Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 286 - No Time for Murder

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NO TIME FOR MURDER
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
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
HIGH above Manhattan's narrow streets, the lights of the penthouse twinkled like the beacons on a
mountainside.
Below the penthouse gulped a man-made canyon; on the other side, across another crevice, loomed the
mightier mass of a silent office building, towering like a protecting summit shielding the refuge from harm.
Yet there was terror in that isolated penthouse that hung balanced between black depths and bulking
whiteness. Stark terror that dominated every action of the haggard, hunted man who dwelt there.
Like a trapped beast, the man was roving the rooms of his luxurious retreat, flicking off lights, turning
them on again in obedience to ever-changing whims. He wanted light as a protection against his fear, but
he felt that darkness would in turn be the best safeguard against a living menace.
Pacing through a modernistic bedroom, the man paused in stoop-shouldered style, to study his own wan
features in a mirror set between two lighted wall brackets. His face, long and gaunt, was white to the
crest of his bald forehead, and the fear of years was expressed by twitching wrinkles.
His lips were twitching too, more nervously than Rufus Debley had ever seen them act before. He tried to
tighten his chattering teeth, but his lips still quivered. Then his hands, clawing the glass surface of the table
below the mirror, did their part to assuage his dread.
Instinctively those hands groped to a drawer; fumbling they drew it open. A sharp hiss sighing through his
gritted teeth, Debley clutched the feathered thing that lay in the drawer. His eyes lowered to view the
curious effigy with the scarlet feathers and wood-carved human face and with that glance, Debley
regained at least a modicum of self-control.
"The Quetzal!" Glancing upward, Debley stared at his reflected face. "I still have it. Why should I fear its
threat after all these years?"
In answer, Debley's reflection hardened. The years that he had mentioned seemed to wipe themselves
from his face, lines and all. With a leer of contempt, Debley flung the Quetzal image into the drawer and
shoved the latter shut. Hands no longer trembling, he reached to the wall brackets and turned them off.
Shoulders straightening, the gaunt man stalked toward his living room.
At the doorway, new fright gripped him and in a trice, Debley had become his cringing self again. Hands
raised pleadingly, he was backing into the darkened bedroom, gasping for mercy as though he did not
expect it. Stumbling against a chair, Debley flattened and lay moaning until nothing happened.
The sound from the living room, the thing that had so disturbed the fear-ridden man, was nothing more
than the flap-flap of a window shade propelled by the slight opening above the sash. As this fact dawned
on Debley, it allayed his panic; coming to his feet, he strode through the living room and delivered a
confident smirk toward the pane of the offending window.
Again, Debley's countenance grinned back at him. No longer haggard, it seemed to announce that no
danger could lurk outside, since this window, like the rest in the penthouse, overlooked sheer space
through which nothing less agile than a mountain goat could navigate.
There was just one false note in the laugh that Debley forced between his teeth.
The reflection showed because of the penthouse lights. By the same token, Debley's gaze was unable to
penetrate the outside darkness. He wanted to assure himself that such blackness was empty; hence with
a return of his old fervor, Debley sprang about the living room, extinguishing lights everywhere.
When only one light remained, Debley was gripped by his old alarm. Darkness with its encroaching
gloom, carried a menace all its own. Here was the spectacle of a fear-maddened man, shrinking from the
very darkness which he hoped would shield him, seeking refuge in the only corner of the room where a
light still glowed.
From that vantage point - if it could be called such - Rufus Debley darted his wild eyes to every cranny
as though expecting some specter of the past to rise and devour him. His frenzy, ever on the increase,
drew beads of sweat from his high forehead, while his lips, parched by the same fear, demanded
moisture which Debley supplied with quick nervous licks from his tongue.
Singular how the gloom created noises of its own, more horrendous than the visual phantasms which
Debley expected but did not see!
From somewhere in the darkened penthouse came a sharp click-clack that might have been anything
from the opening of a window to the door of the elevator. It might even have been the door of the fire
tower, for Debley, forgetting his terror for the moment, was nudging himself toward the hallway to stare
at a red light shining from the corridor's end.
Then, startled by a rattle from another direction, the fear-stricken man was plunging back to the lighted
corner which he had personally turned into an oasis amid this desert of thickened gloom. His hand,
plucking as though to grasp a weapon, found a telephone parked upon a small stand.
