THE DEATH SLEEP.

Maxwell Grant.

CHAPTER I. THE SLEEP.

IT was nearly midnight when a taxicab stopped in front of the exclusive Vanderpool Apartments. Two persons alighted from the car. One was a gentleman attired in a full-dress suit; the other a lady who wore a magnificent leopard-skin coat. The door man bowed as they entered the lobby of the Vanderpool.

Clark Doring and his wife were frequent visitors to this apartment house. When they stepped into the elevator, the operator bowed and pressed the automatic stop for the fifth floor. He knew that these arrivals were coming to join the party in progress at the apartment of Seth Tanning.

Arrived at the fifth floor, Doring and his wife turned right and walked to the end of the single corridor.

They stopped at the last door. Doring smiled. Sounds of hilarity were coming from within. Clinking gla.s.ses, voices of men and women were audible to the arrivals in the corridor.

"The game of bridge," chuckled Doring, "as they play it at the Tannings. Time out between hands for a round of drinks and a lot of chatter. Well, Mabel, I approve of the idea. I never could take bridgeseriously."

"Why bother to go in?" questioned Mabel Doring. "They won't be able to continue the game, with an odd pair of -"

"I promised Tanning we'd drop in after the theater," interposed Doring. "Only the Westcotts are there.

Seth said they would be tired of bridge by the time we arrived."

With this remark, Doring rapped at the door. The sounds of merriment increased. The rap was not heard by those within. Doring waited a few moments; then pounded with increased vigor. Again, his summons pa.s.sed unheard.

"It's a stout door," laughed Doring. "I don't think I shall smash it. So here goes."

Clenching his fist, he delivered three terrific smashes against the panel. The sound of the blows echoed along the corridor. Yet the laughter kept on.

Doring drew back to resume his pounding. He stopped with upraised fist. The hubbub from the apartment had come to a sudden finish.

"That did it," said Doring to his wife. "Seth must have heard those knocks. He will be here in a minute, to let us in."

THE visitors waited patiently. Doring's minute pa.s.sed. Complete silence pervaded. Yet no one came to open the door. Doring glanced toward his wife in puzzled fashion.

"Perhaps, Clark," suggested Mrs. Doring, "they only thought they heard someone knocking. They may be waiting to hear you rap again."

Doring nodded in agreement. He delivered several sharp raps upon the panel; then paused for the answer. Silence persisted during another minute. Doring became impatient. He pounded.

"Curious," observed Mrs. Doring. "I wonder what can have made them behave in such odd fashion?"

Doring shook his head. He was puzzled. He decided to knock again, when an unexpected sound broke the silence that lay within. It was the ringing of a telephone bell, quite close at hand.

"The phone in the entry," stated Doring. "Someone will come to answer it from the living room. Then I shall rap again."

The dingle of the bell came with monotonous regularity. Like Doring's raps, it went unanswered. Doring looked at his wife, more puzzled than ever. One minute - then the ringing ceased.

"Ah!" said Doring, listening. Then, in an awed tone: "That's more curious than ever, Mabel!"

"What, Clark?"

"I heard no footsteps coming to the door. No one is speaking at the telephone -"

Doring broke off as the ringing of the telephone bell resumed. It continued for another minute; then stopped. Again, there was a short interval. After that, the bell sounded its mechanical call, ring after ring.

When the bell stopped for the third time, both Doring and his wife were breathless. They still expected some response, yet none came. Even the telephone bell had silenced this time. Two tense minutes pa.s.sed. Doring pounded the door; then stopped and shrugged his shoulders. "Something has happened, Mabel," he said, in a solemn tone. "Go to the elevator and speak to the operator when he arrives. I can't understand this."

As Mrs. Doring walked toward the elevator, the car arrived. A pa.s.senger stepped forth. Mrs. Doring stopped him and the operator. Breathlessly, she began to explain the mysterious happenings at Seth Tanning's apartment. The man who had come from the elevator walked over to join Doring. The operator followed.

"My name is Brooks," stated the pa.s.senger, speaking to Doring. "Just coming up to my apartment - at the other end of the hall. What's the trouble here, old man? Something that worries you?"

"Yes," nodded Doring. "Listen. That place is as silent as a tomb. When we arrived - about five minutes ago - there was plenty of noise. It stopped. I knocked. The telephone rang. Yet no response."

Brooks knocked at the door. He listened; then shrugged his shoulders. He drew a key from his pocket and motioned toward the other end of the hall.

"We'd better call the police," he said. "Come on, old man. We can use the phone in my apartment."

"Stay here, operator," ordered Doring, as he followed Brooks. "You wait here also, Mabel. Knock occasionally. If they give any signs of life, let us know."

"They couldn't possibly have gone out," put in Mrs. Doring. "They might have been leaving the living room -"

"Not a chance," insisted Doring. "It's only a one-room apartment - nothing but alcoves for dressing room and kitchenette. There is no exit other than the door to this corridor."

