Past Masters Thirty Six
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Another anthology of short stories in the Life+70 public domain; a mix of humour, early sf, and hard boiled crime. Also "Ladies in Lavender", the original short story on which the 2004 movie (with Maggie Smith and Judy Dench) was based. One of the whitfields is a Jo Gar tale; the other tells of a bull-at-a-gate crusading crime busting newspaperman and the brutal gunshot murder of his boss inside the newspaper building itself. Culpeper Zandtt is also Clarence Herbert New. 1: The Subconscious Finnegan / Morgan Robertson 2: A Rapid Conveyance / Owen Oliver 3: The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill / Elliott

PAST MASTERS

THIRTY-SIX

July 2021

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Subconscious Finnegan / Morgan Robertson

2: A Rapid Conveyance / Owen Oliver

3: The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill / Elliott Flower

4: Bill Garford’s Last Play / Culpeper Zandtt

5: A Challenge to the Submarine / Clarence Herbert New

6: The Wireless Death / C. S. Raymond

7: Old City of Jade / Thomas H. Knight

8: Blackmail Moll / Ted Copp

9: Narcotic Man / Frederick C. Painton

10: Silence House / Raul Whitfield

11: A Lucifo Match / Arthur Morrison

12: Ladies In Lavender / William J Locke

13: Inside Job / Raoul Whitfield

14: The Nitwit / William Merriam Rouse

________________

1: The Subconscious Finnegan

Morgan Robertson

Harper’s Weekly Nov 7 1903

World's News (Sydney) 16 Jan 1904

THEY WERE on the after part of the superstructure deck— the loafing-place of officers off duty— and they were discussing poor old Finnegan. Mr. Clarkson, the executive, was there; Mr. Parmlee, the chaplain; Dr. Bryce, the surgeon; and the chief engineer— a man sceptical of all things unproved by mathematics. Finnegan was down in the "brig"— the slatted ship's prison on the berth-deck— sleeping off the effects of the drink that had undone him, and so could take no part in a discussion affecting himself. But he had an able champion in the surgeon, who bad just answered the chaplain's assertion that he was past redemption.

"Not at all," he had said. "All he needs is enough Dutch courage, and he is a better man than he ever could have been without it."

"But is not that an index of failure?" asked Mr. Parmlee. "God never created man in His image to then depend upon whisky. At no stage of intoxication is the ordinary man roused to his fullest mental activity."

"Yes, he is," quickly rejoined the surgeon. "Only he doesn't realise it. The mood passes too quickly. In Finnegan's case, seasoned as he is, he can make the most of this stage. In fact, he falls back upon his subconscious mind. And the subconscious mind, gentlemen, though almost absolute in its intelligence and knowledge, will believe anything told it, no matter how absurd."

"Do you mean," said the executive, "that if Finnegan's subconscious mind were told that he didn't like whisky. It would believe it?"

"Not only would it believe it, but would act upon it, and Finnegan would lose the taste for it."

"Then, in the name of all that is good, let us try," said the chaplain, enthusiastically.

"There are strong reasons why we should not," said the surgeon. "First, Finnegan is already in the subjective, or subconscious, state when drunk, and bound by auto-suggestions in favor of whisky that would overcome any from an outside source that would conflict. When sober he is a nervous wreck, unable to be hypnotised— too irritable and antagonistic, you see. Second, he is better off under his present form of subjectiveness than be ever could be otherwise, either as a normal man or a continuous hypnotic subject. Third, it might kill him. Though the spirit might be willing, as Mr. Parmlee would say, the flesh is weak, and with his whole nervous system attuned to alcohol— every brain cell charged with it—he could not survive the change."

"Well," said Mr. Clarkson, determinedly, "you could watch him, couldn't you, and, if things went wrong, straighten him up with whisky?"

"Yes, provided I could make things go wrong. I am not a hypnotist."

"What is a hypnotist?"

"Any person who is positive, for lack of a better term, compared with the subject's negative. Any person whom Finnegan fears, loves, or respects— in short, anyone who has a com-manding influence over him— can hynotise him by the ordinary methods."

"I am all that," said Mr. Clarkson. "What are the methods?"

"The simplest is to induce the subject to look steadily at some bright object— such as a brass hall or button, a dancing spot of sunlight reflected from a mirror, a star in the sky, or anything that will fix the attention and slowly distract the objective mind— the brain— from the world. Then that brain will close off, as in sleep, and the subjective brain will arise to the situation."

Mr. Clarkson stepped to the break of the superstructure, then looked back and said to the surgeon: "He's been in about four hours. is that long enough to sober him up?"

"Plenty, if he has slept."

"Always does," said Mr. Clarkson. Then he called down to an orderly to direct the master-at-arms to release Finnegan from the brig and bring him up.

Finnegan soon appeared, in the custody of the master-at-arms, unkempt and unwashed, his grey hair tousled over his wrinkled face, his eyes blinking stupidly in the strong sunlight.

"Just waked up, sir," said the master-at-arms. "Hungry, and on very bad terms with himself, His language is very disrespectful to the service, sir."

"Very well," said the executive officer. "We'll attend to him."

The petty officer departed; Finnegan looked sourly around on his investigators, and saluted. They returned the scrutiny, and all answered the salute.

"Finnegan," said Mr. Clarkson, sternly, "fix your eyes on that gilt ball of the flagstaff. Look at it steadily, and see if you can see anything wrong with it."

"Got a twist in it, sir. The sheave-holes don't lay 'thwartships. One's forrard and t'other aft. But I'm an old man, sir. I can't climb like I—"

"Never mind. Look at it."

Finnegan looked. "Wants a new coat, sir," he said at length.

"Yes, we know that. What else. Look steadily at it."

"Flagstaff has a little list to port, sir. It got warped in the gravin'-dock at Malta, when we lay one way so long."

"That's all right. Look at it. Look hard." Finnegan stared at the ball; the rest stared at him, Mr. Parmlce with almost boyish eager-ness in his face, the engineer with grinning incredulity.

The surgeon beckoned the first lieutenant aside. "Afraid it won't work, Clarkson," he said, softly. "Try pure mesmerism. Sit him down, make him look into your eyes, and pass your hands downward before his face. Command him mentally— that is, will that he go to, sleep. It is possible that you have projective force. There is such a thing distinct from the subjective power of the other."

"Sit down on that skylight," commanded Mr. Clarkson, approaching Finnegan.

Finnegan gingerly seated himself, looking around nervously. Mr. Clarkson faced him, and said, sternly, "Look me right in the eyes."

Finnegan did so. Mr. Clarkson elevated his bonds, and brought them down with a sweeping gesture before the face of the victim. The vic-tim looked curiously at him. Again the officer raised his hands and brought them down, while his facet assumed a stern, almost fierce, expression.

"Tell him he's sleepy," whispered the surgeon in his ear.

"You are sleepy," said the officer. "You are very sleepy. Go to sleep."

"I never could sleep on deck, sir," protested the old fellow. "Some men can calk off the whole watch in a coil o' rope, but I have to turn in, sir."

Mr. Clarkson continued the passes. "You are sleepy," he repeated. "Look me right in the eyes and go to sleep."

"I ain't sleepy a bit, sir."

"Look me in the eyes," sternly commanded the lieutenant. Finnegan obeyed him, and the mesmeric passes continued.

"They do say, sir," said Finnegan, with a half-confident, half-deprecating smile— "the fellows on the fo'castle, I mean, sir— they say that at times, askin' yer pardon, I say, that sometimes yer not quite yerself, sir— that is, not quite right in yer head, sir."

A roar of laughter went up, and Mr. Clarkson desisted.

"That'll do," he said, angrily. "Go below."

The old man arose, saluted, and departed.

"Did he speak from his subconscious knowledge?" asked the engineer. "What do you think, doctor? Did Finnegan diagnose correctly?"

"Not at all," answered the surgeon, gravely. "The experiment has failed because of contrary auto-suggestion, and because of the presence of scepticism. An incredulous engineer, whose soul never rises above grate surface and coal supply, will spoil any psychic investigation. Clarkson, does Finnegan ever take the wheel?"

"No; he's not a quartermaster."

"Can you put him there to-night?"

"Why, yes; but what for?"

"This; I've talked with many sailors in my time, and they all agree that when at the wheel on a dark night, with no stars to range by— so that they have to steer by compass alone— they get into a sleepy, half-comatose condition, in which they calculate their pay, dream of home, hear voices, talk to people a thousand miles away, and— in fact, give every evidence to me of being in the subjective state. Yet they steer a straight course from pure habit of muscle and brain. The compass, brightly illuminated, hypnotises them. But there must be no engineers around." He glanced meaningly at the culprit, who left the party with a grin on his face.

"Go ahead with your experiment," he said over his shoulder, "I prefer sleep."

"Finnegan's a good helmsman," said Mr. Clarkson. "I'll try him in the first watch. It'll be a dark night."

It was more than a dark night. It was foggy; and the big steel battle-ship charged through it with a dozen look-outs posted about the decks and up aloft. Mr. Felton, officer of the deck from eight to twelve, stood near the bridge binnacle, peering into the blanket of darkness ahead. On the other side of the binnacle stood his assistant, a sub-lieutenant, whose chief business on watch was to look at the compass and say nothing. Though not a watch officer, Mr. Clarkson was on the bridge, as were the surgeon and chaplain: and Finnegan was alone in the pilot-house— where he had gone grumblingly— while the rightful incumbent of the trick, a quartermaster, kept watch beside the door on the bridge, with orders to "stand by" to relieve Finnegan at a second's notice.

"How long, doctor?" asked the executive offi-cer, as the four stood at the bridge-rail, where Finnegan's face was easily visible through an opened window, "before he will be in condition?"

"Can't tell. Perhaps he won't be. But the ex-periment is worth trying. Mr. Parmlee is the man to work it. He has a soft, persuasive voice, and Finnegan wouldn't be too startled. You or I, Clarkson, would frighten him."

"What must I do?" asked the chaplain.

"Oh, after a while, when he has dimmed his eyes and brain by looking at the compass, sneak in and talk gently to him. Simply tell him that he doesn't like whisky— that he only thinks so, but is mistaken. Don't be too sudden; stand be-side him for awhile without speaking. Stand for half an hour, to throw him off his guard. Lecture him mildly, but insistently."

"And you think," said the executive, "that such talk will pass the scrutiny of his brain and reach his consciousness?"

"Yes, provided that brain is off its guard."

"How does he look?" asked the executive, peering in at the old man. "Is he getting there?"

Finnegan was standing motionless besides the small wheel which, as a mere lever, admitted steam to the steering-engine below. Now and then he twirled it, back and forth, with his eyes fixed on the compass in the binnacle. The group slowly sidled up to the pilot-house, and one— Mr. Clarkson— took a hurried look into the bridge binnacle. "Dead on the course," he whispered as he joined them.

Finnegan stared steadily at the compass, and steered so straight that the sub-lieutenant was impressed to the extent of sneaking of it to Mr. Felton. But Mr. Felton did not respond with any great enthusiasm. He was officer of the deck: and when one is officer of the deck on a ten-thousand-ton battle-ship, rushing through thick fog at eighteen knots, there are things of more moment than the mere matter of a straight course. He had strained his eyes until the fog was yet mistier, and strained his ears for sounds of whistles and horns until to him the deep-toned humming and throbbing of the en-gines were hardly audible. He had sent repeated injunctions to the look-outs to listen carefully— to report anything that sounded like fishermen's horns or steamers' whistles, and had sternly enjoined upon the bridge quartermaster to heave on the whistle-rope at intervals of two minutes. But he had not slowed down; a collision is just as possible at half-speed as at full speed, and, in spite of sentiment and law, there are officers and shipmasters who prefer to be on the ship that strikes the blow to being on the ship that receives it. Both the Captain and Mr. Felton so preferred, in spite of the fact that nothing afloat but icebergs and battle-ships as heavy as this big ship could safely oppose her. There is logic in the theory. A ten-thousand-ton battle-ship with a ram like a meat-axe will cut through a steamship at a four-knot speed as a knife cuts through cheese; and a fishing craft caught on her bows would be lifted and thrown aside in two pieces. Yet, should either be the assailant, the result would be as disastrous. So the Arghyll charged over the Georges Banks on her way to Halifax at full speed, with Finnegan steering straight, and Mr. Felton and his look-outs anxious only for the safety of others. But the three idlers on the fridge were mainly anxious over Finnegan.

"You must enlighten me, surgeon," said Mr. Parmlee, "a little further— as to what I am to do in this matter."

"Nothing," answered the surgeon, "for half an hour; then— speak in a whisper. If he answers, wait longer, and try again. When he don't respond, begin your gentle lecture; but don't arouse him. You might try it now."

"I think I understand. Well, I will try."

The chaplain entered tho pilot-house, where, in the dim light from the binnacle, the watchers saw him take a position on the other side of the small steering-wheel. Finnegan made no sign of recognition, and those without talked awhile, then relapsed into silence. The minutes passed; the sub-lieutenant performed his duty of occasionally peeping at the bridge compass; Mr. Felton stood braced against the rail, more statue-like than Finnegan. At each end of the long bridge was a look-out,  intent and immovable as the officer. The fog grew thicker, and the rumble of the engines seemed louder in consequence while the two-minute blasts of the whistle burst through the clogged air like thunderclaps.

Suddenly Mr. Parmlee shot out of the pilot-house, and joined his co-reformers. He was palpably agitated.

"I cannot perform my part," he said, brokenly. "I waited, as you directed, and then whispered his name. And what do you think? He answered in a whisper: 'Hush, sir. Don't talk to the man at the wheel. I know what ye want, sir. Here y'are.' And he handed me a bottle. Here it is— almost empty. And there is whisky on his breath."

The surgeon chortled "Well," he said at length. "Toss it overboard, chaplain." Over went the bottle. "He's in good condition for good steering, so— best let him finish his trick. But he can't be hypnotised otherwise to-night. I'm going down."

He disappeared, but the executive officer remained, absorbed in meditation. He occa-sionally looked at the compass but only to find no fault in the steering; but this did not absolve Finnegan, for when four bells struck, and the bridge quartermaster moved toward the pilot-house, the office stopped him.

"For bringing whisky to the wheel," he said sternly through the opened window, "you shall steer two hours more."

"Very good, sir," whined the old fellow, submissively.

Mr. Clarkson resumed his position at the bridge-rail. The captain, with full confidence in his officers, was asleep.

Five bells struck, then six and seven; and the last halfhour of the watch was drawing to an end, when the sub-lieutenant peeped into the binnacle and startled them all with a yell. "She's four points, off her course," he said, excitedly. "What's the matter with you? Are you asleep?"

Mr. Clarkson had been looking at Finnegan through the window a moment before. The old man had not changed his attitude. He still looked fixedly at the compass with eyes that were wide open, yet dead— in the dimmed light.

But now, as the sub-lieutenant's voice broke, the silence, and the first lieutenant looked again, he saw Finnegan's face working convulsively, though his pose was as rigid as before, and his eyes still dead in the dim light from the binnacle. He sprang to the bridge binnacle and looked in.

"Finnegan!" he shouted. "Wake up! Starboard your wheel and bring her back to the course. Jump in there, quartermaster, and take the wheel!"

"Yessir, yessir," answered Finnegan, in the nervous tones of one suddenly awakened. Then the convulsions left his face, and, an anxious look came to it, while he ground the wheel over. Then the quartermaster hurled him headlong against the door of the pilot-house, and Seized the spokes. "Coming back, sir," he called, after a moment's scrutiny, of the compass.

But at that instant an uproar of shouts sounded from the various look-outs.

"Ship dead ahead, sir," they called. "Steam-ship dead ahead, sir— port the wheel, sir— for God's sake."

Mr. Clarkson took one look into the darkness and fog, then almost screamed the order to the quartermaster: "Steady as you go. Port— hard a'port. Hard over the wheel." Then he jambed the engine-room telegraph to "stop." The quartermaster spun the wheel, the rudder respon-ded, and the ten thousand tons of steel shot past the stern of an equally large, but flimsier, ocean greyhound, from whose multitude of windows and deadlights shone the light of a thousand electric bulbs— from whose decks, even as she sank in the fog, came the shouts of startled men and the screams of women and children.

Mr. Clarkson moved the telegraph to "Full speed ahead," and again directed the quarter-master to return to the course; then he called Finnegan from the pilot-house. "You were asleep," said Mr. Clarkson, sternly. "What have you to say?"

"No, sir," answered Finnegan; "no, sir. I swear before God, Mr. Clarkson, I wasn't asleep. I knew she was swingin' off; I saw the lubber's point a-movin' over to sta'board, but I couldn't move my hands, sir. I was a dead man. I knew, but I couldn't move."

"Finnegan"— and Mr. Clarkson's tone was very gentle considering the enormity of his offence— "go down, ask the main-deck corporal to awaken the surgeon, and send him to my room. Then turn in."

An hour later, at the end of a long conversation between the surgeon and, first lieutenant, the former said: "There is no doubt in my mind, Clarkson, that Finnegan put himself into the subjective state, and that his sub-conscious self took charge of him— that is, his subconscious mind had clairvoyant knowledge of the position of that steamship, out of sight in the fog, and simply prevented his muscles from acting until you commanded him to 'wake up.' That command wakened him, and the ignorant and very much limited objective brain took charge, and he moved the wheel."

"But," said Mr. Clarkson, "admitting this— what put him into this subjective and clairvoyant state? Was it whisky or long gazing at the compass?"

The surgeon reached for a cigar, lit it, and puffed vigorously before replying.

"I do not know," he said. "Neither, I believe, does any man on earth."

_____________________

2: A Rapid Conveyance

Owen Oliver

(Joshua Albert Flynn, 1863-1933)

Frank Leslie’s Popular Monthly Jan 1904

World's News (Sydney) 6 Feb 1904

"FLINT," said Stone.

"Stone," said I.

We are Flint and Stone, solicitors, of Millbank, England. Local wits call us the Millstones; but this is a jest.

"I have been thinking." I rubbed my hands. "If we had an enemy—"

"No!" I protested.

"A person who entertained feelings of animosity towards us; and with whom we had declined further correspondence?" He looked at me over his eye-glasses.

"If we had occasion to approach him in the way of business." I suggested, "of course—"

"We should forgive him!"

"Stone," I said, feelingly, "you are a good man.

"Andrew M'Kenzie did not behave well in the matter of that land, but—"

"He is an ill-conditioned person." I shook my head.

"His last letter was scarcely polite."

"Almost offensive. He insinuated we were lacking in truth and honesty!"

"Still we bear him no ill-will."

"None whatever."

"The offer that we made him was most liberal."

"Almost reckless." It was £1700.

"The price he asked was excessive."

"A barefaced attempt at extortion!" I said, warmly. "Two thousand one hundred pounds, indeed!"

"He cannot help being a Scotchman," said my partner, soothingly; "and this is a season of good-will."

It was within a week of Christmas. I nodded approvingly. "If you would like to make him an offer— shall we say £1800?"

"Two thousand one hundred pounds," said Stone, quietly. I looked at him in amazement.

"It is barely worth £2000!"

Stone held up his finger.

"If the Slowdown and Golightly Railway should propose to build a goods station there?"

"Ah!" I said. "Oh!"

"A little bird," he remarked, playfully, "has whispered to me that they do. I fear they will have to give at least £2500." He passed me over a letter from the— ahem!— little bird.

"I should be sorry," I observed, "for M'Kenzie to imagine that we bore him any malice. Suppose we offered him £2000?" Stone shook his head.

"He would haggle till after Christmas. I— I do not want any weight on my mind at that happy season." He coughed apologetically.

"One must not carry sentiment too far," I reminded him. It is a little weakness of his.

"I was thinking," he remarked, "how people talk over the festive board. If the intention of the company should become know—"

"I was wrong to question your kindly in-stincts, Stone," I admitted. "I had an idea of visiting Slowdown to-day. If I can do anything to establish friendly relations, it will be gratifying."

"Highly gratifying, Flint; especially at this season."

I went over by the 11.15 train. M'Kenzie became civil as soon as I explained the object of my visitt and assured me that there was no ill-feeling on his part.

"We'll deal with the matter in a generous speerit on b'aith sides," he said. "An' mak' it £2150!" He is a man with no conscience what-ever!

"Stone would never agree to a penny more than twenty-one hundred," I declared. "It's out of the question."

"Ye'll mak' it a free conveyance?"

"No, no! But we'll do it cheaply; and quickly."

"By the New Year?"

"By Christmas," I promised. So we closed the bargain.

Stone rubbed his hands when I told him.

"We'll take it over for signature on Tuesday," he pronounced.

We had investigated the title during the previous negotiations. I saw to the matter myself, as Stone was busy trying a new motor— a form of conveyance of which I do not approve. I was reading the document for the last time, on Monday morning, when my partner rushed into our room.

"The conveyance?" he cried.

"Just finished." I held it up. He snatched it from my hand.

"Put on your top-coat and hat and come." I looked at the clock.

"We're just too late for the train,"

"We'll go on the motor."

"Umph!" I confess that I did not trust it. "I don't see why we need be in such a hurry."

"His brother is going over by the train. He has heard something about the station."

"The meddlesome ass!" I rushed into my coat. "How did he find it out?"

"Some rascally clerk in the company's office. He ought to be dismissed."

"A gross breach of trust," I, agreed, putting on my gloves.

"Come on!" Stone clapped my hat on my head, and we went out.

The motor was at the door, puffing and rattling in an unpleasant manner. I did not like venturing on the thing, but Stone hustled me into a seat. Then he turned a wheel and it bolted forward with a jerk that threw my hat into the road. It was nearly a new hat, and some small boys were playing football with it when we turned the corner.

"Why didn't you stop?" I demanded.

"We've barely time to beat the train."

"I shall catch my death of cold."

"Tie a handkerchief round your head," he suggested.

I commenced knotting my handkerchief at the corners; but Stone turned too sharply at the end of High-street, and we ran against the curb. In catching hold of the car to save myself I let the handkerchief go. Stone's umbrella went also. I will not say that I was glad, but I hoped it would be a lesson to him, and I told him so.

"One must take these little things philo-sophically," he said. "I've a spare handker-chief that I'll lend you."

It was a large silk one, and made an excellent. head-covering; but unfortunately it was bright red in color, and excited remarks from people we passed.

"It goes," he remarked, with satisfaction.

"I shall be glad when it stops," I replied. "I don't consider it is under proper control."

"My dear Flint, I can guide it to an inch. See me run over that piece of orange-peel and that fragment of paper. Now round that old woman— good Heavens!"

He had overlooked a heap of stones, and we mounted right over them. I turned a backward somersault on the seat, and only saved myself from going out of the car by clasping him round the neck with both legs.

"You've knocked my cap clean off," he complained. "With this cold wind I shall be laid up for a month."

"One must take these little things philosophically, "I reminded him. "You had better make a cap out of another handkerchief!"

"Umph! You'll have to steer while I do it."

"I don't understand the apparatus."

"You just turn it the way you want to go; It's quite easy. The road is wide enough."

"It's wide," I agreed, doubtfully, "but I don't know if it's wide enough!" However, he insisted upon my taking the wheel, while he fumbled with a muffler— a yellow one spotted with green.

"There's a trap coming," I shouted, in alarm.

"It's a mile off. Mind the boy!" I tried to mind the boy, but the thing went straight at him. However, he got out of the way somehow.

"Keep to the left. You'll be into the trap!" There was a grating sound, and the men in it pulled up and shouted after us.

"You turned the wheel the wrong way," Stone explained. "You've smashed the back seat, and—"

"Why don't you finish the cap, and steer yourself?" I demanded.

"It takes all my time to look after you. Where are you going? The right, man, the right! You're going into Breakneck-lane!" He seized the wheel, but we were already in the lane.

"It's the quickest way," I declared,

"Quickest! It's unrideable. Look at the policeman!"

A constable was standing in the middle of the road, waving his arms and shouting to us to stop.

"Put on the brake!" I cried. Stone grabbed at a lever, but without effect.

"It won't act," he declared. "We shall run him down!"

We rushed upon the policeman like an avalanche. He bolted for the footpath, shouting something about the City Council and ten miles an hour.

"You will be sumnmned," I warned Stone.

"We shall be summoned," he corrected, "if we are not killed." He made a furious attack upon the brake, but only succeeded in upsetting the steering. We scraped along a wall, snapped off the projecting branch of a tree, and up-rooted a milestone. Then we turned an angle of the road upon a narrow bank.

"Hi!" I shouted. "Hi! Get out of the way, man."

The man got out of the way, but he left the barrow. We dashed through a rain of milk and cans.! One of the latter hit me in the face, and another blacked my partners eye. I could not see what happened to the barrow. I sup- pose the pieces were too small!

"Carts!" I shouted, warningly. "Any number of them. Blow the— the foghorn!" He blew it, and the carters drew up hastily on one side of the road, using most shocking language.

"They've escaped from an asylum," cried a lady, as we passed. "Look at their caps."

"We shall never hear the last of this," I reproached Stone. He smiled with a sort of foolish satisfaction.

"If we aren't smashed, we shall beat the train by twenty minutes. It means four hundreds pounds."

"Less damages," I corrected. "If we— oh!"

The car skipped over a rough place, and I nearly went out.

"Hold tighter," he told me.

"How can I?" I asked, indignantly. I was holding as tightly as I could,

It was necessary. The machine was no longer running, but taking leaps, and whenever we turned a corner we went up on one wheel. When we came to Slowdown-road we were going 40 miles an hour.

"The last half-mile!" he said, cheerfully.

"And the steepest!" I groaned.

"It will bring us almost to his door."

"The cow! The cow!" I shrieked. There was a soft thud, and the remains of a cow were bundled out of the way. "More damages!"

"It has checked us a little," he consoled me. He is of a foolishly sanguine disposition! "It is up-hill when we reach the pond."

Just as we came to Slowdown Green a brewer's van galloped out from the yard of the

"Three Keys." Stone turned hurriedly to avoid it, and we reached the pond—at the deep end reserved for swimmers! There was a terrific splash. We were swept from our seats by a torrent of water. I do not remember anything more except a violent explosion, till some clumsy yokel got me out with a pitchfork.

When I had got some of the water— and the fork— out of me, I looked round and saw Stone wringing his garments and his hands.

"The conveyance is ruined!" he wailed.

"Get it out of your pocket," I cried, "before it's too wet!" He stared at me for a moment. Then he pulled it out. It was scarcely hurt at all.

"I had forgotten this conveyance," he owned.

"Come along!" I commanded. "The train isn't in yet."

"Flint!" he said, warmly, "your presence of mind is invaluable.

We toiled up the hill as fast as we could, and reached M'Kenzie's just as the train was whistling in the distance.

"Guid Heavens!" he cried, when we entered his room, dripping and breathless. "Weel, weel!"

"We came by motor!" Stone explained.

"I thocht ye'd come by sea!" He laughed loudly. Persons of his nationality have a perverted notion of humor.

"We had an accident. If you will sign the conveyance

"Ye'll change first," he suggested, pretending that he was trying not to grin. "Ther's nae sich haste."

"Business before pleasure," I reminded him, trying to laugh.

"Some folk tak' their pleasure sadly!" He laughed, as if he had said something funny.

"I don't see anything to laugh at, Mr. M'Kenzie," said my partner with dignity.

"If ye could see yersels, mon!" he cried, holding his sides. "Luikin' mair lik' a pair o' brigands than honest soleecitors!"

I was about to retort with some asperity upon his looks— he is a great, rawboned, red-headed, and red-bearded man— when Stone waved me aside. "We want to get back by the 12.40," he said. "If you will call in your clerks to witness the document, we shall be obliged."

"But ye mun hae a wee drap first, tae keep oot the cold," he proposed, affably.

"Afterwards," I said. "Afterwards."

So he called in his two clerks. They were ill-bred young men, and giggled audibly when they looked at us; but we affected not to notice them, and hurried through the business. We had barely concluded when Donald M'Kenzie rushed in.

"Is the conveyance signed?" he demanded.

"It is," we told him.

"You are a pair of thieves!" he roared!

"Thieves!" said Stone, turning to the clerks. "You heard that, gentlemen?"

"Yes," they said, leering idiotically.

"Disreputable, underhand, lying, pettifogging scoundrels!" he shouted.

"And you heard that, gentlemen?" said I.

"We did," they assured us.

"There is such a thing as libel," I mentioned.

"And false pretences," said Donald M'Kenzie. "When you proposed to buy that land—"

"We have bought it," I pointed out, suavely.

"You have heard that the railway company wanted to build there."

We rubbed our hands.

"We keep our ears open," said Stone, blandly.

"I told you this morning that I had heard something about the company and the land."

"We were obliged for the hint," Stone acknowledged, politely.

"Otherwise you would have stayed in Littlebury, and— "

"Kept our ears open," I suggested, jocularly.

He banged on the table.

"If you had, you would have heard that the company have decided to build"— We rubbed our hands— "elsewhere!"

I looked at Stone, and Stone looked at me. "We will go, Stone," I said.

"We will go, Flint," said he.

The M'Kenzies rose together.

"You will go!" they said.

When we picked ourselves up at the bottom of the stairs, Stone was in favor of an action for libel, and I for assault. Ultimately we decided to bring neither.

It is also our endeavour to benefit others. So we would add that the land in question has lately much increased in value, and affords an exceptionally favorable opportunity for investment. The price which we put upon it is merely nominal— £2500, and any offer addressed to us, care the Editor, will receive prompt attention

________________________

3: The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill

Elliott Flower

1863-1920

McClure’s Magazine Feb 1904

World's News (Sydney) 27 Feb 1904

ABNER CALKINS was resting. In order to rest properly, it was necessary that Abner should have his feet elevated to approximately the same height as his head, so he had carefully placed them, on the railing in the City Clerk's office. The City Clerk was an old friend, and so was the railing. Whenever Abner came to town to make purchases or to dispose of the pro-duce of his farm, he invariably called on the City Clerk and made temporary use of the railing.

On this occasion the City Clerk was deeply interested in an old typewriter. He inserted a sheet of paper, and then hit all the keys one after another, beginning at the upper left-hand corner and ending at the lower right-hand corner.

"I don't see what's the matter with that machine," he said, at last. "It's rather old, and some of the letters are worn, but it works all right." '

"Is it yourn?" asked Abner, casually.

"No; it belongs to the city," answered the City Clerk. "It has been discarded by one of the departments, and I'm the custodian."

"The what?" demanded Abner.

"The custodian," explained the City Clerk. "'I have charge of it. I have charge of all the supplies, and, in fact, of all property that isn't in use; but I'm blessed if I know what to do with this. They're getting mighty parti-cular when they discard so good a machine."

Abner puffed at his corncob pipe meditatively for a few minutes."

"Liz is dead set to have one o' them things," he remarked at last. "Never saw such a girl in my life— thinks she's going to be a story-writer, an' says nothin's no good only when it's writ on a typewrite machine. If they didn't cost so blame much I'd git her one."

"Why don't you buy this one?" asked the City Clerk. "It's going to the store-room, and it's no use there."

"How much?" said Abner, with the terseness that characterised him when the question was one of dollars and cents.

"Oh, I guess you could have it for ten dollars," replied the City Clerk.

Abner Calkins took his feet from the railing and let the front legs of his chair come down on the door with a thump, as he reached for his pocket-book.

"I'll take it," he announced, unwinding the string that encircled the pocket-book and producing a 10-dollar bill.

"Oh, I can't sell it," explained the City Clerk. "I'm merely ex-officio custodian "

"Ex-what?"

"Ex-officio. I mean that one of the duties of my position is to take care of all such things, and they can only leave my possession on the written order of the Mayor or the City Treasurer. You pay ten dollars to Barkley, the Treasurer, and get an order from him. We have to do these things by system in a municipality, you know."

"Now, look a-here, Sam Skinner," protested Abner; "I ain't city-bred, an' I'm glaid I ain't, an' don't you go to springin' them words on me an' makln' fun o' me. I reckon I'm smart enough to learn city ways if I wanted to."

"Of course you are," admitted the City Clerk, conciliatorily. "I'm only explaining how you will have to go about it to get the machine."

Somewhat mollified, Abner departed to hunt up the City Treasurer, but, unfortunately, there was some delay in reaching him. When he was found, however, the business was quickly transacted.

"Ten dollars for a discarded typewriter in the store-room," repeated the City Treasurer. "Why, sure. The city's so hard up, and there are so many outstanding bills and judgments that I'm almost ready to turn the office furniture into cash. Give the money to the cashier, and I'll write you an order for the machine."

Armed with the order, Abner returned, only to find the City Clerk absent. The machine was there, but it could not be touched until the order had received the "O.K." of the City Clerk, and that official had not appeared when the lateness of the hour necessitated a departure for the farm.

"It's mighty annoyin'," commented Abner to himself; "but I reckon I can git it the next time I come to town. Knowed Sam ever since his' father had the next farm to mine, 'fore he came to town, an' it's safe with him till to-morry or the day after."

Abner's daughter, Lizzie, was delighted when she heard of the purchase. She was sure that the road to literary fame was now open to her,
for she was in possession of several stories that-she knew had been returned only because they were not typewritten. In fact, she was so en-thusiastic that she insisted upon accompanying. Abner when he went after the machine, and she was very much distressed because three days passed before he felt that he had leisure to make the trip. Finally, however, they invaded
the City Clerk's office together.

"Remember Liz, don't ye, Sam?" asked Abner, by way of preface. "Used to play with her when you was a boy an' lived out near us."

The City Clerk threw away his cigar and hastily rose from his chair, for Lizzie was an attractive young woman. He had not seen her for several years, and girls blossom into young women very quickly.

"Come for that there type-write machine." Abner went on; "an' Liz is so crazy 'bout it she had to come, too."

Thereupon Abner handed the order to the City Clerk, who took it mechanically, and read it through twice while he was getting his wits together, for the City Clerk was in a quandary.

"Why— why, the fact is, the machine isn't here, now," he explained, at last.

"Ain't here!" ejaculated Abner. "Where in tarnation is it? I paid my ten dollars for it."

"Of course," said the City Clerk, soothingly, "and no doubt we can straighten the matter out all right. But you didn't come back for it, you know, and the next day the Mayor sent down an order for it, and a clerk in the Water Office has it now."

"But I've got an order for it," asserted Abner, belligerently.

"Quite right,' acquiesced the City Clerk, "but this isn't the place to present the order now. I can't give you what isn't in my possession. You take the order to Mr. Winkler, at the Water Office, and tell him you want the machine."

"Come on, Liz," said Abner, determinedly. "I'll bet ye I get that there machine or I'll bust things wide open."

Lizzie, doubtful and disappointed, dutifully followed her aggressive father to the Water Office, where Mr. Winkler solemnly read the order through.

"This doesn't interest me," announced the latter. "It's addressed to the City Clerk."

"But the City Clerk hain't got the machine," protested Abner hotly.

"I can't help that," said Mr. Winkler. "In a municipality things have to be done according to system. The machine is here by order of the Mayor. You'd better see him."

"Well, by gum! I'm goin' to have that ma-chine!" proclaimed Abner. "Now you jest watch me! Come on, Liz."

The girl's mouth twitched ominously as she followed; she was not far from tears.

The Mayor gave the subject a few minutes of thoughtful consideration before replying to Abner's demand.

"Neither the City Treasurer nor the City Clerk had any right to sell that machine," he said at last. "No one has any right to sell city property for which the city has any use, and this typewriter was sent to the store-room by mistake. It is serviceable, and is needed in the Water Office."

"But it's mine!" broke in Abner wrathfully.

"Not at all," answered the Mayor. "You simply show your ignorance of civic methods of doing business. It's all an elaborate system, you know."

"System be-dinged!" roared Abner. "Every tarnation critter talks about system while he's beatin' me out o' my typewrite machine an' my ten dollars. It's a swindle; that's what your system is!"

"Be a little careful, Mr. Calkins," cautioned the Mayor, with dignity. "Neither the city nor its officials are in the swindling business, and you would not be in this predicament if you were not ignorant of the ordinary routine."

"I'm learnin'," retorted Abner, "an' I'm payin' for the eddication."

"The best thing for you to do," continued the Mayor kindly, "is to go to the City Treasurer and get your money back. While there is use for tho machine I certainly can't let it go for ten dollars."

"Come on, Liz," said Abner, his determina-tion and energy in no measure diminished. "Dang the machine, anyway; I'll git the money."

But when they reached the corridor the girl hung hack. He turned and saw in her eyes the gathering tears that showed plainly how bitter was her disappointment. Fortunately there was a settee near.

"Now, Liz," he said, "you set right down there an' wait for me'. I'm goin' to git that ten dollars or break some critter's neck, an' then I'll buy you a new typewrite machine, if I have to pay fifty dollars for it. Don't you cry, an' don't you worry. Somebody's goin' to do some sweatin', an' you're goin' to have a ma-chine. I'll he back in a jiffy."

The City Treasurer was very sorry, and was willing to do anything he could to remedy matters.

"If you'd presented that order right away," he explained, "you'd have got the machine, aud there would have been no trouble."

"Right away!" cried Abner. "Why, you tarnal tax-eatin' sharks hain't got no office hours. You jest work when you happen to feel like it, an' if a feller asks you out to take a drink, some other feller kicks his heels together till you git back. I waited nigh unto two hours for the City Clerk that day. Now, I want my money back, an' I want it quick."

"But, my dear Mr. Calkins, I haven't yourten dollars," said the City Treasurer.

"I give it to that cashier o' yourn," asserted Abner. "You tell him to give it back to me."

"He hasn't it now, either. It has been entered on the books, and belongs to the city."

"It belongs to me," insisted Abner.

"Ethically it does, but practically it is a part of the city funds at this moment, and can only be secured by the regular system."

"System be swiggled!" cried Abner wrathfully. "I want my ten dollars."

"Naturally," answered the City Treasurer. "I quite appreciate your feeling, and I was about to say that I'll give you a voucher for it."

"Now you're talkin' business," said Abner, with evident gratification. "Give me the voucher, an' tell me how to get the money on it."

"That's very simple," explained the City Treasurer. "All you have to do is to present it to the Chief Clerk to be recorded, and when the city has the money it will be paid."

"Has the money!" repeated Abner. "Why, dang it! The city's got my ten dollars now, hain't it?"

"Of course, but there are claims ahead of yours."

"There hain't nobody got any claim on that ten dollars but me. It's mine."

"You don't understand the system—"

"Don't you talk no system to me," interrupted Abner, "or I'll smash your head in! The system's nigh wore me out a'ready."

"What I mean," explained the City Treasurer, "is that the city is practically bankrupt. There's 68,000 dollars in judgments against it now, and 64,000 dollars in other claims, and everything has to be taken in its regular order. Of course, if you're in a hurry you could enter up judgment on the voucher, and then we'd get to it a year or so sooner. This year we'll only have a margin of about 20,000 dollars over actual running expenses to retire these various claims, and the judgments will come first."

"Hain't my ten dollars in that twenty thousand?" demanded Abner.

"Of course."

"Then sort it out and give it to me."

"We can't do that. It's in the general fund, and can only be reached by system."

"Stop it!" yelled Abner. "I'll be committin' murder in a minute if you say that again."

"Do you want a voucher in place of that order?" asked the City Treasurer.

Abner considered the matter deeply for a minute.

"I wish I was a city," he remarked at last.

"Why?"

"Great Cracky! but I could make money doin' business that way. I wouldn't ask no odds of the Vanderbilts, or the Goulds, or the Rocke-fellers or nobody if I could jest collect in cash an' pay in vouchers. But I'm goin' to have that 10 dollars. I'm goin' to see a lawyer."

Lizzie looked at him with pathetic anxiety as he came along the corridor, and he stopped to say to her: "Now, don't you worry, Liz. You're goin' to have a typewrite machine, an' I'm goin' to have that 10 dollars. Jest you wait here."

The lawyer hemmed and hawed, and finally said that he saw nothing to do but accept the voucher.

"But that there 10 dollars is mine," protested Abner. "It don't belong to the city."

"Of course, but, you see, the municipal system— "

"Quit right there!" broke in Abner. "I'm tryin' to keep my temper, but I can't stand no more o' that system talk."

"I admit that it seems outrageous," said the lawyer: "but the city funds are pretty well tied up—"

"I don't care nothin' 'bout the city funds," interrupted Abner. "Let 'em keep their old funds, but they hain't no business keepin' my 10 dollars."

"Well, you might recover it by legal process from the City Treasurer personally, if you could show that he acted without authority," explain-ed the lawyer; "but it would cost more than 10 dollars to do it. My advice is to take the voucher and wait."

Abner sighed.

"How much?" he asked as he rose to go."

"Five dollars, please," said the lawyer.

"It beats me the ways they have of makin' money in the city," muttered Abner, wending his way back to the City-hall. "It costs a feller money to be bunkoed, an' then it costs him more to find out that he's been bunkoed. There's 15 dollars gone an' no type-writin' machine yet— an' no 10 dollars back. Every-body says that 10 dollars is mine, but I don't git it. By gum! I wish I could do business like that. 'The money's yourn,' says the city, 'if you can get it.' 'You can't get it,' says the lawyer; 'five dollars, please.' Great smokin' ches'nuts! I don't see how anybody but a stranger can be broke in the city!"

To his surprise he found Lizzie radiant when he returned. She still occupied the settee, but her face was wreathed in smiles.

"It's all right, father!" she cried as soon as she saw him. "He's gone for the typewriter now."

"Who's gone?" demanded Abner.

"Why, Mr. Skinner— Sam Skinner, the City Clerk," answered the girl. "He happened to see me here, and— and I was crying, just the least little bit. I couldn't help it, and now I'm glad I did, for he was just as good as he could be. He said it was a shame, and he'd fix the matter up somehow, if influence could do it."

"I'll bet ye," returned Abner thoughtfully, "that they keep him chasin' all over the country for three weeks to do it. I know their ways, darn 'em!"

But just then the City Clerk returned, carry-ing the typewriter.

"I made it a personal matter with the Mayor," he explained, "and he ordered it back into my possession, so now I can deliver it to you on the City Treasurer's order. It really is too good to sell, but the city can buy another."

"Can it?" asked Abner.

"Of course."

"Then the fools ain't all dead yet," asserted Abner. "I wouldn't sell the city a blind hoss, with spavins an' the heaves, without the money was paid into my hand before I let go o' the halter."

"But we're ever so much obliged to you," said Lizzie to the City Clerk.

"Don't mention it," the latter replied.

"And I hope you'll drive out to see us," she added.

"I certainly will," said the City Clerk.

"Come on, Liz," put in Abner, taking up the machine and moving toward the door.

"Going home now?" she asked.

"Not jest yet," he answered. "I'm goin' to put this in the waggon, an' then I'm goin' to take you over to the lawyer's office an' see if you can't cry that five dollars out of him. I hain't never quite seen your full value till now."

______________________

4: Bill Garford’s Last Play

Culpeper Zandtt

(Clarence Herbert New 1862-1933)

Blue Book, April 1922

FROM the veranda of “Sarkie’s,” one has a view of the river, the rice- mills and native villages on the opposite bank, and steamers lying at the piers downstream. When there is any breeze at all across the water and mud flats, one gets rather more of it there than anywhere else in Rangoon. And the farther corner is secluded enough at mid-afternoon for more or less confidential talk. There was a table between the four of them— with iced brandy-pegs and cigars. Carrington, buyer for one of the great London jewel-houses, believed he was hot on the trail of the greatest ruby known to exist, and had made exceedingly tempting offers to the man who he was convinced had the jewel in his possession. Captain Archibald Soames of the Indian Army, the supposed possessor, had been trying for two or three months to make up his mind whether there w r as reasonable doubt as to the stone in question being actually the famous “Glowing Ember” stolen from Miss Grace Armitage, sometime previously in Singapore. He had booked through to Singapore on a British-India boat with the intention of making her acquaintance and possibly handing over the jewel, when Carrington’s amazing offers and the Captain’s recently aroused interest in Miss Helen Robertson, an actress in the motion-picture outfit brought out to the Orient by Harway, a Los Angeles director, induced him to stop off at Rangoon to see her work and consider Carrington’s arguments. The fourth man at the table was an ex-ship-master and deep-water adventurer who had twice had the ruby in his possession and lost it—Bucko Bill Garford. Carrington was getting just impatient enough to come out and talk about the jewel openly, prepared to see anyone else’s offer and go it one better.

“Captain,” he said, “there are a number of stones in the Chandni C'howk at Delhi which I should pick up for my house, and I ought to get back there before they’re sold to some one else—but I want the Glowing Ember more than all the. rest of them, and I’ve come a thousand or so miles out of my way to see if I couldn’t buy it. Now, if you don’t think my offer quite good enough, suppose you mention a price at which you’re willing to sell—without any more side-stepping. We’ll pay it if the sum is at all within reason. I practically know you’ve got it!’’

“Hmph! I don’t mind admitting, now, that 4 did have a ruby weighing approximately a hundred and fifty carats—but that’s not saying I still have it! As a matter of cold fact, I haven’t!”

“ WHAT I ” “The devil! ” “What dy’e mean, Soames! Not got it? Who has?” The other three men were explosive— and frankly skeptical.

“I’d like to know, myself, who has it now, and how he got it, but I probably never will! When a thing of that sort is once lost, one might as well accept the fact as final and forget it. Nobody is going to return such a thing for any reward which might be offered! I picked up that stone from the floor of a certain room one night — had no clue whatever as to who might have dropped it there— waited over two months for some hint that such a thing had been lost— showed it to Hop Feng in the Chandni Chowk. He said it was unquestionably the Glowing Ember, giving that opinion as a jewel-expert; but until recently, I didn’t believe it impossible that two such rubies could exist. I booked passage to Singapore with my mind pretty well made up about handing it over to Miss Armitage, if she were still there. Then Carrington stirred up my doubts again, not so much concerning the identity of the stone as to the American girl’s being able to establish any legal claim to it so long after it was stolen— considering the number of hands it must have passed through. So I stopped off here, partly to reconsider the matter, partly to see Harway and his outfit making cinema-films.”

“And you were fool enough to carry that stone on you!”

“When it came to the point, I didn’t dare risk anything else! I sent off two packages from Delhi by registered post. On the Taroba I handed over another package to be kept in the purser’s safe during the voyage. But the ruby itself I wrapped in loose tobacco and carried in a rubber pouch I was constantly using—”

An ominous look that was little short of frightful came and went like a flash in Bill Garford’s face as he inwardly cursed himself for lost opportunities which he hadn’t believed within his grasp. His fingers and his voice were under perfect control as he spoke, but something in the deep-water bucko’s remark sent a shiver down Captain Soames’ back— he couldn’t tell just why.

“There were two men on that boat, Captain,— as I believe,— who would certainly have cut your throat and chucked you overboard had they even dreamed you would take the chance of toting that stone around with you! How did you lose it?”

“I’ve no idea! I was using the tobacco-pouch yesterday morning—with the ruby in it. Then I got into that mix-up with the natives while Harway was shooting his street-scene with the elephants and Miss Robertson. While getting clean and patched up, I didn’t happen to use my pipe— smoked a couple of cigars instead. After dinner, when I felt in my pocket for the pouch, it was gone— that’s all there was to it! I fancy there were a dozen opportunities for picking my pocket since morning, if anyone happened to be after that pouch in particular. By the way, old chap,”— to Harway— “how was it that your people jumped me and bowled me over on the ground at the start of the muss? Can’t understand what I’d done to them at all!”

“They were not my people, Captain— Hindu mahouts whom I hired with the elephants. They got a fool notion in their heads that you were trying to insult a high-caste Hindu woman on the street and didn't wait to ask for explanations— had no idea that Miss Robertson was part of my outfit, like the fake rajah on the elephant.”

“MY word! I was about to compliment her upon the make-up when those fellows started the row— but it hadn’t occurred to me that she was good enough to make them fancy her the real thing! At all events, there was opportunity in that mix-up either for the pouch to have been knocked out of my pocket, or for some one who’d been watching his chance, to have picked my pocket when three or four of them were on top of me. What I really believe is that some one got it while we were among that crowd in the lobby waiting for dinner! It’s gone! You might hunt from here,to Mandalay an’ down to Martaban for the next five an’ twenty years without spotting the stone unless it turns up for sale unexpectedly. After all, it’s a bit of a relief— though I regret that it’s now impossible for me to hand Miss Armitage the ruby if I decided it was her property.”

Carrington threw his hands apart in a gesture of futility. It was generally assumed by this time, throughout India, that he would prove the highest bidder if the stone came to light, but he had little hope of being approached concerning it. Privately, he was convinced that one or more Orientals had been on the track of the jewel for months and had now gotten possession of it— in which case it might not be seen again for another hundred years or so. He laughed good-naturedly at the fruitless chase which had brought him to Rangoon with Soames— said he’d be taking the next steamer to Calcutta.

GARFORD had been slouched down in his Bombay chair, chewing the end of a cigar to pulp as he went over in mind various possibilities. Several years before drifting into the motion-picture business, Tom Harway had sailed with him as mate. He was a typical deep-water man with nerves of steel— full of initiative, afraid of nothing, on the alert for any chance speculation or opportunity for making money. Suppose, now, that Harway had suspected the presence of the ruby in that tobacco-pouch and worked out the details of a clever scheme to get it? There had been gossip enough in Delhi concerning the Glowing Ember to have interested him in the stone, set him quietly investigating one clue after another as to its possessor. The more Garford thought over this possibility, however, the less likely it seemed that Harway could have had any idea as to the ruby’s being in Soames’ possession— still less, taking the risk of carrying it about with him. This left a probability that the Orientals must have gotten it— but through a clever scheme to use a motion-picture in the Golden Temple at Benares, Garford had managed to give the jewel such a sinister reputation that very few of the superstitious natives would have touched the thing for any consideration. The ex-shipmaster by no means gave up his relentless pursuit of the stone— the obsession was too strong for that; but he saw no other course for the present than sticking around Rangoon to see if any hint cropped out during the next few weeks.

As for Tom Harway, he presently excused himself with the remark that he had promised to drive Miss Robertson around by the Lakes before dinner, and left them in order to hire a car at the nearest garage. He’d had no opportunity for seeing Miss Robertson alone since the mix-up of the previous day in which Captain Soames had figured so prominently, but without her knowledge he had watched her nearly every momtent of the time, so that in case anyone interfered with her, he could have been on hand within a few seconds. She had spent an hour or two after dinner with the men during the previous evening— but aside from that had been with nobody save the other women of the outfit.

Whet Tom Harway and Miss Robertson were running along a deserted strip of road at the north side of Great Royal Lake in Dalhousie Park, she took a rubber tobacco-pouch from a pocket in her skirt and handed it to him.

“You’ve kept me altogether in the dark concerning this affair, Tom— I haven’t the least idea what it’s all about, but I know that shooting film is only a detail. Here’s the thing you slipped into my hand— I’ve kept it out of sight, of course; but I think it’s time I knew what’s going on— don’t you?”

“Humph! I’ll show you, girl—in about half a minute! And you’re in on a good fat share of whatever we get out of it— don’t forget that! Look here!”

HE hurriedly dug the loose tobacco out of the pouch, pawed it apart with his fingers and brought to light a hard lump of something which had been in the center of it. This proved upon careful examination to be a slightly flattish, rounded pebble— an ordinary beach pebble, about the size of an English walnut, but flatter. Harway turned the pouch inside-out, pawed through every fiber of the tobacco, almost frantically, with the same net result—one beach-pebble. Miss Robertson had been watching his proceedings with intense though silent interest. After a moment or two she asked:

“Well? What’s the joke?”

“Something over a million dollars, girl —that’s all! Of course, I don’t figure we’d have taken in as much as that, but it would have run pretty close to half a million, unquestionably!”

“Well? Go on!”

“Soames had a ruby about this size which he picked up from the ground somewhere— probably the famous Glowing Ember, which was stolen from that American girl in Singapore sometime ago. Carrington was positive he had it— came down on the steamer with us to buy the stone. Told Soames it would be impossible to prove Miss Armitage’s ownership, and would have gone as high as half a million when he finally decided to sell. Garford undoubtedly suspected the Captain of having it— that was the reason he trailed along too, after getting us to make that picture which he calculated would scare the natives out of trying to get it.

“I picked up this pouch from the deck where Soames dropped it one day, coming down—felt the hard lump inside, and was sure it must be the ruby. The Captain admitted to us an hour ago that he had the jewel in this pouch all the time. The pouch hasn’t been out of your possession since I got it in that street mix-up. Of course you hadn’t the slightest idea what I wanted of the thing. And now—we find either that Soames is a damned sight smarter than we thought him and substituted this pebble after hiding the stone in some other place, or else the pouch was taken from his pocket by parties unknown, the pebble substituted, and then slipped back again. If I’ve sized up the Captain right, this last theory is the only possible one. And yet— I don’t know! He might have been foxy enough to make such a play! But I reckon there’s one thing sure— if Bill Garford had had any idea the ruby was on him instead of in the purser’s safe or sent by registered post, Soames would never have lived to see Rangoon! I kinda think Bucko Bill has been after the ruby for a long time— there was some talk of his being the one who took it from Miss Armitage at the Governor’s Ball in Singapore, but of course no proof whatever of such a supposition.”

“But look here, Tom! Where do you come in on this? What possible right had you to take the ruby from Captain Soames and try to sell it, as you were going to?”

“The same right as anyone else who gets on the track of one of the world’s great jewels and thinks it is in the possession of some other man who has at least no better right to it! Soames found it just by accident— never paid a penny for the thing, would have sold it eventually for whatever he could get, which was a lot! He might have thought of giving it to Miss Armitage— but he wouldn’t, in the end! Nobody would, considering the impossibility of proving it was hers. When one picks up a thing of this size, worth a million dollars or more— findings is keepings! Anybody would claim ownership of a thing like that if he thought he could get away with it! I’d do it myself in one holy minute! Nobody even suggests that either Miss Armitage or the Rajah of Mong Klang, who gave it to her, paid a single anna for the stone— so they’re certainly not out of pocket by its loss! They had it— and then it passed to some one else. Possibly twenty people have had it since! How would you prove ownership through a trail like that— a bloody one, you may be sure?”

“H-m-m— I suppose those arguments would satisfy almost anybody, Tom. They’re plausible enough. And yet it seems to me that they don’t quite do away with the fact that Miss Armitage remains the last undisputed, legal owner anyone knows about!' However—you didn’t get the stone, and you’ve no idea where it is: that lets you out, doesn’t it? Might as well forget the thing! What specially interests me just now is what you have in mind about getting pictures out here—  Whether you’re going to make some more until your cash is gone, or take the outfit home while you’ve got enough left for the transportation? How about it?”

“Except for something Captain Soames
had in mind, I’d take the next boat down to Singapore! That’s on the way home, at least—and we could decide, there, whether it might pay to shoot some local color in the Dutch Indies or not. I’ve not the faintest idea what Soames is chewing over, but he’s dining this evening with an old pal who’s a deputy commissioner out here, and it had something to do with what his friend told him. Soames asked me not to make definite plans until I talked with him in the morning, or late tonight. You have made a hit with him, Helen! Now that there’s no longer an object in it, I’m kinda sorry—he’s a rather decent young fellow, and I don’t believe you really want to marry him. Anyhow, it will do no harm to stick around until we hear what his scheme is.”

GARFORD and Carrington dined with them when they returned to Sarkie’s, but they saw nothing of the Captain until he came in about ten with his friend the deputy commissioner and a Captain Jim Medford— a rather famous character in the East whose yacht, the Bandarwallah, was then lying off Sarkie’s in the Rangoon River. After general introductions, Captain Medford suggested that Harway and Miss Robertson accompany Soames and his friend aboard the yacht for a late supper and a discussion of something which the deputy commissioner had suggested. As the party, after coming off in the launch, went below to the after-saloon, used by the Medfords as a living-room, they were met by the Captain’s wife and — somewhat to Soames’ confusion— Miss Grace Armitage, the much-talked-of former owner of the Glowing Ember. When the supper had proceeded as far as coffee and cigarettes, Captain Jim turned to Harway:

“I understand from Soames, Mr. Harway, that you formerly held a master’s ticket for sail and a mate’s for steam— also that you subsequently put in a few years with the Indian secret service before drifting into the movie-business. Am I right as to that?”

“Covers several years of my life, Cap’n. I reckon I know the seven seas and the underworld of India about equally well.”

“Never actually saw the inside of a harem or a zenana while you were in the service— did you?”

“No. I thought of risking it in women’s clothes once or twice, when the play
seemed to offer a chance— but the consequences would have gone far beyond me. Even the hint that such a thing had been done, gossiped about the bazaars, would have aroused so much feeling against the Government that we’d have had a jihad without much question. My chief warned me against anything of the sort. He was dead right, too!”

"Yes, I gues he was. But suppose you could shoot actual everyday life in a zenana? Would the film be of much real value to you?”

