Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 303 - The Curse of Thoth

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THE CURSE OF THOTH

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I

? CHAPTER II

? CHAPTER III

? CHAPTER IV

? CHAPTER V

? CHAPTER VI

? CHAPTER VII

? CHAPTER VIII

? CHAPTER IX

? CHAPTER X

? CHAPTER XI

? CHAPTER XII

? CHAPTER XIII

? CHAPTER XIV

? CHAPTER XV

? CHAPTER XVI

? CHAPTER XVII

? CHAPTER XVIII

? CHAPTER XIX

? CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER I

HARRY VINCENT swung from the subway exit and turned southward toward Columbus Circle.

Blocks ahead he saw a distant electric sign that was spelling a word in running letters. The sign said:

HURRY!

Walking briskly, Harry kept watching the sign. Another word unraveled itself across the broad strip. It

was a repetition of the first, but exclamation points rendered it more emphatic.

This time the sign said:

HURRY!!

Instinctively, Harry quickened his pace. Somehow, the message seemed intended for him. He had taken

the subway because be hadn't been able to find an empty cab and besides, there had been a traffic jam

around Times Square. And now the electric sign was delivering another silent shout.

There, in running letters that fairly screamed its brightness, appeared a third word:

HURRY!!!

Now Harry was doing a dog-trot He was really taking this message literally.

And why not?

Often, Harry Vincent had received strange messages from his chief, The Shadow; orders that had come

at unexpected times, in unexpected places, and from unexpected sources. Perhaps Burbank, The

Shadow's contact man, had found some way to rig the wording of that sign and flash through a last

minute command.

It was Burbank who had started Harry on this mission to the Alvara Apartments, the big building just

around the next corner. Maybe Burbank had found it necessary to speed up Harry's arrival there.

Suddenly, the whole notion dispelled itself. The sign was explaining itself. Riding across it were other

words, suggesting the customers order their post-war automobiles before the supply was exhausted. That

was why the sign had first given triple emphasis to the word "Hurry!"

Harry slackened pace.

He wanted the next block to think over why he had come here and what he was going to do about it.

Basically, his situation was very simple, as simple as A B C, except that those letters weren't as simple as

they sounded.

A, B and C stood for Albersham, Barstow and Curvin, three gentlemen who had taken advantage of

their initials to form a corporation called the ABC Industries, which had suddenly loomed into

importance. Only this afternoon, the ABC Industries had become front page news in the New York

journals for a most remarkable reason.

According to report, ABC was ready to produce a new form of alloy that was so ancient that it was

really new. Their product was the sort to rouse the jealousy of modern metallurgists. Through an

eccentric professor named Rufus Parrish, the ABC syndicate had acquired the greatest secret of

legendary Egypt, that of annealing bronze so it would have a hardness superior to the finest steel.

Nor could this story be considered fanciful.

Authorities agreed that the ancient Egyptians had possessed such a process. Of all the men in America

who might have uncovered that secret, Professor Parrish rated tops. Time after time, Parrish had probed

into the secrets of the Pharaohs, violating the tombs of the high priests of the Nile, defying the curses of

the whole Egyptian pantheon.

If Professor Parrish owned such a secret, he would be a fool to part with it for anything under half a

million dollars. It happened that half a million dollars was the price that Albersham, Barstow and Curvin

had paid for the professor's secret.

There was more to the story, however; more money behind it, to be specific.

So anxious were the members of ABC to acquire all data covering their precious purchase, that they had

offered to pay cash in plenty to anyone furnishing them with data that they could add to Parrish's

information. Whoever else held the real riddle of the Sphinx would also be in the money.

There were certain men who qualified. One such man was Hugo Zerland who lived at the Alvara

Apartments. Unquestionably Zerland would take up the offer, which was why Harry Vincent had been

deputed to interview him. For behind this business of reviving an old Egyptian secret for modern use, lay

influences sinister and baleful - should anyone admit their existence.

HURRY!

HURRY!!

HURRY!!!

The sign flashed its triple shout again, as Harry turned the corner, a reminder, even though a mere

coincidence, that weird influences from the Land of the Nile might still be at large, even in this mechanized

age. Hand in coat pocket, Harry fingered an envelope containing clippings that related to the subject and

despite himself, he began to wonder.

