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Speaker 1: The Hour of Death by Grover Brinkman. The telephone on

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doctor Thorndyke's littered desk shrieked a single, jerked out ring,

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as if the party on the other end of the

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line was nervous for a connection to be made. Laying

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aside his hook, he casually reached for the receiver. Hello,

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he said, Yes, this is Thorndyke speaking. Who did you say, Blake? Oh, yes,

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I recognize your voice. Now old man didn't at first.

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It seems so strained and unnatural. Yes, if you say

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it's urgent, I'll be over right away. Thorndyke hung up

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the receiver, donned his hat and coat, and went out

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the front way of his bachelor apartment, telling his servant

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that he need not stay up. A minute later, he

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was speeding down the deserted street in his own roadster.

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Now I wonder what the dickens is the matter, Thorndyke

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reflected as he sped along, recalling the strained, terrified voice

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of his old colleague over the wire. He was soon

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to find out. As he parked his car in Blake's driveway,

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he had a vague premonition that something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

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A servant met him at the door of Blake's residence,

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an old, slightly bent man, who led him without prelude,

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to Blake's den, where his friend lived alone. But what

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a different Blake. In the strained, horror filled face, Thorndyke

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could hardly recognize the man who, from youth and college

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days he always called his closest friend. Blake was a

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strong man, both mentally and physically. His only weakness a

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belief in superstition, and as Thorndyke looked at the mere

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phantom of the former football star, the frown deepened in

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his brow. Thank God, I'm glad you came, said Blake. Unnaturally,

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it was so late when I called up that I

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was afraid you might have retired. No, I most always

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stay up until after midnight reading. But you look as

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if you've seen a ghost. What in the world is

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wrong for answer? Blake pointed to the library table in

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the center of the room, on which was scattered a

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pile of letters. He seemed stupefied. His eyes were glassy

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and wondering. Read one of those, he said, queerly, and

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don't take it as a joke. For the last six

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weeks one of those letters has been coming at one

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o'clock in the morning every time. Thorndyke, his face incredulous,

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picked up the foremost letter and unfolded the single sheet

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it contained. As he read, the blood slowly left his face,

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and laughing queerly, he read for the second time the

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brief note, mister James Blake, two more nights from tonight,

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at exactly one o'clock, your life will be snuffed out

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like the breaking of a thread. There was no signature,

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nothing at all, nothing but the sinister message, without a

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clew of any kind. Blake gave a hollow laugh. What

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do you make of it? He asked, slowly, hopelessly. Thorndyke

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shook his head, then presently his face broke into the

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image of a smile. No doubt some of your friends

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trying to put a scare into you, he said, though

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his voice lacked conviction. I've thought of that. At first,

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I almost believed it, but I don't any more. Why

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man look more than forty of them every night, for

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forty nights at exactly one o'clock. Thorndike was looking through

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the letters, trying to conjure some vague reason for their

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being there, can't you get a clue from the postmarks,

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he asked, Presently, no use in trying, Blake returned. Each

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is mailed within the city, though not always at the

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same station, and each has a special delivery stamp attached.

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We can't find any clues that way. Suddenly, as Thorndyke

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started to speak, the tall clock in the hallway chimed

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out the hour one o'clock. With the sound, Blake seemed

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to pale even more, until his face was the color

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of dead ashes. He slumped down in his chair, trembling

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in every limb, his eyes in a fixed stare on

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the doorway. Thorndyke realized with a pang of regret that

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the sinister letters were proving too much for his old friend.

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Blake was a wreck physically and mentally, and to all

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indications on the verge of losing his mind. Buck up,

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old man, he said, solicitously. But my god, Jim almost

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shrieked Blake, his outward calm suddenly deserting him. Place yourself

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in my position. For more than forty nights, I have

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stayed up and waited, waited for this. I can't sleep

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all day and all night. This thing haunts me like

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a bad dream. My mind is about ready to snap.

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Thank god, it's almost over. Either we will find out

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who's doing this tomorrow night, or I he broke off abruptly.

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At that moment, the aged servant noiselessly opened the door,

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and without further ceremony, handed Blake a letter, special delivery

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letter for you, sir, he said obediently, his face an

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impassive mask, and turned for the door. Blake turned the

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letter over in his hands like a man in a daze.

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Without opening it. He handed it to Thorndyke. You read it,

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he requested, and buried his face in his hands. Thorndyke

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took it without a word of protest and tore it open.

