Page:Weird Tales Volume 6 Number 1 (1925-07).djvu/33

the windows of the inner office were still lighted. Maybe he would sell them some, and if not—. The Spotter tapped his pocket suggestively, and Broadway could see there a bulge that looked very much like lead pipe.

"I don't know about those docs," said Broadway. "Only one in a thousand will sell any, and there ain't many who'd give a guy that if he was dying. I've always got mine from peddlers—it's more safe. I don't want to go back to the Tombs."

"Neither do I," leered the Spotter. "But I'm goin' after the junk—are yon going to be in on this deal?"

Broadway's answer was a muttered curse of horror and agony. He placed the ends of his nervous fingers in his month and fastened his teeth in them.

"God!" he whispered. "It's the bugs again—I can't stand this!—they're crawling underneath my skin—I know they ain't really there—but it'll drive me nuts if I don’t get a few grains of snow. Yes, I'll go with you—I've got to have some—I've got to!"

With the Spotter leading the way, they moved off into the night. Broadway broke into a nervous trot, and his companion cursed him softly and held him back. A policeman was passing the glare that fell from the next arc light, and for a few minutes the two waited discreetly. Then, the danger over, they passed up a dark alley, and came out upon an even darker street than the one they had left. Creeping in the shadows they passed a row of two-story brick houses, and then reached a solitary one at the end of the branch street. The upper windows were still lighted, but the remainder of the block was draped in a velvet gloom. In the distance they could hear the hum of an occasional motor car on the boulevard, but that was all. It was a great night for a job, anyway, as the Spotter had said.

"That's the place," said he, triumphantly. "The light's still on. Now use a little judgment and do as I say."

A dark stairway opened on the street, and above it shone a sign in faded gold letters. Broadway made it out with difficulty.

"Dr. Abram La Forne, Specialist in Diseases of the Mind and Brain," he repeated. “What does all that mean, Tim?"

Tim the Spotter shook his head.

"It's beyond me, unless he's an asylum doctor—what's the difference? He's got what we want and we're going to get it!"

Broadway shivered, and shook his head.

"I have the creeps anyway, tonight, without going up there. You go up and see what you can do. Whistle if you need me."

"And expect me to divvy, eh?" snarled the Spotter. "Come on—you fool. We might have to knock him in the head to get it, but—"

The Spotter patted his coat pocket.

"All right," sighed Broadway. "Here goes."

With a look around to see that he was unwatched, Broadway quickly ascended to the first landing. Here he paused to whisper with his companion.

"There's a light under this door," he said.

"I don't hear a sound," rejoined the Spotter. "This is going to be the grapes—I'll bet he's alone."

Broadway could near nothing save the regular and melancholy tick of a clock somewhere in the building. He held back for a moment, then went ahead with a shrug. He must have something, and have it quickly!

He knocked at the door, with the Spotter only a few steps behind him. He knocked again, as he heard a faint movement from beyond the door.

"Come in."