"To prove that this is bloodless surgery," announced Bogardus, "and that through hypnotism I have anesthetized this subject until all pain is absent, I shall halt all flow of blood when I remove the skewer.

But for this, I need reliable witnesses."

Bogardus beckoned to Cardona and Lang; they arose and came over to him. Lang's hands were still clasped; Bogardus first undid them for him. Then Bogardus slowly withdrew the skewer from Larry's cheek and both witnesses testified that there was no flow of blood. Drawing back Larry's shirt sleeve, Bogardus told Lang to hold the man's wrist and check his pulse. As moments pa.s.sed, Lang's eyes became wide with surprise.

"Why, its dwindling away!" exclaimed Lang. "The man has no pulse beat at all! This is impossible!"

"All is possible in a state of true hypnosis," a.s.sured Bogardus, importantly. "Watch now, how at my command, the blood will flow into the subject's arm."

Despite his short, chunky build, Bogardus looked imposing as he drew to full height and flung both hands toward Larry's extended arm. As if by magic, the dull, whitened flesh took on life. The arm grew ruddy and Larry himself roused from his coma, though his eyes still retained their fixed stare. Bogardus turned to the audience and took a bow, while Lang kept steadying Larry and speaking quietly to the fellow to see if he would respond. Larry's lips moved, but only feebly.

"You see what I mean," Fontaine was saying to Weston. "Bogardus has his genuine moment, when he finds a suitable subject. But we can not pa.s.s final judgment until we see what he accomplishes with others."

"But that man is still hypnotized," argued Weston, pointing to Larry. "He'd collapse if Lang weren't there to hold him up. This may be serious, Fontaine. Perhaps you had better intervene."

Fontaine's response was a short, dry, laugh.

"Bogardus won't forget him," said Fontaine. "He's playing for effect. I've seen him do the act before.

Watch."

Despite Lang's solicitous efforts to hold up Larry, the fellow started curling up. Lang was gripping him, talking to him; Larry reared up again, shrieked and pitched forward. People sprang to their feet, Weston among them, but all would have been too late. Bogardus, however, was about in an instant. He literally scooped Larry's falling form with one hand, supplied some finger snaps with the other. Larry came upright, blinked and steadied himself.

"Help him down from the platform," Bogardus told Lang. "He is awake now. Then return. I still need you." As Lang helped Larry down into the audience toward a back seat, Fontaine gave a knowing nod.

"A confederate, that little fellow," expressed Fontaine. "I recognize him now. He's worked for Bogardus before. He's going out into the lobby. I'm going to find out why."

As Lang returned to the platform, Fontaine slid from his chair and followed Larry from the hall. By then, Bogardus was picking himself another subject. He tested a few briefly, among them Clyde Burke, by meeting them eye to eye. But he finally concentrated on the tall, young man with wavy hair who called himself Chester Hudson. Perhaps that was because Hudson, when seated, was almost as tall as Bogardus and hence responded immediately to the professor's gaze. With a couple of quick finger snaps, Bogardus put Hudson under control and brought him to his feet.

From his pocket, Bogardus brought a calling card; showed it to Hudson.

"Observe this calling card, young man," declared Bogardus. "You will notice that it has a telephone number written on it."

Hudson nodded that it had.

"Take it to that telephone," ordered Bogardus, pointing across the platform. "Call the number on the card and tell me what you get."

There was a phone on a table at the far side of the platform. Mechanically, Hudson went to it, dialed, then listened.

"Come, come," called Bogardus. "What do you get?"

"A busy signal," replied Hudson, staring straight ahead. "That's all, a busy signal."

"Hang up and call again," ordered Bogardus. "Meanwhile"- he looked along the line, chose Clyde as a subject-"I shall try another test. Here is a small metal box. Look it over from every angle and tell me what is odd about it."

Clyde took the little box that Bogardus handed him; turned it over and found that it was locked. Clyde said: "It's locked. That's all."

"Does it feel warm?" asked Bogardus.

"No," replied Clyde. "It's cold."

"It's beginning to feel warmer, though."

