PAST MASTERS

THIRTY-NINE

August 2021

Part 2

Contents

1: Alcoholics  Calamitous / Robert Reeves

2: Bail Bait / Robert Reeves

3: Private Jones / Alun Lewis

4: Filamena's Hula / Randolph Bedford

5: The Man Who Held the Wires / Randolph Bedford

6: To be Taken with a Grain of Salt / Charles Dickens

7: The Doom of London / Robert Barr

8: Pan / Winifred Graham

9: Dance Macabre / Robert Reeves

10: Last Across / Max Pemberton

11: Grimgriffenhoof / Florence Warden

12: Sir Patrick Armagh's Knife / Guy Thorne

13: Pinched / Lewis Allen

14: The Missing Pearls / Lillian Bamburg

15: A New Keeper of the Wampum / Hugh Pendexter

16: The Double Scoop / Charles Beadle

_______________

A Cellini Smith, P.I. Case

1: Alcoholics  Calamitous

Robert Reeves

1912-1945

Black Mask, Sept 1945

1: Bottoms Up

CELLINI SMITH carefully engineered his big friend towards the bar of the Kitty Klub.

"Easy does it," he  said. However, it was Cellini and not Duck-Eye Ryan who collided with two of the tables before they reached their destination.

Mario, who doubled as manager and bartender, frowned at sight of them, and said, with undisguised disgust in his tone: "Oh, it's you again."

"That's what you tell me every time I come in here," Cellini Smith said. "Can't you find a different tune to blow?"

"Well, every time you come in here, it's you again," replied Mario not illogically.

Cellini scowled. "Suppose you set out two wholesome, nutritious glasses of whiskey for me and my friend. I will pay you for it, the owner of this dump will make a handsome profit, he'll be able to hire you for another week and everybody will be happy. When I want any chatty comments, witty limericks or soft-shoe routines I'll let you know."

Though the sibilants were slightly blurred, Cellini delivered each word with the extreme care and precision of a drunk trying to maintain an appearance of sobriety. He fooled nobody.

The barkeep plied his trade but continued to grumble. "Sure if that's all you wanted. But you always look for trouble. Like Mrs. Madigan's thigh the other day."

"It was not I but Mrs. Madigan's thigh that was looking for trouble."

Mario set out two glasses. "Sure. It spoke to you."

"It shouldn't be so obscenely fat and it shouldn't have sat down next to me."

"That still don't give you no call to pinch it. We try to keep this a family place."

"I have no family," Cellini observed. "I just have Duck-Eye Ryan."

Duck-Eye Ryan downed the contents of his glass and his large moon-face beamed at Cellini vacuously.

"Mr. Madigan heard about it," the bartender pursued. "He was simply furious. We nearly barred you from the Kitty Klub."

Cellini Smith said: "Shut up."

They had three more drinks and Duck-Eye said: "This is heaven. Can I have more?"

"Sure. I told you there's no limit."

"You're wonderful to me, Cellini." The dull, round eyes suddenly grew misty. "I stink, Cellini." The mist coagulated into twin tear drops in the outside corners of each eye.

"Stop bawling and get that drink down."

Duck-Eye's lips trembled and his hands rubbed his boxing-ring scarred face. "I'm just a lousy has-been—"

Cellini nodded agreement.

"—but you treat me like I still rated a semifinal, like I was on top of the heap." Duck-Eye Ryan's head fell forward on his arms and he began to sob into the bar.

Cellini regarded him with disgust and ordered more drinks. After a while the sobs ceased but Duck-Eye's head did not raise. Cellini shook the massive shoulders but there was no response. Duck-Eye had passed out.

Mario nodded toward Duck-Eye Ryan. "What gives with the goon?"

"Duck-Eye couldn't take it," Cellini replied. "He passed out. A hell of a bodyguard!" he muttered to himself.

"You've been at it three days," said Mario. "I wonder you don't pass out."

"Four days," corrected Cellini Smith. "Today is Friday."

"It's no good for you," moralized the bartender. "Why don't you give up and go home to sleep?"

"I got a shecret shorrow." Cellini stood up, holding on to the bar for support. "Looking for a fight?"

Mario waved him back to the stool. "All right. Cool off and watch the floor show. Tanya's going to sing so shut up and listen."

Cellini drank and watched Tanya sing. When she had finished he yelled: "Boo!" A bouncer put a quieting finger to his lips. An accordion duet took the stage and this time Cellini didn't wait for the end to indicate his displeasure. The bouncer left his station and came toward Cellini.

"You shouldn't do that, mister," he said pleasantly. "Just don't applaud if you don't like them."

Cellini decided that he was living in a democracy and no one could tell him what to do. He drained his glass and then threw it at the bouncer. It went wide by over three yards and smashed into an array of bottles behind the bar.

"Now," said Mario, "you're really going to have a secret sorrow."

The bouncer slid in expertly. Cellini let loose a punch, missing him completely but hitting a patron on the adjoining stool. The bouncer caught him by the left wrist and pulled back sharply, neatly depositing Cellini over his shoulder. Then, as if carrying a sack of potatoes, he walked out unhurriedly and into the manager's office where he dropped his inert burden on a sofa.

Mario, who had followed, said; "I hope he doesn't get sick in here."

"Not this one. His plumbing is zinc-lined."

"I shouldn't have let him have that last couple."

The bouncer nodded. "I been keeping my eye on him the last few days. Guess I'll call a cop." He left.

CELLINI slowly stirred and sat up. He realized that the thing on the table in front of him was a fifth of brandy. He tilted the bottle to his lips and, after taking a long swig, began to sing I Got Sixpence. Mario slapped him over the face and took away the bottle. Cellini beamed and continued to sing.

He was still singing when the bouncer returned with a policeman. Obviously bored, the cop listened to the story.

"I hate to do this," Mario concluded. "It's no good for our reputation to arrest customers."

"This what do you want me for?" asked the cop.

"On the other hand, I don't want them to get the idea they can come in here and rough up the place."

Cellini suddenly lunged for the brandy bottle, which was now on a bookcase, and fell flat on his face. The cop nudged him with a shoe and Cellini mumbled something that sounded like: "I wanna sleep. Lemme alone."

"If you don't want to charge him with nothing," said the cop, "why don't you keep him here overnight?"

"He'll only wake up in the morning and start all over again."

"That's right," the bouncer agreed. "The guy's on a perpetual binge and he'll be in looking for trouble again."

"I just don't want him around here and he'll head back as soon as he starts drinking. I've tried kicking him out before but he gets tough and it's bad for business." Mario snapped his fingers. "Say, maybe we can talk him into going on the wagon. If we can get him to take that alcoholic cure, he'll be out of circulation for a few weeks."

"Do what you want," said the cop, "but get it over with."

Mario bent over Cellini. "We'll give you a break, brother. You can either take the cure or you can go to jail. Which will it be?"

"I wanna drink," came the voice from the carpet.

Mario straightened up. "He'll take the cure. It'll be more comfortable than spending the same time in jail."

"As long as he agrees, it's no skin off my badge," said the cop and added suggestively: "Kind of cool out tonight."

Mario indicated the brandy bottle, said, "Try that fuel oil," consulted the telephone directory and made a call.

The cop had left when, some twenty minutes later, two competent-looking young men entered the office of the Kitty Klub. The initials, HA.C., on their white jackets, stood for Howard's Alcoholic Cure.

They looked down at Cellini and the blond one asked: "Does he get mean?"

"A little," nodded Mario, "but he's not likely to come to for ten or twelve hours."

The blond one asked some more questions and then he and his companion hauled Cellini up by the armpits and dragged him out. The way led through the kitchen and out the rear door where a private ambulance was parked After they had tossed Cellini on a rubber-sheeted litter inside the car, the two attendants locked the door and went back to the Kitty Klub.

They returned in a little while and looked in on Cellini. He was breathing heavily and one of them loosened his collar. The other took out Cellini's wallet, found an identification card and announced; "The guy's name is Cellini Smith."

While returning the wallet, he deftly palmed a five-dollar bill by way of a self-given tip and then the two of them got into the front of the car.

The ambulance headed for Hollywood Boulevard and then turned into one of the winding grades that lead up into the hills. The blond one looked back through the panel of glass into the interior of the car and saw that Cellini had rolled off the litter onto the floor. They continued to climb for another five minutes, turning into a side road which finally led to a gate with bronze lettering that read, simply:

HOWARD'S.

The driver touched his horn lightly and the gate swung back, giving them access to the grounds which were completely enclosed by a seven-foot cement wall. When they had reached the sanitarium building, the attendants stepped from the car and hauled the still inert Cellini from the rear. They carried their burden inside and stopped in the hallway when a figure approached them.

"Who have you there, Freddy?"

"Another stew, Mr. Howard," the blond one said.

"I can smell him from here. Who is he?"

"His name's Cellini Smith."

"A Smith again?" said Howard. "Well, I don't care what they call themselves. Where did you find Smith?"

"We picked him up at the Kitty Klub where he passed out," Freddy replied. "We checked and it looks like he's been on a binge for some time."

"All right. C-32 is vacant." Howard walked away.

The attendants carried Cellini around a bend in the corridor, opened a door and dropped him on a bed.

"Undress him?" asked one.

"He'd never know the difference," said the other and they left.

The room was completely dark and silent. From far away came the muted wailing of a dog but nothing could be heard from within the house. Ten maddeningly long minutes passed as Cellini lay, unmoving, on the bed. Then a hand quietly reached down and began unlacing a shoe.

Carefully, he placed the shoe on the floor. He had heard nothing but he thought there was an off-chance that the two lads in white were still lingering in the corridor. The other shoe went beside the first, then he eased himself off the bed without a sound and stood up.

Fully sober, his eyes took in the quarter-moon through the barred window. He looked around, identifying the various shapes in the room, and then moved for the door.

2: The Nut Club

CELLINI SMITH stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind him. It all seemed too simple but then Howard probably didn't mind having his patients wander around the building. It would no doubt another matter to get out the front door, past the guards, over the wall into the world again.

Cellini wondered about the time and checked his watch. Just 12:30. It seemed to him that his drunk act had taken longer. He wondered, also, which way to go and finally decided to turn right. There were probably more rooms down that way since the attendants had taken, by actual count, exactly sixty-two steps after bringing him in. On a purely percentage basis, the odds were that Henry Fields was located somewhere deeper in the building. If, thought Cellini glumly. Fields was in the building at all.

Quietly, Cellini moved down the hallway, then suddenly flattened himself against the wall. A white shape was approaching from around a bend in the corridor. It was a young, severe-faced nurse wearing the uniform of her profession. Cellini's mind raced to invent a story to explain his presence there for she could hardly miss seeing him.

Looking neither to right nor to left, the nurse swept by.

Cellini waited but she did not turn around. Something was wrong for he knew beyond a shadow of any doubt that she had seen him. Cellini didn't like it. He would have preferred an argument. Perhaps she didn't talk to strange

He continued on his way, passing several doors, and finally stopped in front of one showing a slit of light above the saddle. Henry Fields would certainly be awake and this would be as good a place as any to start. Without knocking, he entered.

It was a room similar to his own and sprawled on the bed, reading a mystery book, was a middle-aged, genial-faced man.

"Beg pardon," said Cellini. "Wrong pew."

The stranger sat up. "Come right in. Always glad to meet a fellow dipsomaniac. I'm Tom Sprigley."

Cellini took the proffered hand and supplied his own name. He asked: "Do they let you stay up all night in this joint?"

"Only if they feel like it. Smith. Why?"

"They operate in a queer way around here."

"You just don't recognize that you're in a classy place, my friend. There's no such thing as a padded cell here. It's called a detention

"It's still queer. A nurse just passed six inches from me in the hallway and she went right by without a word."

"That's Banks," said Sprigley. "Miss Banks is the only woman between sixteen and sixty I've never wanted to kiss."

"What's wrong?" asked Cellini "Isn't she alive?"

"They don't have to be alive for me. It's only that she's gone overboard on the Florence Nightingale stuff. I don't want anybody to feel that sorry for me. I just want to drink."

"How come she didn't say anything to me?"

Sprigley laughed. "You were lucky. If you think she didn't know you ought to be in bed you're mistaken. They know pretty well everything that goes on."

"You seem to have been here a long time. Are you a permanent guest?"

"On and off," Sprigley replied. "Whenever I sober up and take a look at my wife, I run here to Howard's. How about a few quick hands of pinochle?"

"Thanks but I've got no vices. I'm perfect." Cellini waved a farewell.

"Come on. Smith," Tom Sprigley coaxed. "I promise to lose."

"Maybe later." Cellini stepped into the corridor again and continued on his way. It was nearly one in the morning and Henry Fields still had to be found. He heard a rustle of linen behind him and turned to see Miss Banks.

This time she stopped and asked: "You're new here, aren't you?" The colorless voice matched her appearance.

"Yes."

"Well, you'll find it in the pantry down there."

"What will I find there?"

"Liquor." The word was spat out like a tainted oyster.

"I get it," said Cellini. "The hair of the dog that bit me."

The gray eyes, set in a face that could have been pretty, studied him. "No. It's simply that we want you to realize your position while undergoing treatment. An alcoholic needs his drink to face reality. It's a crutch."

"That's fine. Miss Banks. And you say I can find my liquid crutch in the pantry?"

"Yes. Down there."

He had no choice but to go the way she indicated.

W HEN Cellini Smith reached the pantry he found someone already there. It was a woman, crowding thirty, who was the complete antithesis of Miss Banks. The wise, somewhat shopworn though attractive face was over-painted and the figure was full-blown. Automatically, she mixed a drink from a bottle labeled Blended Whiskey and handed it to him.

"They cut it fifty per cent," she said, "but that's one better than forty-nine. Don't they wear shoes where you come from?"

"What are shoes?" Cellini accepted the drink.

"Thanks. Who are you?"

"Ivy Collins. They put cigarettes out on me. Do you think I'm better off dead?"

"Maybe. I couldn't say."

Ivy Collins opened the wrapper she wore and modeled the black negligee underneath.

"You're better off this way," said Cellini sincerely. "Who claims otherwise?"

"That Banks dame." Moodily, Ivy stirred her drink. "I bet she even rides her broom sidesaddle."

"Do you know someone called Henry Fields around here?"

"What's it to you?" snapped Ivy Collins.

"Very little," said Cellini, taken aback. "I heard he's here and I happen to know him."

"Oh. I thought you might be a detective or something." She grinned and Cellini suddenly realized that she was as drunk as one can possibly be and still remain vertical.

"Would my being a detective be good or bad?"

"Bad. It would mean that Henry was trying to pin things on me with my boy-friend. If you get what I mean," she finished lamely.

"And you like your boy-friend?" Cellini prompted.

"I can't stand him. He ought to get together with Banks. He says that women who drink are the bane of humanity. That's why he sends me here every few months."

"Then how come he's your boy-friend?"

"He loves me for what I am, not for what I drink. And I love him for his money. Sometimes I think it would be better to get back to the runway."

The pantry door swung open and Tom Sprigley entered.

"Ah, so you've met our star boarder, Smith. I don't blame you for ducking the pinochle."

"I'm looking for someone called Henry Fields. Know him?"

"Good friend of mine, though I don't usually go for the worrying kind."

Ivy finished mixing three more drinks and distributed the glasses. She raised hers for a toast.

"Here's to the next one to die."

Cellini said: "If he's such a good friend, you might tell me where his room is."

"Sixth door down the hall to the right."

The ceiling light suddenly blinked off and on three times in rapid succession.

"Oh, oh," said Ivy. "I guess they want us out of here."

Cellini stopped by the doorway. "What did you mean about Henry Fields being the worrying kind?"

"He's got troubles," Sprigley replied, "and he never lets you forget them. But," he added slyly, "why don't you ask Ivy? She knows him much better than I do."

The door to Henry Fields' room was open and Cellini Smith eased himself inside and shut it behind him.

A voice said: "Drop your gun and raise your hands."

"I haven't got a gun, my hands are raised and my name is Cellini Smith."

"You're lying!" snapped the testy voice from the blackness of the room. "Cellini Smith was here yesterday. I'll give you three seconds to get out before I shoot."

Cellini looked at the weak shaft of moonlight forcing itself through the window. The odds on the owner of the voice missing him in that darkness were worth taking. Hoping that this room was identical with his, Cellini suddenly grabbed for the wall switch and simultaneously dropped to the floor.

There was no explosion of any bullet in the light that flooded the room. Only silence, as Cellini slowly stood up. From a photograph he had seen, he recognized the man who was huddled under the bedclothes as Henry Fields.

Cellini sat down on a chair beside the bed and lit a cigarette. He said: "Never give anyone three seconds. Especially if you haven't got a gun."

"What do you want?"

"I'm here to find out what you want," Cellini countered. He took an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the bed.

Fields picked up the envelope and fumbled for the letter inside. "How did you get this?"

"From you through the mail with a hundred- dollar check which I've already cashed."

Doubt appeared on Fields' face. "If you're Smith, who was the other person?"

"I wouldn't know."

"But his business card—"

"I'm not carrying identification because I was afraid I might be searched but for two bucks I can get cards printed saying I'm the Andrews Sisters. How did this other guy get in here?"

"As a visitor. They don't let me have any so he came ostensibly to visit a girl I know here and I managed to get a few minutes alone with him."

"I suppose you told him your whole story."

"Of course."

"Well, you might as well repeat it to me now."

Fields regarded him with baleful eyes. "I'm still not sure he wasn't Cellini Smith and that you're not the phony."

THERE followed a strained and then Cellini said, "Think it over like a business executive, and tell me what difference it makes whether or not I'm a phony.'

"Smith, even if you're no fake I don't like your attitude."

"It'll have to do till the war's over. Apparently you're no intellectual giant. Fields, so listen carefully while I try to explain. You're in some sort of jam and you wrote one Cellini Smith to do something for you. Is that right?"

Henry Fields nodded.

"Obviously someone else doesn't want you to get that thing done, otherwise you wouldn't be locked up here and you wouldn't have to call in a private operative. Now this other person also knows what you want done. Isn't that so?"

"Naturally."

"Fine. Now put away your yo-yo and listen. This other person sent someone here to masquerade as Cellini Smith and fool you. If your visitor was the real Smith then he's doing what you asked him. In that case, it won't hurt to tell me the story because if I'm with the other side I already know it. If, on the other hand, your visitor was a phony then he's doing nothing in your interests. In that case, I'm the real thing so, again, you should tell me the story."

Fields considered it and then said reluctantly: "Very well. I suppose you know who I am and about my job."

"Yes, I checked all that."

"What you probably couldn't check was the financial standing of the firm for which I work. It's so good that at a secret board meeting a few weeks ago we decided to cut our shares four ways. That means that we will take in the outstanding shares of stock and return four for each one."

"And," Cellini noted, "make a fortune for whoever owns stock in the outfit."

"That's right. Each share is paying two and a half dollars quarterly interest and that will continue after the split. Naturally, I did something about it."

"You bought a large block?"

"No, I couldn't take a chance on the firm changing its mind about the four-way split so I went to a call broker and reserved five thousand shares to be called for within thirty days. I don't know if you understand how a put and call broker operates but it's something like a real estate dealer. You can put down a small sum of money which gives you the option to buy a piece of land within a certain period. If you decide not to buy, you lose your deposit but if you decide to go through the broker has to deliver at the original price. It's the same way with a call broker and shares of stock."

"I'm with you," said Cellini, "but who started pitching a curve?"

Fields' voice was bitter. "I wish I knew. Everything went smoothly and by way of celebrating all the money I'd make on the deal, I went on a drinking bout. As I wrote you—it you really are Smith—1 went to the Kitty Klub and woke up here. I seem to have signed some kind of paper which gives Howard the right to do what he wants."

"How much time," asked Cellini Smith, "do you have in which to exercise your option?"

"Very little. If I don't get in touch with Byron and Keever by noon this Monday, they will no longer hold the shares for me and I'll forfeit my original call deposit."

"That's plenty of time," said Cellini.

"Don't be naive, Mr. Smith! If it were so easy don't you think I would have found a way to do it the past three weeks? I can't write or even use a phone— let alone think of getting out of here and to my brokers by then."

"How true," said Cellini absently. He stared at the end of his cigarette for a while, then asked: "This visitor you had, did he come to visit Ivy Collins?"

"Yes. How do you know her?"

"I just picked a name at random. What gives between you and Ivy? The old urge?"

"What of it?" demanded Henry Fields. "I've been locked up in this prison for over three weeks and—"

"I'm proud of you," Cellini said, "but my only interest in Ivy is whether or not she knew that the visitor she passed on to you was a phony. Has she been making trouble?"

"She's been trying some blackmail but I'm not worried."

"If you're not, maybe she is. How about Howard? Is he friend or foe?"

"He a friend? He's locked me up here and—"

"All right." Cellini stood up. "Stick around. I'll be back."

"Where are you going?"

Cellini didn't answer. He was headed for Howard's office to check the files and see if Henry Fields was lying about not being able to leave the place, to learn if there was a visitors' list and, if so, to find out who had visited Ivy, posing as Cellini Smith. A volley of questions and protests still poured from Fields as Cellini again stepped into the corridor.

There was neither light nor noise from the pantry as he walked by. Tom Sprigley and Ivy Collins must have left for their respective rooms— or maybe not so respective. He kept going toward the front of the building and finally stopped by a pair of curtained, glass doors. This looked like the place. He tried the doorknob, found that it turned and eased himself inside.

He could make out the shadowy shapes of desks and filing cabinets. He regretted kicking out a traveling salesman who had tried to sell him a pencil flashlight a few weeks before and made for a desk lamp. Suddenly he stopped. Someone else had entered the room. The newcomer seemed to slide along the wall and then the ceiling lights snapped on.

It was Freddy, the blond one.

"At which corner," asked Cellini, "does the trolley stop?"

"So you sobered up, eh?" Freddy walked over and clamped a hand on Cellini's shoulder. A paralyzing thumb dug into the side of his neck.

Cellini remembered the rough way in which Freddy had thrown him into the ambulance. Without hunting for a better reason, he pulled back and hit the orderly in the stomach. Freddy fell down, rolled over and began to be sick on Mr. Howard's carpeting.

Out of the comer of his eye, Cellini caught sight of movement behind him. He had no time to turn, or duck or even move—only to curse himself for forgetting that these boys traveled in pairs. Then something caught him on the back of his head and he joined Freddy on the floor.

3: Dead Drunk

SPORTING what he probably called a smoking jacket, Howard drummed on the desk top waiting to speak until he was sure that Cellini would understand.

"Mr. Smith," he said finally, "you are not to hit members of my staff."

Cellini slowly sat up straight on the divan.

"Why not?" he asked.

"That is not why they are here."

"Then tell them to keep their hands off me. Besides," said Cellini, remembering, "one of your goons knocked me out from behind. If that's the way you cure people. I'll stick to the

"We only use force when necessary, Mr. Smith. Alcoholism cannot be beaten out of existence. What were you doing in my office?"

"Looking for a drink."

"Miss Banks told you it could be found in the pantry."

Efficient reporting, Cellini noted and said: "That stuff is so cut it tastes like the Gordian knot. I was looking for your private stock."

"I have no private stock, Mr. Smith, and if I had it would be private."

"I feel like a poor relation in a charity home."

"This is not a charitable institution. You'll learn that when you get our bill." Howard picked up a printed sheet from his desk. "While we're on the subject, you might as well sign this."

Cellini glanced over the fine printing. "It seems to give you the power to do a great deal."

"Certainly, Mr. Smith. It's merely substituting my will-power for yours because if you had any you wouldn't be here."

Cellini picked up a pen and signed. "If I had any sense I wouldn't be here."

"This is not a joking matter," said Howard. "You are already at the point where alcohol has become a narcotic instead of just a pleasant social lubricant."

"Suppose your cure doesn't work?"

"Its success will depend on you. It has worked in many difficult cases, as with Miss Banks who was once a patient here. We can supply occupational therapy, healthful exercise, good food and give you a better understanding of the dangers of alcoholism. However, all our medical, psychological and re-educational treatment is useless unless you cooperate."

Cellini nodded absently. It was time to get back to Henry Fields and ask more questions. He said: "I guess I'll return to my cell for some sleep."

"Fine, Mr. Smith. I'll send Miss Banks along with a glass of warm milk."

"That will be peachy."

Cellini left with an acute feeling of dissatisfaction. Howard seemed to be too smooth an article. People who had something to conceal neither talked nor acted with such frankness and ease. It required a lot of self confidence to refrain from asking, for example, why Cellini was walking around' in his stocking feet. And if Howard had nothing to conceal, then the supposed plot against Henry Fields was non-existent.

Cellini opened the door to Fields' room and entered. The lights were off and he could hear no sound.

"This is Smith. Are you awake?"

There was no answer and he turned on the ceiling lights. The bed was empty and the pillow lay on the floor beside it. Cellini took two more steps forward before he saw the red, oozing liquid that was forcing its way out of the semi-open bathroom door.

Carefully, Cellini Smith stepped over the puddle of blood. Henry Fields, clad in pajamas, lay dead on the tile floor—so obviously dead that further verification would have been pointless.

The blood which had spattered over wall and glass and tile came from a severed artery in the dead man's right wrist. The straight-edged razor, which had done the job, lay in the bathtub. Perhaps not neat but very efficient and plenty gaudy. The stopper was in the wash basin and it was nearly full with red-tinged water. Cellini dipped his hand into it and found it was luke warm.

Suicide?

All the elements were there. It was a classic method of killing oneself. The keen-edged razor—a swift stroke over the artery—and then plunge the arm into the basin of warm water to ease any pain.

In addition, Henry Fields had been psychologically ripe for such a deal. All suicides by relatively sane people are born of despair. It must have been a shock for Fields to discover that his previous visitor had not been a detective, that no one was working in his cause.

Ample reason for hopeless despair. Still Cellini hesitated. True, the elements were all there but they could add up to anything. He bent over to see if there were any further marks on the body. The vague, reddish band around the left wrist was probably from a wrist watch. However, the welt over the right temple, just below the hairline, was a different matter. It could have come from hitting the edge of the bathtub when Fields fell unconscious. Or it could have come from a blow delivered by some visitor.

Cellini returned to the bedroom. Nothing seemed disturbed or missing. The dead man's wallet and pockets held the usual collection. But no receipt, no piece of paper or anything else that seemed to have any connection with stocks or brokers.

There was little to do but try Howard's office again and see what the files on Fields contained. Cellini turned off the lights and went out into the hallway.

"Mr. Smith! I thought you were supposed to be going to bed." It was Miss Banks carrying the glass of milk.

"I've been busy examining a corpse."

"After you've stayed a while you'll learn I have no sense of humor. I'll take you to your room. You shouldn't be running around the corridors."

Cellini followed meekly. Above all, he didn't want her to report to Howard.

At the door to his room, Cellini said: "Good-by, we must do this again some time."

She swept by him and entered. "Don't be silly. I want to see you safely asleep. You'll find pajamas, tooth brush and anything you want in there."

"Look, Miss Banks. I'm a grown boy now. I shave twice a month."

Coldly, she said: "If you're modest, you can go in the bathroom. If you're insubordinate, I'll call for help."

Cellini changed into pajamas and crawled into bed. He would have to wait for her to leave before starting out again. She sat on the edge of the bed and handed him the milk which he drank with distaste.

He asked: "Aren't you afraid to be alone with a man like me?"

"No, Mr. Smith. Chronic inebriates are not interested in women."

"That guy Sprigley is interested and he seems as chronic as they make them."

"He hasn't been here long enough for me to find out. Please finish the milk."

"How long have you been here?"

"A few years."

"And no stew has ever"— he hunted for the proper euphemism and continued— "made advances toward you?"

"Certainly not." Her cold fingers began stroking his forehead. "You must try to sleep

"How about Henry Fields?"

The fingers seemed to press harder. "That poor man should be put out of his misery. He worries so."

"That's interesting. I didn't know that mercy killing was a house specialty."

"Euthanasia?" she said, "Why not? It would be a mercy to society, let alone to him. Alcoholic insanity accounts for about five per cent of all hospital cases."

"But would you put Fields out of the way if you had the opportunity?"

She said something in reply but he did not hear her. An overwhelming urge to sleep had come over him. Through the drowsiness that swept over him he understood the cause.

"Damn it, you put veronal in the milk."

He made out the words: "Not veronal... sedative... sleep..." A hand pressed against his chest, preventing him from rising. She was stronger than he had supposed. Strong enough to drag a body around. The cold fingers still stroked his forehead.

SOMEONE had hold of Cellini Smith's shoulders and was shaking him violently.

"Wake up! What's the matter with you?"

Reluctantly, Cellini opened his eyes. For a full thirty seconds, he stared at the anxious face above him, trying to recognize the features. Then he remembered that they belonged to Tom Sprigley and he sat upright.

"Well, it's about time," Sprigley said. "Do you realize it's after two o'clock?"

"What about it?"

"You'd better decide what to say to the cops."

"I'm just deciding what to say to Miss Banks." Cellini frowned. "What is this cops routine you're giving out with?"

"Henry Fields killed himself last night and the cops are going around talking to everybody. You asked about Fields last night in front of me and Ivy Collins. What I want to know is whether we should mention it to the police?"

"It doesn't make much difference, does it?"

"Probably not. Smith. They'll just bother you with a lot of extra questions. That's all." "In that case, let's forget about it."

Sprigley winked. "O.K. I'll pass the good word on to Ivy." He stopped by the door. "Do you think Fields might have killed himself because Ivy got out of hand? A fit of depression and that kind of stuff?"

"Could be."

While Cellini shaved and showered he tried to decide what to do. The paramount fact was that there was no longer any money in it. His client was dead. And along with his death went the answers to a lot of questions.

Cellini stopped scrubbing. Perhaps there would be some money in this. In any event, it would be worth trying.

Fully clothed, Cellini stepped outside. The subdued voices and the sober faces of those who passed were familiar. He knew from experience that they had already heard of Henry Fields' death. He stopped an orderly and was shown to the dining room where he was fed breakfast.

Someone said: "Did you hear—"

Cellini said: "I heard."

After breakfast, he was led to a small projection room and shown a film depicting the perils of drink which gave a somewhat detailed picture of how the body's various organs reacted to alcohol. When it was over. Miss Banks came in and led him out to the grounds.

"The next time," said Cellini, "you want me to drink milk, you'll have to bring the cow over and let me draw it myself."

"It's for your own good," she replied. "You will stay out here till called for."

This seemed to be the sunning hour, for most of the patients were outside, strolling about or sitting on garden furniture. At the far end, he recognized the bulky form of Detective-Sergeant Ira Haenigson, of Homicide, questioning somebody. Ivy Collins was talking to a middle-aged man encased in tweeds and Cellini walked

"Mr. Smith, I want you to meet Larry Coomb." Hastily, she added: "My fiancé."

Coomb pointed his sharp nose at Cellini like a bird dog and slapped a trouser leg with the gloves he carried. He did not offer to shake

Cellini asked: "Hear about Henry Fields being dead?"

"Good riddance," said Larry Coomb.

"Why, because he made a pass at Ivy?"

The nose seemed to leap up and the pair of gloves slapped Cellini across the mouth.

"I'm getting tired of all this," said Cellini. "Very sick and very tired." His left hand closed around Coomb's throat and his other grabbed the gloves. "Now open your mouth."

Coomb pawed the air and fell to one knee. As his mouth opened, Cellini stuffed the gloves between his teeth and then pushed him roughly aside.

Ivy Collins let out a slight giggle that turned into raucous laughter. Unable to speak, she pointed. Four of Howard's henchmen were converging on him.

THE attendants respectfully led Cellini into Howard's office. The owner sat behind his desk, frowning.

"Mr. Smith, I don't know what to do with you."

"Why don't you try penicillin?"

"The reason for your alcoholism, I would say, is that you're a psychopathic inferior and the only way you can express yourself is by unleashing aggressive behavior."

"It's really nothing," said Cellini modestly.

"I wouldn't mind it if you weren't a trouble-maker. You've broken into my private office twice."

"Once."

"I know better," snapped Howard.

"It was still once."

"Last night one of my men walked by here and heard someone putting the receiver back on the telephone. When he entered, it was dark and the intruder got away. That's why he was waiting for you the second time you returned. You have no business making phone calls or coming here without permission."

"Go on."

"Then you hit Freddy and he became sick all over my carpet. Today you attacked Mr. Coomb, a guest of Miss Collins."

"It was a pleasure. Tell me, was this Coomb character here last night?"

"Yes, he came in late and stayed at the guest house but that is none of your concern. I'm trying to decide the treatment for you. I could give you the usual harmless medicines which create acute discomfort for the patient and tend to cause abstinence so that he won't be subjected to the medicine again. But you're too intelligent to be taken in with that sort of thing."

"I certainly won't take milk again."

"You'll take what we give you," Howard

said. "You're in our care and we can be stem if necessary. We intend to cure you whether you like it or not."

"All right," said Cellini. "Let's cut out the comedy. You know who I am, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then you know I'm a private operative?"

Howard nodded.

"Fine—so I'm not interested in getting cured of anything, but I am interested in Fields who was my client."

Again, Howard nodded.

"Now that that's understood, I want you to do a few things for me."

"The police are already investigating Fields' death."

"I don't get along too well with them," Cellini said. "I want access to your files on Fields and also a list of the visitors Ivy Collins has had the last few days. Also, pass the word around to your stall and patients that they would do well to answer my questions."

Howard tugged at an earlobe. "Surely, Mr. Smith. Is that all?"

"I'll let you know if I want something else."

"Good. Now suppose you go to your room and rest for a while."

Cellini stared at him.

"You see, Mr. Smith, I've already been warned about this obsession of yours that you are a private detective. It seems that you are sicker than I thought."

Cellini gripped his knees and tried to speak calmly. "There's a man from Homicide outside called Haenigson. Call him in and ask him."

"Very well." Howard flipped a button and spoke a few words into the telephone. They sat silently, watching each other until Haenigson appeared.

Howard asked: "Is this man a private detective?"

Haenigson looked. "I never saw him before in my life," he said blandly and left

Cellini felt a curious tingle come over him. "I tell you I'm a private dick.'"

"Yes, of course." Howard pressed a buzzer on his desk. "You will please go to your quarters now and rest. You will find it more comfortable than a detention room."

Several attendants filed into the office. The rage within Cellini burst out suddenly and violently. Blindly, he began hitting out on all sides. He still hit and struggled as the weight of five large men bore him to the floor and he was dragged out

4: Dipso-Facto

STRETCHED out on the bed, Cellini stared at the ceiling with a hard, expressionless face. He tried not to think, tried not to remember, tried only to concentrate on a black spot in the ceiling's comer. He did not move when he heard the key turn in the lock and someone entered.

"Now we can talk, Smith." It was Ira Haenigson.

"I thought you didn't know me."

"I was playing your game. How could I guess what you were up to with Howard?"

It sounded reasonable. Cellini said: "It's no game. Someone told him I'm cracked and that I imagine I'm a detective. At least, that's Howard's story."

"We'll get to him later," said Haenigson. "What about Fields?"

"The suicide? I've been hearing rumors. I wish you'd tell me about it."

The detective-sergeant said to the chest of drawers: "He's been hearing rumors. He wants me to tell him about it. He just came here to read the papers."

Cellini was forming a reply that was short and to the point when he remembered his mistake. A stupid, amateurish mistake. His prints were all over the dead man's room and if Haenigson didn't already know it, he would in a few hours.

Cellini turned away from the ceiling and said: "I have no interest in this thing other than being mad because my client is dead. But I'm real mad. As they say in cross-word puzzles, I'm irate and I'll level with you if you do the same with me."

"I'll listen."

"A few days ago I received a letter from Henry Fields with a hundred-dollar retainer. It said he had been shanghaied from the Kitty Klub and brought here and he wanted me to do a job because he couldn't get out."

"Why did he pick on you?"

"The phone book, I suppose. We'll never know. He couldn't have visitors so I came here the hard way through the Kitty Klub. It looks as if they shill for Howard."

Ira Haenigson shrugged. "I'm interested in homicide."

"You ought to try being interested just in crime some time. I managed to see Fields last night. He told me that the outfit he worked for is cutting its shares four ways so he went to a call broker and took an option on a large block of shares. The next thing he knew, he was stuck in here, getting cured of alcoholism."

"What did he want from you?"

"He wanted someone to pick up the option on the shares before it lapsed. I figured this place was pitching a curve since they kept such close tabs on him so I went to case Howard's office. When I got back, Fields had committed suicide."

A short, mocking laugh escaped the detective-sergeant. "You know better."

"You caught the wrist watch? You're getting brighter, Haenigson. Unfortunately, we'll never have the chance to ask more questions of Fields—and I won't get a chance at any more dough."

"You've been overpaid already. Smith, with the hundred-buck retainer, but are you sure you haven't got another angle?"

"What would that be?"

"Are you sure you're not going to pick up the option on those shares?"

"So you couldn't find the receipt." Cellini swung his legs down and sat on the edge of the bed. "Get this—if I did find any receipt and cashed it, you'd know in a half hour. In addition, no broker would honor such a transaction with a stranger. Also—"

"All right, all right. Money means nothing to "you. You're just a great big champion of justice."

Cellini's face twisted in a grimace. "Let's hear what you found out?"

"Hardly worth mentioning." Haenigson stood up. "Guess I'll toddle along."

"What about Howard? What will we do about him?"

"We?" asked the detective-sergeant with affected surprise. "You've decided to take his cure and I think it's a wise decision. Let me know how you make out."

"You mean you're not going to spring me out of here?"

Ira Haenigson said pleasantly, "Of course not," and left.

Minutes after the key had again turned in the lock, Cellini Smith still stared at the door.

It was another half hour before the door to Cellini's room opened and two attendants wheeled in a tea-cart that bore an enticing array of food. Behind, followed Howard who waved the two men out.

It was an abject, apologetic Howard. "Mr. Smith, it's all been a terrible mistake."

"Get out of here," said Cellini with an effort to remain calm. Get the hell out!"

"You can't blame me for not believing you were a private detective. After all, you came here under false pretenses."

"I didn't come here—I was carried."

"But you agreed to take the cure and I was under the impression you were an alcoholic. Not until Sergeant Haenigson told me of the mistake I made did I believe you."

Howard laughed uneasily. "It's rather late and I suppose you must be hungry, Mr. Smith, You had better eat before you leave."

"I'm not leaving."

"That's fine," said Howard without enthusiasm. "You'll be my guest. Incidentally Haenigson told me that Fields' wrist watch proved he had been murdered. Could you explain what he meant?"

"The mark of his watch band was on the left wrist which would indicate that he was right-handed."

"So?" prompted Howard.

"Fields' right wrist was slashed which means that he would have had to hold the knife in his left hand— and he wouldn't have done that because he wasn't a southpaw."

"I see."

"That was a stupid blunder on the part of the killer. Someone simply walked in and stunned Fields with a blow on the head—with one of those heavy, glass ashtrays perhaps— then dragged him to the bathroom, put his arm into the wash bowl, cut the artery and let the body slide to the floor."

"But who, Mr. Smith?"

Cellini didn't reply but said: "I want to see your complete files on Ivy Collins and Fields."

Howard hesitated a moment, then left. He returned shortly, carrying two folders which he gave to Cellini.

THE one on Henry Fields supplied scanty information. He had been picked up at the Kitty Klub and admitted on Thursday the 26th. The medical record spoke of extreme irritability and a psychopathic condition and recommended that he be permitted no visitors or phone calls.

The one on Ivy Collins was hardly more illuminating. Medically, she was diagnosed as being emotionally immature. Cellini's eyebrows went up. She had seemed to him emotionally overripe. His chief interest, however, was in the visitor who had come to see her and had then gone to Fields, posing as Cellini Smith. This was Saturday and the imposter had come two days before. According to the record. Ivy Collins had had no visitors on that day.

Cellini tossed the cards aside and Howard asked again: "Who could have killed Fields?"

"Maybe you."

"You have no reason to think that!"

"No? In the first place, you're treating me with kid gloves. You're afraid I might discover something. In the second place, you're a liar. Haenigson would never have told you I'm a private detective because he likes the idea of me stewing here."

"You're being unfair, Mr. Smith."

"Nor would he have told you of the wrist watch. If he had, however, it would have been with good reason and he would have explained what he meant. You found it necessary to ask me because all you knew was what you overheard—eavesdropping on us."

Howard pointed to the door. "That's solid pine. It would be impossible to hear anything through that."

"Maybe so." Cellini pulled the bed aside and looked behind it. He examined the base and the picture moldings and ripped the drapes from the window. His search ended with the radiator grill set in the wall.

He reached inside and tore out a small microphone that had been placed behind the grill.

Nervously, Howard said: "The people I bought this place from wired the rooms with dictaphones. I've never bothered to take them out but I don't use them."

"My aching back!" commented Cellini Smith.

"There's no reason for us to be unfriendly," Howard continued. "I'd like to part with you on better terms and I do wish you'd eat some of that food because you must be hungry."

"Stop cueing me like a ham actor, Howard, because we haven't come to the parting of the ways yet. I'm sticking around to nail you for the killing. As for your food—"

Cellini picked up a bowl of soup and hurled it against the wall. He picked up the salad dish and threw it at the barred window. "That's what I'll do. I'll nail you whether you're guilty or innocent!"

Hurriedly, Howard left. Methodically, with extreme precision, Cellini picked up each dish and threw it with all his strength. "Psychopathic inferior," he said and hurled the coffee. "Social lubricant.. .euthanasia... occupational therapy..." When the tea-cart was bare, he stood motionless, calming himself. Then he walked out, feeling a little better.

It was nearing eight P.M. when he again stepped into the corridor and headed for the pantry.

Tom Sprigley and Larry Coomb were there but they were not drinking.

Sprigley welcomed Cellini with a wink and said: "This milk-head was trying to find out where you were hiding. He says he wants to break your dirty neck."

"Is there a phone in that guest room of yours," asked Cellini.

Coomb mustered what dignity he could and said: "You stay away from her. This is a final warning."

"Have you got an Ameche in your room?" Cellini repeated.

"Do you hear me?" Coomb was again slapping his thighs nervously with his gloves. "Stay away from her."

"Damn it!" shouted Cellini. "Is there a phone in your room?"

"Yes, there is, but I'm warning you that I'll kill you if you don't stay away from Miss Collins. I intend to marry her."

Miss Banks entered. "Gentlemen, please." Slowly, she looked at each of the men. Her pale, unattractive face seemed to be under a strain. "Please be quiet. There is group singing going on in the social room. If you wish to join them—"

"I don't wish to join anybody," snapped Cellini. "I just want to find out who killed Henry Fields and get out of here!"

"Killed?" repeated the nurse.

"That's right. Perhaps a mercy killing. As for you. Coomb, your motive might have been jealousy."

"Take it easy," said Sprigley. "Maybe you are a detective but you had a chance to do it yourself, you know."

"How do you know I'm a detective?"

"Howard told me. Why?"

"Did you tell Ivy?"

"Yes, I told her this afternoon. I even told her not to mention to the police your asking about Fields last night. You seem mighty ungrateful—"

He stopped. From some place in front of the building they could hear hoarse shouts. There was something familiar about one of the voices and Cellini headed for the noise.

IT WAS a strange scene that met his eyes when he reached the entrance. The mammoth figure of Duck-Eye Ryan stood just inside the doorway. Three white-jacketed men were trying to get at him without meeting the huge fist that lashed out like a piston. Duck-Eye's left arm was wrapped around the neck of Mario, the bartender of the Kitty Klub.

As Duck-Eye sighted Cellini, he delivered a yelp of pleasure, dropped Mario to the floor and said, "Gee," three times.

Cellini dodged his friend's embrace and bent over Mario.

"When do you have your night off at the Klub?" he asked. "It's Thursday, isn't it?"

Mario stood up slowly and began to rub his neck.

Howard's patients began to crowd out of the social room and one of them announced triumphantly: "1 always said whiskey was a stimulant and not a depressant."

Howard himself appeared and demanded the cause of the commotion. An attendant pointed to Duck-Eye and replied: "That guy barged in here dragging the other one. He's like a bull and there's no stopping him."

"All right," nodded Howard. "Will everybody please clear this place?"

Cellini turned to Mario again. "It is Thursday, isn't it?" He thought Mario nodded and said: "Does the Klub send out invitations to people to come around and visit the joint?"

Howard indicated Mario. "Bring him into my office."

A look of sheer terror crossed the bartender's face. He suddenly shouted, "You'll never get me," and dashed out through the door.

Howard snapped, "Go after him," and walked away.

'"That's fine," said Cellini Smith. "You're glad to see me. Now tell me how you got here."

Duck-Eye Ryan rubbed his round, unblinking eyes which were misty with pleasure and replied: "When I woke up at that joint you wasn't there and they said you was home. You wasn't."

"Then what?"

"I went back tonight and asked again from that bar jockey and he told me."

"Well, why did you drag him here?"

Duck-Eye rubbed his knuckles. "He wouldn't tell at first so I shoved him around. When he gave in I didn't know if he was leveling so I brought him along."

Cellini scratched at his chin. That still didn't explain Mario's terror of Howard.

Duck-Eye said: "Gee it's good to see you. What about a drink?"

Cellini began to lead the way toward the pantry when Tom Sprigley appeared at the doorway. He had a finger to his Ups and he beckoned them to follow him outside into the grounds.

They went after him. It was a cool night, with a slight drizzle and their feet made no sound on the sodden ground. They followed as Sprigley walked around the large building, hugging the walls to minimize the danger of being seen by those inside.

As they reached a wing in the far end of the building, Sprigley waved them down. Carefully, they closed in and stopped in front of a light window. The drapes were partly open and they could see inside.

As they looked, they saw three men. Mario sat on the floor wedged in the right angle of one of the room's corners. As they watched, Freddy kicked him in the stomach. Mario did not cry out because a gag bound his mouth and he did not hit back because his arms were stretched across his chest, inside a straitjacket. On a bed, smoking a cigarette, sat Howard taking in the scene.

Freddy's foot moved again, this time catching the victim in the ribs. Through the partly-open window, Cellini could hear the thud of the kick. Freddy paused, as if waiting for some sign from Mario, then moved in again. He seemed quite bored as his fists and feet lashed out at ten-second intervals.

Within the space of a minute, the helpless bartender's face became a red jelly, his body a mass of flesh throbbing with pain. The blows fell, the blood ran. Mario's head seemed to nod.

Sprigley shivered. "God, I can't watch that any more!" he cried. "I'm getting out of here. I need a drink." Rapidly, he walked away.

Inside the room, Freddy and Howard froze as they heard the voice. Then one of them leaped for the wall switch and darkness flooded the room.

Cellini and Duck-Eye began to make their way back, but it was too late. Attendants were beginning to scour the grounds for them.

CELLINI Smith and Duck-Eye Ryan turned and raced the other way. There was a yell as they were sighted. A man suddenly appeared in front of them but Duck-Eye charged ahead as if he were a bulldozer and the man a weed. 'They were around in the rear of the building now. They sighted another door and made for it.

It was open and they were inside again, inside where they were relatively safe, for Howard could not be sure who had watched him working on the bartender.

They paused as Cellini attempted to orient himself, trying to remember where the room had been. They heard a moan, which gradually became louder and more strident, and they made toward the sound. It was probably Mario who had succeeded in working himself free of the gag.

The sound had not come from Mario, however, but from Miss Banks who stood blocking the entrance. Roughly, Cellini pushed past her. This was the room. Mario still lay in the comer, the gag was still on his mouth— but there was a difference. Now, a knife was imbedded within his body.

It was an ordinary kitchen knife, no doubt sharp-pointed for it had made a clean cut through the tough cloth of the straitjacket. The blood-encrusted face seemed twisted in a mixture of fright and pain. He had probably seen his murderer come through the doorway and had watched as the knife was carefully plunged into him. He had seen it without being able to shout or to make any move to defend himself.

Cellini turned and faced Miss Banks. "Well, what about it? Is this another mercy killing?"

She had stopped moaning and he thought she might faint. Instead, she stared at the body for another moment, then turned and fled.

Duck-Eye asked: "Should I bring that goon back?"

"Let her go. I'll catch up with her later."

He saw a phone on a table and dialed Ira Haenigson's home number. This was evidently another guest room, since the patients were not allowed such a convenience. No doubt Coomb was staying nearby— perhaps in this very room.

There was a growl on the other end of the receiver and Cellini said: "Get your fat rump over here."

"What are you up to now. Smith?" demanded the detective-sergeant suspiciously.

"I've got a nice hunk of sirloin for you to look over. With a knife in it."

"Knife?"

"Sure. Think of the fun you'll have spreading powder over it and then finding out that the nasty killer heard about fingerprints and was wearing gloves to—"

There was an oath and the sound of the receiver being smashed down by Haenigson.

Duck-Eye said: "We got company, Cellini."

He turned to And Howard staring at the body. "That took a lot of courage, didn't it?" he asked.

"Courage?" repeated Howard stupidly. He started for the phone.

"Don't bother. I've already called Haenigson."

"You have? That was very clever of you."

"Not especially, Howard. Learning to dial a telephone is just a matter of coordination. Anybody can learn."

"It was clever because it diverts suspicion from you, Smith," he announced, "you may consider yourself under arrest."

"I'll be glad to consider it," said Cellini amiably. "In the meantime I want a drink and I'm sick of that fuel oil you have in the pantry. Where's your private stock?"

"I told you I have none. This is a horrible murder—"

"Save it for your memory book," said Cellini and left.

Sprigley's hand shook as he poured drinks for Cellini and Duck-Eye. He said: "We've got to do something about that poor man Howard and his thug were beating."

"We don't have to do anything," Cellini snapped as he began pulling open drawers and cupboards.

Sprigley eyed him curiously. "That's rather callous— or cowardly."

"Maybe both." Cellini found some cutlery.

"Don't they keep any larger knives around here?"

"How should I know? Frankly, I'm disappointed in you, Smith."

"Where's the kitchen?"

"Not far. The three of us should have gone in and stopped that beating."

"If I remember right, Sprigley, you're the one who ran first. Every attendant in the place is outside right now, curry-combing the grounds because they heard you. Howard would probably give your right arm to find out who watched him going over the guy."

"I suppose so," Sprigley admitted glumly. He drained his glass and shivered. "I have no stomach for that sort of thing."

"Is it easy to get into the kitchen?" Cellini asked.

"Sure. I've raided it plenty of times. Why do you ask?"

"Because then it would be easy to get hold of a knife."

"Smith, if you're thinking of a knife to save that poor man from being beaten, you're crazy. Howard's a dangerous man and he's got a lot of helpers."

"Stop drooling. The guy will never be beaten again because he's dead."

"Dead?"

"Murdered. A knife was stuck into him ten minutes ago."

"Smith, you're lying. I don't know what your game is but I'm going to find out." He hurried out, white-faced and distraught.

Duck-Eye said sadly: "You shouldn't ought to let him to talk like that. Cellini, this stuff ain't even fit for me to drink."

"Then don't drink it."

"But that would be a waste," said Duck-Eye, downing a glassful of the watered liquor.

Cellini remembered that Haenigson and his crew would be arriving soon. If any sense were to be made out of the whole thing it would have to be done now. He polished off a half tumbler of the watered whiskey and left as Duck-Eye began to beg him to return to the Kitty Klub for some decent liquor.

5: Alcoholic Solution

IVY COLLINS yelled, "Scram," to Cellini's knock.

He entered. Ivy smiled at him from the depths of an easy chair and patted her lap in invitation. Her fiancé, who was sitting stiffly on an up-ended suitcase, made no move but his thin nostrils flared in apparent anger. He wore his hat, as if ready to leave.

Cellini sat down on the bed and asked: "May I come in?"

"Always," she cooed.

"Thank you. Just go on with your discussion."

"It's finished."

"It is not," snapped Larry Coomb. "And you, Smith, get out of here. Incidentally, I'm going to sue you for assault."

Cellini was beginning to feel the effects of the whiskey. "You must be tolerant and forgiving, Larry—or I'll really assault you."

"He wants me to go home with him," Ivy explained. "Right now."

"And you will!" Coomb's hands trembled. "I've done everything I could for you, Ivy. I've brought you here to be cured of drinking that rotgut, I've given you everything you

His fiancée observed: "Nuts."

Cellini suddenly realized that Coomb was in love with her— deeply, desperately and hopelessly so. He began to feel sorry for him. "Why don't you trade her in for a zither, Larry? She's no good."

"There!" exclaimed Ivy. "That's what I've been telling him. He doesn't understand me. The real no-good me."

Coomb stood up. "This is all very crude and unpleasant. Ivy, get packed. I'm in a hurry."

"You have plenty of time," said Cellini, "because nobody's leaving this nuthouse. There's been another murder."

Cellini could read nothing in the silence which greeted his announcement and he continued: "The first one, which you no doubt know about, was Henry Fields. The second was Mario, the former bartender at the Kitty Klub."

Coomb said: "And if you don't leave Ivy alone, the third one will be you."

"That's what I'm wondering about because I know you have a temper that might easily lead you to murder. You had good reason to kill Fields and you had ample opportunity."

"Ivy, get packed!"

"I told you no one can leave till the cops get here. I can't figure why, but you're as crazy about Ivy as she is about whiskey. Maybe it's the old sex appeal we read about. You knew that Fields made a play for her and you came here last night and stayed in a guest room without letting Ivy know."

"That was because I arrived late."

"Or because you wanted to catch the two of them. You might have visited Fields, had a fight—and you won. But what worries me is what your connection with Mario could have

"Larry knew him," Ivy Collins supplied, "because he used to come to the Kitty Klub to drag me out."

"Which means that you knew him, too," Cellini said. "You were blackmailing Fields, weren't you?"

"A girl has to live."

"But maybe Fields didn't. Last night when I asked about Fields you showed your fangs because you thought I might be a detective."

"Last night," she said moodily, "I was afraid you'd queer the pitch. But I don't give a hoot now. I'm going back to the runway."

"What changed your mind?"

"You did, when you made him eat the gloves. You and your damned gloves!" she shouted at Larry Coomb. "Are you an Eskimo? You don't need them around here. What do you always carry them for?"

"Ivy, please." Coomb sounded distressed. "Forget little things like that. We want each other."

"I want you like a hole in the head! We're through. Do you understand? You're not a man. I wouldn't take you with a keg of caviar!"

"Let's get back to you. Ivy," Cellini said, "because I am a detective."

"Oh I knew that. I can spot one in the last row of the balcony right in the middle of a show." She winked. "But I still like you."

"If you had me spotted then, why did you try to warn me off Fields last night?"

"What do you think?"

"Because," replied Cellini, "you had Fields figured as an easy touch. You probably have some notes from him asking you to drop around to his room at night and you were ready to cash in."

"You're so understanding."

The door suddenly burst open and Miss Banks appeared. Her hair was disheveled and her uniform had lost its immaculate appearance. She stood swaying gently from side to side and grinned. "Hullo."

She was drunk, completely so, down to her very feet which seemed to beat on the floor in a slow dance.

IVY COLLINS regarded Miss Banks with astonishment and said: "Well, well. If it isn't Miss Prissy-Puss. How the mighty have fallen."

"You're beautiful," said Miss Banks with feeling. "I only wish I could be more like you."

She walked over to a table with a casual innocence that was very obvious. Suddenly she grabbed a handbag from the table, whirled and dashed out.

"Hey!" yelled Ivy. "That's my purse. I got dough in it."

Cellini said, "What the hell!" and ran into the corridor. Miss Banks was nowhere in sight. An elderly man walked by and he asked him:

"Did you see Miss Banks?"

"Yes, and she stank from liquor—like you, sir. What you must remember is that alcohol is primarily a carbohydrate so—"

"Which way did she go?"

"I'm talking to you, young man. So you must prevent the excess carbohydrate from going to the brain by taking an injection of vitamin B-complex."

Cellini gave up and raced down the hallway. He saw a half-open door leading down to the basement and he descended the steps two at a time. He found himself in the middle of trunks and boxes and a gas furnace. He saw a distant light and made for it.

It was a welcome sight. Here was a room where Howard kept his private stock— sealed bottles that had not yet been watered down for medicinal use in the pantry.

The walls were lined with wine bottles and cases of liquor and beer stood on the floor. Miss Banks sat on one of the cases by an open bottle of Scotch. She had Ivy's purse open and she was covering her face with lipstick, rouge, powder and mascara. In her drunkenness, she was producing the effect of an Indian smeared with war paint.

She waved to Cellini happily and continued the smearing. He pulled out a bottle of Scotch and pried it open with a knife. He drank long and deeply and put the bottle to his lips again. He sat on a case, watching her and when a third of the bottle was empty he went over to her and said: "You're lousing it all up."

He wiped her face clean with a handkerchief and began applying cosmetics. The result was no happier for he wasn't any more sober than she.

They drank and he said: "A fine thing. A nurse getting drunk."

"I'm not really a nurse. After I was cured I just stayed on to help as a sort of orderly. Kiss me."

"I thought you weren't interested in men."

"I wasn't. Howard cured me of a lot of things. Even of life until I learned better to-night."

"What changed your mind?"

She trembled in recollection. "Did you see Fields dead in the bathroom? Did you see the knife in the poor man who was tied up? I couldn't bear it." She shuddered and threw one arm around his neck as the other reached for the bottle. She drank, then sighed happily.

Cellini tried to pull away but her arm tightened. He asked: "Did you ever before see the man who was knifed?"

"Often. He used to come to visit Howard. I'm going to live again. Why don't you help me?"

Cellini considered it and decided not to help her live again. He pulled away and sat down on a case with his bottle. He sat there for five minutes. It had needed some good liquor to do it but now he was suddenly thinking with a beautiful clarity. He was beginning to see sense in everything. .

He rose, gathered up an armful of bottles and lurched out

As Cellini Smith again reached the first-floor corridor he found himself facing Howard and Freddy.

"I knew I'd find you here. Smith," Howard snapped. "I'm locking you up till the police get here. You're under arrest"

Freddy said: "Put up your hands, Smith." There was a .38 automatic in his hands to lend persuasion to his words.

Cellini raised his hands and the bottles of Scotch crashed to the floor. The attendant began to step forward when Duck-Eye Ryan, attracted by the breaking glass, appeared in back of them.

It was the sort of situation that Duck-Eye understood, one of the few things to which he could react quickly. He bounded forward, his huge paw closed over the gun and twisted it from Freddy's hands. Howard fled.

Duck-Eye beamed with self-pride. "Should

I do something else, Cellini? 1 mean to this guy?"

"No." Cellini remembered Freddy working over the helpless Mario. "No. I want to do it myself." He leaned against the wall, sorry that he had had so much to drink. "O.K., Freddy. Let's see how good you are with someone who's not in a strait-jacket."

Cellini moved in to be jarred back by a blow on his chest. Freddy sensed his advantage and struck rapidly. Cellini could feel the blows but they did not hurt. They seemed almost pleasant, like the stinging effect of an after-shave lotion. He knew there was a cut over one eye and he could taste blood on his lips. He hit at the face in front of him but he met only air. Why had he drunk so much?

Duck-Eye circled in unbelieving horror as Freddy moved in for the kill. Cellini decided to stop hitting at the face. It was too small. There was no percentage in it. He kept taking blows as he tried to remember how he could hurt Freddy most. Then it came to him. By now, the attendant was not concerned with defending himself and he stepped back for the finishing blow. Suddenly, Cellini ducked and lunged at his opponent's groin.

There was an agonized scream from Freddy and he dropped. The blood tasted salty on Cellini's lips. His mind's eye saw Freddy hammering at the bound Mario. This was not enough punishment. He took careful aim and kicked Freddy's jawbone. He heard a satisfying crack.

"Gee," said Duck-Eye, "you look like a mess."

Cellini felt happy and exhilarated. His face was still pleasantly numb and did not hurt. With the one eye that was not closed he gazed ruefully at the broken bottles. He needed more.

He pushed through the group of chattering and excited patients, who had gathered toward the end of the fight, and made his way down to the cellar again. Miss Banks was now lying on the floor where she had passed out. He gathered up another armful of bottles, stumbled out.

THE sound of approaching sirens came to Cellini Smith as he kicked at Ivy Collins'

She gasped with delight as he entered, and helped relieve him of the bottles. "This is wonderful. All for me?"

"For us," he corrected. "I'm not getting anything out of this job so at least Howard can pay me off this way."

She fetched two glasses and they sat down on the carpet. "Your kisser sure looks like beef hash. That's one thing you got out of it."

He opened a bottle. "Freddy also got something— a cast on his jaw for a few weeks."

"Here's to the next one to die," she said and they clicked glasses in a toast.

"There won't be any next one. What happened to the boy-friend?"

"Larry? I guess I convinced him there was no business and he went away." She giggled and held out her glass. "Some more please. Anyway, you're cuter than him."

"It's just as well. I know your boy-friend didn't do it."

"Why not?" she asked in a disappointed tone.

"Motive. He had plenty reason to kill Fields on account of you but there was no reason for Mario. Besides, Coomb stayed in a guest room last night and he had a phone there. He didn't have to go to the office."

"A phone yet," she said. "You're drunk."

"Sure. So are you. The motive behind Mario's killing is missing for you, too. And as for Fields, he wasn't worth anything to you dead, either."

"I'd kill for you, Cellini. I'm currrazy about you."

Cellini shook his head and refilled the glasses. "It all gets back to the stock that Fields optioned. And we mustn't forget the business about Thursdays."

"Yes," agreed Ivy. "We must always remember Thursdays."

"You see, I don't like coincidences and three Thursdays in a row is too much. Henry Fields was admitted here from the Kitty Klub on a Thursday. Mario's night off as bartender was a Thursday. The guy who visited Fields, claiming he was Cellini Smith, came on a Thursday."

"Pour some more and tell me what all that

"It proves that the imposter who impersonated me was Mario. Fields didn't know Mario because he came here from the Klub on a night when Mario was off. And later, Mario was able to leave the Klub and pose as me because that was his night off, too."

"I don't care even if I don't understand you," she said. "You're cute but you got blood in your hair."

"Fields thought Mario got in as a visitor from you but you had no visitor that Thursday. It had to be someone who could come and go from this prison as he wished and Mario had that privilege because he was a regular visitor. He used to come here to get paid off."

"I like money." She poured some Scotch onto his head and began shampooing his hair.

"Mario not only got wages as a bartender but he also got a percentage for steering people to this joint. He worked hand in glove with Howard. I think I'll get Howard and ask him."

"No you don't," said Ivy firmly. "I'm trying to clean your hair out and you're staying."

"Say, maybe I can get Howard here without leaving." Not trusting himself to stand, he crawled on hands and knees to the radiator grill and felt behind it. It was there.

"One, two, three, four," said Cellini. "One, two, three—"

Ivy asked; "Have you gone nuts?"

"I'm just testing the dictaphone. All right, Howard. I know you're listening in on all this so you better get over here. And come with Sprigley and Haenigson. I know Haenigson's there because I heard the sirens twenty minutes ago. If he won't come, Haenigson, then bring him. That corpse he just showed you had a straitjacket on it a little while ago. I'll tell you more when you get here."

Cellini crawled back to where Ivy sat and they drank until Haenigson, Sprigley, Howard and a plain-clothes man crowded into the room.

"What's this business of a straitjacket?" demanded the detective-sergeant. "And get off the floor and stop making a fool of yourself."

"Don't shove, Haenigson. I'm giving you the story, you stinker, not because I like you but because I want Howard nailed."

"Nailed for what?" demanded Haenigson.

"Mario, for one thing." He turned to Howard. "You and Freddy were beating him up while he was in a straitjacket. You've no doubt taken him out of it since then. At any rate, there were witnesses to the beating. Weren't there, Sprigley?"

"I'll sure testify to that," stated Sprigley.

"In addition," Cellini said, "this place is a racket even if you do make a limited attempt to cure people of alcoholism. You keep liquor in the pantry, ostensibly for your patients to taper off on the drink but actually to keep them around here longer so they'll pay more. You had Mario for a shill— and I don't know how many more— to steer suckers here who were so drunk they didn't know what they were signing."

"Howard will be taken care of," said Haenigson. "Let's get back to the beating."

"Mario pulled a fast one. As Howard's little helper, he gave him the dope on customers he sent here, so he phoned up Howard last night and told him that I had the crazy idea I was a detective and to humor me. Howard later found out it was true and when Duck-Eye dragged Mario here Howard went to work on him to find out what it was all about because he was afraid of losing this lush racket. Before Mario could squeal he was murdered."

"Good," nodded Haenigson. "Let's get to the murders."

"I told you Fields' story about optioning stock from a call broker. What happened was one of two things. Either the call broker decided to bet against Fields and didn't cover himself by optioning the stock, or he did. The broker then heard of the four-way split in shares and if he hadn't optioned the stock he stood to lose a lot of money when Fields came for the payoff. If he had optioned the stock the broker had a chance to hold on to it and make a lot of money if only Fields could be kept out of the way till the option date had passed. Isn't that right, Sprigley?"

"Why ask me?"

"Because you must work for that broker. Because you're the killer."

THE plainclothesman moved next to Sprigley who said: "You're disgustingly drunk and you're not making sense."

"You're right on only the first count," said Cellini. "You knew of Mario's connection with this place and you had the Kitty Klub send an invitation to Fields. Lots of places do that. Then when Fields went to the Klub, Mario had the relief bartender slip him a mickey. Fields woke up here and found he couldn't get out because Mario had told Howard that Fields had to be watched.

"In the meantime, you came here yourself to keep an eye on Fields and to make friends with him. That was your first mistake, Sprigley, when you told me you had been here before. Miss Banks told me otherwise."

