The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

The electric bell in the front hallway startled him a little, in spite of all his assurance. He felt his nerves crisp, as he ran downstairs, flopping along in his slippers. He grew a little sick, and his heart began to cut capers. But this was all right, too. Quite as it should be. He was grateful for this agitation. What could be more natural? “Buck up!” he growled to his soul. “Buck up, and go through!”

  He hurried to the front door, and threw it open. The storm wind slapped the bathrobe about his legs.

  “Doctor! For God’s sake—!”

  “Where is she?” demanded Abercrombie. He came in, shaking the rain off, like a Newfoundland. Brodbine shut out the blackness and the cold. A glimpse of himself, in the hat-rack mirror, showed him his mask of anguish was well-painted. “Where is she? Up there?”

  Brodbine nodded.

  “She—she’s dead!” he gulped, and caught the doctor’s arm. “Come up, quick!”

  Abercrombie shed hat and coat. With his little black bag—how useless now!—he tramped grimly upstairs.

  “Police notified?” he demanded, in the upper hall.

  “Yes. You’re the coroner, of course.”

  “Yes, but the police have got to come, too. What Rockville calls the police.” His tone held contempt.

  “Gilkey’ll be here, right away.”

  “Good! You haven’t moved her, I hope.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “That’s good! That simplifies matters!” He pulled down the nightdress, studied the wound. “Washed it, eh? No use, Mr. Brodbine. No more than washing her face was, or trying to get brandy into her.” His tone was brutally professional. “Bullet must have penetrated the heart, laterally.” He replaced the nightdress. For a moment he studied the hole in it, thrusting a finger through. “Just what happened, eh?”

  “A burglar shot her.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A little while. Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “How do you know it was a burglar?”

  “Well, you see—the window’s jimmied. It’s open. Her fur coat, on that chair—I mean it was on that chair—it’s gone.”

  Abercrombie walked over to the window, adjusted his spectacles and studied the window. He felt of the marks left by the chisel, and grunted. Then he came back to the bed.

  “You called me right away?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Good God, doctor! I didn’t know she was dead! Couldn’t believe it I got brandy—water—! Only when I realized—then I ’phoned you.”

  “Yes, yes. Quite so. Very natural. Where were you, when it happened?”

  “In bed.”

  “Asleep?”

  “Yes. I was wakened by a noise. A shot. I sat up in bed, listened, called out. Got no answer. Jumped out of bed, and ran in her.”

  “I see. What then?”

  “Then I saw her—lying there.”

  “Just where?”

  “Why, in bed. There.”

  “Fallen back, just so?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she was shot, you say, about twenty minutes ago?”

  “Half an hour, maybe.”

  “Shot in bed, there, and died there?”

  “Yes.”

  “By a man at that window?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmmm! Very odd, Mr. Brodbine!”

  “What’s odd?”

  “Well, the fact that there’s a little blood on the floor in the middle of the bedroom, for one thing. And then, the fact that the hole in her nightdress was pierced by some instrument, and not caused by a bullet. And thirdly, that the condition of the wound and of the coagulated blood shows she’s been dead certainly three-quarters of an hour or more. And lastly—”

  “You’re mistaken, doctor!” put in Brodbine, horribly sick at heart “I was here. I know!”

  “Yes, and I know, too!” the old doctor retorted. “Look a’ here, Brodbine! That window, where you claim the burglar stood, is at the right of the bed and somewhat above the head of it. The wound, you will observe, is on the left side of your wife’s chest.”

  “But—!”

  “Shhh! Don’t you think, just as a matter of common sense and wisdom—don’t you think you’d better give me the whole story? Don’t you think you’d better tell me just what happened?”

  V.

  The silence that hung between the two men weighted itself with so ponderable a tension that it fairly sagged. From the library, below-stairs, a single chime of the clock announced the half-hour after one o’ the morning. The ticking of that clock seemed measuring out heartbeats of destiny.

  “Old Gilkey,” said the doctor, with the gaslight making his wrinkles deeper, “will be here any time, now. You’ve got just one chance—the truth.”