The rattling sound was a trifle, apparently nothing more than the joggle of a metal ash-stand, disturbed by
Debley's hurried footsteps across the floor. Nevertheless, the man was glad that he could still establish
communication with someone outside the penthouse, for he lifted the telephone and began to dial a
number. After a few fumbles, Debley completed the operation and was rewarded by a voice across the
wire, even though it was not the one he expected to hear.
"Hello... Tolland?" Debley was hoarse with anxiety. "No, you won't do! I must talk to Tolland... Yes, I
mean Colonel Tolland..."
The pause that followed was not to Debley's liking. His next words were savage, so fierce that seemingly
they buried his fear.
"It's life or death I tell you! Only the Colonel would understand... He'll talk to me if you let him know it's
Debley on the wire... I don't care if he's sending someone... I must talk to Colonel Tolland..."
The call ended with the abrupt click of the receiver from the other end. Cut off from the outside world,
Debley became frantic, His attempts to dial another number failed three times before he managed it; this
time when a voice came, Debley fairly panted his message.
"Inspector Cardona? Yes, this is Rufus Debley... That's right, the commissioner told me I could call you...
It's here, inspector, the thing that means death... No, not just the Quetzal image. I mean death itself...
"Listen!" Debley cupped his hand around the mouthpiece, hoping it would pick up sounds like a
microphone; "You can hear it creeping... Yes, creeping through the darkness... Lights? Why should I turn
on lights? So death can find me?
"It isn't human, the thing that seeks me... It may have been human once, but now..." Debley's pause
included a deep gulp. "But now, well maybe it's a ghost... A killer's ghost, that drives me to destruction...
Listen! You'll hear why I can't stand it any longer..."
Real though his terror was, it did not totally suppress Debley's ingenuity. He was hoping that Cardona
would hear something, the flapping of that window shade that had scared Debley personally with its
uncanny flapping. But the shade was no longer obliging; its sound no longer came. Over the phone,
Cardona's gruff voice admonished Debley to "hold tight" and with that there was another receiver click.
Letting the phone slip back to its stand, Debley raised his head and stiffened. He'd worked up his
imagination to the pitch of stark realism, for now he fancied that he could hear those creeps that he had
mentioned. If the recipients of Debley's phone calls doubted Debley's sanity, they were not alone in the
opinion. Debley now was willing to grant that he was mad.
Twitching fingers kept time to those creeping sounds that Debley thought he heard, until the slowing of his
hands indicated that the illusion had diminished. Then, coming to his feet, Debley crossed the room and
reached the darkened window, glancing back across his stooped shoulder as though expecting a
creeping shape to pounce upon him.
At the window, Debley forced a laugh and looked out into the dark. He could see the lights of other
buildings through a drizzly mist and no longer was he troubled by sight of his own reflection, since it was
not there. What bothered him was the shade, for Debley couldn't understand its silence until he raised it;
then his eyes became incredulous.
No longer was the window lowered those few inches from the top. It was tightly shut and its catch was
locked!
Debley's senses, like his sanity, were now in doubt unless the fault belonged to his memory. He hadn't
any recollection of having closed that window; in fact, it had been open those few inches only because
the sash was stuck and Debley lacked the strength to force it shut. To have managed this unconsciously
strained even Debley's exaggerated imagination, yet the mere suggestion aroused another and more
potent doubt.
Turning suddenly from the window, Debley crossed the darkened living room with the groping stride of a
blind man. Finding the door of the bedroom he entered and stumbled his way to the table by the wall.
There without reaching for the lights, he gripped the table drawer and dragged it open; his hands made a
quick snatch for the feathered doll with the beak-shaped wooden profile.
Out came those same hands, palms up, their fingers twitching into fists. A spasm quivered Debley's
shoulders as his lips delivered a truly terrorized cry. For months Debley had preserved a token which
stood for impending doom, yet somehow its possession had given him the belief that he could thwart its
menace.
Tonight, Debley's courage had broken. To regain it he wanted to clutch the effigy that threatened death
but had not killed. One grip of that feathered doll would have sustained Rufus Debley until friends
arrived, but his hope was to be unfulfilled.
The Quetzal image was gone!
CHAPTER II
LONG and fearful were the moments that held Debley in their rigid spell. Through the man's frantic brain
teemed sounds that he knew were very real. Real elsewhere, but not here, unless they were being carried
through the ether from a spot both strange and distant.
