THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS

H. Bedford-Jones

writing as

Gordon Keyne

As published in Blue Book, June 1941

48,000 words

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13

_______________

Chapter 1

MARY and I were off early, to arrive early. It was a hundred-mile drive from our home on the desert floor to the cloud-veiled estate of Alta Serafina, adjoining the Serafina Forest Preserve, high in the California Sierras.

To be a guest of Daniel Parker Herron presupposes importance in one of the three empires of which he is overlord. The remarkable record in Europe and China of the Herron Fighters made him one of the world's magnates in airplane construction; his genius at things electrical, and his business acumen, had led to his famous tooth-and-nail struggle with the powers of radio, which left him victor, and a prominent figure of the air-waves. His unexpected plunge into the maelstrom of Hollywood and his emergence in blazing triumph as the master movie magnate of them all, is still so recent as to be in every mind.

Herron is today, undoubtedly, one of the world's wealthiest men, just as Alta Serafina is one of the world's show places. This fabulous paradise is probably unique, and has no rival except the vast Hearst estate farther north. Thus, as I say, to be a guest there would presuppose importance.

So I must be honest. We are not important people. In the past couple of years I had sold a few detective scripts to Herron's producers, and had twice met Herron himself. It was Mary who had really brought us this invitation, which came both from Herron and from Mona Vindon, who was usually billed as "the beauty of the world."

Mary had become acquainted with the famous screen star during the winter festivities at Palm Springs. The two women had taken an instant liking to each other. Mona Vindon shared the quiet simplicity which was so charming a quality in Herron himself. She wanted Mary to come. Herron wrote that he had personal business to discuss with me, which argued well for our finances. So, naturally, we packed up and went to Alta Serafina.

The average altitude on that ten-mile-square estate is seven thousand feet; it is no place for weak hearts or lungs. The morning was still young when we halted the car before the entrance gates at the southeast corner. There I had my first sight of that singularly unhappy man whose past and future were bound up with the lives— and the frightful deaths— of persons even then at Alta Serafina.

That barrier would have halted a runaway truck. Leaving the little house beside it, and coming through a small screened gate, was a uniformed guard, who asked for our admission card; he checked it carefully with a typed list, initialed it, and handed it back.

"Follow on to the forks, Mr. Keyne, and take the right turn," he said, and made his way back to the gate-house; a moment later the solid barrier swung open with a whir of machinery.

During this little while I had noted a second man, also in the gray-green uniform and Sam Browne belt of a guard. He was standing in the doorway of the gate-house, his gaze fastened upon us, and his face drew my whole attention. He was a compact, muscular young man. His cheeks and head were in flat planes, and his wide-winged nostrils flared like those of an Indian. I recalled few men with so straight a gaze, and instinctively knew his movements would be direct and methodical. Both physically and mentally he was bitter-clean, and stringy as sun-dried pemmican.

He saluted us briefly, unsmilingly, as we passed through the gate. Mary caught her breath and turned, her eyes lingering upon him. Then the gate fell out of our sight.

"Gordon!" she exclaimed quickly. "Did you see that man?"

I did not pretend to mistake her. "Yes. He had the shoulder-bars of a captain, I noticed; Herron's force of guards must be on a military basis."

"I don't mean that," she said breathlessly. "I know him, I know him! I remember him from Paris!"

I chuckled. "It's over a year since we were there, Mary. You think some gigolo you danced with is now in Herron's employ? A striking face, I grant you, but—"

"No," she cut in. "No. Not a gigolo. Do you remember the terrible murder-case that was in all the papers then? An American tourist who brutally killed an American girl— somebody's wife? It's mixed up in my mind, but I remember the tourist's name was Currey."

I thought back. "Yes, I recall something about it. Hot stuff— Currey!"

"Don't joke about it," she snapped. "That man we passed— he was Currey. I couldn't mistake. The pictures of him were everywhere. That murderer is here, Gordon!"

"Maybe," I rejoined. "And here are the forks in the road."

WE swung into the right turn as ordered. Two minutes later, under a great stand of sugar pines, we came to a pair of uniformed guards awaiting us; beside them was a flat platform on three wheels, with two seats and a luggage hamper.

