Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927

Начало книги

In which the popular Malcome Steele bumps his nose against the rare predicament not of too few but of too many clews

As he stared through the window at the soft swirl of snow, Roscoe Stewart’s face was not a pleasant sight. Its usual ruddy color had receded, leaving it sagging and pastelike.

It seemed almost a dead countenance, that of a man mortally stricken by terror. Yet even when gripped and blanched by fear, Stewart’s features betrayed the slyness, the avarice, the total disregard for others, which had dominated his life.

For a half minute he crouched in his chair, his gaze rigid. Then, slowly, stealthily, he began groping behind him toward the wall, toward the electric light switch. His cold fingers found it. He plunged the study into darkness.

Distinct now was the gentle flutter of snowflakes against the glass. Through the window Stewart could discern a section of his lawn, already white. He leaped up from his desk. In the security of the dark, he ran hastily from window to window, on each side of the room, drawing the shades to the bottom.

Читать дальше →