Cellini continued: "Of course when you made friends with Fields he couldn't tell you the whole story— or anybody else— because there would have been a run on the stock that would have been traced back to Fields who was a member of the firm. However, he did tell you he was trying to smuggle out a letter to Cellini Smith and probably asked you to mail it So you got Mario to pose as me in order to make Fields think a dick was working for him."

"No one can pose as you, sugar," said Ivy. "Anyway, I once mailed out a letter for Fields."

"Fine. That's the one that got me here. When you heard my name you telephoned Mario to warn Howard about my supposed hallucination. That was that first phone call in your office last night, Howard.

"Later, while I was in the office, Sprigley had time to kill Fields. Still later when we watched Mario's beating he knew the guy was ready to squeal so he talked out loud to stop it until he had a chance to knife him. It was neat— calling us out to watch the beating and then knifing Mario while we were being chased.

"You're not very bright, Sprigley. You said Howard told you this afternoon that I was a detective. Howard himself didn't know that till early this evening when he listened in on the dictaphone— and he wouldn't have told you."

Haenigson stood up. "Let's go. Coming Smith?"

"Not for about a week," replied Cellini. "I'm going to take Howard's Cure in reverse."

"You and me both," cooed Ivy Collins.

________________

A Cellini Smith, P.I. Case

2: Bail Bait

Robert Reeves

Black Mask, Jan 1942

1: Justice For Sale

HE CHECKED a curved wrist watch that you knew he couldn't have come by honestly and found that it was just two minutes short of nine in the morning. Chewing away at the toothpick between his thin, slitted lips, he entered the Hall of Justice. His colorless eyes surveyed the signs and arrows on the walls of the vaulted vestibule.

Coroner, Traffic, Small Claims, Bail— there were dozens. He read them all and when he didn't find what he wanted he walked over to the elevator starter.

"Reynolds." He spoke the word without moving the toothpick.

"Huh?" asked the starter. "Reynolds," he repeated. "Where do I find the guy?"

"Oh, you mean Judge Reynolds."

"I know what I mean. Where do I find him?" The starter named a floor and office number and he entered a waiting elevator. Other passengers pushed in, crowding him to the back.

A big man, well-cushioned with fat, squeezed him to the wall but suddenly stiffened. The fat man wasn't sure, but he thought he felt something hard and unyielding—something like a gun—over the other one's chest.

The fat man swung around to find himself looking into the colorless eyes. The fat man swallowed heavily, said nothing, and got off at the first stop. He left the elevator four stops later and walked down the hall till he found the door he wanted. He pushed through without knocking. An elderly man sat alone behind a desk, robed in judicial black. He spat out the toothpick and asked:

"You Reynolds?"

"Yes," replied the jurist. "What can I do for you?"

"Plenty. My handle is Manny Simms."

"Yes?" Manny Simms reached into his breast pocket and tossed an envelope onto the glass top. "Look at that first, Reynolds." The judge removed a rubber band from the envelope and emptied its contents on the blotter. It was a packet of twenty-dollar bills. "Count them, Reynolds."

The judge frowned. "Mr. Simms, I want to be certain before I do something about it. Are you trying to bribe me?"

Simms ignored the question.

"There's fifty slices of that lettuce there—just one grand—and you can buy a lot of gavels with that. You got a case coming up in your court this morning. A guy called Jimmy Legg."

Manny Simms shoved another toothpick into his face before continuing. "That grand, Reynolds, is to let Jimmy Legg go."

AN HOUR later, at precisely ten o'clock, Judge Reynolds left his chambers, crossed the hall, and passed through a door that gave into the rear of Magistrate's Court, Division Six. The bailiff saw him coming and intoned: "Los Angeles County Magistrate's Court Division Six the Honorable Frank Reynolds presiding rise please sit down please thank you quiet everybody."

The crowd in the courtroom made a half-hearted gesture toward standing up as His Honor entered with dignified steps and sat behind the massive, elevated desk. Reynolds fitted pince-nez to his razorback nose and thumbed through the mound of papers before him. They concerned the cases that were scheduled for hearing that day.

He read the first sheet carefully, scanned through several of the following, then nodded to the clerk. The clerk called the first case. A henpecked husband had gone berserk and forced his mother-in-law to eat his marriage certificate and had then proceeded to beat her with a telephone. The husband pled not guilty and Reynolds remanded him for trial.

The second, third, and fourth cases were disposed of with equal rapidity. It was hardly ten twenty by the clock when the case of James Legg was called. Jimmy Legg stood up and gazed at His Honor with all the doe-eyed innocence that a two-time loser can muster. Beside him stood Howard Garrett, one of the better mouthpieces, a comforting hand on his client's shoulder.

Garrett gave the impression that this thing would make the Dreyfus case look like a traffic violation. A young, pimply-faced deputy district attorney rose for the state. He had Jimmy Legg dead to rights and he sounded very bored. Legg, it seemed, had jimmied his way into the Lansing Investment Company, at the Tower Building, two nights before and had souped open the office safe. The janitor of the building heard the detonation and rushed up to be sapped for his pains. Legg made good his escape after slugging a screaming stenographer who was returning for some papers she'd forgotten.

Through a thumbprint on the outside door jamb of the Lansing offices, the police were able to identify Legg and haul him in two days later. Both janitor and stenographer picked Jimmy Legg out of a lineup as the man who had assaulted them. The deputy D. A. concluded the bare recital by asking for an early trial.

Judge Reynolds regarded the accused. It was an open and shut case but Legg looked jaunty and confident. Howard Garrett, his attorney, pled not guilty. Legg was a victim of circumstances, the lawyer nearly sobbed. That thumbprint was on the door because Legg had gone up earlier that day to invest some money. As for the identification by janitor and stenographer—who knew what sinister forces were behind this whole thing?

Judge Reynolds asked several perfunctory questions. He didn't seem very interested in the replies but seemed, rather, to be debating something within himself. Finally, he buried his nose in the papers before him and said in a low voice: "Insufficient evidence for trial. Release the accused."

The deputy laughed. His Honor was some joker!

"I was not aware of my reputation for wit," flared Judge Reynolds. "I said there was insufficient evidence to waste the taxpayers' money on a trial."

The pimples on the deputy's face reddened.

"Insufficient—"

"Enough of this," snapped His Honor. "Next case."

A hiss of shocked astonishment passed over the courtroom. The deputy sat down weakly, staring at the judge in dumbfounded wonder.

Even James Legg could hardly believe his good fortune and stood without moving till Garrett grabbed him by the arm and hustled him out. More cases were called.

White-faced, his hands clenched tensely, Reynolds handed down his decisions. It was some thirty minutes later when he rapped for silence and said:

"Clerk, what time is it?" The clerk checked.

"Five minutes past eleven, Your Honor."

"In that case I should like to interrupt these proceedings to explain my behavior in freeing James Legg who should patently have been held for trial."

The pimple-faced deputy D. A. swore softly under his breath. A couple of reporters sat up straight, their noses twitching at the scent of a headline.

"This morning at nine," continued the judge, "I received a visitor in my chambers. He introduced himself as one Manny Simms, and offered to bribe me if I freed James Legg. Naturally, I refused and sent out an alarm but he escaped. When I later entered court I found this paper on my bench. Clerk, read it aloud."

The judge passed it down. The clerk's voice sounded strange in the hushed room as he read aloud the scrawled writing.

"I'm hiding under your desk and I've got a rod on your belly so you better not move from the desk. Do as I tell you. Let Jimmy Legg go and give him a half-hour start. Not a second less if you want to live."

The clerk looked up. "It is signed, Manny Simms."

A swelling murmur swept the courtroom and the bailiff called for silence.

Judge Reynolds stood up and passed a weary hand over his eyes. He said: "Perhaps I should not have considered my own life so valuable. I don't know. At any rate, bailiff, arrest that man hiding under the bench."

Manny Simms stepped out and viewed the courtroom with a sardonic smile. The toothpick in his mouth was now soft and pulpy. He laid the gun in his hand on the bench.

"O. K., Reynolds. You followed orders. I ain't kicking."

A FREE man, Jimmy Legg left the Hall of Justice with Howard Garrett, his attorney, at his side. The lawyer was frowning.

"Jimmy, you must have been born with a gold horseshoe in your mouth."

"The judge knew I was innocent," declared Legg with a grin.

"I'm your lawyer, Jimmy," Garrett reminded, "and I know better. And Reynolds knew better too."

"Yeah," said Jimmy Legg softly, "and you know better than to stick your beak where it don't belong. I'm dusting now, Garrett."

The lawyer grabbed him by the arm. "Hold it, Jimmy. Where are you going?"

"None of your business."

"What's got into you? The D. A. might make a stink because Reynolds didn't hold you. I may have to get in touch with you."

"You got my address."

"Don't take me for a child, Jimmy. You wouldn't go near your apartment till you were sure the police didn't want you again."

"I'll ring you at your office."

Howard Garrett shook his head slowly. "I don't like it."

Jimmy Legg laughed. It sounded like a glass cutter in action. "What's the beef?"

"Why," asked the attorney, "should a judge as scrupulously honest as Reynolds even think of letting you go scot free? Why do you refuse to tell me where you're holing in? Do you expect more trouble? And why did you come to me in the first place?"

"You know damned well why I come to you, Garrett."

The lawyer nodded. "Because I happen to own stock in Lansing Investment and you thought I could persuade them to go easy on you."

"So they went easy and I still don't get your beef."

"You're acting dumb, Jimmy. You know the Lansing people did nothing because I haven't even had a chance to talk to them. Still you got off—and I don't like it."

Jimmy Legg absently rearranged the silk handkerchief in the lawyer's breast pocket. "Everything's just ducky, Garrett."

"But—"

Jimmy Legg said, "Easy does it," and ambled off.

He rounded the corner into Sunset and the instant he was out of his lawyer's sight his casual saunter became a rapid stride. His quick, purposeful steps faltered only when he looked behind to see if he was being tailed. But he saw no one and soon he gained a corner cut-rate drugstore. He made for one of the phone booths at the far end, hunted in the directory, then dialed a number. The voice that responded said, "Hamilton Apartments," with an inflection calculated to let you know that the rents there were plenty high. "Let's have Winnie Crawford." Jimmy Legg's voice sounded dry, almost frightened, and he had to repeat the name. Another few moments and a languid contralto said: "Yes?"

"Are you alone, Winnie?"

There was a contralto gasp. "Jimmy! I thought they arrested you."

"I asked if you were alone."

"Yes." A moment's hesitation and she added: "Yes, darling."

"That's good. Now listen, honey," Legg said rapidly, "I'm coming up to your place. Pull the shades, lock the doors, and don't let anyone into your apartment till I get there."

"But I don't understand," said Winnie Crawford. "How did you get off? Did you get bail?"

"I'll tell you later, honey. I'm sitting on top of the world now and if you're smart there's a place right next to me for you. Get what I mean?"

"Of course, Jimmy. Only you'll have to give me a little time. You know I like you a lot but you mustn't rush—"

"That's good enough for me, sugar. You'll find out I like you enough for both of us when I get up there."

"But, Jimmy, maybe you shouldn't come up here. They'll see you at the desk downstairs."

"Don't worry, sugar. I'm coming up the back way." Winnie Crawford said, "Good-bye, darling." She also said, "A fat chance you got to play bingo with me, you lousy bum," but Jimmy never heard that part for she had already cradled the receiver.

ONCE again Jimmy Legg consulted the directory. This time it was the yellow book and he searched under Private Detectives until he had his number, then dialed. The brittle, somewhat bored voice of a man answered.

"Is this Cellini Smith?" asked Jimmy Legg.

"Yes."

"Well, this is Jimmy Legg. I want to hire you to—"

"Listen, you underslung gunsel," interrupted Cellini Smith, "you couldn't hire me to laugh at you. Where'd you get the nickel to phone me?"

"It's on the level, Smith," protested Jimmy Legg. "I want you to do a job for me and I'm willing to give you a retainer."

"Get back under your damp rock, Legg. You couldn't retain a square meal, let alone retain me."

It never occurred to Jimmy Legg to get insulted. He said: "Look, Smith, there's real dough in this for you if you can help me out. I want you to come around and meet me."

"In the pig's eye," scoffed Cellini. "Whatever mess you're in, Legg, you probably deserve it."

"Now don't go off the deep end, Smith. You know your way around and you got to help me out. I'll pay in advance. I've got sugar on me right now."

There was a slight pause before Cellini Smith said: "That sounds better, crumb. How come you're out? I thought you were hooked on that Lansing Investment job."

"That's just what I want to see you about, Smith. I want you to meet me at the Hamilton Apartments on Rossmore."

"Listen, you animated sewer, I'm not stepping out of this office till I find out what kind of a job you want me for— so you'd better tell me right now."

Jimmy Legg swore. "It's about that Lansing Investment job, Smith. I was in court this morning. The judge had me with my pants down but still he let me go. I want you to find out why that judge didn't hold me. Something stinks and I got to know."

"That sounds kind of interesting," said Cellini. "O. K. I don't promise to do anything but I'll drop around for a look-see."

"Fine, Smith. The Hamilton Apartments in about forty minutes and make it the bade entrance. If I ain't down there I'll have someone waiting to bring you up to the right apartment."

Cellini Smith promised to be there.

Jimmy Legg pronged the receiver and left the booth. He went over to the counter and ordered a double-decker sandwich. Still eating the sandwich, he left the store and caught a Wilshire bus. After a while, he reached Rossmore, left the bus, and cut up the block toward a marble-fronted building.

When Jimmy Legg came abreast of the Hamilton Apartments, he paused to light a cigarette till the doorman's back was turned, then took the narrow alley on the north side. He walked down its length till he reached a fireproof door, pushed it open, and then stopped dead in his tracks.

Jimmy Legg's eyes bulged at what he saw and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. His face was suddenly shiny with cold sweat.

"No, no." His voice was almost a whisper. "Please don't."

Even as he spoke he knew his pleas were futile. There was a sharp report as a small-caliber gun went off and Jimmy Legg slowly tumbled forward— as if carefully choosing the spot of ground on which to die.

2: Rendezvous

CELLINI SMITH worked his feet back and forth, trying to get the sleep out of them. Finally, he yawned and stood up. He decided that he might as well get around and see what that Jimmy Legg business was about. Detectives who live in rent-due offices can't be choosy about clients.

Some twenty minutes later, Cellini turned off Wilshire at Rossmore and parked his heap of scrap iron opposite the Hamilton. He remembered that Legg had asked to meet him at the back entrance and he crossed the street and padded down the length of the alley on the north side—then stopped short.

His face was a bored blank as he said:

"Hello, Haenigson."

Ira Haenigson, detective-sergeant of Homicide, stood up from his examination of Jimmy Legg's corpse and made a wry face.

"Why don't they draft you or something, Smith?"

"A killing?" asked Cellini disinterestedly. "Anyone I know?"

"Anyone you know!" The detective-sergeant seemed to swell like a blowfish. He turned to a porcine rookie. "Our friend wonders if it's anyone he knows."

The rookie laughed uncertainly. "You're bloody well right it's someone you know!" Ira Haenigson suddenly shouted.

"How do you figure that?"

The Homicide man calmed himself, substituting irony for anger.

"Now, I'm only a cop that goes out on homicide calls, Smith. Just a dumb cop from Homicide. Do you understand?"

Cellini's brows furrowed as he gave the appearance of concentration.

"You're a dumb cop from Homicide. I think I understand. Go on."

"That's right, Smith. And then I get a call to go out on a killing. Where is it? On Hollywood and Vine? On Wilshire and La Brea? Any place where it would be reasonable for you to show up? No indeedy. The corpse is hidden in an alley by the rear door of an apartment building. Then by sheer coincidence you happen to show up in a place a quarter-hour later and you ask me if the body is anyone you know. Come, Smith, let me pinch your cheeks. You're so goddamned cute!"

The photographer finished taking his pictures of the body and chalk marks were made on the concrete outlining the position and angle at which it had fallen. Jimmy Legg was lifted on a stretcher and carted away. Then the fingerprint experts, sighing hopelessly as they regarded the stucco walls and the dull metal finish on the fireproof door, set about their jobs.

Cellini said: "I happened to be passing outside, Haenigson, when I noticed the department cars and I just came in here out of sheer curiosity to find out what had happened."

"Now that's entirely different, Smith. I shouldn't have left our cars on Rossmore right plunk in front of the apartment, eh?"

"I guess not."

"You great detective," said the detective-sergeant witheringly. "It so happens the department cars are not on Rossmore because I don't like to advertise my arrival. The cars are in back of this building. Anyone but a moron would have noticed that the body was just carried down the alley through to the street on the opposite side."

"That's what I meant," said Cellini smoothly. "I was passing through the other street and figured you were stopping at the Hamilton here so I came around the front—"

"All right," snapped the Homicide man. "Wrap it in Kleenex. Were you supposed to meet James Legg right here?"

Cellini Smith was a picture of innocence. "What's a Legg?"

"If you didn't show up here to meet Legg, then you came to meet his murderer. Which one was it?"

"I get it, Haenigson. Have I stopped beating my wife? Why don't you tell me what this is all about?" Cellini demanded.

"James Legg muscled his way out of court on a burglary rap this morning. An hour later he's garbage. A two-bit homicide, Smith, but the kind that makes good headlines. Can the underworld make a mockery out of our courts? Get what I'm driving at?"

"Sure," nodded Cellini. "If you don't crack it quick you need somebody to throw to the wolves—and I'm handy."

"Exactly, Smith. This happens to be the wrong kind of case to play button-button with the police. So you better open up and say what you're doing here and who you were supposed to meet."

"I was driving by and saw the department cars," began Cellini, "and I figured I'd see what was cooking—"

Ira Haenigson's bulky figure slowly advanced on Cellini. "Get out! Quick!"

Cellini didn't move. Other than a narrowing of the eyes, his face was infuriatingly calm But the tapered body was braced with catlike tensity to meet the Homicide man's elephantine rush. Haenigson suddenly thought better of it and halted.

"That's better," said Cellini, "—and safer."

He wheeled and walked out.

CELLINI SMITH sat in his parked car debating with himself. His client had been murdered. It would be little better than sucker stuff to try and nail the killer out of charity. Besides, whoever mayhemmed Jimmy Legg didn't do mankind any disservice. But there was Ira Haenigson and his threat could not be regarded idly. He could make much of Cellini's appearance at the scene shortly after the murder— and he would certainly refuse to accept the true explanation for it. Haenigson would never believe that a gunsel of Legg's caliber would hire a peeper. Cellini sighed and got out of the car. He had no alternative but to follow through— and to do so before Haenigson began wondering what Legg was doing in these parts.

He passed through the palm-studded doorway of the Hamilton and approached the desk. He asked:

"Does Mr. James Legg live here?"

The clerk, a delicate, lavender specimen, flipped through his files.

"Now let me see. That should be under L. No, sir, I'm sorry. I've never heard of Mr. Legg."

"You've heard, all right. That's the guy who was shot outside in your alley an hour ago."

"Oh, you know of it?" said the clerk brightly. "I'm so glad. I'm such a poor liar."

"Fine. But did Legg have an apartment here?"

"Certainly not." The clerk sounded offended. "We don't lease apartments to such rowdies—such, such potential corpses."

Cellini leaned, over the desk. "Listen, my androgynous friend. If Legg didn't park his shoes here then he visited somebody and the chances are you know who it is. Now why don't you open up and dish out an intelligible remark?"

"Fine, sir! I'm glad you asked that because we like to bruit about the idea that we supply no information about our lessees. And it's no use glowering because I know you're not from the police and I simply refuse to be intimidated by—"

Cellini didn't trust himself to linger longer. He walked out and circled around to the alley where Jimmy Legg had met, in rapid succession, his destroyer and his Maker.

Haenigson hadn't even bothered to post a cop. Murderers, he well knew, rarely return to the scene of their crime.

Cellini passed by the tradesmen's entrance and pushed through a smaller door beyond. He found himself in the cellar. The janitor, a grimy individual in overalls, was laying out a game of solitaire on a side-turned wardrobe trunk. Cellini dropped a dollar bill on the trunk.

"I'll bet you that buck you don't know how many cards there are in that deck."

"Fifty-two," said the surprised janitor. "It's yours. Now, what do you know about Jimmy Legg?"

The janitor palmed the greenback. "For a moment I thought you was Santa Claus. Well, all I know is some dame found this Legg guy and started screaming like she lost her virtue so I run outside and called the cops. That's all."

"Didn't you hear any shots some time before that?"

"So a car backfired," said the janitor. "So what? That's like I asked the cops. I asked am I expected to go about having premonitions about a murder?"

"And you never saw or heard of Jimmy Legg before?"

"Nope. Not even for a sawbuck."

"Well, he must have been visiting somebody here and I've got to get a line on it. Start telling me about the tenants."

"We got five floors and six big apartments on each," began the janitor. "In 1- A we got a nice old couple. They're vegetarians. Next to them in 2-A is a family that's vacationing. Then—"

"Forget that. No families. Legg must have been visiting a dame or a man. What single tenants are there?"

"Only three because the apartments are pretty expensive for one guy. In 2- D we got an old maid."

"No good. Next."

"Then there's a guy with a Vandyke beard in 4-C. He owns a few oil wells and he hides under his bed all day and drinks."

"No good. Who's the other?"

"A blonde that's something. Her body ain't ersatz either. She's strictly the wrong side of the tracks but you got to have sugar to live here so I guess she's got it."

"That's a good bet," said Cellini eagerly. "What's her name?"

"Winnie Crawford in 4-E."

"Who's keeping her?"

"This'll kill you—nobody!"

"Are you sure?"

"So help me. She don't like men and it's sure a waste because if I ever seen production for use she's it. It's ridiculous!"

The janitor sounded offended.

"It's impossible," said Cellini, "and I'll check right now."

CELLINI leaned on the button and heard the chimes sounding inside of 4-E. A husky contralto yelled: "Relax. I'm not deaf."

A moment later the door was opened by a woman in her late twenties and Cellini could see what the janitor had meant. She was something that the Hayes office would have banned even in a burlap bag. At the moment, however, she wore a form-clinging, silk dress that would have caught male eyes in a nudist colony.

"Who asked for you?" Her hands rested aggressively on her hips and she seemed surprised to see him.

"Are you Winnie Crawford?" Cellini asked.

"Uh-huh. Spring it."

"It's about Jimmy Legg. He's not coming."

"Why not?"

Cellini grinned. This was the right party. He walked by her through a short foyer and found himself in the living-room. He wondered if there was anyone else around and toured through kitchen, dinette, bedroom, bath, and dressing alcove but drew a blank. He returned to the living-room to find Winnie Crawford leveling a huge revolver at him with both hands.

Cellini sighted some bourbon on an end table and poured himself a stiff drink. He said:

"That thing you got in your soft, white, creamy hands. You'd better put it down."

"What's the idea smelling around this place?" she countered. "What are you looking for?"

Cellini tasted the- drink. It was good liquor.

"I was just wondering if you were alone, Winnie—whether you had a couple of boy friends in the Frigidaire or something."

"I got no boy friends and I'm alone and I can take care of myself. You better tell me what you want. Make it quick."

"And you'd better ditch that rod," said Cellini casually, "if it happens to be the one that killed Jimmy Legg this morning."

Winnie Crawford sat down heavily on a divan. Cellini gave silent approval of the exposed legs. He walked over, removed the revolver from her unresisting fingers, and broke it. It was fully loaded and didn't smell as if it had been recently fired.

He tossed the revolver aside, half-filled a glass with straight bourbon, and handed it to her. Her face was white and drawn and her fingers trembled. He decided that Jimmy Legg must have meant a lot to her.

She drank deeply and seemed to regain control of herself.

"I never got anything but trouble from that chiseling heel," she muttered.

Cellini decided, on second thought, that Jimmy Legg meant nothing to her and that she was worried about her own skin.

"Did you kill him?" he asked.

She registered a look of disgust and pulled her skirts over her knees. She was her normal self again.

"Where did it happen?"

"Downstairs in the alley at the side of this building. He was sneaking up the back way to see you."

"What gives you the ridiculously fantastic idea that he was visiting me?"

Her head went back and the nose up in what she hoped was a chilling, regal look.

He grinned.

"Too late to backwater now, Winnie. Get down to the monosyllables. You're more at home there."

She regarded him speculatively for a moment, then sighed resignedly.

"All right. Tell me about it and especially what your racket is."

"My handle is Cellini Smith and I'm a private op. Legg phoned me to meet him in the back alley but when I got there he wasn't receiving. So I cherchez-ed the dame and here I am."

"What did he want you for?"

Cellini shrugged. "Something about the cops and a safe-cracking job. At the Lansing Investment Company, I think it was."

"I know all that. How come they didn't hold him?"

"That's exactly what Mr. Legg wanted me to find out."

"Oh. Listen, Smith, you know I didn't kill Jimmy. I'm just not the type." "Perish the thought," he said. "Go on."

BUT I got other reasons for wanting to be kept out of this mess," Winnie Crawford continued. "Good reasons. Get out of here, Smith, and just forget all about me."

"Not a chance. The shams are down on me because they think I know more than I do and I'm not the kind of hero that'll get in a mess to save the name of some fair twist. Besides, Winnie, you forget the cops'll get around to you just as easily as I did."

"I guess that's so," she admitted. She drained her glass and nervously poured more bourbon.

"Of course it's so. Loosen up, Winnie, and tell me what you know about all this."

"Nothing. Jimmy phoned that he was coming up here. That's all. I was surprised, too, they let him go."

"Why was Jimmy Legg coming here? This is a pretty classy place you've got —not the kind of thing Legg could afford."

She drew herself up. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, come off it, Winnie. You know as well as I do that you look like a love captive in a penthouse."

"Get this, you louse! I'm nobody's keptie. Just because I'm beautiful and there ain't no cockroaches in the kitchen is no sign I am."

"All right. Simmer down. Your dimples disappear when you get angry. If you're not doing light housekeeping for a male, then who pays for all this?"

"Men," pronounced Winnie Crawford, "are beasts."

"Sure—the cads—but Jimmy Legg was still liquidated right outside this  building," he reminded her, "and the cops will be here in a little while."

"I'm not worried about the cops. I was up here all the time and it's no crime if Jimmy was visiting me."

"That kind of weasel talk doesn't jell," he hammered. "I've got to get some kind of lead on this and I think you can supply it. So come across."

She chewed at one of her long, vermilion nails. "Listen, could you tell me why Jimmy was killed?"

"Holy mother of hell!" he exploded. "What do you think I'm trying to find out?"

"Well, when you do find out you'll tell me, won't you?"

"Sure and I'll pass out a ten dollar bill with each syllable," he replied not too subtly.

She stood up and waked over to a corner taboret that served as the bar. She opened a cocktail shaker and removed a fat roll of bills. Carefully, she counted five wrinkled twenty dollar bills into his hand. "Here. I'm hiring you to find out why Jimmy was killed."

"Why he was killed? Don't you want to know who killed him?"

"That's not so important."

"And suppose I pin it on you?"

"I'll take the chance."

He slipped the money into his slender wallet, frowning.

"And I'll take the job, Winnie, though you're a rather phoney client. Are you sure you and Jimmy weren't soulmates?"

"You heard me. Why do men always think of only one thing?"

"I remember—because they're beasts. But you're not Bryn Mawr stock, Winnie, and you weren't born with any gold shovel in your mouth. Someone's paying your bills. Who?"

"Why can't you get it through your head I'm nobody's woman? I spent my life shining up to slick chiselers and visiting firemen. Now I'm through with the whole lousy breed and I'm relaxing."

Her voice was hard and grating and carried conviction. Cellini surrendered the point.

"All right, you're stainless. Then where did you get that fat roll of kohl-rabi you flashed before and how do you pay the rent here?"

"That's none of your business. Just go and find out why Jimmy was killed."

"What difference does it make to you ? Why was he coming up here anyway?"

"Nothing doing."

"Then at least tell me what time Jimmy Legg phoned to say he was coming."

"Around eleven."

"That's about when he phoned me," said Cellini. "All right. When the cops get around to you just tell them I'm handling your interests and they'll put you under arrest immediately."

3: Careless Lead

CELLINI SMITH a stepped into the hallway, shutting the door to Minnie Crawford's apartment behind him, pulled level with the floor and a huge man stepped out.

Cellini said: "Hello, Mack. No, I'm not betting."

Mack was square and solid as the truck he was named after. There was a lot of him and his customers never fooled with him for he was one of the town's toughest bookmakers. But they liked him.

"Your loss," he replied. "Everybody's taking me. Say, don't tell me you just came out of Winnie's stable. Please don't tell me that."

"Why not?"

"Because then I'd have to beat you to a gooey pulp, Cellini, and I hate to beat friends to gooey pulps."

Cellini looked up at the big man and smiled crookedly.

"Maybe," he said, "but I never fight Queensberry with monsters like you. But I don't get it— why should you jump me for coming out of Winnie Crawford's apartment?"

"Because I long ago decided that if I can't have her then nobody else will."

"You can relax. That type's a little too synthetic for my tastes."

"You just don't know her, Cellini. She's the laziest white woman in the country without hookworm— but what a build!"

"You beast," said Cellini. "How come she snaps her fingers at a great big he-man like you?"

"Now you'd think Winnie would know better, wouldn't you?" His voice was charged with complaint. "That double-dealing twist gets her mitts on some real dough and right away she's through with men."

"Where'd she get the dough?"

"I wish I knew. I keep asking her but she don't even bother to lie. It's a hell of a life."

"She might have gotten it from her family," suggested Cellini. "Heiress stuff—like in the movies."

Mack's laughter sounded like the fall of bowling pins. "Her family is the backbone of the W.P.A., when it's sober, and she was a carhop in a drive-in."

"Then how'd she get out of it?"

"A small-time crook saw her and picked her up. Maybe you know him. Jimmy Legg."

"Go on." Cellini hoped his voice was casual.

"So she stayed with him for a while. Jimmy Legg played the horses through me so I happened to meet Winnie. Then I took over and we made it a twosome until I made a big mistake."

"What was that?"

"I figured to keep her out of trouble while I was working so I got her a job with one of my customers. Switchboard girl at the Lansing Investment Company."

Cellini took a deep breath. At last something was beginning to connect.

"Then what, Mack?"

"Then she left me flat and moved in with the head of that place—Lansing himself. Lansing is a big bettor with me so I didn't even have the satisfaction of beating him up. Then a few months later Winnie got this dough somehow and she ditched all of us."

"All this is very interesting."

"Winnie ain't interesting," said Mack. "This no-man business of hers is just irritating. There should be a law."

"I mean Jimmy Legg. He cracked the safe at this same Lansing Investment a few days ago."

"Yeah," frowned the big man. "I heard. But I don't catch."

"And that's not all," said Cellini slowly. "I was seeing Winnie Crawford before to get me a client and to let her know that Jimmy Legg was killed this morning."

The violence of the explosion was unexpected. For a full two minutes, colorful expletives issued from Mack's big mouth and bounced through the hallway of the Hamilton Apartments.

"Why the excitement?" Cellini was finally able to ask.

"Excitement! That guy Legg has been backing platers with me for the last year. On credit! I got over eight hundred bucks in I.O.U.'s from him."

"Well, you can't collect now."

"Say, nobody runs out on Mack. Not even a corpse. I'll get it if—"

He suddenly paused. "Where's your angle in the killing?" he asked quietly.

Cellini shrugged. "Strictly the dough in it."

Mack's two large hands vised Cellini's shoulders. "Say, I don't like the way you were leading me on before."

"Your paws, Mack. I'm asking you only once. Drop them."

Cellini stared fixedly at the big man's tie-pin.

The hands slowly loosened their grip. "Hell, Cellini, we're friends. We don't want to fight. There's a nag called Inquisitor running at Holly Park today. That should be a good hunch for a dick like you."

"Some other time." Cellini made for the elevator.

CELLINI SMITH went through every afternoon paper, reading the sensationalized accounts of how one Manny Simms had hidden under Judge. Reynolds' desk, forcing the jurist to release Jimmy Legg.

It puzzled him. Obviously, Jimmy Legg had neither instigated Manny Simms' enterprise nor had he been aware of it— else he would not have wanted to hire Cellini to discover the cause of his release. This Manny Simms had acted either on his own or for someone else— but why? Why should Simms accept the certainty of a couple of years in jail to spring Jimmy Legg?

Perhaps Howard Garrett, Legg's mouthpiece, had the answer. Cellini turned his coupe around and urged it back to Hollywood.

A half-hour later, he pushed by a frosted glass door in the Equitable Building that read: Howard Garrett—Attorney at Law. Under it were the names of a couple of junior partners. The black-haired, eagle-beaked secretary-receptionist released the fetching smile reserved for men only and asked if she could help. Her voice had the high, irritating whine of a sawmill.

Cellini blocked the smile with a come-on leer. Secretaries can be useful.

"I'm a very important guy," he said, "and I want to hold converse with Mr. Garrett about a crumb— one Jimmy Legg."

The secretary giggled, plugged in the switchboard, and announced him with that voice.

He passed into an inner office and sank into a leather chair beside the desk.

Howard Garrett, with a lawyer's caution, waited for him to speak first. Flatly, without frills, Cellini explained who he was and what he wanted.

When he was finished, Garrett said: "I'd like to help but I couldn't give even the police any information of value."

"I don't get it," insisted Cellini. "Don't tell me you didn't know that Jimmy Legg was probably guilty of cracking the Lansing Investment safe."

"We're both men of the world, Mr. Smith, and so I don't mind admitting, off the record, that I knew Legg was guilty. But even the guilty have the right to counsel."

"Sure—if they can pay for it. But if you knew Legg was guilty, weren't you surprised when Reynolds let him off?"

"Naturally. Surprised, and pleased because my client had won."

"Did you get Manny Simms to pull that trick of threatening the judge from under the desk?"

"No. I didn't know of it. I don't even know this Simms individual, and I don't know who later killed James Legg."

The lawyer was unruffled, even slightly amused. A smooth article, Cellini thought.

He asked: "What happened after Legg and you went out of the courtroom?"

"Nothing. He simply left me in front of the Hall of Justice and we went our separate ways."

Cellini lit a cigarette and thoughtfully watched the smoke curl up. "I just remembered," he said abruptly, "I know a guy who was pinched for stealing a bottle of milk. He's broke and I wonder if you could give him a break and try to spring him."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith, but attorneys eat like everyone else and I can't afford charity cases."

"That's what I thought," snapped Cellini. "Yet you take on a nickel-mooching gunsel like Jimmy Legg. How come?"

"I don't understand, Mr. Smith."

"Where did Legg get the retainer to hire you? It certainly wasn't from any dough he stole from Lansing because you're too smart to stick your neck out like that. Why did you defend him?"

Howard Garrett stood up. "I don't understand your tricky antagonism toward me, Mr. Smith, and I certainly don't have to stand for it. I'm sorry I can't say I'm glad I met you."

Cellini left little doubt that the feeling was mutual and walked out, closing the door.

He leaned over the secretary-receptionist's desk. "How about giving me Jimmy Legg's home address?"

"Have you asked Mr. Garrett?"

"Why ask him when I can have the pleasure of asking you?"

She giggled and reached for a box of filing cards. The leer was paying off. She supplied an address in her sawmill voice and added philosophically:

"Isn't it just awful how the world is full of murder and sorrow, like this poor Mr. Legg?"

"Legg was no awful loss and he wasn't very poor. He probably stole a batch of bills from the Lansing Investment—crisp bills as shiny as your hair —and they're probably waiting to be found someplace right now."

The giggle sounded again.

"My hair's shiny only because I haven't washed it in a long time. Isn't it funny? But it's peculiar how Mr. Garrett defended Mr. Legg in this Lansing burglary charge even though he owns a lot of stock in the Lansing company."

The strident-voiced secretary went on to say how she wasn't doing anything that night, but Cellini wasn't listening. He had hold of something good—a mouthpiece representing a burglar who had robbed a firm in which he was a heavy stockholder.

CELLINI SMITH fished among the tools under the seat of his car and selected a heavy screwdriver. It would be as good a jimmy for forcing a door as anything else.

The apartment building where the late Jimmy Legg had parked his hat was a dreary affair with dark halls that smelled of unappetizing cooking. Cellini walked up to the third floor, then down the hall, checking the name-plates, till he had the one he wanted. He was glad to find the door a weak-looking affair. He inserted the screwdriver into the crack between lock and jamb, and the door suddenly sprang back inside.

It had not been locked.

Puzzled, he stepped over the threshold. From the corner of one eye he thought he detected a movement and tried to duck but was too late. He felt himself yanked backward with one powerful jerk and a telegraph pole seemed to wind around his neck. It was unexpected and very efficient.

The pole around Cellini's neck was an arm and his assailant's other arm circled his ribs with the same bone-crushing effect. Cellini tried to twist around to get at his attacker but he was no match for those powerful arms. He kicked back and up at the groin with the heel of his shoe but connected with nothing. The other was an old hand at such tricks.

The arm around Cellini's neck tightened and he was slowly forced down till his back was in a painful arch. His breath became short and constricted. His fists clenched from the pain and he slowly became aware of the screwdriver still in his hand. He reversed it so that the point faced his attacker and drove it back, with all his power, in a short, vicious arc.

There was a muffled yell of pain and the encircling arms dropped away from Cellini. He whirled—to find himself facing Mack's mammoth figure.

Astonishment mingled with the pain in Mack's face when he saw Cellini. He mumbled something indistinguishable and pulled his shirt up to examine the wound made in his side by the screwdriver. Though deep, the cut was small and narrow and the blood came only in a reluctant trickle. He took his undershirt off and tied it tightly around his body, binding the wound. Then he dressed again and suddenly became voluble.

"I know it looks bad jumping you like that, Cellini, but I swear I thought it was someone else. I wouldn't—"

"Who did you think I was?"

"Manny Simms. The guy that sprang Jimmy Legg out of court this morning."

"That's not good enough, Mack. Try again."

Cellini's voice was not threatening but he kept one hand in his pocket over a small, .25 caliber automatic and the bookie suddenly broke into a sweat.

"I mean it," he insisted. "I know Manny Simms and I tell you I saw him downstairs. I thought it was him coming after me. I'll show you."

They walked over to a window and Mack pointed down at a black sedan on the other side of the street. Two men stood by it and they seemed to be staring at the very window where they were.

"That's them. The one on the left is Simms. If you was close enough you'd spot the toothpick in his puss. Always has one."

CELLINI relaxed.

"O.K. I didn't think Simms would be out on bail this quick. Who's the other guy with him?"

Mack shrugged. "Another torpedo. Birds of a feather. If you want to go after them to make up a bridge foursome I'll help you."

"Not right now. I'd first like to find out who killed Legg and it wasn't Manny Simms because he was under the judge's apron at the time. But let's hear what you're doing here."

"Hell, man, you know Jimmy Legg stuck me for eight hundred dollars. And when you told me he was fogged I started figuring that maybe the dough he stole from the Lansing outfit was up here, and I could kind of collect the debt on my own."

"How did you get in here without breaking the lock?"

Unexpectedly, Mack grinned. His voice was a conflict of modesty and bragging as he confessed:

"You don't know it, man, but I was the smoothest thing in the safe-cracking line in my youth and it takes a good lock to stop me."

Cellini looked at him sharply but he seemed sincere. "How come you stayed out of college?"

"I was smart. When I become too big to be inconspicuous I just quit and become a bookie. I had a terrific technique, too, for those days."

"All right, you're wonderful. Let's look around for that Lansing dough."

It was a small, three-room apartment, sparsely furnished, and there weren't many likely hiding places. With a fine disregard for the furnishings, Mack took a jackknife from his pocket, and began slashing open cushions, pillows and bed mattress.

Cellini checked through closets and cupboards, searched under rugs and behind pictures, pawed through drawers, and even sounded walls. There was nothing even remotely suggesting the Lansing Investment loot. The only item of interest was a small cache of tools he came upon in the icebox. It contained hammer, nails, a spool of wire, pliers, and some files.

It was, decided Cellini, a very sorry-looking burglar's kit. He remembered that people often rolled money into shades and walked over to a window in time to hear the squeal of brakes as a car came to a halt in the street below. There was familiar authority about that squeal and Cellini looked down.

Detective-sergeant Ira Haenigson and a couple of his men were getting out of the car below.

Across the way, Manny Simms and his fellow hood climbed into their black sedan and decided to mosey along.

Cellini said: "We weren't the only ones with the bright idea of casing this place. The minions of the law are here."

"Let 'em come," replied the disgusted bookmaker. "They'll only find magnolia."

Cellini went into the kitchen and looked out the back window. It was just an empty lot below. He returned to the living-room.

"No fire escape."

"It's all right. There's a back way."

They went out, proceeded down the end of the hallway, and started down the back stairs as they heard the Homicide men come up the opposite way. They reached the street and saw no sign of Manny Simms.

"I could use a drink," declared Mack. "Let's try the Greek's."

Cellini agreed and a couple of minutes later they pulled up in front of a hole-in-wall honky-tonk. They stepped out of the coupe and started inside when Cellini heard the sudden acceleration of a supercharged engine. He whirled in time to see a black sedan charging down the block toward them.

Automatically, he wedged a foot between Mack's ankles, bringing the big man crashing to the ground, and, in the same instant, threw himself prone. It was only split seconds before the sedan was by them and dime-turning the next corner.

But in that time there was a crashing, trip-hammer rat-a-tat that made it seem very long, a vicious spatter of bullets that seemed never to stop. The counterpoint of a woman's hysterical scream, the hoarse shout of a passing motorist, the running, panicky feet that wanted only to get far away— all made the moments seem that much longer.

And when Cellini and Mack finally stood up they could see a strip of small holes against the building that housed the Greek's saloon. The strip was at a height of some forty inches. If they had been standing up the bullets from Manny Simms' sub-machine gun would have flattened out inside their stomachs.

"Shades of Capone," said Cellini unsteadily.

4: Wild Goose

THE Greek, a bulbous-nosed, stocky man, shoved two more glasses of suspect Scotch over the bar to Mack and Cellini Smith.

"That kind shootings is beeg time," he said. He patted an obsolete and rusty .455 Webley revolver on the liquor case. "But next time they shoot bullets into my building I geeve them with this."

"I'll geeve that Manny Simms the lumps," said Mack darkly. He and Cellini were both several sheets to windward, their anger over serving as targets for Simms increasing with each drink.

Cellini tapped the bar for emphasis. "There can be only one explanation why he's gunning for us."

"He only needs one," Mack pointed out. "He saw us go into Jimmy Legg's apartment and there must be something there that Simms was afraid we'd see or get our hands on."

"The haul from the Lansing job," guessed Mack. "I wouldn't be so sure. That doesn't explain why Simms held up the judge to get Legg off. He would have let Jimmy go to jail and then gotten the loot for himself."

"I geeve them shootings," said the one-tracked Greek. "Furthermore," Cellini persisted, "if it's just for the dough that Legg stole, then Manny Simms would be trying to get it from us—not just kill us."

"All right," hiccupped the overgrown bookie, "so you explain me why I got to go around ducking Thompson subs."

"I wish I knew." The Greek said hopefully: "Thees people who do the shootings—maybe they are Eyetalian." Cellini drained his glass. "We had plenty time to go through Jimmy Legg's apartment before Haenigson got there and we found nothing out of the ordinary—excepting what's in the icebox."

"What about it?"

"That's where Legg hid the tools of his trade."

"Such as?" asked Mack interestedly.

"Pliers, wire, nails, and stuff."

"That Legg was small-time," declared Mack professionally.

"All I ever needed to clean a box was a fine sewing needle. But it still don't explain why Simms got Homicidal about us."

The Greek refilled their glasses with the dubious Scotch. Cellini snapped his fingers as a thought crossed his mind.

"Say, do you think my luscious client is in back of this?"

"I love Winnie madly but I got to admit there's nothing that slut ain't capable of."

"Let's see." Cellini went to the wall phone and dialed the Hamilton Apartments.

When he heard Winnie Crawford's voice he said: "A hundred-buck retainer doesn't give you the right to try and get me chopped down."

"What are you talking about? You sound drunk."

"That's only from the liquor in me and I'm talking about Manny Simms. Is he the guy who pays your bills?"

"Damn you!" Winnie Crawford exploded. "I told you I was alone and liking it. Cut out the sex stuff."

"O.K., Winnie. Simmer down. Do you know Manny Simms?"

"I never heard of the guy."

The throaty voice was hesitant and falsely casual. Cellini knew she was lying. She said: "Listen, I gave you a century to find out why Jimmy was killed. What about it?"

"Give me time, Winnie. I'm lousy with clues."

He pronged the receiver and returned unsteadily to the bar for another drink.

"What'd she say?" asked Mack.

"Nothing much. She blew her own strumpet about males and claimed she never heard of Manny Simms when I know damned well she read all about him in the papers."

"I love her," Mack sighed. "It'd be funny if she killed Legg."

Cellini finished his drink.

"Haenigson's probably still messing around Legg's place. I'll go see what he knows about Simms."

"And I'll see if I can pick up Simms," declared the bookie.

Cellini shook his head.

"You wait here for me. I want to be around when we catch up with Manny Simms."

CELLINI Smith's head was somewhat clearer and his step steadier by the time he got back to Jimmy Legg's apartment. He pushed open the door to find the police still at it.

Two of them were taking apart the plumbing in the hope of finding some tell-tale residue in the U-traps, another was dusting for prints, and yet another was tape-measuring the rooms to make sure they had missed no hiding place. Ira Haenigson was doing a thorough job.

The detective-sergeant himself sat on the ripped living-room sofa, supervising the proceedings. He fish-eyed Cellini.

"I know," he said. "You were passing by downstairs and you saw the squad car."

"No. I knew you were here and I wanted to talk to you."

"Sure you knew, because"— Haenigson's voice became milder— "you took this place apart before we got here."

"Me?" Cellini was injured innocence.

"No one else. And so help me, Smith, if it really was you, you'll be eating San Quentin plum pudding next Christmas."

"Why pick on me? Why couldn't Manny Simms have searched this place before you got here?"

"What about Manny Simms?"

Cellini could see that the Homicide man was interested and followed up his advantage.

"I'm here for an armistice, Haenigson. You stop treating me like a dishrag and I'll open up."

"It's a deal," said the detective-sergeant after a moment's hesitation. "If you're really on the level. Let's hear."

"Fine. I went to the alley behind the Hamilton to meet Jimmy Legg there. He wanted me to find out why he wasn't held in court this morning."

"He didn't put Simms up to that job of springing him?"

"That's what it looks like. After you and I had our sweet parting I checked and found that Legg was going to the Hamilton to meet a dame. But I suppose you found that out."

Ira Haenigson nodded. "That Winnie Crawford tramp. I don't know what to make of her. She looks faster than Legg's speed."

"I'm wondering myself. Anyway, she hired me on the killing and I came around here about an hour ago with a friend of mine. Just then I saw you pull up so I didn't come in."

"You sure of that. Smith?"

"Honest Injun. I went away for a drink and when I got out of the car along comes this Manny Simms and tries to chop me down with a Thompson sub. "

Cellini wasn't sure whether the Homicide man's frown indicated perplexity or disappointment over Manny Simm's failure.

He asked: "How come Simms is loose for such sport? Why wasn't he held?"

"Good lawyer, small bail," shrugged Haenigson. "He didn't commit any homicide—just threats—and there wasn't even any bullets in the rod he pulled on the judge so he got out on low bail. But what do you want me to do about it. Smith?"

"I want you to help me find Manny Simms. I don't like the idea of that baby gunning for me."

"Sure, Smith. I wouldn't mind finding out for myself why he's wasting bullets on you. What do you think?"

"I don't know. My hunch is that it's tied up with the dough that Jimmy Legg souped out of the Lansing. Investment safe."

"He didn't steal any dough from them."

Cellini stared at Haenigson. "I don't get it. What then did he steal from that safe?"

"That's what I'd like to find out, Smith. That's why I'm up here taking this place apart right now."

"Didn't Lansing Investment make any claims about stolen stuff?"

"Nothing at all. They just asked us to forget the whole thing. Mr. Lansing seemed to think his firm would get a bad reputation if the public found out it was successfully burgled."

"But if Lansing didn't charge Jimmy Legg with anything then why was he arrested and brought into court this morning?"

"They couldn't very well avoid it because Legg also slugged the janitor and a secretary and they identified him."

"Say," asked Cellini, "do you think this Lansing Investment is a crooked outfit?"

"Could be," said Ira Haenigson. "Could be."

CELLINI SMITH got out of the elevator and entered the offices of the Lansing Investment Company. The place was large with lots of pale-faced stenographers and sleek-haired clerks who gave their investment spiels with all the fervor of a Fuller brush man.

Cellini asked to see Mr. Lansing himself. He told what it was about, gave his pedigree, showed identification, and when he refused to settle for a vice-president he was finally shown past the balustrade and into an ornate inner office.

Mr. Lansing was bluff, confident, and obviously never tortured by self-doubt. Stocky from good feeding rather than hard work, he was in his forties and had a  golf-tan complexion.

"Deplorable this murder of James Legg, very deplorable," declared the president of Lansing Investment without preamble. "Death except from God or the legal executioner has always shocked me."

"It's very cruel," said Cellini.

"Yes, quite. Of course you realize, Mr. Smith, that the murder of James Legg and his lamentable burglary of our offices is sheer coincidence and can have no conceivable connection."

"If I realized that," replied Cellini, "I wouldn't be here."

"My good man, do you imply that we may have a connection—even a remote one—with murder?"

"Perhaps not so remote."

Mr. Lansing blinked. His voice was sharp. "Sir, my wife always kills a good joke but my connection with homicide ends there. It's been a pleasure."

He stood up. Cellini didn't budge.

"Is your wife a luscious blonde?" he asked innocently.

"I don't understand you, Mr. Smith, and I don't wish to. I'm afraid I can waste no more time."

Cellini snapped his fingers. "How stupid of me! Of course your wife isn't a blonde. I was confusing her with Winnie Crawford."

Lansing stopped in his tracks. He sat down again with a sickly smile, hauling forth brandy bottle and glasses from the desk. Cellini helped himself, then reached into the cigar humidor. He wondered if the investment manipulator had a solid alibi for the murder time.

Lansing finally broke the silence.

"Mr. Smith, you don't seem the prudish sort so you probably understand the necessity for an occasional peccadillo to relieve marital boredom."

"Sure. Especially peccadillos built like Winnie."

"Quite, sir, quite. And I'm sorry that you and I got-off on the wrong foot."

"You mean the wrong Legg."

Lansing tried a laugh and missed. "It's just my natural desire to prevent any unsavory talk of murders and robberies in connection with Lansing Investment. Our business depends so much on public confidence."

"Then why don't you help me so that I might clear it up?" Cellini suggested.

"By all means," said Lansing with forced eagerness. "Only there's very little I can tell you."

CELLINI SMITH said: "Start with the reason why you people didn't press any charge against Jimmy Legg when he knocked over the safe in this place."

"That was only because we'd much rather absorb a small loss than have such bad publicity," replied Lansing.

"What did the small loss amount to?"

"Oh, nothing of importance really."

"Was it money? Did you have currency in the safe?"

"I don't think so," said Lansing evasively. "Just some non-negotiable bonds, I believe."

"Aren't you sure?"

"I happened to be out of town the day of the robbery, Mr. Smith, and I haven't had a chance to check. However, I'll do so and mail you a list of the items."

"That's a lie," said Cellini deliberately. "You know damned well what was stolen."

Lansing squeezed another smile out of his face.

"Please allow a difference of opinion, Mr. Smith."

Cellini sampled the brandy again and got up to leave. Apprehensively, Lansing asked:

"Mr. Smith, can I rely on your discretion about that Winnie Crawford—um—involvement ?"

"Yes. How come you two broke it up though?"

"You know how it is about these affairs of the heart, Mr. Smith. One or the other cools."

"How did you happen to meet her?"

"She used to work here as my secretary."

"And your checkbook said, 'I love you.' Which still doesn't explain where Winnie gets her dough if you're not around any more."

"I'm afraid I don't understand you, Mr. Smith."

"There's no need to."

Cellini started out and Lansing took his arm in a brotherly fashion, telling him to drop around if he ever wished some real good investment tips. They passed into the outer office and Cellini noted a large safe built into one of the corners.

"Is that the one Legg cracked?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr. Smith."

"I thought the door was blown off."

"Of course, but the safe manufacturers have been in since. They put on new hinges and repaired it."

"All right."

Cellini walked out, past the balustrade, into the reception-room. Waiting in one of the club chairs was Howard Garrett, Jimmy Legg's mouthpiece in court that morning.

"Surprise," said Cellini. "Are you here to return what your dead client stole—or to split the loot with Lansing?"

Garrett examined his fingernails, studied the ceiling, and gave no indication that he had heard.

Cellini shrugged and walked out of the Lansing Investment offices.

A stout woman worked a vacuum cleaner over the carpeting of the hallway. Cellini could see her key-ring, hanging from the keyhole of a broom closet farther down the hallway.

As he passed by the closet, his hand reached out and silently and quickly transferred the ring of keys to his own pocket.

CELLINI SMITH phoned Ira Haenigson and asked if they had located Manny Simms and his Tommy. They had not and he returned to his car and headed for the Greek's gin-joint to get Mack.

The gargantuan bookie took his liquor well. With another eight or nine drinks fermenting in him, his neck was redder and his voice hoarser but he showed little other effect.

Cellini straddled a stool and poured for himself. The bookie asked what was cooking.

"I just checked with Haenigson," Cellini replied. "They haven't caught up with Simms yet."

"That's good," said Mack. "Simms is our meat. What else you been doing ?"

"I dropped up to see one of your customers—the president of Lansing Investment. "

"What's he got to say?"

"He called my client a peccadillo and he showed me the safe that Jimmy Legg cracked."

"What about it?"

"Plenty," said Cellini. "Legg never touched that safe. The manufacturers were supposed to have put on new hinges but the ones I saw there aren't new."

"That's a laugh. We go nimrodding through Legg's dump looking for the stuff he stole and then you find out that he never even cleaned the Lansing safe."

"I didn't say that."

Mack stared accusingly at his drink. "I don't catch."

"I just said that our defunct friend didn't crack the safe Mr. Lansing showed me."

"Oh. I see it all now, Cellini. Like hell!"

The Greek said, "Thees shootings and the drinks are tad combination," and left to service a couple at a back table.

"Either Legg made a haul," Cellini said, "or he didn't. In either case, Lansing is not dishing out with information so I'd like to check just how phoney that investment company of his is."

"Check how?" asked the bookie.

Cellini took from his pocket the key ring he had lifted. "One of these fits the Lansing office and you claim you were pretty handy with safes."

"I begin to catch," said Mack slowly. "All right. I'll play along."

"Fine. Let's go out and get something to eat. We've got a couple of hours to kill."

The Greek came back and Mack asked to borrow his museum-piece Webley.

"No, no. I need it to geeve that man shootings."

"Come on. He's after us— not you." The Greek acknowledged the point and gave in. Cellini and Mack had another brace of drinks and left.

MACK banged long and hard on the rear service door of the Tower Building. After several minutes, the night watchman opened it, a cautious hand over the revolver on his hip.

"Oh, it's you," said the watchman after he had identified the bookie's big figure. "Can't let you in. We've been having us a robbery. Besides, I'm broke."

"You're passing up a sure-fire thing, Harry," said Mack persuasively. "It's for the seventh, tomorrow."

Mack pulled the Pacific edition of the Chicago racing form out of his pocket and beckoned the watchman to a transom light two doors down. Despite himself, the watchman followed the bookie and read the form over his shoulder. It never seemed to occur to him why they could not read the form by the overhead light of his own door. He was absorbed.

With his shoes in one hand, Cellini Smith silently left the shadows of the building and slipped through the door just a few feet behind the watchman's back. He could spot no immediate hiding place so he padded up the rear stairway and lay down flat on the first landing.

After a few minutes he heard the watchman come in, lock the door, and move down the hallway. He waited another minute, then let in Mack. Noiselessly, they mounted the eight flights to the darkened offices of the Lansing Investment, found the right key on the chain, and entered. Cellini locked the door from the inside. They waited some time before they felt assured nothing stirred in the hallway or adjoining offices, then snapped on a desk lamp. Cellini led the way inside the railing.

"There," he said in lowered tone. "That's the strong-box Lansing claims Legg cracked."

Mack dropped on his knees before it. The safe was large and imposing and of recent vintage.

"Four tumblers," the bookie muttered. "No ordinary chrome steel either. Work on it all day with an acetylene torch and get no place. I guess you're right, Cellini."

"About what?"

"Them hinges are the originals. Jimmy Legg didn't blow this baby. I'd think twice before trying it myself. She's probably wired from the back and if you'd try moving her to get at the wires the alarm would sound off."

Cellini nodded with satisfaction.

"That's the way I figured. Now let's try to find the box that Legg did crack. We'll start with Lansing's office first."

They switched off the desk lamp and went into Lansing's office, closing the door before snapping on the lights. They did not have long to search. Behind a Currier and Ives print they found a small wall safe. Its door was glossy and untarnished, as if new.

"This is the baby all right," said Mack. "Just about Jimmy Legg's speed, too."

"Think you can manage it?"

"Sure. And I don't need soup. All I want is a needle."

"A needle?" repeated Cellini, puzzled. "Yeah. An ordinary sewing needle. Maybe we can find it in a secretary's desk."

Mack went out and returned a minute later. "Here it is. It's a little thick but maybe it'll work."

He clenched the needle by its eye between his front teeth and placed the point over the lock, his forehead touching the safe. Then he began to turn the combination slowly, feeling every tremor through the highly sensitive nerves of his teeth.

Cellini watched with interested admiration as the bookie grunted through clenched teeth each time he felt a tumbler slide into place.

Here was no need for wires or pliers or even nitro. Mack's kit was a sewing needle.

Finally, the bookie stood up and let the needle fall from his mouth. "That does it." Cellini went to open the safe door when Mack's voice halted him.

"Not so damned fast." Pointed at him was the Webley the bookie had borrowed from the Greek.

"What's eating you?" asked Cellini quietly.

"The eight hundred smackers Jimmy Legg still owes me," stated Mack harshly. "I didn't come here and open this box to do you no favor."

"I didn't think so." "That's right, Cellini. So I'm counting out my eight hundred first."

Without taking his eye off Cellini, he reached behind him with his free hand, flipped the safe door open and stuck his huge paw into the opening. It was empty. Cellini felt like having a good belly laugh but was afraid that the watchman might be making his rounds nearby.

Instead, he said: "Put up the rod, Mack. Fate is forcing you to stay straight. Whatever was in there, it looks like Legg beat us to it."

5: Cooked Goose

AFTER five minutes of searing concentration, Cellini Smith felt virtually certain that that the thing next to the bed he was lying on was a telephone. Carefully, he lifted the receiver, brought it to an ear, and asked something.

A honeyed voice informed him that he was in a downtown hotel and that it was ten in the morning. He managed to replace the receiver and suddenly remembered what he was doing there and why someone seemed to be carrying out a scorched earth policy inside his head.

It had reason. After drawing a blank at the Lansing Investment offices, he and Mack had decided to go find Manny Simms— before Simms found them. They had gone from gin-mill to gin-mill but could not find the hood. And at each place they had drinks and after a while forgot to search for Mr. Simms. Vaguely, he remembered phoning Winnie Crawford at three in the morning to find out if she got her money by blackmailing Lansing Investment.

The reply was colorful—so much so that he felt the blackmail hunch wasn't far wrong. Somewhat less vaguely, he remembered deciding to sleep at a hotel, safely distant from any visit by Manny Simms during the night. And he did not at all remember what had happened to Mack.

The bookie had spent most of the evening bemoaning the $800 he had lost through Legg's murder and yearning to get his hands on Manny Simms and Winnie Crawford—though for different reasons.

However, the night of alcoholic search had not been entirely fruitless. Nagging at Cellini's mind had been the problem of why Jimmy Legg troubled to conceal apparently innocent items such as a spool of wire, pliers, and hammer in the icebox of his apartment.

Somewhere between the double Scotches the answer had come. It added up beautifully.

Slowly, Cellini eased himself out of bed and floated into the bathroom. A needle shower helped a little and the black coffee and bromo in a cafe downstairs finally decided him against suicide. He tried several nearby parking lots before finding his car and then made for his office.

CELLINI SMITH sat behind his desk nursing both the hangover and the wisp of an idea that was beginning to form about Legg's murder. And that was its one fault—that it did everything but solve Legg's murder.

It was an idea founded on the assumption that the Lansing Investment Company was a crooked outfit.

The phone sounded. Cellini lifted the receiver and gave a weak "Hello."

He heard that horrible, sawmill voice of Howard Garrett's secretary giggle coquettishly and then tell him to wait a moment as she plugged the lawyer into the board.

A click and Jimmy Legg's mouthpiece was saying: "Mr. Smith, I am well aware that we dislike each other. Nevertheless, since you're working on the murder of my former client, I feel there's an explanation due you."

"Goody. Let's have it."

"As you know, I represented James Legg in court on that Lansing Investment affair and yesterday you found me in those very offices waiting to see Mr. Lansing. That may cause you to suspect something."

Cellini's headache wasn't getting any better.

"Come on, Garrett. There's a shortage of gas, so save it."

"The point is, Mr. Smith, that I was up there because I'm a stockholder in the Lansing Investment Company."

"How come Lansing didn't object to your defending Legg?"

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Lansing was glad to have me handle the case because he didn't want Legg punished. He thought I might be able to handle it discreetly."

"What did you do when Legg was arrested? Chase after him to let you be his mouthpiece?"

"Certainly not. That's unethical. He got in touch with me."

Cellini almost felt like laughing. "Lansing would be glad to have you defend Legg just at the moment Legg decides to pick you."

"It's not that absurd," Howard Garrett conciliated. "Mr. Lansing got in touch with Jimmy Legg and asked him if he wished to have me for counsel."

A sweet mess, thought Cellini. A man is robbed and then goes to the burglar to recommend a mouthpiece to spring him.

He asked: "Are you going to defend Manny Simms when he comes up for trial?"

"Certainly not."

"Did you or Lansing shell out the dough for Manny's bail?"

"Mr. Smith, I called to give you information as a favor. I regret that you're not sufficiently civilized to be polite about it."

"You didn't phone because you wanted to do me a favor."

"Perhaps you know better, Mr. Smith. Why did I phone you?"

"I don't know. But one thing I do know is that you and Lansing and that whole investment outfit will never have to worry about sunburn—you're too shady for that."

Cellini let the receiver drop into its cradle thinking that his parting-shot would have been much better if he didn't have to cope with the damned hangover. He heard heavy, stumbling steps in the hallway outside and a moment later the door pushed in and Mack entered.

The giant bookie gaped silently at Cellini. He made a ludicrous picture. One side of his face was shaved and the other bearded, with lather still smeared over it. His jaw trembled as if from some nervous tic.

"I just heard about Winnie." Mack, spoke as if the words were being jerked out of him.

"She's dying. She's been shot."

CELLIN I pounded Mack with questions until he had, at last, a coherent picture of what had happened.

As little as twenty minutes before, there had been several shots in Winnie Crawford's apartment at the Hamilton. A woman in an adjoining apartment had rushed out to see the back of a man disappearing around a bend in the hallway.

She looked into Winnie's apartment to find the blonde on the floor, still alive but with three bullets lodged in her. An ambulance from a nearby hospital made the round trip in record time and within ten minutes Winnie was on the operating table.

An interne, who placed his bets through Mack, recognized Winnie and phoned him at the barber shop. The bookie had immediately come up to Cellini's office. Winnie had evidently tried to put up a fight for the .45 was found by her side. No hope was held for her and her assailant had escaped.

Cellini felt a little sick. He remembered the clumsy way she held the big gun in her hands and thought that, unlike Legg, she was too decorative to be killed. But at last there was something to work on.

It was now 11:25 and the murder had occurred at 11:05. It would be easy to check the alibis of the four persons who might have gunned for Jimmy Legg and Winnie Crawford.

Mack's voice broke hoarsely into Cellini's thoughts: "What the hell are you waiting for? I told you she's dying!"

They hurried downstairs and crowded into the coupe.

"Which hospital?" asked Cellini. "Who said anything about going to the hospital? We can't help her. Drive to the Greek's. I know I need a drink."

Cellini considered that to be sensible and turned over the starter. They reached the Greek's a short while later and entered. It was early and they had the place to themselves.

The Greek set out drinks and asked for the ancient Webley Mack had borrowed. After he got it he preserved a discreet silence for he saw that something was up. Mack went to the wall phone and dialed his interne friend at the hospital. He returned to the bar, shaking his head.

"Winnie ain't got a chance to pull ahead. Too big a handicap. Carrying too much weight."

"Sure you don't want to go down to the hospital?"

"No. The doc promised to phone me here." "Good enough." Cellini tried his drink and found that it helped his hangover jitters.

11:05, he thought. He had to find out where the four men were then—the four men who had a motive to murder Winnie Crawford. Lansing, Howard Garrett, Manny Simms, and the bookie himself. The phone rang and Mack jumped for it. When he came back, unashamed tears cut two trails down his tough cheeks.

"She's dying, Cellini. My darling's rounding the three-quarter mark."

The bookie started to extol Winnie Crawford's physical virtues when the sound of the phone interrupted him fifteen minutes later. He returned with another bulletin.

"No hope. She's nearing the home stretch." It was another half-hour before the phone rang again. This time, Mack's voice was barely distinguishable.

"Winnie just crossed the wire."

