Read Online THE WHITE WOLF by Franklin Gregory - Free Book Online
Authors: Franklin Gregory
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longer held the child. There was hardly memory.
Or, if there was memory, it was more in the ragged form of those same lightning flashes which first had illuminated her mind when she began visiting that house. The man—the fat baby, the Pole and the fatter woman; and the odor of burning fat. A pot with a black, fatty ointment.
Sara convulsed with shudders. It couldn’t be! It was a nightmare. These things could not happen! Thank God for that! Thank God! And then her glance lowered to her hands. There was a black, greasy filth beneath the nails, clinging to the skin.
Wondering, she examined them more minutely. But suddenly, like ice water drenching her, she became conscious of the raucous screaming of a newsboy across the street:
“Woman Kidnaps Baby!”
He screamed it again and again.
“Readallaboutit!”
Now memory flooded her senses. Irresolute, then trembling, then appalled, she stared about her. Her hands clutched. But where was her purse? She turned back to the house. She hesitated. Go back there? There? Limply, she walked back up the steps. She put her hand to the knob of the door. She turned the knob and the door swung in and she entered.
There was something wrong. She could not know, in her fright, that it was only the mustiness of age. But as she advanced along the silent corridor, she was struck by something else: the depth of undisturbed dust upon the floor.
Chapter Three
PIERRE sat—stout, comfortable and satisfied—in his favorite chair in front of the fire. He had an excellent book on his lap. On the footstool at his feet the cat was curled. And, since there would be no blending for the next ten days, he was stealing the luxury of a pipe.
A pipe was a good thing. You tamp the tobacco to just the right hardness and you smoke it slowly, without heating up the bowl too much. And damn the perfume business, anyway!
Still, all in all, the fact he was rarely able to smoke might add to the ultimate luxury.
It did not take much to make Pierre happy. Sara, for instance. She really had improved, he thought. He’d noticed it tonight for the first time. The girl seemed actually to possess more animation. She hadn’t sat, as she usually did when they ate alone, like a dolt. She had talked almost eagerly. Pierre, not one to search for deceptions, did not consider that she might have been seeking escape.
It was then that Manning Trent barged in. There was never much formality between the two men. Usually Trent merely walked in, picked out a soft chair and slumped into it— his long, thin legs stretched out and his cynical eyes darting about the room. But tonight he didn’t sit. He confronted Pierre with an unfolded copy of the early edition of his Herald .
“You hear about this?” he demanded.
Reluctantly, Pierre put his book aside and glanced at the bannerline—eight columns of 12 point boldface type.
“Read “about it hours ago in the Bulletin ,” he said with what he hoped was the proper note of disparagement. He was more interested in observing that Sara had entered the room and had seated herself quietly in a corner chair.
Trent, whose cynicism was interlarded with streaks of excitability, exclaimed, “Yes, sure! But you didn’t hear they found the baby’s head!”
Pierre sat upright.
“How’s that?”
“You heard me well enough. They found the baby’s head. Damned strange thing! Makes your blood boil. Found it in an alley between Eighth and Ninth near South.”
Pierre heard a faint “oh-h” from the comer. He sucked at his pipe and became, after the first shock, more judicial. He said:
“H’m-m.”
He scratched an ear.
“What fiend would do a thing like that?” Trent demanded. And when Pierre did not reply, Trent exclaimed, “A perfect outrage! Know what I’ve done? I’ve offered five thousand dollars for the capture of the baby's kidnaper.”
There was a pause, and then
Or, if there was memory, it was more in the ragged form of those same lightning flashes which first had illuminated her mind when she began visiting that house. The man—the fat baby, the Pole and the fatter woman; and the odor of burning fat. A pot with a black, fatty ointment.
Sara convulsed with shudders. It couldn’t be! It was a nightmare. These things could not happen! Thank God for that! Thank God! And then her glance lowered to her hands. There was a black, greasy filth beneath the nails, clinging to the skin.
Wondering, she examined them more minutely. But suddenly, like ice water drenching her, she became conscious of the raucous screaming of a newsboy across the street:
“Woman Kidnaps Baby!”
He screamed it again and again.
“Readallaboutit!”
Now memory flooded her senses. Irresolute, then trembling, then appalled, she stared about her. Her hands clutched. But where was her purse? She turned back to the house. She hesitated. Go back there? There? Limply, she walked back up the steps. She put her hand to the knob of the door. She turned the knob and the door swung in and she entered.
There was something wrong. She could not know, in her fright, that it was only the mustiness of age. But as she advanced along the silent corridor, she was struck by something else: the depth of undisturbed dust upon the floor.
Chapter Three
PIERRE sat—stout, comfortable and satisfied—in his favorite chair in front of the fire. He had an excellent book on his lap. On the footstool at his feet the cat was curled. And, since there would be no blending for the next ten days, he was stealing the luxury of a pipe.
A pipe was a good thing. You tamp the tobacco to just the right hardness and you smoke it slowly, without heating up the bowl too much. And damn the perfume business, anyway!
Still, all in all, the fact he was rarely able to smoke might add to the ultimate luxury.
It did not take much to make Pierre happy. Sara, for instance. She really had improved, he thought. He’d noticed it tonight for the first time. The girl seemed actually to possess more animation. She hadn’t sat, as she usually did when they ate alone, like a dolt. She had talked almost eagerly. Pierre, not one to search for deceptions, did not consider that she might have been seeking escape.
It was then that Manning Trent barged in. There was never much formality between the two men. Usually Trent merely walked in, picked out a soft chair and slumped into it— his long, thin legs stretched out and his cynical eyes darting about the room. But tonight he didn’t sit. He confronted Pierre with an unfolded copy of the early edition of his Herald .
“You hear about this?” he demanded.
Reluctantly, Pierre put his book aside and glanced at the bannerline—eight columns of 12 point boldface type.
“Read “about it hours ago in the Bulletin ,” he said with what he hoped was the proper note of disparagement. He was more interested in observing that Sara had entered the room and had seated herself quietly in a corner chair.
Trent, whose cynicism was interlarded with streaks of excitability, exclaimed, “Yes, sure! But you didn’t hear they found the baby’s head!”
Pierre sat upright.
“How’s that?”
“You heard me well enough. They found the baby’s head. Damned strange thing! Makes your blood boil. Found it in an alley between Eighth and Ninth near South.”
Pierre heard a faint “oh-h” from the comer. He sucked at his pipe and became, after the first shock, more judicial. He said:
“H’m-m.”
He scratched an ear.
“What fiend would do a thing like that?” Trent demanded. And when Pierre did not reply, Trent exclaimed, “A perfect outrage! Know what I’ve done? I’ve offered five thousand dollars for the capture of the baby's kidnaper.”
There was a pause, and then
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