Francis Worcester Doughty
Shadow, the Mysterious Detective
Published by Good Press, 2020
EAN 4064066439347
Table of Contents
I. A MURDER.
CHAPTER I.
A MURDER.
It was a dark and stormy night. The rain fell heavily and steadily, and what wind there was roamed through the streets with a peculiar, moaning sound.
It was after the midnight hour.
Not a light was to be seen in any of the houses, nor was there any sound to be heard save that produced by the falling rain, and that soughing of the wind—not unlike the sighs and moans of some uneasy spirit unable to rest in the grave.
It was as disagreeable a night as I ever saw. And I could not help shuddering as I hurried homeward through the storm, with bent head, for I felt somewhat as if I were passing through a city of the dead.
This heavy silence—except for the noises mentioned—was very oppressive; and, while I gave a start, I was also conscious of a sense of relief, when I heard a human voice shouting:
"Help—help!"
I paused short.
My head having been bent, the cry coming so unexpectedly, I could not locate its direction.
Presently it came again.
"Help, for Heaven's sake, help!"
Off I dashed to the rescue.
Crack!
Then came a wild wail.
Crack!
Then I heard a thud, as of a human being falling heavily to the sidewalk. And as the person uttered no further cries, one of two things must be the case—he was either insensible or dead.
I increased my pace, and presently turning a corner, saw a burly fellow just dragging a body beneath a gas-lamp, the better to enable him to secure the plunder on his victim's body.
The assassin had already secured most of the stricken man's valuables, when my rapid approach alarmed him, and jumping up, he sprang along the street at a break-neck pace.
Crack!
Crack!
I had drawn a revolver, and I sent a couple of bullets after him, hoping to wing him, as well as to extend the alarm which his shots must already have raised.
A policeman put in an appearance some distance down the street, but the flying murderer took a running leap at him, tumbled him head over heels into the gutter, and then succeeded in making his escape.
When I compared notes with the policeman, I found that neither of us had distinctly enough seen the murderer to be able to give any description of him whatever, save that he was a chunky-built man, and seemed roughly dressed.
We were not surprised, on examining into the prostrate man's condition, to find him dead.
Right in the center of his forehead was a small hole, edged with drying, clotted blood, which mutely said:
"Here entered the fatal messenger from a death-dealing weapon."
The body was conveyed to the station-house, there to remain until it was claimed or conveyed to the morgue.
An examination of the pockets resulted in our learning that his name was Tom Smith. As to his residence, we could find no clew from anything he had on his person, or by consulting the directory.
About two o'clock the next afternoon, a wild-eyed woman entered the station-house, and, in trembling tones, asked to see the body.
I was present at