“All right.” Lane helped her to step into a vertical box. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you.” He closed down the lid, careful to see that it did not lock.
The detective looked about him and then chose a casket which leaned against the wall in the shadows. From this place of vantage, he felt that he could view the operating room without being discovered. He stepped inside and closed the lid upon himself. The padded interior was soft and silken and, all in all, quite comfortable—but Lane shivered at the thought that he ran the chance of being buried in the thing.
Through the glass window he could command the room with his eyes if not his gun.
The entrance door was opening slowly and, in an instant, there appeared— Loup-garou! Dragging a corpse!
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Coffin’s Prisoner
GAULT, the undertaker, the maniac’s burly henchman and Dr. Leroux passed through the outer room of the building and approached the embalming chamber. It was not until they stood upon the latter’s threshold that they noticed the absence of the guard.
“Ranelli!” bawled Loup-garou. “Ranelli!” He turned the full effect of the green mask on Gault. “Where the devil has that fool gone?”
“I . . . I’m sure I don’t know,” stammered the greasy undertaker.
“Hum! Must have lost his nerve!” Leroux turned upon his henchman. “Come on. Let’s put this thing on the table and get to work!”
He again snatched at the dead body they bore between them. Roughly, they threw the corpse on the white table of the embalming chamber. Gault lingered, seemingly hopeful.
“Get out!” roared Leroux. “You know better than that!”
The henchman and Gault cowered away and then slunk back into the main room, where the coffins were, to wait. The chamber door slammed behind them.
From within the coffin, Lane grimly laid out his plan of action. He did not know the identity of the dead man, but he correctly supposed that it was a cog in another murder-extortion scheme. He was half-minded to attack the two waiting men, but stifled the impulse. He would wait until Loup-garou had finished his unknown task.
With the breaks, Lane thought, he could control the situation with a minimum of rough work. And then it suddenly became apparent that the breaks were not to be with him that night. The bottom of the coffin was sliding gradually out from the wall!
There was no mystery in it. The casket had been tilted back and the added weight had caused it to slide out at the base. Lane braced himself for action. The only course left to him would lie in a sudden attack at that very moment.
He thrust out the lid with a sudden jerk. It was this movement which caused his immediate undoing. With a dull scrape, the box crashed down. Lane was flat on his back, helpless.
The henchman leaped to his feet and ran across the room, gun in hand. As he had seen the fall of the coffin, he lost no time in search.
The detective thrust up the lid and tried to leap out. Death roared at him and a bullet shattered the casket’s glass. Lane rolled out and brought his own gun into play. The burly one jumped aside and fired again.
The detective gained his feet and rushed forward, gun up and ready. A flash of powder sprayed lead across his upper arm.
Gault coolly aimed and shot from across the room. Lane felt the sear of a bullet above his temple. A gush of blood ran down into his eyes, blinding him.
The door of the embalming chamber crashed open and emitted Loup-garou. The man’s sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, but the mask was still in place.
The door of the embalming chamber crashed open and emitted Loup-garou. The man’s sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, but the mask was still in place.
Lane was beset on three sides and he did the only thing he could do. He backed up quickly and threw himself under the cover of the coffin he had so lately quit. Angrily, without feeling the pain of his wound, he brushed the blood out of his eyes. He saw that there was little hope of his getting out alive and saving Dawn Drayden.
The girl’s coffin opened and she stepped out. A small-caliber automatic glittered in her slim hand. “Drop those guns!” she ordered.
The two she menaced—Gault and Leroux’s lieutenant—turned slowly about, but did not obey.
“Drop those guns!” she snapped again.
Lane gasped and raised his own weapon. Leroux had not been covered. The man was diving toward the girl with incredible speed. Too late Dawn whirled on her assailant.
Gault saw Lane’s gun come up over the coffin rim. He sent a bullet toward Lane’s hand. The detective’s gun shot away from him.
Loup-garou hit Dawn’s weapon aside. He followed up with a savage open-handed slap to the girl’s face. She reeled back and slumped to the floor, fainting.
Three men now turned their attention to Lane. Weaponless, the detective jumped to his feet, ready for the shock of bullets. Gault was upon him with a clubbed gun. Lane struck and then snapped another blow to the undertaker’s face. Before Gault had moved a foot, Leroux was upon Lane like a blood-mad panther. The maniac’s fist crashed against Lane’s jaw, leaving a jagged gash. The burly one circled the detective and came up from behind.
Wildly, one fist maimed, blood streaming from his head, Lane flailed about him. He tried to place his back to the wall and failed. Instead, he rammed into a convulsing brace of arms which grabbed him about the chest. Leroux rushed in. Lane caught the man on the shins with a kick. Gault was up again.
Lane saw a clubbed gun crash down toward his forehead. Light exploded within his brain. He slumped dizzily, utterly limp. Loup-garou kicked his body for good measure.
“Throw him into one of those coffins!” ordered Leroux. “We’ll dispose of him quick enough.”
Cold air brought Lane back to consciousness. Cold air, and the jolting he was receiving inside the coffin. In spite of the padded sides of the box, each time it jarred, Lane was nauseated with pain.
