New York – the city that never sleeps. If you believe Walt Whitman, there’s no place like it. But if you ask me, something’s gone rotten in the Big Apple, and the whole damned place is decaying from the inside out. My name’s Ainsworth – Fred Ainsworth – and I’m a private investigator.
The papers had been thick with the murders all week. Ivy Morgan, a Sugar Hill snake-oil salesman, was found dead on a farm in rural Massachusetts, along with a few college professors and some unlucky farmers. The coppers had a suspect – a down-on-his-luck, deformed drifter named Thomas Parkhill, who the local hacks lost no time dubbing Tin-Mask Tommy. The bulls believed Morgan and her accomplices headed up to Arkham to steal a priceless statue, and in the process Parkhill double-crossed them. All-in-all, it seemed pretty neat – perhaps too neat. And looking back, had I known what I know now, I would have never agreed to find out the truth.
Startling Tales - October, 1926
February 14, 2013 04:45