To this we transferred, and our bags were packed in. One of the guards departed with our car. In a clearing to the left appeared a concrete slab about an acre in extent, with a ramp leading down into it; this, we gathered, was the garage.

The little electric shuttle-car zoomed us up a narrow shaded road and emerged on a rocky eminence where the driver halted, smiling, to let us gaze our fill. The panorama was stupendous.

Far to the north, nearly two hundred miles, hung the frosted top of Mt. Whitney like a blown bubble in the cloudless sky. Eastward burned the hazy, shimmering chromatics of the desert hills.

South towered the bulks of the San Bernardino range, with San Jacinto and San Gorgonio astride the pass to Palm Springs and the Coachella Valley. Los Angeles and the other cities of the plain were hidden beneath a writhing gray blanket; eighty miles distant, Catalina Island floated like a phantom in the sea.

"We've attained this view in a few minutes, and without effort," murmured Mary. "Our grandfathers would have traveled weeks to gain it, and would have talked of it all their lives!"

Our driver, who had the sense to say nothing, took this as a signal, and we were under way again for the cluster of buildings locally termed the Lodge. We had a confused glimpse of tennis-courts and a golf-course dotted with players, a miraculously blue lake, and dozens of little toy cottages tucked away among gigantic rocks and pines. What with domestics and workmen, this tremendous establishment that housed just one man, alone in the world, was larger than many a village.

Off to the right sprawled the Main House, of chalet type. The upper part stepped back to a full three stories; the ground floor was of giant redwood logs with the bark on. We swept around to the north entrance and before we knew it, we were in an elevator, being taken to the third floor. Here we walked down endless pine corridors rich with amber skylights, around corners and down half-flights and up again, to reach a three-room suite in the southeast corner. The place was a labyrinth. The doors were all alike, and all unmarked or numbered; a decorative metal container held a card with the name of the occupant.

While we were gazing from our windows into the incredible depths below— this corner of the house overlooked one end of the famous Sweetwood Chasm— a maid and valet arrived, unpacked our luggage with deft dispatch, and vanished again. I dropped into a priceless Sheraton chair, lit a cigarette, and eyed Mary.

"I'll make a bet with you, Mary. They'll never come back for us. It'll be like a dream. Days will pass, and weeks. We'll just sit here unrecollected and forgotten—"

"Like some famous novelist in a Hollywood studio," struck in Mary brightly.

"Correct. Finally they'll send a search party to locate us. Something may remind Herron of our existence; by that time it'll be too late."

"I'll take your bet!" Mary cocked her head, listening. "Here's someone now. And, Gordon! You must tell Mr. Herron about that man we saw— the man Currey. Not that I believe in hounding anyone through life because of a mistake made, but this was a brutal murder, a horrible affair. Herron ought to be told."

"All right," I said. Steps had sounded, a knock rang at the door.

I admitted a crisp man of fifty who introduced himself as Lennihan, Herron's secretary. He inquired whether I wanted to see Mr. Herron now or during the afternoon.

"Now!" I rejoined, and departed....

Endless corridors, stairways, vistas; Lennihan explained that at the moment Alta Serafina housed less than a dozen guests in all, the greater part of the Main House being closed off. Several of the cottages outside were in use. One of these was a permanent home occupied by the Pascal Herrons, an elderly couple. I would, said Lennihan rather sadly, see quite a bit of Herron's Uncle Pascal. Lennihan was one of those automatons with a terrific capacity for work, and a scant sense of humor. He managed to convey the idea that Uncle Pascal was not all that might be desired; and he was right.

P ASSING through a wide doorway, we entered a different world. Here was the business portion of Alta Serafina, with soundproofed walls and air-conditioned offices. From here, whether in summer or winter, Daniel Parker Herron ruled his entire empire in solitary grandeur. He ignored the citied world of business just as he ignored politics, with a lofty disdain he might have borrowed from the snowy peaks he so loved.

Glancing through an open door in passing, I glimpsed a communications-room literally packed to overflowing with telephone switchboards and teletype apparatus. Still another door opened into a little post office, complete with boxes and registry window. Then, crossing the antechamber, we were in the simple, spacious, unadorned sanctum whose single wide plate glass window looked out upon nature's magnificence, and I was shaking hands with Herron.