Harry was walking with long, rapid strides, a compromise between his brief jog, and a natural gait. Then,

almost at the door of the Alvara, a sudden thought struck him. If there was no need to hurry, this sort of

pace was foolish. Should haste be necessary, it would be equally unwise to give away the fact.

If danger lurked, it would be human; of that, Harry felt certain. So when he strolled nonchalantly into the

lobby of the Alvara Apartments, he took a satisfactory glance across the street. No furtive figures lurked

in the darkness there, so far as Harry could see; still, he wouldn't have sworn that there were none. It

was very dark across the street.

To get anywhere in the Alvara Apartments, it was necessary to stop at a combination office and

switchboard that was under the control of a dapper young man who at the moment was very busy

operating switchboard plugs beyond a window that bore the statement:

MAKE INQUIRIES HERE

This was emphasized by a blocky elevator man standing at the open door of his car. Harry's first steps

were toward the elevator and the operator responded by gesturing toward the office, with an upward

thumb motion that indicated the sign.

There was a girl already waiting at the office wicket. Her back was turned toward Harry and was mostly

fur, in the form of a mink coat. Apparently she was negotiating with the dapper chap behind the window,

so Harry took his turn in line with no show of impatience, knowing too well how such symptoms could

start an argument around New York and thus delay matters further.

They moved fast in Manhattan if you didn't block them; if you did, they'd take their own time and yours

with it.

The switchboard character manipulated a few plugs, tangled himself with some insulated wires, then

announced as though that settled it:

"Mr. Zerland isn't seeing anyone this evening."

It couldn't be meant for Harry, because he hadn't yet mentioned Zerland. So Harry took it that it was

meant for the girl. She pivoted away from the wicket on a pair of high heels, taking a turn in the opposite

direction so that Harry didn't see her face. All Harry did was crowd half through the wicket window and

put the confidential query:

"Just who is Mr. Zerland seeing?"

The fellow at the switchboard tried to swell into importance, but it didn't work with a keen-eyed

questioner like Harry. Through the window, Harry added:

"Just who is up there with him now?"

The clerk hesitated, then gave a sly look at a sheet of paper beyond his opposite elbow.

"A couple of men seeing him on business," the clerk admitted. "Their names are Barstow and Curvin.

Guess I can tell you that much. Nobody said I couldn't."

"That's being civil," approved Harry. "Now take a side-slant at that list and see if you don't see my name

topping it, as one of the privileged few. The name is Albersham."

The fellow looked, turned his head up toward the wicket, and nodded.

"That settles it from A to Z," acknowledged Harry. "Mr. Albersham sees Mr. Zerland. Give me the

apartment number and a pass or whatever else that elevator man needs to make him act human."

"It's 6B," the switchboard tender supplied. Then, rising to gesture through the window: "It's all right,

Kirky," he called. "Mr. Albersham can go up."

Keeping a poker-face to hide his triumph, Harry Vincent turned about as he entered the elevator. The

switchboard man had gone back to duty, but Harry's expression wasn't entirely lost, where a witness was

concerned. If anything, that witness had something of an edge on Harry.

Said witness was the fur-wearing lady who had preceded Harry at the window. She had started from the

lobby, but she hadn't gone beyond the door. She had turned too, to learn what a visitor to Zerland's

looked like.

It wasn't easy to guess a fur coat's contents from the back, but Harry had rather suspected that the girl in

the mink was of lithe construction. She was indeed, as he saw her now with the coat spread loose; she

was slender, tall, but stately rather than willowy. But it was the expression of her face that riveted Harry.

The features were truly exotic, as though sculptured from softened marble. Their complexion was

creamy, but reminiscent of cream lying thick upon the surface of coffee. The girl's eyes, peering from

beside a high-bridged nose, caught the light and showed a sparkle of a color that represented the exact

shade of Nile green.

A lovely face, yet as haunting as something from a dream, and fixed in mold. It was a face that could

have come from afar, either in terms of space or time. Not a semblance of a smile, not even a flicker of

an eyelash disturbed the serenity of that countenance.

But it wasn't until the door of the elevator shaft had clanged and the car was starting upward, that Harry

Vincent realized he'd been looking at somebody as straight from Egypt as if she had been the Sphinx

itself!

CHAPTER II

BY the time Harry Vincent reached the door of 6B, he was shaking off thoughts of Little Egypt, down

there in the lobby. Harry had other things to think about, as was always the case when he handled a

special mission for The Shadow, and particularly when he was staging a bluff, as at present.

