Xitli, God of Fire by Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson

Author:Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson [Grant, Maxwell & Gibson, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Espionage, Fiction, Thrillers
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1940-12-18T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI. KILLERS BY NIGHT

YVONNE CARLAND wasn't sleepy, though she had gone to bed immediately upon arriving home. The brisk ten-minute ride in Brendle's car had fully roused her by the time she reached the French quarter - Vieux Carre - where her uncle's apartment was located.

The reason Yvonne had gone to bed was because her uncle was asleep when she arrived. She knew that if he awakened and found her still up, he would start to quibble because she had gone to the museum reception.

So Yvonne had undressed in the darkness of her room, to spend the next three quarters of an hour lying in bed, listening to distant sounds of merriment which pervaded the Vieux Carre.

It gradually dawned on her that she hadn't bothered to look at her watch; when she did, she found that it was still early. She began to feel quite foolish at coming home so soon.

Andy had said something about looking up some friends in town. They were all in Yvonne's set, and were probably having a party somewhere. Andy had mentioned it before his visit to the waterfront; probably he would remember the invitation, if reminded.

Yvonne decided to make a call to Andy's hotel, so she slipped from bed and went to the telephone in the hall.

Cautiously, she called Andy's hotel, but found he wasn't there. She asked if he happened to be in Hedwin's room, and learned that the professor had left word that he wasn't to be disturbed.

Yvonne was debating whether to get dressed and go out, or to return to bed and try to sleep, when her uncle's door opened on the other side of the hall.

Glaring at his nightgowned niece, Carland demanded to know whom she had called. Very sweetly, Yvonne replied that she had heard the telephone bell ring, but that no one was on the wire when she answered.

"Perhaps it was Cranston!" exclaimed Carland. Then, shaking his head: "No; he only had my old address. Bah! What a fool I was to move to this place!"

"I like Frenchtown," replied Yvonne demurely. "It has become quite fashionable to live here, uncle."

"Not when people know you're broke," snapped Carland. "Which I wouldn't be, if I hadn't sunk so much money into that museum. The nerve of that crowd, expecting me to fork over a hundred thousand more after my oil concessions were lost. By the way" - his eyes went sharp - "who brought you home, Yvonne?"

"Your friend, Mr. Brendle," the girl replied. "And if you don't mind, I'm going back to bed and get some sleep."

Again in bed, more wide awake than ever, Yvonne tried to forget the distant music that floated into the courtyard on which the second-story apartment opened. Her system was to concentrate on closer sounds, and she began to hear them, but not in a pleasant fashion.

There were creaks in the hall, strange whispers that Yvonne could not define. Sometimes her uncle paced the hall, muttering to himself, but these sounds were less noticeable.

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