The Avenger 23 - The Wilder Curse Read Online Free PDF

broad smile, which was not matched by his watchful—but bland—little gray eyes.
    He waddled toward Sillers’s bedroom door, knowing his way very well indeed. At the door, he jerked his head for his three “employees” to stay outside. He went on into the bedroom.
    “Amos!” said Sillers. Wrought up by terror of who could be calling at such an hour, Sillers was a bit vexed when he found the call was innocent. “What in the world are you doing here at four o’clock in the morning? Waking a man out of a sound sleep—”
    “Were you sleeping?” Jones interrupted, with his wide, beaming smile.
    Sillers’s eyes missed his. “Of course.”
    “All right—you were sleeping,” Jones said blandly. “But something has just happened—rather, it happened a few hours ago—that I thought you ought to know about. It’s about Phelan.”
    “Phelan?” Sillers said. “Who’s Phelan?”
    “Timothy Phelan.”
    “I don’t know any Tim—”
    “You ought to,” said Jones, not quite so suave for an instant. “You’re the one who hired him. Phelan, assistant engineer.”
    “Oh! Oh, yes! What about him?”
    “Nothing,” said Jones sardonically, “except he’s dead.”
    Sillers stared with squinted, alarmed eyes.
    The door chime tinkled again. Both Jones and Sillers whirled toward the door.
    Again, a face showed in the peephole that fulfilled Sillers’s description of who he would allow in here. The guard opened the door an instant later and into the bedroom came the third partner, Thomas Marsden.
    Marsden was a tall, thin individual, plainly about as old as the other two, but with coal-black hair. Maybe the hair was dyed, and maybe it wasn’t; but its presence on a head that had seen at least sixty summers gave a preserved, unhealthy look.
    Jones always looked bland and good-natured. Marsden always looked gloomy and sad. He looked sadder than ever, now, as he blurted, “You two hear about Phelan?”
    Amos Jones nodded. Sillers barked. “What is this about Phelan? You said he was dead, Amos. All right, he’s dead. What’s the rest of it?”
    “The rest,” said Marsden sadly, “is that he seems to have died just as Carl Foley died.”
    Andrew Sillers’s clawlike hand went to his lips and trembled there, then slowly came down again as he achieved a hard-won self-control. The other two stared curiously at his greenish color.
    “The news upset me, too,” Marsden said slowly. “And I suppose it upset Amos. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have come here at dawn, as I did. But I don’t think it hit either of us as hard as it seems to be hitting you. Why, Andrew?”
    “Yes,” said Jones. “Why? Do you know something about this stuff that we don’t? Are you holding something back?”
    “I d-don’t know anything that you don’t,” stuttered Sillers.
    “We know nothing at all,” Jones said. “Carl was murdered, and we naturally felt that there was a slight possibility of danger to others in the Thornton Heights set-up. Then an engineer is murdered, the same as Carl, and naturally we are pretty disturbed. Now, it’s a certainty that something pretty bad is hanging around Thornton Heights. And who knows where it will stop? Maybe another partner or two might be . . . er . . . eliminated. But as for knowing anything—no, we don’t know any more than the police.”
    “But you seem to,” said Marsden. “Come on—out with it. What does this business mean to you that it doesn’t to us?”
    Sillers stared at them without seeing them. And near the bathroom, for just an instant, he seemed to hear that damned noise again.
    This time, however, it was surely imagination, because neither Jones nor Marsden gave any indication of hearing it.
    Sillers tried evading a direct issue.
    “Look,” he said, after clearing his throat, “do you suppose anyone around here could be keeping . . . pigs?”
    “Pigs?” echoed Jones.
    “Pigs!” exploded Marsden. “In Thornton Heights? Or anywhere around Thornton Heights?