Martin approached, looked over the shoulder of the medical man. The body that lay there was that of Lewis Forman, the master of the house. But he was almost unrecognizable. The bed itself was a welter of blood. Forman’s throat was a gaping, raw wound. Though Forman had been a physically big man in life, his body was now shrunken to a mummy-like husk. For the blood had been drained from it as though by a pump.
The skin lay against his ribs, showing the outline of every bone, as if he were a skeleton wrapped in some transparent material. His eyes were wide open, with the pupils turned upward. His cheeks were two gaunt hollows, and the skin lay in folds against his cheekbones.
Mr. Martin studied that body for a long time. He tore his eyes away from it as Burks stepped to his side, whispered bitterly: “Well, there’s another story you can flash over the wire. Lewis Forman, the biggest railroad man in the country — killed by some wild beast. The same as the others that have died in the past nine days. I suppose your rags will be panning the department again.”
Martin turned, studied the harassed, drawn countenance of the police inspector. “The papers know you’re doing the best you can, inspector. It’s just that they have to have something to write about.” He jerked his head toward the bed. “No clues to who did it?”
“Who?” Burks growled. “You mean what! There must be some beasts of prey loose here in the city. And they seem to pick the biggest men in town. They come at night, make their kill, drink their victims’ blood, and steal away without leaving a trace. I tell you, I almost begin to think they’re supernatural!”
Martin shrugged, remained silent.
IN a moment the medical examiner arose from the body, wiping his hands upon a towel. He heaved a deep sigh, brushed the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping off the beads of sweat that had gathered there. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “That was nasty work.”
Burks demanded eagerly: “When did he die, doc?”
“He’s been dead at least ten hours,” the doctor diagnosed. “That makes the time of his murder somewhere before midnight.”
Burks nodded somberly. “I thought so. Nobody died yesterday, and we were beginning to hope that it was the end of these daily murders. But here it is on schedule again.”
The other newspapermen in the room were busy making notes. But Martin of the Associated Press was not bothering with paper or pencil. His gaze rested upon a tall, cadaverous looking man in a dressing gown who was standing at the other end of the room, puffing furiously at a cigarette.
This man noted Mr. Martin’s glance, and returned it with a scowl. His eyes shifted away, strayed to the corpse on the bed, and he shuddered violently.
Martin said to him: “You’re Stanton?”
The tall man nodded. “That’s right. How did you know?”
“In my business,” Martin told him, “we always remember faces. You’re Oscar Stanton, the man who cornered Peerless Locomotive three years ago. Everybody knows you. They call you ‘the man who beat Wall Street.’ ”
Stanton seemed to like that. He was obviously flattered that a newspaper man should remember him.
Inspector Burks shifted impatiently. “Never mind that stuff now, Martin. We’ve got to get down to business.” He swung about, beckoned to a detective sergeant who stood near the door. “Reilly, get on the phone. Tell the commissioner I want the reserves out. We’re going to patrol every street in the city, and see if these wild beasts can get anybody else tomorrow!” His ordinarily florid face became suffused with an even deeper glow. “You’d think this was the African jungle instead of a big city in a civilized country. I swear to you they won’t get away with another murder!”
He turned to Stanton, who was lighting a second cigarette from the butt of the first with hands that shook slightly. “You say you were sleeping in the room next to this one, Mr. Stanton?”
The Wall Street speculator finished lighting his cigarette, ground out the butt of the old one on the floor under his heel, and nodded. “I was visiting overnight with Forman. I don’t understand how any sort of beast could have got into this house. I saw the butler lock up. It would take a pretty clever burglar to get in. And yet this — whatever it was — entered, killed Forman, and got away without making the slightest sound to attract anybody in the household.”
Burks asked slowly: “How come you happened to be staying here overnight, Mr. Stanton, when you live in the city yourself?”
Stanton flushed, glared irately at the inspector. “Do you mean to suggest—”
Burks’ bulldog jaw protruded at an obstinate angle. “I don’t mean to suggest anything, Mr. Stanton. This is murder. I just want to get at the facts. Don’t you want to help us corner these wild beasts? For all you know, they might claw your throat next. Suppose they had gone into your room instead of into Forman’s? You’ve got to cooperate with me!”
“All right,” Stanton yielded sullenly. “I was here on a business deal with Forman. We hadn’t finished our discussion last night, and we decided to close it over the breakfast table this morning. That’s why I remained overnight.”
“What was the nature of this deal?” Burks demanded.
“Just a little stock transaction. We were going to pool our stock purchases.”
WHILE Burks had been questioning Stanton, Mr. Martin had been kneeling beside the bed, examining a series of peculiar red marks upon the floor. Burks noticed what he was doing, suddenly desisted from questioning Stanton, and knelt beside him.
The marks which Martin was studying appeared at intervals on the floor along the bed in series of four. They were bloody marks, as if made by something that had been trailing Forman’s blood along the rug.
“Have you seen these yet?” Martin asked the inspector.
Burks shook his head. “I hadn’t paid any attention to them. But now — God! They look like the mark of an animal’s paw!”
“They might be that,” Martin said speculatively.
“Sure they are!” Burks exploded. “The damn thing ripped open Forman’s throat, feasted on his blood, and then just turned and walked out of here!”
Martin said slowly, “Maybe. But it would be a funny kind of beast. You notice that these marks are all in a row along the bed here. If it was an animal that walked out, there would be two rows — unless it was a one-legged animal.”
Burks got up from his knees, pushed Martin away. “Stand clear of it, Martin. I want to get clear photographs of these things.” He snapped a curt demand to one of his assistants: “Get Roth back here before he leaves.”
He saw Martin buttoning up his coat, asked: “Where you going? What’s your hurry? Don’t you want to stay while I talk to Mr. Stanton here and the servants?”
Martin shook his head. “I’d like to, but I have other business to attend to. Thanks for your courtesy, inspector. Any time I can do anything for you—”
He left the room after casting one more quizzical glance at Oscar Stanton, the stock speculator, who was watching him with a puzzled frown.
When Martin had gone, Stanton walked around the bed close to Burks, said: “That’s funny — a newspaperman leaving before he gets the full story.”
Burks shrugged. “I’ve known that guy a long time. You never can tell what he’s liable to do. He’s got a soft job, too — stays away for months at a time, and then shows up without any explanation.” Burks sighed. “Well, let’s forget about him. We got plenty on our hands.”