"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 078 - The Third Skull" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Hothan pounced upon the paper, beating out the flame with his hands. As he did, old Parchell's form
collapsed. Clutching hands were gripping the table. It tumbled as the white-haired man collapsed. The
candle plopped from the candlestick. Flaming, it landed in the folds of a sheet.

The bedding took fire. Hothan had risen; he was scanning the half-burned document, muttering oaths as
he read lines that were no longer complete. Old Parchell had sprawled crazily upon the floor; his head
was beside the book and the writing pad that had fallen from the table.

Thrusting the half-burned paper into his pocket, Hothan snarled as he looked toward Parchell. Then the
ex-secretary's eyes became glued at the scene before him. Hothan dropped back as the heat of the flame
made a sudden impression upon him.

HILDREW PARCHELL was motionless. The drawn expression upon his upturned face was proof that
he was dead. Beyond the old man, flames were rising. The half of a bed sheet was ablaze; the fire was
licking at the dried wood of the high-topped bedstead.

A moment's pause by Hothan. Then, with a sharp oath, the secretary turned and fled. His sallow face half
terrified, half gloating, Hothan headed out through the darkened hall to a spot where flickering reflections
of the blaze showed the top of a banistered stairway.

Looking backward as he stumbled down, Hothan could see reflected glimmers from above. He reached
the lower hall. There, he stopped short and dived behind the curtained entrance of a living room. He was
just in time.

The front door was opening. Hothan heard it close; then came faltering footsteps. It was Tristram, old
Parchell's servant, returning.

Hothan clung behind the curtains, tense. Then he heard a sharp cry from the hallway.

Faltering footsteps quickened. They became a running sound upon the stairway. Tristram had spied the
glow. He was dashing to his master's room.

Hothan slid from behind the curtains; he gained the front door and closed it after him.

Viewed from the street, a ghoulish glare showed lurid flickers upon the shade of an upstairs window.
Hildrew Parchell's bed was fast becoming a funeral pyre, which Tristram was fighting to put out.

Skulking along the street itself, hastening away from the flame-threatened building, was a stooped figure
that no one was present to observe. Homer Hothan, murderer, was fleeing with his half-gained spoils.

CHAPTER II. THE LAW DECIDES
A SWARTHY, stocky man was standing in Hildrew Parchell's flame-scorched bedroom. One hour had
elapsed since Homer Hothan's secret flight. The man who now stood in charge of the premises was
Detective Joe Cardona, acting inspector from headquarters.

Cardona was viewing a half-burned mattress. The bedclothes had been almost completely destroyed; the
high top of the bed was charred by flame. Beyond, Joe saw the scorched table, overturned on the floor.
Near it lay the body of Hildrew Parchell, attired in a nightgown.