“Pig of an American,” sneered Lupescu, “will you tell us where you have hidden the plans for America’s new high-orbiting submolecular three-stage fusion-conversion unit?”
Hadley merely smiled beneath his gag.
“My friend,” Lupescu said softly, “there is pain that no man can bear. Why not save yourself the annoyance?”
Hadley’s gray eyes were amused. He did not answer.
“Bring the torture instruments,” Lupescu said, sneering. “We will make the capitalist dog speak.”
Chang and Madam Oui left the room. Quickly Lupescu unstrapped Hadley.
“We must hurry, old man,” Lupescu said. “They’ll be back in a shake.”
“I don’t understand,” Hadley said. “You are—”
“British Agent 432 at your service,” Lupescu said, bowing, a twinkle in his eyes. “Couldn’t reveal myself with Chang and Madam Oui mucking about. Now get those plans back to Washington, old fellow. Here’s a gun. You might need it.”
Hadley took the heavy, silenced automatic, snapped off the safety, and shot Lupescu through the heart.
“Your loyalty to the People’s Government,” Hadley said in perfect Russian, “has long been suspect. Now we know. The Kremlin will be amused.”
Hadley stepped over the corpse and opened the door. Standing in front of him was Chang.
“Dog!” Chang snarled, lifting a heavy, silenced automatic.
“Wait!” Hadley cried. “You don’t understand—”
Chang fired once. Hadley slumped to the floor.
Quickly Chang stripped off his oriental disguise, revealing himself as the true Anton Lupescu. Madam Oui came back into the room and gasped.
“Do not be alarmed, little one,” Lupescu said. “The impostor who called himself Hadley was actually Chang, a Chinese spy.”
“But who was the other Lupescu?” Madam Oui asked.
“Obviously,” Lupescu said, “he was the true James Hadley. Now where could those plans be?”
A careful search revealed a wart on the right arm of the corpse of the man who had claimed to be James Hadley. The wart was artificial. Under it were the precious microfilm plans.
“The Kremlin will reward us,” Lupescu said. “Now we—”
He stopped. Madam Oui had picked up a heavy, silenced automatic. “Dog!” she hissed, and shot Lupescu through the heart.
Swiftly Madam Oui stripped off her disguise, revealing beneath it the person of the true James Hadley, American secret agent.
Hadley hurried down to the street. The black limousine was still waiting, and the scarfaced Greek had drawn a gun.
“Well?” the Greek asked.
“I have them,” said Hadley. “You did your work well, Chang.”
“Nothing to it,” said the chauffeur, stripping off his disguise and revealing the face of the wily Chinese Nationalist detective. “We had better hurry to the airport, eh, old boy?”
“Quite,” said James Hadley.
The powerful black car sped into the darkness. In a corner of the car, something moved and clutched Hadley’s arm.
It was the true Madam Oui.
“Oh, Jimmy,” she said, “is it all over, at last?”
“It’s all over. We’ve won,” Hadley said, holding the beautiful Eurasian girl tightly to him.
THE LOCKED ROOM
Sir Trevor Mellanby, the eccentric old British scientist, kept a small laboratory on a corner of his Kent estate. He entered his lab on the morning of June 17. When three days passed and the aged peer did not emerge, his family grew anxious. Finding the doors and windows of the laboratory locked, they summoned the police.
The police broke down the heavy oak door. Inside they found Sir Trevor sprawled lifeless across the concrete floor. The famous scientist’s throat had been savagely ripped out. The murder weapon, a three-pronged garden claw, was lying nearby. Also, an expensive Bokhara rug had been stolen. Yet all doors and windows were securely barred from the inside.
It was an impossible murder, an impossible theft. Yet there it was. Under the circumstances, Chief Inspector Morton was called. He came at once, bringing his friend Dr. Crutch, the famous amateur criminologist.
“Hang it all, Crutch,” Inspector Morton said, several hours later. “I confess the thing has me stumped.”
“It does seem rather a facer,” Crutch said, peering nearsightedly at the rows of empty cages, the bare concrete floor, and the cabinet full of gleaming scalpels.
“Curse it all,” the inspector said, “I’ve tested every inch of wall, floor, and ceiling for secret passages. Solid, absolutely solid.”
“You’re certain of that?” Dr. Crutch asked, a look of surprise on his jolly face.
“Absolutely. But I don’t see—”
“It becomes quite obvious,” Dr. Crutch said. “Tell me, have you counted the lights in the lab?”
“Of course. Six.”
“Correct. Now if you count the light switches, you will find seven.”
“But I don’t see—”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Crutch asked. “When have you ever heard of absolutely solid walls? Let’s try those switches!”
One by one they turned the switches. When they turned the last, there was an ominous grinding sound. The roof of the laboratory began to rise, lifted on massive steel screws.
“Great Scott!” cried Inspector Morton.
“Exactly,” said Dr. Crutch. “One of Sir Trevor’s little eccentricities. He liked his ventilation.”
“So the murderer killed him, crawled out between roof and wall, then closed a switch on the outside—”
“Not at all,” Dr. Crutch said. “Those screws haven’t been used in months. Furthermore, the maximum opening between wall and ceiling is less than seven inches. No, Morton, the murderer was far more diabolical than that.”
“I’ll be cursed if I can see it,” Morton said.
“Ask yourself,” Crutch said, “why the murderer should use a weapon as clumsy as a garden claw instead of the deadly scalpels right here to hand!”
“Blast it all,” Morton said, “I don’t know why.”
“There is a reason,” Crutch said grimly. “Do you know anything of the nature of Sir Trevor’s research?”
“All England knows that,” Morton said. “He was working on a method to increase animal intelligence. Do you mean—”
“Precisely,” Crutch said. “Sir Trevor’s method worked, but he had no chance to give it to the world. Have you noticed how empty these cages are? Mice were in them, Morton! His own mice killed him, then fled down the drains.”
“I—I can’t believe it,” Morton said, stunned. “Why did they use the claw?”
“Think, man!” cried Crutch. They wanted to conceal their crime. They didn’t want all England on a mouse hunt! So they used the claw to rip out Sir Trevor’s throat—after he was dead.”
“Why?”
“To disguise the marks of their teeth,” Crutch said quietly.
“Hmm. But wait!” Morton said. “It’s an ingenious theory, Crutch, but it doesn’t explain the theft of the rug!”
“The missing rug is my final clue,” Dr. Crutch said. “A microscopic examination will show that the rug was chewed to bits and carried down the drains piece by piece.”
“What on earth for?”
“Solely.” said Dr. Crutch, “to conceal the bloody footprints of a thousand tiny feet.”
“What can we do?” Morton said, after a pause.
“Nothing!” Crutch said savagely. “Personally, I propose to go home and purchase several dozen cats. I suggest that you do likewise.”
FOOL’S MATE
The players met, on the great, timeless board of space. The glittering dots that were the pieces swam in their separate patterns. In that configuration at the beginning, even before the first move was made, the outcome of the game was determined.
Both players saw, and knew which had won. But they played on.
Because the game had to be played out.
“Nielson!”
Lieutenant Nielson sat in front of his gunfire board with an idyllic smile on his face. He didn’t look up.