“By thunder, it ought to be! It’s something nobody has ever yet got! If it were really authentic, the producers ought to fall all over themselves bidding for it! And yet— I can see where it mightn’t turn out just that way. I’ve seen enough of native life under the surface to know that it’s not at all what Americans and Europeans think it is. Anyhow— well, if I ever get the chance to shoot anything like that. I’ll jump at it, whether it’s a paying investment or not! Why do you ask? Have you any scheme that would make such a proposition possible?”

“Why—I don’t know whether I have or not! But it just happens that a peculiar combination of circumstances might offer in opening. The case is like this: The old Rajah of Mong Klang, who was poisoned by one of his zenana women a few years ago, happened to be of mixed blood. His mother was a Hindu of the Brahmin religion, and his father was part Rajput also— unlike the Burmese all around them who, with the Shans, are four-fifths Buddhists. When the Rajah ascended the musnud, he paid frequent visits to his relatives in Benares— the holy Brahmin city. He was dead stuck on Hindu-Saracenic architecture, Brahmin manners and customs, Hindu ideas in regard to family life and the beauty of women. So when he built his new palace, it was a reproduction of one he had seen near Agra— and he set up a regular Hindu zenana as fully equipped with women as a Mohammedan harem and with about the same taste as to feminine looks. I heard of one Tamil, and a Siamese girl, but I don’t think there was a Burmese or a Shan in the lot.

“Well, he made Jardine, the American archaeologist, his heir— and about that time was poisoned off. They nearly got Jardine too, but he lived to come back, ascend the musnud and win Over the cordial liking of nearly the entire population. Naturally, he didn’t care about taking over the old Rajah’s zenana, so he pensioned off the women and lodged them comfortably in some of the neighboring villages. But the old zenana part of the palace has been left exactly as it was when they occupied it— simple enough matter to get them all back there temporarily and induce one of his tuans to impersonate the old Rajah. Being Buddhists, they would have no religious scruples, I think, and would keep their mouths shut, under his orders, if they even suspected what was being done. The women, of course, would do whatever Jardine ordered them to do— inasmuch as he has absolute power of life or death over everyone in his province. There would be, naturally, one stipulation if the Rajah consented to anything of the sort— you would have to bond yourself under penalty of imprisonment not to permit such a film to be shown anywhere in Asia, East Africa or the Malay Archipelago. As a former service man, you wouldn’t risk it, anyhow— in fact, that’s the consideration which induces me to offer my assistance in anything of the sort. You know enough of the danger to be mighty careful in keeping that film from being seen out here!”

The director whistled softly. “Cap’n, that’s a combination of circumstances that wouldn’t happen again in just this way for two or three hundred years, out here! You think the Rajah might be inclined to accommodate us that far?”

“I think he might do it as a favor to me and my wife if there were no other considerations; but it seems to me the idea will appeal to him professionally as something which ought to be done for its educational value if for no other reason.”

“Would you be willing to wire him— and ask— for me?”

“You evidently haven’t been that far back along the Shan border! Jardine is methodically putting Mong Klang on the map as fast as the many obstacles will permit, but there are neither railways nor other practical through-roads—no wires— can’t even get that far up the Salwin River except when it’s high during the rains, with a light-draft boat. Only way you could get there would be to hire something drawing less than five feet, big enough for your outfit to live on until you get back to Martaban. The Rajah has a powerful radio-installation—but you know as well as I do that it wont be safe to make any such proposition through the air when it would be picked up by half a dozen native operators at least l

“What I had in mind was this— if you and Miss Robertson appeared to be congenial folks, after we’d met: I’ve taken the Bandarwallah up there once, and am now going up again— we three are very much interested over the phenomenal way in which Jardine is developing his province. A good part of his population are Shans and Yunnan Chinese, who think him a bit supernatural and fairly worship the man for his exceptionally decent treatment of them. They keep so close a watch over him that none of the old conspirators— Kutyawlat’s crowd— have any chance for assassination, night or day. Now, we’ve room for you two and Captain Soames in the saloon—can rig up something like second-class accommodation for’ard for the rest of your outfit, so they needn’t mess with the crew. We’ll take you up to Mong Klang and back if you care to risk the possible, though not probable, casualties in a country that is not yet altogether civilized. Then, if you and the Rajah hit it off, it’ll be an interesting bit of work for us to watch. If you don’t, it’ll be simply that much of your time lost, with a pleasant trip thrown in. Of course, the rains will be getting worse before you’re through— but you’re all more or less acclimated, and we’ve plenty of quinine aboard. What do you say?”

“Hmph! To anyone in the movie-business, it’s a chance one simply can’t afford to lose! Aside from that, none of us get the opportunity for such a yacht-cruise often enough to feel in the least blase about it. Sure we’ll go—and thank you for the offer!”

A WEEK later the Bandarwallah anchored in midstream off the little teak-port of Mong-Sak, and Captain Medford telephoned the Rajah, in Klang-Ting, of their arrival. Before night Jardine had run down from his capital in a high-powered car over the splendid new road made for him through the jungle by his Shan coolies —and dined with them on board. When the coffee and cigars appeared, Captain Jim told the Rajah how Tom Harway and his movie-outfit happened to be stranded out India way and touched upon his few years with the Indian secret service after giving up the sea as a profession. Then, with anecdotes of his adventure in disguise among the Orientals, the subject of photographing zenana life from the inside came about quite naturally. The seven of them were in the after-saloon with the doors closed and a Chinese crew on deck, under the faithful Wun Hop, who could be trusted to see that no prowling stranger got aboard or was even in the water alongside. When Jardine grasped the idea, he saw that the opportunity for carrying it out in his capital was one not likely to occur again in a good many years—became interested.

“You know I’m professionally an archaeologist! That’s why your suggestion appeals to me as it would not to the average person. And being a good ‘still’ photographer myself, I’ve an exceptionally fine equipment for dark interior work—Cooper- ewitt mercury tubes, all that sort of thing! Used ’em in photographing underground chambers of the old temple I dug up-at Lungkor when I first came to this part of the country. As I get your idea, it’s entirely feasible, with a few changes I think it would be advisable to make—one of them being the proposition for a Burmese tuan to impersonate me in the zenana. First place, he wouldn’t know a tenth as much about actual living conditions in a Hindu zenana as I do—would queer himself and get the women scared into acting unnaturally right at the start. Of course I don’t propose to appear on the screen myself in such a way that I would be recognized, but fortunately I’m in position
to cover that point very nicely without any danger of detection.

“When I came up here to ascend the musnud, it was a question as to whether I might not have to beat it in disguise to get out alive— so I had a number of beards and wigs made for me by an old Dutchman in Batavia who is an artist in that sort of thing. Then when I occupied the old Rajah’s million-dollar palace at Klang-Ting, everybody naturally assumed that I would take over his zenana as well. The women expected it— were prepared to accept me, with mixed fear and satisfaction. The tuans assumed it as a matter of course— some of the women being supposed very handsome, having been imported from various parts of India and Persia by the old Rajah at considerable expense. Some of them had been seen outside the palace, but more had not.

“WELL, as an archaeologist, I jumped at the chance for inside dope just as Harway jumped at Cap’n Jim’s suggestion to come up here with his oufit. I took a chance of being poisoned— but my Chinese managed to protect me somehow. Putting on a darker wig and a Van Dyck beard, I went into the zenana and passively allowed the women to anything or everything they were accustomed to do. When they seemed to expect some action upon my part which I couldn’t guess, I put it up to them that my customs had been different from their customs— and graciously permitted them to educate me in the Hindu way. A good deal of it was pretty sordid,— you’ll find it so,— but I was so intensely interested in getting inside dope which no white man probably ever did get before, that I stood for pretty much everything—spent occasional hours in the zenana for a month. But I got it! By thunder, I got it! Then I scattered the entire zenana in villages where I could have them watched to see that they weren’t up to mischief. I can have every one of them back in forty-eight hours—and the whole province is so used to my unusual doings by this time that it wont even surprise ’em, much. I can go among them with the same wig and beard and turban, as if I’d seen ’em yesterday. None of them ever saw me outside the palace.”

“But how about shooting ’em with a movie-camera? Will they stand for that— and act natural?”

“Not if they know it, of course! Before getting the women back, I’ll have small holes cut through the walls of five or six rooms and the court where the zenana tank is, just big enough for you to shoot through—build closets with solid partitions on the other side of the walls, so that it’ll be impossible for anybody to see you at work. I know you can muffle the camera, because I’ve seen it done. In fact, the only point which bothers me about the whole proposition is how or where you’ll get the film developed, cut and patched. The nearest studios where they’d make a good job of it are at Singapore and Calcutta—both of which employ natives. It would be almost impossible to have the work done without some of them seeing it. Of course, I can develop small sections of film here with my ‘still’ outfit— but it would be an interminable job, with very irregular development— you’d get so much ‘cloud and sunlight’ alternating as the film ran off the reel that nobody could look at it for more than a minute or so. And we ought to see bits of what we’ve done before you leave, in order to know what sort of exposures we’re getting. I figure the light up here, in any open space clear of the jungle, is at least ten or fifteen per cent quicker— after a rain— than in either Calcutta or Singapore, where there’s more salt haze and soft-coal smoke.”

“I think we should be able to get around that without much difficulty, Your Highness.”

“Oh— cut that, Harway! We’re not ceremonious among white folks up here. My friends or guests are considered as belonging to the Raj, you know!”

“All right, Mr. Jardine— that’s something of a relief, because I’ve never traveled round much with ruling princes. Well, as I started to say, the man in charge of your radio outfit must be a corking good electrician, and one of my men is a first-class mechanic who has worked in a developing-plant for two or three years and knows every last detail of it. He can easily make a developing-trough with an electric-spark and shutter at one end for copying. The big drums for drying the film will be merely a carpenter’s job. I’ve at least thirty thousand feet of film— easy to start more coming up from Singapore if you think we’ll need it. Same way with chemicals— though I assume you must have practically enough in stock right here. If there were any quick way of getting the extra stuff we need, I should think we might be ready to shoot and develop in three weeks at the outside. You’d want at least that to get your rooms and closets ready, wouldn’t you?”

“Just about. As for getting stuff up here, I’ve got a six-hundred-ton powerboat with a very comfortable cabin— draws less than five feet, loaded, and makes twenty-five knots when there’s enough smooth water for her. At this season of the year, with the first-class navigator I’ve in charge of her, she’ll make the run from Mong-Sak to Martaban in two days and a half, allowing for all delays from bars and bends of the river. She’s gone from Martaban to Singapore inside of three days. Pretty good sea-boat too— rides on top of the water like a cork. By the way, I don’t know just what the effect will be, whether it might detract from the realism or not, but I think I’ll let all those women get a new outfit of clothes— start them on it at once. They were a shabby lot, last time I saw ’em.”

“Want Miss Robertson to help any in making suggestions about material—picturesque effect, all that sort of thing?”

‘‘Not on your life— with all due respect to Miss Robertson. You want the real thing, don’t you— the native taste in color and material just as it actually is? Some of it is pretty crude, of course— but we’re after realism, aren’t we? There are several shopkeepers from outside in the main bazaar at Klang-Ting; they knew about what would sell in this country when they fetched their stuff up here. No! I’ll give orders that the women are to buy anything that looks good to them for zenana wear. We’ll see what happens.”

WITH the settling down of the Bandarwallah party in the Rajah’s capital for a stay of several weeks, let us go back to Bill Garford— at “Sarkie’s” in Rangoon— after Harway and the others dropped down the river on the yacht. He had seen Miss Armitage ashore that morning with the Medfords, and had his' own reasons for keeping out of her way. Every time they had met, the deep-water adventurer figured that she had brought him bad luck, and he was sore enough anyhow over the Captain’s loss of the ruby. He had neither clue nor theory as to who might have stolen it— and was in a nasty mood when he drove a hired car around the Lake roads by himself to do a little quiet thinking. Just beyond the spot where Harway had examined Soames’ tobacco-pouch on the previous afternoon, the ex-shipmaster noticed something red among the bushes at the side of the road, and mechanically slowed down for a closer look. It was certainly a red-rubber pouch. Garford stopped his car and got down to pick the thing up. Apparently it was identical with Soames’ pouch. He emptied it— found the pebble rolled up inside the tobacco, just as Harway had disgustedly tossed the thing out of his car after showing it to Helen Robertson— and then he cursed for ten minutes, murderously:

“The damned innocent hound! Fooled the three of us without turning a hair! Rigged up this pouch with the pebble in It expecting, it.would be stolen! May have had the ruby loose in one of his pockets all the time— but probably didn’t! I’d say he sent it to Singapore in one of those registered packages. Unless? By thunder! I wonder if— He’d met Grace Armitage with the Medfords before he decided to go upcountry with them! Best chance in the world to get her description of the stone and return it, if he’s satisfied that she’s the owner! In that case— eh? The ruby must be on him— or where he can get it any time! Hell! That settles it! Me for Mong Klang! But how? Jardine’s people spotted me when I came down through Yunnan— had the French Government deport my whole outfit! H-m!”

Garford had let his beard grow while in Delhi. It now struck him that by dyeing it and his hair a few shades darker, it would make recognition very improbable— particularly if he altered the shape of his beard. After a good deal of figuring he finally chartered a good-sized light-draft river-boat with auxiliary motor and started up the Salwin as a wealthy teak-speculator — taking with him a secretary and a couple of Rangoon acquaintances who hoped there might be opportunity for big-game hunting.

BEFORE Garford reached Mong-Sak, having stopped at numerous villages along the river as a blind, practically all the preparations had been completed for shooting the zenana pictures, Pauline Medford and the two younger women being as thoroughly interested in the proposition as the men, watching every detail of the work and making an occasional good suggestion. The Rajah was talking one morning with Harway about making a start next day, when something occurred to him as having been overlooked, possibly, by the movie director.

“Look here, old man! The ladies have been following us around pretty closely, and they’ll keep doing it if we don’t flag ’em! You’re likely to get several hundred feet of film which simply can’t be shown on the screen— no audience would stand for it! Well— the women have got to be kept out of the palace while the shooting is done, out of the developing- and projecting-rooms until we’ve spotted all that sort of thing and cut it out of the film! You and I are pulling off this stunt for a purely scientific and educational purpose. In order to get the real everyday life as it is, we’ve got to keep shooting everything that happens, to be sure we don’t miss anything that can be shown—but from what I saw of the zenana that other time, some of this is likely to prove both raw and hectic! Get me? We’ll tip off Cap’n Jim on this point and make him responsible for keeping the white women somewhere else until we tackle street-scenes.”

AFTER the first week’s work, both Harway and the Rajah were convinced of its entire success. The shooting and the developing of the pictures had gone off wonderfully well and the film had been cut, patched and rigorously censored until both Harway and the Rajah considered it sufficiently unobjectionable to show the ladies— who were summoned into the projecting-room for a preliminary view.

As the picture was thrown upon the screen, both of the producers were busy jotting down memoranda as to one strip or another which they thought might be improved. Two or three times the film was run through the projecting-machine— and while the women studied the picture with absorbing interest, there was little comment from them until the lights were switched on again. Miss Armitage’s first remark indicated an obvious reservation of opinion, a sparring for time:

“You said, Raymond, that you were going to order new clothes for all those women?” As she had once saved his life on a “B. P.” steamer and they had been thrown together under very unusual circumstances, they were dispensing with formalities by this time.

“That’s exactly what I did— with some idea that it might work out this way in everyday life. None of them made up more than one or two suits— it seems to be their custom to put on new clothes and wear them right along— sleep in ’em part of the time— until they need or get another one. That high-caste Hindu girl Gul-Moti is the only one of the lot who made up four suits and alternates ’em on different days. Because of her caste, she’s probably the only one who would have been selected by any Rajah as principal wife— possibly Ranee— and she tries to live up to her caste, which is Rajput. The others all acknowledge it and defer to her. But concerning the clothes: as you see, it didn’t take more than a day or two of wear to give them the usual sloppy, tarnished look — which of course the Cooper-Hewitt tubes brought out a good deal more noticeably that they would have looked in the ordinary subdued light of the harem.”

“Well, I don’t think there’s any question but that you’ve made a picture which should interest every more or less educated man or woman in Europe or America. The making your zenana scenes merely part of the whole picture covering the daily phases of Oriental life gives them just their proper value and prevents their detracting from street and bazaar scenes with which the American public is somewhat familiar from the lectures of professional travelers. But the whole picture as you have built it up is vastly different from the usual conception of Oriental life among Americans and English!”

“Do you know why? It’s entirely the fault of slipshod illustrators who have not been sufficiently good craftsmen to present Orientals as they really are! The popular American conception of the Orient is based upon ‘The Arabian Nights’ and ‘The Rubaiyat’—with the many lovely illustrations our artists have given them. Had some one painted the Mesopotamians of Bagdad and the Persians of Ispahan from photographs of the genuine article, or as he actually found them on the spot, we wouldn’t so mistakenly have visualized these countries through a glamour of our own imagination based upon what we consider romantic and beautiful! Mind you, that glamour really does exist in the Orient for me,— for Harway too, I reckon,— because we see the age-old romance and mysticism behind it, because nothing can lessen or spoil the architecture and gardens and jungle, beautiful as a dream, in which all these teeming races of the East fit so perfectly. But I think any Caucasian must have a certain amount of education to appreciate them for what they are.”

“Well, as I said before, you men have produced a picture which ought to be shown in every civilized country because of its real educational value! It holds one’s interest— start to finish,”

DURING the weeks at Klang-Ting the three young women had become warm friends. In discussing the Glowing Ember, one day, Helen Robertson asked the American girl if there was any way by which she could positively identify the great ruby — and Grace described a scratch she had made with a diamond upon one of the lower girdle-facets. After that, to the amazement of the other two women, Miss Robertson drew from inside her waist the stone itself— saw at a glance the little scratch which had been described— and handed it over to its legal owner. She wouldn’t describe how it came into her possession, and made them promise never to tell anyone outside of their immediate families from whom Grace had obtained it.

The Bandarwallak party were lodged, of course, in the most comfortable suite of the palace— not far from that occupied by the Rajah, Billy Littleton and another white executive. About midnight of the following day, one of Jardine’s devoted Chinese rapped softly upon the door of his room, and in whispers described a supposed teak-speculator who had come up the river on his own boat and had been dickering with the Burmese Woon-gyre for a big shipment. The Chinese said word had come from the Coast that the man was Bucko Bill Garford in disguise— that he had gained access to the palace by climbing the marble pillars to the second-floor veranda, that Captain Soames had been found on his floor stabbed— though not fatally, as it proved— and that the adventurer was at that moment somewhere in the passages leading to the ladies’ apartments. Hastily buckling a holster under his coat, Jardine ran out through the smaller halls to Grace Armitage’s door, which he found had been forced open with a jimmy. Springing inside, he saw Garford holding the girl against the wall with one hand while he pressed the point of a knife just under her left breast— telling her quietly but in deadly earnest that she could give him the ruby or die, before he searched for it.

With a single long bound the Rajah was upon him— wrenching the knife from his hand and hauling him back away from the girl. But the deep-water Bucko had been in too many fights to be easily overpowered. Tripping Jardine with a backward kick, he brought them both heavily down upon the floor and twisted himself partly loose before they were up again.

What followed was the most silently terrible fight imaginable. Jardine’s knowledge of jujutsu presently gave him a slight advantage. His fingers were gripping the adventurer’s throat when one of Garford’s hands found the Rajah’s holster and pulled out his automatic. In another second he would have blazed into Jardine’s side had not the girl suddenly pulled back his arm with all her strength so that the muzzle was turned and the ball went crashing through the adventurer’s own body from side to side. He had barely the breath to gasp out: “You win, curse you, Jardine! You—win!” Then he sank down upon the floor and rolled over.

AS the girl crept into the Rajah’s arms — looking shudderingly down upon what had been at least a man who never knew fear or scruple— she pressed the Glowing Ember into his hand.

“Take it, Raymond! You only gave it to me for safe-keeping in the first place! If Captain Jim had never discovered what was inside, you would have some day offered to buy that cement-casting back from me! The ruby is home at last—the superstition has come true—and you are its proper owner!”

Kissing her tenderly, Jardine thought for a moment or so— turning the stone over in his fingers, watching the dull red glow of stored-up ligfit in it.

“Grace, how would you like to be Ranee of Mong Klang— live here two or three months of the year, help me put this province on the map and perhaps make it something of a health-resort, in time? Spend the rest of the year in Singapore— home in New York— anywhere you please. I’ll accompany you part of the time. The ruby, of course, goes back to you for keeps — you’ll wear it at my Durbars. Will  you, dear?”

Her reply was scarcely audible— but entirely satisfactory.

________________________________

Free Lances in Diplomacy

5: A Challenge to the Submarine

Clarence Herbert New

Blue Book, April 1922

IT makes considerable difference whether one is merely a celebrity or a really big man. The Earl and Countess of Dyvnaint had been for years personages of world-wide prominence—their doings being cabled as society-notes to leading papers in every country, their portraits reproduced as frequently, everywhere. After the relinquishment of their titles and retirement to private life, and after the month of widespread publicity resulting from this, it seemed to readers of the society news-columns as if the family had dropped completely out of sight and become declasse, as a certain minor part of the British aristocracy insisted and did their best to make an accomplished fact. But if they fancied they could send people of the Trevors’ caliber to Coventry, they simply didn’t realize the overwhelming popularity among all sorts and conditions of people which the Trevors had been accumulating for years in every part of the world. If readers of the society columns had taken the trouble to look through other pages of the same papers, they frequently would have come upon paragraphs relating to the activities of Mr. or Airs. George L. Trevor in educational work, newspapersyndicate matters, shipbuilding, development-operations in other countries, financing this or that industry. In another direction, some hint of the actual influence they had been constantly exerting, with no appearance of doing so, was given in remarks made by Lord Blemerstone at the reception and ball given by a certain popular duchess one evening.

“Confound it all! I miss the Trevors like the very deuce at affairs like this, you know! When they were in the peerage, they were courteous enough to show up at most affairs where the hostess had any decent right to expect them— even at frequent inconvenience to themselves. Knowin’ where one was likely to run across either or both of ’em, it was not so difficult, d’ye see, to ask a question about this or the other matter upon which, as it always turned out, they were unusually well informed. But it’s the deuce to get hold of either one, now, for a hint that one may need like the very devil! Telephone their Park Lane house— they’re in the Avenue de Neuilly, Paris, at the moment. Get their mansion over there on the long distance, an’ they’ve sailed from Brest on their yacht for some business conference at Naples or Cairo. Next thing you know, some one sees ’em down at Trevor Hall in Devon, workin’ out some invention in the shops an’ laboratory they have on the estate.”

“What has become of their son— who was formerly Viscount Dartmoor?”

“My word! The lad rather surprised a few of the rotters he used to go about with, last week— evidently you’ve not read the news-sheets, since! One night at the club some weeks ago he accused Captain Jevons-Mandeville of cheating at cards an’ rooking him, an’ the Captain said he’d publicly thrash him unless he apologized. Of course the boy couldn’t prove his accusation! Well, the Captain, carryin’ a heavy dog-whip, met young Trevor in front of the club last week an’ started to slash him. But the lad tore the whip out of his hand an’ lathered him until Jevons-Mandeville begged off— the Captain couldn’t get anywhere near him with his fists! Three nights later the boy’s father was asked to sit in at a game of cards when the Captain happened to be one of the party. After an hour or so of rather stiff play he reached over, ripped open the Captain’s waistcoat, showin’ a number of cards tucked up under it— then pulled several more from his left sleeve. The fellow left for the Continent next mornin’, an’ it’s not likely he’ll show his face in London again. As for young Trevor, he recently accepted a very flattering offer from the French Government to manage an experimental plant in the Aviation Corps, an’ is showin’ himself a bit of a genius at that sort of thing— has a lot of original an’ most excellent ideas.”

WHILE His Lordship and the Duchess talked, they were approached by one of the Cabinet Ministers, who stood just behind them for a moment or so before they noticed him—long enough to hear something of what they had been saying about the Trevors. Presently he joined in the conversation with a query:

“I wonder what Trevor would make of
the present njisunderstanding into which we are drifting with France—whether he really believes the Briand ministry likely to resign, and why they should do so? The Premier expects to cross the Channel by airplane in the morning for a conference with some of the important men over yon. It is possible that I may go with him.”

“I was told this morning that the Trevors are now in Paris—likely to be there for a fortni’t or more. Doubtless if you an’ the Premier happen to drop in at the Avenue de Neuilly house, you might at least get an expression of opinion.”

ON a certain evening in January the drawing-room of the Trevor mansion in Paris held a number of very well-known people— French and English statesmen, American bankers and commercial leaders, an Italian marquis, two divas from the Opera, a California beauty, the daughter of Trevor’s former mining-partner in the earlier days. During the evening two British statesmen, three Frenchmen and an American banker drew Trevor aside in a corner and tried to get an expression of opinion upon political affairs— with the result that all were rather hotly arguing their own theories before the conversation had gone very far. Presently Trevor said, rather impatiently:

“Gentlemen, it seems to me that you’re all of you right upon some points and surprisingly wrong upon others. Your eyes appear to be focused so closely upon immediate causes of dispute that I think you’re not getting the larger point of view at all, and you’re likely to come some frightful croppers if you don’t get it. I consider myself almost entirely upon the side-lines today, merely the occasional man in the street who does his own thinking— nine-tenths of them don’t, of course! But for just this once, I’d kinda like to sum up for you the whole situation as it looks to me! Suppose we slip off into my den and lock the door— eh? Let’s bring Marquis Frangini and our Belgian friend De Hugueson also— then we’ll have a fair representation of five countries at least. I’d like to have a Nipponese with us, but there doesn’t happen to be one in the house at present. Come along!”

The suggestion was attractive to all of them. Each had been secretly hoping to draw from Trevor some expression of opinion upon this or that vital topic— only to be played with by a master student of men, and made to exchange their own opinions instead. The justly famous cigars and vintage wines, usually to be had at Trevor’s, were in themselves no small inducement—and each man was in a mellow, receptive mood before their host commenced to talk.

‘TAKE this question of the proposed defensive alliance between England and France,” Trevor began. “France is demanding reparation in full from Germany according to the 'Versailles Treaty —England wishes a trade-alliance which will help to rehabilitate Germany, and is disposed to be more lenient as to reparations. It seems to me that France is clearly within her rights., If any nations are to be rehabilitated first, they should be certainly France, Belgium and Italy, who suffered most from the war, and who, when restored, are the strongest guarantors of peace in Europe. England seems willing to forget and forgive more from Germany, for the sake of trade, than I would be if I represented a nation in the same position. It is going to be hard for Germany to meet the indemnity payments? Well— possibly! But it doesn’t seem quite so hard for her to pour millions of investment into the rebuilding of her merchant-marine and manufacturing industries! Personally, I would rather see those millions go toward paying for the inexcusable ruin and damage she has caused.

“Also— I don’t altogether like to see factories in America and other countries shut down, throwing thousands out of employment, because they can’t compete with the mass of cheap German goods now flooding their markets! To go a little farther — England objects to France’s standing out for a large fleet of submarines. England is dead right— but she needn’t worry! The submarine, today, is as obsolete as the first-lass battleship! I’ll prove that, presently! But France’s insistence upon the point was unwise. Against whom does she propose to use those submarines? They were never anything but commerce-destroyers. Well? Who has the largest deep-water commerce? England, of course! Hence—a veiled threat against British commerce. But as a matter of fact, France had no such idea in mind. To suppose that, is to assume that she might declare war against England under certain conditions—which I regard as absolutely impossible!”

“Why so, Trevor? How do you reach that conclusion?”

“Let us suppose that Europe is a chessboard—with the pieces all set, the game in progress. If France declared war against England, Germany would only wait until the British army was mobilized, and the war irrevocably started, to declare war herself against France—pour division after division through Luxembourg and Alsace. Opportunity and self-interest would compel her to do this—and inside of a month she would have the backing of a strong pan-German federation of Central-European states. England would not desire her for an ally— would give much to prevent Germany from butting in— but she would be powerless to prevent it. The result, almost inevitably, would be the conquest and occupation of France.

“In the subsequent partitioning, England would get but a small share— lucky if she got Normandy and the Departments on the Channel. This would place Germany in possession of ample submarine-bases on the Atlantic, Bay of Biscay and North Sea— ready for the conquest of England, which would assuredly follow very shortly! England would be driven back from her French territory across the Channel; then, with the enemy to the east of her and an unfriendly, if not enemy state on her west, she would stand no chance whatever— no assistance could reach her. All of which demonstrates that for France to declare war against England would be literally committing suicide. All Frenchmen know this. None would dream of such action! On the other hand, it would be equally suicidal for England to declare war against France upon any pretext whatsoever—the final outcome would be exactly the same!”

“Suppose that the commercial alliance between England and Germany is ratified— and that Germany declares war against France?”

“England would at once join forces with France to oppose Germany, regardless of any trade relations— just as she did in 1914. It would be suicide for her not to do so. And if both nations appeared to be losing in such a war, the United States must inevitably come to their assistance as she did in ’17. France, Belgium and Holland are England’s buffer-states. Attack them, and you menace hert England and France stand in the same relation to America. Subjugate, occupy them by an enemy power—and it becomes a menace which the United States cannot permit. There need be no question of a defensive alliance between any of these countries— it isn’t in the least necessary. Whenever a menace arises which threatens to destroy and enslave them, one by one, self-preservation compels them to stand together as they did before! France, as the first point of attack, is fully justified in maintaining a large enough land force to check invasion at the start—get time for assistance to reach her.”

“HOW about naval disarmament—the A 4 submarine question?” inquired one of the party.

“The first-class battleship became obsolete off the Virginia capes last summer— when our Navy made the tests against the airplane attack,” replied Trevor quickly. “It was demonstrated, even then, that the most powerful battleship in the world could be disabled and sunk by bombing-’planes— which of course will be vastly developed before the next war. Cruisers of thirty knots or more, and destroyers, stood a chance— but not the battleship costing ten or fifteen millions. Every chancellery in the world saw and admitted this—each was but waiting for one of the others to suggest scrapping them. As the United States had made the tests, it was assumed the suggestion, logically, would come from her. You may remember that when it was made, at the Disarmament Conference, one of the delegates observed that ‘the secret had been marvelously kept!’—and that every one at the table laughed? The proposition had been discussed and tacitly decided months before. As for the submarine—all the talk of outlawing it by international agreement is merely childish! To suppress the submarine entirely, we should go back fifty-two years, when the idea was germinating in the brain of good old Jules Verne and sequestrate him in some impregnable retreat before the first copy of ‘Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas’ was printed or sold. Same thing with poison gas—you would have had to put in solitary confinement all the chemists experimenting along those lines before the formulae were figured out. Once weapons of that sort are successfully used in warfare, the next nation which finds itself fighting for existence— its back against the wall— will make use of them in sheer desperation, regardless of any previous agreement! Wars are not fought according to code; they are fought to win by the use of every possible weapon.

'No! The way to outlaw the submarine is the same old method adopted to make good Indians.’ Find the invincible answer to it— the defense and means of destruction which puts it out of business every time! We nearly got that far during the war—since then, I believe I’ve accomplished it. I mean to publish at once a wager of fifty thousand dollars that I will destroy any submarine which is in a certain specified area during two specified days, on the Western Ocean, six weeks from now. As for poison gas— the way to outlaw it is to find the sure defense against it! The remedy will be found— but once proved successful in actual war, you can’t outlaw it.”

“ARE you really in earnest, Trevor, about wagering to destroy any submarine meeting you in the Atlantic on a certain day? Do we understand that you propose risking your own life to carry out such an experiment?”

“That’s the only fair, sporting course, isn’t it? If I destroy the sub’, it’s extremely doubtful if any of her crew get to the surface alive. She’s privileged to shell or torpedo me in any ship or small-boat where I happen to be.”

“But— where will you get any submarine crew willing to accept such a risk? You figure that one of the governments will offer the sub’ for such a test, of course?”

“On the contrary! I don’t think any Government will consider itself justified in risking men’s lives to that extent. No! I expect my wager to be taken up by some syndicate who will offer a sufficiently high bonus to each man of the crew to make it an inducement— running to four or five times the amount of my wager. And the sub’ will be a German U-boat!”

“Oh, but that’s impossible, Trevor! Germany has no submarines— isn’t building any!”

“I didn’t say that Germany had! But I’ve a strong impression that far more up-to-date sub’s than anything we’ve yet seen are under construction somewhere in the world—planned by men with Teutonic names, paid for with money which was originally marks. I would almost say that I could locate the shipyard within a hundred miles or so, in some little known and otherwise uninhabited spot. You see, all Germans believe in the submarine as a weapon in war—believe there is practically no limit to its possibilities. It is to disprove that theory and possibly smoke out these powerful new undersea cruisers that I’m making this wager. I claim that the means of defense against the U-boat have more than kept pace with the craft itself— and will increase to a point where every man sailing in one of them goes to his death.”

Probably not more than one or two of the group of men who talked with Trevor that night really believed that he would actually make such a wager as he mentioned and seriously consider handling the experiment in person. Two of the Frenchmen did believe it— but they were men of imagination. The thing appealed to them as it would not have done to men of any other race—particularly the sporting chance which Trevor himself was willing to accept. The man had so very much to lose, if wiped out— was of such great economic value in the world. On the other hand, if he proved his contention, it would go far toward rendering a service to humanity which no international outlawing agreement could possibly do. One point he had asked them to consider strictly confidential—he requested that no word should be permitted to leak out as to where he expected the submarine to come from or the individuals who might possibly take up his wager.

AT the end of the week advertisements appeared in twenty leading newspapers of Europe and were cabled as news items by press syndicates all over the world. In them Trevor stated that on February 27th and 28th, he would be within the sixty-mile square-degree bounded by forty-two and forty-three west longitude—thirty-four and thirty-five north latitude—with two airplanes and one merchant-steamer of different type from anything seen before— and that he would destroy any submarine within that area at that time, or be destroyed with his ’planes and ship by the submarine. To back up this challenge,' he had deposited with Messrs. Brown, Shipley & Co. of London, the sum of fifty thousand dollars, gold, against an equal amount to be deposited by anyone accepting the wager. Proof must be given that submarine, airplanes and merchant-steamer were within the described area at the specified time— and the submarine was privileged to attack any ’plane or craft of novel type found there. As the designated spot was considerably off from any of the regular ocean lanes of travel, there was practically no risk of any other craft being sunk. Either of the three types of combatants was privileged to be escorted by other vessels to within a sixty-mile radius of the fighting area. Surrender of any combatant in token of defeat was barred— the test being designed to be a conclusive one beyond any possible dispute.

THIS challenge naturally became a topic of absorbing interest in both hemispheres. Wagers were freely offered, and taken, that Trevor’s bet could not be accepted by any Government and would not by any private individuals— that an advocate of the sub’ would appear and succeed in sinking Trevor’s ship at least, if not his ’planes as well— that Trevor would make good his challenge and destroy the sub’. But there were not so many who cared to back the last possibility. Trevor might win, of course— but the general opinion seemed to be that he could only do so by a fluke—that the chances were somewhat against him.

The advertisements were not three days old when a party of six men gathered in an upper room of a certain house not far from the Luxembourg. Two were Berliners, one an American from New York, of unmistakable Teutonic birth, one a Swiss socialist who had managed to be returned to the French Chamber from one of the southern Departments, and two others who. might have been Spanish or South American. The talk switched from German into English or Spanish, back and forth, Ss one or another wished to make his point clear to those of other nationalities. Ungelmann appeared to be the leading spirit—with the New Yorker Loebling a close second. One would have said they might be officers in mufti giving orders to subalterns and noncoms, by the deference paid them. But Ribiera, who might have been Portuguese or Czechoslovak by his general appearance, regardless of name, showed a little more independence than those of German birth, venturing a statement now and then which attempts at browbeating would not make him change. It was he, presently, who brought the talk to a focus.

“We might as well come to some definite understanding, Herr Ungelmann! From what you’ve been saying, I infer that Schminnez, in Hamburg, and the others in Charlottenberg, have practically decided upon accepting this Trevor challenge. Would you mind saying why they would do so? It brings out into the open some things which it seems to me would be safer to keep secret for at least two or three years more. What do we gain by it?”

“This, my friend! Chermany cannot afford at this time to let an impression grow t’at t’e submarine iss no longer thoroughly effective as a commerce-destroyer. It iss t’e question of morale more t’an anyt’ing else! The sub’ hass been a thing of horror, dread; people fear it whenefer t’ere iss bossibility that it may pe used. Anot’er t’ing! Since t’e war, it iss assumed that Chermany hass not a single submarine. None iss being constructed in Cherman yards—we are too busy wit’ t’e merchant-marine. It iss assumed t’at we cannot build sub’s undt practice crews for t’em without t’e fact being known by ot’er gofernments. We iss subbosed to be a defeated nation w’ich cannot pay t’e piper mit indemnity installments.

“BUT subbose, now, t’e impression goes about that we couldt put our handts upon a hundert of t’e latest up-to-date submarines, any minute we feel like it? T’ere iss no law at bresent against priwate syndicates building sub’s for commercial purposes if t’ey choose —undt conducting der experiments until t’ey haf new type of craft w’ich can remain under water longer, cruise farther, go deeper, t’an any pefore. Not’ing to hinder t’em from having shipyards in some isolated spot w’ich nopody knows anyt’ing apout or efen suspects. If t’ere wass war, t’ere iss not’ing to prewent t’ose syndicate’ from selling t’ose submarine’ to any belligerent t’ey choose! Eh? Now, as I say, if t’e impression get aroundt t’at t’ere iss so many improved submarines like t’ose alreadty built, it shakes der morale of eferybody who travels der sea—t’ey do not know if perhaps war might get declared while t’ey iss on der ocean. T’ey find out t’at it iss easier to talk apout outlawing der submarine than it iss to do it! So, if Chermany was to make war again,—quick, sometime,—she wouldt not be considered so tamn weak as she iss subbosed to be now! Well, if we let t’at challenge go mitout noticing, we spoil all der terrorizing effect. People t’ink no submarine dare fight a duel like t’at, pecause it wass sure to get licked. Me—an’ you—we know tamn well t’at she wouldt not get licked! We know we win t’at fifty t’ousand. Of course it will cost us mebbe a quarter or half a million dollars in getting readty an’ in bonuses for to make der crew take der risk—but we’ll get der crew an’ pay der cost inside of t’at, all right. An’ t’e effect iss worth it!”

“Would you be willing to cruise on that submarine yourself, Ungelmann?”

“Me? For why shouldt I do that? T’at iss for der common cattle to risk— der underlings whose lifes iss worth mebbe a few t’ousands! Me —I am worth much more! I couldt not be wasted in such foolishness like t’at if anything go wrong!

“Trevor seems willing to risk a chance!”

“T’at iss pecause— mit an ot’erwise fairly good headt in gommercial affairs— he iss in some spots a tamn fool. T’at iss like a young boy making a dare at anot’er boy— grown-up men learn better. Der boy, he like to make war spectacular—charge at t’e headt of t’e regiment— wave t’e sword, w’ich iss now obsolete— undt lose der fight! But war iss not der spectacle— it iss exact science when played to win in t’e t’orough Cherman way. Der general, he does not ride in der front line no more. Not so— he sits five hundert miles behindt der lines in der study-chamber of der general staff— mit der maps, telegraphs und telephones. He iss not wasted against t’e pawns in t’e game. Loebling, what you t’ink about this man, Trevor, anyhow? Wass he goot for much—or chust nutty like people used to say sometimes?”

“I think you have all misunderstood the man over here—taken it for granted that he was merely a sport-loving British peer with no head for politics, as everyone said. A daring aviator and a first-class navigator —but merely for the sport of the thing! I’m betting that he and that handsome wife of his have been far more active in secret diplomacy for the last fifteen years than any of you even dream, over here. I’ve dropped a hint before that he’d bear watching—but everyone in Berlin simply laughed at me! Why, look here, to mention but one instance: Have you heard that Trevor flew, during the war, from his yacht in the Aegean— then a scout-cruiser of the British Navy— across the mountains to Sofia in Bulgaria—a flight which nobody had dared attempt before? And that he went from Sofia to Bucharest in disguise? And that within three days after his arrival there, your carefully planned coup was thwarted, in such a way that Roumania immediately declared war and joined the Entente? Some of the Austrian staff have picked up bits of circumstantial evidence which fit in and leave no doubt as to any of this!”

“So! Well, der Austrian, he beliefs any-t’ing! He iss not t’orough—like Chermans. I nefer heard t’at story pefore— undt I say it iss tamn nonsense! Trevor may be a big man in some respects— but he wass no diplomat! T’at’s sure!”

“Oh, say, Ungelmann— you give me a pain sometimes! There are smart men outside of Germany! Mebbe you’ft-wake up to the fact, some day. But let’s can all that and get down to tacks! You say the higher-ups have decided to accept this challenge? If it were not for what I’ve heard and think about Trevor, I’d say it was a wise move! You wont have as much of a walk-over as you think—but if you sink his boat, the general effect will certainly score for Germany! Let’s get down to details! What sort of a boat has he got? Where is it being built? What could you do toward destroying it before the craft can leave the yards? How do you propose to keep track of him during the next six or seven weeks? What plan have you in mind for the fight?”

UNGELMANN turned to the other Berliner.

“T’at iss in your department, Mueller! We will now haf your report, if you blease.”

“Ja, mein Herr. But if I read you a list of all the enterprises in which Trevor is interested, you will find it most difficult to pick out the ones which would tell us what we want to know. So I will mention only what I have studied out concerning him. He receives dividend-checks from the Manners & Compton Shipbuilding & Engineering Works on the Clyde, the Glenvillers Steamship Lines of London and South Shields, and the Abberwyllith Ship-building Company of Bristol. I assume that he is a director in all these companies, but am not sure. His daughter is a director in the Arkwright Shipping & Trading Co. of Liverpool and Hongkong. I have here a list of all steamers and other craft building or in operation by each of these companies—and as you will observe, there is no craft of unusual type in the list. Of course some of the hulls building or recently launched may have some unusual superstructure added to them before they are sent to sea, but there is nothing to indicate anything of the sort as yet—no preparations being made in the yards, no craft designed to make above eighteen or twenty knots, as far as study of their hulls and engine-space would indicate. The new submarines, as I understand, have a cruising speed of twenty-four knots on the surface, and sixteen submerged. Presumably Trevor must have discounted that probability and allowed for it. As for destroying any craft of his before it leaves the yards, it could scarcely be done in such a way as to appear accidental. You would forfeit the wager, and it would be said everywhere that you were afraid to meet his test at sea—that you admitted defeat for the submarine right at the start!”

“T’at iss brobably true. But your report haf not helped us much! We do nodt yet know where his craft iss puilding nor what he iss like. Nein! Undt we must know! Undoubtedly he builds der boat like our syndicate, in some out-of-der-way blace—so nopody shouldt know. Well— t’at cannot pe helped until we track t’e man when he goes for a look at him.”

“And that’s not so easy either. Formerly you might recognize this man a block away, because he was so much photographed by the papers. Now—you could not pick him out of the crowd unless you had seen him every day recently.”

HERE Loebling cut in with another of his practical questions:

“If you can learn anything about his craft, of course you’ll do it! But it’s quite possible you may not be able to do so, any more than he will be able to locate our submarine yard. In that case, what’s your idea as to the fight?”

“Well, if we haf Trevor disappear, take der forced wacation in some ole Cherman castle for a year, he couldn’t keep no appointment in der ocean. Oder —if we find what port t’at ship of his sail from, we might sink him before he get to t’e place, when he wass nodt expecting anyt’ing.”

“Oh-h-h—get your damned methodical mind down to a peace basis, Ungelmann! This isn’t war-time! This proposition is a sporting duel—to be fought in a way that is fair to both sides! You can’t use war methods! Consider! The men who deposit our share of the wager with those London bankers must have the sworn recommendation of some responsible banking house as to their being men of character and business reputation! You can’t deposit that money in the names of any dummies! Trevor issues his challenge in a thoroughly open and honorable way. Everybody knows him—knows his reputation for sporting honor and square dealing. And he doesn’t propose risking his life or wager against anybody who can’t be subsequently held accountable in the same way! You can’t make a move against him or his craft until you get inside that square degree on the North Atlantic— and you’ve got to prove that your sub’ was within a sixty-mile radius at the time!”

“We couldt figure der longitude from Berlin like as on der Cherman maps, or from Ferro, like der Austrians, couldn’t we? Undt say we wass on der spot, all right!”

“Yes—if you’ve nothing better to do with your time! From Berlin, forty-two degrees west would put you just beyond Madeira, in the regular lane of the South American liners. Forty-two west of Ferro would put you over within a few miles of Bermuda— another regular ocean lane! Trevor knew what he was about when he quite obviously figured Greenwich Longitude— none but a fool could question the spot!”

“Well, we gotta haf some adwantage— just to cover der margin of bad luck undt accident! We could haf free submarines on der spot, couldn’t we? If nopody couldt prove fere wass t’at many around.”

“H-m-m— yes, I think that might work. There’s no stipulation against it in the wager— in fact, I’ve been rather surprised at the omission. Presumably, Trevor’s new type of ship is to carry his seaplanes on deck until near the spot— that’s the inference, anyhow. I suppose he would be within his rights if he had them carried to the sixty-mile radius by some ‘mother’ or supply-ship— but I’ll bet five to one that he wouldn’t consider that fair sport! Yes, it shouldn’t be difficult to get three sub’s out there without any two of them being seen near enough to check up and be discovered. Technically you could do it openly, as far as the wager is worded. But it would be bad policy for us— to admit that it took three sub’s to sink one cargo-boat and escape two seaplanes! That would practically prove Trevor’s contention— that the sub’, on even terms, is obsolete.

“Do you know, I can’t help having the feeling that we’re up against a stiffer proposition than it looks on the surface! Of course, luck will count for something on either side, but Trevor is not counting on luck. He thinks that he and his craft are a match for any submarine afloat, thinks there are possibly half a dozen effective means of defense against it. If this is really so, it will immensely strengthen the defensive power of eyery nation having a large merchant-marine. I think, if it can be done, we've simply got to beat him in this duel—because if we don’t, it’s going to remove a great deal of the present dread every nation has of the sub’ as a weapon in warfare! But—by accepting the challenge, we risk doing exactly that in a way that leaves no room for argument!”

THERE is little question that if Trevor had misjudged the sort of minds he would probably find pitted against him, and had the foresight so to word his challenge as to leave very little chance for underhand advantage, he would have disappeared for an indefinite time before the appointed date. And if it had been humanly possible to men of their mental caliber, the secret agents of a certain junta in Europe would have discovered the yard where his ship was under construction, and she never would have reached deep water. But knowing exactly what he had to deal with, he had—after some hours of study covering all the possibilities—so worded his challenge that any attempt at evasion or foul play would have been considered by the world at large a definite admission that his contention against the submarine was a proved fact. Consequently he went about his daily affairs quite openly, with no attempt at disguise or mysterious disappearance on his own account. He was reported at various meetings in English and French cities— up to within three weeks of the ocean duel.

At that time he and his wife boarded their famous yacht, the Ranee Sylvia, at Plymouth, and sailed for the Mediterranean, as it was reported. Upon the second day following, the yacht gave her name by flags and radio to the Lloyd’s station at Gibraltar, while passing through the Straits—and this news was duly wired to all newspapers which printed shipping notices. But that night, which happened to be pitch dark and squally, the Ranee passed out through the Straits again, heading west-south-west. At the end of the week she was off the east coast of St. Lucia, in the West Indies.

Waiting until after dark before steaming
in sight of land, she was, by midnight, off a small landlocked cove leased by the Government as practice-ground for its mosquito-fleet and subleased— without the fact being made public— to a certain shipbuilding syndicate, which, it was understood, was conducting an extended series of experiments there. When the Ranee’s launch put Trevor ashore, he was a bearded man in rather slouchy tweeds and soft hat who bore no resemblance whatever to the famous personage whose career had been society news for so many years. And the Nan Trevor who accompanied him in an aviator’s suit would not have been recognized by anyone who knew her. When the launch returned, the Ranee headed about and put to sea again, steering east-north-east.

IT has been understood for some years that Castries or some other port in St. Lucia has been strongly fortified and equipped by the British Government as one of the finest naval bases in the world. Whether this is altogether true or not, there are certain military areas on the island which nobody is permitted to enter, photograph or examine with a telescope from any overlooking height. The little cove on the east coast had been more or less subject to these restrictions until the inhabitants of the island had come to accept the spot as taboo and make no attempt to investigate it. As for outsiders— the one or two secret-agents who did any exploring with Castries as a base found the cove apparently unguarded, with no regular fortifications or other objects of interest to them in evidence, but were conscious of having been under espionage until they sailed for some other place. So the little cove was down in the secret reports of other nations as negligible, and no further attention had been paid to it since the war ended. With the subletting to the shipbuilding company, however, there had been various changes made. Several heavy copper wires charged with a current of high voltage had been run up the hills back of the cove at either side, around every point of vantage from which the proceedings below could be seen. Natives and white residents received warning that the wires were there,— with current enough to kill an ox if they were touched,— so there was a total lack of interest in what was supposed to be Government operations. On the ocean side, a narrow peninsula thickly covered with trees prevented any view of what went on at the head of the cove.

In a comfortable bungalow a hundred feet above sea-level Donald MacBirnie, a naval engineer with an already brilliant record, was smoking a reflective pipe as he played chess with his foreman when the Trevors stepped upon the veranda. They had been stopped by various sentries who didn’t recognize them, but had furnished a satisfactory password and climbed the hill. Neither the engineer nor his foreman could place them for the moment, until Trevor laughed and made a remark indicating knowledge of what was going on in the cove which none but the mastermind would have had, and they marveled at the perfection of the disguise.

“Well, Mac! You and Felton have had some idea all along what sort of craft you were building, but my challenge in the papers a few weeks ago told you the whole story, of course. Now— how soon will the Turtle be ready to sail?”

“Without the superstructure, she can leave here in the morning, sir. We’ve had it all bolted on,— the rubber packing fastened to the edges of the plates, an’ all that,— so that it’s a matter of less than a day to ship it on, at sea. But I understood that you didn’t wish to clear from any port with it?”

“Right! The steel framing above the deck gives her a sort of bird-cage look which of course will arouse comment, but it’s likely to pass for a new system of bracing for hoisting out cargo, I think. It’s very doubtful if anyone gets a mental picture of how she looks with all the hood in place. How about your submersion?”

“Well—of course we’ve to allow for a slight margin of error when she’s loaded, sir. But with tanks empty, I figure her Plimsoll about two feet six below her deck-level. With tanks full, the deck is three feet under water, aft, an’ six inches for’ard. Have you fixed a cargo anywhere near by?”

“I could fill her with coffee at Maracaibo or rosin and turpentine at Fernandina, but I don’t dare risk the port delays. So I’ve taken about three-quarters of a load in cocoa and rum from Castries on the other side of the island. We can load that in two or three days at the outside, with no delays to speak of— Government will push things for us. Could get a full cargo of sugar, as it happens, but with a new boat like this, we’re likely to get a good bit of leakage, and once I was on a boat with fluid sugar in her hold. That was plenty! She turned turtle— just seven of us got out of that scrape, on a life-raft! We’ll go around to Port Castries tomorrow and load, then come back here for a few days of practice in shipping the seaplanes. You’ve dummy bulwarks, I suppose?”

"Aye. The posts fit into sockets along the scupper-line. When everything’s bolted snug, you wouldn’t notice that the bulwarks an’ gunwale are detachable or that the ship is designed to be partly submersible. At sea, of course, we remove the bulwarks an’ bolt in the usual low rail of iron rods— enough to keep loose stuff from washing overboard, but offering no resistance to the water we ship.”

BY next afternoon the Turtle was in Castries harbor, loading cocoa. Her low
freeboard, increased by the false bulwarks, was common enough to excite no remark. The squat-looking deck-house and short funnel were also of a type quite frequently seen. The framing of steel girders with perforated webbing which arched over the midship section was certainly a novelty, but as tackle was made fast to it over all four hatches, to lower cargo into the holds, it was generally supposed that half a dozen other hatches could be opened up in the deck-plating, making one continuous slit through which extra long cases of machinery might be lowered. In fact, while this framing was different from anything seen before, not a single person on the island happened to think of connecting the craft with Trevor’s challenge to the submarine. The newspapers reported him on his yacht, somewhere in the Mediterranean or Black Sea— presumably superintending the finishing of his mysterious boat. The Turtle — at a small, not very much frequented port in the West Indies— was loading an honest-to-goodness cargo for London in a perfectly commonplace way, had no appearance of being the sort of craft which might be used against a submarine. She had left the little cove before daylight— and she returned to it one night after dark with her cargo aboard.

Five days later, after undergoing almost every conceivable test of submersion and speed, shipping and unshipping two other funnels between the steel bulkheads of her supposed deck-house, she stole away at midnight with two large bombing sea-planes lashed to the flat portions of her forward and after decks beyond the birdcage framing. Sailing over the warm southern course to the Azores, there was pleasant weather and very little rough water—but in the single taste she had of a blow, for about ten hours, she proved herself a phenomenal sea-boat.

On the second day out from St. Lucia, she was spoken by three different cargo boats of as many nationalities, giving her name, ports of departure and destination, but no other details. It fulfilled all the requirements of the wager for her to be sighted and reported by name. The three trustworthy press-syndicate men whom Trevor had brought across with him on the yacht would begin sending out their radio dispatches as soon as they were permitted to. Later on, the Turtle’s position upon every mile of her course would be clearly shown—and it was no part of Trevor’s scheme to be definitely spotted in time to have an amBuscade arranged before he could look the ground over.

In due time the Turtle entered the sixty-mile zone surrounding the dueling rendezvous—and a most amazing transformation took place. Sheets of cast steel, molded to represent the surface, coloring and shape of a good-sized ocean wave, were bolted securely to the bird-cage framing— the joints rendered water-tight by strips of rubber packing. When all these plates were in place, the three funnels were completely masked by the crest of the steel wave— nothing but a few slim rods, invisible at two hundred feet, appearing above it to carry the radio-aerials. Then the two big ’planes were tuned up and their lashings cast off. They were built to rest safely enough upon the water when not flying, and Trevor had tested out a practical method of slinging both ammunition and gas aboard, along trolley-ropes, when ’planes and ship were more than a hundred feet apart.

AS they were nearing the rendezvous,— before Trevor and his wife got into their respective ’planes, to remain until after the fight,—MacBirnie, who never once thought of the risk he ran in seeing the adventure through, asked if his chief had any idea from which direction the submarine was likely to approach. Trevor and the handsome Nan both laughed.

“I might say ‘east, south and west,’ Mac! Those fellows will never risk it with a single sub’—that’s why I didn’t specify the number in my challenge. It increases the risk for us, of course—but it settles the point more unquestionably if we sink all three as I mean to do jf we pull through! Now, I may be wrong, but I expect those sub’s from the general direction of Magellan Straits—for reasons of my own. With my yacht last seen in the Mediterranean, they’ll be looking for us along the east side of the square—and I figure that they’ll be lying about twenty miles apart along there tomorrow night. The 27th begins at midnight of the 26th—so that it is entirely permissible for me to go for them at night from that moment. There’s no moon, fortunately, and the barometer indicates a general thickening up of the weather, though I doubt if we get rain—so that they wont see us in the air until we turn on a searchlight. We’ll keep pretty close to you—cruise along the southern edge of the square—then up the east side. Keep within radio-telephone reach. With the submarine-telephone-detectors on the outside of the Turtle’s hull, it will be possible to hear their screws if they’re in motion— and not expecting us from this direction, they’ll probably take your screw-beats for one of the other sub’s.”

THE events of the following night will become a part of world history when the revised editions are written. Trevor’s method of airplane attack was by utilizing the angle of light from a powerful searchlight-beam under water. That is, the leading ’plane, flying low, directed the beam of light astern of her at an angle of forty-five degrees— and the following ’plane, far enough in the rear to get the angle of reflection under water, was able to see quite easily the hull of any submarine within sixty or seventy feet of the surface as the light passed behind it. MacBirnie reported a sound of screws, east of them, at one in the morning— kept the ’planes informed as the sound grew louder until, without showing a light at all until practically over it, Nan Trevor caught the first sub’ on the surface charging her batteries and blew it to fragments with the second bomb. Although they searched the water for half an hour— saw a lot of oil and debris— no living man came to the surface for them to rescue.

Two hours later the searchlight beam spotted another submarine about five fathoms below the surface. Its commander recognized the light as some form of attack and tried to dive deeper—but by circling, they kept the dark mass in sight long enough to drop four depth-bombs over it. Again a mass of debris and oil came bubbling up—but no living men.

JUST after sunrise a third submarine was traveling at a leisurely clip on the surface, ready to submerge at a moment’s warning. As far as her commander could see with his prism-binoculars, there were no airplanes in sight, nor any sort of craft on the surface. He had been trying to communicate with the other two U-boats, but strangely, could get no signals under water or radio on the surface— just silence, though by tuning down to shorter wavelengths, he learned that a dozen cargo-boat captains had come several miles out of their way hoping to catch a glimpse of the fight. His five-inch rifles were housed, as he expected to dive at any moment. His torpedoes were in their tubes, but pointed forward and aft— he would have had to turn in order to use them. Presently his glance rested idly upon a wave shorter than the others and moving in a different direction— within three hundred feet of him. Though a somewhat mechanical, theatrical-appearing wave, it closely resembled those surrounding it except that it was smaller. There was neither hull, deck, nor funnel in sight above water— looked just like the top half of a wave.

