The Corpse on the Grating
by Hugh B. Cave
It was a corpse, standing before me like some propped-up thing
from the grave.
It was ten o'clock on the morning
of December 5 when M. S. and I
left the study of Professor
Daimler. You are perhaps acquainted
with M. S. His name appears
constantly in the pages of the Illustrated
News, in conjunction with some
very technical article
study of the human
brain and its
functions. He is
a psycho-fanatic, more or less, and
has spent an entire lifetime of some
seventy-odd years in pulling apart
human skulls for the purpose of investigation.
For some twenty years I have
mocked him, in a friendly, half-hearted
fashion. I am a medical man, and my
own profession is one that does not
As for Professor Daimler, the third
member of our triangle—perhaps, if I
take a moment to outline the events of
that evening, the Professor's part in
what follows will
be less obscure.
We had called on
him, M. S. and I,
at his urgent request.
were in a narrow,
unlighted street just off the square,
and Daimler himself opened the door
to us. A tall, loosely built chap he
was, standing in the doorway like a
motionless ape, arms half extended.
"I've summoned you, gentlemen," he
said quietly, "because you two, of all
London, are the only persons who
know the nature of my recent experiments.
I should like to acquaint you
with the results!"
He led the way to his study, then
kicked the door shut with his foot,
seizing my arm as he did so. Quietly
he dragged me to the table that stood
against the farther wall. In the same
even, unemotional tone of a man completely
sure of himself, he commanded
me to inspect it.
For a moment, in the semi-gloom of
the room, I saw nothing. At length,
however, the contents of the table revealed
themselves, and I distinguished
a motley collection of test tubes, each
filled with some fluid. The tubes were
attached to each other by some ingenious
arrangement of thistles, and
at the end of the table, where a chance
blow could not brush it aside, lay a
tiny phial of the resulting serum.
From the appearance of the table,
Daimler had evidently drawn a certain
amount of gas from each of the
smaller tubes, distilling them through
acid into the minute phial at the end.
Yet even now, as I stared down at the
fantastic paraphernalia before me, I
could sense no conclusive reason for
I turned to the Professor with a
quiet stare of bewilderment. He
"The experiment is over," he said.
"As to its conclusion, you, Dale, as a
medical man, will be sceptical. And
you"—turning to M. S.—"as a scientist
you will be amazed. I, being neither
physician nor scientist, am merely
filled with wonder!"
He stepped to a long, square table-like
structure in the center of
the room. Standing over it, he glanced
quizzically at M. S., then at me.
"For a period of two weeks," he
went on, "I have kept, on the table
here, the body of a man who has been
dead more than a month. I have tried,
gentlemen, with acid combinations of
my own origination, to bring that body
back to life. And ... I have—failed!
"But," he added quickly, noting the
smile that crept across my face, "that
failure was in itself worth more than
the average scientist's greatest achievement!
You know, Dale, that heat, if
a man is not truly dead, will sometimes
resurrect him. In a case of epilepsy,
for instance, victims have been
pronounced dead only to return to life—sometimes
in the grave.
"I say 'if a man be not truly dead.'
But what if that man is truly dead?
Does the cure alter itself in any manner?
The motor of your car dies—do
you bury it? You do not; you locate
the faulty part, correct it, and infuse
new life. And so, gentlemen,
after remedying the ruptured heart of
this dead man, by operation, I proceeded
to bring him back to life.
"I used heat. Terrific heat will
sometimes originate a spark of new life
in something long dead. Gentlemen,
on the fourth day of my tests, following
a continued application of electric
and acid heat, the patient—"
Daimler leaned over the table and
took up a cigarette. it, he
dropped the match and resumed his
"The patient turned suddenly over
and drew his arm weakly across his
eyes. I rushed to his side. When I
reached him, the body was once again
stiff and lifeless. And—it has remained
The Professor stared at us quietly,
waiting for comment. I answered
him, as carelessly as I could, with a
shrug of my shoulders.
"Professor, have you ever played
with the dead body of a frog?" I said
He shook his head silently.
"You would find it interesting
sport," I told him. "Take a common
dry cell battery with enough voltage
to render a sharp shock. Then apply
your wires to various parts of the
frog's anatomy. If you are lucky, and
strike the right set of muscles, you
will have the pleasure of seeing a dead
frog leap suddenly forward. Understand,
he will not regain life. You
have merely released his dead muscles
by shock, and sent him bolting."