The first factor was Kirky, the elevator man. Though the fellow had taken orders directly from the

information booth, he still considered that he had a few duties other than simply hoisting the elevator to

the sixth floor. For one thing, Kirky gave Harry a continuous scrutiny, all the way up; for another, he kept

the elevator at the sixth floor when he reached there, to see to it that the pretended Mr. Albersham went

to 6B and nowhere else.

This wasn't exactly what Harry wanted; in fact, it was something far from it.

Seeing the door marked 6B down at one end of the corridor, Harry purposely started in the opposite

direction, only to have Kirky boom after him:

"Apartment 6B is the other way, mister!"

So Harry turned the other way and past the elevator noted a side corridor which obviously led to some

rear apartments. Hoping Kirky had given up, Harry took to the side passage only to hear the same

booming voice carry after him.

"Not around that way, mister! Keep straight along to the end of the hall!"

Further stalling wouldn't have helped, so Harry turned back to 6B, at the same time regretting that he

hadn't been able to complete the survey. Getting the general layout of a strange building was always a

good beginning, but it wasn't wise to incur the disfavor of the hired help.

One thing, Harry did find out. The fire tower was in the center of the building, around in back of the

elevator, which was something rather unusual. The Alvara Apartments consisted of a structure which

could be termed all wings, Apartments A and B in one direction; C and D the other; with an unknown

quantity of other lettered doors back in the rear wings of the same building.

Right now, the only apartment that mattered was 6B. It had a bell button, so Harry gave it an imperious

ring and waited. The door was opened by a bowing man who looked like a secretary. The fellow said:

"Step right in, Mr. Albersham" and as Harry did, he heard Kirky close the door of the elevator. A

moment later the apartment door too was closed and Zerland's secretary was bowing Harry into a

sumptuous living room of a very sizable apartment.

Two men were seated there and Harry could have been blindfolded and still made the correct guess that

neither was Hugo Zerland. The secretary didn't introduce Harry to them, but just took it for granted that

he knew them. What was more, the secretary continued on through the living room, apparently to speak

to someone else who could only be Zerland. Besides, from the surprised mutters the two men gave when

they looked at Harry, it was obvious that they must be Albersham's partners, Barstow and Curvin.

"Good evening, gentlemen," declared Harry. "I take it that you must be Mr. Barstow and Mr. Curvin."

"I'm Geoffrey Barstow." The man who spoke came to his feet. "You are right; my friend here" - he gave

a sideward gesture - "is Arnold Curvin. But you aren't Edwin Albersham!"

Barstow was a blunt man, tall when he reared himself as he did now, though his shoulders had a natural

droop that hunched him into a rather portly appearance when seated. Barstow's face was broad and he

probably preferred to keep it bland, but this business of dealing with an impostor was pulling Barstow out

of character.

The broad face was flushed with a show of indignation that carried its ruddy touch clear up to the

exaggerated forehead that was partly a bald head, the baldness beginning where the wrinkles ended.

Curvin too was coming to his feet, but more deliberately, a trifle painfully. His hunch wasn't natural, his

shoulders looked as though he wanted to straighten them, but couldn't. Curvin was a man with peaked

face and small eyes, that seemed sharp despite the droop of their lids. He kept his head tilted as though

to favor one shoulder and though he smiled, his expression wasn't too pleased.

However, Curvin didn't speak. He left that to Barstow, whose tone was sharp. But Harry sensed that

Barstow was merely forcing himself to a superficial show of outrage.

"Coming here and calling yourself Edwin Albersham!" stormed Barstow. "May I ask the meaning of this,

as well as inquiring who you really are?"

"My name is Harry Vincent," acknowledged Harry, coolly. "And speaking of asking, I merely asked for

Mr. Albersham. Call the switchboard, if you don't believe me."

While Barstow's flush faded, Curvin let his smile spread and be come more pleasant. In a dry drawl,

Curvin inquired:

"You mean that fool sent you up here to see Albersham?"

"That about sizes it," returned Harry, "though he may have gotten it wrong. He looked dumb enough and

besides, he was all goggle-eyed over the latest thing in mink linings. I believe she was inquiring for

Zerland's apartment too, though I didn't hear her give her name."

