Clutching Hand slammed shut his door and pulled down over it a
heavy wooden bar. A few steps took him to the window. There were
police in the back yard, too. He was surrounded.
But he did not hurry. He knew what to do with every second.
At the desk he paused and took out a piece of cardboard. Then with
a heavy black marking pencil, he calmly printed on it, while we
battered at the barricaded door, a few short feet away.
He laid the sign on the desk, then on another piece of cardboard,
drew crudely a hand with the index finger, pointing. This he
placed on a chair, indicating the desk.
Just as the swaying and bulging door gave way, Clutching Hand gave
the desk a pull. It opened up--his getaway.
He closed it with a sardonic smile in our direction, just before
the door crashed in.
We looked about. There was not a soul in the room, nothing but the
selenium cell, the chairs, the desk.
"Look!" I cried catching sight of the index finger, and going over
to the desk.
We rolled back the top. There on the flat top was a sign:
Dear Blockheads:
Kennedy and I couldn't wait.
Yours as ever,
Then came that mysterious sign of the Clutching Hand.
We hunted over the rooms, but could find nothing that showed a
clue. Where was Clutching Hand? Where was Kennedy?
In the next house Clutching Hand had literally come out of an
upright piano into the room corresponding to that he had left.
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