PAST MASTERS

THIRTY-EIGHT

August 2021

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: What! No Imagination? / Frederick C. Painton

2: The Heckby Hill Murder / Ellis Parker Butler

3: Diamonds of Dread / Raoul Whitfield (novelette)

4: Frame For a Lady / Cleve F. Adams (novelette)

5: Four Wooden Stakes / Victor Rowan

6: Dead Men Talk / Perley Poore Sheehan (novelette)

7: The Ring / J. M. Fry

8: Drugged / George Allan England

9: The Diplomat / Annie S. Swan

10: Buzzards George Allen England

Cumulative Index issues 31-38

_______________________

1: What! No Imagination?

Frederick C. Painton

1896?-1945

Popular Detective Aug 1937

STEVE LAKE stood in the echoing corridor of police headquarters in Centre Street and stared glumly at the door through which he must presently enter. It was a simple, old-fashioned door, half of wood, half of frosted glass. And on the glass in gold leaf lettering was printed, INSPECTOR RIORDAN. Steve Lake had to go through that door.

Standing here, he was a detective third-grade in the Jewelry Squad. But after he went in there he would be a patrolman, a flatfoot assigned to some precinct in the Bronx where he could break his ankles on a long beat. In short, they were going to bust Steve Lake.

If he had deserved this break, he could have pushed his chin out and gone in to take his medicine. But to be broken to a harness bull simply because older policemen in the department were jealous of his quick promotion aroused his anger at injustice.

Was it his fault that he chased three bandits escaping from a drug store stick-up, and shot it out with them, killing one and wounding the other two, after he himself had been shot down? Was it his fault that Commissioner Harkness, anxious for favorable publicity had publicly commended him, and then announced that patrolmen of such courage should be rewarded, and promoted him to detective third-grade?

He took a deep breath, got a new bite on his gum. Standing there, thinking, wasn't going to help. He had been put on the Dewarr stick-up because the guys that hated him knew he couldn't break the case. And he hadn't. It didn't matter that the Dewarr holdup was a perfect job, without a clue, that Einstein himself couldn't solve it. He had flopped, and he'd have to pay the price of failure.

Someone calling his name broke his reflections.

"Hey, Lake, telephone for you."

HE couldn't imagine anything important coming over the phone, but he seized on the interruption to postpone his appearance before Inspector Riordan. He hastened back to the Jewelry Bureau.

The two older dicks ignored him except to nod coldly to the phone. Lake picked up the receiver, said,

"Hello."

"Lissen, Lake," came a rasping, nervous voice, "this is Gimpy Martin. Watchu willin' to pay for a hot tip on the Dewarr stickup?"

Gimpy Martin was a fink, a stool-pigeon. He had also been what is called a punk, or a gang hanger-on. Every New York dick cultivates and builds up his own sources of information through stool-pigeons. And Lake had caught Gimpy trying to push in an East Side cut-rate jewelry store. He held this charge over Gimpy, and bought occasional hot underworld tips from Gimpy at ten dollars a tip. He was reliable.

Lake's face grew taut— a lead at last. He might still break the Dewarr case and stave off the loss of his shield.

He said, "I'll pay plenty. What have you got?"

"Bring fifty bucks around to the Barkley Hotel," said Gimpy cunningly, "and I'll belch an earful."

The line clicked and went dead. Lake put the receiver back on the cradle.

Old Pieter Van Hoosen who had been a cop when Steve wore diapers, growled gruffly, "Inspector Riordan just called and says for you to hop in and make it snappy."

Lake smiled. "If you boys are waiting around for the funeral, you may have a long wait." He strode briskly into Inspector Riordan's office.

"Hello, Chief," he forced a smile. "Detective Lake reporting."

"You mean Patrolman Lake reporting," corrected Inspector Riordan. He was a big leathery man with a square face, a square jaw and hard, disillusioned eyes.

"Now, wait a minute, Inspector," Lake began, and told him of the new development, withholding only Gimpy's name as was customary.

"With this lead," Lake concluded, "I think I can bust this case wide open."

"Maybe you could," Inspector Riordan's expression did not change, "only it's been busted wide open. It's settled. The diamonds have been returned."

"What!" Lake was staggered.

"Don't you read the papers?"

Riordan held up a noon edition of the Sphere. In black headlines across eight columns it read:

DEWARR DIAMONDS RECOVERED

And in lesser type:

Asah Stone, famous private detective, returns one hundred thousand dollars in gems to Dewarrs after police fail to break case.

Lake's eyes sped down the thick blocks of grey printing, and he was sick at what he read. It was Asah Stone this, and Asah Stone that; the renowned private detective, the brilliant private sleuth who had succeeded where the police had failed.

But when you got rid of all the compliments and the literary efforts of a reporter trying to pad out a story, it summed down to this: that Asah Stone, by means which he had not revealed, had recovered the hundred thousand dollars in diamonds stolen from Mrs. Jonathan Dewarr when she had been held up in her suite at the Hotel Superbe a fortnight ago.

There was something else, too, that Steve read with a sick heart. Set two columns wide in bold black type was a short editorial boxed at the top of the page, entitled:

WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE POLICE?

It said a lot of bitter, terrible things about inefficiency, hinted at graft and corruption, and political stupidity, and wound up by saying:

Has it come to this in our city, that a private detective can succeed where eighteen thousand policemen fail? Is Asah Stone more brilliant than our two thousand detectives— OR IS HE MORE HONEST?

"Wow!" muttered Lake. He knew that the Sphere was against the present police commissioner, but this was the boldest, most vicious attack yet made.

"Wow is right," growled Riordan. "The first thing Harkness did was to call me and have you suspended on charges of inefficiency. And that's where you are now."

"The goat," said Lake bitterly, "sent to join the other goats in the Bronx."

"It's worse than that, lad," said Riordan. "You'll probably be dismissed from the force. Harkness is in a spot and somebody has to take the fail."

Lake recoiled. His anger flushed his face red.

"But they passed up older men to stick me on this case because they wanted to see me busted," he yelled. "They wanted to reduce me because older men were jealous."

"That's department politics," Riordan said coldly. "You laid an egg on this case, and you pay." He held out his hand. "I'll take your shield."

Slowly Lake unpinned the shining shield. How proud he had been of it. Blowing on it to polish off the moisture, proud of it, looking upon it as a symbol of high duty. Riordan took the bit of metal and flipped it into the drawer. He sat silent, indicating that the interview was over.

Lake said suddenly, "Well, if Asah Stone recovered the diamonds, where is the pinch? Who did he turn over for the job?"

RIORDAN stared disgustedly. "He didn't pinch anybody. He just made a deal with the thieves and got back the jewels." He snorted.

"How dumb are you anyway? You know Asah Stone is retained by most of the big insurance companies. Those diamonds were insured for a hundred thousand dollars. If Asah Stone can make contact with the thieves and offer them fifty grand, no questions asked, they take it. Mrs. Dewarr gets back her diamonds. The thieves get an easy fifty grand, and the insurance company saves fifty thousand dollars."

"But that's compounding a felony," protested Lake. "That's just urging these bandits to go ahead and keep on knocking off rich dames who wear too many jewels. Maybe that accounts for the sixteen big jewel stickups in the past year."

Riordan twisted impatiently. "The trouble with you, Steve, is that you haven't got any imagination. You can't figure beyond cause and effect. That's why I'm satisfied you'll never make a detective— beat it now, I'm busy."

The bright sunshine on Centre Street seemed pale and weak as Steve Lake stumbled to the curb. Mechanically he tossed away his gum, unwrapped another stick, folded it and put it in his mouth. The first shock had passed, his fury was under control.

"What's imagination got to do with being a dick?" he muttered.

Suddenly his teeth clicked. He waved down a cab. "Fulton and Broadway," he growled and sank back against the cushions. He didn't move all during the trip. At the corner of Fulton and Broadway he climbed two flights of stairs, and entered an office whose door bore the sign:

ASAH STONE

Private Investigator

To the girl at the desk he said, "Hi, sweetheart, is the man marvel in?"

She went on smearing lipstick with the tip of her right little finger.

"He just came in. I don't know whether he sees dicks with broken arches. I'm not your sweetheart."

Lake grinned, "Right, you belong to the world." He pressed on, before she could reply, to the door marked "Private." He opened without knocking, but evidently the girl had pressed a buzzer, for Asah Stone was standing, smiling toward him.

"Well, well," he chuckled, "if it isn't Steve Lake, the harmonica player in person. How's the one-man band?"

Asah Stone looked like a smoothie. He was tall, with broad shoulders. He had smartly cut grey hair, narrow grey eyes. He wore a grey suit, and his thin, long grey face had the wary expression of one who knew all the answers. Looking at him Steve thought of a clever grey fox.

ASAH STONE was a guy going places. The best night spots saw him; he squired the snappiest looking blondes. He spent big money, and got his name in the paper often enough to have a reputation as the best private dick in America— and he charged accordingly,

"Hello," said Lake. He kept his dislike for Asah Stone out of his eyes.

"Deduction tells me," said Stone, "that you've come about the Dewarr diamonds."

"You must do it with mirrors," rejoined Lake. "What I want to know is, will there be a pinch in the Dewarr case? How did you recover the diamonds? And—"

"One question at a time," laughed Stone. "I happen to know that you don't own a badge any longer— that, if you're lucky, you'll wear your heels to the ankle shuffling around in

harness. But at that I'm willing to tell you a few things."

"Go ahead," Lake kept his mouth stretched in a forced grin.

"There will be no pinch," stated Asah Stone. "First, because this was a dicker I made as representative of the insurance companies to save them money. Second, I don't know who did the job, anyway."

He gestured to Lake, invited him to approach the flat-topped desk. "Here is the record," he continued. "I put an advertisement in the Sphere to make contact with the thieves. Read it if you want to. The advertisement was answered by this letter, the words cut, as you can see, from daily newspapers. They or he or she asked fifty grand.

"I talked with the Consolidated Insurance people, and they okayed the price. I put another ad in the Sphere, accepting. There it is. And here's the reply, telling me to put up the dough in old five-buck bills, and check the package at Grand Central Terminal."

He grinned smartly at Lake. "Neat but not gaudy, eh?"

"Go on," said Lake grimly.

Asah Stone shrugged. "I was to walk— as you can read in the instructions— to the Twentieth Century train gate. I was to drop the check. I did so. A guy picked it up and handed it back to me. It wasn't the same check. I walked to the checking booth and turned in my stub. The package I got contained the diamonds. That's all."

"Not quite," said Lake quietly. "You saw the guy that handed you the substitute stub."

"No," corrected Asah Stone. "I deliberately didn't look at him so I wouldn't have to testify."

Lake stared at him. "It's a racket," he muttered. "You and the thieves and the insurance company, dishing somebody out of fifty grand. What's your cut?"

"The insurance company pays me an annual retainer."

"Then there'll be no pinch, no clues?"

Asah Stone shrugged. "I'm paid to recover the jewels, not to grab hot boys. If you had any imagination you'd see that."

"It don't take any imagination to see that you connive with thieves."

Asah Stone flushed redly. "Are you insinuating I'm a crook?"

"I wouldn't know now," snapped Steve. "How did those thieves know you'd play ball? Before they had the dough they gave you the check stub. How did they know but what, having got the check stub, you might have slipped them a package of cut newspaper ?"

"I've got a reputation for playing square."

"Settled other cases like this?"

"Fifteen," Stone said softly. "So what?"

"So I'm keeping on digging. I might turn up plenty."

STONE thrust his chin out, came close. "That's another crack and the last. Get to hell out of here."

He made the mistake of giving Lake a rough shove. The trigger on Lake's anger snapped home. His right arm swung up, throwing four hard knuckles and riding behind the punch one hundred and eighty pounds of fighting-mad cop. The knuckles clicked on Asah's jaw just as the private dick himself threw a punch.

A large, engraved black onyx ring on his hand scratched Lake's forehead. But Asah Stone himself went backward. He lit on the back of his neck and did not get up.

Lake rubbed his forehead, looked at the onyx ring. "A cutting ring," he said. "I'm a fool but I feel better now."

He backed to the door. Stone glared at him.

"In twenty minutes, punk, every cop in New York will be looking for you to make a pinch for assault and battery. I'll not only see you dishonorably discharged, but I'll see you in stir for that blow."

"Nuts," said Lake.

He turned and went out of the office, down to the stairway.

Lake went down to the bright sunshine of the street. He stood for a moment, wiping the scratch on his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Steve, darling," said a voice that snapped him upright with a thrill of joy. "I figured you'd be here. And here's me to give you an earful."

Lake grinned at her. "Hello, Scrumptious. We'll have to put off getting married until I get my shield back."

"You'll put it off until I say yes," Marjorie Steele said, "and that won't be until the sixth Friday in October. I'm a career gal."

"Your career will be cooking corned beef and cabbage and raising a mess of kids." They started walking up Broadway.

"You're immodest," she smiled. "But cut out the cracking. I've got news."

"Good news?"

"If you had any imagination it would be. Listen. I was around to the Dewarr's to see about an interview on why big-bosomed lasses wear diamonds. I learned from her that the diamonds had been recovered. I immediately suspected Asah Stone's crooked hand and dropped by here to check with him before I wrote my story. And who do you think I saw going into Asah Stone's office?"

Lake's eyes gleamed. "It wasn't Santa Claus, Scrumptious."

"It may be Santa Claus to you," she retorted. "Darling, it was Moxie Ardery."

"Not the beautiful boy bandit!"

"The long-lashed, peach-skinned, little rat himself," she nodded.

Lake stood very quietly, then pulled out a crumpled package of cigarettes, straightened one, lit it, handed it to Marjorie and then lit one for himself.

"Stand very quiet, Lovely," he said, "until I think this through. I've got an idea and since it didn't tear my head open maybe it's good."

He stared abstractedly across City Hall Park. Moxie Ardery was notorious from one end of Broadway to the other as a youth of twenty-five who had started out as a punk and had become, in a few years, the smartest bandit in the game. His downy skin and handsome looks got him into the better hotels where women fell for him, and he sized up a lone woman or a husband and wife with jewels. The jewels were stolen either by a sneak thief or at the point of a gun. Moxie was never caught with the goods, and if arrested had an alibi.

MOXIE is an underworld term meaning smart, having lots on the ball. Moxie Ardery had all that. The connection between him and the Dewarr diamonds was obvious. The proof of his guilt was something else again.

The fact that he came to see Asah Stone was important enough to show Moxie as the probable intermediary to settle the details of returning the diamonds. But you couldn't prove that.

In short, as Lake realized, about all this tip-off was good for was to make Gimpy's information of value. He had to see the stoolie at once. He raised a hand, hailed a cab.

"Where are you going?" Marge demanded.

"I'm going to see a man about a horse," grinned Lake. "Thanks, Scrumptious. Have dinner with me tomorrow night and I'll give you 'Santa Lucia' on the new harmonica. It's a honey."

He got into the cab and Marjorie climbed in beside him. "I go for the dinner but God forbid I have to hear you play. Lead on, MacDuff. I smell a story for the Sphere."

"If I break this, you'll have a story," he agreed grimly. "This is what you people call a ring of jewel thieves. There are plenty of brains behind it."

There was silence for a while until Marge suddenly said, "You'd be a great detective if you had imagination to go with your memory for facts."

"Hey, lay off," growled Lake. "Detectives don't need imagination. You've been reading books."

Marjorie sighed. "Skip it, Lovey."

And so nothing was said until they reached the Barkley Hotel on Third Avenue. The Barkley was a cheap hotel where for a few dollars a week you got a room with a key to it, within walking distance of a bathroom.

Gimpy had a room on the fourth floor, a walk-up that left both Steve and Marge without wind. The corridor, even in daylight, was lit by the sickly glow from a drop cord bulb. The numerals twenty-six were penciled on the chipped front of a door. Lake knocked.

"It's me, Gimpy," he said, "Steve Lake."

He heard no sound and rattled the door knob impatiently. Then he pounded. "Open up, Gimpy."

Still silence. Lake looked suddenly at Marge. She was pale and suddenly her eyes were wide with intuitive horror. Lake hurled himself at the door. His broad shoulders rebounded, and he hit again. This time the flimsy lock gave and he sprawled inside. One look was enough.

"Stay out there, kid," he rapped.

But she was already behind him. He felt her sway against him. "My God," she muttered, "he's dead!"

"He wasn't sung to sleep," Lake countered. "Come on, kid, buck up."

He left her there and walked to the body that lay sprawled on the cheap, white-enameled bed. Gimpy had looked like a weasel in life, with his big buck teeth, and now, his mouth opened in death, he looked more like a weasel than ever. Lake's trained eye took in the details, so he knew what had happened as well as if he had been here.

"Somebody socked him on the jaw," he said. "See the bruise on his cheek. Odd-shaped bruise. He started for the telephone in the hall and he was shot with a silenced gun. Right through the pump — no, it must have just missed the heart because there's blood on his lips. But he didn't live long. Just long enough to take out that dollar bill."

"Dollar bill?" said Marge.

"Yeah. I wonder why?"

He felt of the body. Already getting cold. "Say an hour ago he was shot," he said. And as he spoke these words his eyes widened in surprise. "By the Lord, Scrumptious, he was killed within a minute or two after he called me at Headquarters. Somebody heard him or knew he was going to squeal. Now he'll never squeal."

The realization sickened him. He never knew until now how much he had banked on Gimpy's information. He was up against a blank wall once more.

"Moxie Ardery," Marge called. "He did it, Steve. He must have. You told me yourself Gimpy used to play around with Moxie's mob."

Lake nodded. "The theory is logical, darling, but you have to prove it." He studied the bruise, memorizing the purple pattern of it. Then he searched the body and found nothing.

He stood for a space, bitterly disappointed. Then he took the dollar bill and stared at it curiously.

"Funny thing for a dead man to do," he muttered. "Why— well, I'll be damned!"

"What is it?" Marge cried breathlessly.

Lake pointed to the dollar bill. In the upper right-hand corner and in the lower left was printed the bill's serial number— E-62839817-N. But someone with an indelible pencil or ink had marked the letters and certain numbers. The letter E was marked, then the numbers two, eight, three, one, seven, and finally the N.

Marge looked puzzled. "I see it, but what does it mean?" she asked.

LAKE looked at the corpse. "Gimpy, you were a genius!"

"What do you mean?"

"Suppose." said Lake softly, "you wanted to keep a telephone number and didn't want to carry around a paper that could be found. Suppose—"

Marge cried, "It is a telephone number, Steve. EN two— eight— three— one— seven."

"Endicott 2-8317 on a hunch," said Lake.

"It's a clue." Marge was trembling with excitement.

Lake shrugged. "He didn't get it out for a tip."

He wrapped his hand in a handkerchief and telephoned Centre Street. After he got Inspector Lanahan and had told the facts of Gimpy's murder, he said, "And, Inspector, have them bring the infra-red camera. That bruise is peculiar."

"Hey, what you doing there? You wait until—"

Lake hung up. "Wait until he pinches me for socking Stone," he muttered. "Come on, Scrumptious, let's trace this telephone number."

They called the superintendent who, when he heard "police business," immediately dug into his files.

"It's a private listing," he told Lake. "Robert H. Hardell, Importer, Nine-fifty-one Riverside Drive."

Marge cried, "Moxie Ardery for a dime."

"Maybe," said Lake. "Anyway, you go into your office and write what you have and I'll meet you at eight for dinner."

"Then we go calling," she laughed.

"Then we go calling."

At eight o'clock, however. Lake was not waiting for Marge. He was crossing the lobby of the apartment house at 951 Riverside Drive. She'd be sore, he knew, but if this was what he expected it to be, then no girl belonged.

THE NASSAU negro took him up to the ninth floor and pointed to a door.

"Mr. Hardell lives there, but I don't know if he's in."

Lake rapped on the door. For a long time there was silence. Then a voice said, "Who's there?"

"Janitor," said Lake. "There's water leaking into the apartment below."

There was a long silence, the sound of whispering. Then the door was unlocked, opened about six inches.

"Listen, janitor," said a voice, "fix it later, can't you? My wife's—"

Lake put his number nine shoe in the opening, his shoulder against the door, and pushed. He went inside in a hurry as the resisting body surrendered to his strength.

"Just a minute, Moxie," he said, "this is a pinch and the charge is murder."

The boy bandit was beautiful— no other word described him. Yellow curly hair, bright blue eyes and a soft, pink skin on a perfectly chiseled face. Only his ear lobes— or rather lack of lobes— distorted his face, hinted at the mental twist that had made him a crook. That, and the bitter cold, inhuman blaze in his eyes as he stared at Lake.

Lake thrust the door closed behind him and backed the youth into the living room. There was consternation, hate— even fear— in Moxie's expression as he slowly retreated. Once Lake saw him glance swiftly at his wrist-watch, a diamond and platinum affair that belonged more properly on a-woman's wrist.

Lake kept his hand in his right pocket, the nose of his gun pressing hard against the cloth and making a lump. Beyond Moxie he saw a yellow-haired bit of painted fluff, with wide, saucerlike eyes. Also a short, stocky man whom Lake had never seen before.

"Drop your guns in the middle of the floor," Lake said, "and do it easy — I'm just holding this trigger with my thumb."

Moxie said, "You can't do this, you punk-headed lug. You ain't a dick any more— you're out. You ain't got any right to come in here—"

"Skip it," cut in Lake. "I'm here. You killed Gimpy Martin—"

"That's a lie," screamed the girl. "He was with me and I'll swear to it."

"Yeah?" said Lake. "How did you know when the kill was done?"

Her crimson mouth bit down.

Moxie said, "Shut up, Mae, every time you open that trap of yours you put your foot in it."

Lake waited until two guns and a blackjack lay in the middle of the floor. Then he moved slowly toward the table where the telephone was.

"Sit down," he said, "while I call the Homicide guys."

Moxie was purple. "But I didn't bump Gimpy," he screamed,."and besides—"

It was the short, stocky man who changed the complexion of things. His hand flicked once and an ink-stand flew through the air as straight as an arrow. Lake had no time to duck. It smashed into the side of his head, a glancing blow but sufficient to trip him, make him lunge to catch his balance, and blind his ink-filled eyes to the trio. The short, stocky man was hustling in on a follow-up, but Moxie beat him to Lake. Moxie made one flying leap, landed on Lake's back and hooked both hands around Lake's throat.

"Get his gun, George," Moxie cried.

George did more than that. He hooked a punch to Lake's jaw, then kicked the detective in the stomach. With Moxie's weight on him, Lake went down. Then they had his gun. He was brutally kicked toward the sofa.

IN that instant had Moxie changed.

His eyes grew to pin-points and his mouth was lifted in a terrible smile. "Swell work, George. I admit he had me going."

"Never let a dumb cop get you going," said George. "I had that .ink-stand all set the minute I saw him come in."

They searched Lake but found nothing but his two-deck harmonica, the one he had paid twenty-two dollars for.

Moxie laughed. "I remember now— you're the guy that plays the mouth-organ."

Lake went on wiping the ink off his face. The girl called Mae laughed hysterically, "God, I thought he was gonna bust up the big job we got—"

"Shut up," snapped Moxie, and George added, "Geez, get a twist into something and you start walkin' on dynamite."

Moxie glanced at his wrist-watch again. He reached for the telephone. "I'll ask what we got to do with this flattie," he said. "I'm worried."

A silence came over the room and Lake, sitting there, listened intently as Moxie dialed the number. The detective reached out and picked up his harmonica, but he did not blow into it. He was counting the clicks, as Moxie's forefinger wheeled the dial and let it slide back.

Presently Moxie said, "Hello— yeah. Why, we was all set to shove off for this job and this lug Steve Lake came in behind a rod— Yeah, we grabbed him. Do we throw him to the crabs?"

He listened intently. So did Lake, but while he could hear certain metallic sounds over the wire, he could not hear a word spoken.

Moxie nodded as if he could see the speaker. "I get it. Time-table stuff. Okay, I'll do it that way. I'll drop the stuff with you and then fix this punk dick."

He hung up and turned to George. "You stay here while me and Mae do what we got to do. If this lug gives you any trouble, bounce him one good."

"And how!" grinned George. "Permanent?"

Moxie nodded slowly. "Permanent."

Lake blew softly into the harmonica and, with his fingers cupped around it, made "Pennies from Heaven" come out with surprising melody and skill. Moxie thrust Mae through the door. He drew on his gloves.

"Permanent," he repeated.

Mae was saying as the door closed, "I never knew mouth-organ music was so pretty. Now, you take Pete—"

"You take him," growled Moxie, "he's your husband."

The door banged after them. Lake played the last bar. "Does this bother you?" he asked.

GEORGE blasted smoke from his nostrils, took out the cigarette, spat in the waste basket. "Go ahead, it don't bother me none."

Lake's eyes moved reflectively around the room. He blew into the instrument and this time, more loudly, played, "The Night and You." The music was quite loud. George lit a cigarette from the stub of the first and all the movement he made was his foot beating time to the music. His automatic pistol and the hand holding it lay idle in his lap.

Lake stopped for a time, staring at the opened windows and French doors that led to a balcony.

"You really blow that thing," George said.

"Lake said, "Yeah, I've been practicing since I was a kid."

He glanced at his wrist-watch. A shade of frown passed over his forehead. He began to blow again, a hot swing tune that had both of George's feet tapping, had his shoulders swinging, his head nodding appreciatively.

George began to whistle through his teeth in accompaniment. The gun, more relaxed, was disturbed by his leg's movements and slid over to one side. Gun and hand both were ready to slide down toward the floor. George was completely relaxed.

Lake, beating time with his feet, got himself into position for a plan he hoped to carry out. Swifter and swifter he worked up the time, shoulders shaking, sitting bolt upright.

George said, "Hah-chaa! Boy, is that hot?"

And then as he was blowing out the last swift measures Lake, already taut, came off the couch in one hurtling movement that was a flow of strength and desperation. The harmonica flew out and whacked George across the nose. He tried to raise his gun but it takes time to coordinate your muscles after you're all let down. And he didn't get the gun straightened out until Lake was alongside.

One powerful downward blow paralyzed George's arm and the gun belched redly to drive a slug into the floor. Lake hooked George to the chin. He lifted him up, socked him again. And George staggered back, tripped and fell headlong to bang his head nastily against the side of the desk drawer.

Blood drooled from his scalp and he didn't move. Lake got the gun, tore up the portieres to make bonds, and trussed George until he looked like a mummy.

Lake hurried to the door, then went back for his harmonica and nodded. "Swell!" he muttered, and went out in the hall.

He almost knocked Marge down. She had a policeman with her. For once Marge had lost her poise. She leaped at Lake and flung her arms around his neck.

"Steve!" she gasped. "I thought they had you. Oh, you were smart. It took imagination to play that harmonica so I could locate the apartment. I heard it and knew they had you and got a cop."

Lake said huskily, "You mean, you were going to crash in against those monkeys?"

"You're okay," she said, flustered, "except when you run off and leave me to pay for my own dinner— Did you get Moxie?"

The mention of the boy bandit brought Lake back to reality. He nodded to the cop.

"There's a guy in there named George. He knows things. But you won't be able to hose them out in time. You take him down. I've got things to do." He glanced anxiously at his watch. "Come on, Marge," he grabbed her hand.

In the taxicab Marge gasped, "My God, where's the fire? What's up?"

Lake said, "We're going to bust up this jewel gang."

"You've got ideas," she said.

"Yes," but he didn't tell her what they were. At Times Square he stopped long enough to call Centre Street. To the detective who replied, he said, "A new hotel robbery reported?" He gave his name.

"Yeah. A Mrs. Ida Whitehouse was robbed of eighty grand in pearls not twenty minutes ago. But how the hell did you know?"

"Do you believe in fairies?" Lake said, and hung up.

Back in the cab, Marge said to him, "Where are we going?"

"Fishing," said Lake. "Let's hope they all bite good."

At City Hall Park he picked up the cop on the corner. "Get your gat ready," Lake said, "this may be tougher than you think." They covered the two blocks to Stone's office.

Something in Lake's expression brought the policeman silently at his heels. Marge was panting with excitement as they went up the stairs. The same girl was putting more lipstick on the same lips when Lake camf in.

"Is the mental giant in there?" Steve asked.

"Yeah, but he's busy."

"No tip-off," he growled, waving his gun at her head.

She let go the plug. He banged against the door and, when it held, drove his fist through the frosted glass, and then reached inside and unlocked the door. Asah Stone was jumping up from behind the desk. Moxie Ardery had a gun out, but the cop said, "Now, now," and Asah Stone, half-turning, growled, "Are you crazy? Put up that gun."

THEN, his eyes blazing, he strode to Lake. "Now, what the hell does this mean, stupid?"

"It means," rejoiped Lake calmly, "that you're under arrest for the murder of Gimpy Martin. You're charged with being the big shot of a bandit syndicate, picking out the people to be robbed, and splitting the insurance dough that you get for recovering the jewels.

"It means, rat, that you're an accessory before and after the fact of the robbery of Mrs. Dewarr and Mrs. Ida Whitehouse. And one buck will get you fifty that Moxie Ardery's got the pearls on him or they're in your desk."

"You're nuts," laughed Asah Stone. "Me kill Gimpy Martin? Why should I want to kill a punk like that?"

"Because he knew you were the guy that engineered the thefts," said Lake pleasantly. "You got your records from the insurance company. They told you who had the most valuable jewels and how much insurance they carried as a precaution. You got guys like Moxie to go out and knock off the catch, and then split with them on the dough paid by the insurance company."

"Well," grinned Asah Stone, "if you're that crazy, are you crazy enough to say you can prove it?"

"Sure," nodded Lake. All of a sudden he grabbed Asah Stone's right hand. He wrenched off the ring, the black onyx ring with the peculiar design.

"You hit Gimpy with this, and the ring left its impression. This new photographing by infra-red rays picks up designs like that easy. It was your trademark." His face never revealed what a hunch, what a guess that was.

Asah Stone turned livid.

"Then," went on Lake, "Moxie telephoned you after he caught me in his apartment. Called you about this Whitehouse job. He dialed the number in a silent room, Stone, and I counted the clicks. Two, two, six, six, nine, two, one. Check that on any telephone and it's Canal 6-6921."

Before Stone could say a word, Lake went on, "And, Moxie, you take a rap for murdering Gimpy, too. You were with Stone, and that makes you an accessory. Gimpy put the finger on you by holding a dollar bill that had your telephone number on it."

"No, no!" howled Moxie suddenly. "Stoney knocked him off. On account of Gimpy seen Stoney's girl wearing that Dewarr necklace before Stoney sent it back. He did it. I didn't know he was going—"

Stone went for the man in a death struggle. But Lake and the cop pulled them apart and held them, screaming accusations and invectives. A phone call brought a prowl car and the Homicide Squad men.

THE NEXT DAY Lake went to the Sphere office in response to Marge's summons.

"You're reinstated," she said. "Just got a call from Centre Street. Better yet, Harkness says he intends to make you a second-grade detective."

"How sweet of him," said Lake sourly. "They make you a second-grade dick today, and tomorrow if you fumble, they take it away."

However, he was thrilled, though he didn't let Marge see it.

She said earnestly, "Steve, you're wonderful. I never knew you had that much imagination. Figuring out that telephone call, marking the print of that ring—"

"Imagination the devil!" protested Lake. "Those are facts. You just find them and you don't need any imagination. They tell their own story."

She reached up, gave him a hearty kiss. "Does that arouse your imagination?" she demanded.

"No," said Lake, "that tells me that on a detective second-grade's pay we have an apartment on the West Side, and you learn to cook corned beef and cabbage at least once a week."

_________________

Oliver Spotts, Near Detective, investigates…

2: The Heckby Hill Murder

Ellis Parker Butler

Illustrated Detective Magazine Sep 1931

THE Heckby Hill murder was one of the most astonishing cases ever investigated by Oliver Spotts, the Near-Detective of Mud Cove, Long Island. It was a brazen affair for it was committed in full view of fifty-six detectives, one half of the police force of Mud Cove, and Emmaline, the colored cook of Old Cap Cuff's College for Detectives. In full view of all these people Antonio Bellotti was shot to death.

On Friday, June 18th, Old Cap Cuff's College for Detectives was to hold its Annual Picnic and Games. The spot chosen was Heckby Hill, a fine grassy knoll just outside the village of Mud Cove.

At eight o'clock in the morning, the day being perfect, Old Cap Cuff lined up his forty-nine student detectives, his six professors, and Emmaline the colored cook, and the procession started for Heckby Hill, marching two by two. At the head of the procession was Ethelbert Scummins, playing "Sweet Adeline" on his saxophone. He was not playing it very well.

On reaching Heckby Hill the procession entered a gate, marched to the top of the hill, broke ranks, and deposited its luncheon baskets on the ground. It was then that— with a loud popping noise— one half the Mud Cove police force, with Chief of Police Jed Hullins at their head, arrived on motorcycles. They were the invited guests.

Immediately below the hill and across the road was a small house. It was close to the road and in full view of all the picnic party. Old Cap Cuff had just cleared his throat to make a welcoming speech when an automobile was seen coming from the direction of Mud Cove at seventy miles an hour. It was an open car and in it were four men.

"By hecky, boys," exclaimed Chief Hullins, swinging one leg over his motorcycle, "them fellers is breaking the speed law and they don't dast do it!"

"Maybe they're fetching our ice cream," said Old Cap Cuff, but at that instant the car stopped suddenly in front of the house across the road. The man sitting beside the driver jumped down. He had a rifle in his hand and: he ran to the low wide window of the house and peered in. He evidently saw what he hoped to see, for he raised the rifle, took careful aim and fired, shattering the window pane. He then looked through the broken pane to see that he had accomplished his deadly purpose, jumped into the car, and the car shot on over the brow of the hill at terrific speed.

"By hecky, murder's been done!" cried Chief Hullins, straddling his motorcycle and he and his men were instantly in pursuit of the murder car.

Old Cap Cuff and his six professors and the forty-nine detective students rushed down the hill and across the road. Emmaline, after one glance, continued to unpack the luncheon baskets, because the murder was none of her business. In the house Old Cap Cuff held back his fifty-five assistants and walked to where the dead man lay on a couch.

"Antonio Bellotti!" he exclaimed. "He will never act again. He is as dead as the dickens!"

It was known in Mud Cove that Antonio Bellotti had been living in that house. He was a recluse from the world that had once worshiped him as the handsomest and most daring of motion-picture actors. For a few years he had combined the charm of a Valentino with the splendid vigor of a Fairbanks, but he had dropped out of the pictures suddenly. There had been a rumor that clever rum-runners had induced him to put his money in a huge rum-running scheme and that the ring-leader had been Black Mike Caso.

Old Cap Cuff recognized the dead man as Antonio Bellotti, having often seen him on the screen in the old days.

In less than half an hour Chief Jed Hullins and his men returned on their motorcycles. The picnic party had returned to the hill top and Chief Hullins interrupted their planning for the capture of the murderers.

"Gents and all," he said, "you won't have to catch the murderers, because there ain't any. Not now, there ain't."

Chief Hullins and his men had pursued the murder car, firing at its tires as they neared it, while the gangsters shot at their pursuers but, near Grayston, the murder car skidded in rounding a curve, and dashed into a tree and was instantly demolished. The four occupants of the car met instant death— not one escaped— and papers found on them proved they were Black Mike Caso and the three members of the Caso gang.

"And it was Tony Bellotti they killed, was it?" Chief Hullins asked. "Well, I'd like to stay for the picnic but murders make work, Cap. I've got to get back to town and fix up five funerals and one thing and another. Excuse me, will you, Cap?"

Old Cap Cuff excused him, telling him to come back for some ice cream if he could. Preparations were then made for the running and jumping contests, and so on, but before they began Old Cap Cuff made a short speech.

"And so, you see, gents," he said in closing, "every murder ain't a mystery. This here one was a dead open-and-shut case, and there's no job for a detective in it. Unless," he added with a grin, "some poor sap like Oliver Spotts thinks there is. He is liable to think there is a mystery in most anything."

At this the whole company laughed— except Emmaline and Ethelbert Scummins— and began the day's sports.

The reason Oliver Spotts had not attended the picnic was because the clam business seemed to have taken quite a boom and he had spent most of the day digging clams. Although now he possessed a diploma to prove that he was a near-graduate of the Old Cap Cuff College for Detectives and that he was thus entitled to do business as a near-detective, business in the detective line had been so slack that he had to continue as a clam-digger.

Thus Oliver Spotts missed the picnic but that night Ethelbert Scummins, who was studying to be a Watson— or detective's helper— told Mr. Spotts all about the Heckby Hill murder. It was nearly midnight when Mr. Scummins finished and Oliver's sister Lotta was long since in bed.

The bantam-like little near-detective and his third-grade Watson were in Mr. Spotts' bedroom at the rear of the house-boat, talking in subdued tones, and when Mr. Scummins tooted his saxophone he did so very gently.

"It's almost plenty of enough to make a detective sick and ill, Ethelbert," said Mr. Spotts sadly. "When the only murder in Mud Cove comes in a long time, it don't amount to less than nothing, or not even that much. I'd almost as lief have folks die in their beds as be murdered, if they don't have no mystery into it."

"It wasn't Mr. Bellotti's fault," said Mr. Scummins. "Don't blame him— he didn't have any say about it, Ollie."

"A murder ought to be an interesting murder, or what's the use having one?" complained Mr. Spotts. "It ought to give a detective a chance to detect something. I'd as lief Mr. Bellotti wasn't dead at all, almost. A lot of gangsters— what's that?"

The sound that interrupted Mr. Spotts was a scratching noise on the window screen behind the bed on which Mr. Scummins lay indolently, and the near-detective's third-grade Watson rolled over and put his face close to the screen to look out. To his surprise he saw a face close against the screen on the other side of it.

"Tsst! Tsst!" the stranger hissed. "Are you Oliver Spotts?"

To be able to stand where he was and look into the room the man outside had to be daring and agile. The house-boat was not afloat and was not meant to be afloat. Its nose was against Harbor Road, and its stern had been supported high above the bay by criss-crossed timbers. It was now high tide and at high tide the lower timbers were under water and could be reached only in a boat. The timbers were slippery with slime. To reach the window the man must have come in a boat and climbed the slippery timbers.

"No," whispered Mr. Scummins in reply to the man's question, "I'm not Spotts, but he's here," and he whispered to Mr. Spotts: "Olly, there's a man here wants to see you."

Thus notified Mr. Spotts crawled across the bed on his hands and knees, and he too looked out. He could not see much because of the darkness outside and the mesh of the screen.

"How do you do?" he whispered. "What do you want to see me about— detecting or clams?"

"I want to see you alone," said the strange visitor. "It is a detective matter."

"This here man that is into the room with me," said Mr. Spotts, "is my Watson and I don't do no detecting jobs without he is onto the same case upon which I am. You can trust him entirely total. He is as secret as the tomb— two tombs."

"In that case,"' said the man, "I don't mind his being present. How do I get in?"

Mr. Spotts removed the screen. The window was small but with the help of Mr. Scummins he pulled the stranger through the window onto the bed, and when the visitor had turned over face upward Mr. Spotts uttered a cry of surprise.

"My!" he cried. "It's Mr. Antonio Bellotti. I thought you was dead— ain't you?"

The man sat up. "Now, that," said the man, "is just what I'd like to know. That's what I'd like to have you tell me— am I dead, or ain't I?"

"If you're Mr. Antonio Bellotti," said Mr. Spotts, "you're dead— you was fatally shot to death this morning by a rifle bullet through the heart, and no mistake."

"I saw you," said Ethelbert Scummins, "and Mr. Spotts is right."

"If I am Antonio Bellotti, yes!" said the man. "I'll admit that if Iam Antonio Bellotti I am dead. And I won't complain, either. But am I Antonio Bellotti? Tell me that, will you?"

In talking the three had raised their voices, and now Lotta Spotts, in the next room, awakened.

"Oliver!" she called sharply. "Who is that man you've got in there?"

"We don't know yet whether it's Mr. Bellotti or his corpse," Oliver answered. "We're just talking it over."

"Well, corpse or not," said Miss Spotts, "tell him not to talk so loud; I want to get my sleep."

"You shouldn't have told her anything," said the man. "I came to you in secrecy. A man don't want to have everybody know that he don't know whether he is dead or not. Now this is the case— if you'll take it—"

"Well, I don't know—" said Mr. Spotts doubtfully.

"There'll be two hundred dollars in it for you, and expenses," said the man, whispering.

"I'll take the case," said Mr. Spotts so promptly that the two whispers ran together.

"Then I will give you the facts," said the man, settling himself more comfortably on the bed.

"Some years ago a man named Antonio Bellotti was famous in the motion-pictures. He was being paid enormous sums but he permitted himself to be tempted by one Black Mike Caso to go into a rum-running deal. The Government learned of this and made threats, and Antonio Bellotti peached on Black Mike and his pals — he told all he knew— and the Government let him go scot free."

"Mr. Spotts knew that," said Mr. Scummins. "He's wonderful— you'd be surprised."

"I am," said the man. "But to continue: the rumors that Antonio Bellotti was rum-running killed him for the screen. He never acted again. But this was not the worst— Black Mike Caso and his gang of gunmen swore to 'get'? Antonio."

"And they got him!" said Ethelbert Scummins.

"Did they? to know," said the man. I don't know."

"Why not?" asked Mr. Spotts. "Because," said the man, who was either Mr. Bellotti or was not, "when Antonio Bellotti was a picture star and shown on the screen as doing death-defying stunts, he did not do them himself. He had a double— as it is called— to do the more dangerous stunts. That double was exactly like Antonio Bellotti in appearance, as he had to be. His name was Joe Pippi."

"I am starting to begin to smell a mouse in the woodpile!" said Mr. Spotts. "Yes, sir!"

"Amazing, Spotts!" cried Mr. Scummins, in a hoarse whisper.

"Very well," continued the man. "Five days ago Joe Pippi, now a tramp out of work, came to Antonio Bellotti's door begging food. Antonio Bellotti recognized him and he recognized Antonio Bellotti. Bellotti was glad to see him and told him to stay as long as he liked. He did stay. Joe Pippi was glad to have a home again and," said the man with a grim smile, "either Antonio Bellotti or Joe Pippi, his double, was asleep on that couch when Black Mike fired the rifle. Which was it? That is what I want you to tell me."

"What's the matter of you that you can't tell?" asked Mr. Spotts. "Have you got that amnesia disease so you can't remember?"

"No," said the man, but Mr. Scummins interrupted him. "Where were you when the fatal shot was fired?" he asked.

"I was down cellar bottling some home-made wine," the man explained. "I heard the shot and I stayed where I was."

"That was a wise thing to do," said Oliver Spotts. "If you and the other one looked so exactly alike they would have killed you both."

"They would, gentlemen," said the strange client of Oliver Spotts. "And now let me tell you why I do not know whether I am Antonio Bellotti or Joe Pippi. Six months ago Antonio Bellotti's uncle died and willed him $30,000, provided the money was claimed by noon tomorrow. Antonio Bellotti never claimed it."

"Why not?" asked Spotts.

"Because he was afraid to," said the man who was either Antonio Bellotti or Joe Pippi. 'Antonio Bellotti was in hiding from Black Mike Caso and was afraid that claiming the money would let Black Mike know where he was. So he did not claim it. But now Black Mike and his gang are all dead."

"Then," said Oliver Spotts promptly, "there ain't no question of a doubt— you are Antonio Bellotti. Anybody would be for $30,000."

"Ah, but wait!" exclaimed the man. "You don't know the worst. Antonio Bellotti has a wife and he has been hiding from her, too. She divorced him and was awarded alimony, and the alimony now amounts to $40,000. If she knows that Antonio Bellotti is alive she can take his uncle's $30,000, and he will still owe her $10,000 and she can put him in jail until he pays it."

"Then there ain't no two ways about it— you are Joe Pippi," said Mr. Spotts positively; "That's my advice, last and final."

"You say that now," said Mr. Spotts's client, "because you have not heard the full story of Joe Pippi. Two weeks ago Joe Pippi was almost starving and he broke into a restaurant and stole six ham sandwiches, three pies and from the cash register $36.00. If I am Joe Pippi I will be arrested and sent to jail for two years."

"You ain't Pippi, that's certain sure," said Mr. Spotts instantly. "It looks like you ain't going to be nobody."

"But wait a minute," said the man, holding up his hand. "Wait a minute! Antonio Bellotti, two days before he was killed, made a will leaving to Joe Pippi the house on Heckby Hill and $3,000 in bonds, because he loved Joe Pippi like a brother. With the $3,000 Joe Pippi could square the restaurant man and go scot free, and he would have the Heckby Hill house."

"It's sort of all confusingly mixed up, ain't it?" said Mr. Spotts. "It looks just immediately now as if you was Joe Pippi."

"But the trouble is," said the strange client, as if Mr. Spotts had not interrupted him; "The trouble is that Antonio Bellotti made the will but there were no witnesses— so that will is no good."

"Then you ain't Joe Pippi," declared Mr. Spotts. "It looks like you wasn't nobody at all."

"I've got to be somebody," said the man with considerable irritation. "I couldn't be nobody for an hour now. Everyone knows Antonio Bellotti's face, and this murder will bring it to everybody's mind. Everyone will say 'Heavens! There's Antonio Bellotti!' and if I don't admit I'm Antonio Bellotti I'll have to explain that I am Joe Pippi. What do you suppose I came here for? You've got to tell me whether I'm Bellotti or Pippi. You took the job. This man is a witness to that."

"I won't—" began Mr. Spotts, meaning to say he would not have anything to do with the case, but Ethelbert Scummins reached for his saxophone and blew a tremolo blast that drowned his voice. It was such a loud toot that the strange client jumped nervously and Miss Spotts awoke and shouted "Stop that noise!" from the next room. Mr. Scummins put down his saxophone.

"You're right, Spotts," said Scummins. "What Mr. Spotts was about to say," he continued, speaking to the man who was either Antonio Bellotti or Joe Pippi, "was that he won't give you a positive answer tonight. Naturally, he cannot. He is a near-detective and he must have clues. He must snoop and shadow. He must examine the premises and study the scene of the crime."

"Most certainly sure," agreed Mr. Spotts. "And put on a disguise for it. Whiskers and et cettery."

"Certainly!" said Mr. Scummins.

"I'm surprised you did not under- stand that, Mr. Bellotti-Pippi. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You are not treating Mr. Spotts right— not at all right. Did you bring with you a hair from anybody's head? Or scrapings from under anybody's finger-nails? Or even a coat button? No! Not aclue of any sort! I'm disgusted!"

"I'm sorry," said the client meekly. "I'm not used to detective ways, sir."

"I should think you were not!" exclaimed Mr. Scummins. "And that is the only reason Mr. Spotts forgives you, ain't it, Spotty? And now Mr. Spotts don't want any more of this foolishness. He wants you to put that $200 in his hands and go home and say nothing and do nothing and see nobody. Go home and hide in the cellar and bottle wine, and come here tomorrow night and Mr. Spotts will tell you who you are. The idea! Coming here without any clues!"

"Without even nothing to use a microscope onto!" declared Mr. Spotts indignantly. "It ain't right!"

"I'm sorry," said the client again, even more meekly, and he took money from his pocket and gave Mr. Spotts $200. Mr. Scummins and Mr. Spotts then assisted this strange client to back out of the window legs first, and they heard him climb down the timbers and row quietly away in his boat.

"He's Joe Pippi," said Spotts. "And why? For because of the way he clumb up them timbers and down again— that's dangerous, and it was to do dangerous things Mr. Bellotti used to have him for a double."

"Spotts,"' said Mr. Scummins, "you're wonderful! Your mind works like a machine. It amazes me. It astounds me. But, Spotty, just now you are tired; you are not fit to do your best Grade A thinking. Go to bed, Spotts. Tomorrow you will attack this case with a clear brain and a refreshed mind."

With that Mr. Scummins picked up his hat and the newspaper that lay under it and departed for his dormitory at Old Cap Cuff's College for Detectives, and Oliver Spotts went to bed.

Early the next morning Mr. Spotts was ready for the important detective work he was under contract to do. In the clear light of morning he was not sure what it was he had to do, nor how he was to go about doing it, but he made the most careful preparations for whatever it might be.

Mr. Scummins had mentioned a disguise, so Mr. Spotts put on his "clam-digger" disguise, including the rubber boots, oil-skin slicker, nor'wester hat and the beard. The beard hooked over his ears and had once been red but had faded to pink. The truth was that this disguise was more familiar to the people of Mud Cove than was Mr. Spotts himself without the disguise, but this did not worry Mr. Spotts.

To complete his disguise Mr. Spotts pushed his two-wheeled cart in which were a number of baskets of clams he had promised to deliver to customers that morning, and anyone would have known instantly that he was disguised as a clam-digger— if it had not been for the disguise. As everyone had seen the pink beard, everyone knew that Oliver Spotts, the near-detective, was at work on a case.

By the time Mr. Spotts reached Old Cap Cuff's College for Detectives, where he was to meet Ethelbert Scummins, fifty or sixty men and boys were following him. Mr. Spotts rang the bell and Emmaline, the colored cook, came to the door, and before Mr. Spotts had finished asking for Mr. Scummins, Chief of Police Jed Hullins— who had been told that Olly Spotts was out detecting— arrived with four motorcycle officers. They waited at the gate. As the professors and students of Old Cap Cuff's College for Detectives had just finished breakfast they also decided to watch Mr. Spotts do his detective work.

ETHELBERT SCUMMINS came out of the college with his saxophone in his hand, and immediately began playing "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," and as Emmaline was very fond of that tune she too followed the crowd. Chief Hullins ordered the party to form two abreast. Thus all proceeded toward Heckby Hill, the procession increasing in numbers on its way.

Ethelbert Scummins walked first, playing his saxophone, then came Oliver Spotts pushing the clam wagon, and at the end of the line, panting in her effort to keep up, was old Mrs. Polly Hoffburger, who was fat and lame in one leg. Behind her at a short distance was her pet duck Oscar, waddling along as nice as you please and saying, now and then, "Quack! Quack!"

Arriving at the late home of Antonio Bellotti— or of Joe Peppi— Mr. Scummins, the third-grade Watson, made everyone form a half-circle and sing "The Star-Spangled Banner." He beat time with a folded newspaper.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "you will all wait here while Oliver Spotts enters this house and solves a mystery that has arisen in connection with the murder of Antonio Bellotti. From time to time I will announce the progress of the investigation. If anyone has a stop- watch I would be glad to have him time Mr. Near-Detective Spotts."

"I have a stop-watch," said Chief Hullins who used one in timing speeding automobiles.

"I will first go inside and see that— see something," said Ethelbert Scummins, and he went into the house. In a moment he was out again and no one noticed that the folded newspaper was no longer in his hand.

"We are all set," he said when he came out. "Ready, Chief Hullins— go!"

At this word Oliver Spotts and Ethelbert Scummins entered the house together, but Mr. Scummins immediately appeared at the broken window. He looked into the room but spoke to those outside.

"Mr. Spotts is now in the murder room," he said. "He is looking around. He looks at the murder couch. He looks at the floor. He looks at the ceiling. Now he is going to walk to the table in the middle of the room. He is walking to the table. He sees a folded newspaper on it. He is going to pick up the newspaper. He has picked it up. He is going to open it. He has opened it. He is going to say to himself, 'Ah!' Here is a newspaper the murdered man received just before he was killed— the murdered man never opened it!' He is saying it! Now he is going to read the headlines. Just a minute folks, while Oliver Spotts reads the headlines."

In the pause that followed, those outside uttered exclamations of admiration and surprise.

"Oliver Spotts, the famous near-detective, has read the headlines," said Mr. Scummins in a clear strong voice. "A look of triumph is going to show on his face in a minute. It shows on his face. He is reading one of the headlines again. What are you reading, Spotts?"

"It says here," came the voice of Oliver Spotts, " 'Movie Actress Drops Dead in Hollywood. Lucette Milldew, Divorced Wife of Antonio Bellotti, Dies Suddenly.' "

"Oliver Spotts has solved the mystery of Heckby Hill," cried Ethelbert Scummins. "He has discovered that Antonio Bellotti was not murdered. He has discovered that his double, Joe Peppi, was the murdered man. He is going to pound on the floor. He is pounding on the floor. He is going to shout, 'Bellotti, come up! It's all right, your wife is dead.' He is shouting it! Time!"

"One minute and twenty seconds, by gosh!" said Chief Hullins.

"That's the quickest record I ever heard tell about, and no mistake!" "Marvelous! Amazing!' cried Ethelbert Scummins, as a good Watson should, and in another minute Oliver Spotts and Antonio Bellotti were bowing in the doorway, hand in hand.

"Spotts,'' said Old Cap Cuff generously, "you're good. I'll say that much— you're good. How did you do it?"

"Acumen," said Ethelbert Scummins quickly. "Acumen, Cap Cuff."

"No such thing!" said Mr. Spotts indignantly. "I didn't have no acumen onto me. Unless," he added, "you put it onto me, Ethelbert."

__________________

A Jo Gar, Island Detective, Novelette

3: Diamonds of Dread

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Black Mask Feb to Aug 1931

THE BROWN-FACED driver of the carromatta shrilled words at the skinny pony, tugged on the right rein. He stood up in front of his small seat and waved his left arm wildly. Jo Gar leaned forward and watched the approaching machine sway down the narrow street. It was a closed car, mud-stained. It swung from side to side, traveling at high speed. For a second its engine was pointed to the right of the carromatta, now crowded far to one side of the street. And then it careened straight towards the small vehicle.

The driver shrilled one word. His small, scantily clad body curved from the front seat. For a second Jo Gar had an unobstructed glance of the speeding car. He muttered a sharp "Dios!"— hunched his small figure forward and jumped.

His sandals had not touched the broken, narrow pavement at the right side of the street when his ears heard the splintering of wood. A woman screamed, in a high, short note, down the street. There was another splintering sound— then the cry of the pony. Jo Gar's diminutive body struck the pavement; he went to his knees, lost balance and rolled over on his back. His pith helmet snapped from his head, thudded like a drum lightly struck, away from him.

He wasn't hurt, and got slowly to his feet. There was a great deal of excitement in the street. The pony had been dragged to the curb and lay on one side, tangled in the carromatta shafts. It was vainly trying to rise. The vehicle was a wreck. But the machine was still swaying on its way— a horn sounding steadily.

Near the Pasig the street curved sharply to the left. Even as Jo Gar stared after the machine, it swung far to the right. For a second he thought it would crash into the awninged Chinese shop at the curve. But it did not— it swung back into the middle of the street, was lost from sight. The sound of the horn died. Voices all about the Island detective were raised, pitched high. Chinese, Spaniards, Filipinos— the street was suddenly filled with them.

Jo Gar recovered his helmet, placed it on his head. The sun was still hot, though it was sinking over the bay. He moved towards the struggling pony, speaking sharply to the driver, who was shouting wildly after the vanished car. Together they freed the pony from the shafts and harness— it struggled to its feet and stood trembling, nostrils wide. The driver cursed steadily.

A brown, open car came down the street from the direction the other had come, horn screaming. Jo Gar narrowed his gray-blue eyes on the brown uniforms of Manila police— saw the face of Juan Arragon turned momentarily towards him. The Manila lieutenant of police shouted something— then the car was beyond. A wheel lifted wreckage of the carromatta, deposited by the crash car fifty yards distant, and sent it skimming towards the pavement. A voice behind Jo said excitedly:

"What the devil, Señor Gar! That was a close one for you—"

A man dressed in white duck was running down the street towards the wreckage of the carromatta. He wore no helmet. He shouted hoarsely, but slowed down as he neared the spot where the crowd had gathered. Jo Gar said in an unhurried tone:

"What is it, Grassner?"

The man in white duck was short, thick-set. He had the squarish face of a German. He widened blue eyes on the Island detective's narrowed ones.

"Delgado's!" he breathed heavily. "Robbery— there were three cars— different directions!"

Jo Gar said slowly: "Delgado's— yes. Of course. And three cars—" The carromatta driver was standing near the pony, cursing shrilly. Tears of rage ran down his brown cheeks. There was still much excitement. The Island detective said sharply to the driver:

"Please stop it! Your pony is not much hurt. You will be paid for the carromatta. That is enough!"

Grassner said thickly, breathing with difficulty: "Herr Mattlien is dead. A bullet hit him."

Jo Gar frowned. He had little use for Herr Mattlien. But robbery had now become murder. He asked in a low, almost toneless voice:

"You saw— the robbery?"

Grassner blinked at him with his small, blue eyes. He shook his head. People were crowding around them.

"I was in the International Bank, around the corner," he said more calmly. "There were shots— and I ran out. Cars were moving away from Delgado's, and Mattlien was running towards them, a gun in his hand. There were more shots— he fell. I went to him— he was dead."

Jo Gar made a clicking sound. He shook his head, spoke to the carromatta driver.

"I am Señor Gar— come to my office later and I shall help you." The driver said: "I am a very poor man—"

The Island detective nodded. "It is true," he agreed. "But you are also alive."

He moved along the street, towards the corner near the Escolta, occupied by Delgado's jewelry shop. A crowd was gathering; there were many police. A deadline had already been established, but Jo Gar was well-known; he went through the entrance, into the warm air stirred by the shop's ceiling fans.

Arnold Carlysle, the American chief of Manila police, had arrived and was listening to words from the short, black-mustached owner of the place. Liam Delgado's white hair was ruffled; he moved his hands nervously. Carlysle, listening, saw Jo Gar enter the shop. He beckoned to him.

Delgado was saying in his perfect English: "It was terrible! Ramon— my only son— dying as I came out from the vault—"

He turned away abruptly, covered his face with his long-fingered, brown hands. Carlysle spoke grimly to Jo:

"They used— American methods, Gar. Three cars— with license plates covered with dust. Four of the men came inside. Delgado's son resisted— they shot him down. Mattlien, the German guard at the International Bank— he was shot down, in the street. They escaped in all directions— but we'll get them, Gar!"

The Island detective nodded. He said in his toneless voice:

"One of the cars upset the carromatta in which I was approaching the Escolta. It was going towards the Pasig, and Juan Arragon was in close pursuit."

Carlysle nodded grimly. "We heard the shots— at the station," he said. "It was a daring robbery."

Delgado had dropped into a wicker chair, near a counter. Jo Gar said quietly:

"Three machines— a double murder. And robbery— how much did they get?"

Delgado said in a dull tone, softly: "The Von Loffler diamonds. All ten of them. Two hundred thousand dollars, at least. And some small stones—"

Jo Gar widened his gray-blue eyes. Carlysle went to the entrance of the store and gave orders in a steady, hard voice. There was the clang of an ambulance gong, in the distance.

The Island detective said: "The Von Loffler diamonds. But I thought they were in the bank vault—"

Delgado's tortured eyes met Jo's. He said in a broken voice:

"Von Loffler brought them here this morning. I was to set them into a comb for his wife."

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes and nodded his head slowly. Delgado got to his feet, hands suddenly clenched at his sides. He said in a terrible voice:

"They will pay— for this! By — — they will pay! My only son—" Jo Gar spoke softly: "It is— very bad. You saw faces?"

The jewelry shop owner said: "They were masked— their whole faces. There were just the eye slits. Four of them were in here. They held guns, and the one who shot my son down was tall and well built. He was standing over Ramon— when I ran in—"

He turned away from the Island detective. Carlysle was coming into the shop again. There was a great deal of excitement outside, but inside there was almost silence. One white-clad clerk was walking back and forth behind a long display counter, muttering softly to himself.

Carlysle came close to Jo and spoke in the same grim tone.

"I have sent word to all the Constabulary stations. We shall pick up the cars in which they escaped."

Jo said: "Have there been reports of stolen cars lately?"

The Manila Police head frowned. "Two reports— one yesterday— one this morning."

The Island detective shrugged his narrow shoulders.

"I do not think it will help greatly to find the machines," he observed. Carlysle said: "Juan Arragon was in close pursuit. There is a possible chance."