The Professor did not reply. I could
feel his eyes on me, and had I turned,
I should probably had found M. S.
glaring at me in honest hate. These
men were students of mesmerism, of
spiritualism, and my commonplace contradiction
was not over welcome.
"You are cynical, Dale," said M. S.
coldly, "because you do not understand!"
"Understand? I am a doctor—not a
But M. S. had turned eagerly to the
"Where is this body—this experiment?"
Daimler shook his head. Evidently
he had acknowledged failure and did
not intend to drag his dead man before
our eyes, unless he could bring
that man forth alive, upright, and ready
to join our conversation!
"I've put it away," he said distantly.
"There is nothing more to be done,
now that our reverend doctor has insisted
in making a matter of fact thing
out of our experiment. You understand,
I had not intended to go in for
wholesale resurrection, even if I had
met with success. It was my belief
that a dead body, like a dead piece of
mechanism, can be brought to life
again, provided we are intelligent
enough to discover the secret. And by
God, it is still my belief!"
That was the situation, then,
when M. S. and I paced slowly
back along the narrow street that contained
the Professor's dwelling-place.
My companion was strangely silent.
More than once I felt his eyes upon
me in an uncomfortable stare, yet he
said nothing. Nothing, that is, until
I had opened the conversation with
some casual remark about the lunacy
of the man we had just left.
"You are wrong in mocking him,
Dale," M. S. replied bitterly. "Daimler
is a man of science. He is no child,
experimenting with a toy; he is a
grown man who has the courage to
believe in his powers. One of these
He had intended to say that some
day I should respect the Professor's
efforts. One of these days! The interval
of time was far shorter than
anything so indefinite. The first event,
with its succeeding series of horrors,
came within the next three minutes.
We had reached a more deserted
section of the square, a black,
uninhabited street extending like a
shadowed band of darkness between
gaunt, high walls. I had noticed for
some time that the stone structure beside
us seemed to be unbroken by door
or window—that it appeared to be a
single gigantic building, black and forbidding.
I mentioned the fact to M. S.
"The warehouse," he said simply. "A
lonely, God-forsaken place. We shall
probably see the flicker of the watchman's
light in one of the upper chinks."
At his words, I glanced up. True
enough, the higher part of the grim
structure was punctured by narrow,
barred openings. Safety vaults, probably.
But the light, unless its tiny
gleam was somewhere in the inner recesses
of the warehouse, was dead.
The great building was like an immense
burial vault, a tomb—silent and
We had reached the most forbidding
section of the narrow street, where a
single arch-lamp overhead cast a halo
of ghastly yellow light over the pavement.
At the very rim of the circle
of illumination, where the shadows
were deeper and more silent, I could
make out the black mouldings of a
heavy iron grating. The bars of metal
were designed, I believe, to seal the
side entrance of the great warehouse
from night marauders. It was bolted
in place and secured with a set of immense
This much I saw as my intent gaze
swept the wall before me. This huge
tomb of silence held for me a peculiar
fascination, and as I paced along beside
my gloomy companion, I stared
directly ahead of me into the darkness
of the street. I wish to God my eyes
had been closed or blinded!
He was hanging on the grating.
Hanging there, with white,
twisted hands clutching the rigid bars
of iron, straining to force them apart.
His whole distorted body was forced
against the barrier, like the form of
a madman struggling to escape from
his cage. His face—the image of it
still haunts me whenever I see iron
bars in the darkness of a passage—was
the face of a man who has died from
utter, stark horror. It was frozen in
a silent shriek of agony, staring out
at me with fiendish maliciousness. Lips
twisted apart. White teeth gleaming
in the light. Bloody eyes, with a horrible
glare of colorless pigment. And—dead.
I believe M. S. saw him at the very
instant I recoiled. I felt a sudden grip
on my arm; and then, as an exclamation
came harshly from my companion's
lips, I was pulled forward roughly.
I found myself staring straight
into the dead eyes of that fearful thing
before me, found myself standing rigid,
motionless, before the corpse that hung
within reach of my arm.
And then, through that overwhelming
sense of the horrible, came the
quiet voice of my comrade—the voice
of a man who looks upon death as
nothing more than an opportunity for
"The fellow has been frightened to
death, Dale. Frightened most horribly.
