CHAPTER I

The Zones

§ I

The curtain draped before a cabin above which appeared the word
“Surgeon” was drawn aside.

“Wanted on the ’phone, sir,” a voice announced.

Dr. Stopford of the Atlantic flier _Ruritania_ disentangled his fingers
from a one-ended black tie which refused to function, and turned,
surveying Huff, his man. Dr. Stopford was tall, slim-waisted, and
possessed of light brown hair which grew in little tight waves envied by
more than one woman. He was very fresh-coloured and looked ridiculously
young. One of his blue eyes was windowed by an extremely small rimless
monocle which apparently grew there.

“Look here, Huffy,” said he, “why do you always crop up when the
battle’s over? I’ve crashed two perfectly good collars because you
forgot to leave a stud out. I’m no good at fixin’ stiff collars with a
needle an’ cotton.”

“Sorry, sir. You didn’t tell me you were dressing to-night.”

“Do I ever go ashore naked?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re developin’ bad symptoms, Huffy. I shall prescribe the white
mixture if this goes on.”

Huff’s ruddy face registered consternation, but:

“Who wants me?” the doctor continued, dropping the crumpled tie and
reaching for a gorgeous kimono.

“Commander Drake Roscoe, sir.”

“What!” exclaimed Stopford. “Oh, Lord! I hope the ‘do’ isn’t off!”

He hurried out onto the deck and along to where a telephone connecting
with shore stood upon a temporary support. He took it up, and:

“Hullo, Roscoe, old scout!” he called. “Who’s dead?”

“_I’m_ not!” a voice replied, a voice which had a definite timbre of
determination. “But there’s a change of plan, Stoppy. I have had to put
the ladies off for reasons which I will explain. It’s a stag party, old
boy, and it may end in a rough-house.”

“Cheery ho,” Stopford murmured. “Failin’ dalliance with the fair,
there’s nothing I enjoy more than a spot of danger.”

“So,” the voice went on, “wash out the Ritz and meet me at the Lotos
instead. Same time.”

“Right ho,” said Stopford. “Recallin’ your lurid description of the
disappointed nymphs, I’m naturally soulsick. But at least we can drink
ourselves to death.”

He replaced the ’phone, glanced down on to the deserted pier, and then
went back to his cabin, where Huff was daintily unscrewing the top of a
pearl stud.

“Hullo!” said Stopford. “Hullo, hullo! Where did you find it?”

“In the case, sir.”

“Extraordinary!” the doctor murmured. “Last place I thought of lookin’.”

§ II

At about this time a man was seated in perhaps the most peculiar room in
New York City. It was square and some ten paces from wall to wall. It
seemingly possessed neither doors nor windows. The floor was laid with
black and gold Oriental tiles upon which some dark, rich rugs were
strewn. The walls were decorated sombrely in black and gold and the
ceiling was a lofty dome of dull gold. Four lamps concealed in tall
black tripods illuminated the place by reflection from this dome. There
was practically no furniture with the exception of a long, narrow
antique table—apparently a communion table—set square centre of the
western wall; behind this stood a chair, or, rather, throne.

And in this chair the man was seated.

He was draped in a black gown similar to that of a Master of Arts, and
he wore light yellow rubber gloves. These were of so thin a texture as
almost to deceive one, in the dim light, creating an illusion of
hairless yellow hands—long-fingered and flexible.

They rested before him on the table top, these strange hands; the left
close to the base of a standard lamp so shaded as to leave the man’s
face always in half shadow; the right upon a keyboard. There were many
curious objects upon the long narrow table, but no human being, entering
that room, would have had eyes for them. He would have seen nothing but
the shadowed face of the one who sat there, silent, motionless.

It was a dead yellow face—the face of a mummy. The eyes appeared
superhumanly long, like the eyes of an Egyptian god. The nose was
shadowy, indistinct, the mouth a mere slit. No hair crowned the high
skull.