The Island detective nodded slowly. "Yes," he agreed. "A chance." Liam Delgado faced them suddenly. His eyes were shot with red. He ran trembling fingers through his white hair. He said fiercely:

"There were four of them. I will have them— every one! I am wealthy— and I will use my wealth—"

There was the staccato cough of a motorcycle— a brown-uniformed figure rode to the curb before the shop. He dismounted, hurried inside. He was breathing heavily. He spoke rapidly in Filipino dialect to Carlysle. The head of the Manila police interrupted him sharply, telling him to speak more slowly. Jo Gar said quietly:

"He says Arragon's car skidded, beyond the bridge. There was a crash into iron railing— the driver was hurt and the car disabled. Pedestrians have told him that Juan stopped another car, and continued the pursuit. The bandit machine was far ahead, running along the right bank of the Pasig."

Carlysle groaned. "It will get away," he muttered. "The bandits were masked— the drivers of the three machines may not have been noticed—"

Jo Gar looked towards the back of Liam Delgado. The jewelry shop owner was standing near a counter, his body rigid. Jo said slowly:

"One leaves the Island only by boat."

Carlysle half closed his eyes. "There are many American visitors here— and English, too. Three boats sail in the next three days. Two of them are big vessels. It will be very difficult—"

He broke off. There was a little silence. Then the police head said slowly:

"But they have the diamonds— the Von Loffler stones. We can search thoroughly, at the docks."

Jo Gar touched the tips of his stubby, brown fingers to almost colorless lips. His almond-shaped eyes were slitted, three-quarters closed.

"We can do many wise things," he observed with a grimness strange in him. "But unfortunately, others can do wise things, also."

AT SEVEN O'CLOCK Jo Gar paused before the Manila Times office and read the large-lettered bulletin before which a small crowd had gathered. It told him that none of the bandits had been captured, that they had got away with diamonds valued in excess of two hundred thousand dollars— the "famous Von Loffler ten," and that they had murdered Ramon Delgado and Herr Mattlien. It further stated that one escaping machine had crashed into a carromatta from which Señor Jo Gar and the driver had barely escaped with their lives. Also Lieutenant of Manila Police Juan Arragon, in pursuit of this crash car, was missing. He had hailed another car, with a Chinese driver, after the one in which he had been riding had skidded and crashed.

The machine, the Chinese and Juan Arragon— all had vanished along the right bank of the Pasig. The whole police force, aided by Island Constabulary, were hunting down the bandits. The Times offered a reward of five thousand dollars, and it was rumored that Liam Delgado would announce an offer of a large sum— for the bandits' capture. Two of the machines used in the robbery had been found, abandoned. They had each been stolen. They were being examined for fingerprints. It was the most daring crime in the history of Manila.

The Island detective smiled grimly, and then he thought of Juan Arragon and the smile went from his face. He was fond of Arragon— the lieutenant of police had often blundered in the past, but he had always tried. And the item that mentioned his disappearance was not pleasant to read.

Jo turned his back to the bulletin and waited for a caleso to pass— one with a strong-looking horse. He waited only a few minutes.

Across the bridge, on the far side of the black-watered Pasig, there were several police cars. Along the road over which Juan Arragon was supposed to have pursued the car that had struck the carromatta in which Jo had been riding there were Constabulary officers. On the left were moored sampans and various other type craft— on the right of the road there were hundreds of native huts, thatch-roofed and similar.

From the main road other roads angled off— many of them. Relaxed in the caleso, Jo Gar frowned at the roads. Three miles along the river road and the country suddenly became deserted. There were fewer crossroads— native shacks were scattered. The ground was rolling; there were curves. A half dozen times Jo stopped the caleso and made inquiry of natives, but always the answer was the same— nothing had been seen of the pursued car, or of the one in pursuit.

It was growing dark when Jo ordered the caleso driver to turn back.

He breathed softly to himself:

"The bandits inside the shop were not recognized. No attention has been paid to the machine drivers; even I would not recognize the man who drove the car that crashed into us. Some say it was a Chinese who was driving the car that Juan commandeered, others say it was a Jap. No one seems to be sure of the type of car. It is always so."

He shook his head slowly. The caleso reached the Escolta, chief business street of Manila, and proceeded slowly towards the police station. Jo descended, paid the driver and climbed the stairs to the office of Carlysle. The American frowned into his eyes, shook his head slowly:

"Nothing— not a thing!" he breathed. "I don't like the way things look, Señor Gar. Arragon has dropped from sight. He was alone with that driver of the car he picked up. One of the police officers with him was stunned in the crash— and Juan ordered the other one to look after him. And he's dropped out of sight."

Jo said very slowly, wiping his brown forehead with a handkerchief, and narrowing his eyes on a slowly revolving ceiling fan:

"The killers are very desperate. That is natural. They have valuable diamonds, and they have murdered two persons. They would not hesitate—"

He broke off, shrugged. Carlysle swore beneath his breath and watched the Island detective. He said, after a little silence:

"Juan Arragon thought very well of you, Señor Gar. You showed him up many times, but he always was good-natured about it. If you—"

He broke off. Jo Gar smiled a little and said in his toneless voice: "Herr Mattlien is dead. Ramon Delgado is dead. Ten extremely valuable diamonds are missing. The method of the robbery was very modern. I am interested, of course."

Carlysle said: "Good. Of course you are. The method was American, I'd say."

The Island detective shrugged. "Perhaps," he agreed. "But it does not mean that Americans were the bandits."

Carlysle said bitterly: "I hope not— for their sakes."

Jo Gar lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes and said very slowly:

"I shall try to find Juan Arragon— but it is important that the vessels are watched. Very important."

Carlysle said: "I've got everything working— we're trying to find someone who can identify a driver of one of the three cars. The descriptions are all vague— guesswork."

Jo Gar turned his small body slightly. He said in a tone touched with grimness:

"I will return for a few minutes to my office, then I shall move about."

Carlysle's eyes were narrowed. He said with a touch of eagerness:

"You will let me know— as soon as you learn something?"

Jo moved towards the door of the office. He nodded his head a little.

"If I learn something— I will let you know," he said quietly, and went down the stairs to the street.

His small office was not far off the Escolta; the street was narrow and curving. There were few people on it; the shops were small and most of them had closed for the night. It was almost dark when he turned in at the entrance and climbed the narrow, creaking stairs. He climbed slowly, conserving his energy.

At the landing before his office he paused a few seconds, stood in the faint light from a small, hanging bulb. Then he went towards the door and reached for the knob. His office was seldom locked; he kept little of importance there.

When he opened the door there was a faint breeze from the window. He reached for the switch— and white light filled the room. For a second he stood motionless, his shoulders and head slightly forward. His eyes looked towards the wicker chair near the small table.

He recognized the uniform first. It was khaki in color. Next he recognized the figure. Juan Arragon's body was half turned away from him— head and shoulders rested on the table. The helmet was not in sight— Arragon was bareheaded. His dark hair glistened in the white light. There was a definite inertness about the position of the body.

Jo Gar said very steadily: "Juan— Juan Arragon!"

From the Pasig there was the shrill note of a river launch whistle. A driver called in a high-pitched voice in the street below.

Jo Gar sighed. Then he stepped into his office, closed the door. He went slowly to the side of Juan Arragon. He looked first at the head, with the half-opened eyes. Then he found the two bullet holes, not far from the heart. There was little blood.

There were books on the floor; they had fallen as though swept from the table with force. An ink bottle had crashed and broken. Near the right, outstretched fingers of the dead police lieutenant was a bit of white paper. A stubby pencil lay beyond it. There were scrawled words on the paper. Jo Gar leaned forward and read them. After a few seconds he reread them, aloud.

" 'Calle Padrone— house in palmetto thick— high porch— shutters— go at once— I am shot— French— ' "

That was all. Jo Gar straightened and turned his back on his friend. He went to the window and looked down towards the street, unseeingly. He felt very badly. Juan Arragon was dead, shot to death. They had worked together on many crimes. Now that was finished. Often Juan had been wrong, but he had always been fair.

Jo Gar slowly lighted a cigarette. He drew a deep breath and moved his lips a little. He said:

"I will find them, of course. They have murdered him. And Ramon Delgado. And Mattlien. Because of diamonds— ten of them."

He stood motionless for several seconds. Then he shrugged, turned and went from the office. He did not look again at Juan Arragon. He walked, not too rapidly, the short distance to the police station.

CARLYSLE SAID, looking with wide eyes at the body of Juan Arragon:

"God— they got him! But he scrawled the address of the hideout. We'll get out there—"

Jo Gar shook his head slowly: "If you send men there— be very careful," he said tonelessly. "The address was meant for me."

Carlysle blinked. "Yes," he agreed, "but that doesn't make any difference—"

Jo Gar said softly: "You see the pencil— it is near the right-hand fingers. The writing— it is in English."

Carlysle frowned. "It's Arragon's writing," he breathed. "He could write English."

The Island detective nodded. "He wrote with his left hand," he said quietly. "If he were dying and wished to give me directions, I do not think he would write in English. And how did he get here?"

Carlysle stared at the dead police lieutenant. He muttered something the Island detective did not hear. Jo Gar said slowly:

"He was shot— and brought here. His handwriting was imitated. It is clever work. But they did not remember that Juan was left-handed. And I understand Filipino— he would have scrawled words to me in that language."

Carlysle said: "They wanted you— to go to Calle Padrone— to the house in the thicket—"

Jo Gar said very quietly: "I should be very careful how your men approach the house."

The American police head frowned. "They're afraid of you, Jo," he said grimly. "They planned this crime carefully. They know Juan has worked with you. They thought they'd get you— out of the way—"

He broke off. The muscles of the Island detective's mouth twitched.

He said:

"It is possible."

Carlysle looked down at the scrawl. "They figured the shaky writing would get by— with you thinking Arragon was in bad shape when he wrote it. They didn't know— he was left-handed. And I'd forgotten—"

He checked himself. Jo Gar spoke very quietly:

"The killers know of Señor Gar," he said. "That is unfortunate."

Carlysle, his eyes still narrowed on the scrawl, spoke grimly.

"There is this word 'French,'" he said. "They wanted you to believe their nationality was French. That eliminates something— they're not French."

Jo Gar said nothing. He went to the window of his office and stood with his back to Carlysle and several of his men. The American police head gave orders. Then he spoke to the Island detective.

"The coroner will be here soon. I'm going to the Calle Padrone, with my men—"

Jo nodded. "I shall see you in a few hours," he said quietly, and added in a toneless voice: "I hope."

Carlysle frowned. "Delgado is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward," he said. "I'm going to have the boat passengers carefully checked, the luggage searched."

He moved towards the door of the office. Jo Gar followed him.

Carlysle said: "You going my way?"

The Island detective shook his head. His eyes were almost closed.

"I think it will be better for both of us," he said softly, "if I go alone."

VON LOFFLER sat across the table from Delgado and Jo Gar. He was a German who had lived many years in the Islands. His body was lean and he was not young. He looked at Delgado's white hair and said thickly:

"It is very bad. The diamonds are insured, of course. But in England. I sympathize with Señor Delgado, and I agree with him. You have done much good work in the Islands, Señor Gar. These bandits and killers must be caught."

Jo Gar said nothing. Delgado spoke in a firm, low voice.

"Señor Gar is more familiar with conditions here than other detectives might be. Lieutenant Arragon was his friend. I think we have much— the three of us— to work for, together. But Señor Gar— it is his business."

Von Loffler nodded. His face was grim. His blue eyes narrowed on Delgado's.

"Your son, Liam," he said. "Señor Gar's friend. And my diamonds." His eyes flickered to Jo's. "You will work for us, Señor?" he asked.

Jo Gar smiled with his thin, colorless lips pressed together. He parted them and said:

"Yes— but I feel it will be difficult. This was not an ordinary crime.

It may mean that I must leave the Islands."

Delgado said firmly: "I want my son's killers— no matter where you must go."

Von Loffler nodded his head slowly. "It is right," he said. "You have the description of the stones— it is the best I can do."

The Island detective nodded. He said very quietly:

"Just the three of us must know what I am doing. Even the American, Carlysle— he must not know. I shall need funds. It may prove expensive."

Delgado shrugged. "That is simple," he said.

Jo Gar got to his feet. "When Carlysle took his men to the Calle Padrone address he found only a deserted shack. There was not a clue— nothing. But had I gone—"

He spread his stubby-fingered hands. Von Loffler said:

"It will be dangerous, Señor. But that is your business."

The Island detective looked expressionlessly at the room's ceiling. "It is so," he agreed. "It is my business."

Carlysle was smiling when Jo Gar moved along the cell block of the old police station and reached his side. He spoke with enthusiasm. "I sent for you— we've got one of them. It's just a matter of a few hours now, and we'll have the others."

Jo Gar made a clicking sound. He looked at the American head of police with widened eyes.

"That is very good," he said slowly. "But how—"

Carlysle cut in on his calm voice. "I didn't want you to waste time running around the city."

Jo lowered his lids slightly. The change in the manner of Carlysle was very evident. He was almost patronizing now. He had one of the bandits— he would shortly have the others. He had done it without Jo Gar's aid.

The Island detective was silent. Carlysle said with a narrow-lipped smile:

"Lieutenant Mallagin picked up the Chinese driver of the car Arragon commandeered, about an hour ago. Just after eleven. He was staggering along the Pasig road— on the other bank. He'd been badly beaten and was soaked. They had tried to drown him, but he regained consciousness and let his body float with the current. Then he crawled ashore. He recognized one of the bandits— a Filipino. We've traced the crime to Cantine, the half-breed that we turned loose from Bilibid three months ago. He ran the hold-up."

Jo Gar said, in a slightly puzzled tone: "But you said you had one of them—"

Carlysle was excited; he made gestures with his hands.

"We'll have the one he recognized," he stated. "I meant we had found the Chinese driver."

Jo Gar said slowly: "That is— good."

Carlysle said: "I've got all the men out for the pick-up, and I didn't want you going off at an angle."

The Island detective half closed his eyes and spoke softly:

"And what became of the machine of this Chinese?" he asked.

Carlysle said: "He doesn't know. A bullet hit Arragon as they were gaining on the other car. He collapsed. The Chinese used brakes— but the other car had stopped, and he was rushed. They knocked him unconscious— the road was deserted; it was around a curve."

Jo Gar said slowly: "And you think Cantine was the leader— the half-breed?"

Carlysle made a grunting sound. "Sure of it," he snapped. "The Filipino that this Chinese identified was one that served a term at Bilibid— he was one of Cantine's men. We'll have them all pretty quick."

The Island detective spoke in his toneless voice:

"That will be— very good."

The American head of police chuckled. "We won't have to worry about the boats that are sailing tomorrow," he said. "Didn't care much for that job, anyway. Passengers are easily insulted. It would have been difficult."

Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke above his head.

"I did not think this Cantine— possessed so much courage," he said slowly.

Carlysle grunted. "He learned something— and took a chance," he said. "He wasn't so smooth. There was too much killing."

The Island detective said: "May I talk— with the Chinese?" Carlysle frowned a little. But he nodded his head.

"I'll go along with you," he replied.

Jo Gar smiled with his eyes. "I shall be honored," he said simply.

The Island detective rose from the small wicker chair and smiled at Carlysle. He narrowed his eyes on the brown, fat face of the Chinese. "He is of good breed," he said slowly. "He speaks without becoming muddled, and clearly. You have been lucky."

Carlysle smiled expansively. The head of the Manila police was in a genial humor.

"Not lucky, but rather careful, Gar," he said.

Jo shrugged. "He staggered right into your hands," he pointed out. "I meant that it was fortunate he was not killed— shot or drowned."

Carlysle said nothing. He turned towards the door leading from the room in which Jo Gar had been questioning the Chinese. It opened as he faced it; Lieutenant Mallagin entered. He was breathing heavily, obviously excited.

He spoke in broken English. "I have captured— one of Cantine's men. He is hurt— very much. He fell from a sampan deck— but will not talk. The doctor— he say he may die quick—"

Carlysle frowned. Jo Gar was watching Mallagin with expressionless eyes. He glanced at the Chinese— the man's mouth was half opened; he was staring at the chunky-bodied Filipino.

The chief of police frowned. Mallagin said in a husky tone:

"I think it would be wise— to take this Chinese— to him— while he lives. He then might talk—"

Carlysle nodded. "Yes," he said decisively. We'll get him right there.

Where is— this man?"

Mallagin said: "In the shop of Santoni, who deals in fruit— not far from the Spanish bridge. He is very bad."

Carlysle nodded. He looked towards the Chinese. He said sharply:

"You are going with us— you will identify a man who is hurt."

The fear that was in the eyes of the Chinese seemed to grow. He mumbled something that Jo Gar failed to understand; his hands were moving about strangely. The Island detective said:

"You think it is wise—"

The expression in the American's eyes checked him. He smiled slightly and bowed. Carlysle said slowly:

"I'm taking charge of this case myself. In the past Juan Arragon did much good, and much harm, poor devil!"

The Island detective said nothing. Carlysle spoke to Lieutenant Mallagin.

"We will use my private car. There will be the driver and myself, and the Chinese. Yourself, of course— and pick two men in whom you have confidence."

Mallagin nodded and turned away. Jo Gar said in a quiet voice:

"I should like to accompany you. Juan Arragon was my friend—" There was a touch of coldness in Carlysle's voice.

"I'm sorry— there will not be enough room. But I shall keep you informed—"

The Island detective narrowed his almond-shaped eyes. He said softly:

"I might replace one of the two men you told Lieutenant Mallagin to choose."

Carlysle said steadily: "It is a police matter— and you are not of the police. Go ahead, Lieutenant— get your men."

Jo Gar bowed slightly. He said in a faintly amused voice:

"I would choose one who can make notes of what your injured man may say."

Carlysle frowned. "Of course," he said in a hard tone. "That is understood."

Mallagin looked stupidly at Carlysle. Jo Gar watched the Chinese with eyes that were almost closed. Carlysle glanced at the Island detective as he moved towards the door of the room. He said:

"I'm sorry, Gar— but this is a police case."

Jo smiled a little. "I am sure it is being handled very well," he said in a peculiar tone, and went through the doorway.

The black closed car of Carlysle pulled away from the police station, cut across the Escolta and headed towards the Pasig.

After a time they were close to the river on a street running to the Spanish bridge.

A half block behind, Jo Gar sat in a machine he had hired from Cormanda. His small body was not relaxed; in his right hand he gripped a Colt. Abruptly Cormanda jerked his head and said in a rising voice:

"Jo— they're slowing down—"

The Island detective leaned forward, caught a glimpse of two red lights, across the road. He said in a swift voice:

"They were not repairing— at dusk—"

The Carlysle machine had almost reached the two lights. It halted.

Jo Gar said:

"Stop, Cormanda—"

The small, open car stopped. The chauffeur of the car ahead got to the street and looked back at the car in which Cormanda and Jo Gar sat. He gestured towards the two red lights. Jo Gar spoke softly to his own driver:

"Get down— Cormanda— it is not good—"

The first machine-gun started a staccato clatter from an alley on the right. Almost instantly there was the drum of a second one— from a shuttered window on the left. Metal started to make sound. The chauffeur ran a few feet and sprawled to the street. At that moment, the Chinese sprang from the car, doubled over and ran to a door nearest the car. He disappeared. The other occupants of the car were crouched, out of sight, below the metal sides.

Jo Gar slipped out the right side of the small car and bent his body forward. He ran back over the street, keeping his short arms close to his sides and his head low. Suddenly he turned and moved down a second alley. One machine-gun had stopped drumming, but the other was still beating sound against the quiet of the night.

In the darkness of the alley Jo Gar paused for a second. He breathed heavily as he got his head slightly exposed and looked towards the Carlysle machine:

"The Chinese— was lying—"

A door shot open— the figure of the Chinese was pitched into the alley. Almost instantly it jerked, half spun. Then the man dropped to the pavement. The second machine-gun started to clatter again.

Jo Gar muttered: "And yet— they murdered him!"

Cormanda was reversing the small car now. It whined back from the red lights and the drum of bullets. Jo Gar swung back into the alley, moved rapidly along it. At the far end he saw the Pasig water and the silhouette of a sampan.

The machine-gun fire died. No sound but the whine of the reversing car came from the street behind the Island detective. He thought: They got the diamonds, but they were forced to kill. Ramon Delgado, Mattlien— Juan Arragon. And now the Chinese, perhaps others. Why do they trap and kill? Is it because they must leave the Islands? He thought: It is because they are clever and must clear the way.

He reached the row of sampans, moored abreast. There was a narrow path between piled, rotted planks and empty fish baskets. It led towards the next alley. Jo Gar gripped his Colt firmly and moved along it. At intervals he stopped and listened. The street he had left was very quiet. Only the river sounds reached his ears.

He had almost reached the next alley when he saw faint shadow.

It was directly ahead— moving slowly.

A machine made sound in the distance; the engine getting into a roar— and dying gradually. A voice reached the ears of the Island detective; it sounded much like Carlysle's, raised hoarsely.

And then the shadow ahead of him became a figure. Jo Gar lifted his automatic and said very quietly:

"Raise your arms!"

The figure swung towards him— he caught a glimpse, in the wavering, reflected light from a sampan, of a brown, lean face and wide, staring eyes. The man drew his breath in sharply— his hands swung upward. But the left one went up first, and the right brushed the belt of his soiled duck trousers as it moved.

Jo Gar said sharply: "No!"

The reflected light caught the gleam of the blade. Jo Gar steadied the muzzle of his automatic and squeezed the trigger. He rocked back on his heels, curved his body to one side. The other man's right wrist made swift movement, even as his body jerked convulsively. The knife dug its blade point into the wood of a basket within six inches of Jo's left arm.

The man sank to his knees and pressed both hands against his belt, at the stomach. He groaned. Jo Gar stepped out from the piled baskets and jerked a small flashlight from his pocket. For a second he stood close to the man who had fallen, and listened for sound from the alley ahead. There was none. But in the distance voices were calling.

He flashed the beam on the one hunched near his feet, widened his almond-shaped eyes. Then he moved the beam to the knife that had been thrown. He breathed very slowly:

"Malay—"

He kneeled beside the groaning man, held the gun close to him.

He said quietly, in the Malay tongue: "Why was the Chinese murdered?"

The man widened his eyes and shook his head. Jo Gar smiled coldly and pressed the muzzle against the man's right side.

"If I shoot again— you will die," he said. "You were with others— what were their names?"

The Malay shook his head. He was muttering to himself. Jo Gar said:

"The Chinese told the police that a man named Cantine committed the great robbery and murder. He was lying— and yet he was murdered. Why?"

The Malay was getting his breath with difficulty now. There were footfalls in the alley from which he had come. Jo Gar lifted his head, and heard the voice of Lieutenant Mallagin, cautioning one of his men. The Island detective spoke softly:

"Quickly— the police come. I am not of them. Why was the Chinese killed?"

The eyes of the man hunched beside him were staring. He said weakly, in his own tongue:

"His family— was given money. He was to lie— and then to die. He was— very poor."

Jo Gar straightened a little and sighed. Then he lowered his head again.

"Who made— the arrangement?" he asked quietly.

The Malay shook his head. His body relaxed a little; he rolled over on his back. He said very weakly:

"It was— the one who walks badly— always in white—"

His lips closed; he shivered— cried out a little. There was a convulsive movement of his body, then it was still. From the alley Mallagin called:

"Who— is that?"

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes and rose. He was thinking: The one who walks badly— always in white. But he said in a steady voice:

"It is Señor Gar— I have shot one of them."

He heard the surprised exclamation from Lieutenant Mallagin. The Filipino came in close, stared down at the dead man. Carlysle, breathing heavily, was behind the lieutenant.

"The Chinese is dead— the chauffeur is dead," he said. "One of my men is wounded. Mallagin and I escaped. You followed us?"

Jo Gar nodded. He said quietly: "This one tried to knife me— I was forced to shoot. He did not die instantly."

Carlysle's eyes widened. He said eagerly: "He talked?"

Jo nodded. His voice was almost toneless. "Cantine did not commit the robbery or murders," he said. "The Chinese was paid to lie to you— and then to die."

Carlysle stared at Jo. "The driver— paid to lie and then—"

Jo Gar shook his head. "He was not the driver," he said slowly. "I spoke to him about machines— he knew very little. I was suspicious, and followed when you got word that one of Cantine's men had been hurt."

Carlysle breathed heavily. "You think it was a plan— to throw us off—" Jo Gar smiled a little. He glanced down at the dead man.

"If this man had not talked— you would have been after Cantine and his men"— he said quietly, "a wrong scent."

Carlysle nodded his head very slowly. "He said nothing about who—"

Jo Gar shook his head slowly. "I have told you what he said," he replied, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, Carlysle was looking down at the dead man and frowning.

"We shall have to watch the boats," he said grimly. "They have the diamonds— and they have killed many men." He looked narrowly at the Island detective. "They got away with their machine-guns— all but this man," he said. "You will help us, Señor Gar?"

Jo Gar smiled with his thin lips. His colorless eyes seemed to be looking beyond the American head of police. He shook his head very slowly.

"No," he said. "It is— a police matter."

Carlysle stiffened. "Juan Arragon was your friend," he reminded.

Jo Gar stopped smiling. "It is so," he agreed. "But I will not help you, Señor Carlysle."

The American turned away, muttering something that the Island detective did not hear. Lieutenant Mallagin moved after his chief. Jo Gar looked down at the figure of the Malay and breathed very softly:

" 'The one who walks badly— always in white.' "

He sighed, and his eyes half closed. He glanced towards the knife handle, protruding from the basket wood. River odors were in his nostrils— a pony whinnied in the distance. Jo Gar said very slowly, in a half whisper:

"For Juan Arragon— I will help— myself."

2: The Man in White

THE CHEYO MARU took red color from the setting sun; her boat deck was soaked in it. The sea was calm; even the white wings of the gulls that rose and dipped astern were tinted red. Manila and the Island of Cavite were no longer to be seen astern. There were few people in the deck chairs; the first dinner gong had already sounded. Jo Gar relaxed his short body, kept his almond-shaped eyes almost closed. Now and then he lifted his brown-paper cigarette, inhaled. It was almost as though he slept between puffs, but that was not so.

When the Japanese steward came rapidly towards his chair, the Island detective lifted his head slightly. The steward had been well tipped, and had been asked only a simple task. He reached Jo Gar's chair now, bowed jerkily.

"He has left his cabin," he said. "The man in white— the one who limps. He is coming."

He spoke in his native tongue, which was the tongue in which Jo had spoken to him. When the Island detective jerked his head in a gesture of dismissal, the steward moved towards the stern of the liner and vanished from sight. Jo turned his head a little and watched the man in white approach. He was of medium size; dressed in duck. He had a lean face, and it was as though the sun had not touched it. It was almost the color of the spotless suit he wore. He moved slowly, as Jo had seen him move at the dock, several hours before the boat had sailed. There was a very slight limp; it appeared that he stepped lightly when weight was on his left leg.

The man's face was turned away from him as he approached the spot opposite Jo's chair. But as he neared it he took his eyes from the water, looked at Jo in a swift, searching glance. The man in white had blue eyes; they were small and expressionless. His lips were thin, and without much color.

He stopped suddenly, his eyes still on Jo. He said, a slow smile on his face:

"Señor Gar, isn't it?"

Jo sat up and nodded. He even managed a little smile. He was very surprised, and tried not to let the other man know this.

The one in white nodded his head and seemed very pleased. His voice was soft, almost careless.

"Leaving the Islands?" he asked.

Jo Gar smiled pleasantly. "I have relatives in Honolulu," he said. "Leaving the Islands— for more islands."

The one in white chuckled a little. He said in an easy tone:

"I am Ferraro. For a time I was connected with the Constabulary.

I have heard of you."

Jo Gar bowed. Ferraro's English was good though not perfect. There was a clipping of words, a cutting short, despite his leisurely manner of talking.

Ferraro said: "You leave at a bad time. A terrible crime— Delgado's son, that watchman at the bank. And Juan Arragon. All dead."

He shook his head. Jo Gar said: "You were acquainted with Señor Arragon?"

Ferraro frowned. "No," he said. "But I had heard of him."

Jo Gar relaxed again, inhaled. The one in white looked at the sea, shrugging.

"The murderers will be caught, of course. And the Von Loffler diamonds found. It is almost always so."

Jo Gar closed his eyes and nodded. "Of course," he agreed. "It is so— almost always."

Ferraro looked at him again. "There are few passengers aboard, who came on at Manila. But perhaps you do not care to be addressed as Señor Gar?"

Jo widened his gray-blue eyes. "Why should I object?" he asked in a puzzled voice.

The one in white said: "Well, there has been this robbery— these murders. Only two days ago. There was a thorough search at the dock. I was asked many questions, myself. It seemed amusing."

Jo Gar said: "And you were formerly with the Constabulary?"

They both smiled; then Jo Gar said: "No, there is no secrecy. I am not of the police— I rather dislike the American who heads the force."

Ferraro said: "But Juan Arragon— he was one of your countrymen— a good friend—"

He paused, shrugged narrow shoulders. "At least, so I have heard," he said. "Having been in the Constabulary—"

Jo Gar nodded. "It is not so," he said quietly. "Juan Arragon was of the Manila police. He was always fighting me."

Ferraro said: "Oh, so that was it, Señor?"

The Island detective nodded very slowly. The man in white looked towards the water; then his eyes came back to Jo's again.

"I am dining alone," he said. "Will you join me?"

Jo thanked him and declined. "I do not think I shall dine tonight," he said. "My stomach pains me."

Ferraro expressed regret. He spoke a few words more and moved aft. His limp was barely noticeable, but it existed. Jo Gar reclined in his chair and remembered several things. Diamonds worth two hundred thousand dollars had been stolen from Delgado's jewelry store, on the Escolta, in Manila. Delgado's son had been murdered. A watchman had been murdered. And Juan Arragon had been murdered, after he had vanished in pursuit of one of the fleeing machines. His body had been returned to Jo Gar's small office, with a forged note attached. And later in the night, while trailing a clue, the Island detective had been forced to shoot a Malay who had come at him with a knife. The Malay had talked. He had spoken of the leader of the diamond thieves as "the one who walks badly— always in white."

For Liam Delgado, whose son was dead— and Von Loffler, who wished to recover the ten diamonds, Jo Gar had left the Islands. He had left aboard the Cheyo Maru because another was leaving on the same boat— a man dressed in white, who limped when he moved.

Jo Gar shrugged his narrow shoulders. The sunset red was almost gone now. The Island detective thought:

When a man is a thief and a murderer he does not seek out one who hunts down thieves and murderers. And yet this Ferraro has approached me, has invited me to dine.

A little grimness came into the gray-blue eyes of the Island detective.

"Sometimes such a man is very confident," he half whispered. "And sometimes he has been of the police." He nodded his head a little and ceased to smile. "And sometimes," he murmured very softly, "a dying man lies." The Island detective sighed. "It is very difficult," he said softly. "Even my own thoughts contradict."

WHEN JO GAR turned his key in the lock of his cabin, stepped inside, he closed the door slowly behind him. He hummed a little Spanish tune, and his body was rigid. There were his two bags— and they were opened, the contents spilled about. The lock of his small trunk had been smashed; the tray lay crosswise. His clothes were scattered. The berth sheets had been ripped up— the cabin was almost a wreck.

Jo stood with his back to the door, stopped humming. He lighted one of his cigarettes, moved about the cabin carefully, using his eyes. He touched nothing. After a few minutes he pressed a button and waited for the Japanese steward. When the man came he was breathing heavily, and his black, round eyes were wide. They grew wider as he surveyed the cabin. The Island detective made a little gesture with his brown hands.

"You see," he said. "There has been a search."

The steward broke into his native tongue. He was very excited. He had just entered the cabin of Señor Ferraro, who was of the Philippine Constabulary. And it, too, had been entered. Luggage had been ransacked. An officer of the boat had been notified.

Jo Gar made a clicking sound and nodded his head slowly.

"A clumsy person— this thief," he said. "I have nothing of value here. I am a poor man. Yet see how he has thrown things about."

The steward shrilled words— apologetic words. He had been away from the section only a short time. He had come on deck to do as Señor Gar had asked— to tell him that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin. He had come quickly and had taken a shortcut to the spot in which Señor Gar's chair had been placed.

Jo Gar quieted the man. He narrowed his gray-blue eyes on the ransacked trunk, then turned abruptly. He said as he moved through the doorway to the narrow corridor:

"You do not think the cabin was entered— before you went above to tell me that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin?"

The steward was sure neither cabin had been entered before that time. Señor Ferraro's cabin was only fifty feet distant from Señor Gar's. And it was in the same condition.

Jo Gar said: "Perhaps there are others in similar state."

He went along the narrow corridor to a wider one. The steward followed. Two ship's officers, clad in white uniforms and gold braid, approached. The Chief Steward came from another direction. There was much swift talk— the Japanese who had charge of Jo's cabin led the way to the one occupied by Señor Ferraro.

It was an outside cabin, much similar to Jo's. It was in the same sort of disorder. Jo looked in— the others went inside. The Third Officer said in English:

"And your cabin was entered, too, Señor?"

Jo nodded. "I was on deck," he said. "Señor Ferraro talked with me, about twenty minutes ago. Then he went to dine."

The Third Officer said: "You are friends?"

Jo shook his head. "Acquaintances," he corrected.

There was more talk. The Third Officer suggested that Señor Ferraro be notified, and while he was offering the suggestion the one with the limp came along the corridor. His blue eyes widened on the group. The Chief Steward said apologetically:

"Your cabin has been entered, Señor."

Ferraro looked at Jo Gar, went to the doorway of his cabin. His eyes moved over the opened bags, broken trunk locks. He drew in a deep breath and said slowly:

"But why? I am a poor man—"

Jo Gar chuckled a little. He said: "Those were my words, Señor. I, too, have been treated like this."

The one in white stared at Jo. Then he smiled a little with his thin lips. His face was bloodless; he had thin, yellowish hair.

His lips parted; he was about to speak, but he changed his mind. He went into the cabin and poked around among the clothes of a large bag. The officers were speaking with Jo when Ferraro uttered an exclamation.

"Ah— a woman!" he said.

Turning, he held out a white hand. In his palm lay the pin. It was perhaps two inches long. It had a setting so cheap that it could be immediately seen. There were a half dozen stones in the pin— but one was missing. They were glass— the glitter was false; they had not the appearance of even a clever imitation of diamonds.

The Third Officer took the pin and inspected it carefully. Jo Gar noted the cheapness of the metal— the flat backing. The pin clasp was bent— the whole thing a cheap job.

Ferraro stood close to the Third Officer. He said slowly, in his clipped-word manner:

"The sort of thing you buy on the Escolta for a few pesos. Cheap stuff— it fell while she was ransacking the place."

The Third Officer nodded. "You have not suffered a loss?" he asked.

Señor Ferraro shrugged. "I have nothing of importance— to lose," he stated.

He took the bar pin from the officer's fingers. He juggled it carelessly about in the palm of his right hand, without looking at it.

The Chief Steward addressed Jo Gar.

"And you, Señor Gar? You have not lost anything of importance?"

Jo Gar smiled at Ferraro. "I am much in the position of Señor Ferraro," he said quietly.

The Third Officer spoke in a peculiar tone.

"Neither of you gentlemen possess anything of great value— and yet each of you has been robbed."

Ferraro smiled a little, his blue eyes on the half-closed ones of the Island detective.

"It is very strange," he said softly.

Jo Gar spoke tonelessly. "It seems very strange," he agreed. "I shall return to my cabin and try to get things in order."

The Chief Steward said grimly: "We will make an investigation, of course. Perhaps the pin—"

Ferraro handed it to the Chief Steward. He looked at Jo.

"Señor Gar is quite skilled in these matters," he said slowly. "He is an interested person, in this case."

The Island detective smiled. "And you were formerly with the Island Constabulary," he reminded. "You see with what little esteem the intruder has regarded us."

The Third Officer said: "Perhaps it has been just a blundering affair— an attempt at quick robbery."

Jo Gar nodded his head, and kept his brown face serious.

"That is very possible," he agreed, and moved along the corridor towards his own cabin.

He was interrupted several times while he was adjusting things. It was not easy to think clearly, with so many people about. At ten o'clock the Third Officer came into the cabin, shutting the door behind him. He said very quietly:

"In matters such as this we always are suspicious of the cabin steward. We have questioned him at length. He states that you have tipped him generously, and that you had him come to you, on deck this evening, and warn you that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin and was going above for a bit of air before dining."

The Third Officer paused. Jo Gar nodded, his brown face expressionless.

"It is so," he said. "You wish to know the reason?"

The officer spread his hands in a little gesture, half of apology, half of assent. Jo said:

"I am weary of discussing Island matters. I wished to be alone. With the cabin steward advising me in time, I hoped to avoid Señor Ferraro for a few days. Unfortunately, I was unable to rise from the deck chair in time. So we met."

The Third Officer frowned. Then he nodded his head, very slowly.

He said:

"Thank you, Señor Gar."

Jo smiled pleasantly. He said in a careless voice:

"You are keeping that imitation thing— that bar pin?"

The officer shook his head. "There was no loss to Señor Ferraro," he said. "We shall make adjustment for any baggage damage. He asked me to leave the pin with him. He intends, I believe, to do some quiet investigating. He was with the Constabulary."

Jo Gar nodded pleasantly. "That is quite the wisest thing to do, I think," he said.

The Third Officer expressed regrets. The captain was disturbed. Such things seldom happened aboard the Cheyo Maru.

Jo Gar sighed. The Third Officer went from the cabin, turning at the door and smiling pleasantly. When he had gone Jo removed his palm beach suiting and got into clothes that were of dark silk. He waited a short time, went to the deck quickly, carrying a light blanket that bulked over his arm. His face held a tight smile as he approached the spot where his deck chair had been.

The night was warm and there was no moon. Most of the deck chairs had been collected and were being stacked together. Jo moved towards the deck steward, a tall Jap with eyes that were very black. He said:

"Please return my chair. I wish to rest a while on deck— I am sleepy and my cabin is stuffy."

The deck steward bowed. Jo showed him the spot, one that was fairly secluded, aft of the second stack. When the chair had been set up he relaxed in it. The deck steward smiled and moved away.

After a short time Jo turned his head to one side and appeared to doze. The deck steward passed him, treading very softly. He halted, and through slitted eyes the Island detective saw that he was staring at him. Then the steward moved hurriedly forward.

Jo Gar lay motionless in the chair. There was the steady vibration of the engines, and the faint sound of steam reaching the air. From some spot below music reached the boat deck. Jo said very quietly:

"How calm the sea is!"

His lips held an ironical smile. He breathed evenly, closed his almond-shaped eyes.

Five minutes later there were three shots. The first one was a muffled, Maxim-silenced pop-cough. The second was smothered but had more sound. The third was a sharp crack sound.

Jo Gar, his small body tense, stepped out from behind the ventilator— caught sight of a black figure moving aft. He bent his body low, ran along the deck, his automatic gripped tightly in his right-hand fingers. From some spot forward a voice called with the shrill of the Jap tongue a word that sounded like:

"Hai!"

The dark figure ahead had reached the steps of the port companionway. It seemed almost to dive down them. Jo Gar slowed his pace, approached the steps carefully. When he reached the bottom of them he heard shouts. Men were coming up from the deck below.

He tried to get past them, but a short, chunky man caught him by the right arm and tried to get his gun away. Jo said sharply:

"Stop— a man came down here! I am after— him."

He was breathing heavily. The chunky one wore a white uniform.

He said in bad English:

"I— ship police. I see no one—"

Other men were coming up. Several of them were in dinner clothes. Jo Gar watched the Third Officer come into the group. He shook off the grip of the ship policeman, said grimly:

"I was on deck. Three shots were fired. A figure in black ran towards this companionway. I followed."

A man in dinner clothes said: "I heard only two shots— from above."

The Third Officer was beside Jo. He spoke in a soft tone.

"You are dressed in black, also, Señor Gar."

Jo Gar nodded. "It is less conspicuous," he replied. "I was on deck— and wished to be inconspicuous."

The Third Officer said: "Why?"

Jo Gar raised his voice, but did not answer the question.

"And none of this group saw the man I was pursuing?" he asked. None in the group had seen any person in black— but Jo. The Third Officer said:

"The shots were fired— at you?"

Jo Gar shook his head. "At my deck chair," he said quietly. "I was some distance away."

He read suspicion in the Third Officer's eyes. The one in dinner clothes, who had spoken before, said grimly:

"You say there were three shots— I heard only two."

Jo Gar shrugged. "The first was Maxim-silenced," he replied. "If you will come to the boat deck—"

He broke off, turning. He went up the steps of the companionway, closely followed by the Third Officer. The others trailed along behind. When they reached the boat deck there were several other people. Two stood near the spot in which the steward had placed Jo's chair.

The Third Officer used his flashlight; he muttered an exclamation as the beam fell across the chair. Jo Gar stood to one side, smiling a little. His eyes were on the brown mask that had rolled from the chair. He said: "That is a mask that Sebastino, the Spaniard in Manila, made for me. It is a good likeness."

He moved forward, lifted it. The others crowded around him. The plaster had been broken in two places. There was a hole in the left cheek— another in the forehead. The Island detective said very softly: "You see— the one in black was an excellent shot. The third bullet—" He leaned over the chair and moved the cloth of the palm beach coat he had wrapped around the light blanket. There was a hole in the left lapel. He said in a toneless voice: "There is where it struck. It was like this—"

He adjusted the trousers and coat, rested the face mask above the coat, laying it with the right cheek against the canvas of the deck chair. He said quietly:

"Switch off the light— and move back here."

The Third Officer switched off the flashlight. The group moved away from the chair, towards the vessel's port rail. They stood looking towards the mask and the palm beach material. In the faint light it resembled Jo Gar— sleeping in the deck chair. The mask was very life-like.

The Third Officer sucked in his breath sharply. The man in dinner clothes, who had spoken before, swore.

He said grimly: "It was— attempted murder, all right!"

Jo Gar nodded. "And the one who attempted it has got away," he said. "Below that companionway— are there several avenues of escape?" The Third Officer nodded slowly. "A corridor to the concert room. Another companionway, to the deck below. A narrow passageway to the radio room—"

Jo Gar said slowly: "That is enough."

The Third Officer made a clicking sound. "We shall talk with the captain— you and I, Señor Gar," he said.

Jo nodded. There was the sound of footfalls— of a man running. A Jap came into the group, clad in the uniform of a subordinate officer. He addressed the Third Officer.

"Deck Steward Kamogi, sir!" he breathed. "He lies up forward, near your cabin. He's— dead."

The Third Officer spoke in Japanese. "Dead?" he asked.

"Shot?" The subordinate shook his head. "It was— a knife, sir," he replied. "In the back!"

The Third Officer narrowed his eyes on the blue-gray ones of Jo Gar. He said very softly:

"The deck steward, Señor Gar."

The Island detective looked towards the face mask in the chair. He said in a voice that held a suggestion of grimness:

"He would have been the first person I would have questioned."

CAPTAIN HAROYSAN sat across the table from Jo Gar, his moon face crinkled, his black eyes narrowed on those of the Island detective.

"You knew your life was in danger— you changed your attire, arranged a trap—"

Jo Gar spread his brown, chubby hands.

"I sensed my life was in danger," he corrected. "It was the deck steward—"

The captain of the Cheyo Maru frowned. He spoke slowly, shaking his head.

"It is very bad. The vessel has never had anything like this—"

Jo Gar smiled a little. "I have been very frank with you, Captain," he said. "The one responsible for the theft of the Von Loffler diamonds is aboard your ship, I am sure of that. He knows that I am aboard. That does not please him. I think that he bribed the deck steward to tell him when I was sleeping. Then he wished to be safe. So the deck steward was knifed."

The captain frowned. "And you bribed the steward of your cabin, to be told when Señor Ferraro was approaching you, on deck."

Jo Gar nodded. "I wished to evade him," he said.

The captain shrugged. "I do not believe that," he replied.

The Island detective smiled. "Señor Ferraro's cabin was broken into— so was mine," he said. "That is puzzling."

Captain Haroysan said sharply: "You are changing the point of the discussion."

Jo Gar rose from his chair. "The Von Loffler diamonds are valued in excess of two hundred thousand dollars, Captain," he said. "Already, more than a half dozen men have been murdered, because of them. One of those men was Juan Arragon, my friend. Another was Señor Delgado's son. Both Von Loffler and Delgado have commissioned me to hunt down the thief and murderer. I had evidence that he was aboard your ship."

The Japanese stood up also. He said grimly:

"If it satisfies me— I will take charge of him."

Jo Gar sighed. "It is weak evidence," he said quietly. "A Malay involved in an attempt to kill the American head of the Manila police gave it to me. He was dying at the time. It is not strong enough to make an arrest."

The captain said: "And you want the diamonds, Señor Gar?" Jo Gar nodded. "Of course," he agreed.

The captain shrugged. "A murderer is aboard the Cheyo Maru," he said. "In less than two weeks we shall be in Honolulu. But what is to happen— before we land—"

The Island detective said tonelessly:

"We will have the murderer of the deck steward. Perhaps we will have the Von Loffler diamonds."

Captain Haroysan made a guttural sound.

"I have radioed Manila— about you, Señor. And about Señor Ferraro."

Jo Gar said with a faint smile:

"And the information you received— it was good?"

Haroysan said with grim amusement: "It was even flattering. Señor Ferraro has seen honorable service with the Constabulary. You are much respected. And yet—"

The Cheyo Maru captain broke off abruptly. He shrugged. Jo Gar smiled sympathetically.

"And yet you are far from satisfied," he finished.

The captain said nothing. His eyes were narrow lines of blackness.

Jo Gar bowed slightly.

"I can understand your feelings, Captain," he said softly. "I feel— much the same way."

ON THE FOURTH day out the sky clouded, and there was wind. It was wind that blew gently at first, but increased steadily in velocity. There were rumors of a typhoon; the Cheyo Maru rolled badly. Racks were on the tables, and things creaked and rattled in the cabins. At four in the afternoon, with the sea growing steadily rougher, Jo Gar moved cautiously towards the cabin of Señor Ferraro and rapped on the door.

Ferraro called out: "Who is it?" And Jo answered him. The door was opened almost immediately.

The Island detective smiled and said: "Does the roughness bother you, Señor?"

Ferraro's white face was a little twisted, but he managed a smile. "I am not exactly a sailor," he said.

Jo stepped inside the cabin. Ferraro closed the door behind him.

Jo said:

"For the last two days I have been moving around in second- and third-class quarters. I think you were doing something along the same lines, yes?"

Ferraro nodded. "I had no luck," he said.

Jo Gar smiled a little. "This morning I had a little," he said. "I came across this."

He placed a brown hand in a pocket of his palm beach suit and withdrew it again. In his palm was a pin. It was a bar pin, of cheap manufacture. It had four imitation diamonds in it— one hole was vacant. The glass was large in size, but not matched.

Ferraro stared at the pin. He took it in his fingers and inspected it. Then he looked towards the small table in his cabin. On an end of it was the pin he had found after his cabin had been ransacked. He went over and placed it beside the other.

"The same sort of junk!" he breathed. "It might mean something."

Jo Gar nodded. "It might, but I'm afraid not," he said. "There are always a lot of women traveling second and third class on these ships. Many of them like cheap jewelry. A lot of these women are the dregs of the Orient. Captain Haroysan has told me that often first-class cabins are robbed. Or rather, attempts are made to rob."

Ferraro said: "But in this case— it was your cabin— and mine. And an attempt was made on your life."

Jo Gar nodded. "Many attempts have been made— to murder me," he said. "I found this pin in an empty third-class cabin. It lay beneath a berth."

Ferraro said very steadily: "We were both in police matters. What if the person thought he could learn something, or she could learn something, by getting into our luggage?"

The Island detective nodded. "A possibility," he said. "I've thought of that, Señor Ferraro."

Ferraro looked down at the two cheap objects in his palm. He poked them over on their backs. Jo Gar said slowly:

"I don't think that cheap stuff means anything. However, it is good to be careful."

He smiled at Ferraro and lifted one of the pins in his fingers. He said:

"We each have one— now."

Ferraro's mouth muscles twitched. He started to say something quickly, but caught himself. Turning, he made a movement as though to toss the pin towards the table. The ship was rolling heavily: he was forced to brace himself. Jo Gar leaned against the door. Ferraro said, facing him, a smile on his face:

"Wait— this is the piece of junk you found, Señor Gar."

There was a half-careless tone to his voice, yet he spoke hurriedly.

Jo Gar looked at the bar pin in his hand. "Of course," he agreed. "I am sorry."

They exchanged pins, both smiling. Jo slipped his into a pocket.

He said:

"I'm going to nap— it's getting steadily rougher. Sleeping helps." Ferraro tossed the pin towards the table. It struck it, but rolled from the surface to the floor. The one in white made an instinctive motion towards it, checked himself. He yawned, faced Jo.

"I'll have a try at it," he said.

Jo smiled and went outside. It took him five minutes to get to the captain's quarters. In another ten minutes the cabin boy had been sent to Ferraro's cabin. The Third Officer and Jo Gar, five minutes later, watched the one with the pale face following the cabin boy towards the captain's quarters. He did not see them. They went swiftly to his cabin, and the Third Officer used the key. Inside, Jo Gar looked on the floor. The bar pin was not there. It lay on the small table, on its back, the cheap stones face downward.

Jo Gar picked it up and handed it to the Third Officer. They went silently from the cabin, locking the door behind them. The Cheyo Maru was rolling heavily.

The Third Officer said: "Getting a little rough, Señor." The Island detective nodded. "I trust so," he said softly.

FALLIBAR, a diamond expert returning to the States, seated across from Jo Gar and Captain Haroysan, spoke quietly:

"The third stone is a fine diamond," he said. "The others in the pin are just glass. Even this real one has been painted, to give it false glitter. Painted on the back. And crudely mounted. But then, all of them are just stuck in holes of the metal."

There was silence. Fallibar studied the slip of paper Jo had given him. He nodded his head.

"It answers the description," he said slowly. "It's one of the Von Loffler stones. I've handled diamonds for thirty years, and I'd swear to that."

Jo Gar sighed. "And it was lost, while Señor Ferraro's cabin was being ransacked," he said slowly.

The Third Officer said in a hard voice:

"Two of us have gone through everything he has in there. The purser is still detaining him, telling him there is a mistake in his passage papers. But we're through— we have found nothing."

Captain Haroysan regarded Jo with narrowed, dark eyes.

"Señor Gar has traced this one diamond," he said. "I think it should be his affair."

Jo smiled. "That is good of you," he said. "I can think of only one way."

The captain of the Cheyo Maru said quietly: "You will need assistance?"

The Island detective smiled with his thin lips pressed together. He ran brown fingers across the skin of his forehead, then shook his head.

"I do not think so," he said very softly. "It is difficult to tell."

Fallibar said grimly: "There has been a murder, and your life has been attempted—"

Jo Gar smiled at the diamond expert who was returning to the States. The Cheyo Maru rolled sluggishly in the seas kicked up by the tail end of the typhoon.

"I shall not need assistance," he said firmly. "If the captain will instruct the purser not to detain Señor Ferraro longer, I shall wait a little while, and then go to his cabin."

The Third Officer said: "But he will notice, perhaps, that the bar pin has vanished."

Jo Gar smiled with his almond-shaped eyes on the swaying walls of the Captain's office.

"I am very sure that he will," he agreed tonelessly.

WHEN JO GAR rapped lightly on the door of Ferraro's cabin it was almost six o'clock. The one in white called again:

"Who is it?"

Jo Gar said: "Señor Gar."

The door was opened and Jo went inside. He was smiling a little.

Señor Ferraro was dressed in white trousers and a white shirt. He wore slippers. He said in a rather sharp voice:

"I have been in the cabin only a few minutes. A mix-up in my passage papers, and the purser is very stupid. But when I returned here— that bar pin had disappeared."

Jo Gar stood with his back to the door and extended the palm of his right hand towards Ferraro. He said quietly:

"I have the honor— to return it."

Ferraro's face got hard. He took the pin, stared at it. He said, in a surprised tone:

"But now— there are two stones missing!"

His lips were twitching; he was breathing hard. Jo Gar nodded almost pleasantly. He put his right hand in a pocket of his palm beach coat.

"We removed one of them— one was already missing," he said. Ferraro stared at the Island detective. He said nastily:

" 'We' removed one?"

Jo nodded again. "Mr. Fallibar aided me," he said. "He is a diamond expert— an acquaintance of the captain."

He watched the little jerk of Ferraro's body. The man in white was fighting for control. But he said in a hard, rising voice.

"But why— did you remove one?"

Jo Gar shrugged. "It was one of the Von Loffler stones," he replied. "I noticed a difference in the color, when you showed me the bar pin. I had Mr. Fallibar inspect it. The stone we removed is one of the ten missing ones— and quite valuable."

Ferraro said hoarsely: "It's a mistake! How would that pin have been lost— in here—"

Jo Gar stopped smiling. He said patiently: "It wasn't lost in here, Señor Ferraro."

He waited, watching the fear in Ferraro's eyes, watching the man's attempt at control. Then he said in an easy tone:

"A Malay that I shot in Manila was dying. He told me to find 'the one who walks badly— always in white.' I wanted to know who the leader was— of the ones that robbed Delgado's store. I came aboard this ship— when I learned you were coming aboard, Ferraro!" Ferraro said hoarsely: "You're— mad, Gar! You think I—"

His voice broke. Jo Gar nodded and moved his right pocket material a little.

"I think the Malay made a mistake, Señor Ferraro," he said. "You were not the leader of the diamond thieves. But you had been with the Constabulary, and you could aid them. You were valuable, and for your services you received one diamond. A very valuable stone."

There was a sneer across Ferraro's face. Jo Gar said:

"You were not worried about me being aboard. Perhaps you were offered a bigger reward— for my death. You wanted to create a mystery, and to show me that you possessed nothing of value. You did not work alone. You thought that a safe way to carry your diamond was in the cheap pin. And you used it to attempt throwing me off the trail. But you wished to kill, also. You bribed the deck steward— and he told you I was asleep. You fired three shots at what you thought was Señor Gar, and you got away. You wore dark clothes— and threw them overboard. Then you were in white— a man in white."

Ferraro said hoarsely. "That is a lie! I did not—"

Jo Gar said: "It is not a lie. The dark coat did not get clear of the vessel. It caught over an open port, just above the waterline—"

Ferraro's voice was almost a scream. He cried:

"You lie— you lie!"

Jo Gar said grimly: "I think that the first shot knocked the mask to the deck— you knew you had failed. You were afraid— and you went forward and knifed the deck steward so that he could not talk—" Ferraro made a swift movement of his right hand. Jo Gar squeezed the trigger of his automatic. The Cheyo Maru was rolling— the bullet struck the mirror above the wash basin. Ferraro's gun cracked— wood spurted from the door behind Gar.

The Island detective fired again. Ferraro's body jerked; his gun arm dropped. He slumped slowly to his knees, swayed for a minute, rolled to the left as the vessel tilted in the rough seas.

Jo Gar said slowly: "You were too sure— you were not suspected, Ferraro. Too certain."

The man in white turned his head a little. Jo Gar moved forward and got the gun away from him. He said in a steady voice:

"You tried to be careless— with that bar pin. But you showed it had value."

Ferraro groaned. "That— damned coat—" he breathed in a tearing voice.

Jo said: "I was bluffing, Ferraro— it didn't catch on the port. Who were the others? Who was the one who planned the diamond steal—"

Ferraro's face was splotched with red. Blood was on his lips. He said thickly:

"It was that—"

He was coughing, his face twisted. Jo bent over him. Ferraro's eyes were staring. He muttered thickly:

"The blind— Chinese— Honolulu— you can find—"

His muttering died. There was a convulsive shiver of his body. In the corridor there was the sound of foot-falls, voices. Jo Gar bent down, straightened again. He braced himself against the ship roll, opened the door. The Third Officer stared past him, at the body of Señor Ferraro.

He said: "He was— the one— you were searching for!"

Jo Gar shook his head. But he didn't speak. The words of the dying Malay had helped. He was wondering if the last words of Ferraro would help, too. And he was making certain that he would remember them.

3: The Blind Chinese

IT WAS just a little time after dusk. There was a crescent moon half-hidden by the jagged peak of the Pali; a cool breeze blew through the garden not far from the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Jo Gar relaxed in the wicker chair in which his diminutive body rested. But his gray-blue eyes were alert; they watched the mild ones of Benfeld, the Honolulu representative of the Dutch Insurance Company. Benfeld sipped his cool drink and said with a slight English accent:

"Herr Von Loffler had cabled me. It was in code and therefore quite safe. We are interested, of course. My home company insured the diamonds. A terrible crime."

Jo nodded his head. "The murders were incidental," he said in his toneless voice. "The one who planned the robbery perhaps thought it could be accomplished without a killing. He was mistaken. Delgado's son was murdered in the jewelry store. There was the bank guard, who was killed outside. And then Juan Arragon, my friend, who was in pursuit. An attempt was made to murder the American chief of police. In Manila he is not too well liked. I was forced to shoot a Malay, and he spoke of a 'man in white— who walks badly.' I traced such a man aboard the Cheyo Maru."

Benfeld said grimly: "And you were forced to shoot him to death.

But you learned something."

Jo Gar widened his eyes slightly. He had only told the insurance representative certain things, not too much.

"Very little," he corrected.

Benfeld shrugged. He was a tall man, with a long face and blond hair.

"You recovered one of the diamonds," he said.

Jo Gar sighed a little. He smiled and straightened in his wicker. Palm trees swayed beyond the garden, and yet Honolulu was not like Manila. It was cooler, less tropical in a sense.

"Señor Ferraro was a fool," he said placidly. "The Malay who spoke of him might have thought he was the important one of the bandits. But he was not. Perhaps he talked with the Malay, who I think was one of the robbers. But Ferraro was given only one of the ten Von Loffler stones."

Benfeld relighted a thin cigar and nodded his long head very slowly. "And you have said he tried to murder you, on the Cheyo Maru," he said.

The Island detective nodded. "In Manila— many people have tried to murder me," he said simply. "The stolen diamonds are worth more than two hundred thousand dollars. There was a diamond expert on the boat, by chance. He has valued the diamond I recovered from this Ferraro at in excess of twenty thousand dollars. It is one of the Von Loffler stones, of course. I think, had Ferraro succeeded in murdering me, he would have received another."

There was a flickering light in Benfeld's eyes. He said very softly:

"Who would have given it to him, Señor Gar?"

Jo Gar got a brown-paper cigarette from a pocket of his light-colored suit coat. He smiled with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed.

"Ferraro died during the fourth day out from Manila," he said very softly. "I spent the remaining days in attempting to associate him with some other person on the boat. It was a failure."

Benfeld frowned. Gray smoke curled upward from his thin lips.

He was silent for several seconds.

"Then, as it stands, Señor Gar—" he said thoughtfully—"you have recovered one of the Von Loffler stones. You are thousands of miles from Manila. And you have completely lost the trail of the others." Jo Gar closed his eyes. It was peculiar— the way Benfeld regarded the situation. It was almost as though the Dutch insurance representative was pleased. He was certainly extremely inquisitive. He had received a cable from Von Loffler, there was no doubt about it. And Jo considered that the German owner of the nine missing diamonds had been foolish, even though he had sent the message in code. But then, this man seated across from him represented the company that had insured the diamonds. That company would suffer a severe loss if they were not recovered.

He had not answered Benfeld's question— the long-faced one said quietly:

"Of course, I understand that your friend was murdered. Juan Arragon. And also that Señor Delgado wishes to bring to justice the person that murdered his son. And already you have recovered one diamond. But the trail—"

His voice died away; he frowned and shrugged. Jo Gar opened his eyes and smiled at the Dutchman.

"The trail is lost," he said simply. "There are nine diamonds still missing. They are worth almost two hundred thousand dollars."

