Originally published in the July 1934 issue of Operator #5TM
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Copyright ã 1934 Popular Publications, Inc.
Copyright (c) renewed 1962 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc.
All rights reserved. Licensed to Vintage New Media
Operator #5 is a trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.
By Curtis Steele
Out of the blue it struck-that dread, mysterious force, dealing death,
destruction and misery to millions. America found herself stripped of
her strongest defenses as battleships, huge guns, skyscrapers, factories
and transportation systems crumbled to dust before the voracious flame.
No one could tell where it came from; where it would next strike; no
one was safe from its hot, devouring maw. An entire nation stood
crippled, paralyzed by panic as Operator 5, alone, fought to save America
from the red ruin loosed upon it.
____________________________________________________________________________________
CHAPTER ONE
Span of Doom
THE gigantic suspension bridge, spanning
the turbid waters of the Mississippi and linking
together two important states, was about to be
dedicated to the people.
For four years hundreds of men had labored
to erect the tremendous structure. Millions of
man-hours of work had gone into its construction.
The finest architectural and engineering talent in
the United States had combined to make of it a
monument of enduring utility and beauty. The
world had watched its gigantic masonry-encased
piers rise into the sky above the water, and the
weaving of the huge spider-web of cables, until at
last it stood, a miracle in stone and steel.
It was a breath-taking sight, this gargantuan
span, glistening black and white in the clear
sunlight of a Spring day. Its interweaving strands
of steel shone clean and new, its roadbed of
unblemished concrete lay a white stretch beneath
the catenary curves of the thick suspension
cables. No traffic had yet passed across it, but
the hour of its opening to the public was now at
hand.
On the far-reaching ramps, which fanned out
across both banks of the Mississippi, thousands
of automobiles were driven into line, each loaded
with passengers, all eager for the honor of being
among the first to cross the beautiful span. Far
beneath it, numberless boats were shuttling back
and forth in the water. The attention of a million
people was turned to the cleared space on the
bridge midway over the river.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
2
The dedication ceremonies were about to
begin.
The cars which stood first in line were those
of important public men, and from them morningcoated
and silk-hatted officials had alighted to
gather at the center of the bridge. The glistening
lenses of newsreel cameras looked down upon
them. Radio announcers chattered a running
account of the event into microphones.
Across the roadbed hung a shining silk
ribbon, barring the way, and near it stood a child
of five who was holding in her chubby hands a
pair of golden shears inscribed for the occasion.
She was Betty Merwin, only daughter of the
governor of one of the two states joined by this
tremendous link of steel and concrete, and it was
to be her honor to sever the ribbon and
symbolically open the bridge to the waiting swarm
of cars.
On the Missouri side of the span a low-slung,
streamlined roadster was approaching. It passed
on the left of hundreds of parked cars as it
climbed the ramp. Presently it paused, as four
uniformed policemen officiously moved to bar its
way. In answer to their demand that it turn back,
the young man at the wheel produced from his
pocket an envelope, and from the envelope
removed a sheet of stiff vellum stationery. The
policemen read it-a letter signed by Senator
Morrison of Missouri-and waved the roadster on.
ITS motor hummed powerfully with a peculiar
sighing noise as it climbed to a position near the
foremost cars. The young man alighted from it
and promptly strode to a silk-hatted official. The
impressive-looking man turned, holding in his
hand a copy of a prepared speech his eyes
curious.
"You are Wilbur Benson, President of the
Central States Chamber of Commerce?" the
young man asked.
"Yes."
"I must see you privately, sir, at once."
Mr. Benson answered with testy impatience.
"I'm very busy. I am about to open the dedication
ceremonies. Later-"
"But this matter can't wait," the young man
insisted in a quiet voice. "It's of the utmost
importance."
"Very well," snapped Benson. "Make it fast,
then."
The young man stepped aside and Benson
followed. Out of earshot of the others, he
produced from his breast-pocket a flat silver case.
His thumb-nail pressed upon a corner of it,
activating a hidden spring, and a strong catch
released a silver leaf which sprang up. The
young man held before Benson's eyes a silverframed
credential.
Benson's eyebrows arched as he read:
THE WHITE HOUSE
Washington
To Whom It May Concern:
The identity of the bearer of this letter must
be kept absolutely confidential.
He is Operator 5 of the United States
Intelligence Service.
The name signed to the document was that
of the President of the United States. Wilbur
Benson's eyes rose curiously. "Yes?" he asked.
"I must ask you, Mr. Benson," Operator 5
said briskly, "to cancel immediately the dedication
ceremonies."
Benson blurted: "What!"
"Cancel them," Operator 5 continued quietly,
"and direct that all persons and all cars leave the
bridge at once."
Benson frowned: "What is this-a joke?
What possible reason-?"
"My reason for asking it," Operator 5
interrupted, "is well-founded. Unless you do as I
suggest, this celebration will become a tragedy."
"A-! I don't understand!"
"I mean, Mr. Benson," Operator 5 declared,
"that this great new bridge is in the utmost
danger. And with it, the lives of these people
here." His gaze swept about the holiday throng of
men and women; humble families and high
dignitaries.
Wilbur Benson took a step backward and
stared incredulously. "What are you saying? Are
you mad? How could this bridge possibly-?"
The blue eyes of Operator 5 darkened.
"There is no time to give you an explanation, and I
am pledged to secrecy. Please make the
announcement at once that the ceremony will not
be held, and that the bridge must be cleared and
closed to traffic immediately."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
3
Benson scowled. "My dear young man," he
answered angrily. "Your suggestion is absurd-
fantastic. We are going ahead with the ceremony
at once!"
Operator 5's shoulders squared. "I've warned
you, sir."
Wilbur Benson blurted again, angrily:
"Impossible!" and turned away.
Jimmy Christopher, who had identified
himself as Operator 5 of the United States
Intelligence Service, gazed coldly after his
retreating back, then retired to an inconspicuous
position near the footwalk. As he stood aside,
the voice of the President of the Central States
Chamber of Commerce boomed from a nearby
amplifier, marking the beginning of the dedication.
"Ladies and gentlemen of these two great
states, and of all the United States-"
Operator 5 smiled wryly but his eyes, as he
glanced about, were worried. In spite of the fact
that the bridge would be opened to a heavy flow
of traffic within a few minutes, men were still at
work on it. Tiny figures were crawling about the
webbed steel cables, spraying them with fluid
pumped from glass tanks strapped on their backs.
More than a score of them were visible, some
high on the web, some climbing low above the
roadbed. The hissing of the spray issuing from the
nozzles in their hands could be heard through the
amplified voice of the speaker.
OPERATOR 5 turned as an older man
approached him. They exchanged a sharp and
searching glance. The older man spoke quietly:
"Stranger here, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Come far?"
"Two thousand."
The older man smiled and offered his hand.
"Good. I am J-9. You are-"
"Operator 5."
From the public-address system the
speaker's voice was still booming:
". . .I am proud and happy now to present to
you, ladies and gentlemen, Governor Merwin. . . "
The fingers of J-9 clasped warmly those of
the younger man. "I have heard a great deal
about you, of course. . . ."
Jimmy Christopher smiled. "Forget it."
J-9 turned to watch the ceremony taking
place in the center of the huge span, standing so
that he could speak directly to Jimmy Christopher
without danger of being overheard. "I received
word a short time ago from Secret Intelligence
Headquarters SL in St. Louis that you would be
here, and I was given your signal. You've come
direct from Washington on special detail, haven't
you? My orders are to co-operate with you if you
wish."
"Direct orders," Jimmy Christopher nodded,
speaking in a low tone that could carry no farther
than J-9's ears. "I am here looking for Peter
Janover."
"Janover?"
"One of the most dangerous espionage
agents in the world-a spy of the Purple Shirts.
He has been traced to this country. I have
followed his trail as far as St. Louis. I'm positive
that he's here now-close to us, very likely, on
this bridge."
Appearing to listen to the speech of the
governor, and watching the little girl still standing
by the rippling ribbon, J-9 asked: "That means
trouble?"
"It means," Jimmy Christopher answered
quietly, "that the danger of implication in a war in
Europe has come straight to our door. Janover is
in this country for a definite purpose-he is too
valuable a man to the Purple Shirts to waste on
unimportant matters. We know that he has
already organized a secret espionage system in
America. Unless he is discovered and his system
destroyed-" Jimmy Christopher's eyes
narrowed- "either the United States will be
drawn into a new European war or we'll be
subjected to sabotage that will render us helpless
to defend ourselves-or both."
J-9's bushy eyebrows straightened. "It's no
secret, of course," he commented, "that this new
bridge has been constructed with an eye to
military convenience."
"None. Its destruction would be a heavy
blow against us. Yet it's that very thing that Peter
Janover may be planning. We've learned enough
of his purposes to know-"
J-9 broke in: "What's that?"
Through the air, carrying through the voice
of the governor booming from the expotentiaI
horns, came a sharp hissing. Jimmy Christopher
raised eyes quickly, searching for its source. He
saw, on the web of steel, the overalled workmen
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
4
climbing down carrying their glass spraytanks on
their backs. The sibilant noise was coming from
above them, seemingly, out of the empty air.
Jimmy Christopher asked curiously: "What
are they doing, J-9?"
"Ogden, the chief construction engineer, told
me that they were giving the cables a final spray
of rust-resistant. Ogden's standing over there,
near the ribbon."
SIDNEY OGDEN was a heavy-set, thickshouldered
man included in the ceremonial party.
He looked uncomfortable in tight-fitting cutaway
and silk hat. He glanced upward, curiously, as the
sizzling sound continued to come from above and
Jimmy Christopher saw his face pale suddenly-
go gray as death.
"Look-look at that!" J-9 exclaimed. He
pointed toward the webwork of steel strands
stretching above. From the cables fumes were
rising, thick, white fumes drifting off on the wind.
On the metal strands something was bubbling
briskly, giving off the heavy vapor. A pungent
odor came into the air as the fog drifted
downward-an odor that tightened the throat and
bit into the lungs.
"Good Lord! The whole top of the bridge is
smoking!" J-9 blurted.
Within the space of a minute the fumes
thickened amazingly. From each strand of steel
the writhing smoke rose, forming into a drifting
cloud. Beneath the rapidly swelling, surging
mass of mist the overalled workmen were
climbing down toward the roadbed. They were
lowering themselves swiftly, even frantically,
away from the growing mass of vapor.
''Something's wrong!"
The bewildering cloud was attracting the
attention of the thousands on the bridge. Even
those in the ceremonial party were staring as the
rays of the sun were cut off and a murky shadow
fell across the span. It was as though the great
webbed suspension cables were made of pitchcaked
rope-as if, somehow, they had been set
afire and were smoldering!
Jimmy Christopher started forward quickly,
toward the exact center of the span, but eyes
raised to the surging cloud, he stopped short, a
startled exclamation bursting from his lips. For,
as he watched, one of the thick steel cables tore
apart and began writhing out of the steel web. Its
ragged ends sputtered; a dry, flaky powder
dropped from it; in a few seconds it grew shorter
as though some swift corrosive were eating it
away.
J-9 sped past Jimmy Christopher, toward
the rail, where two of the overalled men bearing
glass tanks were climbing down. Jimmy
Christopher sent a sharp glance toward the bulky
figure of Sidney Ogden. Ogden had turned; he
was peering upward, amazement and horror
imprinted on his blunt features under the lowering
menace of the cloud of fumes.
"Wait a minute there-wait!"
It was J-9's sharp voice, shouting at the two
workmen who were climbing down the crisscrossing
strands. One of them leaped to the walk
and whirled in terror, breaking into a crazy,
stumbling run. J-9 leaped to the rail as the
second workman paused, clinging to a steel
cable, staring down in terror.
Suddenly, without warning, the cable to
which the workman was hanging parted and
sagged. Almost instantly it disintegrated along its
sweeping length, while flaky dust dropped through
the air and swirling fumes sprang high.
Desperately the man snatched at another cable
for support-but too late. The sudden parting of
the thick strand threw him off balance and he fell.
A shrill cry broke from his lips as he twisted,
groping for support. The wrench of his body threw
the glass tank on his back against another steel
cable. A sharp crash sounded as the container
flew to bits. From it poured a glistening yellow
liquid. And instantly, from the parted lips of the
overalled man, came a shriek of frightful pain.
He sprawled outward, his arms windmilling
wildly as he plunged through empty space toward
the rippling water far below. Another prolonged,
tortured scream tore from his throat, diminishing
in the yawning space.
Jimmy Christopher stood shocked,
motionless. The breaking of the glass spraytank
had spilled upon J-9 some of the sparkling yellow
fluid. The Intelligence man stumbled forward
blindly, clawing thin air. He sprawled on the
cement of the walk, and rolled over with a quick,
convulsive movement.
From his body, as though he were a straw
man set afire, writhed white fumes. The choking
vapor surged over him as he struggled to rise.
Strength failed him; he fell back and lay
motionless in the spreading fog. Jimmy
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
5
Christopher sprang toward him and others,
startled by the tortured cries, rushed close.
"Don't touch him!" Jimmy Christopher
shouted it. "Don't touch him!"
OPERATOR 5 stood appalled and rigid,
staring at a horrible sight. The yellow fluid had
drenched J-9; had enveloped his entire body
swiftly in a viscid film. As if hypnotized by the
horror of it, Jimmy Christopher watched the
man's clothing drop off to disintegrate into a
muddy flow; and then the very flesh of his body
was dissolving away. His teeth lay exposed; his
skull was appearing beneath vanishing skin and
muscles; cartilage and blood and bone was being
transformed, as if by some unearthly power, into
a gummy liquid that spread across the concrete
on which he lay.
From the white pavement fumes sprang up
thickly. A sharp, bubbling, hissing sound filled the
air. Beneath the disintegrating body of J-9 the
cement was melting! Swiftly a hole appeared-a
hole that deepened and spread, exposing the
steel plates and iron reinforcements, penetrating
low into the structure of the bridge.
A sharp cry came from Jimmy Christopher's
lips. "Get back! Get back!"
Suddenly, with a crashing rumble, a great
aperture gaped through the roadbed. Tremendous
chunks of concrete spilled down, hurtling through
space toward the water below. The remains of the
body of J-9 disappeared through it. And as the
choking fumes thickened, as the rim of the hole
crumbled and the yawning emptiness widened,
the entire bridge trembled and shook!
Operator 5 whirled, staring up. The great
spider-web of steel cables was torn and tattered
as though giant claws had ripped across it! Thick
strands were dropping from their moorings. The
mass of vapor had thickened until the whole sky
was obscured. On the concrete of the span and
into the river a snow of brownish flakes was falling
thickly. Along the whole length of the bridge
traveled a violent tremor.
Resounding crashes echoed. Out of the
span dropped huge sections of concrete. They
plummeted down into the river, sending up roaring
geysers. Beneath the bridge the thousands of
boats were fleeing on turbulent waves. On the
surface bobbed the wreckage of small craft
crushed by the plunging tons of stone. Bodies
were floating, men and women swimming
desperately. The air shook with a thunderous
rumbling, a cataclysmic roar that grew louder by
the second.
The governor's voice was no longer issuing
from the amplifiers of the loudspeaker system.
The top-hatted officials were clustered in the
center of the swaying span, terrorized,
speechless. The silk ribbon that barred the way
had not been cut; the ceremony had not been
completed. In the center of the roadway stood
the bewildered little girl holding the inscribed
shears. Her blue eyes widened upon Jimmy
Christopher as he leaped close.
"Get off the bridge! Get off before it goes to
pieces!"
Even as he spoke a new roar broke out, and
a gigantic section of the span crumbled away.
Half the smoking suspension cables were already
frayed, and the terrific dead weight of the bridge
was ripping them asunder. The rest were sizzling
while dusty flakes thickened in the air. Jimmy
Christopher snatched at the microphone through
which the governor had been speaking.
"Get off the bridge!" he shouted, and his
magnified voice boomed the warning.
"Everybody, all cars, off the bridge! Move fast-
to save your lives!"
He whirled at a loud, resounding crack
behind him. There, a fissure suddenly appeared
in the cement, a jagged opening that spread
entirely across the span. A tremendous section of
the roadbed sagged, supported by interlaced
reinforcing rods; but the rods were sputtering and
fuming with the weird destructive power than had
struck the bridge. As it sagged downward,
frantically struggling men slid along it to the edge
and rolled helplessly over, dropping and spilling
through the dizzy space, down into the river, so
far below.
A shrill, childish cry of terror came from the
lips of the little girl who had been waiting to
terminate the dedication ceremonies. She
dropped flat, her pudgy fingers clawing for
support, striving desperately to keep herself from
sliding into the chasm. A piercing scream came
from a woman on the opposite side of the
fissure-from the wife of the governor, Elizabeth
Merwin's mother: "Betty! Betty!"
OPERATOR 5 sprawled as the crack
widened, as the huge section of roadbed leafed
downward. He gripped the ragged edge in one
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
6
hand, stretching out his lower arm toward the
child as she began to slip away. He caught her
hand; he pulled her closer. Circling one arm
around her, he dragged himself upon the jagged
edge of the bending section, and straightened.
He held her close, and gathering his
muscles, leaped across the edge of the lowering
segment. The girl clung to him frightenedly, while
he tottered. He twisted back as a deafening
grinding sound filled the air; as suddenly, the
great block of roadbed hinged downward. The
corroding fumes cut it away as it sagged. Two
coated men in cutaways shouted hoarsely as the
gigantic segment tore loose and plunged toward
the river and they pinwheeled through the air after
it.
Jimmy Christopher carried Betty Merwin
quickly toward her terror-stricken another. "She's
all right! For God's sake, get off the bridge!"
The starters of a thousand cars were
snarling; engines were whirring with sudden
power as drivers twisted at their steering wheels,
swinging about in the open lane, driving swiftly off
the span. The cloud of vapor blanketed down,
enveloping automobiles under which the fissure
had opened; automobiles filled with screaming,
white-faced men and women, teetering now on
the crumbling edge over yawning space.
Jimmy Christopher shouted at Governor
Merwin: "In my car-the roadster-quick!"
Thousands were abandoning their cars,
running wildly along the walks, herding toward
the ramps. Women shrieked and men shouted
crazily as the doom-sounding rumble shook the
broken span again. Overhead, cables were
parting, sending out deafening notes like plucked
harpstrings. The brown dust was a choking rain.
The jagged edges of the sundered span were
crumbling swiftly.
Jimmy Christopher slipped behind the wheel
of his roadster as Governor and Mrs. Merwin,
with their little daughter, climbed in beside him.
The whirr of the Diesel engine sounded as he
shot forward, pounding the horn-button, winding
his way through the maddened mob. Another
segment of bridge crashed down a second after
he sped off it, and the roadbed shook with the
violence of an earthquake.
Motorcycle policemen, swinging in front of
Jimmy Christopher's car, opened the way for the
Governor's family with shrieking sirens. Once off
the ramp, once on the road which led toward the
bridge, Jimmy Christopher swung to a stop and
looked back at all that was left of the great span.
Its webwork of cables had broken apart; the
strands were dangling, falling to dust as they
hung. The great gap in the center of the bridge
had widened toward the shores. Rearing high, the
tremendous masonry-enclosed piers were
crumbling, disclosing framework that melted as it
fumed. Appallingly, the disintegrating power was
reducing the span to ruins, even as the terrorstricken
crowd of survivors watched.
Jimmy Christopher scarcely heard the
hysterical thanks which Mrs. Merwin addressed to
him; he scarcely felt the hand of Governor
Merwin clasp his; he was not aware of the
shrieking of the motorcycle sirens as they were
carried away in another car. He stood peering at
the crumbling bridge, his blue eyes narrowed, his
fingers straying unconsciously to the gold
ornament dangling from his watch-chain-a
charm that was a tiny golden skull and crossbones
with glittering eyes that flashed like bloodred
rubies.
Conscious of nothing save the disaster that
spread before him, Operator 5 watched while the
greatest suspension bridge in the world was
transformed by an appalling, unknown power
into-dust!
CHAPTER TWO
Prey of the Unknown
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER swung his roadster
to the curb in front of a tall office building on a
principal downtown street in St. Louis, while
newsboys shrieked bulletins of the amazing
disaster:
"Hextra-a! Big bridge collapses!
Wilbur Benson among five hundred killed!. . .
Senate to investigate. . . . Governor's daughter
saved by unknown rescuer. . . .Hextra-a!"
Unknown. . . . Sound of the word brought a
light of satisfaction into Jimmy Christopher's blue
eyes. That single word expressed the very
essence of his personality. His was work which
must be done under cover of the strictest secrecy;
he lived in a submerged world and few knew of
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
7
his existence. Behind the scenes of international
diplomacy he moved, America's undercover
ace-unknown. . . .
As he left the roadster and strode into the
lobby of the building, he appeared not unlike
many young businessmen. He was tall, alert,
brisk-mannered, smartly tailored: yet there were
elements about him which set him apart. The
golden skull watch-charm, which he always wore
-for a reason-was one such thing. The peculiar
scar on the back of his right hand-a scar of gray
and black shaped like a spread-winged American
eagle- was another. But most striking of all
were his eyes.
Clear, crystal blue, they possessed the
quality of subtly changing, of clouding until they
were almost black; and the blackness that misted
them not only masked his thoughts, but warned-
warned danger to those upon whom he gazed. . .
.
The color of his eyes was dusky as he strode
into the elevator cage; there was determination
on his thinned lips, and a crisp directness in his
bearing. When he stepped out of the cage on the
eleventh floor of the building, half a score of
young men, obviously newspaper reporters,
loitered in the corridor, but he gave them only a
glance. They gazed at him curiously as he strode
toward a door lettered, "Trans-Mississippi
Construction Co.," and upon the opaque glass
he rapped sharply twice.
No answer came. One of the reporters
spoke, grinning: "You'll never get in there,
buddy. We've been trying it ever since we got the
flash."
A light was shining through the pebbled pane
of the door, and from inside came the shrill sound
of telephones ringing insistently. Operator 5
knocked again and, when there was again no
answer, the reporter snickered: "Told you so!"
Jimmy Christopher smiled slowly and from
his pocket brought a case of leather keys. They
were in no sense ordinary keys: he had designed
them as master implements for opening all types
of locks. Not another collection like them existed;
they had cost Operator 5 endless nights of toil in
his own, specially equipped shop. He inserted one
in the lock of the door, then another, then a third.
The third turned.
"Open, Sesame," he grinned, and stepped
through.
An astonished chorus of exclamations came
from the newshawks; they began a rush toward
him as he crossed the sill. He clicked the door
shut in their faces, and ignored the fists that
hammered on the pane. He made sure the latch
was fastened, and pocketed the priceless keys.
This was a large office, railed into small
spaces, filled with desks and draughting-boards;
but it was empty. Half a dozen telephones were
making a deafening clatter but there was no one
to answer them. Jimmy Christopher stepped
directly toward a partition in which stood a door
labeled "Sidney Ogden." He turned the knob and
stepped through.
FROM a chair behind the desk in the inner
office a young man sprang to his feet in alarm.
He was blond, blue-eyed, square-jawed. He came
toward Operator 5 quickly. "Who-how did you
get in here? Go back-get out!"
Jimmy Christopher said quietly: "Please tell
Mr. Ogden he has a caller."
"He's not here!" the secretary declared
angrily. "I told you to get out!"
"I heard you tell me to get out-but I'm
staying. I'm going to see Mr. Ogden. At this
moment he is in the adjoining office."
"No he isn't! If you don't get out-"
Operator 5 interrupted coldly. "I'm quite
positive that Mr. Ogden is in the next office. There
is a light in there, and a shadow on the glass
pane of the door, and the shadow is that of a hattree
on which a silk hat is hanging."
The secretary's blue eyes flicked fearfully
toward the door on which the shadow shone. He
scowled, blocking Jimmy Christopher's way, and
growled: "I don't know you. Get out of here right
now or I'll throw you out!"
"Your attempt to do that," Operator 5
answered slowly, "would be interesting, and
perhaps disastrous."
The glowering secretary hesitated; he turned
toward the desk. His hand reached for the
telephone.
"Very well, then! I'll call the police!"
"Will you?" Jimmy Christopher's smile came
again. "I suggest you do."
The secretary's hand paused; he made no
further move toward the telephone. His blue eyes
searched Jimmy Christopher's face piercingly.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
8
"It's futile for you to try to stand me off,"
Operator 5 assured the young man. "I will get the
information I want, if not from Mr. Ogden direct,
then from someone else. You may prefer that I
get it direct-once you understand the
Government of the United States wants it."
"The Government-!" Brighter fearfulness
came into the secretary's eyes. He stiffened, and
again he demanded: "Who are you?" Without
waiting for an answer he asserted grimly: "You
can't see him! You can't get in there!"
The ringing voice broke off and a visible
shock passed through the secretary's tensed
body as a flat, sharp reverberation rocked through
the air of the inner office.
Instantly the secretary whirled. He bounded
to the shadowed door and jerked it open as
Operator 5 sprang after him. The door slammed
shut violently; a bolt clicked into its socket.
Operator 5 found his way blocked; the door was
firm.
Through the pane of milk glass came a gasp:
"Oh-God!"
Jimmy Christopher's hesitation was only
instant-long. He drove hard knuckles against the
lower corner of the white pane, swiftly withdrawing
his hand. The glass splintered; a section dropped
inward. Operator 5's hand shot through the
opening, found the bolt, and snatched it back.
He stepped in quickly, and paused. His blue
eyes turned toward the desk in the corner in the
office. A man was slumped across the deskblotter.
He was garbed in a dark gray morning
coat; his was the bulky body of Sidney Ogden,
chief construction engineer of the Trans-
Mississippi Bridge. He sat motionless with head
resting in a widening circle of glistening crimson
flowing from a hole in his temple. One lax hand
held the butt of a .38 revolver.
AS JIMMY CHRISTOPHER entered, the
white-faced secretary hastened across the room
to the desk. He reached swiftly, snatching from
beneath the gun a sheet of paper. Operator 5
glimpsed scrawled-handwriting on it as the
secretary crumpled it into his palm. The young
man whirled and started for the door.
Jimmy Christopher stepped alertly to bar his
way. "One minute!"
The secretary spun back. Again his hand
shot out. His was a continuous, swift, desperate
movement as he grasped up from the desk a
heavy metallic paperweight. His arm drew back
and the metal whistled through the air toward the
head of Operator 5.
Jimmy Christopher ducked; the thing hissed
past his ear. His quick move threw him slightly off
balance; he swung arms through empty air as the
secretary rushed past. He recovered himself and
bounded to the door as the young man sped
through it.
Jimmy Christopher leaped across the office,
toward the door which gave into the larger space
beyond, as the secretary darted toward him. The
man's rush knocked him backward toward the
door. A claw of a hand crushed at his throat. He
struck out forcefully as he glimpsed the metal of a
gun flashing in the secretary's other hand-a gun
rising swiftly toward his heart.
Jimmy Christopher thrust away from the wall.
His hand gripped the gun as it lifted. Flame spat
from it; a bullet tore through Operator 5's coat as
he wrenched away, and clicked through the thin
paneling. He struck once, sharply, and sent the
secretary reeling backward, hand torn from his
throat. The gun flashed upward again, as Jimmy
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
9
Christopher leaped aside, his leg kicking out. The
man spilled backward sharply. Again his gun
exploded, and a swift swing of Operator 5's foot
drove the weapon clattering against the baseboard.
As the secretary struggled up, Operator
5's arm circled hard beneath the man's chin.
Operator 5's other hand shot to the
secretary's spine. There was a click of bone
against bone. The young man dropped rigid,
eyes closing. He lay still; and Operator 5
straightened with a sigh.
The jiu-jutsu twist had brought paralysis to
the young man who lay unconscious on the
floor-a paralysis that would persist until Jimmy
Christopher, by a deft manipulation of the spine,
chose to end it.
Operator 5 studied the square, pale face.
He stooped, and ran fingers quickly over the
secretary's clothing. He paused when he sensed
a stiffness behind one lapel of the young man's
coat. He turned the lapel, saw the knot of a
thread, and plucked it. A small hidden pocket
opened.
From it Operator 5 removed a folded sheet of
tissue paper. On it was written a message in a
European language-a message followed by the
number 113. That number was, Jimmy
Christopher knew, the secret designation of the
dangerous espionage agent known as Peter
Janover.
He stooped again. From the clenched
fingers of the secretary's hand he removed a
wadded ball of paper-the sheet that had been
snatched from Ogden's desk. He smoothed it and
read the hastily scrawled words:
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
This is a truthful statement-the last
statement I shall ever make.
The destruction of the bridge this
afternoon horrifies me beyond expression. I
am entirely innocent of any intent to destroy
the beautiful structure to the building of which
I devoted four years of my life. I can account
for the disaster in only one way-and I am
forced to the conclusion that I unwittingly
made myself the tool of the unscrupulous
vandals who committed the crime.
John Thorne-
The message ended abruptly with that name;
a blotted scrawl marked the last course the pen
had taken across the paper. The hand of a
desperate, grief-stricken man had dropped the
pen to snatch up the gun that had ended his life. .
. . Jimmy Christopher's narrowed eyes peered
hard at the cryptic name, and his lips moved
slowly: "John-Thorne."
He folded the paper, slipped it carefully into
an inner pocket, and reached for the telephone
on the desk. . . .
THE startling news of the tragic destruction
of the Trans-Mississippi Bridge swept from coast
to coast. Newspapers poured from snarling
presses; radio networks broadcast the disaster.
Hundreds of lives had been lost; millions of dollars
were wiped out. The sensation was not quick to
subside, and during the days that followed it
remained uppermost in the mind of the nation.
"Senate Investigating Construction of
Bridge!" screamed the headlines of extra editions
of New York newspapers, and, "Steel Magnates
Testify!"
In a chamber in the Capitol in Washington,
D.C., the Senatorial investigation was being
conducted. It was far more sensational than any
which had been previously held. Scores of
experts in metallurgy and construction had been
called; the heads of the greatest steel companies
in the country had been summoned. Under the
direction of the President himself, the
investigation was seeking to bring to light the
cause of the collapse of the great Trans-
Mississippi Bridge.
The chamber was breathlessly jammed.
Spectators packed the seats, scores of members
of Congress were present; scores of witnesses
were on hand. The doors were guarded, the halls
outside crowded. Further admittance was not
possible even to senators or representatives; yet,
during the first morning of the questioning, a door
in the rear of the chamber quietly opened, and a
young man entered unobserved.
He was Operator 5, summoned by urgent
orders from the Washington Headquarters of the
American Intelligence Service. The swift,
powerful, Diesel-engined roadster had brought
him halfway across the country so rapidly that he
had arrived in Washington earlier than expected.
Calling at Intelligence headquarters he had found
the Washington chief absent and, during his wait,
had decided to listen to the cross-examination.
He entered the room while Senator Morrison (D.,
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
10
Mo.) was addressing queries to a haggard-faced
man with iron-gray hair who sat in the witness
chair.
He was, Jimmy Christopher recognized
immediately, Madison Kirtland, President of the
Basic Steel Company, whose mills were located
in Pittsburgh.
"Now, Mr. Kirtland," Senator Morrison
declared, "we have definitely established the fact
that all the iron used in the construction of the
Trans-Mississippi Bridge was supplied by the
Basic Steel Corporation, of which you are
president and chairman of the board."
Kirtland answered, under evident stress,
"Yes, sir."
"You were awarded the huge contract
because your bid was lowest of all bids
submitted?"
"Yes, sir."
"So low, in fact, that the quality of steel and
iron supplied on your terms might be open to
serious suspicion."
Instantly there was a chorus of objections
from dignified gentlemen who leaped to their feet.
Senator Morrison waited until the furor subsided,
then, "Do you decline to comment, Mr. Kirtland?"
"I will say only that the steel delivered under
the contracts measured up to the specifications
laid down by the construction engineers."
"Very well. The metal supplied was-?"
