Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 30, No. 2 — July 1947)

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Death is a shadow, living with us, waiting to envelop us — a disembodied, intangible thing. But Death has his agents, professional and amateur. It was these Dr. Randolph feared — and why he hired Mortimer Jones. For murder loves company.

This Dr. Curtis Randolph was a nervous man. He wasn’t too tall, about my height, and he had a thin, unlined face with dark and probing blue eyes. He sat in my office, this hot summer afternoon, telling me his troubles, and chain-smoking cigarettes.

So far as I could tell, his troubles were mental, and I’m no psychiatrist.

He said: “You can understand, then, why I can’t take all this to the police. I’ve nothing definite. It’s as though a constant shadow travels with me, wherever I go.” He tried a self-deprecating smile. “I — have always had a rather irrational fear of death. That, no doubt, is what motivated my going into medicine.” He shook his head. “But the man with the scythe has never been such a constant companion as he has recently.”

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