The Man from Scotland Yard

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NIGHT-THICKENED fog lay heavy above Manhattan. Grimy, hazy blackness held pall above the great metropolis. City lights were smothered in the mist.

That shroud which dampened the brilliant districts held greater grip upon areas that were ordinarily gloomy after dark.

Near the waterfront, the grimy blanket had full reign. Steaming surges of mist were rising from the river, clinging to piling and piers, rolling in upon the dim-lit thoroughfares. Basso blasts of steamship whistles blared in from the water, accompanied by the staccato shrills of tugboats.

Such sounds alone cleaved the fog laden air. Other noises, clicking footsteps of passers, rumbles of occasional trucks, were muffled by the thickness. People themselves were swallowed by the mist. Where feeble lights showed dim areas, forms came into view, then disappeared.

Humans had become ghosts down by the river. Wafted in from the bay, the fog had taken a liking to the land. Literally, it was enveloping Manhattan like a monster from the deep, creeping forward to a total triumph that would end only when rising winds came to dispel it.

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