Death Sleep

CHAPTER VI TWO GUINEA PIGS

ONE hour after Crowder and Benzig had discovered the body of Troxton Valdan, Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth emerged from a telephone booth at the Cobalt Club. He hurried excitedly to the cloak room and thrust his head across the counter while he pointed out his coat and hat. He wanted the garments quickly.

Seizing his coat from the attendant, Barth began to put it on as he hastened toward the outer door. As he neared the exit, the commissioner bumped into another person who was entering. Grasping his spectacles just as they were about to drop from his nose, Barth found himself face to face with Lamont Cranston.

“Sorry, commissioner,” remarked the millionaire, in his quiet manner. “What is the trouble?”

“An important police case,” responded Barth, pausing long enough to explain his haste. “A strange death that requires my personal investigation.”

“You have your car here?”

“No. I intend to take a cab.”

“Not at all. My limousine is outside. At your service, Mr. Barth.”

Turning, Cranston accompanied the commissioner to the sidewalk. Stanley caught the door man’s signal. The limousine rolled over to the curb. Cranston motioned Stanley to remain at the wheel. While the Cobalt Club attendant was opening the door of the car, Cranston gave instructions.

“Drive Commissioner Barth wherever he orders,” said Cranston, to Stanley. “Keep the car at his disposal. Simply telephone me, Stanley, so that I shall know where to reach you.”

“This is fine of you, Cranston!” exclaimed Barth, as he was stepping into the limousine. “But I shall not accept the latter part of your offer. As soon as I have reached my destination, I shall send the car back here. That is” — the commissioner paused — “unless—”

“Unless what?” queried Cranston, quietly.

“Unless you should care to go along,” completed Barth. “Perhaps” — the commissioner’s tone was slightly condescending — “perhaps you might be interested in observing the law at work.”

“Very well,” responded Cranston, with the slightest trace of a smile upon his thin lips. “Suppose I accompany you, commissioner.”

With that he entered the car and passed the speaking tube to Barth. The commissioner gave Stanley the address of Troxton Valdan’s home. The limousine rolled northward, while Barth talked to Cranston.

“I WAS summoned last night,” explained the commissioner, “to view the scene of an extraordinary mystery. Of course you have read about it in the newspaper, Cranston. I refer to the strange death sleep that overpowered four victims.”

“I glanced at the headlines,” responded Cranston, “but I did not read the details. Are the victims recovering?”

“Their condition had not changed at three o’clock this afternoon. I received a report from the physician in charge — Doctor Seton Lagwood.”

“I have heard of him. A specialist in such maladies as sleeping sickness.”

“Yes. Somewhat radical in his methods of treatment, I understand, and therefore the very man to handle these cases.”

“Why so?”

“Because the victims were overcome by what appears to be a new malady. A more conservative physician would not give these cases the thorough attention that Lagwood has exhibited. I believe that the coincidence was most fortunate.”

“To what coincidence do you refer?”

“The episode,” explained Barth, “took place in an apartment building not far from the Talleyrand Hospital. Hence the victims were taken there for treatment. The Talleyrand chances to be the one Manhattan hospital that relies solely upon Doctor Lagwood in cases of this sort.”

“Quite a coincidence,” responded Cranston. “What of the case which now summons you, commissioner?”

“It concerns the death of a chemist named Troxton Valdan,” stated Barth. “Nothing to do with last night’s occurrence. We proved conclusively that crime was absent at the apartment of Seth Tanning. But there is evidence of crime at Troxton Valdan’s.

“Detective Cardona — acting inspector for the present — is under instructions to notify me of any unusual cases that he encounters. He called me at the club to tell me of this one. It appears that Troxton Valdan was found dead in his laboratory; and the evidence balances between foul play and accidental death. The very type of case that requires my personal attention.”

WHEN the limousine pulled up in front of Valdan’s house, a policeman appeared and saluted the commissioner. The officer led the way up the brownstone steps and down the inner stairway into the large laboratory. Here Barth and Cranston were met by Joe Cardona, who led them into the smaller room. They viewed Valdan’s body. Barth looked toward the police surgeon who had just completed an examination.

“Death was instantaneous, commissioner,” reported the physician. “Caused by a fracture at the back of the skull. His head must have received a terrific blow.”

“A fall from the ladder would have been sufficient?”

“Yes. The man looks like he was a healthy specimen; but he is certainly well along in his sixties. Vertigo would not be unexpected. The effort of climbing the ladder could have caused it.”

“Then the evidence points to accidental death.”

Barth made this statement in a tone of assurance. It brought a smile from Cardona, who was standing by. The detective invariably encountered a problem when he dealt with the police commissioner. Barth had a tendency to be over-critical of Cardona’s judgment; to form conclusions that were designed to belittle the detective’s theories. In this case, Cardona had waited for Barth to form a half-baked decision; and the commissioner had fallen for the ruse.

“Quite simple,” amplified Barth, turning to Cranston. “One must avoid the usual tendency that is a common fault of police investigators. The average detective attempts to connect crime with every death that he views.