He reached for the bottle and drank out of it. They drank without speaking and it was the Greek who finally broke the silence.

"Do you remember thees Seems, thees people who do the shootings yesterday?"

"What about him?" asked Cellini impatiently.

"He comes now—with beeg gun."

CELLINI and Mack whirled too late. Manny Simms was entering the door, toothpick in mouth and the chatter gun in his hands. The torpedo who had been with him yesterday, flanked him now, sporting an automatic.

"All right," barked Manny Simms. "Line up against that wall and tell me where you got it."

Cellini and Mack backed slowly toward the wall. They were dealing with a known killer. Manny Simms spoke to the torpedo.

"You take care of the bartender," he growled. "I show you who takes good cares!"

The Greek was fighting mad. The Webley was in his hand, leveled at the advancing torpedo, and he pressed the trigger. Nothing happened. The rusted, obsolete weapon was jammed. The Greek delivered a Hellenic curse. He hurled the Webley at the torpedo and, that done, dived behind the bar just as the automatic planted a bullet in the mirror behind him.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" snapped Manny Simms, his eyes not leaving Cellini and Mack. "Stop piddling around."

"Leave him to me, Manny."

The torpedo leaped lithely onto the bar, after the Greek. From behind the bar an arm arced up in a swift, sure curve and the torpedo tumbled back, an agonized scream escaping him. Buried three inches deep into his shoulder was an ice pick.

Manny Simms tried a quick look in back of him to see what had happened. It was the break Cellini had waited and hoped for. At that same instant he dived forward, football fashion, and caught Manny Simms in the midriff, bearing him to the ground.

Simms tried to angle the clumsy Thompson sub at Cellini. But the weapon dropped as his arm was twisted back and up. Mack was there now and he yanked Manny Simms away from Cellini. A queer, chilling laugh escaped him. Now he could do something about Winnie Crawford's murder.

On the floor, the torpedo stirred and moaned. Mack's foot lashed out and caught him under his chin, returning him to unconsciousness with a crack that indicated a broken, jawbone.

"Hold it, Mack," said Cellini. "I want to ask Simms a couple of things first."

"Sure. He'll tell you anything you want to know."

Cellini said to Simms: "What did you mean before, when you asked us where we've got it?"

Manny's yellow face stared impassively. registering no emotion. His shoulders tried to move in a shrug but they were vised tightly by Mack's big paws.

"Come on," said Cellini. "Did you want to know where we've got the stuff that Jimmy Legg stole from Lansing Investment?"

The same dead-pan stare. Cellini asked:

"Where were you at eleven five this morning when Winnie Crawford was shot?"

This time Manny's lips moved to say: "I been third-degreed by experts."

"Plenty time we got to become experts," stated the Greek who stood by them now. He and the bookie dragged Manny Simms around one end of the bar.

Mack said: "You killed the only twist I ever loved." Simms made the mistake of laughing. Mack's arm moved and the hood dropped down.

"Did you kill Winnie Crawford ?"

There was no answer from the floor. Cellini saw the bookie's face twitch and was glad that his name wasn't Simms. Mack's eyes scanned the back-bar searchingly and saw a tray.

"What's that ?"

"Dry ice," replied the Greek.

"Good. That'll be just fine to start with." Mack sat on Manny Simms' chest and the Greek held down the legs. Mack ripped open the hood's jacket and shirt and clamped one hand over his mouth. With the other hand he inverted the tray of dry ice on the bare stomach.

Cellini strayed away. He tried not to hear the sudden writhing and stifled moans, tried not to imagine the ice searing and burning into Manny Simms' belly. He felt he had to keep himself busy and phoned the barber shop where Mack claimed to be when Winnie was shot.

There was no doubt of it, a barber replied to the question. Mack was there at 11:05, taking bets and waiting for his turn in the chair. When Cellini turned away from the phone again it was over.

Manny Simms, a tough hood a short while before, was now a gibbering, babbling mess—confessing to the murder of Winnie Crawford, moaning about crooked deals pulled by Lansing and Howard Garrett with the investment outfit.

Relenting, the Greek poured some olive oil over the burned, tortured flesh. The bookie, a little tired now that it was all over, held on to Simms and dully asked why and how he had killed Winnie.

Cellini said: "That's enough, Mack. You're doing fine. Let's go see Haenigson."

Cellini tried the phone again and was informed that the detective-sergeant was up at the investment company offices, seeing Mr. Lansing.

IT WAS a strange looking crew that was ushered into Lansing's private office by the secretary. Leading them was the torpedo, his shoulder bandaged by one of the Greek's soiled napkins, his hands cupping the swollen, broken jaw. Behind, stumbled Manny Simms, every slight motion agonizing torture as clothing brushed against his skin. And bringing up the rear, Cellini and Mack, disheveled, sleepless, but satisfied.

"What's this?" asked Ira Haenigson. He was there with a couple of his men, dishing out what looked like a warm grilling to Mr. Lansing and Howard Garrett, the attorney.

"Here's your murderer," replied Mack.

"Manny Simms?" Haenigson's brows arched. "I was under the impression that Simms was under Judge Reynolds' bench while Jimmy Legg was being killed."

Mack, a little crestfallen, started to explain that it was probably the torpedo who did the Legg job but Cellini waved him into silence and turned to the Homicide man.

"It wasn't Simms who did the murders. I just brought him up here to show that we made him see the light and he's been talking. You can take them away to be fixed up."

"I don't like that kind of rough stuff, Smith, but we'll discuss it later." Haenigson nodded to one of his men and Simms and the torpedo were led out.

"Now, who did you say the murderer was?"

"Not counting Simms, it has to be either Mack, or Lansing or Howard Garrett."

"Unless it was someone else. Thanks for the tip, Smith."

"They all had motive," Cellini continued, ignoring him. "Mack here, might have wanted to cut a slice of the blackmail for himself that I'll tell you about later. However, his alibi looks good. I'm pretty sure he was at a barber shop shortly after eleven this morning while Winnie Crawford was being killed."

"Thanks, pal." The bookie said it not sarcastically but threateningly. Lansing and the attorney were cautiously silent.

"Mr. Garrett's alibi," said Haenigson, "is equally good for the Crawford killing. It so happens he was in his office phoning me at just about that time."

"I know," nodded Cellini. "I happened to talk to him, too, around that time. That leaves Lansing."

The Homicide man's voice fairly purred. "He was at a board meeting, at the bank."

Cellini frowned. It was the kind of alibi that could be easily checked and Lansing wouldn't have tried it had it not been true. But still, one of the three alibis had to be a phoney.

Haenigson smiled benignly.

"Let there be more revelations, Smith."

"Sure. Some I know, some is guesswork—but it's the only possible explanation. In the first place, Howard Garrett is the chief stockholder in this investment outfit and he and Lansing have been milking the company, juggling the books, for some time now."

Haenigson made a face. "You're a back number, Smith. And I didn't have to use torture methods to find it out."

"And you didn't have to stand in front of a sub-machine gun. But here's something else. Some time ago there had to be a murder connected with this place— a murder committed by Manny Simms."

THIS time the Homicide man's voice was serious.

"Lansing and Forrester," he murmured. "That's what this place used to be called a couple of years ago. Forrester just disappeared and I remember we had Simms on the carpet for it but we couldn't prove anything."

"Perfect," said Cellini. "Lansing had his partner killed by Simms when his partner found out that he and Garrett were juggling the books."

"Preposterous!" snorted Mr. Lansing.

"Shut up!" countered Garrett.

"But," Cellini went on, "Lansing also knew that once Simms did such a job for him he'd be blackmailed the rest of his life so, at the same time, he got proof that Simms had murdered his partner. Whether it's in the form of an actual snapshot of the killing, a written confession, or something else, we'll know later because that's one of the things Jimmy Legg stole from here. Understand?"

"I'm still listening, Smith."

"Then Winnie Crawford got a job here through Mack and soon she was playing office wife to Lansing. Being in a privileged position, she discovered that Lansing and Garrett were taking their gullible investors to the cleaners. So she simply left Lansing's couch, decided that all men were beasts, and blackmailed Lansing into supporting her in style."

"My relationship with Miss Crawford was purely personal," Lansing protested.

"I'll bet," remarked the detective-sergeant dryly.

"Enter now Jimmy Legg," continued Cellini. "He had been the first rung on Winnie's ladder to death. When he saw Winnie in clover without a panting male around, he was able to figure out the blackmail angle and decided to cut in."

Again Lansing protested.

"This whole thing is based on the assumption that Mr. Garrett and I have misappropriated company funds."

"Grow up," said Howard Garrett wearily. "By tomorrow a dozen accountants will be going over the books with a fine comb and you know what they'll find. But unless you keep talking we'll only take a larceny rap and not murder."

Ira Haenigson rubbed his hands together.

"And that," he announced, "is what I call making progress."

Cellini picked it up again. "So Legg burgled this place. He knew that blackmail material wouldn't be in the regular box so he looked around and found a small safe behind that picture."

"How did you know there's a wall safe behind there?"

"Sheer deduction," said Cellini blandly. "Anyway, Legg cracked it and found the real books—the ones showing what Lansing and Garrett have stolen. So when Legg was picked up by the police he told Garrett that if he and Lansing wanted to stay out of jail they'd better mother him. That's why Garrett became mouthpiece for a small-timer like Jimmy Legg."

"You're on the right track. Smith— for a change."

"Then Manny Simms became panicky because he knew Legg had also gotten the proof of his having murdered Lansing's partner. So he pulled that trick of forcing the judge to release Legg because taking such a rap is better than going up for murder. Simms had to get Legg away from the police where he could be killed at leisure and the stolen stuff recovered."

The Homicide man interrupted:

"Where is that stolen stuff?"

"I'll tell you later. It's obvious why Legg was killed. In the meantime, Winnie had hired me, trying to find out what it was all about and when Manny Simms saw me hanging around Legg's house he thought I had recovered the loot and tried to chop me down."

"And why," asked Haenigson, "was Miss Crawford killed?"

"The murderer knew that Legg intended hiding out at Winnie's house and got the idea he might also have hidden the loot up there. So one of these three men here went up to Winnie's house to search and when she showed fight— simply killed her."

"Very beautiful," said Ira Haenigson, "but for one thing."

"What's that?"

"You still haven't named the killer."

CELLINI SMITH nodded and glumly studied the tips of his shoes. One of the three alibis for 11:05 that morning had to be wrong. Lansing was at a board meeting— with many witnesses. Mack was at the barber shop— also with witnesses. The lawyer was in his office— and there could be no question of that because the sawmill voice of his secretary could not be mistaken.

Cellini looked up to find Ira Haenigson standing over him.

"It's my turn, Smith. I've warned you before that I'll break you and this is my chance. I found your prints all over Jimmy Legg's apartment and I'm pulling you in."

The detective-sergeant meant it. There was no doubt of that in Cellini's mind. Cellini stood up.

"I want to make a call first."

"Don't try any Indian rope tricks, Smith."

"Since you're arresting me, I want to let my lawyer know."

He went out to the front office, a cop trailing, and dialed his number at one of the desk phones. The girl who answered informed him that the lawyer was at home.

"Give me his home number," said Cellini. "I'll ring him."

The girl replied: "Would you want me to call him and connect you two? It would be no trouble."

Cellini gripped the phone hard.

"How can you do that?"

The girl laughed. "Oh, that's just an across-the-board call. You can connect two outside calls on most any P-B-X board. It's—"

"I love you," said Cellini, "and I want you to marry me."

He returned to Lansing's office, a happy grin dominating his face. He walked up to Howard Garrett and said bluntly:

"You're going up for murder and not larceny after all."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed. When you came out of the courtroom with Jimmy Legg you followed him to the drugstore and listened while he called me and Winnie Crawford. You heard him say he was going to the Hamilton Apartments through the side alley. Legg probably made sure nobody was following him to the Hamilton but you were already waiting there for him."

The lawyer didn't turn a hair.

"And I suppose you'll deny talking to me and my secretary this morning just about when Miss Crawford was murdered."

"On the contrary. Right after you killed Winnie you made for the first phone and you had your secretary ring Haenigson and myself immediately on an across-the-board call to establish your alibi. Hearing your secretary's voice we naturally assumed that you were in your office. You thought—"

"All right." Howard Garrett's voice was very tired. "I know when I'm finished. Please don't lecture me."

Cellini beckoned Mack. "That's that. How about a drink at the Greek's?"

Ira Haenigson waved him back.

"I don't know how you weasel your way out of these things, Smith, but I still want to know where that stuff is that Jimmy Legg stole from here."

"Certainly," said Cellini graciously. "Remember the pliers, hammer, and spool of wire hidden in Legg's icebox?"

"What about it? We looked through the whole place."

"But you didn't figure why Legg thought it necessary to hide those items. The stuff is hanging from wire underneath the outside sill of a window in Legg's apartment— probably the window facing the empty lot."

__________________

3: Private Jones

Alun Lewis

1915–1944

The Last Inspection and Other Stories, 1942

Alun Lewis was a Welsh poet and short story writer

DAFIS THE POST came down the lane to Siencyn's cottage earlier to-day than usual. He walked his bicycle through the stony muddy ruts, ringing his bell to call them out. Siencyn was still in bed, but Marged, his wife, had been up a couple of hours, feeding the wild chickens that nested in the apple trees and gorse bushes and mixing some swill for Granny the sow.

'It's come, Marged fach, it's come,' Dafis shouted, his excitement at a gleeful pitch. 'Siencyn's notice is come.'

He brandished a small brown envelope.

Marged straightened her heavy body, wiped her wet hands in her sack apron, showed nothing.

'Diw mawr,' she said to herself, thinking that something important was happening inside her.

'Siencyn!' Dafis called, leaning his bicycle with its tied-on parcels against the crumbled wall of the cottage. 'Your calling-up notice I got for you. Look alive, boy.'

Siencyn poked his long head out of the tiny bedroom window, his hair the colour of swedes. He was in his flannel nightshirt.

'Coming now, Dafis,' he said cheerily and withdrew. He pulled his trousers and clogs on, and came downstairs buckling his leather belt across a handful of trousers, very excited.

Dafis opened the letter, Marged looking over his shoulder. She was twice his size.

'Printed matter,' Dafis said. 'There for you. Instructions, look. Railway travel voucher. Free trip, see?'

'In the train?' Siencyn asked.

'Third class,' Dafis said. 'From Cardigan station, Great Western Railway, to Talcen station, ditto. East Wales Fusiliers it is for you, Siencyn bach, poor dab. Plenty of V.C.'s they got already. Watch out, you.'

'East Wales Fusiliers, is it?' Siencyn repeated. 'Well, well. Third class?'

'When is it?' Marged asked.

'Friday next, 21st inst.,' Dafis said. 'Take your identity card, Siencyn bach, don't forget that, now. Or it's C.B. you'll be right from the word go.'

'Jawch,' said Siencyn, 'there's a lot to remember, Dafis. Where's my identity card, Marged? In the poe in the spare room, is it?'

'And your birth certificate is there,' she said, knowing where to put her hands on things. 'You'll have to find somewhere else to keep your things from now on, Siencyn bach.'

'Aye, that's true,' he said, rubbing his tangled hair. 'Well, I better go round and tell everybody.'

'Don't trouble,' Dafis said. 'I'll tell them on my round. Stay you, my boy. I'll come down to-night and give you a bit of wisdom, see? Four years of it in the last war I had, and no more for me thank you.' He looked at his right hand, from which three fingers were missing. 'German sniper did that,' he said proudly, and then screwed up his red bunioned face into a wink. 'Held it up above the parapet, see, Siencyn, and got a nice little blighty. But there, you don't know what a parapet is yet, I don't doubt.'

'I'll learn,' Siencyn said, with all the good will in the world.

'You will,' Dafis said, speaking with the sardonic finality of experience. 'Solong both.'

'Solong, Dafis, thank you,' Siencyn said.

Dafis pushed his bicycle off, the cycle clips pulling his small trousers up nearly to his knees. He wore a straw boater all the year round, Dafis did.

The third winter of the war was just relaxing its grip on this closed corner of Cardiganshire; six weeks of frost had held up the winter ploughing and the spring sowing, and Siencyn had been having a soft time of it, lying in bed in the mornings, chopping a bit of firewood, mending a few broken scythes and shafts, patching up the cowsheds of his employer, cutting enough hay for the drayhorses, and a pint or two some nights. He had been medically examined and registered a whole year back, but his call-up was deferred for the summer harvest and the autumn trapping, – Siencyn was the offical trapper of the parish and sent four hundred and thirty-seven rabbits to Cardigan station, Great Western, in five weeks, – and then the winter ploughing. He had got tired of waiting, restless and unable to merge himself in his work and the weather and the requirements of the horses and of Marged. He was a good-natured man, but out of patience with things. He had quarrelled with Marged a lot this winter, beating her once, leaping out of bed on a Sunday morning when the cracked church bell was tolling, and beating her for calling him an idle heathen. And she used her tongue on him for that. Said that people were saying things about them. What things? She shrugged her shoulders. Once he'd cleared out of the way, they were saying, perhaps they'd discover before a year was out whose fault it was there were no babies coming in their house. Well, that wasn't a nice thing to say, and it says a lot for Siencyn's good nature that he only shrugged his shoulders and said pity they hadn't got more important things to think about than that. She didn't use the rough edge of her tongue on him again, but she was very secretive and moody all the winter. He didn't worry about her; he'd go and she'd stay behind; she was his wife; there you are; nobody is indispensable; she wouldn't want to leave the place she'd been born in, whether he went or not. It was different with him. He wanted to see the world. Lots of the boys from round about went into the merchant navy; either the sea or the land it was with all the boys. And he held it a grudge that his widowed mother had kept him home to work at odd jobs instead of letting him go to sea. His father must have been an old soft, too; he wasn't wounded and he wasn't ill in the last war. He just died. Ran home three times from the army, and then died in detention barracks. Heart-broken, his mother said. Well, what a complaint for a man!

Nobody had a bad word for Siencyn, except that he was idle and fond of his drink and irregular as a christian and not reliable for doing a job or fetching you something from market or being prompt at the chapel concert rehearsals. So, when he went round to say solong, everybody was sorry to see him go and genuinely hoped the army would make a man of him before it got him killed. Old Mari Siop, who had a soft spot for anybody in trousers, said she thought strong men like him ought to stay at home in case the Irish attacked us. And he had a real good walk-round, ending up at the Ship hotel, saying good-bye and drinking basin after basin of tea in the cottages and then a pint all round on the house. This was on his last night, and you wouldn't believe the offers he had to knit comforts for him, and old drovers and flannel vests fetched out of the cupboards where they had lain since their wearers had died. He took them all, and all that he didn't drop on the way down from the pub he carried into the kitchen where Marged was sitting doing nothing by the wood fire. She was cross with him for taking them; they'd be saying how she couldn't look after her husband's pants even. She was always seeing the worst side of everything these days. She was almost fit to cry with desperation over a little thing like that.

So they had a bit of bread and milk for supper, not saying anything at all. Then he fetched the money from under the bed upstairs and counted it out, five pounds thirteen and four, and divided it into two piles, three pounds thirteen for her and two pounds for himself. And then he got up and very clumsily and hesitantly smoothed her hair back. She was vexed, and said what a mess she was, all untidy and fat-getting, and she bent her head forward as if she was feeling bad; and she was all white and her eyes were yellow and suffused with watery blood. He was shifting from one foot to the other, uneasy about what to do, and she wouldn't say a thing one way or the other. Dumb she was.

And he was thinking how happy everything and everybody had been when he went round the farms this afternoon, and now Marged spoiling it all. But when she looked up at him, raised her head to him slowly as if there was a millstone round her neck, and then stood up with her arms raised a little, and said that Welsh word to him that she hadn't said since they were courting, then he knew it was a million times better to feel black and torn in pieces like this than to be laughing and drinking tea and saying the Germans wouldn't last long now he was in too. He picked her up, and she wasn't heavy any more; and carried her up the creaking stairs as if she was a young virgin. Only she was better than a virgin, her fine big body which his big shivering hands slowly divested of the red jersey and thick skirt and woollen stocking and flannel vests that she wore on it winter and summer. The moon was out and the river ringing on the stones and the old jollyboy owls crying goodywhoo in the wood, and he knew he'd been waiting for this for a whole year, to say good-bye to Marged like this. And she lay warm and silken and trembling under his huge hands and she heard neither the river nor the owls but only him grunting and breathing in her mouth and in her ears and something gentle at last opening inside her, like a baby begging her to receive it in.

Onions she boiled for his breakfast the next morning, and two hard-boiled eggs and a whole small loaf uncut for his pocket, and off he set, six miles to walk to Cardigan station. Dafis the postman had forgotten to bring him some stamped addressed envelopes, but he had found a letter in the grandfather clock with their address on it. He didn't know how to write the address himself, but somebody would copy it off this old letter for him when he got there, no doubt. So everything was alright. Plenty of wood left for the fire and Marged walking to the crossroads with him, and the weather crisp and young, the cockerels crowing all the way in to Cardigan station, and Dai Pencwm passing him on the road giving him the benediction of the big pew. His heart was like a feather, walking like this through his own countryside, seeing the sea through gates in the sandy hedges, and singing Dr Parry's Jerusalem to himself which was this year's test piece at the Eisteddfod, and feeling a free man, as if he owned the place and no need to pick up a shovel nor a scythe nor the handles of the plough …

There were other men like him on the train the last part of the journey, from Swansea. But they were different to him, smoking cigarettes and wearing posh navy suits and pointy shoes, with white silk scarves and grease in their hair. He sat a long way from them and he felt hot and uneasy. But when they got there it was all in together and fags out and form up in threes with a soldier showing you how with a silver-knobbed cane, and march through the streets into the barracks. Then he lost direction and control, there were so many things and people. He knew how to sign his name, S. Jones, where they told him, but they wouldn't give him enough time to do it in, and he had to keep on signing in every room they went into, whereas he had never signed his name more than twice a week before, on the dole that was. But he was doing pretty well out of it; same as last night everybody was giving him things – mug, knife, fork, spoon, blankets, bag for straw, khaki suit, leggings, boots, cap, and lots of straps that he didn't know what for. And then a rifle and a bayonet. You didn't take long to become a soldier, for a fact. Then they had a good meal in the cookhouse, with girls in khaki doing for them, and then the most of them went out for a booze, and cursing everything they were when there were no corporals about. But Siencyn didn't open his mouth, and he was frightened a bit because he'd lost count of what was happening, and he wanted to lie down and sleep, being suddenly very weak and shaky and yawning all the time. As for Marged and all them at home, they didn't exist any more. It was all up with them, there was no doubt.

'You're looking buggered, Jack,' a dark man said, sitting on the floor cleaning his rifle in the empty barrack room.

Siencyn, like a frightened animal, watched him suspiciously.

'Yes,' he said. 'Yes.'

'It isn't worth worrying about this lot here,' the man said. 'They don't count in this war. They're all peace-time soldiers. They don't know what the war's about, they only want to stay here and shout on the square and take the tarts out. You keep your head up. Don't pay any attention to them.'

'Yes,' said Siencyn not understanding much except that the man was friendly, 'that is so far a fact.'

The man began cleaning his buttons with a button stick and silvo. 'I'll learn you how to do things,' he said. 'They don't mean anything, all the things they do here, but you might as well do them properly, just to show them there's nothing in it, and then get on out somewhere where there is a war.'

'You been a soldier before, is it?' Siencyn asked, friendly with him now, like a dog that barks first, then growls, then wags its tail and sidles up.

'Not in this army, mate. I fought two years in Spain, though. Seen a bit of it then, like.'

'For a living, is it?' Siencyn asked, shifting up, willing to listen.

'No, not for a living,' the man laughed. 'A collier I am for a living, when the pits are open. Collier, stay-in striker, party member, anything's better than keeping a greyhound, chum.'

'Spanish they speak in Spain?' Siencyn asked.

'No, not much now. German and Italian they speak there now. But it doesn't matter much there now.'

'This war will do for me alright,' Siencyn said. 'Farm labourer I am, see, and trapper.'

'That's right. You keep to the plough, mate. It's only a knife in your back or a few years in jail or no work and no friends you'll get if you start doing what you believe in. I've never had time to marry a wife, and yet I've never done nothing I can show.'

'I'm married,' Siencyn said. 'It isn't very much of a thing; only down our way you got to get married if you want any peace, see.' The man smiled, and Siencyn smiled back, and then sat thinking of the thing he'd just said.

'No girl in the valleys would take me on,' the man said. 'They want a steady man, see. I'm an anarchist. I won't go and live in two rooms and feed my kids on bread and dripping and make them sell the Football Echo and read the race results in the paper and shout hooray in the park on Labour Day.'

Well, well, thought Siencyn, this is a different life to mine, and what it all is I don't know. But I wouldn't like to be on the wrong side of this man, because he is like the prophet Ezekiel, and he can kill people by seizing their wickedness in his hands and squeezing it till they choke.

And Siencyn became devoted to this man, and he wasn't afraid of all the things that happened to him in the next few weeks.

Well, Siencyn became 283749551 Private Jones, S., before you could look round, and the nickname he went by was Timoshenko, which was something like Shenkin, his own name. And the first morning he wore his battledress he had to take it all off and lift his shirt and cough and bare his arm and have a needle in it, all in a whirl, walking round the room with all the others because there was no time to sit down and no furniture, not like waiting for the doctor at home. And then they all walked past a man in a white apron standing on a stool and they had to open their mouths for him and when he looked in Siencyn's mouth, he said 'Christ! Take the lot out. Top and bottom plate for this man. Ever used a toothbrush?' Siencyn said yes, because he'd used one in the infants' school, but he wasn't a kid any more so of course he hadn't used one since. He was a married man now. Jawch!

He was very bad after that, with a big swelling under his arm, and he crawled into his bunk like a sick animal and lay there till he was better, which was a day later. And then he had all his top teeth out, and his new boots were hurting something wicked, and he didn't have a handkerchief to wipe his bleeding mouth which was dripping into the tin of potatoes he was scraping, and the sergeant called him a dirty something and the next morning he was marched into a room and the officer looked fierce at him and said '283749551 Jones, S. Is that your name?' And he was told by the officer to get a shake on and wake his ideas up and not to come back to him again or look out. And Siencyn said he didn't want to come back to him again, not likely, and then he saluted the way he'd seen them do it, and he'd have smiled just to show there was no ill feeling, only his mouth was full of blood. And when he got back to his bunk and they asked him how he got on, he grinned – because he'd spat the blood out on the way back – and said 'The bastard!' And that made everyone laugh and slap his back and say he was a bloody good soldier already, calling the O.C. a bastard like that. And he always called everybody a bastard after that if they said anything rough to him, which was nearly always, and he felt better straight away then.

After he'd been there a fortnight and getting on famous with the boys and not too bad with the sergeants, and knowing how to slope and present, and halt and start up again, and fix bayonets and standing load, and unload, and two weeks wages, ten shillings a time, a telegram came for him, and that made him hot and excited and the centre of every eye, as you might say. But it was only Marged wanting to know if he was alright, because on account of forgetting to bring Dafis's stamped addressed envelopes he hadn't written home, not liking to ask any of the boys to copy the old address out for him; and no news is good news, isn't it? But the O.C. sent for him again and asked him if he had quarrelled with his wife or what, and told him it was bad for civilian morale not to write regularly and tell them you was getting on fine. So he confided to Daniel Evans from Spain and Dan wrote a letter for him in two shakes and addressed it and they posted it together on the way to the Naffy, and Dan said why hadn't he asked him before, it was nothing to him and he'd write Siencyn's letters regular for him. If he wasn't such a good man and a good scholar and knew everything about fighting and mining and unemployed and capitalists, Siencyn would have grabbed him by the waist and wrestled with him the same as they used to do in the country when they was boys in school and big friends.

And at the end of three weeks the whole issue of them was sent off by train to the east coast of England to finish their training in a battalion that was short of men and wanted them handy in case of invasion. And in this new place it was the same as before only worse if anything. They had a new sergeant-major who shouted like a bull and you could smell his breath when he shouted. He came up close and shouted in your face, so you could only think he was a bastard, he was too near for you to mutter it. But their sergeant didn't like the sergeant-major and told the boys that he was separated from his wife for stripping her and thinking out dirty things to do to her, and he was only shouting like that because he wanted to keep in with the colonel. So Siencyn didn't bother about the sergeant-major shouting, now he knew there was no religion in him. But some of the boys that you'd have thought wouldn't care a bit – boys always boasting about what they'd done, big breaks in billiards, supper in married women's houses and that – they became like shivering wet rats after a bit and the sergeant-major used to pick on them all the time and shout at them till they shivered all over, only with Siencyn and Spain he never bothered at all. And as for the sergeant, well, he couldn't keep a straight face on parade with Siencyn. And when Siencyn caught a rabbit one day out on an exercise by putting his hand in a hole where he knew a rabbit was, and gave it to the sergeant to give to the grass widow he was always telling them about, the sergeant was always kind to him after that. Siencyn couldn't remember all the names on the Bren gun and the mortar and the 36-grenade and the anti-tank rifle and war gases and all that. So the sergeant never asked him the names when they were being tested.

The only fly in the ointment was the officer in charge of them. Not the young one, he was alright, nobody bothered about him; but the one with the three pips that walked around all day looking at everybody; and when he stopped in front of you on parade he grunted and muttered to himself and then told you what a bloody army you were to be sure. Siencyn didn't like the smell of him, and he didn't feel strong in front of him the same as with the other sergeants and officers.

Everybody was frightened of him, yet they all said he didn't know his job and ought to be sacked. And there were lots of stories about what he did in the nights with his spare time, but still Siencyn couldn't stand up to him. Not even when he found out that the colonel could make the captain shiver like a rat the way the captain did to those under him. And one day, when their training was over and they were taking part in brigade schemes and defending aerodromes and building dannert fences and laughing at the Home Guard like hardened regulars, the captain sent for Siencyn and said 'I hear you're a country bumpkin, Jones.' And Siencyn said 'I live in Penyrheol, Cards, sir.' And the Captain said, 'I hear you were a poacher, Jones?' And Siencyn said 'Trapper, sir.' And the Captain said, 'I'm putting you to work in the Officers' Mess, to catch rabbits and partridges for dinner, and you will be my batman; and if there's any silvo on my uniform or you get caught with a dead partridge trespassing, I'll break your bloody spine, do you understand?' And Siencyn wasn't brave enough to say no, so he said 'Yes, sir.'

So he became a batman for a change, and it was as bad as he feared, because when he woke the captain in the mornings it was like shaking a nest of adders; he always had a liver and a white tongue and never pleased with anything. But sometimes Siencyn got away on his own, three times a week, after rabbits and pheasants, and then he was as happy as could be. When the captain was shouting for him to clean his Sam Browne or fetch some hot water because the hot water had gone lukewarm on account of him not getting up when he was called, Siencyn felt as bitter and cynical as Dan Evans Spain, who was always sneering at the talk in the papers about fighting for freedom and decency and our children's futures. But when he was lying in the ferns watching the way the pheasants went for grubs, or setting a snare in a rabbit's run, then Siencyn really felt as if he were fighting for freedom and the right of a man to live his own life. Anyway, it was no good looking at things the way Dan Evans did. No doubt it was true all he said about the coal owners taking all the profits and the children without a decent pair of boots or a warm coat, and about the men in London exploiting the natives in Africa and India, and about the Daily Worker being banned like in a Nazi country; and when he put it to you you did find it queer to wonder why the poor women and babies suffered themselves to be bombed in the slums in Swansea and London when they wasn't getting anything out of it that you could see. Siencyn didn't have anything against the Russians, but all the same he didn't think it much sense wishing you could be one; and it was easy to see that nothing was the way it ought to be these days if you went by what it says in the Bible. But Dan was only making it hard for himself, refusing a stripe and barely civil to the captain and the sergeant-major and both of them with their knives in him, and it was a pity he was always getting daunted by what he read in the papers, or by what he said about the army being unprepared and untrained and unarmed to fight a war with tanks and divebombers like they'll have to. But all the same, if it came to a fight, Siencyn wouldn't think twice whose side he was on. Dan's side he was on. Dan Spain was a man and he'd like anyone to deny it.

Every now and again he got a letter from Penyrheol, written in Dafis the postman's copperplate hand, with bits dictated by Marged in it and grandiloquent flourishes of Dafis's invention embossed on it, giving him the news as it left them at present and hoping he was in the pink. The first two or three letters had nothing abnormal, except that the sow had been up to the boar and was expecting, and the latch had fallen off the back door and she had tied it with string till he came home, and her marriage book had come and she had to walk to the post office every week to draw her twenty-eight shillings, and she was putting some of it by to buy blackout curtains so she could have a light in the house after dark for a change. Then came a different letter, very brief, and not written in Dafis's hand at all, but in pencil by Marged, and it said: 'Siencyn bach, wen coming back are you i am being sick in the mornings and the doctor jest been an sed i am in for a baby hopping you are not angry yewer loving Marged.'

Siencyn sat with this for a long time, and then he began laughing to himself, and got up feeling like the lord of creation, and went to look for Dan Spain to tell him and see what he said. And he didn't want to tell anybody except Dan, although he was just bursting with the news. So he went out of the guard room where he was on guard and across the farmyard and through the sheds looking for Dan. But Dan was out on the cliffs the other side of the wood laying some mines, so Siencyn went after him, forgetting he was supposed to be on guard. And just as he came out of the woods and could see the grey North Sea and the black stubby shapes of a convoy jinking southwards in the middle seas, zoom-woof-scream, down came a big two-engined Dornier 215 for you, straight for the soldiers working in the minefield, straight out of the clouds over the sea. Somebody shouted and a couple made a run for it, and a few more fell on their faces, but most of them just looked up at it. And Siencyn looked at it with great interest, not having seen a Swastika before, and then it opened fire and swept past him only just above his head. One of the boys who was running staggered and clutched his guts and went sprawling, and Siencyn said 'Diw Mawr, too bad,' and ran out of the woods to pick him up. The plane had zoomed up over the trees behind him and was climbing in a great ellipse, going seawards, but Siencyn was only concerned to fetch the boy who was hurted, because he was one of the rest of them, and he was hurted. It was Nick Powell Tonypandy as it happened, and he was a mate of Siencyn's, they'd been on a charge together for putting Naffy buns in their respirators and he was going to get married to a butcher's daughter next leave, so his prospects were too good to waste by a bit of bad luck. And Siencyn picked him up and carried him fireman's lift, like in P.T., to the shelter of the woods. Nick was groaning and cursing healthy enough, so Siencyn told him to be quiet, it wasn't a thing to blaspheme about. And he put Nick against a tree and Nick said 'He's coming again,' only he didn't say it as polite as that. And Siencyn saw the Jerry diving in from the sea again like second house at the pictures and he saw the Bren gun the working party had brought out with them ready loaded by a gorse bush just in front of him in the open; so he said 'Look out, boys bach,' and made a dash for the Bren gun and grabbed hold of it, kneeling, with the butt against his hip. And the Jerry was coming straight for him with spurts of flame coming from the wings and bullets like a little shower of hail sweeping towards Siencyn. And a silvery bomb fell out of the plane as it came to the bottom of its gradual dive and was showing its nose to the climb, just at the sea edge of the minefield. And Siencyn said 'Now!' and pressed the trigger as cool as you like. And nothing happened. Oh Jawch, there's a pity for you, Siencyn thought, what is the matter with the old thing? And the explosion of the bomb knocked him over before he could see whether the safety catch was on Automatic or Safe. And when they brought him round with plenty of cold water and his arm in a sling, Spain was kneeling by him and the captain fidgeting and muttering same as usual, and he remembered he had something to tell Spain about, but for the life of him he couldn't think what it was. And Spain said 'Well done, Siencyn boy. You're a chip off the old block, you are.' And Siencyn said 'Is Nick Powell alright?' And Spain said 'Aye, it was only a flesh wound; he's O.K. for the butchery business, don't worry.' And Siencyn said, 'The gun wouldn't go.' And the captain said 'No wonder, you bloody fool. It was on Safe. What the hell's the good of wasting khaki and food and training on a cretin like you?' And Siencyn, although he was on his back with his arm in a sling, suddenly felt immensely stronger than the captain for the first time in his life, and he looked at him and grinned and said 'You bastard!'

Well, the captain's face was a sight to behold. He pulled at his sagging cheek and opened his mouth and stood on his toes and didn't say a word. Then he said to Spain, 'You're a witness, Evans.' And Spain said 'I didn't hear a thing, sir.' And he looked at the captain with a funny look in his eyes; he'd killed a tidy few men in Spain, Dan Evans had, and Siencyn got the wind up and he said, 'Don't do it, Dan bach. Leave him be now. We're all in the war together so make friends, the two of you.' And the captain said 'Consider yourselves under arrest, both of you.' And off he went to fetch the sergeant-major. So Dan sat on his heels like the colliers do in the back lanes and waited for somebody to come back, and kept on spitting and spitting and saying he'd give him what for if he dared to court martial them. He knew very well the colonel would dismiss the case if he heard what the captain had said to Siencyn when he was knocked half daft by the bomb; and Dan said he'd get it brought up in Parliament if they did anything to them; and Siencyn lay against a tree as idle and as happy as ever he'd been in his life, because he'd called the captain a bastard and Dan had said 'Well done.'

Siencyn didn't take long to mend; his collar bone wasn't broken, only bruised; and the colonel praised him in the court of enquiry that sat on Nick Powell's wound; and nothing was heard of the little difference they'd had with the captain, and everybody was buying him drinks in the Naffy for what he'd said. So he had a very placid fortnight on light duties because of his arm. And then, at the end of the fortnight, two things happened that demanded a good bit of thinking out.

First there came a letter for him, and it was a very short one, and it wasn't from Marged and it wasn't signed. Dan read it and said it was an anonymous letter. And it said that Marged was having a baby in case he was interested, and who was responsible, this person would like to know? Funny there'd been no baby in four years when he was living with her, and now as soon as he'd gone to serve his country she goes and gets in the family way. And then several names of likely men from the neighbouring farms and a hint that Marged had been seen coming out of the wood by Twm Gors's cottage late one night. And this person anonymous said it was a shameful sin if nobody could respect a soldier serving his country in her hour of need, and was pleased to sign at the bottom, Sincere Patriot.

Well, whether to ask for compassionate leave or not was the question, but Siencyn wouldn't go and tell the captain all these terrible stories about Marged fooling him, so Dan said why didn't he do a break and hitch-hike home. And he thought yes, he'd do that; but he had no idea at all where Penyrheol was from where they were then, and he'd never find it in a month of Sundays. So he made up a story with Dan that his mother was dead – which was true enough – and Dan wrote it out for him in case the captain asked to see the letter, which he would. And Siencyn was just off to see the sergeant-major to ask for an interview, when the runner came down and said they were both wanted in the company office. So up they went and the sergeant-major had a cunning look in his eyes as if he had them on toast at last, and he showed them into the office, quick march, right wheel, halt, left turn, salute, 'Privates 32 Evans and 51 Jones, sir.' And the captain looked up after a minute as if he was busy, and said, 'You two are on draft for overseas service. Hand in your A.B.64 to the C.Q.M.S. (Siencyn never knew what all the initials meant, but Dan would tell him afterwards), and take your blankets to the stores. Seven days' leave. Any questions?' 'No, sir.' 'March them out, sergeant-major.' About turn, quick march, halt, dismiss.

'That's what comes of calling him a bastard, Siencyn,' Dan said, philosophically tracing the effect to its cause. 'You'll be able to see your missus, anyway, chum.'

They had their pay and ration cards and passes and off to the station, six miles of it, full kit, enjoying every inch of it. Dan said anonymous letters wasn't worth noticing, he'd had plenty in his time; and the best thing to do was to find the sod who wrote it, and not say a word to Marged. Siencyn said he wouldn't put it above Twm Gors, but he would put it above Marged, who was a good wife if trying at times. And so they parted at Paddington the best of friends, with Dan seeing Siencyn was on the right train and telling him to mind he came back and didn't shirk it, because Dan didn't want to go abroad by himself. So Siencyn told him not to worry, solong.

And nothing more to do except stand all the way to Cardiff, and then a seat the rest of the journey, change at Carmarthen and Pencader like Dan told him, and then safe and sound in Cardigan, having had sandwiches from an old lady before they got to Cardiff and cake and biscuits from another younger lady between Swansea and Carmarthen. He wasn't going to spend his pay himself. And he didn't tell anybody he was going overseas because it was information likely to aid the enemy, so he pretended he was nobody special. And so he started walking home along the old roads he knew inside out, singing Jerusalem and wondering if the chapel would be holding its Eisteddfod this week, and if so he'd sing Jerusalem in his battledress and walk away with the first prize over them in civvies.

And soon enough he was turning down the lane to the sea by the black wood and heard his employer's horses shuffling in the stalls; he stopped to listen to the good sound, and then went into the stable to take their heads in his arm and put his palm against their hot wet nostrils. It was fine, that was, pushing old Deri aside to say good-night and welcome-home to Nansi, and their hooves clashing on the cobbles. It was only round the corner then to his own cottage and he felt as if he'd never been away.

There was a blackout up in the kitchen now, very posh, and when he opened the door slowly Marged was sitting on a sack of meal by the stick fire on the flagstone in the corner. But never such a face did she have before he went away. No red in her cheeks at all, but like a funeral in her black shawl and drooping shoulders. And she looked at him like he was a ghost, never a word, but frightened of him, and then again as if she was finished with him for good. It gave him a bit of a turn; and before he could say 'Well, nghariad, it's Siencyn turned up again,' she began to whimper to herself. Siencyn knew there was a scene going to be, so he took his kit off and knelt down by her with a sack under his knees not to spoil the trousers he'd creased under his bed every night, and then he asked her what was up with her. How they straightened it all out isn't anybody's business except their own. Marged wasn't willing to believe he'd forgotten about her letter owing to being knocked daft by a German plane, but in the end believe it she did, and slowly she began to think differently about him and not with despair and hatred the way she had been since he hadn't replied. And then there was all the old gossip, and a letter in the local paper about it too by someone signed Sincere Patriot; and she knew who it was, it was a certain black-marketing grocer keeping a shop on the top road. And Siencyn said thank God it was a man, anyway, thinking what a pity if it had been a woman he couldn't give a good lamping to. And, to cut a long story short, Marged said she wanted it to be a boy and Siencyn to be his name, and Siencyn showed her his new false teeth and she wouldn't believe he took them out at night, so he said 'Wait and see.' And she rubbed her cheek on his battledress and looked at the shine on his boots and wouldn't believe they were his working boots. And if everything wasn't as smooth as their words made it sound, the rest was only a question of time, for a woman will mend herself with time if so be the man means what he says when he speaks kind to her. So she patched up alright with a bit of praise from Siencyn which was as rare as Cadbury's chocolate to her and every bit as sweet. And Siencyn felt worried and exhausted with pulling her round to his way of seeing it all, and it was worse than driving the old sow up the lane or helping to shoe a young colt, but Jawch, it made all the difference. And next day he went without any malice to the certain grocer's just mentioned and after he'd pasted him good and proper he bore no ill feeling at all. And when they asked him how's the army he said it was alright and nothing to worry about, although his mate Dan Evans said it wasn't much of a concern.

And then, the night before he went back, the chapel held its annual Eisteddfod, which was right in Siencyn's line having a rich tenor a bit loud for volume but very good for tone. And he went in his battledress as clean and straight as a new pin with vaseline on his hair the colour of swedes, and they all cheered when he came up to sing his version of Jerusalem. And he never let on to a soul that he was down as a C. of E. in the Army through no fault of his own, having told the clerk when asked his religion 'Christian, sir.' Not that there was any need to say sir to a clerk, but he was new to the game then. And it was fine to be standing there in the whitewashed old chapel with Marged sitting in the pew where he'd carved his initials fifteen years ago, and everybody quiet as the grave except old Twm Morris Cobbler at the harmonium, saying 'One Two Three Four – Now.' And off he went with old Twm creaking along just level with him and the faces of the congregation uplifted and swaying slowly as if there was a little breeze going across the pews. And he'd sung it so often in the back of a lorry on exercises in the Army, and in the latrines, and peeling potatoes on jankers, that it came now with all the intimacy and rejoicing of all that had happened to him and not harmed or beaten him. And when he'd finished there was a great silence on them all, and then the men wiped the sweat from under their celluloid collars, and the women sniffed at their hankies and wouldn't look up. And Siencyn walked down and sat by Marged. And then they began to clap, and Siencyn didn't think they were ever going to stop. And although the adjudicator was a conshie in the last war he didn't have any option about giving Siencyn the prize. No money in it of course, not with singing sacred music; it was a different matter from money.

And Siencyn walked home with Marged arm in arm, and he said Dan Spain would write to her regular, but he didn't have the heart to tell her where he was going to, meaning abroad; not yet, because he could only just imagine himself going abroad, and as for coming back again, he couldn't see that at all. But there was nothing to be done about it, only go to bed early and poke his head out of the window to listen to the river and tell the cockerel mind to crow at five thirty to catch the train. And that made Marged laugh for the first time, and Siencyn thought well, it's not so bad so far and no blame attached to me. And Marged promised she'd call the baby Dan as well as Siencyn. And they slept so sound that Jawch if he didn't miss the train. But never mind about that now.

___________________

4: Filamena's Hula

Randolph Bedford

(George Randolph Bedford) 1868-1941

Weekly Times (Melbourne) 2 Jan 1915

Randolph Bedford was an Australian author, poet, magazine editor, mining engineer and Queensland politician. He travelled extensively through Australian and New Guinea. His best known work is the "Billy Pagan" series of short stories, Billy Pagan being a mining engineer. His books and stories are now very rare.

JACK WAGSTAFF came aboard at Daru from his visit to the Mission, thinking deeply, and I waited, though impatiently, for ten minutes before questioning  him. He was captain and half-owner, and I was super-cargo and half-owner of the auxiliary schooner Orokolo.

The year had seen us moving steadily to a competence, trading in shell and copra and the pearls that come by chance; salving a ship that had grounded on Bramble pay and seemed to be a total loss; recruiting labor for Papuan plantations, and doing all a man may find to do in the hundred ways of combing money from the floors and beaches of the Coral Sea.

We had ten luggers pearling, and in the season worked at high pressure running round the fleet to deliver stores and collect shell, finding: that delay in clearing shell from the luggers had the peculiar effect of making pearls disappear. That we later bought our own pearls from our own divers was part of the game, and we obstructed that part of the game, as far as possible by speed.

Yet though Caesar did not secure all Caesar's due, the firm of Wagstaff and Crayth, pearlers and traders, and staunch friends, prospered— both working double tides and each protecting the other.

"It's the end of a bag, George," said Jack Wagstaff at last; "and somewhere outside the bag is the mystery of William Jones."

"William Jones! That's the Rotumah man— a missionary of sorts, isn't he?" I asked.

"Yes. A colored lay brother until a month ago, and then made a missionary authorised to baptise and marry and bury all converts from Darnley to Nagheer."

"But where do we come in on it?"

"You know the rivalry among the islanders to build a better and bigger church with more galvanised iron in it than any other island?"

"Yes! Mobiag against Murray Island, and Badu trying to build more big teller church than Nagheer."

That's it! Well, William Jones was out for money to build a swell church in Nagheer. He's fixed up a meeting, services, and native dances for this month. All the village lads are in from the boats, and after the dance they were to be held up for the donations for the new church. All the boys are along with new and comfortable clothes, but William Jones has disappeared."

"How and where?"

"That s what we don't know; but there's something that looks like the why of it. One of the newest converts gave the colored missionary a big pearl as a donation. He was one of the boys of the Torres Company fleet, so that the pearl was almost certainly stolen in the first place. That doesn't matter, though, to Jones; because, nobody can identify a pearl he never saw and the boy who gave it was probably the only man who saw the pearl before Jones received it."

"Jones may have been murdered for the pearl!"

"I can't see it! No sooner was the donation of the pearl known than it was also known that Jones had left it with somebody for safe keeping He publicly stated that at Darnley two days before he disappeared."

"Is it known who the banker is?"

"No; Jones simply said that he had left it with one of the most reliable people in the Straits, one of his own color. It wasn't a missionary, because Jones was the only colored missionary here.

"And now the mission wants you to find Jones and the pearl?"

"Scandal is busy already. The people who don't like the mission say that Jones has levanted and taken the pearl for ballast."

"It might be so."

"Not likely. Jones was such an enthusiast."

"Then it's foul play?"

"I think so— but the first thing is not to look for Jones, but to find Jones by looking for the colored man to whom he gave the pearl. He can I tell us where Jones is."

"A long chase, Jack."

"Yes, only narrowed down to three places. After he was given the pearl Jones went only to three places: Darnley, Mobiag, and Nagheer. He went to Nagheer last, and probably left the pearl there."

"Why?"

"The mission station people say that lie did not intend to visit the other two places until after the festival at Nagheer. The church was to be built at Nagheer, and at Nagheer he was to announce the amount subscribed at the end of the festival."

"Then, we go to Nagheer?"

"Yes— to Thursday first, and then on to the island. Hey, boy, too much water go alonga cabin. Hold him that one feller hose alonga deck."

His instructions were shouted at Robina, the Kiwai boy, who was so full of the joy and importance of hosing the decks that he had carelessly directed a stream full into the cabin, and grinned in appreciation of the joke— a grin that faded to sulkiness as Jack Wagstaft corrected him.

At the island there was no, news. The swift telegraph of lugger to lugger had brought the news of the missionary's disappearance, but none in the island had heard of him or of the pearl, whose value mystery had now made fabulous.

We left for Nagheer in the early dawn, and saw ahead a pearling fleet, its sails touched to pink by the swiftly rising sun. The luggers beat up and down as the divers collected the shell, working a swathe of the sea floor and coming to the deck of the lugger as it beat up against the tide to fish another section of the shallows.

As we passed through the fleet a brown man, naked but for a sarong, suddenly jumped overboard and swam weakly towards us. Quickly a boat pursued him, but, aided by the current, he came towards us, and sank as Wagstaff went over the side into the dinghy, cast off the painter, and pulled swiftly towards " the drowning man. He dropped the. oars in the rowlocks, tumbled to the stern, and seized the native by the hair as he rose for the second time. Then, depressing the stern of the boat with his own weight, he stooped for a hold under the armpits, and dragged the native into the boat. The pursuing boat came up, and the Orokolo's anchor flashed down.

"One of your boys?" asked Wagstaff of the dark, black-moustached man who sat at the helm.

"Yes— he mad, I tink.. He not work, he not dive, he not pump, he not clean shell. He mad."

"You are Peter, the Greek?"

"Yes-a; I know you, Wagstaff. He no good, that boy."

"He's very sick. Why don't you take him ashore?"

"No time— I tink you take him— more better."

"Well, we're not a hospital ship, but— he's very sick. What's his island?"

"I tink he belong Prince Wales Island. You take him I like."

"All right. If I get a chance I'll put him ashore, and, anyway, we'll do our best."

The lugger's boat pulled for the-fleet again as Jack Wagstaff headed for the Orokolo. We got the half-drowned man aboard and hurried him forward. Jack Wagstaff and I looked down at the insensible figure that lay limply in the bunk as if life had already left him.

"Why did they let you take him so easily, Jack?"

"They're frightened he'll die on their hands."

He lifted the man's head, and drew his hand away with an exclamation of pity.

"Blood," he said. "No wonder the poor wretch couldn't swim. He's had a knock on the head."

"Shall we go back to the Greek?"

"We can get him any time. I must go on the Nagheer, and the man is better aboard here than anywhere else."

We gave the native all the rough surgical treatment we knew, and a few hours later his partial collapse changed! to the heavy sleep of utter exhaustion, and the mate called to us that we were off Nagheer.

Ten minutes later we found we were on the sand. The tricky winds died away, and we drifted idly in sight of the palm-grown shore, and then touched on a sandy bed, and bumped there for six hours, until a current,  which had no business there, lifted us into deep water.

Jack Wagstaff conned the Orokolo through, the reefs by sundown, and in the beginning of a brilliant moonlight night— so brilliant that the air seemed saturated with rays that poured from the great yellow-orange that was the moon— we anchored half a mile from the shore at low tide, rowed in a boat for a hundred yards, and then splashed through ankle-deep water and over the sand and the rotten and crackling trash to the white sickle of the beach.

Nothing was quiet but the-moonlight. Fires of driftwood blazed to give light to the noisy dancers and over all the unconcerted sounds came the song of deep-voiced men singing an interminable chant that would have wearied but for the wonderful harmony of it.

"Au Mara! Au Mara! Au Mara!

La hala! haia! Hoowau."

The back cloth of this great stage was a cocoanut grove, a few belts of papaw and many wongi trees, and in them a score of polished brown-red children chattering like parrots and eating the astringent red date-like fruit at the same time. Further along the beach was a taro patch and a yam garden. The boomerang of beach white sand, silent and only lipped by the quiet lagoon; the drift above highwater beaten and stirred by many feet. No finer surface is possible than the street whose final preparation is constant pressure by the naked feet of humans; soft as dust and firm as a camel pad; but the continuously sifted sand of the "stage" was one moment beaten hard by the stampings of the dancers and in the next figure of the dance torn to atoms by the tireless side movements of two hundred feet.

The human color fell in gouts and splashes on the silver blue night; red men, copper men, black men, dressed in grass petticoats, grass anklets, and anklets of wood, and with flowers and feathers in their abundant and glossy black hair.

Men, with skins of burnished copper dressed in a red sarong and a bunch of red leaves; Kiwai boys— the black jews of the Gulf of Papua, tremendously  energetic in sarongs and palm leaf dresses; Binghis,  black as swans, and the earnest Semitic faces of the Papuans as their feet beat the sand and spurned it— dancing with wild abandon and inexhaustible energy— every muscle working in these dances of menace and of battle, dances of Dutch courage to screw up the courage of the warrior to the sticking place, dances of home-coming and farewell.

They were bone dry with weariness, the voices of the old men husky with singing: and the breathing of sand-laden air— for they had been dancing almost continuously for four and twenty hours— yet they finished each figure of the dance with blood-curdling yells as they rushed to the palm grove which was their green-room, yells that in the old days often led to a frightened trader firing a gun and a massacre to follow.

They sang the last of the chant the old men sobbing their exhaustion rushed to the green-room and returned immediately as . if one swift touch of nature in the grove had renewed their youth. The small, naked boys came from the wongi  trees and imitated the dance at the edge of the set. The new dance was of sea fighting and hunting the dugong— that sea-pig which was the siren of the ancients; there was the song of the sea and of man's strength, the hiss of the snake, the barking of the village dogs at the return of the hunters, and a howl for a death in the tribe.

"Look at the leader," said Jack Wagstaff. "What a man!"

He was Hercules in shiny black marble— strong but not too strong for grace. His tremendous voice led the chant of the warriors— the painted Papuans, the, swan-black Binghis, and the browner men of the Straits, in the cry for war drowning the feebler advice of peace from the old men.

Hercules led his chorus, "Hoff Yalowra! Hoff Yalowra!" and the old men replied "Turi ti ti ti! Turi ti ti ti." The snake actor hissed "Sssh! Sssh! Sssh! Sssh!" and his feet moving the sand seemed to echo the voices. The dog actor growled "Wow! Wow! Wow!" and so to all the drama of it; with men for the sound of the sea and men for the noises of the land.

Suddenly, as they appeared to be exhausted, the black Hercules seemed to find a new energy; he sang louder and leaped higher in the drama.

"Is the new capering for us, Jack?"

"No— he hasn't looked our way.... Yes, there's the reason for it—the girl, he's dancing for her; she's all the audience he wants."

I had not seen her before— Filamina, a girl of Samoa and the belle of Torres. Her face, but for the high cheek bones, was full of that good handsomeness which is the beauty of perfect health, her eyes fine, her teeth perfect, her body instinct with grace. Her calico smock brought back the Hornan toga; her smiling dignity made her a Roman matron of classic times. She met the look of Hercules, saw that he was hungry for her applause and smiled at him and then her smile changed to something like fear as an olive skinned man in the dress of a missionary, came from behind her and stood so close that she moved away a little, whereat he followed her.

"She's afraid of the missionary," said Jack. "I wonder what he's discovered of her."

He continued suddenly in Island patois to the highly superior native who stood nearest— a man so civilised by white man's clothes that his attitude to the more primitive men had become supercilious.

As if proud to tender information on terms of equality, the native was communicative in the twinkling of an eye.

"Him new missionary come alonga Darnley when him Missa Jones altogether finish."

"How you know Missa Jones altogether die?"

" 'Spose him not die, then him come alonga dance; him been like this one Island strong feller; him been want build him big feller fine church altogether."

"What name this one missionary him stop?"

"Altogether name belong him Brown— John Brown him stop. My word! pray him strong feller! Yabba alonga Heaven long time!"; then conclusively he imitated the action of kneeling, and added, "He stop long time alonga and like that one,  likeit kangaroo bend wrong way altogether."

"From which we gather," said Jack Wagstaff to me, "that the Reverend John Brown is a more robustly devout missionary than William Jones, who looked more after his people, and didn't give so much time to kneeling in the sand. But he's not kneeling now."

He was not— he was sneaking around Filamina like a snake after a bird. One thing was certain, that the girl did not like him, and that the black Hercules hated him. In the concluding figures he danced at the Reverend John Brown, menacing him with the spear while the earth shook to the tramp of two hundred dancers growling defiance to all the world.

Then, with a shout, the dance ended; Hercules, with a final yell of hatred at the missionary, led the exhausted dancers to the green room; King Jimmy of Nagheer took a kerosene can and a stick, and beat it as solemnly and as proudly in the exercise of the functions of Maestro as if he led a mutually opposed orchestra of incomprehensible Wagner.

The Reverend John Brown stopped him with a word, and, taking a hymn book from his pocket, read the first verse of a hymn, and the women sang it in English, little more broken than that of the missionary. Filamina sidled away from him, and he followed her. She appeared glad when the hymn ended, and King Jimmy's music on the kerosene tin called her to lead the Hula.

Filamina marshalled her forces as if she were a white stage manager— the middle, aged, and ugly in the "back row; the second row of the Semitic curly-nosed women of Western Papua and a black Jewess also on each corner of the long front row, and in its centre a tireless Binghi girl and Filamina.

King Jimmy rattled his stick on the kerosene can.

"He's as proud as a billygoat on a high rock," said Jack Wagstaff. "Look at the Reverend John Brown now.

The missionary could not take his glance from Filamina, who, with a flower crowned head and wind-blown smock of white, swayed to the dance, as the voices of the girls drowned the music of King Jimmy.

"Seems struck on the ewe lamb in the flock, Jack?"

"Why not? A good match really, both colored; but Filamina prefers Black. Hercules to Brown Missionary..."

Filamina seemed to forget everybody in the dance— John Brown, Hercules, and all men. The moonlight and the fire glare shone on her handsome and intelligent face as she led off the dance of the life of women— the household tasks, the bearing of burdens, while the buck walks easily, carrying a spear before courtship; the unwelcome lover and his repulse, marriage, maternity, the departure of the husband to the battle or the hunt, his return, and the dragging of the canoe up the bleached sand, the little feast of pork and cocoanut, fish, sago and yam under the Nipa thatch. And always the fine harmony of the chanters.

Then Filamina danced forward alone, and performed a new pantomime to Hercules, who sat by King Jimmy and clapped his hands to the lime set by the kerosene tin. Then he seemed suddenly interested in Filamina's new dance, and put his hands to the ground as he leaned forward to her. The Bev. John Brown seemed interested, too; he followed her every action almost anxiously.

"What is she dancing, Jack?"

"I don't know. What do you think, White Eyes?"

"Mine not know," replied the Binghi, who had seemed to know everything.

"I've seen this dance fifty times or more," said Jack Wagstaff. "But it beats me, George; let's watch closely. It's a message to Hercules; we'll tap the wire if we can."

Filamina, with an air of deepest grief, described with her dance an irregular oblong on the ground.

"It's a grave— the grave of somebody she loved."

"Yes; and that's a suggestion that he may not be dead. Now she's describing something hidden away— something held in safety— now, what is it?"

But Filamina's message was finished because she saw that Hercules understood. I looked at the missionary, and he appeared suddenly satisfied as if he understood too.

"What to do now, Jack?"

"Wait for Filamina. She is sitting with the women a little behind Hercules, and a little to the right of the missionary. There's something queer in all this— wait and don't let any of them see that you are waiting."

The old women followed with an emu dance of the continent, prancing in their grass petticoats in the queerly undulatory movements of the emu, who moves with grotesque dignity.

"All this old woman come alonga Poll, Betsy, and Sue," said our self-appointed guide again.

"The islands of the Three Sisters." supplemented Wagstaff. "They have more pluck there than judgment."

They had; the place was too hot for them; the vagrant dog's in the crowd snapped at them; yet they danced on, and Filamina and the Hula girls sat down exhausted, and waited for midnight, to tire them out. But whenever they appeared willing to rest the men squatting in the sand encouraged them with howls and shouts of victory, and the thud of snake-skin drums, and the old women returned to their prancings.

"We've been here five hours," said Wagstaff. "It's midnight, and where are Filamina, and Hercules, and the Reverend John Brown?"

"They've gone very quietly, Jack."

"Yes; but who went first?"

"Filamina. I should say."

"Yes; and what was the order of the other two. I say the Reverend Brown first and Hercules after him—"

"Why?"

"While these dances are actually going— the sexes stay apart. So Hercules is probably stalking the missionary, who is stalking Filamina. We'll ask King Jimmy. Hey, Jimmy. Where Filamina sit down? Where him hut?"

"No fear," replied Jimmy with much dignity. "No fear hut. House like him white man down alonga garden."

He pointed down the beach westerly.

"Come on," said Jack "Wagstaff "We'll go. George, and we'll hurry once we're out of the crowd."

The moon was ahead of us going to her setting. Ten minutes took us out of the crowd and round a big breadfruit tree at the easterly horn of a little crescent bay. Ahead was an empty beach, and as Jack Wagstaff broke into a run I followed him

Suddenly he stopped, as a white shadow started from the sand.

"Filamina!"

"Oh; oh! Capitan— that one bad missionary he come after me— take me along boat."

"Where's the boat?"

"Other end this one bay. Already go sea, then he tie me up— he say me wife alonga him. I hate him plenty. Then I bite him rope; I come look alonga Tauriabiana."

"That's the big fellow in the dance."

"Yes— he good feller."

"Where's the missionary? A nice missionary. I don't think."

"Come along. He intends to come back to you. We'll bring more to the meeting than he wants."

We ran along the beach, came to the boat, and found it with the mast shifted, and the sheet ready to set

"Water ready, and food, too," said Jack Wagstaff. "He intends to take you to sea, Filamina: but why should he leave the prize when he'd got it? Why? Because he wasn't ready. Come on."

We walked along the beach still easterly, and suddenly saw a light in a clump of palms glow, die and glow again.

"My house," said Filamina.

"Quiet now. No Noise.  Come to the light."

As we entered the palm grove we made out the form of a small house little better than a hut, but respected as "liken house belong white man," because it has an ugly galvanised iron roof instead of the harmonious native thatch of nipa. Looking through the little window, we saw the Rev. John Brown turning over the contents of a camphor wood chest— madly searching for something, and casting the reject on the floor. His missionary alpaca coat usually worn tightly buttoned to the neck had been cast away, and Wagstaff, seeing a livid scar upon his neck, cried: "Raftopulos."

The missionary started as if stung, and dashed out of the light as Wagstaff and I ran to the doorway.  I expected him to close the door, but came out like a shot from a gun, over threw me in his own fall, but being more prepared for the struggle than we recovered his feet first, and, eluding us, ran along the beach towards the boat. We followed, running better than he after the first surprise, and were within fen yards of him when he reached the boat, pushed her off, and threw himself over the stern.

He thought he had escaped, and laughed at us, when suddenly the boat canted to the weight of a gigantic black man. John Brown or Raftopulos stopped jeering to find himself in the clutch of Tauriabiana. In the moon rays, as bright as late afternoon, we saw Tauriabiana shorten his hold on the spear, and stab Raftopulos, and stab again and again. Raftopulos still clung to him, and in his fall dragged the black man overboard. Filamina cried in despair, and changed her cries for laughter as the form of Tauriabiana arose and waded to her through the shallows.

"Where's the big pearl he was searching for, Filamina?" asked Jack Wagstaff.

She was surprised, but too shaken by the events of the night to disobey. She put her hand into the bosom of her smock, and brought out a little leather bag.

"That one plenty money pearl, Capitan. I keep him for Misser Jones."

"My word," said Tauriabiana. "that one no good missionary."

"He wasn't a missionary, he's a Greek trader, named Raftopulos. Black birder, slaver, and pirate. I knew the scar on his neck."

"He no good," said Tauriabiana. "He try catchem Filamina."

"He was after the girl and the pearl."

"How he know that one pearl, Capitan?"

"Because Jones told him. Then he came to the island, saw Filamina, decided to steal both the girl and pearl, and got the boat ready to clear off with both in the confusion of the dance."

"When I give pearl longa Misser Jones? He dead."

"No fear. You see Misser Jones, pretty quick— on my ship."

"The man who escaped from the pearling fleet, Jack?"

"Yes. Bought by them in good faith, and when they found he was no good for work they were glad to get rid of him. I'll bet Raftopulos gave him that clout on the head. Come on, Filamina, and get rid of that pearl. The tide's going out. Raftopulos has gone to sea without a boat. Did you kill him, Tauriabiana?"

"That one altogether finish," replied Tauriabiana complacently. "He no good missionary that one. More better die."

