By Cornell Woolrich
It starts as a exposure stunt: a singer parading a jaguar on a leash. yet then the killer cat escapes into the guts of a South American urban and shortly a girl is located torn to loss of life. because the police look for the jaguar, one guy seems deeper—for a creature extra negative than any jungle beast . . .
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She knew by experience you turned left at this place to reach her family's burial plot. Then coming back, of course, you just did the opposite, turned right, to get back on the main avenue leading to the entrance gate. It was just a little further on now. She followed this lesser, winding, graveled path, with its halfremembered particulars of surrounding. First it led through a depressed open treeless patch, a Sort of meadow of the dead. The depths of this were inked in with blue already. Then it climbed and wound its way through a thick grove of trees, almost like a tunnel, and just past that was her destination.
The carriage drew up at the main entrance, marked by a pair of massive bronze doors set within a stone arch, and they got out. "Come back for us within a half-hour, no more," Marta instructed the driver. The carriage ambled aimlessly off on some mission best known to its driver--perhaps the nearest cantina at the next crossroads ahead. As it left them, Conchita held back in seeming irresolution a minute. "Marta, before we go in, can't we go over to that place across the way and sit down for a minute?
Unless, of course, she had made a complete, blind circuit of the place in the dark, and come back to where she had started from. But more likely it was either one of the side walls, or the rear one. She had probably gone entirely through the dread place, to its other end. There was a noticeable hum now in the air, coming from the other side of it. Faint and disembodied, an echoing murmur from far off, but still able to intrude upon the stillness that reigned in here. It was the hum, the drone, that comes from houses, from streets, in the distance, in the night.