The wall was sliding to his left, revealing darkness behind it that seemed to swallow the moving picture. And suddenly the woman’s face vanished, and where it had been was the smile of the German whom the Professor had named the Akrobat.

43

MEN WITH GUNS IN THEIR HANDS FLANKED the Acrobat.

Larry Saunders and Tim Holian stepped in front of Clyde Lynds, shielding him as they reached for their pistols. Saunders whipped his Colt from his shoulder holster with blinding speed.

Christian Semmler’s gunmen fired as one. Six shots exploded in deafening thunder. The chief of the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s Los Angeles field office fell dead with six bullets in his chest.

Their second volley dropped both Protective Service men, who had been so startled by the raid that they were still reaching for their weapons. The guns wheeled toward Tim Holian, whom they had been afraid to fire at because he was next to Clyde Lynds. Holian took full advantage of the two-second respite. Standing tall, pistols flaming in both hands, he stalked the raiders. One Bittereinder went down, and another fell back with a cry of pain. Four returned Holian’s fire. The big detective tumbled across the laboratory, and crashed into a table, splintering it.

Clyde Lynds ran. The Acrobat leaped over the fallen men’s bodies and bounded lithely after him, catching him by the arm. He drew him close in a powerful grip, squeezed until Lynds groaned in pain, and glared in the frightened scientist’s eyes. “I have you, Herr Lynds. Do not struggle, or I will hurt you. Where is the Talking Pictures machine?”

“You’re looking at it,” Lynds said sullenly.

“That is the part for showing the Talking Pictures,” Semmler said, gesturing for his men to pack it down the stairs. “Where is the part that manufactures it?”

He squeezed harder, crushing muscle against bone. Gasping, Lynds led him to a camera on a tripod.

“This is for pictures,” said Semmler. “What captures the sound?”

Lynds nodded mutely at a carbon microphone on a tall wooden box.

Semmler said, “Lastly, where is the machine for imprinting the sounds on the film?”

Clyde Lynds sagged in Semmler’s grip. The monster knew everything. It was as if he had been watching over his shoulder. Pain bored through his arm as Semmler shook him like a terrier. “Where?”

“Upstairs in the lab.”

Semmler was relentless. Squeezing harder, grinding Lynds’s flesh agonizingly against bone, he asked, “Where are your plans?”

Clyde Lynds realized with a sinking heart that, having been outfoxed in the past, the German was too suspicious to be fooled again. “There!” he gasped, indicating a satchel full of drawings and schematics. That seemed to appease the Acrobat, Lynds thought, but he soon realized he was wrong.

“Let’s go!” Semmler dragged him toward the opening that had appeared so suddenly in the wall.

“Where?”

“Up to the laboratory for your imprinting machine, then home to Germany.”