BROOKS hurriedly conducted Doring to his apartment. There Doring put in a call for detective headquarters. He held a short conversation while Brooks listened. Finally Doring hung up and prepared to make another call.

"Talked with an acting inspector," he explained to Brooks. "Chap named Cardona. He's coming up here.

But he told me to put in a call to the precinct in the meantime."

Doring then called the precinct. He and Brooks left the latter's apartment. They relieved the operator and sent him down to inform the door man what had happened. Doring and Brooks lighted cigarettes and paced nervously back and forth in front of Tanning's door. At intervals, Doring stopped to knock upon the panel. As before - no response.

The clang of an elevator door announced the arrival of a tall, haggard man who introduced himself as the superintendent of the apartment building. He explained that there was no master key to Tanning's apartment. He rapped at the door; hearing no answer, he deliberated. While the superintendent was thus engaged, an elevator arrived and a bulky police sergeant stepped forth, followed by two bluecoats.

These men were from the precinct. The sergeant listened to Doring's story; then looked at the closed door. He heard the superintendent's statement that there was no master key. The sergeant hesitated.

"I don't like to break into the man's apartment," he declared. "You heard no unusual noise. Nothing to indicate violence -"

"This silence is worse!" protested Doring. "I am sure, sergeant, that there are four people in the apartment. All were laughing and talking. Then came silence." "Perhaps they jumped out the window," suggested the superintendent, in a worried tone. "I don't see any other answer."

"We came through the alleyway," returned the sergeant. "I left an officer down there. If you were right about some people being in there, Mr. Doring, it's a sure bet they're still there."

"Then batter down the door," urged Doring.

Before the sergeant could reply, an elevator arrived and a swarthy, stocky man strode forth. This arrival needed no introduction. One glance showed that he was the man they all expected: Acting Inspector Joe Cardona.

It took Cardona less than one minute to render a decision. With blunt questions, he gained answers that added to the information Doring had given him over the telephone. Cardona turned to the police sergeant; then nudged his thumb toward the door of Tanning's apartment.

"Smash it," ordered Cardona.

The bulky sergeant launched himself shoulder forward. The door quivered. A husky bluecoat joined the attack. As the men struck the door together, the hinges crackled. This time, Cardona shot forward between the two officers and sent the barrier clear. Half sprawling, Cardona staggered into a little entry.

Officers and witnesses crowded after him.

It was on the threshold of the living room that Joe Cardona came to an awed stop. Though amazed, he stared stolidly, despite the mumbles and gasps of those who had followed him.

THE only motion in this living room was that of window curtains that wavered slightly in the mild breeze from a half-opened window. But this meant nothing to Cardona for the moment. His eyes were upon the center of the room, viewing the strange sight that showed in the mellow light of a bridge lamp.

The illumination shone directly upon a card table in the center of the room. There were four persons at that table: Seth Tanning, his wife and two guests - the Wescotts. In all his experience as a member of the force, Cardona had never observed so startling a tableau.

The group still formed the partic.i.p.ants in a convivial bridge game. Four tricks had been taken by Seth Tanning. The little heaps of cards lay beneath his right hand; the man was staring at a fan of cards that he held in his left.

Across the table lay the spread out cards of the dummy. Mrs. Tanning was resting back in her chair, holding a half-emptied ginger-ale gla.s.s in her right hand. Her gaze was toward her husband; her lips wore a slight smile.

The other players were looking intently at their friends. They were holding cards; but their expressions indicated that the play had ceased for a period of banter. They, too, were smiling. Had this group been active and in motion, there would have been no occasion for astonishment.

But every position was one of absolute rigidity. Each of the four was as stony as a statue. To Joe Cardona, the players looked like a group of figures chiseled by some madcap sculptor; or, even more, they resembled a bizarre exhibit in a waxwork museum.

No terror - no surprise - no expressions of excitement were reflected on those countenances. Yet something had chilled the entire group into their present state of being. Whatever the cause, the result had been simultaneous. It was this that made Cardona sense that danger had pa.s.sed. Boldly, the acting inspector advanced to the card table, while those who had followed him remained cl.u.s.tered at the entry. With furrowed brows, Cardona stared at the immobile faces of the group. He stepped back, more awed than ever. He heard an inquiry - in Clark Doring's voice - that came from the entry. The question was a hoa.r.s.e one: "Are - are they dead?"

"No." Cardona's response was oddly firm. "I do not think so. It can't be a state of paralysis - at least I don't believe so. It looks like death - but it can't be death. They look like they were asleep - yet no one could sleep like that and -"

"Then what is it?" gasped Doring. "Not dead - not asleep - what has struck them?"