Before he could puzzle out the phenomenon or imagine it had anything to do with a ship, a couple of square openings suddenly appeared in the side of the wave, with the grim muzzles of six-inch rifles in their centers. There was a terrific concussion. A couple of projectiles tore away half the side of his craft. It went down in less than two minutes, leaving six men struggling for their lives in the water— not expecting any rescue nor seeing where it might come from. But a ships cutter was launched in a few moments, picked five of them up and put them aboard a strange craft which had been running with storage batteries and showing not a wisp of smoke— nothing but a steel hood which looked like a wave at a short distance.

The decks were gradually rising above water from the buoyancy obtained by pumping out the tanks, as they stepped on board.

Long before the Turtle warped into the big Albert Dock to discharge her cargo like any other honest freighter, the sworn statements of the rescued men were taken down and radiographed around the world. Newspapers everywhere appeared on the streets with six-column heads:

TREVOR WINS!

DESTROYS THREE

SUBMARINES!

_________________________________

6: The Wireless Death

C. S. Raymond

1875-1950

World's News (Sydney) 6 Feb 1909

I.—The Man With the Little Black Pipe.

IN the early morning, the crowds which spent most of the night at the bulletin hoard were gathering again. At no time had the place been entirely deserted. Several men fryd never been out of eyesight of the bulletins.

One of them, a shock-headed youth in overalls and wearing the cap of a Government electrician, sat on the stone curbing by the entrance to the power station, smoking a small black pipe, seemingly more occupied with meditation than observation.

Most of the men who now were gathering about the board were coal miners on their way to the shafts. Here and there were electricians.

The vastness of the power station from which they had come was no more than suggested from where the crowd stood, the buildings being partially hidden in a grove of trees.

The groups of miners and electricians were almost silent. They seemed to have exhausted comment and surmise, and to be waiting for the tangible to take the place of conjecture.

In Washington the Federal news editor apparently had worn out himself and his staff in keeping up a detailed account of the all-night session of Congress.

As daylight came the service wobbled, and what had been a connected, well-sustained story of Congressional proceedings had slumped to a series of jerky bulletins, of which the last had come half an hour before, reading:—

"Williams still has the floor. He is making no headway against the majority. War seems inevitable."

To the men starting for the shafts this carried no news which they had not known before they had gone away, a few hours earlier, to get such sleep and rest as they could.

While they stood watching another bulletin came:—

"Congress has taken an hour's recess for breakfast. No action."

The coal miners in the crowds read this, and then started for work. Soon there were left only a few scattered groups; but the shock-headed electrician still sat on the curb and smoked his black pipe.

A speck developed In the eastern sky and grew nearer, enlarging rapidly. Then the Washington mail came into sight, and landed at the aeroplane station near the entrance to the power station.

A mail clerk came down the elevator after the mail Backs had been thrown into the chute. He was questioned eagerly by the men still standing about the bulletin hoard, hut had nothing of news later than that which the bulletins had given them.

As he stood talking another message was flashed on the hoard:—

"Williams says that opposition to the majority will cease. War will be declared before night."

At that the shock-headed youth arose suddenly from the curbstone and walked rapidly through the gates and on into the grounds of the power station.

The Susquehanna coal and power district, supplying not only Washington, but New York, with electric power for all purposes of light, heat, and power, was the largest of the Government power areas into which the country was divided. Its coal mines were of the greatest extent, its power station gigantic, and its employees an army.

The shock-headed electrician kept his rapid stride through the grounds until he came to a one-storey brick building marked, over the doorway, with the word "Administration." It was surrounded by beds of sweet peas, which a gardener then was watering.

The young man went up the gravelled walk withoL. looking to right or left, pushed open the door, went the length of the inner hall, turned to the right, and knocked at a closed door.

A middle-aged, grey-haired, spectacled man sat at a desk in the centre of the room. He did not look up until the young electrician was standing beside his desk. Then' he glanced at him sidewise inquiringly.

"Mr. Shod," said the younger man, "I want a two-weeks' leave of absence."

The elder then looked squarely at him, but did not reply, merely brushing back his hair in an abstracted, preoccupied manner. The young man waited for an answer without repeating his petition.

"Go back to work," said Shod, finally, seeming to dismiss the request as preposterous. He had started to speak calmly, but his manner changed, and he brought his fist down on the desk as he added sharply:—

"Atsins, you make me think you crazy. Haven't you read the bulletins? Look here. A message from the chief. 'We expect you to run double capacity from the instant war is declared.' Leave of absence! Man, go back to work!"

Atsins grew confused and awkwardly abashed; but he persisted, nevertheless, urging great necessity.

"If you even ask again," cried Shod, becoming thoroughly angry, "I'll have you locked up for attempted desertion."

He wheeled around in his chair, and busied himself with the wires leading off the keyboard on his desk. Atsins hesitated an instant, and then suddenly lost his awkwardness and became alert.

He bent over his senior, and spoke rapidly, energetically, and sharply. He drew from the inner pocket of his blouse a print, and spread it before Shod.

The anger of the older man gave way to astonishment. He was held spellbound by the younger's vehement explanation, until Atsins ceased talking, folded up his print, returned it to his pocket, and stood waiting.

Shod contemplated him silently for several moments. Then he said:—

"You have a chance. It is too great a chance to lose. It might be our salvation. I'll in form the chief."

He reached over toward the keyboard; but Atsins put out a restraining hand and held him, shaking his head in vigorous protest.

"Well, I guess you are right there, too," the older man said; "do as you think best."

Atsins turned away instantly, and again with rapid stride went through the grounds. On looking at bis watch he broke into a run, heading for the aeroplane station. By quick sprinting he reached the lift just as it was making its last trip up to connect with the fast Washington mail ship. It touched as he came out ou the platform, and he was aboard just in time.

II.—Looking Across An Ocean.

IN THE early history of the nation there had been a much-applauded maxim—"In time of peace, prepare for war." The people had never deviated from their policy of applauding and ignoring this wisdom of one of their earliest statesmen.

The nation had never lost its complacency. It had never succeeded in disillusioning itself. It imagined itself peaceful. In reality, it was quickest to resent an injury, fancied or real, surest to raise a popular demand for war and least prepared to carry it on.

With the self-deceiving theory that they were not a militant people, they had continued to delude themselves in the belief that war for them was next to impossible. Their history, a record of conflicts made costly because undertaken without preparation, did not serve to destroy this illusion. It was a part of the national life.

Now popular outcry was forcing another war. At any moment, Congress, which had been in the throes of debate for three days, might open hostilities with a declaration.

Across the Atlantic, as the military men of the nation knew, a martial people were holding themselves in restraint, confident in their ability founded on thorough preparation. The nation in general knew this, but it allowed itself no thought of the inevitable product of incompetence urged into action by rashness.

In all this unprepared country, no one appredated the impending danger as did Montrus, the unfortunate Commander-in-Chief of the small military forces.

He had been Dean of the Department of Electricity in the National University, when transferred to the military service, having, prior to this, been an instructor in one of the national military schools.

In appearance he was scholastic, his figure spare and bent, his hair and eyes grey, and his face thin-jowled.

He was alone in his office, looking out of a window across the Potomac— the only inactive figure in the War Department— when one of his aides entered the room.

"Curts has been located," said the aide. "He is at Kiel. We got his signal, followed by some code which is being transcribed."

Another aide came in.

"Curts says he is effectually hidden, and can send electrographs if we can take them."

"Where is he?" asked Montrus eagerly.

"He says he is out of the path of their scouts, and thinks he is safely posted. He must be above them."

"Can you reach him?"

"We have, but he warns us not to try often. I suppose his position is precarious at best."

"Tell him to send what he can," answered Montrus. "I'll go into the tower to take it."

A hundred yards further up the Potomac stood a gigantic tower, the exact longitude and latitude of which was burned in the memory of every operative in the secret service. To this Montrus and his aides hastened, being carried directly to the summit by a lift.

While the aides adjusted the films and reflector of the electro-photographer Montrus stood at the railing looking out over the peaceful river scene and drumming his fingers on the wooden bars.

"I think it is coming," said one of the aides finally; and the General stepped over to adjust about his head the hood which shut all light from the eyes looking at the reflector.

At first this remained in black and inkydarkness. Then came little waves of dim light which rippled across its surface. These ripples became stronger, and indistinct shapes, unrecognisable and mystic, seemed to rise out of its depths. They cleared away, and there grew up in their place forms of a city's roofs and towers. which stood revealed in distinct outlines for a moment and then seemed to drop further and further down into the reflector. White, fleecy clouds came between the eye and the city's roofs, the latter growing less and less distinct.

There was a sweep of a dark object athwart the clouds. It crossed the entire reflector, and blotted it out in blackness again, but light followed almost instantly.

Again nothing but the white clouds, but finally a far-off flock of specks, which came nearer and nearer until they stood out each distinctly and separately, clear-cut in outline and identity. There they stood.

Montrus almost held his breath as he ran his eyes over them. For ten minutes he studied. Then he drew the hood from his head, and looked out over the river-scene again.

"A hundred, I should say," he remarked at last, quietly, but in great bitterness. "Every one ready. In twenty-four hours from the time those awful fools in Congress declare war those; hundred torpedo ships will be here. Tell Curts we've seen enough."

With that he went back to his office, and in moodiness took his post by the window againNothing he could plan could avert the calamityhe had seen in readiness. Presently one of the aides came in again.

"A Government electrician is outside,".he announced. "He insists on seeing you. We have done everything to get rid of him but throw him off the grounds."

The man stopped and waited expectantly.

"Tell him " said Montrus angrily, hut stopped. "Let him In," he concluded, sullenly.

The aide went out, and came hack with the shock-headed electrician who had spent the night before by the bulletin board. His embarrassment was great, but his earnestness equalled it. The former showed in his awkward posture and twitching fingers; the latter in the direct look with which he sought the general's eyes.

"Well," exclaimed Montrus, sharply.

"I have a concentrator— I want you to look at it— I thought "

He began excitedly, and ended brokenly in the face of a cold stare from Montrus.

"Here it is," he concluded, unfolding the prints.

Montrus cast one careless and a second interested glance at the plans. He drew up a chair and studied them, the moodiness giving way to keen appreciation. Then he pushed them away.

"You seem to have something," he said. "Some other time, If there's anything left of this country, some other time I'll look at them. But not now, I can't now."

"But you don't understand," exclaimed Atsins, quickly and vehemently. "Now's the time. Don't you see? That will direct 1,000,000 volts— 2,000,000 volts— accurately, to any distance, at any object! Man! if it works— if it will do it! Don't you see?"

Montrus stared at the shock-headed boy in a daze.

Atsins held himself in check and leaned forward.

"Will the ships at Kiel ever leave their moorings if it works?" he asked, drawing in his breath sharply.

The two men looked at each other; and, as Montrus stared he saw also in his mental vision those hundred dark shapes on the face of the reflector.

Then he pressed a series of buttons on his desk, and men entered from different floors.

"Take this young man, Mr.—"

"Not a name," said Atsins. "Just an idea."

"Take this !dea," continued Montrus, speaking rapidly, "to sending station 10, the largest. Let him direct any changes he desires. Tell Susquehanna to give us ten times the usual power from now until notified otherwise."

The men started to obey, and Atsins to follow his guides, when Montrus stepped to him, holding out his hands.

"I hope you succeed," he said.

"I— I can't fail," stammered the young man.

III.—At the Eleventh Hour.

TO THE surprise of the nation Congress held hack during the day, a narrow fringe of Conservative members standing between the country and war. The news service, which had picked up again, and was voluminous and detailed once more, still carried the prediction that war was inevitable and could be only delayed.

Meanwhile, the stolid hopelessness at the War Department, which had blanketed even the energetic efforts of department chiefs to do the best they could at the eleventh hour, had given way to a feverish activity, extending even to departments unaware of the purpose.

Atsins had taken a fast express ship back to Susquehanna, returning at top speed with the concentrator, the plans of which he had shown Shod and Montrus, and which, many months before, he had constructed.

Shod had his orders regarding power, orders which carried a significance to him, but to none other at the power station.

At No. 10 sending station, Atsins, with an army of electricians and mechanics under him, worked at nerve-racking speed during the day. Montrus, possessed by a devil of impatience, foreboding, and fear, could not contain himself either in the office or at the station.

The work progressed; the concentrator went into place; reinforcement was added to every detail of the station; its capacity was increased to the limits of possibility.

Night bad come and was advancing. Still Congress held to its weary debate. Ten o'clock came, and Atsins sought Montrua, finding him nervously pacing back and forth in his office. The young electrician was calm and charged with quiet confidence.

"If we can get their location, tMey will not leave," he said. "Maybe you cannot furnish it?"

"We can if we can get Curts again," said Montrus. "What if we can't?"

"Then we shall have to take them when we get it," replied Atsins. "It would be safer to get them before they start."

"Try for Curts again," ordered the general, turning to the aide in the room.

They waited for an answer, which came back presently. The operator at the sending station No. 5 reported that his efforts were not successful, and he advised against many repetitions.

"It endangers him," he said. "He will report when he can."

With nothing to do but wait, in nervous tension, they saw the hours mount to twelve. Then came a bulletin from Congress. The vote was about to be taken.

Of the result there could be no doubt, and there was none in the minds of the men sitting in the office. There had been none from the start; and yet, now that the moment had come, they looked at each other, pale-faced and heavyeyed.

"Come outside," said Montrus to Atsins. "We'll feel better in the open."

Before they could step out of the door a messenger came in.

"Curts reports," he said. "The fleet has left Kiel. He will send location."

"Tell Curts," said Montrus, speaking lowvoiced, "that the outcome of this war depends on him. We want the location. We must have it. If he can send electrographs, send them; but first the location."

With Atsins, he walked out into the night. The sky was black. The air waa heavy and wet. A gentle drizzle was starting.

The two men took a few deep breaths, and then turned to each other. Neither spoke, but each held out bis hands. One close grasp, and they parted, Atains for the sending station, Montrus for the tower.

When the latter stepped off the lift at the top, he found two assistants busy with the reflector. Far away in the drizzle were the lights of Washington and the Capitol.

The general glanced at the bulletin, but it told him nothing new. The roll-call was being delayed by members, who insisted on explaining their votes, notwithstanding that they and the others had reached the limits of human endurance.

He glanced at the other board, which would give him in duplicate any word that might come from Curts. It was blank; but as he looked it flashed out with:—

"52.30.17 N., 53.34.9 E."

"We've got it," he almost gasped; and then he turned to the assistants, jerking out his commands:—

"Ready there. We ought to get something from Curts in a moment. Het me know when it starts. Tell the Capitol we must have instant
notice of the declaration."

At another televue he got Atsins at sending station No. 10.

There also they had a duplicate of the longitude and latitude of the hostile fleet,

"Ready?" asked the General.

"Ready," said the electrician.

IV.—In the Twinkling of An Eye

Montrus enveloped his head in the hood at the reflector— hardly a necessity, so black was the night.

Across the Atlantic day had broken, and Curts had the light he needed in his electrophotography and transmission. Somewhere above the hostile fleet, Montrus knew, the scout hung precariously in a position to send not only information, but a continuous reflection of the movements of the airships.

He might be discovered, but that was the hazard of his occupation. If he were well concealed by distance, and out of the path of the enemy's scouts, he would win out. If otherwise, he at least had done his duty to the best of his ability.

With one finger on a button which would give the signal to Atsins, the General waited word from the Capitol.

Sixty seconds after the vote had been taken, and war declared, the world would know it. The hostile fleet would know it almost as soon as Montrus. It was in the arrogance of superior force that the enemy had waited the formal beginning of hostilities.

Ripples of light were chasing each other again across the reflector; shadowy forms appeared and disappeared in vapors and fogs. Then came an outline, growing more distinct, and presently he had the picture again. Outside the hood was the black, drizzling night; inside, the face of the reflector was glowing with a picture of clouds lighted by the early rays of the sun and of a fleet of airships languidly floating at rest.

Montrus could see the flags floating from the ships, could see their torpedo-tubes and the graceful movement of one here and there as it changed position slightly.

One of the assistants at his side stooped over and shouted at him through the hood:—

"Here's the flash. War's declared!"

The General twitched with suppressed excitement. For a moment longer he watched the picture in the reflector. Then he saw that the fleet had the news. Across the Atlantic the instantaneous service had carried the declaration of war.

Far below him was the chief city of his nation, now subdued in the knowledge that it and the nation had been brought to the final test. In the sending-station was the man on whom his nation's hopes depended. He slowly pressed the button.

In the reflector he saw the enemy's squadron move. He knew that it had been in readiness to start, and on the instant receipt of the tidings was setting forth. If it.cande unmolested, as it had every right to expect it would, there could be but one result to his nation.

It seemed an eternity of time as he watched the reflector.

Suddenly one of the ships disappeared in a blotch which sent confused shadows over the reflector. Montrus trembed in his excitement.

The picture grew clear for an instant. Then another blurr—a quick succession of blurrs, between which he could see nothing.

He grew dizzy, and held tightly to the supports of the reflector to steady himself. Hi# unblinking eyes were so held by the grim, silent chaos of destruction portrayed before hinx that the seeing faculty seemed a thing apart from him, and separated completely by his dazed condition.

The tumultuous heaving and blurring on the reflector cleared away. It revealed a torn and shattered fleet— two-thirds of the ships vanished completely, others beating feebly and in their last efforts, others slowly sinking through the air, a few trying to escape from an unseen terror.

General Montrus, veteran though he was, shuddered at the horror of the sight. Unseen, unheard, softly through the thick darkness, the wireless death had swept that proud aerial fleet out of existence in one tense instant.

And Atsins, the shock-headed youth, was the destroyer, sitting calmly up there in the sending-station, with one soiled hand on the lever of his great concentrator. It was he who had utilised the means formerly used to send messages, to hear intelligence across boundless areas, which, increased a hundred-thbusand-fold in voltage, controlled, concentrated, and directed, had carried also absolute destruction.

Still breathing heavily, Montrus threw off the hood, coming back to the utter blackness and the drizzle of the Washington night.

A bulletin was flashed on the board which carried the duplicates from Curts.

"Fleet gone— Vanished in convulsion— Pictures actual and accurate— Disturbance not caused by defects, but by destruction of fleet— Can't explain it, but we are saved!"

Montrus turned the wireiess televue on to the sending-station, and saw Atsins sitting quietly on a box in one corner of the little room, his shock of blonde hair badly rumpled, a smile on his freckled face.

"Atsins"— the Commander-in-Chief was trying hard to control his voice— "Atsins! You have saved us! It is all over! Their fleet is annihilated!"

It seemed to the old soldier, veteran of a dozen campaigns, absurdly impossible that the safety of a great nation should have been put into the hands of that grimy boy in his blue overalls.

"It worked all right, didn't it?" Atsins answered, calmly.

"Come over here," Montrus went on. "Hurry and come. To-morrow Congress'll be giving you a vote of thanks; you'll be a bigger man than old Dewey ever was."

A troubled frown came on Atsins's face.

"Cut that rot out, please," he said. "I'm going back to work. I've just thought of a big improvement on my concentrator. Good-night!"

___________________

7: Old City of Jade

Thomas H. Knight

1892-1949

Weird Tales, Oct 1931

WE WERE in a beastly tight corner, a hopeless half-dozen of us flat on our faces in a shellhole, cut off, barraged, cold meat, about at the end of things, when I first met Cedric Lawrence Baxter.

I call it a shellhole, though really it was a crater into which a truck could duck and hide; but at that, not so deep that at any moment it could not be plowed and spattered a little deeper by one of the mortar bombs the Germans were so generously tossing at us.

I was a First Looey in those piping days of hate, and had been ordered out with a double handful of men to see what could be done about a few vicious machine-gun nests which were holding up, it seemed, the entire Allied armies. My men had dropped before those devilish guns like a pitiful swath of unripe grain tossed into the flicking knives of a giant reaper. Checked and beaten from our purpose, only six of us reached the doubtful haven of that shellhole. Every German gun in the country began potting us, which was the only objection we had to our habitating the crater.

It was a rather strategic position. From its vantage point we were able— when we could get in a shot— to tumble a gunner across his hot-barreled gun in nice fashion, and that was the very thing for which we had been ordered out.

Then some of the more ambitious Heinies climbed trees to get the odds of altitude against our sharpshooting, but that did not last long. At sniping, two— in fact six of us—could play, and we did. We dumped them out of their branches like lead-stuffed crows.

But it couldn’t last long. All they had to do was to land one cannon-cracker in among us and— yes, we had reason to believe we were at the end of things all right.

"You guys can stay here an’ wait to get all scattered around if you want to!” shouted Runt Ford with a blistering oath. "I’m goin’!” And before we could stop him he had gone over the rim of the crater in a last mad run. Not away from the enemy though! With fixed bayonet, a fixed expression on his face, a fixed purpose in his heart, he went at them!

Runt took perhaps three steps. A hail of metal twanged the air above our ears, over our crater; then the heavy whine of it stopped, waiting for the next enmaddened one of us to make the break.

But before any more of us decided upon a last rush across the machine-gun punctured spaces, our side reached up its sleeve and played an unexpected ace in the shape of a begoggled laddie flying a reckless Spad.

That chap showed the German marksmen to just what an art machine-gunnery could be developed. His Spad roared and plunged and twisted and dove and came and went, its twin guns all the while spurting a spray of death. By the time he had played his hand and had shot the obstinate nests empty of active members, we—the five of the shellhole—had taken advantage of the interruption and had tumbled into our own trenches.

But the lad of the flaming Vickers paid for his timely temerity. Some of those flying bullets had clipped him. He came down on edge; landed on his nose. We, staring wide-eyed, saw the dark smudge of smoke puff from the wreck; saw the merciless lick of the flame; saw his body dangling from the cockpit. Helpless and trapped, he and his wreck at once became the target of various scattered weapons.

So the five of the shellhole, backed by the full rifle-power of the whole trench, sallied forth again. We jerked him out of his sizzling coffin, and while the lead whistled its song about our ears and flaked up little puffs of dust at our feet, he came in to safety on my back.

Then we went out in force and took the trench the Spad had cleared of guns for us; and kept going, taking more trenches and more ground until our little sortie became a successful, big onward "push." And it all started with the reckless devil from the skies who popped in just in time to root out the nests and make the sacrifice play that allowed five desperate runners to make home.

THUS I met Cedric— a name that does not altogether typify a hombre who can shoot the eyelashes off an enemy while dropping out of the skies on the end of a wing— and we became fast friends. But we actually saw little of each other until we were home again.

And then, because I had a deep feeling for the long, unhandsome flyer who had saved me from playing a harp before I was ready, and because, I suppose, he had a soft spot for the soldier on whose back he had traversed a certain wicked stretch of France, we kept in touch with each other. But little did I guess that some day he would lead me into as eerie an experience, as strange, as almost unbelievable an adventure as any man ever experienced.

After the war I followed Cedric’s peacetime flying triumphs with a great deal of pleasure. Often he would drop in to explain some new gadget to make his plane do this or that, or to talk over his next cross-country flight. When he flew across the top of South America, the first to do it, in splendid time, I was particularly proud.

"Cede, old boy,” I congratulated him when next he popped in, "you’ve got Lindy spliced to the mast now, haven’t you? Sure was a dandy flight. Thrown away your old hats?”

"Not from what you mean, Soldier,” he answered, addressing me as he always did. "But my head’s swelled all right from plans I have in it. And you, my boy, are in on ’em. Put your feet up on the table and I’ll tell you about it.”

"All right, shoot!” I agreed. And I heard about it; and in the hearing of it let myself in for the experience I consider the queerest, the most fantastic a man ever went into.

"When I left Quito, Ecuador, to fly over that South American wilderness,” explained Cedric, his pipe going like a blast furnace, "I came, after about six hours, to the Orinoco. That shining river was a fine guide over the thick sea of waving trees and jungle, and for a while I followed it. Then I left it to cut across lots, and after a bit— I know I can find it again—I saw something I’m willing to bet eyes haven’t looked on for— well, however long it is since that pre-historic civilization faded away.”

"What was it?” I asked, at once interested.

"I passed over a deep, wide gulley,” went on Cedric, "and about the middle of it, on the top of a cone-like hill, I saw a shining greenish square of something. I couldn’t tell what it was. It seemed to be of about three or four acres.

"I circled over it and saw then that in the bottom of that valley was a town laid out in regular squares about the size of our city blocks, but I couldn’t determine anything further. I couldn’t get close enough. I couldn’t, Soldier, get into the valley.

"All the air around there was clear, but the air in that valley was transparent to the point that the little town looked as though it were set in a spotless block of clear, clear crystal. And when I gave it another look I decided, Soldier me boy, that the green square on the top of the hill was a water-tank or reservoir.”

“Why couldn’t you find out?” I broke in. "What do you mean—you couldn’t get into the valley?”

"Just exactly that. There’s no air in that hollow. Or perhaps I should say the air’s not right. The moment I dropped in below the level of the sides of the valley, it became hard breathing. The deeper I went the harder it got. I had to get out. It was just the same as trying for altitude without oxygen.”

"Well, what are you going to do about it?” I asked.

"A-h-h!” smiled Cedric, puffing great clouds from his pipe. "A timely question, my sharpshooter. I’m going to look into that valley. Pop in and pay that town a call. There’s not supposed to be such high-grade civilization as that down there, but any village that sports a reservoir or a swimming-tank like that should be worth looking into. And, Soldier, you shall go with me.”

"Oh, I shall, shall I? Suppose I—”

"Listen. I have new style oxygen masks I was about ready to offer the government. We’ll try ’em out. A mask a lot like the old army style with a small, easily carried tank of concentrated breath to go on your back. We’ll drop into that valley and—”

"But— but— are there places to land? Isn’t it all jungle?” I stalled.

"All around, yes. But in the valley there are fields.”

"But why pick on me? You need another pilot. Or a navigator. I don’t know a propeller from a tail spin. Get yourself an archeologist, a scientific dude—”

"Listen, Soldier. The malamute who goes with me slings a gat on each hip, a machine-gun on his back, and he knows how to use ’em. You’re elected. I’ll take one of your learned bozos next time, after you and I’ve shot up the town if that seems the right and proper thing to do. Who knows what we’ll run into? I want some one along who can put a bullet twixt the peepers of those saber-toothed tigers we might find.”

So about three weeks later I was seeing the top of South America from the enclosed cockpit of a fleet, sturdy plane, looking down upon those oceans and oceans of heavy jungle, and deciding that a forced landing would carry all the earmarks of being "just too bad.” I was somewhat relieved to remember I had left my affairs at home in good shape.

Nor had Cedric forgotten the machine-gun he had threatened would be on my back. I chaffed him quite a bit about that unnecessary weight sticking out on the bow of our ship, but, like a schoolboy with a tin sword at his side hoping to find Indians or pirates or something up the next alley, the long awkward skybird only smiled and said it was there if we needed it, which we might. Before many hours would pass I was to be glad my staunch friend had played the boy and brought it along

WE REACHED the Orinoco toward the end of that first day out from Quito, and as the shades of night came upon us rested on its broad surface at the foot of a high tapering cliff that pierced into the heavens like a great finger. Among other things Cedric’s plane was shod with a wheel-pontoon landing combination that here proved his ingenuity along these lines.

"Here’s where we leave the river in the morning,” Cedric had said as he sweetly put her down, "and cut due east for about two hundred miles. Then we’ll keep our eyes peeled.”

It was after about two hours flying next morning that, following Cedric’s pointing finger, I looked down to see a great deep valley, in the center of which gleamed the greenish square of the reservoir. My heart was pumping hard within me as I made out down beyond the shining surface of the water a little symmetrical town. When Cedric pointed the nose of our brave ship, The Hummingbird, down into that valley of mystery, every fiber of my being responded to the excitement of the moment.

I felt a tickling in my throat, a shortness of breath, but I was too excited to give much thought to it until Cedric pointed to the masks hanging in readiness before us. Then I knew that he, too, was feeling the rarity of the atmosphere.

I opened the little cabin door and leaned out to watch that square come glimmering up to us, and almost watched too long. For, as I then hurriedly donned my mask, I was gasping for breath, almost suffocated. As Cedric had said, there was no air in that valley. Not breathable air, at least. I turned the oxygen into my mask through the tap on my shoulder and drank deeply of it.

My pilot companion skimmed the top of the green surface. Then he shouted, his words echoing my decision: "It’s not water. Solid. Looks like ice. A transparent rock. Or marble.”

"Can you land on it?” I wanted to know, shouting back. "Only looks like about a hundred feet across. Look, Cede!” I cried, excitement taking me as we swept on and over the town. "It’s made of the same stuff. See how it sparkles. Cede! We’re unearthing something, all right! This place is inhabited. It’s in up-to-the-minute preservation. Can you put her down on that small surface?”

I could see that Cedric shared my excitement. His hands gripped the wheel of the plane until the knuckles of his hands stood out in tight whiteness. Then my eyes turned again to the snug little town, a town of almost fairy beauty. The buildings, or homes, or whatever they were, appeared to be of only one story, low and squat, but the town was laid out in squares very much the size of our city blocks; the streets were clean.

"Must be sleeping or hiding,” I shouted to Cedric as he swung again toward the square hill-top. "Think you can land?”

He paid no attention to me; so I took the hint and sat silent while my comrade, who certainly knew his joy-sticks, put our big crate safely down on that tricky landing-place. Almost stalling, almost pancaking, he managed to maintain just enough glide to put his wheels down on the near edge of the surface we had once believed was green water. We rolled along. The other edge and the immediate drop beyond came toward us quickly. Cedric ruddered his plane into a half-circle, thus gaining distance in which to stop, and on the opposite edge, the very edge, we came to rest.

"Whew!” our expressions through the glass of our masks said to each other. "Gosh! Close enough!”

He stopped his engine, and the sudden quieting of humming motor and singing wires and struts in the strange peace of that weird valley seemed doubly quiet. Then we turned our ship to be in readiness for a possible hurried take-off, and set our faces toward the long flight of green steps that led to the hushed city below. Silently we gazed into the valley; then, our hands instinctively settling upon the pistols at our hips, we faced each other.

It was mighty queer. Mighty queer. Why did we see no sign of life? No movement? Why hadn’t some one heard us? Why weren’t the streets already crowded with curious, staring natives of some race or another, instead of this strange, empty stillness?

"Soldier, my son,” said Cedric, talking plainly but quietly through his mask, "something wrong here. Have they all fled? Did we scare ’em that much? Are they hiding from us— or for us? What do you say?”

"I say let’s find out,” I replied. "Pump a shell into your chambers. Cede, and let’s go. I wouldn’t miss the rest of this for anything on earth or anywhere else.”

Without a word, Cedric started to descend the steps. I followed, my holster flaps open, my fingers ready to find my pistol butts.

IT was a long way down, but after a while, treading cautiously we were upon their streets, my own heart the noisiest thing I could hear. At once we could see that everything was in splendid preservation, seeming to be neither very old nor weather-worn. And yet there was still no sign of life.

But what a veritable fairy town we were in! Marble I had at first believed it all to be, but now I decided it was jade, all of that same greenish hue. The little houses— huts almost— all a-glitter beneath the sun. Then we turned the first comer into another street— and stopped dead in our tracks!

For there upon that street was life! There, before us, to be faced, to be dealt with, were natives. Either friend or foe they were, the important thing we must at once, and perhaps all too soon, find out.

Down the street a little, in the shade of the houses on our side, lay a native, a golden-bronzed Indian, fast asleep, a gaudy blanket across his chest. Half-way down the block, flat on his side enjoying the sun, lay a dog. On the opposite side, his head deep in the great basket of fruit against which he lolled as he sat, slept another native. Above and behind him, perched on a ledge over a door, I saw a great gorgeous parrot.

"Sleepy lot,” muttered Cedric. "Must be siesta-ing. The watchdogs down here don’t watch, do they? But we gotta wake ’em. Gotta find out things.”

So like a pair of schoolboys out on a prank, we crowded behind the corner of a house as Cedric uttered a medium-sized "Hey!" Then another, a little larger "Hey!”

But neither dog nor parrot nor man ruffled a hair, waved a feather or flicked an eye. Cedric and I looked at each other. Through the mask I could see his wondering face. Mine, I know, was questioning, wondering. It felt white and bloodless. We were anxious, eager, excited. And in addition, some other feeling was beginning to grip us.

We shouted together then, each ready to bolt furiously if our voices brought too abrupt a response, but the sleepers slept on. We made ourselves conspicuous on the street then, our pistols in our hands. Cedric raised his weapon, and though I feared the sound of its fierce crash in that death-like quiet, I feared the sticky silence about me more.

The pistol roared, the echoes pounded back and forth across the street, but the four before us refused to hear.

"They’re dead,” I whispered, a light sweat on my brow. "They’re dead. This is a city of the dead! Something’s happened!”

"You’re darn tootin’, somethin’s happened,” laughed Cedric somewhat strangely. "However did you figure that out?” Then, quickly overcoming our little case of nerves, we started toward the man nearest us.

Cautiously we went, suspecting trickery, our pistols in readiness. As Cedric at last went down on a knee beside the native, I, remembering what I’d heard of these fellows and watching for a sudden jerking-forth of a short spear or a poison blow-pipe, stood close guard, my pistol ready to beat him to the kill.

"Dead!” said Cedric, straightening up.

"Dead?”

"Yes. Dead. Don’t you see, Soldier? No oxygen in the valley; all wiped out. It’s only our masks that let us live.”

"Yes,” I agreed, "but it couldn’t have, happened more than a few days ago.” Then with a new, important thought striking me, "Cede, how long will our tanks last?”

"Hours. Come on. Let’s see it all.”

CEDRIC started on, but I, curious, perhaps morbid, knelt by the sleeper. I put my hand on his bronzed arm and jumped hastily back.

"Cede! Look here! Feel!” I commanded through the glass of my mask. I placed Cedric’s fingers upon the silent one’s arm, and saw him try to indent the flesh. I saw his fingers— as I had felt mine—fruitlessly endeavor to make a depression in the iron-like flesh.

"Cede, we’re dreaming. We’re both crazy,’’ I said excitedly, "or else nicely fooled. This isn’t a man. This is an image. A painted iron or stone image.”

"Not on your life! This is deeper than you and I imagine,” argued Cedric. "He’s real, but this atmosphere has done something to him. Preserved him wonderfully. When we go we’ll take him along. Some one who understands these things ought to look into—”

"Cede!” I gasped. "Perhaps— perhaps— why of course, he’s been that way a long time. Years! Hundreds!”

"Yes, by gum! Thousands! Heck, man! This sorta gets under your hide. Come on.”

We paused as we passed those little houses to gaze inside, but we saw nothing more startling than a few lolling figures until we were half-way down the street.

And then in a dwelling different from the others in that it was built of a blue stone instead of the green, we saw a sight— a tableau of beauty too splendid for words.

The sun streamed in through a substance something like glass in an opening in the wall, to throw its crimson rays, as though it were a spotlight upon a Belasco stage, onto a couch. A couch draped in royal, colorful draperies. A couch around which sat and lay and lolled five or six beautiful handmaidens. A couch upon which lay the most exquisitely beautiful creature I have ever seen.

Cedric and I stood frozen still. My heart pounded. My eyes stared till they hurt. A thousand, perhaps ten thousand years may have elapsed since that vacuum-like valley full of death had descended upon these sleepers to slowly, gently suffocate them, and then to preserve them so mysteriously. And now, after all those long years, a gangling, homely aviator had brought an ignorant soldier to look upon them. Two unscientific idiots who now cursed their ignorance and their inability to appreciate properly the treasures of antiquity upon which they gazed.

Cedric and I slowly, reverently, stepped into the room. We were passing among royalty, we knew. Admiringly we gazed upon the splendid golden forms of the beautiful, lightly clad maidens. I stood by the royal bed and gazed deeply upon its mistress.

Not of Maya, not of Toltec blood was she. There was none of the heavy Aztec features or Indian aquilinity. This girl was ancient and of gilded flesh, but if it were not for her color would have passed as a present-day type of American womanhood— a thousand-year-dead golden Ayesha beyond even Rider Haggard’s wildest dreams.

I felt Cedric’s hand upon my arm. I followed him out, my knees unsteady, a great covering of perspiration all about me and beneath my mask. I saw Cedric lean against a house-front, saw him operate the tap of his oxygen tank. I regulated mine, and after I had cut off my supply a little, I felt somewhat better.

We crossed to the dog in the street, so life-like and sleepy-like in his death that I found myself lightly wondering if the fleas upon him were hard and flint-like, also. The flesh of the man with his head in the fruit was like that of his brother across the street. The fruit was more wonderful than I’ve ever seen, but like the flesh of the natives—hard as iron. The parrot above his head had one eye open. He looked without seeing at the two strange men from some other world, demons whose masked faces were not like his old master’s.

I turned my oxygen off a bit more as we passed up that street, not especially interested now in the open doors and the few lolling figures. A queer feeling had me by the throat; my head was swimming. I wanted to sit down to rest, to sleep— to sleep. But by that time we knew it was the death, the slow, gentle death of the valley, reaching out for us.

"Soldier,” said Cedric wearily, "come on. Don’t quit. Let’s—let’s get out. It—it’s gettin’ to us.”

But we couldn’t get out. Up on the comer he was the first to stagger and fall. I fell beside him. But what did it matter? Had we not found something of which the rest of the world could not even dream? Why not sink gently down and sleep peacefully in the heart of our find? Sleep is the tonic, the medicine for the weary, and I was weary.

Just before I dozed into deep oblivion I turned off my oxygen completely, too senseless to wonder if good old Cedric had done the same or why we were doing it. An old wizened bronzed man in a near doorway was the last thing I saw. An old fellow stretched out flat in his peaceful death— stretched out flat— flat—

I DON'T know how long I slept. The sun looked at about midday when next I awoke. I sat up straight to find I had thrown my mask partly off sometime during my heavy slumber. Cedric was lying flat on his back, still as death, his mask lifted from his nostrils. I reached out, found his pulse; then again my eyes sleepily rested on the old man before me.

Dreamily, still not caring to move, I watched that old man, absently pondering the fact that we were breathing and living without our masks, pondering whether to wake Cedric and move on or rest a little longer; wondering, too, about the feeling of heaviness in my lungs, the ache and prickle in my bones and very sinews.

My eyes must be bothering me, also, I decided, for they made me believe I had seen a shudder pass over the frame of the old man before me. All part of my lethargy, of course, I realized. And then—I saw his finger twitch!

I shook Cedric roughly. I was frightened. He awoke like a man doped. But I shook him fiercely, seeing as I shook a jerking of the fingers of the old man who had been asleep a thousand, or perhaps ten thousand, years.

"Cede!” I gasped, pointing, "he’s awake. He’s coming alive!”

"Who? What did you— you’re crazy,” murmured Cedric, sleepily. "Just plain drunk or—” Then he stopped, his words, or his oath of surprize, frozen on his lips.

Cedric rose to his knees, seeing with staring eyes the old man roll over on his side. Then we helped each other to our feet and went staggering along to make our escape. Up on top of the hill over that long flight of steps our great friendly plane was waiting. We hurried to get to it, eager to hear the roar of its motor again.

But we were too late. As we turned into that street again from which the long green steps led to the top of the hill and the Hummingbird, we ran into six or eight tall, splendid men of bronze and gold. They stood transfixed, their surprize even greater than ours. But only for a moment did their surprize stay them. Those almost naked fellows uttered one combined yell and showed us theirheels. Then we hurried on, more strongly now, for the long stairway.

But, with courage returning, they waylaid us. Out from another street they poured to overwhelm us, to pinion my arms behind me, to make my still sleepy brain believe from their ferocity that it was "finis” for us.

A few high shouts. A lot of flourishing of hands and arms, and then I saw that fast, desperate punishment was to be mine. My guards dropped away, leaving only two to hold me, a matter those two golden giants found a very simple task. Between them, at the length of their arms, I stood as helpless as a rabbit tacked on a door, facing a third man— the executioner.

That devil held a short spear in his hand. He measured the distance between us, drew his weapon back once, twice, as he gaged and sighted for my heart. Then for the third time he drew back his arm, the muscles rippling and tautening for the thrust. Foolishly, in my helplessness, I realized he’d hurl it right through me. I saw the muscles knot, closed my eyes.

Then I heard a scuffle, a gasp for breath, the crack of a heavy, friendly automatic. The fellow before me pitched flat on his face at my feet. Good old Cedric! Once an ace, always an ace. Again he had played a high card!

I fought then, but I might have saved my efforts. Awed as my guards certainly were by the magic of the thunder and the sudden death, yet they bravely held me tight. And next moment Cedric was again overpowered.

But his shot had for some reason or other changed their tactics. In their midst we were hurried back over the street to the blue house of the Princess. The man we had first found was gone now. The dog came to snap at our heels; the parrot was flapping his wings.

Then we were again in the presence of the beautiful girl and her attendants. Her warriors jabbered out their story, explaining to that gorgeous, now living Ayesha the facts concerning us as though they had merely napped for a minute or two to awaken and find us there; not as though they had slept a death sleep for years upon years, centuries upon centuries.

The Princess did not like us. That was easy to see. Her expression was one of fear and distrust. Any mercy we may have expected from her womanly heart became quickly a hope lost.

She looked closely at Cedric, staring at his mask. Then one of the men stepped up and gingerly examined it.

"Take it off, Chingascook,” cried Cedric. "I almost forgot the blasted thing was still there." He bent his head and shook it, and the native, seeing it fall away from the face behind it, jerked it off.

I watched the Princess. Watched her for the least sign of pleasure or kindness. A smile, from her would be an eagerly clutched-at straw, for we knew that the next executioner who stepped up to heave a javelin would not have Cedric’s pistol to contend with. They had us too securely now for that. But the face of the Princess showed no emotion. Her eyes were not kindly toward Cedric.

Then they jerked off my mask. And this time, after a long, long look— and I can say it with modesty for Cedric was, despite everything else about him, a very homely owl— the eyes of the Princess grew soft, her lovely mouth lost its harshness.

"Well, for the love of old razor blades!” approved Cedric heartily, "if you’re not making a hit. Soldier my boy, you sheik!” But his slight hilarity was soon checked. These people had evidently been a race of fast thinkers. And now they carried this characteristic on, their little nap not changing them a trifle.

The Princess pointed to Cedric and gave a command. We were taken out on the street. They held poor old Cedric tight while I stared at it all, horror-eyed. Then another executioner stood before him, a spear in his hand, his muscles tensed.

"Don’t! Stop!” I yelled, coming to my senses at last. I struggled free, fighting mad. But before I could take a step, before I could draw a gun, they had me again. The devils! If I could only have got my gun in my hand! Two shots and Cedric would have been released. Then with his guns blazing, too, we could have-

Just a dream. We were helpless. I was jerked back. The executioner spread his feet wide again, balanced himself for the thrust. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t watch it. Not watch poor old Cedric go out like—

Then another sudden shout. A multitude of shouts. Down the street came a running figure, pointing back over his shoulder as he came to the crest of the hill behind the town. At once all eyes turned to where, like a great winged insect, stood our plane.

The Princess and her wise men stood and stared. Then we started off toward it, Cedric being marshaled along in front while I walked, still held, by the side of the litter upon which the Princess was carried. Her eyes were upon me all the time, and after a little the man on my right released me and then I felt, in place of his, the soft, warm hand of the Princess snuggle into mine!

"Soldier, dear heart,” sang out Cedric over his shoulder to me, still able to meet things with a laugh though we knew not what we went to next moment. "Soldier, this looks a little better. They’re taking us up to find out what the old Hummingbird can be. If we get half a break, make it a whole one. If you get a hand loose, pull some of your old army stuff and put a bullet into each of my cops, won’t you? If I can get my mitts on my gats I’ll do the same for you, eh, what?”

"Nothing else, Cede,” I called back, the Princess looking up with an amused smile. "If only we can get to our guns!”

After a while we stood by the great plane, our brains full of a single thought. If we could man the splendid craft and roll her over the edge she would float us to safety. All we needed was a half-minute of swift, free action. If I could keep them off for that little time, Cedric would have the engine roaring. I’d do it if I could! "Give me half a break,” I muttered and prayed twixt clenched teeth, "and I’ll—"

"Well, if the Queenie ain’t taken to little Soldier like he wuz her long-lost soulmate,” I heard Cedric say in laughing sarcasm, though it struck me queer again that a man with the sense Cedric had could see anything funny at such a time. "Soldier, is your brain working? Do you know you hold a cute li’l hand like a yap when a pistol butt cries out to you? Snap out of it!”

But I was not so completely asleep as it had looked to Cedric. I knew what I could do with an automatic, but I wanted no false starts. I was waiting for that moment when clean, fast action could turn any slight chance offered into a successful get-away. But I had action thrust upon me.

The Princess’ litter had been carried near one of the Humming-bird’s smooth wings. I stood beside her and watched a fellow come through the crowd to her carrying a large, heavy blade. A type of machete for jungle work. A knife, the keen edge of which was of copper, nicely tempered, a "lost” art in keeping with the "lost” tribe we had found.

He walked to the wing and without any more ado swung his arm for a blow. Cedric yelled and struggled to be free. I dropped my lady’s lovely hand, took two fast steps toward the chopper, and swung my fist as heavily and straightly as I could. The blade went one way, the would-be finder-out of what a wing was made of the other.

Confusion, shouting, milling, a closing-in on us then, with knives and spears a-sparkle in the sun. I jerked my automatic and did to Cedric’s guards what he said he’d do for me. And because I was busy about that business and was overlooking the guard who still held my left wrist, Cedric saved my life from the fellow’s knife-thrust by living up to his promise.

Then Cedric, with a great bound or two, had gone— had ducked into the cabin of the plane and with all speed had set his spark and throttle and gadgets ready for motion. I heard his starter grinding the motor over as I raced for the plane. Then there came a sharp stinging in the back of my head, then— darkness.

I MUST have been unconscious for perhaps only a minute. I came back to my senses to see, first of all, that Cedric had gone. Gone! All I had to do to see what had become of him was to follow the eyes of the excited natives. The Hummingbird was off in the valley, a little above our level, headed for home.

There was silence on that square as they watched, fascinated, the great bird that had gone, taking one of their visitors with it. Then they saw me there sitting up, and some of them rushed to me. My hand still held my pistol, while beside me lay the spear that luckily must have hit me broadside on.

I sprang to my feet, drawing my other gun, and backing away. They’d never take me now if I could help it! A spear came hurtling. I ducked. Over my shoulder I heard the whiz of it. Then I plunked out a shot, and the javelin-hurler, tasting my lead, fell on his face. Another arm in that crowd now closely ringing me in and forcing me backward ever closer and closer to the edge, drew back for a throw. But I tossed first and the knees of another sagged and let him down.

"Devils!” I told them. "I’ll teach you back numbers a thing or two ’fore you get me. You’ll not take me!” Cedric was gone! Hard to believe— that! That Cedric would—desert! Out of the corner of my eye I saw the glisten of the sun on the wings of the speeding Hummingbird. "Crack!” spoke my Colt again. I took another pace back.

I was on the edge then, a smoking pistol in each hand. I’d stay there till the last shot. Then, when they rushed me, I’d go on over. A nice finish to my little archeological venture! A nice way out with a guy— Crack!— you’d called buddy— Crack!— off in the heavens headed for— Crack!— home!

I turned and glanced down into the depth of the valley. Ugh! Below me I saw a pile of white, gleaming bones. Circling over them I saw great birds. Some of the scavengers were down on the pile fighting, tearing. The latest victim, of course. And I— I would be the next. A white man, perhaps their first, to go their sacrificial way. To go plunging toward the hideous birds that, with these other brutes, had slept a long, long sleep to wake again to their beastly-

Then they came at me. I ducked and dodged and flung out my hot metal, kneeling on the edge of the bright surface, one foot over, ready to go.

Then a devilish roar behind me, a thunder of a million guns in the air, and the mass of humanity pushing me over the edge wilted and crumbled. Machine-gun fire!

I had forgotten the gun that Cedric, in what I had called foolishness, had mounted on the nose of the plane; had, in fact, in the hot moments and my desperate plight and determination to make every shot count, forgotten Cedric.

But now, as he swept over, I threw out the empty clips from my pistols, inserted full ones, a fresh hope in my heart. Cedric roared on, swung around, came back. Slowly, once again, that big ship flopped in onto the small square and rolled to me. I raced toward it. Cedric appeared at the cabin door, guns in hands to cover my flight. Then, before I could prevent it, it had happened!

One of the Indians, anything but a coward— to give the devil his due in the face of mysterious happenings that must have been magic to him— came creeping under the fuselage and thrust his spear into Cedric’s breast. Cedric fell back in the cabin and I made one more shot count on that prehistoric, thousand-year-old, dead-for-centuries murderer.

Then I sprang into the ship, dragged Cedric’s body clear of the controls, took my place in the pilot’s seat. I had watched Cedric operate the ship, of course; knew what this and that was for, but as for flying— a kite had always buffaloed me.

But now I gave that ship the gun, tore that valley loose with the roar of our exhausts, dropped that big, powerful ship off the edge of the hill-top. I lifted her, swung around, headed for where I believed the Orinoco to lie. With one hand on the wheel, I ripped open Cedric’s tunic with the other. He was bleeding profusely. Was I to lose him now after all we’d gone through? But what could I do? Jungle beneath me! Good old Cedric, staunch companion, bleeding to death at my feet.

I held my handkerchief tightly against his wound, staunched it, steadied my great quivering bird as she hurled forward, and for the first time really realized what I had done. There I sat in behind the controls of the powerful plane, driving her, keeping her on even keel, feeling her answer the pressure of my finger tips, yet really knowing no more about flying than did the men of bronze bade there on the hill-top. It frightened me. If she stalled, if we hit a pocket, if— if— oh, a thousand and one if’s!— what should I do? And Cedric at my feet perhaps dying, perhaps— dead!

Then the silver of the great river catching the last flashes of the evening sun; and soon at full throttle I was over it. I eased down slowly, feeling my way, teaching myself the way down in a long glide. The river came up. Up! Up! Could I make it? I’d have to, or else— well, just as well a crash and the crocodiles as the spear through the body.

But I made it! A smooth one! And without waiting to anchor I turned to Cedric, then the medicine case, and in a little while I felt better about things; felt proud as punch about my air ability, thankful about Cedric.

We spent the night there. Next morning, with Cedric holding his own, I took off in a fashion I wished Cedric could have seen. Luck stayed with me. All day I— green— never with a wheel or joy-stick in my hand before, kept her going, and at the close of day again brought her in over Quito.

Tickled? Boy, that’s not the word! I’d show ’em.

"When they came out to greet us and found me operating that crate, wouldn’t they shout?" I asked myself in my glee. Up came the field. Down we went. Easily. Nicely. A sweet glide. Man, I had it! What it took to run a plane I—

"Wham!” Something didn’t work right. A "stall,” I believe they call it.  Not enough gliding angle. We went down flat, stood up on our nose, hung a while end on end, turned over.

I WAS in one bed, Cedric in the next some time after that, both decidedly the worse for rough treatment.

"Sorry I busted her up, Cede,” I said for not the first time.

"Sorry nothing, idiot! Lots more where she came from. Soldier, you did yourself proud, but I’ll have to teach you a bit before our next trip.”

"Next! Next?”

"That’s what I said. But say, Soldier, why did they, after all those years, come to life just when we sent in our card to ’em? Why did that suffocating something, that lack of proper air in that valley, lift away just when the butler announced us?”

"I’ve been thinking of that,” I answered. "And it was because we did drop in, Cede. We stirred up the air. Our big old crate— gosh! I’m sorry she cracked up. I mean I’m sorry I cracked her up. Anyway, our crate opened up a current, started good air flowing in as we circled around. A breeze coming in did the rest.”

"Right you are. That’s my solution, too. No, I don’t suppose we’ll go back. I don’t care for their funny little ways. But don’t forget, Soldier, that you and I know; that you and I’ve seen; that you and I’ve been entertained by, in fact, down there somewhere east of the Orinoco, a tribe that slept for a thousand years or more. A race of handsome, splendid men, and beautiful, beautiful— my gosh! Soldier, wasn’t your sweetie a gorgeous 1000 B. C. flapper?”

__________________

8: Blackmail Moll

Ted Copp

(Theodore Bayard Fletcher Copp, 1902-1945)

Detective Book Magazine Fall 1941

THE GAMBLER'S EYES were still, dead, unreadable, as he glanced around Brett’s office.

He said: “And so, Mr. Brett, I’d like to buy a partnership in your detective agency for ten grand.”

Tay Brett seemed bored. He said something that sounded like “Oh yeah” as he lighted a cigaret. They stared at each other across Brett’s desk. The gambler’s smile was neat and chiseled under his small, glossy mustache, black like his thinning hair. Nothing lived in his eyes.

Brett smiled politely.

“That’s a lot of money.” He leaned back, propped his feet against a drawer. Without interest, he suggested, “Here’s a proposition: Fifteen grand for a partnership— after all present cases have been settled.”

No expression disturbed Frisco Smith’s unwavering smile.

“That will be entirely satisfactory.”

Brett laughed gratingly, and said without anger: “You lie like hell. You're anxious to keep tabs on one of my clients, which is why you want a partnership. Well, which one is it?”

Frisco Smith studied Brett intently. Then he scribbled his phone number on a card, picked up one of Brett’s business cards. He rose to the full six feet-three of his aristocratic slimness.

“I’ll call you up tomorrow,” he promised. “You might change your mind for—twenty-five thousand.”

Brett waited until the lock of the door clicked. Then he replaced his memorandum pad on the desk and studied the few notations curiously. But from the first, “Cartman— tomorrow, eleven,” to the last, “West— Warwick,” there was no clue.

LIGHT in the long, apartment house corridor was uncertain, depending upon alternate ceiling bulbs. It was after three-thirty a.m. A very tall man knocked softly at a door, rang twice, knocked again. After a moment, a voice inside demanded: “Who is it?” The voice was guttural. The tall man outside whispered something in reply. A chain scraped and rattled, a lock turned, the door swung in- ward.

From inside the apartment, three shots ripped out, fused into a single dry, brittle rasp, muffled by a silencer. The tall man said in a surprised voice, “Well, I'll be a— son—”

He pitched forward. A figure flitted along the corridor, disappeared down the stairs. After a minute, the man on the floor coughed deep in his stomach. He put out his hand— pushed— pushed himself up slowly until his shoulders were clear of the floor. Like a punch-drunk fighter he pulled himself to his knees, to his feet, scratching at the door jamb, the knob. His left hand pressed his open coat against his side. He moved to the automatic elevator unsteadily, his shoulder rubbing the wall for support. He stabbed a button weakly—the “Up” button. The car arrived. He tugged open the door, stumbled in, fell full length, The door closed.

Again the tall man fought to his feet, laboriously. Pushed blindly at the floor button with his right hand. His left never relaxed its pressure against his side. Where his lower left vest pocket had been, were now ragged rips. The cloth of his jacket, his vest, his shirt was jammed into the wound, into his flesh. The blood oozed slowly through the wadded cloth.

The elevator stopped. The tall man jabbed feebly at another button and the car continued downward. This time it stopped at the ground floor. He peered out cautiously— saw no one, heard no voice. The tall man stumbled weakly across the foyer. He leaned against a table for breath. On the table was a Ming vase made in New Jersey. He worked a gun from his right hip pocket, dropped it in the vase.

Reaching the street, he staggered toward the corner. He was bent double now. The bloody smear under his right eye was hidden. His right hand fumbled in his pocket.

His heart was pumping blood between the fingers of his left hand. It was wet and shiny where it splashed on his shoes, wet and shiny where it splattered the sidewalk.

The taxi driver on the corner saw him, but couldn’t see his torn face.

“Bellyache?” he asked solicitously.

“Take me—take me—" Suddenly the man thrust out a stiff right arm, a closed fist. He slumped forward, struck the side of the cab, fell to the fender, rolled face down onto the sidewalk....

THE PATROLMAN reporting to the desk sergeant said: “and tell the Louie he was a private dick by the name of—,” he consulted the crumpled, blood spotted card he’d taken from the man’s right fist, “name of Brett, Taylor Brett. They give him the business all right.   Yeah, dead as hell.”

ii

HOWARD CARTMAN, the lawyer, inspired one with confidence. Prospective clients observed his respectable clothes, his respectable offices, his respectable eyes and were filled with immediate trust in his honesty, his ethics. Tay Brett thought he was a heel.

“I hope you can handle this— er— business personally, Mr. Brett,” Cartman said suavely. “It is very— well— ticklish.”

