The mirror was long. It had an old gla.s.s, and some of the silvered reflecting material had scabbed off the back. But it could reflect color.

Monk looked, and said nothing whatever.

He was a pink man.

THEY took the mirror away. They must have been sobered by Monk's silence, and by the expression on his face, because they did no more laughing.

Cy said, "Remember I said I had a plan? This is it."

Monk's glare was white and silent.

Cy added, "You'll stay like you are-unless you answer questions. And if you do answer them, we can change you back to your regular color."

Monk still said nothing.

Wheeling, Cy said, "Boys, toss him in with Harland and let him think it over. The two of them may come to their senses."

There was no more said. They got Monk by the legs and the arms and skidded him-he was too flabbergasted by the incredible thing that had happened to him to have the spirit to fight-down a hall, then down a series of steps which bruised his back, and, then tossed him heels first into a room that, after they shut the door, was extremely dark. The door slammed.

During the first few moments there was silence; then feet stirred a few yards away. Monk judged there was one person, a man.

"Ain't there any lights in this place?" Monk demanded.

"Yes. Electric lights."

"Well, turn them on.""I'd rather not," the voice said.

The voice belonged to a man.

Monk performed a feat of contortion, aided no little by the fact that his arms were longer than his legs.

He got his handcuffed wrists in front of him. Then he arose, felt around the walls in search of an electric switch. He located none. The idea that there might be a drawstring occurred to him, and he calculated the center of the room, went to that point, found the string. He pulled it with his teeth.

"Oh!" said the man. "You're that way, too."

He was a young man, tall, with a well-made face. His hair was curly. One of his ears stuck out a little more than the other.

Monk went over to him and held his hands near the young man's hands. Monk eyed the four hands.

"About the same color," he decided. "If anything, I'm a little brighter."

"I'm getting dusty and dirty," the other explained.

Monk said, "Who are you?"

"Harland-Peter Harland."

"Do you have a sister?"

"Yes. Yes, a sister named Lada."

Monk hesitated before he put his next question. "Do you know where she is?"

"Well, I-" The other went silent.

"Well, what?"

"She-" Obviously distressed, the young man cleared his throat.

"What did she do?"

"It's a hard thing for a man to say about his own sister," said the young man grimly, "but I'm afraid she's behind this mess."

"Behind it?"

"Yes. I'm afraid these men who are holding us prisoner are working for her. I think she is using the name of Bodine."

"A party named Bodine is supposed to be back of it," Monk declared. "We haven't been able to put our finger on this Bodine yet."

"Bodine is my sister."

"You are sure?"

"Absolutely."

MONK looked around the place grimly. It was a cellar room, evidently a root cellar, because there was an outer door, very thick and heavy, that must lead to a yard, and one other door, through which he had been thrust into the place, that was equally heavy.

"Let's hear the story," Monk said.

"Who-" The other hesitated. "Who are you?"

"Monk-Monk Mayfair," Monk told him. "I'm a.s.sociated with Doc Savage, who is investigating this thing."

The pink young man's eyes widened. "Oh, I've heard of you." Becoming visibly animated with pleasure, he came over and seized Monk's hand. "This delights me." He pumped the hand. "I'm glad Doc Savage is interested. Everything is all right, if he's interested."

Monk said, "Everything is a heck of a long ways from all right. What's the story?"

"But-"

"The story," Monk said impatiently. "I want to hear what is going on."

Shrugging, the other said, "A week ago, I drank something in my coffee for supper. I think my sister put the drug in the coffee. Anyway, the last thing I remembered was pa.s.sing out at the supper table."

He paused, glowered, said, "When I woke up, I was pink."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Monk became angry and said, "Now wait a minute! If you got pink, there was a reason. What happened? How was it done? Is it a dye? What is it?"

"How did you get that way?" the other countered.

Monk yelled, "How the devil do I know? That's what I'm tryin' to find out."

"There you are," said the other matter-of-factly. "I don't know anything more about it than you do. I just pa.s.sed out. And when I awakened, I was this way."

"Is it a dye?"