Harry's remark brought an exchange of glances between Barstow and Curvin and they both looked

worried. That scored one for Harry; he made the mental note that these men were bothered by the

Egyptian angle of their business. It also paved the way for Harry's next shot, but he waited, knowing the

opportunity would soon come.

Getting back to his bland manner, Barstow asked:

"Just why do you want to talk to Albersham?"

"I might say that was Albersham's business," put Harry, bluntly, "but it isn't, entirely. It's your business just

as much. Here" - Harry brought the envelope from his pocket - "these clippings will explain it."

Harry spread the clippings on the living room table. They made a story in themselves. One was the front

page item declaring that Albersham, Barstow and Curvin, as the ABC Industries, intended to produce a

super-metal in the form of hardened bronze. That, of course, was common knowledge.

Other items, however, were somewhat obscure, except when studied closely and together. Here were

small ads bearing the initials A B C asking for information regarding Egyptian tombs and hieroglyphics.

Also little announcements of tests being made in order to develop a wonder metal, by certain interested

but unnamed parties.

Finally, Harry spread a sizable sheet of paper in the form of a tabloid newspaper page. It was adorned

with photographs of the sphinx and pyramids, along with those of rifled Egyptian tombs. It showed a

couple of bearded men, famous Egyptian explorers, who had died suddenly after completing

excavations.

Dominating the page was a fanciful drawing of those same bearded men, backing away in horror from a

weird creature in Egyptian robe wearing a mask like a bird's head, the creature in question holding a huge

dagger, poised as though to strike at the bearded pair. In the background was a mummy case, showing

the figure of an Egyptian princess, half-unwrapped, while the story bore the provocative title:

WILL THE CURSE OF THOTH STRIKE AGAIN?

Looking up, Harry saw disdainful smiles creep across the faces of Barstow and Curvin, but he wondered

how genuine those expressions were. To find out, Harry plucked a little clipping from the rest and

showed it to his companions. The story related to Professor Rufus Parrish, mentioning that he had long

been absent from New York and raising a query as to his whereabouts. It added pointedly that Professor

Parrish had become a fitting subject of investigation for the Bureau of Missing Persons.

Contrary to Harry's expectations, that story brought a bland laugh from Barstow and a dry chuckle from

Curvin, who extended a shaky hand to indicate the date on the clipping.

"Old stuff," cackled Curvin. "Of course Parrish had disappeared at that time. He wanted to tuck himself

away while he worked on the bronze formula."

"Secret experiments," explained Barstow. "He had to decipher a lot of Egyptian hieroglyphics along with

other things. He didn't want to be disturbed."

"Look at today's story," argued Curvin, his forefinger quivering above. "It states plainly that ABC

Industries has acquired the Parrish formula."

"And that accounts for Professor Parrish," summed Barstow. "We hear from the professor regularly, so

that should satisfy you, Mr. Vincent" - Barstow's tone became terse - "whatever your interest is."

Gathering the clippings, Harry put them back in the envelope. Then, pointedly, he asked:

"It couldn't be that Professor Parrish is trying to dodge the Curse of Thoth?"

Barstow and Curvin tried to laugh that off, but their manner was rather feeble.

"I'd ask Parrish himself," added Harry, "if I could find him. Since I can't, would you mind if I talked to

Hugo Zerland - or would it spoil some deal of yours?"

There was a moment of hesitancy, then Barstow broke the ice.

"Talk to Zerland if you want," Barstow decided. "We don't mind if you discuss this Thoth-and-nonsense

with him."

"We'd be bringing it up anyway," avowed Curvin. "We wouldn't want to do business with Zerland if he

believes such rot. We can't talk business until Albersham arrives, so we can clear the Thoth question first.

You're welcome to be in on the discussion, Mr. Vincent, if you'll bow out when we begin to talk

bronze."

Harry gave a nod that was quite timely, for at that moment, the secretary returned to the room. Not yet

acquainted with the fact that Harry wasn't Albersham, the secretary spoke to the group as though all

three represented ABC.

"Mr. Zerland will see you now," the secretary announced. "This way, gentlemen."

As the secretary turned, Barstow gestured for Harry to come along. Curvin emphasized this by placing a

trembling hand on Harry's arm, though whether Curvin intended to urge Harry or simply steady himself,

was a question, since Curvin's palsy was an ailment that made it difficult for him to get in locomotion.

