The Man From Shanghai

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THE man by the fireplace was busy at a task. Before him, turned at an angle to escape the fire’s heat, was a low table, stacked with correspondence. The letters were at the man’s left; to his right were pen and inkwell.

The man was reading the typewritten letters in methodical fashion. As he completed each perusal, he placed the letter in front of him, dipped pen into inkwell and applied his signature with a peculiar flourish.

The name that the man signed was Kenneth Malfort.

The crackling fire raised grotesque flares to reveal Malfort’s face. Somehow, flames seemed the proper light to show that countenance. Malfort’s countenance was one that at intervals betrayed a demonish glare. At those moments, an imaginative observer might have classed him as a satan who had chosen to masquerade in human cruise.

Except for those intervals, Malfort’s face was steady, almost dignified. His features were craggy, from his high forehead, past his well-formed nose, to his straight lips and large chin. His profile was an excellent one, always constant. It was only the full-face view that showed those evil flashes.

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