Those sounds that grew in Debley's mind were the thrumming beats of Aztec drums; maddening,
ceaseless tattoos that belonged to the peaks and canyons of the Mexican mountains, not among the
fissured towers of Manhattan.
Strums of death!
As they had hounded others, so were they seeking Debley, whose brain was now too distraught to tell
the real from the false. Debley knew only that the impossible had happened twice: first, the closing of the
jammed window; again, the disappearance of the Quetzal doll. Two events that could not be, yet were;
both occurring in a place that could only be reached by Debley's one trusted friend, Colonel Tolland,
who was too ill to visit him!
No wonder that Debley thought he heard those drums from the past, dread symbols of the immediate
future. Only a hand of fate could have invaded here; and the clutch of its murderous fingers was meant for
one man only: Rufus Debley.
Then came the clang that by its reality broke the hammering of the mythical drum beats. Debley
recognized the sound of the elevator door, proving that a friend was here. One man alone had a duplicate
of the intricate key that Debley used to bring the car to the penthouse level. Colonel Tolland must have
changed his mind and ventured through the drizzly night to learn the cause of Debley's fears.
Taking a deep breath, Debley pressed a hand across his forehead as he turned toward the living room
door. But it wasn't sweat that his palm found there. Mystified, Debley stood momentarily rigid; then
swung about, aghast.
In the bedroom was another window, not far from the table from which the Quetzal doll has disappeared.
The bedroom window, as Debley recalled it, had been tightly locked, but it was no longer. Wide open, it
was letting in the drizzle, and Debley, frantic over the disappearance of the Quetzal, had been oblivious to
the dampening rain against his face!
No longer oblivious, Debley gave a cry as he stumbled toward the living room. He heard creaking
footsteps from the hall, louder than the creeping sounds that he had fancied earlier, and a low, cautious
call came from the same direction. Debley voiced a cry of welcome that stopped as suddenly as it
began.
Something long and slender, slicking with the speed of a whip lash, wrapped itself around Debley's neck
and ended his vocal effort. That same coil hauled the frantic man from his feet and tumbled him back
toward the window, producing the clatter of an overturning chair along with the thump of Debley's body.
Strong arms in the darkness were hoisting Debley up from the floor, literally somersaulting him toward the
window as he tugged at the ropy strand that twined his neck. Only as he struck the sill did Debley realize
that he was aimed for a quicker death than strangulation. The rope was already releasing itself when
Debley snatched for the sides of the window.
All was as futile as it was frantic.
The rescuer, who came charging through from the living room, caught only a muddled glimpse of
Debley's tumble across the drizzle-drenched sill. The darkness was almost impenetrable, certainly too
thick to reveal the murderer who had made the death toss, Debley was visible only because his dressing
gown, flinging across his head, disclosed the white shirt beneath it. But there was no mistaking the fact
that the plunging object was a human bound to certain destruction.
Reaching the window, the man from the living room stopped short the moment that his hands touched the
slippery sill. Perhaps he erroneously supposed that Debley's plunge had been the result of an accidental
skid, or it might have been instinctive precaution that halted him, when he felt the cold dampness of the
woodwork.
Certainly, instinct had much to do with his sudden turnabout and the way he sidestepped to a corner of
the room. There, crouching in the blackness, the arrival drew a gun and listened. However taut his
nerves, they weren't disturbed by the imaginary beats of Aztec drums. What this listener heard was very
real, though it was something which Debley had doubted earlier.
The sound was a slow creeping noise moving through the only exit, the doorway leading to the living
room. Following it was a slithery sound, like that of a snake working its way along a floor.
Roused to sudden action the man from the corner became a lunging figure of vengeance. Gun ahead of
him, he drove out from the bedroom and through the living room toward the hall. One glance across the
lighted living room told him that it was empty.
That left the hallway as the only choice. The door of the elevator was closed, and the only light in the
hallway came from the red bulb that marked the fire exit.
Below the red light, blackness.
Out of that blackness surged a figure that wasn't waiting to be challenged. Nor was there any hesitation
from the doorway of the living room. There, a fighter followed the line of his own aiming gun, lunging
before he fired. The close range would have favored him, if it hadn't been for the speed of the man he
sought to intercept. They locked a moment before one could tug his trigger.