“Sure,” agreed the detective readily, keeping his ideas to himself. “Suppose you tell me what you want done.”

“Of course. How stupid of me!" Howard Cartman laughed in respectable embarrassment. “Briefly, here is the situation: Mrs. Lewis J. Humbolt, of Montclair, seeks a divorce from her husband because of her husband’s affair with a certain Sonia Patten of New York. Miss Patten, is, I believe, an actress and reputed to be a very— er— charming woman.”

“They usually are,” Brett observed dryly.

“Mrs. Humbolt comes of a very fine family and one of the wealthiest in New Jersey.” Brett observed “What’s the family’s name?’ Brett demanded with an eye for business.

“Sherrell,” replied Cartman. “Mrs. Humbolt was Miss Virginia Sherrell before her marriage to Lewis J. Humbolt about a year and a half ago. It’s a shame, Mr. Brett—” the lawyer’s voice held a nice balance between shock and sorrow—“really a shame. Mrs. Humbolt is a charming woman, simply a charming woman.”

“I’m sure of it,” Brett agreed. “However—”

The lawyer sighed, then went on: “We know that the Patten woman has letters written to her by Mr. Humbolt which, if we could— er— lay hands on them, would provide Mrs. Humbolt with the evidence necessary for a divorce.”

“And that’s where I come in, huh?” Brett asked.

Cartman bowed. “Precisely. It shouldn’t be difficult. We'll pay well for those letters— if necessary, ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten grand?” Brett demanded. The lawyer shuddered genteelly.

“Yes; yes, ten— er— grand.”

“What am I supposed to do?” the detective asked.

“Well— ah— convince the Patten woman to sell to us and handle the whole transaction.”

Brett asked: “What’s the husband  like?”

“Lewis J. Humbolt,” began the lawyer, oratorically, frowning at an inkstand, “is a very fascinating man. To women, I mean,” he added hastily. “His family is— was one of the most famous in this state and dates back to the Revolution.” Brett stirred restlessly. “Humbolt served with the Royal Air Force and then transferred to the American air service when we entered the last War. Unfortunately the Humbolt family isn’t what it used to be; in fact they’ve lost all their money.”

“Tch, tch!” Brett tched.

“Such a shame,” Cartman agreed. He leaned forward confidentially, “That’s why he married Virginia Sherrell.”

“Yeah, but why did she marry him?” Brett asked.

“She’s very young— twenty-four or thereabouts. She was carried away by Humbolt’s war record, his fascination, his—”

“I get it," Brett cut in. “I’m to get in touch with Sonia Patten and get those letters.”

“Quite—er—quite.”

“How many letters are there?”

“Eleven,” Cartman replied.

Brett took a fifty dollar retainer from the lawyer, promised him a fat expense account, and left.

Outside in the street, newsboys were crying extras on the Frisco Smith murder, which was not yet eleven hours old.

"HOW’S the sleuth racket?" Pat Hirsch asked from his regular post beside Swedie’s desk as Brett entered his office. Hirsch was grinning.

“Fifty bucks better than lousy,” snapped. “What do you think of the Frisco Smith kill?”

“Not interested.”

“Then get interested,” Hirsch advised. “Centre Street’s been calling you.”

“Yeah?” Brett replied. Then he stared, sighed, and pointed to Pat’s collar.

“I’m sorry, Pat, I can’t get her to use indelible lip stick.”

As Brett went into his office, there was a snort from Swedie and Hirsch was treading on his heels. The reporter glared.

“Just a pal,” he jeered. “Why don’t you give yourself up? Listen, Sherlock Holmes, if you were smart, you’d see that smear on my collar’s too dark to be a blonde’s lip—”

The door burst open and Swedie appeared, her eyes blazing. “So, you cut yourself shaving,” she cried at Hirsch. "If you—"

Brett pushed her out and shut the door. He watched the reporter silkily dispose his long body in a tilted chair and laugh. “I know you. It’s Don Juan Hirsch himself.”

Pat Hirsch grunted. “What the hell,” he grumbled philosophically, “What happened in Newark?”

“A guy wants me to make a fix for him with a certain labor mob,” Brett replied easily as he rinsed two glasses in a wash basin behind a screen.

“Horsefeathers,” Hirsch said. ‘“Swedie told me you went to see Howard Cartman, the lawyer.”

“I wish somebody’d marry that loud speaker and take her off my hands,” Brett observed. He handed out glasses and a bottle. “Make yourself useful.”

As Brett thumbed a New Jersey phone book, Hirsch poured two extra-generous slugs of rye. He asked casually: “Looking for anything particular?”

“Yes. A chance to make some money.”

Brett put down his empty glass as the phone rang. He said: “Hello Captain Moeller,” into the mouthpiece, listened, then promised irritably, “O.K. I'll be down around eight, but I’m telling you my nose is clean.”

Brett put down the phone, growled, “Centre Street,” to Hirsch and went out.

“Listen, baby,” he told Swedie, “I pay your salary. You’re working for me, not that lanky newshound."

Swedie’s sniff of contempt followed him to the stairs. Tay Brett grinned

BRETT’S taxi stopped before a new and magnificent apartment house on Central Park West. He entered and went to an attendant who stood before a switch board.

“Miss Patten in?”

“Yes, sir.” Brett handed him a sealed envelope with his business card inside. “Send this up to her.”

A moment later he was ushered deferentially to an elevator and let off at the twenty-third floor. An attractive mulatto maid opened the door, showed him into a well furnished living-room.

“Miz Patten’ll be heah in a minute,” the girl informed him with a flashing tip-hunting smile.

Brett nodded and seated himself comfortably. The girl walked from the room with a swaying, sensuous rhythm to her well proportioned body. Brett grunted: “One of those things, huh.”

When Sonia Patten entered, Brett found her a strikingly attractive woman of about twenty-eight. The Sonia part of her name was reflected in wide, high cheek bones which told of her Slavic origins. Her eyes were a smoky blue, set wide apart, nose slightly broad at the nostrils. There was a mole just under the left side of her chin. Medium blonde hair, height about five feet eight, weight around one hundred and twenty-two.

She stood just inside the doorway looking from Brett to his card in her hand. Across the center of the card, in Tay’s muscle-bound scrawl, was written: “Must see you at once. Important.”

Sonia Patten studied the words but Brett stood silently, doing nothing which might give her a hint as to his errand.

“Mr. Taylor Brett?” she asked consulting the card.

Brett bowed. “I don’t quite understand your message.”

Her voice was throaty.

Brett smiled.

“What—what do you wish to see me about ?”

“Let’s not try to kid each other, Miss Patten,” Brett said smoothly, “I’m here to make you a very generous offer— ten thousand dollars.”

Her smoky blue eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. But she was a smart girl, she made no reply.

After a moment’s silence, Brett rose and wandered round the room. He looked casually through the French doors which opened upon a small stone balcony that ran the length of the apartment.

He strolled to the foyer, glanced through a door on the right into a small kitchen where the languorous maid sat looking at pictures in La Vie Parisienne, Brett returned to the living-room and  looked around.

Behind Sonia were wide, curtained French doors. Brett drifted toward the woman, detoured so he passed her, and, without warning, threw open the doors.

With a bound, Sonia Patten reached him. She seized his arm. Brett allowed himself to be shoved violently aside, but not before he had spotted the brown Homburg hat, Harris tweed coat, and Malacca stick which lay on the chaise longue by the windows.

“How dare you, how dare you!” she demanded, her voice trembling.

Brett shrugged. “Ten grand,” he said. “Take it or leave it.”

“I should have you arrested or— or have the hall boys throw you out,” she raged.

“Ten grand.”

“For what? What do you want?” the woman demanded angrily.

“Some hot love letters,” Brett replied.

The Patten woman’s mouth hardened. Brett sauntered toward the foyer. Sonia followed warily. He looked left along the short hall, past the door to the kitchen, to a door on the left, evidently the one to the bedroom. She watched him closely, breathing hard.

“Ten grand,” said Brett softly and stepped off toward the bedroom door. Sonia clutched his arm. He shook her off easily, went on.

“Wait!" she cried. "What letters do you want?”

“Oh, more than one set, huh?” Sonia bit her lip, but plunged on desperately: “What letters do you mean? Did you come here just to bully me or—”

Brett turned no her sharply.

“Listen,” he cut in, “I came here to do business, but you want to play the smart girl. I don’t like this job or anything connected with it—and that goes for you too, I never did like lady blackmailers!”

She stepped back, one hand up as though to ward him off. Brett kept the bedroom door in sight and repeated: “I don’t like blackmailers!”

Nothing happened. Brett raised his voice angrily.

“I’m here to offer you ten thousand dollars for letters written to you by Lewis Humbolt. Know him?”

The Patten woman nodded dully. Brett took her arm and led her back to the living-room.

She asked: “Who hired you?”

Slowly, distinctly, Brett countered, “Suppose I said Mr. Humbolt?”

The smoky blue eyes flickered, stared back at him expressionlessly.

“So Mr. Humbolt sent you?”

Brett laughed easily. “You're too smart for me, Miss Patten. As a matter of fact, I’m acting for Mrs. Humbolt.”

“I don’t believe you,” she replied. “I know Mr. Humbolt wants his letters. Why should Mrs. Humbolt want them?”

“To get a divorce,” Brett explained. “She needs evidence. Will you sell?”

“For ten thousand dollars?” the woman scoffed. “I should say not!”

“Ten grand will buy you many a square meal," observed the detective mildly.

“Those letters are worth one hundred thousand dollars! If Mrs. Humbolt wants a divorce so badly, let her pay for it. She’s rich.”

“Let’s be reasonable, Miss—”

“One hundred thousand dollars!’ she interrupted. “That’s my price to Mrs. Humbolt or Mr. Humbolt or anyone else.”

“Say, with a hundred grand you could settle down in France and live like a queen for the rest of your life.”

“Possibly that’s my intention,” she replied.

“You could even afford a husband,” Brett said. Sonia didn’t answer; he went on: “I’ll tell them that’s your price, but I don’t think they’ll meet it.”

"She can afford it,” the woman said.  “If she can’t, her father can.”

Brett rose. “I’m glad to have met you,” he smiled. “If you ever need a detective, let me know.” His eyes admired her. “I'd like to work for you.”

BRETT went back to West 45th and climbed the three flights to his office. Swedie was making up her face in preparation for the Subway rush. She caught Brett’s amused glance at her lip stick and turned her back on him.

“Where’s the boy friend?”

Swedie turned and asked primly, “To whom exactly do you have reference, Mr. Brett?”

“Go home, Mrs Vanderlip, you're wearing me out.”

Going down the short corridor past the empty office, Brett went into his own bailiwick and poured out a stiff rye. Next he copied the names and addresses of five of Newark’s best lawyers from the phone book. He poured out another rye.

Then he called: “Hey, Swedie!”

She came to his door. “Want a drink?”

“I’ve asked you upon numerous occasions,” she replied haughtily, “not to offer me liquor in any form.”  Suddenly she blazed, “and stop calling me ‘Swedie’!”

The banging door drowned Brett’s chuckle.

JACK AND JILL’S on West 47th was beginning to fill as Tay entered, He ordered supper and prepared to wait. When Jake Goldhess, the lawyer, entered, Brett called him over.

“Sit down, Jake,” he invited, “I owe you a meal.”

Goldhess considered, scowled, and sat down.

“More than that you owe me,” he grunted as he tucked a corner of the napkin into his collar and opened the two bottom buttons of his vest. He appraised Brett’s well cut, quiet suit.

“A new suit,’ he remarked, “Where'd you get it?”

“Tripler’s” Brett recited, “46th and Madison. Don’t remember the salesman’s name, and I don’t know where I was September 21st, 1927.”

“Now if you want class, y’understand,” Goldhess said, his highly polished nails gleaming against the flaring lapel of his ultra smart coat, “I'll give you my tailor’s address.”

“I don’t want to look like a crap shooter.”

“Listen, Brett, one hun’red and seventy-fi’ bucks I paid for this suit. It’s got lines— it’s got class. Pull any more fast ones like that Spencer jewelry deal and you can afford to go—"

“All right, Jake, all right,” Brett cut in. “I want to ask you a question.”

“Please, Brett, don’t ask me questions. I don’t like it when you ask me questions, y’understand ?”

Brett grinned and tossed the list of lawyers he’d copied in front of Goldhess.

“This won’t hurt your appetite,” he promised. “Know anything about the practitioners of jurisprudence in Newark?”

“Certainly,” Goldhess responded. “Haven’t I got a cousin practicing there?”

“On whom?” Brett grinned, then grew serious. “Listen, Jake, a client of mine wants to hire one of those five guys. Which is best?”

With a heavy sigh, Goldhess scanned the list. After deliberation, he said: “They’re all good, y’understand? You got some of the best legal minds in New Jersey on—”

“Hell!” Brett snatched the list from between fat, ring-infested fingers, ‘“Making a noise again, huh?”

The lawyer smiled grimly. “Do I owe you money?” he demanded. “You want the dope on one of those guys, and I should give it to you free?”

“One of them did a kill,” Brett said evenly.

Goldhess’ eyes popped, a heavy, red stain suffused his pink jowls. “One of those guys a killer?” he breathed. Brett seemed serious.

A cunning light came into the lawyer’s eyes, and he leaned forward confidentially.

“Which one, huh?” Brett was silent.

Goldhess asked, “Hart?” He waited for Brett’s reaction. There was none.

“Schneider?” Another pause. “Cartman? Bell? Mulcahy?” Brett’s face was impassive, cold.

“Mulcahy?” Goldhess mused.. Then, “He’s got dough. Hart’s in the sugar too. So’s Cartman.” He stopped, remembered something. “That’s right.”

Brett stared at him.

“Yeah? What is?” Brett prodded.

“I just remembered,” said Goldhess blandly, “Schneider and Bell got dough also.”

“They’ve all got dough, huh?”

“Sure,” replied Goldhess suavely, “they all got dough. Rich guys don’t have to be killers.”

“Money the only thing a man kills for?”

“What else?”

Brett rose. Goldhess pushed the check toward him.

He said: “Any time you want professional advice, come to my office and pay my fee. And don’t forget the check.”

“Uh-huh,” Brett grinned, you said you'd kill for money.”

iv

AT eleven-thirty next morning, Tay Brett was shown into Howard Cartman’s office. On Cartman’s desk was a paper screaming with headlines on the Frisco Smith murder.

Brett jerked a thumb toward it. “Guess I’m not the only baffled sleuth in the world," he remarked.

“Does that mean... Were you—er —unsuccessful ?”

Brett laughed shortly. “She won’t sell.”

“Won't sell!” echoed Cartman.

“Hell no,” said Brett quietly.

Cartman studied Brett’s easy smile with bewilderment.

“It seems to me, Mr. Brett,” he announced coldly, “that you find this affair amusing rather than serious.”

Brett shrugged. “You offered her ten thousand dollars for the letters?”

“Sure.”

“But—but—” The lawyer stopped, seemed at a loss how to cope with Brett’s indifference.

“If you really want those letters,” Brett said, “she’ll sell—for one hundred grand!”

“One hundred— why that’s absurd! One hundred thousand dollars is a small fortune!”

“Not so small,” Brett put in. “If you really want to secure Mrs. Humbolt’s divorce, the thing to do is shake her father down for the hundred grand, Old Man Sherrell can afford it.”

The lawyer stared dazedly, Brett said, “I'll see Sherrell for you to explain— “No, no. That won’t do at all,” Cartman broke in. “Why not?” “Mrs. Humbolt’s family were—er— bitterly opposed to her marriage from the start,” Cartman explained hurriedly. “Mrs. Humbolt doesn’t wish her family to learn of the divorce until it has been granted,” “With the woods lousy with newshounds?” Brett jeered. “She’s an optimist!” “Mrs. Humbolt doesn’t wish to approach her father in this matter, That’s enough for me; it will have to be enough for you,” Cartman stated with heavy finality. Brett shrugged. “Then we'll have to dope out some other way of handling Sonia.” “How about—” Cartman hesitated— “how about securing the letters by stealth? Could it be done?” “Sure,” agreed Brett. “But not by me.” “Scruples?” the lawyer asked with an unpleasant smile. “Accidents,” replied Brett laconically. “Suppose I mooched into Sonia’s place, located the letters, and started to lam and the cops came in, accidentally? Wouldn’t that be cute?”

“But how could the police know?” Cartman objected.

“That’s just it," Brett pointed out. “Of course it would be sheer coincidence. No, that’s out.”

After a moment’s thoughtful silence, Brett suggested, “I'll tell you how it could be done. We'll make Sonia believe Humbolt is crossing her, running around with another woman. Then we'll offer her ten grand for the letters and the revenge of seeing Humbolt kicked out of his nice meal ticket by Mrs. Humbolt’s divorce.”

“I’m afraid that won’t do,” complained Cartman,

“What do you mean ‘won’t do’? It's fool-proof!”

“Granted. But Mrs. Humbolt is— er— a woman of high principles,” confessed Cartman. “She would never countenance such a— ah— deception.”

Tay Brett grinned. “What a woman,” he breathed in devout admiration. “I'd like to meet our client.”

A shadow flashed across Cartman’s face.

“Does she know I’m on the case?” Brett asked.

“Naturally,” Cartman replied coldly. “I should hardly retain you without advising her first.”

The telephone buzzed discreetly, and Cartman picked it up. Brett lighted another cigarette. Of the ensuing conversation, Brett was only able to catch one word when Cartman hissed “murder!" in a horrified voice and turned deadly white.

Brett grinned, took out an expense account form, began tabulating his expenditures on the Humbolt-Patten job.

The lawyer’s face was still pale as he replaced the receiver and reached for his cheque-book.

“Let me have a statement of your expenses, Brett,” he said, his voice indignant. “Our association is— ah— terminated.”

Brett handed it to him and remarked easily, “Jake Goldhess is a real pal.”

Above the scratching of his pen, Cartman said: “I feel I owe him a great debt.”

He rose and handed Brett a cheque.

“Telling Mr. Goldhess what you did may be your idea of humor, Brett, but it’s not mine,” Cartman snapped. “And since you have attempted to discredit me, have told a brother lawyer that I was —er—a murderer,” his voice shook with righteous indignation, “you are no longer wanted on this case.”

“That’s all right, Cartman,” Brett replied amicably as he folded the cheque. “Don’t apologize. This isn’t a case yet anyway— it’s a run-around.”

Brett hunted up a phone booth in the lobby of Cartman’s building and looked up Mrs. Lewis J. Humbolt’s address, He looked at his watch— a quarter past twelve. He went to a little Greek chop house around the corner from the Robert Treat Hotel and had a swell steak. Then he grabbed a taxi.

THE Humbolts’ house was not as large as Brett had expected. It was of Colonial architecture and modest in every way, compared to other houses on the street. It stood well back from the road, its spacious lawns shielded from view by a high boxwood hedge, Brett presented his card and was shown into a pleasant room panelled in pine from floor to ceiling. A moment later, Mrs. Humbolt entered.

Virginia Sherrell Humbolt was about twenty-four. She was blonde like Sonia Patten, but smaller, about five feet eight, weighed around a hundred and ten. Her eyes were a clear blue, nose faintly aquiline, features regular, and no distinguishing marks, There was a slightly obstinate angle to her chin which suggested that Cartman had been telling the truth when he said she had married despite parental objections.

Mrs. Humbolt smiled. “Mr. Brett?” she asked. Her voice was warm, colorful, Brett rose, smiled in return, “I am Mrs. Humbolt.”

Brett smiled again.

She seated herself, looked puzzled, and asked, “What have I done to deserve the attention of a New York detective? She glanced again at his card. “You are a detective, aren’t you?”

“It’s been questioned,” Brett admitted.

Mrs. Humbolt looked him over carefully, curiously; noticed his dark cordovan shoes, black socks, the well tailored, unobtrusive suit, bottle-green tie, plain white shirt, and brown snap-brim hat.

“I must say I’m disappointed,” she confessed. “I thought detectives wore thick-soled shoes, black derbies, and smoked cigars.”

Brett laughed easily. “I’ve got a derby at home. I'll get it if it will convince you I’m the genuine article.”

“What do you wish to see me about, Mr. Brett?”

Brett drew a note book from his pocket and consulted a page on which he had tried to dope the probable winners at Pimlico two weeks previously.

“This will sound silly," he warned. “Did you ever employ a maid named Agnes McGillicudahy?”

“Why no. What does she look like?”

“About six feet tall and weighs two hundred and—”

“Good heavens," Mrs. Humbolt interrupted, “I’d be scared to death of a woman that big.”

Brett rose and picked up his hat. “I thought it was a stall,” he said.

“Did she say she’s worked for me?”

“Yes,” Tay replied, “and she’s hooked my client for eighty thousand dollars worth of jewelry.”

“That’s awfully exciting!” Mrs. Humbolt exclaimed, her eyes shining. “But how did she ever come to pick me?”

“Probably took your name out of the phone book,” Brett answered. “By the way, you might hang onto my card. You can never tell when you'll need a detective.”

Mrs. Humbolt looked down at his card. Brett couldn’t see her eyes,

“I don’t believe I shall ever need a detective,” was her low retort. Brett said evenly, “There are always jewel thieves.” She looked up and smiled at that.

“Hardly for my jewelry. I haven't enough.” “I can give you plenty of good references,” Brett said. “Let’s see, whom do I know around here.” He meditated, then laughed. “I know a lawyer in Newark, but I played a joke on him— he’d say I was a crook. No, you’d better not ask Howard Cartman about—”

“Do you know Howard Cartman?”

"Yes; do you?”

“He’s my husband’s lawyer.”

“Well, well; isn’t that interesting.” Brett grinned. “Thanks very much for your help. And if you ever need me—”

He pointed to the card in her hand and gave her his best business-getting bow.

"WHERE’VE you been all day?" demanded Swedie petulantly as Brett entered the office. There was a smudge of ink on Swedie’s forehead, and her blonde hair was not tidy.

Brett dropped his hat on her desk.

“What’s the matter? The President been trying to reach me?”

“Worse,” she replied. “Anthony Warwick the actor phoned and had hysterics by courtesy of the Bell Telephone Company."

“That’s a good gag,” Brett admitted. “Where'd you steal it? What’s on Warwick’s mind?”

“My dear!” exclaimed Swedie in exaggerated imitation of the temperamental Thespian, “it’s too terrible! I’ve simply suffered beyond endurance. I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown, it’s—”

“Which in plain English means what?” Brett demanded.

“Bill West has been tailing the wrong man for two weeks.”

“What?"

“Bill has been shadowing the wrong man!”

Collapsing into the nearest chair, Brett threw back his head and gave vent to whole hearted laughter. Swedie looked somewhat startled at the boss’ unusual display.

At last, Brett pulled himself weakly from his chair and wiped his eyes.

“It’s too good to be true,’ he said. “I’ll bet the dope was half crazy.”

“He was.”

Brett’s mouth hardened, "Damn Bill West!”

He turned to go, but Swedie put out her hand falteringly.

“Mr. Brett,” she stumbled, stopped.

“Now what?” Brett asked.

Again Swedie started to speak, stopped. Then she held out a newspaper, pointed to a marked paragraph in the middle of a gossip column. Brett read aloud:

“A certain well known keptive is having boy friend trouble again. One of our better gum-shoes visited her yesterday and said nasty things in behalf of his New Jersey client. And they thumb noses!”

“See, he’s double crossed you now,” Swedie said.

Brett looked up, a tight smile on his mouth. There were tears in the girl’s eyes; she kept her face averted and dug at the top of her desk with an envelope opener.

“Go easy on the family antiques,” Brett warned softly. He took the opener from her hand, slipped a pencil in its place.

“Pat’s double crossed us both,” Swedie whispered.

Brett’s eyes were thoughtful as he slipped his arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“Don’t take it so hard, kid,” he urged. “It’s Pat’s job to get news. He knew I was working on something and got sore when I wouldn’t let him in.”

“All right,” Swedie retorted, her voice flying storm signals of an approaching deluge, “but he d-didn’t have to put that in the p-paper and then send us a m-m-marked copy.”

“That won’t hurt us any; it'll help.”

“You wouldn’t s-say that if he’d played the d-dirty trick he p-played on me,” she wailed, becoming incoherent with increasing rapidity. “He p-p-played me a—”

“The lip rouge gag?” Brett demanded.

“—a d-d-dirty trick and I g-g-guess h-he knows—”

“Hey! Hold it!” Brett picked up her open compact and held the mirror so Swedie could see her tear stained face.

“Does that look like America’s Sweetheart?” he asked. “Let me tell you a funny story. I ran into Dan English just before I came back here tonight and—”

“W-who’s D-D-Dan English?”

“A feature writer on Pat’s rag. Dan told me they found Pat sleeping off a jag under the Sunday editor’s desk yesterday morning and what do you think?”

Swedie refused the bait and Brett hurried on:

“So they borrowed a lip stick from one of the gals and smeared it on his collar.”

“You’re just making that up.”

“Making it—listen, Swenson, have I ever lied to you?”

“I don’t think so,” Swedie said hesitatingly. “How did you happen to see D-Dan English?”

“In a bar on 40th Street, Suspicious,” Brett answered without hesitation, “He dropped in for a beer.”

“Well—” she temporized. “Then Pat wasn’t out with another girl?”

Brett cheered.

“But he told that columnist fellow about the case you’re working on.”

“Oh that!” said Brett lightly. “If Pat knew what we do about that case, he’d go crazy. I'll tell you, but don’t you tell him.”

Swedie shook her head.

“It’s an agency secret,’ Brett warned. “I’ve got a line on a potential murderer.”

“What do you mean?”

Brett swallowed a sigh and explained patiently: “I found out that a certain man may kill a certain person if it comes to a showdown.”

Swedie’s “Oh!” of horror cleared her eyes of its few remaining tears.

Brett went on: “But that isn’t important. I found out that another gent is trying to work himself into a blackmail angle that will cost a husband his happy home. That part ties up with Sonia Patten, but don’t tell Pat. Don’t even give him a hint.”

“Oh, I won't, I wouldn’t for the world.” Suddenly she turned on him. “Why are you telling me this?” she demanded suspiciously. “You’ve never told me important business secrets before.”

Brett looked hurt; he sighed bitterly. “That’s what you get for showing a gal you trust her.”

“I bet you just told me hoping Pat Hirsch would worm it out of me,” Swedie cried with a flash of inspiration.

“Well, he won’t!” Brett glowered at her. “You let Pat find out and I'll wring your neck!” He made a gesture with his hands. “Like that. Now beat it. I’ve got to go down and explain to the D. A. all over again what I explained to the whole damn Homicide Squad.”

"ABOUT this Frisco Smith murder, Brett—” the District Attorney began as Brett seated himself in a straight, uncomfortable chair near the glass-topped desk.

“What about it? Brett shot back. “Are you involved?”

“Wha-a-at?

The District Attorney stopped, glowered, ran a hand through his heavy hair. Powers was a big man with a heavy frame. His long hair rose and swept back majestically in a straight, thick pompadour. His features were coarse, large, his. voice booming and oratorical. Powers smiled bleakly, his yellowish eyes dull.

“No, I’m not involved. How about you?”

“Have you checked into my alibi?”

“Oh yes, and it’s air tight. But alibis —” Powers smiled deprecatingly, spread his hands.

“My God! Is this going to start all over again?" Brett jerked out irritably. “Moeller worked on me for hours, ‘Did I know Smith? What size shoes did I wear? Was my father an Elk?’ I haven’t time to play Information Please!”

“Just a minute, Brett—”

Brett didn’t pause. “If you want to solve the Smith kill, forget my card was found in his hand. And here’s a deal: Get me some dope and I'll give you two good tips.”

“And if I don’t deal?”

“Then go ahead and indict me for the kill. And try and make it stick.”

“What information do you want?” Powers asked.

“I want to know all about Sonia Patten and all about Smith.”

Powers thought it over. At last he said, “Very well. But naturally I am not responsible for the actions of the police.”

Brett brushed that aside.

An hour later, he rose, shook hands with Powers and left. As the door closed behind him, a large man slipped into Powers’ office through another door. He smiled. wolfishly.

“Did you get it all, Moeller?” Powers asked.

“Sure,” Moeller replied. "And how do we know that he didn’t gun Smith to protect the client who had Smith so worried he was trying to buy into Brett’s agency?”

“Exactly!” Powers said softly.

vi

AFTER dinner, Brett drifted over to the East 51st Street station and got into a bull session with Big Mac and several other detectives which wound up at his apartment around three-thirty a. m.

At two minutes past nine next morning, his phone rang. It was Swedie.

“There’s a Mr. Humbolt down here to see you,” she said. “I found him waiting when I arrived.”

“Does he look sore?” Brett asked.

Her voice was very positive. “Yes!”

“Tell him I'll be there in—” Brett pushed back his pajama sleeve, consulted his watch—“in four minutes.”

Despite his promise, Brett shaved leisurely, dressed without hurry, and cleaned up dead soldiers from the night before. As he was about to go out, the phone rang again. He picked up the receiver, but didn’t answer.

A woman’s voice said, “Hello, hello?”

It was Swedie.

Brett grinned and put down the hook softly. He went to a restaurant on the corner and ordered breakfast, then went to a phone booth and called the office. Swedie answered.

“This is the New York Telephone Company,” Brett said. “Is Mr. Brett in?”

He heard Swedie say to someone beside her: “No, it’s not Mr. Brett!"

She said to Tay: “Mr. Brett isn’t in yet, but we expect him any moment.”

“Thanks, I’ll call later.”

At exactly twenty minutes to ten, Brett entered the office. A tall, lean man leaped at him.

“Are you Brett?” he demanded.

“Yeah,” said Brett insolently, noticing the brown Homburg, Harris tweed coat, and Malacca stick. “Who are you?”

“I’ve been waiting here for over half an hour,” the tall man raged. “You told your secretary—”

Brett said: “Hello” to Swedie and walked into his office. The tall man followed belligerently.

“Who are you anyway?” Brett demanded brusquely.

“Lewis Humbolt,” the tall man snapped. “Ever hear of me?”

“Sure,” Brett replied disinterestedly. “Your partner threw me off the case.”

“The hell with Cartman!” Humbolt exploded. “What do you mean by bothering my wife?”

“I bothered Sonia Patten, too,” Brett pointed out. Humbolt calmed down.

“We're talking about my wife,” he said.

“And my client,” agreed Brett. Humbolt said nothing. Brett went on:

“Your boy friend Cartman told me I was working for Mrs. Humbolt. When he fired me, I went up to see her— naturally.”

“Naturally nothing!” Humbolt thundered. “You were dealing with Cartman. he was paying you. He—”

“Imagine my embarrassment,” Brett broke in, “when I discovered Mrs. Humbolt had never heard of me, didn’t want a sleuth."

“That has nothing to do—”

“It has plenty to do with it!” Brett barked. “I got the run-around from Cartman. He chased me over here to offer Sonia Patten ten grand for your letters. He knew she wouldn’t sell. But he figured my mouth would start watering for that ten grand and I’d swipe the letters.”

Humbolt was silent.

Brett went on: “Hell, he hired a New York dick because he thought I wouldn’t know the New Jersey laws. Mrs. Humbolt doesn’t need those letters to get a divorce— not in Jersey. You’re the guy that needed the letters. You wanted them in case Sonia got tough and decided to show you up to your rich wife, get you kicked out on your ear from a nice allowance.”

Humbolt towered above the detective.

“Damn you, Brett, I ought to throw you out the window for that.”

“Well, open it first,” said Brett evenly. “Then there’s another angle: Maybe Cartman wanted the letters so he could blackmail you himself.”

Humbolt sat down suddenly, his eyes narrowed.

“My—!” he said in a surprised voice.

Brett sank into his swivel chair and began to study his fingertips. “Who was paying my fee?” Brett asked.

“Cartman. At least," Humbolt explained, “he was advancing the money, I was to pay him back later.”

“That’s a cute angle.” Brett laughed. “Cartman loans you the money to get the letters. He keeps them. You pay him back. Then Cartman puts on the blackmail squeeze and you start paying all over again. Smart boy, this Cartman.”

“What made you suspicious of him?”

“All his excitement about the letters,” said Brett. “It didn’t make sense. If you fought the divorce, Mrs. Humbolt could try Reno. Those letters weren’t to help her get a divorce, but to make sure she didn’t get one.”

“And where do you come in?’ Humbolt asked.

“I don’t. I got fired off the job.”

“You mean to say you’ve lost all interest in the case merely because Cartman fired you?” Humbolt demanded in astonishment.

“What did you think I’d do?” Brett countered.

“But I thought detectives—"

“Worked for fun?’ Brett finished. “Maybe they do, but not me. I get paid or I don’t work.”

The two men studied each other in silence.

Humbolt looked like an athlete. Scaling a shade over six feet, he seemed in perfect condition; his rather handsome face was bronzed and he wore a neat, dark mustache over a firm, full mouth. His eyes were dark brown and his hair, a few shades lighter with gray splashes at the temples and over his ears. He appeared to be around forty-two.

“Cartman tells me you were in aviation during the War,” Brett observed.

“IT was. Royal Air Force before we got into it.”

“Flying is a tough racket, Must take lots of guts.”

“The ‘guts’ part is over-rated,” Humbolt said. “The War was the most glorious part of my life, I—" He stopped self-consciously. “You did combat flying?” Brett asked interestedly.

Humbolt nodded. “Get any Heinies?”

“The War Department credited me with four planes,” was the laconic reply. “Now about those letters. Do you think we can do business if I can raise the money?”

“You can always do business with me if you can pay for it,” Brett assured him. Humbolt thought that over. “I’d like to get those letters and I’d hate to have someone else get them.”

“Being a rich gal’s husband isn’t such a bad job, huh?”

“It isn’t,” Humbolt admitted frankly. “And it’s the only one I know.”

With that he left.

Brett followed him as far as the outer office. He asked Swedie: “Seen anything of Pat Hirsch?”

“No,” she replied, but didn’t look up.

“You’re a liar,” Brett said conversationally. “He works until twelve or one—when did you see him?”

“After he got through last night,” she confessed under her breath.

“Did you tell him what I told you?"

“No! I didn’t, Mr. Brett, honestly,  she protested.

Brett smiled.  “I didn’t think you would.” He moved toward the door.

“Where’ll you be?” Swedie asked.

Brett turned. “I’m up against a very difficult psychological problem so I’m going to pull a Vilo Pants. I’m going down to the Grand Central and read time tables.”

Swedie stared after him speculatively.

vii

BRETT drank orange juice and coffee at breakfast next morning he studied the gossip column of a pale pink tabloid propped against the cafeteria sugar bowl. He read: “Who is the husband who will lose his rich wife if a certain Newark lawyer’s blackmailing plans go through and the husband doesn’t pay pa-lenty?”

After tearing out the page and stowing it in his pocket, Brett discarded the tabloid and picked up the other morning papers. He walked slowly to his office. As Brett opened the door Swedie moved quickly.

Brett saw her stuff the same tabloid into her waste basket.

“Anything good in it?” Brett asked, pointing to the crumpled paper. He dropped the others on her desk.

“N-no, not a thing,” she informed him.

“I forgot to get it,” he said. “Run through these and see if they’re any leads. Anything beside the Frisco Smith kill.”

At ten o'clock, Brett slipped an unopened pint of rye into his pocket and went out. He walked to a drab house on West 52nd Street with dirty lace curtains almost hiding the fly-specked sign “Rooms,” and asked for Mr. P. Leonidas Hirsch.

Mr. Hirsch was still sleeping, but the landlady, after mature deliberation, led Brett upstairs.

“You're a sucker, Pat,” said Brett from the doorway.

Pat Hirsch fixed his sleep-heavy eyes on the slight dent in Brett’s nose and asked: “Come to beat me up?”

“Maybe I should at that,” Brett said. He tossed the gossip column beside the reporter. “Why give that guy dope? You don’t work for his paper.”

“You know the answer to that one yourself,” Hirsch grumbled. “Go away, I want to sleep.”

“So you fixed it up with Swedie, huh?”

“Did I fix it up!” Pat chortled. “Till three o’clock two mornings.”

The reporter rolled up in the bed-clothes and relaxed, his eyes closed. Brett studied his bony, good humored face, then hunted up a couple of glasses.

At the sound of pouring, Hirsch jerked up and sniffed.

“I fear the Greeks bearing rye,” he grinned. “But not enough to say ‘no’.”

“Pat,” Brett began, “you’ve helped me out on this case. I’m going to give you a chance to earn a couple of quarts.”

“What do you mean I’ve helped you out?” Hirsch asked suspiciously.

Brett flicked ashes partially on the bed clothes, partially on the newspaper clipping. Hirsch swore fervently. "Do you want to play along or must I go down and sell Art Stultz the idea of assigning you to the job?”

“Art would be the greatest managing editor in the newspaper business,” Hirsch grouched, “if he didn’t listen to you.”

“That means you'll play?”

“What else can I do?” The reporter poked the bunched pillows behind him lovingly. "Wait a minute,” he stalled. “How about giving me some dope before you shag me out of bed.”

“I'll tell you enough for your own good,” Brett agreed, “but keep your typewriter under control. Lewis J. Humbolt, whose wife is the daughter of Sherrell, the paint king, has been playing around with Sonia Patten before and after his marriage. Sonia has some hot letters from Humbolt, but she refused ten grand for them, even when I told her they would help Mrs. Humbolt get a divorce.”

“Sonia’s a wise baby,’ Pat observed. “If she isn’t jealous of the wife, why should she kill her boy friend’s income for a lousy ten grand?”

“You been eating fish?’ Brett asked.

“What’s Humbolt like?”

“Seems to be quite a gent,” responded Brett. “That’s what I want you to do—check up on Humbolt, especially his service record.”

“War baby, huh?"

“Yeah, shot down four Jerry planes.” Brett continued, “And I’m putting Halloway on Howard Cartman, I don’t think the morgue will have him.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. I want to know about the Sherrells,” said Tay. “One of that gang is going to pay me for protecting Mrs. Humbolt.”

“And pay plenty,” observed Hirsch dryly.

He scooped a phone from under his bed and called a number. After a few questions, Hirsch held the mouthpiece against his cheek and recited:

“Two daughters, Virginia and Carmen. Carmen’s married, lives in K. C. Old Lady Sherrell’s society crazy. You know Virginia.”

“Enough,” admitted Brett. “The old man’s lousy with coin. One son, Douglas, a wild sort of bimbo.”

“That takes dough,” the detective commented. “Where can I reach Douglas?”

Pat spoke into the phone, then informed Brett: “He doesn’t work. Has an apartment in town, hangs out at the Princeton Club.”

“Swell,” Brett said and Pat hung up.

"Want me to scout Sonia?”

“I'm getting a line on her,” grumbled Brett, frowning.

As Hirsch dressed unhurriedly, he asked: “What was that ‘potential murderer’ stuff you gave Swedie?”

“Just a gag,” chuckled Brett easily.

They left the house and walked down Broadway toward the Subway station. Hirsch looked at a morning paper, asked: “What’s your idea on this Frisco Smith rub-out?”

Brett’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled: “I wouldn’t know. No one’s offered a reward, so why should I get excited?”

“He was no BB,” Hirsch mused. “He was a real big shot.” They parted at 50th Street.

TWENTY minutes later, the phone in Brett’s office rang. Answering it, Brett could hear the tremble of excitement. in Pat Hirsch’s voice.

“Just a gag, huh!” Pat jeered. "Did you hear about the accident?”

“Go on,” Brett ordered.

“Just got the flash. At nine-thirty this morning, Mr. and Mrs. Lewis J. Humbolt are driving along when the left front tire blows and the car swerves sharp left across the road in front of a kid who’s been hitting it up.”

“Go on!"

“The right-hand door of Humbolt’s car wrenches free and Mrs. Humbolt is slammed out in the middle of the road.”

Brett swore softly.

“Killed?” he asked.

“This kid who’s tearing toward them is just seventeen, but like lots of kids that age he’s got no nerves,” Hirsch continued. “He climbs a bank, grazes a tree, and never even breathes down Mrs. Humbolt’s neck. All she got out of it was a shock and a flock of bruises.

Brett straightened in his chair, “And Humbolt ?”

“Busted left arm; cut over the right eye.”

“What kind of car were they driving? Where is it now?”

There was a rattle of paper, then Hirsch said: “1938 La Salle convertible red and black, red wheels, top down, license number 16—46—2.”

“Perfect.”

“It was smashed up so badly they left it to be towed to the nearest garage.”

“Where were they?” Brett asked.

“They were going to the Essex Fells Country Club, car’s about a quarter of a mile from there. Coming from Bloomfield Avenue.”

“Call me back in half an hour,” Brett ordered and snapped down the receiver. He yelled, “Swedie! Call that mechanic! Get him down here with a car and some tools.” His fingers drummed on the desk. “Then call Talky Baldwin. Tell him to come in if he wants to make a fin.”

Brett yanked newspapers from his desk, threw them around until he found the right one. He jerked the phone off its stand and asked for Information.

“Information?—  Give me the phone number of Richard Holland, one— six— four West—”

Twenty-five minutes later, the husky New York City patrolman, in plain clothes, strolled in nonchalantly.

Swedie hustled him into Brett’s office.

Brett said: “Hello, Dick.”

Holland nodded and surveyed the other two men. Longvelt, the mechanic, was a square-faced, blond man of about thirty with a dark coat over his oil-stained overalls. Baldwin was a foppishly dressed little gent of fifty who sported a cane and a ten-cent gardenia on his lapel.

“Go to Jersey," Brett directed without ceremony. “You'll find a red and black La Salle. Here are full directions.” He handed Holland a piece of paper, “It may be at the Essex Fells Country Club, maybe back in Montclair. Find it! Talky, here, wants to buy a car just like it. Talky gabs to the garage men while Holland and Longvelt look it over.”

“What do you want to know?” Holland asked.

“Why it cracked up. Why the right front door wrenched open,” Brett barked. “Then go back to the scene of the accident and use your eyes. Holland, you’re boss.”

As the three went out, Holloway entered. Brett handed the fat detective a sheet of directions.

“Go out and check over the accident, Tub,” Brett instructed him. “Get everything, eye witness accounts, local gossip on the Humbolts, everything.”

“Big case, Brett?” Halloway asked, stuffing the directions in a bulbous bill-case.

“Hell, no case at all yet.” Halloway smiled discreetly and walked out with a jerky gait.

viii

A SMALL piece of metal and a crudely drawn map lay in the pool of golden light cast upon the desk by the desk lamp. Brett and Dick Holland were humped forward over the map as Pat Hirsch entered. Brett waved him to a seat, spoke to Holland:

“Then you think it was on the level?”

Holland hesitated. “Sure,” he said doubtfully.

“The accident?” Pat asked excitedly.

“Rated off his form it was.”

“Yeah?” said Brett softly and looked up.

“Absolutely! That Humbolt guy seems jinxed. He had five crack-ups in the War and he’s been in— this is his sixth bad automobile smash.”

“You see?” Brett said to Holland.

The big man nodded. “Uh-huh, and that makes it different. This Humbolt wouldn’t be afraid of another smash; he knows how they work.”

He picked up the metal object. Hirsch craned forward.

“The latch of a car door!” he breathed. He snatched it from Holland and examined it. Suddenly he yelled, “It’s been sawed off!”

Brett said: “Yes.”

“Where’d you get it? Humbolt’s car?” Hirsch demanded excitedly.

“No,” Brett explained, “Longvelt sawed it off a La Salle in a Jersey City junk yard.

“But—"

“Longvelt and Holland couldn't decide whether the latch on Humbolt’s car had been snapped off or sawed off.”

“Brett thinks he can make that latch work better than a sock on the jaw.”

The cop’s grin was faintly malicious. Pat looked at Holland and nodded.

“Now I remember you. You're the fella that was going to beat Tay up during the Spencer job.”

Holland squirmed under Hirsch’s derisive grin, cleared his throat. Someone rapped on the hall door and Pat went to answer it as Brett cleared the desk of map and car latch.

The reporter ushered in a good looking, blond man of about twenty-three. He was only slightly shorter than the angular Hirsch, but better built. His eyes were very blue in a tanned face.

He looked around.

“Which of you gentlemen is Brett?” he asked.

“I am," Brett said. He pointed to the chair Pat Hirsch had vacated. “Won’t you sit down.”

“Thanks.” The young man seated himself on the edge of the chair. His hands played with a pair of gloves. He glanced at Pat Hirsch leaning against the wall behind Brett’s desk, then at Holland industriously splitting paper matches.

He cleared his throat. He said: “I am Douglas Sherrell.”

Brett smiled encouragingly, waved toward Pat and Holland, explained, “My men. You can speak freely.”

“Mr. Brett, do you handle divorce cases?”

“I don’t like them.” Then, “Sure— sometimes.”

“I —will you handle one for me?”

“What’s it all about?” Brett asked. He offered Sherrell a cigarette. Holland supplied a light.

"This  is rather new to me,” young Sherrell explained self-consciously. His pale brown skin showed twin dark splotches over the angle of his jaw.

“Sure,” Brett said easily. “Take your time.”

Hesitatingly, Sherrell said, “I want you to get evidence for a divorce. It— it’s for my sister, Virginia Humbolt.” Brett was business-like; he wrote the name down and looked up expectantly.

Reassured, Sherrell went on: “She doesn’t know that Mike— that Lewis Humbolt, her husband has been—” he stumbled over the word—“unfaithful to her.”

“I see." Brett's tone was matter-of- fact.

“You'll have to get all the evidence,” said Sherrell.

“I’ll give you the other woman’s name and some data, but—you’ll have to get all the evidence. The dark splotches flowed back to his jaw. “You'll have to convince my sister. You see— well, she doesn’t know.”

“I see. Will you give me that data now?”

Young Sherrell drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the detective. He tried to smile, said: “Humbolt has been very discreet, it may be difficult—” Then, “You'll need plenty of proof to convince Sis.”

“I'll try to get it,” Brett promised.

“How much shall I make the cheque for?”

As Sherrell spread a pocket cheque book on the table, Brett said: “Better make it five hundred dollars.”

Taking one of Brett’s business cards from his pocket, Sherrell consulted it as he made out the cheque. Brett glanced over, saw: “Must see you at once, Important. T.B.” scribbled across it.

TAY BRETT’S eyes narrowed as he recognized the card he had sent in to Sonia Patten. He asked Sherrell to make the cheque out to “Cash,” and his fingers drummed the table.

As Sherrell handed Brett the cheque, he said: “I hope you can get at this right away.”

“I shall,” Brett promised. He flipped the pages of an afternoon paper. “Didn’t your sister and her husband have an accident?”

“Yes,” replied Sherrell, “their car smashed up, All he got was a broken arm.”

“Too bad,” observed Brett. “If he’d been smashed up right, it would have saved you money.”

Sherrell gave an involuntary shiver.

Brett went on: “I knew you looked familiar; a lot like your sister.”

Sherrell’s eyes widened. “You know my sister?”

“Yeah. I met her a couple of days ago.”

“Is she suspicious of Mike? hire you?”

“I went to see her on another case,” Brett explained. “A crooked servant gave her as a reference.”

“Oh, I see.” Sherrill picked up his hat. He hesitated, seemed uncomfortable ; his hand fumbled in his top-coat pocket. He cleared his throat nervously and said: “Mr. Brett— I wonder if— if you could come up to my apartment, now. My car’s outside—”

He didn’t finish. Brett watched him levelly.

“What for?”

“Well— you see— I’ve— I’ve something to show you.”

Brett rose, said: “Wait here,” to Hirsch and Holland. He led the way to the outer office, held open the door. He stepped aside to let young Sherrell through.

His next move was sudden. As Sherrell moved through the door, Brett closed in on him fast, gripped his wrists from behind. Sherrell twisted, flung himself round, but couldn’t free himself from the paralyzing hold on his wrists. Brett brought up his knee sharply, then again.

Sherrell gasped.

"Want some more?’ Brett muttered grimly. Sherrell relaxed. Holding Sherrell’s right wrist, Brett’s left hand shot up, snapped Sherrell’s hat forward, gripped his hair. He pulled the man’s head back. Sherrell’s breathing was labored.

“Now get tough,” whispered Brett. “Get tough.”

His hand forced Sherrell’s hand from the pocket, shook it, shook the small .32 Mauser automatic from his numbed fingers. Brett swung him around suddenly, dealt him a heavy blow across the face with his open palm, and scooped up the gun.

"Is this what you wanted to show me?"

Brett smiled unpleasantly, juggled the Mauser in his palm.

Sherrell didn’t reply, didn’t look at the detective. There was an ugly red welt across his right cheek, his left was pale.

“You didn’t want to see me,” Brett stated, “but Sonia Patten did. Tell her I'll call her if I want to see her.”

Deliberately, he tossed the Mauser to Sherrell. Said tersely: “Scram!”

As Brett re-entered the inner office, Dick Holland scrubbed the thick hair back of his ears with the heavy knuckles of his big right fist. “So this is the private dick racket?” he said softly.

“If that guy didn’t know his sister had met you,” Hirsch pondered, “how come he wandered in here? You should have asked him that, Tay.”

“Yeah, I should have,’ Brett agreed. He put Sherrell’s letter in his pocket.

“Maybe it’s in the letter,” Hirsch suggested interestedly.

“Maybe it is,” Brett replied.

Holland rose. “Hell, I go on soon— I got to beat it.”

“Thanks for coming over, Dick,” Brett said as the big man went to the door.

“I like it— and the ten-spot too,” Holland tossed over his shoulder.

BRETT piled two glasses, a pint bottle, and the map on the desk. He poured two drinks, picked up one, and studied the map, his heavy eyebrows almost touching above the slight dent at the bridge of his nose. Pat Hirsch made no move toward his glass; he remained tilted back in his chair, his long legs propped against an open drawer.

When at last Hirsch spoke, his voice was hard and there was an unpleasant arrangement to his good humored features.

“So the ‘potential murderer’ thing was just a gag.”

Brett paid no attention.

“Just a gag,” Pat sneered. you’re a heel, Brett.”

“I think." He spoke slowly, distinctly, “I think you’re a heel. And a very dumb heel at that.”

“Uh-huh,” Brett said without interest.

“This whole case is a push-over!” The reporter made a contemptuous brushing gesture with his hand. “You knew Humbolt was still crazy about the Patten squaw. You knew that’s why she didn’t want Mrs. Humbolt to get a divorce...." He barked nastily, “And you knew Humbolt was sole beneficiary of his wife’s will.”

Brett’s eyes flashed up at Hirsch, then down quickly, He didn’t reply.

“You knew that put Mrs. Humbolt on the spot, yet what did you do?” Pat raged. “You suck around trying to get them all paying you fees, bleed them all white. And,” he emphasized each word, “you are the guy who started things rolling. You’re the guy who put Mrs. Humbolt on the spot.”

“How?” Brett asked quietly. “By not telling Cartman he was a dirty blackmailer the moment he approached you to get those letters,” Hirsch said savagely. “You saw what his angle was!”

“As simple as all that.” Brett’s voice seemed regretful. “Hell! I wish these things were as easy to handle as they are in detective stories.”

“What’s so tough about it?” Hirsch wanted to know.

“You can’t pinch a gent for trying to kill his wife— not without proof,’ Brett said. “Besides, Mrs. Humbolt’d laugh at you. You heard what Sherrell said.”

Brett’s shoulders shrugged helplessly.

Hirsch cursed bitterly and the anger drained from his face leaving it tired and pale. Even his gray eyes seemed pale.

“I didn’t figure Humbolt would get tough so soon,” Brett offered. “I thought I had at least three days.”

“Well, what are you going to do?” the reporter demanded hoarsely.

Brett got up and eased around the office. “What are you going to do?” Hirsch repeated.

“Nothing,” Brett said. “Not one damn thing.”

“Nothing, huh?" Pat Hirsch pushed himself from his chair, his long bony hands doubled into fists. He said in a flat tone: “Not going to do anything, huh?”

Unexpectedly, Brett preached open the door, took the short corridor in two  bounds, ripped open the door to the hall. He came back grinning sheepishly.

“I read that one in a book,” he confessed.

Hirsch watched him warily, his fists still clenched.

Brett picked up the phone and called a Montclair number.

Pat looked perplexed; his hands opened slowly.

“Mr. Humbolt, please,” Brett said into the phone. He nodded toward the empty glasses, told Pat, “Barkeep for me.”

As Hirsch poured red brown liquid into the glasses, Brett explained into the phone: “Tell him it’s the man he saw in New York yesterday morning.” Leaning back, Brett accepted a glass from Pat, raised it in short salute and drank. He bent forward quickly, put down the glass.

“Hello, Mr. Humbolt... Brett.” His eyes found the reporter’s gray ones, remained on them steadfastly.... “Sorry to hear about the accident— Have you heard from that person on Central Park West?— Something very funny’s happened. When can I see you?— I’d rather not be seen around your house— Good, about nine?—  Great. And say, you'd better bring a coupla of hundred dollars, in cash.”  Brett hung up, chuckled. “He didn’t go for that last crack,”

“So you’re just bleeding them after all,” Hirsch sneered.

“Aw, grow up!” Brett barked irritably. He called Susquehanna 7-6160 and asked for Miss Patten; said: “Thanks,” and hung up.

“Out,” he said, He leaned back again. Pat Hirsch’s tone was exasperated: “Do you know what you’re doing or are you plugging along waiting and hoping for breaks ?”

Brett swallowed the rest of his drink and said: “Both.”

“Then what in hell are you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to get Humbolt’s letters.”

Hirsch jerked to his feet, cursed— a single, biting word. He went to the door, put his back to it, tried to read Brett's expressionless face. He cursed again and went out.

Brett opened a new pint of rye, poured himself a short slug. He took out Sherrell’s letter, and read:

DEAR Mr. Brett:

I was referred to you by Miss Sonia Patten who has great confidence in your ability as a result of—

With a humorless smile, Brett skipped until he came to:

Failing to win Miss Patten’s love so broke Lewis Humbolt’s spirit that he began, and is still carrying on, an affair with her maid, Effie Short. Brett swore and reread: “Failing to win Miss Patten’s love so broke Lewis Humbolt’s spirit—”

He swore again, contemptuously, and stared at the passage. Then, without reading any further, he stuffed the letter in his pocket. He opened the window, put the door latch on the sill outside. Closed the window, killed his drink, and left the office. Reaching the street, he hailed a cab, ordered: “East 51st Street Police Station.”

At three-twenty-six that night, Brett was sitting on a low, sand-colored, overstuffed chair. He glanced at the alarm clock at his elbow, reset the dial for four o’clock, reached for the phone. It rang as his fingers touched it. Brett said:

“Yes?... Oh, hello, I’ve been calling you all evening.... Yeah, they told me you and young Sherrell left around six.... I’ve got to see you, soon, Fine. Thanks for the client.”

ix

HUMBOLT’S light coat was draped on his shoulders in a military cape effect. He shrugged out of it; dropped it and his stick on Brett’s desk.

He said: “I hope to— this is important.”

Brett looked at the splintered left arm resting in a sling. “Maybe you’re lucky.”

Humbolt looked down, smiled sardonically. "I wouldn’t say so,” he observed. Then: “Why did you want to see me?”

“You certainly work fast,” said Brett quietly.

“Do I?” Humbolt’s face and eyes were naked of expression.

“Yeah,” Brett grunted. “Listen, Mr. Humbolt, I’m no hog, but our understanding was that I was to get a crack at those letters.”

“Was it?” Humbolt was playing cagey, but his eyes were uncertain, watchful. Brett studied him a moment, shrugged.

“Playing tough, huh? Okay, just as long as I know.” He laughed without amusement. “And I thought there was only one Cartman in this deal.”

Humbolt rose. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Do?” Brett barked angrily. “I’m going to do myself some good. I got the run around from Cartman, now you're giving it to me. And I hate to be double-crossed.”

“I double-crossed you?” Humbolt asked.

“You crossed me,” Brett said flatly. “Well, I’ve got to make a living and your family has plenty of skeletons knocking around.”

“How did I cross you?”

“Oh, be normal!” Brett burst out. “Stop the innocence stuff— I’m not that dumb.” He considered, “Or maybe I am. Anyway, let’s call it quits.”

But Humbolt was easing himself into his chair. His eyes showed perplexity. “What's this all about?”

“By —” Brett stopped, sighed. He asked patiently: “Didn’t it occur to you that I might see Sonia, or hear about that letter?”

“What letter?”

“Is this a game?”

“Not unless you make it one!” Humbolt barked. “What in hell are you talking about? What letter?”

“The letter you wrote Sonia Patten,” Brett whipped out. The muscles in his jaw knotted. “The letter in which you told her to put your letters in a safe deposit box. The letter in which you tipped her off that someone was trying to get them, you double-crossing louse!”

He imitated Humbolt with heavy sarcasm. “What letter?”

Humbolt’s face was pale, but he managed to control his voice.

“You're a liar, Brett! I didn’t write to Sonia Patten. I haven’t seen or spoken to her for three days.”

“Didn’t see that letter— is that it?”