Benfeld cleared his throat and said in a tone that was so careless Jo noticed it:

"If this Ferraro— had only spoken, before he died!"

Jo Gar inhaled smoke from his brown-paper cigarette. He lifted his glass with stubby, brown fingers. He sipped a little of the cool liquid.

"It would have helped— very much," he said simply.

He looked towards the swaying palm trees and remembered the words that Señor Ferraro had used. Benfeld did not know of those words, and he would not know of them. The man was getting at something.

The Dutchman shook his head and sighed heavily. He said:

"The company will investigate, of course. But it will be very difficult, I fear. And what are your plans, Señor Gar?"

Jo Gar shrugged. "The Cheyo Maru remains in port until noon tomorrow," he said. "She will be in San Francisco within six days. I shall make the voyage aboard her. Only a few passengers disembarked here— and I have made quite certain they are not involved."

Benfeld said slowly: "Of course, you have had much time to learn who was landing."

Again there was the peculiar tone of his voice. It was almost as though he were slightly amused. But the next second he was frowning, shaking his long head.

"The nine Von Loffler stones!" he murmured. "And diamonds are so simple— to hide away."

Jo Gar nodded and said wearily: "It will be good to sleep on shore tonight. Ship travel tires me. I think I shall retire, after a brief drive about."

He waited for the obvious offer. But it did not come. Benfeld lived in Honolulu; he had brought Jo to this garden from the small hotel in which he had taken a room. Yet he was not offering to drive him about for a short time.

Jo Gar waited in silence. Finally Benfeld said:

"I was trying to think of some way— I have an engagement it will not be possible for me to break—"

The Island detective said protestingly: "Do not even consider it."

Benfeld said suddenly: "Of course, I have it! You will use my car. I shall get other conveyance. In the morning we shall meet again."

He smiled cheerfully. Jo Gar protested. But Benfeld would not listen to him.

"Better still—" he said, and his voice died away as he frowned thoughtfully. Then he said with a smile: "I have two cars. You will remain here, Señor Gar— and I will drive to my appointment. It is a monthly affair, an important one. I will then send my chauffeur to you, with the other car, the open one. I will drive my own, when I return home, which will be late. In the morning I will come to your hotel."

Jo Gar bowed a little. "You are very good," he said softly. "You are very kind."

Benfeld glanced at his wristwatch and rose to his feet. He called a Chinese waiter and insisted upon paying for the drinks. Jo Gar rose and they shook hands. Jo said:

"Of course you realize you must be discreet about this affair—"

Benfeld said sharply: "Of course, Señor Gar. I think you have done very well. I will have my chauffeur return here within twenty minutes, say. You will not be too chilled in an open car?"

The Island detective shook his head. "I would like an open machine," he replied. "It is very good of you."

Benfeld smiled. "You will be able to see more of the Island," he said. He bowed. "Until tomorrow, then."

Jo Gar bowed a little. "Until tomorrow," he agreed.

The Dutchman went slowly from the garden, towards the palm-studded street. He walked erectly, with his shoulders thrown back. He bowed to two men seated at a small table in the garden. Then he was lost from sight behind a high, tropical hedge. Jo Gar reseated himself and called the waiter.

"Iced claret," he ordered.

He slumped in the wicker and watched the crests of the palms sway in the breeze. It was true that he was many miles from Manila. But other things were not so true. Perhaps he had lost the trail of the remaining nine Von Loffler diamonds— perhaps not. The thing that Benfeld did not know was that Señor Ferraro had used a few words, lying on the floor of his cabin on the Cheyo Maru. Most men, when they felt death coming close, used words. And Ferraro had said: "The blind Chinese— Honolulu— you can find—"

That was all he had said. And in the city of Honolulu, with a tremendous Chinese population, there would be more than one Chinese who was blind. But that did not mean that the trail was lost.

The waiter brought the iced claret. Jo Gar sipped it and smoked another cigarette. He thought:

The Dutchman, he is well established here. He perhaps has a fine reputation. But why did he question me so? And he has not a poker face. He is not experienced in these things. There is much that he would like to know, yet he has an important engagement. And my boat is sailing at noon tomorrow.

Jo smiled a little, with his lips pressed together.

"And he feels I would enjoy riding in an open machine," he murmured softly.

Music from a stringed orchestra reached his ears. It was the soft, lazy music of the Hawaiians. The Manila detective nodded his head very slowly.

"There is a possibility"— he half whispered, looking down at his drink—"that he is correct. I shall very soon see."

Some twenty minutes later a waiter came to Jo Gar's table and said that his car was just beyond the garden. Jo thanked him and paid for the drink. He went slowly to the street in which the palms rose. The car was a short distance from the garden entrance. It was a small car, well polished. It seemed of an old make. The driver was a short Chinese. He wore a white coat that was several sizes too large for him, no hat. His trousers were not so clean as his coat. He smiled, showing broken yellow teeth, and bowed awkwardly.

"Señor Gar?" he asked.

Jo frowned. He thought first that Benfeld was a fool, using his name to a servant. And then he smiled with his eyes. He nodded.

"Yes," he said in English. "You are Señor Benfeld's chauffeur?"

He spoke slowly and clearly. The Chinese nodded his head. He said:

"It is so— I am— chauffeur."

Jo Gar nodded. He looked into the rear of the open car. The seat was clean, but the floor mat was not so clean. The top was back, and the sides of the car were low. It was not unlike many other cars Jo had noticed— cars that were hired out to tourists on the Island.

He stepped inside as the driver held the door open. He said:

"I do not care to go far from the heart of the city. Along the beach, and past the old Palace of the—"

He checked himself. The chauffeur was trying desperately to understand his English. He had spoken fast, but not too fast. And this man had spoken first in English.

Jo Gar sighed a little. He said very slowly:

"We will go— where you wish. You have been told— where to take me?"

The driver's face lighted. He jerked his head up and down, showing his broken teeth again.

"Me told— what do," he said cheerfully. "Me know— where go."

Jo smiled and nodded. The driver got into the front seat. When the car moved forward it jerked and made much noise. It reminded Jo of the car owned by himself, back in Manila. And the chauffeur was hardly the sort one might expect Benfeld to have.

The Island detective sat back in the seat. The streets were not too well lighted; as the car moved along the lights grew fewer, and there were not so many hotels. The foliage was thicker. There was a crossroads ahead, and Jo was sufficiently familiar with Honolulu to know that the beach was to the right. But the driver turned the car jerkily to the left. The road grew narrower, and the houses far apart. There was the sweet odor of the foliage, and in the distance the slopes of mountains.

Jo Gar leaned forward and said above the clatter of the machine: "I would prefer— the beach road—"

The driver jerked his head a little and nodded. He said in a shrill, raised tone:

"Me come— back along beach. He tell me— go by mountain road first—"

Jo Gar sat back in the seat and got his Colt from the holster under his left thigh. He smiled a little, but it was a grim smile. Once he turned in the rear seat, raised himself slightly and glanced behind. There were no lights of another car, but he was not reassured. The road on which they were driving was growing narrower. It was rough, and there were no shoulders.

Suddenly the headlights went out. They came on again almost instantly, then were extinguished. Jo's body was rigid; he could see that the driver was leaning forward slightly, back of the wheel. The lights flashed on. The car was moving slowly up a fairly steep grade. Foliage was thick on both sides of the road.

The Island detective leaned forward and called sharply: "You have trouble— with the lights?"

The Chinese jerked his head around, nodded. His almond-shaped eyes held a hard expression; they seemed to glitter. His lips were drawn back. The car slowed down, halted. The Chinese used the emergency brake gratingly. He turned his head all the way and said shrilly:

"Him go bad. You wait— me fix."

He slid from the seat back of the wheel, got to the left side of the car. He went swiftly towards the headlights, which seemed to be showing dimly. Jo Gar was leaning forward in the seat, his gray-blue eyes narrowed.

He heard the other machine before he saw it. There was the roar of an engine— the car seemed to be speeding up the far side of the slope on which the car in which Jo was seated was resting. There were no lights, but the engine roar was increasing in sound.

The Chinese heard the roar, too. He stood near the lights, his small body rigid. He called shrilly:

"Me need— stick. Me get— him!"

His body swung around; he moved towards the right side of the road, the thick foliage. As he neared it there was a flare of light beyond the crest of the slope. Headlights of the approaching car had been suddenly switched on. But they slanted high, above the standing car and above the road.

The Chinese driver's body crashed through the foliage; his back was turned to Jo as he went into it. The Island detective moved with surprising swiftness. In a flash he was out of the car. He ran, in darkness, his small body bent low, to the left side of the road, dived into the thick foliage. Branches and leaves struck against his outflung arms. He went to his knees, let his body drop flat. Back of him the road was suddenly yellow-white with the glare from headlights.

There was the increasing roar of the car engine. And then the staccato beat of the guns. Metal made sound, and there was the shattering sound of glass. The air was filled with the clatter— Jo Gar could hear the bullets pounding into the body of the car.

The engine roar had diminished momentarily. Now it increased in volume. The clatter of the guns died away. There had certainly been more than one gun, and they had been machine-guns. Few bullets had missed the car in which he had been seated.

The engine roar became a hum as the car from which the bullets had been loosed sped back towards the heart of Honolulu. Jo Gar lay motionless, listening to the decreasing sound. His Colt was gripped in the fingers of his out-flung right hand.

He moved about very quietly, pulling his body nearer the road and parting the foliage a little. He could see the machine now. There was light from the stars and crescent moon. The windshield was shattered, both headlights had been shot out. He could see bullet marks along the side facing him. The rear left tire was flat.

In the distance the engine of the departing car was making only a faint hum sound. Jo Gar smiled with his lips and kept narrowed eyes on the foliage ahead of the bullet-filled car, across the road. He half whispered:

"Machine-guns in Manila. And now here. Methods of the Western world, these are!"

There was faint sound from the foliage across the road. He saw the short figure of the Chinese chauffeur appear, crawling. The man glanced towards the car, then slowly straightened his body. For several seconds he stood motionlessly, looking towards the battered machine. Then his head turned; he glanced in each direction, along the road. He listened intently.

There was no sound of another car. The hum of the speeding one had died away. Jo Gar guessed that the spot was a deserted one, one from which the noise of the machine-guns would not reach habitation. The Chinese chauffeur moved slowly into the rough-surfaced, dirt road. He stood for a few seconds in front of the car, then walked around it. He stood with his back to Jo as the Island detective rose and lifted his Colt a little. The Chinese moved closer to the car, getting up on his toes and peering towards the floor at the rear.

Jo Gar stepped from the foliage to the roadbed. There was crackling sound as he did so, and the driver's body swung around. His eyes went wide with fear as he stared at Jo. His breath made a whistling sound and he cried out shrilly in his native tongue.

Jo said quietly: "I was not— in the machine, you see."

He smiled a little. The Chinese was staring at the gun now. His lips were drawn back from his teeth; his face was a mask of fear. Jo said:

"I think— you must die— for what you have done."

He moved the gun up a little, and forward. The chauffeur started shrilling words in his native tongue. His body was shaking. Jo said:

"Stop it! You are not Benfeld's chauffeur. This is not Benfeld's car. It is a hired car. Perhaps your car. Will you answer my questions?"

The Chinese was staring at him. He jerked his head up and down. The Island detective said slowly: "You will certainly die, if you do not answer me truthfully. Who were those in the machine that just passed? Those who used the guns?"

The Chinese shook his head. Jo Gar smiled with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed. He repeated the question in stilted Chinese, a tongue with which he had difficulty, in spite of his many years in Manila.

The driver said: "Me— not know!"

Jo Gar said, moving a little closer to the chauffeur:

"The Dutchman, Benfeld— he went to you and paid you money. Very good money. He told you that you were to act as his chauffeur. He furnished you with a new coat, though there was no time to make it fit. He told you where to drive me and how to signal with your headlights. He said you must then stop the car— and hide yourself. Is this not so?"

He had spoken very slowly and clearly. The chauffeur nodded his head. He said:

"He do not— tell me more."

Jo Gar nodded and smiled grimly. He was thinking that Benfeld had taken a big chance. And yet, he had almost succeeded. There had been only a few seconds' time between life and death— for Señor Gar.

The Island detective stopped smiling. He moved his gun hand a little.

"I think you must die," he said steadily. "You would have killed me—"

The Chinese shook his head and shrilled words. After a few seconds he spoke more slowly. He said that he did not know that the big guns were to fire into the car. He did not know what had been about to happen. He was a poor man, and Benfeld had offered him much money.

Jo Gar cut him off, after a little time.

"I will give you a chance," he said slowly. "There is a person I wish to see. He is Chinese. And he is— blind."

He saw instantly that the chauffeur knew of such a man. And he saw that the man was of importance. But the driver shook his head.

"There are— more than one— blind Chinese in—"

Jo Gar interrupted again. "There is one of some importance," he said. "Think carefully. Perhaps this one has a place where dishonest men go. Perhaps he is not a good person. Think well, for you are young to die."

He spoke very slowly, and with no smile on his face. He held his Colt low and slightly forward of his right side.

The Chinese driver stared at him wildly. But he did not speak. Jo Gar said:

"Very well— I shall find him alone. But first I must silence you, so that you do not again interfere with me."

The chauffeur threw out his hands. They were browned, and the fingers were jerking, twisting. He said:

"I know— him! I go— his place—"

Jo Gar lowered his Colt slightly. He nodded his head and smiled.

His voice was almost toneless when he spoke.

"You are wise— we shall go there together. We shall walk to a spot where perhaps we may obtain a ride. You will do as I say, and if you make one, slight mistake—"

He moved the Colt a little. The Chinese driver's facial muscles were twisting. He was breathing quickly. He said:

"Tan Ying— he is very bad. Even if he does— not see—"

Jo Gar nodded. "Many men are very bad," he philosophized quietly. "But after they are dead— how do we know what then happens?"

The driver half closed his staring eyes. He said in a shrill, shaken tone:

"If I take you to the place— they will kill me."

Jo Gar shrugged. "And if you do not take me— I will kill you," he said. "It is a difficult position."

The driver said: "I am a poor man—"

The Island detective nodded. "Then you have less to live for," he replied. "Let us start."

THE HOUR WAS almost midnight when Jo Gar and the Chinese chauffeur moved through the teeming streets of the Honolulu Chinese quarter. There was the sound of discordant music— the shrill, reedy notes that came down from rooms beyond balconies. The section was well lighted in spots, very poorly lighted in others. Jo Gar kept his body close to that of the chauffeur, and his Colt within the right pocket of his light suit coat. At intervals he let the weapon press against the chauffeur's side.

They turned suddenly into a narrow alley that wound from the lighted street. There were few lights in the alley; the section was very quickly a poor one. The shops were squalid and dirty; no music came down from the rooms beyond the balconies.

The street curved more sharply at the far end. The Chinese at Jo's side said thickly:

"It is— there—"

He pointed towards a narrow entrance, an oblong cut in unpainted wood. Strips on which letters were scrawled in Chinese, hung on either side of the entrance. Streamers of painted beads hung from the bamboo pole at the top of the entrance; they obscured the store beyond.

Jo said softly: "You will go— first—"

The driver's face was twisted, but he forced a smile as his browned hands shoved aside the beads. They made a rattling sound; Jo followed into the shop. A kerosene light made odor and gave little flare. There was the usual musty, aged smell of such shops. Baskets were about, with nuts in them— and jars contained brightly colored candy. There were shelves with boxes marked with Chinese lettering.

No one was about, but at the rear of the store was another bead curtain. The Chinese driver glanced towards it. Jo Gar said in a half whisper:

"Do as you— were told."

The chauffeur raised his voice and called in a shrill voice: "Tan Ying!"

A quavering voice replied, from the room beyond the second curtain. It said:

"Welcome, Dave Chang!"

Jo Gar smiled grimly. The Americanization of the Chinese never failed to amuse him. He touched Chang lightly and pointed towards the beads of the curtain.

The chauffeur said in Chinese: "You are alone, Tan Ying?"

Ying replied that he was alone. He asked that the driver would enter his humble abode. Chang moved towards the beaded curtain and Jo Gar followed him. He was very close to him as they passed through the beaded curtain into the rear room. Two kerosene lamps were burning, but there was a clutter of objects in the place. Buddha's figure was in a corner; the light from the nearer lamp struck the face from an angle, making the figure seem very life-like.

Tan Ying was an aged Chinese. He sat cross-legged, but there was some object against which his back rested. He was obese and fat faced. His eyes were open but sightless. They shone whitely as he stared towards Chang. It was almost as though he were inspecting the chauffeur.

Jo Gar stepped soundlessly to one side of the beaded curtain. He took his Colt from his right-hand pocket, held it low at his side. He breathed as quietly as possible. But it was not enough. Tan Ying said quietly, steadily.

"You are not alone, Dave Chang."

He spoke in his native tongue, and Chang sucked in his breath sharply. He twisted his head and looked at Jo. The Island detective smiled and nodded.

Chang said: "It is my Spanish friend, Mendez. He has arrived on the boat today."

The blind Chinese nodded his fat face. His face was expressionless, except that his sightless eyes gave it a strange intenseness. He said:

"Welcome, Señor Mendez!"

Jo Gar spoke in Spanish. "You are good to welcome me, Tan Ying." The Chinese smiled; he was almost toothless. The wick in one of the kerosene lamps was low; it flickered now and then. There was a little silence. Then Jo Gar said to the chauffeur, in Chinese:

"Will you speak of the business?"

The chauffeur's body stiffened. He said very softly: "You are expecting the Dutchman, Tan Ying?"

Tan Ying's fat body rocked a little from side to side. His lips tightened. He said:

"Why do you speak of him?"

Jo Gar said: "It is because I am to meet him— in Honolulu, Tan Ying. That is the reason."

The lips of the fat Chinese relaxed a little. A clock chimed, and Tan Ying listened to it. He said, after a little silence following the chimes:

"The Dutchman— he is already late."

Jo Gar sighed a little. He moved his body and turned so that when Benfeld came in he could easily cover him with his weapon. The driver was looking at him with tortured eyes; Chang was feeling fear.

The blind Chinese said suddenly, in very precise English: "It has gone well, Dave Chang?"

Jo Gar felt his body stiffen. The driver nodded his head, and looked at Jo again. The Island detective nodded and smiled.

Chang said: "It has gone well, Tan Ying."

The blind Chinese smiled again. His body continued to rock from side to side. There was a small screen near the print-covered wall at Jo's back. It was perhaps four feet high, and as many long. It was within several feet of the wall. Jo Gar moved quietly to it, stood close to it. He raised his gun a little and nodded at Dave Chang.

The chauffeur hesitated. Jo Gar's face grew hard; he narrowed his gray-blue eyes. Chang said:

"Señor Mendez will be of use to the Dutchman, Tan Ying."

The blind Chinese stopped swaying. He said in his native tongue: "It may be so."

There was the sound of beads rattling, at the entrance of the shop. The blind Chinese stiffened, and Dave Chang half turned his body. Jo Gar raised his weapon, leveled it at the chauffeur. Then he stepped behind the screen and bent downward. He got his right eye near a section crack. There was little light on the screen. From the outer room there was the sound of tapping. He counted a half dozen taps; they were soft and well spaced.

The blind Chinese raised his voice and said: "It is the way of the Western lands—"

There was the sound of footfalls. The beads of the inner curtain rattled and Benfeld came into the room. He straightened, looked sharply about. He said in a hard tone, in English:

"You— Chang— what was it that happened?"

The blind Chinese said softly: "Dave Chang— he has told me it is well."

Benfeld said fiercely in English: "He lied! When we got back there, after ten minutes, there was no body in the car. You— Chang—"

The chauffeur said hoarsely, fear in his voice:

"I do not know— what happened! I did as I was told. I signaled with the lights, and when I saw the beam of your car— I ran to the foliage. When I returned, there was no sign of Señor Gar. I swear it."

Benfeld said grimly: "What did you do? Why didn't you stay near the car?"

Chang replied in a shrill tone: "I was frightened. One of the bullets from your machine— it almost struck me. I went into the foliage, wandered around. Then I remembered that we were to be here at twelve."

Benfeld drew a deep breath. He kept his right hand out of sight in the pocket of a light coat he was wearing. He had on a soft hat, pulled low over his face.

The blind Chinese was muttering to himself. He stopped it and said:

"Señor Mendez is here, you see."

There was a little silence. Jo Gar watched Benfeld stare about the room. There was a puzzled expression on the Dutchman's face.

The right pocket of his coat moved a little. There was fear in Chang's eyes, but he did not look towards the screen. Jo Gar's body was tense, but he waited. Benfeld said in English:

"What is this? What do you mean?"

The blind Chinese seemed to sense that something was wrong. His head did not move, but he spoke very softly and very calmly.

"Dave Chang— he brought with him Señor Mendez. I have spoken with him, but a few minutes ago. Chang said that he would be of use to you."

With his one eye back of the section crack, Jo Gar watched Benfeld move away from the chauffeur. He saw the glint of steel as the Dutchman's gun came out of his pocket. Chang was breathing rapidly; fear was gripping him. Benfeld's eyes went about the room in a swift glance. The low-wicked lamp sent light wavering over the walls.

Benfeld said: "By God, Chang— you've tricked us—" The Chinese chauffeur said in a shrill voice:

"No— it is not so! I have not—"

Jo Gar raised his Colt and got the muzzle within a half inch of the section crack. Benfeld was in a line, but beyond the Chinese chauffeur. He had his long face lowered a little; his eyes were slitted on Chang's. He said:

"By God— you have. I've told you too much. I've been a fool. But I've got you— in here. Gar had those diamonds on him. He got them from Ferraro. He lied to me. You took them from him—"

The blind Chinese said in his native tongue, his voice calm: "Be careful— there is this Mendez—"

Benfeld's eyes went around the room again. He said savagely:

"There's no one else in here. If Chang said there was— he was lying to you, Ying. Or else he was—"

The chauffeur said in a shrill voice:

"I did not— steal the diamonds! That is not so— do not shoot—" A knife was suddenly in the right hand of the seated Chinese. He held it out, his sightless eyes gazing straight ahead. He said calmly:

"Be careful— is not a knife better?"

Benfeld said in a low, hoarse voice: "I tell you— Señor Gar had the diamonds. He lied to me. Was I not informed that Ferraro was bringing them? Gar lied. Either he was trying to get away with them, or he wants them for himself. And you—"

The chauffeur said shrilly: "When I reached my car— he was not there—"

Jo Gar watched Benfeld, with thoughts running through his brain. Benfeld figured that he had the diamonds, had gotten them from Ferraro and had lied to him. But did that mean that Ferraro had had more than one stone? Did it mean that someone on the Cheyo Maru had received the others, after all? Had Ferraro lied to him, dying?

Benfeld was staring at Dave Chang. He said very quietly:

"Why did you say Mendez was here? Why did you tell Tan Ying that?"

Jo Gar held his breath. He expected Chang to break any second now, to fail under the strain. He was between two guns, and he knew it. Jo had already gotten information from him; he had spoken of Mendez, and Jo Gar had forced him to use the name. The chauffeur was in a tight spot, but surely he must realize that if Jo Gar were to go down under the lead from Benfeld's gun— he would have a better chance. He had talked, because Jo had forced him to talk. But with the Island detective dead—

Tan Ying said in the same passive voice: "The knife— it is better."

The body of the blind Chinese was swaying again. Benfeld said in a harsh voice:

"Very well— throw it at my feet, Tan Ying."

The knife fell several feet from Benfeld, but the judgment of the blind man was not bad. Benfeld glanced down at it, but did not move.

"Why did you say that Mendez was here?" he asked again. The blind Chinese said steadily:

"You do not hear me, Benfeld. I tell you someone— was here! I talked with him—"

The eyes of Benfeld were slitted on the screen now. Jo Gar held the muzzle of his gun steady. The chauffeur said weakly:

"It was Mendez— we met in the Street of the Lanterns. He was coming—"

Benfeld swore hoarsely. "Then where is he now?" he asked very slowly.

The Chinese driver made a little movement of his left hand. A browned finger pointed towards the screen. He said at the same instant:

"I do not know— he went out—"

The gun in the hand of Benfeld slanted a little. Jo Gar looked at it, squeezed the trigger of his Colt. When the gun jerked and the room filled with sound, he hurled his body to one side.

The bullet from Benfeld's gun struck the wood of the screen, and then the wall back of it. Jo Gar pulled himself to his feet and swung around. Benfeld was sinking to the floor— he half raised his weapon. The blind Chinese said in a high-pitched voice:

"Dog of a—"

Benfeld's gun crashed again. The aged Chinese screamed and pitched forward. The gun dropped from Benfeld's right hand. He said thickly:

"The dead— do not— talk—"

His right hand reached out and groped for the knife the blind Chinese had tossed near him. Jo Gar said sharply:

"No—"

But it was Dave Chang who suddenly moved forward, bent down. He was screaming shrill words that had little meaning. His right-hand fingers were almost on the hilt of the knife when Benfeld gripped him, pulled him down. With a sudden, last strength the Dutchman raised the knife and struck. Jo Gar fired again, as the Chinese chauffeur groaned and rolled on his back.

Benfeld sat up a little and stared at him. There was red on his lips.

"Dead men— do not— talk—" he repeated weakly.

He lowered his head into outstretched arms and shivered a little.

Then his body was motionless.

Jo Gar went to him first. He was dead. The knife had struck into the chauffeur's throat. He was trying to mouth words, but they did not come. And Jo Gar knew that they would never come again. He turned towards the blind Chinese. But he knew before he touched him that the man was dead.

There was a babble of voices beyond the two curtains of painted beads. Jo Gar went swiftly into the outer room. He thought, for a second, of trying to get away, of merging into the crowd of Chinese. But already the crowd was thick, and there would be police. He would be seen trying to get away, and there would be difficulties. It would be better to work with the police, to attempt explanation.

He lighted a brown-paper cigarette and leaned against the counter. Faces were beyond the beads that rattled from hands that swayed them. Benfeld had expected the diamonds to be brought to him. They had not come. He had thought that Jo possessed them. The blind Chinese had known things— and the driver of the car riddled with bullets had known something. Dying, Benfeld had silenced them both. Even at the end, he was protecting someone.

The Island detective moved his lips a little. He said questioningly: "Who is Mendez?"

When the first of the police entered the shop, Jo Gar had almost finished his brown-paper cigarette. The police officer was small and brown faced. He was breathing heavily. He said:

"What— is it?"

Jo Gar gestured towards the second beaded curtain, and the room beyond it. He said in a tone that was weary:

"It is— death."

The police officer said: "Robbery?"

Jo Gar smiled with his eyes looking towards the curtain, shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Perhaps," he said simply. "But very surely— it is death."

4: Red Dawn

BARRINGTON REGARDED Jo Gar with frowning, dark eyes. He was tall, immaculately dressed, fresh-looking. He was the power and brains back of the native Hawaiian police force, and it was very evident that the Philippine Island detective's calm annoyed him.

"I strongly advise you to return to your ship, Señor Gar," he said slowly.

Jo Gar smiled with his thin, colorless lips. His almond-shaped eyes seemed sleepy, but were not sleepy. And Barrington sensed that. He stretched his long legs, rose from the wicker chair of his office. But he did not move about. He stared down at Jo.

"Ten extremely valuable diamonds— stolen in Manila," he said quietly. "You have got one back— but nine are missing. You were forced to kill the man from whom you recovered the one, on the Cheyo Maru. That was unfortunate."

Jo Gar nodded his head just a little. "Very unfortunate," he agreed. "But also— very necessary."

Barrington shrugged. "Perhaps you were too aggressive, Señor Gar," he suggested.

Jo Gar smiled a little more broadly. He shook his head very slowly.

"I am never aggressive, Señor Barrington," he returned very quietly.

"Manila is a city of heat— heat breeds laziness."

The American made a peculiar, snorting sound. He turned towards his desk and glanced at the report of the Hawaiian police, made less than a half hour ago, at midnight.

"Benfeld, Tan Ying and Dave Chang— all dead. And you are not aggressive?"

Jo Gar shrugged almost casually. "Benfeld was the representative of the Dutch company that had insured the diamonds. For some reason he wished me to stop my search for them, and for the thieves who murdered to get them. He attempted to trap me. He used Chang for that purpose and Chang suffered. The blind Chinese, Tan Ying— I am not sure how he was involved. I think there was to have been a meeting at his place. More than one person was concerned in the Manila robbery and murders. Perhaps there was to be a meeting at Ying's place. But Benfeld thought I had been shot to death, on the road beyond the city. I upset his plans— and there was sudden death."

"Triple death," Barrington said steadily. "You are sure you learned nothing?"

Jo Gar rose from his straight-backed chair. He lied impassively.

"Nothing— that seems to lead me anywhere," he said. "It is like that Street of the Lanterns where Ying lived— much color and sound, and so difficult to see or hear beyond either color or sound." Barrington half closed his dark eyes. He said very grimly:

"You are known to be in Honolulu, Señor Gar. It is known that you are after the Von Loffler diamonds, and that you seek the murderers of your friend Juan Arragon— and of that jeweler's son, Delgado. Already there has been death. And dawn is hours away. I should strongly advise—"

Jo Gar's lips made a clicking sound. "You have already suggested that I return to the Cheyo Maru," he said calmly. "It is kind of you to think of my protection. Perhaps I shall accept your advice."

Barrington continued to frown. "I hope so," he said. "We will do everything possible, here. You will be in San Francisco in six days— and I wish you luck."

Jo Gar smiled and bowed. They did not shake hands. The Philippine Island detective reached the street and kept his brown right-hand fingers in the right pocket of his light coat. A cool breeze swept from the direction of Pearl Harbor. The streets were almost deserted.

The Island detective smiled with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed, moved slowly in the direction of the docks. They were not far from the building in which Barrington had his office. And as he walked, with his eyes glancing sharply from the corners, Jo Gar sighed. His stubby fingers tightened on the grip of the automatic in his right coat pocket.

"Señor Barrington does not wish more death— in Honolulu," he murmured very softly. "He is anxious for my departure— he thinks of my health."

Jo's white teeth showed in a swift grin. It faded, and he reached with his left-hand fingers for one of his brown-paper cigarettes. The street became suddenly an alley; his eyes caught the slanting masts of ships, their rigging beside the docks. He was ten feet along the alley when he halted, struck the match. But even as the flare dulled his vision, he saw the shape that slid from the doorway less than twenty yards distant. He heard the swift intake of the short man's breath, saw the right arm go upward and back!

The Island detective moved his left hand away from his face, let his short body fall forward. As he went down his right hand shoved the material of his coat pocket ahead of him— started to squeeze the trigger.

But there was no hiss of a knife hurled through the air, and no crack sound from his automatic. He relaxed his grip, rocking on his knees, as he watched the figure of the man who had slid from the doorway bend forward. The man's head was held low— his body was almost doubled as he pitched downward. He choked terribly but weakly— there was a sharp crack as his head battered against the broken pavement of the alley.

Jo Gar swayed to his feet. He moved back into the darkness of a narrow doorway on the opposite side of the alley from that where the short one had fallen. He waited, his back flattened against a wooden door that did not give, holding his breath.

The man who had collapsed made no movement. His head had struck heavily, but Jo knew that he had been unconscious before he had fallen. And yet, when he had slid from the doorway across the alley, his movements had been swift and sure. He had sucked in his breath, drawn back an arm. And Jo was sure there had been a knife in his hand.

Minutes passed. There were the faint sounds of machines, in the direction towards the city center, away from the docks. A cool wind rustled some paper down the alley. It was quite dark, and Jo could not see beyond the body of the man. Once he had heard foot-falls in the distance, and the sound of high-pitched voices. The alley was on the edge of the Chinese quarter, perhaps in it.

His right forefinger pressed the steel of the automatic trigger— the material of his right pocket was held clear of his side. But he made no movement. Five minutes passed. Jo Gar shivered a little. He was sure that death had come to the one across the alley from some spot directly behind him— and that the person who had caused the death was waiting silently, for some other movement in the narrow alley.

He breathed slowly, carefully. His right wrist was aching from the tensity of his grip on the automatic, and his eyes moved only from the motionless figure on the pavement to the blackness of the low doorway behind the figure. The shacks along the alley appeared to be closed, deserted. But the entrances existed— and in the one almost opposite him was the human cause of another person's death. Unless— and there did not seem much chance of that— there had been an escape through the shack beyond the motionless, sprawled figure.

The Island detective listened to the shrill whistle of a small boat, beyond the docks. He relaxed his body a little, but suddenly it was tense again. He had heard, very distinctly, a faint chuckle. It had not come from the doorway in darkness, beyond the collapsed figure, but from some spot above him.

He raised his head slightly. The shacks were low— less than fifteen feet high. Clouds were over a crescent moon; the night had become dark. But he could see nothing on the roof of the shack opposite.

And then, very softly and quietly, the voice sounded. It was low and throaty— and very calm.

"Señor Gar— you are comfortable?"

Jo Gar did not move his body. There was a quality to the voice, an accent of grim amusement. He had a definite feeling that he was trapped— that the death of the man across the alley had been a part of the trap. He did not speak. The voice sounded again— from above, and to the left. The roof of a shack on his left and on his side of the alley held the speaker, he guessed.

"You will kindly disarm yourself— step into the alley, Señor Gar." The Island detective raised his automatic higher, withdrew it from the right pocket. He moved only his right arm. The voice said, after a short pause:

"Do not be a fool, Señor Gar!"

The accent was clear. He had heard the same accent of precise English in Manila. It was Spanish— this man's native language. And the speaker was calm— very calm. He was sure of himself.

Seconds passed. Then the voice said, a little more loudly:

"Si, but very low, and— now!"

Jo Gar heard the steely hiss of the knife. He drew his legs together. The left trouser material, just above his ankle, was jerked sharply. Wood made dull sound as the knife blade cut into the door at his left side. His body was rigid.

The voice somewhere above said with sharp amusement:

"Señor Gar— you are comfortable?"

The Island detective sighed. The cat played with the mouse, but more wisely than most cats. Jo Gar reached down, jerked the knife loose from wood and cloth. He tossed it into the alley. Straightening, he said as steadily as he could:

"What is it you wish, Señor Mendez?"

Again there was the chuckle. And then a short silence. Jo Gar was thinking: It is Mendez. Chang said, before dying in the shop: "It was Mendez. We met in the Street of the Lanterns. He was coming—" That was what Chang had said. Mendez coming to meet someone, in Honolulu. Perhaps the one in white. The one Jo had been forced to shoot to death, on the Cheyo Maru, and from whom he had got the one Von Loffler diamond. But Mendez knew that Jo had killed, and he had trapped him now, and was toying with him, grimly amused.

The Island detective stood motionless, looking at the body across the alley. The voice from above came quietly:

"Kindly disarm yourself— step into the alley, Señor Gar."

Jo sighed again. He bent forward and tossed the automatic into the alley. There was a flashlight beam that picked it up, then faded. Jo stepped from the doorway, moved out a few feet. The voice said:

"Face towards the docks."

The tone was hard now, sharp. Jo did as directed. He stood for seconds, his eyes slitted, his body slightly relaxed. He expected death at any moment, from behind. But it did not come. There were sounds on the roofs of the shacks, sounds behind him. But he did not turn. And then the same, hard voice sounded, directly behind him.

"Go to the alley end, walk slowly. There will be a closed car. Enter it. I shall be near you, and I advise you to be wise."

The Island detective moved slowly forward. The alley narrowed, then widened. At the dock end there was a small, dirty machine. It was closed, and there was the fat, brown-yellow face of a Chinese faintly lighted by the instrument board light. The man did not turn his head, but a rear door of the machine opened as Jo neared it. The voice, now close behind, said:

"Step inside."

Jo got into the car. A figure made room for him. The seat had space for three, back of the driver. Jo dropped heavily beside the one already seated. The one who had spoken got in and sat on his right. The interior of the car was very dark, but Jo saw that the man's features were sharp, his face long.

He said to the driver, in an easy tone:

"Yes— and do not go too fast."

It was as though everything had been carefully planned. Jo tightened his lips. He was sure that the one on his right was the man known as Mendez, and he was sure that Mendez was hard and extremely clever. He had been followed from the police station to the building in which Barrington had an office, and Mendez had waited. Perhaps something had gone wrong, and there had been a death in the alley, or perhaps nothing had gone wrong, and it had been part of the scheme of things.

The man on Jo's right said softly: "It will not take very long, I hope, Señor Gar."

Jo smiled a little. He nodded his head. "You are Señor Mendez?" he asked.

The man was tall and thin. He had long, slender-shaped hands and wore a dark coat. That much Jo could see as the car moved slowly along the street by the docks.

He said: "Si— Señor Mendez. There have been words about me?"

The Island detective turned his head towards Mendez. He spoke very steadily.

"Chang spoke of you— and Tan Ying."

The grim quality returned to Mendez' voice again. He spoke very slowly.

"And both Ying and Chang are dead. That is too bad."

Jo Gar smiled, showing his white, even teeth. Then his lips pressed together.

"So many people die— for diamonds," he observed.

Mendez nodded. His face was turned towards the driver's back. The machine was running slowly out of town; it was not going towards the beach, but through the poorer section of Honolulu.

"It is so," Mendez agreed. "But you are a curious one, Señor Gar.

Even so— why should you die— for diamonds?"

The Island detective said nothing. He tried to keep his body relaxed, but there was a threat in Mendez' words. It was a question that Mendez asked, and yet only half a question.

The machine was out of the town now; it was running through the tropical growth, and there was suddenly a moon showing through the clouds.

Mendez made a gesture with his long right hand. He said almost cheerfully:

"It is pretty, Señor— these warm countries. They make one want to live."

The Island detective kept his eyes to the front. For almost five minutes the car moved at good speed over a road that was fairly smooth. Then it slowed, turned abruptly to the left. The road became narrower. It was of dirt now, and the country was rolling. The moon seemed strangely bright for its size— and the car passed through what appeared to be a pineapple plantation. The one on Jo's left let his body rock with the car motion, but he did not look at the Island detective.

Mendez made another gesture with his right hand.

"It is not unlike the Philippines," he said slowly. "You would like to return some day, Señor Gar?"

Again there was the mocking quality in his voice. Jo turned his head, and the two regarded one another. Mendez' skin was a light brown color; his eyes were dark. They were cruel eyes, and intelligent. The man's features were good, but his lips were very thin and the curve of his mouth was barely perceptible. He had a sensitive face— but it was also a brutal face.

Jo Gar said steadily: "Yes— I should like to return— some day."

Mendez nodded. "It will not be difficult for you," he returned. "You are not— a fool."

The car jerked suddenly off the road. It ran a short distance, scraping foliage, so narrow was the path it traveled. It stopped. The one on Jo's left leaned forward and looked at Mendez, but he did not speak. Mendez said:

"That is all— but stay."

The door on the left was opened. Mendez said pleasantly, as the one to whom he had spoken descended:

"We will leave the machine, Señor. I have a gun in my right hand. There is a small plantation house just beyond the car. Will you walk towards it?"

Jo Gar let his eyes widen a little on the dark eyes of the Spaniard.

He said quietly:

"You can murder me here— just as well, Señor Mendez."

For a second he saw sardonic amusement creep into the thin-faced one's eyes. And then a puzzled expression showed. But he knew that Mendez was acting now.

"Murder you?" The Spaniard laughed in a chuckling way. "Why do you think of murder, Señor Gar?"

The Island detective smiled. "Does it seem so strange?" he replied. "After all— you are aware of the Von Loffler diamonds. For them there has been much murder."

Mendez nodded, his face suddenly serious. "That is so," he agreed. "But you were not satisfied."

Jo Gar's gray-blue eyes showed no expression. "Not satisfied?" he said very tonelessly.

Mendez frowned. "At the house we can talk more easily," he said. "Please descend."

Jo Gar shrugged. He got from the car, saw the thatch-roofed house through the thinned foliage, up a slope a short distance. There were windows, but no lights. The house was well protected from even the narrow path. The dirt road was a hundred yards or more distant, and the other road perhaps a half mile.

The Island detective moved slowly up a path that wound. He heard Mendez instruct the driver to turn the machine and take it down near the dirt road. As he walked slowly up the slope he heard the engine of the car changing speed. Twice the brakes made squealing sounds. There was no sign of the one who had been seated on his left.

He was certain of one thing— Mendez held death for him. Perhaps there was information that the Spaniard wanted first. Perhaps he would make promises. But in the end there would be death. He could read it in the dark eyes, feel it in the cold amusement of Mendez' voice. And it was in the mockery of the Spaniard's words, too.

Behind him he heard the Spaniard's footfalls, very close. He moved slowly, and he was thinking fast. There was a better chance outside, here on the path, than there would be within the thatch-roofed plantation house. If he could take Mendez by surprise—

The Spaniard said almost pleasantly: "It is the fine view that Señor Benfeld liked here. The dawn— it is all red. The sun rising from the water—"

He let his voice die. He was breathing a little heavily now. Jo Gar said, suddenly stopping and breathing as though with difficulty:

"Benfeld tried to kill me, Mendez. He was a representative of the insurance company handling the Von Loffler stones. He thought I would be off my guard, because of that. How much was he offered— for my death?"

Mendez said cheerfully: "Enough, Señor Gar. But he was a fool— and not careful enough. He knew that you were trained in hunting down people, yet he was careless."

Jo Gar moved slowly up the slope again. He was breathing very heavily, though he was not tired. Behind him he could hear Mendez. And he was sure that the Spaniard was not pretending. He slowed his pace just a little, spoke haltingly.

"I will make— a bargain with you— Señor Mendez. If you will let me— have the chance—"

He uttered the last word softly, easily. And then, like a cat, he let his body swing around— he leaped at the figure of the man behind and several feet below him on the path!

But even as his short body shot through the air— he knew that he had lost. He saw Mendez' body stiffen— the features of the long, sharp face were twisted into a mask of hate. The Spaniard's body swung to one side. His right hand went up and then came down. Something gleamed dully in it. The first time it struck Jo a glancing blow on the shoulder. But as his hands and knees hit the earth— it struck him again, in a second chopping motion. Pain streaked across the back of his head— the yellow light of the moon became a curtain of black. He lost consciousness.

THE ROOM held little furniture, and what there was of it was bamboo. There was a table and two chairs, and between the windows a small bookcase. Mendez stood near the bookcase, his back to the wall of the house that was little more than a shack. The lamp on the table had a faulty wick, or the oil was bad. The light was faint and uneven. Shadows were on the walls. Mendez said in a conversational tone:

"You are lying, Gar. You have been lying for an hour. And there are few hours left to you. You were successful, in the Islands— but the Philippines are not like these islands. They are hotter— and the brain of that breed is stupid. You killed a man, on the Cheyo Maru. And that man had with him ten diamonds. They were worth more than two hundred thousand dollars. You tell me you found only one of them. You are lying."

Jo Gar slumped in one of the bamboo chairs. Pains stabbed across his head. The gun that Mendez used was a heavy one, and the Spaniard had struck him with a savage motion. There was blood on the Island detective's face, and on the fingers of his right hand. He was tired. Three times in the last hour Mendez had struck him. Once the one who had sat on his left in the car had struck him— he was a Chinese with a stupid, typical face. He sat in a chair and watched the Island detective now, his eyes expressionless. The driver of the car was not in the plantation shack.

Jo said thickly: "I have told you the truth, Mendez. From the one in white— the one the Malay spoke of before he died, in Manila— I got only one diamond. It was he who told me of the blind Chinese. That was why I went there."

Mendez' sharp face held a dull hatred now. It was clear that he did not believe the man who had tried to trick him on the sloping path that led to the plantation shack. Jo Gar knew that he had lost much, in that attempt. But he also knew that from the beginning Mendez had determined to kill.

The Spaniard said in a toneless voice: "You are a fool, Gar. For years you have been lucky. But that was with Chinks and Island half-breeds. I will tell you something— because now it will not matter. Either you are lying— or two others are lying. On the Cheyo Maru were three persons who might have had the Von Loffler stones. The man you murdered was one of them. But the diamonds were not separated. One person had the ten of them. That was agreed upon. And you got one from the man you killed. Which means that you are lying. You got them all."

Jo Gar shook his head. "Only one," he said steadily. "How do you know the truth of what you say?"

Mendez smiled. "I was one of the three persons— aboard the Cheyo Maru," he said steadily. "I did not travel first-class. I did not have the diamonds. The man you killed had them— all ten of them. And you have them now. You are a fool— because they will do you no good."

The Island detective pulled his short body up a little. He said very slowly:

"There was— the third man—"

He watched Mendez' eyes narrow. But the Spaniard shook his head.

"I said that either you lie, or two others lie," Mendez said grimly. "I am one of those two others, and I do not lie. And the other one— she is—"

His body stiffened; for a second rage showed in his eyes. And then suddenly, as though he remembered that it would not matter, he relaxed. He smiled grimly. Jo Gar widened his almost colorless eyes.

"A woman—" he said very slowly. "There was a woman who—"

His own voice died away. Mendez smiled coldly. He lighted a cigarette.

"It makes no difference to you," he said. "You have killed one of the three who might have had the diamonds. I tell you that I was one of the three, and I did not have them. A woman was the other. You say you have one of the stones. I say you have them all."

Jo Gar said thickly: "Then why did I go to the shop of the blind Chinese?"

Mendez continued to smile. "That is simple," he replied. "Benfeld, who had told us much about the diamonds because he was in Holland when they were insured, and because he needed money which we gave him, was desperate when told that if he did not help us he would be exposed. He attempted to have you murdered, but he worked crudely, and you were suspicious. You avoided our guns— but you knew that there was a blind Chinese in Honolulu who was important. You were curious. You had the diamonds, but you wanted the thieves, the killers. And you were lucky— until you left Barrington."

The Island detective shook his head. Mendez was about to bargain with him, to make an offer— a final offer. He knew that. But Mendez would not bargain honestly. He could not. There had been three persons on the Cheyo Maru— three who were important. And one had been a woman. One was Mendez. The other was dead. Jo Gar had recovered one diamond— nine were missing. Yet he believed Mendez in one thing— the Spaniard was convinced that the man he had killed had possessed all of the diamonds, and that the Island detective had them now.

Jo Gar said slowly: "I tell you the truth, Mendez. Ten diamonds were stolen in Manila. I have recovered only one of them. I do not think the man I killed had more than that one. I believe you— you have none of them. The woman has tricked you into thinking—"

The Spaniard moved across the room and struck him heavily over the face. He stepped back, rage in his eyes. The Island detective pressed his lips tightly together. Mendez backed across the room. He took his gun from a pocket, stared at Jo. His eyes flickered to those of the Chinese, and he suddenly became thoughtful.

Jo Gar's tongue touched his lips and tasted blood. His brain was working clearly, in spite of the blow. He had something to work on now. Benfeld had given information that had led to the thieves tracing the diamonds, learning where they were. Three had got away from Manila aboard the Cheyo Maru, and one was a woman. He had not thought about a woman.

He muttered very softly: "It is she— who has the other nine stones. In some way— she got them, leaving the man in white only one—"

His muttering stopped as he watched Mendez' eyes slit on his. The Spaniard was smiling with his thin, straight lips— but his eyes held a cold hatred. He looked at Jo Gar, but he spoke to the Chinese.

"You tell driver— no need him. You take rifle and go where I show. Driver go back to Honolulu— keep quiet or it be bad. You stay with rifle ready. You know what I tell— much gold for you. Good?"

The Chinese rose and grinned. He said in the same doggerel manner:

"Good."

He showed red gums as he grinned at Jo Gar. Then he went from the plantation shack, closing the door back of him. Mendez waited several minutes, and then glanced through one of the windows that faced the east. The shack was almost atop a rise— the moonlight seemed brighter now.

Mendez said tonelessly: "For you— it will be a— red dawn, Señor Gar. One way or the other. If you tell me the truth— you will watch the sun come up from the path and go back to town. If you refuse to do that— you will go out of this room— and the Chinese with the rifle—"

He broke off, shrugged. Jo Gar said wearily: "I have told you— the truth."

The Spaniard walked to within a few feet of him, stared down at him.

"One of Tan Ying's men tried to knife you tonight, Gar," he said slowly. "That was hate. He did not knife you because he was knifed first. I used him— to help me. Two hundred thousand dollars is more money than I need. Half of that is sufficient— for me. The other half— that is for you."

Jo Gar stared at the Spaniard. "And— the woman?" he said slowly.

He watched Mendez' facial muscles twitch. But the thin-faced one showed his teeth in a smile.

"I will— see to her," he said slowly, softly.

Jo Gar shook his head. "You could not— run the risk of allowing me to go free, Mendez," he said steadily. "If I gave you five diamonds— you would kill me— very swiftly."

Eagerness showed in the Spaniard's dark eyes. He took a step nearer Jo.

"I swear to it— by the name of—"

His words died; rage replaced the eagerness in his eyes. Jo Gar was shaking his head slowly. The Island detective said:

"I have recovered— only one stone."

Mendez reached down and struck him across the left temple with his right fist. Jo pulled himself up from the chair, but was battered down again by a sharp blow. He slumped low, groaning. Mendez moved away from his chair.

There was the sound of a match striking, and a little later Jo smelled the odor of a cigarette. He rocked his head from side to side, but did not look up. Mendez said grimly, harshly:

"You will have— until dawn. And then you will go outside— walking. The Chinese is less than fifty yards distant, with the rifle. I will remain inside until the sound of the shots has died. The Chinese will go away— after he has seen you fall. It is all— very simple."

Jo Gar raised his head slightly. He wiped red from his face with the back of his right hand.

"That will not get you— the Von Loffler— diamonds," he breathed thickly.

Mendez pulled on his cigarette, leaned against a wall of the plantation shack and smiled.

"If you go to your death— that way— I will believe you," he said. "Then I will know where to look. But she has never—"

Jo Gar tried a grim smile. "She has never— lied before?" he muttered. "Women are often— like that. There must be— the first time. And white glass— worth thousands— is a reason for— lies."

Mendez pressed his lips tightly together. "You've tricked— too many men, Señor Gar," he breathed. "I hate you for that— and I do not believe you. You have the diamonds— ten of them."

Jo Gar raised his eyes. Suddenly his body stiffened. He said weakly:

"I do not think— they are worth it. But five— that is too many— to give. I will— give you— three—"

Mendez dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his shoe sole. He took rapid steps to Jo's side. His eyes were shining. "You will give— five!" he snapped.

The Island detective stared at him stupidly. But he shook his head from side to side. Mendez swore and struck at him savagely. The Island detective let his head fall low; he closed his eyes. Mendez struck him again, then moved across the room.

"By dawn," he muttered hoarsely, "you will give me— the five!" Jo Gar said weakly, his eyes expressionless:

"And what proof have I— that you will let me go away from here— safely?"

Mendez shrugged his shoulders. He was confident of winning. He felt that Jo was breaking down; it had been a long night. Ten diamonds— perfect and of large carat. Two hundred thousand dollars! The Island detective could read his thoughts. He was so sure of winning, so sure the man in the chair before him possessed the diamonds.

And Jo was thinking of a woman— of the third of the three who had held up the Delgado jewelry store in Manila, and one of those responsible for the death of his friend Juan Arragon. She would be one of many women aboard the Cheyo Maru, which would leave Honolulu for San Francisco at noon— but he knew that he would not be aboard the boat that had brought him from Manila.

Mendez would see to that. The Mendez who stood before him now, mocking and battering him. The Mendez who was convinced that he had the ten Von Loffler diamonds, and who had already told him too much.

"Red dawn"— the Spaniard had said. There had been a mockery in those words, too. His lips shaped themselves into a bitter smile as he remembered the advice that Barrington had given him— advice to return to the Cheyo Maru.

Mendez said very slowly: "Well— there is an end to this, Gar. I will give you five minutes. The sun is getting up. I have much to do. If you swear to me—"

Jo Gar got unsteadily to his feet. Mendez regarded him with a twisted smile. The Island detective was unarmed and very weak. And once before tonight he had failed to surprise the Spaniard. Mendez said grimly:

"Steady— you are not accustomed to being— knocked around—"

The Island detective said thickly: "I do not want to die, Mendez. I will tell you the truth. But you must swear to me— that I will go free."

Mendez' eyes showed eagerness again. But the next second they had narrowed, and held a hard expression.

"I swear to you— that you will go free— if you tell me where the diamonds are."

Jo Gar nodded his head. He knew that no matter what he said he would not go free. He raised his head and looked Mendez squarely in the eyes with his bloodshot ones.

"I did get them— from the one— on the boat," he said steadily, softly. "I have had them— with me— on me. But in the car— it seemed very bad. I was— afraid. I had them in one of my Manila cigarette packages, mixed with a few cigarettes—"

He paused, swayed a little. Mendez stepped in very close to him. His voice was shaking.

"In your— cigarette package!" he breathed fiercely. "You had them—" Jo Gar nodded as Mendez' voice died. He said weakly, brokenly:

"The Chinese— on my left. He had a sacklike coat. I slipped the cigarette package— in a pocket— his right pocket."

Mendez swore sharply. He muttered angrily:

"The Chinese—"

His body swung away from Jo Gar instinctively. His fingers clutched at the knob of the door that opened on the path. And then, suddenly, he remembered. There was the rifle.

His body started to turn, but even as he threw up his arms in protection, Jo Gar swung outward and downward with the chair he had lifted from the floor. All his remaining strength was in the swing. Wood crackled as Mendez' arms were battered downward— the bamboo was not heavy, but Jo had found power for his final chance.

The Spaniard's arms swung loosely— his head fell sideways under the impact of the blow. He staggered back from the door, his eyes staring. And in a swift movement Jo Gar had the door opened.

Mendez struck at him weakly— the Island detective had little power in the blow that caught the Spaniard on the right shoulder, spinning him around. But it knocked Mendez off balance— he plunged towards the opened door. He was almost to his knees as his body angled beyond the plantation shack.

The first shot crashed. There was a second— and then two more. Jo Gar stood motionless, listened to two more shots from the repeating rifle. Then there was silence, and later a crashing in the foliage below the shack.

After a long minute the Island detective went outside and made certain that Mendez was dead. Then he went back into the room. It was all red with the rising sun. He sat in a chair for a few minutes. He got a package of Manila cigarettes from a pocket and lighted one. He thought of the woman a man who was now dead had spoken about. Five minutes later when he stepped over the body of Mendez to leave the plantation shack he did not look down. But as he went down the path towards the road he muttered thickly:

"He did not lie— about two things. The Chinese was waiting— with his rifle. And the dawn was— very— red."

5: Blue Glass

WHEN THE cabin phone made a buzzing sound, Jo Gar was dozing. A soft, warm breeze blew in through the port; the Cheyo Maru was some seven hours away from the Hawaiian Islands— and Honolulu. The diminutive detective sat up wearily and turned his bruised face towards the French phone. When he spoke his words were low and precise: "Yes— this is Señor Gar."

The voice at the other end of the wire was flat, almost expressionless. It was low and a bit throaty.

"You would give much, Señor— to recover the other nine Von Loffler diamonds?"

The questioning note was very faint, but the words had an immediate effect on Jo Gar. His small body stiffened; he sucked in his breath sharply. There was silence at the other end of the line. Jo said, finally:

"Yes— much."

There was another silence. Then the voice sounded again, with no more expression.

"How much, Señor Gar?"

The Philippine Island detective narrowed his gray-blue, slightly almond-shaped eyes. He said very quietly:

"I do not appreciate jokes. Many aboard this boat are naturally aware of my identity. Quite a few men have died because of the Von Loffler stones. If you are—"

"I am not joking." For the first time there was some tone in the other's voice. "I have information that will be of value to you."

Jo Gar said steadily: "Then pardon me. If you will allow me to talk with you in your cabin—"

For the second time there was an interruption. The other's words were sharp now— very sharp.

"I have asked you a question, Señor Gar. I am aware of many things concerning the Von Loffler stones. Ten were stolen from the jewelry shop in Manila. You have recovered one. Your friend Juan Arragon has been murdered. You have killed— and others have killed. You believe that the nine missing stones are aboard this vessel, and that a woman has them in her possession. Is it not so?"

The Island detective closed his eyes. "It is as you say," he said simply. His mind was working very fast; his head was clear enough.

The voice continued: "You very narrowly escaped death more than once— in Honolulu, Señor Gar. The missing stones are worth almost two hundred thousand dollars. I can tell you that the one who carried out the orders of Benfeld, and who was responsible for murders that included your friend Arragon— that person is aboard the Cheyo Maru."

There was a pause. The voice said: "Speak, please, Señor Gar."

Jo Gar smiled with a touch of grimness. "I am still in my cabin, Señor," he replied.

The other said: "That is wise. You will be wiser not to attempt tracing this call. It will prove useless."

The Island detective said: "Perhaps that is so."

There was a short silence. Then the other said in the same, flat voice:

"You would be well rewarded if you were to return to Manila with the missing stones, and the murderer, Señor Gar. There would be rest for you. That is why I ask the amount you would be willing to pay."

Jo Gar said slowly: "I am a poor man."

The other's voice became sharp again. "You have been fortunate, Señor Gar. In the States it will be different. And the diamonds will not be difficult to sell."

The Island detective's voice held a grim note. "They are very fine stones, and perfectly matched. By this time they are very well known. Perhaps they would be extremely difficult to sell."

Impatience was evident in the voice that came from the other end of the wire.

"You are not a fool— you know the stones will not be difficult to dispose of, Señor Gar. You know they will be smuggled through the customs officers. And in San Francisco you will lose the trail you were lucky enough to pick up. Even if you should blunder on—"

The voice died. Jo Gar said grimly: "All this being so, why do you call me?"

The voice said: "I do not care what becomes of the nine diamonds, or of a certain murderer. I need money. I call you to give you the chance, the big chance. You have traveled many miles, Señor Gar."

The Island detective spoke in a low voice. "How do I know that you will direct me to the right person?"

The voice held a hard note. "I do not expect you to trust me, señor.

You may pay after you are convinced."

The Island detective was silent. The other said: "The question is— how much will you pay?"

Jo Gar replied steadily: "There is a reward of ten thousand dollars offered by the owner of the Manila jewelry shop, whose son was killed. I imagine the insurance company would pay twenty thousand dollars for the return of the stones."

"No— that will not do." The other's voice was steady. "That is all in the future. I must have payment now. If I do not have it— the murderer and the diamonds will vanish when the Cheyo Maru arrives at San Francisco. That is all."

Jo Gar spoke gently into the French phone mouthpiece. His eyes were almost closed.

"I do not carry thousands of dollars about with me. I am a poor man."

The voice said calmly: "You are known to the captain of the boat. I am not asking much. Five thousand dollars, and one half of your reward, when you receive it, Señor Gar. And I am not to be betrayed."

Jo Gar widened his eyes and smiled. "You are only to betray," he said grimly.

The other's voice was very low and hard. "That is— quite so," he said. "You agree?"

The Island detective stopped smiling. "I agree," he said simply. "I will pay five thousand dollars to you, in the manner you direct, after the stones are recovered and the murderer is under arrest. I will give you half of my reward when it is paid. I am very tired. Your identity will not be known, only to me."

"No," the other said. "It will not be known to you. I will trust you. If you do not pay, I will kill you. That will be very simple, since you will not know against whom to guard."

Jo Gar said tonelessly: "Yes— very simple."

There was a short pause. The other's voice was very flat when it reached Jo's ear again.

"In Cabin C. 15 there was a woman named Jetmars. She has with her a little girl of about eight. She got aboard at Manila, and dresses in black most of the time. Possibly you have seen her."

The Island detective said steadily: "Yes— I have noticed her, and the little girl."

The voice said: "In her cabin or on her person, or on the person of the little girl— are the diamonds. When you have obtained them I will communicate again with you. I will know the time."

Jo Gar said, "And she is also a murderess?"

The voice replied flatly: "Yes."

There was a clicking sound, and when Jo spoke again there was no answer. He hung up the receiver, threw a light robe about him and hurried from the cabin. When he reached the small cabin that held the Cheyo Maru switchboard, he was breathing swiftly. A Chinese boy stared at him with dark, long eyes.