Note the expression of his
mouth, the evident struggle to force
these bars apart and escape. Something
has driven fear to his soul, killed him."
I remember the words vaguely.
When M. S. had finished speaking,
I did not reply. Not until he had
stepped forward and bent over the distorted
face of the thing before me, did
I attempt to speak. When I did, my
thoughts were a jargon.
"What, in God's name," I cried,
"could have brought such horror to a
strong man? What—"
"Loneliness, perhaps," suggested M.
S. with a smile. "The fellow is evidently
the watchman. He is alone, in
a huge, deserted pit of darkness, for
hours at a time. His light is merely
a ghostly ray of illumination, hardly
enough to do more than increase the
darkness. I have heard of such cases
He shrugged his shoulders. Even as
he spoke, I sensed the evasion in his
words. When I replied, he hardly
heard my answer, for he had suddenly
stepped forward, where he could look
directly into those fear twisted eyes.
"Dale," he said at length, turning
slowly to face me, "you ask for an
explanation of this horror? There is
an explanation. It is written with an
almost fearful clearness on this fellow's
mind. Yet if I tell you, you will
return to your old skepticism—your
damnable habit of disbelief!"
I looked at him quietly. I had heard
M. S. claim, at other times, that he
could read the thoughts of a dead man
by the mental image that lay on that
man's brain. I had laughed at him.
Evidently, in the present moment, he
recalled those laughs. Nevertheless, he
faced me seriously.
"I can see two things, Dale," he said
deliberately. "One of them is a dark,
narrow room—a room piled with indistinct
boxes and crates, and with an
open door bearing the black number
4167. And in that open doorway, coming
forward with slow steps—alive,
with arms extended and a frightful
face of passion—is a decayed human
form. A corpse, Dale. A man who
has been dead for many days, and is
M. S. turned slowly and pointed
with upraised hand to the
corpse on the grating.
"That is why," he said simply, "this
fellow died from horror."
His words died into emptiness. For
a moment I stared at him. Then, in
spite of our surroundings, in spite of
the late hour, the loneliness of the
street, the awful thing beside us, I
He turned upon me with a snarl. For
the first time in my life I saw M. S.
convulsed with rage. His old, lined
face had suddenly become savage with
"You laugh at me, Dale," he thundered.
"By God, you make a mockery
out of a science that I have spent more
than my life in studying! You call
yourself a medical man—and you are
not fit to carry the name! I will wager
you, man, that your laughter is not
backed by courage!"
I fell away from him. Had I stood
within reach, I am sure he would have
struck me. Struck me! And I have
been nearer to M. S. for the past ten
years than any man in London. And
as I retreated from his temper, he
reached forward to seize my arm. I
could not help but feel impressed at
his grim intentness.
"Look here, Dale," he said bitterly,
"I will wager you a hundred pounds
that you will not spend the remainder
of this night in the warehouse above
you! I will wager a hundred pounds
against your own courage that you will
not back your laughter by going
through what this fellow has gone
through. That you will not prowl
through the corridors of this great
structure until you have found room
4167—and remain in that room until
There was no choice. I glanced
at the dead man, at the face of
fear and the clutching, twisted hands,
and a cold dread filled me. But to refuse
my friend's wager would have
been to brand myself an empty coward.
I had mocked him. Now, whatever the
cost, I must stand ready to pay for that
"Room 4167?" I replied quietly, in a
voice which I made every effort to control,
lest he should discover the tremor
in it. "Very well, I will do it!"
It was nearly midnight when I found
myself alone, climbing a musty, winding
ramp between the first and second
floors of the deserted building. Not a
sound, except the sharp intake of my
breath and the dismal creak of the
wooden stairs, echoed through that
tomb of death. There was no light,
not even the usual dim glow that is left
to illuminate an unused corridor.
Moreover, I had brought no means of
light with me—nothing but a half
empty box of safety matches which, by
some unholy premonition, I had forced
myself to save for some future moment.
The stairs were black and difficult,
and I mounted them slowly, groping
with both hands along the rough
I had left M. S. some few moments
before. In his usual decisive manner
he had helped me to climb the iron
grating and lower myself to the sealed
alley-way on the farther side. Then,
leaving him without a word, for I was
bitter against the triumphant tone of
his parting words, I proceeded into the
darkness, fumbling forward until I had
discovered the open door in the lower
part of the warehouse.