"Of course. From the heat of my hand."

"Good. It will grow warmer. It will grow hot. Yes, hot-hotter- hotter -"

Bogardus broke off a glare that he was giving Clyde and strode over toward Hudson. The young man had dialed the number again; now, in a monotonous style, Hudson was repeating words as he listened to the receiver.

"Yes, I understand... Yes, I understand... Yes, I understand -"

s.n.a.t.c.hing the receiver from Hudson's hand, Bogardus slapped it angrily in the cradle. "What's that about?" demanded Bogardus. "All you were hearing was a busy signal. You can't understand a busy signal, except to know that it means nothing. Try that number again!"

Hudson's lips were moving; his eyes had a far-away stare. Bogardus shoved the telephone in his hand, waved the card beneath his eyes, making Hudson focus his attention. By then, everyone had forgotten Clyde. The reporter was beginning to find the box uncomfortable to hold and was shifting it from hand to hand. Wheeling, Bogardus saw Clyde's plight and gave a triumphant smile.

"Hotter-hotter-hotter -"

The box was really becoming hot. Clyde couldn't hold it more than a second in one hand.

"Hotter-hotter-so hot you cannot stand it!"

At the professor's words, Clyde felt that the metal box had grown red-hot Bogardus swung him to a table, told him to drop the box there. Clyde did, willingly, and turned away, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to ease the sting of his burning hands. While the audience rocked with merriment, Bogardus walked over to Hudson, who had dialed the number again. Holding up his hand for silence, Bogardus had everyone listen. They could hear a busy signal from the receiver.

Taking the card that Hudson held, Bogardus showed it to the young man once again and said: "You see this number you were calling? I'll tell you why it's always busy. Because you weren't calling it at all. Awake now and look at this card again. You will see"-Bogardus raised his tone to a triumphant boom-"that it has no number on it!"

Hudson blinked; saw that the card was blank as Bogardus flipped it to show one side, then the other.

Approaching the others, Cardona included, Bogardus showed them the same thing, a card that was blank on both sides. With Clyde, Bogardus went through the formality of a finger snap to awaken him from the hypnotic trance in which he'd fancied he'd been holding a red-hot metal box. Then Bogardus showed Clyde, too, that the card was blank when flipped to display both sides.

Tearing the card in quarters, Bogardus tossed the pieces onto the table with the metal box. He set the table off behind a screen, returned to the group and began goading subjects into more horse-play. He turned one man into a college cheer leader and had the others shouting "Hip-hip-hooray!" until their voices were husky. That concluded what Professor Bogardus termed an hour of hypnotic entertainment.

Dr. Fontaine was back beside Commissioner Weston, but couldn't speak until the cheering ended. Then: "I came back in time to witness the finish of that telephone test," undertoned Fontaine. "If you can get Inspector Cardona to keep Bogardus busy, I'll show you what a fake the professor is."

Cardona was coming down from the platform, chatting with Lang, who had heard rumors of Joe's experience in post-hypnosis the night before and wanted to know more about it. Cardona didn't want to talk and was glad when Weston flagged him.

"Here's your opportunity to get even with Bogardus," said Weston. "Use your official capacity, inspector, and ask him where he was last night. You might mention that you expected him to come to the Cobalt Club and witness the conclusion of the experiment he tried on you."

That suited Cardona perfectly. He headed for the platform, drew Bogardus aside and soon had him in a corner away from everyone. It wasn't to Bogardus liking to have to answer questions; his business was to dominate the scene at all times. But the law couldn't be denied, so Bogardus was accepting the situation as best he could; namely by keeping the quiz a private matter. In the course of this, Bogardus was not aware of Fontaine's subterfuge. Beckoning Weston through a doorway, Fontaine led him around in back of the platform to the table where Bogardus had placed the metal box and the torn card. Cranston and Margo came along; as they reached the table, Margo started to pick up the metal box.

"Funny, wasn't it?" said Margo. "The way Burke thought this box was growing hot -"

A quick slap from Cranston knocked the box from Margo's hand as she stifled a loud "Ouch!" The mere contact had nearly burned her; if she'd really gripped the box, it would have been a painful ordeal.