"I am Señor Gar," Jo said softly. "An important call just reached me in Cabin B. 10. I would like very much to know where it came from— what part of the boat."

The Chinese boy said easily: "I remember making the connection. It came from one of the three phones in the men's smoking room."

The Island detective smiled a little wearily.

"Thank you," he said, and moved back towards his cabin. Inside, he removed his robe, lighted a brown-paper cigarette and lay flat on his back, blowing thin streams of smoke towards the cabin ceiling. There was very little motion to the boat.

"Curious," Jo murmured. "A woman who dresses in black. A little girl. And the one who gives me the name tells me the woman is a killer and possesses the stones. He would share a large reward with me, and he will kill me if I refuse to pay his share. He is very careful—"

The Island detective sat up slowly as the phone made a buzzing sound again.

"Señor Gar," he said.

The flat voice came clearly. "I told you it would be useless to attempt tracing the call, Señor. You have made a bargain. If you do not stick to it—"

Jo Gar said grimly: "You will kill me?"

The other replied: "Yes."

The Island detective was silent for a few seconds. Then he said:

"In that case you will be able to collect the diamonds and the reward. You will not have to share anything."

There was a tight-lipped smile on his face as he spoke. But the one at the other end of the wire said sharply:

"It is simpler for you to do— than for me. That is why I made an offer."

Jo Gar inhaled smoke from his cigarette. "Look about the smoking room," he suggested. "Is there a short man present— rather heavy? Smoking a cigar— very black?"

The man at the other end of the phone chuckled. It was a dry, rasping chuckle.

"Thinking, that such a person might be present, I am not making this call from the smoking room," he said almost pleasantly. The switchboard boy will tell you I am calling from the sun deck, port side."

Jo Gar said: "Pardon— I shall make no further effort to learn your identity."

The other chuckled again. "Thank you, Señor," he mocked. "But even should you change your mind— it will be of no use. A pleasant trip— and good fortune."

Again there was the clicking sound. Jo Gar went away from the cabin phone, frowning.

"I think the gentleman is a liar," he muttered very softly, "but I can not afford to simply think. As for this being a pleasant trip—"

He squeezed the brown paper of the cigarette with stubby fingers, raised his narrow shoulders very slowly in a half shrug.

"He is too wise for that," he said with finality. "It will be extremely unpleasant— for one of us."

ON THE THIRD DAY out the Cheyo Maru was rolling a bit; spray was breaking over the prow and there were not too many passengers on the decks. Jo Gar stood near the starboard rail, well aft, and watched the woman in black and the little girl who accompanied her. The woman was middle-aged, had a rather sharp, sunburned face. The child was not very pretty. She was stringing beads. The woman paid little attention to her, and none to the other passengers. Jo had been watching her closely for two days, and yet he had not appeared to be watching. And he had listened to many voices of men, hearing none like the one that had come over the phone. He had not expected that.

He was working under a handicap; he felt that he was being watched and he did not know the person who watched him. He had learned that the woman who wore black much of the time was named Rosa Jetmars, that she had come aboard at Manila and that the child was her daughter. The purser volunteered the information that he understood Mrs. Jetmars was Spanish, had married an American in the Islands. Her husband had died very recently. His body was not aboard the vessel, but it was thought that his widow was going to the States and his family. That was all the Island detective had learned. It had little to do with the nine missing diamonds.

Someone near the rail called attention to a school of flying fish. It was a large one; the little girl jumped from her deck chair, started towards the rail. She tripped, fell awkwardly, crying out. Beads scattered and rolled across the deck. Jo Gar started forward, but an elderly man had already lifted the girl. Something blue rolled and struck against Jo's right shoe. The woman in black was bending over the girl. She seemed angry. She spoke in Spanish and very rapidly. Her back was turned to Jo.

He leaned down and picked up the bead. It was peculiarly cut, for a bead— touch told him that instantly. He glanced at it, his eyes narrowing. Several men were picking up other beads from the deck surface— much fuss was being made over the child. The woman in black had taken her back to her chair, was talking rapidly to her. Jo Gar slipped the bead in his pocket and stared at the vanishing school of flying fish.

When he glanced towards the woman in black again she was still talking to the child. Men were putting beads in the girl's lap. There was laughter now, and the woman in black did not seem so angry. After a few minutes Jo Gar went below, locked his cabin door and got the one Von Loffler diamond from its tiny pocket in the cork of one of his medicine bottles.

He compared it with the bead, which was blue. His lips parted and he said very softly:

"The cutting is— exactly the same!"

An hour later, in the captain's cabin, he had the diamond expert who had helped him earlier in the trip examine the bead. When the expert had finished his examination he said in a puzzled voice:

"It is exceptionally well cut— diamond cut. Nothing cheap about the cutting. A great deal of care has been taken— for a piece of blue glass."

Jo Gar said slowly: "There is no doubt but what it is glass?"

The expert smiled at him. "Not a bit— it is blue glass, cut as a fine diamond might be. A good-sized diamond. Like, say, one of the Von Loffler stones you—"

Jo Gar's frown stopped him. The captain raised his head and stared at Jo. But the Island detective simply reached for the bead, slipped it into a pocket of his light suiting. He reached for his packet of cigarettes.

The captain of the Japanese liner said in his stiff English:

"It is very curious, Señor Gar—"

The Island detective showed his white teeth in a lazy smile. He nodded his head very slowly.

"Very curious," he agreed cheerfully. "But many curious facts are not too important."

The captain said: "It will not be very long before we dock in San Francisco, Señor. It has been an exciting voyage for you, and not very successful. One diamond recovered— and nine still missing."

Jo Gar offered cigarettes, lighted one. The diamond expert spoke.

"But he has this bit of blue glass— it may be that it is important."

The Island detective smiled. "In what way?" he asked.

The two others looked at each other. The captain shrugged, smiled. The diamond expert muttered to himself. The captain said:

"Each of us has our profession— yours is a difficult one, Señor Gar."

The Island detective grinned. "Often I am given unexpected help," he said. "Perhaps it will be that way— before we land."

He went towards the door of the captain's cabin, still smiling. But when he had bowed to the two men and was outside, his smile faded. He went without too much haste to his cabin, and had been inside only a few minutes when the phone buzzed. The flat voice said:

"I have additional information for you, Señor. The diamonds are to be smuggled through the customs as the child's beads. Perhaps they will be dipped in ink, or painted blue."

Jo Gar said evenly: "Thank you. But the diamonds have no holes in them— how can they be strung?"

There was slight impatience in the other's tone.

"Perhaps there will be some beads cut somewhat like the diamonds, in a box the child has. Some will be strung, but others will not be strung. It is not likely the customs officers will examine each bead in the box."

Jo Gar was smiling grimly, but his voice was serious. "That is so. It is a clever idea."

The other's voice said: "But do not work too fast, Señor. I do not think the child has the diamonds, at present."

The clicking sound followed. Jo hung up and looked out of the port, at the roughening water. He thought: Nor do I think the child has them at the present moment. The woman in black was not much concerned about the spilled beads, when the girl fell on the deck. If I were to get into the cabin occupied by the woman and child, find a box of beads— I would probably find no diamonds. And yet, if I wait until the customs inspection is made—

He turned away from the port, frowning. He breathed softly:

"This one who calls— he knows so much. And yet he would share much with me. He would lose a great deal of money by doing that. The whole reward would be his if he did not—"

He broke off, and his gray-blue eyes got very small and long. After a short time he inspected his Colt automatic, slipped it into a pocket of his light coat, stuffing a handkerchief over it. When he reached deck he walked slowly towards the bow, conscious, as usual, of the curious glances the passengers directed towards him.

He circled the deck twice; the second time he noted that the woman in black and the child had vacated their chairs. A middle-aged man approached, walking unsteadily as the boat rolled. He looked at Jo, but there was no expression in his blue eyes. He had flabby, pale skin and very thin lips. They were almost opposite each other when the boat rolled more sharply. The Island detective let his small body strike the left side of the thin-lipped one, knocking him off balance.

"Pardon," Jo said. "I'm very— sorry."

He stood close to the other man, watched anger show in the blue eyes. More than anger showed, he thought. It was as though the thin-lipped one hated him fiercely, and had hated him for more than seconds.

"It was very careless of me," Jo said.

The other man's lips parted. He started to speak, but did not. A faint smile showed in his eyes; slowly his face twisted with it. He jerked his head downward abruptly, in an awkward bow. He shrugged, moved away from the Island detective.

Jo Gar continued his walk around the deck. But he did not meet the thin-lipped one on the starboard side. He did not see him again in the next half hour, and when he did locate the man he was in the smoking room, seated at a small table and with his back turned to the entrance from the port side of the deck.

A steward strolled along and smiled amiably at Jo. He beckoned to him, handed him a dollar bill. He designated the chair occupied by the thin-lipped one.

"That gentleman I seem to know," he said. "I should like you to go to the far end of the smoking room, then turn and come back. You will be able to see him. I should like to know his name. You are the deck steward?"

The steward nodded. He went into the smoking room and Jo Gar went to the port rail. When the steward returned he was smiling cheerfully.

"I placed his chair for him," he said. "He is a Mr. Tracy. He came aboard at Honolulu."

Jo nodded. "Thank you," he said. "It is not the one with whom I am acquainted."

He did a few more turns on the deck, his face expressionless. Then he went below and talked to the purser. Mr. Eugene Tracy occupied Cabin C. 82. He had booked passage at the last moment and had been forced to take a cabin on the lower deck, though he had wanted better quarters.

Jo Gar went up above and saw that the thin-lipped one was still in the smoking room. He was reading a magazine, and was slumped low in a comfortable chair. The Island detective moved close to the chair, very quietly. No other person was near the two of them; Jo spoke sharply but low, his voice holding a faint questioning note.

"Mr. Tracy?"

His words were very clear, but the one in the chair did not move. Jo stepped directly in front of the chair and looked down at the magazine that hid the thin-lipped one's face.

"Mr. Tracy?" he said again.

The man in the chair lowered his magazine. He looked at the Island detective with his blue eyes wide and questioning. Jo stared at him stupidly, shook his head.

"I'm sorry— again," he stated. "It is another Mr. Tracy I'm looking for— and they pointed you out. Please pardon me."

The one in the chair smiled almost pleasantly. He nodded his head, raised his magazine. Jo said very quietly:

"Have you the time, by any chance?"

Anger edged into the eyes of the man in the chair. Then the forced smile showed again. He shook his head. Jo bowed and moved away. As he went towards his cabin there was a half smile on his browned face. He was thinking that the thin-lipped one was a very silent person.

After dinner Jo Gar watched the thin-lipped man take the same chair he had occupied hours before, in the smoking room. The Island detective went to his cabin and changed from his dinner clothes to a dark, lightweight suiting. He wore a dark-colored shirt and was knotting a black bow tie when there was a knock at the cabin door. At his call a tall, slender man entered, closing the door carefully behind him.

"The captain said you had something for me to do," he said cheerfully. "My name's Porter— I'm an American and traveling to Frisco from Honolulu through courtesy of the line. I do ship news for a San Diego paper, and this is sort of a vacation."

Jo Gar nodded. "It is very simple," he said. "In the smoking room at present there is a man named Tracy. I will go up with you and point him out. I would like you to stay as close to him as is possible, for the next few hours, and to remember what he does. That is all. I shall be glad to pay—"

Porter smiled, shaking his head. "Not necessary, Señor Gar," he interrupted. "I'm glad to help out. And I won't talk."

Jo Gar smiled back at the newspaper man. "You would be very foolish if you did," he said. "There wouldn't be anything to talk about."

They went on deck and after walking several times around it, Jo pointed out the thin-lipped man. There was a vacant chair near him; Porter said he would go in and use it. Jo nodded.

"Do not come to me and do not speak to me if we meet later. I will speak first to you."

The newspaper man went into the smoking room. Jo passed the woman in black and the child, on the way to his cabin. The boat was rolling quite a bit and the woman looked sick and tired. She wore no jewelry and she paid little attention to the child, who trailed along behind her.

When he reached the cabin his phone was making a buzz sound. Jo Gar closed the door behind him, locked it. He lifted the instrument, said slowly:

"This is Señor Gar."

The voice was flat and low. It said: "Mrs. Jetmars is having the child attract attention to itself. She is letting passengers see that the child has an interest in beads."

Jo Gar said nothing. The voice continued:

"I point this out to you, because perhaps you do not believe she has the diamonds for which you are searching."

The Island detective said with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed:

"Perhaps it would be wise for me to enter her cabin, with the ship's captain, while she is absent. A thorough search—"

"I do not think it would be wise," the voice cut in. "But that is up to you, of course."

There was the clicking sound. Jo hung up and went to the ship switchboard room again. When he had asked the question the operator smiled cheerfully.

"The call came from Cabin C. 80," he stated. "I have been paying attention to the calls since you first asked me—"

He had been looking at a small book as he was speaking. His voice died abruptly; he widened his dark eyes on Jo Gar's expressionless ones.

"Cabin C. 80 is vacant," he said stiffly. "It is one of the poorest cabins on the ship."

The Island detective nodded his head. "The doors of vacant cabins are not always locked, are they?" he asked.

The switchboard boy narrowed his eyes. "No, Señor Gar," he replied. "They are left half-opened, for ventilation."

Jo Gar moved towards the main saloon, frowning. Too many persons aboard the boat knew too much about him; even the Chinese boy at the switchboard was now addressing him by his name. He murmured to himself:

"It becomes— always more difficult."

In the smoking room the thin-lipped one was seated in the chair he had occupied before, still reading his magazine. The newspaper man was sprawled in a chair that faced the port-side entrance to the room. Jo Gar beckoned to him, watched him rise slowly, stroll towards the entrance. The Island detective walked slowly aft, and Porter followed in the same fashion. Behind a ventilator Jo halted and lighted a cigarette. Porter reached his side.

"Well?" The Island detective's voice was very low.

Peter grinned. "You didn't expect him to move around much in that length of time, did you?" he replied. "He only turned two pages of the magazine."

Jo said steadily: "He never left the chair?"

Porter grunted. "All he moved was his fingers," he replied.

Jo sighed heavily. Then he showed white teeth in a slow smile.

"You have been very kind— and I shall not need your help for the present, Señor Porter."

The newspaper man looked surprised. "He wasn't the right guy, maybe?"

The Island detective made the tip of his cigarette glow in the semidarkness.

"After I left you I went to my cabin. I received a phone call that I half expected. But I expected, also, that the gentleman you were watching would make the call."

Porter whistled softly. "He didn't," he said. "That's sure enough.

He stuck right in his chair."

Jo Gar nodded. Porter said slowly: "I'm sorry it didn't work out the other way— the way you expected, Señor Gar."

The Island detective smiled with his lips tight against the paper of the cigarette. He stood with his short legs spread, swaying with the roll of the ship. He had picked the thin-lipped passenger as the one who had called him, using the flat, peculiar tone. He had listened to most of the others talk— those who had come aboard at Honolulu.

The others he had heard before; it had been a long trip from Manila. And the thin-lipped one had failed to answer quickly, naturally to the name of Tracy. He had not spoken to Jo— had not answered his question about the time. It was difficult to disguise a voice, and Jo felt that the thin-lipped one had not made the effort. Thus he had not spoken when addressed. And yet, there had been the phone call just received— and the thin-lipped one had not made it.

Jo frowned down at the cigarette glow. Then, suddenly, his small body straightened; he drew a deep breath. Porter was watching him closely.

"You got an idea— that time," he muttered.

The Island detective narrowed his eyes on Porter's.

He spoke very slowly and softly, and his eyes held little expression.

"That is so, Señor Porter— but it is so difficult to tell whether it is a good idea."

The newspaper man said grimly: "If it isn't— you'll probably find out quick enough."

Jo Gar smiled narrowly. "That is the trouble," he said simply.

THE DOOR of Cabin C. 82 was tightly closed, locked. Jo Gar took from his pocket the small, adjustable key, worked with it swiftly and expertly. It was after nine o'clock, but the thin-lipped man was still seated in his chair in the smoking room. The cabin steward for this section of the Cheyo Maru was on the opposite side of the boat; Jo had come to Cabin C. 82 slowly and carefully. When the lock made a faint clicking sound he returned the master key to his pocket, moved the knob and slowly opened the door. He stepped inside quickly, shut the door without sound but did not lock it from the inside. The cabin was small and held the odor of cigarettes. There was little baggage about, but what there was bore the initials E.T. Jo Gar smiled a little, went towards cool-colored curtains that formed a protection for hung clothes. There was only a coat of gray material hanging behind the curtains.

"Señor Tracy is traveling very lightly," Jo observed in a half whisper.

He got his small body back of the curtains, arranging them so that he had a slitted view of the room, where they met. For several minutes he remained motionless. Then he stepped from behind the curtains and started the search. He worked very slowly and thoroughly, placing each object that he touched in the same spot from which he had raised it. Twice there was sound in the corridor, but neither time did he lock the cabin door. Instead, he got his diminutive body behind the curtains that faced the door from the opposite end of the cabin, waited.

He finished his search in a little over ten minutes, straightened and sighed. The phone made a buzzing sound, three times. Jo got his right-hand fingers over the grip of his Colt, moved behind the curtains and was motionless. Several minutes passed, and then there were footfalls in the narrow corridor beyond the cabin. A key turned in the lock— there was muttering. The door opened with a small crashing sound, but the thin-lipped one did not immediately enter. He stood in the doorway— his eyes going about the room. Through the very thin slit where the curtains met Jo Gar watched him.

His body relaxed suddenly; he entered the cabin, closed the door behind him, locked it. His eyes kept moving about. He lifted the smaller of the bags, opened it, looked inside. When he placed it on the floor again he was frowning. But the frown became a grin— a slow grin that twisted his thin lips.

"He's been in here," he said in a peculiar, flat voice. "A lot of good that did him!"

Jo Gar half closed his almond-shaped eyes. This was the one who had called him; he knew that now. He moved the muzzle of the Colt slightly, so that it was pointed towards the body of the thin-lipped one.

After he had drawn a small curtain across the port, the thin-lipped man placed a towel over the knob of the door, draping it so that it covered the keyhole. Then he seated himself at a small table beneath the center light, and faced the port. His left side was turned towards Jo. From a vest pocket he took a red-colored, large-sized fountain pen. His face was grim as he unscrewed an end of it. The table at which he sat had a green surface; the thin-lipped one spilled the diamonds across it very carefully. He chuckled, staring at them and poking them with a long, white finger.

Jo Gar straightened his cramped body a little. He drew the Colt from his pocket, extended it through the slit in the curtains. His eyes could count five diamonds— he thought there was another on the table surface but he could not see it.

"A hundred— thousand!" The thin-lipped one's voice was not so flat now. "And with Gar chasing the Jetmars woman—"

He chuckled again, huskily. Jo Gar said in a cold, hard voice:

"— you might easily have got the stones through the customs—"

The man at the table jerked his body straight. His right-hand palm flattened over the diamonds; his white face turned towards the curtains. Jo parted them with his left hand, stepped away from them. His face was expressionless. He held the Colt very firmly.

"But you weren't so wise," Jo said calmly and softly. "You don't know how much I knew, how much I had been told. So you thought I might be watching you, rather than the woman in black. You didn't know that Mendez had told me a woman had the Von Loffler diamonds. You called me, after she had given you the diamonds, afraid of me. The two of you gave the child beads of blue glass, cut very much like the Von Loffler stones. You wanted me to believe what you had suggested— that the woman in black was smuggling the stones through the customs— so that you could get them through without trouble. But you played too strongly."

The thin-lipped man was staring at him, breathing slowly and heavily. His right palm was still flat over the diamonds; his left arm rested on the table. The ship rolled and his body swayed with it. Jo Gar said:

"You didn't disguise your voice— and you couldn't speak to me when I addressed you, for fear of detection. That worried you. You knew you were being watched by Porter, and you had a confederate call me while you were seated in the smoking room. You had worked well with him, but his voice was not exactly like yours. Even so, for a little time I thought that you were not the one who had called me. And then I realized what you had tried to do— to make me believe that very thing. And I knew that you were the one. So I came here— for the diamonds— nine of them."

There was a little silence. The thin-lipped man said in a harsh, strained tone:

"You got to Jetmars— you scared her and— she squealed."

The Island detective shook his head. "I haven't spoken a word to her," he said steadily. "You were too worried about yourself— and too greedy. You betrayed yourself."

The thin-lipped one took his palm away from the diamonds. Jo Gar said softly:

"Please keep both arms— on the table. How many stones— are there?"

The one at the table did not speak. Jo Gar moved the gun muzzle sharply.

"Many men have died because of the stones," he reminded. "One more thief— one murderer— it would not matter too much. How many stones— have you?"

The thin-lipped one said huskily, the peculiar flat note barely evident:

"Five— the woman has— the others. Four of them. You have one, Gar."

There was hatred in his voice as he used the Island detective's name. Jo said softly:

"I would not lie— where are the other four stones?"

The thin-lipped one said savagely: "I tell you— the woman in black— she has them. She would not give them all to me. She is the one who—"

The Island detective smiled coldly. His gray-blue eyes were almost closed.

"Raise your arms," he said slowly, "Keep them raised. If you do not—"

He made a swift— strangely swift movement for him, as the thin-lipped one obeyed. When he stepped away from the man at the table there were five diamonds in his left palm. They felt warm and very good. He said steadily:

"We will stay here until a certain diamond expert comes to the cabin, with the captain. When the stones have been inspected we will go to the woman in black. We will obtain the other four stones."

The lips of the man at the table were tightly pressed and thinner than ever. He parted them suddenly.

"It is she who—"

The phone buzzed. Jo Gar moved towards it, but did not take his eyes from the figure of the man in the chair. He spoke into the mouthpiece, as he slipped the diamonds into a pocket.

"Señor Gar—"

Porter's voice said: "Did the buzz catch you in time? He went from the smoking room pretty fast."

The Island detective kept his eyes on the thin-lipped one. He said:

"Yes— it reached me in time. I was prepared for Mr. Tracy. Will you please call the captain and tell him—"

His words died as the thin-lipped one hurled himself from the chair, slashing his right arm at the Colt. Jo squeezed the trigger of the gun as it was battered to one side. There was a crashing sound, and then the thin-lipped one's fingers were on his throat; his white face was close to Jo's.

He muttered hoarse, distorted words as his fingers tightened their grip. He was strong; the swinging arms of the detective failed to hurt him. Already Jo's breath was coming in short gasps; his efforts to get free of the man's grip were growing weaker.

His head was pulled close to the thin-lipped one's body; there was a mist in his eyes. Blackness was coming now; he was choking terribly. He felt his body swung to one side; his head was battered against the wall of the cabin. And then, once again, the room was filled with a crashing sound. The strangler's body jerked; he cried out hoarsely. His fingers went away from Jo's throat; he swung gropingly towards the cabin door. Jo stared towards it, his vision clearing. It was half opened.

Voices reached him faintly from the corridor; they grew louder. The thin-lipped one was down on his knees now; he sprawled at full length, his left-hand fingers pawing at the small of his back. Then, very suddenly, he was motionless.

Jo Gar stared towards the half-opened door. He breathed hoarsely, sucking in deep breaths of air:

"He would have killed me— and yet— he was murdered— the woman in black—"

He couldn't be sure, but he thought his eyes had seen dark color, just after the shot had crashed. And if the woman in black had thought that the thin-lipped one had said too much, if she had overheard, following him to his cabin—

Porter's voice was calling from the corridor: "Señor Gar— Señor Gar!"

There were heavier footfalls now. Gar tapped the pocket into which he had slipped the diamonds. He was sure they were real. Five of them, and there was the one he already had recovered. Six stones— with four still missing. And the one who could have told many things— he was dead.

The Island detective knew that, even before he bent over the man, calling hoarsely:

"Yes— Porter— it is— all right—"

Porter came into the room, pulling up short at the sight of the man on the floor.

"Heard the crash sound— over the phone—" he muttered.

Jo Gar straightened and smiled a little. "I was forced to shoot," he said more clearly. "But he got me by the throat—"

Ship's officers were inside the room now. The second officer stared at the figure on the floor, then at Jo.

"You shot him?" he breathed. "You had to shoot him, Señor—"

Jo Gar shook his head. Porter leaned down suddenly and lifted something from the floor near the doorway. The Island detective said: "He had five of the Von Loffler diamonds— I've got them now. I tried to shoot him, but I failed. He was shot in the back, from the corridor."

The second officer drew in a sharp breath. "You saw who it—"

Jo Gar shook his head. "I saw nothing," he said very slowly. He was sure that he had seen black color— the color of a woman's dress. "He was choking me—"

The newspaperman extended a palm. "What's this?" he muttered. "Just picked it up near the doorway."

Jo looked at the bead in Porter's palm. He shook his head very slowly.

"It looks very much," he said huskily but with little tone, "like a bit of blue glass."

6: Diamonds of Death

THE ROOM was in a cheap hotel, a few blocks from Market Street. The room had two windows, one of which faced the Bay. Jo Gar, his small body sprawled on the narrow bed, shivered a little. San Francisco was cold; he thought of the warm winds of Manila and the difference of the bays.

He sighed and said softly to himself:

"Four diamonds— if I had them I could return to the Islands. I do not belong away from them—"

The telephone bell on the wall jangled; Jo Gar stared towards the apparatus for several seconds, then rose slowly. He was dressed in a gray suit that did not fit him too well, and his graying hair was mussed. He unhooked the receiver and said:

"Yes."

A pleasant voice said: "Inspector Raines, of the customs office. I have information for you."

Jo Gar said: "That is good— please come up."

He hung up the receiver and stood for several seconds looking towards the door. One of his three bags had been opened, the other two he had not unlocked. The Cheyo Maru, bringing him from Honolulu, had arrived three hours ago, and there had been much for the Island detective to do. In the doing of it he had gained little. Perhaps, he thought, Inspector Raines had done better.

He took from one of his few remaining packages a brown-paper cigarette, lighted it. His gray-blue eyes held a faint smile as he inhaled. Down the hall beyond the room there was the slam of the elevator's door, and foot-falls. A man cleared his throat noisily. Jo Gar put his right hand in the pocket of his gray suit at his right side, went over and seated himself on the edge of the bed, facing the door. A knock sounded and the Philippine Island detective called flatly:

"Please— come in."

The door opened. A middle-aged man entered, dressed in a dark suit with a light coat thrown across his shoulders. The sleeves of the man's suit were not within the coat sleeves; it was worn as a cape. Raines had sharp features, pleasant blue eyes. His lips were thick; he was a big man. He said:

"Hello, Señor Gar."

Jo Gar rose and they shook hands. Raines' grip was loose and careless; he looked about the room, tossed a soft, gray hat on a chair. Jo Gar motioned towards the other chair in the room, and the inspector seated himself. He kept the coat slung across his shoulders.

Jo Gar said slowly, almost lazily: "Something was found?"

The inspector frowned and shook his head. He took from his pocket a small card. His picture was at one corner of the card, which was quite soiled. There was the printing of the Customs Department, some insignia that Gar merely glanced at, a stamped seal— and the statement that Albert Raines was a member of the San Francisco customs office.

Raines said: "The chief thought I'd better show you that right away, as we hadn't seen each other."

The Island detective smiled. "Thank you," he replied, and handed the card back. "Something was found?"

Raines shook his head. "Not a thing," he said.

"We held her up for two hours, and we searched everything carefully. We even searched the child— the child's baggage. We gave her a pretty careful questioning. For that matter— everybody on the boat got about three times the attention we usually give. And we didn't turn up a stone."

Jo Gar sighed. Raines said grimly: "If the diamonds were on that boat— they got past us. And that means you're in a tough spot, yes?"

The Island detective said: "I think that is very much— what it means."

Raines said in a more cheerful tone: "Well, the chief said you recovered six of the stones, between Manila and San Francisco— that's not at all bad."

Jo Gar smiled gently: "I was— extremely fortunate," he said. "But the woman in black— I had hopes that the four diamonds—"

Raines said quickly: "So had we. When we got your coded wire telling us that you suspected her of the murder of the man you recovered five stones from, but that you couldn't prove a thing against her, we figured we might be able to help. We weren't. But we did as you requested— when she left the dock we had a man follow her."

The Island detective said: "Good— she went to a hotel?"

Raines shook his head. "Don't suppose you've ever been out around the Cliff House, Señor Gar. It's a spot out on a bunch of jagged rocks, about an hour from town. A sort of amusement park has grown up around it. Seals fool around in the rocks and the tourists go for it strong. The woman took a cab, and our man took another. She went to the amusement park near the Cliff House."

Jo Gar's gray-blue eyes widened slightly.

"She spent more than three weeks on the Cheyo Maru," he breathed slowly. "And when she landed and had been cleared after an exhaustive customs examination, she went to an amusement park. Strange." Raines made a grunting sound. "Damn' strange," he said. "Took all the baggage, which included a trunk we'd gone very carefully through. And the child."

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes and looked beyond the inspector. He said quietly:

"In Manila we have an amusement park that is quite large. After entering the main gate there are many places one can go."

Raines nodded. "It's like that here. Only this park has several entrances, and you can drive through a section of it. The cab went in one entrance, stopped for a while near a merry-go-round— went out another. Then it went to a house and stopped. The luggage was taken inside, and the woman and child went in. Our man stayed around a short time, but nothing else happened."

The Island detective said: "You have the address?"

Raines nodded. He took from his pocket a small slip of paper, on which were scrawled some words, handed it to Jo Gar.

The Island detective read: " 'One hundred and forty-one West Pacific Avenue.' "

Raines nodded. "That's it— Cary said it was a frame house, set back a short distance from the road. The section isn't much built up out there."

Jo Gar nodded. "It is very good of you to bring me this information," he stated.

Raines made a swift gesture with both hands. "That's all right," he said. "Cary has another job just now, or he'd have come along to tell you about it. Looks queer to me."

The Island detective spoke slowly. "It is not necessary to drive through the amusement park, in order to reach this address?" he asked.

Raines said: "Hell, no— that's what seems funny. That woman was trying to hide where she was going. Maybe she figured she might be followed."

Jo Gar nodded. "I think you are right," he said. Raines got to his feet, held out his right hand.

"Sorry the office couldn't get something on her at the pier," he apologized. "But you know where she is— and you know she acted funny getting there."

Jo Gar smiled and shook the inspector's hand. He sat down on the bed again as Raines took his hat. When Raines reached the door, he said:

"Luck on those other four." He grinned and went out. Going along the corridor he whistled. The elevator door slammed.

Jo Gar got to his feet with remarkable speed for him. He got his coat and hat, was out of the room quickly. He used the stairs instead of the elevator. When he reached the small lobby he saw Raines light a cigar, go outside and raise a hand. A cab pulled close to the curb. When it started away the Island detective hailed another parked some feet from the hotel entrance. He said to the driver:

"Follow that machine, please— but do not move too close to it. When it halts, halt some distance away."

The driver looked at Jo curiously but nodded his head. The two cabs moved from one street to another. There was a great deal of traffic, but Jo's driver was skillful. For perhaps ten minutes the two cabs moved through the city, apparently keeping in the heart of it. Finally the leading cab curved close to a building that had a large clock set in granite stone. It halted. Unfamiliar as Jo was with San Francisco, he recognized the building as a railroad station of considerable importance. There were many porters about, and cabs were everywhere.

As his own cab pulled close to the curb Jo watched Raines alight and pay his driver. The inspector hurried into the station, and when he was out of sight Jo paid up and left his cab. He pulled his hat low over his eyes, straightened his small body a little, went into the station. Almost instantly he saw Raines. The man was at a luggage checking counter; as Jo watched from a safe distance he saw Raines handed two large-sized valises. A porter picked them up; Raines gestured towards another clock inside the station and said something. The porter hurried away, followed by the inspector.

Jo Gar followed, being careful not to be seen. When Raines and his porter went through a train gate, the Island detective halted near it, a peculiar smile on his face. After a few minutes the colored porter came back through the gate. Jo beckoned to him.

"The gentleman whose luggage you just carried to the train— I think he was a friend of mine. You saw his ticket?"

The porter shook his head slowly: "He tol' me his car and seat number— didn't show no ticket," he replied.

Jo Gar frowned. "How did you know what train to take him to?" he asked slowly.

The porter grinned. "That's right," he said. "He wanted the Chicago train."

The Island detective drew a sharp breath. He handed the porter a quarter, walked slowly back into the station's waiting room.

"Mr. Raines had barely time to make his train," he breathed softly. "Yet he was very kind to me— and said nothing about leaving on such a journey."

He took a cab back to his hotel, found everything in his room in perfect order. He called the customs office and after considerable inquiry was told that Inspector Raines had left for his hotel some hour or so ago. He said:

"Yes, he has been here. I wondered if he had returned."

There was a pause, questions were asked at the other end, and he was informed that Raines was not expected to return for special night work, but that he would be on duty in the morning. Jo Gar thanked his informant and hung up the receiver.

He sat on the edge of the small bed and watched a light sign flash in the distance. A ferry boat was a glow of moving light, on the Bay waters. The air seemed very cold. Jo Gar decided that the real Inspector Raines had met with injuries, and that a certain person had impersonated him, had told him an untrue story about a certain woman in black— and had then departed from the city of San Francisco. He decided that he was expected to go to the house at One hundred and forty-one, West Pacific Avenue, that he was supposed to believe the woman had acted suspiciously in going there.

He said softly and slowly: "I have the six diamonds— they have the four. I am in a strange city, and a card with a seal on it was expected to make a great impression. But one man's picture can replace another's— very easily—"

He rose and looked at his wristwatch. It was almost eight o'clock. He inspected his Colt automatic, slipped it back into a pocket of his coat. The phone bell rang, and when he lifted the receiver and gave his name he was told that the customs office was calling, and that Inspector Raines had been found unconscious in an alley not far from the piers. He was still unconscious and it was not certain that he would live. He had apparently been struck over the head with a blunt instrument. The customs office felt that Señor Gar should know why he had failed to arrive, and also that all passengers on the Cheyo Maru had been passed through the office. One had been followed as requested, but her cab had been lost in traffic. The office was very sorry.

Jo Gar said: "I am very sorry to hear of Inspector Raines' injuries. I will call at the office tomorrow. Thank you for calling."

He hung up the receiver, went to the window that faced the Bay and the distant, lighted ferry boat. His gray-blue eyes were smiling coldly. He thought: They did not expect Inspector Raines to be found so soon. They did expect me to go immediately to the address the impostor gave me. They might easily have escaped with the four diamonds, but they chose to lead me to them. They wish the six in my possession, being very greedy. But I am warned, directly and indirectly.

The Island detective turned away from the window and moved towards the room door. He breathed very softly:

"Just the same— I shall go directly to the address given me."

JO GAR left his cab a square from One hundred and forty-one West Pacific Avenue. He had picked the driver with care; the man was husky in build and young. He had a good chin and clear eyes, and he said his name was O'Halohan. Somewhere in the Islands Jo had read that the Irish were fighters.

He said now: "I am a detective— and I'm going inside of the house at One hundred and forty-one. Here is a ten-dollar bill. In about five minutes I want you to drive to the front of the house and blow your horn twice. After that just stay in your seat. Wait about ten minutes— then blow your horn again, twice. If I do not come to a window or the door, and call to you— go to the police and tell them I went into the house and was prevented from coming out. That is all— is it clear?"

The driver nodded. "I got a gun," he said. "And a permit to carry it. Suppose, after the second time I blow my horn, you don't show. Why not let me come in and get you out?"

The Island detective smiled narrowly. "You are young and strong, but neither of those qualities might be of too great value. Neither of us might come out."

The driver said: "If it looks that bad— what you goin' in alone for?" Jo Gar continued to smile. He said patiently:

"I have an idea it will be better that way. You must follow my instructions."

The driver nodded. "You're doing the job," he muttered. "I'll be down there in five minutes, and make the horn racket. I'll give it to you again in ten. Then if you don't show I'll head for the police."

The Island detective nodded. "That is the way," he said. "Don't get out of the car."

The driver said: "Supposing I hear you yelling for help— I still stick inside?"

Jo said grimly: "You will not hear me calling for help, Mister O'Halohan. My visit is not at all complicated. After you blow your horn twice— the second time, I will either give you instructions, or you will go for the police."

The driver said: "You win."

Jo Gar half closed his almond-shaped eyes. "It may be very important to me— that you do just as I have instructed. You are sure you understand?"

The driver nodded; his eyes met Jo Gar's squarely. "It ain't anything tough," he stated.

Jo Gar spoke very quietly. "It is extremely simple."

He half turned away from the cab, and heard the driver say harshly:

"Yeah— if it works."

The Island detective moved along the broken pavement of the sidewalk, a thin smile on his browned face.

"It will be just as simple," he said in a low tone, a half whisper, "if it doesn't work. But much more final— for me."

NUMBER one hundred and forty-one was a rambling one story house in not too good condition. There were no streetlights near it; tall trees rose on either side. The nearest house to it was almost a square distant; opposite was a lot filled with low brush. The section was quiet and pretty well deserted, but less than a half mile away there was the flare of colored lights in the sky. And at intervals Jo Gar could hear distant and faint staccato sounds— the noise of shooting gallery rifles.

He did not hesitate as he reached the front of the house. A yellowish light showed faintly beyond one of the side windows. The pavement that ran to a few steps was broken and not level.

Out of the corners of his gray-blue eyes, as he moved towards the steps, Jo saw that the lights of the cab had been dimmed— their color did not show on the street in front of the place. A cold wind made sound in the trees as he reached the steps, moved up them. His right hand was in the right pocket of his coat, gripping the butt of the automatic.

He stood for a few seconds, his eyes on the number plate, which seemed new and had been placed in a position easily seen. The house was old, the section of San Francisco was not too good— but the number plate was in excellent condition.

The Island detective's lips curved just a little. But the smile that showed momentarily on his face was not a pleasant one. He had a definite feeling that this house marked the end of the trail. He thought of the ones who had died in Manila, when Delgado's jewelry store had been robbed— he thought of the men who had died since then. A vision of Juan Arragon's brown face flashed before his eyes.

He touched the index finger of his left hand to a button near the number plate, heard no sound within the house. One hand at his side, the other in his right pocket— he stood in the cold wind and waited.

He had come to this house, but he had not been tricked. He was gambling— gambling his life, in a strange country, against his chances of recovering the four missing Von Loffler diamonds, against the final chance of facing the one who had planned the Manila crime.

He could not be positive of anything, but he sensed these things. This was to be the finish, one way or the other. He would return to Manila— or he would never leave this house alive. He felt it, and he was suddenly very calm. From somewhere within he heard foot-falls; there was the sound of a bolt being moved, the door opened very wide.

Jo Gar looked into the eyes of a man who had a smiling face. It was a thin, browned face, and the eyes were small and colorless. The man was dressed in a brown suit, almost the color of his skin. There was nothing striking about the one who had opened the door, unless it was the smallness of his colorless eyes.

The eyes looked beyond the Island detective, to the sidewalk and road. The man moved his head slightly and Jo Gar said:

"I am Señor Gar, a private detective who arrived only today in San Francisco. I arrived on the Cheyo Maru— and have come here in search of a woman who was on that boat. She had with her a child—"

He stopped and looked downward at the dull color of black that was the metal of the gun held by the man in the doorway. The man had made only a slight movement with his right hand; the gun's muzzle was less than three feet from Jo's body.

Jo Gar smiled into the smiling eyes of the one in the doorway. "I have made a mistake?" he asked very quietly.

The one in the doorway shook his head. "On the contrary," he said in a voice that was very low and cold, "you have come to the correct place. I have been— expecting you."

He stepped to one side, and Jo Gar walked into a wide hall. The light was dim, and though there were electric bulbs about, it was furnished by a lamp whose wick was uneven. The place was very cold. It had the air of not having been lived in for a long time, and there was no evidence about showing that it would be lived in.

The thin-faced man said: "The first room on your right, please. Lift your hands slightly."

Jo Gar raised his hands slightly, went through a narrow doorway into a room that seemed even colder than the hall. The light in the room was better— there were two lamps. Blinds were drawn tightly.

Beside a small table was a stool that might have been made for a piano.

The one with the gun said in the same, cold voice:

"Sit on the stool, Gar— put your hands on the table. Keep them there."

Hatred crept into his voice as he uttered the last three words. Jo Gar did as instructed. He said quietly:

"I knew that the man you sent to me at my hotel lied. I followed him to the station, and watched him leave the city. I returned to the hotel and the customs office informed me that one of their men, who was coming to me with information of no great importance, had been knocked unconscious. I knew then how the card presented me had been obtained, and that I was expected to believe a story that pointed to suspicious action by a woman I was interested in— and that I was expected to come to this address."

There was hatred showing in the small, colorless eyes of the thin-faced one. He stood almost ten feet away from Jo Gar, facing him.

"But you came, knowing all this."

Jo Gar smiled a little. "When you made that movement and held that gun on me— my fingers were on the trigger of my own gun. I could have shot you down— I did not."

There was a flicker of expression in the standing one's eyes. He said:

"You are very kind, Señor Gar."

Mockery and hatred were in his tone. Jo Gar said slowly:

"No— not kind. I have six diamonds that you would like. I think that you have four I would like. You wanted me here to bargain with me. You wanted me here so that you could trap me, then offer me my life for the six diamonds. You have worked that way, with your accomplices, since the robbery was effected."

The thin-faced one smiled and showed white, even teeth.

"You would risk your life and six diamonds— for the four you say I have?"

Jo Gar smiled gently. "My life is not too important," he said. "I have never regarded it that way. I came here because I knew the one responsible for many deaths would be here."

The thin-faced one said mockingly: "And you were not trapped? You simply wanted to see that person who you hated because of Arragon's death, and because of things done to you?"

The Island detective kept his hands motionless on the table surface.

He shook his head.

"No," he replied. "Not exactly. I wanted to see that one taken by the police. And that is practically assured, now."

He watched the facial muscles of the thin-faced one jerk, saw his colorless eyes shift towards the blinds of the windows. His gun hand moved a little, in towards his body. Rage twisted his face, and then he smiled. It was a grotesque, mask-like smile. The brown skin was drawn tightly over the face bones and the lips were pressed together. Jo Gar said:

"I remember you, Raaker. You were in the insurance business in Manila until a few years ago. There was about to be a prosecution, and you left the Islands."

The thin-faced one said with hoarseness in his voice:

"And I have never forgotten you, Señor Gar. You tell me you have come here, not caring about your life— and that the police are outside. Well— I didn't bring you here to get your six diamonds, Gar— Von Loffler's diamonds. I brought you here because I hate you. I want to watch your body squirm on the floor, beside that stool."

Jo Gar said quietly: "That was how you knew about the Von Loffler diamonds— that Dutch Insurance Company. You stayed out of Manila, Raaker— you couldn't risk coming back. You hired men. Some of them tricked you— and each other. The robbery was successful, but you lost slowly. All the way back from Manila, Raaker, you lost. You used men and women, and they tried to kill me— too many times. They were killed— there were many deaths. Those were diamonds of death, Raaker— and you only got four of them. The woman in black brought them to you— I think she was the only one who was faithful."

Raaker was breathing heavily. He made a sudden movement with his left hand, plunging it into a pocket. When it came out four stones spilled to the surface of the small table. Three of them only rolled a few inches, but one struck against a finger of the Island detective's left hand. Raaker said fiercely:

"I hate you, Gar. You drove me from the Islands, with your evidence. I hated Von Loffler, too. He took all his properties away from me, because he learned that I was gambling, because he was afraid of the insurance. So I learned about the stones, where they were. And I planned the robbery. I stayed here— and got reports. I tried to direct. But you were on that boat—"

He broke off, shrugged. "You are going to die, Gar. So I can talk. The woman came to me with the diamonds. Four of them. And by the time she brought them to me here— she hated me. She had seen too much death. She's gone away, with her child— and you'll never find her, Gar. She killed a man on the Cheyo Maru, and that made her hate me all the more. She had to kill him, before he could talk— to you!"

Jo Gar said steadily: "I don't think— I want to find her, Raaker. I know now who planned the crime, who caused the deaths. And you are caught, Raaker—"

There was the sound of brakes beyond the room, the low beat of an idling engine. Two sharp blasts from a horn came into the room. Raaker jerked his head sharply, then turned his eyes towards Jo Gar again. The Island detective made no movement. He smiled with his lips pressed together. Raaker said: "What's— that?"

His voice was hoarse. Jo Gar parted his lips. He said:

"A signal from the police— that the house is properly covered." Raaker sucked in a deep breath. "I'll get more than one of them— as they come in!" he muttered.

Jo Gar shook his head. "I do not think you will, Raaker. They will not come in. It is easier to wait for you— to go out."

Raaker smiled twistedly, but there was fear in his eyes.

"They'll come in, all right," he breathed. "I'll get you first— when they come. You won't see them come in, Gar."

Jo Gar smiled. "They will not come in," he said softly. "If I do not go out, within the next ten minutes, they will unload the sub-machine-guns and the smoke bombs. They will know I am dead— and that there is a killer in the house. The smoke bombs— and the tear gas bombs— they will come in."

Raaker said hoarsely. "— — ! How I hate you, you little half-breed—"

He jerked the gun slightly. The Island detective looked him in the eyes, still smiling.

"That is true," he said. "You do hate me— and there is the blood of the Spanish and the Filipino in my veins. But I am not a criminal— a thief and a killer."

Raaker turned his head slightly and listened to the steady beat of the cab engine. Then his eyes came back to the small figure of Gar, went to the four glittering diamonds on the table. He said thickly:

"With the others— over two hundred thousand dollars— I would have been fixed—"

His voice broke. Jo Gar said quietly: "Yes, you could have had things easy, Raaker. If I had not taken the same boat that your accomplices took— if things had turned out differently in Honolulu—" Raaker stared at him, his little eyes growing larger. He said slowly:

"Where are— the other six stones?"

Jo Gar smiled. "In the vaults of the customs office," he replied. "You did not think I would bring them here?"

Raaker's body swayed a little. The wind made noise in the trees beyond the house, and he stiffened. Jo Gar said in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper:

"If you had had even the courage of a certain type of criminal— and had gone to the Islands yourself, you might have had the diamonds now. If you had not used others—"

Raaker said fiercely: "Damn the diamonds— I've got you! They brought you here—"

Jo Gar half closed his almond-shaped eyes. "And they've brought the San Francisco police here," he said steadily. "They've brought tear gas and sub-machine-guns— and they're bringing death here, Raaker." Raaker's eyes held rage again. He was losing control of himself.

He made a swift motion with his left hand, shaking fingers pointing towards the four stones on the table.

"Look at them— damn you!" he gritted. "Look at the four you couldn't— reach! Look at them—"

Jo Gar looked into the eyes of Raaker. He shook his head.

"I've seen the others," he stated quietly. "I've seen many diamonds, Raaker."

Raaker laughed wildly. He backed towards a wall of the room. "You'll never see diamonds again," he said in a fierce tone. "Never,

Gar!"

He raised his gun arm slowly. From the cab outside there came the sharp sound of a horn, silence— and then another blast.

Jo Gar never took his eyes from the eyes of Raaker. He was smiling grimly.

He said very slowly: "Machine-gun bullets, Raaker. And choking, blinding gas. They'll be waiting for you— after you get through squeezing that trigger."

Raaker cried out in a shrill tone: "Damn you— Gar— that won't help you any—"

There was a sudden engine hum as the cab driver accelerated the motor. Yellow light flashed beyond the house, along the road. O'Halohan was going for the police, starting his cab. For a second Raaker twisted his head towards the sound and the light. He was thinking of machine-guns— and tear gas—

Jo Gar was on his feet in a flash. The table went forward, over. The Island detective leaped to the right as Raaker cried out hoarsely, and the first bullet from his gun crashed into the table wood.

The second bullet from the gun ripped the cloth of Gar's coat, and his right hand was coming up, with the Colt in it, when the cloth ripped.

He squeezed the trigger sharply but steadily. There was the third gun crash and Raaker screamed, took a step forward. His gun hand dropped; he went to his knees, stared at Gar for a second, swaying— then fell heavily to the floor.

Jo Gar went slowly to his side. He was dead— the bullet had caught him just above the heart. One diamond lay very close to his curved fingers; it was as though he were grasping for it, in death.

The other three Jo found after a five-minute search. Then he went from the room into the hall, and out of the house. The cab was out of sight; in the distance there was still colored light in the sky. The shooting gallery noise came at intervals. Jo Gar found a package in his pocket, lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes.

He said very softly, to himself: "I have all— of the diamonds. Now I can go home, after the police come. I hope my friend Juan Arragon— knows."

He stood very motionless on the top step that led to the small porch, and waited for the police to come. And he thought, as he waited, of the Philippines— of Manila— and of his tiny office off the Escolta. It was good to forget other things, and to think of his returning.

___________________

4: Frame For a Lady

Cleve F. Adams

1895-1949

Popular Detective, Oct 1938

1: Murder at the Bel Air

FLAGG was draped over one end of the bar at Luigi's when the girl came in. It wasn't late, somewhere around ten o'clock, and the place should have been crowded, but apparently it was an off night, wet and cold outside, and there hadn't been a customer for over an hour.

Luigi, fat, olive face creased with annoyance because he preferred arguing with Flagg to hearing the tinkle of the cash register, went up along the bar to see what the girl wanted. She sailed right by him, directly up to Flagg who was experimenting with a new Flagg Special. This time it was a concoction of five different liqueurs, including absinthe, and she eyed the array of bottles with patent distaste.

"Nicholas Flagg, you're drunk!"

"I never argue with ladies," he said amiably, not turning, but holding the finished product aloft and admiring the light refractions. "You are a lady, I trust?"

"I won't be," she said angrily, "if you don't put that darned thing down and quit clowning around." And then, a sudden little catch in her voice, "Oh, Nick, don't you remember me?"

He turned and looked down at her. "Sheila?" He put down his drink very carefully on the bar, and then, whooping like a kid, he grabbed her by the shoulders and whirled her over to the nearest booth.

"The squirt, as I live and breathe!" He laughed gayly. "How-zit, keed? What brings you back home?"

Her eyes clouded. "Mother is dead, Nick, and so— well, I didn't have anybody else but Dad. I just sort of came back."

He scowled, remembering. Let's see, it must be around five or six years, now, since Big John and his wife had split up. Naturally, with Big John Carmody's rep at that time, the courts had given the custody of Sheila to the wife.

Six years!

Flagg stared down at the girl. Park Avenue, ail right, even if she was Big John's kid. Park Avenue, and too grown up to be called "the squirt" any more. Suddenly abashed, he released her. "Sorry, kitten."

"For what, Nick?" She gave him the old swift grin he remembered so well. "You haven't even kissed me yet." And then, as he frowned, she added, "Oh, I almost forgot. Father wants to see you."

He stiffened. "Why?"

"Because," she answered calmly, "he's in a spot of some kind."

Flagg laughed without humor. "Big John Carmody in a spot that I can help him out of? Now, look, kitten, your father is a grand guy, but he and I split up a long time ago. We just couldn't get along."

"I know, Nick. He told me you'd had trouble. That's why he sent me to find you. He knew you wouldn't corne otherwise."

"I don't like that, Sheila," Flagg said. "Sending you out to do a job nobody else could do smacks of his damn politics; but I never thought he'd use his own daughter."

''He isn't using me, Nick. I of- fered to find you. Somehow he struck me as being a lonely old man in spite of his money, and his power, and that she-devil of a wife of his. I think you're the only man he ever trusted fully. He needs someone he can trust."

"So you met your stepmother, eh?" Flagg grinned. "A nice piece of work, Judith. Does she know he sent you after me?"

"I don't think so, Nick." She got up, laid a hand on his arm. "Then you'll corne?"

"All right, kitten, I never could refuse you anything." He shrugged resentfully. "But just the same I think we're both being played for suckers. Did Big John tell you anything else?"

"He told me you were a private détective, the only honest one in the racket."

SHE took Flagg's arm in a firm grip, piloted him to the door.

In her cab, with the rain pounding down on the roof, and the million lights of Wilshire crawling past, he said in his gentle, whimsical voice, "You're not worried, or any thing, are you, kitten?"

"Sort of," she admitted, adding fiercely: "What do I care what they say about Big John Carmody? He's my Father, isn't he? And even you admit he's a grand guy! Did I have any choice about leaving him? Did anybody consult me? No! Being under age I wasn't supposed to have any intelligence."

"What about your mother, kitten?"

"Look, Nick," she snapped. "Will you stop calling me by that asinine kid name? Can't even you realize that I'm a woman, and that— Oh, never mind, skip it. Mother? Oh, Mother was okay, only she had delusions of grandeur which somehow never materialized. I mean, everybody played her for a sucker as long as her money lasted, and when she finally went bust, she found out some of the facts of life and it killed her."

Flagg touched her arm furtively. "Sounds pretty hard, Sheila. You're more like Big John than I thought you'd be."

"Perhaps I am," she said, very low. "Perhaps we both remembered what a swell person Nick Flagg used to be." She tumed in the seat, cupped a small palm under Fïagg's chin and looked directly into his eyes. "Nick, can't you guess the real reason I came back?"

He shifted uncomfortably, looked out the window.

"You're a big girl now, kitten. Uncle Nick can't paddywhack like he used to. Besides, I think the driver is looking."

She muttered something that sounded like "Damn!" but she moved over into her own corner and didn't say anything else till the cab drew up before the Bel Air.

The Bel Air was one of those vast co-operative apartments, owned by the tenants, each floor a separate unit of perhaps twelve or fifteen rooms. There was no clerk, only a doorman. When Flagg saw the bulge of a gun under the man's left arm, he got the idea that it would be tough crashing the Bel Air if you weren't wanted. The elevator man had a gun, too. On the tenth floor the elevator stopped and Sheila and Flagg got out.

The door in front of them was opening, very slowly, almost fur¬ tively, and then suddenly it was flung wide and the woman standing there began screaming bloody mur der. She was Judith Carmody, Big John's second wife.

"John's dead! He's all b-b-bloody! Oh, my God, they've killed him!" It went on and on, and yet the woman didn't appear to be screaming at Sheila and Flagg. Her wide eyes were blank, like a sleep-walker's.

Flagg shot a swift glance at Sheila's face, saw she was taking it like a trouper, and pushed past Judith Carmody into the apartment. He found Big John in the living room. He was dead, ail right.

There had been quite a struggle apparently. A couple of heavy chairs were overturned and the drapes over one window were in shreds.

Big John Carmody lay on his side in front of the fireplace, sandy, partially bald head bashed in; and, as if this hadn't been enough, somebody had skewered his heart with a knife. There was hardly any blood. Judith Carmody's screams had faded to a low, monotonous moaning somewhere farther away than the foyer, and presently even that stopped, and then there was a light step behind Flagg. He whirled, trying to keep Sheila from seeing the grisly mess on the floor. Her face looked pinched, tired, but she could take it, this girl.

"Never mind, Nick," she said, as she went around him and stood looking down at her father's body. She made no effort to touch him. Flagg let her alone, wondering uncomfortably why there weren't any servants around. Had Judith called the cops? Probably not. You'd think, though, that with ail that screaming somebody ought to be trying to crash in. There wasn't a sound except the slow tick of the electric clock on the big desk.

After a while Sheila turned and touched his arm lightly. Her dark eyes had a misty look, but she wasn't really crying.

"A grand guy, you said, Nick. Political big shot, notorious gambler, a racketeer if you can believe the papers, but a grand guy, eh? We ought to do something about it, don't you think?"

He put his arms around her. "We will, kitten, if that's what you want."

She pushed him away, looked up into his old-young face. Her own was set, and the angle of her jaw reminded him of Big John's.

"That's what I want, Nick."

"What about Judith?"

"Asleep, I hope. She took something out of a bottle, anyway. You notice anything funny about the way she began screaming?"

Flagg nodded. "I wish I knew what in hell to do with you, kitten. I'd like to look around before I call the law."

"Go ahead, Nick. I'il be quite ail right."

He swung long legs through the apartment without finding anyone but Judith Carmody. She was on a chaise longue in her bedroom, had changed from Street clothes to some sort of a frilly négligée, but she wasn't asleep. Her eyes were reddened, and Flagg, always the cynic, touched her balled handkerchief to see if it were wet. It was. Blue- eyed Judith had really been crying, then.

"Feel like talking, Mrs. Carmody?" he said, gently enough, though he didn't like her. "I judge you were out somewhere and came home and found John the way he is. Is that right?"

She began sobbing. "Oh, Nicholas, you're so hard. Must you look at me like that? Haven't you any feeling?"

HE STARED down at her, remem- bering that this woman had been the cause of his break with Big John. Six months after her marriage she'd begun making a play for Flagg, and Big John had walked in on them one day. There was nothing to it on Flagg's part; he'd never even liked the woman, but naturally Big John had misunderstood. Flagg had taken his eut of the Casino, spent it, decided to quit gambling and become a private détective. Big John Carmody had gone on up to the top.

"You haven't answered my question," Flagg said.

Her blue eyes hardened and she stopped sniffling, knowing from his tone that she wasn't getting anywhere with him.

"Where do you fit?"

"I'm acting for Sheila. Whether you know it or not, she's liable to be in a spot, and so are you. Maybe I'il be in one, myself. But if you'd rather talk to the cops it's okay with me."

SHE sat up. "What do you mean, I'm in a spot? My God, you don't think I did it, do you?"

"You're as good a guess as any. Why'd you wait until you saw the kitten and me before you went into your screaming act?"

"I didn't!" she flared. She sank back and began to sob again. "Oh, Nick, how do I know what I did? How can you torture me like this?"

He swung on his heel, saw Sheila standing there in the open door. Unaccountably he found himself flushing. He indicated the phone beside the bed.

"Better eall Headquarters, kitten. Try for Lieutenant Sorensen, or anybody but that heel Hartigan. I want to have another look out back." He left the two women, went along the hall to the kitchen. Servants' night out, he guessed. There was a service elevator, door closed but unlocked. A fresh smear of blood marred the porcelainlike surface on the right hand jamb.

Flagg opened the door, looked down the shaft. Ail he could see was the top of the elevator, prob- ably at ground-floor level. He couldn't be certain that whoever had left that smear of blood had gone out through this door.

There were only two other possibilities, though, presuming that Ju¬ dith Carmody hadn't done the job herself— the passenger elevator and the built-in fire-escape chute. He located the panel to this last in the private hall and stared straight down into utter blackness. A guy could get down that way without any trouble, but he'd have a tough time getting up.

And yet the manner of Big John's death certainly indicated a man as the killer. A man or men. Those overturned chairs, the tom drapes, told of a struggle. Big John would not have had to battle that hard with Judith.

Somebody rang the front door- bell and Flagg went back the way he had corne, through Judith Car- mody's room. She was using the phone, keeping her voice very low. Sensing his presence she whirled, trying to cradle the phone behind her back.

"Whom were you calling, Judith?" Flagg asked sharply.

For a moment she was too frightened to be resentful. "Why—why, just one of the staff maids. I—I feel so helpless."

Flagg went over and took the phone out of her hand. The line sounded dead, but when he jiggled the instrument the operator down- stairs eut in with, "Yes, Mrs. Carmody?"

"I'm speaking for Mrs. Carmody," Flagg said. "Will you get that number for me again?" Before the girl could answer, some instinct made Flagg. swivel to look at Judith. He wasn't quite fast enough. She had a small onyx clock in her hand and when she hit him with it, it might just as well have been an an vil. He went down, dragging the phone with him.

2: Suspect Number One

WHEN he finally got around to opening his eyes, he saw Sheila on her knees beside him. She'd been crying. Looking beyond her, Flagg saw fat Gus Keppler, Big John Carmody's partner. Just beyond Keppler was Hamilton Marx, the D.A., and just coming through the bedroom door was Detective-lieutenant Ray Hartigan. Hartigan had a nasty look on his dark face, the kind he always got when he saw Flagg. He came over and hauled Sheila to her feet, scowled down at Nick.