Immediately the world was happier; he had that effect, for he was simple and honest as the scrubbed white-pine floor underfoot. Herron might rule his dominion like a king, but there was no regal pose about him; there was no pose whatever.

In his late thirties, Herron's rugged tanned features were stronger than they were handsome; that thin-lipped mouth of his was expressive, swift to smile, purse up quizzically, or burst open in explosive laughter. The word hearty would well describe the man. His sun-bleached hair was a hempen thatch, yet the brows above his deep blue eyes were jet black. Just now those blue eyes were twinkling and radiant; he was glad to see me, and said so.

"You're looking fit, Gordon! You'll need to be. We're going to run you ragged up here. And you can kiss that charming wife of yours good-by for a time; Mona has plans for her.... Well, sit down and don't be so damned formal. Here, smoke up."

One was instantly on a footing of familiarity with Dan Herron— if he liked you. He tore open a pack of cigarettes, lit his own and mine and returned to his desk. Like the room, the desk was bare and simple. Herron, in sweat-shirt and slacks, slid himself into a squeaky old swivel chair and grinned at me as he rocked it back and forth.

"My dad's old chair; he would never have it oiled. Said a man behind a desk had too much tendency to sleep anyhow — needed a good healthy squeak. Gordon, we're establishing a new production unit at the lot." Thus he always referred to the enormous Herron Pictures establishment in Hollywood. "For mystery and detective pictures exclusively. I want you to do us a dozen stories. Here's a contract; see if it suits you."

This was Dan Herron's way of doing business; he simply took what he wanted, pleasantly. He was so genuine and so open that trouble avoided him.

The contract was to my taste; it was overgenerous, and I said so. He grinned and waved his hand.

"Swell! You'll earn every cent of it. But this isn't the only reason I wanted to get you here, Gordon; something has come up where you should be able to give some help. As I've told you before this, I regard you as an old friend, I've read so many of your stories. I've been a fan of yours so long, that now I've called you in to join a board of strategy, as it were. Do you want to take on some problems this afternoon?"

"Well, Dan, I'm gaited to run from trouble," I rejoined lightly. "But I'll take on anything you throw at me.... Oh, by the way: Mary insisted that I tell you something."

I hesitated. It looked rather absurd, but at his prompting, I went on:

"At the gate as we entered your grounds, a man was standing. He was in your gray-green uniform and had silver shoulder-bars, like a captain. Do you place him?"

"Of course," Dan Herron exclaimed. "That's Captain Brett— he's actually captain of my guards." He broke into a laugh. "Captain of the Guards— the title rather appeals to him. He's a queer chap in many ways, but sterling. We were in college together."

"All right," I said, and drew a deep breath. "Then Mary was mistaken; that settles it, of course. She insisted that he was a chap we'd heard a good deal about when we were in Paris, a bit over a year ago. She thought you should be warned. You know how a woman is."

Herron's face had changed as I spoke. Its gay humor waned and died; his eyes sharpened on me. He nodded slightly.

"I suppose she took him to be that murderer Hamilton Currey, eh?"

"Yes," I replied uneasily. "I'm sorry, Dan, honest! I hope it didn't jar you."

"Oh, not a bit," he said, and his face cleared in a smile. "Other people have thought they recognized him, Gordon. I've shrugged it off as mistaken identity, but with you, it's different. I don't mind telling you the truth: Brett actually is the man Currey."

"Oh!" I said, very awkwardly.

He chuckled at my expression. "I'll tell you about it one of these days— Brett may tell you himself. Put it out of your mind that he's a murderer; he's not. I give you my word, Keyne, Brett's a genius! Mad, they'd have called him a couple of centuries ago; prating of unseen things— but damned sensible too!"

A QUEER chilly something seized upon me. Herron was in earnest; I did not understand his words, and did not like them. They affected me strangely. The people who would have been called mad a couple of centuries ago usually have a tincture of madness today that is not to my taste.

"You know Lafe Newberry, of course?" Herron said abruptly.

"Slightly. Not intimately."

"He came up yesterday and is spending some time here, I hope. I've got him on leave from the Chronicle; we're working together on something big for radio. Meantime, he's on a thing that should appeal to your dramatic instincts. He'll join us any minute now; before he barges in, let me find you the evidence."

He rummaged through his desk.

