Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

The Black Capsule by Don H. Thompson

Being the swift adventures of young Dr. Waring, who sought romance and found it in a torn letter and a pretty girl in a green dress

Chapter I An Invitation — Refusals Not Accepted

It was raining, a dull monotonous drizzle. The window panes wept incessantly. A steady stream of water gurgled in the spout and ran into the street, while the high wind rumbled in the chimney and raised its voice in a triumphant whoop as it swirled between the houses.

I sat contentedly in my study toasting my shins before a fire in the grate as I prowled absently through a dozen back copies of the Medical Journal. Clad in an old smoking jacket, a worn pair of trousers and ancient slippers, I was enjoying a luxury for a busy young physician — a night to myself indoors. A night to puff my pipe, to think my thoughts, to read my books. A night—

My mind suddenly snapped back into the world of realities. I heard voices in the hallway. A door closed sharply against the wind. A knock.

“Well?” said I irritably. “What is it?”

“There’s a man out here,” came the voice of Mrs. Barkley, my housekeeper, “who says he must see you immediately. I told him you were out, but he says he knows better, and he won’t leave the house. It’s a matter of life and death, he says, and—”

“Yes, I know,” I growled impatiently. “It’s always a matter of life and death. Well, if he’s as determined as you say I may as well be rid of him quickly. Show him in.”

So much for my evening of peace and contentment at my own fireside. I closed my book, laid down my pipe resignedly, and got up to greet my caller.

He sidled into the room furtively, a small, weather-beaten little man in sodden clothes. His face was long and narrow, and I noticed numerous scars that showed through the sparse gray hair on his bulletlike head.

“Dr. Waring?” he asked, fixing me with eyes like twin gimlets and cocking his head to one side.

I nodded curtly. What could this strange fellow have to say to me? What had brought him to my door on such an evil night? He was not seeking my services for himself, and I felt certain that none of my patients had sent such a ragamuffin to me as a messenger.

“What can I do for you?” I inquired.

The little man stared at me for a moment, then his head turtled toward my housekeeper, who remained in the doorway, looking in dismay upon the pools of water which ran from my guest’s clothing to the fine rug.

“I’d rather talk to you alone.”

A smile fluttered at the edges of his thin mouth as the disdainful woman departed hurriedly.

“Mad, ain’t she?” he asked. “Well, don’t know as I blame her. She probably never saw a scarecrow like me before.”

“What do you want?” I demanded sharply. “Speak up.”

He grinned.

“Ever hear of Bill Copeland, doc? Huh?”

I shook my head.

“You know him, doc. Sure you do. Well, sir, I got a little letter here from Bill and he says it’s right important, a matter of life and death, and he told me to get it to you no matter what happened.”

He shot a skinny hand under his ragged coat and fished out a dirty piece of paper which he handed to me.

“Are you sure you have the right man?” I asked.

A queer little gleam came into my guest’s eyes. It gave his lean face a crafty, dangerous look.

“It’s for Dr. Hugh Waring,” he said, “and that’s you, ain’t it?”

“It is.”

Relief came into the little man’s face.

“Then go ahead and read the letter,” he replied.

I moved over to a lamp, unfolded the paper carefully, and this is what I read:

Dr. Hugh Waring:

Six months ago you rescued a drunken wretch from the horrors of the inebriate ward at the City Hospital. You bought him clothes and gave him money. His name was William A. Copeland. He is now in a position to repay you. He must see you immediately. The bearer will show you the way. Do not fail to come, please.

William A. Copeland.

I looked up from the note.

“There,” said the ragged messenger triumphantly. “Now you remember Bill, don’t you?”

Yes, I remembered Bill. I had found him on one of my trips through the hospital, a dirty, drunken wretch, half dead from the effects of a debauch on rotten whisky. I had talked to him. There was something about him, some wistful appeal in the fellow’s eyes, that got inside of me.