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eStar Books LLC
Murder in the Fog
Murder in the Fog
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Dr. Feather Tries to Prove You Can “Set a Thief to Catch a Thief”
note: short story
Excerpt
The fog, almost without warning, swirled out of the East in the late afternoon.
Grey at first, then murky green, thick as pea soup, it settled on Grain’s Lake. The wind had died; the fog, a dank motionless shroud, merged with the twilight. When night came, Grain’s Lake and its forested shores, which were dotted with occasional summer fishing camps, was nothing but solid, soundless blackness.
At seven o’clock that evening, an hour after the fog had settled, two small open launches, each carrying two men, groped their way through the turgid murk. They had come from an island three miles out in the open lake and were headed for the north shore, where in the midst of the woods was a small boathouse, and on the knoll behind it, a big, luxurious rustic log cabin bungalow, shrouded by the trees.
Throttled down to trolling speed, the two launches were making barely three miles an hour. They were trying to keep fairly together. Before they had been half an hour from the island the men had no clear idea of where they were. They were steering by small compasses and by intuition.
Occasionally the men called out to each other, each boat trying to locate the other. But the sodden pea soup fog blurred, muffled and deadened the voices until they were indistinguishable. The low put-put of the little motors was inaudible.
In the bow of one of the boats middle-aged, grey-haired Dr. Hollis Hotchkiss sat peering into the fog. There was nothing to see; nothing to hear. Occasionally he waved his flashlight, but its puny beam seemed hardly to penetrate ten feet.
note: short story
Excerpt
The fog, almost without warning, swirled out of the East in the late afternoon.
Grey at first, then murky green, thick as pea soup, it settled on Grain’s Lake. The wind had died; the fog, a dank motionless shroud, merged with the twilight. When night came, Grain’s Lake and its forested shores, which were dotted with occasional summer fishing camps, was nothing but solid, soundless blackness.
At seven o’clock that evening, an hour after the fog had settled, two small open launches, each carrying two men, groped their way through the turgid murk. They had come from an island three miles out in the open lake and were headed for the north shore, where in the midst of the woods was a small boathouse, and on the knoll behind it, a big, luxurious rustic log cabin bungalow, shrouded by the trees.
Throttled down to trolling speed, the two launches were making barely three miles an hour. They were trying to keep fairly together. Before they had been half an hour from the island the men had no clear idea of where they were. They were steering by small compasses and by intuition.
Occasionally the men called out to each other, each boat trying to locate the other. But the sodden pea soup fog blurred, muffled and deadened the voices until they were indistinguishable. The low put-put of the little motors was inaudible.
In the bow of one of the boats middle-aged, grey-haired Dr. Hollis Hotchkiss sat peering into the fog. There was nothing to see; nothing to hear. Occasionally he waved his flashlight, but its puny beam seemed hardly to penetrate ten feet.
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