Dead Men Kill (Stories from the Golden Age)

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “I wasn’t jesting,” Terry assured her. “Just wondering. Now, to get back to our conversation, perhaps you’d better tell me just where you come into this deal.”

  The girl glanced quickly about and then looked back at Lane.

  “I can’t tell you that, now. I have wanted to give you some tips. Perhaps you can use them. Morton is the next on the docket. He’ll be dead by tomorrow.”

  Lane leaned forward, his lean face tense. “You know that for sure?” She nodded.

  Like a shot Lane was out of the car once more. He walked up to a policeman who hung on the outskirts of the crowd.

  “Harrigan,” said Lane, “I want you to be sure and tell Leonard to spot half a dozen men at the Morton residence. Tell him to do it tonight, get me?”

  “Sure,” growled Harrigan. “But why don’t you tell him? I won’t be back there until nine.”

  Lane smiled over his shoulder. “Something tells me I may not be at Headquarters for quite some time.”

  “Got a date?” called Harrigan with a grin.

  “Yeah. I think I’ve got a date with a barrel full of lead.”

  The detective was again inside the gray sedan.

  “You interest me,” he said to Dawn Drayden. “But, if you’ll pardon my saying so, I’ve got a hunch I’m playing with dynamite.”

  “What do you mean?” gasped the girl.

  “Well, to put it bluntly, I expect to run up against Loup-garou within the next few minutes. And if I do, it’s going to be a showdown.”

  “You mean you think that I—”

  “That you’re on the inside,” snapped Lane. “I figure that you’re probably next to Leroux. You’re spilling this to me just for a play, aren’t you?”

  Annoyance flashed across the girl’s beautiful face and she came so close to Lane that he again received a whiff of the perfume.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Lane. If the truth were known, I’m the only one that can pull you out of an awfully deep mire. When all this thing is over, I’m only going to ask one thing. And you’re to grant that favor first.”

  Lane gave her a puzzled frown. “I don’t like the idea of promising anything rash.”

  “This won’t be anything rash,” she assured him. “It’s something fine and humane. I’m only afraid that you will be blind to it after you finish the case. I’ll help you to the limit if you’ll grant that favor, sight unseen, now.”

  “All right,” agreed Lane, suddenly decided. “It’s granted, sight unseen. Now, let’s have something else.”

  Before she spoke to him again, Dawn touched the chauffeur on the shoulder and ordered him to drive out through the gates and back to town. It was not until the gray stone portals were passing on either side that she continued.

  “It’s necessary that you take this Dr. Leroux alive,” she informed Lane. “Otherwise, you’ll never be able to prove his identity or grant me my favor. You have a difficult task before you.

  “It so happens that Loup-garou thinks that you have evidence of his identity or that you can trace him. I don’t know about that. At any cost, he is going to remove you from his path.”

  “You mean he’ll blast me?” asked Lane.

  “No, nothing as crude as machine-gunning. It would be something very subtle and delicate—like torture. But there’s one thing you must be careful to remember.” She paused so that the statement would take effect.

  “Do not—”

  A hard crash broke the comparative silence about them. For an instant Terry thought that it was a backfire of the car. But then he knew that he was wrong. The driver of the gray sedan pitched sidewise on the front seat, blood spurting from a hole in the side of his head!

  Dawn Drayden opened her carmine mouth to scream, but no sound came forth. Before Lane could reach for his gun, two things happened. The burly individual of past experience slipped in under the wheel. The car door swung open and a man with a black coat and hat stepped in from the machine which had come up beside them.

  The intruder looked up. A moment before his face had been obscured by his hat, but now he brought to view—a green mask!

  “Don’t move,” snapped Loup-garou, with a suggestive movement of his automatic. Calmly he shut the door, drew out the extra seat in front of them and sat down. His eyes glittered from the slits of his mask.

  Lane silently cursed himself for not having been on his guard against such a move. He would be responsible now for the fate of the girl. She had begged him not to show himself.

  But that last thought was doomed. Loup-garou chuckled thickly.

  “Nice work, Dawn,” commented the intruder. “I’ll remember you in my next paycheck.”

