Larry Saunders and Tim Holian stepped in front of Clyde Lynds, shielding him as they reached for their pistols. Saunders whipped his Colt from his shoulder holster with blinding speed.
Christian Semmler’s gunmen fired as one. Six shots exploded in deafening thunder. The chief of the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s Los Angeles field office fell dead with six bullets in his chest.
Their second volley dropped both Protective Service men, who had been so startled by the raid that they were still reaching for their weapons. The guns wheeled toward Tim Holian, whom they had been afraid to fire at because he was next to Clyde Lynds. Holian took full advantage of the two-second respite. Standing tall, pistols flaming in both hands, he stalked the raiders. One Bittereinderwent down, and another fell back with a cry of pain. Four returned Holian’s fire. The big detective tumbled across the laboratory, and crashed into a table, splintering it.
Clyde Lynds ran. The Acrobat leaped over the fallen men’s bodies and bounded lithely after him, catching him by the arm. He drew him close in a powerful grip, squeezed until Lynds groaned in pain, and glared in the frightened scientist’s eyes. “I have you, Herr Lynds. Do not struggle, or I will hurt you. Where is the Talking Pictures machine?”
“You’re looking at it,” Lynds said sullenly.
“That is the part for showing the Talking Pictures,” Semmler said, gesturing for his men to pack it down the stairs. “Where is the part that manufactures it?”
He squeezed harder, crushing muscle against bone. Gasping, Lynds led him to a camera on a tripod.
“This is for pictures,” said Semmler. “What captures the sound?”
Lynds nodded mutely at a carbon microphone on a tall wooden box.
Semmler said, “Lastly, where is the machine for imprinting the sounds on the film?”
Clyde Lynds sagged in Semmler’s grip. The monster knew everything. It was as if he had been watching over his shoulder. Pain bored through his arm as Semmler shook him like a terrier. “Where?”
“Upstairs in the lab.”
Semmler was relentless. Squeezing harder, grinding Lynds’s flesh agonizingly against bone, he asked, “Where are your plans?”
Clyde Lynds realized with a sinking heart that, having been outfoxed in the past, the German was too suspicious to be fooled again. “There!” he gasped, indicating a satchel full of drawings and schematics. That seemed to appease the Acrobat, Lynds thought, but he soon realized he was wrong.
“Let’s go!” Semmler dragged him toward the opening that had appeared so suddenly in the wall.
“Where?”
“Up to the laboratory for your imprinting machine, then home to Germany.”
“Germany’s not my home,” Lynds protested.
“It will be your home until your machine is made absolutely perfect.”
The Gopher gangsters back in New York had taught Clyde Lynds their favorite fighting trick. They had done it as a joke, thinking he was an overeducated sissy boy, but, craving their respect, he had learned it anyhow. With nothing to lose, he tried it now, so unexpectedly that he startled even the Acrobat. Springing off his toes he butted his forehead against the big German’s massive jaw. In the split second that the grip on his arm eased, Lynds wrenched free and ran. He stumbled over Larry Saunders’s body, arrested his fall with one hand, and scooped up a fallen pistol.
Clyde Lynds heard a shot.
The sound seemed to come from a great distance, and he heard it long after he realized that his legs had stopped moving and that the shot had hammered him to the floor. He tried to sit up. He saw the man who had shot him, a yellow-bearded Dutchman in a slouch hat, still holding the gun and violently shaking his head. The Acrobat was standing close behind the man, his face contorted with rage and stupendous effort as he yanked a garrote around the Dutchman’s neck so tightly that it sawed through flesh.
“Take everything to the train,” Semmler ordered his remaining men. “I’ll go up to the laboratory.” He threw the Boer’s body out of his way and knelt to pick up Clyde Lynds to have him identify the correct imprinting machine. The scientist had lost consciousness. Air bubbled bloodily from his chest, and Semmler could see that he was mortally wounded.
Again cursing the trigger-happy fool who had shot Lynds and remembering how Lynds had tricked him in the past, Christian Semmler searched the dying scientist’s clothing. He found tucked beneath his shirt a flat object carefully folded in a wrapping of oilskin. He opened it and found a single sheet of heavy parchment paper. To his joy, written on it in a fine, clear, miniature hand were diagrams and schematic drawings annotated with mathematical formulas.
Semmler rewrapped it with reverent care in the waterproof oilskin. Surely this was the cagey Lynds’s true plan for the Talking Pictures machine. Why else would he have wrapped it so carefully? Why else would he hide it? Semmler slipped it inside his own shirt. He would take it, along with the satchel full of plans and the machine itself, back to Germany and let the scientists determine which was real.
Isaac Bell spotted Irina Viorets standing just at the edge of the light drifting down from a streetlamp. She was craning her neck, staring up at the top of the Imperial Building. Her coat was too heavy for the mild climate. At her feet was a carpetbag.
“You look,” said Bell as he came up behind her, “like a woman leaving town.”
She turned to the sound of his voice. Her eyes were bright with tears. Her voice trembled. “Do not speak,” she said. “I will speak.”
Bell listened with some skepticism and then growing sympathy as she told him how her fiancé was locked in Semmler’s Army prison in Prussia. “Semmler says he’s a fool. But his cause is right. His dreams are just. I know, now, that he was not meant to survive in the world in which he chooses to fight. I am his only hope.”
“Irina, why are you telling me this?”
“Because maybe if you kill Semmler, perhaps, just perhaps, there will be no one else to order them to kill my prince.”
“I’m a private detective, Irina. I’m not a murderer.”
“I know that, Isaac. But if you confront Christian Semmler, only one will survive. Call it what you want. Self-defense. I don’t care. You are my only hope.”
“To confront him, I have to find him.”
“I will tell you how to find him. There is a secret stairwell that rises from the basement to the penthouse. He roams it. He spies from it. On the ninth floor he has his own hidden quarters. Now you can find him.”
“Where is the basement entrance?”
“Do you recall the life net that I showed you behind the building? For the actors to jump in?”
“Yes.”
“There is a trapdoor directly under it.”
“Why tonight?” Bell asked. “Why did you tell me tonight?”
“Because I have done a terrible thing, and only you can save me from it.”
“What?”
“Semmler asked me to make sure that Marion is in the building tonight.”
“She’s here? She can’t be. She’s home.”
“I put her to work, last minute, taking pictures in the roof studio. She’s up there now. Where he wanted her. I am so sorry, Isaac, but my—”
Bell whirled away and ran full tilt down the block and around the corner. He saw an International truck pulling away from the gate in the wooden fence that surrounded the vacant lot behind the building. One of the uniformed lobby doormen was standing guard at the gate and moved to stop him.
“Where the hell you think you’re going?”
Bell hit him twice, continued through the gate, and ran past the temporary outdoor studio stages. He saw the life net in the light of a nearby window. The canvas was stretched between springy ropes, five feet above the ground. Bell ducked under it and found the trapdoor. Oddly, it was open.
Isaac Bell climbed into the hole and down a steel ladder affixed to a concrete wall. At the bottom, he saw light at the end of a narrow hall and ran toward it, drawing his Browning. The hall ended at a dimly lit narrow stairwell. Steps spiraled tightly upward into the highest reaches of the building. Bell bounded up them, the sound of his boots muffled by rubber tile.