Intent upon meeting Zerland, Harry didn't think of looking out the front window that they passed. If he

had, he would have spotted his old friend, the electric sign, blazing above Columbus Circle.

That sign was no longer declaiming a running message. It had stopped on the last of three repeated

words and was holding that slogan, as though for Harry's express benefit:

HURRY!!!

CHAPTER III

ZERLAND'S study was as surprising a place as the man himself.

The room was large - all of this apartment was on an ample scale - and the walls were covered with

enlarged photographs depicting all parts of the world, with Hugo Zerland prominent in every scene.

Zerland predominated the photographs because he was a tall, rangy man whose height accentuated his

thinness. He belonged to the beanpole classification and in one picture, where Zerland was riding a

mountain burro, it looked as though he were walking, with the creature trying to crowd its way beneath

him.

For a steed, Hugo Zerland needed an elephant or a camel to reduce his six feet seven inches to

something resembling normal size. There were photos of him on both and Harry Vincent was particularly

interested in the camel because it savored - at least pictorially - of the Egyptian desert.

Mixed among the photographs were actual weapons, such as African spears, Australian boomerangs,

and Oriental swords. The room was furnished with taborets, elephant tables, teak wood chairs, and

pedestal couches. There were books in odd shelves and racks, but all of them were curious old volumes

bound in vellum, parchment, or even metal.

Zerland himself lived up to the photographs except that he looked older and more haggard. His face was

as bony as his form and seemed as much parchment as some of the book bindings. His eyes, however,

were very much alive; they were a watery gray, that seemed to flow wherever he turned his gaze.

At present, Zerland was seated on one of the couches; he wasn't reclining, he'd simply chosen the couch

instead of a chair because it was more ample. As a result, his proportions were easily gauged and if

anything, looked more exaggerated than the photographs.

Apparently Zerland still thought that Harry was Albersham, for he included him in the quick, flowing

survey that he gave all three visitors. Odd, Zerland's way of looking at people. That flowing glance of his

seemed to freeze like ice, but only momentarily. Then it would swim further along.

Barstow began negotiations with Zerland.

"We are here, Mr. Zerland," declared Barstow, "to discuss certain findings that you made in Egypt,

during your extensive tours of the globe. But first -"

"But first," interrupted Zerland, sharply, "suppose you introduce yourselves. Which of you is which?"

"I'm Barstow," the speaker acknowledged. "This" - he indicated the man beside him - "is Mr. Curvin. We

are expecting our partner Albersham -"

Before Barstow could go further, Zerland was up from the couch, suddenly and nervously, waving his

hand at Harry.

"Then who is this?"

Harry stepped forward and introduced himself. Then:

"I came here at the request of a mutual friend," Harry stated, deciding that this was the time to play a

trump card. "A gentleman who has traveled as extensively as you have, Mr. Zerland. In fact, I am quite

sure that you must have met him during the course of your travels, as well as here in New York. I refer to

Mr. Lamont Cranston."

It was something of a shot in the dark, for Harry's instructions had been simply to see Zerland, warn him

about some unknown peril, and keep him under something resembling surveillance until The Shadow

could take over in person.

Of course in naming Lamont Cranston, Harry actually signified The Shadow, because Cranston was the

name and personality that The Shadow usually operated under when he appeared publicly. The link

between The Shadow and Lamont Cranston was well covered, therefore was no give-away. But that

was not the reason why Harry had played the Cranston bet.

Noted as a globe-trotter, Cranston was almost certainly an acquaintance of Zerland's, if only an

acquaintance of a passing sort. The name certainly registered with Zerland but not in a way that Harry

expected. Folding back on the couch, Zerland turned quite pale and his odd eyes became shifty. When

Zerland recovered composure, his tone was hoarse:

"What did Cranston want to tell me?"

Again, Harry played what he thought was a good shot.

"I think he wanted to talk about the Curse of Thoth."

Instead of producing alarm, Harry's words caused Zerland's lips to bare his teeth in a grin that would

have done credit to a skeleton. The ungainly man gave a hard laugh that carried a genuine note. For some

reason, he was pleased because that was all Cranston wanted.

"A foolish legend," sneered Zerland land, rising again from the couch. "The myth that anyone who violates

the tomb of a high priest of Thoth will suffer death from the hand of the ibis-god himself. Tell me" - he

wheeled to Barstow and Curvin, letting his icy gaze fix on each - "has anyone else given credence to this

folly? I mean anyone else familiar with the data that you want?"