  Lane shot a horrified sidewise glance at the girl. A sardonic smile scarred her beauty. Then, it was true that she was in the pay of this fiend! The detective knew that he had been duped into a very clever trap. How, otherwise, could they have so silently captured him? He was thankful he had relayed his message to Harrigan. Morton at least . . .

  “And,” Loup-garou was saying, “you needn’t worry about Morton. Your friend Harrigan will be detained on his way to Headquarters. Oh, nothing rough, of course. We’ll hold him until it’s too late, and then let him go. You know, you should consider yourself quite lucky.”

  The man broke off and chuckled. Then, thickly, he continued: “It isn’t every detective who has the privilege of knowing beforehand who commits a murder. You see, Lane, Morton will be dead before sunrise!”

  Lane’s mouth was a thin gash across his narrow face. “Go on,” he mocked. “You interest me.”

  Loup-garou evidently found some atom of humor in this, for he chuckled again. “You know, Lane, it isn’t every man that gets the chance to converse with the dead.”

  “Meaning?”

  The man shrugged vaguely. “What do you think?”

  “I suppose you want me to think that you’re dead, too. Nice idea.”

  “Before we were so rudely interrupted last night, we were talking about a pharmacy bill.” Loup-garou’s tone had sunk to an ominous monotony of sound. “You gave a photostat to a chemist. You asked him to check up on it.” He nodded and his eyes gleamed wolfishly.

  “Evidently, you do not know the secret. I want the bill and all other photostats.”

  Lane said nothing—his silence shouted a negative.

  “Then,” shrugged Loup-garou, “I shall have to take you to a certain place I have in mind. Incidentally, Lane, the chemist will be waylaid tonight and robbed. You can’t count on that copy.”

  Dawn Drayden stared straight in front of her, still smiling, as though faintly amused by the proceedings. Lane’s blue eyes narrowed with disgust as he looked at her. The detective was thinking rapidly, trying to piece out a case and devise a method of escape at the same time.

  “If you’ll look out the window,” chuckled Loup-garou, “you’ll find that night has fallen. Perhaps that will make you understand that there is little hope of rescue for you.”

  Before he thought twice, Lane pulled aside the curtain absently and glanced out.

  Loup-garou leaned swiftly forward and reversed the gun in his hand, holding it by the muzzle. Although Lane’s head would be turned only for an instant, even that short space of time was enough. The gun butt came up and then lanced down, to thud solidly against Lane’s head.

  The detective jerked back and reached out. The gun butt smashed down again.

  Slowly, Lane sank forward, jolting under the motion of the car. Watchfully, Loup-garou held the automatic ready for a third blow, but there was evidently no need of it. The detective slumped wearily to the floor and lay quite still.

  Loup-garou eyed the body speculatively and then swooped down and quickly retrieved the papers in Lane’s coat. From the pack he extracted the original of the pharmacy bill and two photostats. He shrugged again and turned the gun around until it pointed at Lane’s head. The finger closed down on the trigger.

  “Don’t!” cried Dawn Drayden.

  Ama
zement flashed in the killer’s eyes. “Why not?”

  “I couldn’t stand it!” moaned Dawn Drayden. “Haven’t you killed enough men for one day? The chauffeur, that woman and the officer—aren’t they enough?”

  Loup-garou chuckled. “What’s one man more or less?” he laughed. Again he raised the automatic and aimed it.

  “You might at least use him!” implored Dawn.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Loup-garou. “You have brains, after all, haven’t you? Why, if I use Lane, I’ll throw the entire force into a panic! That’s capital!

  “I can kill him and have him buried—and he can kill Leonard!” The laugh was shattering, terrifying.

  Dawn Drayden’s face relaxed into a smile. “You’ll know my worth, yet, Dr. Leroux.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Voice of Death

  MOTIONLESS on his back, Detective-Sergeant Lane lay and stared into the dark. He did not know how long he had been there or where he might be. He did know that he was in the hands of a maniac who called himself Loup-garou, the human hyena.

  The thought was far from quieting and Lane moved restlessly in spite of the throbbing of his head. He realized suddenly that he lay on some sort of operating table. He sat up, feeling the ache of his whole body.

  He knew that the sound had been going on for some time, but not until now had it forced itself on his attention. It was the low reverberations of a drum—quick, but sinister and ominous. It fell, barely perceptible, on the darkness. Lane listened to it. It called to mind savage rites, grisly cannibalistic feasts.

  Another sound became recognizable. It was that of human voices. Listening intently, Lane made out the two distinct tones. One was harsh; the other was lifeless and dull.

  Minutes passed while he listened there in the blackness. At last he made out the words which had been repeated countless times, over and over.

  “I have come to kill you, Morton!” said the harsh voice.

  “I have come to kill you, Morton!” was the parrotlike, but dead, echo.

  Lane’s heartbeat quickened and the muscles of his lean jaw throbbed. Here was something which was understandable and in it, perhaps, he would find the answer to the entire gruesome mystery.

  He slid off the operating table and stepped in the direction of the sound. It was not until then that he saw the streak of greenish light which came from under a door and through a keyhole.

  As he moved, the voices came much louder.

  “I have come to kill you, Morton!” again received its echo.

  Lane cautiously tried the door and found it locked. He knelt silently and placed his eye at the keyhole. In front of his gaze, naked in the greenish light, was a small table. Lane shifted his eye and saw the burly individual of past acquaintance.

  The detective moved again. It was all he could do to repress the gasp of horror which sprang to his lips. There, dressed as he had been that afternoon, was—Cramer!

  Morton’s secretary sat staring straight before him with dead, unfocused eyes. All touches of the undertaker had been removed from the lifeless face. The greenish light heightened the pallor of death. The sockets seemed lidless and sunken. The entire posture of the body was without resilience.

  “I have come to kill you, Morton!” rasped Leroux’s aide.

  “I have come to kill you, Morton!” intoned the dead Cramer.

  Lane stood up and stepped back to hurl his weight against the door. He drew a deep breath, tensed himself for the shock, and—the room gradually lit up with the greenish light.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said Loup-garou across the room. The eyes behind the green mask were malevolent, terrifying.

  The detective glanced at the poised gun in Leroux’s hand, looked at the operating table and the rows of instruments, and decided to choose the lesser of two evils. He sprang against the panel.

  Simultaneous with the lunge, Loup-garou sprang across the room, gun butt on high. Before Lane could whirl, the cold steel had arced down in a deadly shimmer of light. It clipped him with true aim on the side of the head. Lane sagged limply and then sprawled out at full length.

  Leroux grunted and placed the gun in his pocket. He stooped and gathered up Lane’s limp form. In an instant, the detective lay once more on the operating table. Loup-garou’s hands moved nervously and Lane was securely lashed to the white surface.

  The door which Loup-garou had used was opened and Dawn Drayden slipped into the room. She was dressed in a black wrap, her blond hair was tumbling about her slim shoulders, her face was heavy with makeup.

  “Going to carry it out, Leroux?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll kill him first and decide that later on. Prepare that slow-acting poison, will you?” Leroux picked up a basin of water and threw it forcefully over Terry’s face. “That ought to bring the fool around!”

  The girl smiled. “That is, if you can ever wake up a flatfoot.” She was busy at a side table with a nickel-plated syringe.

  Lane came to quickly and tried to rise. He sank back when he felt the weight of the ropes and gave Loup-garou a fixed stare.

  “So you’re still here, eh? Why the devil don’t you kill me and get it over!”

  A harsh chuckle came from behind the green mask and the glowing eyes went hard.

  “You won’t have long to wait, Lane,” Leroux promised.

  From the other room came the monotonous words. From somewhere else came the throb of the drum. Above the scene the green light flickered, casting long shadows on the walls.

  “Thanks for the bill,” said Leroux. “My men just delivered the other mimeograph. Your friend the chemist is lying unconscious in an alley—that is, he may be unconscious. Perhaps he is dead.”

  Lane writhed and then subsided. Poor Kaler. Just because he had been asked to do a favor. . . .

  “I have a little surprise for you,” continued Leroux in his thick voice. “I’m thinking of having you murder Leonard—and perhaps Reynolds. How does that strike you?”

  “If you think you can hire me—” began Terry in a grating tone.

  “Oh, no. I see you’ve got me wrong. I meant—well, you saw Cramer in the other room, didn’t you? How would you like to be like Cramer?”

  Lane looked wildly about him and caught sight of Dawn Drayden. He gave her an unbelieving stare and then fell back. “If you’re going to kill me, why don’t you?”

  “Anxious to meet the devil, aren’t you?” chuckled Leroux. “You will, soon enough. Got that syringe ready, Dawn?”

  “Coming, Leroux.” She walked swiftly to his side and placed the long instrument in his hands.

  “See this?” asked Loup-garou. “It has a poison in it which will take effect in a half-hour.” He felt of the long, sharp needle. “It’s not likely that it will fail. It never has.”

  Lane looked fixedly at the hideous nickel barrel and the ugly, sharp point. But fear was not in his eyes. He had faced death too many times to be afraid when his fate was so certain. He had no men at his call, he was hopelessly bound, he was completely at the mercy of this fiend.

  Leroux again felt of the point. “Just for your interest—everything seems to interest you, Lane—I might add that you’ll—”

  “Spare me the elocution, Leroux or Loup-garou or whatever you call yourself. Get it over with!”

  “I might add,” continued Leroux, unperturbed, “that your body will be decently and publicly buried. You’ll be found murdered on the street in front of Headquarters. They’ll know you’re dead. Three or four days from now, you’re coming back to kill Leonard and Reynolds.

  “Know what that means? Ha! It means that the entire force will be panic-stricken. It means that no police will ever cross my path again. They won’t dare! Soon, Detective-Sergeant Lane, I’ll rule this entire city! A reign of terror, understand?”

  Lane smiled one-sidedly. “You’re insane, Leroux. You can’t get far. You’ll be in the chair before the year is out.”

  “Never mind!” snapped Loup-garou. “There’
s something else I want to add. Have you ever seen a man embalmed? Yes? Well, you know it isn’t a pretty sight. We’ll take out everything that’s in you and fill you up with fluid. You’ll be dead, understand?”

  The detective steeled himself against the shock he knew was about to come. Subconsciously he heard the voice in the other room and the drum. He saw the syringe, glinting murderously, begin its short death path.

  The needle sank into Lane’s bared arm. Leroux’s eyes dilated. The plunger was slowly pushed home. Lane felt the bulge of fluid underneath his skin. He tried to jerk away, but it was too late for that. His fate was sealed when the plunger ran its whole course.

  “That’s that!” grunted Loup-garou. “As much as I’d like to watch you die, I can’t. I have business much more important than you. Morton.”

  The green mask turned away. Leroux walked across the room and stepped through the door, holding it open for Dawn Drayden. The girl stepped through without a backward glance. The room was plunged into darkness.

  “And now,” rasped Leroux, “we leave you alone in the dark to die!”

  Alone in the dark to die! Terry Lane stared ahead of him, waiting, trying to be calm, trying to retain his reason. He thought about the case, thought it would be a closed chapter to him now. Tonight, Cramer would strangle Morton to death at his home. Tomorrow, they would find Lane’s body in front of Headquarters.

  The papers would be wild. He could see the scareheads now. Leonard would—with a shock the detective remembered that Leroux intended to make him murder Leonard. Leonard and Reynolds.

  It was not until then that the full import of the fate which menaced him came home to Lane. That he would die was horrible enough in itself. But worse than that, his corpse would walk in death! His hands, cold and clammy, would strangle the life from his chief and his friend! He would become a horror in the city!

  In view of the past evidence, Lane did not once doubt that this was possible. Hadn’t he seen the work of Hamilton and Jackson? Wasn’t the dead Cramer sitting in the next room learning his lesson for the night—his death lesson? How long would it be before he himself would sit in the next room, staring in front of him with unfocused eyes, repeating “I have come to kill you, Leonard!”