The Snarl of the Beast by Carroll John Daly

Author:Carroll John Daly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Detective/Hard-Boiled
Publisher: Black Mask

Chapter 18

The Car With the Drawn Curtains

It was five minutes to twelve when I turned the corner toward Briskey’s. Things had changed just a bit on the quiet street. A huge closed car was drawn up across the way—curtains drawn tightly, too. Briskey might have just arrived, for the man at the wheel sat silently, looking straight ahead into the darkness. His head didn’t turn as I passed. Unnatural that. An honest man should take an interest in a passerby at that time of night. But perhaps Barton Briskey’s chauffeur was not permitted an interest in things.

Over my shoulder I watched that car—the driver, the drawn curtains and the closed doors. But the curtains in the windows of the car didn’t waver. That was good—there was glass between the curtains and me. Why good? Well, one can’t tell when bullets will come sizzling from a closed car—a rapid-fire gun might even spit lead through the glass, but the aim is never so good. So I hung close to the building, walking a bit rapidly from one doorway to another and with both hands sunk in my pockets. If things started, two guns would be necessary—maybe not half enough—but we’d have a try at it anyway.

And I made the doorway that led to the stairs and Barton Briskey’s office. A tiny light shone from the top of the long flight; that was encouraging. I’d much rather walk toward light than away from it. At least I could be sure no one lurked in the darkness there at the foot of the stairs—and I was sure before I plodded up them. Musty this place, but clean just the same. Simply the dampness of years gathered in the old wood despite the well-swept floor and polished woodwork.

I stopped and listened once when I reached the upper landing. Then I stepped boldly toward the wooden door where gold letters bore the notice—James Smith—Collector. I nodded. Perhaps James did a legitimate business there in the daytime; perhaps he was just an old law clerk who worked for Barton Briskey. However, I raised my fist and brought it sharply down upon the heavy wood. And as the echo of my blow died away a distant clock struck the hour of midnight. You can’t beat that for timing things—not by a jugful you can’t.

Quick steps came softly across a rug, pounded for a moment on wood. Came the snap of a bolt, a twist of the knob, and the door opened. Was Barton Briskey careless about throwing open his door without investigating who stood without? If he was, the thing was new to me. I didn’t like his assurance that I was the visitor. Oh, he expected me and all that, but he was a mighty careful man. Had someone let him know that I was on the stairs—could he have seen me from the window above? But no light had come from that window. Shades, or shutters, or what have you, were carefully drawn, shutting out any light.

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