The Dream Doctor

by Arthur B. Reeve

  XXI

  THE GHOULS

  "H-M," mused Kennedy, weighing the contents of the note carefully, "oneof the family, I'll be bound--unless the whole thing is a hoax. By theway, who else is there in the immediate family?"

  "Only a brother, Dana Phelps, younger and somewhat inclined towildness, I believe. At least, his father did not trust him with alarge inheritance, but left most of his money in trust. But before wego any further, read that."

  Andrews pulled from the papers a newspaper cutting on which he haddrawn a circle about the following item. As we read, he eyed us sharply.

  PHELPS TOMB DESECRATED

  Last night, John Shaughnessy, a night watchman employed by the town of Woodbine, while on his rounds, was attracted by noises as of a violent struggle near the back road in the Woodbine Cemetery, on the outskirts of the town. He had varied his regular rounds because of the recent depredations of motor-car yeggmen who had timed him in pulling off several jobs lately. As he hurried toward the large mausoleum of the Phelps family, he saw two figures slink away in opposite directions in the darkness. One of them, he asserts positively, seemed to be a woman in black, the other a man whom he could not see clearly. They readily eluded pursuit in the shadows, and a moment later he heard the whir of a high-powered car, apparently bearing them away.

  At the tomb there was every evidence of a struggle. Things had been thrown about; the casket had been broken open, but the body of Montague Phelps, Jr., which had been interred there about ten days ago, was not touched or mutilated.

  It was a shocking and extraordinary violation. Shaughnessy believes that some personal jewels may have been buried with Phelps and that the thieves were after them, that they fought over the loot, and in the midst of the fight were scared away.

  The vault is of peculiar construction, a costly tomb in which repose the bodies of the late Montague Phelps, Sr., of his wife, and now of his eldest son. The raid had evidently been carefully planned to coincide with a time when Shaughnessy would ordinarily have been on the other side of the town. The entrance to the tomb had been barred, but during the commotion the ghouls were surprised and managed to escape without accomplishing their object and leaving no trace.

  Mrs. Phelps, when informed of the vandalism, was shocked, and has been in a very nervous state since the tomb was forced open. The local authorities seem extremely anxious that every precaution should be taken to prevent a repetition of the ghoulish visit to the tomb, but as yet the Phelps family has taken no steps.

  "Are you aware of any scandal, any skeleton in the closet in thefamily?" asked Craig, looking up.

  "No--not yet," considered Andrews. "As soon as I heard of thevandalism, I began to wonder what could have happened in the Phelpstomb, as far as our company's interests were concerned. You see, thatwas yesterday. To-day this letter came along," he added, laying down asecond very dirty and wrinkled note beside the first. It was quitepatently written by a different person from the first; its purport wasdifferent, indeed quite the opposite of the other. "It was sent to Mrs.Phelps," explained Andrews, "and she gave it out herself to the police."

  Do not show this to the police. Unless you leave $5000 in gold in the old stump in the swamp across from the cemetery, you will have reason to regret it. If you respect the memory of the dead, do this, and do it quietly.

  BLACK HAND.

  "Well," I ejaculated, "that's cool. What threat would be used to backthis demand on the Phelpses?"

  "Here's the situation," resumed Andrews, puffing violently on hisinevitable cigar and toying with the letters and clippings. "We havealready held up payment of the half-million dollars of insurance to thewidow as long as we can consistently do so. But we must pay soon,scandal or not, unless we can get something more than mere conjecture."

  "You are already holding it up?" queried Craig.

  "Yes. You see, we investigate thoroughly every suspicious death. Inmost cases, no body is found. This case is different in that respect.There is a body, and it is the body of the insured, apparently. But adeath like this, involving the least mystery, receives carefulexamination, especially if, as in this case, it has recently beencovered by heavy policies. My work has often served to reverse thedecision of doctors and coroners' juries.

  "An insurance detective, as you can readily appreciate, Kennedy, sooncomes to recognise the characteristics in the crimes with which hedeals. For example, writing of the insurance plotted for rarelyprecedes the conspiracy to defraud. That is, I know of few cases inwhich a policy originally taken out in good faith has subsequentlybecome the means of a swindle.

  "In outright-murder cases, the assassin induces the victim to take outinsurance in his favour. In suicide cases, the insured does so himself.Just after his return home, young Phelps, who carried fifty thousanddollars already, applied for and was granted one of the largestpolicies we have ever written--half a million."

