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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Dime Mystery Magazine, April 1938, with "Monster of His Making"
With his own hands Dr. Kelland had created this monster of sadism, and now he was paying for it... paying with the life's blood of his only daughter!
DOCTOR JAMES KELLAND held his arms stiffly in front of him, his hands still dripping with carbolic solution while Ronald Eccles, his young assistant, helped him into his operating smock.
"Read me the card on this next case, Ronald," he said as the interne tied the cord about his waist. "It's a cardiac something-or-other, isn't it?"
"Yes." Eccles crossed to a small wooden file resting on a tile-topped table in the corner, while his senior wearily tried to push back a stray lock of grey hair from his forehead with his upper arm, carefully avoiding touching it with his hand.
Eccles thumbed through the file for a moment and extracted a pink card and read, "'Carlos Cafarelli, aged nine. Clinic patient for the past six months. Primary diagnosis, aneurism. Doctors McFee and Haggard saw the patient on the next visit and postulated an auricular leak from a feeble diastolic murmur.' They note: 'Not precisely characteristic, and all other elements of the syndrome are lacking. Suggest that Dr. Kelland'..."
"Yes, yes," murmured the surgeon, a bit of the weariness leaving his face, "I remember, now, Ronald. A puzzling and interesting case. Do you know, I still haven't the faintest idea of what's wrong with the boy. He's an orphan—was sent here because he had been complaining of slight pains in his chest. Perhaps I am opening myself to censure for this, but I must have a look into that lad's midriff. Something decidedly wrong—something very strange. If I told you what I suspect, you'd think me mad."
The older man suddenly halted as he noticed that his assistant was looking at him strangely. "Never mind," he murmured. "See if the anesthetist is ready."
Five minutes later the surgeon stood above a small, sheet-covered body on a long operating table. In the glare of the powerful lamps his face was tightly drawn, hawk-like, as he gazed down at the pale, brown countenance of his small patient. At a barely perceptible sign, a nurse on either side of the table pulled the sheet down, baring the boy's body to the hips, then one of them quickly swabbed it with antiseptic from throat to navel. The surgeon held out a rubber-gloved right hand, and instantly a gleaming scalpel was thrust into it by the nurse standing on his right. Dr. Kelland bent above the body and the knife moved swiftly, was instantly tossed into a shallow tray containing a colorless liquid which stood on a stand at his left. The surgeon stepped back. A long red line had appeared on the boy's bare, brown body, extending from a little to the left of his breastbone straight down the longitudinal plane for a distance of eight inches.
Instantly Eccles, the interne, and a nurse bent over the body, closing the bleeding points with clamps, swabbing away the blood, leaving a gaping opening in the small torso. They moved like soldiers at drill, every movement precise, timed.
The nurse on the doctor's right had the next scalpel ready. It was time for the transverse section. She wondered why the doctor hesitated, why he didn't thrust out his hand to receive the instrument. She was never to know. She looked at the surgeon's face, still bent over the small body, and came perilously near screaming. She had never seen such an expression on a human face before. It was as if the doctor was looking, not at the body of a child, but at a demon from hell!
Suddenly the surgeon gave a choked gasp. He looked up, glaring about at his assistants with a while, drawn face and staring eyes, as though he had never seen them before. "Get out!" he whispered hoarsely, at last. "Get out—all of you!"
The interne gave voice to a half-formed exclamation of surprise and protest, but another look at the surgeon's face stopped him. Abruptly he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, followed by the fluttering startled nurses.
FOR perhaps a quarter of a minute after the door had
closed behind them, Doctor Kelland stood with his eyes
fixed on space. It was as though he were preparing himself
to look again into the small fleshy pit which lay open
before him, and at last the color came back a little to
his parchment cheeks, his breathing became normal. He bent
again above the boy's body.
But this time there was no hesitation or evidence of emotion about his conduct. He was once more the nerveless, precise surgeon, save that as he worked, enlarging the wound with section after section, he murmured half-audibly to himself:
"It's impossible, against nature. But it's true. This vena cava shows considerable swelling here. That would correspond to the right auricle. That's its function—it must be... Then the coronary artery, here, takes the place of the ventricles. And the vagus nerve is shriveled to nothing—yet it functions—it must..."
