Maxwell Grant
Death Sleep
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.