The Hour of Death by Grover Brinkman. The telephone on doctor Thorndyke's littered desk
shrieked a single, jerked out ring, as if the party on the other
end of the line was nervous for a connection to be made. Laying aside
his hook, he casually reached for the receiver. Hello, he said,
Yes, this is Thorndyke speaking. Who did you say, Blake? Oh,
yes, I recognize your voice. Now old man didn't at first.
It seems so strained and unnatural. Yes, if you say it's urgent,
I'll be over right away. Thorndyke hung up the receiver, donned his hat
and coat, and went out the front way of his bachelor apartment, telling
his servant that he need not stay up. A minute later, he was
speeding down the deserted street in his own roadster. Now I wonder what the
dickens is the matter, Thorndyke reflected as he sped along, recalling the strained,
terrified voice of his old colleague over the wire. He was soon to
find out. As he parked his car in Blake's driveway, he had a
vague premonition that something was wrong. Seriously wrong. A servant met him at
the door of Blake's residence, an old, slightly bent man, who led
him without prelude, to Blake's den, where his friend lived alone. But
what a different Blake. In the strained, horror filled face, Thorndyke could
hardly recognize the man who, from youth and college days he always called his
closest friend. Blake was a strong man, both mentally and physically. His
only weakness a belief in superstition, and as Thorndyke looked at the mere phantom
of the former football star, the frown deepened in his brow. Thank God,
I'm glad you came, said Blake. Unnaturally, it was so late
when I called up that I was afraid you might have retired. No,
I most always stay up until after midnight reading. But you look as if
you've seen a ghost. What in the world is wrong for answer? Blake
pointed to the library table in the center of the room, on which was
scattered a pile of letters. He seemed stupefied. His eyes were glassy and
wondering. Read one of those, he said, queerly, and don't take
it as a joke. For the last six weeks one of those letters has
been coming at one o'clock in the morning every time. Thorndyke, his face
incredulous, picked up the foremost letter and unfolded the single sheet it contained.
As he read, the blood slowly left his face, and laughing queerly,
he read for the second time the brief note, mister James Blake, two
more nights from tonight, at exactly one o'clock, your life will be snuffed
out like the breaking of a thread. There was no signature, nothing at
all, nothing but the sinister message, without a clew of any kind.
Blake gave a hollow laugh. What do you make of it? He asked,
slowly, hopelessly. Thorndyke shook his head, then presently his face broke
into the image of a smile. No doubt some of your friends trying to
put a scare into you, he said, though his voice lacked conviction.
I've thought of that. At first, I almost believed it, but I
don't any more. Why man look more than forty of them every night,
for forty nights at exactly one o'clock. Thorndike was looking through the letters,
trying to conjure some vague reason for their being there, can't you get a
clue from the postmarks, he asked, Presently, no use in trying,
Blake returned. Each is mailed within the city, though not always at the
same station, and each has a special delivery stamp attached. We can't find
any clues that way. Suddenly, as Thorndyke started to speak, the tall
clock in the hallway chimed out the hour one o'clock. With the sound,
Blake seemed to pale even more, until his face was the color of dead
ashes. He slumped down in his chair, trembling in every limb, his
eyes in a fixed stare on the doorway. Thorndyke realized with a pang of
regret that the sinister letters were proving too much for his old friend. Blake
was a wreck physically and mentally, and to all indications on the verge of
losing his mind. Buck up, old man, he said, solicitously.
But my god, Jim almost shrieked Blake, his outward calm suddenly deserting him.
Place yourself in my position. For more than forty nights, I have
stayed up and waited, waited for this. I can't sleep all day and
all night. This thing haunts me like a bad dream. My mind is
about ready to snap. Thank god, it's almost over. Either we will
find out who's doing this tomorrow night, or I he broke off abruptly.
At that moment, the aged servant noiselessly opened the door, and without further
ceremony, handed Blake a letter, special delivery letter for you, sir,
he said obediently, his face an impassive mask, and turned for the door.
Blake turned the letter over in his hands like a man in a daze.
Without opening it. He handed it to Thorndyke. You read it,
he requested, and buried his face in his hands. Thorndyke took it without
a word of protest and tore it open. This time, the message was
even more brief, twenty four more hours and then the breaking of the thread.
