Death from Nowhere (17 page)

Shivara

“His name is Shivara. In the full Sanskrit, Siddahshivara, which in case you don't know—”

“But I do,” Don interrupted. “My Sanskrit is a bit rusty, but I seem to remember having read that
siddah
means a man who possesses supernormal powers. Do you mind giving me just a small preliminary hint as to what to expect — what it is that is so supernormal about Mr. Shivara?”

Sayre hesitated. He gave the magician a long intent look, and Don, staring back at him, thought he glimpsed something in Nicholas Sayre's eyes that he had never seen there before.

He saw it for only a moment and then it was gone again, but he was sure he knew what it was. It looked strangely like fear and, more than that, a touch of pure horror.

“He can do anything,” Sayre answered slowly. “Anything!”

Don Diavolo felt a little chill along his own back. This was getting thick. “That takes in an awful lot of territory,” he said. “Let's take one thing at a time.”

Sayre nodded. “All right. I've seen you vanish that young lady assistant of yours more than once. You put her in a box or cabinet and a moment later she isn't there. Shivara does that. But he doesn't need any boxes or cabinets, nor any stages with trick lighting and behind-the-scenes assistants.

“
He simply stands there before you and vanishes!
”

C
HAPTER
IV

Murder Without Corpse

D
on Diavolo looked at Nicholas Sayre for a moment. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and went out into the hall.

“Pat!” he called up the stairs. “Come down here a moment, will you? And bring that monk's costume we used in the
Now You See It
—
Now You Don't
routine.”

Pat, sensing the excitement in Don's voice, was down in less than half a minute carrying the long black monk's robe.

Don Diavolo took it from her and draped it over her shoulders. He pulled the cowl up over her head. “Now stand here,” he said, leading her to a spot in the center of the living room floor, well away from any concealing chairs or sofas, and within six feet of Nicholas Sayre.

“We don't need to be Grand Masters of the White Lodge of the Himalayas,” he told Sayre. “Watch!” He placed one hand on Pat's right shoulder and turned her with her back toward Sayre. He placed his other hand on her left shoulder. “All set?” he asked, and then as she nodded her head, he counted, “One! Two! Three! Go!”

On the word, “Go” he gave the robe a shake and then threw it over his arm. Patricia Collins had vanished as completely as a puff of smoke in a high wind.
11

Don Diavolo turned to Sayre. “Is that the general idea?” he asked.

And for once the Great Diavolo's audience sat on its hands. Sayre shook his head.

“No,” he said. “If that's the best you can do, you can make out a check for the ten thousand dollars now. You're doing your trick in your own house which is probably honeycombed with trapdoors. You had to use something to cover the girl. But Shivara vanishes in
my
house, where there aren't any trapdoors, and in full view!”

“Oh,” Don said. “He just fades away, I suppose.”

And Nicholas Sayre nodded. “Yes. That's exactly what he does!”

Diavolo turned to Richards. “Have you seen him do that?”

Richards nodded too. “Yes. I have.”

“This,” Don said seriously, “is beginning to get interesting. What else does Mr. Shivara do?”

“Clairvoyance,” Sayre replied. “Materializations, telekinesis, levitations, the projection of
tulpas
— all the phenomena that a real
gomchen
can command, all those feats of Tibetan and Indian magic that we find difficult to believe because so few Western eyes have ever been privileged to see it. Half the time he can tell me exactly what I'm thinking. Sometimes I'm afraid …”

Don Diavolo was beginning to realize now the real reason why Sayre had come to him. The man had hunted ceaselessly for genuine psychic phenomena and now at last, when he'd got it, or thought he had, it was too much for him.

He had uncovered something that was too big, and it had him scared pink. Don had a hunch that Sayre, though he might not admit it, more than half hoped Diavolo
could
prove Shivara a faker.

“
Tulpas ?
”
Diavolo asked. “You mean thought-forms — the astral double?”

Sayre nodded. “Yes. He can project a thought image of himself — materialize it in full view until there seems to be two of him there before you!”

“That,” Don said seriously, “is quite a trick. You're quite sure that he doesn't have a twin brother?”

Sayre got suddenly to his feet. “Sitting here telling you about it is a waste of my time. I don't expect you to believe it until you've seen it. And I'm so sure of my facts this time that I'll make you a ten thousand dollar challenge.

“If you can show me how he uses trickery to accomplish any one — any
one
, mind you — of his feats, I'll pay you that amount. Be at my house for dinner eight o'clock tonight.”

Sayre started out. Then he stopped. “Oh yes. One thing. Mr. Shivara knows nothing of your ten thousand dollar challenge. He would not care. He probably would dislike it if he knew I had accepted for him. He will not know that you are investigating him. He is not interested in proving his powers to doubters like yourself. And you will
not
bring any reporters with you. I'll see you tonight?”

“You'll see me,” Don answered.

“Richards!” Sayre barked.

“Yes sir,” Richards said, jumping.

“Come on!”

Richards went.

As the two of them descended the steps toward the limousine and chauffeur that awaited them they passed a stocky, pink-cheeked individual whose guileless, innocent face might have been that of a Sunday School Superintendent.

If you had ever made the mistake, however, of thinking that was what he was and accepted his invitation to a little game of cards, the odds are several million to one that you would have lost your shirt — and pants.