"Cast iron and high-tension steel."
"And it was this iron, supplied by your mills,
which suddenly crumbled and caused the collapse
of the bridge!"
Again there were furious protests from a
bevy of lawyers seated at a table. Again Senator
Morrison waited for the outburst to pass; and
again Madison Kirtland made troubled answer: "I
do not admit that the iron caused the collapse of
the bridge. There is no known defect or metallic
disease which could possibly account for the
collapse of the bridge so far as the structural iron
or steel is concerned. I know for a positive fact
that the structural metal used in building the
bridge was not defective in any way. And I know
of nothing which might have caused the collapse."
Senator Morrison waxed sarcastic. "Come,
Mr. Kirtland. This bridge was built of iron
manufactured in your mills exclusively. The
bridge was no sooner constructed than it broke to
pieces. And you say you know no reason why it
should collapse!"
"I know no reason why it should," Kirtland
answered with a frown. "I have other information
which may, however, be helpful. There have
been attempts, by an unknown party, to buy a
controlling interest in the Basic Steel Corporation.
These attempts to buy our stock have been made
guardedly, so that I cannot tell you who might
have been behind the deal. I do know that we
have successfully resisted all maneuvers which
would have placed the control of the corporation
in the hands of this mysterious outside interest."
"Well?"
"Whatever was done to the Trans-Mississippi
Bridge to cause it to collapse may have been the
act of that same person or persons-an attempt
to discredit the corporation; or possibly to ruin it!"
SENATOR MORRISON looked archly
skeptical. "Are you serious, Mr. Kirtland, in that
fantastic idea?"
"Fantastic as the idea may seem to you,
Senator Morrison," Madison Kirtland answered
levelly, "I am convinced of it."
"That," said the senator with a smirk, "is all."
Kirtland left the chair wearily. A name was
called: "Gregory Fleming!" and a buzz of
excitement passed through the chamber. A
heavy man of powerful build rose, took the
witness chair, and peered at the assemblage with
eyes as sharp and cold as the steel forged in his
mills, the greatest in the United States. He sat
erect, composed, confident, as Senator Morrison
faced him.
Fleming was the most prominent figure in the
world of steel; his name was a household word.
He was celebrated for his talent as a major
executive, a man who had worked his way from
iron puddler in a small mill to the highest
governing office of the largest iron works in the
country. His generous benefactions were
numerous; his striking, square face, which
looked almost as though it had been freshly cast
from bright metal, was known to the nation. The
first direct interrogation was awaited breathlessly.
"Your company, the Constructional Steel
Corporation, owns no interest in the Basic Steel
Corporation?"
"None whatever," Gregory Fleming answered
decisively. "Mr. Kirtland's corporation and mine
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
11
are in no way connected. Neither my company in
itself, nor myself personally, nor any of the
officers of my company personally, own as much
as one share of stock in the Basic Steel
Corporation. Most of it is held, I understand, by
Mr. Kirtland himself. You may rest assured that
whatever testimony I offer is absolutely unbiased."
"Very good," Senator Morrison nodded. "To
what, in your opinion, Mr. Fleming, was the
collapse of the Trans-Mississippi bridge due?"
"I can say positively, without the slightest
shadow of a doubt, that it was not due to
defective structural materials. I am entirely at a
loss to fix the cause of the disaster!"
"Have you been aware-" and Senator
Morrison smiled as he asked the question- "of
any attempts on the part of any mysterious power
to buy a controlling interest in your corporation?"
A gasp coursed through the chamber as
Gregory Fleming answered briskly: "Yes."
"What! You have?"
"I have. I have been aware for some time of
unusual manipulations of our stock in the New
York Exchange. Many blocks of it have been
bought recently-unusually large blocks. The
names of the purchasers of these parcels of stock
are unknown to me. I have concluded that the
names are fictitious, and are being used as a
disguise to cover an attempt to corner the steel
market."
Senator Morrison blurted: "Impossible! No
man or group of men in the world is wealthy
enough to do that!"
"Nevertheless," Gregory Fleming answered,
"I am convinced that the attempt is being made.
It is being done legally, but in such a manner as
to cover the true intention of the financial power
behind it. I have information which leads me to
believe that similar operations are being
attempted in the stocks of all other important
steel-manufacturing companies in this country."
"But what," the senator demanded, "has
this to do with the collapse of the Trans-
Mississippi Bridge?"
"That I do not know. I offer the information in
substantiation of Mr. Kirtland's statement. I
esteem him highly, and I believe his declaration
deserves the most serious consideration."
"Do you mean," Senator Morrison
demanded in a stunned tone, "that there is
actually some mysterious, powerful financial
combine which is attempting to obtain control of
the entire steel industry of the United States?"
"I mean exactly that," Gregory Fleming
declared emphatically. "This unknown combine
may, in fact, be attempting to obtain control of
the steel industries of the entire world!"
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER had listened to
every word intently. He stood thoughtful and
motionless as the questioning proceeded.
Presently he turned, and retired through the side
door of the chamber as unobtrusively as he had
entered.
A moment later he stepped into a telephone
booth. He called a number which was
unpublished and unlisted-a number which, in
fact, was known to only a chosen few in the
Intelligence Service.
A voice answered: "Washington Book
Sales."
"Mr. Lincoln, please," Operator 5 answered.
"One moment." Presently another voice,
"Mr. Lincoln speaking."
Operator 5 said: "The Fifth Amendment."
The answer came: "Cortez Sept."
"Reporting."
"Operator 5," snapped the voice of the
Washington chief of the American Intelligence
Service. "Come to Thirteen at once! I have just
come from a conference with the President-"
Jimmy Christopher left the telephone booth
quickly. He strode down the great steps of the
Capitol. Quick strides took him in the direction of
the hidden headquarters of the American
Intelligence Service; and all the way his blue
eyes were clouded and anxious.
The stately governmental buildings in
Washington stand sharply contrasted against
rows of offensively cheap stores and lunchcounters
which line some of the most prominent
radiating avenues. They are eyesores which
someday will be eliminated to make Washington a
city of unmarred beauty. It was into one of these
sordid restaurants, some five minutes later, that
Jimmy Christopher stepped.
Of the greasy-faced man behind the counter
he asked: "Sam in?"
The answer was: "In back."
Operator 5 pushed through a swinging door
into a steamy, odorous kitchen. The undershirted
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
12
man working over a hot stove gave him no glance
as he stepped through another door in the rear.
He found himself in a small closet; he tugged at
the third clothes-hook from the right rear corner.
Gears ground; a hidden door opened and
swung shut again as Operator 5 stepped into a
dark, narrow corridor. It sloped downward,
leading off at an angle, then rose again. At the
end of it Jimmy Christopher opened another door
which admitted him into a tile-lined cubicle. He
pressed a button and waited.
Presently a panel slid away, disclosing a
small elevator car. He entered, and sent it
upward. The shaft was doorless for a great
height. When the cage paused, Jimmy
Christopher entered an utterly bare room.
At a door in the rear he knocked-five sharp
raps. It swung open. He stepped into an office
and faced a black-haired, black-eyed man garbed
in neutral gray.
This was secret Headquarters 13 of the
American Intelligent Service; the ebony-eyed
man was Z-7, the Washington chief.
"My boy!" Z-7's hard hand gripped Jimmy
Christopher's warmly. "Sit down-there's no time
to lose."
Jimmy Christopher strode into a space
completely surrounded by steel filing cabinets; he
took a chair beside Z-7's plain desk. The
Washington chief's black eyes glittered brightly as
he faced Operator 5. "You located Peter
Janover?" he asked quickly.
"I traced him to St. Louis, but there was no
time to follow him up when the bridge collapsed. I
have been working on the bridge angle of the
case. I succeeded in making Janover's agent,
Number 47, talk."
"The young man working in Ogden's office as
secretary?"
"Yes. He got the position of Ogden's
secretary in order to get first-hand knowledge of
the construction of the bridge. Because the
bridge was built carefully for military convenience
in case of war, Janover was deeply interested in
it. There is no doubt that he planned sabotage of
some sort.
"Number 47 asserts that the destruction of
the bridge was neither his doing nor Janover's.
He asserts he knows nothing about it. His story is
that the bridge was destroyed by some other
faction, that it was as much a surprise to him as
to anyone. He may be telling the truth; it's
impossible now to determine."
"Strange," Z-7 mused. "Janover completely
disappeared? Number 47 gave no information
concerning him?"
"Janover vanished into thin air. Number 47
said little more than I've told you, Chief. He is
being held and will be brought to Washington as
soon as you order it. It may mean everything, or
it may mean nothing."
Z-7 FINGERED typewritten flimsies on his
desk. "The Senatorial committee, of course,
knows nothing of Janover."
"The Senatorial investigation is getting
nowhere," Operator 5 answered. "I've been
certain from the first that the collapse of the
bridge was not due to defective materials."
"Certain?" Z-7 echoed.
"I saw J-9 die, Chief. The bridge was
destroyed by the same stuff that killed him and
ate his body away within a few seconds."
Z-7 peered at a flimsy, a translation of a
code message sent him from St. Louis by
Operator 5. "The rust-resisting preparation?" he
inquired.
"I have later information, Chief," Jimmy
Christopher answered. "The rust-resisting preparation
was the direct cause of the collapse of
the bridge. It literally ate the structure away-
dissolved it."
"Dissolved it?" Z-7 blurted.
"Yes. I'm sure that Sidney Ogden acted in
good faith when he allowed the stuff to be
sprayed on the bridge at the last moment. He
thought it was a new preservative. He was one of
the first to suspect the true nature of the stuff. He
killed himself because he was directly, though
unwittingly, responsible. I have the full details
from Miss Ryden, his confidential secretary.
"Someone deliberately plotted the
destruction of the bridge and made Ogden a tool.
Immediately after the cables were sprayed with
the stuff they began to disintegrate. The stuff
spread as though it were alive, destroying
everything it touched, even the concrete. It is a
terrifically powerful corrosive. It dissolved the
bridge into nothing."
"Great Scott! What damnable stuff is it?"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
13
"It's impossible to say now. Most of the men
who sprayed it on the cables are dead. Others
escaped, and we may never locate them. Even if
we do, they could tell us nothing, because they
knew no more of its real nature than Ogden did.
Our only clue is the name, John Thorne."
"I have men trying to locate him," Z-7 put in.
"His home is in New York City, but he has been
missing from it for weeks. No one knows where
he is. He is a chemist and a metallurgist. He
must be responsible for the use of the corrosive."
"Possibly," Operator 5 answered. "Thorne-
or Janover-or someone else we do not even
suspect now."
"But-why?" Z-7 demanded. "What was
gained by the destruction of the bridge? Why was
its destruction deliberately planned when-"
"A test," Jimmy Christopher said. "Merely an
experiment. The wrecking of the Trans-Mississippi
span is only a small hint of what will happen if the
corrosive is ever put to widespread use."
"Good Lord!" Z-7 blurted. "Do you believe
that other structures will be destroyed in the same
way?"
"Look at it squarely," Operator 5 suggested.
"The corrosive, whatever its nature is, is a thing
of terrific power. It dissolves metals almost
instantly. And our world, Chief, is a world built
upon a foundation of iron.
"Ours is the machine age. Upon iron and
steel and other metals we are dependent for our
very lives every second of the day and night.
Without them there would be no means of travel
by land or sea or air, no means of
communication, no great cities or even small
towns, no manufacturing, no business-in short,
no civilization. Man ceased to be a barbaric beast
when he learned the use of metals. Without
metals we would revert to the savage state of the
first pre-historic man."
"Yes, of course!"
"I say this only to show how vital to our world
metals are. They are the materials of progress
and construction, and also of destruction-war."
Z-7 leaned closer. "Without iron and steel
there could be no war!"
"Exactly. A nation robbed of its iron and
steel would lie helpless before any other power
having them."
"GREAT SCOTT!" Z-7 exclaimed. "A bridge
of tremendous value in our plans for national
defense has already been destroyed. And you
think-" He broke off, his black eyes glittering.
"If the agency which used the powerful
corrosive on the Trans-Mississippi Bridge,"
Operator 5 said slowly, "chose to use it as a
weapon against the United States, it would mean
the complete destruction of our armaments!"
Z-7 sat rigid. "Yes-it could be used to
annihilate our navy, our army, even whole cities!
You can't believe-"
"I believe," Operator 5 said clearly, "that we
have already a demonstration of a weapon of
attack far more powerful than even the Negative
Ray."
Z-7's fist struck the desk sharply. "You traced
Peter Janover-the most dangerous foreign
espionage agent living today-to St. Louis, and at
St. Louis the bridge collapsed! That human devil
is behind this! I can see the purpose behind the
plan of attack!" Z-7 came to his feet stiffly. "A
plan to disable and isolate us from any possible
intervention in the war that's brewing in Europe
today!"
"It's possible, Chief," Jimmy Christopher
nodded.
"It's more than possible! During the war
Germany practiced widespread sabotage in the
United States. The Black Tom explosion is only
one example. We entered the war to fight
Germany. It was our intervention that turned the
tide against her and brought about her defeat. In
the event of a new European war, the same
situation will inevitably develop.
"We have become deeply entangled in
European politics and finances as a result of the
World War. When a major conflict again breaks
out across the Atlantic we will become involved,
despite any attempts to keep ourselves isolated.
When we enter that conflict as the richest, most
powerful nation on the face of the globe, we will
bring the serious threat of defeat to our enemy.
Right now we are facing an attempt to prevent
history's repeating itself!"
Operator 5 nodded again. "The Purple
Shirts."
"The Purple Shirts," Z-7 repeated grimly.
"They have been preparing for war for years.
They are heavily armed. They are waiting for the
spark to strike. War again-another World War!
The Purple Shirts have already begun sabotage
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
14
incomparably greater than Germany ever dared
attempt!"
Jimmy Christopher remained silent.
"If you're correct, Operator 5, the Purple
Shirts intend to cripple us so that intervention in a
European conflict would be impossible!
Accomplishing their purpose will mean rendering
the United States defenseless, helpless!"
Operator 5 raised clouded blue eyes. "Have
you forgotten the name of John Thorne?" he
asked quietly. "Thorne may be a member of
Janover's espionage ring."
"Is anything else possible?"
"There are three possibilities, Chief," Jimmy
Christopher answered slowly. "First, that Janover
made use of the powerful corrosive. Second,
that John Thorne is guilty but has no connection
whatever with Janover, in which case we are
completely in the dark as to the motives behind
the use of the corrosive. Third, that neither
Janover nor Thorne is implicated-but some third
person, some mysterious power which we do not
even know exists." Jimmy Christopher's fingers
strayed to the golden skull dangling from his
watch-chain. "The United States," he said in
almost a whisper, "has never faced a more
serious threat to its very life!"
Unknown to the two men who sat alone in
Intelligence Headquarters Thirteen, the dread
power of destruction-at that very moment, and at
a point hundreds of miles away-was preparing to
strike again.
CHAPTER THREE
The Hidden Hand Strikes
ABOVE the long, low spit of Sandy Hook a
blinding sun glared. Beyond the embankments of
Fort Hancock, of the Second Coast Artillery
District, lay the blue expanse of Lower New York
Bay stretching out into the Atlantic. A torpid quiet
prevailed over the scene as sentries patrolled, as
the glistening big guns peacefully slept.
Out of the blue of the sky came the easy
drone of an airplane.
Sergeant Roy Carter, on duty with the
corporal of the guard, peered into the bright sky
and glimpsed the dark wings swinging from the
direction of Long IsIand. An airplane was flying
low above the water, a convertible amphibian,
directly toward the fort. He marched on hotly,
heels clicking on the cement, until the drone
became a roar that seemed to still the sea-wind.
Sergeant Carter's second glance brought him
up short. The plane was still flying directly toward
Fort Hancock, heading directly above it in
defiance of the most rigid regulations. It was,
apparently, a commercial crate, an old Curtiss
Hawk. He gasped as the plane nosed into a dive
that sent it swooping low above the sandy bar,
toward the concrete bases where rested the giant
coast-defense guns.
Suddenly the plane dipped, then roared into
a swift zoom. At the same instant something
dropped from its underside-a sphere that
glistened like gold as it streaked downward
through the sunlight. The ship banked, tearing
away-and the shining ball plummeted directly
toward the big guns.
A second ball appeared in the air beneath
the plane; a third!
"Bombs!" gasped Sergeant Carter.
He whirled and broke into a wild run. He
shouted hoarsely in alarm as he made his
desperate attempt to escape the spot toward
which the golden spheres were plunging. He
glanced back, saw the lowermost sphere
streaking into the artillery pit, and crazily flung
himself face downward. He was prepared for a
terrific, earth-jarring concussion-but none came.
There sounded on the wind three crashes of
breaking glass-and that was all.
Startled, Sergeant Carter dragged himself
up. Amazement dropped his jaw. Over the huge
guns and the concrete abutments a yellow film
was glistening. From it white fumes were rising
into the air. The fumes thickened swiftly into a fog,
while the wind carried a sharp, hissing sound.
Sergeant Carter stared, and broke into a
headlong run toward the place.
A sentry came legging through the sand
beside him. They jerked to a stop, staring, as the
fumes washed back toward them. They choked
and gasped, and peered through the boiling haze.
From the barrels of the big guns brown dust
was dripping-drifting down like light snow.
"God!" gasped Carter. "Them guns're fallin'
to pieces! They're-meltin'!"
The sizzling power of the yellow stuff was
sweeping rapidly across the gun-pits. The
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
15
surfaces of the concrete seemed to be boiling,
flying off into ash-like flakes. Great, jagged
craters were appearing in what had a moment
before been smooth cement. As the two sentries
stared, one of the big guns lurched and sagged
into a cavity that was opening beneath it.
Sergeant Carter yelled hoarsely-yelled and
ran. A sentry called out and fired his Springfield
three times into the air. Alarm!
STARTLED officers came running from their
quarters. Gunners sped toward the pits. Before
their amazed eyes floated thick masses of white
vapor, stretching inland, steaming up from the
abutments and the batteries. They saw that the
nearest of the big barrels had dwindled in size-it
was thinning, growing shorter, being transformed
into flaky stuff that seemed to dissolve away into
the air as it fell.
Sirens shrieked. Bells clanged. The military
fire-fighting equipment surged up.
Officers ran into the pits and stumbled out
again, choking. A gunner plunged, head ducked,
toward the breech of one of the big cannons and
laid a hand upon it. A shriek of horror and pain
tore from his throat as he staggered back. He ran
from the pit like a madman, holding before him
the stump of an arm from which the hand had
vanished! He had seen it drop away an instant
after he touched the sizzling metal. His screams
still sounded, harsh and terror-filled, as he fled.
Men had already dragged from the firewagon
drums a hose that stiffened and writhed as
high-pressure water shot through it. From a
nozzle a spraying stream shot into the pits from
which blinding gusts of vapor rolled. Against the
abutments and over the vanishing guns the
stream splashed, and the guns continued to hiss
and smolder and disintegrate before the eyes of
the appalled officers who watched.
The bewildering popover that was causing
the ghastly swift destruction of the coast-defense
unit did not abate. The roaring, swinging stream
that plunged from the fire hose had no effect upon
it. Almost it appeared as if the churning flood that
lashed over the guns and the concrete only
served to increase the frightful rate of destruction!
Sergeant Carter gasped at his commanding
officer: "A plane dropped the stuff, sir-a plane!"
"Where is that plane?"
They stared into the misted blue of the sky-
stared from horizon to horizon, and saw no sign
of it.
An officer rushed close and snapped a
salute. "The guns are dropping to pieces, sir-all
of them! There'll be nothing left of them, sir, if-
"
"If what?" the commanding officer snapped.
"By God, sir, if you know of any way to stop
what's happening, let's have it! Do you? I said,
do you know of any way-"
"No, sir!"
The commander's jaw muscles bunched as
he clamped his teeth and stared. "Get the
Secretary of War on the wire!"
Over Fort Hancock the white cloud was
swelling to enormous volume. Men ran from it
choking, coughing, as it spread. Through its thick
folds the guns and abutments could no longer be
seen; but out of it came that savage hissing,
indicating that the power was still at work-the
force that was reducing the coast-defense unit to
thin air.
The commander stood motionless, his mind
recoiling from belief in what his eyes saw. Now
the cloud was thinning, lifting, as the sea-wind
tore into it. Now the ground was becoming visible
again. The commander marched closer and saw
-nothing.
Where the heavy abutments had stood-
nothing! Where the guns had rested-nothing!
There was a cavity in the sandy ground, a vast
crater that still smoked and sent reeking acrid
fumes into the air-but nothing else!
The commander turned swiftly when an
officer's hand touched his arm. He marched like
an automaton into his operations office, pale,
eyes bulging. He took up the telephone and
made a choking noise and heard over the line:
"The Secretary of War is on the wire."
Terse words blurted from the commander's
lips: "The entire coast defense unit at Sandy
Hook has been destroyed!"
IN THE room adjoining the office of Z-7 in
secret Intelligence Headquarters 13 in
Washington, D.C., an automatic-decoding
teletype machine began to chatter. The shirtsleeved
attendant stared inarticulately at the
words clicking out on the curling yellow tape.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
16
When the "thirty" signal sounded he snapped the
ribbon off and rushed with it into the office of Z-7.
Operator 5 leaned close as Z-7 peered at the
startling message.
... ENTIRE SANDY HOOK COAST DEFENSE
UNIT DESTROYED... UNIDENTIFIED PLANE
DROPPED GLASS FLASKS FILLED WITH
UNIDENTIFIED DESTRUCTIVE REAGENT WHICH
ANNIHILATED ALL GUNS AND PITS... FURTHER
DETAILS TO FOLLOW. . .
Jimmy Christopher's blue eyes clouded as
they raised to Z-7's. "The corrosive again!"
Z-7 lowered himself into his chair, staring
wordless at the yellow strip carrying the amazing
message.
"There's no doubt of it now, Chief!" Operator
5 exclaimed. "That corrosive, whatever it is, is
the most powerful weapon ever put to use! It
makes such machines of war as the Atlantis seem
trivial by comparison. If its use against us
continues, it will render us absolutely helpless!"
Z-7 sat motionless as the sound of the
clattering teletype machine came again from the
adjoining room.
"Only a few gallons could have been used
each time," Jimmy Christopher continued swiftly,
"but an entire bridge was wiped away, an entire
coast-defense unit reduced to nothing."
The door opened, and the teletype attendant
hurried to Z-7's desk with another length of paper
ribbon. The Washington chief read its message
aloud:
. . . PETER JANOVER KNOWN TO HAVE
RETURNED UNDER COVER TO NEW YORK CITY .
. . WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN . . . PLANE WHICH
DROPPED BOMBS ON FORT HANCOCK NOT
LOCATED . . . IDENTITY OF PILOT UNKNOWN . . .
ALL EFFORTS TO LOCATE JOHN THORNE HAVE
FAILED . . . BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN IN ST.
LOUIS AT TIME DESTRUCTION OF BRIDGE BUT
THIS CANNOT BE VERIFIED . . . 30.
Z-7's knuckles rapped. "Whereabouts
unknown'-'not located'-'failed'! Failure on three
fronts! Good God, Jimmy, what in Heaven's
name will we do when-"
The sharp jangling of the desk telephone
broke into the Washington chief's words. As Z-7
pressed the receiver to his ear he stiffened. "Yes!
Yes, sir! Z-7 speaking. He's right here, sir!"
He rose, and extended the instrument toward
Jimmy Christopher. "The President," he said.
Jimmy Christopher sat erect as he answered.
"My compliments, Mr. President. I'm at your
service."
The voice of the President of the United
States came quietly, yet urgently, over the
secret wire:
"Operator 5, I have before me copies of your
reports to Z-7. I have studied them carefully. It is
abundantly clear to me that you have been the
first to discover a gigantic, undercover plot that is
threatening the very foundations of this nation.
We are facing a grave emergency."
"Yes, sir."
"You are to assume full charge of this case
immediately. Rest assured that you have behind
you the full resources of your government. You
have an absolutely free hand. It is your job to
discover the identity of the power that is
threatening us-and to destroy it."
The voice of the President vanished from the
wire and Jimmy Christopher replaced the
instrument.
A GLOW shone in the sky above New York
City when, the same night, Jimmy Christopher
turned his sleek roadster into a garage on the
East Side below Forty-Second Street. He had
driven swiftly from Washington. He left his
roadster with an attendant, walked two blocks,
flagged a taxi, and was carried northward in the
city.
He made three changes of cabs before he
alighted in front of an exclusive apartment house
in the East Sixties. The doorman who nodded to
him said, "Good evening, Mr. Walsh." An
elevator lifted him to the eleventh floor, where he
unlocked a mahogany-veneered steel door with a
key of which no duplicate existed. He stepped
into a tastefully furnished living room.
Entering the adjoining bedroom, he swung
toward the window an anchored table on which
sat a strange contrivance consisting of a drum
around which a rope-ladder was coiled, a ratchet,
a maze of electric wires, and a small box affixed
to a flexible-tubing arm. He opened the window,
thrust the box across the sill, and turned a crank
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
17
which unwound a length of the rope-ladder over
the sill.
Forty feet of it trailed downward before
Jimmy Christopher climbed upon it. He stepped
into the black space outside the building. Below
him gaped a passageway and behind his back lay
the roof of an adjoining apartment house.
Reaching the bottom of the ladder, he swung
across to a narrow balcony.
He turned the beam of a small pocket
flashlight upward. It flashed across a lens in the
black box on the window sill above. A motor
began to whirr softly; the rope ladder began to
coil upward. The mechanism, activated by a
photoelectric cell-relay, pulled the ladder out of
sight and then, uncannily, functioned to close the
window.
Jimmy Christopher left the balcony through a
French window, crossed a dark room, let himself
into a quiet corridor, and strode to a door where
he pushed a call button. Above the button a card
was affixed reading "Carleton Victor."
A manservant in livery opened the door and
said, "Good evening, Mr. Victor," as Jimmy
Christopher stepped in.
"Good evening, Crowe," he answered.
Only as Carleton Victor was he known to
Crowe-as Carleton Victor, photographer
extraordinary, portraitist of the great, both
socially and politically, who maintained imposing
studios on Fifth Avenue. To be photographed by
Carleton Victor was considered a mark of
distinction. Dignitaries, industrial magnates, social
leaders, state officials from all over the world,
sought him out. A portrait made by this artist of
the lens was a credential of high importance.
No one who sat for him, no one who
admired his photographic creations, dreamed that
the identity of Carleton Victor cloaked that of
Operator 5 of the American Intelligence Service.
Crowe asked solicitously: "You had a
pleasant trip to St. Louis, sir?"
"It might have been more pleasant," Victor
answered, gravely, "if I hadn't been standing on
the bridge at a particularly fatal moment, Crowe."
Crowe looked blank. "Bridge, sir? I don't
understand."
Victor smiled. "I keep forgetting, Crowe,
that you never read the newspapers. Perhaps
you're right. It must preserve one's peace of
mind."
"It does, sir," said Crowe. "Quite."
Carleton Victor opened a door and stepped
into a small, soundproofed closet. It was empty
save for a chair and a telephone on a shelf.
Latching the door, Jimmy Christopher dialed a
secret number. The voice that answered said:
"Founders Club."
"The secretary, please."
"We have no secretary."
"The treasurer, then."
The exchange of signals assured Operator 5
that he had obtained connection with secret
Headquarters M in Manhattan. He touched a cam
protruding from the wall which clicked into action
a frequency distorter. When he spoke again it
was with the assurance that no successful wiretapping
over the secret line was possible.
"Operator 5 calling."
"H-3."
"Any further reports on Janover or Thorne or
the pilot of the plane that dropped the corrosive
on Fort Hancock?"
"None of them has been located."
Jimmy Christopher's fingers drummed.
"Please get in touch at once with Gregory
Fleming, chairman of the Constructional Steel
Corporation. I understand that he returned today
by plane to New York. Arrange for me to see him
this evening at his home. I will call there at nine
o'clock under the name of Robert Kingston. If
there are any reports before then, telephone me
at Address Y."
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER hung the receiver
and took it up again. He dialed this time a
number listed in the directory under the name of
his father, John Christopher. The voice that
answered was eager, boyish: "Jimmy! It's you!
Gosh, Jimmy, we've missed you! We want to see
you! Where are you?"
"Same old Tim," Jimmy Christopher
chuckled. "I'm coming right along. I've got a new
trick to show you, Tim, and you'll never guess
how it's done. Be seeing you, boy!"
"Swell, Jimmy! And listen-we've got a
surprise for you-you'll never guess that, either.
Hurry over and find out what it is!"
Jimmy Christopher opened the door of the
soundproofed closet; Carleton Victor stepped out,
smiling. Crowe was gravely solicitous. "I hope
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
18
you dined well, sir. It worries me a great deal
when I have no opportunity to prepare your food
for you."
Victor slipped quickly into a close-fitting
Chesterfield and fitted a derby to his head as
Crowe helped him.
United States might be trembling on the brink
of disaster-and you would worry a great deal
more about my dinner."
Crowe looked astonished. "Why, certainly,
sir! Of course! I consider your dinner far more
important, sir!"
Victor opened the door and smiled. "Crowe,"
he sighed, "I shouldn't know what to do without
you." And he went out, leaving the solemn-faced
manservant blinking in wonderment.
It was innate caution which caused Jimmy
Christopher to glance swiftly along the side street
in the East Forties to assure himself that he was
not being shadowed before he stepped to the
door of a modest brownstone house. That
residence was, in the telephone code, Address
Y-the address of his father's home. A key
admitted him.
He was scarcely inside the door before
scampering footfalls sounded above . A small boy
bounded down the stairs, a sturdy, energetic lad
of fourteen with freckled face and beaming eyes.
He yelled "Jimmy!" grinned from ear to ear, and
flung his arms around Operator 5.
"Tim, old scout! It's good to see you again!"
"Gosh, we've all been waiting for you to
come back, Jimmy! Everything seems to sort of
stop while you're gone!"
Tim Donovan clung to Jimmy Christopher's
hand warmly as they mounted the stairs. A
strong bond of affection bound this tough little
Irish lad and Operator 5. One night, years ago,
Tim Donovan- then a starved, half-ill
bootblack-had saved Operator 5's life; since
then they had grown closer than blood brothers.
Courageous, full of unbounded admiration for the
young man who had saved him from pitiful
poverty, Tim Donovan served Operator 5 as an
unofficial assistant.
"] was talking to Z-7 about you this morning,
Tim," Jimmy Christopher declared as they
approached the door of the living room. "He hasn't
forgotten his promise to take you into the
Intelligence Service the moment you're old
enough."
"Gee, Jimmy! That'll be the most wonderful
thing in the world to me-being in the service with
you!"
Jimmy Christopher opened the door and a
chorus of greetings met him. Into his arms flew
an eager girl who clasped arms tightly about him
and pressed her red lips to his. Nan Christopher
was her brother's twin-an utterly feminine,
vivacious girl whose facial resemblance to
Operator 5 was striking. She clung to his hand
delightedly as a stalwart man came toward her
brother smiling, with hand extended.
"Nan-Dad! It's great to see you both again!
Been taking proper care of yourself, Dad?"
"Aching for action, Jimmy."
JOHN CHRISTOPHER spoke wistfully.
Once he had been known as Operator Q-6 of the
American Intelligence Service. There was a bullet
imbedded in John Christopher's body so close to
the heart that no surgeon dared attempt to
remove it, and that bullet had ended Q-6's last
case. In spite of his physician's orders that he
remain quiet he had, in the past, insisted on
assisting Operator 5. He found deep pride in
working shoulder to shoulder with his son.
"Take it easy, Dad," Jimmy Christopher
chuckled. "Nan and Tim and I think far too much
of you to let you take any needless chances.
Tim-where's the surprise?"
The little Irish lad's eyes twinkled excitedly as
he stepped toward a closed door. He gripped the
knob, thrust it open, and exclaimed: "Here!"