As he put the letter on the table, the expression of Thorndyke's face
suddenly changed. His countenance hardened, his lips drew into a thin line that
barely showed the whiteness of his teeth, and his eyes seemed to be visioning
something far away. Blake, he said, determinedly, We're going to find
out who is doing this, and don't think about tomorrow night. Have you
any idea what the motive of sending these crazy letters could be? No,
I haven't, said Blake hopelessly. I'm pretty well provided for financially, but
not rich. It's not a scheme to blackmail me for money. I'm sure
of that, and I don't know of any enemies here in New York.
How about your servant, suddenly, asked Thorndyke. Blake laughed. Nothing suspicious
about him. I've had him for ten years. He thinks the letters are
from my factory superintendent out of town, a daily report of the work.
All right, said Thorndyke. I suppose in that case you can trust him.
I think I'll be going now. There's nothing to be gained by your
sitting up and racking your rains about it. You go to bed and sleep
and forget all about this. I'll come tomorrow night before one o'clock and we'll
see what happens. Leaving a sleeping potion, he left, advising the old
servant to see that Blake had every care. All that day, Thorndyke thought
about the coming night. Toward evening, he had a visitor in the form
of Inspector Carson, who, though ten years his senior, was one of
his closest friends and always an intimate friend of Blake. Acting on impulse,
he told Carson all about the threats Blake had received his condition and asked him
to go along that night. Carson accepted, and he promised to call for
him at midnight. At eleven o'clock that night, Thorndyke had a call.
One of his convalescing suburban patients had grown suddenly worse. They asked him to
come immediately. After telephoning Carson, telling him he might be a few minutes
late, Thorndyke left without delay, although he worked with all possible haste over
his patient, and left the sick room as soon as he dared. It
was fifteen minutes to one when he drew up in front of Carson's apartment.
We'll have to hurry, he said nervously, as Carson took the seat beside
him. I'm sure the letters and threats are fake, but nevertheless, I'd
like to be there a minute before one o'clock. Blake's the next thing to
being insane now, and you can't tell what some little scare might do.
It was only a few minutes later that they slowed up for Blake's residence.
As they turned into the dark driveway that wound serpent like to the house situated
far back from the street, Carson suddenly gave a warning cry as a fleeing
figure jumped directly into the path of the car. Thorndyke jammed on the brakes,
but it was too late to avoid striking the man. With a sickening
sensation in the pit of his stomach, he climbed out of the machine.
Carson was already bending over the prostrate form, and it was with a profound
shock that he recognized the bent form as that of Blake's servant. It was
obvious that the man's condition was critical, though he still remained conscious, and
as he bent over him, Thorndyke saw the pale lips move as if he
wanted to speak. A sip of brandy from his first aid kit seemed to
revive him for a moment, and he began to talk. Listen. He
began brokenly, just above a whisper. I'm about gone, so it'll be
just as well if I tell you something. He stopped a moment, as
if gathering strength to go on. Then I was the one who he wrote
those letters to Blake. I wanted to make him suffer. Years ago,
Blake was the cause of my daughter's disgrace. I promised her I would make
him pay, and I did. He's been in hell for the last six
weeks. I never intended to kill him, wanted to make him suffer.
Better, go up to the house. The voice ceased, the aged servant
lapsed into unconsciousness. Shuddering slightly. Thorndyke gently lay back the tousled head,
and with Carson at his side, started for the house. As he pushed
open the front door, the clock in the hallway struck the hour one o'clock.
The deep chime seemed to send an icy shiver through his body, and
he saw that Carson was pale. Also with the chime, also was a
sound that he could not fathom, something like a low, deep moan.
The next moment, he pushed open the library door, Carson at his back.
Thorndyke gave a gasp at what he saw, and he felt the blood
suddenly chill in his veins. Blake was crumpled in a heap on the floor,
where he had fallen face forward out of his chair springing forward, Thorndyke
quickly felt the stricken man's pulse, then placed his ear over his heart.
The next moment, he looked up with a tragic face to encounter the troubled
gaze of Carson. We were a minute too late, said Thorndyke slowly,
brokenly. He's dead, died of fright. The End of the Hour of
Death by Grover Brinkman