Humbolt stared at him, didn’t reply; his face was yellowish. Brett pushed a pad and pencil at him savagely.

“Write what I dictate, if you’ve got the guts. We'll see who’s the liar.”

Humbolt took the pencil angrily. Brett fished an envelope  from his  pocket, dictated emotionlessly as Humbolt wrote:

Sonia: Get my letters to a safe deposit box immediately. Your flat is to be searched. Let you know more when I can. MIKE

Humbolt looked up with a start. “There you are, Mister Detective”, he jeered. “My friends call me ‘Mike,’ but Sonia calls me ‘Jim,’ my second name. That’s how I sign my letters to her.”

“Jim?” Brett repeated, “But it was signed Mike.”

FOR a moment they looked at each other in silence. Brett picked up the pad, studied what Humbolt had written. Then he ripped it to pieces, dropped them in a waste basket. His smile was chagrined.

“I owe you an apology,” he confessed. He shook his head doubtfully. “It was a damn good forgery.”

“Who sent it?’ Humbolt asked.

Brett snorted, “Let’s ask Sonia.”

“And how did you happen to see it?” Humbolt asked, his narrowed eyes watching the detective. Brett seemed embarrassed.

“Well,” he admitted slowly, “Sonia was out last night. I happened to see her go and it seemed like a good time to look around her place, so—” He spread his hands. “That letter was in a waste basket. I didn’t want to take it just in case she should look for it again.” He hesitated, added modestly, “I did a rather neat job, I didn’t want to spoil it.”

“You searched Sonia Patten’s apartment?” Amazement streamed across Humbolt’s face.

“I knew I could sell the letters to Cartman if you and I couldn’t do business,” Brett said with unassailable logic.

“Did you get them?”

“Hell, no!” Bitterness flooded Brett’s voice. “Maybe she knew that letter was a fake, but she didn’t take any chances. Either that or she doesn’t keep them in the apartment.”

“But she does!” Humbolt protested, “I know she does. Who could have sent her that letter?”

“Got two hundred dollars with you?” Brett asked.

"Yes."

Brett held out his hand. “Then suppose I find out.”

“What is this— a dodge to make two hundred dollars?”

“If it is, it cost me Cartman’s ten grand,” Brett replied evenly.

Humbolt looked at him in silence, then handed over two one-hundred-dollar bills. “If you’re selling out to the highest bidder,” he advised, “don’t count too heavily on Cartman; he took an awful beating in the Market.”

“So that’s what drove him into the blackmailing game,” Brett remarked.

“What can I tell Sonia if she asks me why I wrote that letter?” grumbled Humbolt.

“Don’t tell her anything, yet,” suggested. “Keep away from her.”

“That won’t be hard to do," was the enigmatic reply.

With impatient eyes, Tay Brett watched Humbolt through the door, down the short corridor, through Swedie’s sanctum. The closing of the outer door sent him rummaging through the waste basket.

He was fitting together torn pieces of Humbolt’s letter when Big Mac, the detective, entered, pushing before him a stoop-shouldered, pale man whose owlish eyes were magnified by glasses.

“Here’s Mr. Montgomery,” said Big Mac with an elaborate wink. He pushed Montgomery into a chair. Without looking up, Brett replied: “Good. Almost ready.”

A moment later, Brett signaled Montgomery to take his place.

“How long will it take you?” Brett demanded as Montgomery sat down and examined Humbolt’s note.

“I’m good,” Montgomery wheezed. “Twenty minutes.”

“Hop to it,” Brett ordered. “Sign it ‘Jim.’ ”

Big Mac winked at Tay again, leaned his great bulk against the closed door as Brett phoned for a Postal Telegraph messenger.

x

A FEW minutes after ten, and Brett sat in a taxi at the upper end of the block south of Sonia Patten’s apartment house. A Postal Telegraph boy entered the apartment. Brett’s eyes glinted; he lighted another cigaret.

Not ten minutes later, Sonia Patten came out hurriedly.

Brett barked, "Step on it!”

His taxi rolled up just as Sonia stepped into a cab the doorman called. Brett swung out, wrenched open the door to her cab.

“Running out on our date?” he demanded cheerfully.

The smoky blue of Sonia Patten’s eyes was almost hidden by the contraction of her eyelids. She was silent. Brett climbed in beside her.

“You act scared,” he declared. “What’s wrong ?”

“I have an errand to do,” she said.

“Must be damned important,” Brett observed, Every line of his face showed suspicion and disbelief.

Sonia smiled. “I have to buy some socks,” she explained easily, putting out two perfect legs, devoid of hosiery.

Brett admired them.

“Not on my account,” he protested. “You can afford to keep them bare. No kidding— where’re you going?”

“Down to the bank for money, to Sak’s for some socks, then home again.”

Sonia read the doubt in his eyes, laughed throatily. “You detectives are impossible! You’d accuse me of some dark plot if I were merely going to the A & P for a can of beans.”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Brett non-committally. "Which bank?”

“The Fifth Avenue Bank,” she said.

Brett leaned forward, rapped on the glass. The driver turned. “Go down Sixth,” Brett directed.

The driver put down his flag and meshed gears.

Brett leaned back comfortably and announced to Sonia: “I think your story is screwy. You wanted to see someone before I came. Who was it?”

“I wouldn’t have a mind like yours for a million dollars!” Sonia scoffed.

“Who was it?” Brett insisted. “Your  lawyer? Humbolt?”

Sonia Patten merely smiled; she said: “I told you the truth.”

“Then it’s the first time,” Brett sneered. “I’ll just come along and check up.”

A wary look dawned in her eyes.

Brett said: “Why are you so anxious to get to the bank?” As she hesitated, Brett’s eyes became opaque. He glanced from her face to the front of her dress, on to the bag she clutched firmly, back to her eyes. He grinned unpleasantly. “The truth, huh? Why are you so anxious to get to the bank?”

“You're very melodramatic this morning, Mr. Brett,” she laughed. “Suppose we have our talk. Then, if you wish, you can go shopping with me.”

“Who were you going to see?” Brett repeated doggedly.

Sonia sighed impatiently. "Don’t be a fool!” she snapped. “I’ve offered to talk to you before I do anything else.”

“You're a tough gal,” Brett grumbled.

He gave the driver the address of his office. They rode in silence. Brett apparently still puzzled, Sonia trying to stifle a triumphant gleam in her wide eyes.

As they entered the office, Swedie jumped from her desk.

“I’ve got to go to the bank,” she announced and started tucking white-gold hair under a brown hat.

“Go ahead. Everybody’s doing it,” Brett said and guided Sonia Patten into his private office.

PATTEN seated herself gracefully and crossed one bare leg over the other. In her right hand she still clutched the brown-gold-and-blue, needle-point bag. But she was very generous; her chair scraped forward as Brett seated himself so he could enjoy an unhampered view of the contrast between her dark brown, high-heeled sandals and the golden-brown of her stockingless legs.

She slipped her mink coat backward, cape fashion, and leaned toward him. The lacey edge of a chemise showed in the deep V of her plain, sand-colored dress. Nothing bulged at the front of her dress— nothing angular such as letters.

Brett examined her minutely, frankly. His narrowed eyes flattered.

“I said I’d like to work for you,” he reminded her.

She showed even, white, teeth, asked: “You want to see me about Doug Sherrell’s letter?”

Brett looked at the watch on the inside of his wrist. “Yes.”

He frowned, said: “This Effie Short thing— it sounds screwy.”

“You've seen her,” indifferently. “Sure. And I'll admit she’s a warm looking piece of merchandise.”

As he reached for his cigarettes, he went on: “She’s probably a big help to you in your racket but—” pausing to light his cigarette, he failed to notice the flush march up her cheeks— “but Humbolt’s falling for her is a bad angle. Mrs. Humbolt won't believe it and no jury will believe it, even if young Sherrell did swallow it whole.”

Sonia didn’t move.

“The dinge is out!” Brett declared. “Haven't you some friend you can frame?”

“Frame!” Sonia cried angrily. Brett grinned.

“Young Sherrell paid me five hundred dollars to be on your side. Please don’t pull that innocent stuff?”

Sonia asked sarcastically, “Are you on my side?”

“Why not— for five hundred bucks?” Brett replied. “Here’s one you don’t know: Someone’s asked me to offer you fifteen grand for Humbolt’s letters.”

“Mrs. Humbolt?” she asked quickly.

The click of the office door halted him. Brett shook his head. Tub Halloway entered, saw Brett was busy, and backed out.

“No, someone else,” Brett said.

Sonia glanced over her shoulder, then asked: “Who?”

“I don’t know.” He looked at her, called, “Halloway!”

The fat man entered, stood just inside the door. Sonia’s eyes were on Brett.

“You tailed that guy?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“What did he do?”

“I tailed him to a bar on 44th. He didn’t talk to anyone. Then we took the Sixth Avenue ‘L.’ ”

Sonia half turned in her chair to watch Halloway; Brett leaned forward.

“Then what?” he demanded.

“Well,” Halloway spoke slowly, “he got off at Bowling Green, walked back to  25 Broadway and went in. He went down in an elevator and ducked out a side door. He beat it up the alley, crossed Broadway and went in 32. He rode up to the eighth-floor and went into a law firm’s office.”

“What was the name?” Sonia asked. Sonia pointed out Brett He looked at her, 125 Halloway turned sleepy eyes on her, his face stolid. Sonia rapped out impatiently :

"What was the law firm’s name?”

Brett’s arm, lying lazily along the desk, whipped out, struck the woman’s bag, ripped it free before her surprised muscles could react.

Sonia leapt at him, clawing, scratching, cursing. Halloway slipped an arm around her waist and held her back as Brett opened the bag. He took out a cigaret case, tossed it on the desk near her.

“Better smoke it off,” Brett advised the raging woman.

As suddenly as it had begun, Sonia Patten subsided. She took a long, fragrant cigaret from the odd shaped case. Halloway held a match to it, obligingly.

Brett turned out the contents of the large bag. Among the clutter of intensely feminine articles was an oblong package wrapped in newspaper. Brett waved it gently.

“Maybe this,” he told Halloway, “is what Miss Patten was so anxious to get in the bank.”

UNVEILED hatred burned in the woman’s eyes as she watched Brett slip off the rubber bands, open the newspaper.

Brett looked down at a bundle of letters, leaned forward to read the post office stamp, said, “Montclair,” and looked up with a grin of triumph, “Tub! The letters— Humbolt’s letters!”

Brett’s surprise seemed genuine and Halloway cried excitedly; “Open them and make sure!”

Brett did so, glanced at the signature and looked puzzled.

“Jim,” he said. Crestfallen he opened others, frowned. He shook his head irritably.

“You see?’ Sonia Patten sneered, “You’ve made blithering fools of yourselves.”

Brett’s face lighted. “Hell,” he barked, “Humbolt’s second name is Jim—James.”

The office door opened, Pat Hirsch entered. He waved a salute.

“Hello, Mr. Brett,” he said formally. “Anything new these days?”

“Miss Patten— Mr. Hirsch of the Bulletin,’ Brett introduced. He went on quickly, “Yes, I’ve got something. As pretty a blackmail plot as you’ve ever seen.”

Sonia stared at him incredulously. Brett continued: “The blackmailer came here to sell me these letters. She threatened my client when I refused her price—one hundred grand. Tub and I took—”

“That’s a lie!" Sonia blazed.

“Just a minute,” Brett commanded. He called: “Miss Swenson!”

Swedie appeared from the small office, parallel with the corridor, which lay between Brett’s and the reception room. She carried a notebook.

“Did you get it all?” Brett demanded.

“Yes, sir. Shall I read from my notes?”

“No. Type them up for the District Attorney.” He turned to Pat, chuckled. “I’ve got the whole works! A verbatim account of what was said, Halloway’s testimony, and my own.”

Sonia glared at him, swung on Hirsch.

“It’s a lie,” she cried. “I’m being framed. I’m a prisoner.

“You’re no prisoner,’ Brett growled. “There’s the door to prove it.” He replaced the things in her bag as he spoke. “Extortion is a tough rap in this state, Miss Patten. I don’t care how beautiful you are, the judge will throw the book at you.”

“Extortion!” Sonia cried. “We'll see about that. I'll talk to the District Attorney myself— talk to the newspapers. When I get through with you, they'll crucify you.’ Brett held the bag toward her. She yanked it from him.

“That’s a great idea,” he agreed. “The D. A. will be glad to talk to you about Frisco Smith.”

For a split second, Sonia didn’t move, then she swept from the room.

As Halloway shepherded her to the hall, Pat Hirsch stared thoughtfully at Brett: “Where in the hell does Frisco Smith come in?”

Brett opened his hand. In it were newspaper clippings on the famous gambler’s shooting.

“I took these from her bag,” he explained. Pat’s eyes bulged as Brett turned to Halloway.

“Get Cartman?”

“Yeah, the minute you came in with the girl."

"Good. Call Humbolt at the Princeton Club. Have him here at the office at the same time.”

xi

AT a quarter past twelve, Tay Brett put away Sonia’s clippings and stretched. He ran a lean hand through rumpled hair, said: “Seventh inning.”

Pat Hirsch looked at him curiously.

“What’s it all about?” Without replying, Brett cleared the top of his desk, laid out the letters, and put the automobile door latch on a single sheet of white paper. He covered the exhibits with newspaper. He placed two chairs about two feet from the desk, facing it, facing the windows behind it. Tub Halloway was reading a tabloid, Tay jerked his thumb toward the reception room.

“Keep Swedie company,” Brett ordered.

Halloway grinned, lumbered out with short, jerky steps. Brett said to Pat Hirsch: “I’m going to square myself with Mrs. Humbolt.”

Hirsch nodded as though he understood completely.

A few minutes later, Swedie showed in Howard Cartman. The lawyer was irritable. “I couldn’t make head or tail of your man’s message,” was his greeting.

Brett smiled with his mouth, waved him to a chair.

“It was decidedly threatening— er —decidedly so.”

“Have a cigaret,” Brett invited. “We're expecting someone—”

“I never smoke!” Cartman flared. “Will you be good enough to explain what all this—”

“Here!” Brett thrust Halloway’s discarded tabloid into the lawyer’s hands.

Cartman snorted, threw the paper from him angrily. He glared truculently at the grinning Hirsch, Swedie brought in Lewis Humbolt.

There was a white line under each of Humbolt’s eyes. It started between the eye and bridge of the nose, ran down and out toward the hard angle of his jaw, was lost as it neared his cheek bones. The corners of his mouth sagged as though they were very heavy, too heavy for him to support. From time to time he straightened them, but they sagged again.

He nodded to Brett, didn’t speak. His eyes gleamed as he took in Cartman.

“Let’s have our talk,” suggested Brett as Humbolt seated himself. “I’m going to tell you a little story. In January, 1921, two Russians entered this country at Seattle. Their names were Pietr and Sunda Patrenska.”

Cartman and Humbolt listened intently, their faces puzzled.

“You can have this, Pat,” Brett told the reporter. He went on: “The Russians were brother and sister. They lived in Seattle about a year then moved to San Francisco. Pietr became a shill for a gambler named Smith, old Tarzan Smith. Sunda sang in a joint on the Barbary Coast. When old Tarzan cashed in— from natural causes— Pietr inherited the joint and changed his name to Frisco Smith.”

Cartman shifted in his chair.

“About five years ago,” Brett continued, “a theatrical man heard Sunda sing and booked her for a part with a road company. By this time she was known as Sunda Patren. She drifted East. When she arrived in New York three years ago, she was known as Sonia Patten.”

“Then Frisco Smith, the gambler who was murdered, was Sonia Patten’s brother?" Humbolt demanded incredulously.

“Uh-huh.”

Cartman asked irritably: “But what has that to do with us?”

“I can prove that either of you killed Frisco Smith.”

“What?” Cartman gasped; his face went white. Humbolt’s eyes glittered; he didn’t speak.

“I don’t know whether you did it and I don’t give a damn,” Brett informed them with utter indifference. “But I can prove either of you did the kill.”

“But motive— what motive could I possibly—”

Brett cut short the lawyer’s frightened babbling. He lifted the newspaper.

“Here’s the motive— Humbolt’s letter to Sonia. The cause of all the excitement. With Smith out of the way, Sonia couldn’t go running to her brother for help.”

The sight of the letters actually there before him seemed to hypnotize Cartman.  Unexpectedly, he rubbed his small hands together and giggled, first to Brett, then Humbolt.

“The letters,” he crooned. He smirked at Brett. “You’ve earned ten thousand dollars, Mr. Brett, ten thousand— er— grands.”

“If I sell to you.”

“But—but that was our agreement,” Cartman whined.

Brett surveyed him coldly: “Sure— and then you fired me.”

“It’s hot!” Humbolt broke in suddenly, his voice hoarse. He eased his coat around. the bandaged arm, laid it across his knees.

Brett turned to him: “Anything to say?”

Humbolt shrugged, but something like hope struggled to his eyes. “I haven’t ten thousand dollars,” he confessed. “But I could pay it to you over a period of, say, six months.”

Pat Hirsch’s eyes were glacial as he watched Brett.

The detective pointed to the piece of metal, said: “Here’s another thing: The right-hand door latch of a La Salle. It was sawed off.”

No one spoke for a minute,.

“Where did you find it?” Humbolt demanded at last, his voice steady.

Brett pushed back his chair, stood directly behind the desk,

“It was a tough assignment, but we got it,” he said. He went on: “There are two nice little exhibits. The letters— motive for murder. The latch— evidence of an attempt. And they are not for sale.”

Cartman made an unintelligible sound in his throat. And Humbolt’s hand appeared from under his coat holding a Colt automatic.

THE gun jutted, dark, menacing. No emotion in his face, and his voice was toneless.

“Steady!” he warned.

He covered the space to the desk in one step, and his bandaged arm reached out to sweep the letters and latch toward him.

Pat Hirsch said, “Hey!” in a surprised voice.

Humbolt swung the gun slightly, shifted his eyes from Brett to Pat. Brett’s right fist shot out, caught him on the left side of the jaw, snapped his head toward his right shoulder. Brett struck again. His left hand suddenly twisted the gun back, then out.

Halloway jerked into the room, a gun in his left hand. He swung it up, was about to smash it on Humbolt’s head.

“Never mind, Tub!” Brett ordered. He looked at Humbolt.. The man’s right hand was on the desk, his head hung forward, he stared down with glazed, sightless eyes.

Brett said: “Damn fool! He couldn’t have gotten out of here anyway.”

He tossed Humbolt’s gun to the agency man who caught it and went out.

“When citizens like you go on the bend,” Brett said in a hard voice, “it’s bad business. You ball things up, pull dumb stunts. And there are always too many angles.”

No one in the room moved or spoke.

“I don’t know how smart you are, but if you know anything at all, you know I’ve got you dead to rights. Dead to rights for gunning Frisco Smith and for trying to murder Mrs. Humbolt.”

Brett studied them, then asked: “Or must I show you more?”

Cartman squirmed and Humbolt was about to reply when Brett’s finger shot out, pointed at the lawyer. He said contemptuously, “And that goes for you, too, Cartman!”

“But suppose I’m innocent, absolutely innocent,” Cartman wailed.

“Then see that nothing happens to her,” Brett advised. “I don’t like you anyway.”

Slowly they rose. Humbolt wiped a fleck of blood from the corner of his mouth.

Halloway’s head appeared around the door.

Brett directed: “Give Humbolt his gat and let them out, Tub.”

When the closing of the outer door had signaled their departure, Brett leaned back in his chair. He pulled open a drawer, took out three glasses.

“We've earned this,” he remarked.

Pat Hirsch put down his drink and reached for the bottle. He said: “You’ve covered Mrs. Humbolt all right, but you’ve put yourself on the spot.”

“That’s what I get paid for,” Brett replied carelessly.

With no preliminary knock at the door, a large man lumbered into the room. Police detective was stamped into his hide.

“Listen, Brett,” he began without preamble, “Captain Moeller wants to see you. We're still not convinced you didn’t do this Frisco Smith rub-out.”

__________________

9: Narcotic Man

Frederick C. Painton

1896?-1945

Popular Detective, March 1936

1: Florida Night

IN the utter blackness that preceded moonrise, a small ship’s dinghy with muffled oars rowed silently from the flat green key called Laudermer, halfway between Miami and Key West. A thousand yards off-shore the lights of a palatial yacht gleamed warm and friendly, and the man in the stern sheets eyed it enviously, and dreamed of a time he would own such a craft.

The Japanese sailor rowed steadily and presently brought the dinghy alongside the ladder. The passenger mounted swiftly and strode aft where cushioned chairs and lounges inside mosquito netting made a cool spot to rest. A tall arrogant man in spotless white flannels, clutching a drink in his left hand, stared with hard, flaming eyes at the newcomer.

“Anybody spot you, Speed?” His voice was hard, too, brazen with the note of command.

Speed Carstairs put back the hand he had held out.

“You oughta know better than ask that,” he rejoined. Without being invited he sat down, and licked his lips. “I could do with a Tom Collins,” he muttered.

Bleak Bonner summoned a Jap servitor and ordered the drink.

“All right,” he said, “you got down here without being spotted. Swell! Did you have Mason Barr bumped off?”

“Sure, and Red, too.” Speed Carstairs laughed thinly. “Geez, Bleak, Red was a scream. He never knew he was being taken for a ride until I put the heater under his nose.”

The Jap came with the drink, and he waited until the man had retired.

Carstairs smiled again, his eyes slitted. “Red gives a yell and says, ‘God, you ain’t doin’ this to me. I ain’t never done anything but play straight with Bleak.’ ”

He sipped his drink. Bleak Bonner, lips flat and cruel, waved an impatient hand. “Get on with it.”

“Well, like you said, I told him he was being bumped because he sold the junk to Mason Barr. And the dumb cluck didn’t get it even then. I had to explain to him that you had him down here to go to Cuba and buy morphine and not to sell it. And selling it to a rich kid like Barr, uncut, was just like telling the G-men we were in the dope business.”

Carstairs drank again and smacked his lips with relish. “Well, Red says, ‘I only made one mistake like that.’ And I says, ‘one’s enough,’ and let him have it. I dumped his body out in Van Cortlandt Park and there was never a police kick-back.”

STILL Bleak Bonner did not relax. In all his years of smuggling this was the first slip-up and his cunning mind wanted to be sure he was not involved. He had made two million dollars running dope and had yet to see the inside of a jail.

“Did the G-men get to him before you shut him up?” he asked.

“Hell, no! I glommed him the minute he stepped off the train from Miami.”

“Good enough.” Bleak Bonner permitted himself a mirthless smile. “Now, about Mason Barr—did you follow my orders?”

“Posilutely,” grinned Carstairs in open admiration. “And there’s another laugh. It’s rich, I tell you. Mason Barr died while he was talking to that G-man, Duffy Kildare. The way I put it together is this: when Barr’s mother got after him to lay off the drug, she learned that he had bought the stuff here. You knew that; that’s why you wanted Barr bumped. Well, the kid sends for the G-man, Kildare, and he comes. The kid is nuts for a shot of junk. Like you told me I gave him the poison deck. So while the G-man is looking on, the kid loads his syringe and pushes the plunger.”

Carstairs found that funny and laughed heartily. “And by God, with Kildare watching him, the cyanide of potassium kills him in five minutes. And those stupid clucks are wondering yet how we got to him.”

To his surprise the joke didn’t strike Bleak Bonner as funny. He jumped to his feet and began to pace the deck.

“There was a slip there,” he muttered. “Carstairs, you didn’t get at Barr soon enough. He told Kildare he bought that junk right here in Laudermer.”

“Naw? On the level?”

“Do you think I’d rib at a time like this?” snarled Bonner. “Duffy Kildare is in Laudermer—has been here for a week.”

Carstairs put down his drink with a crash. “My God, Kildare here—in Florida? That means he’s onto our scheme.” He turned pale.

“No, he isn’t.” Bonner shook his head. “But he suspects we’re running morphine from Cuba in here. He doesn’t know how. More important, he doesn’t know how we get it north to New York.” Bonner’s arrogant eyes flashed contemptuously. “And he’ll never know that. I defy any G-man to uncover that scheme.”

“Right,” said Carstairs. “But listen, Bleak, we ought to give him the works before he uncovers anything at all.”

Bonner returned to his chair and sank back. “I’d thought about that,” he went on in a calmer voice, “but it’s no dice. Not yet anyway."

“Why?”

“I’ve been having him watched,” said Bonner. “And if he gets too hot why, we’ll put the heat on him and pull out. But listen”—he leaned forward tensely—“listen, Speed, I’ve got a half million bucks worth of morphine ashore tonight. The biggest lot I’ve ever shipped. If it gets through I stand to clean a million. And if I get that I’m stopping— quitting—going to the Riviera or some place and enjoy my dough.”

“A half million,” Carstairs repeated in awe. “Geez, you lay it heavy on the line.”

“I’m running it out tonight,” said Bonner. “So unless Kildare interferes with that shipment I’m letting him alone.”

Carstairs drained his drink. He shivered and his face was slightly pale. “A big risk, Chief. Kildare’s smart. He’s the best the G’s got.”

“He isn’t as smart as I am,” said Bonner contemptuously. “He—”

He broke off sharply and again jumped to his feet. “Martha!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

A girl, slim, dripping with water that made her thin dress cling softly to the lovely lines of her figure, came across the deck like some mermaid arisen from the sea. She had piles of yellow hair, straight blue eyes and even now she was beautiful enough to make Carstairs breathe appreciation.

Carstairs laughed. “Bleak, you sure supply all the comforts of home. If she’s for me—”

“Shut up!” snapped Bonner. He smiled at the girl, trying to keep the hard mercilessness from his face. “Martha, you didn’t swim through that water! Why the sharks, the barracuda—”

“I came that way because if any one in Laudermer knew I was on this yacht alone with you they’d kill you tomorrow,” she rejoined calmly. She regarded him fearlessly, her rounded breast rising and falling with her swift breathing.

“Well,” laughed Bonner, “at least let me get you a robe, and have your clothes dried.”

“I’m warm enough, and I don’t intend to stay,” she told him. “I came to tell you that unless you let my brother alone I’m going to the police with what I know about you.”

Mentioning her brother, Martha Harmon’s voice faltered. She loved her brother, adored him. They were twins, and between them was a psychic bond that made one’s happiness the other’s. This trouble that made him fearful, made her fearful. To save her brother Billy from this unknown rich man who had threatened him, she had swum the perilous water.

The smile was wiped off Carstairs’ face. And even the supremely arrogant Bleak Bonner grew grim.

“You know nothing about me, Martha,” he said.

“I know you’re a crook,” she said, “I know that you’ve got Billy involved in a most horrible business— innocently involved. And when he found out the truth and wanted to quit, you threatened to murder him. He told me that today. He had just found out what a frightful beast you are. Selling drugs to people to kill them.” She shuddered. “You’re worse than a beast—you’re not fit to live!”

Carstairs and Bonner exchanged glances. Carstairs’ hand vanished inside his coat where a gun was holstered.

“And so,” Bonner said softly—too softly, “you risked your life to swim out here and tell me you knew I was a narcotic smuggler and to leave your brother alone.”

HER lips tightened. “Yes, I did just that. And to get your promise to let him go away tomorrow and not to harm him. If you do that I shan’t say anything to the police.”

“Considerate of you,” said Bonner. “Very well, I promise to leave him alone after tomorrow. Does that suit you?”

Her tense lovely face did not relax. “Yes, that’s all. I’ll go now.”

She turned silently toward the taff-rail over which she had clambered. Bonner’s eyes found Carstairs’ snake orbs and he nodded. Swift as a cat Carstairs leaped for the girl. He clapped one hand over her mouth, held her helpless with the other. Bonner disappeared for a second and returned with a rope and gag. He bound her thoroughly himself.

“I’m afraid, my dear Martha,” he sneered, “that despite the conventions, you’ll have to stay on this boat until tomorrow — perhaps many tomorrows after that.”

The two men took the limp girl down to the main owner’s cabin and locked her in. They returned to the deck with black looks.

Carstairs snarled: “You’re in a jam, Bonner! This brother of hers —what does he do?”

“He’s the front for running the junk,” glumly said Bonner. “I intended to bump him before I left. Nothing rough. A chain tied to him and thrown overboard beyond Moccasin Reef. I’m not fretting about him. It’s her.”

Carstairs grinned evilly. “You could take her to Cuba. They like white girls there.”

Bonner smiled. “So they do. But I”—he stared pensively at Carstairs—“I sort of like her myself.” He stirred uneasily. “Met her when I took on her brother for a front. I played on the level. Speed. She’s got what those other women haven’t. Well,” he sighed, “I’ll have to think about how she can be arranged. She—”

A sharp yell rang out from amidships. A shot roared and a shrill scream followed.

Bleak Bonner leaped up, his face blanched yellow. Carstairs hit the deck with a snub-nosed automatic in his hand.

"What’s that?” he snarled.

Bonner shook his hand. A pearl-handled automatic was gripped in his right hand.

“Something’s screwy, Carstairs, but by God, I’m telling you I’ll shoot my way to selling that half-million load of junk north! They’ll not stop me! Come on!”

Stealthily they moved, yet hurriedly, toward the spot from whence the scream had come.

2: Midnight Attack

DUFFY KILDARE came down through the late afternoon sun to the Laudermer station of the Florida East Coast Railroad. On a siding were a dozen cattle cars and the air was furious with the sounds of baaing, as frightened sheep were forced from a corral into the cars. Three Negroes were urging them on with whips.

They glared suspiciously at Kildare as he passed them. So, too, did the young man in riding boots who apparently was supervising the loading. Even the stationmaster stared with dislike at Kildare as he asked for his telegram.

It had been that way during the entire week, an active yet passive hatred. It was making Kildare’s mission doubly difficult, for he could get no aid from these crackers. They were all fishermen, native conchs, and they were all bootleggers of liquor from Bimini, Nassau, and Cuba when chance offered. They feared and hated any outsider.

“Yeah, they’s a telegram,” said the stationmaster, “but it don’t make no sense to me.”

“That’s too bad,” said Kildare, putting out a freckled, red-haired hand for it. “The next time I’ll tell them to use words you know.”

The stationmaster did not get the satire. He grunted, deliberately turned his back. Kildare stood for a space, holding the coded message. In three years four million dollars worth of dope had come through this section to be distributed around the United States, making crooks and suicides, murderers and broken hearts. He loathed narcotic runners. He had given all his clever brain to this task, and so far he had but one clue and that not a good one. One little clue and the presence of a palatial yacht named the Pledicum that should not be here in the hurricane season.

He sighed silently and mentally decoded the telegram. It was from Richard Carle, bureau chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in New York under whom Kildare was working.

RED BISHOP’S BODY FOUND VAN CORTLANDT PARK STOP TWENTY DECKS UNCUT HEROIN FOUND SEWN IN HIS CLOTHES STOP FLORIDA TAN AND TICKET STUB STOP LAUDERMER IS WHERE DOPE IS COMING IN STOP ARE YOU TAKING A VACATION OR WHAT I WANT RESULTS AND QUICK.

CARLE.

Kildare swore and ripped the telegram to pieces.

“Eight other agents tried to crack this case and flopped,” he muttered, "and he wants me to walk in and break it in a week.”

Nonetheless, he was disturbed. The murder of Red Bishop closed out the hope the G-men had of getting another clue to the head of the narcotic ring. It put the case right up to Kildare.

With no other clue his mind went back to the yacht. Bleak Bonner was aboard it. Rumors were thick about Bonner. His income tax statements showed money made in the stock market. But the stock market records showed money lost. Where, then, was he getting his money?

On a sudden impulse Kildare walked over to the youth in the white linens who was watching the loading of the cars.

“They tell me you’ve got an outboard motor and a row boat I can rent, Harmon,” he said. “I’ll pay you ten dollars a day.”

The youth, good-looking in a sullen way, scowled. “I don’t want to rent it,” he said briefly.

Always this surly rebuff from the natives. Young Bill Harmon looked as if he had more sense than the rest, seemed hardly the type to be mixed up in rum running. But he, too, suspected an outsider. Why?

“Your sister has a boat—how about hers?” Kildare asked.

“You quit talking about my sister,” cried the youth in sudden passion. “She don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t want her talking to you any more, or taking walks.”

His sudden rage surprised Kildare, but only for a moment. Martha Harmon and this boy were twins. Between them was almost jealous love and sensitiveness. He saw also the sullen unhappiness of the boy. Could he be mixed in this case somewhere?

It was something to speculate about, at any rate. At the moment, his mind made up to slip aboard the yacht and have a talk with Bleak Bonner, he went in search of a small boat. By the time he found one, it was after dark and the moaning wind presaged a storm.

The old conch said: “Twenty dollars a day, suh, and I don’t care a damn if you rent her or not. What you-all want with her anyways. ’Tain’t no time for fishin’.”

“Maybe I want to look at the ocean in the moonlight,” Kildare grinned.

“Well, you-all won’t look twice, no suh. That wind don’t sound like you’ll go far.”

“That’s my business,” said Kildare shortly. He took his seat in the stern, wound the cranking rope around the outboard motor top, and yanked it. The motor, for a wonder, caught at once, and with his hand on the tiller, he set off through the darkness toward Moccasin Creek off the mouth of which the yacht lay moored.

When he neared the key in the lee of which the yacht was anchored, he shut off the outboard, took the single oar and with that guided the boat along the tide flow so that presently the yacht’s bow loomed over him.

HE floated to her as silently as the water itself. Just as silently, he made the painter fast to the anchor chain and let the boat drift until it bumped gently against the yacht’s side. By reaching up he could just grasp the scuppers. He made some noise, drawing himself up, but it apparently went unheard, for when he stood, a moment later, on the deck, he could hear no sound save the soft music of a radio aft.

In the darkness he grinned at the temerity of his plan. Though he realized how desperate it was.

“I haven’t got a thing on Bonner,” he told himself, peering into the darkness. “He can shoot me dead for invading his privacy this way without a search warrant. But if my hunch is right he won’t, and the last words that poor devil Mason Barr spoke may make this guy show his hand.”

Those last words of Mason Barr, before he was murdered by pumping cyanide of potassium into his own veins, were Kildare’s single clue. That and his knowledge that Bonner was arrogant, egotistical, a man believing fully in himself.

He went forward cat-like, until, past the bridge, he found a companionway. Gun in hand, he stole softly toward midships. Abruptly, out of the galley, stepped the Jap valet. The Jap gave a startled yell.

Then, as Kildare raised his gun, the man, instead of putting up his hands, yelled and charged. Deliberately Kildare fired over the valet’s head and as the Jap plunged at him he brought his left hand around in a pivoting hook that smashed the fist sharply against the Jap’s jaw. The valet went down and never moved.

KILDARE pocketed his pistol and strode toward the owner’s deck aft. He ran straight into Bleak Bonner and Carstairs, coming on the run with drawn guns.

“Raise ’em!” snarled Carstairs.

“Sure,” Kildare grinned. “How are you, Speed? You, too, Bonner?”

Bleak Bonner’s face was pale, and little muscles along his jaw line quivered.

“Duffy Kildare!” he muttered.

“Why not?” murmured Kildare. He held his hands up while Bonner, making sure not to get in the line of fire, took away the G-man’s automatic.

It was a minute or so before Bonner regained his composure. Kildare stood there bland, impassive. He was making his bluff; it now remained to see who called.

“You’ve no right aboard here, you know that,” snarled Bonner.

“Just looking for dope,” said Kildare, easily. “By the Lord, Bonner, I’ve got to hand it to you. Whatever your scheme for running, it’s foolproof. This was just a last desperate gamble I took—coming here to look over this yacht myself. I might have known that a guy with your brain wouldn’t have junk aboard his own boat.”

Bonner was rapidly regaining his confidence. He even smiled, but in a deadly way.

“Come on aft,” he invited. “I’ll buy a drink.”

Carstairs stared at his boss, whispered in an aside: “God, Chief, have you gone nuts?”

“Shut up,” snarled Bonner, “I’m handling this.”

He led the way to the soft divans so luscious in the cool of the evening breeze.

Kildare sank down on one. “You do yourself well, Bonner,” he murmured. “I wonder how many murders, suicides and robberies your morphine caused that you can afford to live like this.”

“I suppose,” said Bonner, easily, “that you are acquainted with the word, ‘libel’?”

“Yeah?” Kildare lit a cigarette. He glanced up. “By the way, Bonner, that was a clever way you had to kill Mason Barr. And Carstairs, your chief gun, did a good job on Red. No clues at all.”

“Who says anything like that?” snarled Bonner. He sat, watchful, but Kildare, looking into the man’s eyes, read an uncertainty. Bonner didn’t know how to take this, he couldn’t make up his mind what should be his next move. Kildare decided to help him.

“Too bad you didn’t kill Barr earlier. He gave the play away.”

“That’s a lie! He couldn’t give away anything that isn’t so.”

“No?” Kildare leaned suddenly forward, mouth flat, eyes flaming.

“All right,” he ripped. “He didn’t know anything, eh? Well, what did he mean by crying, as he was dying, ‘Wool! Wool!’ He should have given that cyanide by mouth, Bonner, not by hypodermic. That was a slight error—he could speak two words.”

Bonner bounded from his chair. The gun in Carstairs’ hand wobbled.

“He said that?” cried Bonner.

“I’m telling you.”

Kildare leaned back nonchalantly. He had pulled his bluff and he hadn’t been called. Young Barr, in his dying tremors had cried, “Wool,” but the word had meant nothing to Kildare. It didn’t mean anything to him now. But it meant something to Bonner! And Kildare was certain these two rats suspected him of knowing more than he did. His bluff had worked.

Bonner’s fingernails drummed on the chair. “Then you were lying when you said you didn’t know how I ran the dope—eh? This is a pinch?”

“It’s a pinch,” nodded Kildare. “Narcotic smuggling. Life for you in Atlanta instead of on this yacht, Bonner. I’ve got a boat moored forward. We can all three go in that.”

He rose to his feet, grinning at Carstairs. “Shooting a G-man is hanging, Speed. Better put up the rod.”

Calmly he backed toward the short steps that led to the forward runway, wondering what he would do if they actually did tamely surrender.

He had no proof except their tacit admissions.

Helplessly Carstairs looked at Bonner, his finger quivering on the trigger. But Kildare had guessed right. Bonner broke.

He came bounding out of his chair, seized Kildare’s arms and held them tightly.

“Tie him, Speed,” he panted. “By God, I know what we can do.”

Kildare struggled, but the two men, both powerful and desperate, bore him down. A moment later he was securely bound. They picked him up by head and heels and carried him down to the cabin.

“Tell Mike to get under way at once!” shouted Bonner.

“Why? Why not give it to him now?” cried Speed Carstairs.

“You sap! Do as I say! We’ll drop him on one of the uninhabited keys the way the smugglers used to do with the Chinese when the coast guard cutters caught them. He’ll die there quickly enough.”

Bonner stepped back, smiling very cruelly. “You spoke your piece, Kildare. You know what wool means. Well, tell it to the sea gulls on a lonesome key.” He laughed. “There isn’t even fresh water on some of those keys and you’ll be a few days dying.”

3: Kildare Moves

KILDARE was stuffed into a berth in a small cabin. His bonds hurt, and he was bitterly aware of the capstan forward taking up the anchor. He had time now to weigh what he had discovered. Bonner, of course, was the king dope smuggler of the United States, something the F. B. I. had wanted to know for years. Kildare also knew now exactly how the dope was ingeniously distributed to peddlers up north. But he had to get ashore to prove it. And he knew his chances of ever doing that were slim. Bonner was a killer. But, somehow, he must escape.

Struggling with the ropes that bound him, he became aware of a sobbing breathing from across the darkened cabin.

“Hello,” he said, “Who’s there?”

He heard a muffled sound. “Gagged,” he muttered, “and a female or I’m a liar.”

He gave a sudden lurch of his body that tumbled him off the built-in berth. He rolled over and over on the floor finally to come up on his knees alongside the opposite berth.

“Listen, whoever you are,” he said. “Your hands, like mine, are bound behind you. Swing around and get your back to me. Twist your hands so your fingers are free. Good. Now —feel my hands? Get working on those knots. As soon as I’m free we’ll give these rats a going over.”

Something in his voice, cheery in despite of danger, galvanized the girl. Her nimble fingers worked on the knots better than a man’s could have done. Kildare could feel them, warm, sure, picking, pulling while he contracted his muscles to give her as much room as possible. It was arduous work. His knees hurt. He ached all over. Every second he expected Bonner or his chief gun, Carstairs, to come in and ruin the last chance But they were getting the ship under way, and the two prisoners were left alone. At the end of ten minutes, just as the yacht began to quiver to the thud of the engines, the last knot fell away, Kildare had his fingers free. He unloosed his legs, felt over the soft, still damp form of the girl, took off the gag and her bonds.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Martha Harmon,” came the low thrilling voice. “Who are you?”

Duffy Kildare felt a sweep of joy warm him. For five days he had watched and talked to this lovely girl, and had liked her better than any he had known until now.

Now they were sharing a common peril. Every ounce of his courage was brought to the crisis.

He said simply, “I’m Duffy Kildare—you called me a tourist.”

“But what are you doing here?” she hesitated, went on with a rush: “You—you—are you a detective?”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation. How did you get here?”

For a moment she did not answer, then suddenly a sob tore her. “I can’t tell you! I must not! It would mean—” She stopped short.

But Kildare could guess. Her brother, then, was a part of the drug syndicate, as he had surmised. A minor tool, perhaps, but still guilty of the heinous crime of smuggling narcotics. Kildare was hurt, hurt clear through at that realization. But G-men have to take heartbreaks along with danger of death. He stiffened as he helped her off the berth, and felt around in the darkness for some kind of a weapon. His lips set grimly.

“You mean your brother is mixed in this—smuggling business?” he said.

She clung to him, hands gripping his arms. “He didn’t know!” she whispered fiercely. “He thought they — he — Bonner — just wanted to back him in raising sheep. He never knew what they wanted to use him for until lately. Then he tried to break away and Bonner threatened to kill him. That’s why I came here tonight—to beg for Billy’s safety.”

Kildare continued to grope for the weapon. Martha pulled at him. “If I help you, please don’t take Billy! Promise me—promise! Please, for my sake—”

He pushed away her arm. “My job is to catch dope smugglers,” he muttered harshly. “Let the courts decide Billy’s innocence.”

She fell away, a sob in her throat. His hand discovered a walking stick, light, but some sort of a weapon at last. He whispered to her:

“Let’s go—we can swim ashore. My boat’s cut adrift by now.”

She followed him, begging no more, but somehow dangerous in her very silence. They moved along the companionway, and so to the amidships stairway to the deck. They encountered no one; apparently the crew were getting the ship turned about. By the sound of the engines Kildare knew the ship was barely under way. His hopes mounted. Tonight he would break this case and amaze Carle. This yacht could not put to sea so far that a revenue cutter could not overhaul it, take the smugglers.

Kildare had reached the deck, preparatory to slipping over the side. He turned to aid the girl. Suddenly the lights on the deck blazed high; a voice shouted. Some one else yelled.

“Kildare! He’s getting away!” howled Carstairs.

HE fired above from the bridge twenty feet away. The sheet of flame lit his face, savage with hatred and fear. But his bullet ricocheted bluely off the taff-rail.

Kildare never knew how Carstairs missed. But he did. Swiftly the G-man seized the girl, threw her into the water. Carstairs fired again and a swift burn of pain swept Kildare’s legs midway between his hips and knees.

“Get him!” Carstairs yelled.

His gun roared four times in quick succession, but Kildare wasn’t there. With all his strength he had leaped as a broad-jumper leaps, squarely out into the night. He struck the water all of a heap. He went down, straightened out, swam downward, knowing that his life depended on staying under as long as possible.

The salt water burned in the wound across his legs. His lungs began to swell; his ears to roar; he was suffocating. He had to have air. Blindly he fought downward through the soft, warm water. His arms refused to carry him any farther. He had to have air. His body screamed for it. And almost without his volition his head popped out and his agonized lungs exhaled with a hiss as he gulped in air. He was yards away from the yacht, but the outgoing tide was sweeping Kildare toward it. He saw faces at the taff-rail. Heard a yell: “There he is!”

A rifle cracked and the slug hit the water, only a few feet away. He went down again. Came up after a lesser period. They were yelling for a boat to be lowered. They were coming after him.

He heard Bonner’s shout; “We’ve got to get him, if we run him to Key West!”

He dove and swam under water a few strokes, emerged, and paddling with one hand got off his shoes, got out of his coat, tore off his shirt, stripping himself to shorts.

While he was doing this a form came out of the darkness. He could follow it plainly by the phosphorescent glow of its movements, and knew, with dismay, that his own progress through the water could be similarly traced.

“Are you all right?” panted Martha’s voice.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s get going!”

She swam strongly, tirelessly, born to the water apparently, and man though he was, he could scarcely keep up with her strong breast stroke. Behind them the boats put off, and flashlights began to scan the water. Worse, the yacht’s searchlight suddenly blazed and with a dazzling finger of radiance began to comb the water. Eventually every square yard of water near the yacht would be searched.

Kildare swam on, knowing the slimness of their chances, but not thinking of the risk. Here, under the shelter of the keys the pellucid water was flat as a mill pond. Twice he saw the phosphorus stirred by a swift long, torpedo-shaped body. Sharks! Or, what was as bad, barracuda! But the girl kept on, calling back: “Sand sharks. They’ll not bother you.”

“Let ’em!” Kildare said. “We’ve got to get ashore.”

SHE made no reply. Their long strokes had taken them into the waters out of the range of the searchlight, but it was playing about, dangerously near. The small boats were searching about. He could hear the splash of oars.

Suddenly a small bulk loomed close ahead in the darkness, and Kildare heard a gasped ejaculation from the girl as she spurted ahead. He saw her white arm reach up and grasp the dark bulk, realized with a thrill of exultation what it was. His own small boat that had been cut loose from the yacht and was adrift! The girl had caught its gunwale and as he saw her draw herself up he exulted again, remembering he had shipped his oars.

The next minute he, too, was alongside, his hand reaching out, but Martha held him off with an oar.

“Duffy Kildare?” she said tersely.

“Yes,” he muttered, realizing how he was tiring, wondering what the girl was about.

“I’m the only one who can get you to shore. You can’t possibly swim the distance, and the wind’s coming up strong.”

“And so what?” he said, trying to make a grab at the oar that held him off.

“You promise to save my brother from jail, or I’ll row away and leave you. Leave you to the barracuda or for that swine, Bonner, to kill.”

Kildare kept his arms pushing the water. He said nothing. She dipped an oar, the small boat moved a little.

“Do you hear me?” Her voice was tense, frantic. “You’ll die out here! They’ll kill you or you’ll drown. You can’t get ashore without me. Promise, and I’ll get you there and they won’t get you. Spare Billy!”

Kildare swam on. His mouth was set; his eyes flashing.

“Answer me,” she whispered passionately.

“Go on,” he said grimly. “I’m an F. B. I. man. It’s my job to crack a case, and not to pass judgment on who’s guilty or innocent. Your brother is a party to this junk racket. And if I get ashore I’ll pinch him.”

“Then die, you fool,” she panted.

“Well, a man can’t live forever,” he answered. “Go on, peddle your papers.”

She rowed away in the darkness and left him alone.

4: Night Battle

HE was tiring fast. Only because the water was warm could he go on. But it was warm water that was dangerous, for the flesh wound on his legs bled steadily. That was why he was so tired. He kept wondering why the small boats, hunting around, did not see him. He did not know that fish, feeding at night on the surface, also made bright phosphorus glows, and that he had never really been seen since he left the shipside.

His chief thought was that if he swam with the tide rip against his left cheek he would reach shore.

But that he would make it he began to doubt. A rotten shame, too, when he knew the secret of the greatest narcotic smuggling idea of the century.

Nor did he know that in swimming away from the small boats he was heading for the Gulf of Mexico. The two boats, manned by a desperate, frantic Bonner and a cool killer, Carstairs, were going toward shore, hunting for him in that direction. So as the minutes passed he was heading for a thousand miles of empty ocean.

He swam less now, floating on his back, kicking his feet and waggling his hands. It was terrible how tired a man could get. And the warm water was lethargic.

Suddenly, floating on his back, he rolled over, alertly alarmed. A small splash had come from almost directly beside him. He raised a hand to lash out, stopped as the girl’s face, framed with hair like sea weed was limned above the greenish unearthly glow of the water as she leaned over the gunwale of the small boat.

“I couldn’t,” she sobbed. “I couldn’t leave you. Not even for Billy.”

Kildare made a sound in his throat. She was a swell girl after all! His heart pitied her, too, while his brain told him he’d pinch her brother even if it meant life for the youngster. A G-man had to think that way. He let her help him as he clambered exhausted into the boat. Soundlessly dipping her oars, she set off in the opposite direction to which he had been swimming. But he thought he knew she had not been far away at any time, there in the darkness.

“Stout girl,” he muttered. He knew then how much he could and did think of this girl. But it would do him no good. She’d never look at a guy who had sent her brother to Atlanta.

He was more tired than he had known. A deadly lassitude made him powerless to help Martha with the oars, know little until he felt the boat bump on the sands.

Kildare’s arms were heavy as lead. He could not get from the boat. He heard the girl’s voice coaxing him, urging him; then her strong arms hauled him from the boat into the shallow water. She grabbed him, limp as a log, she towed him until at last his outstretched hands groped along a shell littoral. He lay in the water, too exhausted to move. She crouched beside him.

“There they go,” she whispered, “up the wharf. Oh, my God, they might kill Billy!”

The words were like a tocsin. He partly raised himself. He still had duty to do. But he had sense enough to stretch on the coral sand beach until the giddiness of exhaustion had entirely left.

“You saved me, kid,” he muttered, “I won’t forget it.”

“Then you’ll save Billy, and not let him go to prison?”

He stood up, tormented by temptation, torn by desire, suffering from the knowledge that he was about to be the all-time, all-American heel.

“Kid, the law has to take its course,” he said grimly.

He got to his feet, his marvelous body recuperating swiftly from the strain upon it. He turned to where the lights of Laudermer gleamed through the black night.

“Where are you going?” she said. “You can’t—you’re worn out.”

“Listen,” he told her harshly, “I baited a trap tonight. Forced Bonner’s hand. Now I’m going to get him and his gang.”

“But you haven’t even got a gun!”

“I’ll get one. And I know where they’re going—and why.”

He knew where they were going— to the Laudermer House where he had a room, where they would wait to see if he had escaped the shark-infested waters. Where they’d shoot on sight. But he was going there, too. That’s the kind of a man he was.

He went up the beach, paying no attention to the girl. Presently he came to the palm-lined street, and, hugging the darker shadows of the palmettos and the hibiscus, made his way to the kitchen entrance to the hotel. He went to the third floor to his room and sank heavily onto the bed, aware for the first time that he was nearly naked. Blood still dribbled from the creases across his legs.

“God, I’m tired,” he muttered. He found a bottle of Bacardi and took two huge drinks. Then he got on linen trousers and a coat, found his small Browning gun and two clips. He went back out the door and again encountered no trouble.

THIS puzzled him. He had been expecting to be ambushed. Why hadn’t he been? He walked through the small town, and slowly along the side road that led up to the Harmon farm. And suddenly he knew why Bonner and Carstairs had passed up the immediate chance of killing him.

“By God, they’re destroying the evidence!” he muttered.

He realized that instantly. Without the evidence to present in court, Bonner, with his money and his record of no arrests could beat the charge. There would only be Kildare’s charge—and accusation, unsupported. He knew where they were—at the railroad station. He turned back and broke into a run.

It was long after midnight and Laudermer slept. He encountered no one in that dash. Once or twice he wondered where Martha was— then dismissed her in the immediate peril to his case.

He slowed down when he reached the railroad track, considerably above the station. Even here he could hear the baaing of the sheep that filled the freight cars, waiting for the morning accommodation to take them to Miami and points north. He saw a brief flashlight glow that instantly vanished, but it located the two crooks. With all his skill he stalked the light.

But all his skill went in vain, for he suddenly came around the edge of the loading platform and his outstretched hand struck yielding flesh. He jerked back, as his gun flashed up, but was not swift enough. A flashlight spat a sword of radiance.

The light struck him. A voice yelled : “Kildare!”

Partly blinded, he threw himself prone. That saved his life. The bullet that spat simultaneously went over his head while the spitting snake of flame burned his hair. He fired upward into it— three times— with deadly intent to kill.

The flashlight dropped. And into its still shining arc Speed Carstairs collapsed.

Speed was clasping his stomach. “You got me! Damn you, you got me!” he muttered weakly. The death rattle cut off his words.

Kildare shot a glance ahead toward another light. At the far end of the chute Bleak Bonner, dirty, his immaculate flannels ruined and greasy, was slitting throats of sheep.

The light advanced before Kildare could. Steve heard a voice— the voice of Bill Harmon.

“So you had my sister aboard your rotten yacht!” the boy raged. “Damn you, Bonner, isn’t it enough what you’ve done to me, without you having to ruin her?”

“You rat!” snarled Bonner. “I didn’t harm her. But by God, I’m done with you.” In a flash his hand streaked out. His gun spat flame before it seemed leveled. Kildare fired twice, but he knew even as he threw his gun that he had missed. Too high.

YET to his surprise Bleak Bonner grabbed at his stomach, then at his chest. The gun dropped from his fingers, and he fell forward, sprawling in that punctured, all-in-a-heap attitude that spells death. Duffy Kildare raced toward him.

“How’d I get him?” he was muttering. “I’d swore I was high. Maybe this gun has started throwing low.”

Then Martha Harmon’s voice he heard. “Billy! You’ve killed him!”

“And I should have!” snarled the boy. “Even if I hang for it. The swine! The mean rat! He didn’t deserve to live."

The flashlight moved forward and Kildare saw Martha and the boy, bending over the dead body of Bleak Bonner.

Kildare came quietly alongside. Martha turned, and gave a frightened cry. “It’s Kildare. Oh, Billy!” The boy turned in a flash, gun coming up. He gazed into the straight muzzle of Kildare’s gun.

“Drop it, lad,” said Kildare very softly.

He saw then that the boy was wounded in the left arm. Blood gleamed against the white of his shirt. Slowly Bill’s fingers relaxed; the gun dropped with a thud. Kildare stooped, picked it up.

“A thirty-two,” he nodded. “Not much of a gun.”

“Good enough to kill that rat,” said Billy.

Kildare bent over Bonner and then turned the crook over. “Hold the flashlight nearer,” he ordered. He saw now that his gun had indeed fired high. These were the small punctures of a .32.

“So it is,” he admitted.

“Oh, God!” gasped Martha. “You won’t charge Billy with murder! He fired in self-defense— I swear it!”

“You don’t have to. I know he did,” growled Duffy Kildare.

Wearily he gazed around. Speed Carstairs was dead. So was Bonner. The biggest dope syndicate in the world was broken by death. There among those sheep not yet dead was the evidence to prove how the drug was distributed. His job was complete, the case cracked.

He turned to look at the girl, wan yet beautiful in the flashlight’s cruel light.

“No,” he said, “he won’t have to stand trial for murder.”

Swiftly now, he bent down and held the muzzle of his gun close so that he could not miss the two blue punctures in Bonner’s flesh, and pulled the trigger twice. The heavier .45 slug tore the .32 bullet holes and out the back, the corpse jumping to the impact.

“If they ask you,” he said, straightening, “I killed Bleak Bonner. There is the proof of it.”

He moved on to where Bonner and Carstairs had feverishly prepared a pile of Florida pine lightwood, commonly called fatwood because it burned like fat. On top of this were stacked the slaughtered bodies of the sheep they had destroyed and had intended to burn. He examined one or two, but did not find what he sought.

He came back to where Martha and Billy were watching him with the steady stare of hopelessness. "Catch me one of those sheep,” Kildare ordered.

SILENTLY, Billy Harmon obeyed.

As he brought it back he said:

“I didn’t know, Kildare. I had a few sheep here— Martha and I had them and Bonner came and said I ought to go into the business in a big way what with all the tourists in Florida and the meat markets and all. He offered to back me. I imported special sheep from Cuba, and some from up north. I— I didn’t really guess what was going on until I discovered he was shipping the sheep north, and not to Miami at all. That looked funny, and I began to ask questions, to snoop around a little, and—”

“Yes, I know,” said Kildare. He bent over the sheep that Billy had brought while Martha held the flashlight. The sheep was unsheared and seemed fat and well kept. He plunged his fingers into the fleece.

“That’s what poor Barr meant by wool,” he muttered.

For his expert fingers had shown that sheep had been seared in swathes underneath. That is to say, the outside fleece had been left the way it grew while underneath clever pockets had been cut out. In each of these Kildare found a small oblong tin, itself covered with glue to which fleece had been stuck. More glue affixed the tin to the short fleece of the sheep’s skin. Kildare tore off a tin, forced it open, and smelled of the white powder inside.

“Pure heroin,” he said, “on its way to New York and other points— wherever you shipped sheep, there to be cut with sugar and sold for twenty dollars a deck.” He paused. Then: “Where did you ship to?”