Staring, the acting inspector pondered. Not dead - not asleep - yet both. Such was the thought that pa.s.sed through his mind as he gazed upon the frozen victims of an unknown force. As Doring's hoa.r.s.e question came again, Cardona - almost mechanically - formed the phrase that was to make tomorrow's headlines.

"What is it?" asked Doring. "What has struck them?"

"A death sleep," replied Joe Cardona.

CHAPTER II. A GENTLEMAN IN BLACK.

BRIDGE, as played at Seth Tanning's, was different from the game that was relished at the Cobalt Club.

The members of that exclusive organization had no time for conviviality. They took their game seriously; and the struggle of wits invariably reached its height after the hour of midnight.

Yet on this particular night, a game had ended abruptly, shortly before one. Three players were seated about a table in a tobacco-laden card room, indulging in a post mortem. Suddenly deprived of a fourth player, they had been forced to end their game.

The door of the card room opened. The three men looked up to see a tall arrival dressed in evening clothes. They viewed a firm, steady-faced countenance that they all recognized. That hawkish visage was well-known at the Cobalt Club. The arrival was Lamont Cranston, the celebrated globe-trotter who frequented the club whenever he was in New York.

"Here's our fourth!" exclaimed a player. "Come on Cranston! Sit in the game. You'll be a worthy successor to the chap who just left."

"Who was that?" The question came evenly from Cranston's lips.

"Wainwright Barth," chuckled the player who had spoken. "Playing in good luck, too, but he had to quit."

"Very unusual," remarked Cranston. "Barth usually stays in to the end when he is winning."

"Not since he was appointed police commissioner," put in another player. "That job has put a crimp into his bridge game. He left here in a big hurry about fifteen minutes ago."

"A call from headquarters?" inquired Cranston, in a quiet tone.

"He didn't say," was the reply. "He just mentioned that he had received word of an important case.

Needed his personal attention. So the big boss of the bluecoats beat it. Come on, Cranston. How abouttaking Barth's place?"

"Sorry," was the response. "Early appointments tomorrow. I am just leaving for my home in New Jersey."

Lamont Cranston strolled from the club room. He crossed the quiet lobby and moved toward a telephone booth.

A SINGULAR phenomenon occurred during Cranston's progress. His tall form cast a blackened shadow on the tiled floor. A long, fantastic splotch of darkness, that shadow ended in a profiled silhouette that did not dwindle until Cranston had entered the telephone booth.

A long, thin finger dialed a number. A short pause; then came a quiet voice across the wire: "Burbank speaking."

"Report."

The order came from the lips of Lamont Cranston; but it was not in the tone that others had heard the globetrotter use. The voice of Lamont Cranston had become a strange, sinister whisper that Burbank recognized.

"Report from Burke," acknowledged Burbank. "He is following a tip received at the Cla.s.sic office.

Cardona is investigating case at Apartment B 5, Vanderpool Apartments. Police commissioner summoned there. Burke promises further report later."

"Report received."

Lamont Cranston strolled from the telephone booth. He crossed the lobby and pa.s.sed bowing attendants as he neared the outer door. The automobile starter saw him coming and signaled with a whistle. A magnificent foreign limousine drew up in response to the starter's call. A uniformed chauffeur alighted and opened the door for Lamont Cranston to enter.

As the car started along the street, Cranston raised the speaking tube that connected with the front seat.

He spoke in a quiet, even tone to Stanley, the chauffeur. He instructed the driver to turn uptown and to park on a certain street just west of Seventh Avenue. That designated spot was within a block of the Vanderpool Apartments.

The limousine rolled onward. Its single pa.s.senger was shrouded in the darkness of the rear seat. The spark of a cigarette was glowing; at intervals, a soft laugh whispered from the tonneau. As the car neared its appointed parking place, long hands lifted a thick briefcase from the floor. Folds of dark cloth emerged. A cloak slid downward over shoulders. A slouch hat settled on a head. Black gloves were drawn on limber fingers.

When the limousine came to a stop, the rear door opened simultaneously. A blackened form glided free of the car. The door closed silently. The emerging figure blended with the darkness of an old house front.

Stanley remained stolid behind the wheel. He would wait here until he received new instructions.

STANLEY had not heard the sound of his master's departure. That was not unusual. For Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. From a leisurely, almost indolent club man, he had transformed himself to a quick, alert being of semi-invisibility. Blending with the night, The Shadow had fared forth to learn of the events that had brought Joe Cardona and Wainwright Barth to the Vanderpool Apartments.

Unseen - his very ident.i.ty unknown - The Shadow was a master who battled crime. Through contactwith the underworld, he learned when evil was brewing. Frequently, his thrusts from the dark came before crooks had gained opportunity to begin their nefarious operations. There were times, however, when strange events occurred without The Shadow's ken. On such occasions, The Shadow was forced to follow the initial lead of the police.