"And now for the Rev. William Jones," said Jack Wagstaff. "I think he'll even provide the ring for you, Filamina."

Filamina flushed with pride. It was a direct promise that she and Tauriabiana should be mission-married "altogether likeit white man."

___________________

This is the only other Randolph Bedford story I could find, an episode from the collection "Billy Pagan, Mining Engineer" 1911. The book is very scarce. Much of his early work was published in the Bulletin, which is not readily available through The Australian National Library's TROVE on-line resource.

5: The Man Who Held the Wires

Randolph Bedford

Project Gutenberg Australia

(From "Billy Pagan, Mining Engineer" 1911)

A WILLY-WILLY blowing over Coolgardie filled with dust our camp on the twenty-five mile road. We ate dust, breathed dust, and wore it as our most intimate garment; we wrote in a mixture of organic matter and mud.

'Twenty-five per cent moisture, twenty-five per cent dust, and fifty per cent dead blowfly,' said Billy Pagan as he decoded the cable from London.

'What does it say?' said I, when he had closed the codebook.

'It's from Harmer. There's a show at English Flag under offer to him, and his option expires in four days. Did you ever hear of a big mine there, Harry?'

'No,' I replied. 'Is it supposed to be big?'

'Judging by the price, yes. Harmer says it's under offer to them for fifty thousand pounds, and that other people are ready to take it up when his option expires. He's had a report on it, and it's so good he wants me to confirm it.'

'Whose report was it?'

'Manning's. He says it's a two-ounce show with unlimited quantities of ore proved.'

'Do you know Manning?'

'Only by reputation, and that says he's very straight but not very smart.'

'And you've got to confirm in four days?'

'Yes. Do you feel inclined for a trip? It's not a nice day but there's only fifty miles of it.'

'I'll come, certainly.'

'Right, old man. I'll get the buggy round.'

Late that night we drove up to the mine— a mile or so beyond the grogshop of galvanized iron roof, salmon gum wallplates and rafters, and hessian sides— having been directed to the track to the mine by the owner of the shanty. A great blow of quartz, a mountain in size and of precipitous steepness, loomed grey and mysterious at our right, but the light of a camp to the left bore us away from the mammoth outcrop. At the sound of buggy wheels the door of the camp opened, and the white rays of a kerosene lamp invaded the darkness, except where it was broken by the figure of a man who appeared in the doorway.

'All right, Mr Pagan,' said the man. 'Jim'll take care o' your horses.'

'H'm,' said Billy Pagan to me, and I saw that he was not pleased at the meeting, although he replied, 'Hullo, Swainger. What are you doing here?'

'Just come along to measure up for the contractor tomorrow, Mr Pagan.'

'H'm.' We had alighted and entered the hut when Billy Pagan spoke again. 'Sinking the shaft on contract, are you?' he said.

'Yes, Mr Pagan. Sit down here. I've got a bunk ready for you. Didn't expect your mate.'

'Never mind troubling about the bunk,' said Billy Pagan. 'We've got our blankets and I'd rather camp outside.'

There were three men at the rough table— two of the usual type of young Australians, very tall and spare, very silent— their faces wrinkled by blinding suns to the semblance of middle-aged men, whereas they were little more than youths. The third man was short, broad and black-bearded—every hair of him gave the impression of the immense strength of their owner. He received us sullenly, as if we were men he was forced to meet and would be glad to part with. Peculiar glances as of enquiry on one side and of warning in reply passed between this pocket Hercules and Swainger.

'Have a drink, mates,' said the Hercules almost commandingly, and although neither of us desired it, we could not be guilty of a refusal—which is a serious infraction of bush law. But after we had drunk the whisky and the hot water, which proved that it had known the condenser only a few minutes before, Billy Pagan said that we were tired and would talk in the morning. Without waiting for a reply, he said 'Goodnight,' and led the way out to our buggy, and I followed him.

In silence we spread our blankets near the buggy, filled the last pipe for the night, removed our boots, and turned in. We smoked for a few minutes in silence—a silence broken by the first of the questions that tormented me.

'Why don't you like Swainger, Billy?'

'S-s-sh—not so loud...I don't know anything against him except indefinite hearsay, but I don't like him on sight, and I trust to my instinct.'

'But how can your likings affect this business?'

'He was in Coolgardie when we left. He was loafing about the post office when I drove down Bailey street...looking as if he were at rest and likely to stay so. Yet he turns up here to receive us.'

'How could he know where we were going?'

'A cable from whoever is trying to sell this mine in London, or leakage in the telephone office here.'

'I see, but—'

'S-s-sh—'

A quartz splinter cracked under a heavy boot. I looked in the direction of the sound and saw two figures so indefinite as to appear mere shadows. They had approached from the back of the camp...now they stood motionless.

Billy Pagan's whisper came to me, 'Talk— laugh— so they can go away again.'

I took the cue.

'Hang this pipe... It's foul. Got your knife, Billy?'

'No,' replied he as loudly. 'There's saltbush growing near you— get a twig.'

He continued talking advice as to pipe cleaning while I turned over to pluck the saltbush, and I heard the quartz splinter crepitate as if its broken edges were relieved of weight. I looked up and the two shadows had vanished.

The midnight winds sprang up and ruffled the plain; the night showed fever stars and darker than usual.

'What's their game, Billy?'

'S-s-sh— no more talking tonight... It's risky.'

There were sounds as of shovels being moved from the ground behind the camp. Then the noise of retreating footsteps.

'But what are they doing?'

'They're going to the shaft. It's none of our business, though.'

'What shall we do then?'

'S-s-sh. When in doubt, keep quiet— go to sleep.'

He rolled over, his face set from the dawn. In a few minutes his deep and regular breathing told me that he had followed his own advice. For myself, I was too excited by the mystery I felt afoot, and by turns dozed and awakened to every sound from the camp, the shaft and the plain.

Morning showed us the great outcrop of quartz that had been grey mystery in the starlight, a white crystalline mountain glaring and eye-wearing in the sun. In the centre it had weathered to fragments that strewed the plain— rising again in towers and pinnacles of whiteness, showing only the infrequent discoloration of millions of years of moss.

'H'm,' said Billy Pagan, chipping a boulder as if with his prospecting hammer— hungry as a swamper.'

Swainger interpolated hastily, 'She's not all brick quartz like this. She's better below— and she'll get richer with depth.'

'H'm,' said Billy, as Swainger and the sullen Hercules walked before us to the shaft. 'Same old lie, Harry— the stone will get richer with depth. Will it? I've never known a reef that did— it's always the other way.' We reached the shaft, and the engineer, addressing Swainger, said, 'What's the depth?'

'Two hundred and twenty; we've opened out and driven at the hundred and the two hundred. I suppose you like to do the sampling alone?'

'Yes, my friend and myself will go.'

'Right you are— we'll lower you then'. As he spoke he looped and knotted the end of the windlass rope as a foothole.

'No thanks. We'll go down the ladders. Will you lower the sample bags, Harry, after I've got down? There's a connection between the hundred foot level and the two hundred, isn't there, Mr Swainger?'

'Yes, there's a winze through and ladders in it.'

'Right. Is your friend here'— he indicated the sullen Hercules— 'the leaseholder?'

'I'm one of 'em, mister,' replied Hercules, answering for himself, and truculently, as if he expected opposition and wanted to anticipate it.

Swainger silenced him with a look.

'And you, Mr Swainger?' pursued Pagan imperturbably, as if he had neither heard nor seen the truculence nor its correction.

'I've got the option,' replied Swainger, flushing uneasily.

'And who has given the option to my people?'

'Coakley—'

'He's in London, I think?'

'Ye-e-es—he's in London.'

'H'm... Lower away when I call, Harry.'

I sat in the hundred foot level, looking at a glistening mass of quartz. Billy Pagan's candle burned steadily in its spider-socket driven into the soft slate of the reef-enclosing rock. I held my candle in my hand and the tallow guttered to my fingers.

He had spread a long sampling sheet of canvas on the floor of the drive and drove the pick at random into the quartz that stood up well, although it was shattered in all directions.

We had sampled the drive in sections of ten feet, had then roughly quartered each sample, packed it in its bag— numbered for identification— and sealed it.

When he had finished every section of the level Billy walked back into one of the crosscuts and measured the width of the lode.

'She's a beauty for size,' he said. 'Thirty feet if it's an inch... Let's go down the winze... Wait a minute. What about a sample from the floor?'

'But you didn't knock it down. All you knocked down fell on the sapling sheet.'

'Never mind that. We'll see what it's worth.' He scraped away half an inch of the surface and smiled as he saw moisture in the debris below.

'Who would have expected water? Eh! hold the bag, Harry. That'll do... Now to No. 2.'

I climbed down the hundred feet of crazy Jacob's ladder and Billy Pagan lowered the tools and sample bags, threw down the sampling sheet, and followed slowly— holding the candle to the white walls around him, scanning each point and crevice of the rock.

'Won't you sample the winze?'

'Yes,' he said loudly— and then whispered, 'S-s-sh, this place carries sound like a railway tunnel... No. It's not worth the smell of gold to the acre.'

'But it's the same stone as in the level.'

'S-s-sh— what if it is? We'll sample number two now, and then we'll get away.'

The reef at the lower level showed the same characteristics as the upper stone, but with fewer of the laminated veinings that had distinguished the reef at shallower depths. He sampled it quickly, and then he took a sample of the floor, which the sampling sheet had hidden, bagged it and sealed the bag, enclosed the samples in two gunny bags and sealed them. We carried them along the drive and to the shaft, and as he prepared to ascend by the ladders he handed me the last half inch of his candle— guttering tallow and sealing wax and nigh extinction.

'I'll climb quickly and lower the rope for the samples. Don't take your eyes off the bags, Harry— not for a moment.'

'Why— there's no one here?'

'There's always somebody everywhere.. .keep one eye on each bag. I won't be long.'

He climbed out of the circle of candlelight and into the half gloom of the shaft.

I looked at the bags as he had bidden, but the eye wearied of them, and I must have been looking at the candle flame for some minutes when I was conscious of the nearness of a man. There is a sensation something approaching horror at the sudden consciousness of the espionage of an enemy; and at the moment I must confess I was at least disagreeably startled.

I turned swiftly, and there, in the entrance to the drive, stood the sullen Hercules— his black beard and piercing eyes more commandingly sinister than usual, his left foot arrested suddenly in the act of taking another step towards me.

'Hallo!' said I, astounded at finding him behind me. 'How did you get here?'

'Same way as you. Down the ladders to the hundred foot and then down the winze, and along this level.'

'But in the dark?' For I saw he had no candle.

'Yes. I know every stone in this show... You finished sampling pretty slick.'

I did not immediately reply— I felt a new dislike to him. This man who went wandering through a mine and down crazy Jacob's ladders in the dark and then showed that he wished me to believe that he had taken the risks carelessly, motivelessly and merely to pass the time, was not at all to my taste or understanding.

'You got through the sampling in quick time,' he said again.

'Yes,' I replied, then, 'Mr Pagan is a quick worker.'

'It isn't fair to a mine to jump through it like that,' he replied, plainly showing that the rapid sampling had not been anticipated by him and had disarranged his plans.

'Mr Pagan doesn't scamp his work,' I replied with some warmth.

'More haste— less speed, I think,' he said doggedly, and then his eye suddenly flamed as he saw the sampling sheet folded up, with all Billy Pagan's finicky orderliness, on the bags. I saw the glance, shifted the candle to my left hand, and prepared for war.

'Under below,' called the voice of Billy Pagan cheerily, and with feelings of relief I heard the hook on the windlass rope strike metallically against the walls of the shaft. There were two slings on the hook. I slung the two bags of samples, called to the men on top to 'haul away,' and as soon as the samples were out of reach took the sampling sheet over my shoulder, put the prospecting hammer in my belt, blew out the candle and started for the surface.

I expected Hercules, maddened by his black and silent rage, to wrench me from the ladder, and I climbed through the half gloom with only one sensation, and that, the instinct to reach the good earth's surface quickly; but I had no need for fear. Hercules warred in no such open ways. I could hear him muttering curses in the blackness of the drive, but I was on the last ladder before he began to climb.

BILLY PAGAN stood on guard over the bags. At the mouth of the shaft Swainger, looking furtively depressed and making his anxiety more apparent by affecting an air of good fellowship, deprecated an immediate departure.

'Give the show a chance, Mr Pagan,' he said. 'There's another reef further over there.'

'But no work done on it?'

'Not as much as on this one— just potholes.'

'Well, I don't trouble to see them,' replied Billy Pagan. 'My instructions were to sample a mine not potholes.'

'But you'd better wait and drive back in the cool. Your horses are getting a bit of green feed, too.'

Billy Pagan smiled— he knew how much 'green feed' there was in that drought-stricken wilderness, and then he suddenly snapped rather than said, 'Green feed! Much more likely poison plant... Hallo! What's that fellow doing with my horses?'

I looked in the direction of his gaze and saw one of the over-tall youths stoning Pagan's two greys. They had halted to browse on the ridge three hundred yards from us, and the lanky youth attempted to drive them on. Another minute and they would have been driven down the ridge and out of our sight in the gullies.

'Hey, you! Leave those horses alone,' Billy shouted, and at the sound of his voice the lanky youth dropped behind a boulder and disappeared, and the horses resumed feeding on the scanty salt-bush.

Billy Pagan's eyes glittered, but he said no word to betray the fact that his suspicions were aroused to their highest pitch.

'Will you bring my horses back here, Harry,' he said quietly, and I threw the sampling sheet on the bags. At sight of it Swainger's eyes were filled with murder. As I turned to go the sullen face of Hercules appeared at the mouth of the shaft.

WHEN I returned with the horses the group of three at the shaft mouth were waiting in silence; Hercules, with his strong, sullen head bent, relieving his passion by pulling fragments of stout chip with fingers that seemed to be made of steel— so hard and irresistible seemed their grip upon the wood. Swainger, in doubt, glaring at the sampling sheet; Billy Pagan, cool, calmly smiling his superiority in the struggle.

As I came up he said, 'Will you put the horses in, Harry? The harness is in the buggy', and as I nodded acquiescence, his tone became stern as he hailed the second lanky youth who hovered round the buggy with an axle-nut wrench.

'Hey, you! What are you doing?'

'Goin' to put a drop o' neatsfoot in the axleboxes,' replied the youth sulkily.

'Well, why don't you?' I, who knew him, detected irony in the question— irony that was sure of the weakness of its opponent.

'Our wrench won't fit,' said the youth, even more sulkily than before.

'Won't it? Well, there's a wrench in the box under the seat.'

The youth started towards it.

'Wait a minute— the box is locked.'

The youth stopped with an oath.

'Never mind— I'll oil the axles myself. I like greasy work... Come here, my lad.'

The youth slouched to the mouth of the shaft. 'Take one of these bags, will you? I'll take the other.'

'I'll carry one,' said Hercules with a little badly disguised eagerness in his voice.

'I won't trouble you,' said Billy soothingly, as if he were merely careful that Hercules should not overtax his strength. 'But you may carry the sampling sheet.'

Hercules snatched up the canvas and cursed in a whisper as audible as a stage aside.

The little procession came to the buggy. Billy Pagan stacked the bags in the front of the vehicle, took his seat and put a foot on each bag. I handed him the reins as Swainger came from the camp with a bottle and glasses.

'No thanks,' said Billy; 'I never drink before twelve.'

'But it's after twelve now,' said Swainger.

'I mean before twelve midnight then.'

Swainger scowled, but affected to laugh off his disappointment.

I fastened the traces to the bars and mounted to the buggy beside the engineer.

He bore upon the reins to feel the mouths of the horses and let them know the journey was beginning. Then he shook hands with Swainger, thanking him for the hospitality of the camp in the usual set terms, and concluded to the lanky youth.

'Good-bye, sonny— I take the will for the deed in the matter of greasing the axles...Good-b'— Hallo! Where's your mate, Mr Swainger?'

Hercules had disappeared.

'In the camp, I think,' replied Swainger confusedly.

'All right...Well, good-bye.'

He put the horses up to the collar as he spoke, and the buggy moved.

'Good-bye, Mr Pagan...Hey! You're left the sampling sheet.'

'Never mind... I'll give it to you. You'll find it handy next time.'

If Swainger made reply he never heard it. The beautiful team took us swiftly past the spurs of gleaming quartz into the deep-milled dust of the main track.

'SO THE MINE'S a fraud, Billy?'

'Fraud's no name for it... And those fellows would stick at nothing. That black scoundrel sneaking after us in the dark; the murder in the eyes of both of them when they saw the sampling sheet, and knew that the little game of salting the bottom edges of the drive was no good to them... I knew when I saw the stone it was N.G... They sunk that shaft on the strength of little rich leaders that I could see at the surface had been payable... Then they say, Well, here's a boom. We'll be in it. We've got any quantity of stone, and we'll make the quality good enough... I don't grumble at them doing that...It's all in the game— their game; and it's all in my game to crab them if I can.'

'What are you hot about then?'

'Because they've done things that are not in the game. They'd have thrown us both down that shaft and the samples after us, only they hadn't quite enough courage for it. If we had shown the least sign of fear we were done. But they couldn't understand a man having sufficient front to laugh at 'em. And what clumsy liars! Swainger had come along to measure up the work of the contractors, and there's no contractors there and not a foot of work has been done for months. They tried to lose our horses, didn't they?— and that long-necked young thief who was monkeying round with a wrench— trying to kindly grease the wheels and lose an axle-nut or two...They've put my back up. We've only two days to stop Harmer paying the money to the other thief in London— less than two days, because Australia is nine hours ahead of England.'

'And where did the black ruffian go to?'

'Did you see a cloud of dust away to the right— two miles back?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I'll lay a wager that was Mr Hercules rounding up his horses and galloping them back to the English Flag.'

'They'll follow us then?'

'My colonial oath they will. The game's just begun, but we'll win it.'

'We! What do you get out of it, Billy?'

His face hardened at that, and he replied almost coldly, 'My fee— and so far as actual inspection goes, it's the easiest two hundred and fifty I ever earned.'

'But you'll get it whether you beat these fellows or not?'

'Harry,' said Billy Pagan severely, 'I'm surprised at you. You're no sportsman!'

'NOW, Mr Manning,' said Billy, the night after our arrival in Coolgardie, 'will you please tell me how you took your samples?'

'In the usual way,' replied the older man, but deprecatingly— 'all along the drive diagonally in six feet sections.'

'But you didn't use a sampling sheet. All the stone you broke down fell to the floor and you shovelled it up from there and then quartered it.'

'Yes, but—'

'And the result is this. I've crushed and panned all my samplings, and I can only get a few grains to the ton. But I took a special sample of the broken stuff along the side of the drive and I got twelve ounces to the ton for one sample and fourteen ounces for the other.'

'Good heavens! Then I was salted?'

'You were.'

'I'm ashamed of myself. I am sick of myself. I might have known by the character of the rock, but I don't trust my eyes, as I'm shortsighted.'

'It can't be helped— you got an average of two ounces for all the stone in sight, didn't you?'

'Yes— two ounces.'

'Then we've just got time to stop the swindle... Now don't be downhearted. Nobody could doubt your straightness.'

The old man smiled sadly. 'But I doubt my own ability now, Mr Pagan.'

'We must go now... Good-bye. See you later... Off to the telephone office, Harry.'

THE TERMINUS of the telegraph line was twenty miles further west, and from Coolgardie telegrams were sent by telephone to the operator at the terminus at Pink Rocks.

Billy Pagan coded a cable that was translatable thus, 'Refuse to complete. The mine is an absolute swindle.'

We walked to the Post Office feeling very successful and confident, but Billy Pagan stopped at the entrance as Swainger's figure disappeared within.

'They're here, Harry— but they're later than I thought. And what's the good of them being here now and cabling?'

We entered. Hercules leaned against the wall of the inner office and glared at us, drunkenly truculent.

Billy rapped at the wooden shutter of the telephone room, and the clerk appeared and demanded our business.

'I've got a cable I want sent right away.'

'Can't send it till I've got this message through.'

'And how long will that be?'

'About two hours.'

'Two hours! Man, it must go through at once. I'll pay urgent rates.'

'It's an urgent I've got on now, and it's a long message.'

Billy thought a moment and then replied, 'All right, I'll come back in two hours. You must arrange to break the long message if it's not through then.'

The clerk said 'All right,' and closed the shutter. The telephone bell rang again— the voice of the transmitter spoke again.

We left the office, Billy leading me into the scrub beyond the office, and then by a detour back to the Post Office, but at its side and not its front.

'Quiet,' he whispered. 'Keep out of the ray of the lamp. Now... crawl behind me.'

We crawled through a little belt of scrub and past the piles of a building— built, as usual, high from the ground on zinc-covered piles to delay the ravages of white ants.

We were under the Post Office.

'Listen— Harry— what is it?'

We listened and heard this:

'In the last summer number of The Clarion we reviewed the Westralian discoveries by sea— 'Have you got that? Eh... Never mind whether it's rot or not— this is the message and I'm being paid for it—' By sea. Inseparably connected with the land discoveries are the travels of John Forrest, Alexander Forrest, Fyre Austin and others whose names we know and of that great and nameless legion of explorers and prospectors and adventurers who have beaten the ways for the little men of the cities in all countries and at all times. And if there is one thing that calls for the adventurous Australian's gratitude it is— 'Got that?'

'Come away quietly,' whispered Billy, and knowing the uselessness of questioning him I backed out silently after him.

He did not speak until we were well clear of the scrub and near his camp again.

'What's the game, Billy? What does it all mean? What is it they are telephoning?

'You'll laugh at the idea. That was an article out of the Clarion. They are probably telephoning the whole paper.'

'But what for?'

'To hold the line, man. While they pay they hold the wires, and I can't get my cable through.'

'But the cost?'

'They cut that down by waiting until they saw me leave Manning's house. They're probably only telegraphing it as far as Fremantle, and what's a penny a word to fifty thousand for a shicer?'

'So you're beaten?'

'Not yet— the horses have had a day off. We'll yoke 'em up.'

'Where away now?'

'To the telegraph station at Pink Rocks.'

CAN I EVER forget the romance of the track that night— the beauty of the bush lying under the starlight without a breath to ruffle it; the smoke of our pipes curling up as incense; the ghostly track lying coiled and mysterious through scrub and forest; the horses enjoying their own rapid motion through the cool air; the only sounds the occasional clicking of shoe on shoe, the straining of the harness and the silky rustling of tyres in the sand.

As we sped through the divinely soft air, he told me my part of the programme.

'I'll drop you at twenty miles out, drive the other ten alone, get my cable away and drive back to you.'

'But if the operator has started on the long message he won't stop it for the cable.'

'I won't ask him to, but as there'll be a sudden interruption of communication with the place we've come from, he'll take my cable all right.'

I looked at him, and in the half darkness could just see that he was smiling.

'You mean to cut the telephone wire?'

'I mean that you shall. It's half past twelve now— you mustn't cut it till a quarter past two. I'll be in the office at Pink Rock then.'

'I see— that gives you an alibi.'

'Of course— they'd suspect me at once if I first cut a wire and then drive to the next office to get a cable through.'

'I see— all right, old man. How do I get up the poles?'

'There are no poles. Civilisation hasn't come along yet. The insulators are spiked to trees.'

'Good. And what do I cut the wire with?'

'This.'

He pressed a fencing wire cutter into my hand, and we drove on in silence and I dozed.

A touch brought me to consciousness, and I found he had stopped the buggy.

'There you are, old man. There's the wire. What's your time?— five minutes to one! Right. I can do the ten miles by twenty past two, easy. Cut at twenty past. Good luck, old man— I'll be here again at four thirty, but it will be best for you to walk west, and I'll meet you sooner.'

'Good-bye, Billy, and good luck.'

We clasped hands. I lit my pipe and settled down to waiting—the buggy disappeared in the long perspectives of the aisles of salmon gum.

'CAN'T DO IT— I've got a long message,' said the operator.

'All right, I'll wait,' replied Billy Pagan, with one eye on his sweating but still strong team at the door, and the other on the telephone.

'It won't be much good waiting unless you've brought your blankets,' said the operator, laughing. 'Some crank up on the field has taken a ninety-nine years lease of this 'phone. He's sent half The Clarion up to now— all except the illustrations— and I suppose when he's through with that he'll start on Johnston's Dictionary and poor Doctor Watt's hymns. Sorry to keep you, but I can't help it.'

'I know,' replied Billy. 'It's not your fault. Fire away. Give that lunatic asylum at the other end another chance.'

'All right— you take it easily, anyhow— Hello! Are you there? Yes. Go on. What's my last? 'Repeat' did you say? All right? Here you are— 'Governor Denison writing to H. Labouchere of the Colonial Office, respecting the formation of the first New South Wales Ministry, said'—

'Can you hear that?... Can you hear that? Hello!— Shake your battery...Oh, damn!'

Billy Pagan looked at his watch. It was fifteen minutes past two.

At that moment I had climbed the tree and cut the wire.

IN THE EARLY dawn I met him driving gaily through the dewy bush, and he stopped the buggy to pick me up, and laughed. And when he had me in the buggy he laughed again, as at an excellent joke, and called me his good mate and his blood brother and many other pleasant things.

'Swainger will be on our track when they know of the broken wire. I'm game to bet that he's been admiring through my window a dummy in the bed, supposing it to be me.'

The wire must have been repaired the next day, for twenty-four hours after we reached Coolgardie came a cable for Billy Pagan and its decodation said this:

'Many thanks. We were on the point of paying. Please make complete examination Jindabine mines and cable report.'

_________________

6: To be Taken with a Grain of Salt

Charles Dickens

"All the Year Round", Christmas Number, 1865

I HAVE ALWAYS noticed a prevalent want of courage, even among persons of superior intelligence and culture, as to imparting their own psychological experiences when those have been of a strange sort. Almost all men are afraid that what they could relate in such wise would find no parallel or response in a listener's internal life, and might be suspected or laughed at. A truthful traveller who should have seen some extraordinary creature in the likeness of a sea-serpent, would have no fear of mentioning it; but the same traveller having had some singular presentiment, impulse, vagary of thought, vision (so-called), dream, or other remarkable mental impression, would hesitate considerably before he would own to it. To this reticence I attribute much of the obscurity in which such subjects are involved. We do not habitually communicate our experiences of these subjective things, as we do our experiences of objective creation. The consequence is, that the general stock of experience in this regard appears exceptional, and really is so, in respect of being miserably imperfect.

In what I am going to relate I have no intention of setting up, opposing, or supporting, any theory whatever. I know the history of the Bookseller of Berlin, I have studied the case of the wife of a late Astronomer Royal as related by Sir David Brewster, and I have followed the minutest details of a much more remarkable case of Spectral Illusion occurring within my private circle of friends. It may be necessary to state as to this last that the sufferer (a lady) was in no degree, however distant, related to me. A mistaken assumption on that head, might suggest an explanation of a part of my own case— but only a part— which would be wholly without foundation. It cannot be referred to my inheritance of any developed peculiarity, nor had I ever before any at all similar experience, nor have I ever had any at all similar experience since.

It does not signify how many years ago, or how few, a certain Murder was committed in England, which attracted great attention. We hear more than enough of Murderers as they rise in succession to their atrocious eminence, and I would bury the memory of this particular brute, if I could, as his body was buried, in Newgate Jail. I purposely abstain from giving any direct clue to the criminal's individuality.

When the murder was first discovered, no suspicion fell— or I ought rather to say, for I cannot be too precise in my facts, it was nowhere publicly hinted that any suspicion fell— on the man who was afterwards brought to trial. As no reference was at that time made to him in the newspapers, it is obviously impossible that any description of him can at that time have been given in the newspapers. It is essential that this fact be remembered.

Unfolding at breakfast my morning paper, containing the account of that first discovery, I found it to be deeply interesting, and I read it with close attention. I read it twice, if not three times. The discovery had been made in a bedroom, and, when I laid down the paper, I was aware of a flash— rush— flow— I do not know what to call it— no word I can find is satisfactorily descriptive— in which I seemed to see that bedroom passing through my room, like a picture impossibly painted on a running river. Though almost instantaneous in its passing, it was perfectly clear; so clear that I distinctly, and with a sense of relief, observed the absence of the dead body from the bed.

It was in no romantic place that I had this curious sensation, but in chambers in Piccadilly, very near to the corner of Saint James's Street. It was entirely new to me. I was in my easy-chair at the moment, and the sensation was accompanied with a peculiar shiver which started the chair from its position. (But it is to be noted that the chair ran easily on castors.) I went to one of the windows (there are two in the room, and the room is on the second floor) to refresh my eyes with the moving objects down in Piccadilly. It was a bright autumn morning, and the street was sparkling and cheerful. The wind was high. As I looked out, it brought down from the Park a quantity of fallen leaves, which a gust took, and whirled into a spiral pillar. As the pillar fell and the leaves dispersed, I saw two men on the opposite side of the way, going from West to East. They were one behind the other. The foremost man often looked back over his shoulder. The second man followed him, at a distance of some thirty paces, with his right hand menacingly raised. First, the singularity and steadiness of this threatening gesture in so public a thoroughfare, attracted my attention; and next, the more remarkable circumstance that nobody heeded it. Both men threaded their way among the other passengers, with a smoothness hardly consistent even with the action of walking on a pavement, and no single creature that I could see, gave them place, touched them, or looked after them. In passing before my windows, they both stared up at me. I saw their two faces very distinctly, and I knew that I could recognize them anywhere. Not that I had consciously noticed anything very remarkable in either face, except that the man who went first had an unusually lowering appearance, and that the face of the man who followed him was of the colour of impure wax.

I am a bachelor, and my valet and his wife constitute my whole establishment. My occupation is in a certain Branch Bank, and I wish that my duties as head of a Department were as light as they are popularly supposed to be. They kept me in town that autumn, when I stood in need of a change. I was not ill, but I was not well. My reader is to make the most that can be reasonably made of my feeling jaded, having a depressing sense upon me of a monotonous life, and being 'slightly dyspeptic'. I am assured by my renowned doctor that my real state of health at that time justifies no stronger description, and I quote his own from his written answer to my request for it.

As the circumstances of the Murder, gradually unravelling, took stronger and stronger possession of the public mind, I kept them away from mine, by knowing as little about them as was possible in the midst of the universal excitement. But I knew that a verdict of Wilful Murder had been found against the suspected Murderer, and that he had been committed to Newgate for trial. I also knew that his trial had been postponed over one Sessions of the Central Criminal Court, on the ground of general prejudice and want of time for the preparation of the defence. I may further have known, but I believe I did not, when, or about when, the Sessions to which his trial stood postponed would come on.

My sitting-room, bedroom, and dressing-room, are all on one floor. With the last, there is no communication but through the bedroom. True, there is a door in it, once communicating with the staircase; but a part of the fitting of my bath has been— and had then been for some years— fixed across it. At the same period, and as a part of the same arrangement, the door had been nailed up and canvassed over.

I was standing in my bedroom late one night, giving some directions to my servant before he went to bed. My face was towards the only available door of communication with the dressing-room, and it was closed. My servant's back was towards that door. While I was speaking to him I saw it open, and a man look in, who very earnestly and mysteriously beckoned to me. That man was the man who had gone second of the two along Piccadilly, and whose face was of the colour of impure wax.

The figure, having beckoned, drew back and closed the door. With no longer pause than was made by my crossing the bedroom, I opened the dressing-room door, and looked in. I had a lighted candle already in my hand. I felt no inward expectation of seeing the figure in the dressing-room, and I did not see it there.

Conscious that my servant stood amazed, I turned round to him, and said: 'Derrick, could you believe that in my cool senses I fancied I saw a—' As I there laid my hand upon his breast, with a sudden start he trembled violently, and said, 'O Lord yes sir! A dead man beckoning!'

Now, I do not believe that this John Derrick, my trusty and attached servant for more than twenty years, had any impression whatever of having seen any such figure, until I touched him. The change in him was so startling when I touched him, that I fully believe he derived his impression in some occult manner from me at that instant.

I bade John Derrick bring some brandy, and I gave him a dram, and was glad to take one myself. Of what had proceeded that night's phenomenon, I told him not a single word. Reflecting on it, I was absolutely certain that I had never seen that face before, except on the one occasion in Piccadilly. Comparing its expression when beckoning at the door, with its expression when it had stared up at me as I stood at my window, I came to the conclusion that on the first occasion it had sought to fasten itself upon my memory, and that on the second occasion it had made sure of being immediately remembered.

I was not very comfortable that night, though I felt a certainty, difficult to explain, that the figure would not return. At daylight, I fell into a heavy sleep, from which I was awakened by John Derrick's coming to my bedside with a paper in his hand.

This paper, it appeared, had been the subject of an altercation at the door between its bearer and my servant. It was a summons to me to serve upon a Jury at the forthcoming Sessions of the Central Criminal Court at the Old Bailey. I had never before been summoned on such a Jury, as John Derrick well knew. He believed— I am not certain at this hour whether with reason or otherwise— that that class of Jurors were customarily chosen on a lower qualification than mine, and he had at first refused to accept the summons. The man who served it had taken the matter very coolly. He had said that my attendance or nonattendance was nothing to him; there the summons was; and I should deal with it at my own peril, and not at his.

For a day or two I was undecided whether to respond to this call, or take no notice of it. I was not conscious of the slightest mysterious bias, influence, or attraction, one way or other. Of that I am as strictly sure as of every other statement that I make here. Ultimately I decided, as a break in the monotony of my life, that I would go.

The appointed morning was a raw morning in the month of November. There was a dense brown fog in Piccadilly, and it became positively black and in the last degree oppressive East of Temple Bar. I found the passages and staircases of the Court House flaringly lighted with gas, and the Court itself similarly illuminated. I think that until I was conducted by officers into the Old Court and saw its crowded state, I did not know that the Murderer was to be tried that day. I think that until I was so helped into the Old Court with considerable difficulty, I did not know into which of the two Courts sitting, my summons would take me. But this must not be received as a positive assertion, for I am not completely satisfied in my mind on either point.

I took my seat in the place appropriated to Jurors in waiting, and I looked about the Court as well as I could through the cloud of fog and breath that was heavy in it. I noticed the black vapour hanging like a murky curtain outside the great windows, and I noticed the stifled sound of wheels on the straw or tan that was littered in the street; also, the hum of the people gathered there, which a shrill whistle, or a louder song or hail than the rest, occasionally pierced. Soon afterwards the Judges, two in number, entered and took their seats. The buzz in the Court was awfully hushed. The direction was given to put the Murderer to the bar. He appeared there. And in that same instant I recognized in him, the first of the two men who had gone down Piccadilly.

If my name had been called then, I doubt if I could have answered to it audibly. But it was called about sixth or eighth in the panel, and I was by that time able to say 'Here!' Now, observe. As I stepped into the box, the prisoner, who had been looking on attentively but with no sign of concern, became violently agitated, and beckoned to his attorney. The prisoner's wish to challenge me was so manifest, that it occasioned a pause, during which the attorney, with his hand upon the dock, whispered with his client, and shook his head. I afterwards had it from that gentleman, that the prisoner's first affrighted words to him were, 'At all hazards challenge that man!' But, that as he would give no reason for it, and admitted that he had not even known my name until he heard it called and I appeared, it was not done.

Both on the ground already explained, that I wish to avoid reviving the unwholesome memory of that Murderer, and also because a detailed account of his long trial is by no means indispensable to my narrative, I shall confine myself closely to such incidents in the ten days and nights during which we, the Jury, were kept together, as directly bear on my own curious personal experience. It is in that, and not in the Murderer, that I seek to interest my reader. It is to that, and not to a page of the Newgate Calendar, that I beg attention.

I was chosen Foreman of the Jury. On the second morning of the trial, after evidence had been taken for two hours (I heard the church clocks strike), happening to cast my eyes over my brother-jurymen, I found an inexplicable difficulty in counting them. I counted them several times, yet always with the same difficulty. In short, I made them one too many.

I touched the brother-juryman whose place was next to me, and I whispered to him, 'Oblige me by counting us.' He looked surprised by the request, but turned his head and counted. 'Why,' says he, suddenly, 'We are Thirt—; but no, it's not possible. No. We are twelve.'

According to my counting that day, we were always right in detail, but in the gross we were always one too many. There was no appearance— no figure— to account for it; but I had now an inward foreshadowing of the figure that was surely coming.

The Jury were housed at the London Tavern. We all slept in one large room on separate tables, and we were constantly in the charge and under the eye of the officer sworn to hold us in safe-keeping. I see no reason for suppressing the real name of that officer. He was intelligent, highly polite, and obliging, and (I was glad to hear) much respected in the City. He had an agreeable presence, good eyes, enviable black whiskers, and a fine sonorous voice. His name was Mr Harker.

When we turned into our twelve beds at night, Mr Harker's bed was drawn across the door. On the night of the second day, not being disposed to lie down, and seeing Mr Harker sitting on his bed, I went and sat beside him, and offered him a pinch of snuff. As Mr Harker's hand touched mine in taking it from my box, a peculiar shiver crossed him, and he said: 'Who is this!'

Following Mr Harker's eyes and looking along the room, I saw again the figure I expected— the second of the two men who had gone down Piccadilly. I rose, and advanced a few steps; then stopped, and looked round at Mr Harker. He was quite unconcerned, laughed, and said in a pleasant way, 'I thought for a moment we had a thirteenth juryman, without a bed. But I see it is the moonlight.'

Making no revelation to Mr Harker, but inviting him to take a walk with me to the end of the room, I watched what the figure did. It stood for a few moments by the bedside of each of my eleven brother-jurymen, close to the pillow. It always went to the right-hand side of the bed, and always passed out crossing the foot of the next bed. It seemed from the action of the head, merely to look down pensively at each recumbent figure. It took no notice of me, or of my bed, which was that nearest to Mr Harker's. It seemed to go out where the moonlight came in, through a high window, as by an aerial flight of stairs.

Next morning at breakfast, it appeared that everybody present had dreamed of the murdered man last night, except myself and Mr Harker.

I now felt as convinced that the second man who had gone down Piccadilly was the murdered man (so to speak), as if it had been borne into my comprehension by his immediate testimony. But even this took place, and in a manner for which I was not at all prepared.

On the fifth day of the trial, when the case for the prosecution was drawing to a close, a miniature of the murdered man, missing from his bedroom upon the discovery of the deed, and afterwards found in a hiding-place where the Murderer had been seen digging, was put in evidence. Having been identified by the witness under examination, it was handed up to the Bench, and thence handed down to be inspected by the Jury. As an officer in a black gown was making his way with it across to me, the figure of the second man who had gone down Piccadilly, impetuously started from the crowd, caught the miniature from the officer, and gave it to me with its own hands, at the same time saying in a low and hollow tone— before I saw the miniature, which was in a locket— 'I was younger then, and my face was not then drained of blood.' It also came between me and the brother-juryman to whom I would have given the miniature, and between him and the brother-juryman to whom he would have given it, and so passed it on through the whole of our number, and back into my possession. Not one of them, however, detected this.

At table, and generally when we were shut up together in Mr Harker's custody, we had from the first naturally discussed the day's proceedings a good deal. On that fifth day, the case for the prosecution being closed, and we having that side of the question in a completed shape before us, our discussion was more animated and serious. Among our number was a vestryman— the densest idiot I have ever seen at large— who met the plainest evidence with the most preposterous objections, and who was sided with by two flabby parochial parasites; all the three empanelled from a district so delivered over to Fever that they ought to have been upon their own trial, for five hundred Murders. When these mischievous blockheads were at their loudest, which was towards midnight while some of us were already preparing for bed, I again saw the murdered man. He stood grimly behind them, beckoning to me. On my going towards them and striking into the conversation, he immediately retired. This was the beginning of a separate series of appearances, confined to that long room in which we were confined. Whenever a knot of my brother jurymen laid their heads together, I saw the head of the murdered man among theirs. Whenever their comparison of notes was going against him, he would solemnly and irresistibly beckon to me.

It will be borne in mind that down to the production of the miniature on the fifth day of the trial, I had never seen the Appearance in Court. Three changes occurred, now that we entered on the case for the defence. Two of them I will mention together, first. The figure was now in Court continually, and it never there addressed itself to me, but always to the person who was speaking at the time. For instance. The throat of the murdered man had been cut straight across. In the opening speech for the defence, it was suggested that the deceased might have cut his own throat. At that very moment, the figure with its throat in the dreadful condition referred to (this it had concealed before) stood at the speaker's elbow, motioning across and across its windpipe, now with the right hand, now with the left, vigorously suggesting to the speaker himself, the impossibility of such a wound having been self-inflicted by either hand. For another instance. A witness to character, a woman, deposed to the prisoner's being the most amiable of mankind. The figure at that instant stood on the floor before her, looking her full in the face, and pointing out the prisoner's evil countenance with an extended arm and an outstretched finger.

The third change now to be added, impressed me strongly, as the most marked and striking of all. I do not theorize upon it; I accurately  state it, and there leave it. Although the Appearance was not itself perceived by those whom it addressed, its coming close to such persons was invariably attended by some trepidation or disturbance on their part. It seemed to me as if it were prevented by laws to which I was not amenable, from fully revealing itself to others, and yet as if it could, invisibly, dumbly and darkly, overshadow their minds. When the leading counsel for the defence suggested that hypothesis of suicide and the figure stood at the learned gentleman's elbow, frightfully sawing at its severed throat, it is undeniable that the counsel faltered in his speech, lost for a few seconds the thread of his ingenious discourse, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and turned extremely pale. When the witness to character was confronted by the Appearance, her eyes most certainly did follow the direction of its pointed finger, and rest in great hesitation and trouble upon the prisoner's face. Two additional illustrations will suffice. On the eighth day of the trial, after the pause which was every day made early in the afternoon for a few minutes' rest and refreshment, I came back into Court with the rest of the Jury, some little time before the return of the Judges. Standing up in the box and looking about me, I thought the figure was not there, until, chancing to raise my eyes to the gallery, I saw it bending forward and leaning over a very decent woman, as if to assure itself whether the Judges had resumed their seats or not. Immediately afterwards, that woman screamed, fainted, and was carried out. So with the venerable, sagacious, and patient Judge who conducted the trial. When the case was over, and he settled himself and his papers to sum up, the murdered man entering by the Judges' door, advanced to his Lordship's desk, and looked eagerly over his shoulder at the pages of his notes which he was turning. A change came over his Lordship's face; his hand stopped; the peculiar shiver that I knew so well, passed over him; he faltered, 'Excuse me gentlemen, for a few moments. I am somewhat oppressed by the vitiated air;' and did not recover until he had drunk a glass of water.

Through all the monotony of six of those interminable ten days— the same Judges and others on the bench, the same Murderer in the dock, the same  lawyers at the table, the same tones of question and answer rising to the roof of the court, the same scratching of the Judge's pen, the same ushers going in and out, the same lights kindled at the same hour when there had been any natural light of day, the same foggy curtain outside the great windows when it was foggy, the same rain pattering and dripping when it was rainy, the same footmarks of turnkeys and prisoner day after day on the same sawdust, the same keys locking and unlocking the same heavy doors— through all the wearisome monotony which made me feel as if I had been Foreman of the Jury for a vast period of time, and Piccadilly had flourished coevally with Babylon, the murdered man never lost one trace of his distinctness in my eyes, nor was he at any moment less distinct than anybody else. I must not omit, as a matter of fact, that I never once saw the Appearance which I call by the name of the murdered man, look at the Murderer. Again and again I wondered, 'Why does he not?' But he never did.

Nor did he look at me, after the production of the miniature, until the last closing minutes of the trial arrived. We retired to consider, at seven minutes before ten at night. The idiotic vestry-man and his two parochial parasites gave us so much trouble, that we twice returned into Court, to beg to have certain extracts from the Judge's notes reread. Nine of us had not the smallest doubt about those passages, neither, I believe, had any one in Court; the dunder-headed triumvirate however, having no idea but obstruction, disputed them for that very reason. At length we prevailed, and finally the Jury returned into Court at ten minutes past twelve.

The murdered man at that time stood directly opposite the Jury-box, on the other side of the Court. As I took my place, his eyes rested on me, with great attention; he seemed satisfied, and slowly shook a great grey veil, which he carried on his arm for the first time, over his head and whole form. As I gave in our verdict 'Guilty', the veil collapsed, all was gone, and his place was empty.

The Murderer being asked by the Judge, according to usage, whether he had anything to say before sentence of Death should be passed upon him, indistinctly muttered something which was described in the leading newspapers of the following day as 'a few rambling, incoherent, and half-audible words, in which he was understood to complain that he had not had a fair trial because the Foreman of the Jury was prepossessed against him'. The remarkable declaration that he really made, was this:

'My Lord, I knew I was a doomed man when the Foreman of my Jury came into the box. My Lord, I knew he would never let me off because, before I was taken, he somehow got to my bedside in the night, woke me, and put a rope round my neck.'

__________________________

7: The Doom of London

Robert Barr

1849–1912

The Idler Nov 1892

1: The Self-Conceit of the Twentieth Century

I TRUST I am thankful my life has been spared until I have seen that most brilliant epoch of the world’s history— the middle of the twentieth century. It would be useless for any man to disparage the vast achievements of the past fifty years; and if I venture to call attention to the fact, now apparently forgotten, that the people of the nineteenth century succeeded in accomplishing many notable things, it must not be imagined that I intend thereby to discount in any measure the marvellous inventions of the present age. Men have always been somewhat prone to look with a certain condescension upon those who lived fifty- or a hundred years before them. This seems to me the especial weakness of the present age; a feeling of national self-conceit, which, when it exists, should at least be kept as much in the background as possible. It will astonish many to know that such also was a failing of the people of the nineteenth century. They imagined themselves living in an age of progress; and while I am not foolish enough to attempt to prove that they did anything really worth recording, yet it must be admitted by any unprejudiced man of research that their inventions were at least stepping-stones to those of today. Although the telephone and telegraph, and all other electrical appliances, are now to be found only in our national museums, or in the private collections of those few men who take any interest in the doings of the last century, nevertheless, the study of the now obsolete science of electricity led up to the recent discovery of vibratory ether which does the work of the world so satisfactorily. The people of the nineteenth century were not fools; and although I am well aware that this statement will be received with scorn where it attracts any attention whatever, yet who can say that the progress of the next half-century may not be as great as that of the one now ended, and that the people of the next century may not look upon us with the same contempt which we feel toward those who lived fifty years ago?

Being an old man, I am, perhaps, a laggard who dwells in the past rather than the present; still it seems to me that such an article as that which appeared recently in Blackwood from the talented pen of Professor Mowberry, of Oxford University, is utterly unjustifiable. Under the title of “Did the People of London deserve their Fate?” he endeavors to show that the simultaneous blotting out of millions of human beings was a beneficial event, the good results of which we still enjoy.

According to him, Londoners were so dull-witted and stupid, so incapable of improvement, so sodden in the vice of mere money-gathering, that nothing but their total extinction would have sufficed, and that, instead of being an appalling catastrophe, the doom of London was an unmixed blessing. In spite of the unanimous approval with which this article has been received by the press, I still maintain that such writing is uncalled for, and that there is something to be said for the London of the nineteenth century.

2: Why London, Warned, Was Unprepared.

THE INDIGNATION I felt in first reading the article alluded to still remains with me, and it has caused me to write these words, giving some account of what I must still regard, in spite of the sneers of the present age, as the most terrible disaster that ever overtook a portion of the human race. I shall not endeavor to place before those who read, any record of the achievements pertaining to the time in question. But I would like to say a few words about the alleged stupidity of the people of London in making no preparations for a disaster regarding which they had continual and ever-recurring warning. They have been compared with the inhabitants of Pompeii making merry at the foot of a volcano. In the first place, fogs were so common in London, especially in winter, that no particular attention was paid to them. They were merely looked upon as inconvenient annoyances, interrupting traffic and prejudicial to health; but I doubt if anyone thought possible for a fog to become one vast smothering mattress pressed down upon a whole metropolis, extinguishing life as if the city suffered from hopeless hydrophobia. I have read that victims bitten by mad dogs were formerly put out of their sufferings in that way, although I doubt much if such things were ever actually done, notwithstanding the charges of savage barbarity now made against the people of the nineteenth century.

Probably the inhabitants of Pompeii were so accustomed to the eruptions of Vesuvius that they gave no thought to the possibility of their city being destroyed by a storm of ashes and an overflow of lava. Rain frequently descended upon London, and if a rainfall continued long enough it would certainly have flooded the metropolis, but no precautions were taken against a flood from the clouds. Why, then should the people have been expected to prepare for a catastrophe from fog, such as there had never been any experience of in the world’s history? The people of London were far from being the sluggish dolts present-day writers would have us believe.

3: The Coincidence That Came at Last

AS FOG HAS now been abolished both on sea and land, and as few of the present generation have even seen one, it may not be out of place to give a few lines on the subject of fogs in general, and the London fogs in particular, which through local peculiarities differed from all others. A fog was simply watery vapor rising from the sea, for people then travelled by means of steamships that sailed upon the surface of the ocean.

London at the end of the nineteenth century consumed vast quantities of a soft bituminous coal for the purpose of heating rooms and of preparing food. In the morning and during the day, clouds of black smoke were poured forth from thousands of chimneys. When a mass of white vapor arose in the night, these clouds of smoke fell upon the fog, pressing it down, filtering slowly through it, and adding to its density. The sun would have absorbed the fog but for the layer of smoke that lay thick above the vapor and prevented its rays reaching it. Once this condition of things prevailed, nothing could clear London but a breeze of wind from any direction. London frequently had a seven days’ fog, and sometimes a seven days’ calm, but these two conditions never coincided until the last year of the last century. The coincidence, as every one knows, meant death — death so wholesale that no war the earth has ever seen left such slaughter behind it. To understand the situation, one has only to imagine the fog as taking the place of the ashes at Pompeii, and the coal-smoke as being the lava that covered it. The result to the inhabitants in both cases was exactly the same.

4: The American Who Wanted to Sell

I WAS at the time confidential clerk to the house of Fulton, Brixton & Co., a firm in Cannon Street, dealing largely in chemicals and chemical apparatus. Fulton I never knew; he died long before my time. Sir John Brixton was my chief— knighted, I believe, for services to his party, or because he was an official in the city during some royal progress through it; I have forgotten which. My small room was next to his large one, and my chief duty was to see that no one had an interview with Sir John unless he was an important man or had important business. Sir John was a difficult man to see, and a difficult man to deal with when he was seen. He had little respect for most men’s feelings, and none at all for mine. If I allowed a man to enter his room who should have been dealt with by one of the minor members of the company, Sir John made no effort to conceal his opinion of me. One day, in the autumn of the last year of the century, an American was shown into my room.

Nothing would do but he must have an interview with Sir John Brixton. I told him that it was impossible, as Sir John was extremely busy, but that if he explained his business to me I would lay it before Sir John at the first favorable opportunity. The American demurred at this, but finally accepted the inevitable. He was the inventor, he said, of a machine that would revolutionize life in London, and he wanted Fulton, Brixton & Co. to become agents for it. The machine, which he had in a small handbag with him, was of white metal, and it was so constructed that by turning an index it gave out greater or less volumes of oxygen gas. The gas, I understood, was stored in the interior in liquid form, under great pressure, and would last, if I remember rightly, for six months without recharging. There was also a rubber tube with a mouthpiece attached to it, and the American said that if a man took a few whiffs a day he would experience beneficial results. Now, I knew there was not the slightest use in showing the machine to Sir John, because we dealt in old-established British apparatus, and never in any of the new-fangled Yankee inventions. Besides, Sir John had a prejudice against Americans, and I felt sure this man would exasperate him, as he was a most cadaverous specimen of the race, with high nasal tones, and a most deplorable pronunciation, much given to phrases savoring of slang; and he exhibited also a certain nervous familiarity of demeanor toward people to whom he was all but a complete stranger. It was impossible for me to allow such a man to enter the presence of Sir John Brixton; and when he returned some days later I explained to him, I hope with courtesy, that the head of the house regretted very much his inability to consider his proposal regarding the machine.

The ardor of the American seemed in no way dampened by this rebuff. He said I could not have explained the possibilities of the apparatus properly to Sir John; e characterized it as a great invention, and said it meant a fortune to whomever obtained the agency for it. He hinted that other noted London houses were anxious to secure it, but for some reason not stated he preferred to deal with us. He left some printed pamphlets referring to the invention, and said he would call again.

5: The American Sees Sir John

MANY A TIME I have since thought of that persistent American, and wondered whether he left London before the disaster, or was one of the unidentified thousands who were buried in unmarked graves. Little did Sir John think, when he expelled him with some asmself. For my own part, I regret that I lost my temper, and told the American his business methods did not commend themselves to me. Perhaps he did not feel the sting of this; indeed, I feel certain he did not, for, unknowingly, he saved my life.

Be that as it may, he showed no resentment, but immediately asked me out to drink wine with him, an offer I was compelled to refuse. But I am getting ahead of my story, indeed, being unaccustomed to writing, it is difficult for me to set down events in their proper sequence. The American called upon me several times after I told him our house could not deal with him. He got into the habit of dropping in upon me unannounced, which I did not at all like; but I gave no instructions regarding his intrusions, because I had no idea of the extremes to which he was evidently prepared to go.

One day, as he sat near my desk reading a paper, I was temporarily called from the room. When I returned I thought he had gone, taking his machine with him; but a moment later I was shocked to hear his high nasal tones in Sir John’s room, alternating with the deep notes of my chiefs’ voice, which apparently exercised no such dread upon the American as upon those who were more accustomed to them. I at once entered the room, and was about to explain to Sir John that the American was there through no connivance of mine, when my chief asked me to be silent, and, turning to his visitor, requested him gruffly to proceed with his interesting narration. The inventor needed no second invitation, but went on with his glib talk, while Sir John’s frown grew deeper, and his face became redder under his fringe of white hair.

When the American had finished, Sir John roughly bade him begone, and take his accursed machine with him. He said it was an insult for a person with one foot in the grave to bring a so-called health invention to a robust man who never had a day’s illness. I do not know why he listened so long to the American, when he had made up his mind from the first not to deal with him, unless it was to punish me for inadvertently allowing the stranger to enter. The interview distressed me exceedingly, as I stood there helpless, knowing Sir John was becoming more and more angry with every word the foreigner uttered; but, at last, I succeeded in drawing the inventor and his work into my own room and closing the door. I sincerely hoped I would never see  the American again, and my wish was gratified. He insisted on setting his machine going and placing it on a shelf in my room. He asked me to slip it into Sir john’s room some foggy day and note the effect. The man said he would call again, but he never did.

6:  How the Smoke Held Down the Fog

IT WAS ON a Friday that the fog came down upon us. The weather was very fine up to the middle of November that autumn. The fog did not seem to have anything unusual about it. I have seen many worse fogs than that appeared to me. As day followed day, however, the atmosphere became denser and darker, caused I suppose, by the increasing volume of coal-smoke poured out upon it. The peculiarity about those seven days was the intense stillness of the air. We were, although we did not know it, under an air-proof canopy, and were slowly but surely exhausting the life-giving oxygen around us, and replacing it by poisonous carbonic acid gas. Scientific men have since known that a simple mathematical calculation might have told us exactly when the last atom of oxygen would have been consumed; but it is easy to be wise after the event.

The body of the greatest mathematician in England was found in the Strand. During a fog there was always a marked increase in the death rate, and on this occasion the increase was no greater than usual until the sixth day. The newspapers on the morning of the seventh day were full of startling statistics, but at the time of going to press the full significance of the alarming figures was not realized. The editorials of the morning papers on the seventh day contained no warning of the calamity that was so speedily to follow their appearance. I lived then at Ealing, a Western suburb of London, and came every morning up to Cannon Street by certain train. I had up to the sixth day experienced no inconvenience from the fog, and this was largely due, I am convinced, to the unnoticed operations of the American machine.

On the fifth and sixth days Sir John did not come to the city, but he was in his office on the seventh. The door between his room and mine was closed. Shortly after ten o’clock I heard a cry in his room, followed by a heavy fall. I opened the door, and saw Sir John lying face downward on the floor. Hastening toward him, I felt for the first time the deadly effect of the deoxygenized atmosphere, and before I reached him I fell first on one knee and then headlong. I realized that my senses were leaving me, and instinctively crawled back to my own room, where the oppression was at once lifted, and I stood again upon my feet, gasping. I closed the door of Sir John’s room, thinking it filled with poisonous fumes, as indeed it was. I called loudly for help, but there was no answer. On opening the door to the main office I met again what I thought was the noxious vapor.

Speedily as I closed the door, I was impressed by the intense silence of the usually busy office, and saw that some of the clerks were motionless on the floor, and others sat with their heads on their desks as if asleep. Even at this awful moment I did not realize that what I saw was common to all London, and not, as I imagined, a local disaster, caused by the breaking of some carboys in our cellar. (It was filled with chemicals of every kind, of whose properties I was ignorant, dealing as I did with the accountant, and not the scientific, side of our business.) I opened the only window in my room, and again shouted for help. The street was silent and dark in the ominously still fog, and what now froze me with horror was meeting the same deadly, stifling atmosphere that was in the rooms. In falling, I brought down the window and shut out the poisonous air.

Again I revived, and slowly the true state of things began to dawn upon me. I was in an oasis of oxygen. I at once surmised that the machine on my shelf was responsible for the existence of this oasis in a vast desert of deadly gas. I took down the American’s machine, fearful in moving it that I might stop its working. Taking the mouthpiece between my lips I again entered Sir John’s room, this time without feeling any ill effects. My poor master was long beyond human help. There was evidently no one alive in the building except myself. Out in the street all was silent and dark. The gas was extinguished; but here and there in shops the incandescent lights were still weirdly burning, depending as they did on accumulators, and not on direct engine power. I turned automatically toward Cannon Street station, knowing my way to it even if blindfolded, stumbling over bodies prone on the pavement, and in crossing the street I ran against a motionless 'bus spectral in the fog, with dead horses lying in front, and their reins dangling from the nerveless hand of a dead driver. The ghostlike passengers, equally silent, sat bolt upright, or hung over the edge-boards in attitudes horribly grotesque.

7:  The Train With Its Trail of the Dead

IF A MAN'S reasoning faculties were alert at such a time (I confess mine were dormant), he would have known there could be no trains at Cannon Street station; for if there was not enough oxygen in the air to keep a man alive, or a gas-jet alight, there would certainly not be enough to enable an engineer retained sufficient energy to attend to his task. At times instinct is better than reason, and it proved so in this case. The railway, in those days, from Ealing came under the City in a deep tunnel. It would appear that in this underground passage the carbonic acid gas would first find a resting-place, on account of its weight; but such was not the fact. I imagine that a current through the tunnel brought from the outlying districts a supply of comparatively pure air that, for some minutes after the general disaster, maintained human life.

Be this as it may, the long platforms of Cannon Street underground station presented a fearful spectacle. A train stood at the down platform. The electric lights fumed fitfully. This platform was crowded with men, who fought each other like demons, apparently for no reason, because the train was already packed as full as it could hold. Hundreds were dead under foot, and every now and then a blast of foul air came along the tunnel, whereupon hundreds more would relax their grips and succumb. Over their bodies the survivors fought, with continually thinning ranks. It seemed to me that most of those in the standing train were dead. Sometimes a desperate body of fighters climbed over those lying in heaps, and, throwing open a carriage door, hauled out passengers already in, and took their places, escaping. Those in the train offered no resistance, and lay motionless where they were flung, or rolled helplessly under the wheels of the train. I made my way along the wall as well as I could to the engine wondering why the train did not go. The engineer lay on the floor of his cab, and the fires were out.

Custom is a curious thing. The struggling mob, fighting wildly for places in the carriages, were so accustomed to trains arriving and departing that it apparently occurred to none of them that the engineer was human and subject to the same atmospheric conditions as themselves. I placed the mouthpiece between his purple lips, and, holding my own breath like a submerged man, succeeded in reviving him. He said that if I gave him the machine he would take out the train as far as the steam already in the boiler would carry it. I refused to do this, but stepped on the engine with him, saying it would keep life in both of us until we got into better air. In a surly manner he agreed to this and started the train, but he did not play fair. Each time he refused to give up the machine until I was in a fainting condition with holding in my breath, and finally he felled me to the floor of the cab. I imagine that the machine rolled off the train as I fell, and that he jumped after it.

The remarkable thing is that neither of us needed the machine, for I remember that just after we started I noticed through the open iron door that the engine fire suddenly became aglow again, although at the time I was in too great a state of bewilderment and horror to understand what it meant. A western gale had sprung up— an hour too late. Even before we left Cannon Street those who still survived were comparatively safe, for one hundred and sixty-seven persons were rescued from that fearful heap of dead on the platforms, although many died within a day or two after, and others never recovered their reason.

When I regained my senses after the blow dealt by the engineer, I found myself alone, and the train speeding across the Thames near Kew. I tried to stop the engine, but did not succeed. However, in experimenting, I managed to turn on the air brake, which in some degree checked the train, and lessened the impact when the crash came at Richmond terminus.

I sprang off on the platform before the engine reached the terminal buffers, and saw passing me like a nightmare the ghastly train load of the dead. Most of the doors were swinging open, and every compartment was jammed full, although, as I afterward learned, at each curve of the permanent way, or extra lurch of the train, bodies had fallen out all along the line.

The smash at Richmond made no difference to the passengers. Besides myself, only two persons were taken alive from the train, and one of these, his clothes tom from his back in the struggle, was sent to an asylum, where he was never able to tell who he was; neither, as far as I know, did any one ever claim him.

______________________________

8: Pan

Winifred Graham

(Matilda Winifred Muriel Graham Cory 1873-1950)

World's News (Sydney) 5 Sept 1914,

SUMMER was a riot of color and blossom, and nowhere had the flowers a better chance than at "Little Hemming," a veritable sun-trap in Surrey.

The Manor House was a quaint red brick building, surrounded by a wilderness of garden which stretched to a border of forest trees. It was just the picturesque setting which Cecilie Cunningham's delicate beauty demanded. No wonder that other girls were jealous of her fresh youthful charm, and called her a butterfly, with no aim in life beyond that of looking graceful, and wearing the most enviable clothes.

She knew well enough she was considered a most helpless being by more emancipated women, and for this very reason, though in no need of money, determined to try and turn her artistic leanings into hard cash.

To-day she sat in her pretty pink boudoir, with flushed cheeks, and fast beating heart. Good Aunt Sarah had actually given her an order for a picture, just as if she were a professional painter, suggesting it should first be sent to an early autumn Exhibition.

"I leave the subject entirely to you," wrote this encouraging relation. "I should prefer something fanciful as a perpetual reminder, of your dainty and pretty self."

Having shown the letter to her parents with rapturous glee, Cecilie was now sitting in a kind of dream, thinking how best to fulfil the great work in hand.

Every corner of the garden embodied a picture. Since her childhood, the giant forest trees, low down by a brook on the south slope, made her think of fairy-land, where gnomes and wondrous spirits played.

Suddenly she blinked her eyes, wondering if she were really awake, for, standing framed in the open window, which led to the terrace, was a slim boyish figure. Unlike other boys, the personality of this stranger was weird, yet attractive. Poorly dressed in a thin blue jersey, he appeared in no way handicapped by the shabby clothes. His face of great wistfulness had large wondering eyes, and parted sensitive lips. He glanced into the room with the curiosity of some peeping hound, who expects his entrance to be routed by an indignant human. There was wonder and mystery about this boyish form. A cloud of red-gold hair framed his curiously eager face, his neck was long and thin, and the outgrown jersey sleeves showed the peculiar length of his hands.

As his gaze met Cecilie's, the hunted animal eyes kindled with an expression of glowing admiration. His stare was that of open child scrutiny which unconsciously flatters, and is innocent of offence.

The girl sprang up, and the soft fluttering of her muslin skirt was light as the wing of a butterfly on the "Rose du Barri" carpet.

"Who are you?" she asked kindly; moving forward. "What do you want here?"

The boy tossed back his rough, tawny hair, and a confident smile showed that her friendly manner had dissipated shyness.

"I was discovering!" he said, in a tone of intense earnestness. "I ought to have gone out by the back door after leaving the eggs which I brought from mother, you buy her eggs every week. But I caught sight of all the color this side, and I wanted to see. May I come into this room? May I look at everything?"

His anxious desire to he admitted puzzled and rather amused Cecilie.

"Oh, certainly," she replied. "This is my own little nest. How do you like it?"

He did not answer at first, but quickly accepting her invitation, wandered round the boudoir, his face radiant with silent ecstasy. He touched some embroidered cushions with the tip of a quivering finger, tracing the pattern, and narrowing his eyes as he gazed at the softly blended shades. He stood on tiptoe to examine the china which ornamented the high mantel-shelf, then turned with a little gasp to a tall vase of gigantic poppies with great black hearts, frowning from their scarlet leaves.

"Of course you purposely put them there against a white corner," he said, touching the long rough stalks, "because you love color, too."

Cecilie was quick enough to realise that here was a distinct temperament for art locked up in the soul of this child of the people. The boy stranger appeared as a wonderful discovery sent in answer to her wish. There, in flesh and blood, stood Aunt Sarah's picture, a boy with the head of a sprite, and a reed like figure, which made her think of dancing daffodils in a wind. Evidently beautiful objects meant much to him, bringing a glow to his pale face, and a light of genius to those piercing eyes.

"I suppose it is your holiday time now," Cecilie said, remembering the village schools were closed. "Will you come and sit to me for a picture? You can make more money that way than by selling eggs."

The boy's rapturous admiration of the room could not compare with the evident satisfaction he felt when closely viewing the charming Miss Cunningham. Now he moved slowly round her, as though she were a piece of rare furniture, and he a connoisseur, there to examine its worth and beauty.