"All right, lug, get the hell up. Thought you'd pull a fast one by getting somebody besides me, huh? Well, I spiked that. I'm in charge of this case from now on."

Flagg sat up slowly. After the room stopped whirling he got to his knees, then his feet, stood there propping himself against the phone stand. A little river of blood trickled down from where the onyx clock had gashed his temple. He got out a handkerchief, dabbed the eut, not saying anything. Marx, the prosecu- tor, and fat Gus Keppler didn't say anything either.

Hartigan, still holding Sheila by the arm, said, "She hit you, huh?" He leaned over the bed, picked up the little clock. "Like this, huh?" He went through the motions of sapping Flagg with the clock.

"Would you mind letting go of the kitten's arm while you do your daily dozen?" Flagg said mildly. "She didn't hit me, not with the clock nor with anything else, but if she had, it would be okay with me. Are you investigating a murder or a case of assault and battery?"

Gus Keppler said something to the D.A., rolled over on his short legs. "Flagg's right, Hartigan. This is no time to work off your personal grudges."

"The hell with that, Gus." Hartigan's jaw got stubborn. "What I want to know is why did this mug ask for Sorensen if he didn't have something to cover up? If the gai didn't conk him, who did?"

Keppler spread pudgy hands, and looked at Flagg. He had a round, good-natured face, round blue eyes, and there was a sort of chuckle in his voice, no matter what he was saying. Flagg had always liked Gus.

"There's no mystery about who hit me," Flagg said quietly. "Mrs. Carmody did it."

Everybody looked surprised. It seemed that Mrs. Carmody had vanished while Sheila was answering the door. Hartigan bellowed an order at somebody out in the living room, and a couple of dicks barged through the door, kept on going. They didn't find Judith.

Hartigan's sneer was triumphant. "She ain't here, see? She probably never was here. It's just a stall, though I'm damned if I see why the wren should conk him. They must've been working together. They came in together, didn't they?"

Flagg turned a blank look on Marx, the D.A. Marx was not so tall as Flagg, very slender, dressed to the point of foppishness, but a capable prosecutor so far as Flagg knew. It was rumored that he would be the next governor of the state.

"The girl dropped a packet of let- ters," he said. "Rather, she'd hidden them in her dress and they—well, they fell out at the wrong time. I'd say their contents were a pretty fair motive for murder."

"Of her own father?"

HARTIGAN grinned wolfishly.

"Why not? Didn't Big John and her mother split up? Didn't her old lady keep writing him to send her money?"

Sheila looked at Flagg. Her eyes were ashamed, yet somehow défiant. "Believe me, Nick, I'd no idea Mother was asking him for money. I don't even know if he sent any. I just ran across the letters in his desk and thought—"

"This was after we found him, or before?"

"After," she said, very low. "While you were searching the apartment."

Flagg suddenly felt very tired. Had the kitten come back after all these years, not for a fond reunion with a grand guy, but for revenge for something Big John had done to her mother?

"What was in the letters?" he asked.

Hartigan again gave him that nasty grin. "As if you didn't know! Well, just in case that part of your story is true, it seems the former Mrs. Carmody got rid of all the dough Big John settled on her. Along toward the last, she was even going hungry part time, to hear her tell it, and wouJdn't Big John please send just a little to help out her and the gal? I'm betting he didn't send it, and when she finally ups and dies, the dame, here, cornes back to sort of square accounts."

Flagg, feeling like a heel, looked at Sheila for corroboration. Her eyes were stony hard as they met his. They said, "So even you think I did it!" And then she turned and ran through the door to the rear hall.

Hartigan, caught off guard for once, came alive and started after her, but Flagg stuck out a foot and tripped him. Marx piled on top of Hartigan, and the two of them got tangled up long enough for Flagg to shoot a questioning glance at Gus Keppler.

THE fat man was making no effort to mix in. His round blue eyes looked mildly surprised, and one of them closed slowly in a prodigious wink. By the time Flagg had separated the struggling men, Keppler had turned and was staring out the window at the lights of the city below.

Hartigan, cursing a blue streak, glared at Marx. "I thought you was Flagg! What in hell you mean, tripping me?" He didn't wait for Marx's outraged reply, ran out in the hall, yelling for his men. "Down the hatch!" somebody roared. "She went down the tire chute. I heard her!"

Marx's lip curled. "Damned fool," he said in a stifled voice, and looked at Flagg. "Hartigan, I mean." He began straightening his disarranged clothing, like a ruffled peacock, but ail the time he kept studying Flagg's face with his alert eyes. There was a lot of running back and forth in the hall ; doors kept banging, and .iudging from the number of voices, Ray Hartigan must have brought a dozen men with him. It was so noisy outside that Flagg had to raise his tired voice a little to attract Keppler's attention.

"Gus, I don't mind telling you and Marx all there is to tell. I've no quarrel with the law, only with the way some of these mugs administer it."

Keppler chuckled his jolly, fat-man chuckle. "I'm not the law, boy. Just the same, Big John Carmody was my partner and a grand guy, to boot." The thought of Big John lying in the other room did something to his eyes. They still seemed to twinkle, but it was as if thick lenses had thrown them temporarily out of focus. "I guess it would be worth a guy's while to turn his killer up for me."

"Now, Gus, now Gus," Marx said nervously. "This kill is going to raise enough stink in the county without your turning a bunch of gorillas loose. The law will take care of it." He swung on Flagg. "As you were saying?"

Flagg gave him the yam from the time Sheila had found him in Luigi's bar. "The kid couldn't have killed her father. The doorman and the elevator monkey will tell you she came in with me."

"Sure she did," said Hartigan, materializing like an evil genie in the doorway. "She did the job before she went out to find you, and then brought you back to help discover the crime."

Nick had thought of this one, himself. The story of Big John Carmody's being in a spot and wanting to see Flagg, had struck him as funny at the time. But, hell, he'd been so darned glad to see the kitten.

It could be, he decided, flounder- ing around in circles.

After all, Sheila was as hard as Big John in a way; she could carry a grudge. And she was smart enough to know she'd need an alibi if she were found in town and any investigation were started. Only thing was, why hadn't she taken those damned letters before, instead of after she came back? Corne to story is true, it seems the former Mrs. Carmody got rid of all the dough Big John settled on her. Along toward the last, she was even going hungry part time, to hear her tell it, and wouJdn't Big John please send just a little to help out her and the gai? I'm betting he didn't send it, and when she finally ups and dies, the dame, here, cornes back to sort of square accounts."

Flagg, feeling like a heel, looked at Sheila for corroboration. Her eyes were stony hard as they met his. They said, "So even you think I did it!" And then she turned and ran through the door to the rear hall.

Hartigan, caught off guard for once, came alive and started after her, but Flagg stuck out a foot and tripped him. Marx piled on top of Hartigan, and the two of them got tangled up long enough for Flagg to shoot a questioning glance at Gus Keppler.

THE fat man was making no effort to mix in. His round blue eyes looked mildly surprised, and one of them closed slowly in a prodigious wink. By the time Flagg had separated the struggling men, Keppler had turned and was staring out the window at the lights of the city below.

Hartigan, cursing a blue streak, glared at Marx. "I thought you was Flagg! What in hell you mean, trip- ping me?" He didn't wait for Marx's outraged reply, ran out in the hall, yelling for his men. "Down the hatch!" somebody roared. "She went down the tire chute. I heard her !"

Marx's lip curled. "Damned fool," he said in a stifled voice, and looked at Flagg. "Hartigan, I mean." He began straightening his disarranged clothing, like a ruffled peacock, but ail the time he kept studying Flagg's face with his alert eyes. There was a lot of running back and forth in the'^hall ; doors kept banging, and .iudging from the number of voices, Ray Hartigan must have brought a dozen men with him. It was so noisy outside that Flagg had to raise his tired voice a little to attract Keppler's attention.

"Gus, I don't mind telling you and Marx ail there is to tell. I've no quarrel with the law, only with the way some of these mugs administer it."

Keppler chuckled his jolly, fat-man chuckle. 'Tm not the law, boy. Just the same, Big John Carmody was my partner and a grand guy, to boot." The thought of Big John lying in the other room did something to his eyes. They still seemed to twinkle, but it was as if thick lenses had thrown them temporarily out of focus. "I guess it would be worth a guy's while to tum his killer up for me."

"Now, Gus, now Gus," Marx said nervously. "This kill is going to raise enough stink in the county without your turning a bunch of gorillas loose. The law will take care of it." He swung on Flagg. "As you were saying?"

Flagg gave him the yam from the time Sheila had found him in Luigi's bar. "The kid couldn't have killed her father. The doorman and the elevator monkey will tell you she came in with me."

"Sure she did," said Hartigan, materializing like an evil genie in the doorway. "She did the job before she went out to find you, and then brought you back to help discover the crime."

Nick had thought of this one, himself. The story of Big John Carmody's being in a spot and wanting to see Flagg, had struck him as funny at the time. But, hell, he'd been so darned glad to see the kitten.

It could be, he decided, floundering around in circles.

After ail, Sheila was as hard as Big John in a way; she could carry a grudge. And she was smart enough to know she'd need an alibi if she were found in town and any investigation were started. Only thing was, why hadn't she taken those damned letters before, instead of after she came back? Corne to think of it, he had only her own word for that.

Hartigan must have read the doubt in his face.

He said disgustedly, "Well, we'll pound it out of her when the boys pick her up."

Keppler lifted his big head. "She got away, then?"

"What do you think?"

"I think, my belligerent flat-foot, that you'd better lay off Flagg and let him solve this job for you."

"Like hell I will! Whadda you mean, solve it? It's solved, ail but finding the dame, and I got a grand idea Nick Flagg can tell us where she is. I'm holding him."

Flagg intercepted a look between Gus Keppler and the district attorney. Marx coughed. "If you take Flagg in, Hartigan, I'll spring him on a writ, myself. You know I can do it."

Hartigan leered. "Custody of the D.A.'s office, eh? Boy, oh, boy, what a slush fund Carmody & Keppler must be putting up to èlect you governor!"

"One of these days that big mouth is going to break you, Hartigan," Marx snapped.

"But I'll still be an honest cop when it does!"

"Or a dead one," Gus Keppler said in his chuckling voice. "Now look, what's the use of all this argument? We ail want the same thing— Big John's murderer. Well, let's go get him."

"Her," Hartigan insisted sullenly.

"All right, which her?" Keppler gave Flagg a level stare. "Was that straight stuff about Mrs. Carmody's being here?"

"Wait a minute," Ray Hartigan said. He went out into the living room. When he came back his lean dark face was twisted in a snarl of triumph. "I knew you was lying, Flagg. The boys just checked with the doorman and the guy on the elevator. Mrs. Carmody went out at seven o'clock. She ain't been back."

"Maybe it was her ghost that hit me." Flagg grinned erookedly. "Why not try the telephone operator downstairs? She'll remember the call Judith was making."

"Hah!" Hartigan sneered. "She may remember the call, but how'll she know it wasn't the Sheila dame instead of Mrs. Carmody?"

Marx, the D.A., took up the phone, put a curt question or two, cradled it again. Turning, he looked at Flagg speculatively.

"Well, she bears out part of your story, anyway. A woman's voice asked for an outside line, not a number. The girl naturally can't swear it was Mrs. Carmody, but she does remember a man's calling right afterward and asking her to get the party again. Just then there was a terrifie clatter as if the phone had been dropped, and the girl was so excited she didn't even try to get reconnected."

"All right," Hartigan snarled. "Either the Sheila gai hit him or he got that gash on his head in the struggle with Big John. What difference does it make? The gal did her old man in, or Flagg did, or both of them together did it."

"Mrs. Carmody could have used the service elevator, you know," Flagg said in his habitually sleepy voice. "It's in the kitchen. And there's a smear of blood beside the door, whatever that means."

CURSING, Hartigan rushed off again.

Marx said uncomfortably, "Understand, we're not accusing you, Flagg." Flagg amiably said that he understood, and he and Marx, and roly-poly Gus Keppler went into the living room. A deputy medical examiner was just pulling off his rubber gloves.

The deputy, sighting Marx, came over and demanded irritably. "Who is in charge of this case, anyway?" "Lieutenant Hartigan. Why?"

"I just wondered. Nobody has even bothered to ask me what killed the deceased, or when, or where it happened. It's unique, in a way. I mean, I could just as well be home asleep."

Marx looked puzzled. "Well, the answers are pretty obvious, aren't they?"

"Oh, quite. Yes, indeed. Only they're all wrong, you see. Big John Carmody was stabbed with a knife, and undoubtedly he was bludgeoned, but the thing that killed him happened to be a bullet."

"What!"

The little man gravely extended a tiny leaden pellet. "In his heart. The almost complété absence of blood led me to believe that the obvious wounds occurred after death. The knife was driven into the bullet hole in an attempt, I should say, to conceal the fact that there was a bullet hole. I do not know the reason for battering his head."

MARX looked astounded. Gus Keppler shook with sudden mirth, and yet it wasn't especially funny. "Hartigan will love this," he chuckled. "You tell the newshounds yet?"

The deputy said he hadn't. "Well, don't," Marx snapped at him. "Don't tell anybody except Hartigan, and not even him, unless he makes a point of it." He turned worried eyes on Flagg. "Any idea where we can find the girl?"

"None," Flagg said honestly. "I didn't even know she was in town till ten o'clock tonight. What about you, Gus? You were closer to Big John than anybody else. Do you know when she got in, or where she's stopping, or anything at ail?"

"She had a key to this place, according to your tell," Keppler said. "Maybe she was staying here. John never even mentioned his daughter to me."

Flagg turned on the little doctor. "You intimated that the kill might have happened somewhere else? Is that right?" He was remembering that smear of blood out by the service elevator.

"It's quite possible. The attempt to conceal the actual cause of death is no more illogical than the simulation of a terrifie struggle in this room. The knife that was used belongs to the desk set on the table there. That is the only reason we have to assume that that part of it occurred here."

The very brutality of the knifing and head-smashing, the overturning of heavy furniture had practically eliminated Sheila as the killer in Flagg's mind. Now, it didn't look so good again. From the caliber of the slug, it was undoubtedly fired from a small gun, the kind a woman would be apt to carry. So, to make it look like a man's work, she could have—

He'd almost forgotten Judith Carmody. Marx and Gus Keppler had drifted over to the desk, were talk- ing in low tones. They split finally, and the district attorney put on his hat and went out toward the foyer and the elevator. Keppler, shrugging ofï the importunate reporters, came back and stared up into Flagg's face with an odd mixture of admiration and disgust.

"You think the gal did it, don't you ?"

"Sure, don't you?"

Keppler grinned suddenly, round face creasing into a thousand wrinkles. "You're a liar, boy. You don't think so, but even if you did, you'd put your own neck in the noose to help her get clear. You're nuts about her, aren't you?"

"Sure," Nick said again.

"Damn it all," Keppler groaned. "I can read these so-called dead-pan gamblers, but I can't even tell if you're drunk or sober half the time. You're just too amiable to be human."

"That makes two of us," Flagg said. "You're pretty beatific yourself, Gus. So seeing you're so good-natured, what happens to Big John Carmody's dough? Who gets it? You? Judith?"

"Judith," Keppler said. "I ran across the will one day down at the office. On Judith's death, the residue, if any, goes to the daughter. Nominally I'm nothing but a business partner in the legitimate end of the racket."

"And the rest of it?"

Keppler's eyes were quite frank as he said, "The rest of it was always off the record, Flagg. We paid in cash, collected in cash, and there was no holdover on the split."

"Leaving you in a nice spot, now, huh?"

"Meaning I'm head man? Of course. But don't go looking for a nice motive for me, boy, or I'il reimind Hartigan that you used to be Big John's partner yourself. You two had a little trouble, didn't you?"

"Sure." Flagg grinned. "Fact is, I've been brooding over it for five years and never had time to come up and kill him till just now."

Lieutenant Ray Hartigan grabbed his arm. "I wish you wouldn't do that, Lieutenant," Flagg said sadly. "It scares me."

Hartigan wasn't running around in circles any more, though. He said to somebody behind him, "Is this the guy?" and whirled Flagg around to face a big bruiser who looked as if he'd spent the winter in a coal bin. He had the remnants of a Bel Air uniform on and you could see where his wrists and ankles had been wired together. Under the coal dust he was definitely Swedish.

He looked at Flagg out of angry, bloodshot eyes, looked at the dried blood on Flagg's forehead.

"Yah," he said determinedly. "Yah, dot's him."

"All right, that's ail," Hartigan said. "You can go get cleaned up, but don't leave the building." The big man shuffled away and Hartigan got out his cuffs. "Well, Mister Flagg, I guess that'll hold you so that even the D.A. and Gus Kep- pler can't spring you."

"The complaining witness is the janitor, I presume?" Flagg said.

"You oughta know, shamus. You conked him and tossed him in the coal pile. And when we get that little tramp you been playing around with—"

"Leaving the lady out of it, Hartigan, just what do you think is the payoff? I wouldn't help anybody do a job just to get a few letters."

Hartigan's smile was almost pleasant. "I understand the frail gets all the dough her father left."

"Wrong again, copper. She doesn't get a dime as long as Judith is alive."

"Thanks, Mister Flagg. I'm glad to hear you admit all the angles, on account of we just picked Judith out of the coal pile, too. Offhand, I'd say Judith Carmody is no longer alive. She is, in fact, quite dead."

Flagg grinned pleasantly, as if this were very cheering news indeed, and brought up a fist from somewhere down around his knees and smacked Hartigan square on the button. As the big dick went down Flagg legged it for the hall. It chanced to be empty at the moment. The door to the nre chute was ajar and Flagg could have easily made it to the basement in nothing fiat. In- stead, he slammed the door, ran on down the hall and came back through the kitchen into Judith Car- mody's room. He crawled under Judith's bed and lay there getting his breath.

3: Death Strikes Again

THERE was a lot of running around for an hour or so. Men tromped in and out the bedroom, but nobody thought of looking under the bed because nobody would think that even Nick Flagg was crazy enough to stick around after smacking Lieutenant Ray Hartigan.

And there Flagg was, lying under Judith Carmody's bed. Now, there was a screwy angle— Judith's death. Who the devil had she been phoning when Flagg interrupted her? It was stuffy under the bed, and Flagg, wriggling into a more comfortable position, got one of his hands tangled in the telephoné cord.

He rolled over, saw that the cord had been pulled loose from the box. Now, when had that happened? He wasn't very clear about what had happened after Judith had conked him with the clock, but he seemed to remember hanging onto the phone when he fell. This led him to some- thing else, something so startling that he sat erect, or tried to, and almost brained himself on the bottom of the box spring.

Nursing the freshly opened cut on his forehead, he became conscious that the apartment was strangely quiet. The light in the bedroom still burned but there was no longer the tramp of worried feet, the sound of voices. Maybe the cops had called it a day. Flagg lifted an edge of the counterpane, dropped it again.

There was someone moving toward him from the kitchen, moving very lightly, but with a sort of stealthy purpose. Presently a pair of feet came and stood close to the bed. They belonged to a woman and, offhand, Judith being dead, Flagg couldn't think of another woman connected with the case except Sheila.

HE SLID over to the far side of the bed, rolled out and stood up suddenly. Sheila had a gun and instinctively she poked this at him before she recognized him. Then, quite calmly:

"Hello, Nick."

Flagg wiped his face on a coat sleeve. "Fancy this!" he said, exhaling. "I was just thinking about you, kitten."

"I know," she said bitterly. "You were thinking just like all the rest of them. All but the murderer. I'm almost beginning to like him, I think." Her fine mouth quivered suddenly. ""At— at least he knows I didn't do it."

Flagg went around the bed and took the gun out of her unresisting hand. He put his other arm around her and let her cry quietly against his shoulder.

"Now look, kitten, I never said you killed John, did I? Trouble with you is, you jump to conclusions, just like he did once. And about the same guy, too. Meaning me." He found a clean handkerchief, gave it to her. "Now tell Unole Nick what this is all about, will you? Why'd you come back?"

"Be-because everybody else was gone, silly. At least I thought they were. Somebody killed my Father, and apparently nobody gives a darn except me. Ail that you and the police and the killers are interested in is pinning it on a girl named Sheila Carmody. That way, everything will be whitewashed very neatly, don't you think?"

"Where'd you get this gun?"

Sheila stamped her foot. "There you go! I'm a gun moll or something, just because I've got a gun!"

"Well, I just asked," Flagg said mildly.

"Well, I don't mind telling you that I stumbled over it down in the basement. Somebody had scattered coal all over the floor and the gun was mixed up in it. Believe it or not."

"I believe it," Flagg said. "In the light of recent events I'm ready to believe anything you tell me, kitten. We're in a sweet spot unless we can turn up the real killer. The cops are looking for us both, now, and if we were shot on sight it would simplify things for everybody concerned— except you and me." He told her of the latest development in the case, Judith's death.

"Was— was Judith shot, too?"

"Lord, I don't know, kitten. Maybe she fell down the elevator shaft and broke her neck."

"Nick?"

"Yes, kitten?"

"Were you— were you in love with Judith?"

He looked at her blankly. "What's that got to do with it? I wasn't, but at the moment you and I should be more concerned about our necks than our hearts."

"Oh, Nick, you're such a fool! Don't you know the real reason I came back from Paris? Don't you know why I ran away tonight? It's be-because I've been mad about you ever since I wore rompers, and when you looked at me as if I were a murderess or something— I— I just couldn't stand it !" She flung herself against his chest again.

He was standing there like that, not holding her, but sort of relaxed and vaguely uncomfortable, when a guy behind him said, "Just keep it that way, mug. It's a cute pose and I'd hate to spoil it." You could tell the guy had a gun. Flagg had one too, the little one he'd taken from Sheila, but it wasn't going to do him much good because Sheila was hanging onto his arms.

He felt her stiffen against him, then go limp, and just as the guy came up close enough so Flagg could feel hot breath on the back of his neck, Sheila took a back dive onto the bed. Freed, Flagg started to turn, and something hit him just back of the right ear. He went out like a snuffed candle.

WHEN HE opened his eyes, his first thought was that it was still raining, and that it was coming in on him, through an open car window. He was soaked to the skin, lying on the lurching floor of a big sedan, and something was weighting his chest.

He put up a hand, quite feebly, and identified the weight as some- body's shoe. Presently the ache in his head went away a little and he was able to trace the vague outline of the bulky shadow which began with the foot and ended with a dim blob of white miles above him.

He spoke to the blob of white. "How's about closing the window, my fraan? We're liable to catch our death o' cold."

There was a hoarse chuckle. "That ain't what you're gonna die of, buddy. I'd close the window, though, at that, if them damn coppers hadn't shot it out. I guess me and you'll just hafta suffer in silence."

"Shut up, Butch," another voice said. Flagg guessed this second guy must be driving the car. He couldn't see him.

"And nuts to you, Monk," the guy with the big feet said in an aggrieved tone.

The car took a fast turn, skidding dizzily off wet pavement into slushy mud, and Flagg, on the floor, began to bounce up and down as well as sideward. The car faded into inky blackness.

When this passed away, Flagg was in a room that looked as if it belonged in a hunting lodge, and the rain was only a far-off patter. He identified Butch immediately, by his feet. The other guy was smallish, very dapper when dry, probably.

"Why bring the mug way out here?" he grumbled. "We could have worked him over just as well back in civilization."

Butch, busy building a fire in a round, pot-bellied stove, said cheer- fully, "From what I hear, this guy Flagg can take it. The boss fig- gered it'd take us a while to get what he wanted, and up here we wouldn't hafta hurry."

HE CAME over and stepped on Flagg's chest. "Now just lay quiet, buddy," he rumbled pleasantly. "Monk and me is gonna take good care of those poor wet feet in just a second, ain't we, Monk? You betcha. Monk and me ain't the ones to let a guy catch his death o' cold, are we, Monk?"

Flagg coughed, and something that was warm and faintly sticky ran out of his mouth. The dour Monk cursed. "Take that gunboat offa the guy, Butch! You'll have him dead before we can even start in on him." Butch took his foot off, looked down at Nick Flagg apologetically. "S'cuse it, buddy, I keep forgettin' how thin you are. Must've busted a coupla your ribs, huh?"

"At least two," Flagg said. "Now look, my friend Butch, maybe we can all get together without the necessity of warming my feet. If I only knew who the boss was, and what it is that he wants of me—" Butch looked incredulous, "Hell, I thought you was hard!"

"Not me, Butchie." Flagg propped himself on an elbow, which was as far as he could go in one move. "Nope. Whoever told you that was kidding you. You're welcome to whatever it is that I have and that you, or your boss, wants." This time he sat up. The pot-bellied stove was beginning to get up steam and the warmth felt good.

"Okay, punk, we'll try you on the first one," Monk said. "Where can we pick up the frail?"

So Sheila had got away! Strangely cheered, Flagg managed a crooked grin. "VVell, it's going to be tough on me, boys. I can't answer that one."

"You mean you won't?"

"I mean I can't. I don't know where she is. Not that I'd tell you if I did, but I really don't. How come you guys didn't stop her?"

"We was at the wrong end of the damn fire-escape," Butch said. "She went down it like a bat outa hell. One minute I had her, the next I wasn't holding nothing but air."

"That's all you ever hold," Monk said. "Well, what are we waiting for? We gotta work on the punk, after ail, so get his shoes and socks off."

Flagg lay there, let Butch get one shoe and sock almost off, before he put all he had left into one last kick. Butch tumed a sickly yellow and went back against the red-hot stove with a moan that was almost human.

THEN, Monk, eyes mad with the lust to kill, dragged his rod and started pumping lead. Butch came to life and made a dive for Flagg, just in time to take the first two slugs in his back. Even two slugs couldn't stop him entirely, though.

He sprawled fiat on top of Flagg, and thick, clawing fingers closed down on Flagg's throat, shutting off his wind. Gasping, Flagg managed to keep his senses even though he couldn't shake off the giant's clutch. Somehow he got one hand between his chest and Butch's hulk, got hold of the gun under Butch's arm.

He fired blindly upward, felt the fingers drag free of his throat, and looked up to see Monk pointing a gun at him, at very close range. He didn't know why his head wasn't blown off when two shots came. It was very queer that a guy like Monk, who made a business of it, should muff a close-up shot like that.

And then he saw that it wasn't Monk who had fired. At least, the Monk had a screwy, surprised look on his face and was falling toward Flagg, a round hole in his forehead.

"Nick! Oh, Nicky, are you dead?" It was Sheila's voice, fuzzy around the edges, and very worried.

Flagg tried to say, "Sure," in his amiably flippant way, but nothing came out of his mouth but some more of that warm sticky stuff. Then suddenly the body of Butch was removed from his chest as if by magic, and he opened his eyes and saw a replica of Butch, only this one was wearing a cab driver's uniform and had a tire iron in one hand. He saw Sheila, too.

She dropped down beside him, lifted his head, crooning over and over, "Oh, Nick, I came as soon as I could!"

"Sure, keed, sure." Flagg muttered.

"Well, you won't need that tire iron for what ails Nick," Sheila was yelping at the cabby. "See if you can find some water and some whiskey."

He was a good finder, this guy. He came back almost at once with a quart bottle of rye and a tin cup and a basin of water. Flagg just lay there, letting them work on him as they willed. Between gulps of rye from the tin cup, and grunts while they bandaged his ribs, he learned what had happened after he was knocked out in the Carmody apartment.

"There were two of them," Sheila said. "I didn't know that when I took the dive. I thought you'd get a chance to use the gun, only Butch was too fast. By the time I'd righted myself, he'd dropped you and had grabbed me, and then the other monkey came in and helped. Well, I tried screaming, and the little one kept slapping me till I was practically out on my feet. Butch was carrying you and holding one of my arms, and Monk was nudging me along the hall with his gun. Well, there was the fire door yawning in- vitingly."

"How many times does that make?"

"Two, I think. Only this time I went down head first and damed near broke my neck when I hit bot- tom. By the time I got outside, there was a gun battle going on. What looked like a police car was chasing a big sedan, and they must have had a blow-out or something, because the police car suddenly dived smack into a light pole." Sheila paused while she and the cabby lifted Flagg into a chair. The fire had died out. Big Butch and the Monk lay sprawled over the wreckage of the stove.

"So you found a cab?" Flagg asked.

"Well, I couldn't wait to resuscitate a couple of cops, could I? I had to chase that sedan, on account of I thought you were in it. You were, too, only we lost you after you left the highway and it took us quite a while to pick you up again."

Flagg managed to rise to his feet. He grinned at the big driver.

"If I ever squawk about a taxi bill again, I hope to choke, so help me! You're a grand guy, brother."

"Aw, gee, fella, it wasn't me." The driver blushed. "It was the little lady, here, that took the rod outa my mitt and put the slug on the wart. I was shakin' so I couldn't have hit a thing."

Flagg stared down at the two hoods, tried to get down on his knees and the effort made him go woozy again. Sheila saw his face whiten, grabbed his arm.

"Nick, we'll have to get you to a doctor!"

"No," he said. "Not until later, anyway. We've got to stop a cer¬ tain party before he stops us, Sheila. He's been trying pretty hard and our luck can't last forever."

"Who is it, Nick?"

He thought about that for a moment. "Hamilton Marx, I think, kitten. Only thing is, I can't seem to fit him with a motive. Why should the D.A. kill the goose that was going to lay him the golden egg? In other words, finance the campaign to make him governor."

"Maybe Dad wasn't. Maybe he'd broken with Marx, refused for some reason or other to go on with it."

"And Judith?" Flagg mused aloud. "Would Judith be protecting Marx? Is that why she was killed, too? Because he was afraid she would break under pressure? Somehow, it doesn't smell right to me, and yet— well, added to what I know about Marx, it sort of fits, at that."

"What do you mean, Nick?"

"Back there in Judith's bedroom," he said, "the district attorney pretended to check Judith's phone call with the Bel Air operator downstairs. It was only a pretense, because I found out later that when she conked me with that damn clock, I pulled the phone wires out by the roots. Marx didn't know this because he was holding the circuit breaker down while talking.

"It was a stall, and the only reason I can think of for stalling, was to keep someone else from checking that call. Consequently he must have known whom Judith phoned, and the only way he could have known that—"

"I get it, Nick."

HE grinned at her. "Do you, kitten? Well, that's more than I do." He spoke to the taxi driver, who was shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Look, my fraan, would you mind turning those mugs' pockets out for me?"

There was nothing to indicate who the men were, or for whom they'd been working. There was nothing in the rest of the house to label the owner. The big sedan outside had the usual registration strapped to the steering post, but Flagg was willing to bet the police were al- ready notified of the car's theft.

They went on toward town through the rain. Leaving the sedan and Monk and Butch to keep the lonely little lodge company. The radio under the cab's dash told of the frantic search for Nicholas Flagg and Sheila Carmody, wanted in connection with the murder of Big John Carmody.

4: Trapped

AFTER a while Flagg said, "Those letters, Sheila. That was a j dumb thing to do."

"Maybe," she said stubbornly. "You probably wouldn't understand it, but there's such a thing as pride."

"Pride?"

"I don't know if I can explain it, Nick. Somehow, I guess I never really had a chance to love either of my parents. All I had was a sort of half ashamed pride in Big John, because he was strong, and more or less a feeling of pity for my Mother, because she was weak. Somehow, I didn't want the whole damed world to know how weak she was. I never thought about the letters being construed as a motive."

Flagg nodded. "You're okay, kitten."

Presently Flagg leaned forward, and spoke to the back of the cabby's head.

"How are you on imitations, fella?"

The big guy half turned in his seat. "Me? Why, I'm swell at imitatin'! Gosh, I 'member once—"

"Fine," Flagg said. "You're almost perfect as is. Now look, you're pretending you're Butch, see? You call a number I'm going to give you and say, 'Boss? Dis is Butch. Yeah, the dame is at Flagg's place.' And in case he asks, I'm dead, see? And you're maybe having car trouble, so it'll take you a while to get into town. Now rehearse it, will you?"

The big guy coughed embarrassedly, but obediently went into his act. He had a little trouble steering, due to the fact that he was holding an imaginary phone.

"Louder," Flagg said critically. "Tougher." He was pretty well satisfied on the third try.

"You mean I'm to go to your flat?" Sheila said.

"That's the general idea, kitten. I don't know how else we can prove anything."

They were in town now. Flagg called a hait at an all-night drug store, went in and phoned the Bel Air. When he came out he had a grim, tight look about his mouth.

"The telephone operator isn't there," he said significantly. "She lives there, seldom goes out after work, but she went out tonight. I don't like it."

Sheila touched his arm. "Oh, Nick, not her too!"

"Looks like it, kitten." He stood there, one foot on the running board, rain beating down on his bare head. Presently he got back in the cab, and they angled across town to his modest apartment.

There was a stake-out in a prowl car a few doors down. Flagg told the driver to keep on going and corne back on the next street over. He gave Sheila his keys, told her which fiat was his, told her where to find his gun.

"You'll be okay, Sheila. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't let you do this. Just go up the back stairs and let your self in quietly. Don't turn on the lights in front until you pull the drapes over the Windows. Otherwise the cops'll corne looking."

He watched her small figure dwindle to nothingness in the ink of the alley. Then he climbed in beside the driver and they went to another all-night drug store. Flagg got the district attorney's address out of the book, came out and gave it to the cabby with a phone number.

"Drive me out there, fella, then find a phone and go into your act. After that you'd better go home and forget you ever saw me." He emptied his pockets of money— there was something over fifty dollars— kept out a lone bill and laid the rest on the meter. "There's more where that came from, my fraan." He put out a hand, shook the big guy's fist solemnly. "Not that I'm trying to pay you for helping the kitten and me."

"Forget it, forget it. It's a pleasure to meet a guy like you, Mr. Flagg." He took the money, though. "Sure you don't want me for nothin' else?"

"Just the imitation," Flagg said. "But fella, if you love the little lady, you'd better be good." They rolled out Sunset Boulevard. It was nearly one in the morning when Flagg got out and watched the cab's tail light vanish into the murky wet.

Flagg was depending a lot on this call. He knew Marx had faked the phone business in the Carmody apartment; he was hoping Marx would be surprised about the disconnected wires. Surprised enough to stick his neck out farther.

There was a light in a lower right-hand window of Marx's modest house, none anywhere else. Flagg started to mount the steps, thought better of it and went around to the side of the house first. Flagg parted the low hedge, crossed a little patio and looked in.

Hamilton Marx was alone— dead! There was a decanter on the broad desk. On thé thick-piled rug, just under the lax hand, there was a glass. Hamilton Marx might have drunk himself into a stupor, except for the wide-open eyes.

Suddenly Flagg remembered the cabby, and Sheila, back there in his flat, and knew he'd have to move swiftly or it might be too late. He went in, not bothering to pick up the glass at Marx's side. It wasn't necessary. Only one thing could do the job that neatly— cyanide, or one of its dérivatives.

Under a paper weight on the desk was a short, typed statement, signed "Hamilton Marx" in a firm, bold hand. It confessed in terse, unemotional fashion to the murder of Big John Carmody and to that of Judith Carmody. It even outlined the motives. There had been a quarrel over Big John's refusal to finance the coming campaign. Judith, being socially minded, had planned to divorce her husband and marry the governor, when he became the governor, only the murder had sort of complicated things for her, and Marx was afraid she'd break down and expose him. Rather ironically Marx gave remorse as the motive for his own death.

Flagg got Lieutenant Hartigan on the phone, holding the instrument tightly against his ear to muffle the dick's bellowing. After that he legged it out the window, down the street to the Boulevard and hailed a cab. There were spots in front of his eyes, and the awful, grating pain in his side was getting worse.

WHEN the cab finally stopped, Flagg crossed the walk and went up the stairs to his apartment. He didn't remember seeing the prowl car out in the street; it might mean Hartigan had been willing to play, or it might mean that the cops had just gone after a cup of coffee.

He took Butch's gun, which he had thoughtfully purloined, figuring Butch wouldn't need it any more, out of his coat pocket when he got to his door. Then, leaning against the jamb and taking a deep breath as if he were about to plunge into icy water, he twisted the knob. Sheila almost shot him dead.

It was all very confusing because Sheila, recognizing him, dropped her gun and ran forward with a little cry, and Gus Keppler appeared in the bedroom door. Keppler didn't drop the gun that he had. His round blue eyes got a little rounder when he saw Flagg, but his voice was still the chuckling, good-natured fat-man voice.

"I hardly expected you, Flagg. In fact, I thought you were dead."

"He is," Sheila said, whirling and spreading her arms wide in a protective gesture. "Damed near it, anyway, and you're not going to shoot him unless you shoot me first."

"Well," Keppler chuckled, "we can arrange that, I guess." He waddled forward on his short, thick legs, kicked her gun under the couch. He couldn't see Flagg's gun. Sheila blocked that much of his view. Flagg stood there, propped against the door jamb, and wondered if he could get the thing up before Keppler went into action. It felt heavy as lead. It was almost like murdering Sheila to even try, anyway, on account of Keppler would probably plug her at the first wrong move.

HE straightened a little, sliding his thin shoulder blades up the edge of the wall, and began talking.

"The good authority was a frame, Gus. I had that phone call put through, myself. Monk and Butch squawked, you see."

"Did they, now!" Keppler marveled. "Well, even if you're telling the truth, which I doubt, any two-bit shyster could break their story down in court. You and the little lady will have gone on a long, long journey by that time, confessing the murders by your very absence."

"How about the D.A.'s confession? If you're not careful, Gus, you'll have too many of those things and somebody will smell an awful smell."

"So you found Marx, too!" Keppler's round face creased with mirth. "You certainly do get around, Flagg. Why, the confession I dictated for Marx was just sort of an ace in the hole. I can pick that up just as soon as I get rid of you two."

"Leaving Marx an unexplained suicide."

"Exactly." Keppler took a step forward, grabbed one of Sheila's wide-flung arms and whirled her around. Flagg shot him in the belly. The fat man folded in the middle, as if stooping for something on the floor, and the gun in his hand went off. It only fired once, though, before it followed the slug to the floor, and then Gus fell on top of the gun and lay. there, wheezing.

Lieutenant Hartigan burst in from the hall, knocking Flagg down, and two other dicks barged in from the bedroom and grabbed Sheila.

"I had him covered, Chief," one of them yelped. "I had him covered all the time!"

Flagg struggled to a sitting position. "Since when?"

Hartigan looked disgusted. "I admit we ain't been here very long. I still figured you was ribbing me and we went out to Keppler's place first."

"Well, you must have found something out at Keppler's that made you think I was right," said Flagg.

"Sure," Hartigan grumbled. "We found where the rug had been turned around, and somebody had tried to wash out a blood stain. So— well, so we corne up here." He bent down, rolled Gus Keppler over on his back. "So you done it, huh? You killed Big John and his wife and Marx and God knows who else. Now, why would you wanna do all that?"

Keppler's chuckle was ail clotted up, but you could still identify it as a chuckle. "Wouldn't you like to know, copper?"

Flagg looked sideward at Sheila. "Mind if we talk about it, kitten?"

"Not if you hurry. I've got to get you to a hospital."

"All right, then," Flagg said, staring curiously but without a great deal of rancor at Gus Keppler's round face. "Gus was Big John's partner. Well, I used to be Big John's partner, too. Remembering that Judith once made a play for me, knowing the kind of a gal she was, I figured the same thing might have happened with Gus. Only Gus played it differently. He believed a whole loaf was better than a half, and gave Judith a real run for her money, thinking to somehow chisel John out of the picture.

"Only John, I think, found out. He didn't know which of his men were his, which would be loyal to Keppler. So when Sheila showed up he sent her to get me. I gather I was to do some undercover investigating for him." He looked at Sheila.

"He didn't say, Nick. I only got in yesterday. He seemed so worried, so anxious to get hold of you, as if he owed you an apology or something. He knew it was no good asking you himself, but when he found out how I—" She broke off, blushing a little. "Well, anyway, I found you."

"That's right, you sure did, kitten." Flagg grinned crookedly at the wheezing Keppler. "It took her a long time to find me, Gus, and in the meantime Big John decided to follow his wife when she went out. He went out the back way, I think. Anyway, he caught up with you and Judith at your place and either she or you let him have it. Then you thought it'd be a swell idea to take him back to his own place and frame it to look like a burglary or something. You'd still have all he left, through Judith, and you'd be head man in the racket. Only Sheila and I barged in at the wrong time. Judith began screaming to give you a chance to get away, which you did. Later, when she phoned you, she was a bit hysterical, so you told her to slide down the fire chute and meet you in the cellar where you would give her new instructions.

"Then, when I caught her at the phone, she went screwy. You heard her conk me, and you knew she'd crack wide open if it came to a real showdown. So when you met her in the cellar you did her in. Was it you that mixed with that Swede janitor?"

Keppler hunched up on one elbow. He was bleeding badly, but nobody made any move to help him.

"I guess I'm done for, Flagg," Keppler said, between a wheeze and a chuckle. "Sure I bopped the Swede, only I did it before we carried Big John in. He never knew what hit him. It was a scream the way he identified you for me."

Flagg winced at a sudden thought. "The girl, Gus! Quick, what hap- pened to that telephone operator?"

"We got her," Hartigan said. "I forgot. She was out at Keppler's place."

Flagg sank back against the door jamb, sighed.

"Well, I guess that's all, then."

"Like hell it is !" Hartigan said. "Why kill Marx?"

"Because Marx held out on all of us, fella. He beat it out before anyone else, checked with the phone girl and found out whom Judith had called. Did he try to shake you down, Gus?"

"SOME," Keppler admitted. "He had the girl, and he'd doped it all out the same as you have. Big John and I had decided we wouldn't play with Marx any more, and Marx figured he had me over a barrel this time. He and I both signed confessions as a check against each other, and then we had a drink together, only mine was straight whiskey." That damnable chuckle again! "So then I just took my confession, and the girl, and went home. Butch's phone call is all that saved her."

"It wasn't Butch," Flagg said.

"No? Well, maybe I'm not dead yet, either." Everybody but Keppler had forgotten the gun still under him. It popped out suddenly, lifted to Flagg's chest. Sheila kicked at it, missed, and the slug took her heel off, slamming it against the far wall.

As she went down Flagg saw Hartigan deliberately pump three slugs into Keppler's round head. Nobody but Flagg saw the look on his face when he did it; it was as if he'd just done a good deed.

"By God, Flagg, I still owe you for that one on the button!" Hartigan snapped, even though he flushed when he caught Flagg's eye.

"But you're not paying it now!" Sheila said. She walked slightly cockeyed, having only one heel. "He's got to go to a hospital, you lug !"

"Well," Hartigan pretended to hesitate, "well, on account of the little lady, maybe—"

"Now, there's an old gag," Flagg said. "The one about she ain't no— You 'member?"

"It's true, too," Sheila said. "I'm going to be your wife."

"Maybe you will, at that," Flagg grinned. "When you grow up."

_______________

5: Four Wooden Stakes

Victor Rowan

Weird Tales February 1925

Nothing is known about Victor Rowan, other than that two stories by him have appeared: one in Black Mask in 1924, and this story in 1925.

THERE it lay on the desk in front of me, that missive so simple in wording, yet so perplexing, so urgent in tone:

Jack: Come at once for old·time's sake. Am all alone. Will explain upon arrival. Remson.

Having spent the past three weeks in bringing to a successful termination a case that had puzzled the police and two of the best detective agencies in the city, I decided I was entitled to a rest; so l ordered two grips packed and went in search of a time-table.

It was several years since I had seen Remson Holroyd; in fact, I had not seen him since we had matriculated from college together. I was curious to know how he was getting along, to say nothing of the little diversion he promised me in the way of a mystery.

The following afternoon found me standing on the station platform of the little town of Charing, a village of about fifteen hundred souls. Remson's place was about ten miles from there; so I stepped forward to the driver of a shay and asked if he would kindly take me to the Holroyd estate. He clasped his hands in what seemed to be a silent prayer, shuddered slightly, then looked at me with an air of wonder, mingled with suspicion.

"I don't know what ye wants to go out there fer, stranger, but if ye'll take the advice of a God-fearin' man ye'll turn back where ye come from. There be some mighty fearful tales concern in' that place floatin' around, and more'n one tramp's been found near there so weak from loss of blood and fear he could hardly crawl. They's somethin' there. Be it man or beast I dun't know, but as fer me, I wouldn't drive ye out there for a hundred dollars— cash."

This was not at all encouraging, but I was not to be influenced by the talk of a superstitious old gossip; so I cast about for a less impressionable rustic who would undertake the trip to earn the ample reward I promised at the end of the ride. To my chagrin, they all acted like the first; some crossed themselves fervently, while others gave me one wild look and ran, as if I were in alliance with the devil.

By now my curiosity was thoroughly aroused, and I was determined to see the thing through to a finish if it cost me my life. So, casting a last, contemptuous look on those poor, misguided souls, I stepped out briskly in the direction pointed out to me. However, I had gone but a scant two miles when the weight of the valises began to tell, and I slackened pace considerably.

THE sun was just disappearing beneath the treetops when I caught my first glimpse of the old homestead, now deserted but for its one occupant. Time and the elements had laid heavy hands upon it, for there was hardly a window that could boast its full quota of panes, while the shutters banged and creaked with a noise dismal enough to daunt even the strong of heart. About one hundred yards back I discerned a small building built of gray stone, pieces of which seemed to be lying all around it, partly covered by the dense growth of vegetation that overran the entire countryside. On closer observation I realized that the building was a crypt, while what I had taken to be pieces of the material scattered around were really tombstones. Evidently this was the family burying-ground. But why had certain members been interred in a mausoleum while the remainder of the family had been buried in the ground in the usual manner?

Having observed thus much, I turned my steps toward the house, for I had no intention of spending the night with naught but the dead for company. Indeed, I began to realize just why those simple country folk had refused to aid me, and a hesitant doubt began to assert itself as to the expediency of my being here, when I might have been at the shore or at the country club enjoying life to the full.

By now the sun had completely slid from view, and in the semi-darkness the place presented an even drearier aspect than before. With a great display of bravado I stepped upon the veranda, slammed my grips upon a seat very much the worse for wear, and pulled lustily at the knob.

Peal after peal reverberated throughout the house, echoing and re-echoing from room to room, till the whole structure rang. Then all was still once more, save for the sighing of the wind and the creaking of the shutters.

A few minutes passed, and the sound of footsteps approaching the door reached my ears. Another interval, and the door was cautiously opened a few inches, while a head shrouded by the darkness scrutinized me closely. Then the door was flung wide, and Remson (I hardly knew him, so changed was he) rushed forward and, throwing his arms around me, thanked me again and again for heeding his plea, till I thought he would go into hysterics.

I begged him to brace up, and the sound of my voice seemed to help him, for he apologized rather shamefacedly for his discourtesy and led the way along the wide hall. There was a fire blazing merrily in the sitting-room, and after partaking generously of a repast, for I was famished after my long walk, I was seated in front of it, facing Remson and waiting to hear his story.

"Jack," he began, "I'll start at the beginning and try to give you the facts in their proper sequence. Five years ago my family circle consisted of five persons: my grandfather, my father, two brothers, and myself, the baby of the family. My mother died, you know, when I was a baby. Now—"

His voice broke and for a moment he was unable to continue.

"There's only myself left," he went on, "and so help me God, I'm going, too, unless you can solve the damnable mystery that hovers over this house, and put an end to that something which took my kin and is gradually taking me.

"Granddad was the first to go. He spent the last few years of his life in South America. Just before leaving there he was attacked while asleep by one of those huge bats. Next morning he was so weak he couldn't walk. That awful thing had sucked his life-blood away. He arrived here, but was sickly until his death, a few weeks later. The medicos couldn't agree as to the cause of death; so they laid it to old age and let it go at that. But I knew better. It was his experience in the south that bad done for him. In his will he asked that a crypt be built immediately and his body interred therein. His wish was carried out, and his remains lie in that little gray vault that you may have noticed if you cut around behind the house.

"Then my dad began failing and just pined away until he died. What puzzled the doctors was the fact that right up until the end he consumed enough food to sustain three men, yet he was so weak he lacked the strength to drag his legs over the floor. He was buried, or rather interred, with granddad. The same symptoms were in evidence in the cases of George and Fred. They are both lying in the vault. And now, Jack, I'm going, too, for of late my appetite has increased to alarming proportions, yet I am as weak as a kitten."

"Nonsense!" I chided. "We'll just leave this place for a while and take a trip somewhere, and when you return you'll laugh at your fears. It's all a case of overwrought nerves, and there is certainly nothing strange about the deaths you speak of. They are probably due to some hereditary disease. More than one family has passed out in a hurry just on that account."

"Jack, I only wish I could think so, but somehow I know better. And as for leaving here, I just can't get away. There is a morbid fascination about the place which holds me. If you want to be a real friend, just stick around for a couple of days, and if you don't find anything I'm sure the sight of you and the sound of your voice will do wonders for me."

I agreed to do my best, although I was hard put to keep from smiling at his fears, so apparently groundless were they. We talked on other subjects for several hours; then I proposed bed, saying that I was very tired after my journey and subsequent walk. Remson showed me to my room, and, after seeing that everything was as comfortable as possible, he bade me good-night.

As he turned to leave the room, the flickering light from the lamp fell on his neck and I noticed two small punctures in the skin. I questioned him regarding them, but he replied that he must have beheaded a pimple and that he hadn't noticed them before. He again said good-night and left the room.

I UNDRESSED and tumbled into bed. During the night I was conscious of an overpowering feeling of suffocation, as if some great burden was lying on my chest which I could not dislodge; and in the morning, when I awoke, I experienced a curious sensation of weakness. I arose, not withour an effort, and began divesting myself of my sleeping-suit.

As I folded the jacket I noticed a thin line of blood on the collar. I felt my Ieck, a terrible fear overwhelming me. It pained slightly at the touch. I rushed to examine it in the mirror. Two tiny dots rimmed with blood-my bloodand on my neck! No longer did I chuckle at Remson's fears, for ii, the thing, had attacked me as I slept!

I dressed as quickly as my condition would permit and went downstairs, thinking to find my friend there. He was not about, so I looked about outside, but he was not in evidence. There was but one answer to the question. He had not yet arisen. It was nine o'clock, so I resolved to awaken him.

Not knowing which room he occupied. I entered one after another in a fruitless search. They were all in various stages of disorder, and the thick coating of dust on the furniture showed that they had been untenanted for some time. At last, in a bedroom on the north side of the third floor, I found him.

He was lying spread-eagle fashion across the bed, still in his pajamas, and as I leaned forward to shake him my eyes fell on two drops of blood, spattered on the coverlet. I crushed back a wild desire to scream and shook Remson rather roughly. His head rolled to one side, and the hellish perforations on his throat showed up vividly. They looked fresh and raw, and had increased to much greater dimensions. I shook him with increased vigor, and at last he opened his eyes stupidly and looked around. Then, seeing me, he said in a voice loaded with anguish, resignation, and despair:

"It's been here again, Jack. I can't hold out much longer. May God take my soul when I go!"

So saying, he fell back again from sheer weakness. 1 left him and went about preparing myself some breakfast. I had thought it best not co destroy his faith in me by telling him that I, too, had suffered at the hands of his persecutor.

A walk brought me some peace of mind, if not a solution, and when I returned about noon to the big house Remson was up and around. Together we prepared a really excellent meal. I was hungry and did justice to my share; but after I had finished, my friend continued eating until I thought he must either disgorge or burst. Then, after putting things to rights, we stroUed about the long hall, looking at the oil paintings, many of which were very valuable.

At one end of the hall I discovered a portrait of an old gentleman, evidently a Beau Brummel in his day. He wore his hair in the long flowing fashion adopted by the old school, and sported a carefully trimmed mustache and Vandyke beard. Remson noticed my interest in the painting and came forward.

"I don't wonder that picture holds your interest, Jack. It has a great fascination for me, also. At times I sit for hours studying the expression on that face. I sometimes think he has something to tell me, but of course that's all tommyrot. But I beg your pardon, I haven't introduced the old gent yet, have I? This is my granddad. He was a great old boy in his day, and he might be living yet but for that cursed bloodsucker. Perhaps it is such a creature that's doing for me; what do you think?"

"I wouldn't like to venture an opinion, Remson, but unless I'm badly mistaken we must dig deeper for an explanation. We'll know tonight, however. You retire as usual and I'll keep a close watch and we' Il solve the riddle or die in the attempt."

Remson said not a word, but silently extended his hand. I clasped it in a firm embrace, and in each other's eyes we read complete understanding. To change the trend of thought I questioned him on the servant problem.

"I've tried time and again to get servants that would stay," he replied, "but about the third day they would begin acting queer, and the first thing I'd know they'd have skipped, bag and baggage."

That night I accompanied my friend to his room and remained until he had disrobed and was ready to retire. Several of the window-panes were cracked, and one was entirely missing. I suggested boarding up the aperture, but he declined, saying that he rather enjoyed the night air; so I dropped the matter.

As it was still early, I sat by the fire in the sitting-room and read for an hour or two. I confess that there were many times when my mind wandered from the printed page before me and chills raced up and down my spine as some new sound was borne to my ears. The wind had risen, and was whistling through the trees with a peculiar whining sound. The creaking of the shutters tended to further the eerie effect, and in the distance could be heard the hooting of numerous owls, mingled with the cries of miscellaneous night fowl and other nocturnal creatures. As I ascended the two flights of steps, the candle in my hand casting grotesque shadows on the walls and ceiling, I had little liking for my job. Many times in the course of duty I had been called upon to display courage, but it took more than mere courage to keep me going now.

I EXTNGUISHED the candle and crept forward to Remson's room, the door of which was closed. Being careful to make no noise, I knelt and looked in at the keyhole. It afforded me a clear view of the bed and two of the windows in the opposite wall Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the darkness and I noticed a faint reddish glow outside one of the windows. It apparendy emanated from nowhere. Hundreds of little specks danced and whirled in the spot of light, and as I watched them, fascinated, they seemed to take on the form of a human face. The features were masculine, as was also the arrangement of the hair. Then the mysterious glow disappeared.

So great had the strain been on me that I was wet from perspiration, although the night was cool. For a moment I was undecided whether to enter the room or to stay where I was and use the keyhole as a means of observation. I concluded that to remain where I was would be the better plan; so lance more placed my eye to the hole.

Immediately my attention was drawn to something moving where the light had been. At first, owing to the poor light, I was unable to distinguish the general outline and form of the thing; then I saw. n was a man's head.

So help me God, it was the exact reproduction of that picture I had seen in the hall that very morning. But oh, the difference in expression! The lips were drawn back in a snarl, disclosing two sets of pearly white teeth, the canines overdeveloped and remarkably sharp. The eyes, an emerald green in color, stared in a look of consuming hate. The hair was sadly disarranged, while on the beard was a large clot of what seemed to be congealed blood.

I noticed thus much; then the head melted from my sight and I transferred my attention to a great bat that circled round and round, his huge wings beating a tattoo on the panes. Finally he circled around the broken pane and flew straight through the hole made by the missing glass. For a few moments he was shut off from my view; then he reappeared and began circling around my friend, who lay sound asleep, blissfully ignorant of all that was occurring. Nearer and nearer it drew, then swooped down and fastened itself on Remson's throat, just over the jugular vein.

At this I rushed into the room and made a wild dash for the thing that had come night after night to gorge itself on my friend; but to no avail. It flew out of the window and away, and I turned my attention to the sleeper.

"Remson, old man, get up."

He sat up like a shot. "What's the matter, Jack? Has it been here?"

"Never mind just now," I replied. "Just dress as hurriedly as possible. We have a little work before us this evening."

He glanced questioningly toward me, but followed my command without argument. I turned and cast my eye about the room for a suitable weapon. There was a stout stick lying in the comer and I made toward it.

"Jack!"

I wheeled about.

"What is it? Damn it all, haven't you any sense, almost scaring a man to death?"

He pointed a shaking finger toward the window.

"There! I swear I saw him. It was my granddad, but oh, how disfigured!"

He threw himself upon the bed and began sobbing. The shock had completely unnerved him.

"Forgive me, old man," I pleaded; "I was too quick. Pull yourself together and we may yet get to the bottom of things tonight."

When he had finished dressing we left the house. There was no moon out, and it was pitch-dark.

I LED the way, and soon we came to within ten yards of the little gray crypt. I stationed Remson behind a tree with instructions to just use his eyes, and I took up my stand on the other side of the vault, after making sure that the door into it was closed and locked. For the greater part of an hour we waited without results, and I was about ready to call it off when I perceived a white figure flitting between the trees about fifty feet away.

Slowly it advanced, straight toward us, and as it drew closer I looked, not at it, but through it. The wind was blowing strongly, yet not a fold in the long shroud quivered. Just outside the vault it paused and looked around. Even knowing as I did about what to expect, it was a decided shock when I looked into the eyes of the old Holroyd, deceased these past five years. I heard a gasp and knew that Remson had seen, too, and recognized. Then the spirit, ghost, or whatever it was, passed into the crypt through the crack between the door and the jamb, a space not one-sixteenth of an inch wide.

As it disappeared, Remson came running forward, his face wholly drawn of color.

"What was it, Jack? What was it? I know it resembled granddad, but it couldn't have been he. He's been dead five years!"

"Let us go back to the house," I answered, "and I'll explain things to the best of my ability. I may be wrong, of course, but it won't hurt to try my remedy. Remson, what we are up against is a vampire. Not the female species usually spoken of today, but the real thing. I noticed you had an old edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. If you'll bring me volume XXIV I'll be able to explain more fully the meaning of the word."

He left the room and returned, carrying the desired book. Turning to page 52, I read:

Vampire. A term apparently of Servian orjgin originally applied in eastern Europe to blood·sucking ghosts, but in modern usage transferred to one or more species of blood-sucking bats inhabiting South America.... In the first mentioned meaning a vampire is usually supposed to be the soul of a dead man, which quits the buried body by night to suck the blood of living persons. Hence. when the vampire's grave is opened his corpse is found to be fresh and rosy from the blood. thus absorbed.... They are accredited with the power of assuming any form they may so desire. and often fly about as specks of dust pieces of down or straw, etc.... To put an end to his ravages a stake is driven through him, or his head cut off, or his heart torn out or boiling water and vinegar poured over the grave.... The persons who turn vampires are wizards, witches, suicides, and those who have come to a violent end. Also, the death of anyone resulting from these vampires will cause that person to join their hellish throng.  See Calumet's Dissertation on the Vampires of Hungary.

I looked at Remson. He was staring straight into the fire. I knew that he realized the·task before us and was steeling himself to it. Then he turned to me.

"Jack, we'll wait until morning." That was all. I understood, and he knew. There we sat, each struggling with his own thoughts, until the first faint glimmers of light came struggling, through the trees and warned us of approaching dawn.

REMSON left to fetch a sledge-hammer and a large knife with its edge honed to a razor-like keenness. I busied myself making four wooden stakes, shaped like wedges. He returned bearing the horrible tools, and we struck out toward the crypt. We walked rapidly, for had either of us hesitated an instant I verily believe both would have fled incontinently. However, our duty lay clearly before us.

Remson unlocked the door and swung it outward. With a prayer on our lips, we entered.

As if by mutual understanding, we both turned toward the coffin on our left. It belonged to the grandfather. We displaced the lid, and there lay the old Holroyd. He appeared to be sleeping; his face was full of color, and he had none of the stiffness of death. The hair was matted, the mustache untrimmed, and on the beard were stains of a dull brownish hue.

But it was his eyes that attracted mc. They were greenish, and they glowed with an expression of fiendish malevolence such as I had never seen before. The look of baffled rage on the face might well have adorned the features of the devil in his hell.

Remson swayed and would have fallen, but I forced some whisky down his throat and he took a grip on himself. He placed one of the stakes directly over its heart, then shut his eyes and prayed that the good God above take this soul that was to be delivered unto Him.

