The attorney's letter came as a deep
shock to me. My uncle Jeremy had died by
his own hand! The coroner's report was
unequivocal: he hanged himself in the
loft
My initial surprise and distress past,
I considered the news
it seemed clear that Derceto had
exercised a thoroughly morbid influence
on my uncle's mind.
That creaking old mansion, with its unusual tales,
it secret library door, the ancient upstairs clock,
all those occult books that my uncle
could not resist reading, in spite of
his fragile nerves
Fate had pointed its finger. Derceto had
trapped its prey.
Mr. McCarthy, the family lawyer, suggested
selling the old house; i immediately
oppose the idea.
My duty is clear: I must go to Derceto.
I tremble at the thought of those dark
corridors, those brooding portraits. Yet I am
convinced that uncle Jeremy left a note,
a letter of some kind, explaining his
fateful decision.
I remember his voice saying, " Look at the
piano, Emily... Look harder."
Maybe the secret drawer will yield up an
explanation. I have the feeling things
will not be so simple. Life is a mystery,
containing more mysteries. Jeremy taught
me that much.
Now is the time to confront the
mysteries. Derceto is waiting for me.
I pray that my fear is nothing more than the
fruit of my imagination.
Nothing will ever persuade me that my
uncle was insane.
But why did he, according to the police report,
block the loft window with the old
wardrobe?
On my door,
a dull brass plate says "Private Detective".
The few friends I have call me Carnby;
the others call me the Reptile.
I don't care to think what my banker calls me.
These days, I leave my letters unopened;
bills and threats to send in the receivers
just ruined my day.
When an antique dealer called Gloria Allen
contacted me, I slipped into my
best shirt, holstered my .38, and got to
her shop as fast as I could.
I was expecting something sordid;
Blackmail probably.
Boy was I wrong! What I was asked to do
was visit a property called Derceto
and find a piano in the loft.
It was an old piano, with secret drawers;
The kind people who buy stuff in antique stores
go crazy over.
The Derceto house is supposed to be piled high with classy junk:
furniture, books, paintings. It looked like
whoever owned Derceto was about to get
cleaned out
I was going to bring up the subject of money
when Gloria Allen handed me a
hundred and fifty dollars and a key.
I kept myself from grinning at the thought
of my banker's surprise. He doesn't like
his victims getting away.
I looked over a copy of the police report.
The former owner of Derceto,
a guy called J. Hartwood,
have hanged himself in the loft
the coroner concluded it was a clear-cut
case of suicide.
I promise Gloria Allen I'd give the place
a look over.
My report will be ready in a couple of days.
I've been reading up on the history of the old house;
it's the kind of place ghosts run away
from in terror. Grisly murders, curses, lunacy...
luckily devil-worship makes me smile,
so this is my idea of a paid vacation.
[Sound of bugs and frogs]
[Sound of car engine]
[frog's croak]
[door closes violently]
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