And then the ramp, winding crazily
without end. I was seeking blindly
for that particular room which was to
be my destination. Room 4167, with
its high number, could hardly be on
the lower floors, and so I had stumbled
It was at the entrance of the second
floor corridor that I struck the first
of my desultory supply of matches,
and by its light discovered a placard
nailed to the wall. The thing was yellow
with age and hardly legible. In
the drab light of the match I had difficulty
in reading it—but, as far as I can
remember, the notice went something
- No light shall be permitted in
any room or corridor, as a prevention
- No person shall be admitted to
rooms or corridors unless accompanied
by an employee.
- A watchman shall be on the
premises from 7 P.M. until
6 A.M. He shall make the
round of the corridors every
hour during that interval, at a
quarter past the hour.
- Rooms are located by their
numbers: the first figure in the
room number indicating its
I could read no further. The match
in my fingers burned to a black thread
and dropped. Then, with the burnt
stump still in my hand, I groped
through the darkness to the bottom of
the second ramp.
Room 4167, then, was on the fourth
floor—the topmost floor of the structure.
I must confess that the knowledge
did not bring any renewed burst
of courage! The top floor! Three
black stair-pits would lie between me
and the safety of escape. There would
be no escape! No human being in the
throes of fear could hope to discover
that tortured outlet, could hope to
grope his way through Stygian gloom
down a triple ramp of black stairs.
And even though he succeeded in
reaching the lower corridors, there was
still a blind alley-way, sealed at the
outer end by a high grating of iron
Escape! The mockery of it
caused me to stop suddenly in my
ascent and stand rigid, my whole body
But outside, in the gloom of the
street, M. S. was waiting, waiting with
that fiendish glare of triumph that
would brand me a man without courage.
I could not return to face him,
not though all the horrors of hell inhabited
this gruesome place of mystery.
And horrors must surely inhabit
it, else how could one account for that
fearful thing on the grating below?
But I had been through horror before.
I had seen a man, supposedly dead on
the operating table, jerk suddenly to
his feet and scream. I had seen a
young girl, not long before, awake in
the midst of an operation, with the
knife already in her frail body. Surely,
after those definite horrors, no unknown
danger would send me cringing
back to the man who was waiting so
bitterly for me to return.
Those were the thoughts pregnant
in my mind as I groped slowly, cautiously
along the corridor of the upper
floor, searching each closed door for
the indistinct number 4167. The place
was like the center of a huge labyrinth,
a spider-web of black, repelling passages,
leading into some central chamber
of utter silence and blackness. I
went forward with dragging steps,
fighting back the dread that gripped
me as I went farther and farther from
the outlet of escape. And then, after
losing myself completely in the gloom,
I threw aside all thoughts of return
and pushed on with a careless, surface
bravado, and laughed aloud.
So, at length, I reached that room
of horror, secreted high in the
deeper recesses of the deserted warehouse.
The number—God grant I
never see it again!—was scrawled in
black chalk on the door—4167. I
pushed the half-open barrier wide, and
It was a small room, even as M. S.
had forewarned me—or as the dead
mind of that thing on the grate had
forewarned M. S. The glow of my
out-thrust match revealed a great stack
of dusty boxes and crates, piled against
the farther wall. Revealed, too, the
black corridor beyond the entrance, and
a small, upright table before me.
It was the table, and the stool beside
it, that drew my attention and brought
a muffled exclamation from my lips.
The thing had been thrust out of its
usual place, pushed aside as if some
frenzied shape had lunged against it.
I could make out its former position
by the marks on the dusty floor at my
feet. Now it was nearer to the center
of the room, and had been wrenched
sidewise from its holdings. A shudder
took hold of me as I looked at it.
A living person, sitting on the stool
before me, staring at the door, would
have wrenched the table in just this
manner in his frenzy to escape from
The light of the match died,
plunging me into a pit of
I struck another and stepped closer to
the table. And there, on the floor,
I found two more things that brought
fear to my soul. One of them was a
heavy flash-lamp—a watchman's lamp—where
it had evidently been dropped.
Been dropped in flight! But what awful
terror must have gripped the fellow
to make him forsake his only
means of escape through those black
passages? And the second thing—a
worn copy of a leather-bound book,
flung open on the boards below the
The flash-lamp, thank God! had not
been shattered. I switched it on, directing
its white circle of light over
the room. This time, in the vivid glare,
the room became even more unreal.
