The Doors of Death by Arthur B.

Waltermeyer.

A heavy stillness hung about the great halls and the richly furnished rooms of Judson McMaster's residence, and even seemed to extend out over the velvet lawns and shrub blind walks and sun blotched reaches under the lacy elms and somber maples.

Biggs glided about the sick chamber like a specter, apparently striving to keep busy, while he cast countless, furative, uneasy glances at the heavy figure under the white sheets.

An odor of drugs and fever tainted the air, and a small walnut table near the flushed sleeper was laden with a familiar prescription bottle, tumbler and box of powders.

On the wall behind the table, near the head of the bed hung a small oil painting of Napoleon.

The sleeper stirred restlessly, raised himself painfully and slowly, and attempted to seek fleeting comfort in a new position.

At the first movement, Biggs was a shadow at the bedside, deftly manipulating the coverings and gently aiding the sick man with a tenderness born of long service and deep affection.

As the massive gray head sank into the fluffed pillow, The tired eyes opened, lighted by a faint glint of thankfulness.

Then they closed again, and the once powerful body relaxed with a pitiful, wistful expression on his aged face.

The faithful Bigs stood helplessly peering at the sick man until hot tears began to course down his furrowed cheeks.

As he turned hastily away, Biggs, the voice, still strong and commanding, cut the semi gloom like a knife.

Biggs, who was about to tuck the heavy curtains still more securely over the windows, whirled as though he had touched a live wire, and a flash was across the great room and beside the bed.

Did you call, sir?

His voice quavered.

No.

A faint twinkle lighted in the sick man's eyes.

I just spoke, ah now, sir, cried the overjoyed Bigs.

You are better, Sir, Biggs.

I want some air and sunshine.

But the doctor, Sir, drat the doctor.

If I'm going to pass out, I want to see you where I'm going.

But Sir, expostulated the old servant as he parted the curtains and partially opened the casement window.

I wish you would and say that, sir, I believe in facing a situation squarely, Biggs, My father and grandfather died from this family malady, and I guess I'm heading over the same route, please, sir, entreated Biggs.

Biggs, I want to ask you a question.

Yes, sir, are you a Christian?

I try to be Sir?

Do you believe in death?

Biggs was thoroughly startled and confused.

Why uh, we all have to die sometime, sir, he answered, haltingly, not knowing what else to say.

But do we actually die?

Insisted the sufferer.

Well, I hope not yet, ventured the old servant.

The doctor said, forget The doctor imposed McMasters, Biggs.

You have been in our servants since I was a lad, haven't you.

Tears welled into the servant's eyes and his voice faltered.

Fifty six years come next November, he answered, Well, let me tell you something that even in those fifty six years, you never learned, Biggs, my grandfather was buried alive.

Oh, sir, impossible, cried Biggs, in horror, absolutely, asserted the banker.

Why are you how do you know sir, in a hoarse whisper.

My father built the family mausoleum in the far corner of this estate, didn't he, Yes, sir, he hated periol in the earth, Sir.

After reading the poem of Edgar aland poe'se Sir, what poem was that?

Biggs?

I don't recall the name of it, but I remember the line faltered Biggs?

What was it, oh, sir, cried the old man.

Let's talk about something cheerful, not until we're through with this discussion.

Higrum.

The sound of his given name restored Biggs somewhat, for the banker resorted to it only on occasions when he shared his deepest confidences with the old houseman.

Well, the line goes soft, made the worms about him creep, sir.

A slight shudder seemed to run through McMaster's body.

Then, after a tomb like silence, good reason for building the mausoleum, Yes, sir, I think so, sir.

Well, with an apparent effort, when they exhumed my grandfather's remained to place them in the new vault, the casket was opened, and oh, Sir, cried Biggs, throwing out a trembling expostulating hand, but the pinker went on relentlessly.

The body was turned over on its side, with the left knee drawn up part way.

That's the way he always slept in life.

Biggs's voice was a hollow whisper.

And that's the reason my father, after building himself a mausoleum, insisted that his body be cremated, said McMasters.

He took no chances.

Biggs's horrified eyes traveled dully to the massive urn over the great fireplace and rested there, fascinated hi room, Where is heaven?

Biggs's eyes flitted back to rest in surprise upon the questioner, Why up there, sir, pointing towards the ceiling.

Do you believe that the earth rotates on its axis?

That's what I was taught in school, Sir, that hypothesis is true.

We are rolling through space at a rate of about sixteen miles a minute, figured at the banker.

Now you say, heaven is up there?

Yes, sir Biggs, what time is it?

The servant glanced at the great clock in the corner.

Ah, it's twelve o'clock, sir, and time for your medicine.