  "Was it incontestible without the suicide clause?" asked Kennedy.

  "Yes," replied Andrews, "and suicide is the first and easiest theory.Why, you have no idea how common the crime of suicide for the sake ofthe life insurance is becoming. Nowadays, we insurance men almostbelieve that every one who contemplates ending his existence takes outa policy so as to make his life, which is useless to him, a benefit, atleast, to some one--and a nightmare to the insurance detective."

  "I know," I cut in, for I recalled having been rather interested in thePhelps case at the time, "but I thought the doctors said finally thatdeath was due to heart failure."

  "Doctor Forden who signed the papers said so," corrected Andrews."Heart failure--what does that mean? As well say breath failure, ornerve failure. I'll tell you what kind of failure I think it was. Itwas money failure. Hard times and poor investments struck Phelps beforehe really knew how to handle his small fortune. It called him homeand--pouf!--he is off--to leave to his family a cool half-million byhis death. But did he do it himself or did some one else do it? That'sthe question."

  "What is your theory," inquired Kennedy absently, "assuming there is noscandal hidden in the life of Phelps before or after he married theRussian dancer?"

  "I don't know, Kennedy," confessed Andrews. "I have had so manytheories and have changed them so rapidly that all I lay claim tobelieving, outside of the bald facts that I have stated, is that theremust have been some poison. I rather sense it, feel that there is nodoubt of it, in fact. That is why I have come to you. I want you toclear it up, one way or another. The company has no interest except ingetting at the truth."

  "The body is really there?" asked Kennedy. "You saw it?"

  "It was there no later than this afternoon, and in an almost perfectstate of preservation, too."

  Kennedy seemed to be looking at and through Andrews as if he wouldhypnotise the truth out of him. "Let me see," he said quickly. "It isnot very late now. Can we visit the mausoleum to-night?"

  "Easily. My car is down-stairs. Woodbine is not far, and you'll find ita very attractive suburb, aside from this mystery."

  Andrews lost no time in getting us out to Woodbine, and on the fringeof the little town, one of the wealthiest around the city, he depositedus at the least likely place of all, the cemetery. A visit to acemetery is none too enjoyable even on a bright day. In the early nightit is positively uncanny. What was gruesome in the daylight becamedoubly so under the shroud of darkness.

  We made our way into the grounds through a gate, and I, at least, evenwith all the enlightenment of modern science, could not restrain aweird and creepy sensation.

  "Here is the Phelps tomb," directed Andrews, pausing beside a marblestructure of Grecian lines and pulling out a duplicate key of a newlock which had been placed on the heavy door of grated iron. As weentered, it was with a shudder at the damp odour of decay. Kennedy hadbrought his little electric bull's-eye, and, as he flashed it about, wecould see at a glance that the reports had not been exaggerated.Everything showed marks
of a struggle. Some of the ornaments had beenbroken, and the coffin itself had been forced open.

  "I have had things kept just as we found them," explained Andrews.

  Kennedy peered into the broken coffin long and attentively. With alittle effort I, too, followed the course of the circle of light. Thebody was, as Andrews had said, in an excellent, indeed a perfect, stateof preservation. There were, strange to say, no marks of decay.

  "Strange, very strange," muttered Kennedy to himself.

  "Could it have been some medical students, body-snatchers?" I askedmusingly. "Or was it simply a piece of vandalism? I wonder if therecould have been any jewels buried with him, as Shaughnessy said? Thatwould make the motive plain robbery."

  "There were no jewels," said Andrews, his mind not on the first part ofmy question, but watching Kennedy intently.

  Craig had dropped on his knees on the damp, mildewed floor, andbringing his bull's-eye close to the stones, was examining some spotshere and there.

  "There could not have been any substitution?" I whispered, with, mymind still on the broken coffin. "That would cover up the evidence of apoisoning, you know."

  "No," replied Andrews positively, "although bodies can be obtainedcheaply enough from a morgue, ostensibly for medical purposes. No, thatis Phelps, all right."

  "Well, then," I persisted, "body-snatchers, medical students?"

  "Not likely, for the same reason," he rejected.

