"077 (B041) - Merchants of Disaster (1939-07) - Harold Davis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

That was one reason Joe's companions believed their eyes had deceived them. They had seen strange things before when under the influence of canned heat.



It was just after dusk when it happened. Joe had plunged on ahead of his drinking partners, was weaving his way along the railroad tracks.



Joe's once tall figure was bent. His faded blue eyes were blank. He kept putting one foot in front of the other only because his subconscious mind told him to do so.



Then he paused suddenly. His skinny arms beat the air about him and he tried to run.



Behind him, his two companions had halted, mouths open. There was a faint burning odor in the air, and a sight such as they had never seen before directly ahead of them.



A faint cry came from Joe. It was a strangled sort of cry, apparently for help. It shut off in mid-beat as if strong fingers had been applied to his neck.



His companions turned and ran. It was some minutes before their courage returned enough for them to come back and investigate.



When they did, everything was calm and peaceful. Even Joe looked calm and peaceful. There were no marks of violence of any kind on his body. But he was very dead.



The body was picked up later that same night. The deputy coroner who examined it did his job hurriedly. The death of one human derelict more or less meant nothing to him.



He did note on the record that Joe Goopy's death was not homicide. Then he wrote "acute alcoholism" as the real cause, and let it go at that.



Being young and with a fair amount of curiosity, he wondered just what had killed the aged tramp, but he wasn't curious enough to perform an autopsy. Had Joe's companions told their story there might have been an investigation. As it was, the death was left a mystery.





LES QUINAN was confronted with a mystery also - a minor mystery, he believed at first. And to begin with, he paid but little attention.