"Of course I'll come," he cried, "but not because of the money, though that is what mother wants more than anything. I shall come here, shan't I, to this lovely place? I shall be able to see the colors every day."

"Sit down," said Cecilie. "I must think the picture out."

She flung herself into a low chair, and the boy obediently seated himself cross-legged on a large white hearthrug, by the flower-filled grate. He still stared at her, but now she paid no heed to the inquiring eyes as she continued:—

"I will paint the wild wooded part of the garden, and you shall be Pan piping in an enchanted forest. You will be dressed in a leopard skin garment, and, of course, you must have goat's feet. There is a lovely old stump which shall make you a throne. You will be the personification of deity in creation. The character of 'Blameless Pan' indicates the immense variety of created things. My picture shall bear Milton's words from 'Paradise Lost.'

'Universal Pan

Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance

Led on the eternal Spring.'

I must try and paint all the flowers round you dancing in motion, even the trees should seem to move a little. Atmosphere is the hardest part, but now I am a professional, I must try and overcome difficulties. Only try and inspire my brush, for I am sure you will make an enthusiastic model."

The boy asked her many questions about the subject before leaving. Had Pan ever really lived, and must she kill a goat to get the feet? Might the flowers be made to look something like people, for all flowers had people's faces really. Then she must please not forget the sunbeams, they would have to dance too. Heaps and heaps of color would be wanted for her palette, If she meant to copy summer in the garden.

"Oh!" remarked Cecilie in some surprise, "then you know something about painting, you have ideas too on the making of a picture."

"There was an artist here in the spring called Mr. Hayden," replied the boy, his voice quivering suddenly, while his eyes blinked back unmistakable tears. "I used to follow him about and watch him work. His picture was in the Academy, he sent me a photograph of it afterwards."

Before they parted, Cecilie learnt that her model's name was Dick Wright, and his invalid mother made a scanty living out of her chicken farm. Dick had the care of the fowls, and the carrying round of the eggs; in fact, he seemed to do everything for the ailing woman, who had been a widow for many years.

As Cecilie watched him go, she noted his progress through the garden with interest. At every step he paused as though enchanted, standing in rapt silence by some blazing border of midsummer bloom, feasting his eyes on its glory and inhaling the fragrance.

At lunch she casually remarked she had engaged a model, having now thought out a scheme for her picture. She would have to send for the required canvas, and must order the boy's dress from a theatrical costumier.

Her father, who dearly loved his only child, laughed softly as she left the room.

"I am glad I put Sarah up to ordering that picture," he said. "It will keep Cecilie happy till Roderick comes home. I was afraid she would fret for him. Of course, I don't expect her to produce anything but an amateurish daub. Still, I do believe in girls being occupied, keeps them out of mischief; our little Cecilie is only made to play at work!"

Dick's days were full of joy now. He looked upon Miss Cunningham as some radiant vision from another world, the world of riches and splendor, which he had never known.

She declined to let him see her canvas until the finishing touches had been given to this arduous task. Only, while working, she talked of the picture, describing her progress to the sitter, and whetting his appetite for a sight of this fairy scene.

Dick loved his leopard's skin garments, and the beauty of the spot where the brook sang. In imagination he was verily Pan, a part of the elements, seldom losing the vivid expression of the piper's face, or the keen tension of a body supposed to be half animal, half man.

Sometimes he talked of Mr. Hayden's radiant canvas, which portrayed the Surrey landscape. Always Dick's reminiscences of the artist were tinged with sadness, and he would break off quickly, becoming suddenly reserved. Cecilie often forgot her model was just a village boy, and told this weird Pan quite intimate details of her own life.

One day she spoke of her coming marriage with Roderick Morel.

"I shall live in London then," she said. "I must make him provide me with a beautiful studio, that I may continue my work and try to think I am still in the country."

Pan, who seldom moved, shuffled his feet uneasily, and his face grew woe-begone, unlike the sprite of growing happiness.

"The nice people always go away," he said, "they never stay at 'Little Hemming.' I might have known you would go too, like Mr. Hayden. Mother says we must always expect disappointments. I thought that was only because her life is so unhappy. I hoped mine might be different, but of course, she was right."

Cecilie smiled away his dreary forebodings.

"You are too young for a pessimist," she said. "Some day you will go to London yourself, when you are old— like me!"

That morning the boy went sadly home to tell his mother she had called him a 'pest,' and soon she would go away, and make another disappointment.

At last, the looked-for date arrived when the young artist told her model he might view the work in its completion. The weather was absolutely symbolical of the picture's intention. A soft, warm breeze stirred the boughs over-head, flowers nodded in the grass; though summer had boldly advanced, there was some-thing of spring in the playful wind.

The boy was absolutely trembling with excitement when presently Miss Cunningham stepped back, glanced at him invitingly, and cried in a joyful voice:—

"Come and see!"

Pan slid from the rugged stump, catching his breath, conscious that his pulses beat wildly like fluttering birds in cruel cages. He had dreamt, of this wonderful color creation that Cecilie was to give to the world, feverishly watching her face brighten and glow as she painted. The pretty, pensive attitudes in which she stood, when contemplating her work, were burnt in on his brain— vital impressions of an enchanted being. She seemed to him surrounded by magic charms; he liked to think sprites guided her hand.

With a little quiver he darted across the grass whitened by daisies, to find himself face to face with a canvas whose back had become so familiar from its poise on Cecilie's easel.

Hs spoke no word at first, but just stood before the painting rigid and still, his eyes extended to their widest, his teeth set, and his fists clenched. Then a sudden sound, broke from his lips like a gasping sob, and he flung back his head as it to toss aside the rolling tears which splashed to his cheeks.

"Oh, Dick," half whispered Cecilie, "don't you— don't you like it?"

He moved away a few steps as he had often seen Mr. Hayden move, though his vision was still clouded by the tell-tale moisture.

"What's the matter with the trees?" he gasped. "You said they would rock and sing, and they are just dull pieces of paint; they don't move at all. The flowers, too, were to have fairy faces; we wanted them to hear the music, didn't we, since Pan played for all he was worth? Even Pan is dead, his face is so wooden. Did mine look like that? You can't mean the picture is finished? You are playing some cruel joke on me!"

Cecilie's blood ran cold. Carried away by a fervor of purpose, she had never noticed till this moment that her canvas was lifeless, her coloring hard and crude, while Pan's face lacked any expression beyond that of a wooden image.

"Oh! Dick, you are right," she murmured in painful accents—"what's wrong with the trees?"

She turned her eyes to their living representatives, as if those forest kings could answer her appeal and the boy's despairing question. They only rocked their boughs jeeringly, and laughed in the wind.

All nature seemed mocking now at this raw amateur. Dick's passionate tears had given her the key to her own failure. Cecilie thought no more of Aunt Sarah, or the forthcoming exhibition; she was only conscious of her quivering model's misery and disappointment, mingled with her own shame.

"Perhaps," she ventured to remark, "you could suggest something, Dick, to improve the picture."

She gave him the lead diffidently, little guessing how quickly he would snatch at those desultory words. In a moment the old keen look returned to the boy's wonderfully bright eyes. To her amazement he accepted her suggestion as if it were an invitation to personal action.

"Of course it could be improved," he cried joyously, seizing up her palette, and mixing the colors with a free, familiar hand— the hand which always appeared so uncannily long and expressive.

In speechless surprise, Cecilie watched him dart at the canvas, after quickly collecting the brushes that suited his taste. With bold impressionist strokes, he appeared to her almost to fling the color on those stereotyped boughs, As he did so they gradually took to them selves form, movement, life! They were no longer mere picture trees, his quick work re-vivified them, creating atmosphere. He was verily "Pan the Life Giver," while Cecilie gazed in wonder at the supple form in its leopard's skin drapery, so intent on the canvas she called her own.

"When did you learn to paint?" she asked curiously. "Why, Dick, you are a perfect genius!"

"That is what the other painter said," he replied simply, as he turned his attention to Cecilie's grass and flowers. "Mr. Hayden gave me lessons every day. Shall I paint in my face too? Fetch me a looking-glass, I want to make it smile; I think I know the way."

Still dazed with surprise, the girl ran to her boudoir, and brought back a large silver framed mirror which stood on the piano. To see Dick work almost convinced her that reincarnation was possible. The boy had the soul of a Raphael; glorious sunlight, poetic feeling, crept into the picture over which he had wept. His work changed him from a humble admirer into one who commanded. He bade her hold up the glass that he might closely examine his features and impress their wonderful reflection on the ground she had prepared. A little twist of the lips, a mere flick of paint, pursed them up into the real piping attitude. A dash of light, and a dark shadow beneath the eyes gave them miraculous vitality. Still breathing quickly, he changed the lank, dead hair into a living mass of waving gold.

"That's just what it wanted, isn't it?" he cried, and the little laugh of glee that broke from his lips was light as the rippling of the brook at their feet.

"Yes, indeed," answered Cecilie with a sigh, "but now it is not my picture; the credit must all be yours."

Dick clutched her sleeve in a frenzy of agitation. She could feel the trembling of. those weird, magnetic fingers, as he stamped his foot is rebellion.

"No! no! ,no!" he cried. "I did it for you, only for you. We mustn't tell a soul. I've wanted to try and show my gratitude for all these happy days, oh! and for the money as well, which meant so much to mother. You see it was the disappointment in the spring which made her worse. Mr. Hayden told her, though I was so young, I could make my fortune. He promised to send for me to London after the Royal Academy was opened, and she was to come too. He said I should work with him in his studio, he called me 'his Michael Angelo, his discovery, his adopted son.' When the photograph came of his big picture, he wrote he was looking out rooms for us, and three days afterwards we read of his sudden death in the papers. Mother got ever so much worse after that, and I felt I never wanted to paint again or see another picture. It was only after I came into your garden one morning I began to think of beautiful colors again. You know what mother said about disappointments; please, please don't disappoint me now. Let me give you this little bit of work, for I felt just as if Mr. Hayden were here telling me what to do."

Cecilie realised she was in the throes of a strong temptation. Of course, they were right, those people who called her a butterfly, and the critics who warned her she had better leave work alone. Here was a chance of surprising her parents and enchanting Aunt Sarah, at the same time gratifying a child's earnest request.

"Poor little Dick!" she murmured. "Fate was very hard, but though you have lost one friend, try and feel you have found another in me. If I allow this picture to pass as my own, I am not going to let the world lose a genius. When I am married, perhaps I can make up to you for Mr. Hayden's loss."

Dick had gone back to the canvas again, to add a fresh glow of glory to the sky.

"It's color," he said, "color that makes life. Perhaps your picture will be exhibited after all; that is the kind of sky Mr. Hayden painted."

When "Pan" danced home the richer for his love and service, Cecilie bore her picture with outward triumph to the parents who had been promised a sight of it that day. Inwardly her heart ached with a dull sense of failure, while their wondering praise and admiring comments were so many stabs lacerating her sensitive spirit.

"I must say," declared Mr. Cunningham, "I had no idea Cecilie's work would show so much temperament and feeling. Such art as hers should command a market. Roderick little thinks he is marrying a really clever artist,"

Mrs. Cunningham conventionally replied that marriage was supposed to kill genius, and the painting of pictures would soon be forgotten when trousseauing days began, to be followed by household cares and the arduous task of furnishing.

Together the parents marvelled at Cecilie's humble spirit over such a marked achievement.

"Most girls," they concluded, "would be justly proud of such a canvas, but Cecilie's nature is one that can never be spoilt by success."

SUMMER had faded to the crimson and gold of early autumn. The old Manor House garden was a blaze of russet foliage when Roderick Morel returned from Nigeria. Hardly had he entered the house than Cecilie's parents poured into his ears the news of his fiancée's artistic triumph. They told of a poetical picture alive with atmosphere and feeling, which had taken front place in an autumn exhibition, receiving warm approbation from London critics. It bore that pleasing word "Sold" in the corner of the frame, and was now on view for Roderick's inspection at Aunt Sarah's town house.

During the lovers' separation, Roderick too had touched the golden shore of success. Though Mr. Cunningham was himself a rich man, it pleased him to know his daughter was to marry wealth. Roderick and Cecilie thought little of such worldly matters as they wandered out alone to the solitude which reigned among the forest trees by the brook. Here they had bade each other good-bye, and on the very same spot he clasped her once more to his heart, pressing the quivering lips in a long passionate embrace.

"Darling," he whispered, "you don't know what it means to hold you again and hear your voice. It all looks so dream-like here that I am half afraid you will fade as, those tantalising visions which haunted me on my journey. Never a night passed but I came to you in spirit. All day the people around me were the phantoms, and the memory of you was the real presence. Your sweetness hung about me irresistibly. If I had come back to find you changed I think it would have been my death-blow. Yet, in a way, you are not the same Cecilie, you have joined a new sisterhood; now I must look on you as one of the clever women who 'do things.' I cannot grudge you your triumph; selfishly I could almost wish that love meant everything to you, and art nothing."

The girl hung her head, and the color mounted to her cheeks in a flush of shame.

"I always meant to tell you immediately," she murmured, "though I couldn't tell the others, it would have made Dick so unhappy. I have felt dreadfully bad about the whole matter, and every word of praise has made me hate myself more bitterly."

She paused, and Roderick's grip grew tighter with sudden tension.

"Who is Dick?" he gasped. The eyes which met Cecilie's were alight with genuine fear and the first lurking flame of jealous agony.

The girl nestled closer to reassure him.

"Dick is only a little boy, but a wonderful boy for all that," she replied reassuringly. "He is full of genius, the talent that cannot be taught. He sat as my model hero, by this old tree. I chose the spot because it was our trysting-place, and the stream seemed always saying your name as it rippled over the pebbles. You must hear my whole story, and then you shall be my judge. Perhaps you won't love me so much— when you know all."

Hardly pausing for breath, she graphically described Dick's sudden appearance at her boudoir window on the very morning when Aunt Sarah sent that exciting commission. She painted a word picture of those glorious days in the wood, when Pan posed merrily, with so much purpose she fancied she could almost hear his piping. Cecilie did not spare herself in telling how her hopes of success rose high, until that dark moment when Dick, tearful and horrified, asked in quivering accents what was wrong with the trees.

"It wasn't only the trees he altered, but everything— everything," she added, making Roderick realise all the magic of the boy's brush, which Hayden, the artist, had recognised so thoroughly. Dick's pathetic story of a would-be benefactor's death ended Cecilie's confession. Her listener heaved a sigh of relief, one of those deep-souled sighs more eloquent than words.

"I am awfully glad you are not a genius," he candidly admitted, "I love you so much better as you are. But I should like to meet this marvellous boy, and see what could he made of him, if only in memory of Hayden, whose works appeal to me in quite an extraordinary way. I have several in my possession, and had already bought, without your knowing, his last Academy picture of 'Little Hemming' to put among your wedding presents. Perhaps I shall have the splendid chance of giving the world another Hayden, or possibly a far greater artist, since the dead man called this child his 'Michael Angelo.' "

With their faces lighted by that strange radiance which only Cupid can kindle, Roderick and Cecilie made their way across the fields to Mrs. Wright's cottage.

Dick caught sight of their shadows on the grass, and ran to meet them, with some clucking hens at his heels, noisily demanding their evening meal. Roderick recognised at once the difference between this boy and others of his kind; the little fellow looked oddly ethereal with the rays of the sinking sun enveloping his figure. His bright, intelligent eyes were fixed only upon Cecilie, and he gave a start when Roderick addressed him.

"I hear Mr. Hayden was your friend," said the man. "Miss Cunningham tells me he intended training you as an artist. In memory of him and his art, I should like to fulfil the mission which death snatched from his hands. You shall come to London and study painting; we want you to make your name."

"Are you glad, Dick?" cried Cecilie, laying a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, for she saw how he was trembling. "Like Dick Whittington of old, you must seek your fortune, and somehow I think you will find it very quickly."

Dick tried to speak; he pressed his fist to his forehead, and opened those strangely expressive lips, but no words came. Then suddenly he darted forward, and snatching Roderick's hand, kissed it violently.

"That's all right," said Roderick, with English reserve. "I'll go and see your mother. If success comes later, you can thank my wife!"

________________

9: Dance Macabre

Robert Reeves

Black Mask April 1941

1: Swollen Feet

OUTSIDE, the neon sign styled Jugger Callahan as the King of Swing but since Jugger owned the Tango Palace and had conferred the title on himself, not many people believed it. The sign also described the forty‐eight hostesses as glorious, glittering, glamorous, and that, absolutely nobody believed— not even the girls.

Inside, Jugger Callahan kicked off the beat to the Smiling Troubadours. They played mechanically, with that automatic, pounding, unvarying rhythm that experienced jazz bands acquire, and, belying their name, they were unsmiling. It was nearing the closing hour of one a.m. and they were tired. The tinted baby spots that were set in the ceiling revolved and played amber, red and blue over the dance floor.

The place was large and ramshackle— the kind of second‐story loft where you get natty, credit clothing— and it was just as much a fire trap as the taxi joint that had burned down on Jugger two months before. Nevertheless, the Tango Palace was a thriving enterprise aiming at that thin item of change known as the “dime.”

The dances were three for a dime and most of the customers stayed on a dime through all three of them.

The hostesses who waited for trade, chatted behind the frayed velvet rope that encircled the dance floor. Their low‐cut evening gowns were creased and soiled, their eyes heavy‐lidded with mascara and no sleep. Yet when a customer seemed inclined to switch partners, smiles appeared on vermilion lips, hips undulated sensuously and swollen, tired feet suggestively beat time to the music. Out of every dime ticket theirs was two and a half cents.

Ephraim Tuttle, who served as business manager, accountant and general factotum for Jugger Callahan, wandered back and forth, keeping a nervous eye on the girls and the ticket chopper. He was a tall, gaunt man with a bony skeleton‐face. His treatment of the girls was always scrupulously fair and they respected him. They could not even accuse him of showing favoritism to Evelyn Dorn, his flame of the moment.

He made a mental calculation of the swaying couples on the dance floor and found that business was only fair for a Friday night. He decided that they’d better pass out some more handbills on Spring and Main streets and approached a man quietly sitting on one of the settees that lined a wall.

“Firpo, have you been messing around in my office?”

Firpo Cole looked up at Ephraim Tuttle. “No. Why should I?”

“Someone stole my letter opener,” responded Tuttle.

“That’s bad,” said Firpo. “If you get a letter now you’ll have to open it with your fingers.”

Ephraim Tuttle pulled a five‐cent stogie out of his vest, carefully split the end and lit it before replying.

“It’s funny,” he mused, “how the squirts always act the toughest. If I’d spit at you you’d drown, yet you like to throw your weight around.”

“Just leave me alone,” said Firpo. “When somebody loses a night’s sleep around here they right away think I took it.”

“Firpo, you don’t appreciate the break we’re giving you. We let you mooch a few bucks around here instead of letting you go back to picking pockets on the street. But remember, it’s only because Ruth Bailey’s a nice girl and she wants us to give you a break.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t know what you want from the Bailey kid anyway, Firpo. You’ll never get to first base and—”

Ephraim Tuttle broke off as he noticed Firpo Cole’s face. He didn’t like what he saw there. “God, but you’re touchy about that skirt,” he muttered and walked away.

With expressionless eyes, Firpo Cole watched the business manager retreat. He didn’t know that his face, which always showed an unhealthy pallor, was now even whiter and more strained than usual.

He was a youngish, frail man with spindle‐legs, chicken‐breast and sunken cheeks, and he had once been facetiously dubbed “Firpo” by someone who was supposed to be as funny as a card. He found a loose cigarette in his pocket and lit it. As he did so, he forgot to make his customary salute to the medical profession by thumbing his nose. The medicos had told him that each cigarette took one month of his life. Like oil and water, cigarettes and lungers don’t mix.

Jugger Callahan and his boys wound up the quickie trio of dances and immediately started on another set of three. The hostesses collected tickets from the men and slipped into their arms for another few minutes of those curious, swaying gyrations that passed for dancing.

Firpo Cole took a pad out of his pocket and marked down the figure 8. Then he leaned back to watch a man and a girl sitting and talking on a sofa in a far corner.

He didn’t like to have Ruth Bailey sitting out dances. It was a funny thing, he reflected, but he didn’t at all mind when Ruth Bailey was being pawed by some ten‐dollar millionaire out on the floor. It was her job. At first, his stomach used to tighten up from jealousy but even that had stopped. You get used to those things. What he did mind, though, was to have her talking with some man through eight dances and not get the tickets for them. She was an easy mark for chiselers.

But he’d see to it that this baby got away with nothing. He could do nothing if Ruth preferred some other guy to him, but at least he’d see to it she wasn’t rooked out of her rights.

On the band platform, Jugger Callahan broke into Ain‘t Misbehavin’ and Mona Leeds, the outfit’s torch singer, took over the mike. A hush settled over the place. The voice was rich and husky and, like her face and figure, possessed a torrid beauty. She sang into the mike but faced Jugger Callahan— as if to let the world know who her man was. Mona Leeds finished her number and the dance hall echoed with appreciative whistles and stomping feet.

Next to Firpo Cole, a voice said: “That’s the kind of chicken they should have in every pot.”

Firpo looked up to find Rocco Pace standing beside him. Rocco was one of the city’s moderately successful racketeers. He dressed according to color charts, seemed pleasant and mild‐mannered, but, if occasion demanded, could be dangerous.

Firpo said:

“Yeah, Mona’s all right.”

Rocco nodded toward Ruth Bailey who still talked with the stranger. “But nothing like her, eh?”

“Nobody’s like her,” said Firpo in a flat, emotionless voice.

“Has she still got that yen for Jugger?”

Firpo Cole nodded.

“How come you take it laying down, Firpo? Me, I’d blow a fuse.”

“Jugger’s a good‐looking guy. I don’t blame her. I’m just going to see she gets them dealt from the top of the deck.”

Rocco Pace shrugged. Certain things were beyond his Latin comprehension. He slipped a flat .32 automatic out of a shoulder holster and handed it to Firpo Cole who dropped it in his pocket. It was a service for which Firpo usually made four bits. Rocco had long ago discovered that he couldn’t hold the girls the way he liked if he sported an eighteen‐ounce piece of metal over his chest. Rocco Pace waved to Firpo and walked toward the barrier.

The hostesses made a beeline for him. They liked this smiling, pleasant racketeer who gave big tips and who really came to dance. Firpo Cole saw the stranger in the corner stand up and nod a farewell to Ruth Bailey. He didn’t hand her any tickets.

Firpo waited till the man got near him, then stood up and blocked his path.

“Well?” asked the stranger. He was middle‐aged and asthmatic.

Firpo Cole said: “What are you trying to get away with?”

“Anything I can,” replied the stranger pleasantly.

“Well, I’m here to see that you don’t, mister.”

“Get out of my way, son.”

“Not till you pay her, chiseler.”

“Pay Miss Bailey?” The stranger sounded puzzled. “Maybe you got me mixed up with Santa Claus.”

“You owe her ten tickets,” said Firpo, figuring the extra two as a tip. “That’ll be one buck.”

“For the last time, get out of my way.”

Firpo Cole knew it was coming but he did nothing to prevent it. Ruth Bailey was worth a beating any day in the week. It never occurred to him to draw the flat automatic in his pocket. The stranger’s arm came around in a wide arc that sent the frail Firpo spinning over the floor for fifteen feet. Firpo saw the stranger leave with unhurried steps, then a sudden attack of vertigo seized him and he passed out.

FIRPO COLE came to on a couch in Ephraim Tuttle’s office. Mona Leeds, the torch singer, was swabbing his forehead with a damp rag and, from behind his desk, the business manager regarded them sourly.

Tuttle said: “Firpo, for a guy who couldn’t lick a butterfly you certainly like to throw your weight around.”

“Stop riding him,” snapped Mona Leeds. The door opened and Ruth Bailey came in.

“Firpo, they told me you were in a fight. Are you all right?”

Firpo Cole struggled into a sitting posture. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

Ruth seemed to notice the torch singer for the first time. The corners of her mouth twisted. “Well, well, if it isn’t our little thrush trying to cut in on Firpo.”

“Now, Ruth,” said Firpo weakly. “She was just trying to help me.”

Mona Leeds stood up and walked over to the hostess. The two women faced each other: Mona Leeds, in all her beautiful, slithering, scented allure, and Ruth Bailey, refreshing and young in a simple gown with a gold brooch at the neck. The one, a night life beauty with a duco finish, the other, a breath of fresh air too rare in a taxi‐joint.

Ruth Bailey’s voice had a faint hint of hysteria. “Why aren’t you satisfied with Jugger? You got him solid— why do you want more? Firpo would be a pretty miserable addition to your collection. Why don’t you leave him alone?”

“You—” said the torch singer.

Ruth’s hand snapped out and slapped Mona Leeds squarely over the face. Ephraim Tuttle’s warning shout was lost as the torch singer sprang for Ruth Bailey, her claws spread like a cat’s.

Mona’s hands tore into Ruth’s face and hair and the hostess clutched at the singer’s dress. In a moment they were on the floor, scrabbling in mute fury.

Paralyzed with the fascination of the spectacle, the two men simply watched. With a yank, Ruth ripped apart the front of Mona’s dress and the torch singer sank sharp, white, translucent teeth into the hostess’s shoulder. Long, lacquered nails clawed, fists pummeled, slipper‐shod feet kicked. The wildcats rolled over the floor and, with squeals of rage, tore at hair, face, clothing.

The door opened and Rocco Pace appeared. He said, “What the hell,” and leaped to separate the fighting girls.

Their fury subsided as suddenly as it rose and they stood up, appraising the damage they had done each other.

“That’s a lousy way to act in my office,” complained Ephraim Tuttle.

“Oh go add up some numbers,” said Mona Leeds calmly. She pulled her torn dress together and left.

Ruth Bailey anxiously scanned her face in a compact mirror.

“Girls will be girls,” philosophized the racketeer. “I used to have one who tried to kill me every time I went to sleep.”

Ruth Bailey picked up the brooch that had been ripped from her gown. It was a simple item of jewelry, with what seemed to be a pale‐ blue piece of glass set in the center.

“Say, don’t that belong to Mona?” asked Tuttle.

“Even if it did,” replied Ruth Bailey smoothly, “I wouldn’t give it to her.”

Then she walked out.

“There’s life in those girls,” said Rocco Pace. He turned to Firpo Cole.

“I came for my persuader.” Firpo returned the automatic. The racketeer tossed him a half dollar and bade them good‐bye. Tuttle snorted and hunted for a cigar.

“This place is getting to be a regular nuthouse. First somebody steals my letter opener and now this. Did you hook that opener, Firpo?”

Firpo Cole was feeling a little better. The stranger hadn’t hit him very hard. He said: “Don’t bother me.”

Ephraim Tuttle’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Listen, you lousy pickpocket, I’m just asking nicely if you took it. It was pretty valuable. It had an onyx handle with silver edging.”

Firpo said, “The hell with you and your letter opener,” got up and left.

It was after one already and the customers had gone. On the bandstand, Jugger Callahan and his boys were putting away their instruments, though Monkey Harris, a drummer, still banged on the skins as if to relieve his pent‐up weariness.

Firpo Cole made his way to the back, entered a large dressing‐room and sat down in a corner to wait for Ruth Bailey. The hostesses were hanging their gowns in a closet and changing into street clothes. Some sat quietly and rested their swollen feet in pans of hot water. None paid the slightest attention to Firpo.

Ruth Bailey changed her stockings, which had snagged during the fight, and touched up a blackened eye with powder.

Ephraim Tuttle came in and asked whether anyone had seen his letter opener. No one had and he left. Ruth Bailey finished making up and she and Firpo Cole quit the dressing‐room and went out to the street. These nightly walks, when he took her home, were usually full with the talk and gossip of the Tango Palace, but tonight, it was some time before Ruth Bailey finally broke the heavy silence between them.

“Firpo, I’m afraid.”

“Forget it, Ruth. Mona won’t get you fired. She’s too white for that.”

“I’m not talking about the fight,” she said. “I just forgot myself when I saw her by you and she was mad about this.”

She touched the brooch at her throat. “What has that got to do with it?”

“Well, you remember the night the old ballroom burned down? I went back for my purse which I’d forgotten and there was a light in Jugger’s office. I went inside and there was no one there but I saw a jewel case on his desk. It had this inside of it.”

“You shouldn’t of taken it.”

“Maybe, but all I knew was that Jugger bought it for Mona and I guess I got jealous. I started wearing it a few days ago. Jugger’s seen it but he’s too much of a gentleman to say anything. But Mona knows it belongs to her and that’s what she was really fighting about with me.”

“You’ve got to give it to her, Ruth.”

“I will. Tomorrow. She’s beautiful— I don’t blame Jugger for preferring her to me.”

“Jugger may be a nice guy but he’s a damned fool for wanting Mona Leeds instead of you.”

They reached her rooming house and halted.

“You know, Firpo, it’s funny how I’m sick about Jugger and you about me. It seems like such a damned shame that life never—”

“I know all about it,” he cut in harshly. “You didn’t tell me what you’re afraid of.”

“Firpo, someone— I don’t know who— put five hundred dollars in my purse tonight.”

He whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

She reached into her coat pocket. “This is what the money came in.”

He took a plain, white envelope from her hand and read the typewritten line on it:

This better be enough.

Under a lamplight, Firpo Cole’s prematurely weazened face was lost in thought. After a while he returned the envelope to her and said: “You better hold on to this and the dough. You didn’t see anyone messing around with your purse tonight?”

“No— but of course anyone could have gotten at it in the dressing‐room.” “Has anything like this happened before?”

“No.”

“Well, all I can figure, Ruth, is that someone’s mixing you up with somebody else. I’ll try and check tomorrow.”

“There’s another thing, Firpo. You know that man you had a fight with today?”

“What about him?”

“He said not to tell anybody but he’s a detective from an insurance company. They think that fire wasn’t an accident. He knows I came back that night after everyone was gone and he asked me a lot of questions about it.”

Firpo Cole shrugged.

“If that fire’s faked it’s Jugger’s worry— not yours. He got the insurance dough from it.”

“I know Jugger wouldn’t do a thing like that. Something’s wrong, Firpo. I’m afraid.”

“Forget it, Ruth.” She leaned over and kissed him full on the lips.

“You’re swell, Firpo. I’m sorry we don’t hit it off together.”

“Sure,” said Firpo Cole. “I’m swell.”

He turned abruptly and made for his own lodgings.

2: Dead Feet

THERE was hard and insistent rapping on the door panel. After some time, the steady pounding had its effect.

Firpo Cole stirred uneasily in his sleep, then awoke with a start. He groped for the light chain above his bed and the light revealed a small, unkempt, five‐dollar‐a‐week room. He knuckled his eyes, then peered at a clock on the dresser but found that he had forgotten to wind it. Through the window he could see the first streaks of dawn.

The pounding on the door did not let up.

Firpo Cole disentangled himself from the bed covers, worked his feet into straw slippers and opened the door. Two men entered. He knew one— a plainclothes police dick named Simms. The other was a uniformed cop.

Simms said, “Go to it, Max,” and the uniformed cop began a somewhat perfunctory search of the room.

The dick sat down on the bed. “How you getting along, Firpo?”

“Fine,” replied Firpo Cole. “And you?”

“Just dandy, thanks. Have you been picking pockets lately, Firpo?”

“No.”

“That’s swell. Your record ain’t so good on the blotter, is it?”

“I lost once.”

“I remember, Firpo. Meatball rap. Two years in college, wasn’t it?”

“One year. What is this, Simms— a frame?”

The police dick shook his head. “Nope. I’ve just been checking on you, Firpo. I’m glad you’re going straight. What time did you check in last night?”

“I came home around two or a little after.”

“Go out again?”

“No.”

“How do you pay for your room and grits, Firpo?”

“I do odd jobs around the Tango Palace.”

Simms nodded sagely. “So I hear. I also hear you’re carrying a torch for one of the dames that works there— a Ruth Bailey— and that she won’t give you a tumble because she got a yen for Jugger Callahan.”

“What are you driving at, Simms?”

Max was finished with his cursory examination of the room. “Nothing,” he grunted.

Simms shrugged. “There’s nothing to find anyway. It’s open and shut.”

He turned to Firpo again.

“I’ll tell you what I’m driving at. That Ruth Bailey of yours was murdered a couple of hours ago.”

“If you’re being funny,” said Firpo Cole tonelessly, “I’ll kill you, Simms.”

Simms said: “Sure I’m being funny. Me and Max come here only to have tea and crumpets.”

Firpo’s eyes searched the police dick’s face. He saw that Simms was speaking the truth.

Suddenly he felt sick. He got up and stumbled through the door, across the hallway, to the washroom. He kneeled over the bowl and the fleshless body shook and strained convulsively.

Simms cautioned, “Don’t let the guy pull any fast one,” and Max walked over to the open door and watched till Firpo returned.

Simms said: “I figure it this way, Firpo. Tell me if I get the details wrong. You were after Ruth Bailey but there was no sale because she was hot for this Jugger Callahan. So you got fed up with the whole business and went and killed her.”

“I didn’t kill her.” He began to tremble and a fit of coughing seized him. He covered his mouth with a towel and when he took it away there were flecks of blood on it. “I didn’t kill her,” he repeated.

Simms said: “It probably just slipped your mind, Firpo. I guess we can make you remember again. Get some duds on that gorgeous torso of yours and come along.”

The prowl car stopped at the rooming house of the late Ruth Bailey. The sun was already showing itself and supplanting the coolness of a Los Angeles night with a dry desert heat.

Simms, Max and Firpo Cole went up the two flights of groaning steps and entered Ruth Bailey’s small apartment. The place had already been dusted and photoed and the few department men who remained sat around yawning and wishing they were home in bed. A couple of bored reporters were handicapping the Caliente races and exhibiting a complete disinterest in this murder of a taxi dance hall hostess.

The body lay on the floor where it had fallen. Simms yanked off the bed sheet that covered it and said:

“Come here.”

Firpo Cole walked over and stared down on Ruth Bailey. He thought he would be sick again but the feeling passed. She wore the same dress, and the brooch that Jugger had bought for Mona Leeds was still clasped at her neck. The steel point of Ephraim Tuttle’s stolen letter opener was buried deep in her heart.

But Firpo was looking neither at the brooch nor the murder weapon. His eyes were fastened on the dead lips and the heavy coloring of lipstick over them— and on the strange shading of tangerine.

As if from a great distance, Firpo heard Simms’ matter‐of‐fact voice saying: “Take a good look at what you done and then see if you still got the crust to deny it.”

Firpo Cole gave a queer, strangled gasp and sank down on his knees beside the body. His hand went out and caressed Ruth Bailey’s neck and he bent over and kissed her on the forehead.

Behind him, a flashlight bulb exploded. After a while, Firpo stood up. His eyes were dry and had a strange glint of understanding in them and the white, unhealthy face was set with rocky determination.

Simms said: “You did a pretty messy job, didn’t you? Do you feel like talking about it now?” “

“I didn’t do it.”

“No? Then who did?”

Firpo Cole was sure he knew. Jugger Callahan! It couldn’t be anyone else. But his face gave no inkling of his thought. He would get at the truth— and when he did, no one but he would have the pleasure of dealing with the murderer. He said:

“I didn’t do this, Simms. I would of killed myself for even thinking of doing it.”

Max gave a yell and pointed at the body.

“It’s gone!” They followed the cop’s fingers. The brooch that had been clasped at Ruth Bailey’s neck was missing.

“Kee‐rist!” roared Simms. “You lousy pickpocket, what the hell do you think you’re pulling off here?”

The police dick grabbed at Firpo Cole and began to bounce him up and down like a cocktail shaker.

“You wouldn’t kill her!” he shouted. “Why you even rob her dead body to get a two buck hunk of jewelry!”

“I didn’t take it,” Firpo gasped as well as he could.

“No one else was near her,” snorted Simms. His hands plunged into Firpo’s pockets— and came up empty. Bewilderment spread over his beet‐face as he ran his hands over Firpo’s clothes. “What the hell did you do with it?”

“I didn’t touch it,” said Firpo.

“Take your duds off!” Firpo Cole shed his clothes till he stood completely naked. Simms carefully felt and looked over each item of clothing and even ran his hands through Firpo’s hair and looked in his mouth. The brooch was not on him.

Simms gave the shivering Firpo permission to dress. Then the department men carefully combed the room for any possible hiding place.

The search did not reveal the missing jewel. Simms scratched at his chin, puzzled.

“Sure as hell that thing was on her neck when we come in here,” he said. Max asked: “Are you sure it was there when Firpo touched her?”

They looked at each other uncertainly, even suspiciously.

Finally, Simms said: “Well, we know that Firpo hasn’t got it.”

He jerked a finger at the reporters. “Search those crumbs down to their drawers. If it ain’t on them you better take this room apart till you find it!”

Simms grabbed Firpo by the arm and pushed him toward the door. He never felt Firpo’s sensitive, experienced fingers as they dipped into his jacket pocket to retrieve the missing brooch.

ALONE in a small cell in the city jail, Firpo Cole hid the brooch in one of his shoes, then lay down on the iron cot and waited. He tried not to think of the dead body. It would just make him sick again and he couldn’t afford that now. Afterwards it would be all right but first there was work to do.

Several hours passed and it was nearing ten before a guard came along and roused Firpo out of his dull, lethargic sleep. He blinked as he was taken into a sunlit, cheerful room.

Simms sat behind a desk talking with Jugger Callahan and Ephraim Tuttle. There were a few cops there, including Max, and a male secretary was taking notes on a stenotype.

The guard pushed Firpo into a chair and left. Jugger was saying: “I didn’t see her after she left with Firpo. Firpo used to walk her home every night so it was nothing out of the ordinary. Lots of crumbs hang out in front of every dance hall and she never liked to go home alone.”

Simms asked: “Didn’t you have another joint which burned down a couple of months ago?”

“Yes. I have a new place now. What of it?”

“Nothing. I just remembered. Was Ruth Bailey on the weed?”

“Not that I know of.”

“The autopsy’ll show anyway.” Simms absently tore at a blotter. “It still looks like Firpo did it. He was nuts about Ruth Bailey but she passed him up for you.”

Jugger’s words came clipped and precise. “Ruth Bailey and I were friends and nothing more. Understand?”

Simms shrugged. “It makes no difference what you call it. Any way you slice it the motive is still jealousy. Last night Firpo got particularly jealous when he saw some guy talking to her through a few dances. Afterwards he picked a fight with the guy and got poked. He was mad clear through so he stole the letter opener and took her home and let her have it.”

“That don’t hold water,” Ephraim Tuttle intruded. “My letter opener was missing before Firpo had that fight.”

Simms carefully dropped the shreds of the blotter into a waste basket. “Before‐after‐sooner‐later. What’s the difference so long as he hangs for it?”

“I still think you’re all wet about Firpo,” said Jugger Callahan. “I’ll be glad to stand the bail for him if he’s held.”

Simms pushed his chair back. “There ain’t no bail in a first degree homicide charge.”

Jugger Callahan and Ephraim Tuttle moved for the door. The band leader said to Firpo, “Take it easy,” and they left.

Simms came from behind the desk and planted himself in front of Firpo. Max and one of the other cops moved in closer. Simms spoke persuasively, almost with a note of regret:

“It’s open and shut, Firpo. If you get a good shyster you’ll probably be able to beat it with an insanity plea. Sick guys like you who don’t rate with the dames often get violent about it. You suddenly got tired of playing second fiddle to Jugger Callahan with the Bailey frill so you stole the letter opener. You had a chance to steal it any time because you were always around the Tango Palace. You walked her home, went up to her room and killed her.”

Simms went over to a water cooler and drank three times from a lily cup.

Max said: “Firpo thought he wiped his prints off that letter opener but we’ll bring ‘em up with a special process.”

Simms returned.

“It had to be you, Firpo,” he continued, “because anyone coming along later would have found Bailey in bed and she was wearing her street clothes when she was killed. What makes the whole thing worse is that you stole the letter opener beforehand so that makes it premeditated murder. Why don’t you plead guilty, Firpo, and we’ll let you cop an insanity plea?”

Firpo Cole didn’t reply. The dick’s words made him wonder why Ruth was still wearing her clothes when she was murdered. Ordinarily, she would have gone to bed right away. She was tired enough. Did she stay up to wait for Jugger? Did she go out to visit him and then come back?

Simms sighed. He said: “I hate to do this.” He slapped Firpo squarely over the mouth and someone behind Firpo hit him over the ear.

“Are you gonna look at this sensibly?” asked Simms.

The stenotypist left. The brooch was cutting into the sole of Firpo’s foot but he was glad to feel it there. That cheap piece of jewelry which Jugger Callahan had bought for Mona Leeds would yet prove his guilt.

Simms hit Firpo over the mouth again and repeated his question. Blood from a broken tooth choked Firpo and he could only shake his head in reply. Somebody gave him a sharp, clipping blow over the nape of his neck, the chair tilted and the broadloom rug seemed to rush up at him.

“Like hitting an old woman,” commented Max disgustedly.

When Firpo Cole regained consciousness, he found himself lying on the cot in his cell. The tooth socket had stopped bleeding. He did not know how long he stayed mere. Somebody brought him a tin platter full of some mush but he didn’t touch it. A drunk in the next cell tried to find out from Firpo what had caused the Yankees to slump.

After a while, the guard came along and he was taken up to that cheerful room again. Simms, Max and the other shams were there but this time the outsider was the stranger who had sat through eight dances with Ruth and who had subsequently biffed Firpo.

“Sit down, Firpo.” Simms sounded friendly. He indicated the stranger. “This is Mickey Hymer.”

“I met him,” responded Firpo through bruised lips.

“So you did. How come you tried to step on Mr. Hymer last night?”

“He wouldn’t pay Ruth Bailey her tickets.”

“As it turned out, Firpo, she didn’t need them. Mr. Hymer is an investigator for Eastern‐states Insurance and he wants to ask you a few questions.”

Mr. Hymer reached over and extended a hand to Firpo Cole. “First how about letting bygones be bygones?”

Firpo ignored the outstretched hand.

“Have it your way,” shrugged the insurance dick. “Firpo, I’ll be frank with you. We think that was no accidental fire that burned down the Tango Palace. Jugger Callahan had a pretty heavy policy on it and the whole business stinks.”

Firpo Cole felt a sudden surge of panic. Jugger Callahan in jail for incendiarism and insurance fraud was the last thing he wanted. Jugger had to be kept free— and very accessible. He said: “That fire was on the level.”

“What makes you think so, Firpo?”

“Jugger had over twelve hundred bucks in his desk when the place burned down. It was the take for three days and he was going to deposit it the next morning. If he would have started that fire he wouldn’t have left that much dough there.”

Mr. Hymer nodded. “That’s the story I heard, Firpo, but Callahan had a heavy property policy on the place and that more than made up for the money that burned. Besides,” he added with careful emphasis, “outside of Jugger Callahan’s business manager, we have no proof that the money was really left there.”

“What stinks about the fire?” asked Firpo.

“We found what looks like the remains of a few empty oil cans in the basement. In addition, it was a very profitable fire for Callahan. But what I’d like to know from you is where Ruth Bailey came in on it.”

“Don’t think you can frame her because she’s dead,” said Firpo tensely.

“Keep cool,” soothed Mr. Hymer. “I got as much respect for the dead as the next man. Only I know she was the last one in the dance hall before it burned down and I thought maybe she told you something she forgot to say to me.”

“She told me nothing you don’t know. When she got home that night she found out that she forgot her purse at the dance hall so she had to go back.”

“Why couldn’t she get it the next day?”

“Because the key to her apartment was in it,” said Firpo.

“I see. What’s the rest of her story?”

“When she got back the place was empty and outside of a couple of lights someone left on, she saw nothing suspicious. She got her purse and went home. That’s all she had to do with it.”

Firpo wondered what the insurance dick would say if he knew that Ruth had taken that brooch from Jugger’s office. Did it prove that Jugger Callahan had also come back after the others were gone and forgotten it on his desk?

Mr. Hymer picked at his nose thoughtfully.

“That’s the same story she— the deceased— told me last night.” He stood up. “I guess I’ll mosey along.”

WHEN the door was closed behind the insurance dick, Simms turned to Firpo.

“It still looks like you’re the murderer,” he informed him cozily.

“I didn’t do it,” said Firpo Cole for the sake of the secretary’s record.

“My men have been checking all morning and they can’t find anyone who saw Ruth Bailey go out after you took her home last night. So you must have gone up to the apartment with her and killed her before she had a chance to get her clothes off and go to bed.”

Suddenly, Firpo Cole knew the meaning of the lipstick on the dead woman’s mouth. It was something no one could have noticed but he. He knew the kind of lipstick she always used— a deep carmine brand named Machiavelli. On those rare occasions that Ruth had kissed him, he had never wiped it off. But the lipstick on her, when she was murdered, had a tangerine coloring— the kind that Mona Leeds, the torch singer, used. It could mean only that Ruth had gone out again to see Mona.

Firpo hadn’t been listening to Simms’ persuasive arguments for appointing him the murderer. He said: “Go jump in a sewer.”

Simms and Max came around to where Firpo sat. The stenotypist left the room. Firpo braced himself. Simms sighed. “This is a hell of a case. I wish I knew what happened to that jewelry that was on Bailey’s neck.”

Then he began to hit Firpo methodically, with semi‐clenched fists. A spasm of coughing shook Firpo’s spare body. The contents were heavy and deep from the lungs. Max moved away.

“Watch those damned germs,” he complained. “You oughta learn enough to cover your mouth.”

Firpo knew he was going to faint again. He struggled against it, for a few moments, then gave way.

When Firpo Cole came around, he found himself lying on a cot in the dispensary. He could see through an unshaded window ahead of him. It was dark outside. He must have been out for several hours.

The doctor who was bending over Firpo stood up and faced Simms and Max. “He’s all right now but if you give him another shellacking I’m not responsible.”

“Shellacking!” exclaimed Simms. “We hardly touched the guy. We just gave him a few slaps to help his memory and—”

“I’m not interested,” cut in the doctor. “All I say is that another memory course might bring on a much worse hemorrhage, so don’t try it.”

He snapped his bag shut and stalked over to a desk to fill in a report.

“And that’s what you call cooperation,” muttered Max. Firpo sat up on the edge of the cot and buttoned his shirt. The telephone jangled and Max took it. He listened a moment, then tendered the receiver to Simms.

“It’s for you. The autopsy report on the Bailey woman.”

“Yes?” said Simms. He glanced covertly toward Firpo. “You say that Ruth Bailey was opened by the usual mid‐line incision?... You’re some cut‐up, ha, ha, ha... Now forget that scientific bull—tell me in plain, everyday American... I see... And how about her guts?... I see... Aha—the liver and spleen... and the markings on the body?... Good‐looking, eh?... O.K., send up the report.”

Simms cradled the receiver and turned to Firpo. “That sawbones just hasn’t got any feelings.”

“I know,” said Firpo. “It’s the psychological angle, so forget it.”

“Wise guy. Well, what do you think about this? Ruth Bailey was gonna have a kid.”

Firpo found some kind of medicine bottle within his reach and threw it. Simms ducked.

“A lie like that,” he said darkly, “don’t give you the right to throw things at me. Watch your step or I’ll forget myself and give you the shellacking of your life. Now beat it.”

“Beat it?” said Firpo stupidly.

“Yeah. Get out of here. We know damned well you did the murder but we can’t prove it— yet. We’re just giving you rope, Firpo.”

Max emitted a sudden guffaw.

“Maybe,” he explained, “we’ll give him more rope later— around the neck!”

3: Requiem in Jazz

LEAVING the Hall of Justice, Firpo Cole cut across to old Chinatown. He dodged into a dark alley and pressed himself against the wall. He waited thus for fifteen minutes before he felt assured that he was not being followed. The cops didn’t even have enough on him to put a shadow on his tail.

He removed his shoe and took out the brooch. The sole of his foot was criss‐crossed with cuts and his cotton sock was caked with blood. He bound the foot with a soiled handkerchief and proceeded up Main Street.

Some ten minutes later he reached a pawn shop just as the owner was closing up for the night. He put the brooch on the counter.

“I want you to look at this, Saul.”

“Firpo, when will you guys learn I don’t handle hot stuff?” “I only asked you to look at it.”

The short, bald‐headed man picked up the brooch and studied it. Finally, he said: “I wouldn’t touch it, Firpo, but it’s worth two or three hundred dollars.”

Firpo started. “For that little gold and a little piece of glass? Are you sure?”

“Not for the gold, Firpo. It’s for what you think is a piece of glass.”

Saul held it back to let the light of a lamp fall on it. Small white rays seemed to radiate from a flaw in its sparkling sky‐blue center. “It’s a fair example of a star sapphire,” continued Saul, “and if it wasn’t hot you’d even be able to get up to four and a half hundred for it.”

Firpo took the brooch from Saul’s hand and walked out. This gave Jugger Callahan an even stronger motive to murder Ruth Bailey. The brooch was worth real dough— all the more reason for Jugger to be thoroughly enraged over its theft.

Firpo saw a clock over a bus depot. It was already after ten. He wasn’t at all hungry but he hadn’t eaten since the previous evening and he knew that he should have something. He found some loose change in his pockets and entered a cafeteria. With swollen lips he sipped a glass of buttermilk through a straw, and then he headed straight for the Tango Palace.

The taxi dance hall was going full blast. On the platform, Mona Leeds was giving her all to the Basin Street Blues and extra hostesses were on the floor to take care of the large, Saturday night trade.

Firpo Cole sank into the settee and his eyes automatically searched among the dancers for Ruth Bailey. Then he remembered. Some of the girls walked over to tell him that Ruth had been a good kid and that if they could do anything...

To one side, Simms was grilling the hostesses by turns. He saw Firpo and came over to him. “I hope there’s no hard feelings, Firpo.”

“Who found the body, Simms?”

“The apartment door was left open and some tenant who came in at three thirty saw her on the floor.”

“O.K.”

“You don’t look so good, Firpo. You’re as white as a baby’s behind. Why don’t you go home?”

“Why don’t you leave me alone?”

“Now don’t take it that way, Firpo. Just regard me as a plainclothes dick who has to do his job.”

Firpo said: “I love you with an overwhelming passion.”

Simms snorted. “If you didn’t do the murder a guy would think you’d try to help me find who did. But everybody in this stinkhole thinks I’m their enemy.”

He stalked off. Mona finished her number and left the stand. Ephraim Tuttle scurried back and forth settling arguments when he found them and creating them when he didn’t.

He stopped by Firpo Cole. “I heard you were out, Firpo. I tried to tell those dopes that you couldn’t have done a thing like that to her.”

“Thanks.” The business manager regarded Firpo’s battered face and clucked sympathetically. “That’s a hell of a way to treat you. As if you would have touched a hair of her head.”

“We won’t talk about it, Tuttle.”

“Sure. She’d want us to forget it.”

“That’s right. Shut up.” Ephraim Tuttle muttered something under his breath and left. Firpo buried his face in his hands and sobs seemed to rack his body, but when his hands dropped away, his eyes were dry.

Rocco Pace, dressed to the hilt, came by and sat beside him. The racketeer asked: “Are you still a checking‐room?”

“Sure.” Rocco Pace slipped his gun out of the shoulder holster and handed it to Firpo. “I see that the shams gave you the lumps, pal.”

Firpo Cole nodded.

“Don’t let it worry you, Firpo. You’ll get used to it— after a while.”

He patted Firpo’s back and went out on the dance floor. In a moment, he was dancing a wild waltz, to the beat of a fox trot, whirling in and out among the unmoving couples.

FIRPO COLE ran fingers over the automatic in his pocket. He caressed its smoothness and put down the safety. He stood up and pushed his way through the dancers and idlers, down the length of the hall. He went through a curtained archway that led backstage to the band platform and knocked on the dressing‐ room off the right wings. Mona Leeds said: “Come in.”

He entered the small dressing‐room. The torch singer was buffing her nails before the mirror.

“I’m glad they let you go, Firpo.” The rich, husky voice sounded strained. He took a cigarette from a case on a table and sat down.

“They had to. They didn’t have anything on me.”

“You shouldn’t smoke cigarettes, Firpo. They’re not good for you.”

He laughed.

“I know,” she said rapidly. “You feel you don’t give a damn any more. I’d feel that way if something happened to Jugger but it’s wrong, Firpo. I don’t know how to tell you but—” She floundered for the right words. “You can’t know how sorry I am about the quarrel I had with Ruth last night. It was just a crazy fit of jealousy.”

“Don’t let it worry you, Mona. You couldn’t help it and even Ruth wasn’t mad about it.”

“Firpo, if only we could find out who did it.”

“Don’t let that worry you either, Mona. What’d you tell the cops?”

“Just what happened,” she replied. “I had that argument with Ruth and I never saw her again.”

“That’s a lie,” said Firpo Cole deliberately. “I took Ruth home about one thirty. She probably went right out again and visited you. She didn’t bring her purse along and before she left you she probably said that she looked like the wrath of God and—”

“Those were her exact words,” uttered Mona Leeds softly. He gave a wry grin. “Don’t be surprised. I know Ruth. Anyway, you loaned her your powder and lipstick and she came home. That couldn’t have been later than three in the morning. Somebody was either waiting for her at the apartment or followed her home and killed her. What I want to know is why you keep that visit to you a secret.”

“You won’t like it, Firpo. That’s why I kept it to myself.”

“I’m not a very sensitive plant. Go on.”

“Well, she came to tell me she was sorry about our fight— and that she was a thief. She said she went back to the dance hall the night the old place burned down and found a piece of jewelry that Jugger had bought for me.”

Firpo produced the brooch and showed it to the torch singer. “Is this what Ruth was talking about?”

“Yes—but she was wearing it on her dress. How did you get it?”

“That’s a trade secret. Go on.”

“Ruth took it from Jugger’s desk,” continued the torch singer, “and she came over last night to give it to me. I wouldn’t take it.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because it wasn’t mine. Jugger might have bought it for me but he never mentioned it, so I told her to keep it— a sort of peace offering for that fight we had. I guess Jugger thinks it got lost in the fire.”

Firpo Cole shook his head. “Jugger must have seen her wearing it.”

“I guess so,” replied Mona Leeds. “That’s the way Jugger is. If he figured that she wanted it enough to steal it, he’d let her keep it.”

“It’s worth four or five hundred bucks, Mona, so I doubt it. You know, the Easternstates Insurance thinks the fire wasn’t an accident.” The torch singer’s hand went to her mouth in a frightened gesture. “No. Jugger wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“How do you know?”

“But it’s crazy, Firpo. He had a lot of money in his office— the receipts of a couple of days— that burned down, too.”

“The insurance money more than made up for it. Besides, they’re not so sure the money was there in the first place. They only have Jugger’s and Tuttle’s word for it.”

“But why should he take such a chance for a few dollars, Firpo? He’s doing fine the way he is.”

“I don’t know but I’ll damned well find out.” He stood up. “You’re O.K., Mona. Don’t take it too hard if I find out that Jugger killed Ruth.” He left her staring after him with wide‐ eyed apprehension.

FIRPO COLE entered on the right wings of the band platform, found a meeting chair and sat down. From where he was, he could watch Jugger Callahan fronting the band. Jugger caught sight of Firpo, snapped his fingers to the boys and the music trailed off. He spoke into the mike.

“Ladies and gentlemen, last night one of our beloved hostesses met a tragic end and out of respect to her I’d like everybody to keep thirty seconds of real silence.”

He bowed his head and checked his wrist‐watch. Throughout the semi‐dark hall, couples waited with their arms twined around each other.

Some girl in the back giggled and said: “No.” The thirty seconds were up.

Jugger Callahan’s toes beat a tattoo and he snapped his fingers. “All right, boys. A one‐a, a two‐a, a three‐a, scratch!”

The band began Potato Head Blues and the couples started to sway again like puppets whose wires had suddenly been jerked.

Jugger walked over to Firpo. He patted his greased‐back hair, obviously pleased that he had done the right thing by Ruth.

“Firpo,” said the band leader, “we already got sixty‐two bucks collected. How much can you chip in?”

“For what?”

“Ruth’s funeral, of course,” replied Jugger.

“I’m not interested in Ruth’s funeral. There’s somebody else’s funeral I want to see about.”

“Uh‐huh. I get you, Firpo, but you ought to leave that to the cops. You probably never even met the guy who did it.”

Firpo’s bloodshot eyes fixed themselves on the band leader’s face.

“I won’t have far to go. That letter opener was stolen from here.”

“Say, that’s right, isn’t it? Ephraim come to me around eleven thirty last night and asked me if I’d taken it so it must have been stolen earlier.”

Firpo’s hands were in his pockets. There was something friendly and comforting about the feel of the automatic. He said: “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Sure, Firpo,” said Jugger, not too heartily. “Sure.”

The band leader returned to his post. The music ground on. Twenty sets, of three melodies each, every hour. Sixty dances in as many minutes with only an occasional break to give the customers a chance to buy more tickets. The Smiling Troubadours never stopped playing, though every once in a while a musician left the stand. And, as the hours wore on and they became more tired, the music became faster and more frenzied.

Firpo stayed in his chair, watching the band leader. He didn’t intend letting Jugger out of his sight— not till he could trap him some way and prove to himself that here was the murderer of Ruth Bailey.

Simms reached backstage in the course of his investigations. He seemed as much in a fog as ever. He asked Firpo whether Ruth had had any jewelry on her dress when he’d seen the body. Firpo couldn’t remember and the police dick left.

The time went by and Firpo sat unmoving, watching Jugger Callahan with lackluster eyes. He tried to think of the murder of the only person he had ever cared for. What had Ruth said? That she was afraid? Of what?

Suddenly, it hit Firpo Cole like a ton of dynamite. Where was the five hundred dollars that had found its way into Ruth Bailey’s purse and where was the envelope that read This better be enough?

The police hadn’t said anything about the money or envelope so the murderer must have stolen both. There was no reason why the killer shouldn’t have taken the money but the envelope was a different matter.

That typewritten sentence on it meant something to the murderer. Someone in the Tango Palace had probably thought that Ruth Bailey was blackmailing him. That very envelope had probably been written on one of the office typewriters.

Firpo frowned and the swollen lips pursed in thought. His job was to find out who had typed that envelope.

AT two in the morning, the Smiling Troubadours gradually, almost reluctantly, stopped playing. There seemed to be a kind of weary excitement among them after the long grind. Customers filed out, spotlights went off and hostesses sat down to nurse their feet.

Firpo Cole fell into step beside Jugger Callahan as the band leader talked to friends, visited the washroom and finally went to his office. Jugger did not object. He imagined that Firpo felt lost— that he needed friendship. Firpo was like a dog that had lost its master and was trying to attach itself to someone else.

After Jugger had finished checking the night’s receipts with the business manager, he turned to Firpo.

“We’re having a tea party tonight. How about coming along? A couple of reefers might do you good.”

Tea parties were a custom of long standing on every Saturday night at Jugger Callahan’s apartment. Any other time, Firpo Cole would have felt highly honored by the invitation, for these parties were attended only by the elite of the Tango Palace.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Firpo.

Ephraim Tuttle locked up the books, said he’d see them later and went to pay off the girls. Firpo and the band leader left the dance hall. They walked down Main, then turned up Sixth.

“Jugger,” asked Firpo Cole, “can you typewrite?”

“One finger stuff. Why?”

“It’s not important. Is there a file up in the office listing the girls’ addresses?” “Of course.”

“Then anyone at the Tango could find out where Ruth lived.”

“I guess so, Firpo, but—”

“You could find out, too, couldn’t you?” cut in Firpo.

“What the hell are you getting at?”

“Forget it, Jugger.”

The band leader started to say something but stayed his reply. They turned in to an all‐night drugstore. Here, for a fiver, the clerk forgot the narcotic laws and gave Jugger a twelve‐ounce bottle of cannabis indica. The band leader then bought a carton of cigarettes and some brown cigarette paper. They went outside and hailed a taxi.

4: Paid in Full

JUGGER Callahan’s apartment was large and comfortable. Most of the boys from the band were already there. Mona Leeds and Evelyn Dorn, Ephraim Tuttle’s current doll, were making and serving sandwiches to the guests. Jugger lolled in an overstuffed chair and Firpo sat right beside him watching the preparations.

Monkey Harris and a few of the other boys had sliced open the cigarettes from the carton and emptied the tobacco into a wide, shallow pan. Now they took the bottle of cannabis indica and poured the greenish‐brown liquid into the pan. They allowed the tobacco to soak in the poisonous drug for several minutes, then put a match to it— which served both to burn up the excess alcohol and to dry the tobacco. This done, they began to wrap the residue in the brown cigarette paper. They worked diligently and the heap of these homemade marihuana cigarettes grew steadily.

Jugger said to Firpo Cole: “These give a much better kick than the ready made kind.”

“I never tried them,” replied Firpo. “When did you first start?”

He wanted to hear Jugger talk— to wait for that mistake, that slip of the tongue which would point the finger of guilt at him. Jugger Callahan was in an expansive mood.

He said: “Back in Chi, in the Capone days. A bunch of us muggle‐hounds would get together and play hot music long before the word ‘swing’ was ever invented. Today the high school punks have taken over. They call themselves jitterbugs and if we sound good we’re out of this world. They call the clarinet a licorice stick, a trombone a grunt iron, the bass fiddle a doghouse— and most of the time I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.”

“Yeah,” said Firpo. “Those sure were the good old days, all right, in Chi.”

“The only thing that flowed freer than money,” continued the band leader reminiscently, “was blood. We used to have classy apartments and buy a lot of jewelry for our women.”

Firpo suddenly reached into his pocket and held the brooch out.

“You mean like this thing you bought for Mona?”

Jugger Callahan didn’t bite. “I bought that for Mona? What you getting at, Firpo?”

“Haven’t you ever seen it before?” asked Firpo Cole.

“No—yes, I think Ruth Bailey wore something like that.”

Firpo frowned. Jugger was too old a hand to be caught that crudely.

He said: “This is a star sapphire. It’s pretty valuable.”

Evelyn Dorn was hovering over them with a sandwich tray. Her doe eyes bulged.

“Geeze! A star sapphire.” She took it and examined it reverently. “That’s what I always wanted to get— a star sapphire.” She sighed. “But I guess I ain’t got what it takes. Nobody’s given me any—not even one yet.”

“I’d still like to know what you were getting at, Firpo,” said the band leader.

Firpo retrieved the brooch. “Let’s drop it.”

Evelyn Dorn suddenly snapped her fingers. “Hell, Firpo, I forgot to tell you!” “What?”

“That gangster— that Rocco Pace is on the warpath after you. You better watch out.”

“What’s the matter now?” asked Jugger.

“That’s all right,” said Firpo. “It’s nothing to worry about. I just stole Rocco’s gun.”

Jugger Callahan looked at him queerly but made no comment. Evelyn Dorn wandered off. Firpo leaned back and closed his eyes. An idea was stirring within him.

Turnip Billings, who played tenor horn, called out: “All finished, boys. Jugger Callahan and his Twelve Shtoonks will now get high.”

He tossed a few reefers to Firpo Cole and Jugger Callahan.

Jugger Callahan was a breather and it was not long before a quiet contentment seemed to come over him. After a while, he fixed glazed eyes on Firpo and said: “You’re not running after me because you like my mustache. You think I killed Ruth Bailey.”

Firpo Cole, who was bluffing his smoke, nodded. “What’ll you do about it?”

“When I make sure, I’ll kill you.”

Firpo’s voice was dispassionate but as certain of itself as a pile driver. Jugger Callahan laughed. His good humor was not even ruffled. “You two‐bit grifter, you talk big. How come you think I killed your Ruth Bailey?”

“She was in love with you, Jugger— really in love— the way a bum like you couldn’t understand.”

“I liked Ruth, but that’s all, Firpo. I never two‐timed on Mona.”

“I know,” replied Firpo. “I would of made you marry Ruth if you had.”

The band leader laughed again.

“Pickpocket to marriage broker. That’s good. But you haven’t told me how you think I come to kill Ruth.”

They were talking in low tones. The others around them still laughed and shouted boisterously. The drug had not yet begun to take effect.

Firpo said: “I figure it this way. You put a lot of insurance on the old Tango Palace and then faked a fire by soaking the drapes and everything else in oil and gasoline.”

“You better keep those ideas to yourself,” said Jugger Callahan a little more seriously.

“I don’t have to. An insurance dick thinks that. He found what used to be oil cans in the ruins. You also forgot that stone I showed you on your desk, because Ruth had to go back to the Palace that night and she saw it there. You must have been fixing for the fire about that time and you probably saw her take it.”

“So now you’re calling Ruth Bailey a crook.” Firpo’s hands began to tremble and he waited a few moments before replying. “She took it because she knew you bought it for Mona and she was jealous. She started wearing it every day after that, Jugger, just to get Mona’s goat but you thought it was her way of saying that she knew you started that fire.”

“Not so fast, Firpo. I lost over twelve hundred dollars in cold cash during the fire and you don’t think I’d be crazy enough to leave it up there if I burned the place down.”

“I know that angle too, Jugger, but there’s no proof you left the dough to burn and that it isn’t in your pocket right now.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the band leader uttered softly. “And what do you think I did after the fire?”

“Ruth was wearing that thing and you thought she was blackmailing you so you tried to buy her off. You slipped five hundred bucks into her purse with a note saying that it better be enough. But she kept wearing the brooch and you thought she wanted more sugar so you stole Tuttle’s letter opener, figuring that anyone at the Palace could be blamed. Then you killed her with it. It had a sharp point. It must have been easy.”