The effect was indescribably terrifying until one realized that this
yellow horror was a wonderful mask of the same delicate texture as the
gloves.

Now, the man so hideously disguised depressed one of the keys at the
same moment that a point of green light, like the eye of some animal,
appeared upon the blank black wall of the room before him.

A voice, having intonations suggesting the Levant, spoke. From the sound
one must have supposed the speaker to be in the room. But the room,
which contained no visible speaking tube and no telephone, remained
empty except for that one appalling occupant.

“Zone Officer 3 B is here.”

No movement showed upon the yellow mask when the man at the table
replied. He had the accent and intonations of culture but laid undue
stress upon certain vowels. His tones were smoothly musical.

“Observation Room,” he said.

He depressed another key. The point of green light disappeared. He
touched a switch. The room became plunged in darkness. Then, uncannily,
a thing seemingly supernatural—the form of a man—took shape in the
darkness!

The phantom was that of one sunk deep in materialism, a physically
powerful man, heavy-jowled and small-eyed. His short, curved nose was
like the beak of a vulture, and, holding a soft hat in one hand, he was
looking about him suspiciously. This was a gross, uneasy shadow.

For fully five minutes the masked man sat studying it, then, as soft
light reflooded the room, the apparition vanished. A key was
touched—and the point of green sprang up.

“I will see him.”

Having spoken, he depressed the second key and the green light went out.
Twenty seconds later a door slid noiselessly open in the south wall,
revealing a small elevator. In the elevator stood the substance of the
shadow.

Seen in the flesh and in his natural colouring, the man was less
sinister than his image. His reddish hair, close-cropped, showed gray at
the temples. Save for the evasive little eyes and that bird-of-prey
nose, he might have passed for a decent citizen. He was by nature a
fellow sure of himself, but he came out into that black and gold
dome-room with marked hesitancy.

The door closed silently. He stood staring at the man behind the table,
and his free hand opened and closed spasmodically. Then:

“Zone Officer 3 B,” the suave voice began, “why did you fail to report
to your Divisional Headquarters that Mr. Peter Champion received a visit
from you at midnight on Wednesday last?”

The man addressed failed utterly to hide his consternation. He moistened
his lips and was about to attempt some reply, when:

“I accept no excuses,” the smooth voice added. “But I await an
explanation.”

For perhaps fifteen fateful seconds the man hesitated.

“I went on Zone work,” he finally replied.

His voice was somewhat hoarse.

“By whose orders?”

“Nobody’s. I thought he was worth covering, that’s all.”

From his place at the extreme end of the room he was staring, staring,
at that dead yellow face.

“I admire your zeal,” the suave tones commented, “but not your neglect
of routine. Explain it.”

Moistening his lips again:

“I got to know Champion by ringing him up and telling him that his house
was being watched by cat-burglars,” the man replied. “Then I called late
last Wednesday night and sent my card in. So far there was nothing to
report.”

“Wrong,” the masked man interrupted gently. “You were promoted to charge
of Zone 3 B in January, 1927. You know the regulations as well as I.”

He touched a key. Before him, upon the hitherto blank wall, a map of New
York appeared, brilliantly illuminated. It was a large and a wonderfully
detailed map. It had many strange features: the most notable its
division into a series of zones, distinctively coloured. Their centre
was a spot in the heart of the city.

“Refresh your memory,” he directed.

The visitor turned and stared, as if hypnotized, at the Zone map. It
suddenly disappeared. The wall became blank again.

“You see,” said the musical voice. “The Champion home is in Zone A 1.”

No one, listen intently though he might, could have determined whether
the smooth, formidable creature enthroned behind the table believed the
man’s story or otherwise. However, apparently he did, for:

“Be very careful,” he went on. “Your explanation is unsatisfactory.
Peter Champion is not in your Zone. You have deliberately broken two
vital regulations. First—you have failed to report to your Divisional
Headquarters; second—you have undertaken inquiries, without orders,
outside your Zone. Forward your proper report not later than noon
to-morrow. You may go.”