He was not surprised at Billy Harmon’s reply. "Every big city in the United States was a market, I found out. Bonner’s agents in each city bought them, plucked out the tins and sold the sheep for what they could.”

“Nearly a foolproof scheme,” Kildare muttered. “Only Barr must have been sold— when he was here— a tin of uncut stuff by Red and saw the wool stuck to the tin.”

He sighed, and turned to Billy Harmon. “Can I trust you to watch these sheep for the night, and go with them to Miami tomorrow?”

The boy nodded. “I tell you I never knew, even when I guessed something was wrong, not until a sheep was running away and I grabbed for it and pulled loose a tin.”

“I believe you,” said Kildare. “Watch them, and tomorrow I’ll do all I can for you.”

He turned, shoulders sagging. “God, I’m tired.”

Martha ran to him. “Then Billy won’t have to be arrested? You’ll save him?”

Kildare gently shook his head. “He’s under arrest now, but I’ll give evidence to clear him. Is that good enough, kid?”

Slowly she nodded. Her eyes gleamed with a new hope. Billy gave a little cry and they stood with locked hands, hope and happiness brightening them instantly.

“Oh,” she said, "you’re wonderful, Duffy Kildare.”

Kildare straightened his sagging shoulders long enough to grin. “Tell me that next week in the moonlight,” he chuckled and dragged himself off to the hotel to call Washington and make his report.

_________________

10: Silence House

Raul Whitfield

1896-1945

Black Mask January 1931

JO GAR DESCENDED from the fourth car of the train, removed his pith helmet and drew deep breaths of the mountain air. It had been months since he had visited Baguio, the mountain resort of Manila.

He saw Major Crawford coming towards him; half closed his almond-shaped eyes on the figure of the American officer. The major tried to smile as he came close to the Island detective, but Jo saw that his eyes were shot with red, that he was not a well man. He bowed, and the major said:

“I’m very glad you came, Señor Gar. I’m on the ragged edge—”

He broke off abruptly, turned and looked about him. Two Chinese servants came up and blinked at Jo. The Island detective said slowly: “I’ve just the one piece of luggage, Major. I have not planned for much of a stay.”

The major’s lip corners jerked a little. He forced a smile, pointed to the piece of luggage at Jo’s side. One of the servants lifted it. The major said very softly:

“That sounds too good to be true, Señor Gar. Unless you mean that you can only be with us a few days, in any event.”

Jo Gar shook his head. The servants went ahead; he walked by the major’s side.

“Baguio is a small place,” Jo said. “You have the threatening notes. I felt that perhaps we could trace the guilty person rapidly— and I could return.”

The major breathed something that Jo failed to catch. They went from the railway station, got into a khaki-colored Army car, marked with a large U.S.— and the serial number. It was driven by an enlisted man— the servants rode in a small truck. Jo Gar and the major sat in the rear seat.

The machine rolled away from the station; the streets of Baguio were not crowded. Jo Gar relaxed and offered the major one of his brown-paper cigarettes. It was refused. The officer sat erect in the seat, his body tense. Jo lighted the cigarette with difficulty, leaned back and said:

“Your wife— she is in good health?”

The major smiled bitterly. “No,” he said. “She is not a fool. I try to pretend the notes are silly things, jokes. But last night—”

He stopped abruptly. The Island detective watched him with narrowed gray eyes. He said:

“Last night— an attempt on her life was made?”

The major nodded, his face grim. The car slid almost silently through streets faced by gardens; the houses were set back, half hidden. They were low, rambling houses, well screened.

The major sat back and spoke softly. His voice was steady and held little emotion. But he was very nervous.

“There have been three notes. The first came to us at the Post, in Manila, before I came up here on leave. It was dropped on the screened porch of our place. It was addressed in a child-like hand— the letters seemed almost labored. A yellowish piece of paper, folded. My wife’s name written outside— Mary. It read: ‘You have not kept the promise— and you must die.’ ”

Jo Gar frowned. “A bit dramatic,” he said slowly. “Who found the note?”

The major said: “I was with Mary at the time. She saw it on the grass mat of the porch— I picked it up, saw her name. I handed it to her. She opened it and read it.”

Jo Gar nodded his small head very slowly. The major was frowning, his brown eyes were on Jo’s almost colorless ones.

“What was her reaction?” the Island detective asked.

Major Crawford shrugged his broad shoulders. He was a man of almost fifty, well built, with a square-cut face.

“She laughed,” he said. “She thought it was one of the Post children’s jokes. We forgot it very soon. But I did mention it to you, that day we met at the Manila Hotel.”

Jo Gar nodded. He had known the major slightly, for some six months. The man had always seemed to him a typical American Army officer.

“And the second note?” he said quietly. “How long after the first was it—”

“Exactly seven days,” the officer cut in. “The servants were packing us up for the trip here. Mary went with them into another room. The packing was being done in a spare room with a porch that opened at the side of the house. When she returned to the room she found the second note. It was addressed in the same way— the writing appeared identical. It read: ‘There is still time. Or do you prefer death?’ ”

Gar nodded. “No signature?” he asked.

The major shook his head. “Not on one of the three,” he said. “The second note my wife treated in the same manner as the first, though she was worried, I could see that. And it was growing very hot. We left for this place two days later. We’ve been here ten days today. After we’d been here five days, or seven from the time we found the second note— the third was in the house to which we are now going.”

Jo Gar pulled on his brown-paper cigarette and watched the car turn from a street near the end of town, into a dirt, country road. Mountain slopes were ahead and to the left. The air was almost cold; it was growing dark.

“I found it,” the major said slowly, “on my wife’s writing desk. She was out riding horseback— but she had written letters only a half hour before. It was addressed as the other two had been— in the same handwriting. It read: ‘There will be no more warnings— this is the last. You have promised.’ ”

The Army machine was climbing a slight grade. Jo Gar said: “You showed it to Mrs. Crawford?”

The major frowned. “Yes,” he said. “But not until the next morning. I was afraid it might frighten her— we’ve only been in the Islands six months— the first hot season has been very difficult. Her nerves have been in bad shape— and I hesitated. But then—”

He checked himself. Jo Gar waited and then spoke quietly:

“But then you felt that perhaps there might have been some promise— and you wanted her to know—”

He saw Major Crawford’s body grow rigid— anger showed in the officer’s eyes. The Island detective made a slow gesture with his small hands.

“It is difficult for me to be of any value— unless you are honest with me, Major.”

The major’s clenched hands relaxed. He said apologetically:

“I’m on edge, Señor Gar, as I told you. Yes, you are right. I wanted her to be protected, if there was any promise. A foolish promise, perhaps.”

Jo Gar nodded. “Yes,” he said tonelessly. “A foolish promise. What did she say to the third note?”

Major Crawford looked beyond Jo, towards the dry bed of a river near which the car was moving. He said steadily:

“She was frightened. She felt that one of the servants had taken a dislike to trying to frighten her. She knew of no promise. It was a ridiculous thing. But she was worried. At the Post, after the second note, I had a guard near the house, the quarters. Here I can’t do that. A friend, Lieutenant Avery, is the house now. It’s a little distance from town, you see.”

Jo Gar smiled. “The country up here is lovely,” he said. “And last night—”

Major Crawford spoke grimly. His brown eyes were almost closed. “I have asked her not to go outside the house without me, or Lieutenant Avery along. She went for a little walk in the garden— alone. I was questioning the servants, without letting them know about the notes. I’ve felt they shouldn’t know— they are easily frightened. There was a scream. Ben— that’s Lieutenant Avery— was upstairs cleaning up. We both reached the garden at the same time. Mary was lying in a path, unconscious. There was a bruise on her left temple— a knife lay a few feet from her. It had been thrown, had apparently turned in the air— the hilt, made of hardwood, had struck her forehead.”

Jo Gar turned expressionless eyes towards the car driver’s head. He said softly:

“So the notes were not jokes, you see.”

Major Crawford swore bitterly. “Lieutenant Avery carried her into the house. I got my Service Colt— and went all over the garden, and the house. There are only two servants— and I was questioning them when Mary screamed. A cook and a house-boy. You saw them— I brought them both with me.”

The Army car was gliding down a steep grade now. It turned abruptly to the right, started to climb again, in low gear. Thick, tropical foliage rimmed the narrow road. There was the dank, heavy odor of the jungle growth. It was cold. Jo Gar shivered a little.

“We’re climbing to the house now,” the major said. “It’s a bit isolated— but lovely. That is, it would be lovely if—”

He broke off. Jo Gar leaned back in the machine seat and half closed his eyes. His lean, brown face was turned towards the face of the Army officer.

“When your wife regained consciousness, what did she have to say?” he asked above the hum of the car engine.

The major shook his head. “Very little,” he replied. “She was bending over some flowers— there was a sound behind her, in the foliage. She straightened, turned. The knife struck her. She saw nothing, before losing consciousness.”

Jo frowned. “And you were talking with the two servants— and Lieutenant Avery was upstairs,” he murmured slowly.

Major Crawford nodded. The house was suddenly in sight— the road widened and became level. The driver pulled the machine to the left, stopped before a few steps of wood. There was a heavily screened porch. Major Crawford said bitterly:

“Welcome to Silence House, Señor. It was not named by me, but by the owner.”

Jo Gar rose in the rear of the car. He widened his eyes a little.

“Silence House,” he repeated softly. “I suppose it is quiet up here.”

The major shrugged broad shoulders. “Almost too quiet,” he said grimly. “Hello— there’s Avery now. Sleeping—”

Jo Gar stepped down from the car, mounted the steps, went through the door of the porch that the major held open. He saw the figure of the lieutenant, seated in a small, fan-backed chair. The officer was in mufti— he was slumped low, his head hanging forward, chin against his chest. The major stopped a few feet from him.

“Ben”— he said sharply—”I asked you to stay near—”

His words died. His eyes were wide on the right hand of the lieutenant. It hung over the side of the wicker chair— the fingers were slightly spread. There was a limpness about the hand—

Jo Gar moved swiftly to the slumped figure. He reached down, touched the right wrist. His body stiffened a little. His small fingers closed over the blond hair of the lieutenant. Slowly he raised the head. Major Crawford said hoarsely:

“God— he’s dead!”

The Island detective looked at the half-opened eyes, then at the hilt of the knife. There was a thin, red stain below the hilt, on the white shirt of the officer. Jo Gar lowered the head again, released his grip on the lieutenant’s chair. The major said in a weak voice:

“That’s the— same knife— that was thrown at—”

He sucked in his breath sharply, and Jo knew what he was thinking about. The Island detective did not move as the major went past him, into the house. He heard Crawford calling hoarsely: “Mary— Mary!” But still he did not move. The enlisted man who had driven the car was staring through the screening of the porch. He said shakily:

“Lieutenant Avery— is dead, sir?”

Jo Gar fumbled for another of his brown-paper cigarettes. When he found it he nodded his head. He lighted the cigarette.

“Quite,” he said softly, and went slowly into the house.

Captain Ramlin of the Constabulary stared down at the knife. Major Crawford sat in the chair beyond the table, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing. Jo Gar said slowly:

“The major is positive it is the same knife that was thrown at his wife.”

The Constabulary captain was a short man, stockily built. He nodded. Light from the table lamp was faint.

“The attempt failed. The murderer or murderers came into the house to try again. The lieutenant defended Mrs. Crawford. He was murdered, carried to the porch. Mrs. Crawford was—”

The captain stopped, looked narrowly at the major. He said calmly:

“Mrs. Crawford perhaps is being held a prisoner. If we can pick up the trail—”

He broke off again. Major Crawford said in a flat, dead tone: “She’s dead. They’ve killed her— somewhere in the mountains. I shouldn’t have left her—”

The Island detective shook his head. “Why did they not kill her in the house?” he asked. “It would have been simpler, safer. There was no one here, with Avery dead. It is difficult to carry a woman, dead or alive, and not leave traces. And why was Avery stabbed to death with the same knife thrown at Mrs. Crawford?

Major Crawford said in the same flat voice:

“I had the knife in the second drawer of my writing desk. The drawer was not locked. Only Avery saw me place it there.”

The Constabulary captain drew in a sharp breath. He nodded his head briskly.

“Lieutenant Avery was not in his uniform. He was not armed. When the house was entered— he got the knife from the drawer. But it was taken away from him. It happened that way.”

Jo Gar’s face was expressionless. Major Crawford said huskily: “You are doing everything— to find her, Captain?”

The captain nodded. “Of course,” he replied gently. “I have fifty men searching— and there are many regular army men on the search. We are doing everything, Major. I doubt that even Señor Gar could do more.”

There was sarcasm in his final words. But Jo Gar merely bowed his head slightly. He went across the room, looked down at the half-opened second drawer of the desk. Captain Ramlin was saying:

“House in perfect shape. No bruises on Lieutenant Avery’s body. Servants were with you, Major and behind you coming back. Enlisted driver assigned to you was with you. No one at the house but Avery and your wife. Avery an old friend. Your wife’s life had been threatened in three notes— you have not the slightest reason why. Her life had been attempted, and you had wired for Señor Gar. Doors not locked. Perhaps there will be fingerprints on the knife— perhaps not. And even if there are— it may not be of any help. We have the notes, of course.”

Jo Gar turned away from the half-opened drawer. He said very quietly:

“Your wife— she had never been in love with Lieutenant Avery?”

Major Crawford replied in a hard voice: “She had never been in love with him.”

Jo said: “He did not love her?”

The major got up from his chair heavily. He stood near it, his eyes narrowed on the Island detective’s gray ones.

“He never— gave evidence of that,” he said grimly.

Jo Gar nodded. The Constabulary captain spoke in a surprised voice:

“That’s pretty thick, isn’t it, Señor Gar? Avery and—”

The Island detective shrugged. “They were here together. Mary Crawford is gone— Lieutenant Avery is dead. There is little evidence of a struggle. The knife was in a drawer. If the lieutenant had been struck in self-defense— had staggered to the porch chair—”

The Constabulary captain was watching Major Crawford closely. Jo Gar did not seem to be aware of the fact that the major was in the room. The major said in a dull tone, without anger:

“It was Avery who knew where the knife was— not my wife. And could he stagger to the chair on the porch— with such a wound? Would the knife remain in—”

He broke off. Jo Gar spoke very calmly.

“The drawer wasn’t locked. The knife might have been discovered. Avery might have been struck as he was standing directly in front of the chair— he simply fell back into it.”

The major said in a very low voice: “I must get out of the house— I’ll search around the place, not getting far away. I’ll be within call—” The Constabulary captain nodded. “I can come with you, Major—” he offered.

Crawford shook his head. He went out towards the front porch.

After several seconds Captain Ramlin said:

“His wife had no enemies— she quarreled with no servants. Strange.”

Jo Gar shrugged. Captain Ramlin turned his browned face towards the door that opened into the garden. He said slowly:

“I will look about— in the garden, Señor.”

Jo nodded. Ramlin went from the room. Jo Gar looked towards the half-opened door and thought:

“Why was Lieutenant Avery allowed to see where the major placed the knife? Why was his wife not allowed to know it was in the drawer? Why was it that the major came to meet me, rather than Avery? And why did he bring with him both servants?”

The Island detective moved about the room, went slowly to the front porch. He looked down at the chair in which there had been the dead body of Lieutenant Avery. He thought:

“It would require much time to learn of Avery’s past— and of Mrs. Crawford’s past. He is dead— she has vanished. It would be simpler to find her—”

He smiled faintly, murmured aloud: “A knife thrown in the Islands seldom turns in the air and strikes hilt first. A fighting man is seldom stuck in the heart. And why was Mary Crawford taken from the house?”

He moved to the center table and looked at the knife. The hilt was black— of hardwood. It looked old, much used. The blade was long, narrow. It had required strength to drive that knife blade almost to the hilt. More strength, perhaps, than Major Crawford’s wife had possessed.

Jo Gar shrugged. The major had said that he had known Avery for some five years. His wife had known the lieutenant the same length of time. He was a good friend, who had chanced to be spending his leave at the Island mountain resort, while the Crawfords had come up.

Jo thought: It could easily be so. I have talked with the servants, and in all Avery’s actions they saw nothing but friendliness. The Chinese have good eyes, and threats of Bilibid frighten them. But the manner of Avery’s death, if he were defending the vanished woman, is strange. Very strange. And there are notes— they are strange, too.

He went away from the center table, went out into the garden. It was a small garden, but beyond it the foliage was thick. A slope was less than an eighth of a mile in the rear of the house— a steep slope. There was heavy growth on the slope. Jo Gar shook his head slowly, thinking that it would be difficult to find a body, in the mountains. With only starlight it would be almost impossible. He was fifty yards from the house, with his back to it, when he heard the scream. It was sharp— high pitched. It came once—

And then it came again and again!—

Jo Gar swung around— his right hand got his automatic from a pocket of his suiting. He started towards the house— the screams still ringing in his ears. From some spot behind him he heard Captain Ramlin shout hoarsely! One of the Chinese servants cried out, from the kitchen side of the house. The screams seemed to come from the front of the place, and Jo Gar remembered that Major Crawford had left the house by way of the front porch.

Jo was inside the living-room now, glanced around the room. It was empty. His eyes swept the table— he halted suddenly. He held the gun low— and his body was bent forward slightly. He said very softly:

“It— is gone!”

There was no knife on the table. The weapon that the major had said had struck down his wife in the garden— the weapon whose blade had been buried in the flesh of Lieutenant Avery— it was gone. And seconds ago— hardly more than a minute ago— it had lain on the center, wicker table!

The Island detective moved swiftly towards the screened door that opened on the porch. Even before he had shoved the door open he saw Major Crawford. The officer was running along the road, towards the house. His Service Colt was gripped in his right hand. From the rear of the house Jo heard the Constabulary captain call again: “Major— Señor Gar!”

The Island detective stepped on the porch. It was lighted dully by the lamps from within the house. The wicker chair in which Avery’s body had been found was turned slightly. Sprawled across it was the figure of a woman. Dark hair trailed downward from her head— her white dress was disarranged— her arms hung loosely at her sides.

Jo Gar started towards the figure— Stopped suddenly. He heard Major Crawford cry out; there was the sharp crack! of the Service Colt— once, twice. He saw the major swing around— run towards the left side of the house.

Captain Ramlin came pounding through the house— reached the porch. He was breathing heavily. He stared at Jo Gar— saw the body of the woman, across the wicker chair. He said:

“Good God! It’s— Mary Crawford!”

Jo Gar stood stiffly as two more shots sounded. He spoke to Ramlin:

“Go out there— around to the left. Major Crawford’s— seen something. I’ll see what can be done here.”

Ramlin nodded, went down the steps and to the left. Jo Gar went to the body across the chair. He leaned over the woman, and after a few seconds straightened up. He placed his automatic in his pocket, went away from the dead woman and the chair. Near the edge of the lower step leading down from the porch, at the right side, he saw the knife. He stood and looked down at it, thinking. Five minutes later, when Captain Ramlin came up, breathing heavily, he was still standing near the knife. Ramlin said:

“I can’t— find the major— he’s crashing off in the woods— somewhere—”

Jo Gar said: “Perhaps he’s close— to his wife’s murderer.”

There was a peculiar tone to his voice. The Constabulary captain said hoarsely: “She’s— dead?”

The Island detective nodded slowly. He looked down at the knife.

Ramlin stared at it, swore harshly.

“It was— on the table— in the living-room!” he breathed.

Jo nodded again. “And more recently,” he said softly, in a grim tone, “it was in the body of Mary Crawford.”

Major Crawford was lying on a broad, low divan. Doctor McCall finished bandaging his right arm, near the shoulder, stood up. The major said, in a voice choked with emotion:

“Looked like— one of the chinks. But I couldn’t— be sure. Fired four times— ran into a tree and went down. He struck at me with the knife, while I was trying to get up. Then he was gone. The woods are thick, and it’s dark in there. By God— if I could get—”

He stopped, closed his eyes. Doctor McCall said in a quiet voice:

“You moved around a lot, after he knifed you. You lost a lot of blood. You must rest.”

Captain Ramlin, standing close to Jo, nodded his head. The major groaned and rolled over on his left side. His right fist was clenched. The doctor went towards the center table of the living-room, from the divan on which Crawford was lying. He washed his hands slowly and carefully. Jo Gar went over to him, turned his back on the major and said in a very low voice:

“The wound is not serious, Doctor?”

The doctor shook his head. “Just a blade rip, but he moved around and lost blood,” he said. “Too bad he didn’t get that rotten killer.”

“He might have made a mistake,” the Island detective said slowly. Doctor McCall straightened a little. He said:

“You don’t think it was one of the servants? I suppose you have noted they have both vanished?”

Jo smiled with his eyes almost closed. “The Chinese do not care for mysterious death. Many times I have seen servants vanish, in the Islands.”

“I have seen them use knives,” McCall said.

“Yes,” the Island detective said quietly. “And sometimes they throw knives. When they do— there is seldom a miss.”

The doctor narrowed his eyes on those of the Island detective for a few seconds. Jo Gar was smiling with his lips; his own almond-shaped eyes were slitted. He nodded his head suddenly, as if he had just thought of something, turned away.

Captain Ramlin came to him on the porch. He said huskily:

“It’s pretty bad, Señor Gar. First Avery— now Mary Crawford.

Those damn chinks—”

Jo Gar shrugged. “Mary Crawford was a tall woman,” he said slowly. She was very healthy. Both of the missing servants were small and they did not look too strong, either of them. There were five or six knife wounds in the woman’s body. It requires strength to hold a struggling person.”

Captain Ramlin said: “You don’t think one of the chinks—”

He stopped. Jo Gar sighed. “I should like to find a motive,” he said softly. “But then, it is what anyone would like.”

Ramlin swore softly. “I don’t trust the servants down here. The major says his wife was always good to them, but perhaps he was wrong.”

The Island detective nodded. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But Lieutenant Avery is dead— murdered. And there are the notes. I do not think they were written by either of the servants.”

The Constabulary captain frowned and stared up towards the distant sky. The night was bright with stars. Ramlin said:

“I’ve got to go out and keep my men on the job. They’re searching the slopes— and I’ve got some of them looking around in town.”

Jo Gar said: “What are they looking for?”

Ramlin grunted. “They were looking for Mary Crawford,” he muttered. “Now I’ll have them after the chinks.”

He went down the front steps. The Island detective went back into the house, stood still as he heard the doctor call sharply from the left side. He went past Major Crawford, who called to him weakly, found the doctor facing one of the two servants, in the kitchen. The Chinese was frightened— his eyes were wide. The doctor said:

“Here’s one of ’em— I caught him sneaking in here.”

The doctor held a gun low in his left hand. Jo Gar looked at the servant, smiled. He spoke very quietly to the man, using a jargon of Chinese and Filipino. The doctor stood motionlessly, frowning. Jo talked for several minutes, then said to the doctor:

“He was frightened. There were the screams. He screamed and ran from the house. The other servant was outside, getting water. They both ran. They saw nothing— the other servant is hiding in one of the outhouses; he will not come in. He says there is death in this house— it is called Silence House, and death is silence.”

The doctor swore grimly. “You believe that?” he asked.

Jo Gar shrugged. “I will tell him to bring his companion inside,” he said. “You can talk with them— but you will not need the gun— it will only frighten them more.”

He spoke again to the servant. He smiled as he talked, and his voice was pleasant. After a few minutes the Chinese went towards the door. The doctor was about to stop him, but Jo said sharply:

“Let him go— I know these people. I have lived very close to them for years. He will return— with the other one.”

The doctor muttered something that Jo did not catch. But he allowed the servant to go. The Island detective stood in silence until the two Chinese returned. They stared at him with wide eyes. The doctor said to Jo:

“Keep them here— I want to show them something.”

He went from the kitchen. Jo Gar half closed his eyes and smiled.

He said in a low tone:

“The man is bringing with him a knife. He will show it to you suddenly— like this—”

He made a swift gesture from his right side, extending his right hand, fingers opened. He said, smiling:

“Do not be afraid. Be very truthful. Do not lie—”

His low words died as the doctor came into the room. He went close to the two servants, extended his left hand suddenly. The knife lay in his palm. Jo smiled a little. The doctor said:

“It is— yours? Yours?”

His eyes went from one servant to the other. The shorter of the two shook his head, looked at his companion. The taller one’s eyes were wide with fear. He stared at Jo. The Island detective shrugged his shoulders very slightly.

“A fool is often one because he lies,” he said very softly.

The taller servant stared at the knife in the doctor’s palm. He nodded his head rapidly. He said in a voice filled with panic:

“She is mine— she is mine! I tell you I no use— she go away—”

He broke off into rapid jargon. Jo Gar slowed him down. The doctor was staring at the taller of the servants with narrowed eyes. His left hand held the knife, but his right went towards the pocket in which the gun rested.

The servant stopped talking, panting. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes held nothing but fear. Jo said to the doctor, very softly: “He lost the knife, somewhere about the house, two days ago. He has been searching for it since. He did not kill.”

The doctor said grimly: “I’d hate to have that story to tell, just the same. We’ll turn them both over to the Constabulary. He did the jobs, all right. Dirty, yellow—”

Jo said quietly: “White men have killed— in the Islands, Doctor.”

He turned, went from the room. Major Crawford, lying on the divan, said weakly:

“What is it— Señor Gar? For God’s sake— what—”

Jo Gar spoke tonelessly. “The knife— it is owned by the taller of your two servants,” he said simply.

Major Crawford got to a sitting position. His brown eyes were narrowed; rage showed in them. They were streaked with red. He swore fiercely.

“A chink— did in Avery! A damn, dirty chink got my—”

He got to his feet. Jo Gar stood watching him. He nodded his head slowly.

“But you must be calm, Major,” he said. “There is the law—”

The major said hoarsely: “Damn the law— I’m a white man! Where’s my gun?”

The Island detective shook his head. “That is— not right,” he said quietly. “It will do no good. The servant is a prisoner— the Constabulary will take care of him.”

The major sank back on the divan, groaned. He touched his bandaged right shoulder, rolled over on his left side. His body shook— smothered sounds came from his lips. Jo Gar said very gently:

“I am very— sorry for you.”

For several seconds he stood looking at the officer. Then he went slowly towards the screened porch of Silence House, and out into the darkness.

It was almost two in the morning. There was a storm in the mountains, distant now but nearing the slope on which Silence House had been built. Jo Gar stood on the screened porch, beside the doctor. McCall was medium in size, with a lean, browned face. He was frowning.

“I’ll see if he’s sleeping,” he said suddenly. “I’ve given him some tablets, but not enough to induce heavy sleep. But if you’re wrong—” The Island detective shrugged. “You are not sure that I am wrong,” he said softly. “The lightning is strong enough— it is a chance we must take. Tomorrow it may be too late.”

The doctor shivered a little. Thunder rumbled in the distance— the woods were lighted by flashes of lightning that ran across the sky. They outlined the house. They were less vivid than the lightning flashes of the States— gave a wavering light that held for several seconds.

The doctor said: “All right— everything is ready, inside?”

Jo nodded, “It was a disagreeable work,” he said. “But there is much we do not know.”

Doctor McCall spoke very quietly. “It is only because you know the natives— and the chinks,” he said. “You have a reputation. But if you’re wrong—”

Jo Gar smiled with his thin lips pressed closely together.

“I agree,” he said simply. “It is very easy to lose one’s reputation.” The doctor led the way into the house. He went close to the divan. Major Crawford lay with his left arm thrown across his face— his head was turned towards the wicker chair several feet from the divan. He was breathing heavily.

Captain Ramlin was slumped in a chair across the room. He nodded as the two men entered the room, said nothing. Lightning yellowed the room, showing the furniture clearly. The shutters were opened.

Jo Gar stood close to the wall, in a spot not easily seen from the divan. Captain Ramlin rose from his chair, went silently into the next room. The doctor stood near the Island detective. Jo said softly, listening to a louder rumble of thunder:

“A fool is often one— because he speaks— the truth.”

He held his right hand low— squeezed the trigger of the gun. It crashed, filling the room with sound. The body on the divan moved— the head and shoulders of Major Crawford came up. He was facing the chair near the divan. The room was in darkness.

And then the lightning ran across the sky— and yellow light came into the room. Major Crawford’s breath was sucked in raspingly. His body was rigid— his brown eyes were staring— staring at the figure in white, in the chair. For brief seconds he looked into the wide eyes of his wife— and then he screamed!

Again and again his screams filled the room. They were high pitched, shrill. They had a peculiar quality. They were the screams of a woman— a woman who was being hurt. They were the screams that Jo Gar had heard from the garden of the house— and that Captain Ramlin had heard.

Lightning ran the sky again— and the figure in white still sat slumped in the chair facing the divan, eyes wide— on the wild eyes of Major Crawford. And then the wounded man saw the gun. It lay almost at his wife’s feet. His right hand reached for it— he raised it. Distorted words twisted from his lips.

Gun sound filled the room as he squeezed the trigger again and again. The rumble of thunder was drowned by the sound. Lightning came once more— and the figure in white had not moved. No bullets had struck the woman in the chair— her eyes still stared at Major Crawford.

It was then that he flung the gun from him and screamed again.

It was then that Jo Gar said in a voice that shook a little:

“You can only kill a human being once, Crawford— and you have done that.”

The doctor threw out an arm and tried to stop the major— as he flung himself towards them. But Major Crawford swung to one side— he was near the door now. His body crashed through the screening— he went down. He was up almost instantly— and down the steps. He ran wildly to the right of the house— arms above his head, mouthing words they failed to distinguish as they followed. Captain Ramlin breathed:

“It was Crawford— who screamed— on the porch—”

When they reached the rocky ledge and looked over it they saw the body of the major, thirty feet below. They went down the trail cautiously, with lightning flashes to show the way. The doctor bent over the figure of the army officer. After a short time he rose, faced Jo Gar.

“Dead,” he said steadily. “Broken neck— I’d say. Came down head first.”

Jo Gar said nothing for several seconds. When he spoke it was in a tired voice.

“He was not a fool in this— it was the simplest way.”

The storm had passed, though thunder still rumbled in the distance. Rain dripped from the roof of Silence House, made sound on the foliage below the eaves. Jo Gar sat across the table from Captain Ramlin and Doctor McCall. He spoke steadily, in a low voice.

“He was half insane, with that cunning so often possessed at such a time. He did not write the notes— Avery wrote them. Or he had some other person write them. He wanted Mary Crawford— and she wanted Avery. I discovered only a few things— there was little time. But they were important. Avery was having a short leave— and then he was ordered to the States. He was to sail next week, on the Army transport. He thought that Major Crawford would be afraid, for his wife. He thought the notes would help— would make the major send her away from the Islands. Send her back to the States. Then it would be easy. So he wrote the notes— and she placed them where they would be found.”

The doctor muttered beneath his breath. Captain Ramlin shook his head slowly. Jo Gar went on:

“I think Crawford suspected. He was physically sick— and perhaps he’d suspected for a long time. There was just one way— a certain way. He played along with Avery— sent for me. He made mistakes. He must have known I would not bring much luggage— yet he sent both servants to the train to meet me. They came ahead of him, because they were in a slower car. The enlisted man came from Baguio and picked him up. The Army car was at his disposal, but was not kept at the house. You know that, of course. I learned it from the driver. And I learned something the major did not expect me to learn. Had he been more sane, he would perhaps have thought of it. Perhaps not. The driver did not come to the house for him— this time. He was coming, but Crawford met him down the slope a short distance. And said that he was afraid they would be late to meet me. But there was plenty of time. The driver knew that, and it seemed strange to him.”

Captain Ramlin said: “Good God— he murdered Avery and put him in the porch chair— before he left the house!”

Jo Gar nodded. “Perhaps he found Avery and his wife together, not far from the house. More likely he planned to get them together, because he had sent for me. He had found the knife the servant had lost— and he knew that I’d reason an Army man would use a gun, not a knife. He had the notes to show me. He knifed Avery to death— took him to the porch, propped him in the chair. He came to the train, met me. When we reached the house— he acted. In his room there is a scrapbook that shows pictures of him on the Post stage. He was in many shows. He forgot to destroy the book.”

Captain Ramlin swore softly. The doctor said, nodding:

“Yes— he was a fair actor. At the Club one night he gave imitations.” Jo Gar smiled a little. “I think he knocked his wife unconscious, bound and gagged her, left her in the woods. I think he knew that she had placed the notes— and wanted Avery. He hated her. When we went into the garden he risked a lot. He brought her to the porch— got the knife from the table. There are wounds on her head— perhaps she was already dead. A rock in his hands— he was strong. Perhaps she was not dead. He used the knife— and screamed. Again and again. That scream did not sound like a woman’s to me, though I could not be sure. He ran down the steps, turned and came back, gun in hand. He pretended he saw something— and ran into the woods, shooting.”

Captain Ramlin said: “And he knifed himself!” Jo Gar shrugged.

“I think so,” he said. “It would be simple for him to hide a knife out there. One quick slash— and he was half mad, anyway. He moved around, lost blood— then came back. He was weak— and we’d heard the shots. But it seemed strange to me— the same knife had been used on Avery— and Mary Crawford. And yet the major was asking us to believe that the killer had dropped it, and had used another on him.”

The doctor nodded. He spoke softly.

“And in the garden— when Mary Crawford was struck on the head, the first time— and knocked unconscious?”

Jo Gar frowned. “Perhaps that was her own trickery,” he said. “Perhaps she or Lieutenant Avery found the knife, and arranged the thing. And Major Crawford, sure of their guilt, played along. Or perhaps it never happened. You see— I could talk with neither of them. Avery was dead— and the woman—”

He checked himself. Captain Ramlin said grimly:

“The screaming betrayed him— and the body you placed in the chair. When he tried to shoot her, with the blanks in the gun—”

Doctor McCall shook his head slowly. He listened to the rain on the eaves. Except for that sound and the very distant rumble of thunder, the house was quiet.

“The tropics does something to people—” McCall said softly. “They try to be cunning— but they do not always succeed.”

Jo Gar rubbed closed eyelids with his small, browned fingers.

“I shall return to Manila early in the morning,” he said slowly. “There is too much for me— in Silence House.”

__________________________

11: A Lucifo Match

Arthur Morrison

1863-1945

Herald (Melbourne) 30 July 1938

PERSONS with a choice of several names are not common outside the peerage; but some of them—wholly unconnected with any peer— are to be discovered in London crowds, though discovery is not what they are there for. Crowds, in fact, attract them, from the circumstance that whatever the number of individuals in a crowd, there are sure to be several times that number of pockets, mostly with something in them; and a pickpocket who has once been convicted finds a change of name a vise precaution.

So we arrive at Johnson. It chanced that Johnson stood in quite i small crowd— perhaps of twenty— that stared at a shop window in Oxford Street. He had only been Johnson for a week, poor fellow, since emerging from some months' retirement, and as yet the name did not rest easily. He had to keep it continually in his mind, lest in some unforeseen emergency, he might call himself Jones, or Parker, or Jenkinson, any one of which was dangerous, and had been discarded its turn for that reason; always after just such another holiday as that he had lately disenjoyed.

Johnson was a mild person— not at all the sort of man whom one might suppose to be a pickpocket— which was fortunate, of course, for Johnson. He was a meek, rather timid body, whose tastes would have been domestic if he had been a family man; and he would have been family man if it were not for the expense. He was temperate, thrifty, and inoffensive; he shrank with horror from the idea of anything violent, such as burglary or work; he had no vices, no particular abilities, and only one small talent; he could pick a pocket very well indeed. Altogether, Johnson was an unusually virtuous thief.

HE stood in a small crowd in Oxford Street, as I have said, and while the small crowd stared at the shop window because of some new idea of the shop-keeper's, Johnson considered pockets according to ideas of his own; having a natural human preference for the easiest pocket in the most sumptuous habiliment. He felt himself much drawn toward a man in an "immensikoff"— a fur-lined overcoat— which was quite the most magnificent garment in the crowd.

The large side-pocket of the "immensikoff" gaped invitingly, and, though outside overcoat-pockets were barren as a rule, this was so very, easy that it were wasting a chance not to try it. So Johnson placed himself against the pocket and toed, with unexpected success. For indeed, at the bottom of that pocket reposed a purse— not at all what you might expect to find there.

In an instant that purse was transferred to the outside pocket, so closely adjacent, of Johnson's light overcoat; and then Johnson paused for a moment, ostentatiously scratching his cheek with the guilty hand staring with rapt eyes at the window; till he judged it expedient to edge gently away and evaporate from the little crowd.

He strolled easily to the next turning, turned up it with quicker steps, and so into a quieter cross street. Here he paused, plunged his hand into his side-pocket, and— found it empty.

HIS chin fell, and ho stood amazed. There was no doubt of it — this was the pocket into which he had dropped thepurse, and now there was nothing. He felt in the opposite pocket— needlessly,  for he clearly remembered working with his right hand, and with his right side-pocket against the left pocket of the  "immensikoff." There was nothing in either of his side-pockets, though; he raked them through with anxious fingers.

And then everything inside him bounced at the sudden touch of a hand on his shoulder. He shrank and turned, and found himself confronted by the man in the fur-lined coat.

The man was grinning at him with sardonic politeness, and Johnson did not like him at all. He was tall and broad and dark, while Johnson was small and narrow and pale. The stranger's black moustache was waxed into long spikes, which pointed toward the outward edges of the flat brim of a very tall hat, and gave a touch of the unearthly to his grin; and in his hand he extended toward Johnson a metal box— Johnson's own tobacco-box, in truth, which he now remembered to have left in that same side coat-pocket.

"How de do?" said the sardonic stranger. "Were you feeling in your pocket for this?"

Johnson's panic impulse was to deny his tobacco-box utterly, but the stranger's black eyes were piercing his very brain, and he felt it useless. He took the box that was forced on him, and gasped unintelligibly he was extremely obliged, and didn't know he had dropped it; but he never remembered what he did say.

"I believe some sneaking thief picked your pocket," said the stronger, his grin growing fiercer. "Open it and see if anything's missing."

JOHNSON began a mumble that it was all right and of no consequence and didn't matter, but the eyes and the satanic grin compelled him, and he sprang the lid. Instantly there arose from within a gigantic creature with horns, which ran across his hand on horrid clawed legs and made for his sleeve.

Johnson squeaked like a rat, and flung box and insect to the ground together. He had a feminine horror of crawling things and had never seen a stag-beetle before. The stranger snatched the box as it fell and, brushing roughly against Johnson, skilfully scooped up the insect from the pavement.

"What?" he said. "Do you mean to say it wasn't yours at all? And yet you wanted to take it? Is there anything else in those pockets of yours that doesn't belong to you? Show me!"

"No, sir! Nothing at all, sir, upon my solemn davy!" wailed Johnson in terror. For the eyes and the grin were fiercer than ever.

"Nothing at all, sir!" protested Johnson, pulling out the pocket-linings. And there, as the right-hand pocket came inside out, emerged tho stranger's purse.

"Liar!" cried the dark man. "Thief! That is my purse!" He snatched it away and opened it, while Johnson stood helpless in amazement, with his pockets protruding on each side.

"See!" pursued the stranger, thrusting the open purse under his nose. "My purse, with my money in it! What about that?'"

INSTINCT brought a jumbled defence to Johnson's lips. "Quite a mistake —wouldn't think of such a thing, being a gentleman himself. Accident that might happen to anybody— a lot of trouble in the family lately"— and so on.

"What's your name?" snapped the stranger. It disconcerted Johnson more than anything else to see that this fiendish person was grinning more than ever. While his unavoidable eyes seemed to divine more about Johnson than even Johnson ever knew.

"What's your name?" he demanded.

"Jones!" spluttered the thief, in a panic. "Barker!— no, Jenkinson— I mean Johnsonl"

"Oh, I see," the stranger replied; and now his moustache and his grin chased each other to the very tips of his cars. "I see; Jones, alias Barker, alias Jenkinson, and at present Johnson. Last conviction under the name Jenkinson, eh?"

" 'Twasn't exactly a conviction, sir. I assure you," protested the sweating pick-pocket. "The judge's mistake entirely— quite a misunderstanding; and the commonest watch you ever see; not worth a bob!"

"And what did you get? A year?"

"No, sir— nothing of the kind. It's a wicked slander, sir, when anybody says it was a year. Not a day more than nine months, I give you my solemn word!"

"After a dozen previous convictions?"

"No, sir— that's another slander; anybody as told you that is trying to take my character away. There wasn't more than seven, sir, or eight at the very most. It's 'ard to be scandalised like that, sir!" "

Shocking!" The stronger had slipped his purse away and now had his hand on Johnson's shoulder with finger and thumb taking a good nip of his coat-collar.

"Only seven or eight convictions! Poor chap; you shall have another at once. Come along!"

"No, indeed, sir— let me alone! On my solemn davy, sir, it was all a mistake! I dunno how the purse got there!"

And it surprised Johnson to find himself offering an excuse with such a deal of truth in it.

THE stranger's grin relaxed a little, and his voice grew more businesslike.

"Very well," he said. "Come with me for an hour and I won't charge you. But don't you displease me, my virtuous friend!" The grin flickered up again. "Don't you displease me, or you'll go back to as long a dose of gaol as I can get you, mind that! You shall buy your release on my terms. Come along: but first stuff those pockets in again."

Johnson obeyed, and walked by the side of his persecutor in a maze of sickening bewilderment. Could he be really awake? The whole thing was uncommonly like a hideous nightmare, down to the very beetle. He had the most distinct recollection of his shock of surprise at finding his coat pockets empty; yet he had put the purse there, and there it proved to be after all. The thing was the more like a dream, because his efforts to remember made it all seem like something that had occurred a long time ago.

And he would doubtless have believed it a nightmare and made some desperate effort to wake himself, were it not for the fact that the gloating stranger most palpably had him by the arm as they walked through the back streets, and now and again put a question of such a pungent and penetrating nature that demanded all Johnson's waking wits to meet it. Such wits as Johnson had were barely sufficient for the needs of his trade, and now they were oppressed by a feeling that he was being "got at" in some unfathomable manner; for indeed the Satanic stranger chuckled gaily to himself as the torment went on.

THEIR way led through numerous back streets, which Johnson was too disconcerted to recognise, even if he knew them; and at last they stopped before- a very blank and secret-looking door in a tall building that had no more than two other openings in it. and those windows, small and high. The stranger opened the door with a latchkey, never looking at the key, but always at Johnson, with that embarrassing grin unaltered, unless it were now a lititle less fierce and a little more whimsical. The door revealed nothing but a dark passage, into which Johnson was pushed without ceremony.

The place smelt damp, and on the whole strikingly like a cell in a police station; a fact which gave the prisoner's terrors a more definite turn. The door closed behind them and left them wholly in the dark: and Johnson, seized by the arm, was thrust stumbling and staggering along the passage, till he emerged on a spot only a degree less obscure, where nothing was discernible but some vast construction of square beams that vanished into blackness above. Here the stranger paused, and groping in the gloom among the beams, flung" open another door.

"Get in there," he said, "and sit down. I shan't want you for an hour. You can go to sleep if you like."

JOHNSON obediently stumbled into the dark opening, and the door slammed behind him with a bang and a sharp click. It was black— blacker than ever, but at least he was alone for a space, and might collect his faculties.

He reached about him, and had no difficulty in finding the walls of his prison, for in fact they were scarce a yard apart in any direction. It seemed that lie was in a wooden cupboard, with a ledge for a seat.

He sat on the ledge and wondered. Imprisonment was not wholly a novelty. though this was certainly the darkest cell he had ever inhabited, and the smallest. There was to be an hour's respite, it seemed, but he was mighty uneasy as to what would happen at the end of the hour.

He thought again of that horrible beetle, and the clothes tingled on his skin at the recollection till he began to rub himself all over. Heavens! If there were more of them in this place! He jumped to his feet, shook himself and stamped, and then bethought him of his match-box. He found it and spilt it, stooped for it hurriedly, butted his head into one side of the cupboard, and his opposite end into the other, and came to the floor in a heap.

"Now then, keep quiet in there!" The voice was a strange one— certainly not that of the dark man— and it came from— where? Nowhere about him, but apparently from somewhere above, though even of this he was not cetain. Surely there was no possibility that he could be watched in this unspeakable darkness!  He groped painfully, found a match, groped again, and I found the box to strike it on.

The light was a great relief, for it revealed tho fact that at least the place was free from visible insects. He could see now that his cell was wooden— top. bottom and sides; and then came burned fingers and sudden darkness. He lit another match, and satisfied himself that there was no cranny, nor even a keyhole, through which peeping was possible; then he lit another to pick up those remaining, and another after that.

"Now then!" came the voice again. "Leave off strikin' them matches!"

Johnson stopped, bumped his head again, and scrambled to his seal. Then he found courage to speak.

"I say " he began.

"You stow that row, d'y'ear? Shut up."

The prisoner said no more, but waited. Strange noises reached his ear from some far-away part of the building, and a little nearer there were subdued creakings. He began to remember stories of mysterious rooms that closed up and crushed men imprisoned in them: of weighted celinings that fell; of chambers slowly filled with poisonous gas.

As he sat he began to tremble: and as the minutes passed he felt himself growing desperate with fear. He wished he had allowed himself to be handed to the police, for at least he knew what that meant. But now— he could not endure much longer. He had made up his mind, come what might, to shout his loudest for help: when, as he stood feeling the hundredth time for the door-fastening, he was suddenly flung backward and down, confusedly realising that the cupboard was shooting up bodily. Was the thing a lift?

It stopped witn a jerk, and the prisoner, recovering his legs, was, aware of a loud and now familiar voice. There was a tap at the door, and a click; and instantly it flew open, and Johnson was blinded by a flood of light and deafened by a roar of sound.

HUNDREDS of faces stared at him from a great hall, as many voices shouted a delighted greeting, and twice as many hands clapped loud applause. The cupboard stood open on a brilliantly lighted stage, and by it stood the sardonic stranger in evening dress, with a black wand in his hand; while Johnson, gasping and dishevelled, blinked and cowered helplessly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," cried the conjurer. "I have the honor to introduce Mr Johnson, alias Jones, alias Barker, alias Jenkinson, the eminent pickpocket. You will remember that when I enclosed the lady in the cabinet I promised you quite a  new and original denouement to the performance— something never before attempted.

"I think I hove fulfilled my promise. Not only has the lady disappeared, but by an extraordinary application of occult natural forces I have brought into her place a pickpocket snatched this moment from his nefarious practices in Oxford Street. You observe his confusion? What more natural? But two minutes ago his hand was in the pocket of an eminent and distinguished gentleman, much like myself in appearance, seeking that gentleman's purse. In an instant— whist! he finds himself placed before you on this stage, half a mile off.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is just possible that some among you suspected the lady who disappeared of being a confederate of mine but I defy anyone of you to call this man a confeieraic. Does he look like it? Does he look as though he came here on purpose? Has he the calm, self-possessed, happy smiling appearance  natural to any nan who has the good fortune to be in my employment? Look at him. Some gentleman who has ever had his pocket picked may remember him; if any of you are connected with the police you are sure to know him.

"He has been brought up at half the police courts in London and has been convicted at the Old Bailey and the Sessions House over and over again, he has just completed nine months' board and residence at this country's expense, under the name of Jenkinson; if he hadn't changed his name he'd have got more.

"Are you quite convinced, ladies and gentlemen, that he is not a confederate? Any test you like to suggest will be applied. Is there any lady present he has ever robbed who would like to stick a bonnet-pin into him? Don't hesitate— you are quite welcome, I assure you. Come now, I wish you would. You see, under the Employers' Liability Act I am liable for any injury occurring to people I employ, but I don't care what happens to this chap. Come now, let me persuade you. Isn't there any dear, Kind lady present who will oblige me by sticking a bonnet-pin into this criminal, just to oblige me? It doesn't matter whether he has robbed you or not— I don't mind. He'd rob you if he could, you know. Here he is."

He seized the wretched Johnson by the collar, and thrust him forward.

"I always find ladies very obliging," he went on. "Surely you won't all be so unkind as to refuse just to stick him with a bonnet-pin while I hold him? Just to help mo convince the company now?"

There were laughs and titters, and the conjurer whispered from behind:

"All right, you fool, they won't do it."

Then he proceeded aloud: "You won't? Not one of you? Then I shall have to try something else. I'm always glad to introduce a noveltv into my performance, and I think you'll admit that this is the first time a real live pickpocket has ever been brought upon the stage in this extraordinary manner.

"Having got him here it would bo a pity to waste him, wouldn't it? Very well. I will proceed to try a little experiment with or view to showing how dishonesty would be dealt with in this country, if I were Prime Minister.

"Will any ladies and gentlemen in the company oblige me by the loan of a few small articles of value? A few rings, a watch, a gold pencil-case— anything of that sort, you know. I'm sure I shan't have to wait long for things like that with such a high-class audience as this.

"Come, now— thank you, sir; a ring; a valuable diamond ring from a gentleman in the second row. Yes? Thank you, madame— a locket. A gold watch? I should like a gold watch— and so would Mr Johnson, I am sure.

"Here it comes— thank you, sir. A gold pencil-case— two more rings, a chain, and a silver match-box; thank you— thank you. 1 think that will do; we mustn't risk too much on a first experiment, you know. Now I should like some gentleman from the company to assist me by placing these articles in Mr Johnson's pockets, in full sight of the house. Will you, sir? Thank you; just step up here.

"Now, will you please take the articles one by one from the table, and place them separately in any of the criminal's pockets you choose. Well in sight of the company, mind. Stand a little aside— that's it— so that everything shall be perfectly clear.

"I need hardly assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that this gentleman is no confederate of mine. I do not invite you to lest it by sticking a bonnet-pin into him— he is a good deal bigger than Johnson, and it might not be safe. I am sure you will accept his word of honor from a gentleman of his size."

THE gentleman approached Johnson and followed the conjurer's instructions, and the conjurer, from a little way off, reported the bestowal of each article aloud. "Gold watch in right-hand waistcoat pocket; diamond ring in left-hand waistcoat pocket; chain in inside coat pocket;" and so forth.

As for Johnson, he began to feel a good deal happier. He resented the indignities to which he had been subjected, of course, but, after all, he had expected something much worse than this. All the bewilderment and anxiety of the earlier part of the adventure were at an end now, and all was plain enough.

The conjurer had scored heavily, it was true, and the effect of Johnson's appearance in the cabinet, aghast and panic-stricken, was something altogether beyond the possibilities of ordinary preparation and rehearsal. But Johnson's relief was immense, and now the novel experience of having his pockets voluntarily stuffed with valuables was rather pleasant than otherwise. Johnson was himself again, and vastly on the alert for fresh moves in the game. The gentleman descended from the platform, and the conjurer came forward.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "you have seen the articles safely— or shall we say unsafely?— placed in the thief's pockets, But to make everything perfectly plain and to identify the owner of each. I will just rapidly run over them again. This ring, sir— you see it? You are sure you identify it? If is your property, and you will remember that it is in the left-hand waistcoat pocket, where I carefully replace it, as you see. The watch— that is yours, sir: you may examine it again if you please. No? Well, you will bear in mind that it is in the thief's right hand waistcoat pocket. There it is. This chain— the owner of this chain may see that no substitution has been made— is in the inside coat pocket, on the left. Remember that, please."

THE company, vastly interested, watched the apparent return of each trinket, but Johnson knew better. Nothing but the conjurer's fingers entered each pocket in turn, and nothing remained there at all.

Somewhere within the breast of the conjurer's coat was a spot over which his fingers flickered instantaneously after each pocket was done with; and when at last he turned away, ostentatiously dusting his fingers with his pocket handkerchief after the contamination of Johnson, the handkerchief also flickered over that, same spot. So much Johnson observed with eyes trained by use in all matters concerned with pockets. The conjurer stepped between Johnson and the company, putting his pocket-handkerchief into his coat-tail pocket; and Johnson saw that something black went with it.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the conjurer, "the experiment I am about to make is one of the greatest interest to every law-abiding person. I propose to show you how, by proper scientific precautions known only to myself, all theft, all dishonestly, may be rendered ineffectual and useless.

GESTICULATING and bowing elegantly as he spoke, the conjurer stepped so closely before Johnson that only one thing could happen, and that was inevitable,  Johnson had nothing but one small talent, as I have said: he could pick a pocket, very well indeed— probably better than the conjurer. He picked one now. The black thing was a little velvet bag, soft and flat, as Johnson felt when it was safely in his own pocket. And the conjurer, with all eyes on him, went on.

"Just consider, now, how valuable my process would be to the Government of this country. Half the police force might be disbanded and most of the magistrates pensioned off. People like our friend Johnson, alias Jones, alias Barker, alias Jenkinson, would have to turn honest or starve. Now for the experiment. He turned and caught Johnson once more by the collar.

"Here, you see, is the pickpocket whom I brought straight out of Oxford Street by the exercise of the wonderful scientific law to which I have alluded. Here he is, with your valuables in his pocket, as you have observed with your own eyes. Now I shall send Johnson away— turn him out, kick him out— from this place and let him run where he likes; and when he is gone I shall endeavor by my scientific process to bring your valuables back here, just as I brought Johnson himself, and restore them to you in a way that I hope will surprise you.

"Now, Johnson, alias Jones, alias Barker, alias Jenkinson, out you go, and keep what you've got if you can! Ladies and gentlemen, you will agree that I could not afford to kick a confederate— he would give me away. So as a guarantee of good faith I kick Johnson off the platform. Hall porter! Run this man off the premises ana never let him come here again!"

HE swung Johnson to the end of the platform, 'thrust him over the edge with hand and foot, and stood bowing and waving his wand as the porter bundled the victim out.

"Good-bye, Mr Johnson!" cried the conjurer; "good-bye! Run as hard as ever you can!"

As soon as Johnson reached the street he obeyed this order, with ail the strength of his legs, barely observing from the corner of his eye that the front of the hall was covered with posters announcing afternoon and evening performances by the great Lucifo, the wizard of Andalusia. And when he had run some distance he turned into a dark entry and there disentangled from the velvet bag the gold watch, the three rings, the chain, the gold pencil-case and the silver match-box.

"He was mighty anxious," reflected Johnson, "for some proof that I wasn't his pal. Well, has got it now, and I hope he's satisfied."

For some days Johnson never ventured out till after dark; but his days at home were not dull, for he had bought a small collection of newspapers; wherefrom he derived solace and chuckles as he read and read again under the headings; "Riotous Scene at an Entertainment," "Extraordinary Scene at St. Basil's Hall," "Serious Attack on a Conjurer": and in the case of one irresponsible paper, "Lucifo Lamentably Left."

_____________

A much-reprinted story, filmed in 2004 with Judy Dench and Maggie Smith

12: Ladies in Lavender

William J Locke

1863-1930

The Red Magazine, Dec 1908

AS SOON as the sun rose out of the sea its light streamed through a white-curtained casement window into the whitest and most spotless room you can imagine. It shone upon two little white beds, separated by the width of the floor covered with straw-coloured matting; on white garments neatly folded which lay on white chairs by the side of each bed; on a white enamelled bedroom suite; on the one picture (over the mantel-piece) which adorned the white walls, the enlarged photograph of a white-whiskered, elderly gentleman in naval uniform; and on the white, placid faces of the sleepers.

It awakened Miss Ursula Widdington, who sat up in bed, greeted it with a smile, and forthwith aroused her sister.

"Janet, here's the sun."

Miss Widdington awoke and smiled too.

Now to awake at daybreak with a smile and a childlike delight at the sun when you are over forty-five is a sign of an unruffled conscience and a sweet disposition.

"The first glimpse of it for a week," said Miss Widdington.

"Isn't it strange," said Miss Ursula, "that when we went to sleep the storm was still raging?"

"And now— the sea hasn't gone down yet. Listen."

"The tide's coming in. Let us go out and look at it," cried Miss Ursula, delicately getting out of bed.

"You're so impulsive, Ursula," said Miss Widdington.

She was forty-eight, and three years older than her sister. She could, therefore, smile indulgently at the impetuosity of youth. But she rose and dressed, and presently the two ladies stole out of the silent house.

They had lived there for many years, perched away on top of a projecting cliff on the Cornish coast, midway between sea and sky, like two fairy princesses in an enchanted bit of the world's end, who had grown grey with waiting for the prince who never came. Theirs was the only house on the wind-swept height. Below in the bay on the right of their small headland nestled the tiny fishing village of Trevannic; below, sheer down to the left, lay a little sandy cove, accessible farther on by a narrow gorge that split the majestic stretch of bastioned cliffs. To that little stone weatherbeaten house their father, the white-whiskered gentleman of the portrait, had brought them quite young when he had retired from the navy with a pension and a grievance— an ungrateful country had not made him an admiral— and there, after his death, they had continued to lead their remote and gentle lives, untouched by the happenings of the great world.

