J. Thorne - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 5 - August 1920)

"We ought to report it," she said at last. "Some one ought to be in the room. It's—"

She paused as a young interne entered the office. Her face lighted up hopefully.

"Doctor," she said, coming toward him, "42 is calling. Won't you—"

"That's Carrington's room, isn't it?" asked the interne.

"Yes."

"Well, it's Miss Lloyd's case. Why doesn't she go?"

"She's just been there. And there's no one in the room ."

"What?" stammered the interne.

"And that's the second time the bell has rung."

More from the crumpled attitude of Elsa Lloyd in her chair than from the words of the elder nurse the interne gathered the meaning of the strange situation. His eyes were wide with amazement. He looked to the indicator and then turned to the nurse. His lips moved, stirred mutely a moment.

"Does Dr. Stockbridge know?" he asked at last.

"No."

"I'll tell him!"

And he spun about on his heel and was gone.

The nurse moved toward the indicator mechanically, her hand lifting slowly and pressing the knob that released the number. The indicator was bare. But scarcely had her arm lowered to her side than a bell tinkled.

It was 42 again!

Elsa Lloyd, her elbows on the little desk, her face buried in her hands, did not look up. She knew from the touch of her companion's hand on her shoulder what the bell meant.

The nurse slipped into a chair beside the younger woman. For a long time she was silent; then:

"I can't understand it," she muttered, half to herself. "I've never had such an experience before. I've seen so many deaths, and death was always so final, so completely the — die end. Of course, there's the soul, the spirit — it's called by so many names and I've heard much nonsense about it. I never believed — few of us do — but every now and then something happens… Like this. What can it mean?"

Despite herself a tremor, half of doubt, half of awe, shook her. She turned to Elsa.

"What do you know about Carrington?" she asked. "You were with him for weeks. Can you think of anything that—"

She did not complete her question, her thought too unformed for words.

"Was there anything," she resumed in a moment, "before he died — anything that might explain this?"

Elsa sat up, but her head was averted as she spoke.

"I don't understand," she said, her voice low and frail. "But when I was in the room just now, I felt — I seemed to be aware of—"

"Of what?" prompted the elder nurse.

"Something. I don't know what. As though some one were in the room — besides myself and — and it."

"The corpse?"

Elsa nodded.

"He didn't want to die," the girl went on after a while. "There was something between him and his son. You know how unhappy he was about him. He loved him, his only son, and he didn't want to die feeling that young Carrington hadn't redeemed himself. You know what a black sheep he's been. Once I came into the room just after his son had left. The old man had been crying. I think it was that that kept him alive long after we knew his case was hopeless. He told me once he couldn't die until his son had made good, that his spirit would never rest—"

"His spirit? Did he say that?"

"Yes."

The elder nurse's eyes closed slowly and her hands met in her lap.

"Do you think—" began Elsa, leaning forward.

"I don't know," muttered the elder woman, her voice scarcely audible.

Both women came to their feet as they heard hurried footsteps approaching. The interne entered, a coat flung over his arm.

"He's coming'," he announced.

Dr. Stockbridge entered the office, visibly annoyed and angry, his long fingers busy with the laces of his operating apron, which he was removing. Behind him came, unhurried and calm, Carrington's lifelong friend and the executor of his will, Madison Dodd.

"What's this silly nonsense I hear about bells?" the surgeon demanded, slipping into the coat the interne held and advancing toward the women. "Why didn't you notify me sooner? And why aren't you in the room to find out what it means, Miss Lloyd?"

"She just came from the room, Dr. Stockbridge," explained the elder nurse, defending the girl. "There was no one there."

"This is too absurd," exploded the surgeon. "I've never heard of such a thing. Miss Lloyd should be in that room—"

"She's had no sleep, doctor, and she's very tired."

"Then why don't you go?"

"I—"

"You're afraid. How ridiculous. Well, we'll have—"

He turned, but the interne was gone. Dr. Stockbridge frowned. His eyes went toward the indicator.

"When did that bell ring?" he demanded.

"About ten minutes ago. And—"

A bell rang and a faint click came from the indicator. The number "42," which had not been lowered, vibrated.

"Its been ringing every ten minutes just like that," said the elder nurse, edging away from the instrument.

Dr. Stockbridge frowned. Then, striding across the room, he pressed the knob releasing the number.

He turned to the nurse.

"I'm going into that room myself," he said severely, "and we'll have this nonsense over with. Someone is ringing that bell, and we'll know who it is. If it rings while I'm there, let me know."

He stepped toward the door.

"I'll go with you, doctor," said Carrington's friend, speaking for the first time.

The men walked down the corridor, side by side. The door of Room 42 was closed. Dr. Stockbridge pushed it open impatiently and allowed Dodd to enter first.

"I hope you'll' forgive this nonsense, Mr. Dodd," he said, closing the door. "These women — they're—"

But Dodd, paying no heed to the doctor, was advancing toward the bed, his face grave. He stopped within a foot of it, looking down on the still form beneath him, his hands clasped behind his back.

Dr. Stockbridge looked about the room. Its hospital bareness made it manifest at once that no one could be concealed in it.

It seemed to him absurd and undignified that he should be engaged in such a futile and meaningless undertaking. He paced up and down, pausing every now and then to observe the immobile figure of Carrington's friend, wondering what he could be thinking of the whole ridiculous episode. He was a little disturbed that Dodd should take the thing so seriously, treat the matter with silent respect. Once he paused beside him.

"I'm a man of science, Mr. Dodd," he began. "To me there's no such Hung—"

There was a light tap on the door and he stopped. He strode to the door and opened it. The interne's head showed.

"It rang," the young man said.

Dr. Stockbridge's lips parted in astonishment.

His hand on the knob, he paused, undecided, looking toward Dodd for some intimation the course to pursue. But Dodd had not stirred, and Stockbridge turned to the youth.

"Thank you," he said, and closed the door.

For a moment he was at a loss, but, when he tried to speak, he was silenced by Dodd's beckoning hand. He approached, stopping at Dodd's side, his eyes following the other man's finger.

"I want you to tell me what you see in his face," said Dodd.

The request seemed so strange to Dr. Stockbridge that he glanced up quickly to see if Dodd were in earnest. What could he see in a dead man's face but — death? However, a glance was sufficient to assure him of his companion's earnestness, and he lowered his eyes. A long moment of silent scrutiny, and then the surgeon bent lower, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes," he muttered, awed by his discovery. "I see what you mean. It's amazing. It wasn't that way when he died—"

"What do you see?" interrupted Dodd.