In obedience to some control under the speaker’s hand, the door of the
elevator shaft slid open—and Zone Officer 3 B turned and went out. The
door closed again; the green light appeared.

“Exit Seven,” that gentle voice commanded. “Connect H.Q.”

As the green light vanished a red one took its place.

“Cover the man leaving by Exit Seven,” came the order. “File
quarter-hourly reports.”

Glancing at a note on his table, the speaker manipulated the keyboard,
causing the green light to reappear.

“Zone Officer 2 A is here,” the Levantine tones announced.

“I will see the officer.”

A few moments later the elevator door opened again—and a woman entered
composedly. The door closed behind her.

From her smart little hat crushed down rakishly upon short, coppery hair
to the tips of her pointed shoes she displayed the chic which Paris
gives. She was rather above medium height, slender but curvy. Her
features were irregular, yet, when she spoke, or more particularly when
she smiled, few men would have denied her beauty. Her charming accent
proclaimed her to be a daughter of France.

Her self-possession in that uncanny room and in the presence of the
masked horror was admirable. The man at the table did not stir when she
inclined her head in greeting, but:

“Zone Officer 2 A,” he said—and his voice was smoother than ever—“your
work has been excellent. To-night, Commander Roscoe will be at the Lotos
Club and not at the Ritz. He has realized his danger. He and his friend
will dine alone. Detail a Sector captain to trace the restaurant
selected. Report to the chief chemist.”

The girl—for she was little more—started involuntarily. Her expression
hardened, lending a sudden angularity, almost haggard, to her face.

“I, myself, am to carry out this?” she asked.

“In person.”

“It is not——?”

“It is not your affair,” said the masked man suavely. “You are in no way
responsible. But success means promotion. Start at once.”

The elevator door slid open.

Still composedly, but wearing an oddly set expression, Zone Officer 2 A
turned and went out. The door closed. The red light glowed.

“H.Q.,” said a voice.

“Send out a General Emergency order. All units to stand by until further
notice.”

The red light faded. The man at the table raised his gloved hands and
unfastened the hideous mask.

§ III

Peter Champion, sometimes referred to as “The Lumber King,” paced from
end to end of his plainly furnished study. He looked what he was—a
retired woodsman—but he didn’t look like a man who could write his
personal check for five millions and know it would be honoured.

Although it was past the social dinner hour he wore a rough tweed suit
by no means fashionable in cut. The pictures on his walls were of giant
trees, monarchs of some northern forest; his study appointments were
practical and unornamental. This great old New York house which he had
bought to please his wife was like an echoing mausoleum, now that his
wife had left him. And his son——

But Peter Champion’s grim face, which looked like a carving in mahogany,
chiselled by Jacob Epstein, told a curious world that the old lumberman
still stood, a mighty tree in the financial forest—ruffled but unbowed
by the storm.

His big gnarled hands, which even to-day could wield an ax with any man
living, opened and clenched, and opened and clenched, as he paced
ceaselessly up and down the silent room. Once he paused, listened
intently for some moments, and then resumed his bear-like promenade.

Suddenly the note of a telephone bell brought him up sharply. Crossing
to the littered table:

“Yes?” he said, speaking with studied calm. “Peter Champion here.”

“Louis Meyer,” reported the man at the other end. “I’ve got some more
information for you, Mr. Champion. It is urgent.”

“Where are you?”

“In Brooklyn. I’ve had to double on my tracks God knows how many times.
But I think I’ve dropped ’em.”

“What’s the information?”

“I daren’t trust it to the wires. But I’ve _seen_ him! You understand? I
can describe him. And I’ve seen the Zone map! I’m afraid to stay here
longer than necessary. Make a date—quick.”

“I’ll be home right along. Pick your time. Any hour to-night.”

“Good enough. Good-bye.”

Peter Champion replaced the receiver, stood stock still for a moment,
listening, and then began to walk up and down again.