A girl stood just beyond the sill. She hurried
toward Jimmy Christopher, with hand
outstretched, eagerly. She was in her early
twenties, with a softly modeled face and eyes
that snapped with brilliant lights. She was a
forthright young woman; she took Jimmy
Christopher's shoulders in her hands and kissed
him warmly.
"Surprised?" she asked pertly, drawing
back.
"Diane!" He stared in delighted
astonishment. "I thought you were out on the
West Coast! When did you come East?"
"Just arrived," she announced. "The very
first thing I did was to look you up, Jimmy
Christopher. I've an idea you and I are working on
the same lead again."
"What?"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
19
"I'm here for the Amalgamated Press, and
what's more, the boss has arranged for me an
exclusive interview with Gregory Fleming tonight.
He's going to make an important statement-it'll
be a big beat, and I'm terribly excited. What do
you think of that?"
"With Fleming, tonight?" Jimmy Christopher
echoed. "I'm going to see him myself!"
"I told you so!" Diane Elliot exclaimed
enthusiastically. "We are working together again!
I'm terribly glad!"
"Careful!" Jimmy Christopher warned. "The
devil only knows where this case will lead to.
Maybe to something even more dangerous than
your hunt for Kara Vizna-and the battle off the
Panama Canal."
Diane Elliot laughed. "Dangerous, but
exciting, Jimmy. But you had more risk than I did.
Can't we go to Fleming's together? I couldn't ask
for anything more to make a swell story!"
The telephone jangled. Operator 5 turned to
it before answering. A hushed voice uttered a
signal, and he answered it. The man at the other
end of the-wire said: "H-3."
"Operator 5 talking."
"Your interview with Gregory Fleming is
arranged for nine o'clock, under the name of
Robert Kingston. Anything else?"
"That's all. Thanks." Jimmy Christopher
lowered the telephone and eyed Diane Elliot.
"What time," he asked, "is your appointment?"
"Eight forty-five."
He smiled. "We go together. And we've got
to be leaving right away."
Tim Donovan exclaimed eagerly: "Me, too,
Jimmy!"
"Okay, Tim, if you're willing to wait in the taxi
outside. Be right back, Nan, I hope. Let's go."
As he hurried down the stairs toward the
entrance, Tim Donovan clung to his arm
affectionately. Diane Elliot stepped first into the
cab they signaled, and seated herself between
Operator 5 and the little Irish lad. The taxi spurted
toward Third Avenue.
"Jimmy." Diane spoke softly. "It's been
terribly lonesome. I've missed my brother, Carl,
so. I want to stay in New York now, to be near
you and Tim."
Jimmy Christopher's fingers curled tightly
over hers. "Carl was one of the best Intelligence
operators in the service, Diane."
Tim Donovan blurted excitedly: "Gee, Jimmy!
That'll be wonderful, won't it!"
The cab crossed Lexington and rolled toward
Park Avenue as they sat silent. Tim Donovan
spoke again eagerly: "What about the trick,
Jimmy? You promised to show me-and I bet I
can guess it!"
"O.K., Tim. Here goes." As the cab turned
up Park Avenue, Jimmy Christopher flipped a
bright red silk handkerchief from his pocket. As
Tim watched eagerly, as Diane smiled, he
displayed empty hands, then formed his left into
a fist, and tucked a corner of the handkerchief into
it.
"Watch it, Tim!"
TIM'S widened eyes followed every move of
Jimmy Christopher's hands. Bit by bit Operator 5
tucked into his fist the red handkerchief. From the
upper side, between his clenched thumb and
forefinger, he began to draw out bits of blue silk.
As the silk passed through his fingers it
miraculously changed in color!
"Gosh!" Tim Donovan exclaimed.
Smilingly, Jimmy Christopher fingered the
last corner of the red silk into his closed palm. At
the same time he removed the last corner from
the opposite side of his fist-an entire blue
handkerchief of the same material. He opened
his hands, displayed his fingers wide apart, and
started to tuck the blue silk into his breast pocket,
but changed his mind and tossed it to Tim
Donovan.
"There you are, old scout! Figure that one if
you can!"
"Gee, Jimmy, I'm stumped! You couldn't've
changed the handkerchief-it must be the same
one-but I don't see how you could make it a
different color, just by pushing it through your
fist!"
"You can be figuring it out, Tim, while-"
He broke off suddenly. From the air above
the cab came a droning sound that quickly grew
louder. It was, certainly, the exhaust of an
airplane, apparently swooping low over the city.
The noise of its exhaust thundered loudly
between the stone-fronted buildings of Park
Avenue, growing in volume with each second.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
20
Operator 5 snapped at the taxi-driver:
"Stop!"
As the car lurched to a standstill under
jammed brakes, he ducked out. He gazed
upward, and saw dark wings sweeping across
the sky above.
The cab had stopped directly in front of a
building undergoing construction. The bare, redpainted
steel-work reached high into the night sky,
the skeleton of what was designed to become a
gigantic hotel. The criss-crossing girders made a
silhouetted pattern against the glow of lights-and
behind the huge structure, far above the canyon
of the street, the black wings of an airplane were
swerving!
Jimmy Christopher called sharply over his
shoulder: "Tim! Hurry-take Diane with you! I'll
follow!"
The girl was already stepping out of the taxi
excitedly. "No, Jimmy! What kind of a
newspaper gal do you think I am? If something's
going to happen, I'm going to-"
Tim Donovan, leaning out of the cab door
stared upward and blurted: "Look! The plane's
dropping something!"
Even as he spoke, the mysterious ship
banked sharply above the skeleton-spire of the
skyscraper. From its underside something
dropped-an object that glistened brightly in the
glow of the city lights as it fell downward. It was
a glittering sphere, plunging straight into the
framework of the tremendous structure.
Jimmy Christopher shouted: "Get back! Get
away from here, quick!"
Through his startled words came the sound
of shattering glass. High in the steel skeleton of
the skyscraper the plummeting sphere struck a
girder and burst to bits. In the dim light yellow
fluid sprayed upon the girders. And instantly,
from all it touched, white fumes boiled up!
"Take Diane away, Tim!" Operator 5
shouted the warning as he whirled and dashed
across the street. At the entrance of an apartment
house which stood opposite, he paused a
second, staring up. The swift-moving plane was
circling again above the spire of the skeleton
skyscraper. From its underside two more
glittering spheres fell directly through the mass of
mist that was rising from the lattice-work of
girders.
Again came the resounding crash of
shattering glass. Again yellow fluid splashed.
Billowing fumes sprang high. Now, from the
sizzling girders, dark dust was raining, settling
on the air, dissolving as it lowered. An ear-filling
hissing sound declared that the framework of the
huge building was swiftly dissolving away.
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER swore to himself
when he saw Diane Elliot resisting Tim Donovan's
frantic efforts to urge her away. He pushed
through the lobby of the apartment house and
sped toward an alcove in which was a telephone
switchboard. His expression of grim urgency
startled the girl at the board. He seized her arm,
tugged her from her chair, touched a cam and
began swiftly to dial a number.
From the street the hissing sound continued;
and suddenly through it, came a rumbling crash.
Corroded girders falling!
Operator 5 wasted no time in exchange of
signals as a voice sang over the wire-a voice he
recognized as that of H-3, in Secret Intelligence
Headquarters M.
"Signal all air fields!" snapped Jimmy
Christopher. "A plane is dropping corrosive on
the new Continental Hotel! Flash a signal that
that plane must be knocked down-and the pilot
captured. Don't waste a second!"
He sprang from the switchboard; he dashed
into the street, peering upward. His eyes
widened with horror at the mass of boiling fumes
which enveloped the skyscraper spire. And then
he recoiled instinctively as a second deafening
crash echoed into the street.
From the interior of the framework of the new
Continental Hotel a huge section of structural
steel broke away. It spun downward, giving off
swirling smoke as it plunged into the depths of the
structure. Around the gap left by the spilling
section other girders were being transformed into
drifting dust that melted as it fell-and the
dwindling beams were bending!
Dimly, through the mist, the spire was
visible-and it was precariously leaning! As its
supports were eaten away beneath it, it bent
farther over, like a softened candle, and started
to sag lower and lower! The tower must inevitably
fall, to plunge upon the surrounding buildings or
crash into the traffic-filled street!
Fumes were blanketing down, obscuring the
street lights. Traffic officers were shrilling their
whistles. Masses of cars were clotting together in
the street as the policemen frantically tried to flag
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
21
them onward. Shouts and screams of dismay
rang from the throats of men and women who
stared up at the crumbling skyscraper.
Disaster! A building being destroyed before
their very eyes! A skyscraper tearing apart,
crumbling to dust as they watched!
High in the sky above the city the lone
airplane whirled. It swung swiftly through a circle
that carried it twice directly above car-clogged
Park Avenue. Its motor roared a throaty snarl as
its helmeted pilot turned goggled eyes down upon
the spewing cloud of fumes.
Through the blanketing mist the pilot
glimpsed the tottering structure of steel. Like a
thing of wax before the blast of a blow-torch the
giant structure was melting away, swiftly
dissolving into floating fumes and drifting,
disintegrating dust while the huge tower was tilting
far over, threatening to plunge untold tons of
steel into the street.
Once more the pilot circled, keeping his
eyes upon the destruction he had wrought. Into
the air crashed a noise that seemed to shake the
very foundations of the heavens. The leaning
spire of the skyscraper tore away! It dropped,
ripping through the melting girders below, ripping
open one side of the framework with its terrific
weight and momentum. The whole structure
swayed under the powerful impact. It twisted
loosely, and leaned above the masses of cars
jamming the avenue, above the hundreds who
were fleeing in terror.
A grim smile tightened the lips of the pilot,
and he dressed his ship. He turned its nose
toward the East River and thrust the throttle wide
open. A savage snarl shook the sky as the plane
plunged away from the rising masses of fumes.
One full minute it dead-headed straight-away;
and then the pilot, sensing a discord in the
exhaust-noise, jerked up and peered around.
IN THE sky above the East River another
plane was winging! Its lights gleamed like floating
stars as it swept closer. Through the blur of his
prop the mysterious pilot peered at it, and
recognized it. It was the single air-patrol plane of
the New York City Police Department-and it was
driving directly toward him.
The winged messenger of death nudged his
controls gently, and swung the nose of his Hawk
toward the onsweeping police crate. He hunched,
squinting through the sight-rings of a Vickers
machine-gun mounted behind his prop. He
waited deliberately until the police plane was a
target square on the cross-lines; then his thumbs
pressed the Bowdin-trips.
Snarling fire leaped from the bores of he
Vickers. Slugs ripped across the sky, their
course marked by the green phosphorescent glow
of tracer-bullets. Squarely into the fuselage of the
police-plane the fusillade drilled.
Instantly the police-crate banked and
swerved desperately to throw itself out of the line
of attack. In its pit two goggled men yelled in
terror. As they swerved the Hawk swerved after
it, the head of the pilot still dropped low between
up-hunched shoulders, the goggled eyes still
peering through the sights of the Vickers. It
came-another withering burst that raked the
police-plane from boss to tail!
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
22
Like a wounded bird the police ship leaned
on one wing and sagged into a fluttering spiral.
The pilot at its controls straightened convulsively,
gripping his bullet-torn throat. Behind him the
second man, blinded by blood flowing from a
gash across his forehead, yelled into a
microphone that carried his shrieking words into
the rotunda-topped room at Police Headquarters
on Center Street. He shouted-and his words
ended in an inarticulate mumble as he slumped
loosely over, dead.
Downward plunged the police-crate, still
holding its wavering circle. Above it the Hawk
swooped. The man at its controls leaned over the
cowling, reaching out with one gloved hand. In
that hand he gripped a small glass flask. His arm
swung sharply, and as he passed directly above
the dropping police-crate he hurled the bottle
unerringly into the pit where a dead man sat.
The sound of crashing glass did not
penetrate the roaring of the Hawk's motor; but
instantly white fumes sprang up from the plunging
plane. Spattering yellow liquid struck destruction
into the center of the fuselage. Disintegrating
power tore at metal braces and ate them through
swiftly. The police-plane cracked in the center as
it dropped. Dissolving in midair, it spilled swiftly,
while the Hawk circled above it in a triumphant
waltz of death.
Down! The goggled eyes of its destroyer
watched the police plane plunge until it fell, a
disintegrating smoking mass, into the murky
waters of the East River and disappeared.
Swiftly, then, the hooded pilot sent the Hawk
roaring into the zenith. The blackness of night
enveloped it. Without winglights, a black bird of
doom it streaked away until it was lost in the
vastness of the sky.
The startling bulletins stunned New York.
Special editions screamed the news. Every radio
station broadcast breathless accounts.
Destruction had struck again!
"New Continental Hotel completely
destroyed; fifty killed by falling girders! Scores of
cars wrecked in streets; sections of pavements
eaten away! Tracks of New York Central, under
Park Avenue, corroded, tying up train service!
Unknown airplane sought vainly!"
From all sections of the city thousands
swarmed to the scene. On foot, sardined into
subway trains, packed into taxies and private
cars, crowded aboard ferries, by every possible
means of conveyance, they came herding. They
massed about the roped-off section of Park
Avenue and stared into a great, gaping, black
cavity.
They stared at empty space where once the
framework of a tremendous building had stood.
Empty space-nothing else-for the skyscraper
had dissolved into dust that had itself melted
away into thin air!
CHAPTER FOUR
Corroding Terror
IN FRONT of a staid, white-stone house on
Fifth Avenue in the Seventies, which faced across
Central Park, a taxi stopped. Operator 5 alighted
from it quickly. As he turned away the door of a
second taxi, standing not far away, clicked open.
Diane Elliot and Tim Donovan hurried toward
Jimmy Christopher anxiously. "I made her leave,
Jimmy!" Tim blurted. "Gosh just in time! If we'd
stayed there any longer-"
Jimmy Christopher's hands gripped the girl's
tightly. "You took too great a chance! Diane,
you've got to watch yourself. I warned you-"
"I know, Jimmy. It was foolish of me, but-
what did it? What is that horrible stuff that
destroys everything so swiftly?"
"Nobody knows, nobody but the men who
use it, but it's powerful enough to destroy this
whole city within the space of an hour, if enough
of it were dropped onto the buildings-I'm sure of
that. Diane, we're late and Gregory Fleming may
be able to tell us something. Back to the cab,
Tim, and wait there."
His stride was quick, his face grim, as he
strode to the grilled door of the white stone house.
Tim Donovan reluctantly returned to the taxi as
Diane Elliot kept at Operator 5's side. In answer
to his ring a thin-faced butler appeared.
"Miss Elliot; Mr. Kingston? Come in, please.
Mr. Fleming is expecting you both."
They were conducted into a lavishly
furnished library. There they waited, while the
manservant withdrew. Operator 5's blue eyes
were clouded with anxiety; Diane Elliot studied his
features intently as though trying to read an
ominous secret. Presently a heavy step sounded
behind thick draperies and Gregory Fleming
entered.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
23
His stolid face was grave as he greeted the
girl and shook hands with Operator 5. He was
holding in one hand a folded typewritten
document. He gestured toward chairs and settled
behind an elaborately carved desk.
"I can talk to you both at the same time," he
declared briskly. "I have prepared a written
statement for the press. In it I have explained at
length my theory as to what is happening. I may
be entirely wrong, but I offer it for what it is
worth."
"Do you feel," Operator 5 asked quickly, "that
the mysterious financial power which has been
attempting to take control of the steel industry is
behind this?"
"Yes!" Gregory Fleming, as he answered,
passed to Diane Elliot a copy of his statement,
and handed another to Jimmy Christopher.
"Senator Morrison believes the idea fantastic, but
he is grievously misinformed. It is only too
possible. I know."
"You mean," Operator 5 asked quietly, "that
it is entirely possible that the steel industry may
pass under the secret control of a single combine
or person?"
"An approach to it has already been made,
and the fact is no secret," Gregory Fleming
answered. "In this statement I mention the case
of Charles Prosper Eugene Schneider, of France.
It explains itself."
"I know the facts in the case of Schneider,"
Operator 5 answered. "You believe that some
mysterious power is endeavoring to reach even
farther than he to control steel?"
"At this very moment," Fleming answered
decisively, "some unknown, powerful combine is
attempting to seize control of the steel industry of
the United States-perhaps of the entire world-
and unless the government acts swiftly to prevent
it, the move is almost certain to succeed!"
"You have no clue as to the identity of this
power?"
"None, of course, or I would certainly
furnish all information to the government. I am a
loyal American citizen. My chief concern is the
welfare and prosperity of my native country. I will
spare no effort to aid in uncovering the identity of
this monster-I will devote every cent of my
fortune to it if necessary. Rest assured of that!"
"But you are convinced-"
"If this move to attain domination of the steel
industry succeeds, the mysterious power will then
control the manufacturing of all munitions in this
country. The destiny of this nation , perhaps of the
entire world, will rest in the hands of that
unknown power. It will mean militaristic anarchy.
"You must know that today, in Europe, a
huge, hidden force actuates and provides for the
arming of those nations. Not only the enormous
steel and armament companies themselves, such
as Krupp in Germany and Vickers in England, but
the subsidiary organizations-mines, chemical
manufactories, laboratories, smelters as well as
the banks, holding-companies and brokers, all
are interested in just one thing-the promotion of
international discord which will lead to war.''
Operator 5 looked somberly at Gregory
Fleming. "I know," he said. "And the whole thing
is controlled by a few men, whose power might
exceed that of any one nation." He recalled
certain reports proving that, during the World
War, the German forces killed British troops with
British-made ordnance; British war-ships were
protected by German-made steel, and since the
big British armament firms sold heavily to Turkey
before the war, the British forces were repulsed
with tragic loss of life, again, by British-made
guns and submarine mines. And he knew, that
while all nations were engaged in the business of
killing, there seemed a perpetual truce among
arms-makers, so that war might continue-at a
vast profit.
OPERATOR 5 asked quietly: "Your
corporation, the Constructional Steel, is the
largest in this country. Do you manufacture no
armaments, Mr. Fleming?"
"None!" He declared it with violent
emphasis. "My corporation, committed to a policy
of humanitarianism, determined some time ago
never again to manufacture armaments unless it
becomes necessary for us to do so in the defense
of our country."
"Is it your theory, then," Operator 5
inquired, "that the destruction of the Trans-
Mississippi Bridge, and the coast defense unit at
Fort Hancock, and the new Continental Hotel
tonight, are connected somehow with this
mysterious financial combine?"
"It is my theory," Gregory Fleming
answered. "In my statement I point out that it is
logically inevitable to conclude that some
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
24
connection exists. Here we have a corrosive
which utterly destroys steel as well as other
metals and structural materials. Also, we have a
secret power which is striving to seize control of
the steel industry. If both operate successfully, it
means complete domination of the world by this
mysterious power."
"Because nations must arm!" Operator 5
exclaimed.
"Exactly. Nations must maintain their
defenses. The destruction of the coast unit at Fort
Hancock is an example-it must be replaced. I tell
you, it is the most diabolical plan ever launched-
a plan to destroy defenses on the one hand; and
on the other, to control the replacing of them with
new defenses. Unless this inhuman scheme is
destroyed, the wealth of all the nations on the
globe will pour into the treasury of the unknown
power."
"Is it your opinion," Operator 5 questioned,
"that this power is foreign to the United States?"
Gregory Fleming smiled grimly.
"The patriotism of armament manufacturers,"
he said, "is in my opinion a most unreliable
quality. The armament makers in Europe, for
instance, are able to supply everything needed to
make a war-even the cause of it. They are
activated chiefly by their two axioms of, first,
disturbing international peace whenever possible
and second, once a war begins, of prolonging it
as much as possible.
"Which is to say," he declared, "that the
mysterious power which is threatening this nation
may, in fact, lie within the boundaries of this
country."
"But an enemy nation may have launched
upon a plan-a plan which has as its purpose
rendering us defenseless to attack or helpless to
intervene in the case of another European war?"
Jimmy Christopher asked.
"Possibly."
The secret service agent straightened. "Do
you, Mr. Fleming, know of a metallurgist named
John Thorne?"
"Thorne!" Fleming's eyes widened "Yes-
certainly! I once employed him in my research
laboratory. I discharged him, because I
suspected him of-"
As Gregory Fleming spoke, his steel-gray
eyes lifted; his words broke off with a sudden
intake of breath.
"God!" he gasped.
Jimmy Christopher turned sharply. A jerk of
his supple muscles brought him to his feet. His
right hand slipped swiftly under his coat toward
his arm-pit holster.
From the doorway of the library, half
concealed by the heavy draperies, peered a
strangely masked face. Through ragged holes cut
in the strip of black cloth that shielded the man's
face, a pair of widened eyes glittered
desperately. He was leaning forward; his one
visible arm was upraised; and in his hand he was
gripping a small glass flask. A flask filled to its
glass stopper with a bright, translucent yellow
fluid!
INSTANTLY, as Operator 5 leaped up, the
masked man swung back his arm to hurl the flask
toward the desk. With flashing swiftness Jimmy
Christopher's automatic came into his hand.
Gregory Fleming gasped again and recoiled in
terror; Diane Elliot, her face white, stood
paralyzed. The masked man's arm began to
swing swiftly; and Jimmy Christopher's gun spat.
He fired, not to kill, but to warn. The bullet
ripped shreds from the drapery beside the
masked man's head. A choking cry burst from the
lips of the man behind the curtains as he recoiled.
He lurched backward, still attempting to hurl the
flask, but the clinging draperies dragged at his
arm as he moved it. The yellow vessel left his
fingers-spinning without force to the floor.
"Back!"
Operator 5 shouted the warning as a crash of
shattering glass sounded. Yellow spray dashed
into the library. Instantly white fumes sprang up,
thick and blinding, blanketing the side of the
room. The draperies were blotted out; the
masked man disappeared.
Jimmy Christopher sprang backward,
gripping Diane Elliot's arm. He pulled her away
and glanced at her swiftly, making sure that none
of the powerful corrosive had splashed upon her.
As the clouding fumes swelled to fill the room with
choking pungency, Gregory Fleming tottered
from the desk. He had also escaped the spraying
stuff, but the desk behind which he had been
sitting was steaming and sizzling.
"Out of here quick!" Jimmy Christopher
snapped the order and Gregory Fleming hastily
opened a door in the rear of the room. The secret
service agent made sure the man and the girl
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
25
were safe before he whirled back toward the
broad doorway in the far wall. The library was
filled with the boiling sound of the spreading
corrosive; the floor was crumbling and a great,
gaping hole was appearing.
Jimmy Christopher leaped. One bound
carried him clear across the growing cavity in the
floor. He sprang through the draperies, crossed
the hall beyond, and whirled. At the end of the
hallway he saw a door closing-glimpsed a dark
form fleeing beyond.
Vapor poured into the hall behind him as he
sprinted toward the door. Without a pause he
twisted the knob and pushed through. The room
was black. He slid against the wall, sensing a
swift, furtive movement somewhere in the
darkness. Into this room the thrower of the
corrosive had come. Unseen, he must be
crouching within a few feet of Operator 5 now,
perhaps ready to hurl another flask of the deadly
stuff.
Jimmy Christopher snatched from a pocket
his small flashlight and sent a white beam across
the room. It limned a black figure hunched
against the farther wall-the masked man. Eyes
glittering wildly, he was flinging an arm upward,
gripping in his fingers another flask of saffron
doom!
Operator 5's gun spat sharply, sending a
bullet clicking into the wall beside the masked
man's head. At the same instant he leaped,
hurling himself upon the hunching figure. He was
forced to drop his light as he snatched at the wrist
of the upraised arm; it thumped to the floor and
blinked out. Again darkness closed down as
Operator 5 lurched hard upon the man crowded
against the wall.
A mad strength possessed the corrosive
thrower. He fought wildly to escape the grip of
Jimmy Christopher's fingers. He made a
desperate lurching motion, jerking his arm; and
then instantly glass splintered sharply from the
side of the room. Operator 5 twisted, saw dimly
the ragged outlines of a broken window-pane and,
outside, white fumes springing into the air of an
enclosed court.
Two claw-like hands gripped Operator 5's
automatic. The weapon whipped downward
swiftly, between them. In sudden dismay Jimmy
Christopher felt a jerk that tightened his finger on
the trigger. A muffled blast of sound shocked
through the room; a spray of fire touched fabric
that instantly charred; and in Operator 5's arms
the body of the corrosive thrower went lax.
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER stepped back
quickly; the other man fell. For a moment there
was no sound save Operator 5's quick breathing
and the sharp hissing of the corrosive coming
from the court and the hallway. He turned
quickly, found a light-switch, and snapped it. In a
glare of light he stepped toward the window.
The flask thrown by the masked man had
hurtled through the pane and shattered upon a
cement walk outside. The pavement was boiling,
vanishing, as ghostly streams of vapor writhed up
in the gloom. Sure that no serious damage had
been done, Operator 5 turned quickly to the man
lying motionless on the floor.
He found a ragged hole in the masked man's
vest above the heart. The bullet had drilled deep;
there was no pulse. Operator 5 peeled away the
black cloth band that covered the corrosivethrower's
face. He saw lean, sharp features, a
cruel, cunning mouth-the face, certainly, of a
shrewd criminal.
Operator 5 turned swiftly and strode along
the hallway. Through the heavy drapes fumes
were still billowing. In the foggy light Operator 5
could see that the gaping hole in the library floor
had widened, but now the action of the corrosive
was decreasing. Through the hole another room
was visible now, its furnishings steaming and
disintegrating; but now the sizzling sound of the
yellow stuff was not so loud.
A door at the far end of the corridor opened
swiftly. Gregory Fleming hurried through it, his
face white as death. Diane Elliot hurried past him
to Jimmy Christopher's side.
"Jimmy! You're not hurt?"
"I'm all right, Diane," Operator 5 answered
breathlessly. "But stay away from the library and
the court, both of you. Not enough of the stuff
was used to do great damage, but it's still
working. If any of that stuff had splashed on us
we would have died instantly."
Jimmy Christopher conducted Gregory
Fleming into the rear room. Fumes were still
boiling past the broken window, but the hissing
action of the corrosive thrown into the court was
still diminishing. The steel magnate bent over the
dead man, peering into the hard, sharp face, and
wagged his head.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
26
"I've never seen him before. I have no idea
who he is, unless he is in the employ of the
power that is attempting to control the steel
industry. My testimony before the Senate
Investigating Committee was published, of
course. This was an attempt to silence me!"
Operator 5 nodded. "If so, it proves that the
power exists. It proves that your theory is
dangerously near the truth, Mr. Fleming. This
statement"-Jimmy Christopher indicated the
folded typewritten sheets given him by Fleming,
which he had tucked into his pocket. "You still
desire it published?"
"Yes."
"It may mean your death, Mr. Fleming."
Gregory Fleming's steel-gray eyes shone like
polished metal. "My life means nothing in this
emergency," he declared. "At all costs the secret
power must be sought out, and destroyed."
Operator 5 nodded briskly, and strode along
the hallway toward the front entrance. He paused
as he stepped into the vestibule. Motionless in
one corner a man was lying-the butler who had
admitted him.
Jimmy Christopher bent over the man. A
blow had torn the scalp on the side of the butler's
head. He was unconscious, scarcely breathing.
Jimmy Christopher straightened as Gregory
Fleming hastened to him, with Diane Elliot
following.
"This explains how the masked man got in,"
he declared. "When the door was opened he
knocked the butler unconscious. That man needs
a doctor in a hurry."
Fleming hastened to a telephone in an
adjoining room. Jimmy Christopher peered again
into the library. The action of the corrosive had
quieted. Almost the entire floor had been eaten
away dropping the desk and chairs into the cavity
below; and those pieces had been transformed
into dust that was now melting away into the air.
Jimmy Christopher stood still, his eyes clouded,
his fingers straying unconsciously to the tiny
golden skull dangling on his watch-chain.
"Jimmy!" Diane Elliot's voice called quickly,
and Operator 5 turned. The girl had opened the
entrance; she was peering back in terror. Quick
steps took him toward her.
"Tim!"
As the girl exclaimed the name, Operator 5
stepped out into the entrance. The curb in front of
Gregory Fleming's house was deserted. The taxi
which had brought Diane Elliot and Tim Donovan
to the address was no longer there. The boy was
nowhere to be seen.
In breathy dismay Diane Elliot blurted:
"Tim's gone!"
CHAPTER FIVE
The Sealed Room
A TAXI swung swiftly to the curb in front of
the old brownstone house in the East Forties.
Diane Elliot and Jimmy Christopher left it
hurriedly. As they reached the door, the girl
paused.
"Jimmy, I've got to get Fleming's statement
to the office, but I'm so worried about Tim!
Where could he have gone? What could have
happened to him?"
Jimmy Christopher's lips pressed tight. "Tim
knows how to take care of himself, Di," he said
quietly. "I admit I'm worried, too, but-run along,
and get your big story on the wires. Be careful of
yourself!"
"Yes, Jimmy, but you-how can we tell what
that masked man meant to do? Perhaps he
wanted to kill Fleming, but perhaps he was going
to throw that horrible stuff at you."
"Perhaps. It's all in the game, Di."
"I know, but Jimmy! Once Fleming's
statement is published, his theory becomes
common knowledge. There isn't any further
reason for killing him, except perhaps revenge.
But you, you're working on the case-and this
same power that tried to kill you tonight will try
again. Oh, Jimmy you're taking a dreadful risk. I
don't like it!"
Operator 5 smiled slowly. "It's my case, Di.
I've got to see it through."
"Yes, but-if something happens to you,
Jimmy-"
His hand closed warmly over hers. "Stiff
upper lip, Di. Good girl."
She turned away with tears of anxiety
glistening in her eyes. Jimmy Christopher
hesitated at the door until she got into a taxi. His
key admitted him; he ran quickly up the steps.
As he entered the living room John Christopher
and Nan hurried toward him.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
27
"Have you heard from Tim?" Operator 5
demanded breathlessly.
"No, Jimmy; not a word." John Christopher
answered quickly. "Why-is something wrong?"
He forced a smile, "Nothing wrong, Dad. I
sent Tim on an errand and I thought he'd be back
by now, that's all." Nan came to him. "Jimmy,
you're the cleverest brother a girl ever had, but
you can't make us believe that. Something is
wrong. Something's happened to Tim."
"Tim-Tim's off somewhere," Operator 5
answered evasively. "Don't worry now. I'll bank
on him to come through every time. But-you're
sure you haven't heard?"
"Not a word."
Suddenly the telephone jangled. Operator
5's hands were upon it instantly. He snapped
"Hello!" and his shoulders sagged despondently,
for the voice that came over the wire was not Tim
Donovan's.
"Manhattan Importing Company?" It was the
signal, indicating a call from Secret Intelligence
Headquarters M.
"H-3 on the wire. We have advice from
Washington to inform you at once about a new
development. Details just came in over the
teletype. Less than an hour ago Senator Morrison
of Missouri was murdered."
"Murdered!"
"Yes. He was chairman of the Senate
Committee investigating the steel disasters.
Known to be one of the most ardent pacifists in
Congress. He was alone in his office at the time.
Whoever killed him was not seen entering or
leaving. A revolver with a silencer was used, and
Senator Morrison was killed instantly-shot
through the head. Z-7 asks that you hold yourself
ready for highly important orders, Operator 5."
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER turned from the
instrument with eyes clouded darkly. The gaze of
John Christopher, Ex-Intelligence Operator Q-6,
clung to him as he lowered himself wearily into a
chair. There was silence until Operator 5
declared softly:
"Fleming is absolutely right."
He passed a copy of Fleming's typewritten
statement to John Christopher. The ex-operator's
eyes widened as he read. When he finished,
Operator 5 said: "We've already seen what that
stuff can do, Dad. It destroyed the biggest
suspension bridge in the world more completely
than tons of dynamite could have done. It
reduced a skyscraper to nothing. What's more
important, it wiped out the coast defense unit at
Fort Hancock while we stood helpless to stop it. If
more of that stuff is used against our defenses-"
He shrugged.
