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After all, the mandarin had only sent Peter Larkin a coffin, a knife and other pleasant little gifts . . .
The Lips of Caya Wu
By Frank Owen
I
Peter Larkin's death had been accomplished with complete efficiency. At four-thirty on Wednesday he had locked the door of his private office, written terse farewell notes to a few business associates, consumed half a quart of whiskey, then fired a bullet into his heart.
