Death Sleep

CHAPTER V DEATH AT DUSK

LATE that same afternoon, a taxicab pulled up in front of an old house that fronted on a quiet street of the upper East Side. A gray-haired man alighted and brought out a satchel. He paid the driver and ascended the brownstone steps of the old house.

Urchins, at play on the opposite side of the street, had stopped their frolic to gawk at the old gentleman from the taxi. It was an event when a cab delivered a passenger in this street. The only respectable-looking house in the entire block was the one that the man was entering. All the other buildings were either empty or tenanted by clustered families that lived in tenement fashion.

A solemn-faced servant answered the gray-haired man’s ring. He reached for the satchel, then stood aside while the arrival entered. The servant followed in obsequious fashion. No words were uttered until the gray-haired man had reached the inner hall and the servant was ready to go upstairs with the satchel.

“Anything unusual, Crowder?” inquired the old man, speaking for the first time.

“Nothing, Mr. Valdan,” replied the servant.

“Where is Benzig?” asked Valdan.

“Below, sir,” replied Crowder. “In the laboratory.”

“Very well. I shall go there at once.”

The gray-haired man descended a flight of stairs. When he reached the bottom, he arrived in a large room that was fitted with work tables and other items of equipment. Large beakers, Bunsen burners, racks of test tubes and shelves stocked with bottles announced the place as a chemical laboratory.

A wan-faced man was at one of the tables. He was pounding with a pestle, grinding powder in a mortar. He stopped work as Valdan arrived. Removing a pair of rubber gloves, this assistant stood by, as though expecting orders.

“Good afternoon, Benzig,” greeted Valdan, in a crackly tone. “What progress have you made during my absence?”

“Quite a bit, sir,” responded Benzig. “I have completed the three compounds which you required. The quantity of the first seemed insufficient, so I am preparing more.”

“Very good. Has all been well since yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have there been any visitors?”

“Only the delivery men, sir.”

“What delivery men?”

“They brought three boxes, sir,” explained Benzig. “Large cases, they were, with laboratory equipment. They were sure that the consignment was intended for you.”

“I ordered no new equipment.”

“That is what I told them. But they were argumentative. So I went upstairs and questioned Crowder to learn if he knew anything of the matter. I thought perhaps you had forgotten to tell me that a consignment was due. Crowder knew nothing about it, so I sent the delivery men away.”

“With the boxes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hm-m-m.” Valdan looked perplexed. He stared across the laboratory, toward a bolted door. “You have been careful to keep the outer door locked?”

“Yes,” replied the assistant. “Of course I opened it for the delivery men; but I bolted it as soon as they had gone. Then, today, when they brought the guinea pigs—”

“The guinea pigs?”

“Yes, sir. The same men. They came back with a crate of guinea pigs. They said they had been mistaken about the shipments. The equipment was for another laboratory. The guinea pigs were consigned to you.”

“I ordered no guinea pigs.”

“No?” Benzig looked surprised. “There were only a few left, sir! I thought of course this second consignment must be a correct one.”

“Where did you put the guinea pigs?”

“In your private laboratory, sir, where you always keep them.”

VALDAN stalked across the big room. He reached an inner door and opened it. He stepped into a small laboratory where a confused array of boxes was strewn on a table. Benzig followed his employer. He pointed to a crate of guinea pigs which lay in a corner at the right side of the room.

“Probably a duplicate assignment,” crackled Valdan, in a querulous tone. “What did you do with the few cavies that I still had here?”

“I put them in this crate with the new guinea pigs,” replied Benzig. “I let the delivery men take the old box away with them.”

Valdan nodded. He looked about the room while Benzig watched him. This small laboratory was a curious place. Its small amount of equipment was located in the center, directly opposite the door, at the spot where the box-strewn table stood.

There was a door to a closet at the left side of the room. At the right, just beyond the box of guinea pigs, the entire wall formed a huge file cabinet that went up to the ceiling. The drawers were marked with cards that listed numbers. A step-ladder was handy, as a means of reaching the higher files.

To Benzig, this small laboratory was a room of mystery. Like the outer door of the large laboratory, it was fitted with a bolt. Whenever Troxton Valdan used this room for experiments, he invariably entered and bolted the door behind him.

When Valdan was absent from the house, the door of the little laboratory remained unlocked, for it was fitted with bolt alone. On these occasions, Benzig was very careful about the outer door of the large laboratory, for it opened between this house and the next and might easily prove a lurking place for intruders bent on robbery.

