Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 Read Online Free PDF

Malbrook tried some
cheap trick, but it didn’t work.”
                 Fielding
darted through the doorway. Inside, he screamed once, loudly and tremulously. A
moment later he sprang back into view.
                 “Malbrook!”
he cried. “He’s—dead!”

           CHAPTER IV The Law in Pulambar
     
     
                THAT
news cleared Stover’s buzzing head like a whiff of ammonia. He bounded past
Fielding into Malbrook’s private apartment.
                 The
room was full of hot, choking vapor, the sybaritic luxury thrown into turmoil
by the explosion. Plati- num-and-velvet furniture was overturned, gorgeous
hangings ripped to shreds, delicately tinted walls
racked and bulged. Another step, and he almost
stumbled over something.
                 Mace
Malbrook, judging by the rags of that fire-colored mantle. No person could be
so shattered and live. Beside him lay another still form, a flower-headed
Martain, still moving slightly.
                 Stooping,
Stover picked up Prrala’s bladdery body and bore it out into the hall. Fielding
was quavering into a vision-phone.
                 “Send
police! We have the corpse, yes—and the killer!” Spinning, he leveled a
ray-thrower.
                 “You’re
under arrest, Stover,” he said.
                 “ Don’t be a fool ,” snapped the other, laying Prrala upon the
settle where Fielding had first been sitting.
                 The
Martian finally appeared to regain consciousness.
                 “Sstoverr?”
he slurred feebly. “Why did you do it?”
                 “I
did nothing,” Stover assured him. “Just as I knocked—”
                 Police
were rushing in, big, hardbodied men in silk-metal tunics of black. Most of
them were of the Lower Pulambar Patrol, but the leader wore the insignia of the
Martio-Ter- restrial League Service. He was gaunt and gray-templed, and his
narrow eyes took in at a glance the still figure on the couch, Fielding with
his leveled weapon, and the baffled, angry Stover.
                 “I’m
Chief Agent Congreve,” he introduced himself crisply. “What’s what?”
                 Fielding
gestured with the ray thrower. “Stover did it. He charged in, slapped me down,
and—”
                 “I
wasn’t even inside,” exploded Stover. “An explosion killed Malbrook and hurt
Prrala here, almost getting me, too.”
                 Congreve
faced Fielding. “You saw this man do the killing?”
                 “No,
he knocked me down, I tell you. But he and Malbrook had quarreled. He came here
for a showdown.” Congreve turned to Stover. “How much of that’s true?”
                “All of it, except that someone beat
me to it. I didn’t kill Malbrook.”
                Two officers were inspecting the
wrecked room. “Almost blown to pieces,” reported one. “Can’t
be sure of the explosive.”
                “Then make sure,” snapped Congreve.
“Chemical tests, and hurry before the air freshens. Doctor, how’s that hurt
Martian?”
                 A
.Venusian, bending over Prrala, replied gravely.
                 “He
is reviving a trifle. May speak —perhaps for the last time.”
                 “Take
a record,” Congreve directed still another man, who produced a dictagraph from
his belt-pouch. Then, to Stover: “If you killed Malbrook, why not save us both
trouble and say so?”
                 “I
didn’t,” repeated Stover. “That’s enough for you.”
                 “You’re
talking to the law,” warned Congreve.
                 “I
seem to be talking to a fool. Fielding’s the only witness, and he admits he was
unconscious when the blast went off.”
                 “You
came here to kill