John Christopher's face was gray as he
nodded. "A few airplanes dropping flasks of the
corrosive on our other coast-defense units, could
annihilate them all, and once the stuff touched
the guns there would be no known way of
stopping its corrosive action. A few bombs, and
our navy would be sent to the bottom of the sea,
each ship a disintegrating wreck. Some of the
stuff sprayed into the air, and whole squadrons of
airplanes would be wiped out at once. As for the
army-it would be rendered helpless. It is-it
must be a gigantic plot to control the munitionmaking
of the world!"
"It can be nothing else," Jimmy Christopher
agreed. "We must maintain our national
defenses. Unless we wish to be left absolutely
helpless we will be forced to replace the
destroyed armaments as quickly as they fall to
pieces. If widespread use is made of the
corrosive, it means that billions of dollars will
pass from the pockets of the American people
into the treasury of the secret power that is
seeking control of the steel industry. It means that
that power will dominate the whole United States
and then the entire world!"
Again the telephone jangled. Jimmy
Christopher snatched it up. Again a voice called,
"Manhattan Importing Company?" and Operator
5 identified himself.
"Another message from Washington," the
excited voice of H-3 declared. "Tonight the British
naval base at Gibraltar was attacked and partially
destroyed by the corrosive. Orders have already
been issued by the British Admiralty for
restrengthening it."
Jimmy Christopher listened intently. When
he turned from the phone he uttered again, more
significantly, the last words he had spoken to
John Christopher. "And then-the entire world!"
Ex-Operator Q-6 rose in alarm as he heard
his son's crisp outline of the amazing
development.
Again the telephone clattered, and again
Jimmy Christopher's fingers clasped it intently.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
28
As he raised the receiver a quick, eager voice
sounded over the wire. "Jimmy! It's Tim!"
"Tim, what happened to you? Are you all
right, boy?"
"I'm all right." Tim Donovan was speaking
breathlessly. "Listen, Jimmy! I was waiting
outside in the taxi when a man went into
Fleming's place-a thin, tall man-"
"Yes!"
"Then, as soon as he went in, another taxi
came along, and another man hopped out of it.
He hurried to the door just as it was closing. I
saw him look through the glass, then turn all of a
sudden and run away. He hopped into the same
taxi, and started off, and I followed him."
"Good work, Tim! Where are you?"
"I followed him to an apartment house,
Jimmy! He went all around Robin Hood's barn
getting there-I think he knew he was being
followed. But I stuck, Jimmy, even when he
changed cabs, and I saw him go into-668 East
Twenty Eighth Street. He's there now-I'm sure
of it!"
"Keep an eye on him, Tim. I'm coming! And
Tim-"
"Yes, Jimmy?"
"You may be too young to get into the
service, boy-but you're worth two regular
operators now!"
AT THE entrance of a brown brick apartment
house on East Twenty Eighth Street, Jimmy
Christopher left the taxi that had whisked him
southward. As he stepped into the paneled lobby,
the door of a telephone booth in one corner slid
open, and Tim Donovan slid out. "He's still up
there, Jimmy!" the boy whispered eagerly.
"Apartment 11-F. Name's Robert Burke,
according to the elevator man. Are we going up?"
"Come on!"
The elevator carried Operator 5 and Tim
Donovan to the eleventh floor. Jimmy Christopher
stilled the attendant's protests that they should be
announced by flashing a police reporter's card.
He trod quietly around a bend in the corridor on
the eleventh floor and paused before the door
marked 11-F.
There was no sound from inside. Jimmy
Christopher, about to press the buzzer button,
reconsidered. He brought from his pocket his
folder of master-keys; silently he slipped one
after another into the socket of the tumbler lock.
The fourth turned easily; the door swung open as
Jimmy Christopher pressed it. He signaled Tim
Donovan to wait outside, and stepped through.
The living-room, where shaded lights burned,
was empty. He crossed it quietly toward a door
which opened into another room beyond. It, too,
was empty, though a hat and coat lay on a bed
as though hastily thrown there. From beyond
came quiet noises; a clinking of glass, the
striking of a match. The sounds issued from a
door in the corner which was closed within an inch
of the jamb.
Jimmy Christopher stepped quietly to a
bureau, glanced over the articles on its top, then
noiselessly slid a drawer outward. He peered at
several shirts which bore a variety of laundry
marks. Beside them stood a pile of neatly folded
handkerchiefs. Fingering through them, Operator
5 removed one and studied two initials
embroidered in a corner. They were done in
white: J. T.
He straightened, his eyes clouding. Slow,
quiet steps took him toward the door from which
the sounds were coming. His fingertips touched it
lightly; it swung inward, without sound. As it
widened, Operator 5 glimpsed a long bench
sitting at one side of the small room-a bench on
which sat numerous bottles of chemical reagents,
beakers, flasks, porcelain evaporating dishes. A
Bunsen burner had been lighted; it was resting
on a square of gauze, and a yellow liquid in it
was boiling, sending off pungent fumes.
The man in the room was wearing an acidstained
smock; his back was turned as he
worked over a sink in the corner. Operator 5
stood motionless a moment, peering in, before he
spoke. Then he said, "Good evening, Mr. John
Thorne."
The man in the smock flashed about; his
dark eyes widened in terror. Jimmy Christopher's
hand flicked inside his coat and out again as the
chemist's yellow-stained fingers darted toward the
inner edge of a shelf. Jimmy Christopher leveled
his automatic. "Don't touch that!"
The man in the smock withdrew his hand as
if from flame. Operator 5 stepped close and lifted
from the shelf a .45 automatic of foreign make.
He slipped the clip out, dropped it into his coat
pocket, and glanced at the yellow fluid bubbling in
the beaker above the Bunsen burner.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
29
"The corrosive?" he asked quietly.
The chemist blurted suddenly: "You're
mistaken! My name is not Thorne! It's Burke-
Robert Burke."
"Robert Burke," Operator 5 answered,
"wouldn't use handkerchiefs initialed J. T."
The chemist groped for words. "That-that
belongs to a friend. I borrowed it. Damn it, I tell
you I'm Bur-"
"You're Thorne," Jimmy Christopher cut in.
"Let's not waste time, Mr. Thorne.
"The American Intelligence Service is very
interested in your activities."
"The American-" The man stopped
suddenly; his face ashy.
"Why? What have I done? You're making a
mistake!"
"Perhaps," Jimmy Christopher admitted.
"Still your actions have been very suspicious, Mr.
Thorne. You've been missing from your home for
weeks and you were in St. Louis at the time of the
bridge collapse, weren't you?"
"I-I had nothing to do with that!"
"But you were there," Operator 5 insisted.
"Hence my excusable suspicions." Again his
eyes strayed to the beaker bubbling above the
blue gas-flame. "Is that, Mr. Thorne, some of the
corrosive?"
"What-corrosive?"
"Suppose-" Jimmy Christopher said. "All
right; then suppose you dip the barrel of your
automatic into it."
The chemist hesitated a moment; then he
obeyed. He lifted the clipless gun in hands that
trembled. He thrust its barrel beneath the boiling
surface, then raised it. Jimmy Christopher's gaze
sharpened at the film-covered metal.
NO WHITE fumes appeared. No sizzling
sound came. The metal remained smooth and
shining.
The chemist smiled patronizingly. "Even you
can see, it is not any kind of corrosive."
"Quite right." Jimmy Christopher nodded, his
eyes puzzled.
"But tell me, what is it, then?"
"You fool, it's an oil intended to have quite
the opposite effect. It is a step in my research to
find a real rust-resisting preparation for uncoated
iron."
"A preparation such as you supplied to
Sidney Ogden for coating the steel of the Trans-
Mississippi Bridge?" Operator 5 inquired. He
spoke very quietly.
"Like-? Who is Sidney Ogden? I don't
know him. I supplied him with no preparation. My
researches are not complete, I tell you. I am still
working-"
The chemist broke off as Operator 5 reached
into an inner pocket. From it he brought a stiff,
folded sheet. It was a photostatic copy of the
message left by Sidney Ogden upon his suicide.
Operator 5 passed it to the chemist and studied
the man's features as he read the message.
"I don't understand!" the chemist exclaimed.
Operator 5 stepped backward. "Suppose we
talk this over a little," he suggested. "Please go
into your living room, Mr. Thorne."
"Damn you, I tell you my name is not
Thorne!"
Jimmy Christopher said nothing as the
chemist left the laboratory and walked through the
bedroom. The Government man smiled faintly as
he paused beside the bed and lifted the hat which
lay upon it. On the band he saw stenciled initials:
J. T.
In the room beyond Jimmy Christopher said
quietly, "Don't try to pull that stuff. I know who
you are, Thorne. You were once employed in the
research laboratory of the Constructional Steel
Corporation-and you were fired. Why?"
The chemist lowered himself wearily to a
chair. He stared at Operator 5. Then he said:
"All right; you win. I'll tell you the truth. I'm John
Thorne. I was once a chemist on the research
staff of Constructional Steel. I was discharged
because my work was producing no results."
"Your work was-what?" Jimmy Christopher
nearly shouted the last word.
"I was trying to perfect a process of
producing a stainless steel and a rustless iron
adaptable to universal use."
Jimmy Christopher looked startled. "I warn
you that I'll check up all your statements later.
You say you were trying to perfect a process for
preserving iron and steel-?"
"It has been my life-work," John Thorne
declared wearily. His face was gray. "Since being
discharged from Constructional Steel I have been
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
30
trying to carry on my research privately. I have
not yet succeeded. The problems are so many-
so infinite, and difficult."
"There is a stainless steel now in use, of
course-cutlery, for example-but it contains
chromium or nickel. There is also a so-called
rustless iron, but it has such a low carbon content
that it is not adaptable to all uses. At present the
cost of this special iron and steel is far too high for
it to be used for constructional purposes. I have
been trying to find a process which will make
every metal-practically imperishable!"
Jimmy Christopher's eyes clouded. "Has it
been necessary to hide your identity under a false
name in order to continue your research?" he
asked.
John Thorne's eyes sharpened. "Yes!
Several months ago my laboratory at my home
was broken into; my records stolen. My formulae
destroyed. It set me back years. I kept my
records in a steel safe in my laboratory, but while
I was away from the house"-he hit his hand
softly on the arm of his chair-"that safe was
destroyed. The front of it was eaten away-as
though by acid!"
The clouds in Jimmy Christopher's eyes grew
darker.
"SOON after that"-John Thorne studied
Operator 5's face intently as he proceeded-"an
attempt was made on my life. Someone tried to
kill me. As I was leaving my house, I was fired
at. Two bullets hit the door behind me, missing
my head by an inch. There was no doubt that it
was an attempt at murder. I didn't tell the
police-"
"Why not?"
"What could they do? Look around
for-a clue? Besides, whatever suspicions I had
seemed too fantastic. Two weeks later, I was
getting into my car in front of my house one
evening and I was shot at, from a passing taxi. I
was wounded in the shoulder. Then, I couldn't
start my car to chase the taxi. I discovered later
that the distributor arm had been removed from
it."
"And still you thought it would be useless to
tell the police your suspicions?"
"Of course. I decided to play safe-by
vanishing. I simply took an apartment here under
an assumed name, and bought enough new
apparatus to carry on my experiments. I was
handicapped, but I have made some progress."
His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward
suddenly. "I'm telling you the truth-the absolute
truth!"
"But you were," Operator 5 persisted quietly,
"in St. Louis when the bridge collapsed?"
John Thorne's lips whitened. "Yes. Because
I wanted to see for myself what measures were
being taken to preserve the ironwork against
corrosion, and-" He hesitated.
"And?" Operator 5 repeated ironically.
John Thorne jerked to his feet quickly, his
eyes wide. "If I tell you the truth, you'll think I'm
crazy! You'll think it is a madman's attempt to
shift the blame to an innocent party. You won't
believe me."
"In this case," Operator 5 answered mildly,
"I am prepared to believe almost anything."
"But you won't!" John Thorne blurted,
stepping closer. "At times I even doubt my own
sanity. It's the most inhuman, the most diabolical
conspiracy ever conceived. If I told you my
suspicions you would think me mad!"
Operator 5 still leveled his gun. His eyes
probed deep into John Thorne's. "You mean you
believe you know who is responsible for the use
of the corrosive?"
"Yes!"
"Is it-?"
Thorne whirled in alarm. Jimmy Christopher
broke off sharply and spun on his heel. Through
the room echoed, at that instant, the crash of
breaking glass. To the floor, just inside one of the
windows, glittering fragments were falling. Above
the sill, and outside the jagged curtained pane, a
shapeless shadow hovered, apparently, hanging
in space!
Even as John Thorne and Jimmy Christopher
turned, a hand thrust through the hole in the
pane-a hand gripping a black automatic!
Instantly Jimmy Christopher threw himself
heavily against John Thorne. The impact of his
body thrust the chemist aside as the shining gun
swung straight at Thorne. A rocking report
shocked through the room; flame flashed and a
bullet cracked into the plaster of the opposite wall.
Its hot breath fanned Jimmy Christopher's cheek.
"Down!" he ordered sharply, as he hurled Thorne
to the floor.
A second blasting report burst from the
automatic in the hand of the shapeless form
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
31
hovering outside the window. Jimmy
Christopher's gun flashed level and he squeezed
the trigger. Mixed with the report came a sharp
cry-a cry that burst into the room through the
broken pane-and instantly the floating form
vanished.
Knuckles rapped frantically on the hallway
door. Tim Donovan's strained voice called
anxiously: "Jimmy! Jimmy!"
"O.K., Tim!"
Operator 5 crossed the room swiftly and
touched a switch. The room clicked into
blackness, save for dim light that gleamed in
through the windows from the surrounding
buildings. As he moved across the room again,
he ordered Thorne sharply: "Stay where you are!
Those bullets were meant for us both!"
Thorne gasped: "What-what was it?"
SWIFTLY Jimmy Christopher raised the
window, and peered out. The black strands of a
rope hung straight downward. A glance upward
showed him that it was trailing from a window one
story above. One story below, in the uncertain
light, a dark, vague form was sliding across the
sill of another opened window. It vanished even
as Jimmy Christopher glimpsed it.
One quick move brought from his pocket a
keen-bladed knife; and its edge flicked against
the strand. The metal hissed through the hemp;
half the rope dropped. Operator 5 turned swiftly,
saw John Thorne's haggard face and took long
strides toward the door. As he snapped it open
Tim Donovan stumbled in, white-faced, wideeyed.
"Jimmy! You all right?"
"Young idiot, Tim! How are you?" Take this
gun and keep that man in here!"
He thrust his automatic into Tim Donovan's
callused fingers as he sped across the sill. The
door slammed behind him; he hurried to the
elevator, punched the call-button, and
immediately left it. The cage operator, he knew,
would rise to this floor before answering any
summons from below. At the end of the corridor
Jimmy Christopher pushed through a door that
admitted him to the fire-stairs.
He bounded down one flight, pushed into
another corridor, and stopped before the door
numbered 10-F. He listened, and heard nothing.
He brought his master-keys into play; his second
try opened the door and quickly he stepped over
the sill.
Darkness filled the room inside-darkness
and silence. The window in the opposite wall was
open. He crossed to it quickly, and peered up.
Above dangled the severed end of the rope,
outside John Thorne's window; the rest of it had
fallen into the court ten stories below. There was,
Jimmy Christopher knew, no other means of
leaving this apartment than the entrance through
which he had come.
Through a closed door came the sound of
splashing water-a noise that told him the
gunman was still within these walls.
He had crawled from the window two stories
above John Thorne's apartment, let himself down
by the rope to a position outside Thorne's window,
fired twice to kill, then quickly sought shelter in
this lower apartment. An indication of the reason
why the killer had not left Apartment 1O-F
immediately Jimmy Christopher found on the sill:
a wiped drop of blood. Operator 5's bullet had
told.
He crossed silently to the closed door. A
twist of the knob opened the way into another
dark room. In the far corner a line of light was
shining under a door from which the sounds of
splashing water were coming. Operator 5
snapped a wall switch, and looked around
curiously. Jimmy Christopher stepped toward the
closed door of the bathroom. He was reaching for
the knob when a sudden clatter sounded; the
knob turned; the door jerked open. Through it
came quickly a lean man who had shed coat and
shirt, whose bare left arm was bullet-gashed. He
took two quick steps- and stopped.
For an instant he stared at Jimmy
Christopher. His yellowish eyes narrowed in the
light; his beak of a nose shone like wax; his lips
drew tight, disclosing stained teeth. One instant
he stared; and then, with desperate quickness,
he jerked at his hip pocket, and his automatic
flashed in the light.
Jimmy Christopher's move was as swift. His
right hand clicked loose the buckle of his belt; he
snapped it away from his trouser loops. The
leather band sprang straight and flew into the
air-a long, narrow sheath which whipped off a
blade of supple steel. Bright as a new needle,
pointed as sharply, each edge keen as a razor,
the rapier hissed as Jimmy Christopher lashed it
downward.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
32
Singing steel played about the wrist of the
man with the gun. Metallic lightning flashed
across the whitened knuckles. The hawk-nosed
man jerked at the trigger-and found his fingers
powerless!
A cry of terror broke from him as he
staggered backward. The gun spilled from his
strengthless grasp; he whirled in a frenzy, and
threw himself against the door. He leaped
through, leaving a dripping red smudge on the
panel. The click of a bolt sounded.
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER'S rapier raised high,
point red. He scooped the automatic from the
floor, and thrust it into his pocket. He pushed at
the door and found it firm. With the bright lance
under his arm, he took from inside his coat a
compact leather case, and from the case he
removed a steel implement, thin as paper.
He stooped, and slid the instrument into the
crack of the door. The keen edge bit into the
metal of the bolt and drew it back a fraction of an
inch as he levered it. Another move drew the bolt
still farther. Jimmy Christopher was plying the
tool quickly when sounds issuing from the
bathroom startled him.
First a gasp; then a stifled cry of terrorized
pain; then a hissing sound. The sibilant noise
grew rapidly louder. A glance downward showed
Operator 5 smoky wisps curling from beneath the
door. His face grew starkly grim as he pried at his
tool again swiftly.
A long minute passed before the biting edge
drew the bolt completely from its socket. Rapier
again in his hand Operator 5 straightened, and
twisted the knob. The needle-sharp point of the
blade was level as he pushed the door wide.
Blinding fumes gushed out. A throatgripping,
acrid cloud filled the air. Operator 5
stopped, reeled back, then peered into the misty
light that filled the bathroom. He could see,
dimly, that there was one closed window and no
other door; that the clouding fumes were thickest
above the porcelain tub. He waited until the vapor
thinned; then he stepped across the sill.
The room was empty. There was no sign of
the hawk-nosed man-no sign save an empty
bottle on the tiled floor, which had once contained
an oily yellow liquid-no sign save a muddy dust
that lay on the bottom of the white tub-a gummy
mass that dissolved into the air as Operator 5
peered at it. And even as he watched, the
bottom of the porcelain tub seemed to melt into
nothingness. . . .
He stepped back and closed the door, his
eyes low-lidded and dark.
Jimmy Christopher left Apartment 10-F,
locking it. A quick search of the rooms had had
no tangible result. He trod up the fire-stairs,
stepped to the door of 11-F and, after trying it
and finding it fastened, knocked.
Silence answered. He knocked again,
sharply. He called "Tim!" There was no response.
Anxiously he snatched the case of masterkeys
from his pocket. He used the one which had
already admitted him and pushed through quickly.
He stopped short just over the sill, and suddenly
stared, white-faced, at the wilted body of Tim
Donovan lying on the rug.
He bounded to the door connecting with the
bedroom. There was no sign of John Thorne. He
returned quickly to the little Irish lad and raised
him. Tim Donovan's lips were quivering, his
eyelids fluttering. Blood had seeped from an
abrasion just above his ear, a mark left by a
heavy blow. He blinked up and sobbed.
"Tim! What happened! All right-old
fellow?" Then real consciousness seemed to
return to him. He caught at Jimmy Christopher's
hand in a frenzy. "Jimmy! He hit me-with the
gun!"
"Lord, Tim! When?"
"Right after you left, Jimmy. Gosh-I-I
tried to stop him!''
Jimmy Christopher's jaw-muscles bunched.
He had been in the apartment below for
minutes-and during those few minutes John
Thorne had doubtless made his escape. The
man must be far away from the building by this
time. Realization of that fact kept Operator 5 at
Tim Donovan's side.
"Gosh, Jimmy-Gosh-I tried to stop him,
honest! Gee, they'll never let me join the service
if I can't do any better than that, Jimmy!"
Jimmy Christopher smiled wryly. "Don't you
worry about that, Tim, old boy. You did your
best. I haven't come off any better than you this
time, either. Or lots of times before. We've hit a
dead end, you and I both."
Tim Donovan brought himself unsteadily to
his feet. His small fists clenched, his eyes
blazed. Fury shone in them as he blurted: "Let
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
33
me get my hands on that guy again, Jimmy, and
he won't get away-I promise!"
"I know he won't, Tim." Operator 5's arm
crossed the game little Irish lad's shoulders
affectionately. "You'll never let him get away next
time-not a good man like you!"
CHAPTER SIX
Doom on the Sea
CROWE marched stiffly to the entrance of
the sumptuous apartment of Carleton Victor as
the door buzzer sounded. He opened the way,
bowed with great dignity, and said solemnly.
"Good evening, sir."
Carleton Victor stepped in smiling. He
glanced at an exquisitely appointed dining table
set beside the broad French windows overlooking
the terrace. His eyes twinkled as he remarked:
"You're worried again, Crowe, because I've
missed my dinner."
"No sir, not merely worried. I am deeply
distressed." And, for once, Crowe looked it.
"Very busy," said Carleton Victor, "and very
sorry. The dinner, Crowe, is all yours. Though,"
he added regretfully, "those mutton chops of
yours-" He turned regretfully, leaving the
manservant looking pained as he stepped into the
sound-proofed telephone closet. Then he turned
from the door and inquired: "Any calls?"
"Yes, sir. Mrs. Van Alsten telephoned, sir."
Victor closed the door. A call from "Mrs. Van
Alsten" on this day of the month meant that
Secret Headquarters M had attempted to reach
him. He dialed the number, exchanged signals,
threw into action the frequency-distorter, and
heard a new voice come over the wire. "My boy
-got you at last!"
Jimmy Christopher exclaimed: "Z-7!"
"Yes. Just come to New York. I want to
work as closely as possible with you. Right now I
have the reports you want. First, the man who
threw the corrosive into Gregory Fleming's library
was Pasquale Picone, a known killer, racketeer
and bank-robber-but for a year he has been
completely out of sight. In the bathroom of
Apartment 10-F in the Twenty Eight Street
building we found fingerprints, all of the same
man, but not prints of Picone. The fingerprints-
are all that's left of that man."
"I know," Jimmy Christopher answered. "He
must have dumped on himself the corrosive he
had in the bathroom. A most thorough means of
suicide. And, it links him up definitely with the
hidden power."
"Yet," Z-7 went on, "there seems to be little
connection between Picone and the suicide. The
gunman in the bathroom was Louis Lerman, of
the same stripe as Picone. Their records are
similar. Lerman, a criminal also, disappeared at
the same time as Picone. They were indicted in
the same case. And-there were two others,
who likewise disappeared at that time: Leo
Krainsky and Max Nikko. Remember those
names."
"I will. And I bet that Krainsky and Nikko will
be heard from," Operator 5 declared.
"No doubt. Lerman rented the two
apartments under false names, the one on the
twelfth floor and the one on the tenth, directly
above and below John Thorne's. It was obviously
a plan to kill Thorne-the only way of reaching
him, since Thorne had scarcely stepped outside
in weeks."
"There is no sign of Thorne anywhere?"
"No, none." Z-7's voice sounded weary,
discouraged.
"CHIEF,'' Operator 5 said crisply, "about a
year ago there was a series of big bank robberies
throughout the country. The total loss was
staggering. As I remember it, these robberies
were pulled off in an unusual way-and some sort
of corrosive may have been used. I want full
details on all those cases. Also, I want the
typewritten reports you have for me. Send them
to me here."
"Very well. Operator 5, Lerman was a
suicide and so was Picone, probably. That
means these men were so terrorized at the
possibility of discovery that they chose death.
Whoever this master mind is behind it all, he
wields a frightful power-and thus far he has
covered himself completely."
"Exactly, Chief. I'll wait for your reports. You
can get me at Address Y."
Jimmy Christopher stepped from the
soundproof closet. Crowe was still standing near
the beautifully set dining-table. "I received from
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
34
Russia today some of the special caviar you
prefer, sir."
"Very thoughtful of you, Crowe."
"Those mutton chops, sir," Crowe said, "I'm
very proud of. They're just the right-"
"Please don't tempt me like that, Crowe."
"I have ready also, sir, several bottles of
your favorite vintage, sir."
Carleton Victor fitted on his derby and gave a
deep sigh. He did like Crowe's cooking and his
knowledge of wine was superb! "Alas, Crowe,
alas," he said. And Carleton Victor went out.
At seven forty-five the voice of Lloyd Hibben,
news commentator, traveled over the radio
network of the Nationwide Broadcasting System
and echoed in thousands of homes: "While a
mysterious menace threatens the armaments of
this nation," he declared, "we are sending to
London a delegation of statesmen to open the
way for the greatest disarmament conference the
world has ever known.
"At this moment, aboard the Viking, a party
of twelve men from the State Department at
Washington are upon the high seas, carrying with
them high hopes that nations may agree on
limiting armaments. While war brews, while
treaties are trampled in the mud, while the United
States cowers under the threat of a devastating
power-we look to these statesmen for rescue
from world chaos . . ."
The great steamer Viking was, at that
moment, following the North Atlantic ship lane
toward England. It was her first night out from
New York. On her decks scores of distinguished
passengers promenaded, and under a shining
moon, while a warm breeze played, couples
danced. In their staterooms on A deck, the
delegates from the State Department bent over
document-covered tables and discussed ways of
reaching an agreement so that nations might be
saved from destroying each other.
But deep down in the great hull of the Viking
the scene was far different. In the cargo hold the
crew was laboring, storing the thousands of tons
of freight that had been shuttled aboard in New
York. Now, while the great steamer plowed the
swelling sea, bare-shouldered men sweated to
sort the consignments.
Light glared flatly over them as they worked
to separate huge crates and boxes and cartons
into shipment-lots. They sang as they worked, as
the great shell swayed across the sea. And, from
the smartly uniformed officers stationed high on
the bridge to the oilers sweating deep in the
engine-room, there was no thought of disaster.
But disaster came!
Onto a barrow two hulking men shifted crates
containing heavy glass carboys. The lettering on
them declared that they were bound for an
importing firm in Liverpool; the vessels were
labeled, "Excello Shampoo." Scores of these
crated carboys were piled one on top of another,
and the two huskies swung them to the wheel
barrow, assembling them in a compartment in the
hold.
ONE of the men slipped off balance as he
was swinging a crated carboy down. It tore from
his fingers and crashed to the floor. The crate
splintered; the glass hit bare metal. It shattered
instantly; and over the metal flooring poured oily,
yellow stuff.
From the lips of the man came a yell of pain
and terror. The stuff had splashed upon the lower
part of his body. Swiftly he was enveloped in
thick white fumes which clouded up from the floor.
Men spun in alarm, staring. They saw the freight
handler fall; they saw him squirm in agony. They
heard the sizzling sound that came from his
body-and saw it swiftly eaten shapeless!
Almost instantly the vapor filled the hold,
fogging the lights. Deafeningly intense sounded
the hissing. The second man, recoiling from the
carboys, stood astounded as he saw metal
disintegrating before him. Like hot taffy the iron
gave. It sagged; a gaping hole appeared. Brown
flakes dusted into the black cavity and it widened
swiftly as the metal crumbled away! The crew
scattered in panic, as suddenly, from below,
came the roar of water!
Through the corroded bulkheads the sea
poured. Foaming white, it lashed in, a torrent of
terror. Swiftly it flooded up through the aperture
that widened with amazing rapidity. And before
the rushing deluge the crew ran-shrieking with
fright, scampering to ladders, fighting
desperately to scramble to safety while rising seawater
chilled their legs.
Over the ship's telephone a terrorized voice
cried into the ears of the first officer. "The
bulkheads have given way! The bottom's
dropping out. We're sinking!"
A few moments later the wireless operator,
his face pale, tuned the transmitter to a six
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
35
hundred kilocycle wavelength. Even as a
sputtering message lightninged through the ether,
the great Viking listed heavily to port while the
roar of rushing water sounded like the thunder of
doom.
CQD-CQD-CQD-CQD!
Jimmy Christopher walked alertly along the
side-street in the East Forties on which his
father's home stood. The back of his neck was
prickling cold with an uncanny sensation-a sixth
sense warned him that he was being followed. As
he strode past the brownstone house, his glance
crossed the street to a second-floor window in a
building directly opposite. The light behind the
panes blinked out even as he glimpsed it.
Jimmy Christopher strode to the corner, his
forehead furrowed. A glance over his shoulder as
he turned showed him that the gleam behind
those panes had returned. He circled the block
swiftly, still sensing that he was being watched.
Minutes later, when he entered the same
cross-street from Third Avenue, the window
opposite was still shining. Across the curtains a
shadow moved-the silhouette of a man's
hunched shoulders and low-drawn head. This
time Operator 5 turned into the door of his father's
house. Instantly the light went out, the shadow
disappeared.
Just inside the solidly paneled outer door he
paused. His finger brushed aside a flap which
uncovered a tiny hole bored through the wood. In
a moment the light behind the window across the
street was again switched on, and again the
shadowed head appeared.
In that room a man seemed to be studying
the house of John Christopher, lowering his gaze
beneath the sill, then raising it again.
Operator 5 climbed the stairs.
WHEN he entered the living-room, dancemusic
was issuing softly from the radio. Nan
greeted her brother warmly; Ex-Operator Q-6
tightly gripped his son's hand. Tim Donovan, his
head wrapped by bandages, rose unsteadily from
a chair, grinning.
"How's the head, Tim?"
"Feeling fine, Jimmy!" Tim answered.
Wrinkled lines of pain still showed about his eyes;
the abrasion on his scalp was still paining him.
John Christopher remarked: "You look tired,
Jimmy. Had any sleep?"
"Not much, Dad. This case is a tough one-
more than tough, too. How about you, Tim?
Have you figured out the handkerchief trick yet?"
"No-and you didn't get a chance to tell me
how you did it, Jimmy!" Tim answered eagerly.
"Gosh, I'm still stumped. The way you stuck that
red handkerchief in your empty fist and then
pulled out a blue one-"
"I'll show you, Tim," Operator 5 smiled.
"Here's the whole secret."
He removed from his breast pocket a small
metal tube about three inches Iong and as thick
as his middle finger. It was hollow, its outside
painted flesh color. Tim looked at it puzzled.
"I don't know any more now than I did
before!" he protested.
"This is the way I used it, Tim," Operator 5
explained. "I had the tube in my breast pocket,
and inside it I had the blue handkerchief, wadded
up. I had already pushed the blue handkerchief in
tight, so not a bit of it stuck out, but I left a little
space at one end of the tube. Then I had the red
handkerchief in my pocket too, as though I was
wearing it."
"Uh-huh," Tim nodded mystified.
Operator 5 looked up as the dance music
ceased coming from the radio. The voice of an
announcer spoke: "Ladies and gentlemen we
regret that this station must leave the air at once
due to an SOS. We are now signing off."
Jimmy Christopher paused while the radio
hummed soundlessly, but Tim Donovan had
scarcely heard the announcement. His gaze was
still on Jimmy Christopher's nimble fingers.