His all but inaudible murmurings ceased, and for fully fifteen more minutes he worked, feverishly. Then he suddenly dropped the last scalpel in the pan of antiseptic, which by now had taken on a pink tinge. He washed the wound, dressed it and applied bandages, passing them round and round the patient's tiny form. At last he finished and straightened up, looking down at the child on the operating table with a strange look of awe on his hawk-like features.
"It's incredible—unheard of!" he murmured. "What sort of creature are you, my lad? What manner of being will you become when you grow into manhood—you who have no heart?"
But if the good surgeon could have had his question answered at that moment, the scalpel in his hand would have plunged downward—to bury itself in the small chest that was without a heart.
THE offices of Dr. Carl Cardell were as softly lighted, somberly gleaming, and altogether colorfully impressive as modern decorators, muralists and surgical supply houses could make them. In the anteroom, where many an important personage had cooled his heels awaiting Dr. Cardell's convenience, were a number of luxuriously overstuffed divans and chairs lined against the walls. In one of the smaller chairs sat a man whose aged face showed the signs of all but unbearable grief and anxiety. His haunted eyes roved about the room, lighting with fierce hope whenever the immaculately pretty nurse at the reception desk lifted her inter-office phone, and dulling miserably whenever she nodded to someone else.
But at last the old man's turn came, and he almost sprang to the door into the private office in response to the nurse's signal. He passed through it quickly, and it swung noiselessly shut behind him as he stood just inside the entrance, his faded old eyes fixed on the darkly handsome young man who sat behind the great walnut desk.
"So," said the young man with no sign of emotion in his voice, "we meet again, Doctor Kelland."
The old man did not reply for several moments. He stood there, his white, bony hands hanging lankly at his sides, their fingers trembling slightly in response to the storm of emotions which was racking his old body.
"Yes, Carlos," he said at last in a low, quavering voice.
The young man's face darkened. "My legal name is Carl Cardell, Doctor Kelland," he snapped. "The change, as you know, has been registered in Washington. But perhaps you have decided to capitalize on your knowledge of my past. Maybe you have thought of a way to fill the purse which your incompetence as a surgeon has emptied..."
A wry smile twisted the old man's thin lips. "That's like you," he said. "You would think that."
The young man's shoulders moved impatiently. "What do you want?" he said harshly. "I'm busy, Kelland."
Unbidden the old surgeon sank into a chair and sighed as he passed a shaking hand over his forehead. "It's about Helen, Carlos. You read about her accident?"
Cardell's eyes suddenly quickened with interest. He leaned forward. "Helen? What accident?"
"About a month ago—while she was driving down from Greenwich, There had been a sleet storm. She went off the road just below Peekskill. She got a few bruises and a bad shaking up, but nothing serious—we thought. Then ten days ago she began limping. The X-rays show a fractured patella..."
The old man's eyes raised appealingly to the young surgeon's. "We've had our differences, Carlos. But surely you're fair enough to admit that I had great provocation for whatever I did to you..."
Suddenly Kelland shuddered and broke off. God! This was worse than he had dreamed it would be. He was talking to this man in the terms a father might use to cajole an erring son. Erring! Murder—sadism...
His sick mind whirled back through the years, back to the day when he, the then famous surgeon, Doctor James Kelland, had lifted the small, brown, weirdly functioning body of Carlos Cafarelli from the operating table, carried it into a private room and placed it on a cot. He had stood there for a long time gazing down at the boy.
A human being without a heart! Not really, of course—but with an attenuated, almost vestigial heart, like a fish or a snake. And that shriveled vagus nerve. Obviously it performed its pneumogastric functions efficiently enough—but could it be that its attenuated condition was traceable to a neurotic dysfunction? We say that the heart is the seat of the emotions simply because the rhythm of the heart is affected by the emotions of the brain, via the vagus nerve. And through the heart, the whole body is affected by every emotion we experience.
Would this child prove immune to the physiological reaction of emotion? And if he should—what a surgeon he would make! His would be a steadier hand than ever a human being possessed before. His would be an intellect clear and cold, aloof from the emotions which make cowards and bunglers of us all. His would be the icy fearlessness which penetrates frontiers with as much assurance as though they were long-familiar territory...
