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

He had been, at one time, a gentleman of some refinement. But he would tell me nothing of his past. I took him out of the ward, got him a bath and a shave, gave him money and sent him forth in search of a job. I made him promise to inform me as to his progress. Six months had passed. Not a word from my protégé.

I decided that my venture in salvaging souls had been the usual failure, the fellow had most likely spent my money on one grand bout and had gone his old evil ways. I had dismissed him from my mind.

Now this letter, brought to me on a stormy night by a derelict who had all but forced his way into ray house. The chances were, thought I, that my friend was down again and sought another lift out of the mire. It was probably a neat ruse to gain my sympathy and pave the way for another loan. I hesitated.

The little man seemed to follow my thoughts, and they made him acutely uneasy.

“Come on, doc,” he urged. “Bill’s on his last legs. He ain’t tryin’ to put anything over on you. He’s got something valuable that he wants to give you. And, believe me, it must be valuable, ’cause Bill guards it with a big pistol and won’t let nobody near it. And at night sometimes he raves about plots and gunmen and sometimes he yells for the police.”

“I do not want any reward for my effort to make Copeland into a human being,” said I. “If it’s money he wants I might stand for a small loan, but I don’t feel like traveling through a rain storm to console him. I will not go.”

“Aw, doc, listen—”

“No.”

My guest’s eyes searched my face for an instant and then his long hand flashed into his bosom and came forth holding a nickel-plated pistol which he pointed at me.

“Doc,” he said softly, “I hate to do this, but Bill says to bring you, whether or no, and if you won’t come of your own accord I’ll have to persuade you, get me?”

“Why the melodrama?” I demanded hotly. “Don’t you realize that I could call for help and have enough policemen here in a moment to make an end of you?”

The little man grinned.

“But you won’t,” said he, “and there’ll be plenty of melodrama around here if you start anything.”

“Put up that weapon,” said I, but the little man only stared at me from his queer eyes and shook his head.

“Well,” I said, “I may as well go willingly, I suppose. Will you trust me out of your sight while I change my clothes?”

“Sure, doc.”

The little man made another motion and the pistol disappeared.

“You see,” he hastened to explain, “I promised Bill I’d bring you back, and I had to make good. Sure, doc, go ahead and get ready. I’ll take your word for it that you won’t call the coppers.”

I changed quickly, and a few minutes later I was driving my curtained roadster through the storm at the direction of my strange guest, who sat hunched at my side.

“Market Street,” he said, and I tinned toward the river front. Darkness was deep over this part of the city, a district of cheap rooming houses and factories. Here and there a line of light edged a shutter, the only relief in the blocks of blind, wet buildings. My powerful headlights picked up a sodden roister or two, a vagrant doubled up in a doorway, a policeman charging through the rain, his black rubber coat gleaming like the hide of a wet hippopotamus.

“Left,” croaked my guide, “and stop under the light.”

The car swayed to a halt beneath a feeble street lamp and we climbed out.

“Not a fancy neighborhood,” grunted the little man. “Follow me.”

We scurried through the rain and turned suddenly into a dark hallway, which we traversed a few paces. Then we climbed a creaking stairway to the second floor. The smell of wet plaster and cooking vegetables assailed my nostrils. My guide was fumbling his way along the landing, then he paused before a door and knocked lightly.

“It’s me,” he said in a low, tense voice.

There came a rattle of chains, the door swung open slowly, and we stepped into the room.

Chapter II Deathbed Reward

Dressed in a dirty flannel night garment, Copeland, the wastrel, lay upon an iron bed, half covered by a greasy, ragged quilt. One look at the fellow told me that he was nearing the last milestone of his life. His burning eyes, sunken cheeks and the little beads of perspiration that shone on his sallow forehead spoke eloquently of the ravages of whisky and drugs.

On a soap box at his side stood a lamp and a bottle, the latter half filled with a dark liquor. Near his other hand was a heavy pistol, and from time to time his long, skinny fingers reached out to caress it nervously.

“Well,” I began impatiently, “what is it you want with me?”

“Lock the door,” said the sick man in a low voice. “I don’t want to take any chances now. I’ve got something here, doctor, something—”

“You are very ill,” I interrupted in my best professional tone. “Perhaps I can do something for you.”

I stepped toward the bed.

Copeland held up a shaking hand in protest.