"So, Tim," Operator 5 continued, "I showed
you my hands empty, front and back, fingers
spread wide apart. I took the red handkerchief
from my pocket, like this." He suited the action to
the word. "I showed it to you, still holding my
fingers apart-but you didn't see that I had the
little tube concealed."
He turned his hand to show the tube. When
taking the red kerchief from his pocket he had
inserted the middle finger of his right hand into
one end of the tube. While holding the fingers of
that hand apart, he had bent the middle finger
into the palm, so that the tube was concealed
behind it, while the other fingers remained
extended.
"Gosh, I didn't see that at all!" Tim said.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
36
"I took care that you didn't, Tim. I showed the
red silk, and then closed my left hand. When I
began to push the red silk into my left fist, I
opened the fingers just enough so that I could
swing the tube into it; See?" Jimmy Christopher
demonstrated the quick, easy move which
transferred the tube from the middle finger of the
right hand to the palm of the left. "Then-"
He began pushing the red silk into his fist,
and tufting blue silk from the other side of it.
"I simply pushed the red silk into the
tube gradually, and pulled the blue silk out the
other end at the same time. When I pushed the
last corner of the red silk in, I stuck my middle
finger into the tube again , and swung it out
behind my palm."
Jimmy Christopher demonstrated how, by
reversing the previous move, the tube containing
the red handkerchief was transferred from his left
palm and concealed behind his right hand, with
the middle finger bent inward.
"Then, when I tucked the blue handkerchief
into my pocket, I left the tube there. And that's
all there is to it."
"My gosh!" Tim exploded. "It seems pretty
simple now, but it certainly had me stumped. I
bet I can do that, Jimmy!"
Operator 5 promptly passed the silks and
tube to the eager Irish lad.
"Of course you can, old scout. You don't
need a special metal tube at all. It can be glass
or paper or cardboard, and it doesn't even need
to be painted flesh color. And you can do it at any
time, anywhere, at a moment's notice. You're on
the way to being a true amateur magician, Tim!"
"You've certainly showed me some good
ones, Jimmy!" Tim exclaimed.
Operator 5's voice lowered. "But listen, Tim;
I've got something else for you. I had it made
especially for you, and I want you to wear it all
the time."
"Gee-what is it, Jimmy?"
FROM a small blue case, Jimmy
Christopher removed a finger ring, while Tim
Donovan's eyes lighted happily. It was of
gleaming white metal, and on the face of it was a
skull, outlined in white. On the forehead of the
skull was a black numeral 5. Tim Donovan took it
into his fingers eagerly.
"It's a beauty!"
"Put it on, Tim, and keep it there. It's a sort
of passport. It means that you're a friend of
mine."
"It's just like your watch-charm, Jimmy!"
"Yes. I've told Z-7 that you have the ring, and
he has notified United States Intelligence
operators all over the world. All you have to do is
show that ring, and it will identify you. It's just a
little token from me to you, Tim-and some day it
might come in very handy."
Tim Donovan's bright eyes glistened. "Gee,
Jimmy-thanks! I think more of this ring than
anything else in the world! I'll never take it off!"
"Just remember," Operator 5 said quietly,
"that I'm proud to see you wearing it."
He turned, peered a moment at the silent
radio, then stepped into the front room. Without
turning on the lights he peeled aside one of the
drawn blinds. In the window of the building
opposite the glow was still shining, shadowing a
man's head upon the curtains. Operator 5 turned
back thoughtfully. "Nan."
"Yes, Jimmy."
"Do something for me?"
"Anything you ask me to, and you know it!"
Jimmy Christopher smiled. "Good girl-but
this is just a hunch. Go down to the corner and
buy a copy of an evening paper-any one-and
come back. That's all. And here's the three
cents. Simple, eh?"
Nan Christopher hastily put on her smart,
impertinent hat, as Tim helped her with her coat.
Jimmy Christopher waited by the blinded window
while she hurried down stairs. The outer latch
clicked as she stepped outside. Operator 5,
watching the window opposite, saw the light flash
out almost instantly.
His blue eyes clouded as he waited. He saw
Nan hurry to a newsstand on the corner,
purchase a paper, and turn back. A moment after
the latch snapped again, indicating that she had
entered the street door, the light appeared behind
the window opposite. Nan came into the room
eagerly.
"There! What does it mean?"
"It means that somebody's watching this
place," Operator 5 said softly. "I've been trailed,
and this house has been spotted."
"Oh, Jimmy!"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
37
"Listen, Nan. I'm going to find out who that
man is and what he's up to. I've got to get out of
here to do it, but I want to make him believe I've
gone off for some other reason. Will you work
with me again-change clothes, and be me?"
"I'd like nothing better."
"O.K.-right now!"
Nan Christopher hurried at once into her
bedroom. Operator 5 stepped quickly into a room
at the rear of the house which was his workshop.
It was small and simple, but equipped with the
latest electrical apparatus, switchboards, a
chemist's bench, woodworking machinery, tanks
of compressed gas, and implements which
Operator 5 had fashioned for undivulged
purposes-and no duplicates of them existed. He
went into a small adjoining room which contained
only a chair, a table, and a mirror.
He opened a metal make-up box and quickly
washed liquid pigment on his face. His skin color
drew darker. He applied spirit-gum, tufted gray
hairs over his eyebrows, drew dark lines around
his mouth and eyes and blended them so that
they appeared to be wrinkles of age, and finally
fitted horn-rimmed spectacles in place. Then,
quickly, he slipped out of his perfectly tailored suit
into one that was baggy and worn. He returned to
the living room at the same moment the door of
Nan's room opened.
Tim Donovan gasped: "Gosh-you aren't
you any more, at all!"
NAN CHRISTOPHER had donned one of her
brother's suits, and drawn on a soft felt hat. Her
resemblance to Operator 5 was amazing. They
had, in the past, confused their friends by both
appearing in the same room, dressed identically
and it had been almost impossible to tell which
was the brother and which the sister. Nan
Christopher had quickly transformed herself into
Operator 5's double.
She gazed in surprise at a man stooped with
age, dark-faced, dull-eyed-a man utterly unlike
Operator 5 in every way.
"Will we do?" the old fellow quavered. Then,
abruptly, the voice took on the unmistakable
vitality of Christopher's. "Or won't we?"
"We'll do!"
"O.K. Tim, you're on the job, too, if you
want. You're to follow Nan. She's going to go out
and walk away-anywhere. Keep her in sight and
see that nothing happens to her."
"Sure, Jimmy! What're you going to do?"
Operator 5 stepped quickly to the front
window, peered through the peeled-back blind
and saw that the window opposite was still
lighted. "That remains-" He began softly, but the
clatter of the telephone broke into his words.
He took up the instrument quickly. Over it
came the terse voice of Z-7. Quickly they
exchanged signals. The Washington chief blurted:
"Wireless says: The Viking, carrying our
disarmament conference delegates to London,
has just sunk-carrying down with it everyone on
board! There was no time to save anyone. The
Chanic rushed to aid the Viking, but there was
no sign of any lifeboats. Deck-chairs floating, lifepreservers,
things like that-that's all. And, it is
certain that there was a great quantity of the
corrosive aboard. The wireless operator was able
to inform the Chanic of that much before the
transmitter stopped working. But it means-"
"It means that the source of the corrosive is
the United States," said Jimmy Christopher softly.
"It means that it was made and was being
shipped for sabotage work in Europe-that the
hidden power is under cover in this country!"
Jimmy Christopher stood silent a moment,
his eyes dark as thunderclouds. He said tersely,
"I'll report later, Chief," and turned from the
phone. His gaze went solemnly to the face of his
sister.
"Nan. This is damned dangerous."
Nan smiled. "Let's go, Jimmy."
Operator 5 took a deep, slow breath. He
echoed, in almost a whisper: "O.K. Let's go."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wings of Darkness
OPERATOR 5 paused at the outer door,
slipped the leaf away from the peep-hole, and
peered at the window opposite. It was still
shining. He stepped back, gestured, and opened
the way for Nan Christopher. "Watch sharp,
twin."
"Here goes." The girl-appearing for all the
world to be Jimmy Christopher-stepped out. She
noticed, as she turned away, that a window drew
dark across the street. She walked briskly toward
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
38
Third Avenue, never glancing around. She was
halfway to the corner when Operator 5 nudged
Tim Donovan's arm. "Watch her close, Tim."
"Trust me, Jimmy." The boy tore his eyes
from the fascination of his new skull ring, and
stepped into the street. The window opposite
continued dark as he began to follow the
disguised girl. Jimmy Christopher waited until
Tim's heels were clicking far away, then opened
the door again.
It was not Operator 5 who emerged, but an
unsteady old man who ambled slowly toward the
opposite corner. His shoulders sagged; his shoes
shuffled; his head bent on a withered neck.
Everything about him was aged, except his eyes.
Those bright, alert eyes, peering quickly, saw the
light appear again behind the window of the house
across the street.
Nan Christopher, confident of the perfection
of her disguise, walked briskly, man-like, along
the gloomy side-street. She knew, without
glancing back, that Tim Donovan was following
her. The sense of impending, possible danger
quickened her heart and warmed her blood as she
hurried through the shadows.
A sudden warning tightened her nerves.
There came a sound of squeaking brakes behind
her, and a clicking of heels on the pavement.
Then a gasp, the sound of quick movements.
She brought up short, and turned. In the street
behind her a struggle was taking place.
A taxi had swerved toward the curb and two
men had jumped from it. Their arms were flailing
at a small figure lurching between them. Their
fists drove hard as a startled cry broke from Nan
Christopher's lips: "Tim?"
The boy was fighting desperately to escape
the blows of the two men who were attacking him.
Head lowered, arms thrusting, fighting against
overpowering strength, he tried with all his tough
little body to tear away.
Nan Christopher ran frantically as she saw a
heavy arm swing, saw a blow strike cruelly
across Tim Donovan's head. The boy gasped,
lurched to the pavement as the man who had hit
him whirled. Furiously the girl hurried to help him
as the two men spun to face her.
She was thrown off balance by rough hands
gripping her arms. A blow knocked her sidewise;
a cry of pain broke from her lips as she fell.
Instantly a hand was clamped over her mouth.
Her arms were seized; she was lifted. She
caught a fleeting glimpse of Tim Donovan
squirming on the pavement as darkness closed
around her.
She was thrown into the seat of the taxi and
pinned down. The door clacked shut. The motor
snarled and the cab lurched crazily as it started.
Nan Christopher squirmed helplessly in the hands
that gripped her, and heard a guttural voice
declare: "That got him!"
The roar of the taxi's exhaust drummed into
Tim Donovan's ears as he rolled, striving to
gather strength to rise. His head throbbed with
pain as he came to his knees, staring along the
street. He saw the gleaming red tail-light of the
taxi blur away.
He leaped up and ran desperately. When he
reached the corner, the cab was speeding far
past. Dizzily he sprinted toward a taxi that
creaked to a stop as a red light gleamed. He
snatched the door open and leaped in.
"Follow that car-quick! Keep it in sight
and-oh, there! Quick!"
He fumbled a wallet from his pocket as he
spoke, tore a bill from it, and threw it into the
startled driver's face. That money was another
precaution of Operator 5's; Tim carried it in case
of an emergency. He screeched at the driver until
the cab spurted away, swinging into the crossstreet.
Far ahead he glimpsed the tail-light
again-the red beacon of the cab which was
carrying away Nan Christopher-a prisoner.
Frantically Tim Donovan urged his driver to a
faster speed as the red spot vanished around a
corner.
THE doddering old man, whose lively eyes
glanced warily at the lighted window opposite the
house of John Christopher, turned slowly when
he reached the corner. He walked to the next
cross street and turned again. When he paused
he was in front of another brownstone house that,
he knew, must stand backed to the one in which
the mysterious watcher was hidden.
He pushed at random one of the buttons at
the door and when an electric lock clicked as
someone above answered the call, he stepped
into a gloomy hallway. Immediately he walked to
the rear end of it. It ended at a door behind which
there was only silence.
Operator 5's hands moved nimbly; there was
a soft click; the lock yielded to a master-key. He
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
39
sidled into a dark living-room, crossed directly to
a window opening into the court at the rear,
opened it and slipped out.
He reached to grip the top of a high board
fence which divided the space behind the
buildings into two gritty, bare yards. He jumped
and dropped soundlessly on the other side,
moved like a shadow toward the rear of the
opposite building, and paused beneath the
platform of a rusty fire-escape.
Operator 5 leaped up, gripped an iron rod,
swung, hooked a knee, and raised himself to the
platform. Silent steps took him to the next
landing. He paused outside a dark window.
Through it he saw an empty room, a hallway and,
beyond, a line of light shining beneath a closed
door.
The window was locked. From an inner
pocket he quickly removed his leather case; from
the case he extracted a thin, hooked implement
with a broad handle. He inserted it into the crack
between the sashes and bore hard. The catch
yielded. Jimmy Christopher restored the case to
his pocket and eased the frame upward without a
sound.
The room into which he stepped was empty.
There was no furniture and the hall was
uncarpeted. He tested each step on the bare
floor, drifting closer to the door of the front room.
Through the keyhole he glimpsed light and
movement.
At the front window a table sat, and over the
table a man was bending. There came a faint
scratching of pencil upon paper: nothing else. The
man raised his head to peer across the street,
then plied the pencil again. Jimmy Christopher
straightened and closed his fingers about the
knob.
Silently he inched the door open-so slowly
that its movement did not attract the man's
attention. Peering through a wide crack, Operator
5 saw the man raise again, lifting before him a
carefully drawn design that looked like a map.
While he scrutinized it, Operator 5 quickly
removed from his pocket an eye-glass case.
He exchanged the plain-glass spectacles, a
part of his disguise, for the pair he removed from
the case. They were powerful, specially designed
compound lenses which had been ground to
Operator 5's order. Their effect was that of strong
binoculars at close range. The image he saw
through them was greatly enlarged-the head and
shoulders of the man at the table, and the details
of the penciled map.
It was carefully blocked into squares; and
one of the squares was marked by an X.
Operator 5 recognized it as indicating John
Christopher's home. Surrounding it were colored
dots evidently indicating markers of some kind,
and beside it was a directional arrow.
The man at the table now raised a less
detailed map of Manhattan drawn to smaller
scale. On it was another X, bright red; it, too,
indicated the brownstone front across the street.
The chair scraped back; the man rose from
the table, folding the maps. Jimmy Christopher
drew away, closing the door softly, removing the
magnifying spectacles. Footfalls echoed on the
bare floor, toward a farther wall. There followed
the clicking whir of a telephone dial.
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER'S mind recorded the
swift ticks: 7-2-9-4-5-8-1. Then a voice came
from the closed room: "O.K.? . . . Hubert." A
pause. "Been watching the place. He went in,
but left again before I could get going. I tell you,
he's gone."
Operator 5 stood motionless, realizing that
the conversation referred to him, that Nan's
disguise had completely deceived the unknown
watcher.
"Waiting's dangerous," the voice came
again. "Yeah, and what if he spots me up here? I
tell you, that guy's too slick- the sooner we wipe
him out the better. I'm for doing it tonight, right
away. . . "
Jimmy Christopher's lips curled tightly as he
listened.
"Okay. . . . I'll use the machine fast as I can
get to it. . . . No, nobody's trailed me. . . .The
chances are he'll be back and-whoever's in that
house when the stuff hits it-there'll be nothing
left of 'em!"
Operator 5's blood chilled as he recognized a
reference to the powerful corrosive. An attack
that was to be directed against his father's home!
An attack that would reduce it to nothingness
without warning, killing instantly anyone inside. . .
.And Jimmy Christopher's father was inside it
now. . . .
A click sounded the end of the telephone
conversation. Footfalls followed. Jimmy
Christopher turned swiftly away from the door.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
40
He saw no shelter in the hallway; he sped
soundlessly to the head of the flight of stairs
which opened into it. He bounded down swiftly as
he heard the door of the room open.
He reached the front entrance and jerked
open the outer door as the first footfalls sounded
on the stairs above, as the unknown man began
to descend. Operator 5 sidled outside and went
down the stone steps to the street. His first
impulse was to rush to his father's home, to warn
John Christopher to leave; but he stopped short,
gazing at a light coupe which sat in front of the
house, the only one parked in the block. A swift
determination took him toward it.
He twisted the handle of the rumble
compartment, raised the leaf, and climbed up.
Quickly he settled into the black space, lowering
the lid above him. He inserted the corner of his
coat to keep the lock from catching, and huddled
low. A drumming silence surrounded him.
The car swayed slightly; someone had
stepped on the runningboard. The door clacked;
the starter snarled and the motor caught. Jimmy
Christopher raised the cover quickly as the
wheels began to turn and peered through a thin
crack. A swift glance up and down the street
showed him no sign of the man who had emerged
from the unfurnished apartment. The car
swerved, taking a corner quickly, as Operator 5
lowered himself again.
The man who had promised him death was
behind the wheel.
FAR in the northern section of the city a taxi
was speeding. Tim Donovan leaned into the
driver's compartment peering ahead at a glowing
red spot-the taillight of the car he was following.
It had not managed so far to elude him. Every
block of the way he had kept it in sight.
Riverside Drive unrolled beneath the spinning
wheels. A light drizzle was beginning to fall and
traffic was sparse. The cars were far uptown
when Tim Donovan saw the red light ahead move
toward the curb and stop.
A quick order to his driver sent Tim's cab
alongside. He peered at the other car-and saw
that it was empty! He looked about and across
the Drive saw dark figures making their way to the
sidewalk beyond.
He did not wait for the car to halt before he
scrambled out the left door. He ducked a town-car
while brakes screamed and a chauffeur howled at
him; he dashed across the bridle-path, and
slowed down cautiously.
Two men were walking with a third figure
held close between them. They vanished
immediately, going down steps that led to a long,
sloping, elevated walk. The structure swayed as
they quickly crossed it; and Tim Donovan,
following and clinging to the walk railing, saw
them approach a lightless building which sat on
the water's edge.
He hesitated. He had no weapon; yet he felt
sure that the men he had seen were the two who
had attacked him-sure that the person they had
forced along between them was Nan Christopher.
He peered into the gloom, and heard the slam of
a door. There was no further sound from the
structure that squatted in the water of the Hudson.
Tim Donovan moved cautiously down the
steps toward the elevated walk. As he stepped
on it he glimpsed a sign that had been thinly
painted over. It read: "Empire Yacht Club" and
under it a card read "For Sale" above the name of
a real estate broker. He moved on slowly, over
black space that spread above the railroad tracks.
At the lower end of the walk he paused, ears
alert.
Water rippled around the structure, glinting
in the dim light. There was no sound from inside,
no gleam of light. Tim Donovan moved cautiously
along the porch which framed the building; he
paused to peer into windows blanketed by
darkness; he crept on, every move calculated.
When he stopped again his heart pumped heavily.
A rumbling voice came from inside. Tim
Donovan crouched outside a window, pressing
his ear to a grimy pane. He heard guttural
syllables, words in a foreign language he could
not understand. The first voice was answered by
a second, tense and hushed; and in a moment
the unintelligible conversation stopped.
The sound of footfalls followed: then the first
voice spoke again, in English. "We will leave you
here for a time, Mr. Christopher."
Tim Donovan's pulse trip-hammered. The
few words had confirmed his suspicion that Nan
was inside, held prisoner. He turned quickly, and
crept across the porch toward the walk. He was
stepping upon it when he suddenly froze. He
sensed a movement in the gloom, a movement
outside the clubhouse!
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
41
THE sound did not come again. He began to
climb. His steps quickened as he neared the
sidewalk. When he reached the street he crossed
it swiftly, dodging between moving cars, while
angry horns blared.
Breathlessly he hurried toward the next
corner, where Broadway crossed the side street.
He pushed into a cigar store, wriggled into a
telephone booth, slotted a coin and anxiously
dialed a number. He hung to the instrument as he
waited-until the voice of John Christopher
answered.
"Jimmy there?"
"No, Tim!"
"Gosh-gosh!" the little Irish lad blurted
frantically. "Dad, two men grabbed Nan!
They've taken her to a place on Riverside-the
old Empire Yacht Club! They've got her there
now, holding her! We've got to tell Jimmy!"
John Christopher's voice came tensely. "I
don't know where Jimmy is! I'll come myself,
Tim!"
"No-you can't do that! Stay right there,
Dad! Try to locate Jimmy and tell him. I'll watch
the place until-"
Tim Donovan broke off as the door of the
telephone booth slid open. He twisted to stare
into a face that was peering in at him-a square,
hard face with bushy, flaxen eyebrows, with
whitish-blue eyes narrowed cruelly.
The man crowded into the booth, raising one
hand. In that hand he was holding a short, black
tube. A click sounded; a wet spray shot out of it
as the man with the blue-white eyes pressed a
button on its side.
Sweet, clammy fumes enveloped Tim
Donovan's head. His gasp brought into his lungs
a stinging pungency. Instantly he felt his mind
whirling. He sagged away from the telephone,
and tried to shout: "Stay there, Dad! Tell
Jimmy-" But his voice was only a whisper. The
receiver fell from his hand as he slumped.
He was dropping to his knees when hands
caught him. The man with the whitish-blue eyes
lifted him out of the booth. And then Tim
Donovan passed out.
The clerk behind the counter gasped:
"What's the matter?"
The whitish-eyed man answered gutturally:
"He fainted. Just got out of the hospital-hurt his
head. Not strong enough yet. Give me help!"
"Better call a doctor!" the clerk exclaimed.
"No-I've got a taxi outside!"
As the whitish-eyed man lifted Tim Donovan,
the unsuspecting clerk hurried to assist. The boy
was carried from the store and lifted into a cab
waiting at the curb, at the wheel of which sat a
heavyset man of square jaw and bristling flaxen
mustache. The man who had shot the vapor into
the boy's face waved the clerk away; and the taxi
spurted.
It swung swiftly into Broadway, swung again
into the next cross-street, then swerved into the
Drive. It stopped almost at once. The man with
the blue-white eyes and the mustached driver
brought the unconscious boy out of the cab.
Supporting him between them, they carried him
quickly down the stairs toward the elevated walk
which descended to the abandoned clubhouse.
They were shadows that became lost in the
gloom. They entered a door and bolted it behind
them; they hurried quickly into an inner room
where a gasoline-lantern was burning with a
brilliant flat light. They lowered the unconscious
Tim Donovan to the floor.
Quickly the man with the whitish eyes bound
the Irish boy's hands and wrists. He raised his
head and gazed grimly at a figure roped in a chair
in the corner. Nan Christopher sat unable to
move, tight strands biting into her wrists and
ankles, a gag lashed into her mouth, her
misshapen hat still on her head. She peered
defiantly into the milky eyes that turned gloatingly
toward her.
A guttural chuckle came from the European's
throat. "Now! We have you both-Operator 5!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
Streaming Death
THICK blackness enveloped Operator 5. In
his ears rang the muffled noise of the exhaust as
the car sped over rough pavement, as he was
thrown from side to side in the narrow rumble-seat
space. There had been bewildering turns; it was
impossible for Jimmy Christopher to guess in
what direction the car was now travelling, what
road it was following. The jouncing told him only
that the driver had left smooth pavement and was
somewhere outside the city.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
42
The car bumped again, then began running
smoothly. For long minutes it sped without
turning. Presently it swerved and stopped; it
swayed as the driver alighted; and there came to
Operator 5's ears, faintly, a rasping of metal.
The driver returned to the car; it moved a
few yards and again stopped. Again the man left
the wheel, again rusty metal creaked; again the
driver came back. Jimmy Christopher concluded
that the car had paused at a gate which the driver
had closed again after passing through it. The
jouncing resumed, and continued for several
minutes.
When the car stopped for the third time, the
motor was switched off. The driver's footfalls
sounded through grass. There was a metallic
clattering, a dull thump, then a second. Jimmy
Christopher waited until the sounds ceased before
he pressed at the rumble-seat cover and raised it
cautiously to peer out.
The car sat in a flat, spreading open space
surrounded by trees. In the distance there was a
sprawling, lightless house. On the opposite side
of the car sat a high-roofed, white-painted
structure that looked like an old barn. One entire
end of it was open. The sounds Operator 5 had
heard had been the opening of two broad doors.
In the black cavity of the barn a light was
shining. A shadow passed across the ground as
someone moved about inside. Jimmy Christopher
raised slowly, and hopped out of the
compartment. Slow steps took him to a position
from which he could see into the space within the
walls of the barn.
Darkness came into his eyes; for, in the
gleam of a single electric bulb, he saw an
airplane perched within the housing.
In a rear corner the man who had driven the
car was standing in front of an opened locker. He
saw him drawing on whipcord coveralls quickly.
The light disclosed his face-lean and haggard,
with deep-set eyes and a thin mouth across which
ran a welted scar. As Operator 5 watched he
brought out a helmet and a pair of goggles, and
fitted them over his head.
He closed the locker, and turned to another.
With a key he opened a metal door. He stopped,
reached carefully into the black space, and rose
with a glistening yellow sphere in his hands. It
looked like a ball of translucent gold as he brought
it into the light.
Operator 5's hand stole inside his coat and
out again gripping his automatic. He glanced
about before he moved toward the figure standing
in the gleam of light.
His footfalls brought the coveralled man's
head up sharply. The haggard face grew ashy as
Operator 5 strode close. The pilot stood
motionless, the golden sphere gripped in
outspread fingers, as Jimmy Christopher brought
up short with automatic leveled.
"Put it down!"
The pilot stood motionless, the doom-filled
bomb in his trembling hands. His thin lips worked
out a wordless sound of terror.
"Put it down!"
The gaunt-faced man obeyed stiffly, slowly;
he lowered the glittering yellow ball to the earthen
floor, stepped back from it breathlessly, and
peered at the disguised Operator 5, who seemed
to be withering with age, but whose eyes shone
with dangerous brightness.
"YOU'LL never," Operator 5 said slowly, his
words a breath, "drop that corrosive on the home
of John Christopher tonight."
The pilot started and stood stiff.
"Never, Mr. Hubert," said Jimmy again.
"God! How did you find out-?"
Hubert blurted the words and broke off. He
raised one hand to his heart, as though it was
sharply paining him.
"You'll answer," Jimmy Christopher said
quietly, "for scores of deaths-for the destruction
of the Continental Hotel-for the destruction of
the coast-defense unit at Fort Hancock!"
Hubert's gaunt face worked grotesquely. His
eyes widened until they were white-rimmed circles
of black. He said: "You can't prove-!"
Then his gaze dropped to the golden sphere
lying on the ground. His lips trembled as he
looked again at Jimmy Christopher. "I guess-
you can prove it, all right!"
In a tone that rang like cold metal, Jimmy
Christopher asked: "Why did you do it?"
Hubert's hands fluttered. "I-I got paid for it,
that's all-paid for it! He promised all the money I
could ever use-all the money I'd ever want! He
paid me thousands, and promised more-!"
Jimmy Christopher's question was a single
ringing word: "Who?"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
43
The pilot raced on crazily, paying no heed:
"He told me I wouldn't get caught! He promised
me they'd never-"
"Who?"
The mumbled answer was: "I don't-know."
Jimmy Christopher's voice crackled. "You
know who hired you! You know who paid you to
destroy the building and the guns! You know who
ordered you to kill-Operator 5!"
Glittering terror came into Hubert's eyes. "I
don't know, I tell you! His-his face was
masked-masked with rubber, stretched all over
his face. Nothing but eyes-eyes-"
Operator 5 stepped close, swiftly: "You
know!" He shot the words out. "You know who
that man is!"
"He never showed his face-"
"But you know!"
A long, sighing breath came from Hubert's
tortured lungs. His hands fluttered again. His
bulging eyes were hypnotically fastened on Jimmy
Christopher's.
"I-found out. He's-"
A sudden, sharp hiss came out of the
silence-it came as a saffron streak of lightning
shot horizontally through the air from the shadows
in the rear of the hangar. One long second it
lasted-a yellow streak that hissed and then
vanished. And it left the terrorized pilot drenched
with a viscid golden film!
From the thin, scarred lips a shriek of
frightful pain issued. Over the pilot's face,
springing up from his whole body, drifted a veil of
white fumes! He became enveloped in a cloudy
mass that grew thicker by the instant. A scream
of torture-and the man vanished in the vapor of
doom! Then Jimmy saw a short length of
glittering tube protruding from the shadows. The
golden stream of destruction had been shot from
that. And as he watched, a chill brushed his spine
for he saw the tube turn swiftly toward him!
His leap brought him swiftly to the side of the
airplane. He ducked beneath a wing as the
hissing sound came again. Yellow fluid splashed
above him; it dripped down the metal fuselage,
smoking as it fell. For a long second the stuff
spattered above Operator 5's shielded head-and
then the stream stopped.
HE sprang away into the open. None of the
voracious fluid had touched his skin, but drops of
it had splashed upon his topcoat. He whipped out
of it swiftly and dropped it as he whirled-a
fuming mass that sizzled as if with intense heat.
He paused, staring back, and saw the protruding
nozzle slanted upward as though the hidden,
guiding hand had dropped it.
The hangar was filled with the choking white
fumes. A cloudy mass covered the place where,
a short moment before, the body of the pilot
Hubert had fallen. The plane was steaming.
Even as Jimmy Christopher stepped quickly into
the depths of the fog, he heard a crackling sound
that told him the ship was breaking apart.
Chancing contact with the deadly yellow moisture
on the ground, he stooped, peering.
And he saw, dimly, in the mist, the round
yellow spot that was the corrosive bomb!
He whipped a handkerchief across it, and
found that none of the splashing yellow stuff had
touched the glass shell. He lifted it gently,
whirled, and ran toward the open door. The
frying noise had reached an ear-piercing intensity
as he sped into the clearer air beyond. He heard
suddenly, a purring exhaust-noise. Through the
darkness, on the farther side of the smokepouring
hangar, a car was rushing across the
field.
Operator 5 lowered the golden sphere to the
ground; he trust himself beneath the wheel of
Hubert's car. He twisted the ignition key, kicked
the motor into action, and spurted away. As he
thrust the accelerator to the floor, forcing the car
to its highest speed, he glimpsed the other car
again, rushing far ahead. It was traveling
incredibly fast toward the tree-bordered edge of
the open space.
As he raced, Jimmy Christopher saw, dimly,
the other car stop. A man rushed from it, across
open ground, toward another mass in the
darkness. Suddenly there sounded across the
field a deep, pulsing roar. Flame flashed in the
darkness-flame from the exhaust-stacks of an
airplane!
Operator 5 pushed Hubert's car to the limit
as he raced toward it. He saw the plane roll-saw
it sweep through the flat blackness. Dismay filled
him when it lifted, slicing swiftly into the air. It
banked dangerously close to the ground; its roar
swelled to thunder as it swooped toward Jimmy
Christopher's car.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
44
Over the cowling leaned the head and
shoulders of the unknown pilot. An arm swung
downward; a gun spat. Bullets hailed against the
metal of the car carrying Jimmy Christopher. He
wrenched desperately at the wheel to avoid the
attack, while the rising plane roared past. He
stared back, jaws clenched, while the ship sang
higher, driving lightless into the sky.
He swung his car quickly toward a lightless
house that sprawled not far away, and peered
into the air as he neared it. Heavy electric-power
cables reached to the house from the nearby
road, but there was no telephone-line. No way to
warn Headquarters of the escaping plane! He
swung away again, grimly cold, and peering into
the sky toward the west. Already the fugitive
crate had disappeared in the night.
Far across the field the hangar was gushing
out billowing white. Jimmy Christopher drove
swiftly toward it. At the door of a smaller shed he
left the car. His flashlight was in his hand as he
ran inside; its beam showed him a platform built
against the rear wall.
On the platform sat a huge bottle, yellowcoated
inside; attached to it was glass-piping, to
which a pressure-pump was connected.
Unknown to Hubert and Operator 5 some one
must have hidden himself here and shot the
golden spray onto the pilot-a spray that had
instantly brought the silence of death. The name
of the power had not been spoken!