Again the old surgeon's gaunt body twitched with a spasm of revulsion. But he mustn't let the man before him suspect what was going on in his brain, if he could help it. Helen's life would be ruined if Cardell refused to take her case. Only Cardell could give her back the use of her right leg—save her from the lifelong tragedy of being a cripple...
There was a faint smile on Cardell's chiseled lips; his eyes, as always, were utterly devoid of expression.
"Save your breath, Kelland," he said tonelessly. "I wouldn't lift a hand to save her if she were dying."
SLOWLY the blood drained from the old surgeon's face,
his hands clenching the arms of his chair until they were
waxy white. But he had expected this. Why should he feel
this ghastly, overwhelming rage against the man before him?
He was not a man, really, he was an intelligent beast,
nothing more.
It was no use. The heartless, cruel words aroused in the old surgeon's breast the wild desire to kill, to rid the earth of the soulless monster before him... And yet, it was a monster which was partially of his own creation!
It took Doctor Kelland several moments to gain mastery over his emotions, but at last he was able to command a tone which was a pitiable mimicry of Cardell's icy aloofness.
"Of course, I expected this sort of a response from you, Carlos," he said. "You can never forget that Helen always hated you, repulsed all your advances as she would those of an ape—thank God. But naturally I didn't come to you without weapons. You asked awhile ago if I had come to capitalize on my knowledge of your past. I have decided to, Carlos, but I do not ask for money—I ask for my daughter's happiness. That is the price of my continued silence. Years ago I would have denounced you, had I not been obsessed with my ambition to make you the greatest surgeon of history. I have condoned murder, Carlos, in the name of that ambition, and now it is time for you to repay me."
A silence fell after Doctor Kelland's last words, and for many long moments the men stared at each other. Cardell's face, as always, was completely devoid of emotion, but in the depths of his dark eyes something that had been slumbering was quickening to life.
"A cracked patella," he said at last, "is hardly beyond the skill of the average surgeon."
The old practitioner ignored the heavy irony of the young man's tone. "It is a bad fracture," he said, shaking his grey head wearily. "You know as well as I that it is one spot where the slightest error results in permanent stiffening of the joint." Suddenly his lean hands knotted into fists, came down with passionate vehemence on the arms of the chair. "By God, Cafarelli," he cried, "you are going to do this thing—or you are going to the electric chair. The mangled bodies of two girls, now buried in Potter's Field, will rise up at my bidding and blast you to hell. Don't forget that! I'm not asking you to save Helen from being a cripple... I'm commanding you to do it. And God help you if you aren't successful!"
The old man had risen to his feet, and stood there shaking like a wind-blown reed. The young man continued to look at him calmly, but the thing which lay at the back of his eyes was fully alive, now, a crawling worm of light which two young women had watched with depth-less horror as their pain-blasted bodies had slowly sunk into the release of death.
"Very well, Doctor," he said quietly, "It is imperative that I be at my lodge in the Poconos early tomorrow morning. I am trying out some new elaborations of Dr. W.S. Baer's method of treating marrow infections in my laboratory up there. If you don't object to driving Helen up, some time in the early afternoon."
His tone was precisely the same as he would have used to an old and valued client. Old Doctor Kelland shivered involuntarily. Then, wordlessly, he nodded, turned and went out the door.
As it closed softly behind him the strange eyes of Doctor Carl Cardell remained fixed on space, and the smile which slightly curved his handsome mouth portrayed the sort of delight that is known to the fiends of the deepest pit in Hell....
THE laboratory and operating room which had been
constructed in the rear of Doctor Cardell's mountain home
lacked nothing which might be found in the most elaborately
equipped modern hospital, save the more ponderous
apparatus. Doctor Kelland glanced about in grim approval,
as with the aid of Cardell, he carried his daughter to the
operating table.
Helen Kelland's pretty face showed nothing of the pain which this journey was costing her. She had consented to this operation only after her father had argued with her for hours, for although she had heard of none of the monstrous acts of sadism which had punctuated the young surgeon's career, she instinctively sensed something in his nature that was vile and unnatural.
She sighed in relief and closed her eyes as the two men lowered her young, softly rounded figure to the operating table.
