The Death Triangle

CHAPTER IV A QUESTION OF ETHICS

DOCTOR JOHAN ARBERG was standing by the window of his room in the Hotel Imperator. Twenty-two stories above the sidewalks of New York, the Danish physician was studying the glimmering lights of Manhattan.

On this, his first stay in New York City, the prominent blood specialist was experiencing the fascination of the huge metropolis. Imagination, however, rather than actual visualization, was responsible for Doctor Arberg’s steady observation. Mentally, the specialist was likening the glittering lights of the city to sparkling gems.

One reason for Doctor Arberg’s visit to New York had been the lure of purchasing a collection of valuable jewels which he had learned were up for sale. He had planned to visit the owner tonight; he had just received a telephone call, saying that the jewels had been delivered to another party.

Doctor Arberg was a trifle piqued.

He could not understand why he had not been given the opportunity to see the gems. That, he decided, was due to the mania for quick business transactions which seemed to govern all Americans. In Denmark, Doctor Arberg reflected, anyone offering gems for sale would have given every possible purchaser a chance to examine them.

Doctor Arberg, as he turned away from the window, appeared exactly as The Shadow had impersonated him. The shape of his beard, the size of his mustache, the curl of his hair — all had been duplicated to perfection. Even the stoop of the elderly man’s shoulders had been copied to exactitude.

The real Doctor Arberg, however, showed no sign of latent power. He was a man well preserved for his age, that was all. He glanced about the room with a rather querulous air, and his eye noted a little clock which rested upon a writing table.

The clock was one of Doctor Arberg’s most cherished possessions. He always carried it with him when he traveled. In keeping with the physician’s hobby, the collection of jewels, the case of the clock was embellished with small but valuable diamonds that corresponded with each number on the dial.

The clock registered exactly nine. Doctor Arberg reached out to pick up the timepiece. He stopped as the telephone began to ring.

LIFTING the receiver, the physician pronounced his identity and began to nod his head as he heard the voice from the other end of the wire.

“Ah, yess!” he exclaimed. “Doctor Barton Keyes. I am pleased to hear from you, doctor. How iss the patient?”

A brief response came over the wire. Arberg continued his nodding, as though face to face with the speaker.

“I am glad to hear what you say,” declared the Danish physician. “It iss good that the injections haff produced the results I promised… What iss that? You are at Mr. Cyril Wycliff’s home at present?… Very good, doctor. I can come there tonight… Yess… Yess. The reason I made the appointment for tomorrow night wass because I had a very important visit to make tonight. That appointment iss no longer. I haff heard from the man I wass to see, and he hass said not to see him. You understand?”

Still wagging his head, Doctor Arberg took paper and pencil, and copied down instructions which came over the wire. He concluded the call, hung up the receiver, and turned away from the telephone. As he looked up toward the center of the room, Arberg stopped suddenly and stared half startled.

Directly in front of him stood a dark-haired man of medium height. The intruder was about forty-five years of age. His bearing marked him as a man of professional accomplishment; his attire, quiet in color, was similar to that which Arberg wore.

The visitor bowed as he caught Arberg’s eye, and the old physician felt more at ease as he noted the man’s friendly demeanor. Nevertheless, the Dane detected a shifty look in the sallow face which he was observing, and could not repress a lurking suspicion that this visit might bode ill.

“Who are you?” demanded Arberg. “How did you enter here?”

“I knocked at the door,” said the visitor, in a suave tone. “I found it unlocked, and I entered. You were telephoning.”

“The door wass locked!” challenged Arberg.

“I found it otherwise,” returned the visitor.

“What iss your purpose here?” questioned Arberg, in his thick voice, forgetting the matter of the door.

“To discuss an ethical problem with you,” replied the sallow-faced man. “I, too, am a physician. My name is Martin Hamprell.”

“Sit down,” invited Arberg, waving his visitor to a chair.

Hamprell responded. Doctor Arberg remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. The elderly man was evidently waiting for the visitor to present his problem.

MARTIN HAMPRELL began.

“First, Doctor Arberg,” he said, “you must believe me when I say that I was not eavesdropping. I chanced to hear a portion of your conversation across the telephone. However, I was already familiar with the matter.”

“You mean the case of Cyril Wycliff?”

“Exactly. Cyril Wycliff, as I understand it, is being treated for thrombosis under your direction. Doctor Barton Keyes is the New York physician attending him.”

“Yess. That iss right.”

“As I understand your treatment,” continued Hamprell, “your method is to destroy a thrombus or embolism by the means of carefully prepared injections—”

“Let me explain,” interjected Doctor Arberg, drawing himself up as though addressing a class. “I haff proved my theories, Doctor Hamprell. It iss a very useful method which I use.

“When a blood clot forms in a vein of the body, it iss called a thrombus, and iss very dangerous. If it becomes detached, it will pass to a spot where it will bring quick death. You, of course, as a medical man, know this.

“The patient who hass thrombosis, I keep in bed for a long time, no matter how healthy he iss. Then, by the injections, I cause the blood clot to dissolve. The blood, itself made stronger by the injections, will carry away the clot. With this done, the disease of thrombosis comes to an end. The clot, made so tiny before it iss taken away, can do no harm.”

“I understand,” nodded Hamprell. “Doctor Keyes is using your injections. His patient, Cyril Wycliff, is improving. Moreover, Keyes has already cured other cases of thrombosis through the use of your injections.”

“Yess,” agreed Arberg. “From Copenhagen, I haff sent Doctor Keyes the word of how he must giff the injections. He hass asked me to stop here in New York. He wants me to see how well the patient, Cyril Wycliff, hass been doing under the treatment. I am going to the house tonight.”

Hamprell nodded wisely. A scornful smile appeared upon his lips. Arberg stared wonderingly. With the Dane’s curiosity aroused, Hamprell offered his explanation.

