Death and Terror Are Spread Broadcast
by the Icy Breath of
JULES PERET, known to the underworld as The Terrible Frog, hated the foul air in crowded street cars and the "stuffiness" of a taxicab, and, whenever possible, he avoided both.
Hence, having nothing in view that demanded haste, after leaving police headquarters, he had, in spite of the lateness of the hour, elected to make the journey home on foot. He had not gone very far, however, before he began to wish that he had chosen some other mode of traveling, for he had scarcely ever seen such a gloomy night. It was January, and the atmosphere was of that uncertain temperature that is best described as raw. The darkness was Stygian. A fine mist was falling from the starless skies, and a thick grayish-yellow fog enwrapped the city like a wet blanket.
The chimes in a church steeple, two blocks farther on, had just struck the hour of ten, and except for Peret and one other wayfarer, who had paused in the sickly glare of the corner lamp to light a cigarette, the street was deserted.
"A fine night for a murder!" muttered Peret to himself, as, with head lowered, he plowed his way through the fog. "Diable! I must find a taxi."
With this thought in mind, he was about to quicken his pace when, instead, he jerked himself to an abrupt halt and stood in an attitude of listening, as the tomblike silence was suddenly broken by a hoarse scream, and, almost immediately afterward, a cry of agony and terror:
"Help! help! I'm dying!"
The cry, though muffled, was loud enough to reach the alert ears of Peret. It appeared to come from a tall, gloomy-looking building on the right side of the street. By no means certain of this, however, Peret crouched behind a tree and strained his ears to catch the sound should it be repeated.
But no cry came. Instead, there was a terrific crash of breaking glass, and Peret twisted his head around just in time to see a man hurl himself through the leaded sash of one of the lower windows of the house and fall to the pavement with a thud and a groan.
A moment later Peret was by his side. Whipping out a small flash-light, he directed the little disc of light on the man's face.
"Nom d'un nom!" he cried. "It is M. Max Berjet. What is the matter, my friend? Are you drunk? Ill? Sacre nom! Speak quickly, while you can. What ails you?"