Troxton Valdan registered annoyance as Benzig watched him. The gray-haired chemist seemed perplexed by these matters of delivery. When he spoke again, his tone was critical.

“I have confidence in you, Benzig,” declared Valdan. “I chose you as an assistant chiefly because I was sure you would not pry into my private experiments.”

“I have never done so,” reminded Benzig.

“I am sure of that,” agreed Valdan, “but I also had faith in your discretion, Benzig. I am disappointed. You must be more careful in the future. You must not permit delivery men to prowl about these laboratories.”

“I am sure that they touched nothing, sir—”

“How can you be sure? You admitted that you went upstairs to speak to Crowder.”

“That was yesterday, sir. But today, I remained in the outer laboratory while the men brought the crate in here.”

“Stupid of you! You should have came in here with them.”

“But they were only in here long enough to leave the crate of guinea pigs. I entered as they were leaving. That was when I transferred the extra guinea pigs and called the men back to take the old crate.”

“That is sufficient.” Valdan moved over toward the table. “Where is my afternoon newspaper, Benzig?”

“It should be on the table, sir. Crowder invariably brings it here.”

“Did he do so today?”

“I think so, Mr. Valdan.”

“Think!” cackled the chemist, in an irritated tone. “If you did any real thinking, Benzig, you would know whether or not Crowder placed the journal here. I hired you as an assistant, Benzig, not as a dummy.”

Valdan was rummaging among the boxes on the table. He uncovered one that was partly obscured by others. He raised the lid and peered inside. The box contained two guinea pigs. Both of the cavies were motionless. Valdan rapped at the side of the box, tapping with his fingers upon punctured air holes. The guinea pigs did not budge. Valdan replaced the cover of the box.

The chemist turned suddenly, expecting to see Benzig. The assistant was no longer in view. Valdan stared about suspiciously; then closed the door of the laboratory and shot the bolt. He stooped and peered below the table. There, an old piece of carpeting was draped over a wooden box. Valdan chuckled and began to rise. Then, to make sure, he stooped again and pulled away the old carpet.

A gasp came from the chemist’s lips. Apparently, this was not the box that Valdan had expected to find. He was puzzled by its shape and its appearance. The lid was nailed in place. Seizing a hammer that lay upon the table, Valdan pried away a board. He stared into the box. Its only contents were some short lengths of rusted iron pipe.

THE chemist scrambled to his feet. He stared wildly at the door that he had bolted; then looked toward the file cabinets at the end of the room. Hurrying in that direction, Valdan seized the little ladder and mounted to the highest step. With quivering hands, he pulled open a drawer that bore the numbers: 96-115.

Large folders filled the drawer. Valdan rummaged through them, muttering numbers half aloud. His voice became a hoarse, anxious whisper:

“One hundred and nine — one hundred and ten — one hundred eleven—”

The chemist stopped short. The number that he had just named was missing. He gripped an envelope that bore the number 110. The next one in the drawer was 112.

“Benzig!” The chemist blurted the name, in a wild call for his missing assistant. “Benzig!”

Valdan had forgotten that he had bolted the door. A slight sound from behind him made him think that his assistant had returned. Scrambling downward from the ladder, Valdan began to turn. A click from the door; the little laboratory, windowless, was plunged in darkness. A form sprang forward; Valdan grappled with an unseen assailant.

The struggle was short-lived. Valdan toppled to the floor. Hands gripped his head and pounded it fiercely upon the stone flooring. Fierce panting sounded in the darkness. Then the vicious assailant held his breath and listened. No further sound came from Troxton Valdan.

The killer arose. Though he tiptoed, his footfalls clicked strangely in that darkened room. Then came the grate of the bolt as Valdan’s attacker drew it back. Eyes peered into the deserted outer laboratory. The killer moved forth and closed the door behind him.

Deep stillness reigned in the inner room. Minutes passed; then the door opened and an astonished exclamation came in the voice of Benzig. The assistant seemed surprised to find the room in darkness.

“I–I thought Mr. Valdan was in here!” Benzig was speaking to Crowder, who had come with him. “But — but the light is out—”

Crowder’s hand pressed the switch. Then came blurted exclamations from both servant and assistant. Standing just inside the doorway, they stared at the prone form of their employer. Troxton Valdan was lying face up on the floor, at the bottom of the ladder. His feet were beside the lowest step.

The chemist’s head was resting in a pool of blood. His skull had been fractured by that smash against the floor. Crowder and Benzig staring, both had the same thought. The servant was the first to voice it, in an awed gasp.

“Dead!” whispered Crowder, tensely. “The master — Mr. Valdan — someone has killed him!”