  “The truth? But I’ve told you the—”

  “‘Milk for babes and sucklings; strong meat for men!’ Come clean!”

  “Eh? What?” The cant phrase sounded strange echoes in the mind of Brodbine the banker; echoes that reached into the soul of Tony the Scratcher. Brodbine’s eyes were strange, as he peered at the doctor.

  “I’m coroner,” said Abercrombie.

  “Yes?” Brodbine struggled to read the riddle. Was this threat, or was it offer?

  “My verdict will close all investigation.”

  “Well?” The banker’s heart was leaping.

  “Just why and how did this woman die? Just what is the exact truth?”

  Brodbine’s hand gripped the doctor’s arm till the flesh gave.

  “The—the truth?” he gulped. He felt dizzy. His pallor spread to the lips.

  “Yes. I’ve got to have it.”

  “I tell you I’ve given you the truth!”

  Abercrombie laughed.

  “What’s the use of stalling, any longer?” he demanded. “Why did you kill that woman?”

  Brodbine swallowed hard. His hands quivered out, to the doctor.

  “I—I—damn it all! It’s the truth I’m giving you! A burglar—”

  “Kick in, now! Kick in!”

  Brodbine stared. Not all his anguish of terror and defeat could stifle his astonishment. A voice seemed echoing to him from the shadows of the black past—a voice that spoke the language of the Underworld.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “I? Oh, just Dr. Abercrombie. Why?”

  “Say!” And Brodbine’s eyes grew narrow, keen. “You can’t pull that on me! I know the lingo. What’s your moniker?”

  “I’ll swap for yours!”

  They eyed each other a tense moment, like wrestlers watching for an advantage, before the grapple.

  “I’ve got to know who you are, first,” demanded Brodbine. “I’m wise. You’ve hit the trail, sometime or other. Snap out of the bull, doc, and come through! Who are you?”

  “Ah, that,” smiled the doctor, “would be an interesting question for you—and Rockville—to determine. Some men are just one man. Some are two, or even three. I, perhaps, have been even more. Just now, I’m Dr. Edwin F. Abercrombie, a highly-respected citizen of this town.”

  “That won’t get across, with me!” exclaimed the banker. “I’m no downy bird. Let’s have it!”

  “I perceive quite clearly,” answered the physician, “that the title of downy bird would be a misnomer, in your case. But that doesn’t invalidate my claim to being Dr. Abercrombie. This much, however, I’ll say—perhaps I haven’t always been a doctor. I may have had previous incarnations. Your trail and mine may have crossed, in previous spheres. I may very probably have known or heard of—”

  “Of me?” Brodbine demanded.

  “All things are possible.”

  “And you—you under cover—”

  “Why involve me?” asked the doctor. “I’m not under investigation, in this matter!”

  “You, under cover the same as I am—you’re going to blow me, after all these years?”

  “I didn’t say I was under cover,” Abercrombie smiled. “I don’t admit I am.
And I’m quite positive you don’t know me. I’m much older, for one thing. Any—”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Wait! Any previous incarnation I may have had, may have been when you were only a young fellow. And as for blowing you, to quote your own words, I haven’t made any such threat, either. But I will say this, that I knew a bit about you, prior to 1909. And I haven’t snitched a word of it. So I must be pretty close-mouthed, eh? Perhaps I had my reasons—good ones—for silence. So now, to get back to the main line of investigation and to resume my previous inquiry, why did you kill your wife?”

  For a moment, Brodbine could find no answer. Storm beat at the windows; man peered at man, with soul striving to read soul; and on the bed, the murdered woman seemed to listen.

  “You’d better be quick,” warned the doctor. “Old Gilkey will be here, any minute now, and I’ve got to report what seems best for all concerned. Are you ready to come through?”

  “Yes. I killed her because I had to.”

  “To save yourself?”

  “Yes, and Rockville. And the county. Everybody!”

  “I see. She was forcing your hand, eh?”

  The banker nodded. Abercrombie laughed.