The agile fingers of Melvin C. Skinner alias John B. Crooks alias R. Wiley Draper could make a deck of cards sit up and beg, lie down and roll over, jump through a hoop, and deal itself out in poker hands of any sort desired.

Mostly you got deuces and he got aces, which was why Broadway, unable to keep track of his ever-changing aliases, called him the Horseshoe Kid. Though his occupation of professional gambler was strictly extra-legal, he did try to make a point of shearing only those lambs whose bank balances were so large that it was next to impossible that the whole sum could have been acquired honestly.

As he said, “Any mark who assays more than a couple of million has to hire a good mouthpiece to keep him out of stir.”

His nimble-fingered dexterity with the pasteboards made him, for Don Diavolo, an irresistible acquaintance, and his up-to-the-minute first-hand knowledge of the underworld and its members had come in very handy on more than one occasion.

He turned to watch Sayre and his secretary as they drove off. Then he came up the steps and said, “Say, who is that guy?”

“Mr. Nicholas Sayre, Diavolo replied. “The ex-king of stock and bond manipulators and the current authority on Oriental psychic shenanigans.”

“Yeah,” Horseshoe said, scowling. “I recognized him. I mean the jumpy little guy who was hitched on behind.”

“Fellow named Richards. He's Sayre's secretary.”

“Oh.” The Kid scratched his head. “Secretary, huh? Um. I thought his face looked familiar, but I can't remember … Say, what goes on here anyway? Isn't Sayre the guy who thinks a magician is the kind of a bug with six legs that makes business for exterminating companies?”

“He did,” Don replied, “but I've got a hunch he's beginning to change his mind. His researches into the occult seem to have left him with a hot coal on his hands — and it's one that is beginning to sizzle.”

Shivara, pistol raised, went down before the sharp assault

When Don and Horseshoe went into the living room they found Patricia Collins rematerialized and waiting for them.

“I heard that about the astral double,” she said. “I don't like it. If he really could do that and you found out how, you wouldn't need twins in the act any more. Either Mickey or myself would be hunting a new job.”

“Don't worry,” Don replied. “If Mr. Shivara really can do that he won't be asking me for your jobs. He'll go into business for himself.” Don grinned as he spoke but there was a worried pucker on his forehead. He raised his voice and called, “Chan!”

Chan popped in so quickly that it was fairly obvious that he too had been an interested listener to the Sayre interview.

“Mr. Siddahshivara,” Diavolo asked. “Ever hear of him, before now, Chan?”

The boy shook his head. “No. Very sorry. Lots of people in India.”

“But there aren't many Hindu fakirs who can take the sort of rabbits out of hats that Sayre says Shivara can, are there?”

“Lots of stories about same,” Chan answered. “But most A-1
jadhoo-wallahs
quite shy. Very hard to find. Garden variety of Indian street fakir nowadays sends money order to Merlini's magic shop on Broadway and gets Western tricks to use on tourists. He often has Chan translate instructions into Hindustani before shipping goods.”

“India,” Don Diavolo murmured half under his breath. “There has been an awful lot of talk about India around here today. I wonder …”

The magician made for the phone, lifted the receiver and dialled Bryant 3-3824 again. “Altogether too much India — and too much mystery,” he said to no one in particular. Then, into the phone, “Mr. Alexander, please.”

And, a moment later, as he heard the connection go through, “Is this Mr. Alexander?”

The answering voice said, “No, but I'll try to get him. Who shall I say is calling, please?”

Don suddenly felt exactly as if he had been kicked by a mule, stepped on by an elephant, and short-circuited by an angry electric eel. He knew that voice!

“Well, well,” he replied into the transmitter, “Fancy meeting you here. How have you been, Inspector, and how is Mrs. Church? I hope your gout is better.”

There was dead silence on the other end of the line. It lasted for about ten seconds and then the previously polite, helpful voice was transformed suddenly into an official, gruff and deeply suspicious one. It growled:

“So! You! Will you tell me why in blazes, when there are 450,000 numbers in the Manhattan telephone book,
you
have to be calling this one? Can't I investigate a murder without — without—”

The Inspector had said too much and he knew it. He stalled.

Don felt the mule kick him again.

Quickly he said, “I was calling Butterfield 3—3824. Maybe I dialed it wrong. What number do you—”

But Church howled. “Butterfield 3! There isn't any such exchange. And, even if there were, you asked for Mr. Alexander. Don't try to tell
me
you meant to say Smith or Hammerstein or something! You stay right where you are until Brady comes down there to pick you up. Understand?”

Don asked, “Sure you know where I am? I might be calling from Grand Rapids, or maybe Rangoon.”

“No,” the Inspector contradicted. “And see that you don't light out for any of those places either. I know where you are. Every call that comes in here is traced as soon as it hits the switchboard.” Diavolo heard Church's voice call, “Brady!” Then came the click as Church hung up.

Behind him, Don heard Pat, Chan and Horseshoe all together saying, “Inspector Church! What—”

But he was busy dialing again — Bryant 3-3824. This time when the operator said. “Hotel Winfield,” Diavolo told her: “I want to speak to J. Woodford Haines. He's a reporter on the
Press
and I suspect he's somewhere in your lobby. Will you have him paged, please? This is his office calling.”