Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 064 - The Death Sleep

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THE DEATH SLEEP
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE SLEEP
? CHAPTER II. A GENTLEMAN IN BLACK
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW DEDUCTS
? CHAPTER IV. THE BIG SHOT
? CHAPTER V. DEATH AT DUSK
? CHAPTER VI. TWO GUINEA PIGS
? CHAPTER VII. FURTHER DEDUCTIONS
? CHAPTER VIII. PLANS FOR CRIME
? CHAPTER IX. AIDS OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER X. OUT OF THE DARK
? CHAPTER XI. THE SILENT HOUSE
? CHAPTER XII. THE BIG SHOT PLANS
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S MOVE
? CHAPTER XIV. THE NEW MOB
? CHAPTER XV. CARDONA FINDS LUCK
? CHAPTER XVI. THE RAID
? CHAPTER XVII. THE BIG SHOT DECIDES
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW'S THRUST
? CHAPTER XIX. AT THE HOSPITAL
? CHAPTER XX. STRANGE QUARTERS
? CHAPTER XXI. THE FINAL STROKE
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
glasses, 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 bridge
seriously."
"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
passed 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 passed. 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
passed. 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 passenger 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 passenger, 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 participants 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 glass 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 passed.
Boldly, the acting inspector advanced to the card table, while those who had followed him remained
clustered 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 hoarse 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
passed through his mind as he gazed upon the frozen victims of an unknown force. As Doring's hoarse
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 about
taking 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 Classic 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 passed 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 passenger 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 identity unknown - The Shadow was a master who battled crime. Through contact
with 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.
Tonight, Joe Cardona had encountered a most amazing mystery. The acting inspector had notified
Commissioner Wainwright Barth. Only by minutes had The Shadow missed learning of the mystery.
Barth had left the Cobalt Club just before his arrival. But in the meantime, Clyde Burke, alert reporter of
the New York Classic, had discovered that Cardona had set out on an important case.
It was Clyde's business to keep in touch with detective headquarters. He was more conscientious in that
work than was any other police reporter in Manhattan. For Clyde served more than the New York
Classic. He was a secret agent of The Shadow. Immediately upon learning of Cardona's destination,
Clyde had communicated with Burbank, hidden contact man who also served The Shadow. Thus The
Shadow, too, was arriving at the focal point.
Two courses lay open. To follow one, The Shadow could have entered the Vanderpool Apartments in
his guise of Lamont Cranston. As a friend of the police commissioner, he could have listened in on
Cardona's findings. But The Shadow had rejected that system for this night. Having missed Barth at the
Cobalt Club, he did not care to stroll in on the police investigation. The guise of Cranston was one that he
did not care to overstrain.
The second course was to arrive as The Shadow. That was the choice that he had taken. Hence the
supposed Lamont Cranston had become a gentleman in black: The Shadow. His course was taking him
toward the scene of mystery. If difficulties proved too great, The Shadow could rely upon Clyde Burke's
report, for the newspaper man was on the job. But with The Shadow, difficulties seldom proved
insurmountable.
A BLACKENED shape reached the paved alleyway beside the Vanderpool Apartments. Footsteps
were clicking on cement. A policeman was pacing this area. The Shadow could trace the man's
movements in the dark. On the right was the looming bulk of the Vanderpool Apartments, with its
scattering of lighted windows. On the left was the brick wall of an old warehouse building. This was solid
in its blackness.
The pacing officer neared the spot where The Shadow stood. A flashlight swept its beam along the wall.
The rays passed by the tall form that stood motionless against the wall. The officer missed sight of the
cloaked figure of The Shadow. His footsteps sounded down the alleyway.
The Shadow moved. His hands pressed against the wall. A squidgy sound - too soft for the policeman to
hear - announced a vertical ascent. With suction cups attached to hands and feet, The Shadow was
making upward progress, avoiding the windows where lights were showing. His phantom figure neared
the third floor.
Here The Shadow paused. He had reached a small balcony - scarcely more than an ornamental railing -
that projected from an apartment window. He needed the suction cups no longer. Similar rails showed
dimly above. The Shadow's hands gained a hold above. One story - two - he settled upon the fifth-floor
balcony, just outside an opened window. He was outside the apartment of Seth Tanning.