“Doctor Arberg,” he declared suavely, “this man Keyes is using you to benefit his own practice. He has been taking the credit for his cures upon himself. He claims that he is the originator of your treatment.

“Here is his game. You have come from Denmark to America. You are stopping here in New York. Doctor Keyes is inviting you to see what he has accomplished. The word will go around that you came to learn from him. You, the master, will be marked as the pupil.”

Martin Hamprell paused to study the effect of his words upon the Danish specialist. Hamprell’s tone had carried conviction. His face, however, marked him as a schemer. Perhaps it was that fact that made Doctor Arberg blaze with anger.

“This iss a lie!” cried the specialist. “It cannot be so! It iss a lie, I tell you!”

“It is a question of ethics,” interposed Hamprell suavely. “I can assure you, Doctor Arberg, that you will be nothing more than a dupe if you visit Cyril Wycliff’s home. Doctor Keyes has been counting on your visit to further his game. If you refuse to go to Wycliff’s, you will defeat his motive.”

FOR a moment, Arberg began to appear convinced. His white head nodded. He strode across the room and reached the telephone.

“I shall call Doctor Keyes,” he announced. “I shall ask him of this. I shall tell him what I haff been told—”

“Wait!” interposed Hamprell, rising. “Do not act foolishly, Doctor Arberg. If you call Keyes, he will deny all that I have said. He will be on guard. You can do better by following the plan that I have to offer.”

“What iss that?”

“Do not go to see Doctor Keyes. Forget all about this appointment at Wycliff’s home. Wait until tomorrow. That will be the test. If Keyes calls up and asks why you did not come, it will prove that he is playing fair.

“But if Keyes is crooked, then he will suspect that you have learned his game. He will be afraid to call you again. You will have your answer.”

The old physician stared thoughtfully. Then, with a gesture of resignation, he laid down the telephone. He walked toward the window and looked out at the lights of the city. His face, turned away from Martin Hamprell, became suddenly tense, but the white beard hid the expression.

Doctor Arberg was in doubt. He had held long correspondence with Doctor Barton Keyes. He believed the man to be a sincere practitioner of the Arberg system that counteracted thrombosis. Considering the problem, Arberg came to a very keen decision.

This unknown visitor, Martin Hamprell, who claimed to be a physician, had accused Doctor Barton Keyes of unethical practices. If Hamprell spoke the truth, Keyes must be investigated. On the contrary, if Keyes should be the honest man that Arberg supposed, what of Hamprell? Such circumstances, obviously, would mark Hamprell as the man who played a hidden game.

Doctor Arberg looked from the corner of his eye. He caught the reflection of Martin Hamprell’s face in the mirror. He detected a gloating expression. Hamprell, believing himself unwatched, had allowed an insidious smile to spread upon his lips. Seeing this, Doctor Arberg knew the truth.

Martin Hamprell, he decided, was some impostor. It was essential to deal with him as such. Doctor Arberg turned from the window and went back to the writing desk.

“I thank you for coming here, sir,” he declared. “I shall follow your advice. I haff another appointment which I can make this evening. I shall call those people on the telephone, yess. The number iss here, in this drawer.”

Martin Hamprell watched the old physician fumble in the table drawer. The shrewd visitor still wore his gloating smile. It changed, of a sudden, when Doctor Arberg wheeled away from the table.

In his hand the white-bearded Dane held a small revolver. With it, he covered the intruder. Eyes blazing, Johan Arberg cried out his accusations of the other.

“You are the one who plays a game!” he challenged. “It iss you — not Doctor Keyes — who iss the bad one! Stand where you are! It iss the police who shall hear of this!”

Martin Hamprell began to back away. The distance between himself and Arberg was too great to warrant a wild forward rush. Covered by a loaded gun, the intruder was taken unaware. He held his position as he saw Doctor Arberg reach for the telephone.

Then, with the knowledge that arrest awaited him, Hamprell did the unexpected. Still moving backward, he turned his body a trifle to the right. With a quick movement of his right hand, he reached in his coat pocket and snatched forth a short, stub-barreled revolver.

DOCTOR ARBERG saw the weapon flash. The Dane proved his mettle. Forgetting the telephone, he quickly pressed the trigger of his small gun, just as Hamprell made a forward leap. Hasty, with faltering aim, the old man missed his mark.

The revolver report brought an immediate response. Hamprell, now that a shot had been fired, threw caution to the winds. He fired in return. Doctor Arberg staggered, a bullet in his left shoulder. Bravely, the old Dane delivered another shot. His tottering destroyed his aim. Hamprell, leaping to close range, fired once again. Doctor Johan Arberg fell back upon the table, a bullet through his heart.

Martin Hamprell, the smoking revolver in his hand, saw the gun drop from the Dane’s fingers. He watched Arberg’s body, with arms outstretched upon the table, as it slid slowly forward, the bearded face staring straight upward.

Then came the collapse. Arberg’s form went down in crazy fashion. His long arms, sliding along the table, carried objects with them. An inkwell bounced upon the floor. The jeweled clock thudded close beside it. Arberg’s body, its shirt front covered with a widening splotch of crimson blood, sprawled piteously upon the carpet.

Slowly, mechanically, Martin Hamprell replaced the revolver in his pocket. His eyes were staring. His lips wore their petrified smile of evil.

The intruder had gained his say. Doctor Johan Arberg would not visit Doctor Barton Keyes and Cyril Wycliff tonight. Hamprell’s will had prevailed. All that differed was the cause which would keep Johan Arberg from his call.

Murder, not ethics, was the reason why Doctor Arberg would fail in his appointment. The man whose life The Shadow had tonight saved, had died at the hand of a fiend more potent than the evil men whom The Shadow had defeated!