Death Takes the Wheel, a Complete Novelet

ALIAS MR. DEATH THE delicate, filigreed hands on the clock pointed to exactly three minutes to twelve. The clock was just a shade too ornamental for good taste. So were the other furnishings in Raul Krendall’s den—and so, for that matter was Raul Krendall himself, with his too-perfect attire and his impeccable manners. Not that he didn’t manage to move in the best circles in Newkirk City. He was entertaining a group tonight. From the other side of the door came sounds of laughter and the music of an expensive orchestra. Some of the more thoughtful of the guests out there might have wondered how Raul Krendall could afford all this, since he had no visible means of support. Inside the den, Mrs. Robert Carson was finding out the secret of this. She wasn’t enjoying it. She was trembling all over, her blue eyes clouded with despair and loathing as she brought a roll of bills out of her purse and handed them across the table to Raul Krendall, who was smiling cynically