Mourn the Hangman by Harry Whittington Page A

two queers swabbed at the blue vein above Blake’s elbow. Dr. Lowering came into the room.
    Dr. Lowering was a small man with a large head, milk-pale flesh and spindly body. Arrenhower came forward now. There was pride in his face. “Blake, this is Dr. Lowering,” he said. “I was in his hospital. Dr. Lowering cured me. I have great respect for him. I contribute generously to his private hospital. In return, Dr. Lowering is happy to aid me with recalcitrants. Isn’t that right, Craig?”
    Lowering’s voice was heavy basso. Coming from such a thin body, it was startling. “Of course, Mr. Arrenhower,” he said. But Blake saw the little man’s eyes were tortured. Lowering was scared of what he was doing, but he was more afraid of Arrenhower. The doctor looked at Blake. “Mr. Arrenhower wants to talk to you,” he said, his voice very low. “Now what’s going to happen to you won’t hurt you at all, Mr. Blake. Barbiturates don’t even cause local irritation. When I’ve given you this dosage, you’ll go into a dreamless sleep almost immediately. I hope you won’t be tense or frightened. It won’t hurt you to be tense, but it won’t lessen the effect of the sodium pentothal either. Like death and taxes, Mr. Blake, this is going to work, whether you like it or not.”
    “Drugged,” Blake said with contempt. He struggled and found his left arm twisted up his back by the big queer. He was surprised at the strength in the man’s hands. Blake had the horrible feeling that the orderly could rip his arm from his shoulder.
    “Don’t be contemptuous, Mr. Blake,” Lowering said evenly. “This is a little more than injecting a few cc.’s of barbiturate powder and water solution. Your respiration, circulation, metabolism and smooth muscles will remain normal. You’re going to sleep, Mr. Blake, only you’re going to be awake. You’re going to do what I tell you to do.”
    “Go to hell,” Blake said.
    Lowering nodded at the smaller orderly, “The solution, please.” He held the hypodermic needle upward in his hand, grimacing a little as he studied it in the light. “We could have given you this by capsule or tablet or dissolved in a hot liquid. But that is slower. Takes from ten to thirty minutes to begin to have any effect. There might be excitement, inebriation or even delirium which would cause further delay.”
    As he talked, he injected the point of the needle into the blue line of Blake’s vein. “Slowly,” Lowering said. “This is accomplished slowly, Mr. Blake. No thrusting in a needle and shooting the solution in. This takes a little time. But you’ll be patient, won’t you, Mr. Blake?”
    Blake was aware that someone had snapped off the overhead light. Only a bright light glowed in a reflector on the white desk cross the room. Blake decided he wouldn’t look at it. But the glare pained his eyes no matter where he turned. Defiantly, he closed his eyes.
    The light was still there.
    Lowering’s voice was soothing now, low, quiet, gray. Gray as gray cats, as gray shadows, as gray fog. He could no longer see the men at the far end of the room. Lowering’s voice was coming from some distant place.
    Suddenly, Blake reared up in the chair. He felt restraining hands thrust him back. Then through the gray mists, he was aware of Arrenhower at Lowering’s side. “You bastard,” Blake said.
    “The hypnotic trance is preceded by this period of delirium and excitement,” Lowering was saying. “It will be very brief. See, the pupils of his eyes are contracted, they’re fixed and irresponsive to the brilliance of the light. It won’t be long. He’ll be ready for you.”
    The need for sleep overcoming him, Blake slumped in the chair. He heard Arrenhower protest, “If he sleeps, how can we talk to him?”
    “Don’t worry,” Lowering said. “He’ll want to sleep. He’ll hate us because we won’t let him sleep. But he’ll talk, Mr. Arrenhower. Ask him what you want to know and he’ll blab his