“Here we have a dead man — well advanced in years — lying with fractured skull at the foot of a ladder. It is obvious that he opened that high drawer” — Barth pointed toward the ceiling — “and lost his balance. The fall killed him. Of course, Cardona” — the commissioner smiled indulgently as he turned to the detective — “I must commend you for notifying me so promptly regarding this case. Even though my judgment merely supports the obvious conclusion, you showed wisdom in bringing me to this scene.”

“Just a moment, commissioner,” remarked the detective. “There is one point about this case that I didn’t have a chance to explain. This room is not exactly as it was just after the death of Troxton Valdan.”

“Ah!” Barth’s countenance changed suddenly. “You mean that you have found some piece of evidence? Or that something has been removed?”

“Neither,” replied Cardona. “I have touched nothing.”

“But you have made some change since your arrival?”

“None. The room is exactly as I found it. But it is not as it was when these men” — Cardona indicated Benzig and Crowder — “when these employees of Valdan’s entered.”

“What!” exclaimed Barth. “You mean that they deliberately muddied matters?”

“Not at all,” declared Cardona. “On the contrary, commissioner, they performed a very simple and necessary action immediately after they opened the door.”

“What was that?” demanded Barth, perplexed.

“They turned on the light,” responded Cardona, with a smile.

WAINWRIGHT BARTH stood staring. His bald head glistened, while his eyes blinked through the pince-nez spectacles. Caught off guard, the commissioner was still puzzled. While Barth stood silent, Cardona spoke.

“Taking the obvious, commissioner,” the detective stated, “we can agree that Valdan was on that ladder, looking through the file. But it is not logical that he was doing it without any light. You can’t go through a filing cabinet in a pitch dark room.”

“You should have told me this when I arrived,” snapped Barth. “This places a different aspect on the entire case. Come; let me hear what the witnesses have to say.”

“Here are their statements.”

“Let them repeat them, in brief.”

Cardona beckoned Benzig forward. The assistant was nervous. Cardona introduced him, then ordered the man to repeat his story.

“I was in here with Mr. Valdan,” testified Benzig. “He had just returned from a trip out of town. He was annoyed because he did not find the evening newspaper on his table. So I took the opportunity to go and find Crowder.”

“Why?” quizzed Barth.

“Because it was Crowder’s duty to leave the newspaper here, I crossed the outer laboratory. Then I heard the door of this room close. I decided that Mr. Valdan wanted to be alone. In fact, I thought sir — but I can not be quite sure — that I heard Mr. Valdan slide the bolt after he had closed the door.”

“Was that his custom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because he had experiments of his own. I never ventured to inquire into their nature. My work was in the outer laboratory. Mere routine, sir.”

“What did you do after the door closed?” inquired Barth.

“I continued upstairs,” resumed Benzig. “I looked for Crowder. I called but he did not answer. So I went up to the second floor — that is, the third floor, if you count this as the first—”

“I understand. Proceed.”

“When I came down, I found Crowder. He had come from the kitchen, sir. I mentioned the matter of the newspaper. He was quite surprised. He stated that he had placed it in this little laboratory. So he came along with me, to inform Mr. Valdan of the fact.”

“Then you both returned together?”

“Yes, sir. We should have knocked at the door; but I opened it without thinking. I was surprised to note that the light was out. Crowder pressed the switch, sir. Then — then we saw the body.”

BARTH cocked his head and studied the mild-faced assistant. Benzig seemed to shrink under the commissioner’s eagle gaze. Barth waved Benzig aside and spoke to Crowder.

“Your story,” ordered the commissioner.

“I was in the kitchen,” stated the solemn servant. “I was preparing a light supper for Mr. Valdan. I chanced to come out into the hallway; I found Benzig there. He told me that he had been calling for me and that he had looked about on the upper floor.

“Then he mentioned the newspaper, sir. So I came down here with him. Benzig opened the door. I turned on the light. I saw Mr. Valdan’s body.”

Barth studied the servant in the same fashion as he had eyed the assistant. He paced back and forth beside Valdan’s body. He swung suddenly to Benzig and snapped a question.

“You think that Valdan bolted the door?” questioned the commissioner.

“Yes,” replied Benzig. “But it may have been my imagination. You see, sir, Mr. Valdan had spoken about the outer door — the one in the large laboratory — the door that leads to the little alleyway between this house and the next—”

“What did he say about it?”

“He made sure that it was bolted, sir. That was before he came in here.”

“Is that outer door bolted now?” demanded Barth, turning to Cardona.

“No,” replied the detective. “The bolt is drawn.”

“But I bolted it, sir!” exclaimed Benzig. “After the delivery men left the box of guinea pigs. I am sure I did so, for Mr. Valdan checked on it.”

“Delivery men?” questioned Barth, of Cardona. “Who were they?”

“I have Benzig’s complete statement here,” declared the detective. “There was a wrong delivery of equipment yesterday; today the same men brought an unordered crate of guinea pigs. Shall I have Benzig repeat his statements?”

“No,” snapped Barth, suddenly. “Remove these witnesses. We must examine this room at once.”

POLICEMEN conducted Benzig and Crowder from the room. Barth closed the door and studied the bolt very closely. Cardona remarked that there were no finger prints. Barth shot the bolt and turned to the detective.