I took a step backward, aimed carefully, and swung the sledge with all my strength. It hit the wedge squarely, and a terrible scream filled the place, while the blood gushed out of the open wound, up, and over us, staining the walls and our clothes. Without hesitating, I swung again, and again, and again, while it struggled vainly to rid itself of that awful instrument of death. Another swing and the stake was driven through.

The thing squirmed about in the narrow confines of the coffin, much after the manner of a dismembered worm, and Remson proceeded to sever the head from the body, making a rather crude but effectual job of it. As the final stroke of the knife cut the connection a scream issued from the mouth; and the whole corpse fell away into dust, leaving nothing but a wooden stake lying in a bed of bones. This finished, we dispatched the remaining three. Simultaneously, as if struck by the same thought, we felt our throats. The slight pain was gone from mine, and the wounds had entirely disappeared from my friend's, leaving not even a scar.

I WISHED to place before the world the whole facts contingent upon the mystery and the solution, but Remson prevailed upon me to hold my peace.

Some years later Remson died a Christian death, and with him went the only confirmation of my tale. However, ten miles from the little town of Charing there sits an old house, forgotten these many years, and near it is a little gray crypt. Within are four coffins; and in each lies a wooden stake stained a brownish hue, and bearing the finger prints of the deceased Remson Holroyd.

______________

6: Dead Men Talk

Perley Poore Sheehan

1875-1943

Thrilling Detective, Feb 1932

1: The Sleeper Dies

THE cell room of the precinct prison— and even the eternal rumble of New York— had now gone comparatively quiet. But Slade Wyath could not sleep. He couldn't lie still. He twisted about on the narrow shelf of a bunk like a newly-landed bass on a hot sand-bank, He'd have to get out of here, his brain kept repeating over and over again; he'd have to get out of here! But how?

It was too late for night-court. Anyway, he had neither money nor a defense. They'd hold him for some higher court. They'd send him away. He couldn't stand it. He'd have to—

He propped himself up on a bare arm and stared about him. Had there been anyone there to see, the splotched light that came through the bars of his cell would have re-vealed a good looking youth— he was in his early twenties— but haggard, his dark hair tumbled about and a hint of fever in his brilliant dark eyes.

He shuddered with a fresh spasm of nightmare as he looked at the pile of clothing he had taken off and piled at his side. There was a showy red uniform that was like an added torture in his present predicament. A grotesque red hat, shirt, and necktie, were other features of the outfit.

Arrayed in these he, Slade Wyath, of the Kentucky Wyaths, had paraded Broadway to advertise a new night restaurant. As a matter of fact, the job had required that he put on an exaggerated facial make-up as well, of rouge and talcum powder. Pagliacci, the clown with the breaking heart!

Wyath sat up, his head on his knees, his bare arms locked about his shins.

At least he'd been able to wash off the make-up. There was a water tap in the corner of the cell. But suppose he'd have to appear before the magistrate tomorrow morning in that clownish uniform! When the police arrested him they wouldn't even give him a chance to change. He'd have to get out of here— there it went again!

IN a side street just off of Broadway, tonight, he'd seen a woman struggling with a man. He'd butted in just as the man drew a revolver. He (Slade) had got the revolver. He still had it when, in about ten seconds, a cop had nabbed him and the man and the woman slipped away.

Talk about luck! In New York you could get a year or more for illegal possession of a gun, And what magistrate would. believe his explanation? Practically everyone whe got arrested had an explanation. The cop had heard a woman scream. The cop had found him with a gun....

He was aroused by hearing a drag of heavy feet on the cement corridor leading from the front of the prison. He heard a blur of thick voices. There were a number of people coming this way.

Wyath shrank back. The cell contained two cots, one above the other, and he'd chosen the upper one, not only because it was likely to prove the cleaner of the two but because its deeper shadow had seemed to offer some degree of privacy.

"Here," someone said, "we'll stick him in Number Six."

That was a different turnkey, Wyath noticed, from the one who'd locked him up. With the turnkey were three policemen, bulking huge and dark in the dusky corridor.

The policemen carried a man in evening clothes. Slade lay low as the door of his cell was unlocked and swung open. The lower bunk creaked as it received its burden. The policemen were panting.

"He's got a load on him that'd sink a ship," said one of them. "I thought first he'd been blackjacked, but an ambulance monkey says no. 'Just gin,' he says. So I calls the wagon."

"Hes lucky," panted another, "to have kept his roll. He had a bunch of money on him like Rothstein's."

"Hell be giving a bit of it to the Pension Fund,"'— and Slade again recognized the voice of the turnkey. "You know! He'll squawk, as soon as he wakes up, and we'll turn him out with a small cash bail. And then he'll be asking us to keep his name out of tomorrow's tabloids—"

The door clanged shut.

SLADE lay there listening to the sounds of the retreating voices and feet. From what he'd just heard there'd come to him the glimmer of a queer idea. The idea was so queer that it fascinated him. He told himself that it was weirdly impossible. But even as he was doing this he leaned out over the edge of his bunk and looked at the man on the cot below.

The stranger slept. His breathing was irregular and slow. There was nothing remarkable about him, except that contrast of his evening clothes with these squalid surroundings. He was of average height and build, clean shaven— a man still well under thirty, perhaps. It was the stranger's hair that held Slade's attention for lingering seconds. It was hair that was dark and thick and rather long.

"Like mine," said Slade.

Half naked as he was, he slipped from his bunk and silently reached the floor. When this stranger waked, they were going to turn him out. Immediately he awoke they'd turn him out. But the man gave no sign of waking.

"Suppose I had his chance," thought Slade.

After a long interval, Slade picked up a flattened opera hat at the sleeper's side and tried this on. It fitted him perfectly. Slade could gee himself in the rest of this outfit. If he should simply borrow what this sleeper didn't need! He could send it all back later, by a messenger, before morning. Before morning he himself could be far away. It was spring. The country was calling....

Slade worked fast. Yet he was cool, he was deft. The sleeper made no objection as Slade undressed him— overcoat, coat, waistcoat, shirt. As fast as Slade removed these things from the other he put them on himself. It was a shuddering process. It was as if he were donning not only this stranger's clothes but his personality as well.

It was as if this were his own former self who now lay there stripped. Slade paused and listened. Prisoners snored. One groaned and sobbed. Another grumbled and told the weeper to shut up. The air stirred faintly, heavy and foul. And Slade heard again that  ery in his brain. He'd have to get out of here. He was going to get out!

THERE was something that still remained to be done. He would have to get the sleeper into the upper bunk, else when the turnkey came his suspicions might be aroused. He lifted one of the sleeper's arms. The man was absolutely inert. He was like an oversized and misshapen sack of grain as Slade lifted him.

And it was while Slade stood there pulling himself together for a final effort with the stranger in his arms that there came to him the first chill creep of a premonition.

After that, sheer panic nerved him. He was scarcely aware of the effort at all as he thrust the sleeper bodily into the upper bunk. Slade stood there listening again. But now he heard nothing— nothing but his own labored breathing and the slogging beat of his heart. Apart from these it seemed as if the cell itself had become a vortex of silence, a silence that spread and spread— to the rest of the prison, to all New York; until it seemed as if the whole world had suddenly gone silent, and were standing still as he was standing still, listening and peering and panic struck.

His own breathing quieted, finally. But how long had it been since he'd heard the stranger breathe? That was what he was trying to remember. A while ago, the stranger had been breathing heavily. He'd heard it and noticed it. Now he was hearing it no longer.

Slade nerved himself. He put his hand over the stranger's heart. He held it there. No slightest response came to his straining nerves.

The heart was still. The man was dead. Then a far door clanged, and once more Slade heard footsteps down the cement corridor, They were drawing near.

2: Mysterious Mr. Knight

SLADE'S mind was racing. He was caught. Of what had the victim died? Alcoholism, perhaps. But again perhaps from a fractured skull, as the policeman had intimated. In the latter case he, Slade Wyath, would be charged with the murder.

In any case, he'd be charged with robbery. There was no time to change, no chance to hide. Hastily he pushed the hat lower over his face. He muffled his chin in the borrowed overcoat and a silk scarf. That was the turnkey coming along the corridor. He stopped in front of the cell— this was No. Six. He was fitting his key to the cumbersome lock.

Slade spoke softly.

"Hello," he said.

The turnkey was surprised.

"Well, well," he exclaimed. "And it's a quick recovery you've made. That's fine." He pulled the door open. He stood there looking at Slade with an expression of smiling curiosity. It was evident that so far he saw nothing to rouse his suspicion.

"I want to get out of here," Slade said.

"Right for you," the turnkey replied, " 'Twas for that I came. I was afraid you'd have to be carried again."

"Yes?"

There was something here that called for an explanation. The turnkey gave it.

"Its a friend of yours who's calling for you."

Slade found support against the steel slats of the cell.

"I don't want to see anyone," he managed to say.

"Sure now," said the turnkey— he was used to the vagaries of those who'd drunk too much; "you don't want to go home in a taxi. He's got his big limousine. It's waiting for you now at the door."

"Send him away," said Slade. "I've got money. I'm able to take care of myself. I'll fix it up with you gentlemen."

"Well, I'll tell him," the turnkey said. "But come out, sir. You don't want to stay in that cell. There, can you manage it? Let me help you. There's a chair' down the corridor a bit."

The turnkey closed the cell and locked it. Slade wavered— on his feet and in his mind. Should he elect to stay where he was? Should he declare the truth? Instead, he accepted the help of the turnkey's arm. Like that, at least, the turnkey wouldn't be staring him in the face.

SLADE ventured a question. It was information he needed. "Who'd he ask for— this supposed friend of mine?"

"It was you, all right."

"Who?"

"Creighton. You're mister Creighton, ain't you?"

"There are a lot of Chreightons."

"Well, Mr. Enoch Creighton. How's that?"

Slade's mind seized on the name. He was Mr. Enoch Creighton.

"You tell him, anyway, he's made a mistake," said Slade. "Send him away."

"I'll tell him," the turnkey said, patiently enough. "And now, if you'll just sit here until I come back."

They'd come to the end of the corridor. There was a wooden armchair in a corner. The turnkey went away.

"I am Enoch Creighton," Slade to himself. He felt as if he'd been through a nightmare, was in one still. He'd waked from one phase of that earlier nightmare to find himself someone else, confused and groping in an unfamiliar world. But his fear was leaving him. He was no longer that poor clown who'd walked the streets in an absurd costume to advertize a cheap restaurant. He was Enoch Creighton— a man who wore evening clothes, who had money, a man to whom even a jailer was polite.

A couple of paces from the chair where Slade sat was a grated door leading into the back room of the station. The turnkey had left this open. There was a rear exit from this room, Slade remembered, which gave on a sort of alleyway at the side of the prison.

He stepped through the door.

In a far corner of the room a couple of policemen were seated at a table in their shirt sleeves playing dominoes. They gave Slade no more than a glance as he entered and went on with their game. Slade saw the rear exit he remembered. There was a water cooler near it. He strolled over toward this. The policemen were engrossed in their game and didn't. even look up.

Slade selected a paper cup and filled it. The knob of the door was within reach of his hand. He put out his hand. In another instant he would have opened the door. But just then someone called.

"Oh, Creighton!"

Slade, taking his time, drank some water and tossed the cup aside, then turned. There was the turnkey standing at the door leading to the front office and with him was another man and this would be that "friend" the turnkey had mentioned. It was, obviously, this latter who had just called out.

The newcomer, Slade saw, was a cripple, dressed in black, with dark glasses over his eyes, supporting himself with a heavy black eane. Slade looked at the stranger without a word. In a moment— he expected— the man would be denouncing him, saying that this was not the Enoch Creighton he'd come to see.

BUT, instead of that, the man in black came forward. The thin lips of his dead white face were smiling. He had what looked like a shriveled leg, and he flung this forward at each step, but still there was a look of power about him. He was nimble. That heavy cane of his looked as if it might become a dangerous weapon.

"You don't recognize me," said the man in black as he swung close to Slade. "I'm Mr. Knight— Sylvester Knight. I happened to be at Mabel's." His dark glasses were now close to Slade's eyes and he let out a sibilant whisper: "Wise up, Snowy, you big stiff!"

There was a curious menace in that whisper. Mr. Knight's white face had became a mask of menace. At the same time he had thrust out a black-gloved hand and seized one of Slade's hands, which he began to pump. While he did this he was whispering again, fiercely.

"Wise up, I'm tellin' you. I'm straight. I come from Mabel and the big Chink. Ain't that enough?"

"I don't recall your name," said Slade.

Mr. Kright laughed loudly for the benefit of the others. But to Slade he managed to slip out another whisper; and, this time, the whisper was like a poisoned needle.

"It's oke with us, Snowy. But they've got your little sister."

It was as if a bit of ice had slid down Slade's backbone. Knight saw the effect of his words. He turned to the policemen.

"If you gents don't mind," he said, "Mr. Creighton and I will sit down over there in the corner until I explain. It's something private concerning his family."

3: This—Or That

SLADE followed Knight to a far corner.

"They've got your little sister!"— the whisper was squirming in his brain like a snake. So Creighton had a-sister— a young sister— and something had happened to her! He'd have to find out.

The policemen were shuffling their dominoes. Slade and the mysterious Mr. Knight sat down and put their heads together.

"The boys went off on a false alarm," said Knight. "They thought you'd been croaked. You can't blame them. They'd got their orders from the Doc."

"What Doc?"

"The big Chink. He wanted her, So they copped her. That's all."

"I'm still dumb," said Slade, sparring for time. "What's happened ?"

"I suppose you know it was Benny the Twist that knobbed you," said Knight.

"What did Benny want to do that for?" Slade asked. He might as well play dumb as long as he could.

"Jealous," Knight replied. "He was afraid you and the widow were going to lam, which would have cut him out of both the girl and the money."

Slade was trying: to get things clear in his brain. He felt Knight's shaded eyes on him from behind the dark glasses.

"Well, go on," said Slade. "What was the idea of dragging my little sister into this?"

A bitter smile returned to— Knights thin lips. "Benny must have knobbed you for fair at that," he said. "You seem to be goofy still. Why, when Benny thought he'd dumped you, naturally he knew you wouldn't be signing any more checks. Get me? So he cops your kid sister. Anyway, he and the big Chink had been counting on that. As they figured it, you and Mabel were getting ready to blow. They tell me your sister's a good looking little dame."

"Cut it!"

"I'm just telling you, Snowy."

"Where do you come in?" Slade asked. "You don't even know me."

"Mabel! When Benny gave you the works she managed to stick She traced you to this Irish club house— got a hold of me to come here and get you out. She wants you up there at the place in the country."

"How about—my sister?" Slade asked.

THERE was a tremor at his heart as he asked it as if there was actually a little sister of his own involved.

"Mabel will help you. Isn't the kid already about like Mabel's own sister-in-law?"

A cold sweat came out on Slade's forehead. He was in deadly danger any way he looked at it. If he lingered here in the police station it might be but a matter of minutes before he was accused of murder— murder and robbery, which would mean a verdict of murder in the first degree. There was also a danger, equally great he was sure, if he went along with this mysterious Mr. Knight.

Whoever the late Enoch Creighton had been he'd been mixed up with a mob of dangerous crooks.

"Snowy" Creighton might well have been one of the crooks himself. Yet "Snowy" —now lying dead back there in the cell— had had a little sister— a sister who was "a good-looking little dame" and who had now fallen into the clutches of the gang.

"Suppose I wised the cops," said Slade.

"Stop!" said Knight in a hissing snarl.

"What's to keep me?"

Knight took a package of cigarettes from an inner pocket, and as he did so he managed to show Slade a glint of metal— knife or gun or just a bit of camouflage, the threat of death was there. But the cigarettes were real. Knight thumbed a cigarette from the package and slowly lit it, leaning forward a little closer to Slade.

"Don't try a squawk, Snowy," he warned. "Not now that the widow's got me dragged into the game. Don't, or I might have to dump you myself. Anyway, don't forget either that they've got your sister. And if anything cracks— you know what I mean— it won't be a slab in the morgue for her like it will be for you but she'll wish that it had been that."

For a moment Slade saw red. He wanted to hit Knight, But he controlled himself. It was as if he could 'see, far off somewhere in the dim shadows of the great city, Enoch Creighton's sister— in need of a brother— and Enoch Creighton dead!

"All right," Slade said. "Lets go."

SLADE hadn't forgotten that the mysterious Mr. Knight was a cripple. Slade was ready to give him a hand. But Knight himself seemed to have forgotten for the moment that there was anything the matter with that leg of his. Knight was on his feet with amazing alacrity. It was only a moment afterward that he recollected himself, whereupon he was leaning on his cane again and his leg had the appearance of being withered and bent. He and Slade were again face to face.

"So you piped the phony leg?" said Knight.

"Sure!" said Slade.

"And maybe you've piped me, too."

"Sure!" Slade said again.

"Who am I?" came the cold whisper.

"You? You're Sylvester Knight."

"See that you don't forget it," said Knight. "And, listen, Snowy!"

"I'm listening."

"Its this— or that. You play with me, all the way— and you make Mabel come across when you and her cash in on your sister's stake— get me?— or I and the boys throw you and the little girl to the dogs and go along with Benny. It's this way— me or Benny. Me, at least, I ain't even after Mabel. Both her and your kid sister, you can have them. With Benny, you don't get either."

Slade's head went round. A squad of policemen, heavyfooted, padded across the room— some special detail just coming off duty and now ready to turn in for a few hours' sleep. A few of them paused for a moment to watch the tireless domino players. Then they were trudging off again. A word would have stopped them. Before Slade could decide to utter that word he saw the turnkey come out of the front office and start in his direction.

"I'm your front," said Knight crisply, meaning that he'd be the lawyer and do the talking. He himself addressed the turnkey as that officer drew near.

"Mr. Creighton and I are leaying," he said. "He wishes me to make you a little present." But the turnkey seemed to have something of greater sss. on his mind. "Yes, sir," he said; "but it's another gentleman out there who says he'll be Mr. Creighton's lawyer."

"Who?" Knight snapped. The turnkey produced a card. Knight reached for it, but the turnkey ignored him and passed the card to Slade.

"He says, sir," said the turnkey, "that you'll kindly speak to no one until you've had your interview with him. I think he said you'd be wanting to tell him something about your sister."

4: Desperate Play

SLADE had taken.the card but he was in no hurry to look at it. There for the moment it looked as if the whole world were against him— as if, no matter which way he turned, it was merely to find himself up against some new danger.

The card was embossed, suggesting style and wealth even before he looked at it.

"Cole Van Vranken," he read aloud, and as he did so he was aware that the mysterious Mr. Knight, at his side, had given a slight start.

To Slade himself the name had a familiar ring. It was one of those names that appear often in the newspapers— not only in the papers of New York but in the papers of the country, as well. Cole Van Vranken was the name of an eminent lawyer— a former cabinet officer and ambassador.

"Inquiring for me?" Slade stalled.

"Well, we might say," the turnkey corrected, "giving orders, now, if you don't mind my saying so."

"How do you mean?"

"He's a friend of the Big Chief. That's how he comes to be here. It seems that he got a private buzz from headquarters as soon as they got the flash down there that we had you here. And he says now that you're not to leave here unless it's himself that leaves with you."

The black-garbed Knight thrust out his hand— he did this with the speed of a striking snake— and seized the card. He looked at it in order to confirm what his ears had heard.

"Jeez!" he breathed. "It's your uncle, Snowy, all right. It's your sister's guardian. You can't see him. You know that."

"Where is he?' Slade asked the turnkey.

"At the desk, talking to the lieu."

"I'll go in and see him myself," Knight proposed. "I'm Mr. Creighton's lawyer."

"It ain't you he's inquiring for," said the turnkey.

"All right," Knight replied. "Tell him Mr, Creighton will be in there in just a moment."

The turnkey turned away. Knight again faced Slade. His white mask of a face seemed to have gone whiter yet.

"Snowy," he whispered, "I've been holding out on you. Unless the Doc hears from me personally inside of an hour that you're okay it's got to be— you know who. I'm telling you. You'd better stall that uncle of yours out there."

"Why, sure!" Slade whispered. "He don't even know any more what I look like. Come on."

THEY went on out into the front office of the station house together. As for Slade, he felt like a man who starts across a crowded avenue against the traffic lights. The turnkey and Knight were just behind him. The lieutenant was at the desk. In front of the desk was a distinguished looking man in dinner clothes—a man who was grave, worried, but physically at ease— the famous Cole Van Vranken.

These were not the only ones in the big square room. There were half a dozen others present— detectives, hangers-on, possibly a reporter or two. But these were in the background. Slade had his eyes on those at the desk.

The lieutenant, his first glance had told him, was not the same who had booked him earlier. That was one danger the less. Even so he could scarcely have been identified. Hed arrived here in that red horror of a uniform with his face covered with taleum and rouge. Like this he would have felt safe even if the cop who'd arrested him had been present. As for Creighton, he'd been merely a drunken dress-suit.

All of Slade's attention came to the man whom he knew to be Cole Van Vranken, uncle of Enoch Creighton, guardian of Enoch Creighton's sister. Slade had barely passed the door before the lieutenant spoke up.

"There he is, sir. Is this the young gentleman you were looking for?"

Cole Van Vranken had turned from the desk and was looking at Slade. He was a tall man, possibly going on sixty. If he'd been expecting a shock, or were shocked now, he gave no hint of it. His self-control was perfect. His intelligent face was grim yet kindly— touched, Slade perceived, with a sort of pity.

"There must have been some error," he answered the lieutenant, softly. At the same time he had remarked the card that Slade held and guessed that this was his own.

He spoke to Slade. "Is it possible," he said, "that your name also is Enoch Creighton?"

THE crippled Knight saved Slade an answer. It was clear that he didn't trust Slade in this present crisis. He thrust his black shape forward.

"I am Mr. Creighton's attorney," said Knight. "Hes been slightly under the weather. You'll excuse him if he isn't very responsive. He'll be all right after a little sleep."

Mr. Van Vranken brushed over Mr. Knight lightly with his intelligent eyes and brought his own attention back to Slade.

"There must have been a mistake," Slade said, fumbling the card.

"You are Enoch Creighton?"

Slade didn't answer. He heard Knight's cold voice at his shoulder.

"Sign for your things, and we'll be going."

A policeman was acting as a property clerk. He came from an inner office and placed a large flat envelope at the lieutenant's elbow. The lieutenant crooked a finger at Slade, and Slade was at the desk ready to sign. He felt that he was being looked at very closely by Mr. Cole Van Vranken.

"The coincidence is rather extra-ordinary," said Mr. Van Vranken, as if reflecting aloud.

The coincidence was to become more extraordinary still. The lieutenant had shoved forward the property that had been taken from the late Enoch Creighton at the time he was searched prior to his transfer to a cell. Was it possible that there was something in the lot that Mr. Cole Van Vranken would recognize as having belonged to his nephew?

The articles were individual, too costly to be common; they were of a sort easy to remember.

THERE was a cigarette case of platinum and gold, finely striped and monogramed. There was an enameled lighter also monogramed. There was a filigree money-clip of oriental design, made to hold small bills, and a Morocco fold for larger bills. There were other objects of distinctive appearance: a gold chain attached to a small gold knife and a bunch of keys, an octagonal wristwatch worth hundreds of dollars.

Slade could feel that the quiet Cole Van Vranken was looking at all these things. The eminent lawyer hadn't shifted his position with his elbow on the lieutenant's high desk.

"I should like to see you— alone, Mr. Creighton," said Mr. Van Vranken.

"Yes, sir, tomorrow," Knight put in. "May I have your card, Mr. Knight?"

"Why, certainly," Knight readily replied, and he brought out a card case. "And one of your cards, Creighton?"

Slade's head was swimming— a little bit. Hed taken the property of the late Mr. Enoch Creighton and was now stowing it away. 'There was no doubt about it now. This was robbery— robbery compounded with Sone and God only knew what other crimes. For a full five seconds— it seemed longer than that, but it might have been less— his gaze met and answered the unworded questioning in the eyes of Mr. Cole Van Vranken.

"We'll meet each other again," Slade said. "Trust me!"

"Sure," said the crippled Knight. "But first we got to sleep this off."

He laughed. But there was no good feeling in the grip that he took on Slade's arm. The grip was as hard as steel as he conducted Slade toward the door leading to the street,

5: The Greater Mystery

IF Cole Van Vranken had remained a surprised but more or less inactive witness to this strange episode— when a complete stranger claimed not only the name but some of the property of Enoch Creighton— it was because a greater mystery was absorbing the former ambassador's thought.

The mystery was this: Where was Evelyn Creighton, Enoch Creighton's sister? What had happened to her? Didn't Enoch himself have something to do with her disappearance? And, in such a case, was it just as well to move with caution?

The name of Creighton— a great name in the history, both social and financial, of New York— had already been sufficiently mired by the scandals that Enoch Creighton had brought upon it.

Enoch Creighton had been going steadily to the devil ever since he'd been able to travel alone. He'd squandered his own fortune almost before he was of age— making a name for himself at home and abroad. With his own fortune gone, he'd blackmailed his aunts out of all he could get. Here of late he had been turning his talents to Evelyn.

Suppose that Enoch Creighton had now kidnapped his sister— was holding her for ransom— as he'd threatened to a number of times?

The question was burning itself through Cole Van Vranken's brain as he stood there, apparently at ease, and chatted with the police lieutenant. That would make a pretty story for the papers! And Evelyn almost of age, one of the season's most popular, its richest, its most popular debutantes!

TONIGHT a strange car had driven up to the Creighton mansion on Fifth Avenue, where Evelyn Creighton lived with two. of her aunts.

It was Waldeck, the Creighton butler, who'd reported this part of it; and clearly enough, although old Waldeck had been wringing his hands and having a hard time to keep back his tears.

It was a little past midnight that the strange car had arrived, just a few minutes after Miss Evelyn had returned from the Opera where she'd been the guest of friends.

Waldeck himself had answered the ring. There was a young man there whom Waldeck didn't know. And this young man had said that Mr. Enoch was down there in the car standing at the curb and that he wanted to see his sister.

"She's already retired, sir," said Waldeck.

"Take your choice," said the caller. "She can see him now or maybe tomorrow learn that he's dead."

Evelyn herself had been listening from the head of the stairs.

"What has happened?" she cried.

"He's had an accident," the stranger replied; "and he's down 'there now in the car begging to have just one word with you."

That was enough for Evelyn. She'd run from the house and out across the sidewalk to where the strange car stood. There Waldeck had seen her seized and thrust into the car.

Without a cry, without a struggle, so swiftly that it seemed as if the thing couldn't have happened at all, Evelyn Creighton had disappeared.

THERE were hundreds of such cases in New York and in every great city year after year, Cole Van Vranken knew. Ordinarily, in such a case, there would have been but one thing to do, and that was to cooperate to the fullest degree with the police. But in the present case, how could he? He was haunted by the conviction that back of this kidnapping— if Evelyn Creighton had been kidnapped— was the sinister shadow of that brother of hers.

It would be a pretty story for the sensational press if the news got out that Evelyn Creighton had been kidnapped by her own brother. As a matter of fact, it would have been almost as good if it had been known that Enoch Creighton had been merely accused of such a crime by Evelyn Creighton's guardian.

Cole Van Vranken, standing there at the desk in the police station could imagine the headlines:

BROTHER KIDNAPS SISTER

HOLDS HER FOR RANSOM

MILLION DOLLAR DEBUTANTE

VICTIM OF BROTHER'S PLOT

The prospect made him shudder. But he gave no outward sign. He was master of himself as he watched the strange "Enoch Creighton" sign the official papers and receive the real Enoch Creighton's property.

Lieutenant Heath, on duty at the desk, had an eye for all that passed. He could see that Cole Van Vranken was undergoing some strain.

"There has been some mistake, sir," the lieutenant said.

The former ambassador nodded. "I needn't tell you that I'm at your disposition," the lieutenant went on. "In fact, those are my orders. I've had a tip from— the chief."

"Thank you, lieutenant." Cole Van Vranken watched Slade—the false Enoch Creighton—turn away from the desk with the mysterious, black-clad Knight at his side.

"Shall I hold them?" the lieutenant asked.

Cole Van Vranken considered. "It's common enough for two or more men to have the same name," he said. "This young man doesn't look like a crook. He doesn't look like a dissipated lad. We can't help it if he gets arrested after having taken a drink too many."

THE conversation came to a halt as a plainclothes man stepped swiftly and softly to the lieutenant's side and slid a whisper from the side of his mouth.

"Speak up, Kelly," said Lieutenant Heath.

"This is Mr. Van Vranken's case, and he comes from the Commissioner."

At the same time the lieutenant gave a signal and a couple of the loungers in the room— precinct detectives, perhaps, although no one without experience would have taken them for members of the foree— politely blocked the way to the door. Knight and Slade were stopped.

"What's this?"Knight asked softly, turning to look back at the desk.

"Just a moment, Mr. Knight," said Lieutenant Heath. For a moment the lieutenant, Detective Kelly, and Cole Van Vranken were whispering together. It was the lieutenant who imparted to Evelyn Creighton's guardian the tip that Kelly had just given him.

"Kelly thinks the man in black—"

"Knight?"

"Yes. Kelly thinks Knight is 'the Shanghai Blacek', international crook, killer—"

"Is there a charge against him?"

"None. But we could frame one."

There came to Cole Van Vranken a swift recollection of that look he had just exchanged with the stranger who was using his nephew's name. The look had been a call for trust, for confidence. Cole Van Vranken shook his head.

The lieutenant raised his hand. Almost with no delay at all Knight and Slade were once more headed for the door to the street. Cole Van Vranken himself turned to leave,

"I'll see, of course," said Lieutenant Heath, "that this stays out of the newspapers."

"Good night, lieutenant, and thank you."

Cole Van Vranken started to pull on his gloves. As he did so, there was a sound of confusion just outside the station house door. There was a muffled report,

For the rest, in the seconds that followed, it was tumult.

6: Under The Green Lights

SLADE WYATH and the black garbed Knight had lost no time in making their way to the station house door. Each, in a different way, had felt the danger of this place.

Knight, for example, if there was nothing else on his conscience, had been the jackal in the presence of a lion— and of a wounded lion, at that— while he was there in the presence of Cole Van Vranken.

So Slade himself had perceived.

Knight's bravado had been but the front put on to conceal a growing uneasiness. This also Slade knew: Knight's uneasiness had been equally compounded of suspicion and terror. But if the terror was a product of Cole Van Vranken's unexpected presence and that gentleman's undoubted ability to command the police to do his bidding, the suspicion had been aroused by Van Vranken's odd inability to recognize this supposed nephew of his.

Slade was conscious of that grip on his arm. It was as if Knight were holding a gun at his ribs demanding to know who he really was. Suppose Knight had become convinced that this man at his side was not Snowy Creighton, after all; but merely some stranger to whom he'd been spilling too much dangerous gossip. What then?

Even so, Slade could not feel that his own fear now was merely on his own acount. Back there he himself had been afraid, but it was fear of a misplay— through his liking for Cole Van Vranken and his hatred of the self-styled Sylvester Knight— when this was no time for miss-plays.

They stepped into the outer air, while Knight still gripped Slade's arm. The night air of even this side street in the heart of the great city tasted sweet to Slade. God, how he hated a jail!

They were at the head of a short flight of steps. At the foot of the steps were heavy stone newel posts with standards on them bearing the green lanterns of the police department.

A polished, rather foreign looking young man suddenly appeared at the foot of the steps between the green lights. There was something exaggerated about his movements, as if these were too swift, too graceful. There was even something exaggerated about his physical beauty or, at least, the smoothness of his get-up. In all ways, he suggested a panther.

"Benny!" Knight whispered, "Benny tthe Twist!"

Slade recalled the name. It was "Benny the Twist" who'd been jealous of Enoch Creighton—Benny who'd struck the blow from which Creighton had died.

All this in a flash. Then Benny had stepped up toward where they stood. It was to Sus that Benny spoke first.

"What were you doing here?" he asked smoothly.

"I came to get Snowy," Knight answered.

Slade caught a swift glint of coal black eyes.

"That ain't Snowy, you rat," Benny came back.

"Listen, Benny!"

"You'll squeal—"

WITH all that exaggerated grace and skill of his, Benny had twitched a gun from his breast— from a shoulder holster, most likely.

"Cheese it!" Knight implored. "Don't push that gun. I'll go with you, Benny. You can take us both along. But not here. Don't be a fool. It would spoil everything— for you— for all of us. It's like I said. I came here for Snowy. This guy said he was Snowy."

In the midst of the pleading, Slade made a slight movement to turn back. Quick as a spider, Benny the Twist perceived the move.

"Hold it, you!" he grated. 'The brief command had the vehemence of a curse.

Slade "held it." He did so with a sort of wonder— a sort of admiration— for Benny the Twist. Where was this, anyway?

This was happening on the steps of a police station. There were the green lights. Even at this hour between midnight and dawn the street was not particularly deserted.

Dimly, with a sense of movement about them, like waiting sharks, there were a couple of cars in the street. One of them must have been Benny's car. Gangsters like him didn't go on foot, not when their errand was business.

Benny himself turned slightly. He appeared to give a signal. His gun slipped out of sight, but his hand was on it, in the side pocket of his coat.

"Oke," said Benny; "you're coming with me. Who brought you here? Who you got in that car?"

"It's the Widow's car," said Knight. "There's nobody in it but a couple of angels she had hanging around. It's their car and her chauffeur."

"Forget 'em," Benny advised.

What followed was too fast for Slade to see. There was too much to see. It appeared that the astute Mr. Twist had been for a moment off his guard— a moment when his hand had strayed. He thrust it back but he got it no further than the pocket of his coat. For even faster and better prepared was the strange Mr. Knight.

Again Knight had forgotten he was a cripple. But his cane was handy. He was no longer leaning on his cane. Instead he raised this, the moment Benny the Twist had appeared, as if the cane were a long-barreled pistol.

Which it was!

From the supposed ferrule of the cane there was a jet of fire and a banging report, and Benny was dropping— dropping with his wrist and his body crumpled.

WHILE this was happening, a big limousine had drawn up to the curb down there between the green lights. Slade remembered, even in these flashing moments, that Knight also had given some sort of a signal as they left the station house door.

From the limousine a couple of young men jumped out, leaving the door of the machine open behind them.

Slade was for drawing back. The shooting had touched him with horror. But there was to be no drawing back.

He received a jolt back of the head that sent him forward down the steps. He stumbled over Benny as he went. He would have fallen —he would have taken a dive to the sidewalk— if it hadn't been for the pair rushing forward from the limousine.

They grabbed Slade. He struck, right and left. But he was off his balance. Before he could recover himself he was seized. Again there came a jolt from the rear, this time behind his ear, and it almost put him out.

The four of them— Knight and Slade and the two from the limousine— now as if fell across the sidewalk and into the car. They were barely in it before the car gave a jump like a thing alive and was away.

Dimly, in a whirl, Slade caught an impression of a rush of policemen from the station. There was a series of swift explosions. But there was no telling whether these were backfires or shots— not so-far as Slade was concerned.

All Slade knew was that he was fighting— fighting, he believed, for his life.

7: Strange Allies

THERE happened to be one reporter hanging about the precinct house at the time Benny the Twist was shot. The reporter's name was Simley. He had a valuable knack for being places where things happened. Yet he was always broke; he was always out of a job. He had a bad squint in his left eye. Most of the time his lean face was adorned with a scraggly beard. He had a passion for poetry and was never very clean.

Simley had so far observed with interest the arrival of Mr. Cole Van Vranken. A police station was a queer place for a former ambassador and cabinet member to call. There was a story in that. It was one he'd dig out of the lieutenant later on. He'd watched with greater interest that strange confrontation of Cole Van Vranken and the man who had usurped the name of the Van Cranken nephew, Enoch Creighton.

But that spoiled the story. You didn't make stories out of the sorrows of a man like Cole Van Vranken. Simley didn't, at any rate, which may have explained why he was so often out of a job. He knew much about a lot of people— most families had black sheep— but he kept the knowledge largely to himself. It was— so Simley told himself— a reward for virtue, though, when that shot was fired on the precinct steps.

They brought in Benny sagging between two plainclothes men. He was sobbing a little, like a child that has hurt itself. But he was drooling blood over an expensive necktie and there was a hiccough in his throat like a death rattle.

"You're going to croak, Benny," said one of policeman supporters as they laid him on the floor. "Who did it?"

"Go to hell," Benny sobbed, and passed into unconsciousness.

A heavy bullet had ploughed through his upper chest, but when the police surgeon prodded him he expressed the opinion that Benny had a chance.

During the very first flush of the excitement, Simley, the free lance reporter, had ducked into the captain's room, back of the desk. There was a telephone there that he could use. And he used it—a flash to his favorite paper, which would give him exclusive rates, then to three or four correspondents of out oftown papers who were wild for this sort of stuff. It was at an hour of the night when final editions were going to press, and chances were good for a beat.

"Gangsters battle at police station!"— this was first page stuff.

BENNY BARETA— otherwise Benny the Twist, sometimes known as the Dance-hall King— arrested oftener than the police could count, on charges all the way from murder down, yet never convicted. On the station-house steps he had drawn his gun and tried to shoot either one or both of two men who were just leaving the station and who'd been quicker on the draw.

One of these men, a cripple dressed in black and pretending to be a lawyer named Sylvester Knight, had just called at the station and secured the release of a man in evening clothes, arrested a short time previously for intoxication, and booked under the name of a well-known young millionaire.

"Say, Simley, for God's sake get that name!" the editor came back.

"I can't," Simley responded to each demand. "The cops are keeping it secret."

As Simley turned from the telephone he saw that someone was standing just inside the door. He recognized the former ambassador.

"How do you do, Mr. Van Vranken?" he said, ."I apologize," said the older man, "but I overheard what you've been saying. You are Mr. Simley."

The lieutenant had given him that in; formation.

"Yes, sir." And Simley made a move to surrender his place at the telephone, but the other motioned him to keep his place.

"I appreciate your withholding the name of Enoch Creighton, Mr, Simley."

"That's nothing."

"It's a great deal. Would I be imposing on your kindness to ask you for a little of your time as soon as you are at leisure?"

"I'm at leisure now, Mr. Van Vranken."

"But this story?"

"I've done all I can for the present. The regulars will be taking care of it from now on. They'll be picking it up from the reports that go into Headquarters down on Lafayette Street."

"It is true," said Mr. Van Vranken, "that I took steps to have my nephew' s name suppressed, even bes fore I came to this place. And now, of course, there is all the more reason for withholding it from the papers, and also the fact of my presence here.' "You're safe," smiled Simley through his scraggly beard, "so far as I'm concerned, Mr. Van Vranken"

He looked like a tramp, but the former ambassador didn't misjudge him. Cole Van Vranken owed much of his success in life to his clear judgment of the men he met. He'd begun his career, moreover, in a Western mining camp, where such judgment had unusual opportunities for development.

An ambulance had arrived and carted Benny the Twist off to a hospital with a detective escort. News of the crime and a description of the suspected criminals, together with a description of their car, was being flashed from station to station and post to post throughout the city and to neighboring counties. In a few minutes more the reporters would be assembling, as Simley had already indicated.

"This is certainly no place for you," said Simley with a smile, "if you want to keep out of the news."

"Suppose," Mr. Van Vranken suggested, "we adjourn to a restaurant."

Mr. Van Vranken evidently knew his New York. The restaurant to which the taxi brought them was a good one, but not so large or brilliant that Simley could have felt embarrassed, even had he been so inclined.

ANYWAY the place was almost deserted. It was at an hour not far from dawn when the last of the night prowlers and the first of the early risers— a scattering rear guard and a thin advance guard of what was both yesterday and tomorrow— were beginning to overlap.

"Simley," said Mr. Van Vranken, when they were finally at their coffee, "I was once a newspaper man myself, but my secret ambition always was to be a detective. Curiously, both these facts returned to impress themselves on my mind back there in the station, when I was hearing you telephone. It now happens that I am urgently in need of some detective work. Such a need has arisen from time to time at other periods in my life and I have employed some of the best detective talent available both here and abroad. I may do so still. But I've felt that where a member of one's own family is concerned one might be and should be his own best dedective— with proper assistance, Would you be inclined to furnish me such assistance?"

"Certainly," said Simley. "But may I ask what makes you think that I'll be of any use to you, Mr. Van Vranken?"

"Partly hunch," said Cole Van Vranken. "Partly also because you stood by me just now in the matter of the telephone to the papers when my name might have meant more money to you. And partly— well, wasn't your father Jack Simley, who used to run a paper in Butte?"

"Yes, sir."

"An old friend of mine," said Cole Van Vranken.

"I've heard him speak of you," Simley grinned. "You held off the mob that time they wanted to run my father out of town."

8: Alias, "The Widow"

WHEN they'd tumbled Slade into the limousine, after the shooting of Benny Bareta, otherwise Benny the Twist, Slade landed on his face. But he'd kept on fighting. He kicked and clung. If he could break a glass— if he could open a door—then, there'd be a crowd, or at least a chase.

It was three against one. The two young men whom Knight, back there on the station steps. had described as "angels" revealed themselves as cunning and strong, Knight himself had thrown disguise aside. In the thick of the fight, Slade got a glimpse of Knight's face— still white, minus the glasses, a mask of envenomed purpose.

The cramped quarters saved Slade for a time. He was like a shark in a crowded fishing boat, and the boat in a choppy sea. The car swerved, stopped, sprang ahead again. It seemed to plunge between recurrent breakers of sound. The breakers were made up of shouts, whistles, blasts from motor horns.

But at some undetermined time the car got out of midtown traffic and was sailing free.

Part of the time Slade had fought with head and shoulders on the floor, part of the time bent double over the front seat— with the chauffeur there cursing him and mixing in. Then one wrist was gripped with steel and twisted back of him. Someone worked on his other arm, pressing it back— until it was almost broken—and that wrist was handcuffed also.

"Fasten him," said Knight. And Slade was choked.

When he was so badly choked he thought his lungs would burst, a stiff and tarry bandage was drawn about his face and neck. He knew what that was. It was adhesive tape of the coarser sort. His face was as if burned and paralyzed. But at least he could breathe and he'd kept some shred of consciousness alive.

After this they trod him to the floor again and kept him there with their feet. For some time the car had been cruising without great speed. The chauffeur spoke.

"What's it to be?" he asked.

The cripple replied: "We'll take. him to the Widow's."

"Even if he ain't Creighton?"

One of the others put in: "He ain't Creighton. Thats what I tell Winnie, here, the minute I see him. Didn't I, Winnie?"

"Naw, he ain't Creighton," said the one appealed to.

"Whats it going to be?" the chauffeur repeated with steady patience "The sooner we park this bus the better. It is late enough after what Shanghai did to Benny, back there."

"Shanghai" evidently was the alias of Sylvester Knight. It was he who answered.

"Okay, park here, Gus," he said. "Winnie, go flag a taxi— a big one —while Eddie's shifting plates, just in case."

The young man called Winnie slipped out of the door and was gone. Eddie pawed something from under the seat and also got out of the car.

"This bird's going on to the Widow's," Shanghai went on, "whoever he is. Because, whatever he is, he's the bozo Mabel sent us to get. He's got to be. He can't be anyone else."

"But if he ain't?" the chauffeur persisted. "Suppose he ain't Snowy Creighton at all?"

"In that case," said Shanghai evenly, "I guess it'll be up to us to take him the rest of the way."

A big taxi pulled up alongside. There was talk of a friend who was soused and a car that was stalled.

Nighthawk taxi drivers never look back in a case like this unless by special request. There was no request, in this case, special or otherwise. Slade was shifted to this new car. The taxi rolled away and picked up speed. It was late. There was little trafiic.

The two young men, Eddie and Winnie, Slade eventually noticed, had been left behind. They'd probably gone to put through a telephone call for after an hour or so, the taxi lazied and was hailed by yet another car. And again Slade was shifted— swiftly, without noise or scandal— from door to door.

THE car in which Slade now found himself smelled of sandalwood. The smell was persistent. It came and went but it couldn't be killed entirely by the cigarette smoke of Shanghai and Gus.

Slade sat propped between Shanghai and Gus on the back seat of the car. Some car, he judged. The upholstery was like that of an overstuffed divan. He was aching in a hundred places. He was on the verge of losing his senses altogether. Now and then he did pass into a sort of dreamy state when the pain, ever present, was lulled, and when the sandalwood smell and the upholstery made a composite that suggested the presence of a mysterious woman— the woman, he reflected, that Creighton would have married.

A woman named Mabel! The Widow! And she was to give the word that might send him "the rest of the way."

The night was now taking on the deep blue transparency of early dawn. For a while the car. had been speeding through what almost seemed like the open country, through fields and woods; but the ever recurring electric lights showed that this was still somewhat in the outer zone of the big city.

Shanghai, the one-time Sylvester Knight, addressed a question to the new chauffeur. "Fred, is your missus sitting up?"

"Yes."

The single word had a peculiar foreign accent. Slade noticed that the chauffeur was a small man, Chinese perhaps.

The car dropped from the highway into the softer going of what appeared to be a private road. There was a smell of the sea in the air and also of misty woods. Except for the play of the headlights along a narrow woodland road the darkness was almost absolute. Then, the headlights showed a flashing section of high stone wall with a window in it, after which the lights were turned off and the car came to a. purring stop.

In the dark, one of Slade's captors— Shanghai or Gus, he didn't know which— snapped off the hands cuffs.

"She might get sore," he heard one of them whisper.

Then they were dragging him out of the car. After which they walked him as they might have walked a dead man on to an. invisible terrace before- an all but invisible house.

THERE there was a sudden blaze of light, white and hard, from an electric globe over the door. Then the door swung open. The moment the door opened it seemed to release a wave of that perfume Slade had noticed in the car.

The woman of mystery was standing there. She was young. She was slender and graceful. She had lustrous black hair that was banged across her forehead in a style that might have been Oriental or simply individual; but the Oriental note was accentuated by the fact that she was wrapped in some sort of Oriental robe— a kimona or a mandarin coat— and very gorgeous.

But what struck Slade most of all was her perfect poise. He could imagine to some extent what he himself looked like. He must have: been a sight to scare most women into hysterics. Not this one. She had given no start, uttered no cry.

She simply stood there— gracefully, like a wax figure in a museum— and all the life about her concentrated in her eyes. At that, the survey couldn't have lasted more than half a dozen seconds.

Slade made a final effort. He put into it all that he could compel from muscle, nerve and spirit. He jerked himself free from the men who stood to either side of him. He was gagged. He was clotted with blood. But his own eyes were capable, perhaps, of conveying some message. It was his only hope. He'd flung himself forward, he'd lurched against the jamb of the doorway and clung there.

Still she'd barely moved. His eyes met hers. She spoke to the others.

"You boys go around with Fred," she said. "I'll see you later." She drew Slade into the house and closed the door.

Chapter 9: Strange Dr. Li

HE may have been Chinese, she may have had no more than a quarter of Chinese blood in her veins; but, for the moment she stood there still looking at Slade after the door was closed, she had about her all the lure and also all the menace, he thought, that China has always had for the white man.

In any case, her English was faultless.

"This comes of not doing things yourself," she said, without apparent emotion.

She didn't raise her voice as she switched to what sounded like a Chinese dialect.

Immediately two Chinese serving men appeared from behind a silk curtain just back of the lady. They were sober-faced and keen, neatly dressed in dark American clothes. The servants had no eyes except for her, as she gave them a few brief orders, without excitement, in the dialect that Slade could not understand.

If she was telling them to strangle him, Slade knew, with a gust of feeling, that the orders would be obeyed.

Herself, she'd given not so much as a glance at the servants.She'd continued to look at Slade— with what feeling he was unable to surmise. So far, she seemed to have been moved by nothing more than the merest curiosity. There was no hint of feeling, one way or the other, as she spoke to Slade.

"These boys will help you," she said. "Go with them. I'll send up Dr Li."

She called it "Lee."

It was only later that Slade learned the spelling of the Chinese name.

THE Chinese serving men helped him up a broad and easy flight of stairs.

This was evidently some old country mansion. Except for the embroidered silks hanging about, a few bronzes, and the pervading smell of sandalwood, this might have been the home of Slade's own grandmother back in Fayette County, in the Middle West.

But there was a modern bathroom adjoining the bedroom to which they brought him, and here the Chinese servants not only stripped away the adhesive tape that gagged him; they stripped him also of his clothes and bathed him, swiftly and skillfully, before throwing a dressing robe about him and urging him toward the bed.

In the meantime Dr. Li had arrived— one of the largest Chinese Slade had even seen, with a huge round mask of a face that might have been a casting in pale bronze if it hadn't been for the twinkling eyes. He was faultlessly dressed in an American business suit. It developed that his English also was faultless.

The first thing that Dr. Li did was to give Slade a large brown pill. The pill worked wonders. Slade lost all sense of fatigue, of pain, even of weight.

"Oh me, oh, my!" the doctor exclaimed as he began to apply, the healing art. "What a wallop that was!" But at the same time, just as deftly, just as skillfully, he was prodding for information.

Slade told him everything. He knew that it was no good to lie to this man. For the moment he was helpless, trapped. In any case, he needed a friend if anyone ever did, and he guessed that his only chance with the big Chinese was to come clean.

"So you are alive and yet you are not alive," said Dr. Li, at last, leaning back in his chair at Slade's bedside. He offered Slade a cigarette and held the light before lighting one for himself. "Your dead body, so to speak," he went on, "still lies there with your red uniform in the upper cot of the police cell, where it is likely to remain until it is discovered this morning. Officially, that is you. You say that you have no friends or relatives here in New York who will miss you?"

"None."

"How about the man who hired you?"

"I saw him only once. After that it was now one and now another of his employees who issued me that red uniform and held my own clothes in hock." š z ghostly one.

"BUT you had a boarding house— a room?"

"Casually, now and then. At my last regular place my trunk was seized a month or more ago. I never went back."

"But you gave your proper name," the doctor suggested, "at the time of your arrest."

Slade shook his head. For a moment he couldn't remember the name he had given. Then he recalled. It was simply "George Jones."

"M'm," the doctor brooded. "And now, when the police find that George Jones is dead in his cell, what will happen?"

"Yes; what will happen?"

"I will tell you. They will send his body to the morgue for an autopsy— what they used to call a post mortem. The examination will not be very thorough. I know. When I was just out of Johns Hopkins, your great medical college in Baltimore, I worked for a time as an assistant to what was then called the coroner. At the most, they will open your stomach. We know what they will find there. They will say, 'Acute alcoholism— another poor bum has died of gin.' "

It sounded like a joke, if a rather But Dr. Li was serious. He seemed to be going over the groundwork of a somewhat complicated problem.

"True," he added, "since George Jones was under arrest on a serious criminal charge, it is possible they will also fingerprint him. They will send his fingerprints to the bureau at Headquarters. That would not help them any, either; would it? They have no identical fingerprints on record there."

"That let's George Jones out," said Slade.

"It lets Slade Wyath out," Dr. Li corrected, with the hint of a smile. "It lets you— your old self— out because Slade Wyath is dead. We could even send somebody around to the morgue— we might even send you yourself around to the morgue— to identify the body as that of Slade Wyath. You might be able to do it better than anyone. Get the point? You know him, know all about him— his family, his friends, what he did last and where he lived. See?"

The suggestion gave Slade the shivers.

"I see," he said. "But I can't say that I exactly get the point."

"Very well," said Dr. Li, with steady concentration. "Suppose, then, you're not dead. Well suppose that you're still alive and that you're Slade Wyath, the man who was arrested last night under the name of George Jones. In that case you're guilty, not only of the original charge of possessing a revolver without a permit; you're guilty of robbery and murder. You— murdered Enoch Creighton."

"Pda thought of that," Slade admitted.

"An airtight case, as they say," the doctor declared,

"Of course," said Slade, "I could prove my innocence."

"Could you? Let's see! In the first place, finding Enoch Creighton dead in a cell is not like finding the body there of a derelict named George Jones. Enoch Creighton— Broadway playboy, only son of the late Commodore Creighton, famous millionaire. That means a hullaballoo in the newspapers and the police on their toes to make a showing. Also, it means a different sort of an autopsy. It is found, for example, that it wasn't alcohol that killed him; it was a fractured skull."

"He had that when they put him in the cell," Slade reminded.

"YOU forget what the policeman said. The victim had been examined by an ambulance surgeon and reported to be simply drunk. Drunk, they put him into a cell. With whom? With the man who shortly afterward stripped him, put on his clothes, claimed his property. The policemen who put Creighton in the cell swear he was all right, apart from some degree of intoxication. When they find him, the next time, he's had his head crushed in; he has been murdered and robbed. By whom? Naturally, by the only one who has been in contact with him in the interval— by the man who has just fled. Not only. that, it will be shown that Benny Bareta was well acquainted with the victim. When Benny was on the point of denouncing you, an effort was made to kill Benny also— or so Benny will testify, if he recovers."

Dr. Li doused his cigarette and lit a fresh one. This he fitted to a long jade tube. He held the tube Chinese fashion, with thumb and forefinger, and the palm of his hand upward, instead of down as a Westerner does. Dr. Li was becoming more and more Oriental as he talked, more and more the Oriental symbol of inscrutable, pitiless Fate.

10: Dead Or Alive

"WHAT'S the answer?" Slade asked, after an interval. So far there was no hole in the Chinaman's logic. It was merely the confirmation, precise and inevitable, of what he had himself glimpsed, however vaguely, back there in the station-house.

Dr. Li didn't answer immediately. He let his cigarette burn unaided for an interval. He breathed deeply. His eyes narrowed slightly,

"The answer rests with yourself," he announced. "It can be one of two things. You are the 'x' of the problem. Which of the two possible answers becomes the final answer is a matter of your own choice."

"What two things?"

"Your death or your life. We can even develop that a little. Let us say: Your death, in the electric chair at Sing Sing; or, your life as the rich young husband of a beautiful and talented woman, free to travel, see the world—"

"Good God, Doctor," Slade broke in; "what are you talking about?"

"Have I failed to make myself clear?"

"Your words are clear enough, but—"

"There is no 'but' about it," the doctor protested evenly, yet with a note of authority. "As I said before, the dead man in the cell back there at the station-house is one of two persons. He is either Slade Wyath, alias George Jones, or— he is Enoch Creighton. The circumstances are such that we can prove him to be either. Or, to put it in another way, the man who left the cell, when the turnkey came for him, was either Enoch Creighton himself or the man who murdered him. Which would you rather be?"

"Even if I wanted to go on pretending to be Enoch Creighton," Slade said, "I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Have you forgotten what I said about Mr. Cole Van Vranken having been there?— that he was talking to the lieutenant? He knew I wasn't the man I was supposed to be. He said so."

"He is but a single witness. He might disappear."

"You mean— that he might be— made to disappear?"

"This is New York. Such things have happened."

"Are you talking of— another murder? A real one this time?"

"A MURDER is real only when it's proven, as the murder of Enoch Creighton can be proven."

"Yes," Slade asserted, with a touch of stampede; "it can be proven that he was murdered by Benny the Twist, as he is called. There was a witness who saw him strike the blow."

"You refer to whom?"

"Mabel! The Widow!"

"Ah, yes! Miss Huang; or, if you prefer, Madame Huang, your hostess. It was to her I referred a while back as the lady you may decide, as the new Mr. Creighton, to marry. Just a moment! Don't excite yourself. Allow me to explain."

"You don't have to explain," said Slade, starting up. "This is preposterous."

Dr. Li was not excited. He appeared scarcely to hear Slade at all. The big Chinaman was engrossed in his own thoughts, it seemed. Through a long and silent minute he let Slade subside.

Slade sat propped up against the pillows. The brown pill the doctor had given him lulled his pain— it permitted him to forget his body entirely— but it had done nothing to dull his brain. On the contrary, it had given his brain a sort of crystal clearness.

He stood at the fork of two paths, all right, and he could see where these paths led. One way led to Sing Sing, to what they called the "death house," to the "little green door." The other way led— to some region still nebulous but bright, a land of those who were alive and free.

Dr. Li began to speak again, "I merely wanted to tell you that you must not get a wrong impression from this American habit of calling people by familiar names. It happened that Madame Huang's late husband had a considerable following in the underworld. He was, as your tabloids like to say, a king. He was, it is true, merely the king of all opium smugglers. When he was shot, last December in Miami, Miss Huang naturally became known by her late husband's followers as 'the Widow.' "

SLADE'S answer to this was a slight shudder. He was about to speak when Dr. Li interrupted him.

"Wait! Even before her husband's death she was considering new connections. Among her many admirers was this young Mr. Enoch Creighton. But she never really loved him."

"She became engaged to him," Slade said, with a note of contempt.

"Enoch Creighton's father, the late Commodore Creighton, left a substantial claim on practically a half million acres of oil lands in Kwangtung, Southern China, in which I myself am interested. We need— a Creighton heir. The Commodore left some good and powerful friends in China— men who are at present in power. They'd give the son of their old friend a great welcome, especially if he came to them with a Chinese bride. There are many Huangs in that part of China. I'm really one of them myself. It would put us all on our feet."

"Why should I be dragged into this?" said Slade. "Why me?"

Dr. Li reflected. "Dragged in— by whom?"

Slade was silent.

"Creighton himself was never very satisfactory," the doctor went on. "He was a man of bad habits— an unhealthy mind in an unhealthy body. He was like so many others— the lawyer who called for you at the prison, those gangster henchmen who accompanied him, Benny Bareta; highborn and lowborn. Let them die! Let them kill each other off! Were leaving them behind! You're a nice, clean boy. You're educated. You come from good stock. I take it, you've never been to China yet."

"No"

"Kwangtung, a natural paradise! Chung Shan, which is the garden of Kwangtung. You'll go out there and live like a mandarin, in a palace and a park, with a hundred servants. Not very far from Macao, China's Monte Carlo, where you can go to diversify your amusements; not very far from Hongkong, where you can mix with the high-toned English. But it's America and China that count. The sister republics. Chung Shan is like California, only better— older, wiser. You say you've studied to be an engineer?"

"Yes."

"You'll have a new empire to play with, to build."

SLADE felt as if he were being hypnotized. He took a fresh grip on himself.

"I tell you," he said, "it's wicked, it's absurd."

"In what way?' Dr. Li asked softly.

Slade couldn't answer. He felt submerged by a wave of his own helplessness. He'd been brought to this house a prisoner. He was doubly a prisoner now. In the back of his thought was that shadowy semblance of an electric chair, then a ghostly semblance— the composite of many young girls— of that little sister, Enoch Creighton's, he'd started out so bravely to save.

"I beg your pardon," Slade said. "It all sounds great enough, but—"

"We can't expect to settle everything in a minute,' said Dr. Li, soothingly. "I've been bearing down on you. It is I who should apologize."

He leaned back in his chair and said something very softly in Chinese. The door leading to the hall slowly opened.

Slade hadn't turned to look immediately. He was expecting one of the Chinese servants. He was distressed.

But it was as if he'd been touched by an invisible hand— as if an unseen hand had touched his cheek and made him turn.

It was his hostess standing there: Mabel, the Widow, Miss Huang, Madame Huang. She was an elusive looking creature; she looked as if even her name might slip away and appear again in some other form. She'd been standing there for a pair of seconds before Slade looked at her, absolutely silent, looking at him with the quiet yet intense absorbtion hed noticed in the hall below.

Dr. Li seemed to sense her presence without turning, which would have been easy enough, either by way of the perfume she brought along or the sudden shift in Slade's expression. Slade still looked.

MISS HUANG was wearing a different robe, of white and geranium red, very soft and becoming and indefinably Oriental like herself. There recurred to Slade the adjectives used by Dr. Li in his refs erence to this woman a while back: "beautiful, talented." This was she whom it was proposed he should marry— marry and be ee to travel— see the world.

When Miss Huang spoke it was with a slight drawl. Her voice was low pitched and soft.

