Jacques Futrelle Short Stories Volume 3 (1 of 100)

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Jacques Futrelle Short Stories Volume 3


Mystery of the Grip of Death


I

Deep silence, then a long shuddering wail of terror, a stifled, strangling cry for help, the sound of a body falling, and again deep silence. A pause, and after awhile the tramp, tramp of heavy shoes through a lower hall. A door slammed and a man staggered out into a deserted street, haggard, trembling and with lips hard set. He reeled down the street and turned the first corner, waving his trembling hands fantastically.

Another pause, and spears of light flashed through the black night from the second floor of a great six-story tenement in South Boston, then came the sound of stockinged feet hurrying along the hall. Half a dozen horror-stricken men and women gathered at the door of the room whence had come the cry, helplessly gazing into one anotherÂ's eyes, waiting, waiting, listening.

Finally, from inside the room, they heard a faint whispering sound as of wind rustling through dead leaves, or the silken swish of skirts, or the gasp of a dying man. They listened with strained attention until the noise stopped.

At last one of the men rapped on the door lightly. There was no answer, no sound. Again he rapped, this time louder; then he beat his fists on the door and called out. Still a silence that was terrifying. Mute inquiry lay in the eyes of all.

“Break in the door,” said some one at length, in an awed whisper.

“Send for the police,” said another.

The police came. They smashed in the door, old and rotting from age, and two of them entered the dark room. One of them used his lantern and those who crowded the door heard an exclamation.

“HeÂ's dead!”

Peering curiously around the corner of the door the white-faced watchers in the hall saw a man, dressed for bed, lying still on the floor. Two chairs had been over-turned; the bed clothing was disarranged. One of the policemen was bending over the body, making a hurried examination. He finally arose.

“Strangled to death with a rope—but no rope here,” he explained to the other. “This is a case for a medical examiner and detectives.”

“WhatÂ's his name?” asked one of the policemen of a man who stood looking in curiously.

“Fred Boyd,” was the reply.

“Have a room-mate?”

“No.”

The other policeman was fumbling about the table with his light. At last he turned and held up something in his hand.

“Look here,” he said.

It was a new wedding ring. The bright gold glittered in the lantern light.

• • • • • •

An hour later a man turned from a side street into the avenue where stood the big tenement house, and swung along in that direction. It was the man who had left the lower door soon after the cries were heard on the second floor. Then his face had been haggard, distorted; now it was calm. One might even trace a line of melancholy and regret there.

Around the street door of the tenement was gathered a crowd of half a hundred curious ones, half-clad and shivering in the chill of the night, all craning their necks to see into the hall over the broad shoulders of a policeman who barred the door.

From a score of windows the heads of other curious ones were thrust out; there was the hum of subdued conversation.

The stranger paused on the outskirts of the little knot and peered curiously into the hall, as others were doing. He saw nothing, and turned to a bystander.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Man murdered inside,” was the short response.

“Murdered?” exclaimed the stranger, “who was it?”

“Fellow named Fred Boyd.”

A flash of horror passed over the strangerÂ's face and he made an involuntary motion with his hand toward his heart. Then he steadied himself with an effort.

“How was he—he murdered?” he asked.

“Choked to death,” said the other. “Somebody heard him yell for help a little while ago, and when a policeman came he smashed in the door and found him dead. The body was still warm.”

The strangerÂ's face was white as death now and his lips moved nervously. His hands, thrust deep into his pockets, were clenched until the nails cut the flesh.

“What time did it happen?” he said.

“The cop says about fifteen minutes to eleven,” was the reply. “One of the tenants who lived on the second floor, where Boyd had a room, looked at his clock when he got up after he heard Boyd shout, so they know just when it was.”

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