Jimmy Christopher hurried toward the space
in front of the hangar. Inside, the plane had
fallen into disintegrating parts. The walls were
crumbling. The creeping yellow stuff was
spreading over the entire structure. Soon its roof
must fall; soon it must vanish to dust, to finally
dissolve into thin air!
Jimmy Christopher's blue eyes were dark as
the night as he stooped. He raised into his hands
the fateful golden sphere. . . .
CHAPTER NINE
The Purple Spy
DARKNESS lay over the lapping Hudson
while a thin fog washed from the waves on a
drifting wind. Mist enveloped the gloomy structure
that had once housed the Empire Yacht Club;
next its pier a powerful motor-boat bobbed. No
gleam of light penetrated its windows; yet, inside,
was a presence.
In an inner room the faint sound of labored
breathing came from a corner near a moth-eaten
davenport. In the blackness lay Tim Donovan,
his ankles lashed together, his wrists bound
behind him, a gag plastered across his mouth.
His eyes were wide and peering, yet in that pitchy
room he could see nothing.
The effects of the vapor sprayed into his face
by the man with the whitish-blue eyes had soon
passed. A nauseating sweetness still filled his
lungs, but his mind had cleared. He strove
desperately to loosen the ropes that pinioned him,
but they were drawn cruelly tight, knot piled upon
knot. He lay back exhausted, listening.
Through a closed door, from an adjoining
room, came muffled guttural voices. The words
were unintelligible to Tim Donovan. He writhed
again, helplessly; and suddenly his body went
stiff.
Into the black room came a stealthy sound.
It was so faint that the little Irish lad was not sure
he had heard it at all-a muffled click. He lay
motionless, listening; and his blood grew cold as
he heard a slow, almost soundless step. A
movement of air told him that a door had opened,
that someone had entered.
A blinding white spot appeared in the
gloom-the brilliant lens of a flashlight that shot a
narrow beam. It flashed into Tim Donovan's
widened eyes; it swung to the farther corner, and
flicked across the disguised girl sitting trussed in
the chair. Then it blinked out, and for a moment,
there was no other sound.
Steps came toward Tim Donovan.
Vainly he tried to see the man who was
approaching him. He sensed close movements,
and felt fingers stray over him. There was a tug
at his feet, a short hiss-and his ankles came
free! The dark hands sought his wrists, and the
cold blade of a knife chilled Tim Donovan's skin.
His hands loosened: he struggled up.
Out of the darkness a whisper: "Easy, Tim-
easy!''
Tim Donovan breathed: "Jimmy!"
Almost inaudibly the warning came: "Stay
where you are!"
Tim Donovan tore the gag from his bruised
mouth as the quiet footfalls moved away. Nan
Christopher heard them approach her. She felt
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
45
the ropes that circled her body loosen. She
worked herself free as words were spoken
breathily into her ear.
"Quiet, twin. You're all right."
Nan Christopher's hands groped and seized
one she could not see. Elatedly she whispered:
"Careful, Jimmy-in the next room!"
Operator 5 straightened in the darkness and
returned his keen-bladed knife to his pocket.
Soundless steps took him toward the door
through which the voices were issuing. He leaned
close to the panels intently, and was able to
distinguish word from word.
The conversation was being carried on in a
throaty European accent.
"We will be seen!" one voice declared.
A second uttered an exclamation of
impatience. "There is no danger. We will put
them in the boat. There are heavy weights. It is
not far to the Bay. Once they go under, they will
never be seen again."
The first voice protested: "Dangerous!"
"Our every move is dangerous, you fool! We
cannot consider the danger-the stakes are high.
The intervention of the United States would mean
disaster to us. Operator 5 is our most serious
threat. At all costs he must die!"
BUT-this will lead the American Intelligence
to believe that it is we who are using the
corrosive!"
Another impatient exclamation answered.
"Pah! Let them believe what they wish.
Whoever is using the corrosive is playing directly
into our hands-aiding us. Destroying
armaments-what more could we wish! It will
prevent any possible intervention just so long as
the corrosive continues to be effective. Operator 5
is trying to stop it-to discover its source. And
that is another reason why Operator 5 must be
destroyed!"
Jimmy Christopher stood motionless near the
black door, his eyebrows knitting in amazement.
"We too," the second voice continued
gutturally, "are endeavoring to discover the
source of the corrosive, are we not? Once we
learn the formula-we will be able to strike at the
defenses of the United States and cripple them
irreparably! We will be able to weaken the military
and naval strength of this country so greatly that it
will be impossible for them to even dream of
intervening in Europe!"
"It means certain victory!" the first voice
broke in. "We shall use it to destroy our enemies.
It will be the shortest war in history-we will rule
over all of Europe-over all the world!"
There was silence in the room. Operator 5
stood motionless, still listening, staring at the
door he could not see. A movement sounded
beyond the panels.
"Hurry! There is no time to lose! We have
already waited too long. Within an hour Operator
5 and the boy must be lying dead on the bottom
of the Bay."
Footfalls came quickly. Operator 5 stepped
back as they neared. The knob of the door
rattled. Quickly it was opened and a shaft of
white light flooded into the room-across the
figure of Jimmy Christopher!
On the other side of the sill the man with the
whitish-blue eyes jerked to a stop. A gasp broke
through his lips as he stared at the figure of an
aged man whose clouded blue eyes were fixed
upon him. At his shoulder the second man came
to a rigid stop. There was an instant of paralyzed
silence. Then-
The man with the blue-white eyes snatched
desperately at his coat pocket. The second man,
behind him, dragged heavily at a huge automatic
sticking from his belt. Simultaneously Operator
5's hands blurred in the light.
From his arm-pit holster his automatic came,
a flash of metallic lightning. It weaved level as
two guns raised toward him. Two shots crashed.
A howl of tortured rage came from the second
man as he whirled away. He stumbled
desperately back from the door as the whitisheyed
foreign agent fired.
Jimmy Christopher became a vague outline
in the light. Swift, dancing movements swayed
him from side to side. As the massive automatic
spat the slug hissed past him to chunk into wood
beyond. He fired as another explosion rocked the
big weapon in the hand of the man with milky
eyes. Savage power tore at Operator 5's hand as
the slug spattered against his gun and wrenched
it away.
In the center of the room the second secret
agent was snatching open the drawer of the table.
From it he brought an egg-shaped object of
glistening black. He hurled it through the
doorway. A dull crash sounded. Thick green
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
46
fumes billowed into the air; a sharp pungency
swelled through the room. Operator 5 retreated a
step and shouted: "Out, Tim! Take Nan!"
Scampering footfalls sounded as he clicked
open the buckle of his belt. His hand seized the
hilt of the supple rapier and whisked off the
narrow leather sheath. The man with the bluewhite
eyes was lurching toward him as he
whipped the blade downward. There was a click,
a slash, and blood drenched the huge gun.
A CRY of terror shrilled as Operator 5
sprang. The thick vapor was seeping into his
lungs, clouding his brain. He lunged forward,
through the doorway, as the man with the bluewhite
eyes recoiled. From the foreign agent's
numbed fingers the gun dropped. Operator 5
whirled away as the second man crouched above
the table, leveling an automatic for a dead-center
shot.
Steel lightning streaked. A harsh gasp broke
from the throat of the second foreign secret agent
when the whipping rapier slashed across the
muscles of his arm. He screamed and whirled as
his hand went powerless. Desperately the man
flung himself against a door on the far side of the
room. It crashed open before his weight and he
spilled across the porch.
His weight struck the rotted railing. As he
vanished in the darkness a threshing splash came
from the water. Operator 5 heard it as he spun
back to the man with the whitish-blue eyes.
The foreign agent dashed through the open
door and flung himself, back against the wall of
the clubhouse. Operator 5 followed him with a
bound. The whisking steel blade whipped down
at him. Its needle point touched over his heart-
pierced the fabric of his clothing-and came to
rest against his flesh.
"One move and you'll kill yourself!" Jimmy
Christopher snapped.
Behind him there was frantic threshing in the
water.
It suddenly ceased; there was no sound
save the labored, quick breathing of the man
backed against the wall, save quick footfalls that
came thumping across the porch. At the corner
Tim Donovan appeared breathlessly. "Jimmy!"
"O.K., Tim!" Operator 5 answered quickly.
"Take Nan back home."
The boy peered at the glittering black surface
of the water as a figure slid out of sight beneath
the oily swells. Then Tim Donovan sped off,
hurrying the startled Nan Christopher with him.
Operator 5 faced the man against whose
chest the point of his rapier rested. "You're
coming with me."
The answer was blurted in terror. "I will
come."
A faint smile played upon the lips of Operator
5. "I'm glad," he said, "that it has not been
necessary to kill you-Peter Janover!"
ON THE seventh floor of a building near
Times Square was a pebbled-glass door lettered:
"Star Artists' Bureau." Behind it was a musty
office like hundreds of others in the theatrical
district; it was, apparently, that of a firm which
sought engagements for entertainers. The rear
room, however, could not be linked by any
stretch of the imagination with a theatrical agency
business.
It was walled with green file cabinets; in one
corner sat a teletype machine; and the single
door which opened into the room was of tough
steel, painted to look like wood, with a gigantic
lock welded to it. The entertainers who came into
the outer office seeking work could not dream that
it was merely a shield to cover the location of
secret United States Intelligence Headquarters M.
In the hidden room four men stood. One
was H-3, chief of the area of New York. Behind
the desk, his black eyes smoldering, was Z-7,
chief of all Intelligence activities in the country.
Facing him was Operator 5 and the man with
whitish-blue eyes-Peter Janover, directing
espionage agent of the vast European faction
known as the Purple Shirts.
Operator 5 had brought his captive to Secret
Headquarters M immediately. Z-7 had pressed
Peter Janover with questions. The foreign
espionage agent had answered with sullen
silence; but before the merciless grilling of the
Washington chief his resistance was melting. His
blue eyes flickered with fear.
"Very well," Z-7 declared. "There is no doubt
of it. The corrosive is a weapon of the Purple
Shirts. You have used it against us intending to
cripple us. We will give the facts to the American
public-and all the sympathy for your cause in
this country will be utterly destroyed."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
47
IT WAS the telling blow that broke Peter
Janover's stubborn silence. "It is not true!" he
blurted. "We have not used the corrosive!" He
straightened defiantly. "If only we possessed the
secret, we would gladly have used it-above all I
serve our cause-but the secret of the corrosive
is unknown to us."
"Why," Z-7 asked bluntly, leaning forward,
the fire in his ebony eyes growing brighter,
"should we believe that?"
Janover's massive shoulders squared. "I am
as loyal to my country as you are to yours-and
as honorable. I do not lie. There are espionage
secrets which you will never learn from me, but
now I am telling you the truth.
"The Purple Shirts cannot be blamed for the
sabotage which has been committed by the use of
the corrosive. I assure you, on my word of
honor, that we have not made use of it."
"But you know who has!" Z-7 shot out.
Janover's bristling head wagged. "We do not
know that. If we knew, I would not tell you-but
we do not know."
Z-7 straightened. "The information you can
give us about the corrosive," he stated quietly,
"will save your life."
Janover's shoulders sagged. "I know no
more information to give you. I will not attempt to
give you false information concerning it-because
I am a man of honor. My life-" he shrugged
again- "is little enough to contribute to the
cause."
Z-7 stood silent. When he spoke it was in a
brittle tone addressed to H-3. "Take him away."
The New York chief gripped Peter Janover's
arm. The foreign espionage agent was led into an
adjoining room, and the door closed upon
silence. So perfectly soundproofed was the room
into which Janover stepped that those in the office
need have no fear that any word spoken by them
would be overheard.
Z-7 sagged into a chair, peering wearily at
Operator 5. "At least," he declared, "Janover's
espionage ring in this country is broken. It is an
organism left without a head. We have nothing to
fear from that quarter now. But-he has spoken
the truth."
"The truth, Chief," Operator 5 nodded. "It
was a good move to grill him, but I was already
convinced of it. The conversation I overheard in
the clubhouse made that a certainty."
Z-7 sighed. "A close call, my boy."
Operator 5 smiled. "Dad was on the point of
rushing to the clubhouse when I telephoned
home. I made him stay and got there as soon as I
could. Janover even now doesn't know that he
seized my sister instead of me."
The dark eyes of Z-7 stayed on Jimmy
Christopher's face. "We're at a dead end again.
Peter Janover and the Purple Shirts are not
responsible for the use of the corrosive. But you
feel that John Thorne-"
"In spite of John Thorne's queer story, and
his escape," Jimmy Christopher answered, "I
feel that he told me the truth. I'm sure that he and
I are working toward the same end, strange as
that may seem. If that is true, then he also
cannot be responsible for the use of the corrosive.
"That means two possibilities are
eliminated-Janover and Thorne. Only one
remains-the secret power which is attempting to
seize control of the steel industry. But the identity
of that power is still as deeply hidden as it was at
the beginning. It's the toughest case we've ever
tackled, Chief.
"I'm planning a new attack on the case. Just
what it is I can't tell you yet, but it will help to
have all the reports I've asked for. Details about
the pilot Hubert; the name of the owner of the big
estate in Westchester where the plane was
hidden; the telephone number-"
OPERATOR 5 picked up the dial instrument
on Z-7's desk. He remembered Hubert's use of
the telephone, and the sequence of rapid clicks
was still fresh in his mind: 7-2-9-4-5-8-1.
"The first two are the first two letters of the
exchange name. The third is the exchange
number, the last four the telephone number."
Operator 5 consulted a list while he spoke.
"There's only one possibility. The exchange is
PArker-9.
"Meanwhile, I'm going to the laboratory. The
analysis of the corrosive must be nearly
completed. Once we know what it is, we may be
able to formulate a counteractive. When you
have the reports, Chief, please call me at
Address V."
Operator 5 moved slowly toward the door,
his brow furrowed in thought. Suddenly he turned
and faced Z-7. "I have a suggestion which may
bring results."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
48
"Yes?"
"Allow Janover to escape."
Z-7 snapped to his feet. "Allow him to
escape? The most dangerous espionage agent
living?"
"He has told us the truth, but not the whole
truth, Chief. He doesn't know who the secret
power is, but he must have leads, which he
hasn't told us about-and won't. If he is allowed
to escape, he will attempt to follow them up. And
if he is watched carefully-"
Z-7's eyes narrowed. "It's an awful chance.
It will give Janover an opportunity to communicate
with his agents and re-organize his espionage
system. He may slip us altogether, even though
we watch him. If he does, it means serious
danger to this country."
Operator 5 nodded. "Yes, it's a dangerous
risk, but it may work out. He may then lead us-
somewhere."
Z-7's palm struck the desk top. "We'll do it!
But it's your idea; your responsibility. You'll have
the job of watching him, Operator 5."
Jimmy Christopher nodded. "Good. Hold
Janover here until I give the word. When I'm
ready I'll get in touch with you." And suddenly he
was gone.
IT WAS a room that glittered, a room filled
with pungent odors. Its walls were lined with
shelves bearing bottles of chemical reagents and
quartz receptacles. Its long, acid-resisting
benches were cluttered with weird apparatus.
And except for the quiet movements of two men
bending over a table, the room was silent.
Operator 5 stood shoulder to shoulder with
Gustav Heist, chemist, in this secret laboratory
that was part of the system of the American
Intelligence Service. It was equipped with every
known device for the carrying on of criminological
investigations. The problem under consideration
now was the gravest which had ever been
through into the hidden laboratory.
On the bench sat the glass sphere of
translucent yellow. The hands of Gustav Heist
trembled slightly as he removed from it the small
glass stopper. With the utmost care he tilted the
sphere, and poured into a gleaming beaker a
small quantity of the deadly destructive fluid.
Jimmy Christopher dipped into it a short
length of steel rod. Instantly the metal steamed
and began to crumble. As the vapor poured up, as
brown dust fell from it, the disintegrating effect if
the corrosive crept along the length of the rod.
Jimmy Christopher dropped it onto a glass plate
and watched it.
Within a few seconds it was transformed into
impalpable dust. Within a few more seconds the
dust melted away into thin air.
Heist wagged his head. "Someone," he
declared, "has discovered a secret that has been
sought through the ages-a problem that some
alchemists of old devoted their lives to while
others sought a means of transforming baser
metals into gold-the secret of a universal
solvent."
"Yet this corrosive is not quite a universal
solvent," Operator 5 reminded the chemist. "It
does not attack glass or porcelain. It probably will
not react with graphite or other forms of carbon.
It apparently dissolves everything mineral and
organic-everything except the few non-metallic
elements."
"Yes, exactly. This stuff has a terrific power.
It is stronger than Aquae Regia by far. It must be
a mixture of acids the like of which has never
been known before-with an unknown added
quality."
"A quality," Operator 5 suggested, "of
pronounced electronic activity?"
"It is possible!"
Operator 5 turned quickly to a shelf and
brought down a galvanoscope. He rubbed a wax
rod quickly with a woolen cloth and brought it
close to the instrument's knob. Instantly the two
drooping leaves of aluminum foil contained within
the jar sprang far apart, repelled from each other
by the like charge activating them. Carefully,
then, Operator 5 brought the galvanoscope near
the beaker of the corrosive.
Immediately the leaves collapsed.
"Ionic-a powerful positive charge!"
"Yes! Strange-very strange. Once the
corrosive is deionized, an analysis may be
possible. Then-"
Operator 5's eyes gleamed. "The
counteractive must be strongly ionized at the
opposite pole, negatively. Also, it must be
powerfully alkaline, to counteract the effect of the
acids in the solvent. If we can achieve that, we
will be able to neutralize the effect of the
corrosive!"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
49
"A devilish preparation!" Heist exclaimed.
"Its action is continuous. It reacts with metals
forming an unstable compound which breaks
down immediately on contact with air, through a
catalytic action, forming again the original acids.
And, as you say, a negatively ionic, alkaline
counteractive will, in all probability, neutralize its
action!"
Operator 5 straightened. "We've gone a long
way, but we must not only discover the
counteractive, we've got to devise a means of
applying it."
The telephone in the laboratory clattered.
Heist strode to it, muttered a signal, then turned.
"For you, Operator 5," he said, and passed the
receiver.
Z-7's strained voice sang into Jimmy
Christopher's ears. "Wireless dispatches have
just been received from Paris. Bombs have been
exploded above the subterranean fortresses
which protect the northern frontier of France-and
these bombs carried charges of the corrosive!
The stuff penetrated to the fortresses and caused
the earth to collapse upon them! The exact
locations are not given, but the dispatches state
that at least six of the underground defense units
have been completely wiped out."
"By corrosive shipped from the United
States," Operator 5 exclaimed. "Chief, that
means an international crisis. If this sabotage
continues, every European nation will be flying at
our throat!"
"Exactly! And that's not all. Teletype
bulletins tell us of the wrecking of the Twentieth
Century Limited tonight as it was crossing Ohio.
Tracks were eaten away, derailing the
locomotive. At the same time the wheels crushed
containers of corrosive that had been placed on
the rails. The entire train has been destroyed!"
Operator 5 stood chilled. "What could be
gained-?"
"The train was carrying J. Leonard Niles, the
newspaper owner, and two of his chief
executives. Their entire string of papers was to
begin a fight for disarmament tomorrow. Their
deaths end the careers of three of the most
prominent and most powerful anti-militarists in the
country!
"The second teletype: Two men were
surprised stealing into the naval yards at Newport
News, early tonight. They were seized by
sentries-but not before one of them managed to
throw a flask of corrosive. It fell against the hull of
a battleship undergoing repair. The ship has been
rendered useless-partially destroyed! The two
men, cornered, killed themselves by using
another flask of corrosive on their bodies!"
Operator 5 answered crisply. "Heist is
beginning an analysis of the solvent now, Chief.
I'm going to get to work at once on a means of
applying the counteractive. Wait for word from
me."
He turned from the telephone and gazed at
the chemist bending over the sphere of yellow
fluid.
"Heist, work without stopping!" Operator 5
strode to the door, his eyes shining. "Work as
you've never worked before! Otherwise-"
He did not say that the salvation of the
United States might well depend on the answer;
he pressed his lips tightly; his eyes grew darkclouded.
Silently he opened the door and strode
out.
CHAPTER TEN
Behind the Power
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER touched the pearl
button and, as the door opened, said affably:
"Good evening, Crowe."
The cool-faced man servant sighed, "Good
evening, Mr. Victor. An important letter has come
for you, sir."
He put it in the hands of Carleton Victor-a
thick brown envelope heavily stamped which had
come by registered mail.
"I shall be busy in my study for a while,
Crowe," Carleton Victor said. "Please see that
I'm not disturbed."
"Very good, sir."
From a magnificent radio in one corner of the
living-room a quiet voice was issuing. Carleton
Victor listened to it as he slipped off his topcoat
and hat.
A grave-voiced speaker was declaring: The
tragic sinking of the Viking, carrying our
delegates to the preliminary disarmament
conference in England, has spurred our State
Department to desperate measures.
"Tonight cablegrams addressed to the ruling
heads of all other nations have been sent,
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
50
suggesting that the proposed conference meet in
Washington immediately, and that present
diplomatic representatives be empowered to act
for their governments instead of special
representatives, as previously planned.
"The nations of the world are facing a
desperate crisis; they recognize that
disarmament is the only salvation from the world
war which is threatening us ever closer day by
day. That there is a prevailing sentiment against
war, a universal demand that peace be
maintained-''
Crowe, striding to the radio, switched it off.
"You're not interested, Crowe?" Victor
asked, his eyes twinkling.
"I wasn't listening to what was being
said, sir," Crowe answered. "It was probably
news, wasn't it? News, sir, I find very dreary."
"Even, Crowe," Victor asked, "if there is
danger that the world will be knocked from under
your feet at any moment?"
Crowe blinked. "I beg your pardon, sir?" But
he asked it of empty air, for Carleton Victor had
stepped through a door and closed it.
A small room in the rear of the penthouse
apartment was Carleton Victor's study. There
were book-shelves, a fine desk, a Persian rug,
rare etchings and oils on the walls. It was the
office of a man of impeccable taste. Jimmy
Christopher locked its door behind him, and sat
at the desk.
From the thick brown envelope he removed
the typewritten reports sent him by Z-7. Under a
shaded light he spread them, reading them
intently.
Report Z-113.
Re: Pasquale Picone, Louis Lerman, Leo
Krainsky, and Max Nikko.
These four men have police records as
racketeers, bank robbers, killers and extortionists.
They are known to have committed numerous crimes
together. A complete record is attached. Special
attention is drawn to the final case.
In this case the four men were arrested on
suspicion of robbing a bank in Brooklyn New York.
They were arraigned and held. Under the Baumes
law a conviction for the crime would make life
sentences for them all mandatory. In the past they
had managed to elude justice by questionable legal
means, but this time it appeared that they were
doomed to prison for the rest of their lives, until,
suddenly, bail was furnished for all four of them, and
they were released.
Bonds totaling 200,000 for the four were
furnished. The source of the money was a mystery.
Their lawyer disappeared immediately afterward,
taking with him the secret of the identity of the man for
whom he was acting. Immediately the four men were
released, they also disappeared. They remained
completely out of sight, though sought by the police,
until Pasquale Picone turned up in the home of
Gregory Fleming, and until Louis Lerman made the
attempt on the life of John Thorne.
It is logical to assume that the bonding of these
four criminals was the first move in the plan of the
secret power. This power saved them from lifeimprisonment
and evidently enlisted their criminal
services in return. They may or may not have known
the true identity of the power for which they began to
work, at any rate, Picone and Lerman died silent,
and Krainsky and Nikko are still missing.
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER laid the report aside
thoughtfully. He took up another:
Report Z-114.
Re: New Continental Hotel.
The structural iron used in the building of this
skyscraper was furnished by the Basic Steel
Corp., of which Madison Kirtland is president.
Bids were submitted to the construction
corporation, and the contracts awarded to Basic
Steel as the lowest bidder.
The thoughtful light in Operator 5's eyes
grew deeper as he turned to a third report:
Report Z-115.
Re: Constructional Steel Corp.
The statement made by Gregory Fleming
that the Constructional Steel Corporation is not
engaging in the manufacture of armaments
has been investigated by our agents and found
to be literally true.
The next report in the sheaf was longer.
Jimmy Christopher tackled it eagerly:
Report Z-116.
Re: Bank-Robberies, etc.
Appended is a list of all major bank robberies
reported in the United States during the twelvemonth
period noted.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
51
These robberies constituted a crime-wave of
unparalleled importance. Each crime was
evidently perpetrated by the same gang, and
each was evidently the result of careful,
detailed plans laid beforehand. The total
amount of currency, silver, gold and negotiable
securities stolen was in the millions of dollars:
see appended list.
Each crime was a daring maneuver, and
each was successful. The vault of the Second
National Bank of Seattle, for instance, was
opened through the floor of an office directly
above in the building. In Kansas City the Wheat
Exchange National was entered from an
adjoining store. In New Orleans the Delta
National was entered from below by means of a
tunnel bored under the street from an
apparently abandoned garage. In Boston the
Merrimac Trust was broken into through the
alleyway wall. In each case-these are merely
examples-the work was done swiftly,
noiselessly, and expertly.
Newspaper accounts covering these cases
state that explosive was used, but subsequent
investigations indicated that this was not the
case. It appeared that explosive had been
employed, but this was soon seen to be a
shrewd means used by the criminals for
covering their real method. Recent
investigations indicate that some sort of
powerful corrosive might have been used to
open the bank vaults.
Operator 5 studied the appended lists, and
whistled at the astounding total of the loot taken
from the long list of banks. He turned to the
reports that followed.
Report Z-117.
Re: Freight aboard Viking.
Investigation discloses that one freight
shipment aboard the Viking on its fatal trip
cannot be traced. This appears to have been a
shipment of sixty carboys of shampoo soap,
but the name of the firm shipping it, as well as
the address, have been found to be fictitious.
The London address of the intended receiver of
the shipment is a true one, though the building
is unoccupied and the lessor of it cannot be
located. Scotland Yard is engaged upon
running this angle to earth.
Report Z-118.
Re: John Thorne.
As far as can be determined the statements
of John Thorne, a transcribed copy of which is
attached, are true in fact.
Operator 5 opened a steel-lined drawer of his
desk, filed the reports, and locked it. He brought
before him pencil and paper, and began to draw.
He made involved notations, then inserted the
sheets into a tough brown envelope. He
addressed and stamped it and sat back.
A buzzer sounded. He picked up the telephone.
Crowe's steady voice came over the line.
"I am very sorry, sir," said Crowe. "There is
a caller, sir, who insists upon seeing you. A
most persistent person, sir. I cannot induce her to
go. She insists-"
"Her name, Crowe?"
"A Miss Diane Elliot, sir."
Jimmy Christopher smiled slowly. "She may
wait, Crowe," he said. "And perhaps she would
like a cigarette."
A gasp came over the line. "Yes, sir," Crowe
answered, and hung up.
Jimmy Christopher left the study and entered
the living-room. Diane Elliot was waiting for him
there; Crowe, blinking confusedly, was lighting a
cigarette for her. Immediately the girl turned with
outstretched hand and smiled up at Jimmy
Christopher. "As you see, I wouldn't go!"
"I'm rather glad you didn't," Jimmy
Christopher answered. He turned to Crowe
smiling. "This letter is to be mailed at once and
registered. I think it will keep you busy the better
part of an hour, Crowe."
"Yes, sir. It will, sir."
THERE was silence while the manservant
retired. A chuckle came from Diane Elliot as an
outer door closed.
"Crowe," said Jimmy Christopher, "doesn't
like you, I'm afraid. You defeat him."
"I think he's perfect . . . Can I talk?" At
Jimmy Christopher's nod, the girl sighed with
relief. "I had to come. I'll never give your secret
away, but-my editor has turned me loose on the
case, Jimmy. The bridge, the Continental
Hotel-all the rest of it."
"Turned you loose?" Jimmy Christopher
groaned in mock anguish.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
52
"Yes-told me to tackle it my own way, to try
to get at the bottom of it. If I do, it'll make the
biggest story I've ever handled. Jimmy-will you
help me?"
He smiled. "I'd like to, but-"
"I know!" She eyed him archly. "You won't
tell me a thing no matter how much I beg. Well, I
like that about you. If you weren't like that, you
wouldn't be Jimmy Christopher, and I wouldn't-"
"Wouldn't-?"
"I wouldn't think as much of you as I do," the
girl finished softly. "But, Jimmy-if I solemnly
promise not to publish a word until you give me
permission-can I follow you through?"
The quizzical smile left his lips. "It's
dangerous, Diane; very dangerous."
"That doesn't worry me."
"I know it doesn't-and that's what makes it
tough. Wait here a minute, will you, Diane?"
Jimmy Christopher stepped into the
soundproof closet. He closed the door tightly,
dialed the number of Secret Headquarters M,
exchanged signals, and depressed the switch of
the frequency-distorter.
"Operator 5, Z-7. I've studied the reports. I
see a distinct connection between the bank
robberies and the secret power. There's every
reason to believe that the power began operating
by supplying itself with a huge treasury by looting
banks-looting them by using the corrosive.
"With the huge fund, backed perhaps by
money from other sources, the power has set
about manipulating steel stocks on the markets,
and acquiring control of as many steelmanufacturing
companies as possible. The
power must already control a great number of
them, or the use of the corrosive would not have
been begun. As soon as it acquires complete
control, it will strike heavily-unless we succeed
in stopping it. Have you any further reports,
Chief?"
"Yes. The information I have on Hubert-
Dirk Hubert-shows how the secret power worked
in his case. Hubert was a transport pilot several
years ago. He became implicated in a mailrobbery
case. No definite proof was found to
convict him, but such an unfavorable light was
cast upon his character that he was discharged-
black-listed. He, too, has been out of sight for
about a year. It's plain that the secret power
sought him out-an embittered man-offered him
high rewards, and induced him to fly the
corrosive. Now, concerning that estate in
Westchester: The operators on the case found
the secret hangar completely destroyed. Our
investigation shows that the deed to the estate is
registered in the name of Dirk Hubert."
"A blind, of course."
"Yes. And the telephone number-PArker
9-4581-is an unpublished one listed under the
name of John Thorne. The phone is in an
apartment on Madison Avenue. No one
answering the description of Thorne ever
appeared there, according to our reports. For
that matter, no one seemed to appear at all. The
place was furnished and occupied at times, but
there are even no fingerprints to be found in it.
Whoever occupied that apartment, and received
the report of Hubert over the telephone, took
every possible precaution to hide his identity.
ANYONE attempting to enter it will be
arrested. We have also investigated the Empire
Yacht Club matter. Evidently the place was being
used secretly, without the knowledge of the
broker or the corporation owning it. Janover
made it his headquarters, or one of them. We are
still holding Janover."
"My plan to release him may become
necessary," Jimmy Christopher answered.
"Chief, I have just sent to you by registered mail
sketches for the construction of power-sprayers to
use in case Heist finds a counteractive for the
solvent. Please arrange that these be built at
once, and see that as many men as possible in
the service are instructed in the use of them. I've
sent full directions."
"Excellent! Heist just telephoned that he had
succeeded in deionizing the solvent. He is
experimenting with a counteractive now."
When Operator 5 stepped out of the closet,
Diane Elliot came eagerly toward him.
"Something's doing," she said. "I can see it in
your eyes."
"Perhaps." Operator 5 smiled. "Tim and
Nan and dad would enjoy it very much," he
suggested, "if you should choose to spend the
evening with them."
"I'd enjoy it very much too," she answered,
"but I'm coming with you, Jimmy Christopher!"
The smile left his face. He was recalling one
of the reports sent him by Z-7:
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
53
The structural iron used in the building of . . . the
New Continental Hotel . . . was furnished by the Basic
Steel Corp., of which Madison Kirtland is President . .
.
Diane Elliot watched him eagerly as he
slipped into his coat and hat. His hand was on
the knob when she asked:
"Where're we going, Jimmy?"