  We bent over closer to watch Kennedy. Apparently he had found a numberof round, flat spots with little spatters beside them. He was carefullytrying to scrape them up with as little of the surrounding mould aspossible.

  Suddenly, without warning, there was a noise outside, as if a personwere moving through the underbrush. It was fearsome in its suddenness.Was it human or wraith? Kennedy darted to the door in time to see ashadow glide silently away, lost in the darkness of the fine oldwillows. Some one had approached the mausoleum for a second time, notknowing we were there, and had escaped. Down the road we could hear thepurr of an almost silent motor.

  "Somebody is trying to get in to conceal something here," mutteredKennedy, stifling his disappointment at not getting a closer view ofthe intruder.

  "Then it was not a suicide," I exclaimed. "It was a murder!"

  Craig shook his head sententiously. Evidently he not prepared yet totalk.

  With another look at the body in the broken casket he remarked:"To-morrow I want to call on Mrs. Phelps and Doctor Forden, and, if itis possible to find him, Dana Phelps. Meanwhile, Andrews, if you andWalter will stand guard here, there is an apparatus which I should liketo get from my laboratory and set up here before it is too late."

  It was far past the witching hour of midnight, when graveyardsproverbially yawn, before Craig returned in the car. Nothing hadhappened in the meantime except those usual eery noises that one mayhear in the country at night anywhere. Our visitor of the early eveningseemed to have been scared away for good.

  Inside the mausoleum, Kennedy set up a peculiar machine which heattached to the electric-light circuit in the street by a long wirewhich he ran loosely over the ground. Part of the apparatus consistedof an elongated box lined with lead, to which were several otherattachments, the nature of which I did not understand, and acrank-handle.

  "What's that?" asked Andrews curiously, as Craig set up a screenbetween the apparatus and the body.

  "This is a calcium-tungsten screen," remarked Kennedy, adjusting nowwhat I know to be a Crookes' tube on the other side of the body itself,so that the order was: the tube, the body, the screen, and the oblongbox. Without a further word we continued to watch him.

  At last, the apparatus adjusted apparently to his satisfaction, hebrought out a jar of thick white liquid and a bottle of powder.

  "Buttermilk and a couple of ounces of bismuth sub-carbonate," heremarked, as he mixed some in a glass, and with a pump forced it downthe throat of the body, now lying so that the abdomen was almost flatagainst the screen.

  He turned a switch and the peculiar bluish effulgence, which alwaysappears when a Crookes' tube is being used, burst forth, accompanied bythe droning of his induction-coil and the welcome smell of ozoneproduced by the electrical discharge in the almost fetid air of thetomb. Meanwhile, he was gradually turning the handle of the crankattached to the oblong box. He seemed so engrossed in the delicatenessof the operation that we did not question him, in fact did not move.For Andrews, at least, it was enough to know that he had succeeded inenlisting Kennedy's services.

  Well along toward morning it was before Kennedy had concluded histests, whatever they were, and had packed away his paraphernalia.

  "I'm afraid it will take me two or three days to get at this evidence,even now," he remarked, impatient at even the limitations science puton his activity. We had started back for a quick run to the city andrest. "But, anyhow, it will give us a chance to do some investigatingalong other lines."

  Early the next day, in spite of the late session of the night before,Kennedy started me with him on a second visit to Woodbine. This time hewas armed with a letter of introduction from Andrews to Mrs. Phelps.

  She proved to be a young woman of most extraordinary grace and beauty,with a superb carriage such as only years of closest training under thebest dancers of the world could give. There was a peculiar velvetysoftness about her flesh and skin, a witching stoop to her shouldersthat was decidedly continental, and in her deep, soulful eyes ahalf-wistful look that was most alluring. In fact, she was asattractive a widow as the best Fifth Avenue dealers in mourning goodscould have produced.

  I knew that 'Ginette Phelps had been, both as dancer and wife, alwaysthe centre of a group of actors, artists, and men of letters as well asof the world and affairs. The Phelpses had lived well, although theywere not extremely wealthy, as fortunes go. When the blow fell, I couldwell fancy that the loss of his money had been most serious to youngMontague, who had showered everything as lavishly as he was able uponhis captivating bride.

  Mrs. Phelps did not seem to be overjoyed at receiving us, yet made noopen effort to refuse.

  "How long ago did the coma first show itself?" asked Kennedy, after ourintroductions were completed. "Was your husband a man of neurotictendency, as far as you could judge?"