And a voice full of relief, never mind the drugs, commanded McMasters, until we've finished our problem in higher mathematics.

Now, if I ask you where heaven is at midnight, which will be twelve hours from now, where will you point?

Triumphantly?

Why?

Up there, replied a bewildered servant, again indicating the soothling.

Then cried McMasters, you will be pointing directly opposite from the place you indicated a moment ago, for by midnight the earth will have turned approximately upside down.

Do you get my point?

Yes, sir, replied poor Biggs, thoroughly but fuddled.

Then where will heaven be at six o'clock this evening?

Fairly?

Shouted the sick man?

Out there, replied the servant, hopelessly, pointing toward the window.

And where will heaven be at six o'clock in the morning?

Over there?

And Biggs pointed a trembling finger at the fireplace.

Then, oh, sir, that's not the doctor.

Hang the doctor, interrupted McMasters testly.

I've been thinking this thing over and I've got to talk about it to someone.

But don't you believe in a hereafter, queried Biggs, a horrible note of fear in his pitiful voice.

For a moment, the banker was silent.

The massive clock tipped solemnly on a coal toppled with a sputter and flare in the fireplace.

Yes, Hiram, in a thoughtful voice, I suppose I do.

I'm glad to hear you say that, cried Biggs in an evident relief.

AH if you could but tell me to meath the banker, from whence we come?

And whither we go?

If I knew, Sir, I'd be equal with the creator, answered Biggs with reverence.

That's well, said Hiram, but it doesn't satisfy me.

I've made my place in the world by getting to the root of things.

Ah.

If I could only get a peek behind the curtain before I go backstage, you know, mayhap I would not be afraid to die.

His voice fell almost to a whisper.

The great director does not permit the audience behind the footlights unless he calls them, answered Biggs, whimsically, a ghost of a smile lighting up his troubled features.

Another thing, Biggs, do you believe those stories about Jonah and Lazarus and the fellow they let down through a hole in the roof to be healed?

I do, sir, with conviction.

Do you understand how it was done?

Testily?

Of course, not, Sir, being only a human.

Then tell me, Hiram, when you cannot see through it, how can you swallow all this theology my faith?

Sir, answered Biggs, simply raising his eyes with reverence.

At this, a quizzical smile came over the sick man's face.

In looking up, Hiram, don't forget, since it is twelve thirty that we have swung around four hundred and eighty miles from the spot you originally designated as the location of the pearly gates.

Oh, Sir, I beg of you, remonstrated the servant.

I cannot bear to have you jest in such a Why, master, he broke off with a little cry, rushing to his bedside.

The quizzical smile on the banker's face had suddenly faded, and his head had fallen feebly back upon the pillow.

Oh why did he waste his strength?

So cried Biggs piteously.

As with trembling hands and tear blurred eyes, he searched the little table for the smelling salts.

After a few breaths, the patient sighed and opened his eyes.

Where my medicine Iram, then I must rest at midnight.

Biggs, dozing in a big chair by the fire, was aroused by a voice from the sick bed Iram.

Yes, sir, scurrying to turn on a subdued light, where is heaven now?

Noting the wand flicker of a smile, the old serverent pointing solemnly downward, you are a bright pupil, came in a scarcely audible voice.

Thank you, sir.

Do you know, Biggs?

I wish I had led a different, a better life.

You have been a good master, Sir.

You have been kind.

You have given liberally to charity.

Biggs defended him.

Yes, cynically, I have given liberally to charity, but it has been no sacrifice.

You have been a pillar in the church, ventured Biggs.

Yes, bitterly stone pillar.

I have paid handsomely for my pew and slept peacefully through the sermons.

I have bought baskets of food for the poor Thanksgiving and Christmas time, only to let others reap the happiness of giving them away.

I could have had so much joy out of Christmas if I would, I could have been jolly, rosy cheeked.

Santa Claus and gona to a hundred home as my arms loaded with gifts.

True, sir, but you made that joy possible for others when I should have known the thrill of it myself.

I have not really lived, Hiram.

To draw the sweets truly out of life, one must humble himself and serve his fellow men.

Yes, the scales have fallen from my eyes, Hiram, but it's too late.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

It doesn't seem right, sir, said Biggs, after a pause.

What's that, Hiram, Why sir, that you should be stricken down in the prime of life as just out of time when you could mean so much to others, while I, old and useless, am permitted to live on.

But I am not finding fault with providence, Sir.

Beggs hastened to say, I just can't find the meeting of the riddle.

Sir.

Perhaps I've had my chance and fumbled it, Biggs.

Even so, sir, God is not vindictive according to my ideas.

There surely is some other solution.

I'm still going to pray that he will take me in your stead, even if a miracle must be performed.