“Tell me about the delivery men,” ordered Barth.

“Yesterday,” stated the detective, referring to his notes, “several men showed up with three boxes that they said contained laboratory equipment. This is according to Benzig’s testimony.”

“I understand. Proceed.”

“Benzig says he unbolted the outer door and let them in. Valdan had gone away; he had said nothing about the equipment. So Benzig went upstairs and asked Crowder. The servant knew nothing. Benzig returned and sent the men away with the boxes.”

“I see. And they returned today?”

“Yes. With a crate of guinea pigs. Benzig let them put the crate in here. This is it — over here by the body.”

“Why did Benzig accept the consignment of guinea pigs? Did he say?”

“Valdan used guinea pigs for some purpose. Had them around the laboratory. Benzig thought the shipment was O.K. — so he says.”

Cardona expected another question from the commissioner. It did not come. With one of his abrupt changes of tack, Barth began to pace across the room. He stopped by the table. Cardona joined him, while Cranston remained quietly observant.

“Here’s a box with two guinea pigs in it,” declared the detective. “They’re dead ones.”

“Humph,” grunted Barth, disinterested.

“And this big box drawn out from under the table,” added Cardona. “Nothing in it but a lot of lead pipe.”

“Humph,” repeated Barth.

“Folders in the filing cabinet drawer,” added Cardona. “They’re arranged according to numbers. One of them is missing. Number one hundred and eleven.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Barth. “Did you question Benzig on that matter?”

“Yes,” replied Cardona. “He said that Valdan had him arrange folders according to their numbers. That was about a month ago. The only trouble — and I checked on this by examining other drawers — is that a lot of numbers are missing.”

“Why?”

“Benzig says they represented old experiments, formulas and so on. Valdan chucked a lot of them that were no use any more and left the spaces blank.”

“Then we can assume that number one hundred and eleven was destroyed with the others. That is, unless we can positively assure ourselves that something has been taken from this room. Did you question Benzig on that score?”

“Yes. He looked around while I was watching him. But he couldn’t figure anything missing.”

Lamont Cranston had strolled over to the table. He lifted the cover of the box that contained the two guinea pigs. Barth saw him and smiled indulgently. The commissioner was concerned with matters more important than dead guinea pigs.

“We must quiz Benzig and Crowder,” decided Barth. “However, Cardona, we need a starting point. We must find it. If we could prove that something is missing from this little laboratory — something that we know should be here but—”

“You have already gained such proof,” interposed Cranston, quietly, as he leaned above the box that held the two guinea pigs.

“What?” questioned Barth excitedly. “You say that something is missing, Cranston? What makes you believe so?”

“The testimony of the witnesses.”

“But they knew of nothing that has been removed.”

“On the contrary,” remarked Cranston, turning toward the commissioner, “they were very specific in their statements. In fact, their arrival at this room was prompted by the disappearance of an object that should most certainly have been here.”

“You mean—”

“The copy of the afternoon newspaper.”

THE commissioner laughed. He seemed to take Cranston’s remark as a jest. Then, recalling the importance of the case, he became serious.

“This is no time for trifles, Cranston,” rebuked Barth. “Why should a murder have been committed over an afternoon newspaper? Assuming that some unknown person did remove the journal, how could that act have aided him in his attack on Troxton Valdan?”

“The answer is quite simple,” responded Cranston. “It is possible that Valdan, had he seen the newspaper, might have had some occasion for immediate alarm.”

“What could that have been?”

“The headlines.”

“You mean—”

“I mean,” asserted Cranston, firmly, “that the phrase ‘death sleep’ might have caught the eye of Troxton Valdan. That seeing it, the chemist might have instantly placed himself on guard.”

“Absurd,” interjected Barth. “Your imagination is tricking you, Cranston. There is no connection between that episode at Seth Tanning’s apartment and this death of Troxton Valdan.”

“No connection?” Cranston’s lips formed a thin smile. “I must disagree with you, commissioner. I have just been examining the evidence that proves the very connection of which I have spoken.”

“Where is it?” cried Barth, in excitement.

“Here,” responded Cranston, tapping the cardboard box.

“Two dead guinea pigs?” barked Barth. “What is this, Cranston — a hoax? Two guinea pigs — dead ones — have nothing to do with murder.”

“Two guinea pigs,” repeated Cranston, “but not dead ones. Examine them more closely, commissioner. Tell me, did you ever before observe dead animals that were on their feet — in a state that resembles suspended motion?”

Barth stared into the box. Cardona joined him and stared also. Cranston’s even tones came in quiet regularity, while his companions studied the cavies in the box.

“The two guinea pigs,” remarked the firm-faced millionaire, “are not dead. On the contrary” — the tone was unchanged, but the words came more slowly, drilling home the thought that they expressed — “on the contrary, those guinea pigs are paralyzed—”

As Cranston’s voice paused, Joe Cardona came bobbing up from the cardboard box. His usually stolid face betrayed sudden excitement. The detective needed no more to complete the idea that Cranston had begun.

“He’s right, commissioner!” exclaimed Joe. “The guinea pigs are paralyzed. Like those people were last night! It’s the death sleep again!”