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This time, the message was even more brief, twenty four

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more hours and then the breaking of the thread. As

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he put the letter on the table, the expression of

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Thorndyke's face suddenly changed. His countenance hardened, his lips drew

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into a thin line that barely showed the whiteness of

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his teeth, and his eyes seemed to be visioning something

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far away. Blake, he said, determinedly, We're going to find

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out who is doing this, and don't think about tomorrow night.

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Have you any idea what the motive of sending these

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crazy letters could be? No, I haven't, said Blake hopelessly.

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I'm pretty well provided for financially, but not rich. It's

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not a scheme to blackmail me for money. I'm sure

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of that, and I don't know of any enemies here

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in New York. How about your servant, suddenly, asked Thorndyke.

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Blake laughed. Nothing suspicious about him. I've had him for

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ten years. He thinks the letters are from my factory

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superintendent out of town, a daily report of the work.

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All right, said Thorndyke. I suppose in that case you

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can trust him. I think I'll be going now. There's

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nothing to be gained by your sitting up and racking

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your rains about it. You go to bed and sleep

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and forget all about this. I'll come tomorrow night before

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one o'clock and we'll see what happens. Leaving a sleeping potion,

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he left, advising the old servant to see that Blake

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had every care. All that day, Thorndyke thought about the

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coming night. Toward evening, he had a visitor in the

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form of Inspector Carson, who, though ten years his senior,

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was one of his closest friends and always an intimate

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friend of Blake. Acting on impulse, he told Carson all

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about the threats Blake had received his condition and asked

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him to go along that night. Carson accepted, and he

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promised to call for him at midnight. At eleven o'clock

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that night, Thorndyke had a call. One of his convalescing

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suburban patients had grown suddenly worse. They asked him to

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come immediately. After telephoning Carson, telling him he might be

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a few minutes late, Thorndyke left without delay, although he

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worked with all possible haste over his patient, and left

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the sick room as soon as he dared. It was

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fifteen minutes to one when he drew up in front

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of Carson's apartment. We'll have to hurry, he said nervously,

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as Carson took the seat beside him. I'm sure the

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letters and threats are fake, but nevertheless, I'd like to

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be there a minute before one o'clock. Blake's the next

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thing to being insane now, and you can't tell what

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some little scare might do. It was only a few

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minutes later that they slowed up for Blake's residence. As

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they turned into the dark driveway that wound serpent like

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to the house situated far back from the street, Carson

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suddenly gave a warning cry as a fleeing figure jumped

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directly into the path of the car. Thorndyke jammed on

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the brakes, but it was too late to avoid striking

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the man. With a sickening sensation in the pit of

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his stomach, he climbed out of the machine. Carson was

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already bending over the prostrate form, and it was with

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a profound shock that he recognized the bent form as

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that of Blake's servant. It was obvious that the man's

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condition was critical, though he still remained conscious, and as

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he bent over him, Thorndyke saw the pale lips move

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as if he wanted to speak. A sip of brandy

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from his first aid kit seemed to revive him for

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a moment, and he began to talk. Listen. He began brokenly,

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just above a whisper. I'm about gone, so it'll be

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just as well if I tell you something. He stopped

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a moment, as if gathering strength to go on. Then

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I was the one who he wrote those letters to Blake.

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I wanted to make him suffer. Years ago, Blake was

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the cause of my daughter's disgrace. I promised her I

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would make him pay, and I did. He's been in

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hell for the last six weeks. I never intended to

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kill him, wanted to make him suffer. Better, go up

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to the house. The voice ceased, the aged servant lapsed

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into unconsciousness. Shuddering slightly. Thorndyke gently lay back the tousled head,

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and with Carson at his side, started for the house.

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As he pushed open the front door, the clock in

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the hallway struck the hour one o'clock. The deep chime

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seemed to send an icy shiver through his body, and

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he saw that Carson was pale. Also with the chime,

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also was a sound that he could not fathom, something

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like a low, deep moan. The next moment, he pushed

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open the library door, Carson at his back. Thorndyke gave

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a gasp at what he saw, and he felt the

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blood suddenly chill in his veins. Blake was crumpled in

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a heap on the floor, where he had fallen face

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forward out of his chair springing forward, Thorndyke quickly felt

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the stricken man's pulse, then placed his ear over his heart.

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The next moment, he looked up with a tragic face

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to encounter the troubled gaze of Carson. We were a

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minute too late, said Thorndyke slowly, brokenly. He's dead, died

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of fright. The End of the Hour of Death by

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Grover Brinkman