Death out of Thin Air by Clayton Rawson Page B

out and ran toward the wall on the right. Don jumped, caught the top of the wall and drew himself up.
    He stopped, resting on his hands, his feet dangling. One of the second story windows at the back of his house was open, and, just below it on the wall, a black shadow moved down the side of the building — a vague shape just discernible, a bit blacker than the surrounding black.
    Don started to throw his leg over the wall’s top when a set of muscular hands suddenly fastened themselves in a tight grip on his ankles!
    A voice shouted, “Haul him down, Dan!”
    Dan hauled. Diavolo fell. A flashlight beam shot at him as he picked himself up. A handcuff snapped around his wrist. Its other cuff was fastened to the arm of a broad-shouldered six foot Irish cop.
    The voice behind the flash came from a plainclothes man who said, “Well, well. Just look at what we’ve bagged! A Rajah, no less.”
    Don said, “And the wrong man again — as usual!” He started to pull the cop with him. “The Bat! He’ll get away.”
    The detective, like Pat before him, said, “Hold him, Dan.” He drew his gun.
    Diavolo growled at him. “Listen, gum-shoe. I tell you there’s murder in that house. I saw the Bat outside the window.”
    â€œDan,” the dick said, unimpressed. “We’d better put in a call for the loony wagon. He’s bats.”
    Don’s swift movement now was like lightning. While he talked, his fingers had worked feverishly at the handcuff. As it clicked open, he caught the cop’s arm in a sudden jiu jitsu grip, stepped heavily on the man’s right foot and levered him forward. The policeman fell, sprawling head-on into the detective with his gun. They both collapsed.
    When they scrambled up, cursing, and the dick had recovered his flash, the Indian Rajah was gone.
    They could hear his footsteps beyond the wall, running madly toward the house. The officer’s whistle shrilled.
    â€œQuick, Dan! Give me a lift. Then cut him off in front!”
    The detective went over the wall just as the house door slammed.
    He caught up with the Rajah in the living room. The Indian was bending above a girl who lay in a chair. There were two small red marks on her throat. Another man, an elderly person with white hair and glasses, lay on the floor. As the detective came bursting in with drawn gun, this man rolled over on his side and slowly started to sit up.
    This tableau gave the dick such a jolt he stared, mouth open, and did not realize that the Rajah had picked up the phone until he heard the clicking of the dial.
    â€œDrop that!” he commanded then. “I’ve got you covered.”
    But the man at the phone paid no attention to him other than to say, “Go soakyourhead. I’m getting a doctor…. Hello, Dr. Graf’s office? I’m speaking for Don Diavolo. It’s a hurry call. Get the doctor here right away!”
    The detective didn’t go soak his head, but he did put it out through the front door and call for reinforcements. The house had evidently been surrounded. Detectives poured in from all quarters.
    Fifteen minutes later, while Dr. Graf was working over Pat, and Karl was telling his story, Inspector Church arrived. He blew in with all the force of a tornado.
    He eyed the party. The detective that had tried to capture Don stepped forward to report, but Church pointed at the Maharajah and roared.
    â€œWho the hell is that? ”
    Don, noticing that Graf’s efforts were having success and that Pat was coming to slowly, began to feel better. He turned to Church and bowed ironically.
    â€œThe Maharajah of Vdai-Loo,” he said with a grave face.
    Church blinked at him. “Oh yeah?” The Inspector wasn’t used to meeting Indian princes at a moment’s notice and his skepticism was pardonable.
    Don frowned at him severely. His voice had an Antarctic chill and the stiff-backed English accent of the