"I sent your boys to bed," she said. She was speaking to Dr. Li, but she continued to keep her eyes on Slade. It was as if, this being her first good chance to have a real look at him, she was making the most of it.

"I thought your patient would be hungry," she went on; "so I brought up something myself. It's at the door. Shall I bring it in?"

"Thank you, Mabel," said Dr. Li. Still he hadn't turned. He seemed to be enjoying the play of expression he saw on Slade's face— studying this, drawing deductions from it, with his habits of a scientist. She was slender, Slade noticed; she was graceful as a willow. What was the strange world, the world of mystery, that lay back of her dark eyes?

She had looked at him as calmly as a young doe might have done, with the same detachment, apparently. Slade brought his startled eyes back to Dr. Li. The doctor met his look with a faint smile.

11: The Dominant Power

"MAY I ask you something, Dr, Li?" Slade asked softly, before the lady's return.

"You may ask me anything you want," the doctor replied.

"Am I free to go?"

The doctor laughed— a bit too readily, a trifle too merrily, it seemed to Slade.

"Why, certainly you are free to go," he replied. "You are free to do anything."

At the same instant Miss Huang was re-entering the room, and the doctor spoke to her.

"Mabel," he said, "your guest intimates that he might wish to leave us."

At this, Miss Huang frowned a little, whether at the doctor's levity or at the news he was, giving her was impossible to say. She herself said nothing immediately. She held a silver platter. On this there was a crystal. pitcher, clinking with ice, filled with a mixture of orange juice and beaten raw eggs.

In spite of his trouble, Slade felt a spasm of physical craving as he looked at the beverage. He was ravenous. He'd been starving. There was a crystal goblet at the side of the pitcher.

Perfectly poised, devoid of nerves, delicately framed but manifestly strong, Miss Huang raised the pitcher where she stood and filled the glass.

"I beg your pardon," said Dr. Li. "You have not been introduced. Mabel, this is— shall I say— the new Mr. Enoch Creighton."

"Don't say it,' Slade put in, with a glow of heat. He looked up at the girl.

"Miss Huang, I am Slade Wyath, late of Kentucky. You have been very good to me. You have saved my life. I want you to know how much I appreciate it. I am grateful."

Mabel Huang paused. There were many responses she might have made. That earlier frown of hers was gone. But she did not smile. She'd given Slade this time a fleeting glance that seemed to have a signal in it.

"Drink this," she said, presenting the glass. "It will do you good."

"He just asked me," said Dr. Li, "if he was free to go, and I told him that certainly he was free to go."

NOW Miss Huang's eyes met Slade's again for a lingering instant. Her back was to the big man. Slade took the glass and drank. As he did so, he sought Miss Huang's dark eyes again. But she avoided his glance casually, so it seemed. She took the emptied goblet and refilled it. She handed it back to him.

"Drink more," she said.

He obeyed. What was it he had seen in her eyes? Was she an enemy? Or was she a friend? In any case, now as before, there was nothing to be gained by concealment. He decided to appeal to her direct.

"Miss Huang," he said, "I was led into this adventure first of all on my own account, Perhaps you are familiar with what I've told the doctor."

She meditated her answer, but not for long.

"I heard most of it," she confessed, in her even way.

"But it wasn't on my own account that I got so deep into it," Slade declared earnestly.

"What was the motive?" she asked in a voice that wasn't much more than a murmur.

"It was what the man called Knight said about a sister of Enoch Creighton's having been kidnapped."

Miss Huang took the glass and put it back on the tray with the pitcher.

Without word or apology of any sort she turned to Dr. Li and spoke to him softly in Chinese. They spoke on and on. They seemed to be having some sort of an argument. But there was no high feeling noticeable on either side.

Slade watched and listened.

At last they were silent.

Miss Huang still stood there with her tray and the weight of crystal on it. She appeared to sway slightly, as one might who is undecided which way to turn. She left the room. But there was an air about her, and also about Dr. Li, to suggest that she was coming back.

SHE returned with another tray, this time a larger one. On it were a couple of covered silver dishes, linen and other silver. The dishes radiated heat and fragrance as she placed the tray on the bed. She deftly uncovered the dishes with slender hands and revealed chops and toast.

"Eat," she commanded.

But as Slade held back and she saw the insistent question in his eyes, she said:

"Dr. Li says that what becomes of her also depends on you."

Slade dropped back against his pillows.

"I cannot eat," he said.

"Eat," Miss Huang coaxed. "I fixed this myself— for you."

Dr. Li spoke up, strongly but quite as if there was nothing unusual in the situation.

"The dickens!" he said. "It must be broad daylight. I'm off. I'll leave you young people alone."

Without another word he was gone.

"Go ahead and eat," said Miss Huang.

Was it an accident that a tip of one of her manicured fingers for a moment had pressed the back of Slade's near hand? The pressure, he decided, couldn't have been an accident.

Another signal? If so, what was the meaning of it? It was a time for caution. Of that he was sure.

The doctor gone, Miss Huang, as if in recollection of what he had said about its being daylight, reached up and snapped off the light at the head of the bed. The room was filled with blue twilight filtering between heavy curtains. She crossed the room and drew the curtains back.

The room was filled with early sunlight. There were two windows in the room. Both of them, Slade noticed, were partly open. Through them he saw scattered trees bright with dew and budding foliage. There were no bars at the windows. If this was a prison in which he found himself, it was different from any prison he had ever imagined. Yet the feeling that he was a prisoner remained.

Free to go? Why, certainly. To Sing Sing! And the electric chair!

Stronger yet was that final chain that had been forged just now to hold him where he was. The words— each word an iron link— clanked in his brain:

"Dr. Li says that what becomes of her also depends on you."

MISS HUANG had lingered at the far window. The strong young daylight was as kind to her as artificial light had been. She was a beautiful figure standing there— beautiful as certain wild animals seem beautiful, a part of fresh wild nature. Her black hair was shining. Her ivory skin caught a geranium reflection from her robe.

While Slade still watched her, lost in thought, admiring her, certainly, but too hard hit by bewilderment for any sense of pleasure, she turned and sauntered toward him.

"You've been kind," he said. "I haven't been unthankful."

He referred to the food. He picked up a chop. After all, she'd prepared this food for him herself. When he had finished chops and toast, Miss Huang, waiting patiently, picked up the tray.

"I'll bring you your coffee," she said.

Slade took his time over his coffee, He smoked a cigarette which Miss Huang presented him from a tortoise-shell case and helped him light.

All this time there had been a constraint upon them. They'd hardly spoken. Dr. Li's shadow was as if on them still— on Slade, at any rate, He felt that every word spoken would be overheard, every gesture noticed.

How, he didn't know; but he had the feeling. There'd been no hint, no other signal, if it was a signal, from the girl since that pressure of her finger on the back of his hand. What he said, when he did speak, he was willing to have Dr. Li, or others, hear.

"Don't blame me if I seem to be slightly crazy," he said. "I've never seen Enoch Creighton's sister:

"Miss Huang broke in, softly. "When you do," she said, "You're going to hate me."

"Hate you!' Slade cried. "Not me. You saved my life. Why should I hate you?"

"She's young; she's a blonde," Miss Huang announced, as if this cinched her preceding statement.

"Where is she?"

Miss Huang appeared to meditate. Slowly, still apparently debating in her mind, she turned and went to the door of the hallway. She opened this and listened, then peered out. All her movements were leisurely. But they were leisurely— the feeling came to Slade— with the leisure of the hunting wild animal.

12: Dr. Li Prepares "A Patient"

"I TOLD you that you'd hate me," Miss Huang whispered.

Slade's mouth was open. But he couldn't speak; he couldn't breathe. Lungs, heart, even brain seemed to have failed him. He could only stare.

In glass slippers and his Chinese dressing gown he'd followed Miss Huang into the hall outside his room, then back along a passage to a stairway leading to an upper floor. They'd come in silence. She'd led the way. She'd cautioned him to an even greater care and silence as they traversed a couple of celllike rooms,

In the second of these rooms there was a window that had once overlooked the flat roof of an extension at the back of the house. But the window had been painted over; the extension had been transformed into what might have been a winter conservatory or a sun-parlor, with glass walls and a glass roof. Whatever its original purpose, there was no doubt as to what sort of service it had been adapted now. His first glance had told Slade that.

From one of the panes of the condemned window a tiny area of paint had been scraped away. Small as the objective was it commanded a view of the improvised room beyond. White paint, shining nickel— he was looking into an operating room. The whole place was flooded with early sunlight. A little to one side of the room there was a wheeled operating table. And during that first glance of Slade's this had been partly concealed by the bulky form of a man swathed in the white of an operating surgeon's uniform.

Even before this man turned, Slade knew that it was Dr. Li. There'd hardly be two surgeons on the premises with such a build as that.. He was right.

LI studied the light. He was like an artist getting ready to paint and adjusting his easel. Like an easel he swung the wheeled operating table to a better angle. And at the same instant Slade saw the patient. Miss Huang must have noticed his tensing fingers.

"It is she," Miss Huang whispered, and she put a hand on Slade's arm.

But Slade wouldn't be moved. He was held by a sort of paralysis. He saw a girl's delicate face. It was faintly flushed, serene yet suffused with a lively expression, like the face of a child asleep.

Only the face was visible, Even the head was bound in white. But at one side a strand of bright yellow hair, light as spider-web, became for an instant a sparkle in the sun. Slade drew back. He was like a diver coming up for air. He hadn't been able to breathe these past seconds. He felt as if now, in turn, he were blind.

He'd been gazing into the sunlight. This room where he stood was comparatively dark. But it was the picture still vibrating in his brain that was the principal cause of his blindness. It was as if he were seeing the girl's face even more plainly now than when he was looking at her— detail after detail; the curve and the coral of her lips— her lips that seemed to smile; the bright long lashes of her closed eyes, how they made a faint shadow on her cheek.

Miss Huang's hand had slipped to his wrist. She was trying to draw him away. Slade stood frozen. It was only, gradually, although swiftly enough, no doubt, that the other image faded and Miss Huang appeared to him.

Even so, Miss Huang was nothing but a pair of shining dark eyes in this shadowy room.

"What happened?" he asked. The words may have been inarticulate— he was still strangled— but the question was plain enough.

"Nothing— yet," the answer came. E was demanding more. Miss Huang approached her face to his own and spoke in the merest breath.

"Dr. Li is expert. There is no greater expert. You have nothing to fear. Neither has she."

"I don't understand."

"Do you find me— so ugly?"

"No!"

"Once— once I was ugly; ugly even for a Chinese woman. Dr, Li — he changed me."

"Changed you!"

In the twilight of the room she put the fingers of her slender hands to her face. Her distorted features became a Chinese mask. Slade recoiled a step. Again she'd caught him by the wrist, brought her face close to his.

They stood there like that for a few panting seconds. Slade's thoughts were like a plunging, unruly team. He was trying to whip them into order.

"But why her?" he managed to ask.

"Evelyn Creighton?"

"She was Dr. Li's main card all along. Benny Bareta knew that. You— I mean Evelyn's brother, Enoch— didn't count except as a lure. He wasn't worth anything. He would have died anyway— even if Benny hadn't— hurried him along."

"As I'll be hurried along."

"You're different." She caught his other wrist. "Don't be a fool. Dr. Li likes you. You'll do. You're safe. In a little while— a year, two years— you'll be free even to take back your own name, if you want to. Well get the properties in Kwangtung straightened out. We'll send back word to America that Enoch Creighton has died out there. That'll leave you free. You can be yourself again. You'll be rich. You'll have great friends. You'll have done no harm."

"But her! Her!" Slade had raised his voice.

"Sh!" she warned.

SLADE jerked his hands free. He did this with such fierce violence that he was for regretting it. Violence to a woman— that wasn't his style. In his world it wasn't done.

But a spasm of anger, swift yet calculated, had once again made a Chinese mask of Mabel Huang's features.

She made a swift gesture toward her bosom. Her hand came back with a gleam of steel.

Slade backed away from her. His eyes were everywhere. Even as Enoch Creighton— his mind was telling him— he didn't matter greatly, his life was of no account. Hed had small experience with women, but instinct was enough to tell him that certain women— this one before him now— could turn from tenderness to murder far more quickly than any man.

He saw a wooden chair. He laid hold of this with both hands. swung it up.

For a second or so they were confronting each other, motionless. Then something like outright madness seized Slade. It was a sort of blindness, a cloud that blotted out Miss Huang entirely. It was what he'd seen in the other room that was back before his eyes again. And he swung the chair with all his might and struck. He struck and struck again— to a sound of shattering glass and wood.

For, even in his fury, it was at the painted window that he'd struck. He sheared that flimsy barrier away as if with hatchet and saw.

Dragging the chair with him— or what was left of it— as a club, he was through the window frame and standing there in the improvised operating room. The bright daylight there made him blink a little.

Then he saw Dr. Li clearly enough— Dr. Li standing over his unconscious patient. And on Dr. Li's face was a look of black rage— a black and scowling moon of a face. While in Dr. Li's right hand was a glittering scalpel— a regular javelin of a knife—heavy, long and slender.

Without a word, without taking his eyes from Slade, Dr. Li pointed this weapon downward at the figure on the table— pointed it at Evelyn Creighton's throat. Slade looked. She still lay there, placid, smiling slightly— and death but an inch, or a second, removed.

13: "Blind Canaries Sing"

THEY stood there confronting each other— Slade with his club of a chair-leg in his hand, Dr. Li with that deadly scalpel poised over the silent figure of Evelyn Creighton.

Slade felt his strength and courage draining away. The big Chinaman had him at his mercy. By a simple movement of his arm he could have severed the life of Evelyn Creighton as he might have severed a silken thread.

Dr. Li's face still kept something of its dark wrath, but he managed a smile.

"You are reckless," he said.

"What is this crime you are planning?" Slade asked.

"I think Miss Huang may have told you— that it depends upon yourself,"

"Would you hurt an innocent young girl?"

Dr. Li merely smiled a little more broadly. He was getting over his burst of rage. But this robbed him of none of his menace. He still kept this heavy steel point close to Evelyn Creighton's unprotected throat.

"I admire your gallantry," said Dr. Li. "I was counting on that. There are a number of operations that I may be called upon to perform on this charming young patient. I perceive that you will wish me to perform the least of them, which likewise will be the least painful."

"What do you prefer to?"

"A slight operation on the eyes."

"I don't understand."

"There is much that you don't understand. Remember, first of all, that this girl, who is to become your sister, is the daughter of Commodore Creighton, whose dead hand still holds the rule over a section of China as large as one of your American States. I have been commissioned by my Tong to bring this legacy back into Chinese hands."

"And you'd do this by torturing a girl?"

"A SAFE operation— or an easy death— since when have these been looked on as torture?"

"What do you want me to do to save her?"

"I've already told you. Are you ready to marry Miss Huang?"

"Why should 1?"

"Because—if you live— it will be only as Enoch Creighton. Miss Huang must go back to China as Mrs. Enoch Creighton. Like this she will have a legal status necessary to our Tong."

"If I do this will you release this girl— send her back in safety to her people?"

"Your little sister?"

"Call her that!"

"No!"

"What then?"

"She'll be going with us to China." Slade's muscles tightened in spite of himself. He could have flung himself at the big Chinaman despite the risk both to Evelyn Creighton and himself, but a swift movement table. back of him— a change in the expression of Dr. Li's face— made him swing round.

For the moment he'd forgotten Mabel Huang. He was ready for treachery on her account. But he was not ready for the surprise that was waiting for him there.

It was Sylvester Knight— the man called Shanghai— he saw standing there, still dressed in black but minus his dark glasses, his livid face now showing a sort of blackness in the sun.

Knight, or Shanghai, had a gun in his hand. He was no longer the cripple as he straddled through the crashed window. He had his small eyes everywhere. He was as agile and evilly alert as a spider.

"All of you hold it," he said softly.

"Just so!' Dr. Li spoke up. "What do you want?"

Shanghai Knight's voice came in a whine.

"JUST two things," he declared.

"Just two things, because I'm getting ready to lam. I've got a tip that I'd better. A fly spotted me just before I dumped Benny."

"What two things?"

"First, ten grand, I've got that coming to me for bringing Snowy here—"

"I'm not Snowy," Slade put in.

"You keep out of this," Knight snarled, as he twitched his gun at Slade. "Do you want me to drop you?"

"And next?" asked Dr. Li.

"Her!" said Shanghai Knight, indicating the girl on the operating table.

"I'll need her— to stall off the law— until I'm safe."

A glance had passed between Dr. Li and Slade. It was a look hard to explain. A moment before Slade and the Chinese doctor had been deadly enemies. They each must have recognized that here and now they would have to declare a truce in the presence of one with whom there could be no truce. Or was it some glance from Mabel Huang who'd given Slade a signal.

Suddenly, before Slade himself was certain of his movements, Slade had swung the club of a chair-leg he held in his hand. He brought a glancing blow along the arm and side of Shanghai Knight just as that killer tried to bring his gun into action.

For a second after that the fight might have gone either way. Knight's gun-arm had been numbed for an instant— but it would have been for an instant only. There'd been no time for Slade to strike again. Instead he'd lunged and thrown his arms about Knight.

In that same instant, it seemed, Dr. Li had stabbed. Shanghai Knight through the heart with that ready scalpel of his.

"Examine him," Slade panted. "He may not be dead."

"He's dead," the doctor announced, without another glance. "A clean thrust. Would you like me to teach it to you? No blood. A wound all but invisible."

Slade answered, "No."

"You're squeamish," said the doctor. "You'll get over it if you stay with your present company."

"I don't want to stay with my present company."

"Do you remember," the doctor asked, "what we were saying before this interruption occurred?"

SLADE tried; but his thought was still on Knight— still on the way that Knight had passed just now.

"When I told you that both you and Miss Creighton here were going to China, you misunderstood me. You asked me to let her go. You can go. Presently you may— as Slade Wyath. But you'll find a policeman waiting for you at a certain place. You'll not escape."

Slade took three or four breaths— floundering like a spent swimmer until he found a rock that he could stand on.

"I'm not thinking of myself." he declared.

Dr. Li studied him. "I know you're not," he agreed. "That's why I'd hate to see you wasted. I will tell you something more. There is that great confraternity of mine in China— I suppose you would call it a Brotherhood— which is called the Ko Lao Hui, or, let us say, the Society of Elder Brothers. There are a few white men in it. They find it extremely useful. The late Commodore Creighton was a member. Hence his wealth. But he betrayed us. Hence," and he completed this part of his saying by a toss of his head toward the operating table.

"But you are not the sort who betray. I see that. Do what I tell you and you may become a member of the Ko Lao Hui."

"And I repeat: if I do what you tell me— does she go back to her family?"

"She goes with us to China."

"Against her will?"

"Of her own will, gladly."

He used a peculiar figure of speech. He smiled a little. "Even blind canaries sing," he said. "She'll go gladly because you'll be going with her. She'll be proud of the way you've changed. She'll think no girl ever had such a wonderful brother. She stuck to the original Enoch, bad as he was. Now, you'll justify her faith. You'll be a good Enoch."

"But the minute she sees me—"

"She'll not see you." "I'll be masked?"

Dr. Li shook his head, slowly. He spoke with slow precision. "All that They find is required is a minor operation and— she'll not see you— or anything."

"Good God! You'd put out her eyes? You'd dare?"

"Would you prefer,' the doctor asked softly, indicating the dead man, "what lies at your feet?"

14: Death Talks

SLADE dominated his feeling of horror. This was no time for idle emotion. Dr. Li's own absence of feeling, or any visible sign of feeling, aided him in this.

This wasn't a man that Slade saw in front of him. It was a creature new to his experience—a rhinoceros with a thinking brain, something in human shape that a Frankenstein might have made.

"Surely," said Slade, "What you propose is not necessary."

"Isn't it?" Dr. Li withdrew a step or two— away from Slade, nearer to the form on the operating table. It was as if he'd read Slade's secret thought— his secret impulse to attack, however harmless and futile such an attack would be. Slade was unarmed; the doctor still held his needle-pointed knife, the point of which was stained red.

"Is it unnecessary?" Dr. Li was using his brain. Slade was using most of his own strength to master himself. But he also was trying to think. An attack, just now, was out of the question. At his first rush, the big Chinaman could again have that scalpel poised. It was for the girl Slade feared. Dr. Li was aware of this.

"If you'd let me talk to her," Slade proposed.

"We have no time to waste," said Dr. Li. "The way she was seized last night was stupid. Unless Bareta dies the police may make him talk. In New York there are twenty thousand police. The stakes are too important to trust them to the whim of a girl."

"If you'll spare her, save her, I'll do anything you say."

"Until the next thing moved you to revolt."

"I'll help you. She'll help you, if you give me the chance to explain to her. Suppose you slip. You'll need a hostage."

HE was on the point of beginning to plead— of making an appeal to mercy, honor, justice. That would do no good. He'd have to stick to straight argument. He constrained himself. He threw all his effort into his effort to think.

"She'll be such a hostage," he said, "if— and only if— you keep her safe."

He heard a sigh, a faint murmur of speech. On the instant he thought that this came from Miss Huang. He hadn't forgotten her. He'd been conscious of her presence in the background ever since that episode with Knight.

Now he saw Miss Huang, a mere slanting glance. It was to her Dr. Li, standing solidly, feet apart, scalpel ready, spoke rapidly in Chinese.

Miss Huang had approached and was standing at Miss Creighton's side. Even while she did this Slade was hearing again that murmur he had heard. Realization dawned on him— it thrilled him with a fine tremor— even before Miss Huang spoke up in English.

"She's coming out."

Dr. Li ventured no glance at his patient. Again he spoke in Chinese. But he kept his lively black eyes on Slade. He and Slade were like fencers.

Rather, it was another figure that came to Slade. There was a hypnotic quality in the big man's eyes. Dr. Li was like a mammoth cobra. Would the snake end by charming the bird?

Slade wrested his eyes away and looked at the figure on the operating table. Evelyn Creighton had turned her face in his direction, had opened her eyes. Her eyes, he noticed, were deep blue. In them he saw an expression of some fading dream. This expression passed. It was replaced by a look of vague wonder.

Dr. Li spoke softly to Slade: "Stand back!"

He didn't want Slade to be seen. Slade stepped back. As he did so, his foot— bare at the heel in its grass slipper— touched something that plucked his taut nerves with a macabre note. It was Shanghai Knight's dead hand that had come in contact with his heel.

IT was as if Knight had touched him of his own volition— as if Knight mutely were trying to remind him of something. The thought occurred to Slade that dead men were sometimes cunning, in their silent way, especially in the matter of those who had robbed them of their power of speech. What was it that the late Sylvester Knight— Shanghai, as the boys had called him— was trying to convey ?

All this as Slade watched what was going on there in front of him.

Evelyn Creighton was now looking at Dr. Li. Sight of him seemed to. quicken her waking consciousness. It came as an added shock to Slade that she not only knew this man but apparently regarded him as a friend.

"Dr. Li!" she said, with a note of mild surprise. "Where did you come from? What has happened?"

Her voice was still soft and charged with sleep, but it was vibrant.

Dr. Li smiled slightly.

"How much do you remember?" he asked, as any physician might speak to a patient.

Miss Creighton appeared to meditate.

"The opera," she recited, trying to recall.

Suddenly she was aware that she was swathed in a sheet, that her head was bound. She struggled slightly. Miss Huang, standing at her side but as yet unseen, would have put a hand on her to restrain her. Dr. Li spoke a sharp command in Chinese and Miss Huang drew back.

Miss Creighton had freed a slender arm— it was fluent ivory— and was feeling of her face and head.

"Don't be alarmed," said Dr. Li, softly, "and just lie quietly for a while. But you may talk. What else do you remember?"

"There was an accident."

"Yes. There was an accident."

"To Enoch! Where is he?"

"He is all right. And you remember that they called for you?"

"I remember. I was seized— l struggled—"

DR LI broke in with professional authority.

"You were going down the steps—listen, now, my dear Miss Creighton— and you stumbled and fell. Just an accident?! Fortunately, I happened to be calling on your uncle—"

"I remember that," Miss Creighton interrupted, troubled but somewhat pacified. "We wanted him to go to the opera with us. He told us that he couldn't because he had an engagement with you."

She went on speaking for a while after this, slightly incoherent, like the memories she was trying to put in order.

While she still spoke, Slade heard Dr. Li speak to Miss Huang, again in Chinese. Slade saw Miss Huang reach into the breast of her loose gown and produce what looked like a small bottle carved from jade.

Miss Huang seemed to protest, Dr. Li to insist. Their interchange whatever its import, was swift and intense.

Slade had stepped back still further, careful of his step— nerves tingling but master of himself, For this brief moment he seemed to be forgotten. Business of some pressing nature was developing over there by the operating table; that was clear.

"But where am I?" Miss Creighton demanded. "Is this a hospital?"

"Yes," Dr. Li replied. "This is a hospital. And, now, I think you'd better go to sleep again."

He'd taken the jade bottle. He'd laid aside the scalpel. His hand was on the stopper. Slade had thrown himself to hands and knees faster than a man falls. All in a flash it had come to him what it was the dead man on the floor had been hinting to him. It concerned that unused revolver that Slade himself had pesa: Knight from using.

"Useless to me now," Knight had seemed to say. "Use it yourself!"

And Slade had located the weapon with his foot, had timed and spaced every fraction of this present plunge of his. He came up with the weapon in his hand—so tense, so set for instant action, that Dr. Li himself let out a little cry for time and caution as he started to back away.

15: Hostages All

THE jolt, there for a second or two, had been too much even for Dr. Li's superb nerve. It was as if a fissure had been opened in that glacial surface of his, letting out a lash of flame and smoke.

Miss Huang stood motionless.

Slade himself was like so much T. N. T— he was hanging fire, but at the slightest further jar .there'd be an explosion. Dr. Li must have known. this.

Neither did he move; but there was a sense of movement about him as he pulled his scattered nerves together. The air was electric.

It seemed to be this that galvanized Evelyn Creighton into action. With a sudden movement she was sitting up. She turned. Supported by that ivory arm of hers she sat there looking at Slade.

Slade could feel the question in her startled eyes. But not for an instant—not for the barest fraction of a second— would he shift his own attention from Dr. Li.

"Sit still, Miss Creighton," Slade said. "You're all right. I'll explain. But not just now. Dr. Li," he continued, with hardly a change of tone or emphasis, "turn round."

The doctor was laggard. "Turn!"

The doctor turned, still slowly.

"Walk away," said Slade; "and keep your back turned."

The doctor took one step, then another.

"Miss Huang," Slade said, "you join him, if you want to save this man's life." He'd kept his eyes on Dr. Li, and the drill of his gun, as well. At mention of Miss Huang's name, Evelyn Creighton had swung round. At sight of the other woman she had a faint but sharp movement of recoil.

"You!'' she exclaimed. "You— are Enoch's friend!"

Miss Huang was hesitant.

"I'll give you until I count three," said Slade. He knew that Miss Huang would understand. He began to count: "One— two—"

Dr. Li, still with his back turned, half a dozen steps on his way toward the other side of the room, slithered out some sort of a cry in Chinese— more of a command that a plea.

Even so, Mabel Huang hung back a fateful second.

Was she willing to let Slade make good his threat? There was no doubt that Slade would fire. Was she counting on Evelyn Creighton for an intercession? In any case, she moved.

It was almost with a feeling of liberty— a liberty long forgotten— that Slade found himself in this relative privacy with Evelyn Creighton.

Here, at last, was that "little sister" for whose brother he had become the fated— the ill-fated— substitute. He couldn't forget that this brother was dead, and in what circumstances!

SLADE was remembering also that distinguished, that troubled guardian of this girl, Cole Van Vranken. There at the desk in the police station he'd made ar unworded appeal to that man, and Cole Van Vranken— at what cost!— what effort!— had allowed him to go.

He spoke softly. "Miss Creighton, I am here to help you. Your guardian trusted me. So must you."

"Uncle Cole?"

"Mr. Van Vranken."

"Where's Enoch?" Slade held his answer. But his decision was swift enough.

"Safe!"

"Why don't you call him?— call my uncle?"

"There's too much to explain. For their sake, trust me and— be brave."

Slade felt himself being scrutinized. He risked a glance away from those he was watching. The wide blue eyes of Evelyn Creighton met his look. The look was brief enough, but it had a reverberation like the stroke of a bell.

"I'll trust you," she whispered.

"You were brought to this place a prisoner," he told her. "So was I. We're both in danger. Can you stand? There! Lean on me."

He kept his eyes on Dr. Li and Mabel Huang.

They were standing close to each other a dozen paces away with their backs turned. Between them also there was some sort of an interchange. Slade was sure of that. But for the moment all his senses— his higher senses, while his primitive watchfulness stood on guard— were bringing him messages of the girl at his side.

THJRE was a soft, firm hand on his shoulder. It was almost like an embrace as Evelyn Creighton slipped to the floor. She was clutching her sheet about her. He felt her sway.

"I'm dizzy," she announced. "Take your time," he reassured her. He himself was suffused by a feeling of new strength.

He spoke aloud to those others. "Stand apart," he said. "Dr. Li, don't forget that you've taught me how to kill."

Dr. Li spoke gently. "Wyath—"

"What?" "I speak on behalf of Miss Huang, since she won't do it herself. She saved your life."

"I have no quarrel with her," said Slade. "Miss Creighton is uninjured," the doctor went on.

The point was well taken. That, Slade couldn't deny. But there was an ugly backwash to the admission.

"Yes," Slade said; "she has even kept the use of her eyes."

"What do you suppose?"

"To get Miss Creighton away from here."

Dr. Li turned. He raised his hands slightly at Slade's responsive start. Mabel Huang also turned. There was a static moment.

Slade put out his left arm and brought it about Evelyn Creighton's shoulders. He was conscious that she welcomed the gesture. She was shaken, groping. Her mental confusion had a reflex in a physical uncertainty. Here was reassurance.

"You'll need my help," said Dr. Li.

"I haven't forgotten your gangster allies," Slade came back.

It wasn't of the gangsters he'd been thinking only but of the servants in the house. These latters, he surmised, were potential killers also. In any case, this was no place to linger. It was too remote from the rest of the house, too remote from any possible avenue of escape.

With a warning to Dr. Li and Mabel Huang against false moves, Slade shepherded them out of the room and down the stairs to the room he had come to consider as his own.

There, holding Dr. Li as hostage, he sent Mabel Huang to get clothing both for himself and Evelyn Creighton.

ALL this time not for a second, nor a fraction of a second, would he let his attention be diverted from the big Chinese doctor. Yet, still, he could be vividly aware of that gentle presence at his side.

Evelyn Creighton had promised to trust him, promised to be brave. She was keeping that promise, he could imagine at what effort. Upstairs she had seen the dead man on the floor. What her own risk had been— what it still was— she must have begun to realize in all its stark brutality. Yet she had remained quiet, firm, asking nothing, lending strength rather than demanding it.

"There's a mirror in the bathroom," he told her, as soon as Mabel Huang was gone.

"Please leave me alone for a little while with Dr. Li."

When Dr. Li and he were alone together, Slade searched the big Chinaman.

"I didn't want to do this in the presence of others," Slade explained. "I do not like to do it now. You're a bad man, doctor, but I respect your dignity."

THE doctor was dignified, all right. "I've done nothing, contemplated nothing," he declared earnestly, "not in keeping with my sworn duty."

"To the— Elder Brothers?"

"Yes. I am the agent of the Ko Lao Hui. That society has also been called 'bad.' It has murdered, blackmailed, maimed. But the purpose was always high."

"Like yours— when you would have blinded Miss Creighton?"

"Yes. And as when I killed the crooked lawyer, Knight. You referred to them as my allies, those gangsters. They have been my enemies. They are now, as much as they are your enemies— thinking only of what they call the 'cut' the 'pay-off.' You heard Knight: 'Ten grand!' Ten thousand dollars! The money wasn't mine. I have none, want none. It all belongs to the Ko Lao Hui."

The big man was so earnest, so manifestly sincere, that Slade found his respect for the man coming back, Whatever his moral perversion he was honest—honest as a cobra or a tiger is honest, fit to be loathed and feared, no doubt, yet still worthy of respect.

"You may also discover," Dr. Li went on, "that I'm not incapable of honor. If—"

He was interrupted by a shrill cry, a banging succession of shots. The sounds had come from the lower hall.

"Miss Huang!" the doctor exclaimed. "She's in danger— wounded, perhaps. For her sake, let me go!"

With only a pause— it was a pause that gave assent— Dr. Li was gone.

16: Strained Relations

AS SLADE turned from the door through which Dr. Li had just disappeared it was another sort of vision that met his eyes, one so at variance with the brutality and panic of these past hours— and of this immediate present, as well, that he felt a little cry in his throat, audible or not he didn't know.

Evelyn Creighton also had heard those sounds of fresh assault. She stood there startled— eyes wide, lips parted. Slade looked at her as if hed never seen her before. So far, at any rate, he'd been permitted but a glance of her. This was confirmation of all that he might have hoped for or imagined. She was no longer swathed like a mummy. Her fair hair shone. She'd draped her sheet about her into some semblance of a costume.

"Thank God!" said Slade.

"What has happened?"

"I don't know, except that you are here— and safe!"

He would have added that he was grateful that she had her eyes, her youth, her beauty, that she was just herself and that he was here to protect her. It was a confusing explosion of thought in his head— a gusher of thought to be capped, extinguished.

He turned to the door of the hall with his revolver ready. He opened the door an inch and listened. He heard a tumble of notes from a string of gongs, a babble of confused speech in the distance— Chinese or English, it was hard to tell. There was no more shooting, no sounds of fight. He closed the door and put his back to it.

AGAIN he was. facing Evelyn Creighton. No, his straining imagination had not exaggerated. Here, he thought, was the quintessence of girlhood, of everything that women have ever meant to men. Eve! Helen of Troy! The belles and brides of Ol' Kentucky!

"I know that I'm awake," she told him, "even if I am a wreck. But what has happened? Where are we? And why? What is it? Have I died, or something?"

She was brave. But toward the end her soft voice had gone a little tremulous.

He explained as much as he could. She'd been kidnapped, probably on account of her money, most probably on account of certain interests she'd inherited from her father in China; and that was where Dr. Li came in.

"But you?" she persisted.

"I heard about it by accident," he told her.

"Then you knew these people?"

He shook his head.

"I see," she said. "You were a friend of Enoch's."

"That's right," he said. "Or maybe I'd better say, Enoch was a friend to me."

"You'd known each other long?"

Slade shook his head again. He found her steady eyes disconcerting. "I haven't been in New York very long," he told her. "My home's in Kentucky."

"You're concealing something," she informed him, without anger. "Is Enoch involved in this? Is that what you are trying to conceal?"

"No, ma'am," Slade answered. He felt the color mounting to his face.

"You know my name," she said; "but I don't know yours."

"Slade Wyath."

"Slade Wyath," she repeated. "No, I don't believe that you and Enoch were ever really friends. At least— well, I never met before any friend of Enoch's that I could possibly like."

"Oh, Miss Evelyn," Slade exclaimed, slightly suffocated; "could you possibly like me?"

He was aware that he was pinking up again. Evelyn Creighton treated him to a short, sad laugh.

"Yes, Mr. Slade!"

"My grandmother would sure love you," Slade declared softly as he resumed his listening post at the door.

He hadnt been standing there very long before he was aware again that Evelyn Creighton was standing near to him— so near to him that he eaught something of the vibration and warmth of her presence. also was straining to listen, to see. Slade heard her whisper.

"There must be a telephone in the house," she said. "We could tele- phone."

"I don't dare leave you alone," he said.

"I'll go with you."

"Come on!"

THERE may have been no necessity for it, but he took her hand. She seemed to find the gesture natural, just as when, upstairs, he'd placed his arm about her shoulders.

Together they stepped out into the hall. They'd thought this upper hall deserted. For minutes there'd been no sound to indicate that anyone was near.

They were barely out of the door before a couple of shots crashed the silence, half-smothered by a riot of shouting.

In that brief explosion of tumult Slade had heard a nearer, smaller sound. It was a brief cry from Evelyn. Slade himself had turned. He saw a shadowy form dodging for a doorway and gave it a shot. A moment later he'd caught Evelyn in his arms. They were back again in their deserted room.

"You were struck," he cried.

"I'm sure it's nothing," she said. "Only—"

Her eyes filled. Her voice refused to obey her will. She was like a hurt child. She bared an alabaster shoulder. There was a red streak across the curve of it. The skin hadn't even been broken.

"A spent bullet," said Slade. "But a hot one. And what a narrow escape!"

There was no time to be lost. There was more shouting in the hall.

"They may try to break in here," Slade warned.

THERE was no key to the door. They listened. All they could hear was a blurred confusion of voices in the hall. With a common accord they pulled the bed around end-on against the door. It didn't cover the width of the room. The three chairs with which the room was supplied eked out the gap. But, at best, it was a flimsy barrier.

They'd hardly completed their defense, such as it was, before there came a tap at the door.

"What do you want?" Slade asked. He was hoping that it might be Mabel Huang or. Dr. Li come back, but the hope, faint enough anyway disappeared.

"Hey, Snowy!"

"What?"

"You and your sister are safe."

He was standing against the wall at the hinged side of the door. That was the safest side, in case of a raid. Evelyn was standing with her shoulder against his arm. He glanced at her. She didn't have to speak. He read her thought.

Yes, the speaker, whoever he was, thought they were brother and sister. This was but a minor mystery among greater mysteries.

Outside the door a gruffer voice spoke up. Slade recognized it. This was Gus, who'd acted as chauffeur for Sylvester Knight.

"Quit your stallin'," Gus advised. "Hey, Miss Creighton!"

She didn't answer. She merely pressed closer to Slade.

"I'm tellin' you," came the voice of Gus, "and get this straight. We know that ain't your brother with you. Your brother was croaked. Understand? He was murdered— bumped off last night in a police cell while he was soused— then robbed and stripped. Got that? And the guy who done it is this bird who's with you now."

Slade faced the girl at his side. There was anguish in her face.

"It isn't so," he said. Her eyes searched his.

"Oh, it isn't so!" came a mocking voice. 'Well, watch this!" There was a glass transom at the top of the door, as in so many old-fashioned houses. Something was tossed at the transom. It missed and fell outside.

There was another try. There was a crash of glass and something fell on the bed. Slade and Evelyn Creighton stood looking at it. Slade recognized that cigarette case, finely striped, of platinum and gold. So had Evelyn Creighton recognized it.

"His!" she whispered. "Enoch's! I gave it to him last Christmas!"

"Just to let you know," come the mocking voice. "In case—"

THE sentence was left unfinished. Out in the hall someone had profanely interrupted with the news that Dr. Li had disappeared. The announcement was followed by a muffled explosion that shook the house. Immediately there was a blast of scorching ae a drift of oud smoke,

17: Sealed in Flame

SLADE had seen it happen before. When one of these old country houses— built of wood and saturated with a century of paint— did catch fire it was likely to go up like a keg of powder. Instinctively he knew that that was what would happen now.

"Evelyn," he cried, and sought to take her hand.

She drew back from him.

"Did you— did you kill Enoch?" she demanded. He could read the hon and desperation in her eyes.

"Can you ask me?"

"If I thought so—" The thought came complete without the words. Her meaning was clear— she'd die rather than accept his help.

"There's no time to lose," Slade urged. She looked at him with tense and suspended judgment. Both of them turned as a roaring reached them from the windows of the room. For a moment it was as if a huge red flag out there had been dropped. over the windows— it was as if that red flag were now being shaken and waved by a swift hurricane.

"It's the fire!" gasped Evelyn.

"You'll have to trust me now," said Slade, and he caught her arm. "Our one way out is by the door." He held his revolver in readiness. He still kept his hold on the girl as he kicked the bed aside preparatory to opening the door.

Evelyn snatched herself free. He turned on her with a movement of furious impatience. This was no time to be gentle and polite. But he saw that he had misread her gesture. She was helping him.

The door swung open. As it did so there was a fresh burst of smoke and fire from the hall. They were almost strangled where they stood. Then Slade had swung the door shut again.

"Trapped!" Evelyn. But there was a new trust in her face now as she looked up at Slade.

"Trapped only if we stay here," said Slade. He was on the point of asking her if she would trust him now— if she was ready to obey his instructions. But he saw that no such question was necessary. In an instant all misunderstanding was gone. It was gone even to the point that they were aware that they stood here together in the presence of death.

Evelyn Creighton put up her hands. Suddenly, Slade had slipped his arm about her.

"Well risk it together," he said.

"We'll risk it together," her voice came like an echo. It was as if they were repeating some formula of a strange marriage-vow— of a vow sealed by fire and perhaps destruction. Together they pushed out into the stifling hall.

"WHAT'S THAT?" Cole Van Vranken, on the bridge of a small swift- cruising yacht, jerked up his glasses and brought them to bear on a gray streak that flashed through the mist of the sound.

"Speedboat, sir!" said the skipper of the yacht who: was standing at his side. The skipper was also using his glasses. "Man and a woman. Shall we chase them?"

Cole Van Vranken didn't answer immediately. It would have been a hopeless chase anyway, the skipper knew. The haze was thickening off shore. The speedboat was already streaking out of sight with not much more than its fin and its driving gear under water.

Cole Van Vranken let out an exclamation that was half anger and half exultation.

"Li!" He shifted his focus slightly. "And Mabel Huang!" He'd made out the small crew of that meteor of a speedboat. He turned to the skipper with a blaze of excitement.

"No, Captain Bart! Trace back on their wake— get the bearings of the port they've just left."

SIMLEY, that vagabound reporter whom Cole Van Vranken this night had turned into a detective, now came up from a lower deck. "There's a fire over there back of that wooded point," he said. 'One of the hands just pointed it out to me."

"And that's where that Chinese couple just came from," the skipper put in.

From the power room of the yacht there came back a ripple of bells and the yacht fairly leaped into speed like a hound that slips its leash. The yacht had been running slow through the silvery fog. It was going to be full speed now.

Long ago, it seemed, the speedboat with Dr. Li and Mabel Huang had melted away into the midst. Somewhere, no doubt, here on the broad expanse of Long Island Sound, there would be a larger boat that awaited them.

They could wait, so Cole Van Vranken decided. It was only Evelyn Creighton who mattered.

Was she still safe? Was she still alive? What was the mystery from which Dr. Li and the Chinese girl were fieeing now? What would be the meaning of that burning house?

They were questions that Cole Van Vranken forbade his mind even to ask, let alone answer. So far, at any rate, his reasoning— and Simley's clever assistance— had led him on the straight trail. Of that he was sure.

First, it was the identity of the so-called Sylvester Knight— "Shanghai" Knight; and that pointed the direction not only to Mabel Huang but to the formidable Dr. Li, representative of the Ko Lao Hui, the band of Chinese assassins with whom, Cole Van Vranken had reason to believe, Commodore Creighton himself had been associated. In the late Commodore Creighton's papers had been found the clue to the murder tong's American headquarters on the shore of Long Island Sound— an old house, it seemed, in the midst of its own private park, with a beach of its own.

THAT column of smoke that went up in the misty morning air had also been noticed by a number of State troopers scattered over this section. Long ago they'd been warned to be on the outlook for a murder car. All roads were being watched.

Tonight Benny the Twist had received mortal wounds in the glare of those green lights that were the very symbol of potice protection. Then Benny, true to his kind, had died without comment. But Simley, impromptu detective, had been able to slip his friends, the police, a valuable lead or two.

Even while Cole Van Vranken's cruiser slipped through the waters of the Sound toward that private landing-stage from which Dr. Li and Mabel Huang had fled, a police car with half a dozen detectives in it was speeding north and east from New York. The detectives in the speeding car also picked up that column of smoke in time.

The smoke was like a beacon. Was it possible that Dr. Li, after all; had touched off that beacon on purpose? It might have been. Here and there both State Troopers and city police were picking up gangsters, white and yellow, who, later on, would undergo a lot of questioning.

28: Dawn and Dusk

"WAS this death?"

It was a question that was in the mind of each of them— of Slade Wyath and Evelyn Creighton— as they fought their way through the stifling dank of smoke and blinding heat. The way seemed endless— forward, back, a groping into closed rooms that seemed to be traps set to catch them and kill them by suffocation. Gradually, Evelyn had felt her strength fail her.

"Go— alone!"

That was what she tried to say, but her dry throat was choked. Still she knew that he had tried to cheer her up. She had tried to remember 'when it was that he'd put his arm about her. Later she was to try to remember when it was that he'd started to carry her.

The thought came to her— this was the man that she had doubted— the boy she hadn't meant to trust. She was trusting him now. She would trust him always. But the "always" might be measured in minutes now— measured in minutes that would be long with agony.

Then he was climbing. He had found a stairway at last that brought them into an attic. Half of the attic already seemed to be a roaring furnace. He kicked his way through a dormer window. They were in the open air.

"Wake up!" he told her roughly. "Arms around my neck— and cling for life!"

They swung out over empty space on wires that she couldn't see— a brace of wires that may have served radio or telephone in the doomed house but which were now ending their career in heroic style.

They were on a driveway under the only portion of the house not yet demolished. Together they ran across the driveway and into the shelter of trees and shrubs. They went on and on, like fugitives from a burning city; and when at last they turned to look back it seemed as if they couldn't possibly have escaped from that place alive.

They looked at each other and read each other's thought. They had been through death together, all right. Shouldn't they, therefore, decide to keep on and go through life together as well? Evelyn Creighton raised her face to Slade Wyath's. They were in the woods between the house and the beach a little later when Cole Van Vranken found them.

COLE Van Vranken, although a bachelor, lived in grand style. His duplex apartment overlooking Park Avenue was famous. He was a man of wide connections and he liked to have his friends come and stay with him as often and as long as they pleased— ambassadors, miners, soldiers of fortune. They found this modern New York home like a section of medieval castle suspended in midair over the center of New York.

Simley, the former reporter out of a job, had been ushered into this magnificence, where he'd come to tell Cole Van Vranken goodby. Simley had got a correspondent's job that would take him to Paris.

"I'm keeping you here to dinner, Simley,"' Mr. Van Vranken announced. "Slade Wyath's coming— and Evelyn."

"Has it come to that?" Simley asked.

"It looks that way. Wyath's going out to China to look after our Kwangtung interests— and Evelyn's going with him."

"How about Dr. Li and Mabel Huang?" Simley asked.

SLADE WYATH himself answered, as he came into the great drawing room looking fit.

"They're all right," said Slade. "They've written to Evelyn asking her blessing and— ah, there's Evelyn now."

As a member of the family she didn't have to be announced.

The Van Vranken apartment had a terrace that had been transformed into a garden. It was a real garden, with winding paths through beds of flowers and massed shrubbery. A fountain made soft music near a parapet overlooking miles of land and ocean. Up here the sun still shone. Far, far below in the city streets it was getting dark. A shimmering tide of lights was rising with the night. For the time being, waiting for the summons to dinner, Slade and Evelyn were alone.

THERE didn't seem to be very much to say. But presently Evelyn spoke.

"What are you thinking about, Slade."

"That I love you," he said.

"What else?" she asked.

"I'm thinking," he said, "how it's dusk for the rest of New York, down there, but it's the dawn for me."

"Quick," she whispered. They're coming to call us."

Only the satyr in the fountain saw them as they stood for a lingering moment close-locked in each other's arms.

_____________

7: The Ring

J. M. Fry

Weird Tales, January 1932

Nothing is known about J. M. Fry other than that he had two stories published, both in Weird Tales, in the early 1930s.

I LOOKED up. The man who had interrupted my gastronomic enjoyment was a tall individual, a little stooped, with a face as long as the prohibitionists' in the cartoons. He had dark hollow places under his eyes. He might have been a Canova statue for all his expression, but his features displayed deep lines as if life had given him more to worry about than most.

"You are—?" he said, and mentioned my name. I told him I was. I arose and accepted his card.

Arvid Hedon.

It stirred a faint recollection.

"Have a chair?"

"Thank you," he murmured. I didn't invite him to such close intimacy, but he drew the chair from the opposite side of the table and sat down at the corner next my elbow. He didn't seem to want the people seated nearest us to hear whatever he was going to say.

He leaned over to me and spoke in low tones. "I take it you're interested in antiques," he said. I told him I wasn't.

"But," he insisted, "you bought a rare ring at the Felbinger auction not two hours ago." I told him I had. "What about it?"

"Well—" He hesitated, studying the table-cloth. Then he apparently changed his mind and switched off on a new line.

"Will you sell it to me?" he inquired. I reminded him that I had just bought it.

"I'll give you any amount you ask; a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred—"

I said no, feeling very stubborn.

"But think!" he kept on. "It isn't worth very much— a thousand dollars is a big price for it and I'm offering you a fortune!"

"No," I said, "I won't sell it." I told him I already had more money than was good for me but that I had never had such an unusual ring. I told him that I always had a weakness for unusual rings and now that I had one I was go¬ ing to keep it. He hung his head for a moment.

When he looked at me again the pockets under his eyes seemed to have grown a shade darker. He caught hold of my arm.

"Listen," he said. "I feel— or rather I know it's my duty to warn you. If you persist in wearing that"— he tapped the ring on my finger— "you die within twenty-four hours!"

I looked at him in astonishment. "You mean to threaten?"

"No, no! You misunderstand me. I mean that the ring is fatal— it brings death to whoever wears it."

I laughed. "Then to frighten—"

"Don't be a fool!"

"That's what I'm trying not to be," I said a little hotly.

"Oh— bother!" he expostulated. "See here. You've heard of such things before—"

"Of course," I cut in. "Simply myths or coincidences."

He spread his hands deploringly. "That's just it; that's why I hesitated about telling you this. It isn't the characteristic of educated people to be superstitious. Too bad!"

"I think it's common sense. Have a cigar?"

"No, thanks. Listen! Do you remember the Arvid Hedon Archeological Expedition that made several discoveries in the lower Nile valley a few years ago?"

I thought back and told him I guessed I did.

"Well, I led that party— it bore my name. We made some remarkable findings, among them the tomb of a noble in the court of Rameses II. In his sarcophagus we found that ring.... That ring, yes sir! It's over three thousand years old! Look at it."

I was looking at it. Three thousand years old! Well, well. I shouldn't have thought it and told him as much.

"No, I don't suppose you would've," he remarked a little dryly. Then he paradoxically added, "It's never been worn very much— although plenty have worn it."

It made me curious. "How's that?" I asked.

"Well... I'll tell you," he said. "The ring caught my eye, and I— just kept it. That's a confession. I should have turned it over to the British Museum, which supervised the expedition, but its curious design and the little history I found concerning it made it valuable as a keepsake. So I kept it.

"Perhaps I ought to tell you that history. It was written in the ancient sacred hieroglyphics—on a papyrus roll I found in the sarcophagus. It wasn't long, though most ironic. This man had wished to do away with his twin brother, so he made the ring and had a curse put on it by the High Priest of Ammon-Re. But then he wanted to make sure it would fit his twin brother's finger when he gave it to him, so he tried it on himself. As he did so a bolt struck him down from the clear sky—from Ammon, the sun, as the history stated.

"Of course I put no stock in this story. It was too fantastic, too mythical; I was a skeptic as you are.

"I brought the ring home with me. I never wore it because it was too small, but I gave it to my sister—"

He stopped to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. "She wanted it," he continued, "so I gave it to her, and— that same afternoon I looked upon her dead body. She had been run down when crossing the street."

There was another pause while he threw back his stooped shoulders as if to strengthen himself; then, seeming to sag a little more in his chair, he went on:

"I had the ring again in my possession. I couldn't bear to see it every day— it sent chills over me— so I hid it away in a secret drawer in my desk.

"My brother wanted it and I refused to give it to him. How he ever got it I don't know, because on the morning of that fatal day I had looked in the drawer to make sure it was still there. I think he must have seen me do that. He was a cocky young devil and only laughed at what he called my 'whim' in keeping it hidden.

"He was a zealous yachtsman— on this day an adverse wind switched his boom around and tossed him overboard, and when we dragged his body from the Thames almost the first thing I noticed was this ring on his finger.

"They laid him on one of the docks and worked on him with a pulmotor for over an hour. It was no use. In my frenzy I forgot about the ring. When later I came to look for it, it was gone. There had been quite a crowd around and someone must have stolen it.

"I spent days after that, searching every pawnshop in London. I finally found one in Whitechapel where they had bought such a ring, but had sold it again.

"I kept my eyes on the daily papers. I investigated every violent death I found chronicled. Oh, the weary, nerve-racking chase that ring has given me! I have done some marvelous pieces of detective work. It has led me all over Europe, and I've found in its wake only deathviolent deaths ranging from accidents to suicides and murders!

"Man, listen to me! Only once since it was stolen off my dead brother's finger have I got as close to it as I am now. That was at Lavenue's, in Paris. A young artist was wearing it. I tried to warn him as I am warning you— but he was very rude, would not listen. He had me ejected from the place. I waited for him and when he came out I tried to collar him again. He avoided me, ran for a moving cab. He slipped and fell under the wheels. They rushed him away before I could crowd through the jam to get near him.

"It wasn't until the next day that I managed to find out where he lived. I arrived there in time to learn that his relatives had sold the ring to help pay his funeral expenses.

"You can imagine that it has eluded me many times. There have been months when I have lost all trace of it, only to pick up a clue from some tragedy that came to my notice.

"I was in Ostend when I got a hint that it had preceded me to New York. I arrived here only yesterday and frantically renewed my search. This afternoon an article in the paper caught my attention; it mentioned that a certain Felbinger had fallen from his bedroom window and become impaled on a spike fence that ran close to his house. It also stated that his heirs were selling off his goods at auction.

"I followed what you would call my hunch and went down there— only to find that I was too late. You were ahead of me.

"I got your name, and your address at the Devereux Club. There they told me that you were probably dining here— so here I am."

He leaned closer to me and grasped my arm again.

"Oh, I ask you, I beseech you, not to wear that ring. Carry it in your pocket, hide it away, but don't wear it! I know what I'm talking about. It has driven me almost mad. I was the means of giving it to the world and it's up to me to get rid of it again. If you are wise you'll destroy it— or if you don't wish to do that, sell it to me for any price you want and destroy it. I won't toss it in the sea or hide it, but I'll grind it to powder and cast it to the wind— utterly destroy it!"

I casually blew a smoke ring and watched its vortical action. I thanked him for his consideration in warning me. I told him that if I decided to destroy the ring I would give him the satisfaction of doing it; and in the meantime I would be very careful. He sighed heavily and arose.

"Yes," he said, "I should like to have that satisfaction. I've certainly earned it! You have my transient address. Good-bye."

He was gone, then, and presently I followed.

IT was dark and cold outside. A drizzle was coming down, freezing as it hit the pavement. It was so slippery one could hardly walk. I hailed a taxi and directed it to the Devereux Club. As I settled back in my seat I held up my hand to look at the ring by the passing lights. It was certainly curious; I didn't doubt but that Hedin's tale was simply the fabrication of an ingenious brain and that he had become a little cracked over his Egyptian exploits and the story about the ring which he had read. At least I believed the explanation would run somewhere along that line.

I can't tell you just how it happened. I had been engrossed in my thoughts when suddenly I was aware of the tire chains grinding on the ice, then the sensation of spinning in a tub.

Instantly Arvid Hedin's warning flashed into my mind. I grasped hold of the door-handle and hung on in a panic. I think that was what saved my life, for otherwise when the crash came I should surely have been thrown to the opposite side of the taxi— and that side was battered in by a street-light standard.

There were plenty of helping hands to extricate me from the wreckage. I waited there a moment to see if I was needed, but the driver wasn't hurt, and after shaking my clothes into shape and recovering my hat, I proceeded to negotiate my way on foot. I hadn't gone far when I was passing a skyscraper that was being erected— they work on these buildings day and night. I heard a deafening crash overhead and ducked out into the street just as a load of bricks broke through some faulty scaffolding and landed upon the sidewalk. I skated back to the curb in time to miss narrowly being struck by an oncoming car.

You may suppose that my faith in our practical beliefs was just a little shaken by this time; and can you blame me for what I did?

Even if you do not blame me, I blush to admit it.

I took the ring off my finger and dropped it in my pocket. I felt somewhat safer as I walked on. But in another block I was calling myself names for my superstitious cowardice. Was I to be frightened by a man's freakish fancy and a few narrow squeaks that seemed to corroborate it?

Of course I wasn't! I was simply making a fool of myself in doubting Plato's philosophy. I pulled the ring out of my pocket and jammed it on my finger. Just then a car sped by, followed closely by another with siren going full blast. I heard the barking of automatics and instinctively ducked. It was lucky that I did, for a stray bullet bored a neat hole through the crown of my hat. With jaws tightly set, I hurried my pace.

The Devereux Club was just ahead of me, and within its portals I knew I should be safe. Nothing ever happened there.

Now to me the Devereux Club was an institution embodying all the comforts a respectable loafer could wish for. Its old-fashioned architecture appealed to me and in spite of its exclusive atmosphere it was very home-like. It was there that I kept my bachelor quarters. I heaved a great sigh of relief as the doorman let me in. It was my haven— I felt like a mariner just getting into port after a stormy voyage. Safety was all around me. I stood for a moment in the foyer intoxicated with it, glorying in it, drinking in the homely reek of tobacco smoke with deep breaths and listening to the loving kisses of the billiard balls.

Never shall I forget what a wonderful sense of freedom and security I had at that moment. It was an elixir for the most fatalistic constitution. I was thrilled to the marrow.

With my head held high I buoyantly took a step, tripped over a Persian rug and sprawled headlong. My foot struck the jamb of a knight's suit of armor standing inside the door. A halberd was loosened from the mailed fist, and I rolled out of the way as it cut a gash in the floor where my neck had been. I scrambled to my feet.

I think that I was very red of face, and I know that I was swearing. I coarsely told the porter who rushed to my assistance that he'd better see that such menaces to life and property were banished from the Devereux Club.

"Y-yes, sah," he said, he would. I told him that knights never carried such things anyway, so a halberd was particularly incongruous with that suit of armor. I brushed past him and made for the stairs.

I hesitated only long enough to remove the ring from my finger, figuring that the plaster might fall off the ceiling.

HAS someone said that one's bedroom is one's fortress? It was in mine that at last I was able to breathe air untainted with mystery and danger; for, I ask you, what could ever happen to me now? Nothing— absolutely nothing!

I locked the door and sat down in my lounge chair to think matters over in a rational mood. I drew the ring from my pocket. Now that I was safe from all harm my thoughts had dropped into a more tranquil groove and the idea that a mere ring, however curiously wrought and old, could bear a fatal curse again struck me as being beyond reason.

A ring bring death? Absurd! It was inconsistent with common sense. It was all right for the ancient people of darkest Egypt, but not today.

I laughed aloud. Besides, a new and pleasant suspicion dawned upon me. Perhaps after all the ring was a good-luck charm! Of course, that was it. Why hadn't I thought of that before? Just look at the close calls I had had— and here I was alive and uninjured!

I joyously slipped it on my finger. I recalled that our civilization sometimes permitted us to believe in good-luck charms, for such a superstition is not nearly so bad as a belief in curses. I twisted it round and round on my finger, reveling in the sensation of protection its influence ensured me.

I read for perhaps an hour; then, feeling a little drowsy after my eventful evening, I repaired early to bed. Thinking seems to be more adapted to a reclining position and a darkened room.

It was now that I began to attribute a psychological significance to my misadventures— a significance based on suggestion. Arvid Hedon had given me the suggestion; in spite of myself it had leaked into my subconscious mind, and though my conscious mind had not believed, my subconscious had. It was a logical hypothesis, as any psychologist will tell you. I had simply unwittingly led myself into danger through Arvid Hedon's deep-planted suggestion.

Strange, it hadn't occurred to me before. Then I thought that perhaps I had not yet meditated sufficiently on the suggestion of good luck to implant it on my subconscious mind, and to inhibit the evil suggestion that had been or was already there.