Margo gasped, "Why, it really is red-hot!"

"Of course it is." Wrapping the box in a handkerchief, Cranston shook it and the sound of liquid came from within. "This box contains quicklime and water in separate compartments. When Burke kept turning the box, they mixed together. It's an old trick, but it's still hot stuff."

"Nice work, Cranston," approved Fontaine. "I'll confess that I missed that one entirely. But one good trick deserves another, so take a look at this."

Fontaine had begun to piece together the portions of the torn calling card. Now they were together and Fontaine overlapped them slightly to turn them over. On the bottom side was written a telephone number: CO-9-2826.

"I was sure I spotted it," declared Fontaine. "Bogardus gave that card a double flip to make it look blank on both sides. That was after he first handed it to the young man. The fellow really read this number and dialed it."

"Then he wasn't hypnotized at all," snorted Weston. "Just another of Bogardus' fakes."

"Not entirely." Fontaine shook his head. "The young chap looked hypnotized to me. After all, he took the professor's word for everything, so there was something of genuine hypnosis in it. Bogardus isn't all fake; that's the worst of it. Give a faker some genuine ability and he'll abuse it, dangerously."

Cranston was studying the pieced-together card.

"C-O for Columbus," said Cranston. "Columbus 9. That's the exchange number in this particular neighborhood."

Smiling, Fontaine nodded wisely.

"You'd like to know more about the number the young man called? Come along."

Leading them around the back way, Fontaine reached an obscure corner of the lobby. There, he pointed into a pay booth. The telephone bore the number Columbus 9-2826. The receiver was off the hook.

Weston swung quickly to Fontaine.

"The little dopey fellow?" queried Weston. "The human pin-cushion that you followed out here?"

"That's right," replied Fontaine. "I saw him come into this phone booth, so I doubled back and watched the finish of Bogardus' telephone test. I was right when I picked the fellow as a confederate. Bogardus sent him out to see that this phone stayed busy."

Looking into the hall, Cranston saw that Cardona had finished his discussion with Bogardus and was coming along the aisle. In a leisurely, casual fashion, Cranston strolled to meet the inspector. Cardonaarrived with an emphatic nod.

"I've got Bogardus worried," said Cardona. "He hasn't any alibi for last night, if that means anything. He'd been expecting to give a lecture in New Jersey, but it was called off at the last minute."

"Too bad," observed Cranston. "If he'd been giving a show, he'd have had his pet stooge with him for an alibi."

"His pet stooge?"

"The little undersized chap who enjoys being stuck with pins and skewers."

"Funny, I didn't think he was part of the act. He's easy enough to find though, if there's any reason to ask him. He hangs around Forty-ninth Street. They call him Larry the Horse."

Cardona didn't notice the momentary gleam that came to Cranston's eyes at the mention of the nickname "the Horse." It was sufficient, though, that t.i.tle, to formulate Cranston's immediate plans. Rejoining the others, Cranston spoke to Margo.

"I'll be leaving you a while," said Cranston, "but I may need you later. Tell Shrevvy to cruise along Forty-ninth Street so he will be handy. I'm making a check-up that may lead to something."

For reasons of his own, Cranston had concluded that Larry the Horse might prove a weak link in the criss-crossed mesh that disguised a chain of crime amid its maze. Leaving Fontaine with Weston, Cranston bowed a "good night" to Hanneford Lang who was discussing the working of the mind with a group of his students. A janitor was coming to close the lobby and soon everyone would have to leave.

In fact, most members of the audience had left the building already, among them Clyde Burke. In leaving, Clyde had observed something that worried him badly. It had to do with the young man who answered to the name of W. Chester Hudson. At the cloak room, Hudson had paused, handed in a check, and gone through the motions of accepting a hat. Whether this was a pretext on Hudson's part or whether he was under some posthypnotic influence, Clyde couldn't guess.

