"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 041 - The Black Spot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

secretary, told Graves that Vandersleeve had not appeared at the party downstairs.

In view of the party’s unusual wild character, this was of itself a peculiar circumstance. Graves knew
Vandersleeve as a Wall Street plunger. He had continued to prosper during the depression. Real estate
transactions and political options were his specialty.

Jotther was unlocking the library door.
"Mr. Vandersleeve had some important business to look after," he said, mildly. "He left word he was not to be
disturbed. So he must have locked himself in."

"Didn’t want to be disturbed!" snorted Captain Graves, the muscles of his square face twitching angrily.
"What a helluva time to pick out for important business! Two of my men dead, an’ another—"

Captain Graves clamped his long lower teeth suddenly on his upper lip. The library door had swung open. A
desk lamp shed a white circle over the desk in the middle of the big room.

It had become abruptly apparent to Captain Graves that Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve was permanently
removed from all responsibility for the weird and tragic affairs of this wild night. Only a glance was required to
tell that the millionaire was dead.

Captain Graves rattled out orders. These included one that barred any person departing from the
Vandersleeve house. Next he sent outside for the medical examiner, who had come up with him. After which,
Captain Graves permitted only Arthur Jotther and two policemen to enter the library.

The captain remained at some distance from the polished desk. He was classifying every object with possible
relation to the position of the millionaire’s body.

The doctor was a fat, little man.

"Dead an hour, perhaps two hours," he announced almost as soon as he had touched Vandersleeve’s body.
"The body has stiffened, but it doesn’t seem to be like rigor mortis. It’s like he’d fought something and his
muscles set that way when he died. Most unusual!"

"No more unusual, doc, than for ink to be spilled where there doesn’t seem to be any ink to be upset,"
pointed Captain Graves. "His right hand spilled it, but there isn’t any inkstand or bottle."

The medical examiner poked a fat finger at the little black pool on the desk alongside the dead man’s right
hand. The pool had nearly dried.

"Well—well—well!" sputtered the doctor.

He was rubbing the finger that had touched the dried black stain on the desk. He lifted the dead man’s right
hand. With one palm he rubbed the top of the smooth desk thoughtfully.

"Humph! Chemically impossible!"

"That’s what I thought," said Captain Graves, "but I was waiting for your opinion. His wrist is slashed by the
broken glass. That would be his blood. I’ve heard some of the old families claim it’s blue, but I’ve never heard
of that color even with a black sheep."