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

What was the matter with me? What had this strange girl done to the man who had strove among his books to the exclusion of all other interests? What swashbuckling, adventure-seeking demon had she aroused within me?

I laughed hollowly. I was a fool, a blithering fool, ready to follow strange gods into unknown fields.

The telephone bell rang insistently. I was awake instantly and saw that it was broad daylight.

My ear caught the sound of a strange voice.

“Hello, doctor,” it said. “Don’t fail to read the Globe. Second page.”

“Who the devil—” I growled, but my caller was gone, and in vain did I rattle the receiver. What was this now? What could there be in the morning paper of interest to me?

I was all curiosity and it was not long before I was downstairs in the breakfast room, glancing hastily over the paper while Mrs. Barkley poured my coffee. I soon found what I sought, tucked away in a far corner under an insignificant headline. This is how it went, as I remember it:

VAGRANT SLAIN IN HIS BED

William Copeland, a beggar, was found stabbed to death in his bed in a rooming house at 1210 Market Street last night. The police are seeking a man who roomed with Copeland.

That was all. Just three or four lines of type, but to me they told a long story, for now I knew that poor Copeland’s comic opera plot was a very real one after all.

I let the paper fall from my shaking hand.

“I shall be turning my practice over to Dr. Turner for a couple of weeks,” I told Mrs. Barkley as she bustled in from the kitchen with the toast. “I feel myself sadly in need of a rest.”

She eyed me suspiciously.

“And what,” she demanded, “will your dear uncle be saying about that?”

“Damn my uncle,” said I. “If he comes around here while I’m gone, tell him I’m at the races.”

The effect of these words upon the poor woman was ludicrous. It was very much as if my pet dog had reared up on his hind legs and had demanded a cigar. Mrs. Barkley knew that my uncle had paid for my education and, with that as an opening, had appointed himself watchman over my social and business affairs, never allowing me, for a moment, to forget that I was a Waring.

The old man’s idea of letting the world know about the Warings was to cultivate an insufferable stare and to walk like one had a catch in one’s neck.

“Yes,” I went on, “if the old boy makes any inquiries, tell him I left word for him to leap into the nearest ocean.”

“All right, doctor,” soothed Mrs. Barkley. “I’ll do that, sir. You can depend on me.” And she ducked hurriedly through the swinging door into the kitchen. It would not have surprised me if she had called the police.

I finished my coffee and sauntered into my office, where a dozen patients were awaiting me. The regular morning routine began. Mrs. Trimbell relating her imaginary ills; a young mother with a crying baby; a callow youth with a swollen throat; another baby: a garrulous ancient, and, lastly, a fine looking old gentleman upon the arm of his stalwart son. The father was white-haired and thin as a lath. The boy was a huge, barrel-chested fellow of frank countenance and engaging manner.

“My father is suffering from some strange malady,” said the youth in a deep voice. “It has defied all diagnosis, but hope never dies in the breasts of the afflicted. We are praying that you may be able to do something to help him.”

The old man was lowered into a chair and I began questioning him. His answers revealed that he was, indeed, suffering from a rare disease. Here was something, I told myself, that promised to be of extraordinary interest. I made rapid notes of his symptoms.

We were deep in the discussion of his case when the patient suddenly lurched to his feet, his hands fumbling at his throat, and gasped out:

“I believe I’m dying!”

He staggered a few steps toward the door and collapsed lightly in a heap on the floor. His son ran about the office in great agitation, crying loudly for water and, finding none, he dashed into the hall.

I felt of the old man’s pulse. It was quite normal. His wizened face was ruddy. Queer, I thought, as I frowned at him.

Then it came to me. I stepped swiftly over the body and into the hall. Where had the youth gone? I heard the sharp sound of heels overhead. The impudent dog was in my bedroom.

I leaped up the stairs, threw open the door and there he was, humming a snatch of a song as he calmly pulled the drawers from my bureau and dumped the contents in a pile on the floor.

“Well, sir!” said I, my voice rising in anger. “What have you to say for yourself?”

He looked up at me and a malicious grin spread over his broad, good-humored face.

“Hello, doctor,” he replied pleasantly. “I was just doing a little exploring. Sorry to have messed up your room.”

“You’d better be sorry,” I growled, “because you’ll need sympathy when I get through with you.”