  “I thought rather she would, in the end,” said he. “It was a very pretty problem in psychology. I knew, or figured, you were making a play for big stakes. I was interested to see how it all would come out.” He tugged his wet beard, and pondered. “A pretty problem in souls. Very, very pretty.”

  “You—you don’t mean you knew—?”

  “Well,” answered the doctor, dryly, “you’ll notice I never opened an account at your bank. Or rather, after you went to work there, I transferred my account to the Farmers’ Trust Co.”

  “What are you? A dick?”

  “No. Only an observer of the reactions of human chemistry. A laboratory worker in soul-stuff. Having been in the test tube, myself, I now enjoy seeing other souls under the influence of various reagents. This is very pretty, indeed! I interpret this experiment as one in which the male element reversed its usual role, by becoming conservative, while the female became radical. Correct, eh?”

  Brodbine nodded.

  “A man hates to accuse his wife,” said he, “especially when she’s dead and can’t defend herself—and when he’s killed her. But I had to do it. She was bound to go through. I got cold feet on cleaning out the bank, that’s all, and she wanted to go through. She put it up to me that if I quit she’d blow the game, anyhow. That was at the bank, tonight, and—”

  “And you figured there was only one way?”

  “Yes.”

  “You figured right, too. As the subject of previous laboratory tests, myself, I certify that your solution of the problem was 100% correct. Ethically wrong, but practically right. What was your motive for quitting?”

  “Pure folly, for a man in my line!”

  “Folly? When you’ve saved this whole town and county from ruin?”

  “The folly of a man who has no real right to a home, and friends, and a legitimate business, trying to keep all those things! The folly of an Ishmael trying to appoint himself a watchman over society—trying to protect what is logically his prey! Motive? There’s no one motive—they’re mixed—”

  “Like all chemical reactions,” dryly remarked Abercrombie. “I used to be an expert chemist, in a quiet way, and I know. I’m glad you’ve been so frank, Mr. Brodbine. If you hadn’t made it all quite clear, my experiment would have been spoiled and I always throw spoiled chemicals down the sink. As it is, you’ll have punishment enough without my taking any hand in it. The punishment of this community condoling with you over your wife’s unfortunate taking-off in her prime; and of living along in this same house; and of keeping on at the bank. If you’re wise, you’ll take a month or two’s vacation after you’ve dropped your dutiful tears on the grave. You’ll go away and ponder on the sublime super-morality of ‘the greatest good to the greatest number.’ And now—”

  Trrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  Again the bell summoned, in the lower hall.

  “Gilkey!” cried Brodbine.

  “Yes, there’s the power of the law,” smiled Abercrombie. “Well, I don’t imagine either you or I—who’ve been in life’s crucible—feel any great uneasiness about so mild a Bunsen burner as old Gilkey. There’s one thing, though, we must attend to right away.”

  “What’s that?” asked Brodbine. His head felt light and strange. His world was spinning, his universe awhirl.

  “When’s your maid coming back?”

  “Day after tomorrow. We sent her away, so we could—”

  “Don’t expound the obvious. The main factor is that she’s gone, and won’t be back for forty-eight hours. Plenty of time to rearrange any furniture we change, now, without exciting comment or suspicion. So take hold here, Mr. Brodbine, and help me lift this bed round.”

  “The bed?”

  “Yes. That’s the one element necessary, now, to make this experiment a complete success. Remember, your wife was shot here, sitting up in bed. Her wound has got to be on the side toward the window. Help me turn the bed, man—turn the bed!”

  Together, one at each end of it, they swung it, lifted it noiselessly around.

  “There!” smiled Abercrombie. “Now the mise en scène is perfect. All but that little smear of blood on the floor, I’ll clean that up, while you’re letting Gilkey in.”

  He laid a hand on Brodbine’s shoulder.

  “Just one word more,” said he. “We, who have been through the test tubes and have emerged, understand more fully than men who haven’t been there, the Socratic method whereby at times an individual wrong becomes a communal right. We’ve got to stand together, in a crisis. But when it’s over, you and I once more know nothing of each other. The laboratory door, reopened for an hour, must close again—eternally. You understand?”