The blood had clotted on the side of his head, but his hand was bleeding freely. He could feel dampness seeping down his sleeve and staining his suit. For the briefest space of time he wondered where he was—and then he knew.
The detective was in the back of a hearse! And the machine was traveling over a very rough side road, on its way to the cemetery. His fate was plain.
Admittedly Terry Lane was afraid—but then, it is said that only brave men can know fear. He clearly understood his position, but, characteristically, he set his brain to work to devise a method of escape from a seemingly hopeless position. The thought of being buried alive was not a pleasant one.
Evidently, Gault’s obvious miserliness had prevailed, for they had placed him in the coffin which had the broken glass. That accounted for the cool stream of air which came into the tight confines. Cautiously, Lane lifted his head and looked, upside down, toward the driver’s seat.
By the light on the machine’s dash he could see the silhouettes of two men. They were talking, but Lane was far too busy to pay them any attention.
By dint of much straining, the detective managed to work his arm up and thrust his hand through the broken pane in the lid. Then, reassured for the moment, he reached down and fumbled for the latch. He placed his entire shoulder through the opening and reached further.
He realized, at last, that his plan was doomed to failure. He could not lift the lid without releasing the catch, and he could not reach the lock. Subsiding, he drew his arm back into a more comfortable position and swore softly.
The black hopelessness of his plight engulfed him. There was nothing he could do to release himself and he was being driven at a high speed over a rough road to an open grave. Death by suffocation was imminent.
He could hear the conversation of the men in front and he listened absently.
“Where did you put the girl?” asked the driver.
The other answered after a moment’s silence. “In back of the elevator. She’ll be safe there until I can blast her down.”
“No use blasting her,”
was the growled reply.
“Maybe you’re right. I haven’t decided.”
“Too bad,” said the driver, “that you couldn’t use the dick.”
“I’ve got more important things to do. He didn’t know anything, anyway.”
“Sure was a persistent fool. He damned near nailed me.”
There came a few minutes of silence while the car negotiated a particularly bad piece of road. Then the driver spoke again. “You collected a hundred thousand today, didn’t you?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“Plenty. I want my cut!”
A low chuckle greeted this. Its tone was blood-freezing. “How would you like to die?”
The driver cried out sharply: “Take that thing away! I was just kiddin’, Chief. Honest I was!”
“The only reason I keep you around is because you’re too dumb to have nerves. That’s all. Any time you cease to be useful, you die. Keep on being useful!”
“Yes, Chief, I understand!”
A brittle silence ensued, punctuated only by the jar of the rocketing machine.
Experimentally, Lane reached out and touched the side of the hearse. His groping fingers encountered the metal rail along the side and he gripped it, supposing for a long moment that he could bodily drag himself out of his coffin. But the thought was doomed almost as soon as it was born. The aperture was entirely too small.
While he still gripped the rail, the car lurched and the casket shifted. Lane grunted and pulled again. Once more the box lifted and scraped against the floor.
The plan was only half thought out, but the detective persisted in his efforts. Slowly but certainly, the coffin was sliding down toward the back of the hearse. For some unknown reason, his captors had not strapped the thing in place.
The shock of bumps was repeated over and over, and Lane valiantly worked each lurch to his own advantage. The terribleness of his fate was quite enough to double his already ample strength. He did not notice when his head wound once more started to bleed.
The hearse shot up the approach of a bridge, careening under the impetus of the bump at the start. Lane’s coffin struck the doors at the back. The machine swooped down the incline and once more hit the rough road at a faster pace.
Something gave way at the bottom of the casket. It tipped crazily and then teetered on the edge. Lane braced himself and drew in his arm, ready for the shock.
Empty air snatched at the box. The edge hit the dirt with a scraping crunch. Lane was dazed by the impact but he was exultant in his freedom. He lay at the side of the road, still confined by the casket, but free! Far ahead, the lights of the departing hearse turned a curve and disappeared from view.
Unable immediately to free himself, Lane took the next best course. He thrust his arm out and began to hitch his narrow prison off the road. He knew that he would soon be missed and he did not intend to be picked up if he could help it. The life of Dawn Drayden depended solely upon him.
Even with that bare clue “in back of the elevator” to work upon, Lane knew that he would exert every faculty to effect the girl’s deliverance. He didn’t think of it as a heroic gesture on his part. To him, the rescue was a necessity far more important than his own well-being.
Up on its side, flat on its face, over on top, slam back to the bottom, rolled the casket, and within the next minute, Lane was securely hidden in tall grass and shrubs. They would naturally look for the box in the road. Lane prayed for any kind of break. . . .
A cheerful whistle was approaching from the direction of the town and the detective recognized the trilling and syncopation of “Oh, Dem Golden Slippers!” Only a black man’s lips could so control a whistle.
Hope flamed in Lane’s bruised chest. He raised his head out of the aperture until he could view the road.
He saw a black man swinging along in the circle of a lantern’s yellow light. Certainly this fellow could have no connection with Loup-garou, and Lane emitted a low call.
“Who dat?” immediately followed the cessation of the tune. “Who dat?”
“Detective-Sergeant Lane!” called the imprisoned man. “Come down here and let me out.”
