Speaker 1: 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