Gun shots, when they came, were diverted upward. Bullets pounded the steel ceiling and ricocheted
along the hall. Amid the fiery spurts, two figures twirled in a fantastic tussle under the weird glow of the
unblinking red bulb. It was as if the mad imagination of Debley's half-demented mind had given birth to
eerie creatures that survived him, judging by the way the grapplers faded and reappeared in the
half-light.
One fighter was responsible for the double illusion. He was cloaked in black, his head topped by a
slouch hat that totally concealed his features in the gloom. The other man was of more than average build
and wiry in action; striving to clutch his adversary, he became partly wrapped in the latter's cloak.
It was grimly reminiscent of Debley's fate, this struggle. Once enveloped in the folds of his own dressing
gown, Debley had been lost, an easy prey to a murderer's final stroke. The man who had been too late
with rescue realized this and was fighting against becoming the victim of a similar climax. All the more
ominous was the fact that the fray was carrying both men along the hall toward a window that opened on
the far side of the penthouse.
That window was a square of blackness and through it swirled the drizzle. This window gave promise of
aid in avenging Debley's death.
Such was the thought of the belated rescuer who had failed to save Debley's life. Straining to the full, he
tried to fling his opponent through the opening, but the twist of their grapple veered them. They reeled
away, then back again with a most surprising result. As they reached the window, the drizzle no longer
greeted them. Instead of encountering space, sideward lunging shoulders glanced against a solid pane!
How or why the window had closed itself concerned the battlers only so far as it had been eliminated as
a factor in the struggle. Zigzagging along the hall they bounced from wall to wall until they neared the
doorway into the living room, where suddenly they broke apart.
It was the cloaked member of the pair who dived into the living room, coming suddenly about with a
drawn gun to answer any shots that his opponent might provide. But the other man did not recover from
amazement in time to resume the fray. Across the hall, he was still grabbing for a vanished foe when his
hand clutched the elevator door. On impulse, he yanked it open and sprang inside the car.
By the time a streak of living blackness launched from the living room, the elevator was rumbling
downward. Instead of halting, the cloaked figure kept on to the door of the fire tower, beneath the red
light. There, briefly, this mystery fighter was tangibly revealed, enough so to identify himself by the title
which had made him famous.
He was The Shadow, master crime-hunter, whose enigmatical ways were a terror to men of evil. Yet
tonight, despite his uncanny prowess, The Shadow had encountered complications as puzzling as those
that he himself produced.
To anyone other than The Shadow, this would have marked the end of a trail; but as his cloaked form
merged with the darkness of the fire tower, a strange, whispered laugh filtered back through the
self-closing door.
That tone told that where this adventure was concerned, the episode in Debley's penthouse marked the
beginning, not the climax!
CHAPTER III
THE old brownstone mansion stood silent, almost lonely, as though huddling against the drizzle that
swept the obscure side street. It wasn't the only building in the block, but it gave that impression when
compared to the houses that flanked it.
It looked like the patriarch of the block, this house, but it was actually the youngest of the row. It had
been built by someone who wanted to improve the neighborhood, but nobody else had followed the
example. So there it stood, a brownstone scarecrow of the nineties, supported by brick relics of the
eighties, all forgotten in the wake of time.
There were a few lights in the brownstone mansion, all dim and deep within their windows, but the man
from the drizzle scanned them closely before approaching the steps. Then, as an added precaution, he
looked across his shoulders to make sure that no one was watching him from the street. Satisfied that he
was unobserved, he muffled himself deep in his dark raincoat and went up the steps.
At the door, the man had trouble with his keys. He carried them loose in his pocket and one key in
particular bothered him. It was the size of a door key, but thinner, and the muffled man finally solved the
problem by putting this key in his vest pocket; then, from among the others, he found the one that
unlocked the front door.
Coming into a large and gloomy vestibule, the muffled man removed his hat and raincoat, hanging them
on a large old-fashioned hat-rack. Opening an inner door he stepped into a large hallway, darting quick
glances from left to right. Seeing no one, he began stealing toward a stairway, only to halt and turn
suddenly as solid footsteps came from the rear of the hall and a stolid voice inquired:
"Is that you, Mr. Gregg?"
The man from the night finished his quick turnabout at a table where some mail was lying stacked. His
tone was nonchalant as he replied:
"Yes, Sarge. I just came in. I was stopping to see if I had any mail."