Black walls, clumsy, distorted shadows
on the wall, thrown by those huge piles
of wooden boxes. Shadows that were
like crouching men, groping toward
me. And beyond, where the single
door opened into a passage of Stygian
darkness, that yawning entrance was
thrown into hideous detail. Had any
upright figure been standing there, the
light would have made an unholy phosphorescent
specter out of it.
I summoned enough courage to cross
the room and pull the door shut. There
was no way of locking it. Had I been
able to fasten it, I should surely have
done so; but the room was evidently
an unused chamber, filled with empty
refuse. This was the reason, probably,
why the watchman had made use of it
as a retreat during the intervals between
But I had no desire to ponder over
the sordidness of my surroundings. I
returned to my stool in silence, and
stooping, picked up the fallen book
from the floor. Carefully I placed the
lamp on the table, where its light would
shine on the open page. Then, turning
the cover, I began to glance
through the thing which the man before
me had evidently been studying.
And before I had read two lines, the
explanation of the whole horrible thing
struck me. I stared dumbly down at
the little book and laughed. Laughed
harshly, so that the sound of my mad
cackle echoed in a thousand ghastly reverberations
through the dead corridors
of the building.
It was a book of horror, of fantasy.
A collection of weird, terrifying,
supernatural tales with grotesque illustrations
in funereal black and white.
And the very line I had turned to, the
line which had probably struck terror
to that unlucky devil's soul, explained
M. S.'s "decayed human form, standing
in the doorway with arms extended
and a frightful face of passion!" The
description—the same description—lay
before me, almost in my friend's words.
Little wonder that the fellow on the
grating below, after reading this orgy
of horror, had suddenly gone mad with
fright. Little wonder that the picture
engraved on his dead mind was a picture
of a corpse standing in the doorway
of room 4167!
I glanced at that doorway and
laughed. No doubt of it, it was that
awful description in M. S.'s untempered
language that had made me dread
my surroundings, not the loneliness
and silence of the corridors about me.
Now, as I stared at the room, the closed
door, the shadows on the wall, I could
not repress a grin.
But the grin was not long in duration.
A six-hour siege awaited me before
I could hear the sound of human
voice again—six hours of silence and
gloom. I did not relish it. Thank God
the fellow before me had had foresight
enough to leave his book of fantasy
for my amusement!
I turned to the beginning of the
story. A lovely beginning it was,
outlining in some detail how a certain
Jack Fulton, English adventurer, had
suddenly found himself imprisoned (by
a mysterious black gang of monks, or
something of the sort) in a forgotten
cell at the monastery of El Toro. The
cell, according to the pages before me,
was located in the "empty, haunted pits
below the stone floors of the structure...."
Lovely setting! And the brave
Fulton had been secured firmly to a
huge metal ring set in the farther wall,
opposite the entrance.
I read the description twice. At the
end of it I could not help but lift my
head to stare at my own surroundings.
Except for the location of the cell, I
might have been in they same setting.
The same darkness, same silence, same
loneliness. Peculiar similarity!
And then: "Fulton lay quietly,
without attempt to struggle. In the
dark, the stillness of the vaults became
unbearable, terrifying. Not a suggestion
of sound, except the scraping of
I dropped the book with a start.
From the opposite end of the room in
which I sat came a half inaudible scuffling
noise—the sound of hidden rodents
scrambling through the great pile
of boxes. Imagination? I am not sure.
At the moment, I would have sworn
that the sound was a definite one, that
I had heard it distinctly. Now, as I
recount this tale of horror, I am not
But I am sure of this: There was
no smile on my lips as I picked up
the book again with trembling fingers
"The sound died into silence. For
an eternity, the prisoner lay rigid, staring
at the open door of his cell. The
opening was black, deserted, like the
mouth of a deep tunnel, leading to
hell. And then, suddenly, from the
gloom beyond that opening, came an
almost noiseless, padded footfall!"
This time there was no doubt of
it. The book fell from my fingers,
dropped to the floor with a clatter.