Newberry? There was a real genius, and none of your mad hatters! He had been a foreign correspondent during some years for the News people and had been expelled from most European capitals because he got too much news. Just before the war broke, he had returned to this country, specializing in a syndicated crime column; I did not know him well. He was, admittedly, one of the nation's great reporters. The startling mystery solutions which his column credited to the police were actually his own. He roved from paper to paper of his syndicate as the crime-drift might indicate; at present he was nominally a member of the Chronicle staff in Los Angeles. His presence here at Alta Serafina indicated something of unusual import afoot.

"Lafe's not a happy man," said Herron, getting out a small folder at last. "Had a domestic tragedy in Europe, but he's risen above it.... Ah, here he is!"

The door opened, and Newberry came in with a cheery greeting.

"Hello, Dan! Heard Keyne was here, so in I came. H'are you, Keyne?"

The stocky man who weaved into the room as though he were shadow-boxing and pumped my hand, did not lack in self-assurance, but he was really a quiet, thoughtful chap, very soft-spoken.

Lafe Newberry was getting on in years for a reporter; he was, I should venture, about forty-five, soberly but carefully attired, and had a perfectly round head covered with thinning drab hair. His lower lip thrust out slightly in permanent truculence, from a square chin— exactly like the earlier pictures of Mussolini. He had a bony, spatulate nose. What he lacked in good looks, he made up in forceful personality.

"I'm just showing Gordon the letter that came here the other day," Herron said, shoving the manila folder across the desk at me. "I think you have the first one, Lafe? Let's introduce Gordon to the mystic writer: then you can take him in hand— and nothing's to be held back. What d'you think of it, Gordon?"

Clipped to the folder was a piece of newsprint, and pasted across this, which was letter size, were whole words that had been cut from a newspaper. They read:

Death is man's end at land's end. You can't gamble with death; I always win. When an uninvited guest lies dead, look below him. And when you are in most fear I will come to the rescue. Death is a friend.

Mr. Fate.

I shook my head, smiling.

"Such crackpot messages aren't usually signed. Your friend Death, or Mr. Fate, seems to be a mental case with a sense of humor. What do you do with such nonsense as this?"

"Oh, we have a nut file," replied Herron. "Some is interesting; most is harmless; but this is to be taken seriously. Our friend, as you call him, has rung the bell, has delivered the goods, has come through!"

I WAS startled. "Good Lord, Dan! You don't mean there's been a killing here?"

"I don't think we need to worry up here. You saw for yourself that we're pretty well guarded," Herron rejoined gravely. "However, the guy has certainly paid off on another message. Did you read about the Boguslav case recently?"

"Yes, of course; day before yesterday, wasn't it?"

Poor old Boguslav, a White Russian general, had come into the United States years ago without a passport, living harmlessly and quietly. Some investigation into illegal entries, or a tip from some communist, had dredged up the old chap. Despite every sympathetic effort made on his behalf, he was ordered deported.

"And he took a soldier's way out," I said.

Lafe Newberry snorted. "He did, like hell! That's merely what the sob-sister said, Keyne. Here! We got this at the Chronicle office, investigated right away, found the old duffer stiff and cold— and had a swell scoop. Read it."

He shoved another message at me, made up like the first of clipped and pasted words; it had been sent to the city editor of the Chronicle.

General Boguslav has lost his gamble. Death takes his salute here rather than in the Lubianka cellars. So may I sooner visit the heights of Alta Serafina.

Mr. Fate.

Herron was watching me with his bleak stare as I laid down the message.

I divined an uneasy worry in his manner. Now Newberry spoke quickly.

"Keyne, would an old soldier shoot himself so clumsily as to deface his prized Cross of St. George? Would he do this just before a testimonial dinner given by his old friends? He trimmed his hair and beard. He pressed his old uniform tunic, snipping off the frayed threads, darkening the worn places with ink. He put on all his decorations and polished his boots. Then— he shot himself! He did, like hell!"

The scorn in his voice was like acid. I shook my head.

"And there were other reasons," spoke up Herron. "Never mind all that now; it's past and over. The main thing was that Mr. Fate predicted it aright. The presumptive threat concerning Alta Serafina worried Lafe, who phoned me about it. We dug the other message out of our files. I got Lafe here to handle it and called you in; and we're going to keep our fences tight. We just don't want any murder-mystery around here."