Both Barstow and Curvin shook their heads. Then Barstow spoke.

"We have only talked to Professor Parrish," he declared. "Of course the professor is eccentric and might

believe anything. But you are the first of three others, besides Parrish -"

"I know," interrupted Zerland. "We all have information that you regard as valuable, which it is. My prize

is a papyrus, direct from the tomb of the high priest El-Taab. It was translated for me by a man now

dead" - again, Zerland's lips spread in a smile as happy as it was ugly - "and you can have the translation

verified, after we have arranged the price."

Both Barstow and Curvin nodded eagerly. Then Barstow curbed himself with the comment:

"Perhaps we had better wait for Albersham. I can't understand why he is so late."

"It's because we are so early," inserted Curvin, crisply. "Albersham is always punctual, but we arrived

ahead of time. My suggestion is that Zerland show us the papyrus so that we can be discussing terms

when Albersham joins us."

Curvin looked at Harry as he spoke, indicating that this was the right time to get rid of the unwanted

visitor who had concluded his discussion of the Thoth Curse with Zerland. Catching the idea, Barstow

nodded and Harry decided to accept the hint. He strolled toward the living room and Zerland's

ever-ready secretary bustled over to conduct him out.

At the door, however, Harry paused in well-faked style. He was taking a cigarette from his case, but he

couldn't find a match and was glancing, about for one. The secretary saw Harry's dilemma and produced

a fancy lighter in the shape of a little bronze statuette that was on a corner taboret. A cute lighter, but it

didn't work, which pleased Harry all the more.

Waiting for the lighter to click, Harry was watching Zerland open a pair of brass gates that Harry had so

far mistaken for the back wall of the study. Stepping into a small rear room which was furnished in

Chinese style with garish tapestries, Zerland stepped to one side wall and opened a large Oriental

cabinet, where he stooped forward to produce the papyrus that he had mentioned.

At the opposite side of the room stood a large Chinese screen, the sort guaranteed to block the route of

wandering demons. The guarantee either didn't hold, or it wasn't applicable to devil-creatures of a

nationality other than Chinese.

For at that moment, the screen toppled forward to disgorge a most hideous creature wearing an ancient

Egyptian robe, topped by a bird-mask covering its entire head. The thing was a perfect replica of the

famed ibis-god Thoth, whose mythical Curse had awakened Zerland's sneer.

In one upraised hand, covered with a glove that resembled a bird's claw, the horrendous figure clutched a

long bronze dirk that glistened in the light. Clearing the screen before it even struck the floor, this

incarnation of Thoth reached Zerland before anyone - Harry included - could make a move to help the

victim.

For Hugo Zerland was a victim almost upon the instant. With stretching arm and driving hand that

seemed a continuation of its leap, the robed thing called Thoth buried the thin bronze blade deep in the

back of the man who had scoffed that such things could not happen!

CHAPTER IV

IT was like a weird dream, the maddened sequence that followed.

Unable to halt murder, Harry Vincent stood rooted, watching events unravel in slow-motion style,

wondering why he wasn't hurling himself to Zerland's aid, no matter how belated. The least that Harry

could do would be to grab the killer and he was puzzled by his delay at that task too.

It was the sort of riddle that would clear itself later. Actually, Harry was tightening for an instinctive

spring, but his eyes were taking in events faster than his muscles could respond. Those events seemed

slow, because they were packed into instants that made a pair of seconds seem like that many minutes -

almost hours.

Zerland's body doubled backward the moment the blade pierced it, as though the knife had struck a

hidden spring. Thoth's other hand made a clawing sweep to clutch the papyrus that Zerland's hand

automatically flung back across his shoulder. The robed figure was twisting away, prize in hand, as

Zerland's body telescoped toward the cabinet into which his hands plunged, as though seeking something

to fill their death grasp.

Those details were close to simultaneous and before they completed themselves, Harry Vincent had

begun his forward lunge. How swiftly he really came to action was proven by the fact that Zerland's body

had not flattened by the time Harry reached the brass gates.

Yet all during those moments, Zerland was sprawling, though in a slow, corkscrew style. From the

drawer in the old Oriental cabinet, he had clutched and brought along an antique pistol made of heavy

brass with a mouth like a blunderbuss. Whether the thing was loaded didn't really matter at this moment,

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