“That’s a lot of shtush, Firpo, and you know it. You’re just excited about the killing. When you have a good night’s sleep you’ll decide you couldn’t prove a thing.” “That’s the only reason you’re still alive, Jugger.”

Ephraim Tuttle had come in and walked over to them in time to hear the last sentence.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Firpo’s puking about some kind of star sapphire and that I killed Ruth Bailey,” responded Jugger.

“Oh, he’s just weed‐wacky,” pronounced the business manager.

“I don’t know why the hell we let him louse up the place around here.” He walked away.

THE doorbell to the apartment rang.

Mona Leeds came in from the kitchen and said: “See who it is, Firpo.” He went through the vestibule.

It was Rocco Pace standing at the door. “I thought I’d find you here,” said the racketeer. “Do you want to come in?”

“That ain’t what I’m here for. I get a plenty good jag with dago‐red.”

“Then what did you want?” asked Firpo. “Why’d you hook my gat?”

“I want to borrow it for a while, Rocco.”

Rocco Pace gave a vague smile. “You liked that jane a lot, didn’t you, Firpo?” “Yes.”

“I see. And you have to go gunning with my rod.”

“I’ll give it back to you after, Rocco.”

“Let’s have it now.”

“I said I want to keep it for a while.”

Rocco Pace’s voice was silken. “You know better than to give me any backtalk, Firpo. Let’s have it.”

Firpo Cole hesitated a moment, then surrendered.

“O.K.,” he said bleakly and handed the automatic to the racketeer. Rocco Pace whipped a polka‐dotted handkerchief out of his breast pocket and carefully wiped the gun. Then he returned it to Firpo.

“You ought to know better than to sport a rod with my prints on it.”

He started off, then paused. “I don’t know if it’ll help you, Firpo, but one of the guys up at the Tango Palace has been plunging pretty heavily with a bookie I know. It’s practically bankrupted him. You can have it for what it’s worth.”

“Who is it?”

“I blowed my whistle plenty. It ought to satisfy you.”

“Thanks, Rocco. You’re white.”

“Think nothing of it,” said the racketeer breezily.

Firpo Cole returned to the living‐room. The tea party was in full session. All the lights were out but for a small, red bulb in a floor lamp. Firpo could distinguish the figures as they moved only to lift the reefers to their mouth for short, quick puffs.

Mona Leeds reclined next to Jugger, in the easy chair that Firpo had vacated. An expensive phonograph was playing repeats of a swing record as slowly as it was able. The record was Armstrong’s version of Knockin’ a Jug and in one corner Monkey Harris was beating an accompaniment on a tom‐tom. His slim, yellowed fingers beat rapidly.

The test of a good musician, on these occasions, was the number of beats and variations the player could get in, between two chords— and Monkey Harris was rated highly. The effect was weird as the disk revolved and the tom‐tom beat. The record was played slowly and the reefers themselves tended to slow and dull everything— thereby providing for a full appreciation of the music. And every so often a musician grunted or delivered an “Oh” or an “Ah” as he caught some new nuance in the music that he’d never before heard.

The air was heavy with those pungent, cloying fumes and Firpo Cole began to cough. He didn’t have to look at his handkerchief to know it was becoming smeared with red. But he didn’t care. At last he knew what was what. That small item of information from Rocco Pace had done the trick. The coughing became worse and he walked into the kitchen. Evelyn Dorn was wolfing minced ham sandwiches. “I’d rather eat here than get sick in there,” she explained.

Firpo Cole said: “Inside you were raving about star sapphires. Did you ever ask Tuttle to give you one?”

“Sure. It don’t harm to ask— but I never got it.”

“That’s what I thought. Tuttle did buy it for you, Evelyn, only he forgot it at the old place when it burned down.”

“No kiddin’?”

“He’s bought you a lot of stuff, hasn’t he?”

“Some,” she said coyly. “Ephraim ain’t a tightwad.”

“That’s what I figured— and on top of that he’s been playing the horses. That’s why he set that fire and later killed Ruth.”

Evelyn Dorn stopped eating for a moment.

“You mean it?”

Firpo nodded. “He stole twelve hundred bucks in receipts from Jugger and then burned the joint down. He figured rightly that Jugger would think the money burned with the building and that he was making enough profit on insurance not to investigate too much.”

“Well, what do you know?” marveled Evelyn.

Firpo’s voice became bitter. “When Tuttle stole that dough from Jugger’s office he accidently left that brooch which he bought for you on Jugger’s desk— and that’s where Ruth found it. He made a too‐big stink about losing his letter opener and then killed Ruth with it. He thought she was blackmailing him about the fire and wasn’t satisfied with a five‐hundred‐buck payoff.”

“You can never tell about someone,” she commented. “Can you?”

The double‐hinge door swung open and Simms, the police detective, Max and Ephraim Tuttle came in.

“All right, Firpo,” said Simms. “I know you got that jewelry you stole from Bailey’s body. Let’s have it.”

The automatic appeared in Firpo’s hand. The safety catch was still off— the way he wanted it.

“Stick your mitts up and line against the wall.”

The three men did as they were bid. Evelyn Dorn gave a squeal and fled. They could hear the apartment door slam shut.

“Now look here, Firpo,” Simms’ voice was hoarse. “This ain’t gonna help. If you just take it easy—”

“Can it,” interrupted Firpo. “I suppose Tuttle told you I had the brooch.”

Simms nodded.

Tuttle said quickly: “I didn’t mean anything, Firpo. I just heard it was stolen and then when Jugger said you was talking about it I thought I better call the cops.”

Firpo’s voice was as calm and as steady as the hand that held the gun.

“Tuttle, all you figured was that you’d pin the killing on me and get out of it yourself. But there’s no chance of that because you’re paying for it now.”

He took a bead on the pit of Ephraim Tuttle’s stomach.

“Now watch it,” said Simms rapidly. “Let us take care of it, Firpo. If he did the killing he’s entitled to a trial but sure as hell you’ll swing if you try it yourself.”

“I know I will,” said Firpo Cole, “and this’ll be one condemned man that’ll really eat a damned hearty breakfast.”

Then he sighted carefully and pulled the trigger six times.

__________________

10: Last Across

Max Pemberton

1863-1950

World's News (Sydney) 30 Jan 1904

THEY WERE playing "last across" in a busy street in Marylebone when the great Panhard car came grunting round the corner and showed its twin Bleriot lamps like the flashing lanterns of a lighthouse. Of the children who played the game, some were the poorest of the poor, merry players in merry rags; but there were others whose trim clothes spoke of motherhood at home and some remembrance of a former state. Such was little Dicky Caldicott, of the ripe age of 10 good years. He wore a suit of rough homespun, and his collar had not more than half a dozen fingermarks upon it. Conspicuous among the players, he led them with a dexterity which was not less admirable than dangerous. And Dicky welcomed the motor-car with a joy that bounded, as it seemed, beneath its very wheels.

He was "last across," no one denied that, sprawling like an agile frog upon the muddy pavement— but was he last across in safety, or had the monster Juggernaut, added to the number of a city's tragedies? Certainly a

woman screamed, but that was no evidence— nor was the florid-faced driver's oath a better testimony. The merry players, in the merry rags fled wildly to their homes, crying , that Dicky was killed. None but the stolid constable at the fixed point maintained that calm demeanour suitable to a great occasion. Alone among them, he carried a panacea for every emergency—a notebook and a pencil which would not write.

There is nothing so absolutely heterogeneous as the crowd which gathers about an accident in a London street. From the stout lady who faints against the shutters of a greengrocer's shop to the slim man who wants to ring for the fire engine, you have all types and varieties brought together, heaven knows whence, in the twinkling of an eye. So upon this night when Richard Caldicott played "last across" before the motor-car a woman fainted, another covered her eyes with her hands; a slim man ventured the opinion that it ought to be manslaughter, if not murder. Out of nowhere they came and pressed about the scene. Their outposts said that the lad was killed; those on the spot were feeling Dicky Caldicott's bones, and asking which of them was broken. It remained for a doctor, whose brougham had been passing at the moment, to declare that the car, so skilfully was it handled, never touch the lad at all. The good fellow's address appeared in the constable's book as fast as that worthy could write it down. The one unruffled member of the company was Dicky Caldicott.

"Where do you live, my lad— who are you?" the doctor asked him kindly— for fear had still deprived the florid-faced driver of his tongue. Dicky ran off the answer as though it had been an article of the catechism.

"Forty-three Blandford-street, over the grocer's shop."

"And your father—what is your father?"

"I haven't got a father—"

"Do you live with your mother, then?"

"Mrs. Caldicott, ring the second bell."

"Why did you run across the road before the motor-car?"

"I wanted to get to the other side."

"Come, that's better. Do you feel any pain, my little lad?"

"No, I don't— but I wouldn't say so if I did."

The answer astonished them. It was becoming apparent that this was no accident at all, but only the alarm of one— at which the stout lady who had fainted permitted herself to be led away weeping to the nearest public-house. But for the constable and his literary activeties the group would have broken up at once. "D 99," however, had still several pages, of his "magnum opus" to adorn, and not until the last word was properly misspelled did he close the volume with a snap and turn a stern eye upon the company. "Now, who's going to give me a sovereign?" said that eye as plainly as looks could speak. Did not the florid-faced man already finger a jingling purse; could it be possible that he intended the bright shining sovereign for the tiny palm of Dicky Caldicott? Wonder of wonders— it was that. Dicky clutched the sovereign with muddy fingers, and scampered off home as fast as his little legs could carry him; but "D 99" returned to his post wondering whom he could prosecute for perjury.

Now Marian Caldicott, Dicky's mother, had been brewing Dicky's tea at the moment of the pseudo tragedy. A pretty woman in her thirtieth year, she had been twelve months a widow, as the amiable curate of the parish, who interested himself in her case, was never tired of telling you. In so far as her life was mystery, its mystery lay no deeper down than in the heart of a good woman's pride. She would accept neither the curate's tracts nor his sympathy. Hiding her life from the world, she lived it alone with her child as many a noble woman had done, and will do, in the unbefriended loneliness of the lonely city. A considerable gift in the decorative art earned a sufficient pittance for her— yet such a one that must measure out the daily dole to the point where health, or even existence, would suffer no further economy. Marian, indeed, refused to hear that her conduct was heroic or worthy of praise. She lived as many of those about her— ever at war with circumstance, fighting daily the battle of bread; but cheerful because the narrow victory was hers. And the child claimed her body and soul; she lived by it and through it in the desolate days.

There were terrible hours, of course; hours when it seemed that all was lost; hours when her courage failed her, and she laid her face upon Dicky's bed and prayed that this burden of her life might be taken from her. The dark winter days when the silks which she painted or the miniatures she labored upon so devotedly must be laid aside, brought reveries and pictures of the old time when a man had loved and sheltered her, and the future had seemed so well-assured. These resting moments affrighted her beyond all others. If her health failed her, what would become of her lad? She needed so much, clothes, good food, light, air— and fortune gave her but this, the bare right to live for to-day and to fear for to-morrow.

It was upon an evening, in the last week of the year when Master Dick played the game of "last across." Terrified outposts of the flight carried the news to Blandford-street, but not to the room wherein Dicky's mother lived. Elderly neighbors were wiser than that, though the tidings proved a fine excuse for "just a drop of something" at the corner house, where mothers gathered to raise a clack of tongues and a sympathetic lady in a black bonnet ex-pressed the opinion that others could have been better spared. "Not that she ain't uppish enough and unneighborly," she added, with the inevitable "but"—a sentiment which was shared by many of the would-be consolers. These had just made up their mind to send for the parish priest, who existed that he might be summoned upon every emergency from a fire to a distress warrant, when Dick himself came running down the street and darted in at No. 43 with all the dash and delight of a bearer of good tidings. Be sure that it needed several glasses upon this to restore the spirits of a company which had already composed itself to the lingering joys of a funeral. Dick, meanwhile poured out his breathless story to glad ears.

"I fell down and he gave me this. There were two great fires on the motor-car. My knee's cut, but it doesn't matter. The doctor said he'd saved my life, and the policeman said he shouldn't have done it. Oh, there were such, a lot of people, and they felt in all my pockets. Then he called out, 'Poor little lad,' because I'd cut my knee, you know. And, mother, look at it! It's a shilling, isn't it? He gave it to me for being 'last across.' I'm to come to him if I die, and, mother—"

The words fell from childish lips like a stream bubbling at a summer shower; but Marian Caldicott had caught Dick up and held him close in her arms before he had told her the half of it. What a story for her terrified ears. An accident—her Dick, the car ran over him—no, no, he said, they thought it ran over him, but it didn't; and the red-faced man was so very frightened, and a policeman had been there, and, oh, it was a golden shilling, was it not?

This question of vast import went unanswered for quite a long time. Not a very demonstrative woman, Marian surrendered to the gratitude of this hour, and made Dick tell her the story over and over again when the pavement's mud had been washed from chubby knees and the truth of the averted disaster made known, beyond dispute.

"What was the gentleman like? How foolish to play that silly game! There must be a promise that never, never, never again would Dick be last across. To this, however, Dick demurred with a resolute argument. Had there been no last across, there would have been no golden shilling; and you could buy so much with a treasure like that. His curly head upon her breast, as they sat before the reddening embers together, Dick told her of the wonder caves this splendid key would open. Had she not heard of the great bazaar— yes, yes, they had passed it together many a time. You went there generally, it is true, for a reel of cotton and a packet of needles; but that was when you were busy and had no time to descend the steps and enter the hall of delights. Dick knew nearly every masterpiece that great bazaar contained. There was the train that went on real rails, for instance, and disappeared in the darkness of a veritable tunnel. You could buy real "singals" for a shilling, and handles to pull them up and down. The handles were a great point to be considered and estimated in all their splendid realism. Real handles and real signals, and points that shunt-ed; and over on the opposite stall a fort, with half a dozen cannon, and an officer on a white horse who had never ceased to prance since they put him up there a fortnight ago. Was it possible to buy such a man for the golden shilling? Dick thought that it might be; but when he looked into "Mother's" face, there were tears, such big tears, glistening upon the white cheeks that he hid his head in the folds of her dress and asked himself what he had done that she should not share his gladness.

So little is the child able to understand the woman. To him that golden piece of money meant a treasure from the cave of wonders; but what might not it have meant to Marian in that crisis of her winter poverty? For long weeks now she had wrestled with the unsleeping problem of her existence, counting the very price as precious tokens of her surety. Depression in all trades left her own simple arts at the very nadir of their fortunes. Days had passed and given her nothing more than the bitterness of a busy woman's idleness. She had not five shillings in the house, and here upon the table there shone the gift which might lift the cloud and show her the light. Was it right to take it? A silver shilling would buy Dick a pretty toy— did not all commonsense say, spend the balance upon food and clothes. Marian knew that it was so,, but the unselfishness of motherhood came presently to whisper, "It's his own money, he has never had a real present in all his life. What right have you to take it from him?" Dick would go to bed that night and dream of the real tunnel and the real "singals." What should she say to him if he asked in vain for them to-morrow? She knew that she was very unwise: but somehow her hand refused to touch the money; and it remained where it was, shining alluringly in the aureole of light which the poor glass lamp cast upon the table. Dick him-self would be already dreaming of the happy day to come. It should not be hers to break that dream with an excuse of her own dire need.

This latter surmise, so far as it concerned Master Dicky's report, was scarcely accurate, though "Mother" would never have guessed it. The ignorance of childhood finds its recompense sometimes in an intuition which is little less than marvellous. Dick did not sleep that night; he did not dream of real signals or of a blue soldier upon a white horse. His mother's un-happiness was his chief concern. Why did she cry when he brought home the golden shilling? Dick knew enough about women to know that they could not play "last across." Nor did he tell himself that "Mother" was cross with him because he had fallen down and hurt himself. Was it possible that she cried because the driver of the motor-car had not given her a shilling too? Yes, said Dick at last, it must be that. She could not play their games and so she never got anything, not even the surreptitious twopence for holding the gentle-man's horses. "Mother" did not like Dick doing this, but he did it all the same. "You are a gentleman's son," she used to say, and then he would ask her, "Then why don't I go to the gentlemen's school?" Altogether Dicky's philosophy was vague and troubling. He was touched that "Mother" should cry, but he did not know how to arrest her tears. When she came to bed she found two big blue eyes staring up into her own, and she cried, "Oh, Dicky, Dicky, not asleep yet?" and she held him close in her arms, and he could feel her hot lips upon his cheek. They talked together for quite a long while, too of the day when their golden ship would come in; and dawn found them sleeping heart to heart.

The very first object upon which Dicky's brighter eye rested upon the following morning was the "golden shilling" lying upon the table where he had left it yesterday. Ah, what a day of days this was to be!

He dressed himself excitedly, babbling all the time of the contemplated visit to the great bazaar. "Mother" would accompany him, of course, and there would be splendid delays be-fore counters and all the long-drawn joys of choice. The waking hours of the night were quite forgotten now. He ate his breakfast hurriedly, leaped about the room as some wild animal let loose, and was all agog to be up and doing. More than once had the golden shilling rolled from his hand and threatened to disappear down crack or crevice. He chased it with delighted shouts. Could he not possibly go and spend it all by himself? Marian said "No" emphatically, and he thought her a little cross with him this morning, though she was rarely that. Indeed, her silence, her weary face and slow step put a curb upon Dicky's happiness, which he had by no means expected. Why could she not be happy with him? This doubt was something to send him out into the streets of Marylebone that he might think it over, and re-vive the fears and doubts of yesterday. The perplexity, moreover, caused him to avoid his friends this morning, although the hours must be long before the visit. Why was "Mother" so sad? Because she had not a gold-en shilling, too— yes, that must be it; and no sooner had he thought of it than he ran back to the room and, throwing his arms about her, implored her to take it for her "very own."

She kissed him, but would not hear of it. "Run away and play, Dicky; mother will not take your money, my darling boy."

Dicky ran away, but he did not play. A well-trained vagrant in London's mazes, he found his way to Hyde Park, and there wandered up and down by the Serpentine, and then eastward towards Albert Gate. The streets were well known to him, even as far as Piccadilly; and about 1 o'clock he found himself in Park-lane, and suddenly remembered the florid-faced man and the motor-car. A church school had taught him to read fast enough, and he now drew from his pocket the card which the man of the money-bag had given him yesterday. Holland House, Park-lane— there it was as plain as black letters could make it. Dick did not know precisely at what time the great idea came to him, but it was delightful enough when it did come. Why should he not go and see the red-faced man? Could he not tell him all about "Mother?" He was astonished that he had not thought of it before, and he raced now to execute this spleen-did movement. A policeman, showed him the great house, and said that the servants' en-trance was in Alford-street. Dick cared not a fig for your servants' entrances. He marched up to the front door and rang the bell as bold as brass. Then a monster butler appeared; and, taking one look at the impudent urchin upon the spotless doorstep, he made such a motion with his right hand that Dick fled in terror; and as he fled he passed a single brougham just entering the gates with the red-faced man inside it. Old Money-Bags was not motoring to- day.

So the heroic scheme fell to the ground, and Dick returned to Blandford-street. He found Marian wonderfully kind and ready, and when a scanty dinner had been eaten they set off together for the cave of wonders. Here it became a perfect orgie of display. Not an engine, stationary or locomotive, not a machine or a ship, a soldier or a cannon, but was dragged out and placed upon the crowded floor. Strange oaths came from the shopman's lips, but he suppressed them beneath an acidulated smile, as he dived again and again into the heaped-up treasures. When Dick returned home at last he had an engine and rails 12s 6d and two real signals at 2s 6d apiece. They bought a bag of cakes for tea, too; and this dispelled Marian's last hope of warm clothing and the few shillings which would have satisfied one of her many creditors. But her pleasure was the child's, and she sat for long hours watching the little engine racing round and round and the signals dropping their tiny semaphores.

Thus were the two engaged when the red faced man found them at 7 o'clock, as he return-ed from his office in the city.

A lingering fear that the child had been really injured and some curiosity to set his own scruples at rest sent him to Blandford-street. Marian heard his loud rap upon the door, and sprang to her feet with the frightened air of one who fears visitors. The florid-faced man entered with some hesitation, and quickly surveyed that striking group. Nothing escaped his keen eye. He beheld a beautiful woman in that which was little better than a garret. He perceived the scanty supper set out with spotless cleanliness upon a fresh white cloth. He noted the racing engine and the signals; the story of that day was shrewdly read by him even before he opened his lips to speak. He had expected something so very different—a drunken woman, a dirty den, and brats to sprawl upon its floor; the money he gave last night would already have gone in gin, he thought, but the truth, appealed to the elementary instincts of a generous nature, and he was glad that he had come to the house.

"So this is the injured man," he began, with a bright laugh; and then he said quickly, "Forgive this intrusion, madame— I was the driver of the car which your son tried to run under last night. I came to inquire after him, but it is not necessary, I see."

Marian bent her head. The habit of the old time came to her rescue, and she answered with gentle womanly dignity:—

"How very kind of you— you have made Dicky very happy."

She pointed to the toys, and his good-humored-eye followed the lad's game as though his own youth were recalled while he watched.

"He has been playing with them all the afternoon," she said, her pleasure showing itself in a heightened color and the quick movements of the hand which tidied her hair. "I am sure he is very glad that the accident happened."

"The greatest fright I ever had in my life," said the florid-faced man, seeking an excuse to remain some moments with them. "I really thought he was under the car— will you permit me to take a chair? You, yourself, are an artist, I see. Well, I envy that— I couldn't draw a straight line to save my life—no, please, let him come. I am very fond of children; perhaps because I have none."

Quite uninvited, Dick left the "signals" and climbed upon the stranger's knee. He was in a confidential mood, and when certain formalities had passed he whispered very loudly in the red-faced man's ear, so loudly that Marian flushed until her face was scarlet, and cried: "Dicky, Dicky, come here at once." This, how-ever, Dicky had no intention of doing, and he was down upon the floor presently, with the red-faced man beside him, explaining exactly how the stations were named and why the train always ran off the line at the junction by the coal-box. When the stranger rose to go his knees were brown with dust and his face was unmistakably black.

"He must come and play in my conservatory at Holland House when you can spare him, Mrs. Caldicott," he said, offering a hearty hand to her. "And that reminds me— I wonder if you could paint the panels of my billiard-room? Of course, you could now— come up to-morrow and have a look at them— shall we say at 6 o'clock?" She did not answer him. Dick had another sovereign in his hand when the brougham drove away down the shabby street, to the wonder and envy of the distinguished audience gathered about the flaring public house.

This "golden shilling" was for mother, Dick said. She kissed him and turned her face away; for she perceived the hand of God even in the children's games.

_________________

11: Grimgriffenhoof

Florence Warden

1857-1929

Australian Town and Country Journal (Sydney) 10 July 1912

"OH, DON'T let us go all the way round. Let's take the short cut through old Fishergate's orchard."

Thus Gilbert Morpeth, the young son of a Lancashire squire, spoke to his two companions, as they rode towards the copse which the huntsman proposed to draw for a fox.

"Oh, you'd better not, Bertie! The old horror will be so cross!" said Muriel Ormskirk, who was following the hounds with Gilbert Morpeth and her brother.

"We can be cross back," said Gilbert, as he rode straight at the fence which surrounded the orchard of Sir Samuel Fishergate, whose crime in getting knighted and in settling down upon the land in a mansion which had belonged to one of the impoverished county families, was naturally resented by his better-born neighbors, among whom the Morpeths and Ormskirks were perhaps the most prominent.

"Let the fellow dare to speak to us!" cried Hugh Ormskirk, indignantly. "An old ironmonger."

So they all rode straight at the fence of the orchard, and the horses took it easily, Hugh giving a lead to his sister. It was not one of the modern, scientific orchards, where rows of little white-stemmed trees, prim and uninteresting, bear each year a well regulated but unpicturesque crop of fruit. It was an old-fashioned wilderness of aged trees, which sometimes bore fruit, and sometimes did' not, and the young people had to take care to avoid the straggling branches under which they passed.

To their confusion, the owner of the orchard, Sir Samuel himself, suddenly appeared from behind the old red wall which shut in his kitchen-garden. A sturdily built man of about 40 years of age, with clear grey eyes and a straight mouth. Sir Samuel, who was dressed in a shabby old lounge coat, and who spoke with a strong Lancashire accent, shouted to them angrily.

"Hi! What the devil are you chaps doing in my orchard? Don't you know this is private property?"

Gilbert Morpeth answered him haughtily: "Don't you see there's a lady with us? What do you mean by using such language before her?"

Sir Samuel, however, dashed in among the trees and with flashing eyes and a ringing voice, retorted:

"Ladies have no business to be trespassers, and I don't take much account of those that are. As for you, my lord duke, just take warning. If ever I catch any of you, any of you, mind, I don't care who it is, in my orchard again I'll give you such a lesson as you won't forget in a hurry. So look out!"

He shouted as he pursued them; but the two young men only laughed and dashed on through the trees, while Muriel, though rather ashamed to be caught in such an adventure, followed her companions with a flashing glance of defiance. They all knew, of course, that they were wholly in the wrong, but the knowledge only made them the more indignant at the presumption of this fellow in daring to tell them so.

"Ta-ta, Grimgriffenhoof !" cried Gilbert as he spurred his horse at the fence and got out of the orchard into the field.

"What' a horrible creature!" said Muriel, with a little frown. "We were doing no-harm. And he didn't give us a chance of apologising!"

"Apologising!" echoed, her brother indignantly. "Of course we should never have done that!"

The incident was soon forgotten in the excitement of coming up with the hunt, and they thought no more of the rich tradesman, who had dared to consider himself entitled to remonstrate with them.

It was not until the day was nearly over, and, Muriel, tired, had given the slip to her brother and Gilbert Morpeth, and ridden homewards by herself, that she remembered the incident of the morning on finding herself once more close to the fence of Sir Samuel's orchard.

She saw no one about, and a sudden impulse of devilry suggested that she should defy the surly Sir Samuel's command and dare the consequences. She had been struck with something in the iron knight's look and manner which made her long to pique him, to defy him to his face, just to see what came of it. At that moment to ride through his orchard, in defiance of his wishes but in his absence, seemed the next best thing to defying him to his face, and she spurred her horse, and rode him at the fence into the orchard.

At that moment a figure sprang suddenly up on the inner side of the fence, the horse swerved, stumbled and threw his rider, who fell heavily to the ground.

The next thing Muriel knew was that she was in a large, well-lighted room, lying on a sofa; and that a pleasant-looking woman, of middle age, wearing a black silk apron, was bending over her, while behind stood two neat maids, in caps and flowing white aprons, who held smelling-bottles, sponges, and other trifles used, as restoratives.

Muriel stared for a moment blankly at the flickering fire, then at the kind face above her, and then she tried to sit up. A cry of pain escaped her lips. "My foot!" she said hoarsely.

"Ah: I was afraid so. You've sprained your ankle, sprained it badly. It was the way you fell from your horse. When Sir Samuel picked you up "

Muriel started, red, confused, ready to burst into tears.

"He picked me up?" The woman smiled. "Yes. and he carried you indoors."

An expression of acute horror spread over the girl's features.

"And— is this his house?"

"Yes."

"And are you Lady Fishergate?"

The two maids suppressed a giggle, but the kind- faced woman looked shocked. "Oh, no, I'm only his housekeeper. There is no Lady Fishergate. There's no lady in the country good enough to he his wife," said the woman warmly.

Muriel, who still felt confused, giddy, and ill, apologised.

"I'm very sorry," she said, "I didn't know," and she put up her hand to the front of her habit, which was undone. Then she found that her long dark hair had become loose, and that it was hanging down her back.

"Oh, dear," she said plaintively, "What shall I do? How shall I get hack home? Will someone go and tell my people, and then they'll send the carriage for me?"

"We'll do your hair for you. Sir Samuel said we were to remain here, to do anything you wanted."

And we were to get some tea for you. Mary, go and bring it."

She turned to one of the smart maids. But Muriel detained her as she moved quickly towards the door.

"No, no," she said in a great flutter, "don't get tea for me, please. I only want to get home."

There was a pause, and then she said entreatingly to the housekeeper, "Would you ask Sir Samuel if he would be so kind as to send to my home, to tell them to fetch me?"

"I'll send one of the men, miss. Sir Samuel said all your orders were to be taken at once, and obeyed."

"Orders! Oh, I didn't mean—" She checked herself, feeling that the tears were near. One of the maids was again on the way to the door.

"Wait," said Muriel. And commanding herself, she said, "Please ask Sir Samuel if he will come and see me. I should like to thank him for his kindness. "

Her voice was trembling, and her fingers, as they moved towards her throat, were shaking too much for her to be able to fasten her habit. The housekeeper helped her, however, and twisted up her hair, and Muriel was presentable by the time the maid returned. Rather shyly, she said:— "If you please, miss, Sir Samuel says he scarcely feels worthy to present himself to you, but he will be happy to carry out any wish, or to obey any command you may send him."

This time Muriel was unable to resist the temptation of tears. They flowed so fast that all three women felt a sympathetic moisture in their, own eyes.

Suddenly Muriel dried her eyes and drew herself up. "I'm very much obliged to you," she said, with wounded feeling in every tone of her voice. "And now I don't want anything more until my father's carriage comes for me."

The two maids went away at once, and Muriel detained the housekeeper to say quickly, in a low voice:

"Where is Sir Samuel?"

"He's in the library, the next room to this. But you'd better not—"

Muriel cut her short. "Thank you very much. And for all your kindness," said she. Then the housekeeper went out, and the girl was left alone. At once, in spite of the pain, which was intense, Muriel began to limp towards the door; slipping out, she stumbled to the door indicated by the housekeeper, and knocked at it. "

"Come in," said Sir Samuel's voice.

Muriel turned the handle, and limped into the big square room, which looked cosy in the light of the fire and of the electric lamps. Books, books everywhere, and in the middle a great roll-topped desk at which Sir Samuel was sitting. He sprang up and stood, in an attitude of affected humility, for a moment, while poor Muriel, white and limp with pain, hung on to the handle of the door.

"I feel very much honored—" he began stiffly, in his deep voice.

"Don't," said the girl hoarsely. He glanced at her and sprang forward.

"Poor child, poor child. You're in pain! Forgive me." In an instant he had put a strong arm round her, and was half carrying her to a big low morocco-covered chair, in which he placed her carefully.

"There," said he, "Now don't move your foot. It's a bad sprain, I'm afraid."

She shook her head faintly. "It doesn't matter. I've come to apologise—"

"Net at ail. Grimgriffenhoof is greatly honored "

"Don't," cried Muriel again. "I say I apologise— for myself and them. We behaved shamefully, and—"

"Oh, dear no, you didn't. You were quite right to teach the impudent upstart to know his place. What right had a man who was engaged in trade for twenty years of his life to presume to take a house which had previously been inhabited by— what is it? Oh, I know, decent people,' that's the phrase, isn't it? '

"I sure I never thought— 1 never said—"

"Never thought I was an upstart? Never felt how shockingly presumptuous it was of me to dare to live in a house which was once inhabited by one of your own friends? Oh, Miss Ormskirk, think again!"

Muriel looked at him shyly, and not only the feeling of aggressiveness, but that of fear of him, melted away. There was a twinkle of humor in his shrewd eyes, and she thought that the look on his face made him, if not really handsome, at least very attractive.

She smiled a little and looked at the fire.

"Well, you said you'd have your revenge," she said quietly. "You have made me feel thoroughly ashamed of myself— and of— the others."

"Believe me. I am ashamed of my share in your accident. I own I was nettled by the behavior of the two young men, and that I meant to prevent them riding through my orchard again. I've been expecting them all day long, waiting for them, in fact. But I'm sorry it should have been the lady who was to suffer."

"It serves me right," said Muriel humbly.

"Oh, no. We don't make war upon ladies, even when we've been engaged in the wholesale ironmongery trade."

Muriel, who was losing all her fear, and something more, laughed with real amusement.

"After all," she said, "if we are aggressive, you can take your own part, Sir Samuel, can't you?"

He laughed, looking at the fire.

"And perhaps," she went on slyly, "you rather enjoy the fight. For that's what it has got to!" He suddenly folded his arms and sat very upright. But still, though he frowned most fiercely, there was the same twinkle in his eye.

"Yes, it's war, of course." muttered he, as if to himself. "And this haughty young lady is my prisoner. Pity I haven't a dungeon handy!"

"It wouldn't matter if you had!" cried Muriel, with the ringing voice of youthful enjoyment of a good joke. "For I've sent word to the Baron my father, and he and his myrmidons— I mean the groom with the brougham— are by this time on the way to the castle where I am so cruelly detained!"

Sir Samuel gave her a quick look. "Myrmidons, eh?" said he. "That means your sweetheart, I suppose, among the rest?"

Muriel's face at once assumed an expression of intense demureness.

"I haven't, got a sweetheart," she said primly.

"No, no, of course that's not the right word. Forgive my ironmongering ill-breeding. No, no. It's fiancée you call the fallow you mean to marry, isn't it?"

"There isn't any fellow I mean to marry" said Muriel, with still more demureness.

"That young coxcomb who rode into my orchard this morning— aren't you going to marry him?"

"No," replied the girl, raising her head. I m going to scold him for his rudeness to you."

"Well now, that's nice of you. It's very nice indeed, it's good of you to condescend so far."

There was a pause. And when Sir Samuel looked round, to see why the girl did not answer, he found her furtively wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. He rose and came towards her.

"You must think me a brute, Miss Ormskirk," he said in a voice so full of feeling that she was surprised, and, womanlike, became aggressive again directly.

"Yes," she said, looking up boldly, "I do. I was beginning to feel as if I could cut off my right hand, or do anything, to atone for my behavior, and then you spoil it all. You're generous one moment, and ungenerous the next."

He looked down at her, his hands behind him, a most interesting expression of doubt and hope upon his open, manly face.

"I didn't mean to be either," he said, simply. "I only meant to be just, and to have it out with you."

"Well, now you are satisfied, and I can go, can't I?" said she. And she tried to rise, forgetting her injured foot. A cry of pain escaped her again, and again Sir Samuel's arm supported her.

"Don't let your spirit get the better of your prudence," said he gently. "If you want to be unkind, you can cut quite deep enough, believe me, without hurting yourself in the attempt to cut deeper."

She was trembling, not with pain.

"What do you mean?" she asked in a low voice.

"Can't you understand that this little episode of the visit— all unintended, as it was— of a charming young lady, has been a delightful break in the monotony of my lonely life here? Even a man who has made money in trade is human, you know. And I have felt like an exile among all you haughty aristocrats."

"Oh, don't call us that. We're not that, you know. We're only upper middle class people with a ridiculous sense of our own importance," laughed Muriel, blushing as she uttered misstatement of fact.

"Now, I shouldn't have dared to say that myself," said he.

They exchanged a quick smiling look of sympathy and intelligence, and then the sound of wheels was heard on the drive.

"They've come for you!" cried Sir Samuel, and in spite of himself his face looked suddenly blank.

"You're glad, I suppose?" Muriel looked down demurely. He bent down to speak low.

"Now, tell me, which will you do? Will you, after this, cut me dead for my presumption in having chaffed you a little? Or will you treat Grimgriffenhoof a little better?"

Muriel laughed shyly, and glanced up and down again. "I'll treat him better," said she.

She kept her word so faithfully that, six months later, Muriel Ormskirk became Lady Fishergate.

____________________

12: Sir Patrick Armagh's Knife

Guy Thorne

C. Ranger Gull (1876-1923)

Australian Town and Country Journal 30 Oct 1912

SIR PATRICK ARMAGH was sitting in the smaller of the two smoking rooms at a London club. He was talking closely and earnestly to the Dean of Dover.

The famous surgeon's head was bent in attention as the Churchman spoke. "I don't know," he said, "what to do at all. It is kind of you, Mr. Dean, to help me with your advice, but I confess that I am absolutely heart-broken."

The Dean, who was a small grey-haired man with an extremely sympathetic expression, nodded sadly.

"Yes," he said, "my dear Sir Patrick, of course your dilemma is a very terrible one. I remember Roderick very well indeed. When I was a Fellow of Trinity, and did some tutorial work also. I certainly thought him the most promising undergraduate of the day. I cannot understand how, with his intellect, he can have been so taken up— so absolutely possessed — by a woman of this sort."

Sir Patrick wrung his hands with a gesture of despair. "I know," he said, "it passes my own comprehension. My son is absolutely, utterly and wholly possessed by this actress. He apparently has a passion for her which nothing can alter. My own remonstrances, the natural disgust of all his relatives, have failed to move him in the slightest degree. My younger son, as you know, Mr. Dean, is doing very well indeed with his regiment. If he has an opportunity, and if such influence as I can exert will be able to help him, he will go very far as a soldier. He has never given me a moment of anxiety from first to last, but how different with my elder son! Roderick loves this dreadful woman. I can do nothing with him."

"But don't you think, dear Sir Patrick," the Dean asked with solicitude, "don't you think that, if this is so, you ought to allow your son's marriage to this lady?"

Sir Patrick snapped his fingers in disgust. "I know," he said, "what your point of view is, Mr. Dean. As Roderick is such a fool as he is I should not oppose his marriage with this girl. But he can't marry her. She is married already, though she is separated from her husband— and that makes it worse than ever."

"Dear me, dear me!" said the Dean. "Oh, this is very sad, very sad indeed, Sir Patrick."

The great surgeon puffed moodily at his cigar.

"All I know is," he said, "that it is killing me. It is taking my nerve away— it is killing me. I have amassed a large fortune. I had hoped that Roderick would keep on the traditions of my name, aided by the money I am able to leave him. It has always been my hope that my elder son would become as eminent in our profession as I"— he gave a little deprecatory cough— "perhaps may say I am. Roderick, of course, is a physician, and not a surgeon, but everything was before him— everything is still before him— if only he would give up this dreadful entanglement."

"Oh, my dear Sir Patrick," the Dean replied, "it is indeed terribly sad! If the young woman had not been married, then, as you say, however much you might have wished another alliance for your son, things would not have been as bad as they are."

"That is just it," Sir Patrick replied bitterly. "T have met the girl on two occasions. She is not, of course, of the class into which I hoped my son would marry, but she is passable. She might be trained and educated to be adequate for Roderick— if she were his wife. As it is there is nothing but misery for me at present, and misery for Roderick also. He is not a vicious young man, Mr. Dean, of that I can assure you. It is not by his own choice that he is in love with this woman, who is the wife of another man. He simply can't help himself, that is all."

The Dean shook his head gravely.

"Well, Sir Patrick," he said in a quiet voice, "of course your view and my view rather differ. I am bound in my profession as a Christian priest to believe that your unhappy son could, if he wished, break away from his deadly attachment."

Sir Patrick rose from his seat. "I thank you very much," he said, "for the conversation we have had together this morning. But I fear you can do nothing for me. I must 'dree my weird' in my own way."

The Dean, who had risen also, looked with the utmost sympathy at the great surgeon.

He saw before him the somewhat heavy, but markedly intelligent face, which was celebrated in every capital in Europe.

The large, clean-shaved countenance with the heavy black eyebrows, the deep-set eyes— the extraordinary steadfastness of it all, impressed the Churchman as it had always done. He himself was the father of two sons, both of them very successful in the careers they had chosen. He felt the more for this old friend.

The two friends had lunched together. They had not seen each other for many months, though the Dean had heard of Roderick Armagh's scandalous liaison with the lady who was called "Miss Enid Green" upon the programmes of the Folly Theatre. He was deeply sympathetic about the whole thing, but hardly knew what to advise or what to say. He could only sympathise.

IT WAS a somewhat dull day, an early afternoon in London in the middle of autumn. Sir Patrick shook hands with his host and left the club, his massive, capable face sad and gloomy. He hailed a cab in Waterloo Place, and was driven quickly to Harley-street. He had lunched early with the Dean, and

it was now no more than a few minutes after two. Sir Patrick let himself into his house with his latch key, crossed the hall, and made towards the library. As he was doing so his butler came through the green baize door which led to the servants' apartments.

"Mr. Roderick has arrived, sir," said the butler. "He is waiting for you in the library."

Sir Patrick nodded. "Mr. Roderick is a little early," he said with an assumption of brightness which he didn't feel. "It is fortunate that I have come back earlier than I myself intended."

With that Sir Patrick entered the library.

As he did so and closed the door behind him, his son, a tall, handsome, and bearded young man, rose up from a heavily-padded chair, and shook hands with his father. The two men regarded each other with affection, though for a moment or two neither of them spoke. The young man was singularly like his sire— though, of course, his moustache and beard made a certain superficial difference. But there was the same resolute jaw and the same: certainty in the eyes of both of them.

They sat down, drawing up their chairs to the fire. "I have come to this conclusion, Roderick," Sir Patrick said at length. "If only Miss Green"— he made an impatient gesture with his hands— "I hate this confusion between stage names and real names, if only Mrs. Hunter were not married I would withdraw all my opposition. As you know, you are ruining, if you have not already ruined, your career by this liaison with this lady. You can't marry her, however, while her scoundrel of a husband is alive. For the last time, Roderick, I ask you, as my eldest son, as the son I love, to give up this disgraceful connection."

With an uneasy access of physical energy, Sir Patrick jumped up from his seat and began to pace up and down the large, richly-furnished room.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Roderick," he said, with a voice into which deep emotion had come, "for Heaven's sake give it up. Come back, come back! Return to sanity, to decency, to your duties."

Roderick Armagh had also risen and his face was full of conflicting emotions. The eyes with which he regarded his father were full of pain. His hands were twitching at his sides, and yet an unalterable determination still dominated his expression, and his words, when, at ' length, he answered Sir Patrick.,

"I am frightfully unhappy, father," he said in a tremulous voice. "I think you must know that. I am sure you do, indeed. I know what I have done. I know I well what I am throwing away. I know how everybody is talking about Enid and me. But I can't, give her up, father. You I say that, if we could be married— though it would still be a disappointment to you— that would ease your mind and make you feel happier about it all. Heaven knows," he continued, "what a happy solution of the difficulty that would be. But while Hunter lives— we are in England and not in America— a divorce is impossible. He is a drunkard. He is  thorough scoundrel, but— and goodness knows I have tried to I collect evidence to I justify Enid divorcing I him— he has never, as I far as I can ascertain, been unfaithful to her or legally cruel. The whole thing is impossible, father, but I— I love her so— and you I can't for a moment I realise how sweet and good she is really— that I must sacrifice I everything for her."

"And that is your final decision?" Sir Patrick said, pausing in his agitated walk up and down the library.

Roderick nodded. "I am afraid so," he said, in a dull, broken voice.

"Well then, my dear , boy," Sir Patrick replied, "then there is really no more to be said about it between us. I am only glad your poor dear mother is. dead." He struggled for a moment with his emotion, and then the well-trained nerves, the absolute control which had made him what he was, came to his aid.

"You will understand, then, Roderick," he continued in a sad but not an unkind voice, "that this decision of yours makes it imperative upon me to— in a certain sense— disinherit you. As you know, I am now what the world calls a rich man, but I must leave the greater part of my money to your younger brother. you yourself have sacrificed all prospects of a successful career in medicine. You may be able to eke out a miserable living by your profession. But that is all. At the same time I do not intend to leave you penniless. I don't want to punish you for your decision, but I do feel, and feel most strongly, that you yourself have chosen that your younger brother shall be my heir. I will continue a moderate allowance to you and ensure that upon my death you will not be in any way in want."

His voice dropped and quavered a little in spite of himself. Then suddenly it changed.

"Well, that is all arranged," he said in a quiet, matter of fact-voice, "and now I don't see any use in prolonging this interview, Roderick. This is the afternoon on which each week I go to 'Peter's' to operate without fees."

He took his watch out of his pocket. "Already," he said briskly, "I see I shall be a little late and, as you know, Roderick, I always like to keep my engagements to the poor as punctually and scrupulously as those to the rich. Come and see me whenever you like and, as you know, I will assist you to the best of my ability in. any of your difficulties."

The two men left the house in Harley-street together, the son walking away on foot, the father stepping into his electric brougham which was waiting to take him to the hospital.

The surgeon dismissed his brougham and passed into the great central hall of the hospital thronged with hurrying sisters and doctors, while upon the benches sat long rows of dejected-looking out-patients waiting their turns for examination.

Sir Patrick, acknowledging salutes with a courteous wave of his hand, crossed the hall and mounted a narrow, spiral staircase of open iron work, which led to the room, close to the theatre, reserved for the great surgeons, who place their skill in turns at the disposal of the hospital.

The room was plainly, though comfortably furnished. From its windows a splendid view of the Houses of Parliament could be obtained— a view unique perhaps in London, and one of which the surgeon was usually extremely fond. To-day, however, he took no notice of it at all, but began to pace the room with uneasy steps, lost in thought and with an air of sadness and dejection quite foreign to his general manner.

Not even to the Dean had he admitted how deeply his son's infatuation distressed and pained him. It was horrible to him, abhorrent to every fibre in his nature. On the grounds of morality, on social grounds, from every possible point of view the father's heart was torn and lacerated. He felt that he would give, anything— half his fortune— his prestige — anything! to bring Roderick to his senses and to end this connection.

Yet he knew that it was hopeless. As weak men sometimes are, the young doctor was entirely and absolutely under the dominion of the actress. While she lived, or at any rate, while she preserved her youth and beauty, nothing would ever take the young man away from her. When at length the affair ended it would not be too late for Roderick to regain all he had lost.

Upon the table in the centre of the room was a large book, of the size and shape of a ledger, in which the various particulars of the operations to be performed that day were entered.

Sir Patrick knew perfectly well what his duties were, for he had been advised of them by pest that morning. Nevertheless 'he looked carefully over the ledger, and saw that nothing very onerous was on the rota for him. There was a rather difficult leg to be amputated in number two theatre, and a morbid growth to follow, but that was all. Any one of the ordinary house surgeons would have performed these operations quite as skilfully as the great man, but he liked to give his services even in cases of no exceptional interest. He went down ten minutes before the first operation was to commence and entered the theatre, wearing his white linen cap and overalls.

The operating theatre of a hospital resembles nothing so much as a great kitchen, except for its exceptional cleanliness, and there was an air of brisk, but perfectly well-ordered preparation about the place. Everybody knew exactly what he or she had to do. The whole thing worked with the smoothness and regularity of a machine.

On a small table, which moved on india rubber wheels, an assistant was laying out rows of shining knives and scalpels. At another a sister was preparing the clip  for severing arteries— all silently, methodically, and as a matter of course.

A bell rang somewhere in the distance.

Sir Patrick dried his hands and covered his face with a mask of white linen, leaving only the eyes visible. The assistant surgeon did the same. Then through a doorway at the back of the room, exactly opposite to where the students were sitting on the tiers of white marble seats, a long, high couch, running noiselessly upon rubber tyres, was pushed into the centre of the theatre by attendants. Upon the couch lay the prone figure of a man, dead to all appearance.

Behind him walked the doctor, who had just administered the anaesthetic, and whose duty it was to keep the patient under it's influence during the whole of the operation.

The couch came to rest. The young doctor sat at the head of it, while a sister wheeled up to him a little table upon which were bottles of chloroform and ether. The anaesthetist sat down, never even looking up at the other people who were now clustered round the form upon the couch. He lifted up one eye of the patient, scrutinise the unseeing orb carefully for a moment, and then poured something out of a fat glass jar on to a piece of cotton wool and held it to the nostrils. His business was to ensure unconsciousness while Sir Patrick did his work, and he attended to nothing else, never once looking up while the operation was in progress.

And now began what, for those who have never seen anything of the sort, would seem a miracle. With swift deliberation Sir Patrick took the knife which was handed to him and began. The various instruments, as he wanted them, were passed to him without a word. They appeared in his hand as if magic, while the knife or saw which he had just been using vanished in the same With the regularity and precision of a machine the doctors and sisters did their work. Perhaps in all human endeavor there is no such triumph of the highest skill and sublimated discipline as may be seen in the operating theatre of a great hospital.

It was soon over. The patient, knowing nothing of it, though minus a leg, was wheeled away, and almost before the noiseless couch had disappeared into the lift no trace of what had passed was visible in the theatre. The students shut up their notebooks, and trooped away to another room. Sir Patrick again washed his hands, and entered in a friendly conversation with the house surgeon. "When is my sarcoma to be ready, Mr. Knight?" he asked.

"In about, three-quarters of an hour, Sir Patrick, if you please," the younger man replied, with great deference. "I am really glad that you are going to do it. It is an ordinary tumor enough, but there are one or two special features to which I should like to draw your attention. There is a lesion."

Sir Patrick nodded, a little brusquely, the young man thought. He was rather surprised, for though some of the great surgeons who visited the hospitals were not remarkable for the suavity of their manners to the staff. Sir Patrick was always courtesy itself.

He looked at the great man in some surprise, and then noticed that his face seemed pale and drawn.

"I fear you are not very well yourself, sir." he ventured.

Sir Patrick turned upon him with his usual pleasant and friendly smile. "Well, my dear Knight," he said, "we all have our own troubles, don't we? Now I'll go upstairs into my room and you can let me know when I'm wanted."

He walked away somewhat heavily, leaving the young man in wonder as to what troubles such an eminent and skilful man could possibly have.

Sir Patrick went up into his room, and a sister, a tall, bright-faced girl, brought him a cup of tea. She was the Lady Alice Mullion, a daughter of the Earl of Helston, who had given up all the delights of society and all the pleasures of her youth and position for the sake of hard and strenuous work in alleviating the pains of others.

Sir Patrick knew her well and liked her, and as she came into the room, trim, neat, and radiant of face, he thought with a pang of sorrow of his son who might well have married just such a charming and well-born damsel as this.

"Well, sister," he said, with an almost paternal manner, "and how are you getting on? How do you like the work?"

"I just love it, Sir Patrick," she answered.. "I just love it! It was hard, of course, when I was a probationer, and I certainly did not like scrubbing the floors and doing rough work. Do you know I only realised what housemaids and servants have to go through when I did such work; but I am perfectly happy now, and I would not change for all the world."

Sir Patrick nodded kindly as she tripped away. He was sipping his tea, with a heart full of sadness, when another surgeon— from the accident ward this time— burst into the room.

"Sir Patrick," he said with an anxious voice, "a case has just come in which you might care to undertake. They are making the examination now.

"It is a terrible accident just outside the hospital. A lady in a hansom collided with a motor omnibus and the injuries are frightful. It is a question of half an hour. Dr Arbuthnot will take the sarcoma if you will operate in this case."

Sir Patrick stood up at once. His face brightened, a keen light of expectation came into his eyes. There was nothing this great man loved more than a last fierce wrestle with Death. It was the forlorn hope he loved. It was the forlorn hope which sailed forth all his mastery and power. It was the forlorn hope which had made him what he was. He nodded.

"What theatre?" he asked.

"Number four, Sir Patrick."

"All right. I'll come down at once."

In three minutes more Sir Patrick was once more in his overalls and washing his hands in the antiseptic soap, while as before the swift ministers of healing prepared the weapons with which he was to fight the King of Terrors.

The patient was being wheeled into the theatre. It was a woman, young, beautiful, the face already, so it seemed, waxen with death, the body horribly twisted and contorted. Sir Patrick went up to the couch, while the two surgeons who had made the examination when the patient was brought into the accident ward, spoke to him of their rapid diagnosis.

Sir Patrick listened calmly to what they had to say, and then turned , to the prone figure to satisfy himself before beginning the operation. At the sight of what lay upon the couch, for the first time in his life, this man's iron nerves trembled and almost gave way. For, maimed and broken there, hovering upon the very brink of eternity, lay the woman who had ruined his son's life.

The other doctors watched their chief with great anxiety. They had agreed that, by the exercise of the very highest skill of all, the patient's life might be saved. Perhaps Sir Patrick was the only man in England who could save it. They waited for his verdict.

Almost mechanically Sir Patrick leant over the still form, his long white fingers moving over it, examining, testing, weighing, deducing. Then he looked up.

"There is. a chance, gentlemen," he said quietly. "It is an heroic measure which I propose to take."

And in a few brief technical words he explained what he was about to do. There was a murmur of admiration, instantly suppressed, as the daring of the plan unfolded itself.

Then Sir Patrick Armagh took up the knife. The onlookers at this scene watched with the most strained attention. The students' benches, behind the copper railings, had noiselessly filled as if by magic as the word went round of what Sir Patrick was about to attempt. Even in that place of strain and stress there was a greater hush and breathlessness than was usual as the operation began.

But in another theatre, the theatre of a man's soul, there was no hush or stillness. A dreadful tumult was raging there, a fight worse than any fight with material life or death was going on. Fate, providence— call it what you will— had placed the power of destiny in Patrick Armagh's hands that afternoon. For one brief half-hour the Powers had delegated their authority to a mortal to watch what he might do with it.

Thoughts flashed in and out of the surgeon's brain like lightning, like white-hot shuttles in the loom of fate.

He had satisfied himself of the condition of the woman at once, and beyond possibility of a mistake. He knew that her life was absolutely in his hands. He knew, also, that if she died all his colleagues would think that even his colossal skill could never have saved her, and that he had made a most marvellous and almost unheard of effort to do so. And in his heart of hearts he knew that he could save her!

All the great events of human life take place within the brain. It is there that battles are fought and won. What was to be the issue of this? The man knew that if he saved this girl in six months she would be as well again as ever, and that his soil's ruin would be finally consummated.

If, on the other hand, she died, Roderick would once more emerge from darkness into light, would live a happy, useful life, and worthily carry on the traditions of a great and honored name. Which was it to be?

The initial cut had been made. Another and strange-looking instrument was in the surgeon's hand. The critical moment, was approaching. Within another minute the decision must be made. He thought of his son and his whole spirit groaned in deadly travail. He thought of his Duty and the whole training and influence of his great and useful life rose up in arms against his inclination.

"You are a healer of men!" Duty whispered. "There is no stain upon your armor. You have borne the heat and burden of the day as a good knight should. Will you now throw it all away, give it all up utterly remaining to the world as they see you now, indeed, but knowing that your life has been a failure?"

The strange claw-like instrument was poised for a moment above the still form. Then, with a gasp of appreciation and astonishment, the doctors, sisters, and students beyond saw what is even now regarded as one of the miracles of modern surgery, and forms a leading case in all the text books on the subject.

Working as if he were conducting an ordinary amputation, with the utmost coolness, the most magical certainty, Sir Patrick Armagh, brought Enid Green back to life.

When it was all over, and the patient was wheeled away to the ward, the doctors pressed round their chief with an admiration which it was impossible to suppress. That the woman would live now there was not the slightest doubt. It was merely a question of time and nursing.

Sir Patrick bowed to all of them. His face was very white and drawn, and they knew that the strain of the operation must have been intense. He said very little, however, and as soon as possible went to his own room, put on his fur coat and was driven rapidly to his own house.

He felt no exultation at what he had done. It gave him no joy to think that he obeyed the voice of Duty. There was no such reward as that for him. All he knew was that now Roderick's fate was irrevocably sealed and that life held little more interest for him— that he must still go on working and doing what was appointed for him to do.

He dismissed his brougham, entered the house with his latch-key, hung up his hat and coat in the hall, and with dragging steps went into the library. The room was almost dark, though the fire glowed rely. He started as he saw someone sitting in an armchair by the fireside, and, as he was still standing near the door, he switched on the electric light.

His son rose up to meet him. The young man's face was very white, his voice shook.

"Father," he said, "you were right. Oh, how right you were! I have given her up for ever! Directly I left you I went to her and found her— there was another man, she has been deceiving me all the time. Father, can you forgive me? Can you ever forgive me? Will you help me back into the paths of honor and duty?"

________________

13: Pinched

Lewis Allen

Munsey’s Magazine July 1919

World's News (Sydney) 25 Oct 1919

Nothing is known of this author other than that he had a dozen or so stories published in the period 1910-1920.

MRS. WILLIS answered the bell. This was necessary, unless she let it ring unanswered, since her maid had left her the day before.

"Mr. Willis home?" rather gruffly asked a large man who seemed to fill the doorway.

"No, but I expect him any moment," she answered. "Was it important? Perhaps if you were to tell me—"

The big man grinned.

"I'll wait," he said, pushing his way in. "I've come to arrest him."

"Arrest him!" shrilled Mrs. Willis, horror-stricken. "What has he done? Killed some one, or—or—"

"Nothing to be alarmed about," explained the big man, taking a seat in an alcove. "A charge of over speeding."

"Oh!" Mrs. Willis was evidently relieved. "He wouldn't stop, and you got his number? Where was it?"

"No, he wouldn't stop. Yes, I got his number. It was in the park. He had a big blonde with him."

"In the park! A— a blonde woman!" gasped Mrs. Willis.

The big man nodded and grinned. Mrs. "Willis flushed, closed her lips tightly, and sat down. Her knitting-needles nearly struck fire, she plied them so vigorously.

Suddenly the door opened and Willis popped in, grinning.

"Whoops, my dear!" he cried, attempting to kiss his wife. "You can't guess what I got!"

"A big blonde," snapped Mrs. Willis, dodging her head back to escape the kiss.

"Huh?" he stammered.

"And you've got something else you don't know about," she added.

"Cut the puzzles," he laughed. "Say, I don't know how you guessed the blonde, but you should have been down-town with me; I was nearly pinched—"

"You mean in the park, William," his wife said coldly; "and you didn't nearly get pinched, as you call it— you are pinched."

"What?" asked Willis in much surprise.

"Yep, hafted arrest you, Mr. Willis," said the big man, getting up from his seat.

"Arrest me? For what?"

"Overspending'. Not down-town, but in the park. You heard me shout."

"Who are you?" demanded Willis. "Plain-clothes man."

"I can see that," snapped Willis, sizing the big man up.

"Cut the comedy. Next time an officer tells you to stop, do it."

"I didn't see you or hear you, and I was not speeding in the park—"

Mrs. Willis could restrain herself no longer. "Then you admit you were in the park?" she cried. "And with a brazen blonde woman?"

Willis looked at her sharply, then turned on the big man.

"So you're the sort of a human hyena who goes around breaking up happy homes, eh? You didn't have to tell my wife I was riding with a blonde—"

"You admit it!" shrieked Mrs. Willis. "Officer, summon her to court as a witness. I just want to get my hands on her—"

"You can do that, my dear, by stepping into the kitchen," said Willis softly. "Her name is Hilda Svenvorkenson. I got her at an employment-bureau, and they say she is an excellent cook."

Mrs. Willis dashed for the kitchen. Willis turned to the man.

"How do I know you are an officer?"

The man showed his badge. Willis took a good look at it.

"All right," he snapped. "I'll accept the summons."

The man looked rather surprised.

"Truth is, I didn't bother to get one. Most men, you know, would rather I wouldn't— if they can fix it up without its getting reported. It saves the second and third offence record."

"I see," said Willis. "About how much will fix the thing up?"

"Oh, I guess twenty will be all right."

"Sit down. Have a cigar? I'll get it for you;" and Willis smiled at the big man, who grinned with satisfaction.

"You darling!" gushed Mrs. Willis, rushing out and kissing her husband.

"Yeah? Well, never mind that now. Just go back and help my blonde get a dinner. I'm hungry."

Willis stepped into another room and re-appeared with a cigar humidor and four five-dollar bills in his hand. He handed the money to the big man.

"Have a drink," he suggested, pouring one from the decanter.

The big man lighted a cigar, took a drink, counted the money, and started for the door.

"Just a minute, Mr. Plain-clothes," said Willis. "I think I can get a promotion for you. You are a clever, hard-working cop, and deserve it."

"Get a promotion? For me? What do you mean?" stammered the man.

Mrs. Willis came back and sat down. Willis took the telephone.

"Morningside 286— traffic division— Lieutenant Fiske there?" Willis was apparently using the telephone.

"Here, if you're going to phone him, I'll have to report you," said the man, starting for the door.

"Out? Thanks," said Willis, at the telephone.

Then he turned to the man. "Be careful where you spend that money— it's marked," he said.

"Say, who are you?" snarled the man. "Are— are you from headquarters?"

"You're a pretty good guesser," said Willis, smiling.

"Well, I— I didn't recognise you. Of course, I'd have turned in the proper share—"

"You're a plain grafter. You're the sort of a crook who goes about impersonating officers and getting them in bad. Plain-clothes man! You never were on the force. Your feet aren't flat enough. Your head is too flat, and that badge is a phony. When I press this button, a squad will be here in about three minutes and jug you—"

"Is that so?" snarled the big man, making a leap at Willis.

"It is," smiled Willis, lifting an automatic from the humidor.

The big man jumped back.

"If— if I could square this little matter," he stammered.

"By giving me back my twenty and fifty more with it," suggested Willis softly.

The big man did so.

"You know what will happen if you talk," said Willis.

"Not a word!" said the man, and he hurried out.

"But— but you're not from headquarters, William. You're just a real-estate man," stammered Mrs. Willis. "Was he a real crook?''

"Did he act like a philanthropist?" demanded her husband.

She went over to the window to hide her embarrassment, and proceeded to tell him how sorry she was that she had mistrusted him about the blonde. Suddenly she shrieked.

"Quick, come quick— that crook is going off with your car!" she cried, looking out of the window.

Willis did not stir.

"How can you sit there and let him steal the car?" she demanded angrily.

Willis got up and sauntered over to the window.

"My car is in the garage," he said, yawning. "That's the janitor's car he's taken."

____________________

14: The Missing Pearls

Lillian Bamburg

1881-1950

Sunday Times (Perth) 6 Oct 1929

THE TELEPHONE BELL jingled sharply, and Septimus March almost jumped from his chair as he sat one sunny morning in his chambers high up in Jermyn-street.

"Hallo!" he called. "Yes; it is March speaking. Oh, you is it Mr. McBride? What? Come over to you now? Why, yes. Where are you— the Yard? What? Stephen Bollard, jeweller? Yes, I know that place in Old Bond-street. Very important— All right; I'll come right along now."

Replacing the receiver, the well-known private detective lost little time in keeping the appointment. He guessed that the Superintendent of Scotland Yard himself would not have sent for him from such a place if the matter were not of the utmost importance, and it was barely five minutes before he had entered the shop, and was being taken swiftly upstairs into what was evidently the private sanctum of the best-known jewellers In London.

"My dear fellow, that's good of you," said Superintendent McBride, jumping up from a chair at the side of a heavy roll-top desk. "Mr. Bollard, here is the only man who can solve our problem. Septimus March, Mr. Bollard,"

"Pleased to met you. Mr. Bollard. I only hope it will prove to be a happy circumstance."

"I hope so, Mr. March. I've heard of your powers often enough. You solved the Posansky mystery, didn't you? God grant you can solve mine, for it means ruin to me if you don't."

"Let's have the facts," said March briskly, taking the chair mutely pointed to by Stephen Bollard, who was an elderly man, ordinarily of a calm and suave appearance. At the moment, however, he presented a spectacle of deepest woe and excitement.

"What is missing? I presume a burglary has taken place, or that you have suffered a loss of some kind. Pearls, If I am not mistaken— lost in transit.''

"Good heavens, man, you have second sight!" ejaculated the startled Jeweller, and even McBride looked his astonishment.

"Not quite," murmured March, "but there's an open case which has obviously held pearls. See the round depression? There is a Paris timetable over there, and a P.O. registered receipt with it, so what else would you have me think? But now go ahead."

"Pearls indeed," moaned Mr. Bollard. "The £60,000 pearl necklace of Princess Varitza—"

"Now staying In Paris, at the Hotel Crillon," muttered March.

Bollard nodded. "She wrote me yesterday to send her over at once the necklace which was being re-strung by us. I packed it with my own hands, first in wadding, then in one of our special travelling cases, and it never left my sight till it went down to the post office to be registered. It should have arrived last night, and so anxious was I, that I put two trunk calls through to Paris, and again this morning. Finding that it had not come, I sent my son down to the St. Martin's le Grand P.O., where we are well known, and he phoned me an hour ago to say that it had not left the P.O. apparently, and could not be traced. I phoned through to the Yard at once."

March nodded approval. "Best thing you could do," he said. "But tell me, who knew anything about the necklace being despatched?"

"No one, except my son and myself and Miss Mellor, the typist."

March looked his surprise.

"She has been with me years, and I trust her as I would my own daughter," said Stephen Bollard earnestly. "She types all my correspondence, and knows all the business as my son is often travelling, and my sight is failing me. To-day, in fact, I am almost blind, as by accident, I had taken my spectacles off for a minute, and Miss Mellor brushed them off the desk yesterday. They have special lenses,  unfortunately, and will take a day or two to replace."

But March apparently was not interested. His own eyes were busy travelling round the room.

"Have you had a search made?" be asked abruptly. "And does anyone else know of the loss?"

"No one knows, save my son. Rex," was the answer. "I feel sure that the box has been overlooked, and as for a search being made, it would be sheer waste of  time. The pearls were taken from the safe in that case, packed by myself in the presence of Miss Mellor and my son in one of our own travelling cases, and sealed up. They were on my desk till just before post time, when Rex took them to the office in Regent-street."

"And where, is Miss Mellor now, by the way?" asked March, as he looked across at the still covered typewriter on a side table.

"She phoned that she might be late, as she had strained her wrist," said Bollard.

"That is unfortunate," said March. "Troubles never come singly, do they?" He rose, and prowled restlessly round the room, tapping walls, looking from the window, outside of which was a sheer drop of some fifty feet.

"Where does that door lead to?"

He waited on the opposite side of the room.

"That is my son's room," said Bollard, and March opened the door and entered it sharply.

