Lord of the Lions

Начало книги

THERE was a curious odor in the little grocery, acrid and unpleasant. It seemed to Kenneth Drake, leaning on the fly-specked counter, that the wizened, snaggle-toother oldster facing him was actually afraid of the strange smell. The grocer held a dirty handkerchief to his nose, and his rheumy eyes were furtive.

“A man telephoned from here just an hour ago—at about one-thirty,” Drake repeated. “You must have seen him, if you were here then.”

“Man? I dunno. Mebbe I was asleep.” Yellowed eyes watched, fear in their depths.

“Did anyone telephone from here today?” Drake asked.

“Eh? Well, now—” The oldster scratched his head. “My memory ain’t so good, mister. I don’t rightly recollect anybody phoning today. Mebbe when I was out, or asleep?”

Drake cupped a silver dollar in his palm, and let the grocer glimpse the dull metal. He slid the coin back into his pocket.

“It’ll pay you to tell the truth,” he snapped. “The boys can sweat the truth out of you down at Headquarters, if necessary. Now let’s have it. What happened to the man who phoned from here at one-thirty?”

Читать дальше →