  "Oh, I couldn't say when it began," she answered, in a voice that wassoft and musical and under perfect control. "The doctor would know thatbetter. No, he was not neurotic, I think."

  "Did you ever see Mr. Phelps take any drugs--not habitually, but justbefore this sleep came on?"

  Kennedy was seeking his information in a manner and tone that wouldcause as little offence as possible "Oh, no," she hastened. "No,never--absolutely."

  "You called in Dr. Forden the last night?"

  "Yes, he had been Montague's physician many years ago, you know."

  "I see," remarked Kennedy, who was thrusting about aimlessly to get heroff her guard. "By the way, you know there is a great deal of gossipabout the almost perfect state of preservation of the body, Mrs.Phelps. I see it was not embalmed."

  She bit her lip and looked at Kennedy sharply.

  "Why, why do you and Mr. Andrews worry me? Can't you see Doctor Forden?"

  In her annoyance I fancied that there was a surprising lack of sorrow.She seemed preoccupied. I could not escape the feeling that she wasputting some obstacle in our way, or that from the day of the discoveryof the vandalism, some one had been making an effort to keep the realfacts concealed. Was she shielding some one? It flashed over me thatperhaps, after all, she had submitted to the blackmail and had buriedthe money at the appointed place. There seemed to be little use inpursuing the inquiry, so we excused ourselves, much, I thought, to herrelief.

  We found Doctor Forden, who lived on the same street as the Phelpsesseveral squares away, most fortunately at home. Forden was an extremelyinteresting man, as is, indeed, the rule with physicians. I could notbut fancy, however, that his hearty assurance that he would be glad totalk freely on the case was somewhat forc
ed.

  "You were sent for by Mrs. Phelps, that last night, I believe, whilePhelps was still alive?" asked Kennedy.

  "Yes. During the day it had been impossible to arouse him, and thatnight, when Mrs. Phelps and the nurse found him sinking even deeperinto the comatose state, I was summoned again. He was beyond hope then.I did everything I could, but he died a few moments after I arrived."

  "Did you try artificial respiration?" asked Kennedy.

  "N-no," replied Forden. "I telephoned here for my respirator, but bythe time it arrived at the house it was too late. Nothing had beenomitted while he was still struggling with the spark of life. When thatwent out what was the use?"

  "You were his personal physician?"

  "Yes."

  "Had you ever noticed that he took any drug?"

  Doctor Forden shot a quick glance at Kennedy. "Of course not. He wasnot a drug fiend."

  "I didn't mean that he was addicted to any drug. But had he takenanything lately, either of his own volition or with the advice orknowledge of any one else?"

  "Of course not."

  "There's another strange thing I wish to ask your opinion about,"pursued Kennedy, not to be rebuffed. "I have seen his body. It is in anexcellent state of preservation, almost lifelike. And yet I understand,or at least it seems, that it was not embalmed."

  "You'll have to ask the undertaker about that," answered the doctorbrusquely.

  It was evident that he was getting more and more constrained in hisanswers. Kennedy did not seem to mind it, but to me it seemed that hemust be hiding something. Was there some secret which medical ethicskept locked in his breast? Kennedy had risen and excused himself.

  The interviews had not resulted in much, I felt, yet Kennedy did notseem to care. Back in the city again, he buried himself in hislaboratory for the rest of the day, most of the time in his dark room,where he was developing photographic plates or films, I did not knowwhich.

  During the afternoon Andrews dropped in for a few moments to reportthat he had nothing to add to what had already developed. He was notmuch impressed by the interviews.

  "There's just one thing I want to speak about, though," he said atlength, unburdening his mind. "That tomb and the swamp, too, ought tobe watched. Last night showed me that there seems to be a regularnocturnal visitor and that we cannot depend on that town night watchmanto scare him off. Yet if we watch up there, he will be warned and willlie low. How can we watch both places at once and yet remain hidden?"

  Kennedy nodded approval of the suggestion. "I'll fix that," he replied,anxious to return to his photographic labours. "Meet me, both of you,on the road from the station at Woodbine, just as it is getting dusk."Without another word he disappeared into the dark room.

  We met him that night as he had requested. He had come up to Woodbinein the baggage-car of the train with a powerful dog, for all the worldlike a huge, grey wolf.

