A detective came in with the package of hundred-dollar bills Chappell had placed under the brick-pile the previous night.
I went down to headquarters with Callahan to question the men stationed at a nearby apartment-window to watch the vacant lot. They swore up and down that nobody—“not as much as a rat”—could have approached the brick-pile without being seen by them. Callahan’s answer to that was a bellowed “The Hell they couldn’t—they did!”
I was called to the telephone. Chappell was on the wire. His voice was hoarse.
“The telephone was ringing when I got home,” he said, “and it was him.”
“Who?”
“Death and Co. , he said. That’s what he said, and he told me that it was my turn next. That’s all he said. ‘This is Death and Co. , and it’s your turn next.’ ”
“I’ll be right out,” I said. “Wait for me.”
I told Callahan and the others what Chappell had told me.
Callahan scowled. “⸻,” he said, “I guess we’re up against another of those ⸻ damned nuts!”
Chappell was in a bad way when I arrived at his house. He was shivering as if with a chill and his eyes were almost idiotic in their fright.
“It’s—it’s not only that—that I’m afraid,” he tried to explain. “I am—but it’s—I’m not that afraid—but—but with Louise—and—it’s the shock and all. I—”
“I know,” I soothed him. “I know. And you haven’t slept for a couple of days. Who’s your doctor? I’m going to phone him.”