"To Pittsburgh, by air," he answered quietly.
"To ask certain questions of Madison Kirtland of
Basic Steel."
A RED glow spread into the sky, as from the
open mouth of a gigantic forge. It reflected on the
surface of the Allegheny River coursing past the
sprawling mills of the Basic Steel Corporation.
The air throbbed with a continual roar that
emanated from the great foundry, where ore was
being smelted into steel, where steel was being
forged into ingots and girders and rails upon
which the foundation of the modern world are
built.
The interior of the mills was an inferno on
earth. Bessemer converters in full blow shot high
their blasts of white flame. Fire gushed out the
ports of Siemens-Martin open-hearth furnaces.
Giant ladles traveled on overhead tracks,
brimming with molten metal that shot dazzling
sparks into the air. The terrific heat drenched with
sweat the men, bare above the waist and
greased with black, who labored in the midst of
that roaring hell.
Within sight and sound of the roaring foundry
sat the building which housed the executive
offices of Basic Steel. High on the top floor a
suite was ablaze with light. It was a series of
offices of which the doors were lettered:
MADISON KIRTLAND
PRESIDENT
At his desk in an inner room, Madison
Kirtland was at work. His hair was iron-gray, his
face haggard; there was in him a quality of
springy toughness that might have been forged
into him by the beating heat of his own mills. He
glanced up as his secretary entered. The young
man said: "A gentleman and a young lady to see
you, sir. He could give me no name, but he sent
his card."
Madison Kirtland glanced at the firm, even
writing on the card. It read, "A matter of national
importance."
Kirtland drummed his fingers. He said,
"Show them in," and looked curiously at the door
after his secretary passed through it. There was
no sign of recognition in his eyes as Operator 5
entered behind Diane Elliot. He waited until they
came to his desk and asked: "Yes?"
"Miss Elliot," said Jimmy Christopher, "is a
representative of the Amalgamated Press. As for
myself-"
He removed the flat silver case from his
pocket; he pressed the secret spring concealed
in its corner; when its leaf flipped up he held
before Madison Kirtland's eyes the credential
signed by the President of the United States.
"Yes?" Kirtland asked as Operator 5
pocketed the case. "Sit down please. If I can be
of service-" He paused, and frowned slightly.
"Rather strange-a secret service agent in
company with a newspaper woman."
Jimmy Christopher smiled. "Strange, yes,
but-pleasant. Mr. Kirtland, there is some
concern over the fact that the steel used in both
the Trans-Mississippi Bridge and the New
Continental Hotel was supplied by your mills."
Kirtland nodded. "Yes, true."
"If the bridge is re-erected and if the hotel is
rebuilt-and bids are opened, will you again enter
your bid, Mr. Kirtland?"
"Yes, of course."
"In spite of the suspiciousness of the
circumstances?"
Madison Kirtland's eyes narrowed. "I
understand exactly what you are driving at. The
bridge and the hotel were wrecked-and if my
steel goes into reconstructing them-it's
suspicious. The inference being, of course, that I
destroyed the bridge and the building in order to
sell more steel!"
Operator 5 said softly: "Yes."
DO you suspect me of that?" Kirtland
demanded bluntly.
"I should give you credit for a great deal
more shrewdness, Mr. Kirtland," Jimmy
Christopher answered. "After all, it is the most
obvious direction for suspicion to take."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
54
"Exactly! An absurd notion! Destroying my
own steel in order to sell more! There is no logic
behind it. As a matter of fact, the destruction of
the bridge and the building is having exactly the
opposite effect."
"You mean, not an increase in business,
but a decrease?"
"Yes. This damnable thing has turned
suspicion on my metal. In spite of the fact that
they know better, contractors will not buy from
me when the structures built of my steel
immediately fall to pieces.''
"The drop in business has been noticeable
already?"
"Decidedly. Large orders have been
canceled. The mills are busy now, but if this
keeps up I'll have to shut down within a week.
Shut down completely. And that will mean, if it
continues-ruin!"
"Perhaps," said Jimmy Christopher quietly,
"that is exactly the object behind the wrecking of
the bridge and the building."
Kirtland's eyes sharpened suddenly. "Do you
believe that?" he demanded. "I suggested as
much at the Senatorial investigation, and I was
laughed at by everyone but Gregory Fleming.
Thank God he supported me." He leaned forward
tensely. "Do you believe it?"
Operator 5 answered firmly: "Yes."
Madison Kirtland regarded Operator 5
piercingly. "There is no doubt of it!" he blurted.
"A powerful financial combine has attempted to
buy control of Basic Steel. They failed. Now they
are attempting to ruin me to force these mills to
shut down!"
"And," Jimmy Christopher suggested, "this
combine is on the point of succeeding in its
purpose."
"Yes-damnably near it." Madison Kirtland's
fingers drummed on his desk. "But for one fact
these mills would already have passed
unnoticeably under the control of that hidden
financial combine. That fact is this: I personally
own fifty-one per cent of the stock in Basic Steel,
and I refused to sell even one share."
"Suspecting even then that-?"
"No. I refused to sell first of all because
these mills were built by my father. They are a
monument to his industrial genius and I would
play false to his memory if I allowed the
management of the mills to escape me. I hung
on, but repeated efforts were made. Then I
began to suspect."
"But you have no inkling as to the identity of
this power?"
"None. It's hidden behind a complex
fabricating of holding companies, dummy
corporations, and private banks from which it is
impossible to get any information. The Board of
the New York Stock Exchange is bending all its
efforts to investigate the combine, but it has
gotten nowhere. The master mind behind it may
never be discovered.
"I have engaged a score of private
investigators to run down all possible clues. They
have not yet begun to act, but I have faith that
they will uncover new leads. I am paying the cost
personally-"
MADISON KIRTLAND broke off as heavy
knuckles rapped on one of the doors, and a latch
clicked. There sounded a quick, breathless voice
from the outer office. Kirtland called impatiently:
"Baker! What is it?"
The white-faced secretary burst into the
room. He blurted: "They say-something's
hap-"
Through the door another man sidled. His
body, bared above the waist, glistened greasily.
He was wearing thick-soled shoes, a charred
leather apron, grimy trousers. His red-shot eyes
popped and sweat beaded his bristling mustache
as he hesitated.
"Mike!" Kirtland came quickly to his feet.
"What's the matter?"
"The mill!" The puddler blurted it in horror.
"The mill's fallin' to pieces!"
Kirtland roared: "What?"
"It's droppin' apart, Mr. Kirtland! The walls
are cavin' in! The roof's fallin'! Somethin's hit the
mill and it's goin'- goin' fast!"
Kirtland's bright eyes shot to Operator 5.
Jimmy Christopher sprang up; he raced across
the office with Diane Elliot following quickly. As
he sped down the stairs Kirtland ran at his heels.
They burst into the open and were shocked to a
sudden stop.
They stared breathless, wide-eyed, at a
scene of horror before them.
Over the vast plant floated raging billows of
white fumes. The cloud glared with the light of the
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
55
flames shooting from the funnels of the blastfurnaces
-towering vents that were crumbling by
the instant. It was rising from all the walls, from
the roofs, from every opening of the building.
The ghostly fumes meant the power of the
corrosive had struck again!
A roaring crash rolled out of the night as a
high brick wall tottered and collapsed inward.
Through the great gap flames leaped. Inside was
visible a Bessemer converter in full blow, whitehot
flame streaming from its upturned mouth. The
huge crucible was massed about with white
vapor-and it was flaking apart!
As its walls were eaten away, the firebrick
lining spilled out of it and there poured across the
ground a gushing, roaring stream of white-hot
liquid metal.
Molten iron flowed like thin lava across the
ground. From other points within the mills other
fingers of flaring white joined it, collecting in heatblasting
pools. Every furnace was falling apart,
releasing torrents of liquid steel.
From the interior of the tottering walls rang
the terrorized screams of trapped men. Through
the door scores of men came rushing into the
night, fleeing in terror. In the parking-space
beside the crumbling mills sounded the snarling of
car-starters as the steel-workers crowded to their
automobiles, obsessed with only one frantic
purpose-to flee the destruction-stricken inferno.
Shrieking men, roaring flames, and the white
fumes drifted in the glaring red light, spreading
above black annihilation!
A giant blast-furnace vent spilled down like a
pile of toy blocks. The terrific weight of it crashed
through the roof it struck. As the roof collapsed,
walls caved in. Up from the black chaos sprang
higher tongues of flame as other furnaces fell
apart and molten metal splashed free. From one
end of the gigantic mills destruction was sweeping
to the other, wiping everything before it into nonexistence!
Within the shaking walls of the mills giant
suspended ladles dropped as their huge chains
were eaten through. Tons of molten metal spilled
down while the screams of dying men shrilled
through the roaring night. The gigantic masses of
the blooming mills, the powerful scrap-cutters,
the tremendous skelp-trimmers, were
disappearing in the onsweep of the cataclysm.
Into every cranny and corner of the sprawling
foundry annihilation struck.
Helplessly Madison Kirtland stood, staring
appalled at the chaotic, flame-lighted scene. He
was aware that Operator 5 had rushed away
through the fogged, fire-glaring gloom. He heard
the repeated screams, the roaring of the motors
as the hundreds of cars fled with frantic workers
crowding into them, the thunder of collapsing
walls, the bursting of supporting beams-and
above all, the ear-piercing hissing that came from
the voracious corrosive.
BESIDE him, trembling, stood the loyal old
puddler who had labored in the mills since
Madison Kirtland's boyhood. His mumbling lips
forced out horrified words: "I seen 'em come
rushin' in-men from lots of cars, Mr. Kirtland. A
hundred of 'em, all masked! They got through
the gates and rushed up carryin' tanks on their
backs! They squirted stuff on the walls! They
come in, squirtin' that yellow stuff everywheres!"
A roar shook the ground as a tremendous
wall swayed, folded, and thundered down into a
heap of broken brick that rapidly began to
disintegrate while clouding fumes rolled high into
the sky.
"Some of 'em got caught theirselves! Soon
as their tanks was empty they threw 'em off and
run out! They was everywhere, Mr. Kirtland! I
seen 'em do it! They began to get away quick-
before anybody knowed what was comin'! Oh,
God, Mr. Kirtland-oh, God, the mills 're goin'!"
Dark figures were darting through the flaming
vapor that flowed across the ground.
"Get away!" Kirtland shouted at them. "Get
on the roads! Clear away from the mills! Save
yourselves!"
The old puddler remained at Madison
Kirtland's side. "All my life I worked in them
mills-boy and man I worked in 'em-and they're
goin'-they're goin'-"
Hundreds of cars had already fled away from
the collapsing buildings. Hundreds of men were
running fearfully. The roads were choked with the
fleeing. Over all the world, it seemed the vapor
settled, a choking, lung-stinging mass. Swiftly
the solvent devoured all it touched, until soon the
great mills lay a heap of ruins that still hissed and
bubbled and disintegrated.
The intensity of the attack of the golden
doom-laden fluid gradually diminished. As its
greedy touch reduced steel and iron and brick and
wood and human flesh to nothingness, its fury
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
56
subsided. Flames died down. Molten metal
disappeared even as it cooled. In the grit-filled
ground great cavities opened as the corrosive ate
deep. Over all that scene of horror settled gloom
that shrouded the wide-spread destruction.
The old puddler choked and kept at Madison
Kirtland's side as they groped through the thick
mist.
"There won't be nothin' left of 'em-nothin'
left of 'em at all!"
Through the biting fog a figure came rushing
close to Madison Kirtland. The steel magnate
glimpsed the haggard, drawn face of Operator 5.
He appeared out of the mist like a ghost, eyes
streaming, choking, stumbling. He brought up
short and peered around and gasped: "Diane-
where is Diane!"
There was no answer from the stunned
Kirtland. The old puddler peered around blankly.
Operator 5 raised cupped hands to his mouth and
shouted, "Diane! Diane!"
The air was filled with the sibilant hissing of
the corrosive; an ominous rumbling came out of
it; but there was no answer to Operator 5's frantic
shout for the girl.
Again and again he called, racing deep into
the all-pervading fog. While the boiling of the
corrosive diminished, while the white fumes
thinned and lifted on the wind, while the air
cleared above a vast empty space where an hour
before, had sat a great steel mill, he sought her.
"Diane!''
There came no answer. . .
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Trail to Doom
EVENING followed a long tense day, and
within the walls of secret U.S. Intelligence
Headquarters M, in Manhattan, brilliant lights
burned. At the desk sat Z-7, his face haggard,
his eyes smoldering. He was alone; the room
was silent until a buzzer rasped a signal.
He answered by pressure of his finger on a
hidden button. The door opened slowly. Z-7
looked up silently, noting the changes in Operator
5's face, as the Secret Service ace entered.
He looked worn, yet his eyes shone brilliant
with grim determination. Fatigue had drawn dark
lines about his mouth, but it was firm, tightpressed.
Exhaustion weighed upon him, but
there was no hint of resignation in his intent eyes.
"Nothing, Chief-nothing. No sign yet of Diane."
"You do not believe that for some reason she
entered one of the mill buildings and was
caught?"
"I can't believe that, Chief!" Operator 5's lips
tightened. "She followed me out of the door of the
office, with Kirtland-and simply disappeared.
That is all I know. No one has heard from her
since, or seen her and-" He finished with a
despairing gesture.
Z-7 asked quietly: "Kirtland-?"
"He is a ruined man, Chief. He had a plan
for helping get at the bottom of this plot, but now
it is impossible for him to go through with it."
Z-7 nodded again. "That proves that his
testimony before the Senate committee was wellfounded.
I have a report from Gustav Heist," he
said. "He is having difficulty formulating a
counteractive. We are building your powersprayers
as fast as possible Operator 5, but so
far there is no means of using them. Heist needs
your help."
Operator 5 answered: "I'll do all I can with
the experiments, Chief, but now"-he leaned
forward-"now is the time to play our last card,
Chief. It's time to release Janover."
Z-7's nails tattooed on the desk.
"We know the essential facts behind this
gigantic plot," Operator 5 persisted. "We know
how it was financed, how its organization of
hirelings was built up, how it acts, and what its
purpose is. We have two urgent purposes.
"First, to discover the counteractive which
will render the corrosive powerless. I will help
Heist in every possible way with that project, but
it is the less important of the two. The second-is
the discovery of the identity of the hidden power
behind this reign of destruction.
"After I have gone, bring Peter Janover in
and tell him that he is to be taken to Washington
immediately by train. Send two men with him,
and put handcuffs on him-but let him learn that
the key of the handcuffs is carried by one of the
two men."
"Yes."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
57
Those two men are to allow him to escape
before he reaches Pennsylvania Station. It must
be managed carefully; if Janover suspects a trick,
our move will accomplish nothing we hope for. I
will follow the car that carries him away. I'll watch
him, trail him. Once he's free- "
Operator 5's voice trailed off as his
darkened blue eyes gazed deeply into Z-7's.
Jimmy Christopher rose. His fingers strayed
to the little golden skull which twinkled on his
watch-chain. He moved slowly toward the door,
and looked back . In ten minutes, Chief."
"Ten minutes."
Operator 5's shoulders squared as he
opened the door. With quick, firm steps he
strode from the secret headquarters.
OPERATOR 5 stepped alertly into the sidestreet
which gave into Times Square. Garish
Neon signs filled the chasm with colored light.
Cars were lined at the curb. Through the square
heavy traffic was flowing as thousands were
carried toward the myriad-lighted marquees of the
theatres.
Jimmy Christopher strode toward the shining,
powerful Diesel-engined roadster waiting at the
curb. He slipped behind the wheel and began
watching, the entrance of the building from which
he had just come. Minutes ticked past as he
waited anxiously, his gaze never leaving the
doorway.
He pulled his hat-brim to shade his face as
two Intelligence operators appeared in the glow of
lights. Between them walked the whitish-eyed
Peter Janover, linked to one of the men's wrists
by a short length of steel handcuff chain.
The three men entered a taxi. The sighing
motor of Operator 5's roadster event into action
as the cab moved off. It swung toward Seventh
Avenue and paused at a red light, as Jimmy
Christopher turned from the curb.
The thickness of the evening traffic made a
close watch possible. When the light flashed
green, the taxi carrying Janover crossed Times
Square and continued past Broadway along the
side-street, rolling toward Eighth. Jimmy
Christopher kept his roadster back, eyes fast on
the cab. At the intersection it turned and sped
southward.
Through the rear window of the cab Jimmy
Christopher could see the black-hatted head of
Peter Janover. Janover's head moved suddenly
out of sight; and Jimmy Christopher's hands went
white on the roadster's wheel. The move was
quick, desperate. The cab swerved slightly,
slowed, then spurted up. The shadow of Janover
reappeared; the man was bending far forward,
toward the driver's compartment. Suddenly the
cab dashed to the side of the street and careened
past the corner, swinging away from the direction
of the railroad terminal.
Jimmy Christopher twisted after it sharply.
He ducked low when he saw Janover peer back,
and shaded his face. The taxi swerved again,
picked up speed and dashed across Ninth
Avenue.
Operator 5 whisked across after it; once
beyond Ninth he slowed. Traffic was thinner now;
the chase was more dangerous. Janover's head
did not shadow the rear window of the taxi again
until he was traveling toward Tenth. Then again
the cab swung, sidling toward the curb.
Its front wheels twisting, rocking it, it bucked
to a stop before it reached the side of the street.
Quickly a door opened, and a dark figure
emerged. Janover alighted freed of the
handcuffs. He glanced around, whirled, and
hurried away.
Jimmy Christopher had darted to the curb at
the first sideward move of the cab; he stopped
quickly, with lights off, ducked low behind the
windshield and out of sight. When he raised, he
saw Janover rushing along the dark street, a
shadowy figure merging into the gloom.
Operator 5 waited tensely until the man
crossed the street and hurried eastward. As
Janover passed out of sight, the engine of the
roadster sang again. Jimmy Christopher spurted
it to the side of the cab, and peered into the dark
interior.
The two secret operators were slumped
against the cushions; from the wrist of one an
open steel cuff dangled. The side of the other's
head was bruised as if by a heavy blow. Both
men were unconscious. In the air floated a heavy
pungency, a misty moisture that floated an
iridescent green in the dim light.
Operator 5 recognized the biting odor as that
of the same gas which had been released inside
the abandoned clubhouse by Peter Janover's
comrade agent. A small vial of it, hidden in a
secret pocket in Janover's clothing, had turned
the trick!
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
58
The driver of the cab slumped forward over
the wheel, his cap knocked askew, a welted
wound showing on the side of his head where a
heavy weapon-doubtless an automatic taken
from one of the two Intelligence men-had struck.
Jimmy Christopher swung around the corner
that Janover had taken. Far toward the next
intersection he glimpsed the dark figure of
Janover moving. He sent the car ahead slowly,
until Janover reached the corner. He saw the
man signal a cab and climb into it; he saw the
taxi swing away swiftly.
Grimly, fingers twining about the wheel of
his roadster, he followed.
ACROSS Manhattan the cab carrying Peter
Janover traveled swiftly. It was a winding,
confusing trail that the foreign espionage agent
laid down; but quietly and unseen Operator 5
followed it.
An hour passed before the cab traveled as
though at last its passenger had determined upon
a direct move toward a destination. Now on the
left loomed the pier-housings of steamship lines;
on the right stood rows of stores and wholesale
establishments. The cab entered the district of the
Fulton Market.
Wooden crates piled the sidewalks; trucks
grumbled; aproned merchants worked at their
ice-lined stalls; swarms of cats slunk through the
shadows. In the midst of this activity the cab
carrying Peter Janover came to a stop.
Operator 5 was a block behind when Janover
hurried into a dark doorway. Operator 5 followed
on foot, and passed the door, studying it out of
the corners of his eyes. It opened between two
stores, leading to a floor above, where grimy,
empty windows looked down upon the street. He
turned directly to it.
He brought a master-key into play to open
the lock, and stepped into a musty hallway. Dark
steps rose before him. He trod up them
cautiously, avoiding loose boards, and came into
the odorous hallway of the second floor. There lay
thick darkness except for a chink of light shining
through the crack of a closed door.
Operator 5 crept close, and paused at the
panels, listened to low-toned voices. In the room
beyond, Janover was speaking rapidly in his
native tongue; another voice was answering.
"Yes, I tell you it is true. It was Nikko. I
followed him myself. There can be no doubt!"
"Where did he go?" Janover asked swiftly.
There came a slight rustle of paper. "There
is the address. I dared not get too close, but-
now we cannot wait!"
Janover snarled. "No, we cannot wait! I will
go there at once. Good work, Sadler. You will
stay here, and when I return-"
"Pray God you will know the secret!"
Footfalls sounded. Jimmy Christopher
whirled away. He had no time to reach the flight
of stairs. Breathlessly he pressed against the wall
beside the door. It opened quickly; a shaft of
light streamed out, and in it moved the figure of
Peter Janover.
The espionage agent hurried to the stairs;
his heels thumped down them. Operator 5
followed silently as a shadow. He saw Janover
sidle out the entrance, saw the door close.
Quickly he descended the flight. Inching the door
open, he peered out.
Janover had crossed to the curb, to a sedan
parked there. He took the wheel, and a starter
ground. Operator 5 was forced to wait until the
car began to move. As it swung into the broad
street he slipped out the door and ran toward his
roadster.
Janover turned north and Operator 5 kept a
block behind him. As quickly as the traffic lights
permitted, the chase continued until Janover
reached Union Square. He crossed it, swerving
into Fourth Avenue. Operator 5 was close behind
him when he fell in with the fast traffic flowing
across the Queensboro Bridge. The espionage
agent was driving as though fully acquainted with
the territory; he led the way along smooth cement
roads, traveling at top speed. Overhead
viaducts, bridges flicked past as they ran deeper
into open country.
THERE came a shift that sent Janover along
a paved side-road. In the distance the revolving
beacons of Roosevelt and Mitchell fields were
flashing; the Long Island country was flat, and
the chase difficult. Jimmy Christopher allowed
Janover a long headway and drove without lights.
The road swerved, and passed wealthy
estates. Still Janover sped. Another turn took
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
59
him into lonelier territory. Each turn of the
wheels was a trial to Operator 5, bringing new
dread that he might be seen by Janover. But the
espionage agent was driving desperately now,
intent on the road ahead.
Suddenly the car ahead stopped, and
quickly Jimmy Christopher swung to the side of
the road and switched off the engine. Raising, he
saw Janover leave the sedan and hurry ahead on
foot. Operator 5 followed silently. A high fence of
heavy wire mesh appeared in the darkness,
topped by sharp-pointed spikes-a fence
enclosing a vast estate.
Janover paused, peering in. Operator 5
melted against the fence as the espionage agent
peered back. The strands shook as Janover
clawed into it, climbing. He balanced
precariously, avoiding the sharp prongs, then
dropped. Silently he began crossing the open
field beyond.
Jimmy Christopher was obliged to wait until
Janover was far away before he scaled the fence.
Once over it, he drifted in the same direction.
Janover was a vague, dark form moving in the
night. He was approaching a huge colonnaded
house which sat in the gloom of tall, heavyfoliaged
trees.
In the thicker blackness Janover's blurred
form disappeared. Shouldered against the side of
the mansion, Jimmy Christopher crept to a corner
and peered beyond. Again he glimpsed Janover;
and Janover disappeared almost at once.
The windows of the great house were
boarded up; there was an air of desolation about
it. The grass had grown rankly; the gardens were
untended. Thick silence shrouded the place, yet
Jimmy Christopher's nerves were unconsciously
taut; an uncanny sense warned him of danger.
At the rear corner of the house a sound
brought him to a standstill. He glimpsed the dark
form of Janover bending across the bulkhead of a
cellar entrance. There was one sharp snap, then
silence again. Janover raised the sloping door;
he disappeared in the pit, lowering the leaf above
him.
Operator 5 stepped away, studying the
house. A single door opened onto the broad rear
porch: it was not boarded, but a storm-door was
affixed. He crept to it silently, tried it , and found
it was hooked on the inside.
His eyes lighted with satisfaction as he
brought from his coat the leather case of specially
designed tools. A moment's work and a small,
clean hole appeared in the panel.
Operator 5's fingers played on the angled
steel wire as deftly as a surgeon's performing a
delicate operation. There was a hasp inside the
door, and he had unfastened the heavy hook.
A glass-paned door lay before him. A
master-key unbolted it easily. He stepped
through into darkness, felt along the wall of a
hallway into a large kitchen. It opened into silent
black rooms beyond.
There was no sign of Janover; nothing
betrayed the presence of the foreign agent in the
house.
Operator 5 entered a broad hallway. The
pencil-thin beam of his flashlamp flicked. It
turned, then lowered to the floor. In the circle lay
a torn paper match, half burned; beyond were
faint footprints pointing up the stairs. Jimmy
Christopher followed them. The upper hallway
was broad, intensely dark. The lance of light
swung up and down, disclosing footprints leading
toward another door at the far end.
Beyond the door lay a bare stairway.
Operator 5 climbed it slowly. Sounds reached his
ears-a voice that sounded muffled and unreal.
Dim light reflected on composition-board walls
from beneath two closed doors. The throaty voice
was issuing from one of them.
"THE men are ready?" The words were soft,
yet unreal. "Fully equipped?"
A second sharper voice answered: "All set."
"You will leave at once to take charge," the
first declared muffledly.
"Yes, sir."
"Your signal to act will be the call to order."
"Yes, sir."
"The signal will be passed outside the Capitol
at that precise moment. Immediately the attack
will be made. You must make absolutely certain
that the conference ends in disaster!"
The second voice rang ominously. "We'll
see to that, all right!"
"Follow the detailed instructions I've already
given you. Act to destroy every stone, every
particle of the Capitol and every living being in it.
If you succeed-I will reward you with more
money than you ever dreamed existed!"
Jimmy Christopher straightened grimly.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
60
"Before you go-" It was the muffled voice,
again echoing from the room.
"Yes, sir?''
"The girl. She's too dangerous where she is.
We can take no chances. You're to leave at
once, and before you go-eliminate that girl."
"Leave it to me," the ringing tones came.
"A good fire in the furnace-understand?
With the drafts left open wide. You'll find plenty of
kindling and charcoal and coke to make a hot fire.
Within an hour-"
The answer was almost a snarl. "I've been
waitin' for the chance! There won't be anything
left of her-I promise you that!"
"Now! You understand? Now!"
The muffled voice did not sound again.
Jimmy Christopher stepped back as he heard a
click, as thumping heels crossed the floor. He
whirled to press against the wall as the knob
rattled and the door opened.
Through the light strode a thin, evil-faced
man whose narrow-set eyes glittered
malevolently. He turned away from Operator 5,
toward the far end of the wall. As he moved,
Jimmy Christopher stepped silently toward the
open door from which the man with the satanic
face had come.
It opened into a small, empty room, its one
window covered by canvas tacked in place and
painted black. The puzzle of the muffled voice
was resolved instantly as Operator 5 saw a conetype
loudspeaker sitting on a shelf. The wires
leading from it disappeared through a hole bored
in the wainscoting of the room. On a small table
facing it, connected with a powerful audiofrequency
amplifier, sat a standard carbon-button
microphone.
The evil-eyed man had been alone in the
room; he had been conversing over this two-way
loudspeaker system. The authoritative voice had
spoken to him over the hidden wires. And those
wires led-where?
Operator 5 glanced once at the man who
was pausing at the far door, then he stepped
alertly into the room. Quick steps took him toward
the apparatus. He was bending over it when he
heard returning footfalls in the hall. His breath
stopped. He darted toward the door and flattened
against the wall beside it.
The evil-eyed man strode in. He hurried to
the table, and took up a ring of keys. He turned
again-and stopped short, his beady gaze
sharpened on Operator 5.
Jimmy Christopher relaxed. Black fright
glittered in the eyes of the man at the table as he
took a slow step backward. One of the lean
hands swung down. Operator 5 snapped: "Don't
move!"
There was a click. Instantly the tubes of the
amplifier glowed red as current flashed through it
from the closed switch. The rat-faced man
screeched; "Somebody here! Get out-quick!"
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER leaped. His right fist
shot out like lightning. His knuckles cracked
against the jaw of the thin-faced man, sprawling
him backward, helplessly moaning, over the
table. His swift fingers snapped off the switch.
Operator 5 whisked an automatic out of the man's
hip-pocket holster. He slipped it into his coat as
he whirled and sped out the door.
He bounded down the bare flight and raced
along the second-floor hallway. For an instant he
paused, listening, then stiffened suddenly. A
shrill scream sounded from above-a girl's cry of
terror!
Operator 5 sprang back to the uncarpeted
flight. He raced to the top of it to find the door at
the end of the corridor standing wide. The small
dormer room beyond was brilliantly lighted;
against its walls stood a number of shotguns and
rifles; in its corners leaned ancient spears and
halberds; on its walls hung several sheathed
swords. One had been torn from its supporting
nail; its scabbard had been flung aside.
Its hilt was gripped in the hands of the rateyed
man and he was swinging it high above the
body of a girl lying on a cot at the side of the
room. And the girl was Diane Elliot!
The instant was eternity-long to Jimmy
Christopher. He realized that the rat-faced man
had rushed at once to this forward room intent on
carrying out his orders to kill the girl lying on the
cot. She was staring up widely, her face pale
beneath the handkerchief gag and she was
wrenching desperately at the ropes which bound
her wrists and ankles.
During that swift instant, while the gleaming
blade of the sword flashed high above the girl, a
sharp report echoed through the house. It was
the blast of a gun, exploding somewhere below.
The sound shocked once through the air, and
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
61
instantly it was echoed from the automatic gripped
in the hand of Operator 5.
His bullet clicked against the bright blade of
the sword. The weapon was torn aside by the
power of the impact . A startled cry of rage ripped
from the evil lips of the man gripping it as he
whirled. Operator 5 fired again, swiftly, sending a
second slug spattering against the metal. The
blade tore away and fell flashing to the floor as
the rat-eyed man leaped.
Operator 5 side-stepped quickly. He
transferred his gun from right hand to left; his stiffjointed
fingers shot out, driving hard against the
temple of the rat-eyed man. A swift, dexterous
twist, and a moan mumbled through the thin lips.
The man with the satanic face sprawled on the
floor and lay motionless as death.
The swift jiu-jutsu blow, Operator 5 knew,
would keep that man unconscious for at least an
hour.
Diane Elliot's eyes were turned to him
fearfully, pleadingly. Operator 5 took up the
sword; with it he cut the ropes binding the girl.
She struggled up breathlessly as he tore the
handkerchief from her face.
"Jimmy-oh, Jimmy-!"
"Listen!" he cautioned. A muffled roar
penetrated the walls of the house. It throbbed
from outside, a blasting sound that thundered to
a terrific pitch. Jimmy Christopher's face flashed
pale as he heard it. He whirled, sprang to the
stairs, and bounded down them as the roar
continued.
He sped to the door of the rear porch;
leaped to the ground and saw a swift movement
through the darkened sky beyond. Flashing flame
showed him the location of an airplane sweeping
across the ground. It was blasting into the takeoff
-driving away swiftly. Grimly, his fists
clenched, Operator 5 watched it spring up-wings
disappearing into the night.
Quick, light footfalls turned him. Diane Elliot
hurried from the house. Her face was white; she
was breathless, sobbing. "Jimmy! I'm so sorry,
Jimmy!"
"You're all right, Diane?" he asked quickly.
"Yes, but-he's got away! He's got away
because of me! If you hadn't stopped on my
account, you would have had him!"
Jimmy Christopher smiled wryly. "A small
price to pay, Diane," he said softly.
The girl followed him anxiously as he reentered
the house. Bright light from an open door
on the lower floor took him toward a large room.
The room was elaborately equipped as a study;
on the desk in the center of it stood a loudspeaker
and a standard microphone. It was from this
room that the master-mind had spoken to the man
on the third floor-from this room he had fled as
the warning carried over the wires.