So you have your faith in your prayers, do you, Biggs, Yes, sir, If they are unselfish prayers, that brand is rather scarce, I take it, answered McMasters.

But his tone was reflective rather than sarcastic.

Oh, sir, I wish you would pray as I do.

God would surely understand.

Rather a queer request, Hiram, If my life depends on your death, no prayer shall ever pass my lips.

But Sir, I am old, however, interrupted, my masters, I shall pray that if my life is spared in any other fashion, I will make full amends for my years of indifference and neglect.

And Hiram, no one knows how much I truly seek this divine dispensation.

But I have always scoffed at death bed confessions.

And so my heart grows cold, for I have no right to ask now again, wearily, no right now, Ah, Master, God is plenteous in mercy.

If you but have the faith, Sir, it shall make you whole, very good had I lived as you have lived, Biggs.

Then after a pause, still the cause is worthy.

My heart is right, and I shall approach the throne.

May God be merciful unto me a sinner, I hope it is not too late yet, faltered Biggs.

Oh, if God would only call me in your stead, that you will still do the good work that you find in your heart to do, how gladly I would go.

A deep sigh was his only answer.

A long silence was finally broken by the sick man.

But when he spoke, his voice was so strange and uncanny that the servant hastened close and peered anxiously into the fever flushed face of the sufferer.

Hiram, I must tell you a secret, came in a laborious, almost sepulchral whisper.

Biggs came closer.

Bring a chair and sit down.

I must talk to you.

As the old servant again leaned forward, the suffer hesitated, Then, with an obvious effort, he began, Hiram, I'm going to give you some instructions which you must obey to the letter.

Will you promise to keep them?

I swear it, sir, with great earnestness.

Good Now, if this fever seals my life and the doctor pronounces me dead, please, sir Bigs broke in tears streaming down his furrowed cheeks, but his master continued in the same subdued voice.

Whatever happens, I am not to be embalmed, do you hear me?

Not embalmed, but just laid away as I am now, Yes, sir an a choked voice which fully betrayed the breaking heart behind it.

And now hiram the rest of the secret.

He paused and beckoned Biggs to lean closer.

In my vault in the mausoleum.

I have had an electric button installed.

That button connects with a silver bell.

Lift up that small picture of Napoleon there upon the wall.

His hands trembling as with the palsy, Biggs reached out and lifted aside the picture hanging near the head of the bed, and there revealed the silver bell, fitted into a small aperture in the wall.

Then with a sob, he fell back into his chair.

Hi room in a whisper.

After they bury me, you are to sleep in this bed.

With a cry, the old man threw out a horrified expostulated hand, catching it feverishly.

The banker half raised himself in the bed.

Don't you understand, he cried fiercely.

I may not be dead after all, remember grandfather, and Biggs.

If that bell rings, get help quick, suddenly, releasing his hold, Macmasters fell back limply into the pillows.

All through the long night, the faithful Biggs maintained a sleepless vigil, but the banker lay as immovable as a stone.

When the rosy cheeked dawn came peeping audaciously through the casements, Biggs drew the heavy curtain tightly shut once more.

Not until the doctor's motor whirled away did the patient rouse from his lethargy.

Apparently strengthened by his deep stupor, he spoke, and Bigs stood instantly beside him.

What did the doctor say?

Biggs hesitated out with it.

I'm no chicken hearted weakling, nothing much, admitted Biggs.

Sadly.

He only shook his head, very gravely.

He doesn't understand this family malady anymore than the old quack who allowed my grandfather to be buried alive, said McMaster's, almost fiercely.

Big shuddered and put a trembling hand to his eyes.

What ails me, Biggs almost plaintively.

No one knows.

This fever has baffled the scientists for years.

When you fall into a comatose condition, they call it suspended animation.

That's the best they can do find names for diseases.

My family doctor doesn't have any more of an idea about this malady than you or a The average physician is just a guesser.

He guesses you have fever and prescribes a remedy, hoping that it will hit the spot.

If it doesn't, he looks wise, wags his head and try something else on you.

Maybe it works, and maybe it doesn't.

The only thing my guess is absolutely sure of is that if I live or if I die, he will collect a princely fee for his services.

Biggs remained statuesque during the pause.

Gad my masters broke out again testily.

If I fiddled around in my business like that, I'd be a pauper in a month.

But the doctor says, you're coming on ventured, Biggs, Sure he does, answered the banker with a sneer.

That's his stock in trade.

I'd know that line of palivar.

Secretly, he knows I am as liable to be dead as alive when he comes again.

Oh sir, you aren't going to die.

That's what I'm afraid of, Biggs.

But they'll call me dead and go ahead and embalm me and make sure of it.

Oh, sir, I wish now remember Biggs broken the sick man, shoot the first undertaker that tries to put that mummy stuff in my veins.