Her father immediately started to cut off the plaster cast which encased his daughter's leg. Before he had finished, Cardell rolled a tank of ether into place at the head of the table, and fitted a piece of sterile gauze into the anesthetic mask which was connected to the tank by a length of thick hose. The stage was set.
Doctor Kelland moved to the head of the table and took tip the mask. "Are you ready?" he asked in a strained voice.
Cardell, his sensitive fingers gently probing the flesh of Helen's knee, nodded absently, and the old surgeon lowered the mask to his daughter's face. He reached behind him with the other hand and turned a petcock on the tank. A soft, hissing sound filled the room.
Helen Kelland's firm young breasts rose and fell under the sheer covering of her light summer dress as she inhaled deeply of the soporific gas, and at last, as his long-practiced old eyes detected the symptoms of complete anesthesia, Doctor Kelland turned off the petcock and removed the mask.
"We're ready, Carlos," he said.
Cardell straightened, turned and walked casually toward the older man. Kelland watched his approach with mild wonder, but he had no warning of what was to come until Cardell, reaching him, suddenly threw himself upon the old surgeon, pinning his feeble arms to his sides with one encircling arm, as with his free hand he turned the petcock on the tank of ether and snatched up the mask.
Doctor Kelland had time for one startled cry, and then his voice was muffled by the anesthetic mask as Cardell clapped it over his mouth and nostrils, holding it firmly in place. Within the space of a few seconds the victim's body lost its tension and relaxed. Supporting it with one arm, Cardell at length turned off the petcock and carried the lax body to the west wall of the room...
WHEN Doctor Kelland regained consciousness he did not
realize, for the first few seconds, that he was in the same
room. Brightly illuminated before, it was now in a darkness
which was relieved only by a red-rayed lamp which gave a
spot light from the ceiling. The blinds had been drawn,
closing out all but a few stray beams of daylight, and as
the old surgeon's eyes focused on what lay beneath the
red-rayed lamp his aching muscles suddenly hardened with
the transfixion of horror.
Helen was still on the operating table, but she was stark nude, now, and her arms and legs had been securely bound to the table with stout straps. The ruddy light bathed her slender body with a crimson effulgence which emphasized rather than obscured the satin texture of her flawless skin.
Kelland gasped and cried out in incredulous horror, attempting to lurch to his feet. Only then did he discover that he had been lashed securely to a chair against the west wall of the room, and was powerless to move an inch.
At his cry a weirdly incongruous figure stepped out of the gloom and into the ruby nimbus of the lamp. The figure was clothed in the black tights and jerkin of a long dead century, and only after it spoke was Doctor Kelland able to recognize Carl Cardell.
"Ah—I'm glad to see you're back with us, Doctor," said Cardell, and Kelland was conscious of a vibrancy in his voice that he had never heard before. "Now, as soon as your attractive daughter has recovered, we can proceed."
Something which he did not yet understand made the blood run cold in the old surgeon's body. "'Proceed—?'" he quavered. "What do you mean?"
"I refer to the operation, of course," said the young man. "Isn't that what we're here for?"
"Yes—yes... of course. But—?"
Then the blasting knowledge of what portended almost shocked the old man back into senselessness. His widening eyes fastened on his daughter's bare right knee, noted sickly that nothing had been done to it.
"Good God!" he whispered. "You wouldn't do that, Carlos. Even a sadist like you wouldn't do such a thing...."
BUT Doctor Kelland didn't need Cardell's answering
sardonic chuckle to assure him that the heartless demon
was, in fact, quite capable of operating on his daughter
without giving her an anesthetic—and of deriving an
evil pleasure from the monstrous act.
"You're mad, Carlos. You can't get away with it..."
Cardell chuckled again. "I rather fancy I can," he said. "You see there will be no one to testify against me. I presume that someone knows that you came up here this afternoon for the purpose of having Helen's patella set. Therefore I shall set Helen's patella with the greatest care. I assure you that I shall do a job that any surgeon in the world would be proud of—supposing that anyone else were capable of performing it besides myself. I'm sure that it will attract favorable comment from the medical examiner at the post mortem."
"The—the post mortem—?"
