Dark of the moon - Dr. Gideon Fell 22

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Authors: John Dickson Carr
Tags: Mystery
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!"
    "Spare us!" said Henry Maynard. "Spare us another anecdote of wit or wisdom, and the perfection that may be attained with life on a small-town newspaper."
    "Taking the good with the bad, Henricus, it's just about true. All right: I'll be serious. No limericks! No typographical errors! Will you hear wit and wisdom too?
    "Among our literary scenes,
    Saddest this sight to me, The graves of little magazines
    That died to make verse free."
    "Hear, hear, hear!" applauded Alan. "You agree, Mr. Grantham?"
    "Heartily, Mr. Crandall. You must recite that to Camilla Bruce. Afterwards, if she hasn't poisoned my coffee ..."
    "I was quoting a forgotten bard, who learned epigrammatic style on a small-town paper. Believe it or not, Henry, our very best light verse has come from those who began as members of the fourth estate. I'm out of the game now; I've retired, in my sere and yellow, with a bigger chunk of dough than I ever expected or deserved. But one four-line stanza, only part of a long and fine piece, sticks in my head when everything else has gone."
    Bob Crandall rose to his feet. His voice rolled out:
    "Under the broad bright windows
    Of men I serve no more, The grinding of the old great wheels
    Thickened to a throttled roar . . .
    "To anybody who's ever heard the presses begin to roll, especially just before daylight, those are words of description that strike home. And do you know 'The Chop-House in the Alley, When the Paper's Gone to Press'?"
    Valerie Huret stirred, the lamplight kindling her sleek skin and hazel eyes.
    "I don't think he wants to know it, Bob. What are we doing here, anyway?" She appealed to their host. "He asked me for chess; I told him I can't play chess . . ."
    "Neither can Bob," said Henry Maynard.
    "There are lots of things much more interesting than chess. I'll tell him about them, if he asks me nicely. But hadn't we better go downstairs, Bob? In the first place, we're trespassing. We are trespassing, aren't we, Henry?"
    "Frankly, Valerie, I'm afraid you are. Remember, Bob: as usual, one game before dinner, and I'll trim you again. Be here promptly at seven, just as it's beginning to get dark . . ."
    "Forgive me!" boomed Dr. Fell, looking particularly half-witted. "But your climate can still hold surprises for the stranger. At this latitude, in the middle of May, does it begin to get dark at seven o'clock?"
    "In these parts, Dr. Fell," their host informed him, "we are not on daylight-saving time. Forget the clock in New York and everywhere else. I am not accustomed to making inaccurate statements."
    "In the second place," cried Valerie Huret, who had struck a pose like the Goddess of Reason, "at any moment it's going to pour with rain. I've just remembered; I left my car around the side of the house. It's a convertible, and open. If anybody else has an open car . . ."
    Alan made a move towards the door. Henry Maynard stopped him.
    "Gently, both of you! There is no need to go; George will see to it. When you have visited us more often, Valerie, you will learn that no car suffers rain-damage with George in attendance. However! Any storm will be brief, but it may be violent." Alarm rang through his voice. "Where's Madge? Where are the two boys? Where's Miss Bruce? She accompanied Dr. Fell and Mr. Grantham; I saw her from the library. But . . ."
    "The la st time I looked," Valerie pointed to the window, "they were down on the beach. Yancey Beale and that tough-looking light-haired boy were throwing stones out over the water to see who could throw farther. The girls were with them."
    Henry Maynard's lips tightened.
    "For almost two weeks, ladies and gentlemen, I have been wondering when they would start on baseball. My brother, himself once captain of the Little Potatoes Hard to Peel, was patron and Maecenas of a teen-age team called the Bearcats. There is baseball equipment all over the cellar. And, since Rip Hillboro fancies himself as a pitcher . . ."
    "You're a dried-up old bastard, Hank!" Bob Crandall

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