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Macdougal's face was literally convulsed with the fury of his hate; he spat at Ryder as he spoke, and then, with the swiftness and the strength that had marked them in health, the outlaw's fingers fastened upon his hairy throat. The long, thin hands clamped themselves upon his neck, and for a moment Monkey Mack was helpless in the agonies of suffocation.
Two hundred sixty pounds. Thirty-four years of age. Hair: golden yellow. Eyes: deep blue. Cash value of holdings: well into eight figures. Credit: almost unlimited. Marital status: highly eligible, if the right woman could tackle him. Mike the Angel pushed open the door to Harry MacDougal's shop and took off his hat to brush the raindrops from it.
She walked quickly to the back part of the hotel and ascended in another elevator to the wing in which the servants' quarters were situated. Here she made her way along a corridor until she reached Macdougal's room. She knocked, and knocked again. There was no answer. She tried the door and found it was locked.
Donald Macdougal been so prodigal, never had such lavish hospitality been dispensed under Macdougal's roof-tree, and the squatter wore a dour and anxious look as he saw the liquor flowing, and heard the music, and the laughter, and the clatter of dishes, and found himself in collision with his wife's guests in all the passages and windings of his large, wandering homestead.
Two or three waiters, having in mind that their jobs depended upon Macdougal's approbation rather than Hawkins' strove to obey the former's injunction. They ran to the fore end of the Gasowashine and seized it and pushed back upon it and sideways. And did the Gasowashine mind? Hardly.
Had the intruders been adults, and had Mike the Angel behaved the way he did, he might conceivably have died that night. As it was, the kids never had a chance. Mike didn't even bother to acknowledge the existence of the punk behind him. He leaped, instead, straight for the kid in the dead-black suède zipsuit who was holding the vibroblade against Harry MacDougal's spine.
"This morning I decided to make an attempt to clear up the mystery of Macdougal's disappearance. I sent on my secretary, Miss Laura, to make friends with the section boss, and Lenora and I went out by automobile a little later. We instituted a search on a new principle, and before very long we found Macdougal's body. That's one up against you, I think, Inspector."
'A settler's clearing, he said. 'No; by Jove, it's Macdougal's homestead! 'What! cried Done, sitting up with a jerk. 'Donald Macdougal's station? 'Yes, Monkey Mack's. Burton rose to his feet and looked about him. 'There isn't a doubt, he continued. 'That's Boobyalla all right. I was over the country to the west once with cattle. 'And since we came to Jim Crow I have been so near.
That didn't matter much to Mike the Angel, since Harry's was the place he had intended to go, anyway. Harry MacDougal's establishment was hardly more than a hole in the wall a narrow, long hallway between two larger stores. Although not a specialist, like the proprietor of Ye Quainte Olde Elecktronicks Shoppe, Harry did carry equipment of every vintage and every make.
'Miss Lucy Woodrow is Mrs. Macdougal's companion. Jim gathered his soft cap in a handful and bowed moderately; but the lady held out dainty gloved fingers, and flashed her bright eyes upon him. 'We all think you quite a hero, Mr. Done, she lisped quite! 'Fact is, said the Captain, 'the ladies and gentle men greatly admire your noble conduct. 'Most noble and brave, added Mrs.
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