Straight across the alleyway was the roof of the warehouse, marked by a whitened parapet of moulding
stone. Above that was the dull glow of the Manhattan sky. Crouched at the side of Tanning's window,
The Shadow carefully avoided the background of the skyline, for it would have revealed his blackened
shape. His keen ears caught the sound of voices, just within the window. Shifting slightly, The Shadow
gazed into the lighted room.
There The Shadow spied the figure of Wainwright Barth. The police commissioner was tall and slightly
stooped; he carried his bald head thrust forward in eaglelike fashion. Upon his nose, Barth wore a pair of
pince-nez spectacles. His eyes, gleaming through the lenses, were surveying the swarthy countenance of
Detective Joe Cardona, here in capacity of acting inspector.
THERE were others in the room: a police sergeant and two officers; a gentleman and a lady whom The
Shadow was later to identify as Mr. and Mrs. Clark Doring; also another man who proved to be
Handley Brooks, the occupant of a front apartment on this floor. Clyde Burke was not in sight. Evidently
Barth had decided that the reporter must wait outside until the investigation was complete.
"Tanning was seated here" - Cardona was indicating a chair at the bridge table - "and his wife was
opposite. Wescott over here - his wife in this chair. They were rigid, commissioner, stiff as statues. For a
moment, I thought they were dead."
"What made you decide otherwise?" inquired Barth.
"The way they were sitting," responded Cardona. "Holding cards - glasses - like they were in the middle
of a game. Then it hit me that they were asleep - but that didn't answer, either. A death sleep - that's
what it was."
"So you had them removed?"
"Yes. It's only one block over to the Talleyrand Hospital. I sent for an ambulance and took them there in
a hurry. No report from the doctors yet; they're sending for a specialist - Doctor Seton Lagwood - who's
connected there. Knows all about paralysis, sleeping sickness and all that."
"I should have liked to have viewed these subjects," decided Barth. "Nevertheless, Cardona, I must
commend your action in sending them to the hospital even before you called me. Now that I have
arrived, I shall sift this mystery. Let us proceed with those who first arrived."
With this assertion, the commissioner turned to Clark Doring and his wife. The two began to tell their
story. Wainwright Barth adjusted his pince-nez and cocked his bald head to one side as he listened.
When it came to fathoming mysterious events, the police commissioner imagined himself without an
equal.
In this assumption, he was wrong. Within a dozen feet of the commissioner, another listener was
stationed, silent and unseen. The Shadow, cloaked in darkness, was ready to catch statements that
would pass unnoticed by Wainwright Barth.
For the police commissioner, despite his egotism, was a poor hand at solving crime. There were many in
New York who could have beaten him at that game. But none could have equaled the master of
deduction who lurked outside that open window.
The Shadow, himself a living enigma, was one to whom all mysteries - no matter how baffling - would be
revealed once he had learned the details that accompanied them.
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW DEDUCTS
CLARK DORING and his wife proved to be an excellent pair of witnesses. Despite the fact that they
had been beyond a closed door, their description of events within this apartment was both graphic and
illuminating. It was Doring who told the story in accurate detail, while Mrs. Doring affirmed the truth of
her husband's statements.
"An odd fact about the commotion," remarked Doring, as he finished the preliminary details. "The noise
stopped after I had pounded rather heavily. It ended with uncanny suddenness."
"So you believe someone heard you?" questioned Barth.
"That is what I thought at the time," replied Doring. "But afterward, I changed my opinion. The noise did
not stop while I was hammering at the door. It finished just as I was about to beat away again."
"Ah!" interjected Barth.
"From then on there was silence," resumed Doring. "I rapped after an interval of about one minute; then I
waited another minute and pounded. After another pause, I was about to knock again when the
telephone commenced to ring."
"Then you waited?"
"Yes. To see if someone answered. I thought for a moment that someone had done so. There was an
intermission in the ringing; but it resumed again."
"There's a point, commissioner," put in Cardona. "Someone could have answered that phone. Picked up
the receiver and let it down again."
"But I would have heard footsteps," insisted Doring.
"How do you know?" demanded Cardona, sharply.
