Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927

Returning to the scene in haste, intending to question the young man in the gray overcoat about the circumstances, the officer could not find him. Other machines had stopped, and curious people stood in the downpour looking at the sedan, but the man he sought was not among them.

As soon as the ambulance arrived, the stricken motorist was lifted gently inside, and was rushed to the city hospital, leaving the spectators wondering what had happened.

At the hospital, the sufferer was identified as Charles F. Drohan, who resided in the South End; and the officials were mystified upon discovering five thousand dollars in new currency upon his person. He was still in a semi-conscious condition, and physicians of the hospital conferred to determine the nature of his illness.

Topper Drohan knew nothing of this. He scarcely realized that he had been taken from the car. His mind was filled with fantasies of a most terrible kind.

At times he thought that he was adrift upon a river, a swift river which swirled around him, dragging him inexorably along. At other times he believed that he was imprisoned at the foot of a precipice, over which hideous streams of water were pouring in silver cascades — tumbling and gurgling around him, while he fought in mad frenzy to escape. And there were other moments at which he realized the futility of struggling — for all about him was a deep, cold pond, horribly dark and still.

Through it all, in the midst of the swirl of water, he could see Arthur Williams’s face, startled, questioning, always at hand. In vain he tried to drive it away.

“Damn you — you’ve got enough, haven’t you? Five grand is plenty for queering that dirty snitch!”

The haunting face did not leave him.

“What’ll you do,” Drohan challenged again, “with five grand in your vest? That doll-faced spalpeen! The dirty, double crossing stool pigeon! Playin’ the good fellow with me an’ Evelyn — then bringin’ them ferrets down there to do their stuff! We’ll show him some sleight of hand! We’ll cut his heart out!

“Not Bolton! Not Marvin! Four-Ace Mac, the rotten, sky-piloting kite!

“Steele says I know who bumped Stone, does he? Say, Artie — where does he get that stuff? I wasn’t even there!”

But Williams never answered.

“Damn you, Artie, ain’t you got enough? Get out o’ here!”

Not until the very end did Drohan realize that Williams’s face and the tumbling water were all of his fancy. When the tumult of the rivers had begun to drift away, he became aware of other things. A room, a window, a bed, a woman in white. A doctor with gray hair who sat beside his bed and gazed at him with grave, quiet interest. A table with a white cover, with strange instruments, small bottles, a glass of water—

With a shriek of dread, he turned his face away.

After a time his struggles became less revolting, his outbursts of delirium less frequent and prolonged. And finally the nurse arose and composed his arms; and with the physicians in attendance she quietly left the room.

“Doctor,” she ventured to the man with gray hair, “while you were out a few hours ago, he made some strange remarks, some of them quite lucid, which he kept repeating. It occurred to me that they might have to do with criminal matters, as in the Forbes case.”

“Yes?” he returned absently, as he made a notation at his desk.

“I had some of them taken down,” she added. “We couldn’t get all of them, but there was something in reference to the money they found.”

He nodded. “That was very thoughtful of you,” he commended.

“And, doctor, shall I have the paper sent to the police this forenoon?”

“The — er — paper?”

“The paper with the remarks which were taken down.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he said uncertainly. He was not quite sure of the exact procedure in such cases.

“Er — to the district attorney, I think,” he added, reaching for his coat and hat.