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Death with a Dog's Face by Arthur Leo Zagat is a gripping and macabre mystery that delves into the dark side of human nature. When a series of gruesome murders occurs, each victim is found with a chilling clue: a dog's face meticulously carved into their flesh. As the terror spreads, a seasoned detective is drawn into a web of deceit and madness, racing against time to unmask a killer whose motives are as twisted as their methods. With every revelation, the lines between sanity and insanity blur, leading to a shocking climax. Dive into this spine-tingling tale where every shadow hides a secret and every clue leads deeper into darkness.
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Death with a Dog's Face
Synopsis
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Table of Contents
Cover
WHEN the war came to Morris Street it was not as the long rhythmic march of boots nor the roll of tanks nor the sense-blotting boom of bombs and the screams of shattered humans. When the war came to the slum dwellers, whom in his ancient pharmacy Andrew Turner had served more years than he cared to recall, it came as a death that struck silently and unseen.
The Spider, December 1942, with "Death with a Dog's Face"
TILL tonight the war had touched Morris Street no more heavily than any other street along the Eastern Seaboard. There was the dimout, of course, so that sky-glow should not betray tanker or transport to the Axis sea-wolves.
"Damn," Jack Ransom groaned, watching a couple of natty marines stroll past the store doorway, where he stood chatting with the old druggist. "I still don't see why they turned me down just 'cause of a leaky pump I didn't know I had. Suppose I did conk out from that instead of a bullet, so what?"
Doc put a thin, veined hand on the youth's muscular arm. "You know the answer to that, son." Little and stooped and feeble-seeming, his silken mane a silver nimbus in the gloom, he contrasted oddly with his barrel-chested, carrot-thatched companion. "You might conk out, as you put it, on sentry-go or when you were key man in some night patrol. Or that heart of yours might go bad and lay you up in a hospital bed needed for the wounded. But why fret? Aren't you doing a job as important as fighting?"
Jack grunted. "Yeah, I suppose I am."
The garage around the corner on Hogbund Lane now housed only the great trucks that served the war factories and, an ace mechanic, Ransom was doing two men's work keeping them rolling on their brutal, twenty-four hour schedules. "You're right, I suppose," he repeated, "but I feel like a lousy slacker anyways. If I could only slap a Jap down, just once—
"Oh, oh. What's got into that bozo?"
Out on the sidewalk a shadowy figure had stopped short, was striking out, frantically, at empty air. By the light of a street lamp bracketed to an "El" pillar, Doc made out that the man's mouth gaped with a soundless scream, that his eyes were black pits of agony... In that same moment he folded down.
Because of the half-light, the swiftness with which it had begun and ended, the utter silence, the incident seemed somehow unreal.
It still seemed unreal. The inanimate gray form did not sprawl on the concrete. It rested on its haunches, back bent, head between crooked knees. Unmoving, it was less a human than a mannequin whose strings had been dropped by the puppeteer.
Only those nearest were as yet aware of what had happened when Doc reached the corpse.
That it was a corpse he already knew as he bent to it. The bulging eyes were dulled stone. The tongue already blackening, curled in the still gaping mouth. Jack was beside the druggist when he straightened up. The freckle-dusted young face was yeasty. "Cripes, Doc," he gagged. "Is that how I'm going to get it?"
Turner stared—understood. "No, boy. It wasn't his heart." Men and women, morbidly curious, were crowding about them now, but they were so busy with questioning one another that none save Ransom heard Doc Turner add, very low. "This is murder."