Yet even through the sound of its falling,
I heard that fearful sound—the
shuffle of a living foot! I sat motionless,
staring with bloodless face at the
door of room 4167. And as I stared,
the sound came again, and again—the
slow tread of dragging footsteps, approaching
along the black corridor
I got to my feet like an automaton,
swaying heavily. Every drop of courage
ebbed from my soul as I stood
there, one hand clutching the table,
And then, with an effort, I moved
forward. My hand was outstretched
to grasp the wooden handle of the
door. And—I did not have the courage.
Like a cowed beast I crept back
to my place and slumped down on the
stool, my eyes still transfixed in a mute
stare of terror.
I waited. For more than half an
hour I waited, motionless. Not a sound
stirred in the passage beyond that
closed barrier. Not a suggestion of
any living presence came to me. Then,
leaning back against the wall with a
harsh laugh, I wiped away the cold
moisture that had trickled over my
forehead into my eyes.
It was another five minutes before I
picked up the book again. You call me
a fool for continuing it? A fool? I
tell you, even a story of horror is more
comfort a room of grotesque
shadows and silence. Even a printed
page is better than grim reality!
And so I read on. The story was
one of suspense, madness. For
the next two pages I read a cunning
description of the prisoner's mental
reaction. Strangely enough, it conformed
precisely with my own.
"Fulton's head had fallen to his
chest," the script read. "For an endless
while he did not stir, did not dare
to lift his eyes. And then, after more
than an hour of silent agony and
suspense, the boy's head came up
mechanically. Came up—and suddenly
jerked rigid. A horrible scream burst
from his dry lips as he stared—stared
like a dead man—at the black entrance
to his cell. There, standing without
motion in the opening, stood a
shrouded figure of death. Empty eyes,
glaring with awful hate, bored into his
own. Great arms, bony and rotten, extended
toward him. Decayed flesh—"
I read no more. Even as I lunged to
my feet, with that mad book still
gripped in my hand, I heard the door
of my room grind open. I screamed,
screamed in utter horror at the thing
I saw there. Dead? Good God, I do
not know. It was a corpse, a dead
human body, standing before me like
some propped-up thing from the grave.
A face half eaten away, terrible in its
leering grin. Twisted mouth, with
only a suggestion of lips, curled back
over broken teeth. Hair—writhing,
distorted—like a mass of moving,
bloody coils. And its arms, ghastly
white, bloodless, were extended toward
me, with open, clutching hands.
It was alive! Alive! Even while I
stood there, crouching against the
wall, it stepped forward toward me.
I saw a heavy shudder pass over it,
and the sound of its scraping feet
burned its way into my soul. And
then, with its second step, the fearful
thing stumbled to its knees. The white,
gleaming arms, thrown into streaks of
living fire by the light of my lamp,
flung violently upwards, twisting toward
the ceiling. I saw the grin change
to an expression of agony, of torment.
And then the thing crashed upon me—dead.
With a great cry of fear I stumbled
to the door. I groped out of that room
of horror, stumbled along the corridor.
No light. I left it behind, on the table,
to throw a circle of white glare over
the decayed, living-dead intruder who
had driven me mad.
My return down those winding
ramps to the lower floor was a nightmare
of fear. I remember that I stumbled,
that I plunged through the
darkness like a man gone mad. I had
no thought of caution, no thought of
anything except escape.
And then the lower door, and the
alley of gloom. I reached the grating,
flung myself upon it and pressed my
face against the bars in a futile effort
to escape. The same—as the fear-tortured
man—who had—come before—me.
I felt strong hands lifting me up. A
dash of cool air, and then the refreshing
patter of falling rain.
It was the afternoon of the following
day, December 6, when M. S.
sat across the table from me in my own
study. I had made a rather hesitant
attempt to tell him, without dramatics
and without dwelling on my own lack
of courage, of the events of the previous
"You deserved it, Dale," he said
quietly. "You are a medical man, nothing
more, and yet you mock the beliefs
of a scientist as great as Daimler.
I wonder—do you still mock the
"That he can bring a dead man to
life?" I smiled, a bit doubtfully.
"I will tell you something, Dale,"
said M. S. deliberately. He was leaning
across the table, staring at me. "The
Professor made only one mistake in
his great experiment. He did not wait
long enough for the effect of his
strange acids to work. He acknowledged
failure too soon, and got rid of
the body." He paused.
"When the Professor stored his patient
away, Dale," he said quietly, "he
stored it in room 4170, at the great
warehouse. If you are acquainted
with the place, you will know that
room 4170 is directly across the corridor