"Ah, yes. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Doctor, but I am quite sure that on the way down the mountain this evening you and Helen are going to have a most lamentable accident. Your car is going over the cliff just below the last turn before you reach the valley. And since both of you will be in it at the time, you will naturally both come to a tragic end. However, you will actually have departed this life some minutes before—and in a most entertaining manner—in this very room."
As he spoke, a faint smile curving his lips, Cardell ran the tips of his fingers in a possessively lustful manner over the smooth skin of Helen's naked body. Under its slight stimulant the girl stirred, and presently, to her father's horror, opened her eyes and gazed about in a dazed, uncomprehending manner.
Unable to restrain himself in the tide of grief and terror which overwhelmed him, Doctor Kelland cried out, "Helen! Oh, God, Helen—"
The girl looked toward him, where he sat in the shadows. "Yes, father," she murmured, her mind still cloyed with the last effects of the anesthetic.
Then a movement at her side caused the girl to turn her head and her eyes fell on the fantastic figure of Cardell. "Great heavens, Carlos," she, exclaimed, "What are you doing in that costume?"
The evil smile on the young man's face deepened. "I doubt whether you would understand, my dear," he said. "Put it down to a perverted taste for the theatrical. I am about to indulge myself in a rare pleasure—that of arousing certain emotions which, in another man, are gratified with comparative ease, but which it my case require rather powerful stimulate."
As he finished speaking, Cardell took a gleaming scalpel from the small table at his side and bent over Helen's defenseless body.
The girl's tortured writhings were held firmly in check by the cruelly tight straps which bound her to the table. Her screams, which all her fortitude was unable to repress as the fiendish surgeon's knives bit into the sensitive nerves of her knee, blended with Doctor Kelland's helpless, desperate cursing. Then, finally she fainted, and although the satanic gleam of pleasure faded from Cardell's eyes as she did so, he kept working until the operation was finished and the wound closed and bandaged. Then he carefully prepared a new plaster cast, and encased the girl's leg in it before she regained consciousness, the operation was over.
But this, as Doctor Kelland knew only too well, was just the beginning. Cardell had performed the operation to provide himself with an alibi. After the bodies had been unearthed from the wreckage of their car, he would tell of their visit to his mountain home for the purpose of having the operation performed on Helen's knee. The testimony of Kelland's servants, and the condition of the knee, itself would substantiate his story.
Cardell straightened, and under the weird red light which poured down on him from above, he was the picture of Satan incarnate. He grinned at Kelland, and then turned his eyes, ablaze, now, with unholy lust, on the girl lying stretched on the operating table. His hands slid lasciviously over her nude, helpless body, bestowing unspeakable caresses.
"It's a pity such beauty must be destroyed, my dear," he murmured. "Soon I shall have to open your white skin and let your bright blood flow away. And that will bring me far greater ecstasy than the kisses you would never give to me. But first you shall give me something else—whether you desire it or not... But perhaps, before it is over, you will desire it......"
HE was bending over the girl, pressing his body against
hers, caressing her with a growing fever of passion when
suddenly his movements were arrested by a cry of mingled
despair and rage from Doctor Kelland.
"For God's sake, man, if you are foul enough actually to go through with this thing, at least have the decency to kill me, first."
Slowly Cardell arose from the body of his victim, the diabolical leer on his face deepening as he gazed toward the shadow-shrouded wall where Kelland sat.
"Well, now, Doctor," he said, "that really was not a part of my plans. But you do give me an idea. Both you and Helen are going to die of wounds which will appear to have been made by the flying fragments of your car's windshield. I believe they will both be abdominal, and I rather think you will take quite a long time dying. So I think I shall give you your wounds, now, so that your attention will be somewhat distracted from which I shall be doing to your daughter in a few minutes. An interesting substitute for the coup de grace, is it not?"
As he spoke, Cardell picked up a scalpel and started walking toward the bound and helpless figure sitting against the west wall. But Doctor Kelland was hardly aware of his approach. Within the past five minutes he had discovered an un-stoppered bottle of carbolic acid standing on a shelf next to him, and he had conceived an almost hopelessly desperate plan. Almost hopelessly desperate—yet it represented the sole chance of saving Helen from this unspeakable demon.
