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

Captain Graves exclaimed again.

"That’s a lot of money and it’s a clever cover-up! It proves no ordinary crook pulled this job. Somebody’s
smart, too smart! All right, doc. Any more ideas on what killed him?"

The medical examiner had stripped back the millionaire’s shirt. He was tentatively touching a mark directly
over Vandersleeve’s heart.

This was a round black spot, round as a perfect circle.

"Funny," murmured the medical examiner. "And it seems to penetrate deeply. It’s something more than a
surface discoloration. It will require an autopsy, of course, to determine its true character, but I would say
offhand that black spot either originated from the heart or goes all the way in."

"Then he was hit?" quizzed the captain. "By what kind of a weapon?"

"No, I don’t mean that. It isn’t a bruise. The skin is unbroken and so are the veins underneath. It’s—well, it’s
just a black spot—black like his blood."

Captain Graves eyed Arthur Jotther keenly. The mild little man must be clever. Without reason he had
volunteered the admission he stood to profit by Vandersleeve’s death. That he had wanted to marry the
millionaire’s daughter.

"How do you know about the correct amount of money?" Graves suddenly questioned.

Arthur Jotther was not in the least disturbed.

"Mr. Vandersleeve brought $150,000 cash out from the city," he said quietly. "The sum was to take up a
secret land option on the harbor. The other party insisted the payment be made in cash."
"And who is this other party?"

"I have no means of knowing," said Jotther. "Mr. Vandersleeve did not confide in me. Also, I know he
destroyed the letter he received. He informed me of the purpose of the money. He was to have completed the
deal tonight."

"Has big deal on—doesn’t want to be disturbed—and pulls a gangster party," muttered Captain Graves.



Chapter II. HANDS IN THE DARK
CAPTAIN GRAVES’S words cleared up much of the mystery of the night’s weird happenings. While Andrew
Podrey Vandersleeve had died at his desk with a mysterious black spot over his heart, his guests had staged
their own conception of how hoodlums might enjoy themselves at a blowout.

The luridly painted women and the snarling, roughly garbed men were members of the swankiest set. The
guns they used were loaded with harmless blanks. Members of society were giving an imitation of their belief
how the underworld would dress and act.

It had been a "gangsters’ party." Staid, exclusive Westchester would be many a day recovering from the