It was empty, but furnished as ornately as the elder man's room was bare. Fern pots and cushions gave almost a feminine touch to it. March surveyed the hanging fern pot in the window appreciatively.

"Fond of flowers myself," he said as he reached up and stroked a leaf, then he wheeled round sharply and returned, to the two impatient men.

"You are absolutely certain that no one entered your room at all from the minute the pearls came out of the safe till Mr. Rex took them to the post?"

Stephen Bollard hesitated a moment. "No one except myself and His Highness Prince Boris of Rudentia. He is over here, as you know, incognito, and he came to me privately yesterday to see some engagement rings. This, of course, must be kept absolutely secret."

March nodded, "You have seen him before?" he asked.

"Well, no," put in Mr. Bollard. "But he came with an introduction from Princess Varitza in Paris and his own private card, and of course he was brought straight up to me. But he never mentioned the pearls, nor did he even see them, as they were already packed and the box probably covered with papers."

"H'm," said March. "And was he alone in the room?"

"No, Mr. March,'' said Bollard, and even in his troubled state be almost smiled at the idea of a detective suspecting the heir-apparent to a reigning monarch of theft.

"No; I attended to him myself; showed him several rings, and put one of them aside for him in the safe. He would not take it, but promised to send an aide-de-camp down with dotes biter to-day. As a matter of fact, he was not very well, and he had a fainting attack."

"Where was that? Here in this room?" asked March, sitting up erect, his face alight with intensity.

"No, outside, half-way down the staircase. I ran down and got a glass of water. Miss Mellor was up here, too, the whole time, and she held him up while I got the water. It was only a minute, and he recovered and begged me to be silent lest anything got into the papers. You can quite understand," murmured Mr. Bollard.

"Quite," said March dryly. "And what about your room— was it left open all this time?"

"No," said Mr. Bollard. "The door shuts automatically by a spring, and, as a matter of fact, unless the catch is put up it locks also, so that a key has to be used. Yesterday I had kept the catch down till the pearls were safe to their case. They have worried, me ever since they were entrusted to my care. I remember I had to get my keys out to re-enter the room. Ah! Here is Rex. Perhaps they will have found them."

Mr. Bollard's ears were evidently sharper than his sight, for the door was flung open, and a young man entered. Any hope of good news was dispelled by his  white face and his shake of the head.

"No, not a sign of them, sir," he began, then pulled up in dismay.

"It's all right. Rex. These gentlemen are from the Yard," said his father. "What do they say at the post office?"

March's quick eyes had noted the little start akin to fear at Bollard's words, and he realised as he shook hands that the young man was in a highly nervous state.

"They remembered my posting the box," he said, "but they cant trace it beyond St. Martin's. It's a put-up job, pater. Someone must have guessed the contents."

"Steady, young un," said March. "The post office are pretty reliable. Don't happen to remember, sir, whether the pearls were packed in pink or white wadding, do you?" He turned casually to Bollard.

"Pink," answered Rex, quickly; then adding in confusion, "at least it might have been white, but what the devil does it matter whether it was pink, green, or blue? What you've got to do is to find them," he said irritably and rudely.

"Exactly," was the bland reply, "and that's what I'm trying to do, my dear sir. Well, Mr. Bollard, see that no one leaves the building tin we return, and that no one learns of any loss, and we will go straight down to the post office and investigate."

A few minutes later found McBride and his ally down in Bond-street, filled with throngs of pleasure-goers

"It's a mystery this time," said McBride. "Got any ideas, old man?"

"Several," said March grimly, "chief among which is, that as I happened to  recognise Prince Boris of Rudentia departing from Victoria the night before last, he could not very well have paid a visit to Mr. Bollard; someone is at fault there. We have to find whether our amiable friend has a gift for romancing, or whether a bogus prince turned up. Secondly, our young friend Rex is in a state of funk over something, so I want to know if that box was actually posted."

A few minutes on the tube sot them to the classic building of St. Martin's Ie Grand, and their cards got them equally quickly Into the presence of one of the chiefs.

Investigation proved, however, that a box answering to the description had been posted, so that unless the young man had had a box already prepared and made a change it certainly, looked as if the box had vanished into thin air inside the building.

March and his chief were allowed to enter the special room in which very valuable registered parcels were placed, and to interview the official in charge.

"Yes, I do remember that box, sir," he said, "as I took it over and signed for it myself. I put it ever there on that shelf, just the very last moment it was, and I can take my oath that not a blessed soul entered this, room after I and my assistant Burke, came out of it, and locked it up for the night."

"Didn't hear any suspicious sounds later, I suppose," asked March.

A shade crossed the man's open face.

"Well, no sir, not really." he said. "I was on duty all night, too, and one fancies all sorts of things after anything has gone wrong. Still I did hear a sort of popping noise, like a ginger beer bottle, as you might say, but there was nothing wrong this morning, except that the blessed box was missing later—"

March strolled over to the spot indicated as that whereon the box had been placed. Then he stopped suddenly.

"See a pin and let it go—" he did not finish the proverb, but McBride had been quick enough to see that it was no pin picked up by his confrere, but just a scrap of fluffy wadding, and white. "Pink wadding or white?" he thought mentally and where was the importance?

Ten minutes later March turned back to his chief and announced that he was ready to depart.

Outside the building, his face tense and grim, he said sharply:

"Get a pair of handcuffs from the nearest ambulance box, Mac; sure to be a  pair there, while I get on the phone, also get a taxi—"

"What is it, March? Do you know!"

"I know how it's done, but God knows if we're in time to save the pearls. Hurry, man."

McBride needed no further words. Hurry he did, and before March had issued from the telephone booth, he had got a taxi beside him; and but a few minutes brought them once more to Bond-street.

March darted in, only stopping to whisper to a startled assistant, then up the stairs and into the private room. The detective gave a sigh of relief as be found Bollard still at his desk, beside him a slender cloaked figure. McBride, close on his beets, closed the door behind him, mechanically hearing the snap of the catch.

"Ah, gentlemen, back again. Miss Mellor here has just come in."

March nodded to her pleasantly. "Don't go, Miss Mellor," he said  "I shan't keep you a minute, sir; but I want Mr. Rex."

Stephen Bollard touched a bell on his desk, obviously surprised, and the young man entered from the inner room. Evidently he did not notice Miss Mellor, who had stood back again.

"Well," Rex exclaimed. "What have you discovered?"

"Everything," was the amazing reply. "No, don't make for the door, Mr. Rex— it's no good—"

"Wh-What do you mean?" he stuttered forth.

"Mr. March— are you daring to accuse my own son—"

"I'm not accusing anybody," said March crisply. "But stand over there, just where you are," for the young man had backed, guilt-stricken, close beside Miss Mellor, her own face white.

"Now, sir, perhaps you will be good enough to give me a hand," finished March, as he burled himself forward past Stephen Bollard peering dazedly past his chief, past and on till he bore down the slight figure of Miss Mellor, almost bearing her to the ground.

"The game's up," he cried. "No you don't! I've got you this time!"

Despite the oaths and struggles of the writhing figure, he snapped on the handcuffs, while the two jewellers gazed overcome.

"Maud— Miss Mellor," moaned Hex Bollard.

"No, my dear sir—" but March did not finish, for he gazed across to the open door of Rex's room, in which stood another girl, and towering behind her a tall constable.

"Right was I, Kelly?" said March. "Got the warrant too, there's a good fellow. No, my friends, not Miss Mellor as you see, but Ivan Smetanski, see?"

He bent down and switched off the glasses and a wig, revealing the close cropped head of a young man.

"But the pearls—"

March darted into the inner room and returned with the hanging fern basket. Diving his hand in, he gave a little yelp of delight as he pulled forth a bundle of pink wadding and let a string of lustrous pearls dangle before their delighted gaze.

"My God, the pearls!" ejaculated Bollard.

"Off you get, Kelly; use the back way, and we'll come on later."

A minute later and March turned the amazed men.

"Sorry to give you a fright, Mr. Rex, but I was afraid he'd recognise me. Smetanski is known to the police for his use of pocket bombs as well as female impersonations. You were probably 'phoned not to come yesterday, weren't you, Miss Mellor?"

"Yes," was the reply. "I came though directly you 'phoned me that the pearls were missing."

"Smetanski got to know about them?"

Rex hung his bead. "My fault that," he muttered. "I was talking about them at the Cosmopole Club, and this fellow was one of the waiters and I recognise him now. That made me so nervous."

March nodded in understanding..

"I take it that the false prince— oh, yes. Mr. Bollard, you are lucky, they were after higher game than an engagement ring— managed to pass the packed-bomb in white wadding, my dear Mr. Rex.

"Smetanski, banking on Mr. Bollard having no glasses, which he himself broke, changed the boxes and managed to conceal the pearls in their pink wadding, Mr. Rex, in your flowerpot. I saw the little bit caught, but didn't think of searching at once. What's that, Mr. McBride, the bomb? Oh, it was timed to go off in the night, which it did on the stone shelf, leaving, only faint acid stains, and this little bit of white wadding behind. So colors do matter sometimes."

With a laugh and a shake of the hand, March took his departure, leaving once more peace and happiness behind him.

__________________

15: A New Keeper of the Wampum

Hugh Pendexter

1875-1940

Adventure, Aug 1918

WILLIAM CAMERON, a blond giant of a man, whose reputation as a forest-ranger was second only to that of Jo Martin's, rested on one elbow in the sweet June grass and surveyed his long, powerful limbs complacently. As his gaze shifted to Martin, his companion on many a scout, his mouth twitched with a little smile, then hardened. Martin, slight of build and several inches under Cameron's stature, sat with his lithe body curving forward over his knees and was staring at the toes of his moccasins. His dark features wore an expression of deep dejection.

All day the two had lounged about the Blanchard cabin, standing guard till Blanchard returned from the little mill at Devens Farms. Inside the open door Betty Blanchard tossed her pretty head as she helped her mother, and proudly told herself there was not another girl on all the New York frontier in this Summer of 1778 who could boast two such cavaliers.

Both men knew the girl was a coquette and loved her the more distractedly for the tantalizing fault; and both inwardly vowed their loitering should end once Blanchard returned. For with the father to act as intermediary the girl would be brought to book and announce her choice. Border wooings were bruskly terminated at times in these stirring days, when Sir Henry Clinton was retreating from Philadelphia to New York with General Washington at his heels. "Big Cameron" was confident the girl was as good as his wife.

Martin believed the same, but would not withdraw until told as much by the maid.

"Think I'll scout up Oriskany way again. Ain't been there since we had the brush with the Mohawks," lazily remarked Cameron after a long silence. "Go along?"

Before the girl came between them this question would not have been put; each taking it for granted the two of them must follow the same trail.

"Don't think so," jerkily replied Martin without lifting his head. "Mebbe I'll drift out Michilimackinac way."

Cameron's pleasant face clouded for a moment: he and Martin had had some rare old times together. Of course old ties must loosen when a ranger settled down with a wife. But, Lord, how the trail would call him in the years to come. Then he caught a flutter of Betty's skirts as she switched by the door and he could only think of the maid. Another period of silence, and then both men were on their feet, bowing and scraping, only to find it was the mother and not the girl. Mrs. Blanchard smiled and the girl snickered inside the cabin.

"Look after Betty while I go up to Cotton's," said Mrs. Blanchard. "Don't let the Injuns carry her off."

"The whole Iroquois League can't harm a hair of her head," cried Big Cameron.

"I reckon she'll be here when you git back," quietly assured Martin.

With a smile for each to show her impartiality Mrs. Blanchard walked up the river trail that led to the nearest neighbor's; and the two men, still standing, looked at each other coldly.

Martin spoke first, saying:

"Cameron, we've followed our last trail together. I'm tired of uncertainties. Let's have it settled."

Cameron dropped into the grass, replying—

"I'm in no hurry."

"I am," grimly retorted Martin; and the face he showed at the door was haggard and determined. "Betty, come here and settle something for us," he peremptorily demanded.

All their words had fed through the small, square hole serving as a window. Perhaps the girl resented Martin's arbitrary tone and manner. Anyway, there were danger signals in her cheeks as she appeared in the doorway and with hands on her hips bent her gaze on the two men. Martin, although usually nonplussed in her presence, desperately requested:

"Which is it, Betsy? Him or me? Let's have it settled and done with."

The girl's eyes snapped ominously and she coldly returned —

"Lor'! Jo Martin; I never knew anything had been commenced."

"Mebbe not. That means two fools 'stead of one. But here's Cameron, who I fetched here last Winter. Here's me; who's been coming here for a year every chance I could git. Which one's wasting his time? Say which shall stop coming."

"I never asked either of you to come here," she slowly answered. "Quite a few forest-rangers go up and down the Schoharie and stop to see us. The trail's open at both ends for them that want to come— for them who're keen to go."

Cameron chuckled. Martin's dark face grew hot and he declared —

"Well, the trail's closed for me unless you say for Jim Cameron to stay away."

Oblivious to the fact a new world was being created from the primeval solitudes, that the destiny of a continent was being indexed by such sturdy characters as they, the girl braced her slender shoulders and sharply informed:

"It'll never be for you, nor no man, to say who shall come and who shall keep clear of Blanchard's. Mister Cameron has more sense than to talk that way."

"Cameron," choked Martin, his eyes growing lurid under the taunting smile of the big fellow. He checked himself with difficulty and muttered, "so it's Cameron, eh? Three's a crowd. I'll be going."

"But, Jo, you're acting silly," she protested as he turned away. "Ain't Jim Cameron always been your friend? Can't you see it's wicked for you two to fall out this way?"

"I ain't doing any falling out," defended Cameron, feeling a trifle uneasy at the thought of walking the forests alone after all the years of Martin's companionship.

Over his shoulder Martin passionately shot back:

"He was my friend till I fetched him here. He knew how I felt. But that didn't bother him any once he'd seen you."

"If you're going to look at it that way, Jo Martin, why should anything bother me?" cried Cameron. "Think you can go through the world and blaze trees what take your liking and expect folks not to touch 'em even if you can't chop 'em down? Now you've put a name to it, I'll say that since I seen Betty nothing else can ever

count."

Martin made no response, but dropped his long rifle across his left arm and hurried up the trail, his cup of misery overflowing.

THE gracious warmth of the June sun could not dispel the blighting paralysis from the valleys of the Mohawk and Schoharie. Only the Blanchard and Cotton families remained in this section, and they had been repeatedly warned to fall back to the settlements.

Aside from their Anglo-Saxon tenacity to start a harvest the seasonal assurance of fecundity found no crops planted. No hopeful husbandmen were plying the advantage of the month. From Fonda's Bush to the eastern waters of the Susquehanna a strange apathy rested on the land; and fields grew rank with trash, orchards blossomed with no chance of being harvested, while spiders spun webs in the doorways of abandoned homes.

Dread of the Iroquois had put a stop to all peaceful pursuits along the border. Fear of the Long House and their white allies had brought a hush to the country; and only those were abroad who fought for or against King George upon his throne. Mothers quieted their children's whimpering by whispering the one word "Iroquois."

Troublous times. A strange time for wooing a maid, with the brooding calm more wearing on men's nerves than the crash of actual battle. The few border folks who dwelt outside the forts, such as the Blanchards and Cottons, might well tremble of nights and expect to hear the pattering reconnaissance of the red men, followed by their horrible screams as they sounded the doom of their victims.

According to Martin's views, however, the times were not out of joint. He was accustomed to these waves of terror. Settlers alternately flocked to their little farms and fled in terror to the nearest garrison post. Indians always had been a factor in the ranger's life and their depredations could scarcely interfere with flights of amiable fancy.

Now he was flogged on by one wild desire; to leave the country and in new regions and amid new perils strive to forget. His mind boiled with rage at Cameron, and he cursed the Winter's day he had led the giant to the Blanchard cabin. Prior to that Betty had been glad enough to see him. He was enraged at the girl, too, for playing with his love. If Cameron had been wiped out in that last fight on the Oriskany— but that was too evil a thought, especially seeing it was useless.

He had been an hour on the trail when the pounding of hoofs ahead aroused him from his black thoughts. He drew aside, dully wondering who might be riding so hard and fast. With an exclamation of alarm he jumped to the middle of the trail and raised his hand for her to stop; for it was Mrs. Blanchard. She pointed behind her and gestured for him to run back; and there was the glare of insanity in her eyes.

Behind her ran one of the Cotton boys, striving to cling to the stirrup, and his face was ghastly with fright. As Mrs. Blanchard swept by, screaming something the ranger did not catch, the boy tripped and sprawled at his feet. On swept horse and rider.

Yanking the boy to his feet Martin shook him fiercely and stilled his blubbering. When he could speak the lad gasped:

"Iroquois! Devens Farms! The miller and Blanchard killed. Miller's hired man made our cabin and fetched the word. Our fambly's started for the settlement. Father give Mrs. Blanchard the hoss to git home. I'm to go with 'em. The red hellions will be along any minute."

He broke off and with a faint scream pointed up the trail, then turned and scuttled off.

Martin beheld a shaft of smoke slowly rising above the forest crown. The Iroquois had reached the Cotton clearing and were at work. The tragedy made him forget his own troubles. Blanchard dead! It seemed impossible. He always had liked the man. He carefully selected a position on the river-bank and slipped several bullets into his mouth. They would come down the trail and if he could hold them back a bit Mrs. Blanchard and Betty would stand a good chance of escaping.

The volume of smoke increased and he thought the faint breeze brought on its fragrant breath the sound of triumphant yells, but it might have been the murmuring of the river. Minutes passed, each sixty seconds adding to the fugitives' security, then with much awkward plunging a cow came down the trail, behind her ran two savages, their painted faces making them devils. Martin picked off the rearmost with a ball through his shaven head, but before he could reload and bag the other a rifle cracked near-by and the fleeing savage crashed on his face.

Martin looked 'round and beheld Cameron reloading.

"The women?" he barked.

"Making east with the boy. They know the way. Thought I could do more good up here."

"You oughter gone with 'em," growled Martin.

"Guess I know what to do when it comes to taking care of Betty," snarled the big fellow.

"You can go to after this is over. I never 'lowed to fight by your side ag'in," growled Martin.

Cameron's big face grimaced with rage, then he clicked a bullet against his white teeth and glared up the trail. Now they were coming, a hideous, whooping throng, with the leader wildly brandishing a gray scalp. Martin shuddered and prayed Betty might never see it, and forthwith bowled over the bearer. A second later Cameron brought down another; but instead of holding back, the Iroquois came on, taking a chance, there were but two, and knowing they would not have time to reload.

Martin ducked low and ran toward them, rising and discharging his two pistols into their midst and throwing them into confusion. But Cameron, relying on his great strength, rushed up the open trail, bellowing like a bull and using his rifle for a club and breaking it on a skull at the first swing. An Indian landed on Martin's back and a hand clutched his scalplock. Ducking low he threw his assailant over his head and knifed him just as another warrior dashed into him full-tilt. He glimpsed Cameron going down beneath a mass of savages, then rolled into the river, taking his assailant with him.

MARTIN lay in the bush with his rifle covering the doorway of the Blanchard cabin. He knew Betty and her mother reached Schenectady. He believed Cameron must have died that day in the trail, although he had found no determining proof after searching the woods from D evens Farms to this clearing. While he prowled through forest and deserted farmsteads he had felt guilty of trying on a dead man's shoes. Were he positive Cameron were alive he would have lost no time in making for far-off Michilimackinac. Now the cabin held his attention because he had detected a movement inside. He hoped it might be a straggling Iroquois bent oh loot.

Again something stirred inside, and a sudden horror enveloped him. What if Big Cameron had escaped, and, like himself, had wandered back to his sweetheart's home? The girl was in Dutch Schenectady, and if Cameron be alive and here.... The ranger tried to push the thought from him, yet all the time telling himself that should the big fellow die on the doorsill of the abandoned cabin it would be charged up to the Iroquois.

He had accepted his loss of the girl as final till after the fight in the trail, when he took it for granted his former friend had gone to his death. Believing that, he had permitted a bit of hope to grow up in his heart. But if intuition were right, and Cameron were here. . . And again he endeavored to retreat deeper into the bush and away from the horrible temptation. Something in his soul shrieked out for him to kill the beastly thought, while louder and louder his mad love dinned in his ears—

"With Cameron dead you may win her."

A figure began drawing toward the doorway and a familiar coonskin cap emerged from the shadows, the cap Cameron wore the day Blanchard was killed. With a loud groan Martin threw down his rifle and clenched his hands and thrust the bloody opportunity from him!

"Who's there?" asked a voice.

With a gasp of incredulity Martin crawled from cover and glared at the pale face and sorrow-filled eyes of Betty Blanchard. And she was wearing the cap Cameron had left behind when he ran up the trail to check the onrush of the Iroquois. Recognizing him she lowered the rifle she had held in readiness, and demanded—

"Jo Martin, where's your friend, Jim Cameron?"

He plucked at the fringe of his hunting-shirt and tried to find words. She continued:

"You two were together the day the Injuns came. Where is he?"

"I don't know. He went down with a dozen on top of him," he dully answered. "Dead, prob'ly. I had troubles of my own 'bout that time."

"He is not dead," she astounded him by informing. "He was taken alive. I want to know where he's held prisoner. He was last heard of at Cayuga Castle."

"At Gayagaanhe!" exclaimed Martin. "Who says that?"

"Black Bear, the friendly Oneida my father saved from freezing two Winters ago. He talked with me in Schenectady. He was carrying dispatches from Colonel Gansevoort at Fort Stanwix. He said one of our Oneida scouts brought the news to Stanwix. He must be rescued. He must be ransomed."

And she sank down in the doorway as though very weak.

"Ransomed? They'd rather have him than all the goods and rum a dozen bateaus could float up the Mohawk."

"He must be freed," she muttered in a peculiar little sing-song. "He fought that mother and me might escape. Black Bear said they would probably take him to Onondaga— for the torture. Oh, that must not be, that must not be! I went to the officers in Schenectady. They could do nothing. So I came here, thinking to find some of our rangers. We have a little store of silver in Albany. We'll give it all gladly to get him free."

He thought rapidly while she was speaking. Had he not met her Cameron would have been done to death at Onondaga without his knowledge, and in the course of time she would learn to welcome his love. Now he believed he must drive a bargain, or lose the one chance.

He looked aside to escape her clear gaze and doggedly began —

"What'll you give to have Cameron rescued?"

"Anything," was the prompt answer. "Which means nothing but a little silver. See here, Betty, I've hated Cameron ever since he came between you and me. If the Iroquois take him to Onondaga and he still lives there is one small chance for him, providing the man who goes to get him uses the scheme I have in my head and is willing to risk the stake. If that man goes and fails there will be two fires lighted in front of the council-house instead of one."

She shivered at his words and twisted her hands convulsively.

"I can't send a man to his death," she muttered.

"If the price is right for his going and he goes and fails he can't find no fault. It's part of the bargain— the price if he wins."

"I don't understand what you mean."

Still refusing to meet her gaze he hoarsely completed:

"With what I know of Onondaga, coupled to the plan simmering in my mind, I'd stand a better chance of fetching him out then any man I know of. But I have my price. If I git him clear will you forget you ever loved him, and marry me?"

She eyed him wildly for nearly a minute, then whispered—

"You'd— you'd make me marry you even if I liked some one else better?"

His tanned face burned with shame, but he doggedly replied:

"I ain't making any one marry me. We're talking of ransoming Cameron. The Injuns won't dicker. You can ransom him from me. If I fail, you pay no price. I'll take you to Stanwix and you can offer all yours and your mother's silver to the men there for them to go and git him. None will try to earn the price. And Gansevoort will send you down the Mohawk to Schenectady on the first bateau.

"Only three days ago two soldiers were butchered within sight of the garrison. Night and day they prowl about the fort and even our Oneidas keep close to cover. You can reckon how much worse it would be to try and sneak into Onondaga. And yet it might be done— but I know of no man but myself who would try it, let alone doing it. And I don't want your silver."

"You'd make a woman marry you?" she fiercely cried.

The scorn in her voice stung him to greater passion.

"I'd make you," he gritted. "You seemed to like me till I brought him here. Then you picked him. Then you sent me packing. You've had your way, picking and choosing. Cameron would do the same as I if our positions was swapped 'round. Didn't he say that after seeing you that nothing else counted? Well, he's trapped. Why should I risk my hair for the man who's bested me in the only game I ever set my heart on winning? "

"But to take a woman that way!" she moaned.

"If it's the only way, and the woman is you— yes."

"And I'd always hate you for it," she passionately cried. "You ought to feel ashamed enough to die for saying such things to me. You must be mad. I'll go to Stanwix. Surely there'll be one man there, red or white."

"And be sent down the river under guard to your mother. And meanwhile the Iroquois will be roasting Cameron."

"Don't, don't!" she begged, clapping her hands to her face to shut out some vision.

A fury seized upon him as he observed her grief for Cameron. He wanted to punish her for preferring Cameron, and began babbling:

"They'll cut off his finger-nails with clamshells. They'll make him last for days and—"

She leaped to her feet and clutched him by the wrists, and in a broken voice cried:

"Are you a devil? Mohawk or Seneca? Aye, look away from me and never look at a decent woman again. Listen to me, for you can't stop your ears as you hide your eyes. I'll not go to Stanwix to be sent down the river. I'll go to Onondaga. I'll go after Cameron myself. And if I die, the Iroquois can't be more cruel than you have been."

Her anguish brought him to his senses and his better self. As he stole a glance at her hard, set face a new fear gripped him. She had her father's spirit; and did she determine to enter the gloomy depths of the Onondaga woods no one could prevent her.

"I have been mad," he faintly confessed. "But it was all for love of you, Betty Blanchard. For my poor love for you. I'll go after Cameron— and there shall be no price."

SIR WILLIAM JOHNSON, former Indian superintendent for the Crown and a mighty influence in the Long House, was dead these four years. By dying at the outbreak of the Revolutionary War he had escaped the necessity of making the great decision which the war would have demanded of him. Whether he would have cast his lot with the Royal Government, which had given him his all, or would have swung his red brood to the defense of the colonies he so loved, or would have essayed to hold his fierce children neutral, who can say? He died when the Summer was mellow and warm along the Mohawk, hastened to his grave, his friends believed, by the question ever confronting his soul.

Could his spirit return to his old haunts this Mid-Summer day he would have found to be widely scattered the dusky race that had given gentle names to wood and stream, from the Sacondaga to the Genesee. For more than three centuries the Iroquois were the Romans of the new world, conquering, colonizing and assimilating. And yet not entirely Roman, for there was a suggestion of the Saxon in their federal system of government, their care to prevent a concentration of power, and their efforts to develop the individual, and promote personal liberty. If not for the coming of the white race they would have shared the Western world with the Aztecs.

But the fallen fortunes of the Long House interested Jo Martin none as he stole through the interlacing lights and shadows of the silent forest. That a mighty race was fighting its last fight never dawned upon his intelligence as he scanned the damp forest floor for the imprint of a hostile moccasin. Even had his mind been receptive to philosophical musings he would have deemed it madness to suggest that race, language and history were virtually doomed to extinction within the life of three generations.

The ranger was purely objective. His thoughts refused to quit the girl Betty. His wicked madness had passed from him and he knew it was better for him to join Cameron at the stake than to leave any trick untried. He had behaved monstrously, and only the rescue of Cameron could palliate his offense. He passed near enough to Fort Stanwix to hear the dull pur-r-r of a drum, then turned south to avoid the skulking savages he knew were fringing the post. It was not till several miles from Stanwix and well within hostile country that he became conscious of being trailed.

He must have made his discovery subconsciously, for one moment he was flitting down a forest aisle, his heart in an ache for the wrong he had done Betty Blanchard, and the next he was behind a tree. He had heard nor seen nothing that he knew of; yet the moment he was behind the tree he was noiselessly working his way under a tangle of wild-grape vines and rejoicing to find his body slipping down a declivity. Completing the descent he found himself in a little gulley and at once started to run along this.

When he deemed it prudent to emerge from the gulley he took time to wonder why his tracker had not sounded an alarm. As he mulled over this puzzling phase of the situation an Indian brave suddenly stepped before him and raised an empty hand in a token of well-meaning. Before Martin could think to take the defensive his startled eyes noted the painted Oneida totem on the savage's chest, and in great relief asked—

"Why does the Black Bear of the Oneidas follow his white brother?"

"The white girl whose eyes are the color of the cornflower asked the Bear to find the white man who dares walk alone through the Long House. The Black Bear owes a life to the father of the white girl. He met her on the Mohawk. She grows thin like a starved deer, and white, like the first snow. She said find and give this talk to the white man who goes to find the man Cameron." '

As he spoke this in the Oneida tongue he produced from his paint-bag a small roll of birchbark tied with a blue ribbon, and Martin's heart skipped a beat at the sight of the ribbon. In accepting it he read the words, "For Jas. Cameron," written with a charred stick on the outside.

"She sends this by me to Cameron?" asked Martin.

"To the man Cameron, who now is held at Onondaga," grunted the Oneida.

He had hardly spoken before he was vanishing into a tangle of bushes. Martin gaped blankly for a moment, the abrupt disappearance preventing various queries he desired to put. A soft hiss back of him brought him to the right-about, his hand on his ax. The Black Bear's visage showed for a moment from beneath some underbrush and he was pointing behind the ranger. Martin lost no time in taking his cue to efface himself, but it required several minutes to locate the danger, a dusky form slipping from tree to tree. Farther back were other forms. He had the Oneida to thank for escaping a surprise attack.

Securing the roll of bark in his belt he concentrated all his cunning on escaping. He was convinced there were but a handful of the enemy, else there would have been a loud outcry and an attempt to encircle him. Returning to the gulley he utilized its cover for a hot sprint. When a long drawn-out yell warned him the Iroquois had discovered where he descended to the gulley he climbed the bank and struck off at top speed toward the eastern end of Oneida Lake.

He had now penetrated well behind the mass of warriors surrounding Stanwix and every stride was plunging him deeper into the Iroquois country. But given his liberty until night and he believed the odds were in his favor; for he was on familiar ground and had various hiding-places. It was growing dusk when he caught the soft lap-lap of the lake and knew the race was won. At no time during his flight had he glimpsed Black Bear of the Oneida Bear clan.

FOR years a wooden structure known as the Royal Blockhouse stood at this end of the lake. It had withstood many Indian assaults but for more than a decade had been abandoned by troops and left to the elements. The early morning mists were rising in tenuous shapes from the lake, suggesting quadrilles by ghosts, when Martin peered through a loop-hole and studied the silent woods.

Satisfied no enemy was lurking behind the forest screen he passed the open door and its silken barrier of spider-webs and proceeded to the end of the building nearest the lake. Here he removed a section of a log, cunningly prepared for such an emergency, and passed into the sweet air. A thicket of saplings concealed him as he rose to his feet, and the grove extended to the shore of the lake. Stealing to the water the ranger spread his blanket on the ground and disrobed to the waist, hung a trade mirror before him and emptied a paint-bag between his crossed legs.

The brushes of bark he made more pliable by chewing them. Next he mixed his paints and proceeded to transform himself into an aborigine. On his breast he painted a Cayuga totem, a bear standing erect, the clan of the bear being common to the tribes of the Long House. Although he had utilized his cache of paints in the blockhouse more than once for turning himself into a savage it required time and patience to hack off his long hair and partially shave his head. But when he had finished Jo Martin, ranger, was gone and Dancing Black Bear, Cayuga, stood in his place.

Now that he was ready for the final test of his scheme his courage weakened. Not that he feared for himself, for he would have gone to the stake if by so doing he could fully atone for the black thoughts he had harbored. He worried lest the Oneida's intelligence was wrong, and that Cameron had been put to death at Gayagaanhe. The success of his bizarre scheme demanded that his rival be at Onondaga, where the Great Council-Fire ever burned.

So for once his heart grew glad when he discovered Indians approaching from the direction of Stanwix. He knew they were hurrying to Onondaga and that only one errand could call them there— to enjoy the spectacle of a white man put to the torture. As they moved in a course parallel to his and as there was no danger of their crossing his trail he secured a vantage-point and watched them. They were Mohawks, and filed by with the precision of a machine and with no more noise than a snake would make. One warrior carried two scalps stretched on hoops, and the ranger knew these trophies were furnished by the soldiers killed a few days before.

Throughout the long afternoon and under the stars of early evening the painted white man hung to the heels of the Mohawks. When the glow of fires bloomed rosily ahead he knew the great adventure was about to be staged; for he was on the outskirts of dread Onondaga. A loud chorus of welcome was given the Mohawks, and, as though the man Cameron's ordeal had been postponed till this arrival, there next rose a monotonous chanting.

Confident because of his paint and the obscurity of the night Martin glided closer and gained a position near the great bark ! council-house and crouched in some bushes. The council-house stood on a gentle slope, overlooking the place of torture. An old man, the hereditary keeper of the wampum, stood in the doorway awaiting the spectacle, his slight figure sharply outlined by the flaming torch in the wall behind him.

Groups of warriors were congregating near the torture-stake and the ring of fire surrounding, but not touching it. This flaming circle contained the calendar of Cameron's mortal life; for the ranger knew his rival would be brought forth when the dancing fire had subsided into beds of coals.

Leaving his long rifle in the brush, Martin dropped his blanket from his shoulders and allowed it to hang from his loins. Then he struck boldly into the open. The Mohawk who carried the scalps taken at Stanwix gave him greeting, which the ranger returned and passed on. The Mohawk, without suspecting the truth, was impelled to follow him. Martin discerned this much and came to a halt as though waiting to enjoy the preliminaries. Every nerve was strung as taut as the cord of a war bow as he fancied himself in danger of discovery even before he could fairly enter upon his project.

He had no time to give to finesse if he were to make a try for Cameron's life, for already the flames were shortening and the ridge of coals climbing higher. Groups of the various tribes were steadily growing larger, Seneca, Onondaga, Cayuga and Mohawk. Now the groups extended and came in contact, forming a large and compact body. Wizened hags were coursing back and forth in a frenzy of blood-lusting and contributing the only note of impatience.

"He killed my son at Oriskany! Let me fondle him! Let me play with him!" shrieked the leader of the witch band.

The cry was caught up and tossed about with fiendish gusto. Despite the warmth of the night Martin felt chilly, for he had been with Cameron at Oriskany.

The warriors held themselves in dignified restraint, although their eyes glittered brightly as dry fuel was thrown on various fires to illuminate the scene. Martin searched the assemblage closely and was relieved at not beholding Walter Butler, tutelary devil to the Senecas. A warrior beside the ranger grunted loudly and smacked his lips in satisfaction.

Following the direction of his gaze Martin trembled at beholding the tall, superb figure of Cameron advancing through an aisle of warriors, stripped to the buff, his arms fastened behind his back. His blond head was held high, but the dew of death glistened on his forehead. That his eyes narrowed at sight of the stake and ring of coals discredited his manhood none. Two warriors walked beside him, holding him by the arms to prevent his drawing back. With a sudden twist of his massive shoulders he shunted these aside, and with steady step continued his approach.

"Ho! Ho!" resounded in approval from many throats.

"A man comes to die!" cried an aged chief.

"Ho! Ho! A man comes to die!" The fierce shout rolled down the valley and through the black arches of the forest.

The Mohawk with the scalps pressed forward to obtain a better view of the entertainment. Martin edged toward the council-house. Again the Mohawk felt a vague misgiving tainting his pleasure, and he took a step after the masquerader. Whereat Martin gutturally cried:

"Ho! Ho! We owe the brave man thanks!"

The Mohawk halted and resumed watching the prisoner. As a preface to the more exquisite torture a young brave seized one of Cameron's hands and thrust a finger deep into the bowl of a lighted pipe. With no betrayal of pain the prisoner stared complacently over the heads of his captors for a moment, then kicked out behind him and hurled his tormentor into the coals.

Yells of joy greeted the warrior's discomfiture, as gasping for breath he crawled from the fiery mass like a scorched snake. Martin felt a twinge of the old comradeship warm his blood; and within himself he muttered—

" 'Fore God, he's a brave man!"

"Ho! Ho! A brave man comes to die the death of brave men!" shouted the savages; and axes were held aloft in honorable salute to the victim.

Martin dropped back and passed through the outer circle.

He was safe from all eyes except those of the Mohawk. The latter could not rid himself of the feeling that the Cayuga was acting in a peculiar manner in withdrawing from the delectable spectacle. Martin, however, could not afford to waste another minute; and being in the shadows he ran swiftly to the rear of the council-house. He knew the Mohawk was following him but did not stay his steps till at the end of the shed, in which the Onondagas stored their Winter's wood and war supplies for the league.

"Why does my brother come here when a man is about to die?" challenged the Mohawk, placing a heavy hand on Martin's shoulder.

With a swing of his ax Martin felled him lifeless, and grunted:

"Right, my nosey friend. A man has died."

Rolling the body under a bush he entered the shed and after stumbling over some logs found what he knew was always stored there. Picking up a keg he groped through the darkness to the door opening into the council-house. Throwing this back he sped down the long passageway till he reached the edge of the torch-light. There he deposited the keg on the floor. The keeper of the wampum sensed his presence, and, turning, discovered him.

"Go out!" the sachem angrily commanded. "You can not bring rum here." And pointed to the keg. "Has the Cayuga's ears grown so thick he never heard that the wampum of the Six Nations is kept here?"

Martin bowed meekly before the rebuke and picking up the keg advanced as though to leave by the front door, only on reaching the door he quickly closed it. Stupefied by such behavior the aged guardian blinked foolishly for a few moments, then sought to cry out. A blanket dropped over his head and smothered him. He was dazed by the time Martin finished tying him up. The ranger next knocked the head from the keg, then taking the torch began searching the various apartments opening off the central passageway. In the third room he entered he found what he so eagerly desired.

THE night was hideous with the horrible din of the blood-mad. The screaming hags were fighting like demons to get at the prisoner, and they would have spoiled the play prematurely if not held back by force. Cameron's feet were hobbled with a small chain. Then two warriors, protecting themselves against the heat with robes of green hide, dragged him to the edge of the coals and forced him to a sitting posture. The heat scorched the bare flesh. Cameron's eyes became distended and his tongue worked desperately to find moisture in his dry mouth.

This slow baking process, continued for some minutes, was so cunningly regulated as to do the victim no serious harm, albeit inflicting exquisite pain. At last one of the torturers, as though moved by compassion, held out a small kettle of water while the other yanked Cameron to his feet. Cameron greedily lunged his head forward to secure a mouthful. The warrior snatched it back, drank heartily and poured what remained on to the ground. This bit of play, a mere preliminary to the real and lasting agony, was greeted with prolonged howls of approval. Cameron bit his lips and braced his shoulders.

"Ho! Ho!" roared the onlookers.

Again the prisoner was forced close to the coals, this time so near that his flesh began to shrivel. Then he was drawn back a pace and another brave offered him water. Cameron ignored the kettle until it was pressed almost against his lips, when his suffering drove him to try once more. This time he was permitted to bury his mouth in the fluid only to jerk back his head with a groan of pain. It was scalding hot.

"Ho! Ho! The white man does not like the drink of the Iroquois," exulted the warrior.

A crescendo of fiendish approval lasted for nearly a minute and was only stilled when the deep voice of the master of ceremonies called for silence. This was the signal for the torture to begin in earnest. Two braves seized the victim and made a chain fast about his waist and prepared to hurl him inside the glowing circle. The stake, a large sapling trimmed of its branches, was sizzling as the heat dried up the oozing sap.

The savage spectators glared expectantly. Even the brood of hags ceased their clamor. Now was come the real test between the prisoner's defiant bearing and the resources of the Iroquois. It was to be a duel, such as the Indians ever loved to witness; shrinking flesh and raw nerves against all the devices for inflicting physical suffering the diabolism of the Long House could put in practise.

When the chain was firmly fastened about Cameron's waist the warriors bent their knees and made ready to hurl him inside the fatal ring. From the opposite side a brave drew a long breath and leaped the hurdle of coals to catch the slack of the chain and make it secure about the stake. But something shot over the victim's head and twined like a snake about the neck of the brave.

With a yelp of astonishment the young brave tore the thing loose and leaped from the circle. As he held it above his head the spectators glared incredulously. The warriors holding Cameron released him to gape in amazement, and he worked back from the fierce heat unrebuked. A new and unthinkable climax had been thrust into the scene.

What so miraculously dropped from the velvet heavens was a wampum belt, and, at that, one the Iroquois recognized as a cherished possession of the federated tribes. It was seven rows of beads wide and several hundred beads long. It contained the figure of a man at one end and a cross at the other, both in white against a dark ground, and connected by a single row of white beads. There was none who did not identify it as a French belt, the markings recording the great distance the envoy traveled in order to present his "talk" to the Long House.

But the reasons for the envoy's coming, as "talked" by him into the wampum, was known only to the hereditary keeper of the wampum. It was in wampum that the Six Nations recorded their speeches, treaties, laws, tribal and intertribal history. It was the last step before hieroglyphics, and perhaps on a par with and yet more subtle than picture-writing. The pattern of the beads associated the sign or object with some historical fact or epochal idea. Therefore the office of the hereditary keeper was semi-sacred and its inviolability was to be maintained at all costs.

While each savage mind was struggling to find an explanation for the belt flying through the night there rang out a mocking voice up the slope, the words falling like the crack of a whip.

"Ho! Ho! A white man comes to trade!" it proclaimed.

With an inarticulate, primitive cry of rage the Iroquois emerged from their stupor.

"Ho! Ho!" continued the mocking voice. "Who trades for kanasa (wampum)? Who will give white flesh for white and black and purple wampum? Six strings is the price of a life. The white man offers seven strings."

The stake and its victim were forgotten as the Indians fixed their astounded gaze on the figure of Martin standing in the brightly illumined doorway of the council. If not for his confession that his flesh was white they would have accepted him for a Cayuga, with the totem of a dancing bear showing on his oily chest.

"Ho!  Who trades for Onondaga belts? Who trades for the records of the Long House?"

With a terrific yell the savages sprang forward in a mass, now realizing a stranger stood in the place of the keeper of the sacred wampum; but before they could swarm up the slope and wipe out the profanation Martin pulled the keg into view and held his pistol to it, loudly warning:

"Keep back, ye dogs! Keep far back, or I blow up this council-house and your wampum. This is gunpowder."

As he spoke his left hand piled the precious records about the keg.

The onrush halted abruptly. Having impressed upon the Iroquois the need of prudence Martin resumed his taunts and boisterously called out:

"I see six strings of purple beads bound together— the Six Nations." And he held up the cluster of strings symbolic of the Long House. "Here are seven of purple and a handful of white— the voice of the Onondagas. And strings that speak for the Cayugas, the Mohawks and the Senecas. Who has a white man called Cameron to trade for strings and belts of wampum?"

A tall savage, wearing the insignia of the hereditary chiefship of the Onondaga Bear clan, lifted his right hand, palm outward, and slowly advanced beyond his fellows to act as spokesman, as befitted him who headed the roll of the federal chiefs.

"What does the white man do here, painted like a Cayuga?" he demanded.

"He comes to trade with Wathatotarho," answered Martin, giving him his official name and title.

"What has he to trade?"

"Belts of the Onondaga, of every tribe

in the Six Nations; the records of the Long House. For good measure he will throw in the hereditary keeper of the wampum." As he spoke Martin reached aside and dragged a kicking bundle into view.

Wathatotarho faced the warriors and solemnly announced:

"He has been touched by the Great Spirit. He shall go in peace."

"Ho, he shall go in peace," was the rumbling response.

"The Great Spirit sent the white man here in an Indian skin to trade with the Iroquois," calmly corrected the ranger. "He must remain till he has made a bargain. Many moons ago the French talked with you with thirty-six belts, the greatest wampum talk ever held till now. Behold! I talk to you with more than a hundred belts. I talk with this one, sent to the Long House long ago by the Wagunhas (Ottawa) ; I talk with this one, black, with rows of white between, with the white council-fire in the middle, and the white road, leading to Johnson Hall — Sir William Johnson's friendship belt, given when he first met the Iroquois."

There rose dolorous howls from the Mohawks, who still mourned the dead superintendent. Martin held up another, ragged at the ends, obviously an ancient belt, and said:

"Or I talk with this, a peace belt sent the Onondaga by the Cherokee Nation. Who wants to buy? I give kanasa for a white man called Cameron."

"The white man has gunpowder in the keg?" from Wathatotarho.

For an answer Martin selected a small belt such as the Senecas used in the White Dog Sacrifice, and dipped it in a gourd of water and then sprinkled it liberally with the powder. Wadding it into a ball he suddenly hurled it toward the fire. With cries of dismay a dozen hands stretched out to catch the consecrated object, but failed, and the belt fell at the edge of the coals. Instantly there came a swish and a bright flash that removed all doubt as to the nature of the black sand.

"Back of this council-house is a dead Mohawk dog. Take that belt in payment," cried Martin.

The savages stared aghast. Mutterings of ferocious rage rippled through the dark ranks, and several braves at the ends of the lines detached themselves and slipped into the undergrowth. Martin pulled the keg and belts back from the door and warned:

"Listen, ye Iroquois, to my last words. The man Cameron is to be set free now, or I blow myself and this council-house and these belts into the sky. Call back your young men who foolishly think to take me by surprise. Your answer? Shall I fire?" And he tightened his grip on the pistol.

Wathatotarho threw up both hands in a gesture of surrender.

"The man Cameron shall go with you. Take him and leave us our wampum."

With an exclamation of joy Cameron advanced up the slope with no hand attempting to stay his steps, but he became bewildered when the ranger sharply ordered him to halt.

"It's one of their tricks, Jim Cameron," fiercely explained Martin. "Stay where you are till they bring your clothes. They must take you to Fort Stanwix. On arriving send back a written word that I may know you are safe."

"Jo Martin! Old Jo!" choked the big fellow, rubbing his eyes.

"Dancing Black Bear of the Cayugas!" corrected Martin frigidly. "Here's something I was to give you. Take it, and be ——!"

Then to Wathatotarho:

"Let your braves take the prisoner to Stanwix and guard him from harm. He will send a talking paper to me. Then, and not till then, you shall have back your belts and your wampum-keeper."

With that he closed the door and made it fast.

"THE white man has his talking paper. Why does he not leave us in peace?" demanded Wathatotarho outside the closed door.

Martin reread the scrawl which had been shoved under the door. He knew it was genuine, for Cameron had written:

We fought side by side at Oriskany and on the river trail to Cotton's.

Jim Cameron,

Ft. Stanwix.

Striking his ax against the door the ranger ordered— "Stand far away, Wathatotarho."

The chief retired to the long line of warriors. It was night and several fires brought the long lines into half-relief. And Martin knew the lines completely encircled the council-house. As he heard the chief retreat the ranger stooped over the sachem and pressed the point of his knife to the man's throat, and, removing the gag, hissed:

"Say again the words, 'He's in the shed.' But say them softly."

The sachem groaned in a paroxysm of rage, limbered up his jaws and did as told. Martin clapped back the gag and tested his imitation of the sachem's voice. There was a peculiar, shrill, crackling note that was hard to get, but he believed he had it. Already he had adorned himself with the sachem's necklace of beads and other insignia, and by means of the paint-bag had counterfeited the sachem's facial decorations. He also had further thinned his hair by a Spartan use of the knife and was now ready to trust his luck to the night.

Placing a kettle of water beside the powder and throwing the sachem's painted skin cloak over his shoulders he sagged his shoulders and bent his back in a semblance of old age. Then he drew a deep breath and threw back the door violently.

Wathatotarho and his warriors surged forward as the door flew open, then remembered the keg and fell back. But instead of the intruder's erect figure they beheld the bowed form of the hereditary keeper of the wampum; and even as they gazed and wondered how he became free he seized the kettle of water and dashed it over the powder and in a shrill voice screeched:

"He's in the shed! The powder is wet."

And with one frightened glance over his shoulder he scuttled down the slope toward the savages.

"AN ATTACK," yelled a sentinel as a splutter of rifle-shots aroused the woods before Fort Stanwix. "Don't shoot!" yelled Cameron, knocking up the rifle as a painted savage reeled into the opening with a war arrow flapping from his left shoulder. "It's Jo Martin. Come on, fellers!"

And he dropped over the stockade with several scouts at his heels.

Martin, streaked with blood and sweat and dirt, hobbled toward them. Out of the forest burst three Iroquois, a Mohawk, an Onandaga, and a Seneca, each striving to count a coup by securing the mad white man's scalp. They were at Martin's heels while Cameron and his followers were several hundred yards distant. Martin realized he must do his own fighting for a bit longer. He wheeled, and holding the long rifle with one hand shot the Onondaga, who went down with a gush of blood stifling his death-cry.

Dropping the rifle and summoning all his strength the ranger plucked the ax from his belt and spun it in a glittering circle full into the face of the Seneca, who dropped with no semblance of features left. The Mohawk hurled his ax and missed and turned to flee, but tripped and sprawled headlong. As he regained his feet Cameron caught him by the neck, and, thus holding him, swung him clear of the ground and about his head and hurled him with sickening force against a stump.

They carried Martin, more dead than alive, inside the fort and placed him on a pallet. His shoulders and chest bore testimony to the fight he had made in winning through to Stanwix. As they washed and dressed his wounds he opened his eyes and scowled feebly on beholding Cameron.

"Don't say it, Jo," huskily begged Cameron. "The birchbark she sent me. Listen. It says, 'I love the man who fetched you back.' Betty sent it. She wouldn't give me an answer the day I went to help you hold 'em back on the river trail. But it was you— you all the time."

There was a flutter of skirts through the open door and Cameron was pushed aside that Betty herself might kneel by the ranger and lay her cheek against his hideously painted face.

"Always you, Jo," she sobbed. "But you angered me by trying to dictate. A maid's a maid but once— and shouldn't be hurried. Then you said you'd force me to marry you— and never made love to me— or gave me a chance."

Cameron reached over the girl's shoulder and seized the ranger's right hand, saying:

"You saved me from the stake, Jo. You've got the girl I wanted. I owe you a life, Jo. It's yours at the call. Good luck and good fortune — I'm off for Michilimackinac."

_______________________

16: The Double Scoop

Charles Beadle

1881-1944

Adventure, Aug 1918

Chapter 1

May he who coldly scoffs at pangs of love

Be straight enamored of yon lark above:

May he, despairing, see her gaily rise,

To mock his hopeless passion from the skies.

— Sidi Hammo.

FROM the cool of the old-fashioned arch of Wine Office Court  a tall young man plunged into  the stream swirling down Fleet Street. At the Law Courts he glanced up at the clock and came to an irresolute halt by the curbstone. As he stared idly a girl popped out from behind a taxicab and proceeded to cross the road.

She was of medium height, dark as a Spaniard and walked with the self-reliant swing of the American woman. A cream soft hat, devoid of any decoration save a dark tassel, and her loose Holland costume gave her a cool capable appearance. She saw him when half-way across the road, acknowledged his salute and changed her course as a taxi came whirring up behind her.

He started forward in alarm as the machine bore down upon her, hooting dismally. She glanced over her shoulder as if measuring the distance and increased her pace by a fraction. The cab shot by her with scarcely a foot to spare. He had stepped back on to the pavement hurriedly, sheepishly. She looked up as she held out her hand, her large eyes observing him amusedly, and remarked —

"Well, what's the news?"

"Oh, nothing certain."

"Well, come and have tea with me?" She moved on, leaving him to overtake her in a stride.

"Yes, I'll take you to tea, Miriam."

She glanced at him.

"But nobody asked you, sir, she said!' "

"Well, of course it comes to the same thing," he retorted.

"Nothing of the sort! I asked you to tea with me. Don't start that idiotic argument all over again."

"But— but— it's— I've told you; I can't let a girl pay—"

"Rubbish; you're too English! You'd better tea by yourself." He hesitated, frowning.

She looked up at him with a laugh; then her lips tightened.

"It isn't the fact of the things; it's the principle."

Yes, I know," he said as they turned toward a tea-room in the cool quietude of Clifford's Inn. "You've explained that fact most lucidly, but all the same "

"You think that because you're a man," she caught him up, "that it's an insult to your dignity. Rubbish!"

"As a matter of fact," she began again as soon as they were seated and had ordered tea, "you have an idea that it is symbolical of the rights of women."

"Oh, Lord!" he groaned.

She laughed.

"Women who earn their own living have a perfect right to equality with men. There are men who are just as incapable, just as inefficient as any woman. But there are women— I, Lordly Creature," tapping him on the shin with a dainty foot, "I am quite as capable of earning my living as you— Salt of the Earth!"

He smiled indulgently.

"Yes; in some cases. But even then it never is the same work as a man does."

"Poof, and why not?"

"Well, as dressmakers, milliners, needle- workers and— and all that sort of thing, and even then men "

He paused doubtfully, gazing at her twitching lips.

"Sugar, Lordly Creature?"

"Don't be a fool, Miriam!" he said sourly. "A woman's place is behind the shelter of man. He works, fights, conquers, to her gain."

"Are you fighting and conquering for a woman's gain?"

"Just like a woman!" he retorted. "Mere sentimentality."

"Exactly what is sentimentality?"

"Love— and all that."

"Dear me! Really?"

Their glances met. He laughed with the satisfaction of one parrying a dangerous thrust from the enemy.

"Sentimental bosh of the worst description. Plato "

"Plato is dead! Live and see for yourself. You'll find out one day!"

"I?" He laughed derisively. "My dear Miriam, one of the great points that I value is that we can be pals, that you never expect me— like every other girl— to make love to you."

Her eyes twinkled. She opened her lips to say something, changed her mind and said—

"Have some more tea, Alan?"

"No, thanks," he said looking at his watch, "I must run up to the office. If there's any fresh development in the Moroccan imbroglio I may have to get away immediately. By the way, Miriam, if I should have to leave in a hurry I sha'n't have time to run home, so you might make a point of seeing the mater and— explaining things. She's always absurdly anxious, imagines things—"

"And doesn't understand men's affairs, eh? But supposing I can't get away?"

"Why not? You've only the usual shop to attend to."

"But I might go abroad, too."

He laughed indulgently.

"My dear child, you're a brilliant journalist— for a woman."

"Thank you!" she said with a short laugh.

"But— oh, women are very well within limits but "

"What limits, pray?"

"Well, you know what your work is— at races, balls, crushes and all that sort of thing— social work, but—"

"Well, but what? Go on."

"Hang it, Miriam, you can't expect to do a man's work."

"Really! Why not?"

"Well, how on earth could you tackle my job? Fancy a woman as a war correspondent! Why, obviously it's impossible."

"How? Why?"

"Oh, don't be absurd, child! How could a woman travel in Morocco alone, get through the tribes or into some blockaded town, for instance?"

"Well? You haven't explained!"

He jerked out his cigaret-case irritably.

"Well?"

"Oh, I can't be bothered to explain the obvious!"

HER EYES glinted angrily for a moment; then she sat back in the chair to watch him light his cigaret. She observed the broad shoulders and huge limbs, the flaxen hair above his long clean- shaven face. He was not bad-looking really, she decided. The high forehead, straight nose, and prominent jaw suggested a horse's head— a nice horse that she wanted to pat. She smiled at the idea and thought it a pity that his eyes were a trifle small as he stared rather sulkily at his boots. A young giant, but lacking... She pulled herself up short and said slowly—

"Alan?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know that you badly need a hiding?"

He smiled complacently, palpably rejoicing in his physique.

"Who's going to give it to me?" he demanded, stretching his arms.

"I'm going to! No, not physically, you (glorious she had nearly said). "You animal, I'm going to give you a good lesson."

He laughed and stood up.

"Come along, my child," he said moving toward the pay desk.

"No, you don't," cried Miriam and slipped in front of him.

"Miriam, don't be—"

"You dare!" she flashed upon him. He turned away with an impatient sigh to wait while she received change.

"I do feel a fool!" he confided to a print on the wall.

"And you are!" said Miriam as she joined him. "Come along!"

They walked up Fleet Street together. She waited whilst he went into his office. He was away longer than Miriam expected and she began to grow impatient. At last he reappeared smiling restrainedly.

"When're you going?" she asked.

"Tomorrow night — overland to Gib. Just seen the chief," he said endeavoring to curb his school-boy excitement.

"And then?"

"On to Fez, to interview the sultan. Latest news is that General Moinier is leaving from Rabat at the request of the sultan to relieve Fez. It's what I told you would happen months ago."

"D'you think Fez will fall?"

"No. The French'll get there all right— unless some one cuts Hafid's throat. Then the Germans will chip in. Then there'll be a lovely row!" he declared enthusiastically.

"The Germans?" said Miriam thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of that. I must read up the subject."

"Do!" said Alan. "Then you'll be able to follow my stuff better. I'll write you, too."

"Thanks," said Miriam and laughed.

"What're you laughing at?" he demanded.

"Nothing!"

"H'm. Come and lunch with me to-morrow? Shall be leaving by the evening boat-train and, I say, don't forget the mater, will you?"

"If I have time."

"Course you'll have time."

"Going on the bust this evening I sup- pose?" she inquired looking him full in the eyes.

"Promised to dine some of the boys," he said grinning.

"H'm— men! Well, good-by, Alan— and good luck. Remember what I told you."

"What you told me?"

"Yes, about a good hiding," she said smiling.

"Oh," said he as one dismissing a trivial question. "My dear girl— but I'll see you tomorrow so—"

"No you won't, I shall be busy."

"Busy! Why?"

"Yes, never mind: you'll know sometime. Good-by— and don't be surprised when we meet again."

"Oh that'll be six months or more— snow and mistletoe at home, eh? Good-by!"

"Good-by, Alan!"

He raised his hat and strode way, his chin a trifle higher, shoulders a little farther back. Miriam watched him for a moment with an enigmatic smile and turning dived into the traffic, making straight to the library of her paper.

She nodded to one of the girls in charge.

"Morocco, please— Revolution, 1908," said Miriam curtly.

The girl went to one of the many lines of pigeonholes containing hundreds of docketed envelopes and selected a large fat one with which Miriam retired to an adjacent desk, sat down and with notebook and pencil proceeded to wade through a vast mass of newspaper cuttings on Morocco.

It was after nine o'clock by the time that Miriam left the library to snatch a hurried dinner and finish some articles for the third and fourth editions.

Contrary to her usual custom she arrived in Fleet Street in the morning and requested a personal interview with her editor after the conference. At last she was ushered into the great man's sanctum. Langley was a notoriously difficult man to handle. She exercised great tact in broaching the proposition.

At first he would not hear of it, although he approved of the idea.

"No, no; it's quite impossible. Quite impossible, Miss Vickers, I'm sorry."

"Why is it impossible? Because I'm a woman?"

"Well, yes; obviously."

"Then you're going to send a man?"

"Yes."

"And steal my idea— Agadir?"

"Really, Miss Vickers, you place me in a very awkward position."

"It isn't awkward at all, Mr. Langley, let me go!"

"But you'd never get in, be murdered, held for ransom, or carried off into the— er— interior. You don't understand what might happen."

"Oh, yes, I do; quite. And take the risk. Come, Mr. Langley, don't be so hide- bound by convention. Women can do fine things sometimes. Think, I'm pleading for my sex as well as myself."

"But you ought not to, Miss Vickers. Sex ought not to enter into business."

"Exactly!" cried Miriam triumphantly. "Now you can't refuse!"

Langley smiled grimly.

"Expediency, my dear Miss Vickers. I daren't take the risk of answering to my people if anything happened— to a woman. Think what the public would say."

"Easily got over. I'll use a male nom de guerre. That's a sacrifice, Mr. Langley."

He shook his head and frowned slightly.

"I can not do it, Miss Vickers," he announced in a tone of finality. "I'm very pressed for time."

"You must let me go, Mr. Langley. Now everything is a matter of price I'll go for my expenses only."

"No; the odium— the responsibility would be just the same."

"Wait; I'll go in my own name at my own expense. You pay for stuff published— usual foreign rates. You can't afford to refuse that."

"H'm." Langley paused, pursing his hard clean-shaven lips.

"Use a male nom de guerre and it's a bargain."

"You're close, Mr. Langley, but women and beggars can't be choosers I suppose. I agree."

Chapter 2

Be wise, young Jackal, open not by day:

Await the somber safer face of night.

Be sure that all you meet upon the way

Are greyhounds, trained to run you down at sight.

—Sidi Hammo.

SOME three weeks later Miriam rose from breakfast on board the R. M. S. Agadir to see the streak of white foam of the sandy coast-line run out in a gossamer thread into the horizon where, about a point on the port bow, appeared the dazzling white tops of minarets floating in the refraction of the sun's glare.

Steadily the ship throbbed her way through the empty blue seas, lessening the mirage effect of the distant city until the white houses grew above the black rocks, and the funnels and masts of a French cruiser at anchor materialized against the dark of the land beyond.

Lunch was just ending as they steamed through the deep-water passage and swung to anchor alongside the cruiser. From the deck of the steamer the town, a mass of white-topped houses snuggling within the encircling ramparts, nestled half upon the sandy shore and half upon the greeny-black rocks, where the old arched water-gate stood at the brink of the water in dignified challenge.

To the right of the town was a fair stretch of hard sand sweeping up into the dunes which ran on to the southwest into the foothills of the Atlas Mountains; be- hind the ship stretched a linked arm of small islets, a natural breakwater against the Atlantic seas. In the blue of the sea and sky the Moorish town scintillated and gleamed like a rare jewel set in the gold of the sand, justifying the native name Es- Sueira, The Picture.

Miriam was more than a little excited at having arrived at the beginning of the great adventure which would prove her theory right or wrong, a theory evolved from a careful study of the map that the objective of the Germans in the first move of the international game of chess for the possession of Morocco would be Agadir, the finest seaport on the Atlantic coast and the key to the great caravan route from the south, closed to trade for fifty years by treaty.

Her plans for the moment were chaotic; and a little fluttered by the fear that Alan or some other male correspondent would have happened upon the same idea. Another British steamer was not expected until the next week; but she had heard that an Italian, French or German boat might turn up any day, all things being erratic and unforeseen in Morocco. Hence her rather flurried determination to make a start at once.

Within an hour Miriam had been baptized in the clinging odor and lazy hum of the Orient once more. At the hotel she had engaged a sharp-faced young guide who spoke a broken English. Feeling that she could conduct inquiries better herself than trust to distortive interpretation she demanded to be taken to the Jewish quarter for although she had no Arabic, she had a sound knowledge of Spanish— archaic Spanish studied as a hobby— which most of the Jews of the Moghreb spoke in the tongue of old Castile, a relic of their forefathers in the peninsula.

She had not as yet formulated any definite plan by which she might gain access to Agadir. The idea of engaging servants and boldly setting out from Mogador was, she saw, quite impracticable; for the one reason that the American consul would never permit her to leave. No; it must be by strategy. The method she intended to investigate was an attempt to approach by water. Failing that, she left the Fates to decide, with the mental reservation that go she would— somehow.

"Tcha Houdi?" expostulated Ahmed in disgust.

Miriam insisted, so with a muttered curse calling the wrath of Allah upon Jews and other infidels Ahmed led the way, seeing many perquisites falling into other pockets than his own.

"'At the end of the narrow street she came upon the ship-party of tourists, suburban dames, sprawling uncomfortably on the backs of donkeys, with indignant noses and perpetual expressions of nervousness at the unstable nature of their straw saddles at which they clawed with frantic fingers; others struggled vainly to appear at home perched upon the red-flanneled cumbrous saddles of their mules; all in too desperate an alarm to do other than appreciate the variety and pungency of the street smells.

Now Miriam had omitted to make the orthodox farewells in sheer dread of the storm of inquisitive questions which would surely accompany the amenities.

"Why, there's Miss Vickers!" cried the foremost dame and immediately fell off her donkey.

During the ensuing hubbub of shrill laughs, cries of distress, and guttural objurgations of the donkey-boys, Miriam made her escape by turning down the first handy turning, which happened to be a narrow dark alley scarce six feet wide, over which the houses met. Hurrying through this tunnel, wondering whether Ahmed would have the sense to follow her, she came out into a small open space thronged with white-robed Moors, amid the dust and filth of horses, camels, mules, and donkeys, grunting and heehawing.

A group of mountaineers, wild elf-locked Berbers with camel-hair turbans, turned to stare at her, their hawk-noses and fierce eyes questioning, covetous. Miriam turned aside to avoid them and met the dark somber eyes of a Moor at her elbow. That look, inscrutable, yet suggestive of unthinkable vices, sent a thrill of apprehension through her. She knew well the insolent expression of certain types of European men, but they seemed artificial in comparison to the calm assurance and depth of wickedness in those Moorish eyes.

SHE turned away to look up the passage. For the first time she felt a misgiving at the prospect of traveling alone in this barbarous country. There was no sign of Ahmed, but out of the gloom of the tunnel appeared a tall gray- bearded figure, clad in a black pill-box cap and black soutane, a veritable patriarch stepping out of a Biblical picture.

As she stood irresolute, not daring to turn for fear of those hideous glances, he came toward her slowly. He glanced at her curiously and at the motley crowd beyond. Evidently her distress was written upon her face; for he paused in front of her as if desiring to speak, but embarrassed for need of the medium of speech. She saw a kindly dignity seasoned with a touch of cunning at the back of those bright black eyes.

"Where does this road lead to?" she inquired in Spanish.

The old Jew showed no surprise, save by the lighting up of his eyes, as, with a gesture of greeting full of exquisite grace, he saluted her and said:

"This is a fondak (caravansary). The dona has lost her road?"

"No, señor," replied Miriam. "I sought to take a short-cut. I thank you, I will go back."

"If the dona will permit," said the patriarch, "I will conduct her. She has lost her guide?"