As Cardell came close to him, Doctor Kelland suddenly bent his head sideways, gripped the neck of the carbolic acid bottle in his teeth and raised it to his mouth. Cardell, fearing that he was about to lose a cherished victim through suicide, sprang forward with an angry cry. As he did so, Doctor Kelland allowed the bottle to fall from his mouth, to crash onto the floor, and the next instant spewed a mouthful of terrible acid into Cardell's face!
The man's agonized shriek was joined by the old surgeon's horrible choked coughing. The acid was burning away the lining of his mouth, searing his tongue and soft palate. Helen, from her operating table, had been able to turn her head enough to see the desperate performance, and she cried out wordlessly to her father.
Cardell, shrieking and cursing, tore madly at his eyes with both hands. He staggered, fell to the floor, clawed his way to his feet again, and went blundering blindly about the room, seeking among the bottles of the shelves of his cabinets an antidote for the acid which was burning the eyes out of his head.
"Oh, God!" he screamed. "I'm blind—blind!"
He fell to the floor again, threshed about in a convulsion of agony, until, at length, the paroxysms became less violent. Kelland continued to cough steadily and struggle weakly against the ropes which held him to his chair. He was half insensible with pain, and he knew that he had won only a temporary victory over his satanic opponent. Cardell would still be able to grope his way about enough to find them, as soon as his pain had subsided, and he would surely kill them, even though he would be unable to carry out his plan of wrecking their car, and thus directing suspicion away from himself.
As though in confirmation of his worst fears, Cardell presently stumbled blindly to his feet. He pawed his way to the instrument stand beside the operating table and picked up a scalpel. He raised his head then, and his face was a horror of seared flesh and bloody, sightless eyes. He grinned with a ghastly grimace.
"THAT'S right, Doctor," he whispered hoarsely, "keep on
coughing. It will help me to locate you. I'm afraid I won't
be able to do as neat a job as I had planned—but
it will be just as effective, and I will enjoy it even
more."
Doctor Kelland knew, then, that his hour had indeed struck. He was utterly unable to control the terrible coughs and groans which his pain wrenched from his body. Cardell, guided by the sounds, would find him—and after that, he would locate Helen...
The demon-faced surgeon crept slowly toward his bound and helpless victim, the hand gripping the scalpel raising expectantly as he drew nearer. Then, when he had approached within a half dozen feet, he suddenly flung himself forward, as though no longer able to curb his ferocious impatience, and began slashing out with the scalpel.
The first blow ripped through the old practitioner's coat sleeve, and the next found a mark in his side. He flinched as he felt the hot sting of the steel, and Cardell giving vent to an animal grunt of satisfaction, went on slashing wildly, his face contorted into a mask of fiendish pleasure.
Then, suddenly, Doctor Kelland felt one of the ropes that bound his arms to his body give way. One of Cardell's wild slashes had severed it, and Kelland found that his right arm was almost free! He began immediately to push forward on the rope which bound his upper arm against his body, and as Cardell buried the scalpel in his left shoulder, the old surgeon suddenly freed his entire right arm.
The pain of his shoulder wound stung him to energetic action. He swung out savagely, and struck the blood-thirsting beast, who was cutting him to pieces, square on the point of the jaw.
The blow caught the younger man off balance, his feet slipped on the glazed tiling, and he crashed down, striking his head with an audible crack against the corner of a surgical cabinet.
Doctor Kelland freed himself from the remainder of his bonds in less than a minute. Then he was at his daughter's side, slicing with a scalpel through the straps which held her. Just as Cardell began to stir again, Kelland lifted her with a superhuman effort and carried her into the hallway, and out to the car which awaited them in the driveway—the car which was to have become their coffin.
Depositing the nude form of his daughter on the back seat, Doctor Kelland covered her with a robe, staggered around to the driver's seat, and started the motor just as a ghastly figure appeared at the door of the house, mouthing unintelligible shrieks, pawing blindly through the empty-air with clawed hands which still searched for his escaping victims.
Doctor Kelland meshed the gears and steered the car out onto the main road. Five miles away was the State Hospital. There he could obtain relief from the burning agony of his mouth, the throbbing hurt of his wounds. He would not be able to talk, or eat anything but liquids for months, but the time would come when again he could take his place in the operating room, wielding the knife, perhaps with not quite as much skill as in other days, but still well enough to bring relief to many a suffering human being. He asked no more from life than that...
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.