“Sho’,” agreed the amiable man, and suiting action to his word, he held up the lantern until it showed through the tall grass.
It was not until then that Lane realized what a horrifying spectacle he must be. Blood was running down the side of his head, his outstretched hand was crimson, and above and beyond that, his reddened face was jutting out of the hole in a coffin lid!
A terrified scream ripped through the night. The lantern shattered itself on the highway and plunged the scene into darkness. The pound of departing feet was unbelievably swift.
“Wait!” shouted Lane. “I’m no ha’nt.”
But the man was too far away to be convinced. He had decided to live to tell the story to goggle-eyed grandchildren.
The purr of a motor was growing steadily louder. Headlights gleamed on the dusty foliage. Lane breathlessly waited, feeling sure that the hearse had returned for him. His heart hammered so loudly that he was certain it could be heard from the road.
The machine came closer, traveling at a snail’s pace as though the occupants were looking for something. The detective held his breath, feeling his blood turn to ice in his veins. The car was abreast of him now. A second became a nightmare eternity, and then the sound of the motor began to recede in the direction of town.
Lane reached feverishly for the latch. Certainly there must be some way out of this prison. But once more his efforts met with complete failure.
Footfalls were again nearing and Lane lay very still, debating the wisdom of crying out. The crunch-crunch of heavy leather shoes on gravel came closer. Lane mustered all his nerve.
Hey! You on the road!”
The footsteps stopped. “Who’s that?”
“Detective-Sergeant Lane! I’m down here in the grass. Don’t be scared!”
A long pause greeted this statement. Then the footsteps began again and the stranger came over the highway.
“My God!” he gasped.
“Don’t stand there like a nut! Get me out of here!”
Terror was visibly gripping the man, for he stood with a flashlight on the coffin for the better part of a minute. Then he evidently bolstered up his nerve and stepped closer.
“Loosen the lock on this thing!” pleaded Lane. “If I don’t get out of here, I’ll have a reason for the box!”
White-faced, the stranger did his bidding and lifted up the heavy lid. Cold air flooded over the detective’s body as he sat up. “Wow! I thought I never was going to get out.”
“How—” began his rescuer.
“Never mind how! If you come around to Headquarters next week, I’ll give you half my paycheck. Right now, I’m in a hurry!” Lane strode quickly away into the brush.
“Thanks,” he called over his shoulder.
But the stranger stood stunned beside the casket, as though still afraid to believe his eyes. He shivered when he remembered the stories he had read in the papers—stories about dead men who came back to life, and murdered. . . .
Rough fields gouged at Lane’s light shoes. High fences ripped at his clothes; thorns tore at his already bleeding hands. But he paid little attention to his own well-being. He didn’t notice that his head throbbed agonizingly, that the punctured palm of his hand left a red trail behind him.
His mind was set on one idea. He must get to Dawn Drayden before Leroux returned. “In back of the elevator,” he muttered to himself.
CHAPTER NINE
Facing Eternity
DESPITE the gaping drugstore clerk and the three customers who stood about in shocked attitudes, Lane dashed to the back of the store where an array of telephone booths stood ready for prospective callers.
“Police Headquarters!” he snapped into the mouthpiece. Leonard’s acid voice answered him presently.
“Listen, Chief, I’ve got a hot lead!” Lane barked.
“Give me time! I want you to cover Gault’s parlor. Cover the place with about ten men. Get me? Arrest everybody that even looks at it!”
Leonard was faintly sarcastic. “Sure, and what are you going to do? Pick daisies?”
“Say, I came so close to pushing those things up that I’m still shivering! I’m going to cable Haiti, for one thing. And I’m going to get a list of every person in town connected with Haiti. If you want me in the next hour, call the coroner’s apartment. He promised to get some dope on Haiti for me.”
“He called up a few minutes ago,” informed Leonard. “Wanted to know where you were. He wanted to talk to you.”
“Okay!” finished Lane. “I’ll be seeing you before midnight!” He slammed down the receiver and walked out into the store, suddenly conscious of his terrifying appearance.
The druggist shrank back of the counter and stared at the detective with unbelieving eyes. Lane flashed his badge. “Fix me up, will you?”
Upon the presentation of authority, the druggist quickly led the detective into the back of the store. “Looks as if you’d had a tough night, Lieutenant.”
“Not ‘Lieutenant.’ That is, not yet,” said Terry with a forced grin. He glanced at himself in the mirror over the washbasin. “No wonder that man ran away!”
“What man?”
“Why,” began Lane, “the one who wouldn’t open up . . .” He broke off, realizing that what he might say was liable to brand him as an idiot. Escapes from coffins were not everyday occurrences in the lives of druggists.
Then the clue to Dawn’s whereabouts flashed through his mind, and his lips grew tight. “Snap it up, will you?” he asked.
With iodine still burning in the wounds and with his right arm in a white sling, Lane again surveyed himself in the glass. The head bandage made up for his lack of a hat and the shoulder bindings made a large bulge underneath his coat. Then he noticed the scratch he had received when Leroux had struck his face.
Dead Men Kill (Stories from the Golden Age) Page 6
