Dark Island

the Whistler, and I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. And now for the Whistler's strange story. Dark Island. Dark Island was a fitting background for the grim scene just offshore. The waves on the beach all

but drowned the staccato reports of gunfire. But the man crouched low in the tiny sailboat could see the stabbing bursts of flame with each shot. Here the bullets sting into the water around him. Yes, it was a very fitting background, because the tiny island had once been the sole property of an underworld boss named Sid Stauffer. The huge old mansion he'd built was still standing. It had

It had been a mute witness to many a shooting fray in years past. Now it was a hotel, a focal point of the little artist's colony that had sprung up on Dark Island, a gay bohemian group, two preoccupied with their own activities to be aware of the excitement taking place in the nearby cold.

But the man in the boat, Ernie Regan, was more than aware. Yes Ernie, you maneuver the boat frantically, fighting your way toward shore, and then abruptly The firing ceases, doesn't it? And a half hour later, you're back at the boat dock, tying up and very much relieved.

Have a good cruise, Mr. Reagan? Yeah, fine, Sam. Look at me hand with a stern line, will you? Sure, toss it over. Got it. Thanks, Sam. I know she's made fast. Kenner was down to the dock looking for you.