A droning sound, disappearing in the
silence, told Jimmy Christopher that swift wings
carried away the man who sought power great
enough to rule the world. . . .
He turned again. Gusting cold air was
flowing through the lower hallway. Beneath the
broad flight of stairs Operator 5 found a door
standing open. He shot the light of his torch
through it, down a flight of steps leading into the
blackness of a basement.
At the bottom of the flight a man was lying-
Peter Janover. In the center of his forehead
shone the small, purple-rimmed hole of a bullet!
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Mist of Death
Z-7 PEERED intently across the desk at
Diane Elliott. There was silence in the room that
served as secret Intelligence Headquarters M.
The girl was pale but composed. Operator 5,
standing beside her, frowned anxiously.
He had brought Diane immediately to Z-7.
The Washington chief had listened in amazement
as the girl began her astounding story. "You saw
none of their faces?" he demanded.
"Not one," she answered. "They were all
masked. I scarcely saw them at all because of
the thick white fumes. I wanted at once to tell
Jimmy, but he was gone-I couldn't find him.
"This car had drawn close to the executive
offices of the steel mill. I saw three men rush
from it, all masked, all carrying tanks on their
backs filled with yellow liquid. They hurried out of
sight near the plant. I couldn't stop them-and I
couldn't find Jimmy, so I went to the car. It was
empty and the number plates had been removed.
It was a sedan, and there was a woolen rug in
the rear seat. It was crazy, I suppose, but-I
thought I might be able to find out who the men
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
62
were or where the car was going afterward-so I
pulled the robe over me and got down in a corner.
. . .
"After the men got in and the car started,
one of them grabbed me. I was kept covered by
the robe until the car stopped. I didn't know
where I was, but they carried me into a house and
up two flights of stairs. They tied me up and left
me -one of them was that brutal-faced man who
stayed. That's all."
Jimmy Christopher said with resignation:
"She's like that, Chief, and there's nothing
anybody can do about it!"
Z-7's lips curved tartly. "This man who spoke
over the loudspeaker system in the house-you
never saw him?"
"No. Neither did any of the others. He came
in somehow without being seen, and talked to
them that way, then went away again. Tonight
was the second time he was there. I'm terribly
sorry. Jimmy would have cornered him if it hadn't
been for me. I feel so ashamed-"
"Well, never mind," Z-7 answered. "He
scarcely had any choice in the matter. We're
lucky enough to have you back safe and sound."
Operator 5 declared: "Evidently the man
behind all this has never been seen by the men
working with him, Chief. He's managed to issue
orders while keeping himself hidden. They're
apparently loyal to him because of the large
rewards he pays them, though they fear him,
too. There's absolutely no doubt of it-the man
who got away in that plane is the man we want."
Z-7's stubby fingers tapped. "Janover
learned nothing?"
"He died without learning the secret-killed
by the unknown chief himself."
The eyes of Z-7 dropped to a newspaper
spread on his desk. Black headlines crossed its
front page:
DISARMAMENT CONFERENCE CALLED FOR
TOMORROW NOON HOPE FOR SPEEDY
AGREEMENT-WORLD TO DISARM!
Operator 5 leaned forward tensely. "There's
no doubt, Chief, that the man is planning to strike
at the Disarmament Conference. That
conference is a threat to his entire plan. If nations
agree to strictly limited armaments, as they are
certain to, it will defeat once and for all his
purpose!"
"The weapon will almost certainly be the
corrosive. The plan calls for the destruction of the
Capitol building and the deaths of all the attending
dignitaries."
Z-7's knuckles rapped. "If that move
succeeds-" he broke off. "It will precipitate an
international crisis of the utmost gravity. Think of
it! At Sarajevo, in 1914, one man of royal blood
was assassinated-one man, and it ignited the
World War! This plan will mean the death of
scores of emissaries from foreign nations. The
United States must assume the responsibility for
it. It means war-a World War-unless-"
A moment of tense silence followed.
Operator 5 spoke so quietly his voice was almost
inaudible. "The Conference meets at noon
tomorrow. We have until then; a few hours."
Operator 5 turned. "I'm going to the laboratory at
once. Wait for word from me, Chief. Be prepared
to act swiftly. Hold a clear line to Washington,
and keep a plane ready for me at Mitchell Field.
There's a chance-a slim chance-"
His words faded. His clouded blue eyes left
the drawn face of Z-7. He smiled at Diane Elliot.
His steps were quick as they left.
IN THE secret laboratory powerful lights
gleamed down on the shelves and on the crowded
benches. In front of an array of beakers and
flasks and glass evaporating dishes Operator 5
worked. His shirt-sleeves rolled, a glistening
black apron tied about him, he peered at a few
ounces of greenish fluid which lay in the bottom of
a beaker.
At his shoulder Gustav Heist spoke quietly.
"You see, Operator 5, it is possible to neutralize
the ionization of the corrosive with this solution-
Formula D. It slows the action of the corrosive,
but does not stop it. This, Formula Y,
neutralizes the acid of the corrosive, but does not
deionize it. It also slows the action of the
corrosive, but has no effect on the property to
destroy metallic crystalline structure. The
counteractive would be a reality if these two
formulae-D and Y- would act together when
mixed. They do, if the mixture is used
immediately. But after a few seconds the
counteractive effect passes, and the mixture no
longer checks the action of the corrosive!"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
63
Operator 5 nodded tensely, and rapidly
conducted an experiment to prove the chemist's
findings.
"You see!" Heist exclaimed in despair. "Our
work has gone for nothing. We have no means of
combating the corrosive!"
Operator 5 straightened wearily as the
telephone rang. Heist answered and gestured
Operator 5 toward it. The voice of Z-7 rang over
the wire. "I have just learned that the man whom
you knocked unconscious in the Long Island
house is Max Nikko-one of the four. We have
taken him into custody. He refuses to talk;
nothing will make him open up. I am convinced
that, even if he did talk, he would be unable to
tell us the name of the secret head of the
organization.
"While our men were at the Long Island
house, taking Nikko into custody, another man
was captured. He is Leo Krainsky, the fourth of
the group. He, too, refuses to talk. But the
important point is that every one of this criminal
quartet, the ringleaders, has been eliminated
from the organization."
"But he has behind him, Chief, an entire
army of men who will do his bidding when the
hour comes!"
"Yes, I know." Z-7's voice was sharp with
anxiety. "We raided the rooms in the Fulton
Market district and captured an espionage agent
named Sadler, one of Janover's chief assistants.
The Purple spy ring is also broken up. Any luck
with the counteractive?"
"Still working on it, Chief," Operator 5 said
wearily.
He hung up and returned quickly to the
bench. He brought from a shelf two small
atomizers. The container of one he filled with
Formula D; into the other he poured a quantity of
Formula Y. He held them together so that both
rubber bulbs came together in his hand.
At his word, Heist dipped a steel rod into the
corrosive and placed it fuming on a dish.
Operator 5's fingers pressed the bulbs; two
streams of green spray shot onto the metal.
Instantly the corrosive action stopped!
"It is as before," Heist said quietly. "But-
wait."
Operator 5 asked: "When mixed the formula
becomes inactive in a few seconds?"
"Yes."
The clock on the wall ticked slowly. Operator
5 waited a full minute. At his signal, Heist again
dipped a rod in the corrosive, again lowered it
steaming to a dish. Operator 5's fingers pressed
again, and again two green streams of vapor shot
onto the metal.
Again the action of the corrosive was
instantly stopped. Heist's eyes rose gleaming.
"My boy! You've found it!"
Operator 5 nodded briskly. "That's the
answer! The formulae cannot be mixed until the
instant of application. They must go into action at
the same instant, separately! When they do, the
counteractive works at once!"
Operator 5 strode briskly to the telephone.
He called the number of Secret Headquarters M.
Z-7's voice answered quickly.
"Chief, we've found it!"
"Thank God!"
"Send the message to Washington at once.
The design of my power-sprayers must be
altered. It is not difficult, but the work must be
done quickly. The tanks, designated SO on my
sketches, must be removed, and two tanks
substituted. The pressure must be sent equally
into each. Two separate leads must connect with
them. The nozzle must have two orifices. Those
are the essential changes."
"The formulae-" Operator 5 read quickly
from two reports made by Gustav Heist. "These
must be prepared immediately-large quantities
of them-enough to fill all the tanks which have
been made. They must not be mixed. Formula D
goes into the first tank, Formula Y into the
second of the power-sprayers. Warn the men in
Washington to be prepared at the soonest
possible moment. I am flying there at once."
THE hour was at hand-the hour of the
meeting of the greatest Disarmament Conference
the world had ever known. The eyes of all nations
were turned to Washington, D.C. The attention of
all civilization centered on the Capitol. There,
within a few minutes, in a chamber beneath the
huge gilded dome, the conference would meet.
The newspapers of the world had proclaimed
the event, a conference of worldwide
significance. An atmosphere of hope filled every
heart-a hope for international accord that would
mean everlasting peace. While threats of war
reddened the skies, while people trembled at the
thought of another world imminent conflict, their
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
64
representatives, gathering in the Capitol today,
were seeking salvation from the growing menace
of world struggle for military supremacy.
While the hour of the meeting approached,
the dignitaries assembled in the great Hall of the
Representatives in the south wing of the
monumental Capitol.
There the representatives of nations mingled.
From Canada, Major Edwin Traymore; from
China, Dr. Mon Hing; from France, M. Guy de
Tibout; from Germany, Herr Wilhelm von
Pinckholdt und Monshein; from Great Britain, Sir
Basil Parker; from Italy, Sig. Nobile Pinzoni;
from Japan, Dr. Hao Katsuya; from Austria, Herr
Gustav Molnar; from Russia, Mr. Anton Polkoff;
from Poland, Mr. Anton Tercwitcz. Present also
were emissaries from the governments of
Belgium, Brazil, Czechoslovakia, Greece,
Hungary, the Irish Free State, Mexico, Spain,
Turkey.
The world was present. And the world
watched . . . .
In twenty minutes the gavel in the hand of
the Secretary of State of the United States would
rap the call to order. . . .
IN A room above the Chamber of
Representatives-a huge, barroom, its floor worn,
its historic walls musty-a second assembly had
gathered.
They were men in plainclothes, and each
had fastened to himself a strange piece of
apparatus. Every man carried, on his back, a
harness supporting two large metal frames in
which heavy jars rested, necks downward; and
the jars were filled with a strange greenish liquid.
From them pipes led, curling about their waists,
supported by straps crossing their shoulders. In
their hands they held double nozzles.
One by one these men filed in front of huge
metal dams at one side of the room where shirtsleeved
technicians worked. There was a sharp
hissing of compressed air as pressure was driven
into the tanks. Valves clapped shut with sharp
clicks; opened vents sent sharp spray into a tank
as tests were made. One by one the men retired
to the far end of the room, holding themselves
ready.
Each was equipped with a power-sprayer
designed by Operator 5; each was carrying a
quantity of the two separate formulae which made
up the long-sought counteractive.
A tense hush came into the room. In one
wall a door opened. A young man entered. He
was wearing a black velvet mask across his face,
and through its holes his eyes shone brightly-
blue eyes darkly clouded. Voices ceased as he
entered; all eyes turned to him. They noted the
golden charm dangling from his watch-chain.
Operator 5 had come.
He spoke in a low, cool voice. "In a few
minutes the Disarmament Conference will be
called to order. You have your instructions. You
will take your positions at once. We have taken
every precaution to protect the Capitol and the
conference against the attack of the Power-yet
we do not know in what way the Power will strike.
Our precautions may avail us nothing. If the
attack comes, you are to follow orders implicitly,
without question, as swiftly as possible. You are
to remember-" Operator 5 paused, his
darkened eyes glittering- "you are to remember
that your lives, and my life, mean nothing in this
emergency. Thought of self is impossible now.
At all costs we must stop the attack!"
He stood motionless as the men armed with
power-sprayers filed from the room. They
tramped along the corridor outside. When the last
of them had gone, Operator 5 strode briskly to a
window and looked down.
Infantrymen were on duty outside, ringing
the building. Beyond, crowds choked the
avenues. Around the Capitol there was a great
cleared space. It seemed impossible that the
Power could penetrate the armed human barrier,
yet-
In Operator 5's mind rang the memory of
muffled words he had heard issue from the closed
room of the isolated house in Long Island: "The
signal to act will be the call to order. . . . Act to
destroy every stone, every particle of the Capitol,
every living being in it. . . .!"
Operator 5 glanced at his watch. In three
minutes the call to order would be given. And
then-?"
He turned as a quick step sounded in the
room, Z-7 strode across the sill. His black eyes
sparkled as he stepped close to Jimmy
Christopher. "Everything's set?"
"Everything, Chief."
They left the room together and walked along
the hallway. At its ends men wearing powersprayers
were in position, alert, watchful. They
strode down steps likewise guarded by
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
65
Intelligence operators. In another corridor were
more men. Operator 5 moved toward a heavy
door, and opened it.
Through the crack he could see the huge
Chamber of Representatives, crowded by the
delegates of foreign nations. All eyes were turned
toward the platform where, gavel in hand, stood
the Secretary of State of the United States. And,
about the walls, curious figures in the scene,
were more Intelligence men armed with powersprayers.
The gallery was empty. The chamber was
hushed. The dignitaries were waiting for the
opening of the conference-waiting for the gavel
to rap. . .
AROUND the monumental sandstone
building hundreds of infantrymen were on guard,
their pieces holding back the pressing crowds that
were lined deep into the radiating avenues.
Thousands were massed in the streets, watching
the Capitol, drawn by the excitement of the
event.
It lacked a few seconds of noon. Through
the parted crowd two cars came crawling toward
the great steps. The first was a heavy sedan
which paused as sentries barred the way. A man
inside it presented credentials; the papers were
scanned; the car was signaled on. It spurted into
the cleared space, and the man who had offered
the credentials stepped out of it.
The second car was an ordinary taxi. The
guards promptly blocked its way. Peering inside,
they saw a small boy, with a tough freckled face,
sitting beside a tired-looking man in plain business
suit. The guard frowned and snapped:.
"Where do you think you're going? You can't
get in here!"
John Christopher answered impatiently:
"You're acting on orders, but in this case you're
mistaken. I'm-"
"No matter who you are, you can't get in!"
the sentry declared. "Clear out!"
Tim Donovan was peering ahead, out the
door of the car. His eyes were troubled as he
watched the sedan stop ahead, and the lone man
step out of it. He asked stubbornly: "Who's that
who just got in?"
"He's all right. He's got credentials signed by
the German Ambassador. You haven't, have
you?"
Tim Donovan's eyes widened suddenly as
the man climbed the steps . His hand shot out to
John Christopher's arm. He turned and blurted
breathlessly: "Dad! That-that's the man Jimmy
told me to watch in the apartment-the guy who
got away! That's-John Thorne!"
John Christopher started. "Good Lord!
Going into the Capitol-"
Tim Donovan blurted at the guard: "Let us
through! That man- He's-he's-"
"Hold on!" The guard snapped it angrily. "I
told you you can't get in. You haven't got any
diplomatic credentials, have you?"
Tim Donovan's eyes flared. He doubled his
fist and pushed it toward the face of the sentry.
The man dodged back as if to escape a blow; but
Tim Donovan snapped, holding his fist in front of
the guard's surprised eyes: "I've got that!"
On his finger gleamed the ring which Jimmy
Christopher had placed there. Its white skull
shone bright in the sun against its dark
background; on its forehead shone the numeral
five. The guard stared at it and blinked.
"I'll be damned!" he said. "That's different!"
He stepped aside. "Sure you can get in! Go
ahead!"
The taxi began to move, but Tim Donovan
screeched to the driver to stop. His gaze was still
following John Thorne up the broad steps of the
Capitol. The chemist was at the great doors now;
he was hurrying through. Tim Donovan leaped
out the door before the cab stopped. "Come on,
Dad!"
They ran, side by side, up the white steps,
as thousands of eyes watched them in surprise.
Breathlessly, Tim Donovan sped toward the
doors. When Tim pushed through, John
Christopher breathing heavily at his side, they
paused and stared. In the great space beneath
the rotunda there was only emptiness.
John Thorne was not in sight. Tim Donovan
hesitated. He saw men stationed at the entrance
of the Hall of Representatives in the south wing.
He blurted, "Jimmy must be in there, Dad!" and
hurried toward it. Men moved to block his way.
He brought up short, glaring at them.
"Take a look at that-" he began, raising
the hand on which he wore the ring.
But a sound interrupted him-a sound that
came through the door, sharp and echoing.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
66
In the great chamber the gavel in the hand of
the Secretary of State was rapping.
OPERATOR 5 peered grimly through the
partly opened door, into the huge hall, as the
rapping of the gavel rang through the air. The
voice of the Secretary of State echoed solemnly
from the platform: "In the name of the President
of the United States, I declare-"
Then-a sharp hiss!
The sibilant sound came suddenly, sharply,
to fill the great chamber. It stilled the voice of the
Secretary of State; it startled the assembled
dignitaries. It shocked along the nerves of the
men armed with power-sprayers lined along the
walls. It created a coldness that clutched at
Jimmy Christopher's heart. The hiss that warned
of attacking corrosive!
Instantly, from the walls of the great
chamber, billowing fumes arise. They swelled
swiftly, bringing a sharp pungency while the
sputtering sound grew louder. Within a second
the air became thickly clouded by the dread fog.
Swelling swiftly, spewing high, rolling in front of
the windows, bringing with it a chill of terror.
Operator 5 moved swiftly. He sprang
through the door onto the platform. He jerked to a
stop beside the Secretary of State. Behind him
came Z-7, gasping in dismay. From the seats in
the great chamber the dignitaries of the foreign
nations were springing in alarm. With every
second the surging mass of smoke grew thicker.
Operator 5's gaze swept the room. He saw
the spewing masses of white rising most thickly
above steam radiators which were crumbling to
pieces swiftly. He shouted: "Along the walls!
Turn the sprayers on all pipes! The radiators!
Quick!"
Through the billowing vapor the Intelligence
men swarmed toward the crumbling radiators.
They turned valves that released green spray.
The twin streams of the counteractive hissed
even more sharply than the corrosive as the men
sent the streams against the walls. They flocked
swiftly toward the centers of attack, crouched,
swinging their nozzles, playing the spraying
greenness into the cavities that were swiftly
appearing in the walls and at the edges of the
floor.
Operator 5 whirled to Z-7. "Call the men
down from above! The foundations will go if the
stuff isn't stopped! It's hitting the lower floor
first-shooting through the heating system!"
Z-7, pale as death, sprang through the
door. Operator 5 shouted sharply into the
thickening fumes. Out the doors of the chamber
the delegates were rushing in terror. Muffled
shouts rang through the mist as Jimmy
Christopher leaped from the platform and rushed
to the side wall. Men clustered in the eye-baffling
smoke were playing their nozzles desperately into
the rotting black cavities.
'F'OLLOW the pipes!" Operator 5 ordered
swiftly. "Cover every radiator! Look out for falling
walls!"
He straightened as he heard a sharp call
carry through the lung-stinging mist: "Jimmy!
Jimmy!"
At the entrance of the hall Tim Donovan was
struggling to enter. Terrorized men were rushing
out, thrusting him aside, beating him out of their
way. He fought desperately to work his way
through the door. He stumbled into gushing
masses of vapor that clutched at his throat. Head
ducked low, fists beating, he shouldered
through.
John Christopher gasped as he kept at the
boy's side. They stumbled into a thickly fogged
space. Tim Donovan raced ahead while Ex-
Operator Q-6 staggered toward a wall that was
turning into flakes. He glimpsed men crowded
about a radiator which was spewing off vapor.
From the corroded metal a stream of golden
yellow suddenly shot. A cry of alarm sounded as
it sprayed upon one of the Intelligence men who
was swinging his green-spraying nozzle. Yellow
film covered the hands and face of that man as he
fell. John Christopher sprang breathlessly toward
him, snatching at the nozzle which fell from the
acid-eaten hands.
SWIFTLY he played the green stream over
the fallen operator. He saw the white fumes
cease rising as raw, smarting flesh was exposed.
He grasped the injured man's shoulders and
dragged him away. The operator was gravely
hurt, but the green spray had instantly stopped
the action of the corrosive. He lay gasping with
intense pain as John Christopher swiftly
unstrapped the power-sprayer.
Ex-Operator Q-6 dropped it over his
shoulders. With the sloshing tanks pressed
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
67
against his back, he turned the spitting nozzle
toward the crumbling wall. Blinded by the fumes,
head ducked low; eyes streaming tears, he
rushed to join the men who were sending
drenching streams of counteractive into the
yawning cavities along the edge of the floor.
The great chamber was filled with
pandemonium. Through the doors more
Intelligence men came rushing, gripping the
nozzles of their power-sprayers, twisting the
valves open. Through the scraping of feet and
the hoarse shouting and the sibilant hissing of the
corrosive the shrill cry came again: "Jimmy!"
Operator 5 groped through the thick mist and
heard it. He shouted "Tim!" and an answering
call came. Moving toward the entrance, he
glimpsed a small form moving. "Tim!" he called
again, and the boy whirled.
Tim Donovan bounded close. Operator 5's
hand seized his shoulders tightly.
"Jimmy-John Thorne's in here! I saw him
come in. He disappeared somewhere- "
Operator 5 paused only a second. He turned
from Tim Donovan and hurried out the entrance.
In the great rotunda of the Capitol white fumes
were floating. The hissing sound was
everywhere. Beyond open doors Operator 5
glimpsed sprayer-armed men working
desperately, turning the green streams upon
corroded gaps in the floors and walls. He ran
swiftly, and Tim Donovan kept at his side.
He sped through a door, sprinted down
stone steps, and dashed along a corridor. Every
foot of the way was fogged with the eye-stinging
vapor. Tim Donovan hastened with him through
other doors and they penetrated deep into the
substructure of the great building. The boy was
breathless when Jimmy Christopher whirled
toward a double door that stood open, exposing a
vast space beyond.
Mist was floating in the air in front of the
great black faces of the furnaces. A pipe crossing
one wall was bent downward; attached to it was
thick glass tubing. The transparent pipe was
connected with a huge porcelain container which
sat on the cement floor. Leading from the
container was another length of tubing which led
to a black metal drum of compressed gas.
The means the Power had taken to strike
was disclosed. Corrosive contained in the
porcelain container had been shot upward through
the pipes of the heating system by compressed
air! It had leaped through the walls, into the
conference chamber-acting with the swiftness of
doom itself.
To the apparatus Jimmy Christopher gave
only a glance. His eyes turned sharply to two
men standing in the vast furnace room. They
were facing each other; the back of one was
turned to Operator 5. The other's face was visible,
and it was the face of John Thorne!
Thorne was backing away fearfully. His eyes
were widened, his jaw dropped. Inarticulate
terror made his movements slow and stiff. In one
hand he was gripping a gun-a gun that was
pointing toward the floor. Breathing heavily, he
retreated. . . .
The man who faced him took a slow, firm
step toward him with head lowered, unseen eyes
leveled. Suddenly John Thorne gripped more
tightly the gun in his hand. He jerked it upward as
grim determination clenched his jaw. His finger
squeezed on the trigger; but the report that
echoed flatly in the great white-walled room did
not come from his weapon.
The bullet crashed from the automatic
gripped in the hand of the man whose back was
turned to Operator 5.
JOHN THORNE cried out in pain. He
stumbled back, whirling, and dropped his gun.
He dashed to an iron stairway which led from the
furnace room on the far side and madly
scrambled up it. He missed his footing, squirmed
and fell backward. Blood darkened his coat as he
sprawled on the cement floor, struggling
desperately to rise.
Operator 5 paused tensely at the top of the
flight of iron stairs which led from the double door
into the white room. His gun flipped into his hand
as the other man whirled. That man raised his
eyes to Operator 5 and for an instant, their gazes
locked.
The huge man was masked. Over his entire
head was drawn a cap of soft rubber. It stretched
tight across his features, distorting them, making
recognition impossible. The red stuff covered all
his face except the glittering eyes which peered
through the elongated slits cut for them.
Jimmy Christopher's gun leveled as he
snapped: "Stay where you are!"
The masked man's automatic jerked up.
Instantly Operator 5 leaped down the stairs. He
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
68
steadied himself for a shot at the bottom of the
flight as the masked man's weapon roared.
Stinging pain shocked Jimmy Christopher's
right arm. Warm blood spurted down his fingers.
His automatic twirled from his hand and clattered
to the floor. Even as the bullet hit him, even as
he lost his gun, he sprang into the depths of the
great white room; and as he moved, his left hand
clicked loose the buckle of his belt.
He was a blur of motion darting toward the
masked man. The supple rapier flashed like a
lance of light as he whipped the narrow leather
sheath off it. The rubber-faced man was twisting
to fire again as Jimmy Christopher's blade
sparkled at the gun.
The flashing metal hissed and hissed again.
Bits of cloth flew. The needle point became redtipped.
A cry of anguish sounded as the masked
man's automatic dropped to the floor from a hand
rendered powerless by the razor edge of the
whipping rapier.
Operator 5 lashed the blade level, brought
its point to the chest of the masked man, and
held it with tensed muscles.
''Don't move!"
The masked man made a desperate lunge.
Jimmy Christopher stood stock still, every muscle
rigid as the rush began. A breath of dismay
passed his lips as he felt the slender rapier
tremble in his hand.
A second's pause while the masked man
poised on toe-tips, staring down at his chest. His
eyes bulged; horror-stricken, through the
openings in the mask, staring at the thin line of
steel entering his body. His move had thrust the
blade home. The chill of it touched his heart. . . .
He melted to the floor. Jimmy Christopher's
hand released the hilt of the rapier. Stepping
back, he peered at the prone form, sprawled on
the cement, the thin blade whipping back and
forth as it protruded from the breathless body.
Near the far flight of iron steps John Thorne
was struggling up, gasping:
"He-he's the man! He tried to have me
killed! He robbed me of years of work!"
Operator 5 peered at Thorne through
narrowed lids. The chemist staggered forward. "I
gave my life to preserving steel-while he
destroyed it! My process would have made his
corrosive harmless! He wanted to kill me, to
keep me from-"
Thorne sagged to his knees, breathless.
Operator 5 heard quick steps behind him. Tim
Donovan was pounding down the stairs, wideeyed,
terrified. Behind him two men carrying
power-sprayers appeared. Following them rushed
Z-7, his face haggard, his eyes smoldering.
The Washington chief paused at Operator
5's shoulder, peering down at the masked form.
"We've stopped the corrosive! The building-the
delegates-are safe! In God's name, who's
that?"
Operator 5 said softly: "The Power-the
man behind it all. We eliminated his four
ringleaders-he was forced to come here himself
to attack the conference."
"Who-?"
Jimmy Christopher stooped. He fastened
fingers on the rubber mask, stretched it, tore
open the eyeholes. He ripped the elastic from the
face and straightened again, scarcely breathing.
His black-clouded eyes turned to Z-7's.
The Washington chief blurted, "Gregory
Fleming!"
"Gregory Fleming," Operator 5 affirmed
slowly. "The Power, and killed by his own
weapon-steel!"
THE room was long, paneled in walnut,
quietly lighted-and full of tension. Around the
long, oval table which sat in its center a score of
men were seated. They watched the gold-faced
clock which hung on the wall at the end of the
room.
The door at the end of the room slowly
opened . Through it stepped Operator 5. He was
masked in black velvet. His right arm was
carried in a sling. As he came toward the head of
the table he smiled.
One of the men assembled around the
table rose and cleared his throat. "Operator 5,"
he said solemnly, "we represent the steel
industry of the United States. You see here men
who are at the heads of the largest steel mills of
the country.
"We, better than anyone else, realize the
incalculable service you have rendered-not only
to your country, but to us. You have saved us
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
69
from disaster. As patriotic citizens as well as
business men, we feel deeply indebted to you.
"None of us dreamed of the danger
threatening us until you discovered it. None of us
would have been able to combat it without your
help. We would have been destroyed, our
personal careers ended, our mills controlled by a
force working for the destruction of the world, our
country betrayed.
"We are here to express to you our
admiration and gratitude. We wish to present to
you-this."
The speaker proffered to Operator 5 a slip of
green paper. He took it slowly into his hands. It
was a certified check made out to the amount of
$100,000.
A slow smile played upon Jimmy
Christopher's lips. The room was silent as his
masked eyes raised. His voice was quiet, firm.
"Gentlemen, the expression of your
sentiments deeply gratifies me. I hope you will
understand when I say that I cannot accept this
check from you." Jimmy Christopher lowered the
check to the table. "As a member of the United
States Intelligence Service, it is my aim to serve
my country faithfully and loyally and to the best of
my ability. If I have succeeded, that success is
my reward. Your appreciation means more to me
than all the money in the world. If I may express
a wish, please donate this amount to a deserving
charity, without mentioning my name in
connection with it. And, gentlemen, again, my
profound thanks."
The room was utterly still. Eyes followed him
as he turned to the door. He stepped through and
closed it. Then he was gone.
In the adjoining room, Jimmy Christopher
removed the mask from his face. Tim Donovan
stepped toward him eagerly. John Christopher
watched his son proudly. They smiled as he
tucked his mask into his pocket.
"You couldn't stay away, could you, Tim?"
he smiled, slipping his arm around the boy's
shoulder.
"Sure not! Soon as we found out you were
flying to Washington, dad and I had to follow. I'm
glad we did!"
Operator 5 turned as a man came toward
him from the center of the room. John Thorne
moved stiffly, for bandages bound his body tightly,
covering the wound in his side. He smiled as he
extended his hand to Operator 5.
"I can't find words to thank you. I-I was
half-crazy, I guess-the whole thing had been
preying on my mind so that I scarcely knew what I
was doing. I knew that if I told anyone I
suspected Fleming they'd think me mad. I had to
try to find proof, first, of course, and-"
"Tim's forgiven you for the sock on the head
you gave him, Thorne," Operator 5 answered,
"and that's all that counts. Fleming was doing his
damnedest to implicate you and get you out of the
way. You had your nerve with you when you
followed him to Washington."
"I expected to be picked up by some of your
Intelligence men at any moment," Thorne smiled.
"After I told my story to the German Ambassador
and enlisted his sympathy-well, I thought there
was a chance of getting a new lead on Fleming.
He'd have escaped me if you hadn't-"
"Never mind that," Operator 5 smiled. "Take
it easy a while. You've a new position, a chance
to carry on your research, now."
"Yes, thanks to you!"
Nan Christopher and Diane Elliot were
waiting for Operator 5 at the door. He smiled at
them, but turned again to Z-7.
"So-long, Chief."
Z-7's hand gripped his tightly.
FROM the bedroom door in the perfectly
appointed apartment in the East Sixties, in New
York, Carleton Victor stepped, immaculately
attired. Crowe helped him into a smartly tailored
Chesterfield. Carleton Victor slowly drew on gray
gloves, regarding the manservant quizzically.
"Tonight, Crowe," he said, "dinner at home."
Crowe beamed. "Very good, sir."
"We will have some of the specially imported
Russian caviar."
"Yes, sir."
"The finest filets mignon procurable, Crowe."
"Of course, the finest, sir."
''A bottle of the Chateau Yquiem, 1917."
"Very well, sir."
"For two," Carleton Victor added.
Crowe blinked. "For two, sir?"
"I shall have a guest, Crowe. A young lady-
Miss Diane Elliot."
Crowe bowed. "Very good, sir."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator #5TM THE MELTING DEATH July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
70
Carelton Victor moved to the door. "But,
Crowe-no artichokes."
"No artichokes, sir?"
"Artichokes, Crowe," said Carleton Victor,
"contain iron, and I fancy I have had quite
enough of iron for a time, Crowe."
Crowe blinked in bewilderment. "Yes, sir?"
he said. "That is-ah-yes, sir."
Carleton Victor stepped outside suppressing
a smile-a smile that grew as he strode away
briskly into the summer dusk.
THE END