Death Sleep

CHAPTER IX AIDS OF THE SHADOW

SHORTLY before eight o’clock that evening, a young man of marked professional appearance made his exit from the portals of the Talleyrand Hospital. As he was descending the stone steps, he encountered an elderly man coming upward. The arrival paused and thrust out his hand to the young man.

“Rupert Sayre!” exclaimed the old man. “What are you doing in this bailiwick? Don’t tell me that you have joined the staff of the Talleyrand Hospital!”

“Hello, Doctor Derry,” responded the younger man. “I haven’t seen you since the year I graduated from medical school. No, I’m not on the Talleyrand staff. Just happened to drop in to see Freddy Lawson.”

“A fine physician, that young man,” nodded Doctor Derry. “I believe that Lawson will become the finest dermatologist that we have ever had in this institution. Well, well, Rupert. It is a pleasure to see you. Still engaged in general practice.”

“Yes, sir.”

The two men parted. Rupert Sayre walked along the street to an obscure spot and entered the driver’s side of a parked coupe. A low voice spoke from the darkness:

“Did you learn anything, Doc?”

“Yes,” replied Sayre. “I don’t know how important it is, Vincent; but it may be exactly what you are looking for. I had a long talk with Lawson; he spent an hour showing me around the place.”

“You saw the death sleep patients?”

“Yes. I did not meet Doctor Lagwood, however. But I remembered your request — to catch the details of any unusual incident. I learned of one that has reference to a new attendant.”

“What was it?”

“A fellow named Charles Dowther — at least that was the name he gave for himself — was given a job only a few days ago. It appears that several attendants were discharged for drunkenness quite recently. This man managed to gain employment without giving details of previous experience. Being short-handed, the institution was ready to take on almost anyone who applied.”

“I see.”

“Dowther was put to work moving wheel chairs and running errands. He worked on the floor where Doctor Lagwood’s laboratory is located and I believe that he must have been in a position to observe what was going on there. Well, Dowther held his job fine until this afternoon.”

“What happened then?”

“He let a wheel chair get away from him coming down a flight of stairs. First of all, he had no right with it there; he should have taken it down by elevator. As luck had it, the wheel chair bounced across the hallway and bowled over a plaster statue of Hermes — a life-sized object. To make matters worse, the statue fell upon a glass case that contained an architect’s model of the hospital building and smashed that beyond repair.”

“Was Dowther discharged?”

“No. That is the odd part about it. Since the matter appeared to be an accident, he was severely reprimanded for not obeying rules regarding wheel chairs in the elevator. But he apparently thought that he would be dismissed, for he returned late after going out to supper. He arrived only twenty minutes ago and he was creating a great scene. That was how Lawson happened to tell me all about him.”

“What was the matter with him?”

“Drunk. He came in through the attendants’ entrance and began to argue with everyone in sight. ‘Fire me will you? Who’s going to fire me? I’ll resign.’ That was the burden of his theme. So they were firing him when I left.”

“You mean he was still putting up an argument?”

“Yes. Refusing to take the pay that they were giving him. Said they could keep the money and buy another statue of a guy with wings on his derby hat.”

“It must have been funny, Doc.”

“It was, Vincent. Particularly because the man was faking intoxication.”

“You are sure?”

“Positively,” affirmed Sayre. “But I was the only person who detected it. Vincent, that fellow wanted to be fired” — the doctor paused to catch his companion’s arm — “watch there! By that lighted entrance. Here comes the chap now.”

A HUNCHED figure was staggering from the side of the hospital. In one hand the man held several dollar bills; in the other, he waved a derby hat. He paused to turn back toward the entrance, where attendants were watching his departure. Then, with a final gesture of contempt, the man staggered to the street.

He passed the parked coupe, muttering to himself and balking in his gait. He stopped suddenly; turned about and looked back. Satisfied that no one was still watching him, he steadied suddenly and laughed. He moved off into the darkness, shuffling out of sight.

“I told you that he was faking, Vincent—”

“So long Doc. I’m following him. Thanks.”

Sayre’s companion opened the door and stepped to the sidewalk. Sayre waited until he had passed from view; then started the motor and drove off in his coupe.