This brought a cold sweat upon my brow. I decided to use Coue's formula to pierce the subconscious at the moment of lapsing into sleep. But what if I shouldn't succeed? It's so much easier to believe in bad luck than in good!

My imagination began to prove annoying. I thought of a dozen things that might happen, the likeliest of these being the possibility of a meteorite dropping through the roof.

But, pshaw! Imagination is the stuff that cowards are made of.

I rolled over and concentrated on sleep.

My window rattled. I leaped out of bed. It was only the wind; but what if there should be a cyclone? There are precedents even in New York.

I quickly tore the ring from my finger and laid it on my dresser; and the next day I gave Arvid Hedon the satisfaction of destroying it.

Was I foolish? Possibly I was— but let me finish before you judge too harshly—

I said the Devereux Club was an old-fashioned affair; it still clung to combination chandeliers even in the bedrooms. As I turned back from the dresser I smelled a familiar, pungent odor. I instantly turned on the lights and investigated. How it happened, I don't know.

The gas jet was turned on.

___________________

8: Drugged

George Allan England

1877-1936

Daily Telegraph (Sydney) 29-30 Oct 1934

Possibly first published as "Locoed" in Detective Fiction Weekly, 20 May 1933

AS Margaret Shayne caught sight of that strangely agile figure climbing the uncertain ladders of the unfinished skyscraper— climbing swiftly to the death that already was clutching at him— she leaned, a little farther from the window of her tenth-story room and watched with sudden apprehension.

In the vague half-light that even so late at night overhung the city, she could see that hurrying man dimly silhouetted against the overcast May sky. Jerkily he moved, yet with rapid power, as if driven by over-wound, badly operating springs. Up, up, ever on and up the man almost scurried; up through that skeleton of steel. Not even an ape could have been much more swift or agile.

"And where in the world would he be coming from, now?" the housemaid wondered. "And what's he doing there?"

With growing interest she looked up from her window at the rear of the apartment of the Reynolds family, in the "Kensington Arms." The half-completed skyscraper was over on Elliman Street, one block north; the rear of it, up which this seeming lunatic was clambering, overhung an alley.

"Is that a crook, or the like," thought Margaret, "trying to make a getaway?"

Tensely the girl watched, as up and ever up, higher and higher still, the mysterious figure scrambled. Its frantic and demented haste seemed uncanny, terrifying. Ought Margaret to run and call the police? The idea of a fugitive criminal seemed plausible.

Now the girl saw how this man must have reached the steelwork, from the flat roof of the apartment house next door to it. What legitimate errand could he have in such a place, at such a time? A criminal, surely, in a desperate attempt at flight!

"Guess maybe I had better call the cops," Margaret half-decided. But no, no— caution prevailed.

"I'll not be mixing up with trouble, at all, till it troubles me. Let them as ought to catch that bird!"

Her wonder swiftly altered to anxiety as now she saw the man reach the top of the steel skeleton, more than a hundred feet above her level, and with simian agility run along a stringer toward a vertical beam rising higher still. For a moment his figure was vaguely outlined in the dim glow of light always overhanging a big city. Where might he be going now? What might his purpose be? Could he possibly want to clamber up that last vertical beam...?

The girl shrieked.

Far aloft that feverish and scurrying figure threw up both arms. It plunged outward, downward; it vanished.

A quickly-smothered scream echoed through the night.

"He stepped on a loose plank!" the girl realised, staring wide-eyed. She caught only one more glimpe of him, as he whirled downward. Then, a spinning blotch of shadow, he disappeared. Margaret, gripping her window-sill, heard a nauseating, crunching impact far below.

Gasping, she leaped up. She rushed from her room and through the hallway to the phone.

MARGARET SHAYNE'S story, as that of the only witness, was of outstanding importance at the inquest Lacking any other evidence. Medical Examiner Traylor had to declare that the deceased, Norford Cromar, single, white, age 56, of 543 Elliman Street, had come to his death "by misadventure."

Dr. Traylor felt he should, have added; "While intoxicated or temporarily Insane." But for this he could have found no conclusive evidence. Nor could suicide by any means be proved. Cromar had certainly not jumped from the steelwork.

The housemaid was quite positive as to that. He had stumbled, or stepped on a loose plank; had fallen accidentally. And so, as Norford Cromar was one of the city's best-known and most widely-respected citizens, a man of very considerable wealth and of the highest social standing, no gratuitous hints as to liquor or mental unbalance were in order. Thus it was that none of the scare-head newspaper accounts of the matter even ventured to suggest anything but an accident, pure and simple.

As to the motive that might lead a very high-class citizen to climb an unfinished skyscraper at 11.30 pm., well— "least said, soonest mended."

And as for murder, nobody even thought of that.

Nobody, that is, except one man. This man was the Connoisseur of Crime, T. Ashley. Very far from satisfied with Dr. Traylor's verdict, the Connoisseur felt himself, after he had read all that the newsprints had to tell him.

He pondered the matter a while, then consulted his files and reference-books, and assembled all his available data on the deceased Norford Cromar. In addition to what we already know about his age, his being a bachelor, and his wealth, T. Ashley found that Cromar had degrees from three universities, that he held membership in a dozen or more prominent clubs, that he was a director in numerous corporations, and that he was the founder and president of the Motoring Safety League.

"Hmmmm!" judged the Private Investigator. "Not at all the sort of man who would be likely to commit suicide. And certainly not the kind who would apparently try to climb up a steel beam at the top of an unfinished skyscraper, and fall to his death. Drunk? He, a well-known opponent of alcohol? Not likely. But then, what? Temporary insanity? If so, why?"

T. Ashley's interest, once aroused, was hardly to be slaked by mere speculation. To satisfy it, if possible, he began by visiting, the Arlington Funeral , Parlors— where the crushed, and broken body had been transported and, by asking permission, to view the remains. Hardly more than five minutes sufficed to give him a very thought-inspiring "lead," as a result of which he betook himself at once to the late Mr. Cromarts address, 543 Elliman Street.

This was an apartment-hotel, Mr. Cromar's quarters having been on the eighth storey, which was next to the top one. The Connoisseur of Crime had a few words with a colored man, who the night before had been operating the elevator there. This colored man was named Moses Hamlin, a rather sinister-looking, light-colored , Grand Cayman mulatto, with the peculiar English accent and also the arrogance, of the Cayman West Indian, race.

At first he knew nothing, and would say nothing, but a two-dollar bill— he didn't seem to think it unlucky— somewhat stimulated his memory, and he stated:—

"Yes, sar, I saw the gentleman alive at about half-pas' eight, las' night. He vas all right then, sar. He came out to the h'elevator with a caller that was leavin', and then he went right back to his h'apartment. That caller's name? Let me see, now, sar. It was Jarratt. Vas they havin' any argument? Vell, not agreein' very good, as you might say, and Mr. Cromar vas lookin' kind o' mad. His apartment? Oh, no, sar. I couldn't let you see that. I might lose my position, sar, and—"

Another dollar overcame the Cayman Islander's apprehensions in the matter of letting T. Ashley view Cromar's apartment. But still he showed considerable uneasiness as this visitor had a look round the three rooms and bath of the rather luxurious little place. The Caymanero kept a sharp eye on T. Ashley, never for a second losing view of him during this inspection. Furthermore, he asked point blank:—

"And what's your objeck, sar, makin this h'observation?"

"To be quite frank with you," smiled the Connoisseur, "I'm trying to find out what killed Mr. Cromar."

"What killed him? Why, fallin' off the buildin' next door. Climbin' up there, and—"

"Of course. But how did he reach the roof? Did you take him up in ; the elevator?"

"No, sah," the mulatto denied, looking rather sullen. "He must have climbed h'up the service-stairs, sar."

"Quite so," assented the Investigator, and went on with his look-around. He discovered no liquor, nor any evidence that could even hint at drugs. So far as self-indulgence was concerned, cigarettes seemed about Cromar's limit. Some ashes and several cigarette-butts lay in a couple of brass trays, and on a little table was an opened package with half a dozen cigarettes missing.

"Mr. Cromar smoked a good deal?"

"Yes, sar."

"To excess?"

"Well, he mos' always have a cigarette in his mouth, sar, every time I ever see him."

T. Ashley picked up the cigarette butts and dropped them into his pocket. He reached for the partly-used, package, but the Cayman Islander cried:— "You can't take them, sar!"

"What? Just a few cents' worth of cigarettes?"

"It ain't the walue of them, sar. It's the principle of it— nobody but the heirs is h'entitled to take nothin'."

"Oh, the heirs, eh? So you've heard about heirs, have you? Anybody been here already to take inventory or look around?"

The Islander nodded, looking decidedly ill at ease.

"Who's been here? Do you know the names?"

"Mr. Bagshaw, sar, and another gentleman."

"What name?"

"Vell, I heard Mr. Bagshaw call um Grimsley."

"Relations of Mr. Cromar?"

"Mr. Grimsley is, by what I heard the gentlemen talkin'."

"And Bagshaw?"

"He'd be a solicitor, sar."

"Lawyer, you mean?"

"Yes, sar. But— what for you h'askin' all these questions?" the mulatto demanded, with growing uneasiness "You got the authority to—"

T. Ashley laughed as he handed over another dollar and pocketed the cigarettes.

"Thank you ever so much for your information."

"I hopes, sar, you ain't goin' to let nobody know you took nothin' from this h'apartment," said the Caymanero, seeming distinctly worried.

"Not a word, not a word that might in any way make trouble for you!" T. Ashley reassured him. "Well, I think this'll be about all. Thank you ever so much!" And thus he took his departure.

HIS NEXT port of call was the office of the Motoring Safety League, at 178 Mumford Street. This League, of which the late Mr. Cromar had been founder and president, specialised in prosecuting drunken or reckless drivers who caused traffic accidents. Implacably it pursued them, working against suspended sentences, taking steps to get maximum penalties inflicted, helping victims prosecute damage suits, seeing that driving licences were revoked.

Backed by a great deal of money— a large part of which was Cromar's own— it employed energetic lawyers, and made itself felt as a vital force in Improving motoring conditions. So efficient had it become that of late a number of accident insurance companies had begun to co-operate with it.

From the time when Cromar had started it, in 1931, it had succeeded in steadily lowering the accident and death-rate from motor smash-ups. A very live organisation, this!

T. Ashley asked to see its records. He spent more than three hours making notes; then, with these, returned to his laboratory on Boylston Street. On the way he dropped into a hardware store and bought two strong steel dog-chains, a file, three padlocks, and a pair of handcuffs.

Back in his laboratory he reviewed the notes he had taken at the office of the Motoring Safety League, and looked up a number of names in the telephone directory, in the city directory, and in his private records. After this he hung a sign on his laboratory door:

OUT, WILL RETURN TO-MORROW.

He then locked himself in, and proceeded to business. This business first consisted In careful chemical analysis of the cigarette butts and of two of the cigarettes he had brought from Mr. Cromar's apartment. Such analysis he followed by an action so peculiar as, at first glance, to seem quite inexplicable.

First he drew a couch up beside the steam-radiator in his laboratory. To this radiator he padlocked one end of one of his dog-chains. He next secured the other end of this chain to one end of the second chain; and the other end of this second chain he fastened to his handcuffs. He then snapped one of the cuffs tightly on to his right wrist.

Four keys were involved in his present experiment. One key would open the padlock fastening a chain to the radiator; another, the padlock fastening the two chains together; the third, the padlock securing the second chain to the handcuffs; and the fourth, the handcuff on his wrist.

T. Ashley flung all four of these keys into a far corner, away beyond his reach. Then, with the file in his pocket and a copy of the "U.S. Dispensatory," he lay down on his couch, lighted one of the remaining cigarettes, and began to read and smoke. Deeply he inhaled, to get the full effect.

"Nothing like personal evidence after all," he murmured. "No man who isn't willing to suffer for science is worthy of being one ot her devotees!"

Six hours later, having filed through one of the steel chains, he recouped his keys, unlocked his handcuff, and was free. Rather haggard and spent, after having smoked three of the cigarettes and after having wakened from the heavily-drugged slumber that had followed their amazing effect, now he was almost himself again.

He brewed some strong coffee, which cleared the cobwebs from his brain.

"Whew!" he exclaimed. "Some Joy-ride, all right. Good thing I was chained. If I hadn't been— Well, anyhow, we're making progress. It won't be long now."

NEXT DAY he called on his old friend, Medical Examiner Traylor. The doctor asked:— "Well, what crazy notion is on your mind this morning?"

"Oh, nothing, except that your verdict in that Cromar case was a complete error. 'Death by misadventure'— no, sir. Cromar was murdered."

"Murdered? The deuce you say! Why, that Shayne girl saw him—"

"I know. She saw him climb the steelwork, and either jump or fall off. But what made him do that?"

Traylor shrugged his shoulders. "We aren't going into that, now," he answered. "Sleepwalking, maybe, or— well, never mind. With a man as highly respected as Cromar, best not dig into motives."

"Ah, but I have dug into them," smiled the Connoisseur of Crime. "Have you ever heard of Cannibis Indica?"

"Of course. Why?"

"What do you know about it?"

"Well," and the doctor thought a moment, "it's an Oriental bush that hashish is extracted from, yielding a volatile oil called 'cannabene.' The active principle of it brings on excitement and then depression, intoxication, hallucinations and delirium, and then deep sleep. It acts very quickly, and if taken to excess produces insanity."

"Correct— as far as you go. But there's more to it. Ever hear of 'marihuana'?"

"Yes. It's a tropical or West Indian plant, isn't it?"

"It is. It grows in the south-west of the United States, in Mexico, in the Caribbean Islands— Cuba, Jamaica, Cayman, and all the way down to the equator. The real name for it is Cannibis Indica."

"No!" exclaimed the doctor. "You mean that hashish can be produced in our part of the world?"

"Certainly. The leaves and small stems are ground up fine, and are parched on a metal plate. They yield a grayish-green powder that can be smoked in a pipe, or in cigarettes, either plain or mixed with tobacco."

"And the symptoms?"

"Ah, the symptoms!" echoed T. Ashley. "Some symptoms! I've been doing a bit of inquiring, and I find that when you get a load of this stuff, this loco-weed as it's also called, you lose all sense of weight. You just seem to float, especially upstairs. All your senses grow immensely more acute. You lose your sensibility to pain. When a man 'goes marihuana,' he can be beaten or knifed and never even feel it."

"Indeed? Dangerous stuff, eh?"

"Decidedly, the more so as a marihuana smoker often thinks people are conspiring against him, or sees D.T. monsters, and runs amuck with a knife or gun. After you smoke it, you lose all sense of proportion. You think a match is a big beam, or vice-versa. You want to step high, over a pin on the floor. You want to run, to rush— or maybe, if you're running, you think you're just crawling."

"Well, well," said Dr. Traylor. "I'm learning something!"

"Odd part of it," the Investigator continued, "is the sense of strength you feel— you think you're a perfect giant— and also you lose all judgment as to speed. You may be driving a car at ten miles an hour, and think you're going a hundred. Contrariwise, you may believe yourself making ten, and really be stepping on the gas at seventy-five or eighty, or even more."

"Lucky thing that motorists don't smoke it!"

"Ah, but they sometimes do, and then there's usually a smash-up. Another thing, sometimes the marihuana smoker is possessed by the insane desire to climb."

"Climb? Climb what?"

"Anything at all, just so he can get up, up, up. If you've ever 'flitted' ants, you know how they all begin to climb anything they can find. Well, loco-weed sometimes acts as a kind of human 'flit.' Fortunately the effects don't last long. The victim soon falls asleep — and an what a sleep that is! I ought to know!"

"You?" queried the doctor, amazed. "How so?"

"Well," the Investigator laughed, "I smoked three marihuana cigarettes yesterday, myself."

"You did? What for?"

"Oh, just to find out what it feels like to be drugged."

"And you didn't pull any crazy stunts, get smashed up, or..."

"God knows I wanted to, savagely enough!"

"Why didn't you, then?"

"Because I securely chained myself before I started, and threw away the keys. Before I could file myself free, I fell asleep, and there you are."

"Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed the doctor. '

"I sincerely hope not," T. Ashley laughed. "But when I was under the influence I surely thought I had been!"

Dr. Traylor pondered a moment, then asked:— "What was your idea in smoking the stuff? What possible connection could it have had with this Cromar case?"

"Every connection, my dear fellow. One of the most characteristic symptoms of marihuana poisoning is a great dilation of the eye-pupils. Well, when I examined Cromar's remains—"

"You found his pupils dilated?"

"Immensely! That, and the climbing mania he had exhibited, gave me my clue. I figured that a man of his habits and prejudices against intoxicant drugs certainly wouldn't be a loco-weed addict, especially as he'd never before done anything irrational. So, then—"

"So, then, the poison was administered to him by someone?"

"Precisely. And, doubtless, for revenge."

"Why for revenge?" the doctor asked.

"Because of some of Cromar's activities in punishing infractions of the motor laws. That was the most likely motive. It looked like an attempt at poetic justice."

"How do you mean?"

"Well," the Connoisseur explained, "if a man had been heavily fined or gaoled for having broken speed-limits, and got into a smash-up, wouldn't it be what he'd consider poetic justice— tit for tat— if he could get Cromar into a smash. Get him fined or gaoled, or even kill him, that way?"

"Yes, but who—"

"Ah, that was the question! Evidently, the criminally-minded person involved must have known about the use of marihuana. He would almost certainly be somebody from a tropical country or island."

"I see! How about that elevator-man at Cromar's address! He looks like a Jamaican."

"Next thing to it, a Cayman Islander. But please don't interrupt. I looked up the names and addresses of all the people who'd ever been punished through Cromar's efforts. And then I got some of the cigarette-butts, and some of the cigarettes, from Cromar's apartment. The butts and also the cigarettes in the package had been heavily loaded with marihuana. Chemical analysis soon showed that. The glue on the cellophane and on the inner wrapper of the cigarette package was different from the glue on an ordinary package of the same brand. Somebody had swapped cigarettes on Cromar."

"You think the elevator-man left the doped package in Cromar's apartment?"

"I think if you'll go with me this evening to a certain barber-shop I know of, you may see some fireworks. Will you go?"

"Rather!"

"That's fine, doctor. And, by the way, bring a plain-clothes man along. And he'd better pack a rod."

It was towards nine o'clock that, evening when T. Ashley strolled into the Hotel Simonton barber-shop, three blocks down Elliman Street from the apartment where the unfortunate Cromar had lived. All four chairs were full, so the investigator sat down to wait his turn, and fell to reading a rather tattered copy of "Blah."

Presently Dr. Traylor came in, shortly followed by plain-clothes man O'Hara, of Station 37. They too resigned themselves to wait, none of them giving, any of thp others the slightest look of recognition.

One chair being vacated, the barber said "Next!" to T. Ashley, but Dr. Traylor took that chair. When the next chair was empty, however, the Connoisseur slipped into it. The barber at this chair was a thick-set and olive-complexioned man of about thirty-five, with oiled hair and a strong aroma of lotions pervading him.

"Just a trim, please, and don't take very much off the top," directed the investigator.

"Alla right, meester." And the barber fell to work. After perhaps five minutes, T. Ashley remarked in Spanish:— "Es Cubano usted?"

The barber shook his oily head, none too well pleased. "No, sir, Mexicano."

"Ah, so?" asked the Investigator, still in Spanish, which he spoke more than fairly well.

"And the others here, they are also Mexicans?"

"No, señor," the barber answered, relapsing into his own native speech. "All Americanos."

"But they speak Spanish? Anybody else here speak it?"

"No, señor."

"A fine country, Mexico. I have spent much time there," the Investigator went on, still keeping to Spanish. "Many things can be had in Mexico that we cannot have here. The bull-fighting, the tequila, the mescal, the aguardiente— and many other enjoyments."

"It is true, señor."

"Also — the grifo."

No answer to this remark, mentioning the Mexican slang word for marihuana. T. Ashley let that silence ride, a minute or two, while the barber kept on snipping. At last, however, he sighed:—

"I would give much for another smoke of the grifo. Much money would I pay."

"It cannot be had, senor. It is prohibido. There is a great punishment for even possessing it."

"I know, but— how much would it cost to get a couple of dozen marihuana-loaded cigarettes?"

"How should I know, señor?"

"I thought perhaps you might."

"No, I cannot tell you. And, even if I could, it would be too dangerous, even trying to give them to you."

"Dangerous? De ningún modo! Not at all. If I were to give you a hundred pesos, and then come here and hang up my coat on a rack, you could slip a package of marihuana cigarettes into a pocket of that coat, and— here, por Dios, man— my ear!"

"A thousand pardons, señor. It is only a nick— I will fix it instantly!" All apologies, the barber sopped up a few drops of blood from T. Ashley's cut ear, and applied styptic.

T. Ashley said no more, till at last the barber asked:— "And shall I shave your neck, señor?"

"No, thank you. Everything's all right as it is."

"Wet or dry?"

"Dry, please." Then, presently, from the barber:— "All finished, señor."

Hardly out of the chair, T. Ashley raised a beckoning finger to O'Hara, of Station 37.

"There's your man," said he. "Take him."

And O'Hara took him— after a battle royal, that thoroughly wrecked the shop.

NEXT DAY the barber, Fernando Morelos, faced a much more serious charge than mere narcotic possession. He confronted a charge of first-degree murder— the premeditated and carefully planned murder of Norford Cromar. Not only that, but in due time, with T. Ashley's testimony damning him, he blew up and in a frenzy of rage made admissions that headed him directly for the chair.

"After all, it was simplicity itself," the investigator explained to Dr. Traylor. "The victim was very plainly drugged. Well, the only man who might have done it, and who also had been punished— with a gaol sentence— by Cromar for reckless driving, was this Morelos, a barber.

"The Mexican evidently studied Cromar's habits, found out where he had his barbering done, and got a job in that shop. He loaded a package of Cromar's favorite cigarettes by substituting cigarettes doped with marihuana,

"It was a very simple matter for him to slip them into Cromar's pocket, while cutting his hair.

"The barber's idea of revenge by smashing Cromar in an auto wreck failed because Cromar's mania took the alternate, climbing form. Nevertheless, Morelos got his man; and he might have gone scot-free if I hadn't happened to correlate climbing-mania with dilated eye-pupils. So you see—"

"Yes, I see," nodded Dr. Traylor. "But how in the world did you ever dare accuse Morelos, after he'd denied knowing anything about marihuana, or at all events after he'd refused to get you any?"

"Oh, that?" the Connoisseur of Crime answered. "Well, he was cutting my hair at the time, wasn't he? When I mentioned, grifo, the reflex jerk in his muscles was a regular lie-detector for me. I knew then, right away, that I was on the right trail. And when I suggested my hanging up my coat, so he could slip some doped cigarettes into it, didn't his hand twitch so that he damned near cut a piece out of my ear? Lord, but I was sweating, then! If he'd suspected what I was really after— You bet I didn't want my neck shaved! Just one slash of a razor, and—"

"Man!" exclaimed the doctor. "You certainly did suffer and bleed, for Science!"

"Not a hundredth part as much, in that barber's chair, as when I was drugged," the investigator replied. "That drug business was certainly hell. Believe me, it's no joke to go as crazy as I did!"

"And while you were crazy, did you want to speed, or did you want to climb?"

"How do you know I didn't want to run amok, and kill? All I've got to say is, heaven bless those good steel chains and handcuffs!  If my file had been able to cut a little faster, who knows but I'd be headed for the electric chair myself by now?"

"Whew! Some risks you have to take, In your profession!"

"Well, after all, why not?" laughed the investigator. "I've been called insane more than once. Perhaps I am, at that— quién sabe?"

______________________

9: The Diplomat

Annie S. Swan

(Mrs. Annie Shepherd Swan Burnett-Smith) 1859-1943

Gloucester Journal 12 Dec 1936

Mercury (Hobart) 7 Dec 1938

IN EVERY family there is one member who, if not exactly a fool, seems to fall short of that family's standard of efficiency and accomplishment It was quite early decided by the Marchments that Dick, the third boy, was "no good." If they had ever heard that it is very often the third child who achieves the greatest distinction and reflects the most brilliant glory on the family name, they had either forgotten the fact or failed to apply it.

Anyhow, it could not possibly apply to Dick. He had no looks to speak of. The Marchments were inclined to ruddy locks, and Dick, to be quite frank, had a shock of red hair, surmounting a face of singular denseness of expression. His body was lumpy, too, and he had an awkward gait, and a habit of getting in the way, of lacking grace and tact and adaptability. In fact, he was a thorn in the side of both father and mother, and later on of his smarter brothers and sisters.

George Marchment was a successful merchant, and his business was roomy enough to admit the two elder sons within its precincts, but obviously there was no room for Dick. Mrs. Marchment would have liked a professional son, and had Dick displayed any signs of intellectual activity, undoubtedly he would have been sent to a public school, and thence to Oxford, and drafted into a profession. But he displayed such singular and pertinacious stupidity at his preparatory school that the head advised them against it.

"Mere waste of money, my dear sir," he observed, with the singular dogmatism inseparable from his class. "Make him a farmer, if you can; if not, send him abroad."

It is commonly believed by those who do not know, that farming requires no brains, which is the greatest possible mistake. Mr. Marchment made some inquiries regarding farming in England, and being discouraged by the information received, decided that Dick should be sent abroad. At fourteen he was removed from school and sent to an agricultural college, from which it was proposed to send him to Canada to seek his fortune.

Dick made no remarks concerning his future, neither protesting nor acquiescing. He was more or less of an automatons. It was generally supposed that he accepted the fact of his stupidity, and was pleased to be legislated for. Dick was not at any period of his life unhappy, because nobody was actively unkind to him. He had a world of him own, however, which nobody dreamed of. He would blink his rather weak grey eyes when questioned about his use of his leisure and playtime, and smile in a sort of faraway manner which was aggravating. But obviously you cannot be very angry with a person who speaks very little and is always good-tempered.

At the agricultural college, the general verdict was accepted by everybody except a boy called Rufus Hurst, a cadet of a very old and impoverished family, who, hard put to it to know what to do with its sons, had decided upon the Far West for one.

RUFUS HURST and Dick Marchment left England together in the Spring of a certain year when both had just turned sixteen. Dick's father and mother saw him off at Liverpool, and the good-byes to his brothers and sisters were rather tearful. Netta, the youngest sister, and the only one who utterly believed in Dick, had shut herself up in inconsolable grief, and had further said it was cruel and horrible to send Dick so far from home when he was only a boy, and that she would never forgive them as long as she lived.

Dick had gone rather white when the time had come to say good-bye to Netta, but there were no tears in his eyes when he stood on the deck of the outward-bound ship, and had a parting from his mother and father to go through. He had been made to feel, somehow, that he was the superfluous one of the family, and though his nature was too wholesome for resentment, it had had the effect of shutting up his heart. What Dick's heart was his own people, except Netta, had no idea, until something happened years after which opened all their eyes.

"What a sweet-looking woman!" said Mrs. Marchment, suddenly drawing her husband's attention to a little group standing same distance apart. "And how very distinguished! I wonder who they can be."

"Those are Hurst's people," volunteered Dick, casually. "Rufus Hurst, you know, who was at Stoneyford with me. We're going out together."

At the moment the members of the Hurst group turned towards the Marchment group precisely as if they had been talking about them. Then the distinguished-looking woman, who wore her long cloak and floating veil with an air which was the squat Mrs. Marchment's admiration and despair, came forward, her husband and son following.

"Mr. and Mrs. Marchment, I believe? I am Lady Beatrice Hurst. This is my husband, General Hurst, and my daughter, Lilah. I wished to thank your boy for his extraordinary kindness to mine at Stoneyford. Rufus is never done speaking about him, and I do hope they will see something of one another in the Far West Isn't it very dreadful that we have to send our sons from us in these days at an age when we ought to have them still in the nursery?"

Her long, slender hand fell with a caressing— almost passionate— touch on her boy's slender shoulder, and her eyes swam in tears. Something shot across Dick Marchment's stolid face. Was it a passing shade of envy? None ever knew.

MRS. MARCHMENT'S colour rose.

She felt at a loss, for quite evidently these people had discovered something in her son she herself had missed. She merely murmured that it was kind of Lady Beatrice to mention it— that she was quite sure it was not worth mentioning. But this Lady Beatrice would not listen to.

"You make light of it, of course, but it is a very great thing. My son has a shrinking disposition, and your boy has been an immense help to him. I should feel very happy indeed if they could be together. Have you any plans for Dick?"

Her eyes, as they fell on Dick's face, had an expression of such sweet kindliness that Dick turned away. He could not bear it; the whole scene tried him inexpressibly. Presently the child Lilah crept round behind and touched his arm.

"Let's go over a bit, Dick and Rue. We can talk better there, and they want to say things about us."

There was such naiveté, without pertness in her manner, that, in spite of himself, Dick laughed, and it was such a merry sound that his mother wondered she had not noticed it before. It occurred to her afterwards that Dick had laughed very little at The Poplars, Wimbledon Common.

The three young ones withdrew themselves while their elders discussed them, and the swift minutes flew. Presently the time came for strangers to leave the ship, and the last good-byes were said. When she had said good-bye to her own son, and removed his clinging arms from her neck, Lady Beatrice ran back to kiss the other woman's son, whose eyes were dry. But they were not dry when she left him.

"Stick to Rufus, darling. Be a brother to him; make him a man like you are going to be yourself, and we shall always love and pray for you."

Mrs. Marchment saw this little scene, but did not comprehend it. She was crying herself unrestrainedly, and Marchment looked uncommonly glum.

"I hope we haven't made a mistake, George. It does seem hard— and him such a little chap! I hope it's for the best."

"Don't forget it was you who suggested Canada, Maria," replied George, a trifle testily, and they returned in rather a miserable silence to their hotel to put in three aimless hours before their train left for London.

That feeling, of half-remorseful depression, however, quickly wore off the Marchments. Successful people, well pleased with their own efforts and the results accruing from them, seldom allow themselves to be depressed for long with any feeling akin to remorse. In about three days the Marchments returned to their normal state of mind, and remained convinced that they had done the best they possibly could for Dick, and that everything must now depend on his own efforts.

He was shipped, together with young Hurst and two others, to a certain person in Vancouver, who acted as an agent in the matter, and who had pledged himself for a consideration to establish the youths in suitable homes, where they would learn the business and the ways of the new country.

It may be said here, and briefly, that this person was a rascal, that he failed in his duty, and that soon after they landed the lads found themselves stranded, and obliged to earn such bread as they could get by the sweat of their brows.

THE two in whom we are interested drifted to a lumber camp, where we must leave them. In the limits of a short story it would not be possible to follow their adventures over the period of years during which they were lost to their relatives. Dick wrote two letters home and received none, which is accounted for by the unsettled state of his wanderings. The Marchments got accustomed to the idea of his absence and his silence, and after a few years his name was seldom mentioned. The father and mother sometimes shook their heads at one another, sadly wondering how it came to pass that people so worthy as themselves, so wedded to duty and propriety, should have had such an unsatisfactory son.

They accepted it as part of the discipline of life.

One day some excitement was caused at The Poplars by the sudden arrival of a very smart one-horse coupe at the gate. Two men were on the box, and one was sent up to the door to inquire whether any of the family were at home. He returned to say that only Miss Marchment was in the house, and would be pleased to see Lady Beatrice Hurst if she would be so kind as to come in. Her ladyship reflected a moment, and then decided to go in.

She was received by Netta, now the only unmarried daughter of the house— a tall, well-proportioned young woman, with a most striking repose of manner. It arose out of her perfect naturalness. Netta had grown up in a somewhat artificial atmosphere perfectly unspoiled. Remembering a somewhat impossible mother, Lady Beatrice was surprised at the daughter, and much pleased with her.

"I must apologise. I have no sort of right to come like this, and especially as your mother is not at home. But perhaps you can answer my question. I merely wish to know whether you have heard lately of your brother Dick, who went out— let me see just eight years ago with my boy, Rufus Hurst."

To the surprise of Lady Beatrice, Netta's eyes filled with tears.

"Lady Beatrice, we have never heard from him. Mamma had only one letter. We think he must have died. Do you know anything about your son?"

"Oh, yes. We have heard at odd intervals from him, but the last silence has been the longest. We had a letter yesterday from China."

"From China," said Netta falteringly. "Did you know he had gone there?"

"Not until this letter. The last one came from California. Then he had not seen Dick for three years. But in this letter he speaks of seeing him again."

"In China!" cried Netta, her eyes round with astonishment. "Is he quite sure? To us it seems quite incredible, for there was no reason at all why Dick should not write to us."

"But was there any particular reason why he should write?" inquired Lady Beatrice, and the question certainly struck Netta as odd. She faintly coloured.

"Now that you speak of it, Lady Beatrice, there was no reason at all why he should write. Everybody except myself was quite glad to get him away. But if he is alive, I think he would have written to me."

"These boys have had great hardships and some extraordinary experiences. It seems to me that your brother has been waiting all these years to find his niche, and from what Rufus says he has found it now."

"What sort of a niche?"

"A diplomatic niche of the unaccredited sort. He is working for the Government out there. It seems, from what Rufus says, that he has a most extraordinary power over the native mind. He understands it. It is a very subtle power, akin to genius."

NETTA, a keenly Intelligent girl, grasped every point suggested by Lady Beatrice's words.

"Dick! That is incredible; and yet no, it is not. He was so very different from all other boys, so different from my other brothers. He always seemed to me like one waiting to be awakened."

"Precisely; nobody understood him, and he has been drifting about the outposts of civilisation all these years, waiting for the right time and the right place, and, according to my son, he has found them."

"Then what is he actually doing?"

"My dear, I can't formulate it. I have brought my boy's letter, and I will read you what lie says about Dick. Perhaps you had better copy it in pencil for your parents, as, unfortunately, the letter is of too private a nature to permit me to leave it."

Netta glided to the desk in the corner of the room, Lady Beatrice admiring the grace of her movements and her serious, intelligent face.

From her chatelaine bag Lady Beatrice drew the letter and turned to the third page.

"But of all the things that have happened to me the best bit of luck I've had in this beastly country has been running up against Dick Marchment. He's been living in Pekin for 18 months, and I haven't yet tumbled exactly to what he is doing here. He isn't idle, anyway; and he's being trusted with all sorts of odd, delicate jobs that belong properly to the Embassy, only can't be done satisfactorily there. I was dining with some chaps of the Legation last night, and they talked of nothing but Dick Marchment. The funny thing is that though he is making his way so rapidly in the confidence of the powers that be, nobody is jealous of him. They simply don't take him seriously. Nobody has ever done so anywhere, now I come to think of it, and all the time he's been getting ready to make history. I'm not going to stop in Pekin; it's rotten, and if we don't have another Boxer rising soon, why, then most people will be disappointed. It's over the Chinese themselves Marchment has this power. He's learned the language, and they seem to trust him. Everybody does. Yet he's such a quiet chap; I don't believe I ever knew anybody who talked less. But there's something fetching about Dick, mummy. Do you remember how you took to him that day on the boat? Well, he's just the same yet; he looks at you with those queer, blinking eyes of his, and you've simply got to do it. I asked him about his people, but he didn't seem to know anything about them. He said the time hadn't come, but it was coming, and the only thing he cared about was to know whether his sister Netta remembered him. I wish you'd find out that, if you can, and get her to write to him. It would buck him up awfully, and take away that sort of haunted look he has in his eyes— the look of the chap who has nobody to care about him, don't you know— the look I might have had if you'd been different, only you're not—"

Here Lady Beatrice's voice broke. As for Netta she was sobbing quietly, even while she was desperately writing down every word.

"You will write to him, won't you?" asked Lady Beatrice as she rose to go.

"Why, of course, this very day. I wish I knew how to thank you for coming, Lady Beatrice. I shall never forget it as long as I live."

"It was a little thing. I love my sons, all or them, and I couldn't bear the idea of that haunted look. It must be banished. Tell your mother I said so."

BUT even while she said that, Lady Beatrice knew that the mother had missed her opportunity, and would never find it again. Her boy's heart had gone from her keeping for ever. She kissed Netta at parting, for she was an unconventional person, with the courage of her opinions; she likewise fixed today for the girl to spend with her in Grosvenor Square, where they were living for the winter to economise, while their seat in a hunting county was let to rich Americans

When Mr. and Mrs. Marchment returned from town Netta showed them the letter, and they were naturally a good deal excited over it. But Netta saw quite well that they did not take it at all seriously.

"It's very vague," said Mr. Marchment, critically. "But, anyhow, it is something to know that Dick is alive and not disgracing the name he bears. We must write to him, mother; and I don't mind sending him a £10 note."

His tone was the somewhat resigned, patronising one of the man who would make the best of an indifferent situation.

Netta's heart was full, and she poured it forth on a sheet of foreign notepaper before she slept that night, then reflected that she would have to ask Lady Beatrice for some address to forward it to.

The weeks went by, and the months, and no answer came to that letter.

One day, however, Dick walked unconcernedly across Wimbledon Common and pushed open the gate of The Poplars in the most casual way, as if he had merely returned from a short stroll.

Netta, who was very fond of the garden, was bending over a bed of hyacinths in lovely bloom when she heard the gate creak and the step on the gravel?

Turning round quickly she espied a very big, tall, well-built man with a sun-burned face, a short, stubbly, reddish moustache, and a pair of spectacles shading his eyes. Her heart stood still for a moment.

"Dick!" she cried shrilly; then, "Dick, darling!"

She ran into his arms, she hugged him close and tight, she pulled down his face that she might look into it, and, wonder of wonders, they were both crying-Netta because she was so glad, and Dick because he had never expected anything like this, and be-cause life held so much sweetness.

"There Isn't anybody in but me, Dick. Father and mother have gone to Croydon to see Jim's wife— she has a new baby. I was to go, too, but something kept me. I've been so restless all day. Oh, Dick, is it really you?"

She drew him into the house, the old familiar house which had changed so little. But Dick had changed; somehow it seemed small, cramped, impossible to him. The only light in it was that which shone in his sister's eyes.

"I know now, old girl, that if I'd come home and found you married, or different, I should have slipped out and never come back any more."

"But didn't you get my letter, Dick? I wrote it ever so many months ago— last October, after Lady Beatrice had been here."

"I got no letter, but Hurst told me things were right at home. So they're all married, and what not? What luck to find you alone here! And how pretty you have grown!"

"Nonsense, Dick!" But her face flushed with happiness. "Tell me about yourself. How well you look! How— how distinguished! Something has happened to you. You've got on — you've arrived— you've found the time and the place, as Lady Beatrice said you would!"

DICK cleared his throat and took out his cigarette-case.

"Yes, I suppose I have. I've had an odd life, Netta— it would fill a book; and the last two years have been the queerest of all. I've been in the midst of mystery and intrigue, and I've steered clear through it. I've— I've been of some little use to them out there, you see, knowing the natives and the language. It was in San Francisco I got to know the Chinese really well. They interested me, and that's what drew me to China. I had a sort of way of getting at them, don't you know. I got behind the scenes in their lives, and got a hold of the ropes. Of course, they exaggerated what I did, but, to be quite honest, if I hadn't been in Pekin the last year there would have been another outbreak worse than the first."

Netta listened, open-mouthed, as one might have listened to a fairy tale

"They've been awfully decent about it, and I've come home— well, to be quite honest again, to receive my reward. I suppose you saw the paragraph in "The Times" this morning?"

"No. Where is it? Don't say you haven't got it, boy, or I must slay you!"

He drew the paper from his pocket, turned the page, and pointed to the paragraph.

"Much interest is felt in the return to England of Mr. Richard Marchment, from Pekin, and it is an open secret that his services to the Government in Pekin have not only been warmly appreciated by those on the spot, but are likely to be handsomely acknowledged here. Mr. Marchment comes home at the request of the Foreign Office, and will be received with distinction on his arrival. The services rendered by this obscure genius at a time of most critical peril can hardly be over-estimated. They are fully appreciated by those who remember the full horrors of the Boxer rising."

"Dick— Dick Marchment! It Is the most wonderful thing in the world!"

"Oh, no; all in the day's work. I won't stop today; I'm quartered at the Savoy. You see, I wasn't sure how I might find it here. I hardly hoped for the good luck of seeing you like this. What I want you to do is to tell them all about it, so that they won't say too much to me when I come home. Just say to Father and mother that It's all right. I'm fixed up tor life. Probably I'll go back to the East, but I don't want them to ask me strings of unanswerable questions. You'll explain, won't you? You always understood everything and do it right; you were like it as a kid."

Netta's bosom was heaving; she could not yet command her voice.

DICK got up, and began to move rather restlessly about the room.

"There's just one other thing," he said, with a slight stutter in his voice. "I'm-I'm engaged. It's to Hurst's sister, Lilah. We came home in the same boat. I'm going over to Grosvenor Square now. You'll, tell them that, too won't you?— so that they will get all the fuss over before I come back tomorrow. Mother will remember her; she was on the Canada that day we sailed. Rue and I. She had a long pigtail down her back, Netta; and she pinched my arm. You'll like her, Netta; she's your sort. Now that's all, and I'm going. I feel as nervous as a kid about meeting them all again. You'll make it right, won't you? And tell them I'll he back tomorrow."

"I will, my precious boy, and I'll tell you what, Dicky, boy— I'm going to enjoy myself tonight as I've never done since you went away. And I deserve it, too, for I'm the only one who believed in you right through."

Then they kissed one another again, as children might have done, and Dick went away. On the road that skirts the common he met the hired victoria bearing his father and mother back from the station, but he could not stop to speak to them. The fool of the family was very shy yet. He had left his credentials, and hoped on the morrow to pay a proper call.

_________________

10: Buzzards

George Allen England

All Star Detective Stories March 1931

Sun (Sydney) 20 Nov 1932

GNARLED, twisted, and scared with the agonies of five years in the living hell of the Presidio, venomous with hate and lust of vengeance, Juanito Perez pondered at the doorway of his ruinous shack.

"Behold, then, the brands that Gonzales has put upon me!" he thought; and under the pelting tropic glare through the guana palms, brooded his manacle-scarred wrists. His anklets, too— scaly and tick-bitten above his ragged, blue, rope-soled sandals— shpwed cicatrices of leg irons.

Ah, yes, Juanito had needed irons, and floggings as well, to keep him beast-like in subjection. For both in the Presidio and before, he had always been a bad hombre. And now that he was out of his cage again, by all the saints! he surely meant to murder Gonzales.

"The Judas!" he growled, tilting back in his straight cowhide chair, and blowing much smoke from his brown cigarette. "My hand itches for his dog blood. It will itch till I see that blood spilt upon the ground!"

Considerably more than Juanito's hand itched, to judge by his scratchings. An ill-omened, poisonous figure. he sat there planning how most, safely lo butcher his enemy. And he had cause, no? A little over five years past he had harpooned a manatee — a sea-cow — in the formidable Swamp of the Ranier. He had peddled the flesh of that sea-cow among his friends.

One thousand pesos fine is the penalty for killing a sea-cow. Half goes to the informer. Gonsalez had whispered things to the alcalde. Thereafter, the rurales had closed in.

"Buzzards!" spat Juanito, malignantly eyeing a brown tree toad that goggled at him from the broken plaster wall of the shack. "And Gonzales, another buzzard! What cares he if a man die a living death, so that he be fed with blood money?"

One thousand pesos. But how had Juanito been able to pay a thousand pesos? As well ask a buzzard, itself, for diamonds! So the Government had sold his little finca, all but his thatched hut; and an acre of land along the arroyo. The sale had brought four hundred pesos. Half of this had gone to Gonzales.

To square accounts the Government had given Juanito three years in the Presidio. A bloody fight with a guard had increased this to five. And meantime, with the two hundred wrung out of all this ruin, Gonzales had taken away Juanito's woman, his pretty and plump and black-eyed Conchita, with the teasing little smile.

Also, Gonzales had bought a share in a rum-running and alien-smuggling schooner, and had become a man of substance. And Juanito? Well, here he was a free man once more. Here he was home, again. Home to his little thatched bohio or hut, and his acre beside the arroyo. The lonely hut, broken-down, leaking, deserted save for tree toads, lizards, ticks, ants, and scorpions. The hut now with a huge tubercle of termites' nests in one corner. The mined homo in what had once been a clearing, but was now only a pestilent jungle, so dense that even the water in the arroyo was almost hidden.

And no Conchita, now, to love, and to beat. No money— not even enough for steady supplies of cigarettes and rum. And scars upon the body of Juanito; poisoned memories; the hell-fires of hate!

Juanito crunched a black scorpion under heel, scratched himself again, and uttered an oath that should not even be thought of, except with caution. He squinted, blear-eyed, at a flock of screaming and flame-luied parrots that winged unsteadily over the coco-palms.

"Wait!" he nodded, raking his lean, whiskered cheek with unseemly claws. "Though it bring me to the garrotte, I will repay this son of ten thousand fathers. It is a fine debt. I will repay it, every centavo, with interest— and more!

JUANITO repaid it all, with interest and more, much more. Out of the thatch he dug his old pistol, hidden there five years ago. Though rusty now, it still would serve. By working two whole days at the Americano fruit grove in Santa Ysabel, he got him money enough to oil and clean and load the ancient weapon, also to buy beans, yucca, malaga, and a bottle of aguardiente, which warms the heart of man.

Then he waited. All alone, he brooded by the arroyo, where the white herons waded, and flapped: where the black parrots and woodpecker? and tiny owls gathered In mango trees— the mangoes that, sprayed with golden-yellow and bee loud blooms, stood up like billowing masses of volcano smoke against the blinding tropic azure.

On a bridge of solid mahogany nearby, the brick-red road crossed the arroyo. This road mounted through a sunken pass arched by feathery, fern-like bamboos. Juanito chose him a safe ambush, and waited; waited with the patience of hate, so infinitely more long-enduring than the patience of love.

And the third day,  Juanito's kind saints— to all of whom he had duly prayed— delivered Gonzales into his hand. For lo! Gonzales came riding towards Las Palomitas, on a pinto. Single-footing the pinto came; and on a very fine new saddle rode Gonzales, very erect and well-dressed in a clean white guayabera, or coat shirt, with shoes on. and a broad jipijapa hat.

Juanito, beholding him, felt the hate in his blood burn like raw spirits. Shoes, clean shirts, fine hats and saddles— ah, no, such were not for him. No longer for him was Conchita of the teasing little smile and the black eyes. Ah, no. Nothing now remained but scars and memories and ruin and bitter hate.  Only these— and the old pistol.

A tall man, this Gonzales, having a hawk nose, hollow cheeks, and mustachios like a bullock's horns. As he rode, he sang:

"Un jardinero de amor

Sembra una planta. y se va.

Un jardinero de amor.

Ay, nina de mi corazon!

Otro viene y la cultiva:

De quien de los dos sera?"

Then Juanito rose up, and very exactly shot Gonzales. Three times he shot him, through neck, breast, and belly, so that Gonzales fell down upon the brick-red dust of the road. And as he died Juanito thanked all his good saints and spat on his enemy, and also kicked him. Those kicks lacked satisfying power, because of Juanito's worn-out and soft alpargatos, or rope-soled sandals. Juanito envied Gonzales his fine boots, so very effective for kicking. Also Juanito was sorry that Gonzales bled so little. This was a subject of profound regret.

None the less, the dying man heard curses ardent enough to waft him straight to all the devils in El Infierno, which afforded no small satisfaction. The pinto wandered away with the excellent saddle and bridle— no mere gunnysack and rope. Juanito let the animal go. To have kept it would have proved far too dangerous. Nobody had seen the killing. Who, then, could know? Gonzales had plenty of enemies in the most select rum-running and alien-smuggling circles. Any one of them might have paid a debt in this wise. Who could successfully accuse Juanito?

"Especially," thought he,"if I hide the carcase of this son of a too-popular mother? Hide it so that it can never be found!"

His strength was small, for five years in the Presidio bring a man low. None the less, after he had scattered dust over the regrettably slight blood on the roadway, such powers as he could muster served him to pick up the carcase and carry it through the dense bamboo jungle edging the arroyo. About two hundred yards from the ruined shack, he dug a deep hole in the bank. And in that hole he buried the Judas.

Temptation whispered:

"Take his fine clothes, his boots, his hat. Take at least his money! Is it not yours?"

But no: anything of that kind might turn to evidence against him. And by the saints! he had no wish ever to don the iron collar of the garrote.

Therefore he planted Gonzales unplundered: body, boots, and breeches, money and all. The work, though long, did not seem hard. For the first time in all his life Juanito enjoyed working. Now and then he paused to smear sweat and flies, or to gulp raw rum. Inside on hour Gonzales had totally vanished.

"Now let the devil find his own. Find him— if he can!"

Crossing himself. he returned through the jungle of bamboos and rompa-rope bushes to his shack. There he hid his pistol, still half loaded, in the thatch again. He flung himself into his old hammock, totted up his score, and found it cancelled. So he drained the last of his liquor, inhaled a few cigarettes, and finally— despite the screaming flocks of parrots— fell asleep. Deliciously asleep, his debt all paid— with interest in full.

FOR nearly a week. Juanito basked in sunshine and contentment by day: slept soundly and happily, by night.

"Some go out for wood, and come home shorn," he murmured. "And my enemy— is he not shorn, aye, to the very hide? Nombre de Dios, que si!"

The hue and cry about his enemy's mysterious vanishing made music in his ears. So too did Conchita's noisy lamentntions. Life, ah, life was paradise!

But after a week the rain crows began chirping in the palms. Then the sunshine faded in a norte, a norther. And presently came rain, that washed away all happiness. For the rain waxed very great, and the creek rose, and the bnnks commenced to cave. And slowly tit first, then with an ever-accelerating tempo, an immense fear began to ride through Juanito's soul. Fear of what this thrice-accursed rain might do. Laired in his shack, with torrents sluicing down the guana-palm thatch, Juanito Perez beheld ghastly visions.

"Fool that I was, and dweller in the skin of a fool," thought he, "to have buried that Judas near the arroyo! Even though the jungle is thickest there, I should have foreseen the peril of rain and flood. I should have hidden that carrion far from the stream. Now if he washes out, the buzzards will surely come. And then the rurales may search. Ay de mi, fool and son of seven fools that I was!"

Yet though corroded by ever-strengthening anguish, nothing in heaven or earth could have induced him to visit that grave in the jungle, to make sure all was well. Or, If not well, once more to shovel and fill in earth. No, never Hint! Because, you see, of the visions he beheld. Visions of sightless eyes staring at him. Visions of a gaunt hand clutching at him from the guttered bank. Visions that made Juanito cower in sweating panic.

"I must have faith in my good saints, to protect me," he decided, wishing he had a candle to light. "And moreover, this devil's rain will soon be acaba'o— ended. Did I not plant Gonzales deep in the bank? How then, shall the water bring him out adain? How shall the buzzards come?"

But for all that, the iron band of terror — a hand, like the band of the garrotte itself— ever morn chokingly gripped him. And as two days of downpour lagged by, then three, horror got its long-clawed clutch on Juanito.

Fervently he crossed himself time without number, and passionately he prayed. And on the fourth day  storm was past; rain closed its sluice gates; sun surged up crimson and gold over the roval palms of Mone Pedroso.

But all this brought no joy. It brought, only panic.  For noon had not yet climbed to mid-heaven when behold! a zopilote, a buzzard, began to wheel and circle in the blue. Immensely hih caliisl. the dazzle, whence poured liquid lire of sunshine. the ominous black sneck of this buzzard swung its wide curves above the arroyo. And watching it with eyes that strained blood-shot. Juanito felt his unwashed skin prickle, felt the hair on his scalp— still only half-grown from Presidio clipping— crawl like a tortured creature.

"Ay mi madre! Maledictions ot ten million devils on thee!" he shrilled, shaking a hony fist. "Away with thee, son of Satan! Away, to thy father!"

The buzzard, however, still continued serenely to ride the high free winds of heaven. And an hour on another rode with it. Still later, three more arrived from nowhere in their own mysterious fashion.  Sunset of blood and fire, found lvlf a dozen volplaning In the upper Mr

That night, for Juanito. was sleepless with agony. Morning brought four or five ad dilional buzzards. The man could no longer count them. Leisurely, biding their time, they wafted round and round. Juanito flung vain curses. Lower, ever more low, the birds of evil omen traced their graceful curves; volutes that always centred on the arroyo.

What to do? Desperately, Juanito asked himself what to do? Beat his way back through the jungle and throw on earth? Not now for anything in this world! Leave the shack and flee, with that haunting terror at his sandalled heels? No, never. Try to escape from the Island? But how? Any such move would sear him with the white-hot brand of guilt. Once more he could see the living hell of the Presidio. Spectres floated— the grim black garrotte, the iron lever, the metal band to grip the throat, the steel point to pierce the spine. Slaying there in the shack was horror. Fleeing meant capture. torture, certain death.

"I will stay in my house," decided Juanito. "Perhaps those buzzards of the devil will go away, mañana. Or if not, maybe no-one will come to see what they have found. Is not to-morrow another day?"

He stayed in his house, and to-morrow was another day — a day in which a flock of buzzards come swooping low. Aghast, from his doorway he watched them, with their stiffly outspread nnd separated feathers like fingers at the tips of their immense pinions. Grotesquely ugly, nightmare birds of horror when on the ground, buzzards swim the air with grace consummate. But of this grace, Juanito saw nothing. To him, these hell birds meant only torture Their wide-winged shadows, slipping over the jungle, were shadows of death indeed.

AT mid-morning, three rurales came tramp-a-tramp-a-tramp over the mahogany bridge, along the brick-red road, and turned into the path leading to Juanito's shack. Juanito saw them coming. He beheld the swing of their swords, the heave and rhythm of their holsters, with the rows of cartridge pockets on the outside, the butts of their revolvers above. The set of their shoulders, the trudge of their shiny leather leggings, appeared business-like. Juanito knew the end had come.

" 'Sta acaba'o," he casually remarked to his soul. "It is finished. We shall not return to hell, at the Presidio. Nor shall we die in the kiss of the iron woman, the garrotte." Then, with the passive fatalism of his race: "Ah well, there is no evil that lasts a hundred years. 'Sta acaba'o!"

He dug his old rusty pistol from the thatch, took a final drag at a cigarette,  and lay down in his hammock with the pistol cuddled lovingly in hand. Greatly the rurales wondered at hearing the shot, at finding Juanito with his head "made into pieces."

"Madre santisima! This is most strange!" said they. "We arrive, merely to register this individual again for taxation after his release from the Presidio. And, look, he shoots to himself, the cabeza! His conscience, it must have troubled him. But why?"

Presently the circling, swooping buzzards attracted the rurales' attention. Investigating the jungle, they found— where the flood had carried it down — the carcase of a very aged cow lodged among the gnarled roots of a mango tree.

_______________

Index to "Past Masters" stories, by author.

Issues 31-38

I never envisaged this series of original anthologies going into so many issues, and the ever-growing index to all issues was becoming unwieldy.  Accordingly, I have now divided the Index.  This Index commences with Past Masters 31.

The Index to Issues 1 to 30 can be found in Past Masters 30, or as a stand-alone document uploaded to the Kindle and Epub libraries at MobileRead.

The stories are arranged in Alphabetical order of Author's surname, or if the author's name is consistently a pseudonym, that pseudonym (eg "Owen Oliver").  They are then in alphabetical order of title, disregarding "A", "An" and "The".

____________

Cleve F. Adams

Frame For a Lady 38

F. Anstey

The Talking Horse  34

Robert L. Ahern

Murder Needs No Motive  34

Anonymous

The Lady Detective's Story 32

Wolcott LeClear Beard

A Ledge of Safety 33

Frederick R. Bechdolt

The Case of Mimbres  37

H Bedford-Jones

Apache Gold 31

The Arizona Callahan  37

The Devil's Fire 31

The Devil is Dead 31

The Fog at Fiddler's Green 31

The King's Pipe  34

Lady of the Evil Eye 31

Sons of Kalewa 31

Leslie Beresford

Eastern Guile 35

Ellis Parker Butler

An Experiment in Gyro-Hats  37

Hats and Lilies 37

The Heckby Hill Murder 38

Egerton Castle

The Closed Door  35

C. Langton Clarke

The Detective for the Defense 33

Dorothea Conyers

Lord Hillayton's Settlement 35

Ted Copp

Blackmail Moll 36

Captain Dingle

Homeward Bound 33

Deferred 33

George Allan England

Buzzards   38

Drugged  38

George Manville Fenn

Lady Florry's Gems  34

Francis Flagg

The Blue Dimension 33

The Heads of Apex 33

Elliott Flower

The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill 36

J. M. Fry

The Ring   38

Emile Gaboriau

The Little Old Man of Batignolles

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure 35

Guy Gilpatric

The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks 32

One Good Tern  35

The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard  37

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Dancer's Mascot  35

Headon Hill

Rogue's Legacy  32

J. L. Hornibrook

Captain Cronhelm's Blunder 35

S. B. H. Hurst

The Brightest Jewel of Them All  32

Marianne Kent

A Black Diamond  35

Otis Adelbert Kline

The Dragoman's Slave Girl 35

George L. Knapp

The Family Compact  37

Thomas H. Knight

Old City of Jade  36

William J Locke

Ladies In Lavender 36

Charles J. Mansford

The Dervish of the Nile Pyramid 34

The Great Dial of the Gold-Finders 33

The Hidden Egyptian Shield  34

The Lost Fetish of Walai 35

The Veiled Idol of Kor 32 '

The Wizard of Swazi Swamp   37

Mrs. L. T. Meade

Beauty Dear 32

The Yellow Dragon Vases 32

Mrs L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D.

The Strange Case of Captain Gascoigne 31

With the Eternal Fires 32

The Small House on Steven's Heath 33

"To Every one His Own Fear"  34

Arthur Morrison

A Lucifo Match 36

Clarence Herbert New

The Attack from Moscow 32

Bill Garford’s Last Play (Culpeper Zandtt) 36

The Boss (Culpeper Zandtt)  37

A Challenge to the Submarine  36

The Island of Heaven and Hell 32

The Man Who Forgot  37

The Mystery at Mulungban  (Culpeper Zandtt)  37

A Night in the Kremlin 34

The Secret of Banda Sea 34

Owen Oliver

The Cape Conspiracy  35

A Pretty Woman 31

A Rapid Conveyance  36

Frederick C. Painton

Narcotic Man  36

What! No Imagination? 38

Max Pemberton

The Cripple at the Mill  34

The Lepers Guest   37

G. G. Pendarves

The Eighth Green Man  35

Hugh Pendexter

It Might Have Happened Otherwise  32

Kingbird 33

The Raven Mocker 33

Lewis Ramsden

Désirée 32

C. S. Raymond

The Wireless Death 36

Morgan Robertson

The Subconscious Finnegan 36

Arthur Somers Roche

The Dayless Diamonds 32

A Flutter in Finance 32

"Illimore!" 31

The Premiere Danseuse 32

The Robbery at the Café Ravasan 31

The Victim of Amnesia 31

William Merriam Rouse

The Nitwit 36

Victor Rowan

Four Wooden Stakes  38

Perley Poore Sheehan

Dead Men Talk  38

Annie S. Swan

The Diplomat  38

William Alexander Taylor

Intermere  33

F A M Webster

Towards Morning 33

Henry S. Whitehead

Jumbee 37

Raoul Whitfield

The Caleso Murders 32

Diamonds of Dread  38

Inside Job 36

Rivals of the Clouds 31

Silence House 36

Sinners' Paradise 33

William Alron Wolff

Bait, Hook and Sinker  34

_________________

Table of Contents

1: What! No Imagination? / Frederick C. Painton

2: The Heckby Hill Murder / Ellis Parker Butler

3: Diamonds of Dread / Raoul Whitfield (novelette)

4:

5: Four Wooden Stakes / Victor Rowan

6: Dead Men Talk / Perley Poore Sheehan (novelette)

7: The Ring / J. M. Fry

8: Drugged / George Allan England

9: The Diplomat / Annie S. Swan

10: Buzzards George Allen England

Cumulative Index issues 31-38