The salt-laden wind buffeted them, dashed strands of hair stingingly across their faces and swirled their skirts around them as they leaned over the stout stone parapet their father had built along the edge of the cliff, and drank in the beauty of the morning. The eastern sky was clear of clouds and the eastern sea tossed a fierce silver under the sun and gradually deepened into frosted green, which changed in the west into the deep ocean blue; and the Atlantic heaved and sobbed after its turmoil of the day before. Miss Ursula pointed to the gilt-edged clouds in the west and likened them to angels' thrones, which was a pretty conceit. Miss Widdington derived a suggestion of Pentecostal flames from the golden flashes of the sea-gulls' wings. Then she referred to the appetite they would have for breakfast. To this last observation Miss Ursula did not reply, as she was leaning over the parapet intent on something in the cove below. Presently she clutched her sister's arm.

"Janet, look down there— that black thing— what is it?"

Miss Widdington's gaze followed the pointing finger.

At the foot of the rocks that edged the gorge sprawled a thing checkered black and white.

"I do believe it's a man!"

"A drowned man! Oh, poor fellow! Oh, Janet, how dreadful!"

She turned brown, compassionate eyes on her sister, who continued to peer keenly at the helpless figure below.

"Do you think he's dead, Janet?"

"The sensible thing would be to go down and see," replied Miss Widdington.

It was by no means the first dead man cast up by the waves that they had stumbled upon during their long sojourn on this wild coast, where wrecks and founderings and loss of men's lives at sea were commonplace happenings. They were dealing with the sadly familiar; and though their gentle hearts throbbed hard as they made for the gorge and sped quickly down the ragged, rocky path, they set about their task as a matter of course.

Miss Ursula reached the sand first, and walked over to the body which lay on a low shelf of rock. Then she turned with a glad cry.

"Janet. He's alive. He's moaning. Come quickly." And, as Janet joined her: "Did you ever see such a beautiful face in your life?"

"We should have brought some brandy," said Miss Widdington.

But, as she bent over the unconscious form, a foolish moisture gathered in her eyes which had nothing to do with forgetfulness of alcohol. For indeed there lay sprawling anyhow in catlike grace beneath them the most romantic figure of a youth that the sight of maiden ladies ever rested on. He had long black hair, a perfectly chiselled face, a preposterously feminine mouth which, partly open, showed white young teeth, and the most delicate, long-fingered hands in the world. Miss Ursula murmured that he was like a young Greek god. Miss Widdington sighed. The fellow was ridiculous. He was also dank with sea water, and moaned as if he were in pain. But as gazing wrapt in wonder and admiration at young Greek gods is not much good to them when they are half-drowned, Miss Widdington despatched her sister in search of help.

"The tide is still low enough for you to get round the cliff to the village. Mrs. Pendered will give you some brandy, and her husband and Luke will bring a stretcher. You might also send Joe Gullow on his bicycle for Dr. Mead."

Miss Widdington, as behoved one who has the charge of an orphaned younger sister, did not allow the sentimental to weaken the practical. Miss Ursula, though she would have preferred to stay by the side of the beautiful youth, was docile, and went forthwith on her errand. Miss Widdington, left alone with him, rolled up her jacket and pillowed his head on it, brought his limbs into an attitude suggestive of comfort, and tried by chafing to restore him to animation. Being unsuccessful in this, she at last desisted, and sat on the rocks near by and wondered who on earth he was and where in the world he came from. His garments consisted in a nondescript pair of trousers and a flannel shirt with a collar, which was fastened at the neck, not by button or stud, but by a tasselled cord; and he was barefoot. Miss Widdington glanced modestly at his feet, which were shapely; and the soles were soft and pink like the palms of his hands. Now, had he been the coarsest and most callosity-stricken shell-back half-alive, Janet Widdington would have tended him with the same devotion; but the lingering though unoffending Eve in her rejoiced that hands and feet betokened gentler avocations than that of sailor or fisherman. And why? Heaven knows, save that the stranded creature had a pretty face and that his long black hair was flung over his forehead in a most interesting manner. She wished he would open his eyes. But as he kept them shut and gave no sign of returning consciousness, she sat there waiting patiently; in front of her the rough, sun-kissed Atlantic, at her feet the semicircular patch of golden sand, behind her the sheer white cliffs, and by her side on the slab of rock this good-looking piece of jetsam.

At length Miss Ursula appeared round the corner of the headland, followed by Jan Pendered and his son Luke carrying a stretcher. While Miss Widdington administered brandy without any obvious result, the men looked at the castaway, scratched their heads, and guessed him to be a foreigner; but how he managed to be there alone with never a bit of wreckage to supply a clue surpassed their powers of imagination. In lifting him the right foot hung down through the trouser-leg, and his ankle was seen to be horribly black and swollen. Old Jan examined it carefully.

"Broken," said he.

"Oh, poor boy, that's why he's moaning so," cried the compassionate Miss Ursula.

The men grasped the handles of the stretcher.

"I'd better take him home to my old woman," said Jan Pendered thoughtfully.

"He can have my bed, father," said Luke.

Miss Widdington looked at Miss Ursula and Miss Ursula looked at Miss Widdington, and the eyes of each lady were wistful. Then Miss Widdington spoke.

"You can carry him up to the house, Pendered. We have a comfortable spare room, and Dorcas will help us to look after him."

The men obeyed, for in Trevannic Miss Widdington's gentle word was law.

ii

IT WAS early afternoon. Miss Widdington had retired to take her customary after-luncheon siesta, an indulgence permitted to her seniority, but not granted, except on rare occasions, to the young. Miss Ursula, therefore, kept watch in the sick chamber, just such a little white spotless room as their own, but containing only one little white bed in which the youth lay dry and warm and comfortably asleep. He was exhausted from cold and exposure, said the doctor who had driven in from St. Madoc, eight miles off, and his ankle was broken. The doctor had done what was necessary, had swathed him in one of old Dorcas's flannel nightgowns, and had departed. Miss Ursula had the patient all to herself. A bright fire burned in the grate, and the strong Atlantic breeze came in through the open window where she sat, her knitting in her hand. Now and then she glanced at the sleeper, longing, in a most feminine manner, for him to awake and render an account of himself. Miss Ursula's heart fluttered mildly. For beautiful youths, baffling curiosity, are not washed up alive by the sea at an old maid's feet every day in the week. It was indeed an adventure, a bit of a fairy tale suddenly gleaming and dancing in the grey atmosphere of an eventless life. She glanced at him again, and wondered whether he had a mother. Presently Dorcas came in, stout and matronly, and cast a maternal eye on the boy and smoothed his pillow. She had sons herself, and two of them had been claimed by the pitiless sea.

"It's lucky I had a sensible nightgown to give him," she remarked. "If we had had only the flimsy things that you and Miss Janet wear—"

"Sh!" said Miss Ursula, colouring faintly; "he might hear you."

Dorcas laughed and went out. Miss Ursula's needles clicked rapidly. When she glanced at the bed again she became conscious of two great dark eyes regarding her in utter wonder. She rose quickly and went over to the bed.

"Don't be afraid," she said, though what there was to terrify him in her mild demeanour and the spotless room she could not have explained; "don't be afraid, you're among friends."

He murmured some words which she did not catch.

"What do you say?" she asked sweetly.

He repeated them in a stronger voice. Then she realised that he spoke in a foreign tongue. A queer dismay filled her.

"Don't you speak English?"

He looked at her for a moment, puzzled. Then the echo of the last word seemed to reach his intelligence. He shook his head. A memory rose from schoolgirl days.

"Parlez-vous français?" she faltered; and when he shook his head again she almost felt relieved. Then he began to talk, regarding her earnestly, as if seeking by his mere intentness to make her understand. But it was a strange language which she had not heard before.

In one mighty effort Miss Ursula gathered together her whole stock of German.

"Sprechen Sie deutsch?"

"Ach ja! Einige Worte," he replied, and his face lit up with a smile so radiant that Miss Ursula wondered how Providence could have neglected to inspire a being so beautiful with a knowledge of the English language, "Ich kann mich auf deutsch verständlich machen, aber ich bin polnisch."

But not a word of the halting sentence could Miss Ursula make out; even the last was swallowed up in guttural unintelligibility. She only recognised the speech as German and different from that which he used at first, and which seemed to be his native tongue.

"Oh, dear, I must give it up," she sighed.

The patient moved slightly and uttered a sudden cry of pain. It occurred to Miss Ursula that he had not had time to realise the fractured ankle. That he realised it now was obvious, for he lay back with closed eyes and white lips until the spasm had passed. After that Miss Ursula did her best to explain in pantomime what had happened. She made a gesture of swimming, then laid her cheek on her hand and simulated fainting, acted her discovery of his body on the beach, broke a wooden match in two and pointed to his ankle, exhibited the medicine bottles by the bedside, smoothed his pillow, and smiled so as to assure him of kind treatment. He understood, more or less, murmured thanks in his own language, took her hand, and to her English woman's astonishment, pressed it to his lips. Miss Widdington, entering softly, found the pair in this romantic situation.

When it dawned on him a while later that he owed his deliverance equally to both of the gentle ladies, he kissed Miss Widdington's hand too. Whereupon Miss Ursula coloured and turned away. She did not like to see him kiss her sister's hand. Why, she could not tell, but she felt as if she had received a tiny stab in the heart.

iii

PROVIDENCE has showered many blessings on Trevannic, but among them is not the gift of tongues. Dr. Mead, who came over every day from St. Madoc, knew less German than the ladies. It was impossible to communicate with the boy except by signs. Old Jan Pendered, who had served in the navy in the China seas, felt confident that he could make him understand, and tried him with pidgin-English. But the youth only smiled sweetly and shook hands with him, whereupon old Jan scratched his head and acknowledged himself jiggered. To Miss Widdington, at last, came the inspiration that the oft-repeated word "Polnisch" meant Polish.

"You come from Poland?"

"Aus Polen, ya," laughed the boy.

"Kosciusko," murmured Miss Ursula.

He laughed again, delighted, and looked at her eagerly for more; but there Miss Ursula's conversation about Poland ended. If the discovery of his nationality lay to the credit of her sister, she it was who found out his name, Andrea Marowski, and taught him to say: "Miss Ursula." She also taught him the English names of the various objects around him. And here the innocent rivalry of the two ladies began to take definite form. Miss Widdington, without taking counsel of Miss Ursula, borrowed an old Otto's German grammar from the girls' school at St. Madoc, and, by means of patient research, put to him such questions as: "Have you a mother?" "How old are you?" and, collating his written replies with the information vouchsafed by the grammar, succeeded in discovering, among other biographical facts, that he was alone in the world, save for an old uncle who lived in Cracow, and that he was twenty years of age. So that when Miss Ursula boasted that she had taught him to say: "Good morning. How do you do?" Miss Widdington could cry with an air of triumph: "He told me that he doesn't suffer from toothache."

It was one of the curious features of the ministrations which they afforded Mr. Andrea Marowski alternately, that Miss Ursula would have nothing whatever to do with Otto's German grammar and Miss Widdington scorned the use of English and made as little use of sign language as possible.

"I don't think it becoming, Ursula," she said, "to indicate hunger by opening your mouth and rubbing the front of your waist, like a cannibal."

Miss Ursula accepted the rebuke meekly, for she never returned a pert answer to her senior; but reflecting that Janet's disapproval might possibly arise from her want of skill in the art of pantomime, she went away comforted and continued her unbecoming practices. The conversations, however, that the ladies, each in her own way, managed to have with the invalid, were sadly limited in scope. No means that they could devise could bring them enlightenment on many interesting points. Who he was, whether noble or peasant, how he came to be lying like a jellyfish on the slab of rock in their cove, coatless and barefoot, remained as great a puzzle as ever. Of course he informed them, especially the grammar-equipped Miss Widdington, over and over again in his execrable German; but they grew no wiser, and at last they abandoned in despair their attempts to solve these mysteries. They contented themselves with the actual, which indeed was enough to absorb their simple minds. There he was cast up by the sea or fallen from the moon, young, gay, and helpless, a veritable gift of the gods. The very mystery of his adventure invested him with a curious charm; and then the prodigious appetite with which he began to devour fish and eggs and chickens formed of itself a joy hitherto undreamed of in their philosophy.

"When he gets up he must have some clothes," said Miss Widdington.

Miss Ursula agreed; but did not say that she was knitting him socks in secret. Andrea's interest in the progress of these garments was one of her chief delights.

"There's the trunk upstairs with our dear father's things," said Miss Widdington with more diffidence than usual. "They are so sacred to us that I was wondering—"

"Our dear father would be the first to wish it," said Miss Ursula.

"It's a Christian's duty to clothe the naked," said Miss Widdington.

"And so we must clothe him in what we've got," said Miss Ursula. Then with a slight flush she added: "It's so many years since our great loss that I've almost forgotten what a man wears."

"I haven't," said Miss Widdington. "I think I ought to tell you, Ursula," she continued, after pausing to put sugar and milk into the cup of tea which she handed to her sister— they were at the breakfast table, at the head of which she formally presided, as she had done since her emancipation from the schoolroom— "I think I ought to tell you that I have decided to devote my twenty-five pounds to buying him an outfit. Our dear father's things can only be a makeshift—and the poor boy hasn't a penny in the pockets he came ashore in."

Now, some three years before, an aunt had bequeathed Miss Widdington a tiny legacy, the disposal of which had been a continuous subject of grave discussion between the sisters. She always alluded to it as "my twenty-five pounds."

"Is that quite fair, dear?" said Miss Ursula impulsively.

"Fair? Do you mind explaining?"

Miss Ursula regretted her impetuosity. "Don't you think, dear Janet," she said with some nervousness, "that it would lay him under too great an obligation to you personally? I should prefer to take the money our of out joint income. We both are responsible for him and," she added with a timid smile, "I found him first."

"I don't see what that has to do with it," Miss Widdington retorted with a quite unusual touch of acidity. "But if you feel strongly about it, I am willing to withdraw my five-and-twenty pounds."

"You're not angry with me, Janet?"

"Angry? Of course not," Miss Widdington replied freezingly. "Don't be silly. And why aren't you eating your bacon?"

This was the first shadow of dissension that had arisen between them since their childhood. On the way to the sick-room, Miss Ursula shed a few tears over Janet's hectoring ways, and Miss Widdington, in pursuit of her housekeeping duties, made Dorcas the scapegoat for Ursula's unreasonableness. Before luncheon time they kissed with mutual apologies; but the spirit of rivalry was by no means quenched.

iv

ONE AFTERNOON Miss Janet had an inspiration.

"If I played the piano in the drawing-room with the windows open you could hear it in the spare room quite plainly."

"If you think it would disturb Mr. Andrea," said Miss Ursula, "you might shut the windows."

"I was proposing to offer him a distraction, dear," said Miss Widdington. "These foreign gentlemen are generally fond of music."

Miss Ursula could raise no objection, but her heart sank. She could not play the piano.

She took her seat cheerfully, however, by the bed, which had been wheeled up to the window, so that the patient could look out on the glory of sky and sea, took her knitting from a drawer and began to turn the heel of one of the sacred socks. Andrea watched her lazily and contentedly. Perhaps he had never seen two such soft-treaded, soft-fingered ladies in lavender in his life. He often tried to give some expression to his gratitude, and the hand-kissing had become a thrice daily custom. For Miss Widdington he had written the word "Engel," which the vocabulary at the end of Otto's German grammar rendered as "Angel"; whereat she had blushed quite prettily. For Miss Ursula he had drawn, very badly, but still unmistakably, the picture of a winged denizen of Paradise, and she, too, had treasured the compliment; she also treasured the drawing. Now, Miss Ursula held up the knitting, which began distinctly to indicate the shape of a sock, and smiled. Andrea smiled, too, and blew her a kiss with his fingers. He had many graceful foreign gestures. The doctor, who was a plain, bullet-headed Briton, disapproved of Andrea and expressed to Dorcas his opinion that the next things to be washed ashore would be the young man's monkey and organ. This was sheer prejudice, for Andrea's manners were unexceptionable, and his smile, in the eyes of his hostesses, the most attractive thing in the world.

"Heel," said Miss Ursula.

"'Eel," repeated Andrea.

"Wool," said Miss Ursula.

"Vool," said Andrea.

"No— wo-o," said Miss Ursula, puffing out her lips so as to accentuate the "w."

"Wo-o," said Andrea, doing the same. And then they both burst out laughing. They were enjoying themselves mightily.

Then, from the drawing-room below, came the tinkling sound of the old untuned piano which had remained unopened for many years. It was the "Spring Song" of Mendelssohn, played, schoolgirl fashion, with uncertain fingers that now and then struck false notes. The light died away from Andrea's face, and he looked inquiringly, if not wonderingly, at Miss Ursula. She smiled encouragement, pointed first at the floor, and then at him, thereby indicating that the music was for his benefit. For awhile he remained quite patient. At last he clapped his hands on his ears, and, his features distorted with pain, cried out:

"Nein, nein, nein, das lieb' ich nicht! Es ist hässlich!"

In eager pantomime he besought her to stop the entertainment. Miss Ursula went downstairs, hating to hurt her sister's feelings, yet unable to crush a wicked, unregenerate feeling of pleasure.

"I am so sorry, dear Janet," she said, laying her hand on her sister's arm, "but he doesn't like music. It's astonishing, his dislike. It makes him quite violent."

Miss Widdington ceased playing and accompanied her sister upstairs. Andrea, with an expressive shrug of the shoulders, reached out his two hands to the musician and, taking hers, kissed her finger-tips. Miss Widdington consulted Otto.

"Lieben Sie nicht Musik?"

"Ja wohl," he cried, and, laughing, played an imaginary fiddle.

"He does like music," cried Miss Widdington. "How can you make such silly mistakes, Ursula? Only he prefers the violin."

Miss Ursula grew downcast for a moment; then she brightened. A brilliant idea occurred to her.

"Adam Penruddocke. He has a fiddle. We can ask him to come up after tea and play to us."

She reassured Andrea in her queer sign-language, and later in the afternoon Adam Penruddocke, a sheepish giant of a fisherman, was shown into the room. He bowed to the ladies, shook the long white hand proffered him by the beautiful youth, tuned up, and played "The Carnival of Venice" from start to finish. Andrea regarded him with mischievous, laughing eyes, and at the end he applauded vigorously.

Miss Widdington turned to her sister.

"I knew he liked music," she said.

"Shall I play something else, sir?" asked Penruddocke.

Andrea, guessing his meaning, beckoned him to approach the bed, and took the violin and bow from his hands. He looked at the instrument critically, smiled to himself, tuned it afresh, and with an air of intense happiness drew the bow across the strings.

"Why, he can play it!" cried Miss Ursula.

Andrea laughed and nodded, and played a bit of "The Carnival of Venice" as it ought to be played, with gaiety and mischief. Then he broke off, and after two or three tearing chords that made his hearers start, plunged into a wild czardas. The ladies looked at him in open-mouthed astonishment as the mad music such as they had never heard in their lives before filled the little room with its riot and devilry. Penruddocke stood and panted, his eyes staring out of his head. When Andrea had finished there was a bewildered silence. He nodded pleasantly at his audience, delighted at the effect he had produced. Then, with an artist's malice, he went to the other extreme of emotion. He played a sobbing folk-song, rending the heart with cries of woe and desolation and broken hopes. It clutched at the heart-strings, turning them into vibrating chords; it pierced the soul with its poignant despair; it ended in a long-drawn-out note high up in the treble, whose pain became intolerable; and the end was greeted with a sharp gasp of relief. The white lips of the ruddy giant quivered. Tears streamed down the cheeks of Miss Widdington and Miss Ursula. Again there was silence, but this time it was broken by a clear, shrill voice outside.

"Encore! Encore!"

The sisters looked at one another. Who had dared intrude at such a moment? Miss Widdington went to the window to see.

In the garden stood a young woman of independent bearing, with a pallette and brushes in her hand. An easel was pitched a few yards beyond the gate. Miss Widdington regarded this young woman with marked disfavour. The girl calmly raised her eyes.

"I apologise for trespassing like this," she said, "but I simply couldn't resist coming nearer to this marvellous violin-playing— and my exclamation came out almost unconsciously."

"You are quite welcome to listen," said Miss Widdington stiffly.

"May I ask who is playing it?"

Miss Widdington almost gasped at the girl's impertinence. The latter laughed frankly.

"I ask because it seems as if it could only be one of the big, well-known people."

"It's a young friend who is staying with us," said Miss Widdington.

"I beg your pardon," said the girl. "But, you see my brother is Boris Danilof, the violinist, so I've that excuse for being interested."

"I don't think Mr. Andrea can play any more to-day," said Miss Ursula from her seat by the bed. "He's tired."

Miss Widdington repeated this information to Miss Danilof, who bade her good afternoon and withdrew to her easel.

"A most forward, objectionable girl," exclaimed Miss Widdington. "And who is Boris Danilof, I should like to know?"

If she had but understood German, Andrea could have told her. He caught at the name of the world-famous violinist and bent eagerly forward in great excitement.

"Boris Danilof? Ist er unten?"

"Nicht— I mean Nein," replied Miss Widdington, proud at not having to consult Otto.

Andrea sank back disappointed, on his pillow.

v

HOWEVER MUCH Miss Widdington disapproved of the young woman, and however little the sisters knew of Boris Danilof, it was obvious that they were harbouring a remarkable violinist. That even the bullet-headed doctor, who had played the double bass in his Hospital Orchestral Society and was, therefore, an authority, freely admitted. It gave the romantic youth a new and somewhat awe-inspiring value in the eyes of the ladies. He was a genius, said Miss Ursula— and her imagination became touched by the magic of the word. As he grew stronger he played more. His fame spread through the village and he gave recitals to crowded audiences— as many fisher-folk as could be squeezed into the little bedroom, and more standing in the garden below. Miss Danilof did not come again. The ladies learned that she was staying in the next village, Polwern, two or three miles off. In their joy at Andrea's recovery they forgot her existence.

Happy days came when he could rise from bed and hobble about on a crutch, attired in the quaint garments of Captain Widdington, R.N., who had died twenty years before, at the age of seventy-three. They added to his romantic appearance, giving him the air of the jeune premier in costume drama. There was a blue waistcoat with gilt buttons, calculated to win any feminine approval. The ladies admired him vastly. Conversation was still difficult, as Miss Ursula had succeeded in teaching him very little English, and Miss Widdington, after a desperate grapple with Otto on her own account, had given up the German language in despair. But what matters the tongue when the heart speaks? And the hearts of Miss Widdington and Miss Ursula spoke; delicately, timidly, tremulously, in the whisper of an evening breeze, in undertones, it is true— yet they spoke all the same. The first walks on the heather of their cliff in the pure spring sunshine were rare joys. As they had done with their watches by his bedside, they took it in turns to walk with him; and each in her turn of solitude felt little pricklings of jealousy. But as each had instituted with him her own particular dainty relations and confidences— Miss Widdington more maternal, Miss Ursula more sisterly— to which his artistic nature responded involuntarily, each felt sure that she was the one who had gained his especial affection.

Thus they wove their gossamer webs of romance in the secret recess of their souls. What they hoped for was as dim and vague as their concept of heaven, and as pure. They looked only at the near future—a circle of light encompassed by mists; but in the circle stood ever the beloved figure. They could not imagine him out of it. He would stay with them, irradiating their lives with his youth and his gaiety, playing to them his divine music, kissing their hands, until he grew quite strong and well again. And that was a long, long way off. Meanwhile life was a perpetual spring. Why should it ever end?

One afternoon they sat in the sunny garden, the ladies busy with needlework, and Andrea playing snatches of dreamy things on the violin. The dainty remains of tea stood on a table, and the young man's crutch rested against it. Presently he began to play Tschaikowsky's "Chanson Triste." Miss Ursula, looking up, saw a girl of plain face and independent bearing standing by the gate.

"Who is that, Janet?" she whispered.

Miss Janet glanced round.

"It is the impertinent young woman who was listening the other day."

Andrea followed their glances, and, perceiving a third listener, half consciously played to her. When the piece was finished the girl slowly walked away.

"I know it's wrong and unchristianlike," said Miss Widdington, "but I dislike that girl intensely."

"So do I," said Miss Ursula. Then she laughed. "She looks like the wicked fairy in a story-book."

vi

THE TIME CAME when he threw aside his crutch and flew, laughing, away beyond their control. This they did not mind, for he always came back and accompanied them on their wild rambles. He now resembled the ordinary young man of the day as nearly as the St. Madoc tailors and hosiers could contrive; and the astonishing fellow, with his cameo face and his hyacinthine locks, still looked picturesque.

One morning he took Pendruddocke's fiddle and went off, in high spirits, and when he returned in the late afternoon his face was flushed and a new light burned in his eyes. He explained his adventures volubly. They had a vague impression that, Orion-like, he had been playing his stringed instrument to dolphins and waves and things some miles off along the coast. To please him they said "Ja" at every pause in his narration, and he thought they understood. Finally he kissed their hands.

Two mornings later he started, without his fiddle, immediately after breakfast. To Miss Ursula, who accompanied him down the road to the village, he announced Polwern as his destination. Unsuspecting and happy, she bade him good-bye and lovingly watched his lithe young figure disappear behind the bounding cliff of the little bay.

Miss Olga Danilof sat reading a novel by the door of the cottage where she lodged when the beautiful youth came up. He raised his hat—she nodded.

"Well," she said in German, "have you told the funny old maids?"

"Ach," said he, "they are dear, gracious ladies— but I have told them."

"I've heard from my brother," she remarked, taking a letter from the book. "He trusts my judgment implicitly, as I said he would— and you are to come with me to London at once."

"To-day?"

"By the midday train."

He looked at her in amazement. "But the dear ladies—"

"You can write and explain. My brother's time is valuable— he has already put off his journey to Paris one day in order to see you."

"But I have no money," he objected weakly.

"What does that matter? I have enough for the railway ticket, and when you see Boris he will give you an advance. Oh, don't be grateful," she added in her independent way. "In the first place, we're brother artists, and in the second it's a pure matter of business. It's much better to put yourself in the hands of Boris Danilof and make a fortune in Europe than to play in a restaurant orchestra in New York; don't you think so?"

Andrea did think so, and he blessed the storm that drove the ship out of its course from Hamburg and terrified him out of his wits in his steerage quarters, so that he rushed on deck in shirt and trousers, grasping a life-belt, only to be cursed one moment by a sailor and the next to be swept by a wave clean over the taffrail into the sea. He blessed the storm and he blessed the wave and he blessed the life-belt which he lost just before consciousness left him; and he blessed the jag of rock on the sandy cove against which he must have broken his ankle; and he blessed the ladies and the sun and the sea and sky and Olga Danilof and the whole of this beautiful world that had suddenly laid itself at his feet.

The village cart drew up by the door, and Miss Danilof's luggage that lay ready in the hall was lifted in.

"Come," she said. "You can ask the old maids to send on your things."

He laughed. "I have no things. I am as free as the wind."

At St. Madoc, whence he intended to send a telegram to the dear, gracious ladies, they only had just time to catch the train. He sent no telegram; and as they approached London he thought less and less about it, his mind, after the manner of youth, full of the wonder that was to be.

vii

THE LADIES sat down to tea. Eggs were ready to be boiled as soon as he returned. Not having lunched, he would be hungry. But he did not come. By dinner-time they grew anxious. They postponed the meal. Dorcas came into the drawing-room periodically to report deterioration of cooked viands. But they could not eat the meal alone. At last they grew terrified lest some evil should have befallen him, and Miss Widdington went in to the village and despatched Jan Pendered, and Joe Gullow on his bicycle, in search. When she returned she found Miss Ursula looking as if she had seen a ghost.

"Janet, that girl is living there."

"Where?"

"Polwern. He went there this morning."

Miss Widdington felt as if a cold hand had touched her heart, but she knew that it behoved her as the elder to dismiss her sister's fears.

"You're talking nonsense, Ursula; he has never met her."

"How do we know?" urged Miss Ursula.

"I don't consider it delicate," replied Miss Widdington, "to discuss the possibility."

They said no more, and went out and stood by the gate, waiting for their messengers. The moon rose and silvered the sea, and the sea breeze sprang up; the surf broke in a melancholy rhythm on the sands beneath.

"It sounds like the 'Chanson Triste,' " said Miss Ursula. And before them both rose the picture of the girl standing there like an Evil Fairy while Andrea played.

At last Jan Pendered appeared on the cliff. The ladies went out to meet him.

Then they learned what had happened.

In a dignified way they thanked Jan Pendered and gave him a shilling for Joe Gullow, who had brought the news. They bade him good night in clear, brave voices, and walked back very silent and upright through the garden into the house. In the drawing-room they turned to each other, and, their arms about each other's necks, they broke down utterly.

The stranger woman had come and had taken him away from them. Youth had flown magnetically to youth. They were left alone unheeded in the dry lavender of their lives.

The moonlight streamed through the white-curtained casement window into the white, spotless room. It shone on the two little white beds, on the white garments, neatly folded on white chairs, on the white-whiskered gentleman over the mantle-piece, and on the white faces of the sisters. They slept little that night. Once Miss Widdington spoke.

"Ursula, we must go to sleep and forget it all. We've been two old fools."

Miss Ursula sobbed for answer. With the dawn came a certain quietude of spirit. She rose, put on her dressing-gown, and, leaving her sister asleep, stole out on tiptoe. The window was open and the curtains were undrawn in the boy's empty room. She leaned on the sill and looked out over the sea. Sooner or later, she knew, would come a letter of explanation. She hoped Janet would not force her to read it. She no longer wanted to know whence he came, whither he was going. It were better for her, she thought, not to know. It were better for her to cherish the most beautiful thing that had ever entered her life. For all those years she had waited for the prince who never came; and he had come at last out of fairyland, cast up by the sea. She had had with him her brief season of tremulous happiness. If he had been carried on, against his will, by the strange woman into the unknown whence he had emerged, it was only the inevitable ending of such a fairy tale.

Thus wisdom came to her from sea and sky, and made her strong. She smiled through her tears, and she, the weaker, went forth for the first time in her life to comfort and direct her sister.

_____________________

13: Inside Job

Raoul Whitfield

Black Mask Feb 1932

FRESNEY stood beside the coat-rack, pulling off his gray gloves. His eyes were on the half-moon shaped desk and his chair at the center of the inner curve, on the platform a foot above the floor. He took off his gloves slowly, stuffed them in a pocket of his tightly buttoned trench coat. His gold-headed cane he removed from an arm, hung it over the second hook of the rack. Phillips, the real estate editor, passed him and grinned with his long. face.

"Nasty weather," he said.

Fresney's face was turned towards the large, black-lettered sign that hung on a wall of the editorial room.

"Is it?" he said in a cold voice.

The sign on the wall spelled Accuracy and was very old and dirty. Fresney's thin, long lips curved slightly in a smile. He removed his coat, took off a gray soft hat and hung it over the hook that held his stick. At one end of the room the automatic telegraph machines were making a clatter. Two or three typewriters were working. At a glance Fresney saw that seven or eight of the dozen reporters on the staff had arrived; it was five minutes of two.

He took a pack of cigarettes from a pocket of the trench coat, walked swiftly around to his chair. It was a swivel-chair; rather battered looking. Cleve Collins, his assistant, looked up from some copy. He sat across from the city editor, on the outer curve of the half moon. There were two chairs on each side of his-copy readers' places. Collins said:

"Vapor said he wanted you as soon as you came in, Hugh."

The managing editor's name was Clinton Vaupaugh; he was called "Vapor" around the city room. Fresney nodded and sat down. He put a cigarette in his mouth, lighted a match by scratching a thumbnail across the phosphorus, and held the flame against paper and tobacco. His small, dark eyes looked at words on a yellow sheet of news paper as he shook the match out. The words were: "You're a good slave driver and a lousy city editor. I resign. Hennessy."

Fresney lifted the paper the words were typed on as though it was something dirty. He used the tips of a thumb and forefinger and let the yellow stuff fall to the platform beside him. On another scrap of news paper he read: "Dyke has sweet alibi and smashed head. Reedy sore-says sheet didn't use his picture. Better give him break. In for the bulldog. Jake."

Fresney flipped the scrap across to Cleve Collins, who was watching him closely.

"Run Dan Reedy's face on Page 2-mark it 'must'," he instructed. "Give him a good boost."

Collins blinked. "Reedy-what for?" he asked. "What did he do?"

The city editor's eyes smiled a little. "He grabbed Jap Dyke, along with two or three other plainclothes boys;" he replied grimly. "But we'll forget the others for the moment."

The assistant city editor grunted. He made notes on paper.

Fresney said:

"He's feeling hurt and making it tough for Jake. We'll use some oil."

Coilins swore very softly. Then he said:

"Vapor wants to see you when you get here, Hugh."

The city editor nodded. "Hennessy's quit; he didn't like it because I told him to go after the Ware woman hard and tell her the police would be out if she didn't talk. I think Hennessy drew a week ahead, yesterday. If he did-send Burney after the money. If Hennessy won't pay up we'll have him pinched."

The assistant city editor widened his blue eyes. He was thirty-two, ten years younger than Fresney. He had a pale, thin face and his body was long and thin.

"And what'll the police do, after they pinch Hennessy?" he asked dryly.

Fresney's eyes were hard. "They'll do what I tell 'em to do," he replied.

Collins whistled very softly. Fresney looked at him sharply, then looked down at another slip of news paper on which was scrawled: "Cresser gets hanged tonight. C. c." The city editor looked at Collins and said slowly: "He put up a good fight, Cleve. Send Daly over to cover it-there's a pass around here somewhere."

Collins nodded. "Yeah. Cresser put up a good fight," he agreed. "Damn' little money— a wife— and with the sheet yelping for his neck—"

Fresney spoke coldly and softly: "Shut up, Cleve."

Collins narrowed his eyes. "The wife was in to see you about fifteen minutes ago, Hugh," he said quietly.

Fresney said: "You shut up, Cleve."

Collins paid no attention to him. "I told her you were out of the city," he said.

Fresney's lips got very tight, and his eyes very small. Before he could speak Collins said:

"But she didn't believe me."

The city editor reached deep down in a hip pocket, twisting in his chair. He got the Colt loose, opened a drawer of the desk and slipped it inside. Cleve Collins looked down at the copy before him.

"That drawer sticks," he reminded quietly. "You ought to have it fixed, Hugh."

Hugh Fresney swung his chair and stood up. He smiled down at his assistant.

"It wouldn't do you any good if I did get the works," he said grimly. "Running this sheet takes guts."

He looked beyond his assistant towards the groups of reporters.

The Dispatch was a morning paper and was making a fight to beat the circulation of the Press. Fresney was driving his men hard, and he knew that he wasn't exactly popular.

The fact didn't bother him.

He said to Cleve Collins: "Take on another man in Hennessy's place— and no college stuff. And there's a fellow getting in in a few hours to see me. His name is Slade. If I'm not here when he comes in— have him wait."

Collins nodded and said without smiling:

"Vapor wants to see you as soon as you get here, Hugh."

The city editor grinned. "Why didn't you say so before?" he said. "There's no damn' system around this place."

He walked along a side of the large room towards an office door marked: Managing Editor. Inside the door was a small anteroom. A very good-looking girl, with red hair and blue eyes, sat back of a small desk. She frowned when she saw Fresney. The city editor smiled at her; but she didn't smile back. Fresney said:

"How about dinner tonight-late, at my place?"

The girl's expression changed just a little.

"C. V. is inside," she said coldly.

Fresney chuckled. "Lovely lady," he said mockingly. "Just another of the mob that would like to see me lying on my back in an alley, with my eyes open."

He went through another door, closed it behind him and stood looking down at the gray-haired figure of Clinton Vaupaugh.

The managing editor was heavy, smooth-faced, handsome.

He was a big man with full lips and soft gray eyes.

"It's got to stop, Hugh," he said very slowly. Suddenly he banged a fist on the desk behind which he sat; frowned with his whole face. "I tell you— it's got to stop!"

The city editor smiled with his long lips, but his eyes were cold.

"Who's whining now?" he asked with faint amusement in his voice.

Vaupaugh said grimly: "The Press had an editorial yesterday— you saw it? It doesn't name this sheet, but it does everything but name it. It says we're distorting the news. It claims we influenced the jury in the Cresser verdict; we hit at women we're ruthless, lying— "

Fresney took a cigarette from the pack and lighted it.

"The circulation department reports a daily city gain of twelve thousand in ten days," he replied easily. "Where do you think we got that sale? It isn't new readers. It's right out of the Press' pocket— we stole those readers away from them. They know it. Of course we're scum— the whole lot of us."

Vaupaugh took a handkerchief from a pocket, and there was an odor of perfume. He wiped his lips.

"It's got to stop," he repeated. "You've got to tone down,

Hugh."

Fresney smiled sardonically. "I haven't started yet," he breathed.

Vaupaugh stood up and shook a finger across the desk. He was breathing heavily and his face was pale.

"You got Cresser hanged— and you're going after Jap Dyke the same way. You know who the man back of Edith Ware is? Bernard Kyle— one of our biggest advertisers. He called me up this morning. Layoff the Ware case— and layoff quick."

Fresney yawned. "We can tone down a bit," he said. "Kyle, eh? About to walk out on her, I suppose. Afraid of his wife— she just got back from Europe. And the Ware brat makes a bum attempt at suicide."

Vaupaugh spoke in a shaken tone. "It isn't a matter of toning down— we're dropping the Ware suicide attempt. Dropping it, you understand?"

Fresney closed his small eyes, then opened them just a little.

"What's wrong, Clint?" he asked very quietly.

Vaupaugh seated himself and said in a half whisper:

"My life's been threatened— I had a phone call two hours ago. It sounded like business."

The city editor made a snapping sound with fingers of his left hand.

"So that's it," he breathed. "First time your life has been threatened, Clint?"

There was irony in his words. Vaupaugh looked at him coldly.

"It's the first time there's ever been any real reason for the threats," he replied. "Drop the Ware woman suicide stuff. Tone down a lot on Jap Dyke—"

Fresney straightened and stared at the managing editor.

"No," he said in a hard voice. "Dyke's our circulation builder— just now. A tough racketeer-gambler who went a bit too far. Mixed up with some city officials. We can't drop Jap—"

Vaupaugh was suddenly very calm. "Drop lap Dyke," he said tonelessly. "I've changed my mind. It isn't just a tone down-drop him! Or else—"

Hugh Fresney waited a few seconds and then repeated questioningly:

"Or else?"

Vaupaugh wiped his full lips again. "Or else quit the sheet," he said steadily.

Fresney looked at the managing editor a long time with his small eyes. Then he said:

"Like hell, Clint."

He turned abruptly and went into the anteroom. The redhaired girl bent her head over some papers and Fresney said grimly:

"How about that late dinner?"

She didn't answer him. He went into the big editorial room and towards his desk. As he neared it he saw Tim Slade standing close to Collins. He reached his desk, scribbled: "82 Goorley Street at six-ask for Creese-he'll take you to back room where I feed." He looked at Slade's lean face and said nastily:

"That's where he lives— you're a dirty louse to hound him. This is the last tip I'll give you. Take it and get the hell out of here!"

He folded the paper on which he had scribbled, tossed it across the desk. TIm Slade's eyes flickered, and when Collins handed him the slip of paper he said grimly: .

"He owes me the fifty— and if he's got anything worth that much— he'll pay up."

He went along a row between desks, and Cleve Collins said:

"Did Vapor want anything special?"

Fresney nodded. "The sheet's getting virtuous again," he stated with grim amusement. "We're dropping the Ware stuff— and we're dropping Jap Dyke."

Cleve Collins blinked at him, then whistled. Fresney said:

"We'll play up the church convention and feature any women's club meetings. And remember the kiddies, Cleve— remember the kiddies. Nothing like the kiddies to build circulation."

Collins smiled grimly. Fresney called up two reporters and gave them assignments. Collins seemed to be thinking hard. After a little while he looked· across at Fresney and said softly:

"It's a little late to start playing up the kiddies, isn't it, Hugh?"

Hugh Fresney looked at him narrowly. "It's not too late for you, Cleve," he said very quietly. "But it's awful damn' late for Vapor and mel"

TIM SLADE had a lean, sun-browned face, brown eyes and hair, good features. He was almost six feet tall and there was a power in his shoulders and arms that wasn't noticeable at a glance. His movements were very quick, though they had the appearance of being slow through grace. He kept brown eyes on Fresney. Fresney said:

"Clinton Vaupaugh is yellow. He's greedy, too. Two months ago he inherited the paper-his father died. I talked him into putting guts into it, and going after circulation. He didn't care about the guts part, not having any himself. But a gain in circulation— that got him. He told me to go to it. I went to it. Pittsburgh hasn't had a fighting sheet in years. For a month and a half I've been tearing things loose. Pounding away at old crimes and going after the new ones. A quarter of the staff has quit or been fired. We've got three suits against us. Hell's about ready to pop."

Tim Slade smiled and nodded. "Sure," he agreed. "And what's that got to do with me coming on from Cleveland?"

Fresney tapped his cane against the wooden floor of the back room at 82 Goodey Street.

"I didn't know it when I sent for you— but Vaupaugh's life has been threatened. I had a phone call at the flat, two days ago. From a booth in a local department store. A woman's voice. She said I'd get it this week; there was nothing I could do about it— and she was just telling me so I could fix up a few things."

Slade frowned. "Any chance of it just being a bluff?" he asked.

Fresney shook his head. "Not a nickel's worth," he replied. "I made a couple of mistakes."

Slade said: "Well?"

Fresney frowned at his half-empty beer glass. Then he looked at Slade with his little eyes almost closed. He nodded his head as though in self-agreement.

"I fired a reporter named Hallam, a week ago. Vaupaugh's
secretary is a red-headed girl named Dana Jones. She and Hallam were hot for each other. Hallam didn't like my talking to him about it, the way I did. He swung at me, and I knocked him cold. Then I fired him. He can't get another job and he left town yesterday. He hates my insides, and so does the girl."

Slade finished the beer. "That makes two, Hugh," he said. "Hallam might come back."

The city editor nodded. "And a reporter named Hennessy makes three," he added.

"I didn't fire him— he quit. But I was going to fire him. A woman named Edith Ware tried suicide, three days ago. Reason— her lover was going to be good and slick around his wife. Reason— the wife was coming back home. I had an inside from her maid— paid fifty bucks for it. Sent Hennessy to break the woman down and make her talk. Wanted to know who the man was. Good stuff— the way I was running things. Hennessy sold out, maybe. Or maybe he just got hating me. Anyway, he wrote that I was a slave driver and a louse. He's been drinking."

Slade said: "A possible three."

Fresney looked at his fingernails. "The Ware woman is the fourth. I've smeared her all over the sheet since she made her bum attempt at suicide. I think she uses cocaine."

Slade nodded. "Four."

The city editor drew a deep breath. "I've been ripping things wide open, Tim. There are a lot of others that might do things— and the two that count biggest. Ruth Cresser and Jap Dyke. The Cresser girl is the wife of a guy that hangs tonight. We forced the police to go the limit with him. I had four men working on his past. We played for the jury— for everything. He hangs tonight. His wife was in today."

Slade said: "Five."

Fresney closed his eyes. "Cresser killed two cops, maybe.

Jap Dyke told him to do it, maybe. He's bad and he;s important.

The other sheets keep clear of him. We did, until we
went out for circulation. Jap stabbed a kid a week ago-in one
of his gambling houses. A stoolie tipped me-rve been playing all ends. We ran stuff that made the city detectives grab Jap. He hasn't talked much yet, but he has an alibi. He knows that I'm city editor and that Vaupaugh is managing editor."

Slade said very tonelessly: "Six."

Fresney looked at the man across from him and smiled. It was a hard smile.

"Six— and some others we won't bother about," he breathed.

"I've crammed a lot of living into forty-two years, Tim— l guess you know that. I can smeIl death when it's close, and I smell it now. One paper can't clean up this town— not the way I went at it. That was one of the mistakes. The other is one I've made all my life— I like to smash people that get in my way."

Slade said: "Sure."

Fresney nodded, his little eyes very small.

"Man or woman— that hasn't made any difference. That's the other mistake— you can't smash women out of the way, Tim. They're the mothers of men."

He leaned back and chuckled. Then he shrugged and battered the gold head of the cane on the table.

"I like to smash people that get in my way," he repeated.

"Women have got in my way— in the paper's way. And when I'm finished, Tim— someone will have got in my way again."

Slade's brown eyes held a faintly puzzled expression. He didn't ask the question, but the city editor answered it.

"I loaned you half the money to get started in that Cleveland agency, Tim. You've done well— you had it in you."

Slade shrugged. "In another three months— I can pay you back, Hugh," he said.

Fresney smiled narrowly. "In another three months I'll be forgotten," he breathed. "Forget the loan, Tim. I wired for you for just one reason. I'm going to be through— pretty quick. That doesn't frighten me, not much. I carry a gun and a heavy stick, Tim, and if I get a break— a chance to fight— you can go on back to Cleveland. But if they get me in the back, or machine-gun me out, or mob me out-I'd like you to get at least one of 'em, Tim. See?"

Slade's brown eyes were frowning. But he didn't speak.

Fresney said: "You'll be all alone, Tim. The police'll be pleasant, but they'll be tickled. They never knew which way I'd print stuff. And I know too much. Vaupaugh's yellow and he hates me now, because he's been scared. Maybe he'll get the dose, too. Maybe not. He'll offer a reward, but the paper won't help you much, Tim. The staff hates me. Collins might help a little, but he'll probably get my job, and he'll be busy being careful he doesn't lose it. See?"

Slade nodded. Fresney smiled and shrugged.

"You'll be alone, Tim," he repeated. "I've hurt too many humans around here."

Slade said: "All right— I don't mind being alone."

Fresney looked at the private detective with a peculiar expression in his small eyes.

"You don't think I'm going to get it, eh? Think I've gone yellow, like Vaupaugh?"

Slade said quietly: "You seem pretty sure, Hugh. Ever think of being a newspaper man in some other city?"

Fresney smiled grimly. "I never was good at running," he replied. "Well— that's all, Tim. That loan pays your fee— unless I get a chance to fight. If you look things over after, and see that I've hit back some— then trot on back to Cleveland and forget all this stuff."

The city editor stood up. He patted a pocket of the trench coat, which he hadn't removed. He looked down at Slade, smiling a little.

"I'm no damn' angel, Tim," he said. "I guess you know that. But I don't like the idea of the human that gets me having things too easy."

He held out his hand and Slade stood up. "I'll go back to the paper behind you," he said. "I'll stick around for a while. You just might be wrong about things, Hugh."

The city editor grinned and shook his head. He tossed a dollar bill on the table.

"The paper's gone virtuous," he stated with faint mockery. "It may save Vaupaugh's perfumed neck, but it won't save mine."

Tim Slade didn't argue the point. He'd known Fresney for five years, and the city editor had always shoved humans out of his way. If he said he was through— Slade knew he was through.

Fresney said: "Don't come to the funeral, Tim." His smile became a grin. "It'll be a bum show. And you may have work to do."

Slade nodded. "You had a good time while the racket lasted, Hugh," he said quietly. "I'll do what I can. But with so many hating you—"

Fresney grunted. "There may be carelessness along the line. "

He dug his left hand into a pocket of the trench coat and handed Slade a grotesquely twisted piece of lead.

"This morning, in the fog," he said quietly, "I took an early walk— it hit a brick wall just ahead of me. Not much sound. Better keep it-might help. Over on the North Side, and the gun was silenced. Just tqe one shot. I got down low and stayed down for seconds, then I grabbed a cab and went home."

Tim Slade said: "Good size— .45 maybe."

Fresney nodded. "Maybe-doesn't matter much. So long, Tim."

Slade said: "Luck— and keep your chin up, Hugh."

The city editor went from the room and down the stairs. Slade slipped the bullet in a pocket of his loose gray coat. He stood looking through the doorway, though Presney was no longer in sight. After a few seconds he shoved his right hand in a deep pocket and touched the steel of his Colt automatic.

Then he went down the stairs and outside, watched the city editor turn a corner and head southward, towards the Ninth Street bridge. He followed along, a half square or so behind. Presney walked rapidly, with his head up. When a truck made sharp exhaust racket, not far from the bridge, the city editor stopped and looked towards it. Then he went on.

Tim Slade bought a paper and glanced at it from time to time. It was dark when Presney reached the other side of the bridge. The sky was gray and it was growing foggy. Slade increased his pace and got closer to the city editor. After seven or eight squares Presney crossed Liberty Street and walked in the direction of the four-story brick building occupied by the Dispatch. The editorial rooms were on the upper floor; the presses were at street level. Slade followed to the entrance but didn't go inside. The presses were motionless; there was a small crowd standing in the murky fog and reading a bulletin to the effect that Walter Cresser's wife was making a last-hour appeal to the State governor, who was in Pittsburgh. The bulletin stated that Cresser was to be hanged between eleven and midnight.

Tim Slade lighted a cigarette and went into a drug store. He had a soft drink which killed the taste of the beer he had taken with Presney. He didn't like the taste of beer. When he'd finished the dcink he got inside a booth and called Presney. He said:

"T. S. speaking. Do you know a small man, very thin, who walks with a limp? Left leg stiff. Carries a straight, black stick."

Presney said: "No— why?"

Tim Slade dropped a cigarette on the floor of the booth and stepped on it.

"He tagged along across the street from you, most of the way to the building. Just now he picked up a paper a blonde gal dropped, and they went different directions."

Fresney said in an irritated voice: "Well— what of that?"

Slade said: "Maybe nothing-but she dropped the paper when she was right beside him, and I figured he might have slipped something with something written on it— inside the paper before he handed it back."

There was a little silence, then Fresney said:

''The mechanics of the way they work doesn't interest me, Tim."

Slade said: "All right— but I thought you might want to know a tip might be out that you were inside the building."

Fresney said with sarcasm: "Thanks— you think they'll walk in and get me at my desk?"

Slade said: "I thought you might know the man."

The city editor swore. Slade waited a few seconds, then said: "What time are you coming out?"

Fresney swore again: "Around eleven-thirty, unless something big breaks. Take a nap, Tim— and we'll have a drink around midnight. Ring me at eleven-fifteen."

Slade said: "Right," and hung up. He smiled down at the receiver gnmly. His brown eyes were almost closed. When he left the booth he went to the cigar counter and bought cigarettes. He recognized one of the Dispatch reporters he had seen in the editorial room. The reporter was at the counter, talking to an older man.

"I've got a hunch the sheet is going to be a lot softer," he was saying. "Tough on Fresney— he'll hate getting soft with it."

The reporter's companion swore. "It'll just be another thing for him to hate," he said grimly. "Hating comes easy for him."

Tim Slade went out to the street and walked past the Dispatch building again. There was a later bulletin posted— it had been pasted up on the great glass window that showed off the presses, while he was phoning. It announced that the governor had refused to reconsider the Cresser stay. Nothing more could be done.

Tim Slade moved along Liberty Street, through the fog. He nodded his head and his brown eyes were grim.

"And hating comes easy for other people, too," he breathed very softly.

AT THE MOMENT that Walter Cresser was pronounced dead by doctors at Western Penitentiary, Tim Slade was listening to a jazz band playing on the stage of the Alvin Theatre. They were doing a new number called "Your Baby's My Baby Now." They did it in slow tempo and when they had finished there was a lot of applause. The jazz band was the last number on the bill, and the bill was a long one. Tim Slade looked at his wrist-watch, left his aisle seat and went outside. It was damply cold; the fog had thickened.

He walked to Liberty Street and moved towards the newspaper building. When he was three or four squares away an ambulance sped by, going in the same direction. It didn't make much noise and Slade paid little attention to it. When he neared the entrance to the Dispatch there was a crowd that wasn't looking at bulletins. The ambulance was at the curb, and there was a black, open car with police insignia showing.

Slade closed his brown eyes slightly, shoved his way
through the crowd. A uniformed officer caught him by the arm and Slade said:

"I'm on the staff— what's wrong?"

The officer released his grip. "You'll be writing about it," he stated grimly and told the crowd to stop shoving.

Slade said: "Sure," and went inside.

At the top of the first flight of wooden stairs he saw another crowd. The white of an interne's coat showed. He went up the stairs. Cleve Collins, looking very pale, was saying:

"I heard one shot— and I heard Vaupaugh call out: 'For God's sake, Hugh— get him—' Then there was another shot. I was two flights up, and I ran right down. Vaupaugh was lying where he is now— and Fresney was halfway down, moving a little, on the steps."

Collins stopped. A plain-clothesman with a good pair of shoulders and a strong jaw said:

"What'd you do?"

Collins shrugged. "I went down there—" he pointed half the way down the stairs that led to the street level of the building "—and asked Fresney if he was shot."

The plain-clothesman said with sarcasm: "Wasn't that fine!"

The assistant city editor looked at him sharply. Then he said:

"Don't be that way, Reynolds. I'm not a suspect and I'm not stupid."

His voice was hard. Reynolds blinked at him and shrugged. "No offense meant," he said.

Tim Slade moved a few feet and looked down at the body of Vaupaugh. He hadn't known the managing editor of the paper. The interne said in a fairly loud voice:

"AIl over, here— I'll go in and look at the other one."

Slade followed him into a room used by the circulation department. Hugh Fresney was stretched out on a leather divan. There was blood on his face; his  head was bandaged. Five or six men were grouped around the divan. Fresney said slowly and with evident pain:

"Vaupaugh started down the stairs— something was wrong with the elevator. There was something I wanted to tell him, and I started after him. I called to him, but he didn't hear me. Collins— my assistant-came out to tell me we'd just got a flash that Cresser had been hanged. I said I'd be back— and went down after Vaupaugh. 1 caught up to him on the landing of the first floor."

The city editor paused. He spoke thickly— his mouth was cut. Slade noticed two of the paper's reporters in the group about him. There was a police lieutenant in uniform and a man that looked like another plain-clothes detective. Fresney went on:

"The landings aren't very well lighted— we don't use them much. The circulation department doors were closed— the offices were dark. Vaupaugh was facing me— he had his back to this door. I was talking-there was a shot. Vaupaugh grabbed at his back and called out. I think he said: 'I'm shot— for God's sake get him, Hugh.' Not sure— the shot made a lot of racket. Vaupaugh staggered away from me— and there was another shot from the doorway here."

Fresney raised his left arm and pointed towards the door of the circulation office. He spoke in a low tone.

"Vaupaugh fell and I stumbled over his body. I was trying to get my gun from the pocket I carry it in— it stuck. I went to my knees and something hit me on the top of the head. I grappled with the one who had struck me and was hit again.

Then my body was swung around— I was falling. I hit the stairs and must have lost consciousness. The next thing I knew was when Collins was beside me, asking if I was shot."

The police lieutenant said: "What did you tell Collins?"

Fresney swore. "I said I didn't think so-but that the managing editor was. I told him the one with the gun must have got to the street. He ran on down the stairs and got the traffic cop near the theatre, a square away. The others came down and brought me up here— someone telephoned headquarters—"

Fresney closed his eyes, and the interne, beside him, said:

"Better let us run you to the hospital. You may be banged up inside. Outside it's just a smashed head and face, and cuts and bruises on the body from the fall."

Fresney shook his head. "I'll come over for an examination later, in a cab. I'm all right. Vaupaugh—"

The interne shrugged. "Dead— maybe within ten seconds of the time he was hit. Looks as though the bullet got the heart, from behind."

Fresney's face twisted. "Damn!" he said weakly.

The police lieutenant asked: "You never got a look at the face of the fellow that cracked you, Fresney?"

The city editor shook his head. "He handled me as though he was big, strong," he replied. "But I was almost out after the first crack— he might not have been big."

One of the other men said: "You don't think there were two or three of them?"

Fresney opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. He was wearing no coat; his vest was opened and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up.

"Might have been," he said slowly. "I have the feeling there was only one."

The police lieutenant said: "Vaupaugh's life had been threatened, you say?"

Fresney nodded. "He told me that this afternoon."

The one who looked like a plain-clothesman to Tim Slade spoke hoarsely:

"Yours— has it been threatened, Fresney?"

The city editor smiled a little. "Hell, yes," he replied. "You fellows know that."

He used his arms and sat up a little. His eyes went to one of the reporters. Collins came into the room and Fresney said to him:

"Get this in the next edition, Cleve— but save the high-lights for the final. Vaupaugh's-last words— that sort of thing."

He shook his head, as though thinking of Vaupaugh. His eyes rested on Slade's face, but he didn't appear to see him.

The police lieutenant spoke grimly.

"Maybe they were trying for you— or this one fellow was trying for you, Fresney," he said.

Fresney said thickly: "Maybe."

The police lieutenant looked at those in the room. He frowned at Slade.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Tim Slade let his brown eyes meet the city editor's. Fresney eased his head back to the raised portion of the divan, and twisted his face with pain. Then he smiled a little.

"He's all right, Lieutenant," he said. "Tim Slade— has a detective agency in Cleveland."

The police lieutenant continued to frown. He looked at Fresney.

"What's he doing here?" he asked.

Fresney said: "I wired for him— things looked bad for me. He's an old friend of mine."

The lieutenant grunted. "Bodyguard, eh?" he breathed.

Slade shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "I'm no good at that sort of thing."

The police lieutenant stared at him.

Fresney swore and sat up again. His face was pretty badly battered. The lieutenant spoke grimly.