To Doctor Rupert Sayre this episode had been both unusual and important. He had come to the Talleyrand Hospital in response to a telephone request from a friend named Lamont Cranston. On the way, Sayre had stopped at the Metrolite Hotel to bring along a man named Harry Vincent. This had been in accord with Cranston’s request.

Once — it seemed long ago — Rupert Sayre had been saved from death by a mysterious personage cloaked in black. He had never guessed the exact identity of that being; but he connected his mysterious benefactor with a friend whom he had gained at the same period: Lamont Cranston.

Ever since then, the young physician had been ready to conform to any course that Cranston might suggest. He had served this important friend more than once. Thus Doctor Rupert Sayre had become an aid of The Shadow.

HARRY VINCENT, trailing the attendant dismissed from the Talleyrand Hospital, was a young man who had played a much more active part in The Shadow’s enterprises. Harry had been assigned to the task of watching events at the Talleyrand Hospital. Handicapped, he had reported his difficulties to Burbank. His meeting with Rupert Sayre had been the answer.

As Harry moved easily but rapidly along the streets not far from the hospital, he realized that he was trailing a product of the underworld. This was a correct assumption; for Harry was in pursuit of none other than “Skeet” Wurrick. This underling of crime had used the name of Dowther when he had gained the job at the Talleyrand Hospital.

It had required two offenses for Skeet to be fired. His smashing of the statue had been deliberate. Skeet had made it look like an accident. Reprimanded but not dismissed, he had feigned drunkenness in order to carry out Spud Claxter’s orders. Skeet was now bound for the little drug store that bore the name of Hoffer’s Pharmacy.

Skeet made a shifty detour that brought him to the entrance of a blind alley. He ducked out of sight. Harry Vincent, coming from the corner that Skeet had just turned, was deceived by the ruse. The Shadow’s agent kept along the block.

Skeet had not suspected that someone was following him. At the end of the alley, he found a basement window at the back of the pharmacy. He pried it loose, slid his wiry body into the opening and found himself in Hoffer’s cellar. Skeet inspected with a flashlight.

Luck favored the gangster. He found the door of a closet, opened it, and spotted the gallon bottle on a shelf. Skeet recognized the greenish liquid and examined the label. Extinguishing his flashlight, he grabbed the prize that he sought and made his way back to the window. Three minutes later, he sneaked from the blind alley and hastened across the street.

It was then that Harry Vincent spotted him. The Shadow’s agent was returning from the opposite direction. He caught sight of Skeet’s shifty form passing beneath an isolated street lamp. He saw the bottle that the fellow was carrying. Then Skeet reached the corner.

Harry pursued, swiftly, but with caution. He reached the corner and spied Skeet nearly a block away, just about to turn another corner. Harry hurried forward. He was too late. He reached the corner just in time to see a car shoot away from halfway down the block.

The Shadow’s agent was chagrined at his failure. There was only one course left to him. That was a report to Burbank. Harry walked along until he found a cigar store near a corner. He put in a call to the contact man, made his report, and received orders to return to the Metrolite Hotel.

WHILE Harry Vincent was encountering this failure, another agent of The Shadow was at work within the confines of the underworld. Seated at a table in a dive called the Black Ship, a sturdy chap with a chiseled countenance was listening to the boastful talk of a husky mobster sitting opposite.

The firm-faced man was Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s agent in the underworld. Cliff had gained a name for himself in the badlands. It commanded the respect of tough gorillas. The fellow opposite him — Luke Gonrey — was the type of gangster whom Cliff could make talk freely.

“I’m sayin’ nothin’ to nobody,” Luke was confiding, in a low growl. “But that don’t mean you, Cliff. You’re somebody. I know when an’ how to keep mum; but I know the few gazebos it don’t hurt nobody to talk to — an’ you’re one of ‘em.”

Cliff shrugged his shoulders. A bottle was beside him; he shoved it across the table and watched Luke fill his glass. Cliff knew that something was in the wind. He had been watching for gorillas who were spending money. He had spotted Luke, begun a chat with the fellow and let Luke do the talking.

“I got a good break, Cliff,” asserted Luke. “That’s why I’m tellin’ you about it. Real dough in it. Got some mazuma slipped to me in advance. That means there’s more comin’.”