"Yes; Ahmed is a fool; he—"

At that moment a scrawny creature clad in rags, with a brown-seamed face like a gargoyle, brushed roughly past her and spat fiercely between them, rasping out a string of curses.

"The beast!" exclaimed Miriam, glaring after him angrily.

But the Jew apparently had neither heard nor seen the insult, for he was saying imperturbably—

"If the dona will follow me?"

His voice was almost drowned by the voluble curses of his aggressor, the loud laughter of the Moors and the muleteers in the vicinity. Miriam's anger merged into a wave of admiration for the calm dignity of the patriarchal Jew. As she turned to follow him he halted, with his back to the fanatic, who was still spewing curses, sheltering her, and with a courtly gesture bade her go on in front. The action and the grace impressed the girl. No one in this generation, she thought, could have survived the incident with the same inimitable dignity: it was medieval.

And the street thronged with donkeys, mules and horses— the jarring note in the shape of the party of tourists had disappeared— the glimpse of the embattled ram- parts with the narrow slits in the bastions fashioned for arrows, made her forget her own incongruous clothes. A French naval officer, smartly uniformed and dapper, making his way through the crowd, seemed like some strange being from another century. As she paused for a moment to allow the Jew to overtake her, she felt a sensation of giddiness as her mind escaped the bonds of suggestion and readjusted itself to reality.

At a little distance along her guide turned off down a cobbled lane to the left and presently halted at a narrow blue door. She was ushered into an open courtyard paved with blue and white tiles; the whitewashed pillars and the mattresses ranged beside the walls in a large room opposite, were scrupulously clean. The yellow sun threw the arched veranda into violet shade, cool and restful.

The old man clapped his hands and in response a young girl with prominent dark eyes, and rosy cheeks appeared. She was dressed in a dark-blue caftan; twisted 'round her black hair was a brilliantly yellow kerchief, and in her small ears large gold earrings. He said something in Hebrew,

whereat she laughed merrily and moved away, her slippers shuffling over the tiles, to reappear with another woman similarly clad but elderly and stout.

Miriam was soon seated, uncomfortably enough in European costume, upon the edge of one of the mattresses on the floor. Sweet coffee was brought. The old man sat quietly in one corner, his wife and daughter near to Miriam talking politely in Spanish. Their eyes, shyly inquisitive, questioned every article of her attire.

Gradually Miriam began to lose her sense of strangeness and led the talk upon the ways and customs of the country, to the trend of opinion concerning the present sultan and the general situation, gaining copy as a good journalist should. When at length Miriam intimated that she would like to leave they insisted that she must break bread with them. Miriam felt a queer sense of shame in pretending to pro- test that she must go whilst she really wished and intended to stay.

The breaking of bread was a ceremonious affair of many dishes; chiefly cous-cous, an Arab dish of semolina but made in the Jewish style with raisins. Although she soon felt very much at home there was an ever- recurring sense of incongruity. The manipulation of her Parisian-shod feet troubled her; her sun-hat became an abomination and her comparatively loose skirt developed the tentacles of an octopus in cramping her limbs. She longed to throw them away, and envied the cool caftan and bare feet of the little goggle-eyed Jewess. Boots in- deed seemed a sacrilege on the smooth tiled floor.

At last she was driven to discard her hat and, scarcely realizing what she was doing, so fumbled with her hairpins that her long black tresses rolled down her back to the admiration of her hostess and daughter.

There seemed an atavistic sense of her natural environment in the air. She was impelled to confide in the patriarch sitting there so wise and dignified. She felt sure that they would not betray her. For a moment she conquered the desire and, to compromise, began to talk of Agadir.

The old man, Musa Ben Ibrahim, described the place to her. She was conscious of exaltation when he announced that he had relatives and many business friends there. He held forth long and earnestly against the tyranny and injustice of the Kaid Gilhooli, chief of the district. Miriam inquired whether it were possible to approach the town by water, saying that she had a friend who thought of going that way. Ben Ibrahim wagged a forefinger in dissent. It would be quite impossible to get a boat of any sort to undertake the trip from Mogador. He advised her friend not to attempt it. The land journey was the usual way, but dangerous even for Moorish or Jewish merchants. Miriam's heart sank.

AT THAT moment little Zara, who  had taken a great fancy to Miriam and had seated herself as close as she dared to her, could restrain her curiosity no longer. Her black eyes goggling with excitement she craved permission to see and handle a string of blue Egyptian beads which Miriam wore. Miriam unfastened and handed them to Zara who yelped with delighted admiration, flinging a score of questions. Then Miriam, her disappointment dulled for the moment by the distraction, asked to be allowed to see the girl's hair kerchief.

Zara laughed delightedly at the compliment as she quickly unwound it. Miriam, after admiring the texture, laughingly put it over her own head. Zara, quick to grasp an idea, wriggled over and bound it in the Jewish fashion over Miriam's long hair, and sat back with many "Eh! ehs!" of admiration, pointing a triumphant podgy finger. Miriam glanced at her host. He was staring at her in amazement.

"By Abraham!" he cried. "Look, my woman, she is one of us!"

Miriam flushed and laughed. Zara, with a little cry sprang up and pattered away, she returned, staggering under the weight of a gilded mirror which her father assisted her to rest on the floor. Miriam gave an involuntary cry of astonishment. The bright-yellow kerchief bound about her own raven hair, her own large Latin eyes, olive-tinted complexion and red lips formed the picture of a typical Oriental Jewess, peering amazedly. With heavy gold earrings and the caftan the resemblance would have been perfect.

For a moment or two Miriam was annoyed. Then she gave a gasp and sat back abruptly, staring at the patriarch in the corner. The solution of the problem of entering Agadir had flashed into her mind. In the Jewish garb nobody, not even a

Moor, would suspect her American nationality. She felt an almost overwhelming desire to hug the old man, to tear off her boots and European clothes, to dance, sing, laugh, and cry at the same time.

With an effort she controlled herself, smiled and gave back the kerchief to Zara. As a preliminary, she told little Zara to keep the Egyptian necklace, to the little one's wild delight, who, not to be outdone in courtesy, insisted that Miriam should accept the hair kerchief.

Miriam now keen upon business, thanked her absent-mindedly. She reflected that this man had relatives at Agadir and business dealings. He would surely be sending, or having a share, sooner or later, in some caravan going to Agadir. She must persuade him to let her go disguised as a Jewess.

Talking and smiling abstractedly she thought out her plan of action. She had contemplated going as a Moorish woman, but as such great difficulties would have to be overcome; for her liberty would be necessarily restricted, and she had no liking to trust herself in the hands of any Moor.

A panic seized her that Alan or some other correspondent might arrive at any moment. She must lose no time but strike whilst the opportunity served. After a short pre- amble to the effect that she was a woman writer in which she had some difficulty in convincing them— they seemed to think it a great joke and laughed discreditingly— she plunged straight into her proposition.

At first it was received with uplifted palms of horror. It was impossible— if anything happened the American consul would hold him responsible. But when Miriam pointed out that she was prepared to pay well the refusals became less emphatic; and she hinted that there were sure to be other Jews who would not be so timid. After an excited colloquy with his wife amid much gesticulation he agreed. Then came the crux of the argument— the price. For all his patriarchal benevolence and hospitality, the mention of douro— long and gesticulatory was the bargaining, but at length it was completed.

There was no caravan leaving for two weeks, he protested; but in consideration of certain money one should leave on the morrow with Miriam in charge of his son and little Zara as her maid.

The sky was a pageant of scarlet and amber, fading to violet over the dense blue of the sea as Miriam returned to the hotel. Here she discovered the proprietor in a state of incoherent excitement imploring the consul to organize a search-party as Ahmed had returned with the news that Miss Vickers had been kidnaped. Miriam almost laughed herself into hysterics; more at the thought of her success than at the corpulent distress of Boniface.

Chapter 3

Bismillah! Here's ink, a fair tablet, a pen,

I'll set down the names of your enemies, men.

The wandering bees, which betray the rich store;

These, these are your foes, and will be evermore!

— Sidi Hammo.

FIVE days later a small caravan wound through a rugged and rocky defile. The glare of the afternoon sun shone straight into the eyes of the travelers. In the van riding sideways upon a decrepit pack-horse, was Yakub Bin Musa, a young Jew, who, with his black cropped hair and small mustache was of a type which, save for the black fez cap and dirty gray soutane might be seen any day in London or New York, immaculately clad in conventional garb.

Behind straggled a small train of pack- donkeys in the midst of which were a party of three men— a boy of fifteen and two ancients— and two women. All were mounted on donkeys astride or sideways upon the straw-filled packsaddles as big as half a sofa. For miles they had plodded along the rugged mountain-side in silence save for objurgatory oaths on the part of the men toward the animals who traveled patiently with the blasé air of their kind, the big ears swaying listlessly.

To the south the land fell away in rough undulations like enormous tumuli, to a vast plain across which meandered a faint broad track, as of an army— the great highway across the Sus from Timbuktu and the Soudan. Scattered at long intervals were a few mud-walled villages, glinting white in the sunlight, and on the horizon the blue of distant hills. Behind the ground rose in jumbles masses of sandy rock and sward losing itself in the brown and blue of the heights of the lower Atlas Mountains, bold and stately.

Presently in a twist of a hill path a group of horsemen appeared: three wore the dignified white robes and hoods of the Moor and were mounted on scarlet saddles; the others in the van were wild-looking Arabs in gray woolen garments, black elflocks peeping out below their camel-hair turbans, long-barreled guns sticking out across their pommels. As they approached, riding in the insolent manner of the conquering race, the Jewish party drove their animals off the track to allow them to pass.

The Jews cringed as the white-clad leaders rode in haughty silence, apparently unaware of their presence. The ragged mob of the escort favored them with disdainful glances, a few muttered "Ya Houdi (Jew)!" accompanying the reproach with a contemptuous spit.

But as the three came abreast of the two women, one, a falcon-faced man, deliberately rode over to the elder of the two girls, pulled up his horse so that it barred her donkey's progress and bending over in his saddle peered insolently into her face. As he made a loud remark in Arabic with gleaming teeth and eyes afire, the little girl, a few paces behind, screamed in alarm. The men of their party stared helplessly.

The large sloe eyes of the girl were wide with alarm as she tried to drive her donkey 'round, exclaiming:

"Zid! zid (go on)."

The other horsemen who had slowed up to see the fun, laughed and shouted ribald remarks. The Moor bent further over in his saddle, grinning wickedly. Miriam's eyes flashed angrily; she swayed backward in the saddle, clutching with one hand to keep her seat as she swung the other with all her force in a resounding slap across her persecutor's face.

The man shot upright in his saddle like a released spring, speechless with indignant amazement. Never in all his roving life had he had such an experience from a woman— and by Allah, a daughter of a filthy Jew!

Miriam, mad angry, kicked her donkey into motion and smacking his head on one side— for she had no reins— piloted him 'round an equestrian statue of a Moor. The Jews were dumb with fright, fearing instant retribution. The man's companions continued to ride on slowly, turning in their saddles to watch the comedy. The Moor stared blankly at Miriam as she passed him; hesitated; then breaking into a volley of curses against the Jews, rammed home the sharp edge of his stirrups and rode off with a clatter.

When Miriam had time to look at her companions she saw that they were yellow- gray, their teeth chattering like castanets. Her anger died as the danger passed.

"Beard of my father!" stuttered Yakub, "know ye not who they were? That was the Khalifa, Esha ben Fila!"

Miriam recollected that this man was the Moorish governor of the district. She looked back and laughed, feeling rather perky over her triumph; but her escort after exchanging glances, continued the march in silence. Indeed Miriam never quite realized, as the Jews did, that she had been within an ace of having the whole party massacred.

For another two hours the caravan plodded along monotonously, gradually descending and nearing the great broad track of the Sus highway. Little Zara, riding close to Miriam, could scarcely take her eyes off the heroine of such a great adventure, breaking out into little giggles of admiration. It began to dawn upon Miriam as, constantly changing her position on her un- comfortable pack to gain five minutes' relief to her aching back and cramped limbs, that she had let herself into a very precarious situation.

For some twenty awful minutes of depression, probably caused by the reaction from the excitement and the trying conditions of the journey, she regretted that she had ever undertaken the trip. She nursed, too, a sullen resentment against the men of her escort, despising them for their craven attitude, wholly forgetting that they were unarmed and, moreover, were of a race down-trodden and abused for centuries by her aggressor's people. She imagined with a thrill of the pride of race of what would probably have happened had Alan been with her.

Then the sequential train of thought that she was on the verge of success and scoring a point over Alan and other men, brought back her self-confidence and put her in an optimistic mood once more. Still heartily did she wish that the aching monotonous journey would come to an end as she— let it not be whispered in Gath— scratched herself— for in every village and tent in Morocco there are many varieties of insects— yearning mightily for a hot bath and carbolic soap.

AT LENGTH as the sun reached its zenith the mountain trail converged into the main caravan road scored by the tracks of countless camels, horses and mules. Within the next half- hour upon rounding a shoulder of the hill- side the blue of water leaped into view, awaking Miriam from a tired and dusty lethargy into drumming her donkey's ribs impatiently with her bare heels. By degrees appeared the mud huts of Fonti scattered low on the beach; the rampart walls along the foreshore beyond; then perched high upon a conical mass of black rock, washed in creamy foam, a gray Moorish fort.

The town nestling between the walls, lay on the slope of a hillside some six hundred feet above the water, white and dazzling in the sunshine. Outside the walls a gray open space was crowded with a seething mass of men and animals, the sok — market- place — upon the farther side, outlining the tops of fairy minarets and the rugged turrets of the khalifa's castle, was the warm dark-green of an olive plantation.

Urging her donkey faster Miriam came up with Yakub who had pulled up at a turn of the trail commanding a view of the harbor. There was a look of relief on his face as if rejoicing at the prospect of losing the responsibility of his charge, as he exclaimed, pointing a dirty finger:

"Look, signorina! Agadir!"

Miriam's heart gave an exultant leap. Her eyes ran feverishly over the sweep of the rocky land behind the bastion into the curving blue of the headland ending in Cape Ghir eighteen miles away like a gigantic protecting arm forming an almost land- locked harbor. On the opposite low shore some miles away was the commencement of the Sus plain through which, near at hand, ran the Wadu Tamaraka and the Wadu Sus, low and out of sight.

As Miriam, an hour later, passed beneath the shadow of the Babes-Sus, the main gate of Agadir, with its huge metal-sheathed, nail-studded doors, into the narrow cobbled streets thronged with white-robed Moors, elf -locked Berbers, impassive woolen- garbed Susi, many negro slaves and a few hooded women, she felt that wonderful thrill of exultation on the accomplishment of a coveted ambition.

The excitement was fully sustained until in a mean little house, blue- washed as usual, but not like Ben Ibrahim's small palace at Mogador, Miriam had leisure to take stock of her temporary home. Her host was a mildewed little man, a snuffling wheezy Shylock, rapacious-eyed and predatory of nose; the hostess, a pallid bundle of dirty clothes. As a consolation there were two little girls with gollywog eyes and precocious minds who seemed gifted with a disinterested affection for Miriam, but which little Zara, out of jealousy perhaps, instantly pronounced to be cupboard love.

But that night as Miriam, after a lick and a promise with the aid of a cracked jar of water, saw to the safety of her baggage, consisting of two fountain pens, a supply of ink and paper and a revolver, she was in an irritable state of mind as well as body— particularly of body! All the romance of the great adventure seemed to have died — bitten to death as Miriam expressed it savagely. And when she had retired to her allotted mattress, she imagined how Alan would laugh at her.

Then the visual picture of herself indignantly denying it, crying "I—" scratch, scratch — "can stand it as well — " scratch, scratch — "as any man — " scratch, scratch, tickled her sense of humor. The spell of misery was broken. As she wriggled her head on the hard pillow made of a bundle of robes, and stretched her stiff and aching limbs, she chuckled.

The next day Miriam spent in writing. She went for a ramble in the evening under the escort of Yakub to the ramparts over- looking the bay, keenly observing the environment and catechizing him. Fortunately Yakub was a native of the place, so that she was able to glean brief biographies and estimate the relative importance of the notables, including a garbled history of the place — hah of which, unfortunately long after the copy had been sent away, she sadly discovered to have originated in the fertile brain of Yakub, too eager to please.

He pointed out to her the palace of the khalifa — a bad man and cruel according to Yakub — in the western end of the town just beyond the principal mosque. Immediately she desired to visit it. Yakub was horrified; he flatly refused to make any attempt to take her through the town at all until a bald promise of much backsheesh set his wits to work. Eventually he arrived at the conclusion that the visit might be accomplished in company with two old Jewesses who were permitted to visit the harem ladies to sell various trinkets and trading stuffs, but stipulating that it would require still more hassani to bribe the women.

As Miriam made a faint effort at haggling Yakub's eyes glinted greedily as he tried to think of some other tangible excuse for extracting more money. So it was settled that the venture was to be made upon the morrow.

Miriam sat herself upon an ancient cannon mounted upon a clumsy wooden carriage, the wheels of which were made of thick planks of wood bound together with heavy cross-laths, the impotent muzzle pointing through the embrasure commanding the bay. Away to the west of her was the little fishing-village of Fonti which they had passed on their trail, a few European- built towing-boats lying upon the small stretch of sand. About half a mile out a similar boat was approaching the town, the distant oar-blades sparkling in the sun. As she leaned idly admiring the deserted blue waters of the bay there floated out the call to prayer from the distant mosque:

"Al-lah Ak-ba-ahl Allah il Allah! La illaha il Allah, wa Mohammed er-rasool Al-la-a-aht"

THE call rising in three notes to a high-pitched chant, rang out eerie and plaintive, dying away in sweet cadence to a faint echo in the hill beyond to be  caught up quite near her by another mueddin.

The first time that Miriam had heard the call to prayer she had been deeply impressed with the beauty and the calm mystery, in such antithesis to the fierce lustful creed which it represented. And here in Agadir isolated from any of her kind the effect was intensified. She glanced across at Yakub who was squatting in the shade of the rampart staring craftily at nothing, an avaricious smile playing over his mouth — probably thinking of the dollars he was going to make.

She felt that time had buckled back into the fifteenth century; that she was in another period, for the medieval environment was perfect. She found herself imagining that Yakub might well be the biblical Jacob as a young man. Noah she was sure was the replica of the dignified Ben Ibrahim at Mogador.

An approaching footstep startled her. She looked up to see a man of medium height in European clothes advancing. She stared for a moment, unable to believe her eyes; then panic seized her that she had failed after all; that this man was some correspondent who had stolen a march on her. He wore a shabby suit of gray, a light red tie, a dirty collar and a small artisan's cap. His lean face was shaped like a hatchet; two pale eyes peered sharply over a predatory nose.

Miriam glanced at Yakub interrogatively. He appeared startled and put one finger to his lips suggestively. Miriam was puzzled. Why should Yakub fear this man? He was now quite close. He glanced at Yakub and at her. Miriam felt the contempt in the look and flushed with annoyance, forgetting the guise in which he saw her. Then when nearly abreast of her he turned his head abruptly as if vexed at her scrutiny. He was about to replace a cigaret in his mouth, but the hand remained in mid-air as he paused and deliberately stared.

Miriam wondered what paper he represented and tried to decide whether he was English or not. She thought not. He passed on, looked 'round twice and, as if having made up his mind, turned back and came straight toward her. Miriam heard a muttered exclamation from Yakub. Suddenly recollecting that she was a Jewess she looked the other way and cast down her eyes, wondering what he was going to do. She felt an impulse to speak to him in French. It would be such a luxury to talk to a fellow-European — even if he were a rival correspondent— and if a foreigner it did not matter very much. She felt him look her up and down deliberately, insolently, and involuntarily she blushed.

"Ashkoonik?" he demanded abruptly.

She heard Yakub reply for her. She looked 'round at the stranger as he asked another question in Arabic which she could not understand. She decided that she did not like the snarling curve of his lips underneath the yellow mustache as he smiled at her.

"Je ne park pas Arabic," she said curtly. "So? Vous parlez Français, eh, cherie?" he said.

Insolently smiling he advanced a step

toward her and lifted a hand as if to chuck her under the chin.

"You dare!" exclaimed Miriam angrily, sliding off her gun.

The next instant she could have bitten her tongue off.

"Lieber Gott!"

He peered keenly at her.

"You are English!" he said, and sweeping off his cap apologized profusely.

He explained that he had meant no offense, but thinking her to be a Jewess, he could not understand her imperious tone. For quite three minutes he stood and explained in fluent English, whilst Miriam, weakening to his flattery, lost her sudden antipathy.

"My name is de Bouche," he continued, "Baron de Bouche. Whom have I "

He raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

For a moment Miriam hesitated.

"Miriam Vickers is my name. I am American," she said. "Are you a — for a newspaper?"

"Nein — no. I have business here — that is all," he replied.

He appeared slightly disturbed at the mention of the press and eyed her sharply.

"What paper are you here for then, Miss Vickers?"

"Oh, none at all!"

She scarcely knew why she had made the denial.

"I am traveling— well," she laughed deliciously, suddenly developing a keen relish in diplomacy, "well, to tell you the truth I came here disguised like this from Mogador for fun more than anything else. I had a friend with me, but she wouldn't come. But it's been a delightful experience— rather rash I thought at first."

She was pleased at her own faculty for embroidery. She had looked him straight in the eyes as she had made the statement, but he seemed too engrossed in admiring her face to be hypercritical.

"So? Yes," he replied; "it was rash. You are returning now?"

"Oh, I don't know — perhaps. When I get tired of the novelty."

"So? If you will pardon me offering advice it would be well for you to return soon. This is no place for — forgive me — a handsome woman."

"So I have discovered," retorted Miriam smiling.

"So? But you do not realize the danger."

He spoke emphatically but with the manner of a man carrying on a rational conversation and thinking about something else at the same time; his eyes never ceased devouring her face and figure. She became uncomfortable and the antipathy returned.

"Oh, I'm aware of the danger," she said.

"So?"

HE TALKED on for some time in a similar strain urging her to leave.  Yakub sat silent, watching the two. At length Miriam said that she was going home and called to Yakub. The baron bade her "good night," explaining that he dared not escort her through the town for fear of drawing the attention of the Moors to her.

"Who is that man, Yakub?" she inquired as soon as they were out of earshot and in a quiet lane.

"Es-sid-el Keleeb," returned Yakub, who was obviously greatly perturbed.

"Why has he that name?"

"Because he has been about Morocco for many years and used to have with him always a little dog; on horseback or mule the dog was always with him; that is why the Moors call him the master-of-the-little- dog. He is a bad man. The Moors and Jews alike hate him. One day "

Yakub leered and drew a finger across his throat.

At that moment, although Yakub chose the most deserted way, they came upon a small sok of shops. Half-way through the crowded space, there was a cry of "Balaak! Balaki!"—make way— as, preceded by two ragged soldiers, a swarthy-bearded Moor appeared, clad in white, riding on a richly caparisoned horse.

"El khalifal" whispered Yakub, and drew Miriam aside into the throng to permit the great man to pass.

The coal-black slave, walking at the horse's head, mocking the sultan's pomp and ceremony, struck Miriam across the shins with a staff. Miriam stifled a cry as Yakub roughly dragged her farther into the press. She looked 'round angrily as the yellow shoe and bare heel encased in the shovel stirrup of the governor brushed her hip, to meet a pair of tired eyes squinting down a falcon nose.

Then to her horror she recognized him as he pulled up his horse and bent over toward her She heard a smothered whine

from Yakub and a host of unintelligible re- marks from the uncouth crowd about her. The khalifa was saying something to her.

"She is my cousin, ya sidi," whined Yakub.

"What is thy name, Jew?"

Miriam fascinated with fright mechanically noted the lean brown hands holding the crimson reins, the thick sensual lips and the pouched eyes.

"Yakub Bin Musa," snuffled Yakub.

The crowd was eagerly peering about, straining to catch a glimpse of the khalifa's new fancy. Several muttered curses and contemptuous cries of "Houdi! Keleeb Houdi" — dogs and Jews. She felt the fierce scrutiny once more; then he nodded and with a word to his slaves rode on.

After the clattering escort had passed Yakub hurried her along amid laughs and curses from the released mob, humming like a swarm of bees. As soon as they were in a quiet street once more, Yakub hastened her along, wailing that all was lost; that the khalifa was a bad man and bemoaning their fate generally.

After' this excitement had died down Miriam bribed Yakub to keep silent on the matter; for she foresaw that the Jewish family would take fright and insist upon her departure if they knew. Yakub eventually consented, avarice overcoming fear.

That night she returned to her interrupted topic of the baron, upon which Yakub, safe in the recesses of his house, proceeded to enlarge. The baron, vide Yakub, spoke almost every European language with equal fluency; he had been in Morocco for some eight years engaged in running arms and ammunition — a great deal of it through Agadir, so Yakub said — and in trading or stealing cattle. He was treacherous, and many parts of the c6untry were barred to him lest he meet the just wrath of some swindled Moor. This was interesting enough, Miriam thought, but it was not until Yakub mentioned as if of no importance, that the baron was in league with Germany that Miriam's journalistic instincts were fully aroused.

"With Germany? How?" demanded Miriam.

"Señor Baron," said Yakub, "has for a long time spent much money, money from Germany. That is why the Moors here do not kill him. He is under protection of the khalifa."

Yakub rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, the eloquent gesture signifying dollars.

"But what does he do here?" inquired Miriam eagerly.

"He promises that Germany shall help the Moors against the dogs of French— but he lies," observed Yakub emphatically.

"Why?"

"He lies," he asserted gesturing. "He pays many dollars to make them listen to him. As long as the river of dollars lasts so long will they listen to him, but when it is dry "

He leered suggestively.

"But how do you know that he is acting for Germany?"

"They say these things in the sok— and my aunt and cousin hear them from the harem ladies of the khalifa. Señor Baron lives in a house of the khalifa. Yes, it is so," said Yakub, and added nonchalantly as he rose to his feet, "Señor Baron has promised that a German warship will come to Agadir to prove his words — pahl"

"What?" exclaimed Miriam agog. "Warship in Agadir! I was right!" she added excitedly in English. "Sit down Yakub! Are you sure? When?"

"Allah only knows— Munana (tomorrow). Come, signorina, Zara is calling to supper!"

But Miriam's pen was racing at top speed.

TWO days had elapsed before Miriam was enabled to make the promised visit to the harem of the khalifa. In the large tiled courtyard opening on to the gardens she squatted in company with the two old Jewesses whilst they displayed their goods and haggled with the ladies of the harem, a motley group of women; a few old and haggard, others mere children of fourteen with dark sloe eyes and velvet skins, their fat arms— for avoirdupois is beauty in Moorish eyes— smothered in silver bangles, their hair and ears similarly bedecked.

Among the attendant slaves, huge gross eunuchs and negresses, Miriam noticed a sweetly pretty half-caste, lean, and therefore despised. She was as active as a leopardess and had a petulant discontented expression. Miriam made friends with the aid of a silver bangle upon observing that she could speak Spanish. Her name was Ramah and her face lit up with mischievous pleasure on learning what Miriam desired her to do. Gossip is half the soul of a Moorish woman.

Two, three, four more days passed and still no sign of the promised diplomatic coup. Miriam began to think uneasily of those close-written sheets she had dispatched by special runner to her agent in Mogador. Except for an early morning walk upon the ramparts approached by a circuitous route in the vain hope of seeing the war-ship, Miriam, after the episode in the sok, was kept almost a close prisoner in the Jewish house. On the third day, to Miriam's annoyance, the baron walked into the house. He apologized for calling, excusing himself on the grounds that he had heard that she had not taken his advice, and was anxious for her safety.

He dismissed the Jews from the room in an autocratic manner. Miriam objected, but he feigned not to have heard her. He was a born raconteur; he entertained her with vivid stories of sport, duelling, intrigue and adventure in every capital in Europe to the wilds of Borneo and China. He seemed to have been everywhere and done everything— and everybody, beating down Miriam's antipathy until at times she thought him the most fascinating man she had ever met. Again he urged her to leave, gazing at her the whole time with undisguised admiration. But Miriam felt afraid of the man and was relieved when he departed.

One moonlight evening she arrived upon the ramparts to see the somber shape of a gunboat lying at anchor some two miles out, stealthy and ominous under the flocculent sky. She stared, drinking in the sight and thinking with a triumphant smile of Alan. She was aroused from her pleasing reverie by an exclamation from Yakub and looked up to see the baron approaching her.

"Ah, good evening, Miss Vickers."

"Look! Look!" cried Miriam, forgetting her dislike of the man and pointing across the bay. "There's the warship."

"The warship?" he repeated quickly.

"I mean," said Miriam recollecting, "a warship. What is it, a cruiser? Do tell me and why is she here?"

"No, it's a gunboat," returned the baron, coming close to her. "But I want to talk of something else to you."

There was a thick note in his voice that made Miriam glance 'round at him.

"Briefly this," he turned suddenly to Yakub and said harshly: "Emshii! (go away.)"

Yakub went a few paces, watching the baron with frightened eyes.

"How dare you order my servant about?" demanded Miriam.

"So? I dare anything and anybody when I wish," said the baron quietly, looking at Miriam hungrily. "I have warned you to leave here. You will not. Herr Gott— now I tell you I love you. So? Don't start from me!" he added with a snarl intended for a smile as Miriam shrank from him. "You are in great danger. Leave with me under my protection. You can not go by road. I have a ship coming in a few days. You will come with me?"

"I sha'n't do anything of the sort," ex- claimed Miriam angrily, although her heart beat faster.

"So? When I want a thing I take it," said the baron, watching her with a piercing stare. "You will come with me?"

"No, I will not! You dare "

"So? Then choose — the khalifa has seen you and seeks you. You are the sort who inflame men's minds! Think — imagine what will happen to you — in the harem, so? Sid Eisha has a taste for sweet woman- hood — now, little fool, choose!"

Miriam grew pale as she realized her peril. Her thoughts raced — if only Alan...

"Gott verdampf nochmal, der Teufel soil's holen — choose, you devil-faced beauty."

A floccus of cloud obscured the moon.

"I shall appeal for protection to that war-ship out there," she exclaimed, pointing her ringer across the bay.

The baron laughed.

"So? I think not, little fool."

He took a step forward, his eyes aflame. Miriam in a panic whipped out her revolver. But with a catlike spring the baron seized her wrist and twisted the gun out of her hand.

"Yakub, Yakub!" she panted, but Yakub had vanished.

The baron flung her from him, lifted the revolver over the parapet with the toe of his boot and laughed in her face.

"You she-devil," he said, "I love you all the more. Go home now and think it over. Adios!"

And with a ceremonious bow he turned and walked off. For a moment Miriam stared after him, white and panting with rage; then as he disappeared 'round the angle of the wall she buried her face in her hands, facing the placid gunboat out in the bay, and sobbed.

Chapter 4

Like artless fawn, each fair gazelle reposes

Upon her forest couch of musk and roses;

The air instinct with dreams of perfumed pleasure—

A sight, I swear, worth camel-loads of treasure.

— Sidi Hammo.

ALAN CARFAX arrived at Rabat from Fez very pleased with himself. He had intended to lie perdu for a while watching events, but to his disgust he received a peremptory cable informing him of a big news scoop by an opposition paper, from their special correspondant at Agadir, prophesying the advent of a German warship. Alan smiled skeptically; but he began to wonder who his rival might be.

He hurried on to Mogador where he failed to discover a trace of any man having passed through. Finally he concluded that one Foote, a wily individual of the Daily Post, had stolen a march by water. There was not even a rumor in Mogador of any occupation of Agadir: everyone scoffed at such an idea. Alan wrote a scathing article upon the credulity of newspaper correspondents in general and began preparations to set out for Agadir, filled with an unholy joy at the thought of the lemon he had handed to the other man — whoever he might be.

But when a week later he rode, preceded by a weedy red-capped soldier of the Makhzen, past Fonti and up the slope toward Agadir, he stared gloomily and swore as he caught sight of the Panther lying on the sunlit waters, grim and businesslike. But now. . . .

As he followed the soldier through the camel-skin tents and groups of tribesmen encamped in the outer sok he scarcely noticed the scowls and muttered curses against the infidel. His brain incessantly clamored for a solution of the problem. He saw that wretched scathing article appearing and the ensuing wrath of his editor. He expected every moment to see the fat sardonic smile of Charlie Foote grinning triumphantly at him in the white-walled streets.

Abd-el-Kader, the soldier, had pulled up and roused him from his reflections with the remark that they must rest here

"Fain?" demanded Alan.

"Here," returned the soldier. "Now I go to see the khalifa that he may give us— if Allah wills— a place to sleep."

Alan frowned at the delay; but by experience knew that it was inevitable. So Abd-el-Kader clattered away leaving Alan to squat in the shade of a wall in company with his muleteers and servants to pass the time in smoke and contemplation of Allah the All-Merciful. The muezzin was still chanting while they waited.

As Alan stared idly at the hovering flies, the clatter of hoofs made him look 'round to see another European mounted on a coal- black, long-maned stallion. At first Alan thought it was the redoubtable Foote, but a second glance revealed a hatchet-faced stranger. The man pulled up in front of him, his animal curveting and snorting trying to savage the meek steeds of Alan's party.

"Good afternoon," said the man after a piercing stare. "You're a correspondent, I suppose?"

"Yes, I am," retorted Alan taking umbrage at the domineering tone. "Who the devil are you?"

The man watched him with a quiet glare, curbing and sitting his restless mount like one of the Bersaglieri.

"Are you from the Daily Post?" demand- ed Alan.

The other smiled contemptuously.

"No, I have not that honor. By the way I would advise you to return to Mogador."

"Why?"

"Because you will find that this is not a healthy spot for a meddlesome journalist. Take my advice. Buenas noches;" and loosing rein he galloped up the deep-rutted street.

Alan stood gazing after him. He turned to his men. "Who is he?"

"A son of Shaitan!" said a Moor tonelessly. "Es-sid-el-Keleeb."

A few minutes afterward Abd-el-Kader returned, pulled up his rickety animal and with an imperious wave of the hand beckoned them forward.

"Ajee!" (Come!)

"Ajee" echoed Alan angrily. "Who the devil are you talking to, you brown-faced baboon."

"Ajee!" repeated Abd-el-Kader with a face of bronze, and turning rode slowly up the street.

Alan would have dearly loved to have knocked him down, but he knew that he dared not. On the trip Abd-el-Kader had been most affable, but now . . . What was the reason?

Following the line of the walls Abd-el- Kader halted at last in a bare open space on the ramparts and intimated that they were to camp there. Alan objected, but was curtly told that such was the khalifa's order. He raged inwardly and demanded to be taken to the khalifa in person. At first Abd-el-Kader refused, saying that he was too tired. Alan mounted and rode off by himself, followed presently by Abd-el- Kader muttering pious curses on all infidels.

They arrived at the outer courtyard of the palace where Abd-el-Kader conversed apart with one of the khalifa's soldiers who glanced in Alan's direction, nodded, and de- parted. Abd-el-Kader squatted on the cobbles in the corner, produced a kiff pipe and placidly proceeded to smoke.

"Has he gone to tell the khalifa?" demanded Alan.

"If Allah wills!" returned Abd-el-Kader, exhaling smoke, in a voice devoid of expression.

"When shall we see him?"

"When Allah wills!"

"I must see him now — quickly — under- stand?"

"Allah is all merciful!"

Alan bit his lip and swore softly.

Half an hour passed slowly. The horses fidgeted, flicking at the flies with their long tails; Abd-el-Kader smoked with the eternal placidity of a Buddha. There was no other sign of life. The elongated shadows grew denser.

"Is he going to see me or not?"demanded Alan.

"If Allah wills," came the placid reply.

Alan swore violently; and curbed himself. He had been through similar ordeals so often.

"Who is that other Roumi (European) here?" he inquired presently.

"Allah only knows!"

"Abd-el-Kader!"

Abd-el-Kader looked up sleepily from his pipe with cold expressionless eyes.

"What ails thee?"

"Allah only knows!"

Alan gave it up. He felt a wild desire to attack some one violently — Abd-el-Kader for choice — and getting up, fell to pacing slowly the courtyard. Once a red-capped soldier appeared, stared at them with in- curious eyes, and vanished.

THEN as he turned on his quarter- deck march he became aware of some one watching him. He glanced up and caught a glimpse of a pair of large bright eyes set in a frame of blue- black hair. He glanced at Abd-el-Kader, him absorbing dreams of paradise through the narrow pipe-stem. As Alan came back he watched. The eyes came above the level of the wall, twinkled and were followed by the face, a creamy olive-tinted face, with pomegranate lips and pearly teeth disclosed in a shy smile.

Alan forgot his annoyance and halted just below the wall. The huge silver ear- rings wobbled violently; the face disappeared and shot up again, peering curiously down at him. Alan seemed to have for- gotten his pose as a misogynist. He glanced 'round cautiously. "Who art thou?" he asked.

"Ramah!" came the reply deliciously sweet. Small hands with henna-stained nails came over the wall; the whole of her bust appeared and the girl gazed at him ardently.

"Thou are beautiful to look upon, oh, Roumi," she announced with the naive innocence of a wild creature.

"Oh!" said Alan inanely and blushed.

When he raised his eyes again— feeling an awful fool, as he expressed it— she was still watching him with longing eyes.

"What dost thou, oh, Roumi?" she inquired curiously.

"I am seeking audience with the khalifa," answered Alan, glad to escape from an embarrassing topic.

She smiled— gloriously, Alan thought involuntarily.

"Thou wilt not speak with him this day," she said, "for he is now with his women in the garden."

"Barakolofik! (Thank you!)" exclaimed Alan as he flushed with rage at the thought of the deliberate way in which he had been fooled.

"Mahababbikum!(A thousand times welcome)," she smiled at him. "Where dost thou live?"

"My tent will be pitched by the further ramparts," he replied somewhat sulkily. "Who art thou, oh, Ramah?"

"I am but the slave of the khalifa," she said; "but I find no favor in his sight."

There was a long pause.

"You're pretty!" exclaimed Alan suddenly in English.

Her eyes welled with delight, the whole of her face seemed transfigured as she read the flare of admiration in his eyes.

"Hamdullah!  (Allah be praised!) " she exclaimed, "that I please my lord!"

And immediately Alan became self-conscious.

"I must go," he said sharply. "Good night, oh, Ramah!" I

"Allah watch over thee," she responded softly.

He awakened Abd-el-Kader, far gone in the realms of kiff, with difficulty. As they neared the site of his camp he came upon a Jew and Jewess walking. Still thinking of Ramah he glanced idly at the girl, started and looked again. She was watching him and as he passed her she peered up into his face and laughed.

"Good God!" exclaimed Alan turning in his saddle, "what an extraordinary resemblance! If— " She turned and laughed again. "Why that's Miriam's double!"

Alan had much to think of that evening; of his position, of Ramah, and not a little of Miriam amid the roar of Fleet Street. He fell asleep— to dream of Ramah— who mysteriously changed like a dissolving view into Miriam.

Next morning as the rising sun tipped the minarets and white-topped roofs in a rosy flood, Alan rode up to the khalifa's palace once more, in company with one Bu Shaib, a red-bearded son of the Riff. This time the outer courtyard held a dozen horses and mules; some of their owners seeking audience, squatted patiently along the wall.

For over two hours Alan waited seeing one man after another summoned. At length when the last of the Moors had rid- den away a huge black slave in white, with an enormous silver-hilted scimitar slung by a red sash, appeared at the inner gate and bawled out:

"Let the Nazarene come to my lord!"

Alan rose and was ushered into the inner courtyard where he found the Khalifa Esha Ben Fila seated cross-legged upon a carpet in the shade of an arch. His eyes, pouched and heavy, appeared impassively sullen.

A leather cushion or footstool was lying in the full glare of the sun on which Alan was told to sit. For a minute or two the khalifa feigned to be unaware of his presence continuing to talk in Shilhah — a Berber language of which Alan knew no word — to a scribe who sat at his feet with his horn and paper.

Alan broke in with the orthodox salutation. Ben Fila glanced carelessly at him as one might on noticing a cat in the room, and nodded, mumbling unintelligible answers to the series of greetings. Although boiling with rage inwardly Alan knew sufficient of Oriental ways to simulate calm in- difference. At length after the preamble Alan approached the object of his visit. He had arrived the previous day, he explained, and demanded to know why he was not received in the customary manner and given a house for himself and his followers.

"Hast thou letters from the Makhzen (Government)?" inquired the khalifa in a level bored tone.

"Nay, it is not necessary," returned Alan, "I have with me a soldier from Kaid Gilhooli, the protection of the kaid."

"There are many soldiers in the empire of the sultan — whom Allah bless!"

"In Fez and Marakesh it was not necessary to have letters."

"The ways of the North are not the ways of the South."

"I demand protection and a house."

"Allah is great! If Allah wills."

"I shall make complaint to Kaid Gilhooli."

"If Allah wills."

"When? Today?"

"If Allah wills!"

The khalifa's eyes had fastened upon a pair of field-glasses slung across the English- man's shoulders. He bent and whispered in the scribe's ear. Said the scribe:

"El khalifa wishes to see those glasses!"

But Alan knew from the whole attitude of the reception that they were hostile to him; evidently in the pay of the stranger on the black stallion. Alan began to lose control of his temper— a fatal thing in Oriental diplomacy. He knew that the request to see the glasses meant that the khalifa coveted them as a gift; but he was too angry to play out the Moorish game.

"No," he said to the khalifa "they are not for sale," and knowing that the khalifa and Gilhooli hated each other, repeated: "If I am not treated properly I shall return and make complaint to Kaid Gilhooli."

"If Allah wills," returned the khalifa imperturbably.

"The English Government is powerful," supplemented Alan.

"Allah is all merciful!"

Alan without further ado got up and walked out, returning veiled insults with an open one.

AS ALAN rode off he passed three German naval officers mounted on Moorish horses, with an escort of sailors marching like infantrymen. They were the source of his troubles, he reflected savagely. Returning to his camp he sat on the ramparts alongside one of the ancient guns which, ironically, was trained right on the grim little shape of the Panther out in the bay.

Whilst he sat there composing a vicious article, scathing in the inference to the lost prestige of England, a German naval orderly approached and handed him a note: an invitation to lunch from the commander of the gunboat. Alan accepted and as he walked down to the beach after a wash, thought what a sardonic sense of humor the Germans had!

The lunch passed off well. Most of the officers spoke English and moreover Alan more than appreciated the table delicacies and wine. Over coffee and cigars the commander gave his version of the reason of their visit which— to Alan's private amazement— consisted in the German commercial interests in the Sus. He was given to understand, he continued, that Alan had met with some opposition or difficulty with the khalifa? The Moors were very obtuse people at times, but the commander would be most happy to offer Alan the protection of his Imperial Majesty the Emperor.

In a flash Alan saw scare-head placards —

"Englishman seeks German protection in Morocco."

With a thin Yorkshire smile he thanked Herr Commander very much for his offer, but regretted that he was unable to avail himself of it.

He was rowed back to the black rock landing-place with a wee small glow of satisfaction that he had managed to circumvent that subtle little move, only to receive checkmate when he arrived at the camp. From the fire a red-capped soldier rose up and briefly informed him that by the khalifa's orders he was to leave the city on the morrow.

"Go to the devil!" Alan exclaimed angrily, and although the Moor did not understand, he cursed him fluently and piously as he turned away.

The sun set behind Cape Ghir in a flood of crimson and purple dying the sea and tinting the gunboat in blood.

Alan moodily contemplated the situation. In the chaos of his mind he remembered Miriam and smiled indulgently as he thought of her silly boasts and idea of women journalists. What indeed could a woman do? Imagine a woman journalist in his shoes now? Good heavens, it was farcical! He would use the episode to shatter Miriam's insane arguments when he got home. Then as the sun dipped and violet twilight wrapped the world a fit of depression seized him. He had been lucky before; this was his first defeat and it seemed bitter, particularly when it might have been the greatest scoop in the journalistic world for years.

"That confounded alien mongrel on the black horse!" was the mysterious special correspondent and the German combined — playing traitor as spies usually did. He was the "German commercial interests in southern Morocco" — the Sus where there was no European trade at all! That conclusion cheered him a little. It would make a scorching article.

A light silvery laugh startled him. He turned sharply to see the hooded figure of a woman, a pair of brilliant eyes twinkling at him above the blanket haik.

"Ramah!" he cried as she lowered it.

"E-eh, oh, Roumi."

"How didst thou come "

"S-sh" with one henna-stained finger to lips. "I come to warn thee. Come!"

She glided into his tent which sheltered them from the sight of the men around the fire.

"Listen, oh, Aziz— " he hardly noticed the endearing term in his excitement — "Es-sid-el-Keleeb and the khalifa, my master— lying in the garden I did hear them talk. If thou are not gone by the morrow they plot to kill thee. But thou must not go."

"Nay, I will not," exclaimed Alan, his pugnacity aroused by the news.

'"Nay but thou must," she adjured him apparently inconsistently, "but only to re- turn, oh, my beloved."

Again the superlative term, which he did not heed. She drew closer to him.

"Wilt thou trust thyself to me?" she demanded.

"Yes, of course," he answered absently in English, thinking hard.

"What sayest thou?"

"Eh? Yea, Ramah, I agree. It is good, little one."

"Listen. Tomorrow thou wilt go, thou and thy servants and make thy camp beside Fonti on the beach."

"Mezian. It shall be done. And then?"

"Wait until I come for thee." . "Mezian" he assented and intent upon his professional interests, failed to notice her reproachful eyes as her dim form melted into the shadows.

Chapter 5

Vast as creation, yet when all is said,

How short the words that make our weal or wo?

What dearer heaven now? What deeper hell?

"I love thee," or "I love thee not" farewell.

And may the mercy of the Lord descend

On Sidi Hammo. Here his song hath end.

— Sidi Hammo.

THAT evening as the darkling night swallowed up the plain of the Sus, Miriam uneasily watched Fear put Avarice to flight in the hearts of her Jewish hosts. Yakub had broken faith and told of the scene on the ramparts between Miriam and the baron, with the result that old Yusuf and his pallid wife clamorously insisted that Miriam must depart from Agadir before worse befall or at least that she must leave their house. They feared and hated the baron as the Evil One, and hand in glove with the khalifa; Allah only knew what might not befall them. Miriam offered more money, but with an effort that wrung rheumy tears from the old man's eyes he refused.

Miriam, although fearful of the importunities of the baron, did not intend to leave Agadir in ignominious flight. The more pressing the circumstances became the more tremulously stubborn she grew. She had heard from Yakub, via the sok, of Alan's arrival so that she was not surprised to pass him in the streets. She had imagined that he would know her, but when she observed the lack of recognition in his eyes she laughed and passed on intensely amused.

At the first intimation from Yusuf Ben Musa that she must leave the house, she had naturally thought of taking refuge with Alan whom she imagined to be quite au fait with the authorities, as she had observed him embark for the gunboat. But on second thoughts the idea smattered too much of humiliation. Eventually she concluded that it was a choice of two evils — refuge ox ignominious flight; so she reluctantly decided to descend upon the unsuspecting Alan next day.

As she sat in the courtyard with little Zara staring at the square of scintillating stars above she tried to console herself— half-defiantly— that whatever happened she had secured the creme de la creme of the scoop and wandered mentally to Fleet Street, thinking of herself as the heroine of the hour. Then a thought of the baron who had maintained an ominous silence since the episode, sent a cold shudder of apprehension down her spine. It required little imagination to realize that in such an out-of-the-way barbarous spot many dreadful things might happen to a woman.

In an access of impotent rage she cursed her sex for their inherent weakness. It was all so bitterly unfair. She looked at Zara in the gloom and wondered if it were not better to be of her type, the Oriental woman, frankly a toy for man's leisure moments, dumb, uncomplaining; not dreaming of the liberty and understanding which might and should be theirs.

It was an idea born of momentary weakness of which she felt ashamed the next moment. Yet everything seemed so cruel and heartless, a kicking against the pricks of fate. A passionate desire suddenly welled up within her to cry peccavi, to run to Alan and throwing her arms 'round his neck to sob her heart out. She had to set her teeth to conquer the surge of emotion. It passed; she smiled bitterly in the darkness.

At that moment there was a patter of small slippered feet. One of the gollywog little Jewesses rushed excitedly into the courtyard, swinging a candle lantern and crying out upon her father in Hebrew. In a moment Yakub and the rest of the family were gathered in a gesticulating group. Out of the medley of voices Miriam heard Yakub crying at her:

"Thou hast brought this upon us! We are lost!"

Miriam got up and went over to them.

"Eh-eh!" yelled Yakub wildly, waving his palms.

The little girl held the lantern up and pointed a tragic finger at her, screaming shrilly; the old man wrung his hands and the wife literally howled.

It was some minutes ere Miriam could interpret anything intelligible from the hubbub. Then little Zara, the only one who had not lost control of herself, explained that the little girl had just come from the palace with the news that the khalifa had at last discovered the abode of the pretty Jewess with whom he had fallen in love one day in the sok.

The baron has executed his threat, thought Miriam. She went very white, for she divined what this might mean.

"And he hath sworn that he will take you into his harem! Walli — Wallit" Zara broke out. "They will come for thee, and kill the rest of us! Walli! Wo is me!"

There was renewed pandemonium. The upshot was that they were hysterically determined to throw Miriam out of the house then and there to save themselves. Little Zara remonstrated, crying shrilly that Miriam might be hidden away; but this suggestion was met with howls, proclaiming that death was sure if she were not found by the khalifa's people.

Old Yusuf stood by the arch leading to the door ; wringing his hands he implored her to go and called upon all the prophets of the Pentateuch; the wife wailed helplessly be- side him; the child with the lantern dashed excitedly between Miriam and her father like an erratic dragonfly, clutching at her clothes; whilst Yakub, gibbering with craven fear, hovered about Miriam trying to summon sufficient courage to eject her forcibly. Miriam with faithful little Zara clinging to one arm, defied them— head up and curling lips— in a mixture of Anglo-Spanish cum Franco- Arabic.

THEN in the midst of the uproar there was a fresh commotion at the door. Old Yusuf shrieked and was sent flying on to his face; the child dropped the lantern, which spluttered and went out as a group of armed men burst into the courtyard. There was a moment of paralyzed silence. The leader, a tall hawk- faced Arab, peered 'round by the aid of a lantern carried by a negro. Then simultaneously the howls broke out afresh. As Miriam darted behind a pillar the men swooped upon her. In a trice rough hands seized her. A blanket was bundled over her head. She felt herself lifted by wiry arms. Struggling violently, mad with rage, she was borne swiftly away.

The enveloping blanket produced the suffocation of a nightmare; the powerful arms, that dreadful sense of impotence. Miriam struggled futilely until she collapsed into a limp burden from sheer exhaustion, in which she dimly heard the mutter of voices and scuffle of animals. The sensation of being lifted in the air roused her to another paroxysm. She felt the gentle undulating motion of a horse or mule walking, and the muffled klop klop of hoofs upon cobbles.

The journey seemed to last for hours. As her senses began to revive a little she became acutely conscious that the coarse hair of the blanket scratched her face and lips, forcing a pungent acrid taste into her mouth. The chaos of her mind caused by the shock began to clear. Lucid thoughts sped swiftly. She jumped to the conclusion that she was being taken to the khalifa's palace. In a second of time her imagination painted a vivid picture of what her fate would be. She shuddered and groaned with anguish. Wildly she thought of ways to escape; of some method to take her own life rather than ....

A nausea overwhelmed her. She lost sense of time and space.

Then after an eternity she became conscious that she was lying on something soft and that the cool night air was fanning her cheeks. She drew a long breath, sighed and opened her eyes. Bending over, his sharp features in the light of a lantern, was the baron.

He must have rescued her then? A feeling of relief and gratitude glowed for a moment. He at least could never be so terrible as a Moor. The baron was holding a glass of brandy which he bade her drink in a curiously low tone. Strange. Miriam wondered, with that irrelevance of thoughts in moments of distress, why his voice was so soft. Like a gentle purr it seemed. She gazed at him and tried to think what was going to happen, but the one idea of the gentleness of his voice seemed to obsess her brain.

He was talking about something, but she could not grasp the sense. Then the alcohol began to take effect. She found her mind

coming under control again and began to comprehend what he was saying. Some- thing about regrets for some action. What, for rescuing her? How absurd! She tried to thank him, but found her lips were stiff and swollen. The liquor stung them too.

"You are feeling better?" he inquired.

Miriam mumbled inarticulately.

"So? Allow me!"

Then he bent down and rearranged some of the cushions. How kind he was, the baron! The predominant terror that she was about to fall into the savage Moor's power had for the time driven the baron's character from her mind. Then the association of ideas stirred the memory cells into activity. She sat up, spurred by the idea.

"My God!" she gasped thickly. "Did you kidnap me?"

The baron had put down the lantern — there was no one else in the starlit court- yard — and was sitting beside her. His mouth twisted into that snarling smile.

"If you like," he said shrugging his shoulders, "to put it so crudely. So?" as Miriam made a movement of disgust. "You beautiful little fool," he said bending toward her, "I saved you from a vile fate. That black swine was going to take you. Herr Gott! What do you think I have risked for you, Liebchen? Everything for you. Eight years have I plotted and schemed for an Empire— ja, here in the Sus. It is within my grasp, and Gott vm Himmel, I play with it— for you!"

He grasped her wrist and kissed her hand. She shrank away from him, but his grip was like a steel trap.

"So?" he snarled. "Mein lieber Gott, you lovely fool, I will tame you. Ja, I meant to take you, but not until I was ready. Then that cochon of a Moor — in two days my boat will be here to take us— us, you angel devil, to Cape Juby where we two will be the German interests in the Sus. A nice honeymoon, eh, Liebchen? But we'll spend the first two days here, so?"

There was a pause. Holding her a pris- oner by the wrist he devoured her panting, quivering figure with his eyes. Voices and the clatter of horses sounded some distance away.

"Give me a kiss, Liebchen," he demanded thickly and leaned toward her.

Miriam shrieked and made a frantic effort to tear her wrist loose. He sat back retaining his hold and chuckled as he watched her struggle and scream.

"Shriek, you sweet little devil, you!" he said with an evil smile. "Women's screams are music in Morocco— so! Come! That's enough!" and he drew her to him.

Miriam kicked madly and beat him with the one free hand like the wing of a captured bird.

SUDDENLY came a guttural oath. The baron was lifted bodily from her, releasing his hold at the bidding of the instinct of self-preservation. Miriam fell back panting, wild-eyed, to find the room full of red-capped soldiers, creatures of the khalifa. In a flash she realized that Nemesis had overtaken the baron in the jealous wrath of the khalifa, but that she was reserved for a worse fate. Amid the guttural remarks of the Moors, she saw, in the light of several lanterns, the baron, as helpless as a trussed fowl, his face distorted with rage, in the hands of a gigantic negro slave, who grinned with hellish delight.

A wild thought of self-destruction flashed . athwart her mind, but before she had time to recover even her power of speech, two soldiers unceremoniously lifted her by the shoulders and ankles and carried her out. She felt too stunned and helpless to offer futile resistance this time; numbed with awful fear. She was hoisted on to the pommel before a mounted negro. There was the dim scuffle of horses and men, harsh commands and exclamations. Then the cavalcade started forward. Miriam, exhausted and beaten, sobbing, swung limp to the motion of the horse.

As the procession climbed up the dusty narrow streets toward the governor's palace the early morning call to prayer rang out resonant and clear beneath the shimmering stars.

"Allah — Ak-ba-ah — La illaha il "

Miriam did not swoon this time. Her emotions seemed too overworked to respond. Only the gasping sob and the dull ache of choking fear. The flickering lights of the lanterns carried by the slaves on foot, danced ghostlike on the white walls. The dark of the head of her captor was sharply silhouetted against the stars. They seemed to rock and sway giddily. She wondered vaguely why the face was beardless. A cock crowed near by. The muezzin was still chanting.

Allah Akbah — there is no God save Allah!

The stars were blotted out; sounds re- echoed loudly under an arch. The stars flashed at her again. The horse stopped. She was lifted down and carried into the gloom of a room. Somebody placed her on something soft and yielding. She did not know what it was; nor care. She ached all over. She felt sick and tired, mentally and physically— oh, so tired and weary. Nothing mattered.

There was somebody moving about her. She wished they would leave her in peace. She seemed to have been ill-used, miserable and tired ever since she could remember. Feebly she wanted to die— but she knew that she could not die because her heart kept leaping within her bosom.

A light flashed in her eyes. She blinked and saw an enormously fat woman leering at her. Huge earrings bobbed under the black hair. She was saying something in Arabic. She handed the lantern to some- body and laid her fat fingers on the shoulder cords of Miriam's robe. The touch aroused her; spurred her into a frenzy, dispelling the mental paralysis, sent a thousand awful thoughts searing her brain. She uttered a soundless scream and half-leaped, half- wriggled, off the bed. She fell on to the floor, scrambled into a corner, crying half- articulately:

"No! No! No! No!"

As the odalisque, laughing hideously, advanced 'round the bed a deep guttural voice sounded behind her. She made some reply, received a curt order and fled.

In the dim light Miriam saw the figure of the khalifa. She watched him with the fascination of a rabbit about to be devoured by a snake. He walked silently across in his bare feet, took up the lantern and advanced toward his victim, stroking his beard and smiling. He said something in Arabic. The proximity of the danger cooled Miriam, made her think with lightning rapidity. She had no means except her hands to protect herself. She was absolutely in this man's power. If only Alan... Her soul cried to him for aid.

"Ana Americana!" she said desperately, watching him keenly.

He started and peered at her closely.

"Ash?"

"Ana— Americana," she repeated louder.

Her heart beat faster with wild hope. He spoke quickly, lowered the lantern and examined her. He seemed perturbed and puzzled. Miriam took heart.

"Look!" she cried in English standing up. "I — am — American," tapping her bosom. ' 'American — I — go — Mogador — Sueira — American consul. Fahamshi? (understand)."

The word "consul" seemed to convince him.

"Subhan Allah!" he exclaimed, and stepped back a pace.

Miriam over-eager, stepped aside.

"La! La!" he said quickly gesturing a negative.

Miriam stopped and stood watching his impassive face, as he gazed at her.

He was thinking swiftly. This girl was as no other woman he had ever seen. She was not a Jewess as he had supposed, but a European. That was no odds, both were infidels, cursed dogs of unbelievers. But the Roumis were powerful— here on the coast. There was a Roumi war-ship in the harbor: if he took this girl they might retaliate by bombarding the town. They needed an excuse to do so, he well knew.

No, there were many dollars to be had from the Roumis. Yet- — Yillahl The girl was beautiful! He looked at her as a connoisseur. He could retain her for two, per- haps three years, and even then she would still be worth a thousand dollars! And who would know? That son of shame, that pig of an unbeliever Es-sid-el-Keleeb? he would soon be paying for his insult to the beloved of Mahomet. His eyes wandered hungrily over her again. No, by Allah, no accursed Nazarene should stand between him and his desire. He would away to his Kasbah in the Sus. The Roumis— Allah was all powerful!

Miriam saw the change, saw the fire of passion rekindle in his eyes and nerved her- self for an effort— if only to obtain a weapon to kill herself. As he smiled evilly she made a desperate spring to pass him. He caught her by the voluminous sleeve. She hit out wildly and the whole of her soul leaped into the name of her beloved:

"Alan! Al-an!"

The lantern was dropped in the struggle and lay spluttering. An awful minute in which the brute's arms were 'round her, his breath in her face. . . .

MEANWHILE Alan had shifted his camp to the beach near Fonti.

Long after sunset the hooded ghostly figure appeared. She had brought a jellab for him to wear above his European clothes, a sufficient night disguise. Striking up the hill she led him by a rough and broken path to the northern corner of the city wall, where by a ruined bastion they made entrance into the narrow streets.

Once the tramp and jingle of men and horses drove them to shrink in the dark shadow of a gate. A crowd of soldiers and slaves on foot and horse passed them. The leader, a hawk-faced Arab, made remark as he passed:

"May Allah burn all infidels. That dog Es-sid-el-Keleeb hath surely eaten of our master's sweets. Great will be his wrath, by Allah!"

"What doth he mean, Ramah?" whispered Alan.

"Es-sidi hath taken a hunger for a Jewess, but Es-sid-el-Keleeb hath stolen the bird," answered Ramah. "S-sh, let us hasten.

Together they followed the band of night marauders to the khalifa's palace where by a postern gate Ramah admitted Alan to a deserted part of the rambling gardens. Here in a small room she bade him rest whilst she brought food and lights. While he waited patiently in the gloom his thoughts turned to Miriam. Ever since the night before when Ramah had kissed him the image of Miriam kept recurring to his mind. Strange he thought and sought for a reason, but not being practised in emotional analysis it eluded him.

As Ramah returned with a lantern carrying a basket of food the early morning call to prayer rang out from the adjacent mosque. As Ramah approached she seemed to take the form of Miriam.

Her great eyes shone as she set the feast. She brought news that there was a great commotion in the palace as the khalifa was mad with rage at being balked of his prey; and that he had dispatched a force to capture Es-sid-el-Keleeb with orders to send him to his Kasbah, ninety miles in the interior, and on pain of death to bring back the girl to him.

Alan felt a sudden fear grip him for Miriam's safety— which was absurd, for Miriam was in London! Yet a voice seemed to whisper:

"Alan! Oh, Alan!"

"What's that?" he exclaimed starting up.

But only the cry of the Muezzin answered him.

"What ails thee, oh, Aziz?" queried Ramah anxiously.

"Nothing," said Alan, and relapsed into silence, answering Raman's chatter in monosyllables.

Gradually Ramah's efforts began to thaw him.

Presently as she sat beside him there came the sound of the clatter of a cavalcade. Again he thought of Miriam. He glanced at Ramah. How like Miriam she seemed. He felt a desire to kiss her; her large soft eyes invited him.

Then the sound of a stifled scream brought him to his feet. He listened intently.

"It is but some slave being beaten," said Ramah petulantly, "or mayhap the Jewess I told thee of."

There was a long pause in which Alan felt certain of the proximity of Miriam. He stood at the door, staring into the violet black shadows of the garden.

There came distinct and close, a wild broken cry:

"Alan! Al-an!

Alan dashed madly in the direction, fumbling for his revolver as he ran, hearing, seemingly at a great distance, the voice of Ramah crying:

"Come back to me, beloved! Leave me not, oh, Aziz!"

A tall figure in robes stood over Miriam clutching her shoulder with one hand. Alan's face peered amazedly into hers.

"My God, Miriam!" he cried.

"Alan, oh Alan!" she panted.

In the meantime the khalifa had recovered from the shock of the wrench and had summoned his guards.

Alan turned, revolver in hand, to find the room full of slaves and soldiers, mostly armed with scimitars. Thrusting Miriam behind him he covered the khalifa, crying in Arabic—

"At the first move thou art dead!"

The men hesitated and looked at their chief who stood by the bed, glaring at Alan.

"Tell these men to go," Alan continued. "This woman is American— fahamshi?"

He drew back the hammer of the revolver with an ominous click. The khalifa backed and muttered a rapid order.

"Nam, sidi," chorused the men and filed out. Miriam stood behind Alan, her breast heaving, her eyes devouring his face.

"Sit down and rest somewhere, darling," he said, without turning or lowering his pistol.

She flushed at the endearing term, unconscious upon his part, and obeyed. The khalifa never removed his eyes from the steady revolver muzzle.

"Now," said Alan standing over him like a young god, "either you give us a safe conduct to Mogador— or I go to the Germans. They will blow Agadir to pieces. Choose!"

The khalifa did not hesitate. A mad and armed infidel was not to his liking.

"It is the will of Allah! Thou and the girl shall start at once for Mogador."

"If there is any treachery thou and thy people will suffer for it. Swear!"

"On the beard of my Lord Mohammed, I swear it!" answered the khalifa. "May Allah the All Merciful, the All Forgiving, curse thee," he added piously.

"Go and give orders for our departure," said Alan, lowering the revolver. "And remember thy oath!"

The khalifa departed slowly, retaining his dignity, for which and the absence of whining excuses, Alan forgave him much.

He turned and in the dim light looked at Miriam half-sitting on the edge of the huge bed.

"My God, little woman," he said and took her in his arms.

In a moment or two there was the low throat-laugh of a woman's triumph.

"You great, dear darling," she whispered half-tearfully. "I knew that months and months ago."

But neither noticed the patter of little slippers at the door as Ramah, with a choking sob, stole softly away to the solitude of a roof-top to hide her passionate grief like a stricken fawn.

As the violet wings of the dawn flew before the pageant of the sun, she watched the lovers ride out of the city gate, the khalifa's escort about them. Then she realized dimly that her dream of love was over, the gates of paradise were shut in her face, that she was left to sink into the sordid slough of an odalisque.

End

Table of Contents

1: Alcoholics  Calamitous /

2: Bail Bait /

3: Private Jones / Alun Lewis

4: Filamena's Hula / Randolph Bedford

5: The Man Who Held the Wires / Randolph Bedford

6: To be Taken with a Grain of Salt / Charles Dickens

7: The Doom of London / Robert Barr

8: Pan / Winifred Graham

9: Dance Macabre / Robert Reeves

10: Last Across / Max Pemberton

11: Grimgriffenhoof / Florence Warden

12: Sir Patrick Armagh's Knife / Guy Thorne

13: Pinched / Lewis Allen

14: The Missing Pearls / Lillian Bamburg

15: A New Keeper of the Wampum / Hugh Pendexter

16: The Double Scoop / Charles Beadle