I understand perfectly, sir, answered Biggs, fearful lest the other's excitement might again give him a turn for the worse.

I know I'm apparently going to pass away.

My father and grandfather both had this cussed virus in their veins, and I don't believe either of them was dead when he pronounced so.

Well, if by any chance, that is, if you began, Biggs desperately, if you are apparently dead, why not have them keep your body here in the house for a time?

Convention formality, custom, hide bound law.

The banker fairly frothed.

The health authorities would come here with any army and see that I was buried.

No, Biggs, I've got a fine crypt out there, all quiet and secure, good ventilation, electric lights like a pullman berth, and a push button that precludes all notoriety.

It's secret and safe.

The electrician who installed the apparatus died four years ago, so you and I alone possessed this knowledge.

Don't you think someone else should know of it too?

Your attorney or no, Biggs, if I really am dead, I don't want anyone to write up my eccentricities for some Sunday magazine sheet.

And if I do come back, then it will be time to tell the gaping public about my cleverness.

I wish you weren't so so cold blooded about it all, sir.

I've always hitched straight from the shoulder high room, and I'm facing this death business as i'd face any other proposition.

I'm not ready to cash in.

And if I can cheat the doctors, undertakers, lawyers, heirs and chief mourners for a few more years, I'm going to do it.

And don't forget poor old granddad.

He might have been up and about yet had he but used my scheme.

Biggs turned away, sick at heart.

It was too terrible beyond words.

To him, his religion was as essential as daily bread.

Death was the culmination of cherished belief and constant prayer.

As his years declined, he had faced the inevitable day with simple faith, and when the summons came he would go gladly, like him who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams with throbbing heart.

He listened for another torn of words that would further stab his sensitive soul, for he had loved and revered his master from his youth up but no words came.

He wheeled about.

The massive head had fallen limply among the pillows.

Pallid lips were trying to form sentences without result.

Then the great body seemed to subside immeasurably deeper into the covers, and a deathlike stillness fell upon the room.

Intuitively feeling that his master was worse than any previous relapse, Biggs made every effort to revive him, gently at first, and then by vigorously shaking and calling to him in a heartbroken, piteous voice, but to no avail.

The heavy figure looked pallid and corpse like under the snowy sheets.

Long hours dragged by, and still the lonely old servant sat mutely beside the bed, only aroused at last by the peremptory measured call of the telephone bell.

Yes, said Biggs in a quavering voice, Oh yes, doctor Meredith.

Master's resting easy.

Don't think you'll need to come until tomorrow.

I'll keep them away as long as I can.

He muttered as he slipped back to his vigil God, grant, maybe he'll come back and take up the work of the master so long delayed.

Oh God, if thou wouldst only take me in his stead.

Sleeping fitfully, Bigs sat dumbly through an indeterminable night, But the new day brought no reassuring sign from the inert form.

The stillness was appalling.

The other servants were quartered in a distant part of the mansion and only came when summoned again.

Biggs assured the position that he could gain nothing by calling, and another awful night found him ashen and distraught at the bedside.

Sometime in the still watches he swooned, and kindly nature patched up his shredded nerves before consciousness once more aroused him.

But the strain was more than he could bear, so when the anxious specialist came unbidden, he found a shattered old watchman who broke down completely and babbled forth a whole mysterious tale concealing nothing but the secret of the tomb.

In a coffin previously made to order, they laid the unembalmed remaids of Judson McMasters in the family mausoleum, and the world which had felt his masterful presence for so many years, paused long enough to lay a costly tribute on his beer, and then went smoothly on its way.

Not so with the faithful bigs Ensconced in his master's bedroom, he nightly tossed in troubled sleep, filled with the jangling of innumerable electric bells, And when on the tenth night, after he had been somewhat reassured that all was well, he was suddenly awakened by a mad, incessant ringing from the hidden alarm.

A deathly weakness overcame him, and it was some time before he was able to drag his palsied body from the bed.

With fumbling, clumsy fingers, he tried to hasten, but it was many minutes before he tottered, half dressed, out of the room, and as he did so, his heart almost stood still.

Then mounted to his throat as if to choke him.

Biggs a voice, McMaster's voice was calling.

He staggered to the head of the wide, massive stairway and looked down.

There stood a banker, pale, emaciated but smiling, and then, as from an endless distance, came more words, I forgot to tell you that I had a trap door in the end of the casket.

When you didn't answer the bell, I found I could come alone.

With an inarticulate cry, Biggs stretched out his trembling arms, My master, I am coming now.

Then he swayed, stumbled, clutched feebly at the rail, and plunged headlong to the foot of the stairs, a crumpled, lifeless form, end of the doors of death.