- Libros en formato MOBI -  

 The Crime in The Crypt
WELL, YOU MUST admit it was a surprising sight, to say the least.
A dead man of today, in an old, crumbling sarcophagus, in an old, crumbling crypt in the old, medieval cathedral at Welbury.
No member of a sight-seeing tour would expect to see such a sight or would fail to lose a little of his equanimity if he did see it.
As for me, I not only lost a little of my equanimity, but my whole consignment of that valuable and desirable commodity went by the board.
For I was the one who first saw it,—saw that modern corpse in that ancient casket, and I was so flabbergasted that I almost yelled aloud in my fear and terror.
But though my poise was seriously disturbed, my common sense stood by me, and I quickly realized that I must meet this emergency as a hundred per cent American should meet it, and behave as a member of the Tripp and Hastings Personally Conducted Foreign Tours Company would be expected to behave.
I was ahead of the group being conducted through the old cathedral by a venerable verger, who intoned his lecture in cultivated English accents.
The group numbered about twenty-five, for the Tripp and Hastings concern was of the first class, and limited its clientele as to quality and quantity...

 The Tapestry Room Murder
THE room was black dark. The sort of darkness that is described as Cimmerian, Stygian, Egyptian, but is called by most of us, pitch-dark.
Though invisible by reason of the darkness, it was a beautiful room, filled with interesting and valuable pictures, tapestries, curios.
Nor were the people in the room visible to one another. Only could be heard the breathing of its occupants, calm, ordinary breathing, as of untroubled breasts and care-free minds.
Scents there were. Darkness could not conceal those.
Faint, elusive perfume of cyclamen; heavy, haunting fragrance of jasmine. A suggestion of tobacco. Another pungent familiar odor—indescribable but unmistakable—the clean, homely smell of mothballs. And over all, circling in invisible spirals, the oppressive yet poignant fumes of burning incense.
And then, with a sudden flash the place was illumined.
Not glaringly; save for a pair of shaded lamps, the lighting was indirect.
The room revealed itself as a man’s library or sanctum, four-square, each side a deep arched alcove, lined with bookshelves.
The arches framed mural paintings of beauty and worth. The shelves held books of all sorts; antique tomes and rare bindings neighbored by the latest novels and mystery stories...