"There is no rug in the entry," explained Doring. "I have visited here before; whenever Tanning has
answered the door, his approach has been quite audible. The telephone is almost at the door."
"Proceed," ordered Barth. "The pause in the ringing is not an important point, Cardona. It requires no
explanation. What happened next, Mr. Doring?"
"The ringing continued," replied the witness.
"With another pause," added his wife. "Like the first one - quite brief."
"You see?" Barth turned to Cardona. "That proves my opinion. Proceed, Mr. Doring."
"When the ringing suddenly ceased," stated Doring, "I told Mabel - my wife - to summon the elevator
operator. When the elevator arrived, Mr. Brooks stepped off. We told him and the operator about the
mystery. I went to the front apartment with Mr. Brooks and called detective headquarters."
"Very well." Barth began to pace back and forth across the room. He paused to study the card table,
cocking his head as he did so. He adjusted his spectacles and turned to Cardona.
"Everything is as you found it?" inquired the commissioner, sharply.
"Yes," replied Cardona, "except for the victims. The window was open, commissioner."
Barth turned in the direction indicated. He could see the outline of the balcony rail against the sky that
showed above the parapet of the warehouse.
"A balcony," observed the commissioner. "Did you inspect there, Cardona?"
"Yes. No sign of anybody. We made an inspection up from the bottom - using a man that the sergeant
posted down there - and we didn't find a trace of any intruder."
"Hm-m-m." Barth removed his spectacles and polished them, blinking owlishly as he did so. "Well, the
evening has been quite warm for this season. An opened window would be expected. Have you
searched the other apartments on this floor?"
"Yes," responded Cardona. "There are four, altogether. Two have no occupants; the superintendent has
the keys and he let us in. Nothing wrong in any of them."
"This one and two others," observed Barth, wisely, as he put on his pince-nez. "That makes only three.
What about the fourth?"
"Mr. Brooks lives there. We looked around thoroughly. Nobody hiding. I don't see how any outsider
could have been in this, commissioner - and yet I -"
"Yet what?"
"The telephone. It must have been a dialed call, the way Mr. and Mrs. Doring describe it. I can't see why
it made those two breaks. No one could have been responsible -"
"Preposterous!" interjected Barth. "Every iota of testimony points to the contrary, Cardona. Someone
must have approached the telephone to touch it. Mr. Doring would have heard him."
"Someone could have been there to begin with."
"Then Mr. Doring would have heard him move away."
Cardona was silent. Barth's testy comment damaged the detective's theory.
CONVINCED that no one had been in the room - except, of course, the victims - Cardona began to
realize that he was only complicating matters. Having squelched the detective, Barth raised his head
imposingly.
"We are dealing," he declared, "with a remarkable mystery that must be solved by science; not by the
law. We have encountered the phenomenon of four persons suddenly struck by an unknown ailment
which Cardona has aptly described as a 'death sleep.' The victims of this amazing malady are receiving
medical attention.
"We shall examine the contents of these glasses here upon the table. Possibly some toxic substance was
surreptitiously introduced. A chemical analysis will answer that question. But I feel certain, in advance,
that the liquids will show nothing extraordinary.
"I base this assumption upon the fact that the victims were overcome simultaneously. As you can
observe, all were not drinking. There are only two glasses upon the table at present. Were this an
ordinary case of foul play, the persons would have succumbed one by one. It remains a strange case; and
we must depend upon the medical authorities for their answer."
Finished with his statements, Wainwright Barth reached for the notations that Cardona had prepared.
The commissioner read them aloud. The notes consisted of statements by witnesses, in which the time of
the peculiar occurrence had been established as precisely midnight. Barth checked on other details. The
party had apparently been in progress since eight o'clock. Doring and his wife, leaving for the theater at
that hour, had received a call from Tanning asking them to stop in when the show was over.
摘要：

THEDEATHSLEEPMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THESLEEP?CHAPTERII.AGENTLEMANINBLACK?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOWDEDUCTS?CHAPTERIV.THEBIGSHOT?CHAPTERV.DEATHATDUSK?CHAPTERVI.TWOGUINEAPIGS?CHAPTERVII.FURTHERDEDUCTIONS?CHAPTERVIII.PLANSFORCRIME?CHAPTERIX.AIDSOFT...

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