"Know who might have wanted to kill Vaupaugh, Fresney?"

The city editor narrowed his eyes. "No," he said. "But he was managing editor and owner of the sheet— and a lot of people always want to kill editors."

The police lieutenant smiled. "Know who might have wanted to kill you?" he asked.

Fresney swore huskily. He touched his bandaged head with careful fingers.

"I know a few people who might want to kill me," he
stated. "But that doesn't say they tried."

Collins said: "You might have been mistaken for Vaupaugh— or he might have been mistaken for you. They wanted you, Hugh— and they got him."

The police lieutenant grunted. "Or maybe they figured one of you was about as bad as the other— and tried for you both."

Fresney shrugged. He looked at Collins. "Better get up above, and get the story going," he said. "Reporters from the other papers will be along soon. Treat 'em nice— but don't tell them anything important, and avoid the truth as much as possible. Get a good obituary started for Vaupaugh."

His words were tight, peculiar. Collins said:

''The obit's all ready— I had Creager write it up a week ago."

Fresney smiled grimly and the police lieutenant made clicking sounds.

"You fellows work fast," he breathed.

Fresney looked at Collins as he turned to go from the room.

"Say that the paper will probably offer a large reward for the arrest of the killer or killers," he said slowly. "Don't use my picture. Play Vaupaugh's death up as a big loss to Pittsburgh and the newspaper world."

The police lieutenant swore. Collins nodded and started from the room. Fresney called in a voice that was thick and not very strong:

"Don't forget the police, Cleve— they're working hard. The dragnet's out. The police boys all loved Vaupaugh, and they were terribly broken up over his death. When. word got around that I was alive— they shouted with joy—"

He leaned back and closed his eyes. Collins went from the room. Tim Slade looked at the police lieutenant, who was regarding the city editor with a grim expression in his eyes.

"Our job's to get the killer," he said simply. "This paper's been pounding the police for weeks. We've been grafters, quitters, cowards and a lot of other things. You printed the stuff, Fresney— and the dead man okayed it. But that doesn't count. We'll do our job."

Fresney said with doubt: "Yeah? Well, anything I can do to help—"

He let his words trail off. The police lieutenant said:

"I want the names of the persons you were worried about. And any you think Vaupaugh might have been worried about."

Fresney said: "Sure— got a pencil?"

The lieutenant said: "I can remember them."

The city editor frowned. "Cresser was hanged a little while ago. The Dispatch thought he was guilty. We went after him. We dug up some of his past stuff. He has a wife— she's tried to see me a couple of times. I don't think she wanted to throw her arms around my neck. She knew Vaupaugh was the managing editor— she tried to see him, too."

The police lieutenant said grimly: "You think a woman knocked you out and threw you down the stairs?"

Fresney smiled grimly. "You asked who might want to finish me— or Vaupaugh."

The officer said: "All right. Go on— "

Fresney said: "You boys got Jap Dyke— but the paper had to tell you he was back in town. And the paper had to yelp that there might be graft holding off a pinch. Jap's mob don't love me— they didn't love Vaupaugh."

The police lieutenant didn't speak. Fresney said:

"The Ware woman— the one that tried suicide. We gave her a play. There was a man in the background, and he was getting pretty scared. And nasty. The one she thought she wanted to suicide for. He was worried about his wife."

The officer narrowed his eyes on Fresney's and started to ask a question. But the city editor shook his head.

"In private, maybe— but you don't get his name here." He smiled very grimly. "He's a big advertiser."

The lieutenant swore. Fresney said: "I hurt pretty bad— get me a cab, Tim. I'll go over and let the doc see if anything's wrong inside."

The police lieutenant frowned. Fresney said: "Then I've got to come back here— and get the sheet moving."

Tim Slade went outside and moved past the covered body of Clinton Vaupaugh. A uniformed cop was on a ladder that was in place near woodwork high on the wall of the landing. He had a flashlight in one hand and he called down:

"Yeah— one hunk of lead dug in here."

Tim Slade kept his brown eyes narrowed a little and went down the stairs. He hailed a cab, directly in front of the entrance. Two uniformed officers were keeping the crowd moving.

Theatres were out and there was a lot of traffic. There was a bulletin up stating that Walter Cresser had been hanged. A reporter and a plain-clothesman helped Fresney to the cab. The plain-clothesman said:

"Mind if I go along, Fresney? The lieutenant thought you might remember something between now and the time you get back, and you could tell me."

Fresney said wearily: "Climb in."

Tim Slade stood near the door of the cab, and his eyes met the city editor's. Fresney looked pretty sick.

"See what you can dig up, Tim," Fresney said in a tired voice. "I'll be back in an hour."

Slade smiled. "You aren't holding anything back?" he questioned.

The city editor frowned. The plain-clothesman beside him yawned and looked bored. Fresney shook his head very slowly.

"I didn't get a peek at the killer, Tim," he said. "I think he made a mistake— thought Vaupaugh was me. But you might work around the building a bit— that fellow seemed to know where to lay for us. The elevator wasn't working."

Slade said: "Yeah— I'll poke around the paper."

The plain-clothesman looked straight ahead and his eyes were expressionless. His voice was that way, too.

"Sure," he said. "It might have been an inside job."

INSPECTOR O'HAFEY had a big head, a tall body. He was gray haired and his eyes were the same color. He looked at the papers Slade handed him, handed them back.

"Your outfit got Dunner," he said in a husky voice. "Well, how do you figure?"

They were in the rear of the editorial room, and there was a lot of clatter up front. Most of the Dispatch staff were working on the story— there was a lot to be done. O'Hafey was doing his questioning on the spot.

Slade said: "I got a wire from Fresney. I've known him for five years or so. He's a hard man, and he doesn't scare easily. When I got here he seemed to want to keep me under cover. His life had been threatened; he was shot at this morning. Here's the lead."

He handed it to the inspector, who looked at it, then handed it to a sergeant sitting beside him. Tim Slade's browned face was expressionless.

"Fresney seemed to be pretty certain he was slated to go out," he went on. "He named some people who hated him enough to finish him, maybe. He told me Vaupaugh's life had been threatened, and that the managing editor was yellow. He said the policy of the paper was to be changed, because Vaupaugh was scared. The sheet was going 'soft.' But he thought it was too late to save his neck, though it might save Vaupaugh."

O'Hafey said: "You've got a paying agency in Cleveland, yet you came on here when he wired. Why?"

Slade smiled a little. "I was a reporter here for a while, five years ago. Worked under Fresney. He set me up in business. I still owe him some money."

O'Hafey said: "Uh-huh. What were you'to do?"

Slade spoke softly: "Go after whoever murdered Fresney, after they got him."

O'Hafey blinked at Slade's brown eyes. "After they got him?" he repeated.

Slade nodded. "He didn't figure having a bodyguard would help much. But I tailed him back to the paper around six."

O'Hafey said: "Anything happen?"

Slade hesitated, then shrugged. "A small, thin man with a stiff left leg followed along from the North Side. He carried a black stick. When Fresney came in the building this fellow stopped and waited around near the bulletin window. I got the idea he was stalling. After a while a blonde girl came along and dropped a paper. The one with the stiff leg picked it up and handed it back to her. I got the idea that he might have passed something along with it. Couldn't see what he did— his back was to me. They went in different directions."

The inspector widened his gray eyes. "A tip for someone that Fresney was inside, eh?" he muttered.

Slade shrugged. "It was just a chance. I called Fresney and asked him if he knew anyone that looked like this small, thin limper. He said no— and wanted to know why. I told him and he said he wasn't interested in the mechanics of the kill."

"Tough guy," O'Hafey said. "Well, I guess we know Fresney's tough. Wanted you to get whoever got him, eh? Working from the grave. He would like that idea."

Slade said: "I didn't have to tell you these things, Inspector. I'm working for Fresney, and he isn't exactly strong for the local police. I told you so that you wouldn't get in my way."

The inspector frowned.,Then he smiled grimly.

"Go ahead, Slade," he agreed. "Fresney thinks we won't care much about grabbing the one who was after him, or who killed Vaupaugh. Well, that's true enough. But we do a lot of jobs we don't like."

The sergeant said quietly: "Where were you— when this murder occurred?"

Slade grinned. "Listening to a jazz band at the Alvin Theatre," he replied.

O'Hafey looked at his big hands. "Any good?" he asked.

Tim Slade nodded. "Swell," he replied, and stood up. "If you don't mind I'll go out for some coffee and a doughnut."

The inspector nodded. "Sure," he said.

Slade went through the editorial room and reached Cleve Collins' side. The assistant was reading typewritten words on news paper. Fresney had not returned yet. It was eleven-forty-five.

Collins looked up and Slade said:

"Pretty tough on Vaupaugh."

Collins nodded. "I think the fellow that got him was after Hugh," he said soberly.

Slade said: "You do? Well, he must have known he made a mistake. He heard Vaupaugh call out."

Collins said: "Yes— and he shot again. That was the one he missed."

Slade nodded. "Well, there are more than two bullets in a gun," he said. "What next?"

Collins shrugged. "Fresney was going for him. He stumbled. The second bullet was meant for him, maybe. It went into the wall. The spot where they dug it out is in a line— it works out right. The killer may have thought he'd hit Fresney, or he didn't want to try again. So he used his gun on Hugh's head— swung him around and threw him down the stairs. Then he went down past him and into the street. He got a break— he didn't meet anyone coming up. The theatres were out, and he got away in the crowd."

Slade's brown eyes looked down at a proof of a "head" that read: Dispatch Owner Slain. He nodded his head. "That's the way it looks," he said.

He moved away from the curved desk, glancing at Fresney's vacant chair. The telegraph machines were clattering and a lot of typewriters were working. Slade moved towards the private office of Vaupaugh, opened the door quietly and went inside. He closed the door behind him.

Dana Jones looked at him with eyes that were a misty blue. She was small and very pretty. Tim Slade said:

"Pardon. You're Miss Jones, Vaupaugh's secretary?"

Her mouth set in a straight line. Her lips were nice, not too red. She didn't reply.

Slade smiled. "I'm Slade," he said. "I'm not with the police or on any paper. I'm from Cleveland. Fresney sent for me. He was worried."

Her blue eyes narrowed. "What about?" she asked so steadily that he felt surprise.

"He thought maybe he was going to be killed. I'm an agency man— an old friend of his."

She was silent again. Slade said quietly: "Some hours ago he gave me a list of those he thought might like to see him dead."

He stopped. The girl said: "Well— "

Slade looked around at framed cartoons on the walls of the anteroom.

"Your name was one of them," he said.

The girl's eyes got very wide. She pressed a tiny, damp handkerchief against her lips. Slade smiled.

"That may not mean much. I'm just poking around. The police don't know that Presney was worried about you— not yet."

Her eyes grew hard; she took the handkerchief away from her lips.

"Presney wasn't killed," she said steadily. "What difference does it make who he's worried about?"

Slade chuckled. "It's a nice point," he said. "But the police think Vaupaugh was killed by mistake. They think Presney was slated to get the dose."

The girl sat very motionless behind the small desk that held her typewriter.

"You think I shot Clinton by mistake, then threw Hugh Fresney down the stairs, then came back in here!" she said.

There was scorn in her words.

Slade shook his head and looked at the cartoons again.

"Naturally not," he replied. "Fresney fired a reporter named Hallam. Hallam hit him because he said something about you. Joking, I suppose. Fresney has a peculiar sense of humor. I understand you rather like Hallam."

The girl stood up. "Bob's out of town," she said firmly. "He went to Chicago yesterday at noon. I saw him off."

Slade nodded. "Trains run both ways," he observed.

She shook her head. "He got a job on the News— a night job. He got it by telephone. He didn't come back. You can call the paper now— he's probably there. You can talk with him."

Slade grinned. "No, thanks," he said. "I'll take your word for it. But Hallam didn't like Fresney much, did he?"

She smiled, her lips and eyes hard. "Of course not," she said. "And I don't like him much. And I can give you a list, too—"

Slade lifted a hand in protest. "I believe you," he interrupted. "Let's forget the idea that the killer made a mistake. Let's say he wanted to get Vaupaugh, and he got him. Fresney was coming for him. so he knocked him out and got away. That's simple enough. Can you give me a list of some people who might have wanted to get the managing editor and owner of a sheet that was stepping down pretty hard in order to build circulation?"

Dana Jones said: "Why should I? You're not with the police."

Tim Slade shrugged. "You just said you could give me a list," he reminded.

She nodded. "But I didn't say that I would."

Slade grinned. "You're hard to get along with," he told her cheerfully. "Think Cresser's wife might have worked the idea that Vaupaugh would be better dead?"

The girl sat down behind the typewriter again. She looked at him narrowly.

"Fresney's a pretty big man for a woman to throw downstairs," she said.

Tim Slade spoke patiently: ''That fact has been mentioned several times," he said. "But sometimes a woman gets a man to do a job for her."

Dana Jones didn't speak. He liked her eyes and her hands.

They were both strong and decisive. She had a nice voice, even when it was hard.

Slade said: "How about the Ware woman, and the advertiser she made a bum attempt at suicide for? Either one of them might have been pretty sore."

She nodded slowly. "Of course. And C. V. bawled out a ticket broker this morning for giving him bum seats to a show last night. The ticket broker might have been sore, too."

Tears filled her eyes again, but she blinked them away. Slade said:

"You thought a lot of Vaupaugh?"

She looked at him for several seconds, and he thought she wasn't going to answer. Then she said:

"No, he was pretty weak. I feel sorry for him. He was very frightened."

Slade nodded. "He wanted the paper to make money, so he let Fresney run it his way. His way was pretty hard. They came after Vaupaugh, and he ordered the circulation building stuff stopped. But it was too late. Is that it?'

The girl said: "I suppose— that was it."

Slade looked at the cartoons again. "How about this Hennessy?" he asked. "He was fed up with Fresney; he thought he was a slave-driver."

The girl looked at Slade and said very slowly: "What's the use of asking me these questions? You seem to know a lot of people who hated Fresney. Some of them might have hated Vaupaugh, too. Vaupaugh gave the orders around here—"

Slade widened his eyes. "Did he?" he asked.

She smiled a little. It was a hard smile. "And Hugh Fresney made suggestions," she ftnished.

Slade said: "You're all right. I like you."

The girl's blue eyes looked surprised. Then she said: "That's fine— can I tell mother?"

Slade grinned and turned away. But he stopped near the door.

"Where were you .n-"

He stopped as she threw up a hand. "I was sitting right in here putting powder on my nose," she said. "And I haven't a damn' bit of proof of it."

Slade chuckled. He said: "Somehow I believe you!"

He went outside and closed the door. Hugh Fresney was easing himself into his chair at the inner curve of the long copy desk. When the police inspector went close to him he waved him away. Slade went towards the desk and heard Fresney say:

"Nothing wrong inside of me— give me fifteen minutes, Inspector— and then I'll answer questions all night. I've got to get the last edition lined up."

The inspector nodded and turned away. He saw Slade and beckoned to him and they went to the rear of the city room together. O'Hafey said:

"That hunk of lead we dug out of the wood in the hall here— it's a .38 bullet. The sergeant thinks the one Fresney gave you is a .38, too."

Slade nodded. "Might mean the same gent took another crack at Fresney— or the figure he thought was Fresney," he breathed. "And it might not."

The inspector nodded. "We're bringing in everyone Fresney thinks might hate him, or Vaupaugh. We haven't been able to find anyone who saw the killer run from .the building."

Slade said: "You haven't found anyone who was out front, heard the shots— and didn't see anyone run from the building?"

O'Hafey grinned. "Funny, I thought of that, too. Yeah— there was a news-kid outside. Near the bulletins— along with a lot of others. He was near the entrance and he heard the racket. He wasn't sure it was shooting, but he sort of watched the entrance. There was a lot of traffic noise. The first person to come out, the news-kid says, was Collins. The news-kid is around fifteen years old, and seems pretty bright."

Slade said: "Well— how about the roof?"

The inspector shrugged. "I've been up there. It isn't easy. A couple of closed doors, a narrow passage, and an iron ladder for ten feet. Nothing locked, but everything closed. Only one way off— to the building on the left. A fifteen-foot drop. One of my men is trying to get down that way now. It probably can be  done."

The inspector frowned and added: "But I don't think it was."

Slade said: "And you believe the news-kid?"

O'Hafey nodded his big head. "Inside job," he said very slowly. "The fellow knew Fresney was in here. He knew where to wait. It wasn't very light— he heard Fresney's voice and made a mistake because he wanted to get the city editor in the back. He wanted to get him in the back because he didn't want to be seen. He didn't want to be seen because Fresney knew him— and there would be a chance of him yelling his name. When he heard Vaupaugh call out, he knew he'd made a mistake. Fresney went for him and stumbled. The killer's second shot went wild. He used his gun and shoved Fresney down the stairs.

"He didn't shoot again, because he'd made enough racket already. But he didn't follow Fresney down, and pass him while he was stunned. Or if he did, he didn't go outside. There are a couple of doors he could have used on the main floor-into the space where the presses are. He could have got out three other ways. Or he could have come back upstairs." The inspector drew a deep breath. "That's in return for the bullet you handed me," he said. "It's the way things look to me. My men are trying to find others who heard the shots and others who saw people moving around right after they heard them. Fresney never even got the safety catch off his Colt. A full load inside. He has a permit for the gun, and when he got it, several weeks ago, he stated that he wasn't exactly loved in this town."

Slade nodded. "You're going pretty strong for the theory that Vaupaugh got the dose by mistake, and that it was an inside job," he said softly.

O'Hafey shrugged. "I'll follow any lead," he said. "That looks like the one to be followed right now. I want to find out who there is, in some way familiar with this newspaper plant, who thought Fresney was a louse."

Slade nodded again. "If I dig up anything— I'll get it to you, Inspector," he said. "I'm just poking around— I wasn't supposed to go to work until Fresney was killed."

The inspector looked grim. "Do you lose much by the guy getting the wrong man?" he asked.

Slade smiled with his brown eyes almost closed. He lighted a cigarette and inhaled.

"I haven't had time to figure it out yet," he said. "But I don't think I lose a thing."

His voice held a peculiar note. He moved away, went past reporters' desks and reached Fresney's side. The city editor was reading copy and had a blue pencil in his right hand. His head and forehead were bandaged-and there was adhesive tape around the right comer of his mouth. He was frowning.

Slade stood beside him and said softly:

"You weren't holding anything back, Hugh?"

The city editor didn't look up. He scratched out some words and said thickly:

"Just one thing, Tim."

Slade waited, and still the city editor didn't look up. Slade said: "What, Hugh?"

Fresney spoke softly. "I told you I didn't know a short, thin man with a limp. I do know one. His name is Garrow. He was a stoolie for the North Side police for a while. Then he dropped out of sight. I had a tip that he wouldn't turn up anything on the Jap Dyke mob."

Slade whistled softly. ''That might mean he was in with them." He was silent for a few seconds, then he said very slowly: "I think he gave the tipoff that you were inside, Hugh. I think maybe I'd better look him up."

Fresney said grimly: "He'll be hard to find."

Slade nodded. "You're holding out the fact that you know this fellow— you're not tipping the police?"

Fresney shrugged. "They can know it now," he said. "I didn't tell you before because I didn't see that it would help things any."

Slade said: "All right— not holding out anything else?"

Fresney swore and looked up. "Hell, no," he said. "It's the Dyke mob's job— only they made a mistake. They got Vaupaugh instead of me. Damn' tough on him. As for me— they'll get me yet."

Slade smiled with his brown eyes. "You'll be around for a while yet," he said. "The inspector has questions. I'm going out, but I'll be back before you leave."

The city editor nodded. "I'll probably have to go down to the commissioner's office," he said. "If I'm not here or there I'll be at 82 Goorley until dawn. I think best over the strong stuff."

Slade said: "Sleep would be better for you— you must hurt a lot."

Fresney nodded. "I damn' near got my neck broken," he breathed, and went to work on the copy again.

Tim Slade walked away from the city desk and went to the elevator. He asked the operator why it hadn't been running at the time of the killing. The operator said it had been out of order for an hour before the murder— motor trouble. It was fixed fifteen minutes after.

Slade got off at the street floor, went outside and stood near the curb for a few minutes. Then he went inside, went upstairs.

A plain-clothesman was standing at one end of the landing, looking things over. He nodded to Tim. Tim went on up. When he opened the door of the anteroom to the office that had been Vaupaugh's, O'Hafey blinked at him from the chair he was seated on.

Slade said: "Pardon, Inspector— I thought Miss Jones was alone. Wanted to ask her a question."

O'Hafey waved a hand. "Go ahead," he instructed.

Slade looked at Dana Jones. "With Vaupaugh dead," he said steadily, "who inherits the paper?"

The inspector grunted. The girl said: "The family."

Slade nodded, smiling. "Large family?" he asked.

The girl said: "Daughter and son. The son lives abroad, in Paris. He doesn't like newspapers."

O'Hafey said: "Man after my own heart."

Slade smiled a little. "How about the daughter?" he asked.

Dana Jones shrugged. "She and her father didn't get along. She lives at the Schenley Hotel— saw him once a month, maybe."

O'Hafey sat up straight. "And they didn't get along, eh?" he breathed. "Maybe he wouldn't give her as much money as she wanted."

Slade looked at the inspector, grinning. The girl frowned.

"Another woman who might have killed him," she said disgustedly. "As a matter of fact, he gave her all the money she needed. She never complained. She told me once he was a pretty good father, but she didn't like the perfume he used."

Slade said: "Did you like it?"

The secretary's eyes were very small. "If I were a man— I think I'd have liked it on a woman," she replied.

O'Hafey chuckled. Slade looked around at the cartoons on the wall, then looked at Dana Jones again.

"I got very crazy about you in a hurry, Dana," he said simply. "I've gone a good many years without doing that over any girl. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night. before I shove off for Cleveland?"

The girl stared at him. O'Hafey blinked. Slade said: "I'll make you forget Hallam. You weren't engaged, and he drank too much. Besides, all newspaper men are bums."

O'Hafey said: "What the-"

Slade smiled a little and kept his eyes on the girl.

"We'll have Vaupaugh's murderer by dawn," he said slowly. "And that'll be that. How about the dinner?"

The girl said: "You're— mad—"

Slade shook his head. "If we have the killer by dawn— will you have dinner with me?"

O'Hafey grunted. The girl said: "Yes."

Slade nodded. "Fine," he said. "We'll have a time."

He grinned at O'Hafey and went from the office. Fresney was calling to Collins in a loud voice:

"Where in hell's that follow-up on Lawson's feature?"

Tim Slade went down two flights of stairs, took his time going down the next. On the landing where the murder had occurred he stood for a few seconds. The plain-clothesman had gone. Slade went to the door of the circulation department room into which Hugh Fresney had been carried. He stood with his back to it and let his eyes move along the landing. After a few minutes he went down the steps and to the street. It was twelve-fifteen by his wrist-watch. The fog was pretty bad; there was a chill in the air. Tim Slade hailed a cab and got inside.

"Schenley Hotel," he said. "Don't hurry— I want to think."

The cab driver stared at him, then grinned. "Sure," he said over his shoulder. "I get that way a lot of times, but it don't do me any good."

COLLINS WAS slumped in his chair when Slade walked into the editorial rooms at three o'clock. He had a green shade over his eyes and he looked tired. Most of the staff had quit for the night, but the telegraph instruments were still pounding out words. Slade sat on the edge of the inner curve of the copy desk, and said:

"Hugh went home?"

Collins nodded. "He went over to the commissioner's office, and got back here at two. He stayed around for a while, but his body was aching pretty badly. He finally got away. Then that police lieutenant came in and gave me a third degree."

Slade said: "You?"

Collins swore, nodding. "He thought my story might have been the bunk. Someone told him I'd made a hot speech to Vaupaugh when he refused to give me a raise he'd promised six months ago. The lieutenant had found out that Hugh had made a speech for me, too. Hugh thought I should have the raise. The lieutenant had an idea I might have done for Vaupaugh and lied about how it happened, and he figured Hugh might have tried to stop the fight and got shoved down the stairs. He thought Hugh might be protecting me."

Slade grinned. "You denied it?"

Collins swore wearily. "I told him he was a crazy fool, and he said he thought he'd take me down to the station and hold me on suspicion. I said that would be fine— that Hugh would use scare-heads on it. That calmed him down a bit. He told me not to leave town and I said it was going to be tough having to cancel my trip to Japan. We didn't get along so well, but he left about ten minutes ago."

Slade looked at the Accuracy sign on the wall and whistled all that he could remember of "Your Baby's My Baby Now."

Collins took off his eye-shade and swore again.

"We won't have to smell that damn' perfume around here any more, that's one thing," he muttered. "Poor devil!"

He stood up and stretched. He called one of the two reporters on hand and said that if anything big broke on the Vaupaugh murder he wanted to be called.

"And I hope nothing breaks," he breathed.

He looked at Slade and said: "Staying up all night?"

Tim Slade shook his head. "I've only got about one thing more to do," he said quietly.

Collins looked at Slade narrowly. "O'Hafey came over and asked some questions about you," he said. "He seemed pretty puzzled. Wanted to know whether you were very crazy or very shrewd. Said you'd told Miss Jones you'd have Vaupaugh's murderer by dawn, and she agreed to have dinner with you if you did. He said he figured maybe you were trying to kid him, and if that was so he didn't like the time you'd picked."

Slade smiled a little. Collins said: "What did Hugh mean when he tossed over that slip of paper and said you were a louse for hounding someone?"

Slade continued to smile. "He wanted you and anyone else who might be interested to think I wasn't particularly concerned with him," he said. "He didn't want you to get the idea that I was a detective he'd brought on from Cleveland, because he thought he was going to get killed."

Collins stared at him, sucked in a deep breath. There was silence in the city room, except for the clatter of the wire machines. Then the assistant city editor spoke.

"So that was it," he muttered. "Well— what's the idea of spreading it around now? Fresney's still alive."

Slade nodded. "Unless they got him on the way home," he said steadily. "How about Miss Jones, Collins? Did Vaupaugh like her a lot?"

The assistant city editor half closed his eyes. He spoke in a hard voice.

"I haven't the slightest idea."

Tim Slade nodded and stood up. He looked at the big sign on the wall again, then at his wristwatch.

"I'll be moving along," he said cheerfully. "If you stick around another hour— you'll have something for the paper— something new."

Collins said: "Yes?" His tone was suddenly antagonistic. "Sorry, but I need sleep. If it's big enough they'll buzz me, and I'll get Fresney up."

Slade nodded again. "Are you giving the paper a black border?" he asked.

The assistant said tonelessly without looking up: "Just the editorial page."

Slade looked towards the telegraph machines. "Get in touch with Vaupaugh's family yet?" he asked. "The daughter?"

Collins shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "That isn't up to me."

Slade smiled. "So long," he said and went from the big room. He rode the elevator down and reached the street. He made a phone call, a fairly long one. He walked along Liberty Street, turned north on Ninth. Ninth was almost deserted.

Over near the bridge it was deserted.

He was halfway across the bridge when a cab passed him, going at pretty good speed. It slowed down a hundred feet or so ahead, stopped. There was the squealing of brakes, and a second cab pulled up almost the same distance behind him. No one descended from either cab.

Slade said grimly: "Sure—"

He got a cigarette between his lips, struck a match. The cab ahead started backing slowly, and when it started the other one moved forward. The driver of the one coming forward was very low in his seat.

Tim Slade pulled on the cigarette and reached for his gun. He had it in his right-hand fingers when the first bullet struck the iron railing behind him. The bullet came from a gun in the cab that was moving forward. Almost instantly there was a staccato clatter from the machine that was backing. A spray of bullets battered metallically against iron-pain stabbed through Slade's left hand as the spray went away from him. He fired twice at the cab that was moving forward, sucked in a sharp breath and vaulted the bridge rail. As he went down he ripped buttons from his coat in getting it open and let the gun slip from his fingers. He hit the water with his body hunched, in a sitting position. The shock was pretty bad.

When he came up he was under the bridge. He struggled free of his coat, toed off his low shoes. He was a strong swimmer, but it was a fight to keep under the bridge, against the current. The river was high and the water was very cold.

Fifty feet along he got rid of his suit coat, and that made things easier.

Another fifty feet and he was out of the worst of the current. He was weakening pretty fast, and the hand that had been hit was numbing his left arm and bothering his stroke. The cold was getting to him, too.

He used a back stroke for several seconds, then turned over and put his remaining strength in an effort to get close to the mud at the far end of the bridge. He was almost through when he felt the water become very quiet. Another twenty feet and his knees were scraping mud. He dragged himself out of the water, lay motionless for a half minute or so. Then he got to his knees, pulled himself to his feet. He shook the water from his ears, moved along between some wooden shacks built on the mud near the steel structure of the bridge. He was shivering and his breath was still coming in deep gulps.

Twenty minutes later he was in a cab and the cab was moving across the river, towards his hotel. The cab driver had a ten-dollar bill in his pocket, and Tim Slade had a soaked handkerchief wrapped around the palm of his left hand. He lay back in the seat with his eyes closed. In his hotel room he had three deep drinks from a thin silver flask, got into dry clothes. He used antiseptic and bandages on his left hand, got a Luger that he'd picked up during the war from one of his bags. His eyes showed pain, but his lips were smiling a little. He had no coat or hat when he went down and picked up a cab. When he'd given the address he sat back and let his body sway with it. His eyes were closed and he was breathing slowly, evenly.

Once he parted his lips and said: "Sure—"

The fog didn't seem to be so thick, but it had got colder. The cab driver drove very swiftly, and it didn't take long to reach the address he had given.

The man who opened the wooden door of the two-story house had a thin scar across his forehead. Slade frowned at him, keeping his bandaged hand out of sight. He said: "Creese upstairs? He wanted me."

The one with the scarred forehead nodded. Slade went past him and he closed the door and bolted it. Slade said: "Is he alone?"

The scarred one shook his head. "Jap's with him," he said hoarsely. "The coppers got tired of him and turned him loose."

He went away, gesturing towards the stairs. From a rear room Slade heard voices and the clink of glasses. Upstairs everything seemed pretty quiet.

Tim Slade said very softly as he climbed the wooden stairs: "Jap— sure—"

The door of the room was half opened. Slade shoved it open the rest of the way, with his left shoe. He walked inside. Jap Dyke was leaning across a table, elbows spread. He was a small, heavily shouldered man with eyes that slanted, and were slightly almond shaped. His skin was yellowish, and his dark hair edged high from his forehead. He was Italian, but he looked like a Japanese.

Hugh Fresney sat in a comer, on a chair without arms.

The chair was tilted back, and Presney's brown shoes rested on a cross rung between the two front legs. Both arms hung at his sides. There were two glasses, half filled with beer, on the table across which Dyke sprawled.

Tim Slade stood near the opened door, his back to the stairs. Both hands were in the side pockets of his suit coat.

He smiled at Presney.

The city editor's lips twitched a little. Jap Dyke said: "What's this?"

He had a thin tone and when he spoke his lips didn't move very much.

Slade said: "Hello, Hugh— feel better?" .

The city editor's eyes were very small. He shook his head. "My face isn't so bad, but my body hurts like the devil."

Slade nodded. "It'll hurt worse in a couple of months," he said very quietly.

Presney let his shoes slip off the rung of the tilted chair. They dangled just clear of the floor.

"How's that, Tim?" he asked.

Slade smiled very narrowly. "You missed out, Hugh," he said quietly. "You're going to go the way Walter Cresser went tonight."

The city editor's body jerked a little: Jap Dyke lifted his chin from his spread arms and his eyes got more almond shaped.

Presney swallowed slowly and said: "Tell us about it, Tim."

Slade said: "You murdered Vaupaugh."

Jap Dyke drew a deep breath, then sighed heavily. Presney closed his eyes, then opened them again.

"It was Little Red Riding Hood who did that, Tim," he said very quietly.

Slade smiled with his lips. His brown eyes were on Presney's small ones.

"You've been tough for a long time, Hugh," Slade said.

"Good and tough. But lately you've been getting bad and tough. Tonight you murdered Vaupaugh. You did it because you hated him— you've hated him for a long time. You've planned his murder for a long time. He was yellow, Hugh— but that yellowness was going to stop you from doing things with the sheet."

Jap Dyke swore very softly, but he didn't move his body.

Presney said grimly "Yes, yes— go on."

Slade said: "You built up this stuff about your life being threatened. And Vaupaugh's. You said the sheet had been hard— too hard. Maybe that was true, but it was hard where it didn't count. You said Jap Dyke was after you because you'd forced the police to pull him in. He wasn't after you, Hugh— he was with you. The sheet yelped until he was pulled in, but they didn't have anything on him. And you knew that. It just made it look good. And even with Vaupaugh dead, they wouldn't have anything on him, Hugh."

Slade paused. Jap Dyke's fingers made faint tapping sound against the table wood. Someone laughed thinly, downstairs.

Slade said: "You got me on from Cleveland, because you were ready to finish Vaupaugh, and you needed more evidence that a mistake had been made, and that someone had got the managing editor instead of you. You wanted to be sure everyone knew you were afraid. You built up a lot of little hates— some of them were real enough. Then, when Vaupaugh was leaving tonight, you went after him. You shot him in the back— and because his life had been threatened, and he still trusted you, you got a break. He didn't think you'd shot him, so he yelled to you to get whoever had shot him. Collins heard that."

Fresney was breathing heavily, but his eyes were still very small. Slade said:

"You knew you had him. After he yelled, you put another bullet up in the wall— in a spot that put it in line with the door you were going to use in your story. Your gun was in a pocket, loaded. I don't know what you did with the one you used, and I don't give a damn. Maybe Vaupaugh realized what had happened, and grabbed you. Maybe he didn't. He might have shoved you down the stairs before he went out, or you might have just let yourself go down. You're hard, Hugh— and you can take it. Besides you'd killed a man, and you had to make it look right. Collins found you unconscious or almost unconscious, halfway down the stairs. That's how you murdered Vaupaugh."

Jap Dyke said: "You shouldn't have done it, Hugh."

His voice was very low and hard. Fresney was still breathing heavily and evenly.

Slade said: "Vaupaugh was putting a check on you. He was going to run the sheet again, and you didn't want that. You were playing politics, Hugh— you were going to play politics. You and Jap Dyke. You needed the sheet— the two of you could have done things with it. But you went too fast, and too far. And when Vaupaugh weakened you knew you'd lost. Unless he was dead. If he was dead— there was his daughter—"

Fresney let the chair tilt forward. His face twisted. Slade said:

"Take it easy— both of you! I've got lead ready to rip cloth— and then some more cloth!"

After a few seconds he spoke softly. "I went to the Schenley tonight and talked to Vaupaugh's daughter. She hates you, Hugh— she hates your insides. Why? Because I told her what I figured. And she figured the same way. The chances are she would have married you, Hugh. She sort of liked you, and her father, who didn't like you, would have been dead. She wouldn't have known she was marrying his murderer. And you'd have had the paper, Hugh— the whole damn' sheet to use the way you wanted."

Fresney said in a hoarse voice: "You're lying, Tim— you're lying like hell. If you'd gone to her tonight and told her what you thought—she'd have laughed at you. You haven't any evidence-you just think—"

Slade interrupted. "She didn't laugh at me— she believed me. She had to believe me."

Fresney said thickly: "You're lying—"

Slade shook his head. "I called you on the phone and asked you if you knew a small man with a limp. I told you that I'd thought he had tipped that you were inside the paper. You said you weren't interested. And then you changed the story. You did know such a man. You said his name was Garrow, and that he was working with Jap Dyke's mob, you'd heard. He wouldn't turn up anything against them, anyway."

Fresney said: "Well?"

Slade's smile faded. "There wasn't any man with a limp. He didn't pick up any paper and hand it to a blonde. I was just feeding you, Hugh-just seeing whether you'd use it. And you did use it, when you figured it would help."

Fresney ran his tongue-tip over a lower lip. He looked at Jap Dyke and said:

"Is he safe, Jap?"

The slant-eyed one nodded. Fresney looked at Tim Slade and spoke in a very soft voice.

"You certainly earned the money you owed me, Tim. I hate to see you get still."

Slade tightened the grip on his Luger. "Sure," he said with sarcasm. "But you got worried, Hugh. I was away from the paper too much. I think you had me tailed— and spotted the Schenley visit. So guns were turned loose on me, on the bridge. They didn't take."

Fresney smiled thinly. "That's so, Tim," he said. ''They didn't take."

Slade spoke quietly. "I think the police would have got around to you pretty soon, Hugh. But they were willing to believe you were hated enough for someone to have made a mistake— and have smeared Vaupaugh instead. I wasn't so willing to believe that."

Fresney said steadily: "All right, Tim. You've made your speech. About the gun— I took on a new reporter three days ago. Jap here recommended him. He was at the bottom of the stairs, with his coat spread like a blanket. I tossed him the gun, then did the dive. It hurt like the devil. The reporter went through the pressroom and out the truck entrance. He had the gun with him. The rest was the way you've told us."

Jap Dyke looked at Fresney, and Fresney nodded. Dyke called loudly and thinly:

"Terry!"

Slade shook his head. "No good," he said. ''The police have been over here since I started across the first time. They let me work it my way. Terry and the rest are downstairs— they've been talking and laughing once in a while. But the police guns are making them act that way. Your bunch weren't so strong for you taking up with Fresney, anyway, Jap. They're being good ana saving their necks."

Jap Dyke let his body roll to one side and jerked at a pocket. Slade swung his body a little and squeezed on the Luger. Dyke moaned, went to his knees and fell forward. Hugh Fresney shoved over the table and leaped for Slade. There were pounding footfalls on the wooden stairs as Slade jerked his body to one side. Fresney's arms were swinging; a fist struck Slade and knocked him off balance, to one side. Fresney swung and pounded at him again. Slade said hoarsely:

"Stop— it— I've got— a gun—"

Fresney wasn't armed, and he hated to shoot. The city editor had fingers on his right wrist now. They swayed backward, their bodies close. Fresney twisted the gun so the muzzle slanted towards his face-then jerked Slade's wrist. His finger slipped with the sharpness of the jerk-the gun crashed. Fresney's body sagged, and he slipped slowly to the floor. O'Hafey came into the room, followed by two plain-clothesmen.

They had drawn guns in their hands. Fresney was half propped against a wall. Slade said:

"He did it— and dropped the gun to one of Jap's men he'd taken on as a reporter."

One of the plain-clothesmen crossed the room and bent over Dyke. He straightened and said:

"He's dead."

O'Hafey stared down at the city editor, and Slade said: "He twisted my gun— and jerked my wrist. It was his way of—"

Fresney's eyes were staring, his lips were colorless. He tried to smile.

"The kid's— good— O'Hafey," he said very slowly and weakly. "And I— broke him in—taught him to use his eyes—"

His eyes closed, then opened again. He said with an effort, in a hoarse whisper:

"lnside— job— but it didn't— work—"

His head fell forward, and his eyes stayed open. O'Hafey bent down and after a few seconds said:

"Well— that's all for him."

Tim Slade shook his head slowly. "He was a good, tough city editor," he said slowly. "But he got greedy."

O'Hafey nodded. "That's the way with a lot of good tough guys," he philosophized. "And after they get too greedy— they get dead."

TIM SLADE had dinner with Dana Jones. He needed someone to cut up the meat for him. He had a pretty, bad left hand. It was a quiet dinner, but they got along nicely together. She'd never been to Cleveland, and they finally got around to wondering if she'd like it there. They were both fairly sure that she would.

___________________

14: The Nitwit

William Merriam Rouse

1884-1937

Popular Detective March 1936

NO one of the three men playing poker at the plain pine table could be called an ornament to the human race. Something lay over their faces, not unlike the distortion produced by faulty glass. Each was different from the others and yet all had two things in common, boredom and a subdued, tense restlessness.

It was a chill mountain afternoon on the threshold of September, cool enough for a fire, and at every snap of the burning wood each man reacted in his own fashion, with a turn of the eyes, a suppressed jerk of neck muscles, or an uneasy movement of the body.

Pittsburg Joe, an elderly man with an old fashioned handlebar mustache and protruding eyes, looked out of a window, as they all did from time to time. He sprang to his feet with an oath and the cigarette stained fingers which held his cards trembled.

“What the— what’s that out there by the woodshed?”

The others were instantly on their feet. Slim Huggins, incredibly tall, thin, and a little stooped in the shoulders, dropped a hand to the side pocket of his rumpled but once expensive coat.

THE third man, Dicky Travers, fat and expressionless save for his eyes, reached to a shoulder holster.

What they saw might have caused astonishment to less apprehensive men. A huge figure in blue jacket and overalls stood playing childishly with a hasp by which the shed door was fastened. Fingers like miniature bludgeons flicked the hasp back and forth and the mighty shoulders under the blue cloth heaved to a delighted chuckle.

A grizzly bear of that stature and shuffling walk would not have been astonishing. A man was a little beyond belief, and yet undoubtedly it was a man. After a moment he opened the shed door and, still with his back toward the house, piled one of his great arms so high with firewood that his face was obscured as he turned and came torward. A long sigh erupted from the men as though from one throat.

“The village halfwit!” snapped Travers. “I’ve seen him stalling around the post office. They let him ramble, I guess.”

The door opened. A big, round, grinning face, like a tan colored moon, peered from behind the high armful of wood. It located the woodbox. For a half minute sticks thudded down as the visitor ranked the wood neatly in the box. Then he turned and stood erect, towering even above Huggins, and grinned.

There was something so silly, so innocuous in that grin that Huggins and Pittsburg Joe responded in spite of themselves. The white teeth were wholesome. The face and clothes of the creature were clean. He stood there with an enormous lack of self consciousness and waited, like a big dog that has retrieved a stick.

“What’s your name?” asked Travers, sharply.

“Me Tiny!”

“That’s right,” said Travers. “He’s the one. Lives with his old man. Moved in from some other hick town. I remember because I cased the whole situation when I come up to rent this dump here.”

“All right, Tiny,” said Pittsburg Joe. “You run along home now. Your old man don’t want you to play with big boys!”

“Me do chores!”

“Listen!” spat Huggins. His shoulder twitched and he ground out a cigarette on the stove. “You beat it, or I’ll bend a gat over your head!”

But Tiny just grinned, and after a moment it reached all of them that he either did not understand the threat or disbelieved it. Perhaps he did not know how to be afraid. He just stood there, like a monument, and looked contented and stubborn and cheerful.

“What do you want gum shoeing around here, anyway?” demanded Pittsburg Joe. “Who sent you up from the village? It’s a good three mile!”

The broad, smooth brow of Tiny wrinkled, as though the brain underneath were struggling with the meaning of the words he had just heard.

“Do chores,” he said at length, and then by a mighty effort he managed to express another thought. He half turned and lifted one of his log-like arms and pointed toward a window.

“Pretty!”

Pittsburg Joe looked out of the window and saw an unending green, lifted in mighty billows which were the mountains. There was the sudden surprise of keen blue where the near hills dropped away to reveal distant peaks and slopes. Here and there a splash of red heralded autumn. And over all hung the bene¬ diction which was the sky.

“Damned if he ain’t right!” muttered Pittsburg Joe. “Who’d think a nut would notice scenery?”

“What’s that gotta do with anything?” demanded Huggins. “We don’t want nobody coming here until after we pull this job and beat it.”

“Lookut,” said Travers, who had been thinking behind his expressionless mask. “Slim, you and me almost had a run in already over bringing in wood and getting water from the pump and washing dishes and all that damned truck. Joe don’t like it, neither. This dummy can’t tell nothing because he don’t know enough to understand what he hears and couldn’t repeat it if he did. I’ll see his old man and find out if he wants to let Tiny work for us.

“I got another idea, too. If we can frame this guy to keep the cops busy even a day it’ll put us that much in the clear. Believe me, we'll be hot! For when the Bowling jewels leave home it’s going to mean headlines! Every dick in the country is going to be on his toes!”

“You’re nuts!” sneered Huggins. “Not even a hick constable would believe that this bird pulled a job bigger than swiping an apple out of some farmer’s orchard!”

“Be yourself!” exclaimed Travers, coldly. “I ain’t that dumb! But between now and Labor Day I can think of some way of working Tiny in so we’ll have the bulls guessing for a day, maybe. With everything all set the way it is and twenty-four hours start we’ll be sitting pretty. The only thing that’s worried me at all has been the getaway.

“They’ll be going over this country with a gang of troopers. All right. We’re gone. One of the first things they do will be to run down the city guys that come up here for the trout fishing. If we can get ’em puzzled over the trail right here at the start we’re so much better off. Hell! I was brought up in the country. Any smart fox would do the same thing!”

Huggins snorted; sat down at the table and began to shuffle the cards.

"Have it your own way,” he said, ungraciously. “I’m sick of washing dishes. But I bet this nitwit won’t know enough to bring water!”

“I’ll try him,” said Pittsburg Joe. He pointed at two pails in the littered sink. “Tiny, go get water!”

“Do chores,” replied the giant, with a grin of delight threatening to reach his ears. He took the pails and went out.

"I’ll learn him about the dishes,” volunteered Joe. “I’m as sick of walking back and forth with them water pails as you are of dishwashing, Slim. Next job I do ain’t going to be in the sticks!”

“You won’t never have to do another,” Travers assured him. “If this one don’t slip. Jake Gutman, the fence, told me just what Mrs. Roger Bowling’s got. A string of pearls that’s tops. Some star sapphires. A ruby necklace. And about a pint of diamonds. He put the screws on a maid she had and got it straight, along with the safe combi nation.

"THEY’RE sent from New York for her to wear at the Labor Day ball at Champlain Gables. All right. She goes home after the ball and puts ’em in the old fashioned wall safe in the library. The Bowlings are going back to the city the next day. Half the servants is gone.

“We’ve cased that joint until I can call every tree by its first name. Slim has figgered out the work on the screens. I ain’t going to have no trouble with that safe combination. Anyway the box was built when George Washington was chopping down the cherry tree.

"The only weak spot is the getaway. Sooner or later they’re going to trail us to New York. If we can hold ’em up a day here we got plenty of time to see Gutman and cash in and get a good start south. That’s where Tiny’s going to come in.”

“Nerts!” ejaculated Huggins.

“It’s an ideer,” admitted Pittsburg Joe, “if you can think up something.”

“Dicky Travers can think up something between now and Labor Day!”

Tiny came in with two pails of water. Pittsburg Joe got out the dishpan and piled it full of a day’s accumulation of dishes.

“Wash ’em!” he said.

“Wash dishes,” repeated Tiny, happily. He filled the teakettle and set it on the stove.

“He’ll do,” nodded Joe. “Better go down and see his old man, Dicky. We don’t want no troopers up here searching for a lost idiot. We all three been mugged and besides if they ask us about trout fishing we don’t know enough to talk sensible about it.”

When Dicky Travers came back, late in the afternoon, Tiny was splitting kindling. Travers watched him from the window for a moment in silence before he went on into the house.

“It’s all right,” he said, to the others. “Tiny’s old man is kind of simple too. Makes a living at odd jobs and I guess he’s glad to get Tiny boarded free for a while. Eats like a horse, he says, and won’t work anywhere unless he gets the notion. Always running away into the woods. We’re set, for I’m beginning to get an idea how I can use him.”

Travers paused and laughed. “I’d like to see the cops running around in circles when they go up against Tiny!”

THE Bowling robbery was as well planned as an affair of the kind could be. It was, in fact, much better arranged in advance than many a military campaign. Prowling by night and spying by day, and making insidious acquaintance with the servants of Mr. and Mrs. Roger Bowling, the three robbers, each with long experience in crime had learned every step of the way they had to go in order to possess themselves of the Bowling jewels.

Moreover, they were favored by fortune in various ways. The jewels were insured as a matter of course and this, perhaps, relaxed the vigilance of the owners. Although it was supposed to be a secret that Mrs. Bowling was going to wear them at the final ball of the season at Champlain Gables, those things are confided from one person to another until they become almost public knowledge. There could be many suspects.

At four o’clock of the morning after the ball Huggins, Travers and Pittsburg Joe waited under one of the library windows of the Bowling home. Tiny was with them. He had been told to keep quiet and he had obeyed, just as he had obeyed every command that had been given him. The Bowlings had come home from the ball half an hour before. At that time the four men had moved from the shelter of a grove of ornamental trees up to the house wall. Now they were listening, waiting for the last faint sound in the house to die away.

“All right now!” whispered Travers, at last.

Slim Huggins rose up, a dim figure in the grey starlight. A half minute, and the screen was lowered to the grass without a sound. Huggins vanished inside. Then his dark bulk appeared in the window.

“Clear!” he breathed.

Pittsburg Joe remained crouched under the window. Travers took Tiny by the arm and led him slowly up to the dark opening.

“No noise!” he ordered. “Go in!”

“No noise!” repeated Tiny, in the same sibilant tone that Travers had used. Tiny had been provided with rubber soled shoes. Every button that could scrape had been removed from his clothing. Huggins received him, steadied him in the darkness. The three men stood together, Travers with his hand on Tiny’s arm. From the house came no sound at all except the distant ticking of a large clock. Travers produced a pencil-thin stream of light from his hand. Everything had been rehearsed, each movement planned, and every possible interruption anticipated. In his pocket Huggins even had tape and chloroform.

Travers moved toward one wainscoted wall. Under his hand a small painting swung outward like the door of a cupboard. Behind it the light revealed a steel knob. Travers twirled the knob, right, left, right. The safe opened. He reached in and took out a leather walletlike object as large as a brief case. He looked inside. Then it went under his coat, into the pocket which he had prepared for it in the lining.

Travers, like Joe and Huggins, wore rubber gloves such as surgeons use. No fingerprint had been left, not even on the screen. Now Travers crossed the room to where Huggins and Tiny waited by the window. No words were needed. Huggins stepped swiftly to the door of the library. It was his work to listen for a sound of movement from the floors above. They had had to risk this before because it was necessary to have someone with Tiny.

Travers led the silent giant across the room to the safe. He lifted Tiny’s hand and closed his fingers around the knob. Tiny grunted faintly with pleasure and turned it back and forth. But Travers pulled him away almost immediately, to the bookshelves. He set Tiny’s fingers on a small volume and then put it on the floor, open and face down. That smooth leather binding would take prints.

A small china figure of a dog, a bright silver ash tray, went into Tiny’s pockets. Travers snatched up a red sofa pillow and carried that with him as he led Tiny back to the window. He stood on tiptoe and whispered.

“No noise, Tiny! Go out!”

They were back on the ground again, and in a moment more they were in the clump of ornamental trees. No chance of being seen now. Time was precious, of course, but there was no longer any breathless tension, nor need for nerve racking haste and absolute silence.

“Jeeze!” whispered Slim Huggins. “That’s over!”

“Not yet,” said Travers. “We ain’t safe short of New York and the servants will be up back there before we hit the big town. The heat’ll be on. But Tiny’s going to take it for us!”

Once more they were in the kitchen of the mountain camp. The night was cool, but sweat glistened on the forehead of Pittsburg Joe and around his dyed handlebar moustache he looked pinched and drawn. He sat down limply and reached for a bottle on the table.

“I’m getting old,” he said. “But what a haul!”

THE case was open on the table. In the light of the kerosene lamps the rubies gave out of their depths a richness of red beauty that told why women wore them, why men fought and died for them. The diamonds flashed blue fire. The star sapphires lay aloof and exquisite.

“One drink,” announced Travers, “and then we’ve got to move!”

“I need two,” said Huggins. “Something’s got me worried. This has went off too easy.”

“We ain’t through yet!” Travers said in a metallic voice.

Tiny stood a little awkwardly in the middle of the room, fingering over and over the pillow of bright silk. He was grinning, as usual, but there was something a little different about the expression that stretched his large face now. He looked uncertainly from one to another of the men.

“Tiny,” said Travers, "we’re going for a drive. You stay home and go to bed!”

“Me go too!”

“No!” barked Travers.

“You want pillow? You want dog?”

He touched the pillow, took the dog out of Tiny’s pocket.

“Uh-huh!” The giant reached eagerly for the china dog.

“You stay home then!”

“All right!” Tiny sat down.

“And go to bed!”

“Me go to bed!”

“That’s done!” Travers’ shoulders jerked nervously. His mouth was a thin, grim line. “I had the right hunch on him from the time he first come in. It’s like sticking your finger into putty. You put an idea in his head and there it is!”

“Nerts!” ejaculated Huggins, with a shrug. “It ain’t done any harm but it won’t do no good!”

“It’ll do a lot of good,” said Travers, throwing a drink down his throat with a movement of his arm and reaching for the bottle of gin. “By seven they’ll find the safe open. The cops’ll dust for prints. They’ll get up here in an hour or so and find Tiny with that junk and take his prints.

“They’ll begin to wonder if maybe he didn’t just wander in there and find the safe open. The Bowlings might have been a little lit up last night when they come in and left it open. Common sense’ll tell the cops a dummy like him couldn’t do big time stuff but they’ll fuss around and every hour means so many miles for us! I'm going to slip one of them little rings into his pocket. That’ll mix things up some more.”

Travers picked a ring set with a small square cut diamond from the case and crossed to Tiny’s chair. Tiny rose slowly. Travers dropped the ring into his side pocket.

INSTANTLY several things happened with incredible speed. Tiny’s left arm shot out and went around the neck of Travers. His fist lifted Travers’ chin and pressed inward with deadly force. With lightning speed the other big hand snatched the pistol from Travers’ shoulder holster and he whirled.

There was no word spoken. At the first move Slim Huggins had gone for his pocket and Pittsburg Joe’s hand was inside his coat. Their weapons were jerked out when Tiny fired with incredible speed. Huggins sank backward, sickly green. His arm dropped to the table. He clamped his hand to his shoulder.

Pittsburg Joe had stood up to take deliberate aim. Tiny sidestepped, swinging Travers’ helpless head up to the level of his chin, and the two men fired together. A bullet raked Tiny’s ear. But Pittsburg Joe fell backward over his chair, rolled and staggered to his feet with his gun hand dripping red.

Travers suddenly went limp in the crook of Tiny’s arm and his body hung like a pendulum. He slid to the floor in a ridiculous, pudgy heap. Tiny felt of his ear, shook his head, took a couple of swift steps to one side so that he could cover the three men at once.

All the kindly vacuity had gone from his face. It had become terrible, with eyes blazing like black coals above the tanned expanse of cheeks and jowls. Slowly, then, that look began to fade. He did not grin, but the fighting rage died from his eyes and weariness gathered around them.

“Boys,” he said, “you might as well give up. I’ve fixed the distributor on your car so it won’t start. My partner who’s been playing daddy for me in the village will be here any minute now. And there’ll be half a dozen troopers closing in pretty soon. We didn’t want to take any chances, in case you bumped me off!”

Slim Huggins licked his lips.

“Halfwit!” he whispered, hoarsely. “A phony!”

“I used to be on the stage,” Tiny told him. “Hairy ape roles, and the village idiot. So it came natural. The stage stuff was phony. This is real and I like it better!”

“Who in the devil are you, anyway?”

“Stoner of Gibraltar Indemnity,” said Tiny. “My company carried five hundred thousand on the Bowling jewels!”

“Who squealed?” asked Pittsburg Joe, in a pain-wrenched voice. “Somebody ratted!” The weariness seemed to flow from Stoner’s eyes and take possession of all his face. Even the mouth that had been set so long in a good natured grin drooped a little at the corners. He shook his head slowly. (Concluded on page 144)

“Boys,” he said, sadly, “you just haven’t learned how things work. You can beat a dick like me, and you can beat the cops and the courts, but there’s a kind of law you can’t beat.

“Roger Bowling helped Inspector Lanahan, down at Headquarters, out of a jam with a new commissioner once. So every time they take the Bowling jewels out of cold storage Lanahan gets word from us in advance and makes a big play for safety.

“This time he had something on Jake Gutman, so he played a hunch and had Gutman up on the carpet. Jake had to come through or take ten years up the river. Lanahan told us, and I came on ahead and got all set to go along with you.

"Can't you see how it works?  Bowling did someething for somebody and now he gets all that stuff on the table back without making a move for himself. You fellows pulled a hot one on another you’re going to do a stretch in the big house.

“The kind of law I’m talking about is slower than cold molasses sometimes but it’s sure as gravity!”

___________________

Table of Contents

- 1: The Subconscious Finnegan / Morgan Robertson

- 2: A Rapid Conveyance / Owen Oliver

- 3: The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill / Elliott Flower

- 4: Bill Garford’s Last Play / Culpeper Zandtt

- 5: A Challenge to the Submarine / Clarence Herbert New

- 6: The Wireless Death / C. S. Raymond
- 7: Old City of Jade / Thomas H. Knight
- 8: Blackmail Moll / Ted Copp
- 9: Narcotic Man / Frederick C. Painton
- 10: Silence House / Raul Whitfield
- 11: A Lucifo Match / Arthur Morrison
- 12: Ladies In Lavender / William J Locke
- 13: Inside Job / Raoul Whitfield
- 14: The Nitwit / William Merriam Rouse