Sucks books

While I held a pocket flashlight Craig was busy concealing another
instrument of his own in the little storeroom. It seemed to be a
little black disk about as big as a watch, with a number of
perforated holes in one face. Carelessly he tossed it into the top
drawer of the chest under some old rubbish, shut the drawer tight
and ran a flexible wire out of the back of the chest. It was a
simple matter to lay the wire through some bins next the storeroom
and then around to the passageway down to the subterranean den of
Brixton. There Craig deposited a little black box about the size
of an ordinary kodak.
For an hour or so we sat with Brixton. Neither of us said
anything, and Brixton was uncommunicatively engaged in reading a
railroad report. Suddenly a sort of muttering, singing noise
seemed to fill the room.
"There it is!" cried Brixton, clapping the book shut and looking
eagerly at Kennedy.
Gradually the sound increased in pitch. It seemed to come from the
ceiling, not from any particular part of the room, but merely from
somewhere overhead.


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