It had bothered Clyde so much, however, that when they reached the street, he followed Hudson to Broadway. Now, amid the bright lights, Clyde could see Hudson's tall figure stalking ahead, along the crowded sidewalk. Somehow, the lights confused Clyde; as he blinked, to counteract their dazzle, he gained a peculiar image that reminded him of glowing eyes. Clyde could fancy, too, that he heard a voice, repeating the words, "Now go your way."

There was only one way to go and that was where Hudson went, for whatever the riddle, Clyde felt that the strange young man was, somehow, connected with the answer. Thus was Clyde Burke drawn along a trail that in its peculiar way promised more results than the search that Lamont Cranston was about to make for a man called Larry the Horse.

CHAPTER VIII. LARRY THE HORSE.

THE CASTLE GRILL looked like any of a hundred other places in the Forties. Its narrow front was a window, topped by a neon sign; inside, patrons could find tables if they walked past a thirty-foot bar to a spot where the cafe widened sufficiently to accommodate four-seat booths on one side and a sandwich counter on the other.

It was at the counter that Cranston found Larry the Horse, feeding on a pastrami sandwich and a dish of pickles. While he ate, Larry kept an eye on a distant television screen near the front of the establishment,which showed a wrestling match in process, the partic.i.p.ants reduced to about postage-stamp size.

Seating himself near the Horse, Cranston ordered a cup of coffee and listened to the small talk that Larry exchanged with other Castle Grill patrons. The words were rather indistinguishable considering that Larry was munching a sandwich with them, but it became apparent that Larry didn't go to wrestling matches because he was too busy. He liked wrestling though, well enough to bet who would be the next winner, if anyone wanted to cover the cash he offered. As proof, Larry showed a fat roll of bills.

"Put your dough away," growled a man who was seated on the stool next to Larry's. "You ought to know the rules here. No gambling allowed in this joint."

"You mean n.o.body is supposed to phone in bets to bookies," returned Larry. "Anyway, n.o.body can, because the phone was yanked. Too many guys were using this place as a horse parlor."

"You for one, maybe," a.s.serted the other man. "They call you the Horse, don't they?"

There was a moment's hesitation, then Larry nodded.

"I guess that's because you play them, ain't it? Or did you use to ride the ponies? You look like you were a jockey once."

Larry shook his head. "I never play them, and I never rode them. How I make my dough is my own business."

With that, Larry turned away from his questioner and began beckoning for the waiter to bring him another sandwich. At that moment, he heard an even-toned voice speak from close by: "So you don't ride horses or bicycles."

Swinging about, Larry the Horse saw the calm, impa.s.sive face of Lamont Cranston. Having never seen Cranston at the Castle Grill before, Larry was suspicious of him. If he'd noticed Cranston at the hypnotic show, Larry's suspicions would have been stimulated much further, enough for Larry to close up like a clam, of which he was quite capable. But he was just aggressive enough, Larry was, to challenge the remark of this unknown customer.

"Bicycles?" demanded Larry. "Do I look like a six-day bike racer that belongs in Madison Square Garden?"

"Hardly," returned Cranston. "I think twelve hours would be your limit and in a store window at that."

This made no sense to the other men who were at the counter, but the comment caused Larry's face to stiffen. Then, with a sullen laugh, Larry twisted his pasty lips into a smile and asked, "What are you getting at, mister?"

"Your nickname," replied Cranston. "I don't have to guess why they call you the Horse."

"And why's that?"

"You've been in the business long enough to know. Your nickname dates from the old days, when hypnotists called their stooges horses."

"All right," conceded Larry. "So I used to do a window act, riding a bike like I was hypnotized. Twelve hours at a stretch was easy and I got good pay for it, because the thing was a big publicity stunt in jerk towns. But that stuff is out of date and it wouldn't go in New York, anyway. So what?" "You can answer that for yourself," said Cranston. "Unless you want me to ask Professor Bogardus."

Larry winced, then gave a short laugh.

"Sounds like you've caught the professor's act, mister."

"I have."

"All the better then," argued Larry. "Riding a bike in a window is one thing; getting pins and skewers shoved into you is another. That's what I let Bogardus do to me."