As he spoke, the nonchalant man found a letter that was addressed to Gregg Tolland. He kept his face
turned as he opened the letter, but the mirror beyond the table showed his features. In this mild light,
Gregg Tolland might have been termed handsome, but the illumination was much in his favor. There were
sharp lines in his face that gave it a bitter expression. Still, the expression could have been attributed to
strain, for Gregg was nervous even though he did his best to conceal it.
In comparison, the man called Sarge was as stony-faced as a Mayan idol and equally blunt in speech. He
put his next question directly and abruptly:
"Did you go to Debley's?"
Gregg nodded from the mirror. Then:
"I went there, but I didn't see him. There was some excitement around the place."
Sarge had stepped close. His blunt face showed plainly in the light, a blunt, faithful countenance that fitted
his husky build. He was the sort of man who either spoke his thoughts directly or said nothing. This was a
time when he preferred to speak:
"Perhaps I should notify your uncle."
At Sarge's statement Gregg wheeled from the table, clutching the letter in his hand. His tone was sharp
and defiant with a trace of obstinacy.
"I told you there was excitement at Debley's. Do you want to alarm my uncle? You know how he has
been acting lately, living over his past, muttering about those dreams of his."
For a moment, Sarge's deep eyes glared with wakening anger. Then with what seemed a reserve
cultivated through years of long training, Sarge nodded.
"You are right, Mr. Gregg," said the stolid man. "Still, the colonel will ask why you did not talk to
Debley."
"Tell him I forgot the key," returned Gregg. From his trouser's pocket he produced the loose group.
"Look for yourself so you can say I didn't have it."
"But the colonel reminded you -"
"Of course he did, and I forgot. After all, who would remember a key to an elevator door? Of all the
absurd notions! When I realized I didn't have the key, I knew I couldn't go up to Debley's penthouse, so
I came home. I'll tell my uncle tomorrow. If he wants, I can see Debley then."
Sarge was still doubtful.
"But the letter said the key was very important," he reminded. "I can't see how you forgot it, Mr. Gregg."
There were footsteps coming down the stairs, but Gregg gave them no attention. Less nervous than
before, he was facing Sarge in the light, and the thrust of Gregg's chin gave his features a strength that
appeared as a genuine expression.
"The letter came to my uncle," announced Gregg firmly. "It may have been important to him, but not to
me. After all, I receive important mail of my own" - he brandished the letter in his hand - "this letter, for
instance."
Sarge nodded his head as though he intended to bow out. Meanwhile, the footsteps were reaching the
bottom of the stairs.
"And may I ask you a question, Sarge?" demanded Gregg, sharply. "Have you been looking after my
uncle while I was gone? Just what is he doing now?"
"He is asleep," replied Sarge. "He didn't want to be disturbed, so he said."
"What could have disturbed him?"
"There was a telephone call."
"From whom?"
"From Mr. Debley. I told him you were on your way to see him."
"But you didn't mention it to my uncle?"
"Of course not. I have already mentioned that the colonel was asleep."
The footsteps had stopped. Accompanying them was a man younger than Gregg Tolland, but firmer of
face and in a sense more mature. He had the square features of the Tollands, but his manner was casual,
his poise unruffled. He didn't need to thrust his chin to add emphasis to his words. More on the
handsome side than Gregg, this newcomer was quite satisfied with his appearance as it was.
"Hello, Cousin Gregg," he said coolly. "So you didn't see Debley after all. Too bad, with Sarge and
myself waiting so patiently to hear what was worrying the old coot."
"I'll thank you to keep out of this, Dave," returned Gregg. "If you heard what I said to Sarge, it stands."
"Of course." Dave gave an indifferent nod. "I just didn't want you to forget that I'm part of the Tolland
family, too."
"You can remind Uncle Jeremy of that," asserted Gregg. "I'm going upstairs to see him now."
Before Gregg could reach the stairs, Sarge's heavy hand was clamping on his arm.
"The colonel is asleep, Mr. Gregg."
"All right, I'll waken him."
"Sorry, Mr. Gregg. He said he wasn't to be disturbed."
Savagely, Gregg flung the opened letter back on the table as though he wanted his hands free to deal with
Sarge. Looking beyond the stolid man, Gregg saw Dave, standing with folded arms, smiling from the foot
of the stairs. His chin losing something of its thrust, Gregg spoke in a growl:
"Since there are two of you, I'll forget it. I'll give the key back to Uncle Jeremy in the morning; that is, if I
can find it in my room."