  "Down, Schaef," he ordered, as the dog began to show an uncannyinterest in me. "Let me introduce my new dog-detective," he chuckled."She has a wonderful record as a police-dog."

  We were making our way now through the thickening shadows of the townto the outskirts. "She's a German sheep-dog, a Schaferhund," heexplained. "For my part, it is the English bloodhound in the opencountry and the sheep-dog in the city and the suburbs."

  Schaef seemed to have many of the characteristics of the wild,prehistoric animal, among them the full, upright ears of the wild dogwhich are such a great help to it. She was a fine, alert, upstandingdog, hardy, fierce, and literally untiring, of a tawny light brown likea lioness, about the same size and somewhat of the type of thesmooth-coated collie, broad of chest and with a full brush of tail.

  Untamed though she seemed, she was perfectly under Kennedy's control,and rendered him absolute and unreasoning obedience.

  At the cemetery we established a strict watch about the Phelpsmausoleum and the swamp which lay across the road, not a difficultthing to do as far as concealment went, owing to the foliage. Still,for the same reason, it was hard to cover the whole ground. In theshadow of a thicket we waited. Now and then we could hear Schaefscouting about in the underbrush, crouching and hiding, watching andguarding.

  As the hours of waiting in the heavily laden night air wore on, Iwondered whether our vigil in this weird place would be rewarded. Thesoughing of the night wind in the evergreens, mournful at best, wasdoubly so now. Hour after hour we waited patiently.

  At last there was a slight noise from the direction opposite themausoleum and toward the swamp next to the cemetery.

  Kennedy reached out and drew us back into the shadow deeper. "Some oneis prowling about, approaching the mausoleum on that side, I think," hewhispered.

  Instantly there recurred to me the thought I had had earlier in the daythat perhaps, after all, the five thousand dollars of hush money, forwhatever purpose it might be extorted, had been buried in the swamp byMrs. Phelps in her anxiety. Had that been what she was concealing?Perhaps the blackmailer had come to reconnoitre, and, if the money wasthere, to take it away.

  Schaef, who had been near us, was sniffing eagerly. From ourhiding-place we could just see her. She had heard the sounds, too, evenbefore we had, and for an instant stood with every muscle tense.

  Then, like an arrow, she darted into the underbrush. An instant later,the sharp crack of a revolver rang out. Schaef kept right on, neverstopping a second, except, perhaps, for surprise.

  "Crack!" almost in her face came a second spit of fire in the darkness,and a bullet crashed through the leaves and buried itself in a treewith a ping. The intruder's marksmanship was poor, but the dog paid noattention to it.

  "One of the few animals that show no fear of gunfire," mutteredKennedy, in undisguised admiration.

  "G-R-R-R," we heard from the police-dog.

  "She has made a leap at the hand that holds the gun," cried Kennedy,now rising and moving rapidly in the same direction. "She has beentaught that a man once badly bitten in the hand is nearly out of thefight."

  We followed, too. As we approached we were just in time to see Schaefrunning in and out between the legs of a man who had heard us approachand was hastily making tracks for the road. As he tripped, she lungedfor his back.

  Kennedy blew shrilly on a police whistle. Reluctantly, Schaef let go.One could see that with all her canine instinct she wanted to "get"that man. Her jaws were open, as, with longing eyes, she stood over theprostrate form in the grass. The whistle was a signal, and she had beentaught to obey unquestioningly.

  "Don't move until we get to you, or you are a dead man," shoutedKennedy, pulling an automatic as he ran. "Are you hurt?"

  There was no answer, but as we approached, the man moved, ever solittle, through curiosity to see his pursuers.

  Schaef shot forward. Again the whistle sounded and she dropped back. Webent over to seize him as Kennedy secured the dog.

  "She's a devil," ground out the prone figure on the grass.

  "Dana Phelps!" exclaimed Andrews, as the man turned his face toward us."What are you doing, mixed up in this?"

  Suddenly there was a movement in the rear, toward the mausoleum itself.We turned, but it was too late. Two dark figures slunk through thegloom, bearing something between them. Kennedy slipped the leash offSchaef and she shot out like a unchained bolt of lightning.

  There was the whir of a high-powered machine which must have sneaked upwith the muffler on during the excitement. They had taken a desperatechance and had succeeded. They were gone!