is to line up an exit."

Now, as his eyes grew accustomed to the blackness, Mark searched for a means of escape. There was a window at the far end of the room. He approached it with swift, silent strides. Opened it wide.

The slightest of creakings caught his ear. Instantly he was on the alert, every muscle tense.

The sound was not repeated. He relaxed.

Where would the picture be?

A large canvas hung above the fireplace. He tiptoed over to it.

The lovely face of the first Elaine Duchard looked down at him!

With trembling fingers he whipped a knife from his pocket. Looked about for a chair to stand on--

"It ain't smart to work a room without fixin' the door first," the burglar had said. "You feel lots better if you know n.o.body ain't gonna stumble in on you unexpected."

Ten seconds later Mark had wedged a straight-back chair under the k.n.o.b of the only door leading into the rest of the house.

Turning, he hurried back to the Jerbette painting. With swift, deft slashes he cut it from its frame. Started to roll it up.

"Ah! A visitor!"

The trespa.s.ser whirled as if he had been stabbed. He stumbled from the chair on which he stood. As he did so, the brilliant beam of a five-cell flashlight hit him square in the face like a physical blow. It blinded him. Left him helpless.

"No doubt this is just a social call. Too bad that the police will call it breaking and entering with larcenous intent!"

It was the oily, mocking voice of Adrian Vance, and it came from the French window through which Mark had entered.

"Try to lie out of it!" Vance gloated. "Just try to explain that picture in your hands!"

"I don't have to explain, Vance. You know why I'm here."

The wail of a siren sounded in the distance.

"Oh, of course I know." The other was laughing softly, greasily. "But will the police understand, Carter? That siren you hear--it's coming here, you know; I called the station before I came down to grab you."

Mark's heart jumped like a wounded stag. He looked around wildly. Was this to be the end of it all? Was he to lie in jail while Elaine went to her death, back there in Bourbon France?

His captor was speaking again: