It was a minute thing, and had long ago stopped bleeding. Nevertheless, Lane gasped as he touched it. He leaned closer to the glass and stared. A low whistle escaped him.
“Boy!” he muttered. “Am I dumb!” And then to the druggist: “Thanks. I’ll remember this and if you ever—”
“Quite all right,” the man assured him, holding open the door. “I’d get to a doctor before long, if I were you. All I did was stop the blood.”
“All you did was plenty!” said Lane. “See that scratch?” He pointed to his cheek. “Well, if it hadn’t been for your forgetting to tie it up, I’d be in a devil of a fix!” And he left the druggist gaping with surprise.
Lane flashed his badge to the cabdriver at the curb.
“Van Menton Apartments!” he said as he climbed in. “And let her rip!”
The street lights dissolved into a chain of brilliance; red lights were grandly disregarded; and for the matter of a mile, the cab caromed through the heavily trafficked avenues.
Once Lane tapped the driver on the shoulder and ordered him to stop beside the next policeman they sighted, and when the driver obeyed, Terry Lane thrust his raven black head out of the cab window.
“Let’s have the rod, Barry,” he said to the officer on traffic duty.
“Huh? Oh, hello there, Sergeant,” Barry saluted. “You look like you’d been having an argument with a train. The rod? I can’t do that; I might need it.”
“Yeah?” Lane grunted. “Well, I need it worse than you do. Hand it over.”
And when Officer Barry reluctantly obeyed, the cab leaped forward, once more headed for the Van Menton Apartments.
Within five minutes, they were before the lavish entrance. Lane paid the wide-eyed driver and sped into the building.
The girl at the switchboard was waved aside and Lane sprinted for the automatic elevator. He pressed a button and shot up nine flights to the apartment of Dr. Charles Reynolds.
The coroner’s apartment covered the entire floor.
Reynolds himself greeted Lane. “Hello, Terry,” he said. “I’ve been digging up that information for you. Tried to reach you at Headquarters, but you weren’t there.”
“I’ve been busy,” Lane grinned. “Listen, Doc, I want you to compose a cable for me and then get hold of all the connecting links this town has with Haiti.”
Reynolds nodded. He led Lane into the library and waved him to a chair.
A decanter sat on the mahogany desk and the coroner poured out two drinks, shoving the stiffest toward the detective. “You look like you need it,” he said.
“I do,” said Lane as he took his drink. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Yes, I like it,” Reynolds smiled. “Fortunately, I have a private income or I couldn’t keep it going.” He suddenly grew serious. “Anybody tagging you?”
“I don’t know, Doc,” said Lane. “This Loup-garou has a habit of turning up every place.”
“I wouldn’t want him wished on me,” Reynolds frowned. “By the way, I have been reading up on the subject as you asked me to do. There really are such things in Haiti as zombies—living dead men. At least, they claim to have seen them there. The authors of the books I’ve read, I mean. How about having another drink?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Lane surveyed the volume-crammed walls of the room. “Speaking of books, you’ve certainly got enough of them. Any of them deal with Haiti?”
“Of course—several,” said Reynolds, presenting the brimming glass. “That’s where I dug up the information for you. Have a look yourself, if you want to.”
“First, I wish you’d compose me a cable in French to that pharmacy.” Lane twitched his right arm, suddenly remembering that it was in a sling.
He reached into his pocket with his left hand and brought forth a slip of paper.
“I jotted the address down on this.”
He handed the slip of paper to Reynolds. The coroner glanced at it.
“Just ask for a complete description of Dr. Leroux, will you?” continued Lane. “If you will, we ought to have an answer in the morning. And there’s something else. Compile a list of all the people you know in this town who’ve been connected with Haiti.”
“Certainly,” Reynolds nodded. “Glad to help you with this. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go into my study and fix up both jobs for you. It’s my office, and I have all the cable blanks there. Browse through the books, if you’d like.”
He walked to the doorway and then turned around. His scarf pin caught the light and hurled it back and the emerald ring glowed softly. Unconsciously, he adjusted the scarf pin.
“You’ll probably find something rather interesting up there on the third shelf,” he said over his shoulder.
Lane watched him disappear and then got to his feet and walked over to the shelf. He stood there for a moment, sipping his drink and eyeing the titles. Setting the glass down, he reached up and extracted three volumes. The first was called Voodooism. The second was merely entitled Haiti. The third was The Code Penal of the Republic of Haiti.
Quite naturally, since he was an investigator of crime, Detective-Sergeant Lane opened the third one first. He seated himself on the arm of a chair and, shifting his sling until his arm was more comfortable, idly flipped over the pages.
Through force of habit, he sat with his face toward the door. Article 249 leered blackly at him from the printed page.
“Article 249,” read Lane to himself. “Also shall be qualified as attempted murder—”
The creak of a door interrupted him. He glanced up and stiffened. A gasp of horror escaped him. He jumped to his feet, his eyes dilating wildly. Coming toward him in that slow, lifeless shuffle was a blank-eyed corpse!
CHAPTER TEN
Deliverance of the Dead
SO silent had been the passage of the walking dead man that Lane had not seen it until it was halfway across the room. A crawling sensation went up and down Lane’s spine and for an instant he was held immovable by the terrible sight.
The creature’s hands were reaching out and convulsing. The face was completely without expression. The shuffling steps scuffed ominously on the rug. A sinister hush was in the room and with it came the odor of moist earth. The hands opened and shut, talons ready to encircle the detective’s throat.
Lane stepped cautiously to one side, his jaw set against the panic which threatened to engulf him. He knew now the horror which had been Morton’s—and Gordon’s—and Burnham’s. And as he moved, so moved his attacker. The detective backed away, keeping his eyes on the lifeless face. In an instant . . .
The detective placed the desk between himself and the dead man, only to see that the approaching figure was carefully rounding the edge. A racking shudder shook Lane’s frame. He remembered the shot which had failed to knock down Cramer. He saw again the contorted features of former victims.
Sudden resolve caused him to stand his ground. He would stake everything on one slim chance. There was everything to lose should he fail. Grimly, he forced himself to wait for the dead man’s approach.
The thing was shuffling faster now, seeming to sense the end. The hands stabbed out for Lane’s throat.
Like a boxer, Lane ducked, weaved aside. His left fist tightened. He carefully measured the distance to the dead man’s jaw and swung with all his might.
The long blow arced straight to the dead face. It crashed into the clammy flesh. The man swayed a little, but did not move away. The hands shifted and came on.
Lane snatched at the wrists, pushed them away. Up came his knee. The vicious jab caught the dead man in the groin. Still the thing was on its feet. Its strength was horrible.
A sob caught in Lane’s throat as he realized the hopelessness of the situation. It was no use to shoot. There was not even time to strike back. With the deadly purpose of an automaton his attacker was forcing him back against the mahogany desk, bending him with the weight and strength of a thing not to be denied. Lane struggled, striving desperately to
get free of the thing’s horrible clutch. The cold, clammy hands caught at his throat. He felt them squeezing tighter. His breathing became more difficult.
Then suddenly, through a hazy blackness, half-unconscious, he felt those talonlike fingers release their grip as the power of animation seemed suddenly to leave the living dead man. The wilting figure dropped to the floor with a thud, to remain there still and motionless.
“My God, what is that?” cried Dr. Reynolds from the doorway. He came swiftly across the room. “Why—it’s a dead man!”
“Yes,” breathed Lane, leaning weakly against the desk. “A dead man! One of your dead men, Dr. Reynolds!”
The coroner’s expression was shocked. “What—”
“You’re under arrest, Loup-garou! Under arrest for attempted murder, murder, accessory of the fact—”
Reynolds stood up indignantly. “You’re mad, Lane!”
“Mad, am I?” rasped Lane. He made no move to cover the doctor. He smiled thinly. “I’ve got the goods! I’ve had it ever since I glanced into a drugstore mirror. I wanted you to come out in the open and you did. It’s the chair, Reynolds.”
The doctor’s eyes gleamed fiercely. His hand blurred at his side and came up smoking, spitting flame.
But Lane was not in its range. He had moved sideways. A round, burning hole appeared in the end of the sling. Dr. Reynolds collapsed, rolled over, tried to bring up his gun. The hole in Lane’s sling grew larger. The doctor’s gun leaped out of his hand.
“Now,” muttered Lane, “that’ll hold you! Where’s Dawn Drayden?”
“You’ll never find her!” spat Reynolds from his pain-distorted mouth.
Lane shrugged and approached the coroner.
“Don’t move. I’ve got you covered.” He hitched the sling and then patted out the fire which his powder flame had started.
“Any time I need a cradle for one of my wings—” He grinned suddenly and set to work, securely tying the doctor in an overstuffed chair. He exhausted the room’s supply of curtains before he was finished.
The detective walked quickly from the apartment and approached the elevator. He stepped inside, leaving the door open, and gave the walls a brief scrutiny. A small panel of oak was at one side as though for ornament and Lane pressed it. The back of the car slid softly open and exposed a door.
Lane entered the room beyond, holding the sling away from him and covering any possible source of danger with his hidden gun. But he need not have troubled himself for the room was empty save for—the bound and gagged figure of Dawn Drayden!
Lane gave her a reassuring smile and then began to work at the knots which held her gag in place. The girl’s eyes were suddenly peaceful.
“I knew you’d come,” she breathed. “I didn’t even lose hope when Leroux came for a dead man.”
The detective released the ropes about the back of the chair and then helped her to her feet. She stood shakily rubbing her chafed wrists. Then, with a small cry she threw herself into his arms.
After a moment, Lane spoke. “There’s still work to be done,” he said. Gently he put her from him. “Where’s the doctor’s laboratory?”
“In there, I suppose,” said the girl, pointing to another door. “I saw a white table when he opened that door.”
Lane stepped into the second room, stayed there for a moment and then came back with a wicked-looking syringe.
“Come with me, Dawn,” he requested. “I’ve got Reynolds strapped to a chair out here.”
Together they went into the library. The coroner still writhed, glared about him. But Reynolds glared no longer when he caught sight of the nickel-plated syringe.
“You wouldn’t!” he cried in a broken voice. “You can’t! You’re an officer of the law!”
“That’s got nothing to do with it!” grated Lane. He was rolling up the coroner’s sleeve. “I’m going to pay out a little justice. If you go to trial, it will be your word against mine. You, the coroner! Maybe they wouldn’t believe me, Reynolds, if I tried to tell them what a fiend you really are. You might escape the chair, but you’ll never get away from this!”
He stabbed the flesh with the needle, his thumb on the plunger.
“Stop!” screamed Reynolds. “What do you want me to do?”
“Talk!” said Dawn Drayden.
“And talk fast!” snapped Lane. He turned to the girl. “What do you want to know?”
“I want him to tell you,” said Dawn. “That’s what I’ve wanted from the first.” She glared at Reynolds.
“I hate him! Perhaps you will understand when I tell you that five years ago this man, this monster in human form, was in Haiti. He was plotting then—planning to use zombies, living dead men, to do his rotten work for him.”
“Where do you come in?” asked Lane.
“I was in Haiti with my brother. Jim was weak, easily led. Dr. Leroux, as he called himself then, became friendly with my brother. Then, later, Jim apparently died of fever, just as the secretaries of these rich men have died. It was not until later that I realized that Dr. Leroux had killed my brother.”
“Good lord!” exclaimed Lane. “And made him into a zombie?”
“No,” Dawn shook her head. “He tried—but then he had not learned enough about it. His efforts were not successful.” Her eyes filled. “Perhaps I should be glad that Jim was one of the victims of Dr. Leroux who has not walked again.”
“But there are others,” said Lane quickly. “Perhaps we may still be able to help them, if we learn how this Loup-garou has placed them in their half-dead state.”
“He can help them!” exclaimed Dawn. “That’s why I gradually worked my way into his confidence. It wasn’t easy for me to do. Hating him, loathing him, yet I hoped to be able to help the others by pretending to be his aide—to be able eventually to turn him over to the police.”
“I see,” Lane nodded.
“You see, I have pretended that I knew nothing of the real cause of my brother’s death.” Dawn shuddered as she glared at the man in the chair. “But always, he was watching me. That first time you saw me, said you were going to take me to Headquarters, I ducked behind a cab standing at the curb. I didn’t dare go with you then, for he had seen me.”
“I wondered what the deuce had happened to you.”
“Oh, make him talk!” Dawn’s voice rose in sudden hysteria as she glared at Reynolds. “Or else make him one of them, make him suffer as he has made these men who have been the walking dead!”
“Talk!” Lane’s thumb pressed on the needle sticking into Reynolds’ arm.
“All right! All right!” moaned Reynolds. “You’ll find the formula in the upper drawer of that desk. The chemicals are in my laboratory! I swear they are. With those, the men can be brought back to normal health. Any doctor can do it!”
“Look and see,” ordered Lane and the girl quickly slid open the drawer.
“It’s here and I think he’s right,” said Dawn.
“Now then,” said Lane in a voice which held a note of doom, “I want the full particulars. Quick!”
“I learned it in Haiti. There is a certain drug which creates a state of suspended animation for a few hours,” gasped Reynolds. “Remember, as coroner, I was the one who examined those men and pronounced them dead—even those who supposedly died of the fever. I knew they weren’t dead because I had given them the drug each time.”
“But they were buried,” protested Lane.
“No, they weren’t.” Reynolds glanced at the point of the syringe still sticking in his wrist. “Only their empty coffins. Gault, the undertaker, was working with me. He arranged that. He was the man at the car with me when you hit me and thought you had knocked me out. But you didn’t hit as hard as you thought. I got away.”
“Never mind that part of it now,” said the detective impatiently. “What made those men into zombies?”
“A second drug which affected their brains—left the men in a semi-hypnotic state. They have no will of their own, but wi
ll carry out any given order.”
“Where did you get these drugs?” asked Lane.
“There was a papaloi, a voodoo priest, who owns a drugstore in Port-au-Prince. I stayed with him and he liked me. He swore me to secrecy and taught me how to mix and use those drugs. That’s why I was so anxious to get that pharmacist’s bill.
“I had my men knock Dr. Kaler out after I thought I saw you give him the bill that I had dropped when I examined Gordon. I was looking for it when I came back for my gloves.”
“And you left those notes written in green ink for me, of course.” Lane moved away from the coroner as Reynolds sat stiffly in the chair.
“Yes. Kaler had a photostatic copy of the bill,” said Reynolds, “but that was no good to me—I had to get the original before you wired Port-au-Prince and got my description.”
“Just what I thought,” said Lane. “That’s why I came here and asked you to get that description of Dr. Leroux for me. I thought you would come out into the open then—and you did, by sending one of your living dead men to kill me.”
Dawn looked at the detective and then shuddered as she gazed at the still figure on the floor.
“How about this man?” asked Lane. “What stopped him when he tried to kill me?”
“I hurried, failed to give him enough of the drug,” answered Reynolds. “He isn’t dead—just in a state of suspended animation. There is an antidote that will bring him fully back to normal life.”
The phone rang and Lane answered it. It was Chief Leonard calling.
“You say you’ve got Gault and three others?” said the detective over the wire. “Now, come up to Reynolds’ apartment and get Loup-garou. Yes, Loup-garou. Better bring some men with you.
“Who, the coroner?” Lane smiled grimly at the bound figure in the chair. “Yes, Reynolds is here.”
Lane put down the phone. He picked up one of the books from the table and swiftly turned the pages. Then half aloud, he read:
Article 249. Also shall be qualified as attempted murder the employment which may be made against any person of substances which, without causing actual death, produce a lethargic coma more or less prolonged. If, after the administration of such substances, the person has been buried, the act will be considered murder no matter what result follows.
Dead Men Kill (Stories from the Golden Age) Page 7