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 globetrotter 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.