Emil And The Detectives

In one of the stateliest mansions on the lower Hudson near New York old Stanford Marvin president of the Marvin Motors Company dozed over his papers while Owen his confidential secretary eyed him across the mahogany flattopped desk. A soft purring sound floated in the open window and halfroused the aged manufacturer. It came from one of his own cars—six cylinders chanting in unison a litany of power to the great modern god of gasoline. These things had been in his mind since the motor industry started. He had lived with them wrestled with them during his meals and taken them to his dreams at night. Now they formed a rhythm and he heard them in his brain just before the fainting spells which had come so frequently of late. He glanced at the secretary and noted Owens gaze with something of a start.