“It generally does,” observed Cliff. “Sometimes it means a catch.”

“Not this trip,” retorted Luke. “I’ll tell you why. The guy that slipped me the cash” — he leaned across the table and reduced his voice to a whisper — “was Spud Claxter.”

“Thought he was out of town,” responded Cliff.

“Spud?” chuckled Luke. “Guess again. This wad of dough” — he exhibited a bankroll — “means that Spud’s in the city. An’ this green ain’t all fins an’ sawbucks, neither. Say, Cliff — I’m goin’ to wise up Spud. He ought to have you in the outfit.”

“Yeah? What’s the game, Luke?”

Luke grinned.

“Might as well spill it,” he decided. “Spud’s givin’ me half a grand. Two centuries in advance — that’s the wad I just showed you. Well — Spud picked me because I know how to use a smokewagon. No Boy Scouts in his crew. No argument about the dough. He coughed up what I asked for.”

“Not bad.”

“You bet it ain’t. Say — there’s plenty of gazebos would bump off their whole family for half a grand. But that ain’t the point. What I’m drivin’ at is this. If Spud wanted me, he’ll want you. Savvy?”

“For half a grand?”

“Naw. That’s where I was dumb. Thought I was shootin’ high, but found I was low. Say — Spud won’t find no better guy with a rod than you. I’m goin’ to tell him that. Savvy?”

“And what then?”

“You’ll get a bid from Spud. Hold out for a grand. He’ll come through. Then” — Luke’s tone was wary — “you an’ me make a divvy.”

“On the grand?”

“Half of it,” responded Luke, eyeing Cliff warily. “Half a grand is yours. The other half goes two ways. You an’ me, fifty-fifty. Worth it, ain’t it, for the tip?”

“Maybe,” said Cliff.

“Say,” argued Luke, “if Spud come to you straight an’ wanted to talk turkey, you’d hook up with his outfit for half a grand, wouldn’t you? Well — I’m tellin’ you how we can both split half a grand besides.”

“When are you going to see Spud?” questioned Cliff.

“That’s the tough part,” growled Luke. “There ain’t no chance of your hookin’ in on this first job, because we’re goin’ out tomorrow night an’ the outfit’s all set. But there’s more jobs comin’.

“Same dough for each job. All right. Tomorrow night I buzz in Spud’s ear. Fix it for you. You’ll be in the outfit next trip — an’ I figure Spud’ll have plenty more dough by then. You get the grand. We split half of it—”

“On the first job I’m in on? Only that one?”

“All right,” agreed Luke, reluctantly, seeing he could get no further. “Are you in?”

“Yes,” replied Cliff, “if you tell Spud that I won’t work for less than a grand.”

“I’ll fix that. Listen. Spud wants me to be here tomorrow night. This is where I’ll get word where to meet him. See? I’m to be here every night, because this is the joint where I hang out most of the time.

“Tomorrow, I go out with Spud’s crew. The next night, I’ll chew the fat with you. Right here, at this table.”

Cliff nodded. He made a warning gesture; then arose and strolled from the Black Ship.

Luke smiled approvingly. Good business, not to be seen with Cliff any longer. The gorilla crinkled his roll of bills. He was looking forward to the rest of his five hundred; then another payment, plus a cut from Cliff Marsland.

Outside, Cliff sauntered along until he reached a dilapidated store some distance from the Black Ship. He entered, found a battered telephone booth and put in a call to Burbank.

LATER, The Shadow entered his sanctum to find the tiny bulb glowing on the far wall. His invisible hands lifted the earphones. He heard the prompt voice across the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report,” ordered The Shadow.

The word came through. The earphones moved to the wall. The Shadow did not turn on the blue light after the call was finished. Instead, he uttered a whispered laugh; the token that brought the silence of his departure.

Two reports. Harry Vincent had admitted failure; Cliff Marsland was counting on prospects only. Yet The Shadow’s laugh denoted satisfaction. His keen brain had divined the reason for the theft made by Skeet Wurrick. The information gained from Cliff Marsland was sufficient for his plan of campaign.

The Shadow knew that crime was due. It would strike tomorrow night. When crime arrived, The Shadow would be present at the scene of action.