Jimmy Blane stopped his car, switched off the lights and paced to the door of the brownstone building. It was a huge many-windowed house of antique architecture, and the brass plate under the post box said: PROFESSOR SCOT HILLIARD.
Blane pushed the bell button, took a last puff at his cigarette and flung the butt over his shoulder.
“Sick of these Sunday supplement assignments,” he muttered to himself. “They’re all dry as dust. Wonder if McGraw’ll ever give in and let me have the police run.”
Presently heavy steps sounded within. A latch rasped and the door was thrown wide.
A huge, bulking figure stared out at the reporter. The man was dark-haired with a ragged, unkempt beard and thick-rimmed spectacles. An acid-stained rubber apron hung from his chest to his shoes, accentuating his hei