"No. It doesn't wear off. And if you'll notice, your teeth, the inside of your mouth, your eyeb.a.l.l.s, everything is the same color."

Monk stared at his hands in disgust. "I don't like it."

THE pink young man said, "To continue with that story I was telling you. It was my sister who was responsible for whatever happened to me."

Staring at him, Monk demanded, "How you know that?"

"Because I was tied hand and foot. And she kept me a prisoner in the house for almost a week. She wouldn't let anybody come in, none of the neighbors.""What was she holding you for?"

"You know how scientists use guinea pigs for experiments? I think I was her guinea pig. I think she wanted to know what effect the pink coloration was going to have on me."

"Was it you broke out of the Harland house?" Monk asked.

"You found out about that, did you? Yes, that was I. I got away. Slipped my ropes off and ran for it.

They caught me."

"They?"

"The men my sister had hired. Then they loaded me in a truck and brought me here. Incidentally, I have no idea where we now are."

Monk fished around in his mouth. In one of his numerous fights in the past, some of his teeth had been knocked out, and he wore a bridge of the type which was braced with a slender alloyed gold rod. He got this out. With no compunction whatever, he twisted two of the teeth out of their holdings, put them in one pocket-he was wearing a suit of coveralls which had been subst.i.tuted for his garments-then removed the teeth on the other side of the bridge and put them in a different pocket.

He handed his companion the metal part of the bridge.

"You ever pick a handcuff lock?" he demanded.

"Why, no."

"Get hold of that thing and go to work," Monk directed. "Just prod around in there. I'll tell you where."

Gingerly, his doubts showing on his face, the other obeyed.

"Slant it to the right and kind of feel in the lock," Monk commanded. "Say, does this pink color have any effect on a man? Does it make you sick?"

"No. Everything looks somewhat pink, however."

"Yeah, I noticed." Monk pondered. Then he described the incident in the Hotel Troy, giving the burning version straight-he watched the young man show horror at this point-and then explaining that they had reasons to believe the young woman was still alive. "What do you make of that?" he finished.

The young man showed his teeth briefly and grimly.

"I think," he said, "that my sister was preparing herself an alibi. She was trying to make the public think she was dead." He eyed Monk intently. "Did you say they were at pains in the Hotel Troy lobby to call my sister by her name, Lada Harland?"

"Yes."

"I think that proves my point. Don't you?"

Monk didn't know what it proved. He said, "Here, quit wiggling that probe around and around. Slant it toward me a little and give a series of quick, twisting jabs."

The young man did this and the handcuff lock came open.Monk stood up. "It won't be long now," he said.

LEAVING the other handcuff bracelet to dangle from his wrist, Monk reached up and jerked the light cord to plunge the cellar into darkness. Then he went over under the slanting door that he surmised must lead outdoors, and searched for cracks. He finally found one through which he could distinguish a star.

"Dark outside," he announced. "So why should we stick around in here?"

"But you can't get out."

"Why not?"

"That door is too heavy. I've tried it."

"I've got something better than muscles," Monk advised.

He got out his four teeth, and twisted and grunted over them until it developed that they were sh.e.l.ls which could be unscrewed. He dried them off carefully, then unscrewed the caps on three of them. Each held a small quant.i.ty of substance-two had paste, another powder, and another a liquid-which he carefully mixed.

"My own invention," he explained. "I made one for Doc. He used to wear it in the back of his mouth in place of a wisdom tooth before he grew a wisdom tooth, but now he has no place to wear it and-you gotta work fast."

Finishing the last part of his operation in great haste, Monk dashed over to the door and crammed his paste into a crack in the door timbers under the lock. He withdrew, taking long jumps in his haste.

"That stuff is like a firecracker," he said. "Sometimes goes off before you're ready."

His companion was astounded. "You mean it will explode?"

"If it don't, I'm no chemist."

"But suppose they would explode in your mouth?"

"Oh, none of the ingredients are explosive," Monk explained. "Anyway, saliva or any other moisture renders the mixture harmless."

They waited.

The pink young man finally complained, "But it don't sound as if it's going to-"