  Brodbine nodded, in silence. Their hands met, and clasped.

  The electric bell once more called, insistently.

  “Go let him in!” bade Abercrombie, with a smile.

  DARKNESS AND DAWN

  BOOK I: THE VACANT WORLD

  CHAPTER I

  THE AWAKENING

  Dimly, like the daybreak glimmer of a sky long wrapped in fogs, a sign of consciousness began to dawn in the face of the tranced girl.

  Once more the breath of life began to stir in that full bosom, to which again a vital warmth had on this day of days crept slowly back.

  And as she lay there, prone upon the dusty floor, her beautiful face buried and shielded in the hollow of her arm, a sigh welled from her lips.

  Life—life was flowing back again! The miracle of miracles was growing to reality.

  Faintly now she breathed; vaguely her heart began to throb once more. She stirred. She moaned, still for the moment powerless to cast off wholly the enshrouding incubus of that tremendous, dreamless sleep.

  Then her hands closed. The finely tapered fingers tangled themselves in the masses of thick, luxuriant hair which lay outspread all over and about her. The eyelids trembled.

  And, a moment later, Beatrice Kendrick was sitting up, dazed and utterly uncomprehending, peering about her at the strangest vision which since the world began had ever been the lot of any human creature to behold—the vision of a place transformed beyond all power of the intellect to understand.

  For of the room which she remembered, which had been her last sight when (so long, so very long, ago) her eyes had closed with that sudden and unconquerable drowsiness, of that room, I say, remained only walls, ceiling, floor of rust-red steel and crumbling cement.

  Quite gone was all the plaster, as by magic. Here or there a heap of whitish dust betrayed where some of its detritus still lay.

  Gone was every picture, chart, and map—which—but an hour since, it seemed to her—had decked this office of Allan Stern, consulting engineer, this aerie up in the forty-eighth story of the Metropolitan Tower.

  Furniture, there now was none. Over the s
till-intact glass of the windows cobwebs were draped so thickly as almost to exclude the light of day—a strange, fly-infested curtain where once neat green shade-rollers had hung.

  Even as the bewildered girl sat there, lips parted, eyes wide with amaze, a spider seized his buzzing prey and scampered back into a hole in the wall.

  A huge, leathery bat, suspended upside down in the far corner, cheeped with dry, crepitant sounds of irritation.

  Beatrice rubbed her eyes.

  “What?” she said, quite slowly. “Dreaming? How singular! I only wish I could remember this when I wake up. Of all the dreams I’ve ever had, this one’s certainly the strangest. So real, so vivid! Why, I could swear I was awake—and yet—”

  All at once a sudden doubt flashed into her mind. An uneasy expression dawned across her face. Her eyes grew wild with a great fear; the fear of utter and absolute incomprehension.

  Something about this room, this weird awakening, bore upon her consciousness the dread tidings this was not a dream.

  Something drove home to her the fact that it was real, objective, positive! And with a gasp of fright she struggled up amid the litter and the rubbish of that uncanny room.

  “Oh!” she cried in terror, as a huge scorpion, malevolent, and with its tail raised to strike, scuttled away and vanished through a gaping void where once the corridor-door had swung. “Oh, oh! Where am I? What—what has—happened?”

  Horrified beyond all words, pale and staring, both hands clutched to her breast, whereon her very clothing now had torn and crumbled, she faced about.

  To her it seemed as though some monstrous, evil thing were lurking in the dim corner at her back. She tried to scream, but could utter no sound, save a choked gasp.

  Then she started toward the doorway. Even as she took the first few steps her gown—a mere tattered mockery of garment—fell away from her.

  And, confronted by a new problem, she stopped short. About her she peered in vain for something to protect her disarray. There was nothing.

  “Why—where’s—where’s my chair? My desk?” she exclaimed thickly, starting toward the place by the window where they should have been, and were not. Her shapely feet fell soundlessly in that strange and impalpable dust which thickly coated everything.