Before Dave could supply some appropriate bit of sarcasm, the impending altercation was forgotten. The
three-cornered discussion became trivial compared with events upstairs. From somewhere on the second
floor, a door banged open, and with it came an unearthly shriek that carried murder in its cry.
Rooted, the three men could only stare dumbly upward as they heard the sound of rapid, scuffling
footsteps approaching the head of the stairs. Again, the shriek horrified them and with it, a gray-haired
man came lunging into sight, a dressing gown trailing behind him.
It was Colonel Tolland, the man who had insisted upon having his sleep. He was wearing slippers and his
dressing gown served instead of coat and vest; otherwise he was completely dressed. But the wild look
in his gray, glazed eyes gave the impression that he was viewing a horde of devils somewhere on a level
with his gaze, which was directed straight beyond the top of the stairs.
Sarge sprang to action.
"Another nightmare!" Starting up the stairs, the brawny man added a warning: "Look out, Colonel! You'll
be falling down the stairs!"
Already on the brink; the gray-haired colonel caught the banister and stopped his tumble. Clinging there
he shook his head in dazed fashion, finally relaxing and spilling sideward into Sarge's arms by the time the
servant had arrived. Absorbing the colonel's fall, Sarge retreated down the stairs, steadying old Tolland
as he came. By the time they were at the bottom, Colonel Tolland was shaking his head and recognizing
the other faces.
It was Dave, not Gregg who supplied the next response. Stepping quickly across the hall, the younger
nephew turned on the lights in a living room and called:
"Bring him in here, Sarge."
"I'm all right." There was a slight crack in the colonel's tone. "Just another dream - only another dream -"
Sarge was guiding old Tolland to the living room. There, the colonel settled in a chair and fumbled in his
pocket for a ring of keys which he finally produced.
"He wants brandy," added Dave. "Get it, Sarge, from the study."
Taking the keys, Sarge crossed the hall and unlocked another door, turning on lights beyond it. By then,
old Jeremy Tolland was staring from one nephew to the other, finally centering his gaze on Gregg.
"You're back, Gregg!" exclaimed old Jeremy. "Then you've seen Debley -"
Halting, old Jeremy drew himself erect in his chair and amended his own words:
"But you couldn't have seen Debley! I was dreaming about him! I saw him falling, falling off from a high
cliff, the way Clavier fell -"
Sarge was coming with the brandy and his interruption was timely where Gregg was concerned. Trying to
find words, the elder nephew was failing badly when Sarge interrupted:
"Drink this, colonel."
"But I've got to know about Debley!" insisted Jeremy, pressing the brandy aside. "It was another of those
dreams" - he was turning his head around the group - "those dreams that never fail. Tell me, Gregg -"
Again there was an interruption, this time from the telephone bell. It was Sarge who answered the call
and conducted a short, blunt conversation while the rest listened tense. Then, hanging up, Sarge stated
simply, stolidly:
"You were right, Colonel. Debley is dead. He fell from his penthouse window half an hour ago."
His head lowered in resignation old Jeremy Tolland started slowly toward the stairs, and this time it was
his favored nephew Gregg who supported him. Stolid as ever, Sarge watched the pair until they reached
the second floor; meanwhile Dave, in that casual way of his, was stepping over to the table by the
mirror.
"Look Sarge." Dave's low tone broke the silence. "This is what Gregg called an important letter."
Dave handed the opened envelope to Sarge. In it, the latter found an advertising sheet offering shirts and
neckties at bargain prices. Raising his deep-set eyes, Sarge met Dave's keen gaze and gave a slow,
understanding nod that retained but little of his usual reservation.
"Better turn out the lights," suggested Dave, coolly. "We can talk about this tomorrow - after we know
more."
Lights blinked off in the old mansion, darkening the living room and the study opposite. Viewed from the
street they were like vanishing beacons telling that this house alone had been subjected to some unusual
disturbance.
Across the street, a figure watched the old mansion blacken through the drizzle; then that same form
turned and blended with the darkness. Gloved hands drew the folds of a dampened cloak more tightly as
unseen lips whispered a strange, significant laugh.
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：66 页 大小：161.46KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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