Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

Начало книги

Somewhere in the Australian pines a mocking bird issued its cry of territorial imperative. The scarecrow-thin figure in the brush below wished he’d heard the advice earlier and stayed away. But it was too late for that now.

The half-moon’s rays shot obliquely through the trees, making it easier for him to see where he was going in this alien territory. Unfortunately, it helped the enemy too, not that they needed help. They were professionals. He was an amateur — a meddling amateur who had stuck his nose out too far this time.

Ahead of him the bay water gently lapped the shore. Water would throw off those big black dogs. What did you call them? The name he couldn’t remember. But one thing stuck in his mind — those dogs were bred to kill. Frogs practiced their night songs as the palm and pine thinned out. In front of him he spotted some mangroves, and he knew he was on the beach.

He stumbled down the beach, his bare feet managing to find every protruding sandspur. Then he pitched forward, crumbling into the moist sand. A ghost crab stared at him as it scuttled by on all fours. Why couldn’t he be so dextrous? he thought wryly.

Читать дальше →