Again his undercurrent of anxiety surprised me. Daniel Parker Herron had never been known to pull any punches, and was bitterly hated in a dozen quarters because of his passion for abstract justice. Threats of death and revenge have never bothered him in the least. Yet now he was certainly bothered. He had called Newberry here, and had even summoned me to lend a hand. This worry of his might well spring from an uneasy conscience, since Herron was all he-man and no angel.

"Well, have you any uninvited guests here?" I asked. "If not, you should worry about the prediction!"

"Nary a one," he said, "and we intend to have none, either! Now, boys, the meeting stands adjourned until two o'clock— right after lunch. Lafe, take care of Gordon. He's one of the family; there's nothing to hide from him. The morning's still early. See that he gets shaken down. Trails, horses, tennis, anything you like."

Newberry and I came into the outer office, where Lennihan gave the newspaperman a sheaf of telegrams and letters. Newberry turned to me:

"Look here," he said frankly, "do you mind giving me fifteen minutes to answer some of these wires? Then I'll be with you, and my mind free. Come along to my quarters, if you like."

"No, I'll just wander about the labyrinth," I said, "and get an eyeful of the place. Where's the famous collection of firearms?"

"Scattered all over— a room here, another there," said Newberry. "All right, make yourself at home. I'll find you, wherever you are."

We separated. I was just as glad to have a few moments to myself; and finding a side doorway at hand and the open air beyond, I struck out for the wine-clear atmosphere and the huge trees. This took me out on one side of the Main House, and I strolled aimlessly along the path, making for the trees.

TWO men were approaching. One was a swarthy, handsome man whom I took for an Oriental of some sort. The other was a gnome-like little fellow with sideburns and snapping bright eyes and an expression of cheerful idiocy. He caught my eye, abruptly abandoned his companion, and pursued me with outstretched hand and glad words.

"Hello, you're a new arrival, eh? Glad to welcome you. I'm Pascal Herron— sort of unofficial greeter, you know. Have you seen Dan yet?"

"Yes, thanks," I said, and gave my name. He had never heard of me and said so.

"Just as well to be frank about it, eh? Good sign, too. Can't always put your finger on these guys who are famous for something; apt to be lop-sided. Take that chap I was with just now. Charming fellow, but up in the air. He's that Raja Naga you must have read about; mystic from somewhere upcountry in India... Well, what can I do for you?"

When Uncle Pascal discovered he could do nothing for me, he went his way and I went mine, striking off among the trees and losing myself happily— now following one of the graveled walks, or again crossing a slippery, yielding mattress of pine needles.

The truth had grown upon me, and I found it filled with new surprises as I considered it. I was not here because Mona Vindon and Mary had taken a liking for one another. I was not here because Herron wanted to make me a movie writer. I was here because he was worried, and he wanted to focus my imagination and the hard, practical brain of Newberry upon some problem that frightened him. He, Daniel Parker Herron, who could command immense resources— frightened I It was hard to visualize. He was an upstanding personality himself, and by no means in the habit of leaning on others. Because I had a flair for the writing of detective novels, he thought I was a detective.

"A sad mistake it was to make!" I murmured to myself. "To be in Wonderland for such a reason— it's like some country locksmith waking up to find himself in heaven because St. Peter has lost his keys and needs help!"

Laughing softly, I came out on a sunny slope between two giant russet trunks — a sharp slope, too. Ten feet below me was a narrow trail that wound along the cliff-edge, where ran a waist-high parapet of cut and fitted stones. Beyond this little wall was three thousand feet of nothing. I was at the verge of that dizzy gorge known as Sweetwood Chasm, a spot famed as a scenic wonder.

At the moment I had no inclination to view this stupendous gulf. I sank down among the ferns that strewed the pine-sweet slope, and let my nerves relax to the vast loneliness of the place. The Lodge, the entire outer world, were out of sight— gone— for only sky and distance remained here.

I could see across five miles of space to Toro Peak, pine-fringed above the six-thousand-foot line, and below it carpeted with manzanita and juniper jungle, matted into a smooth bottle green flecked by maroon shadows. Above me, a squirrel scampered along one of the huge trees, carefully keeping on the side away from me, and peering down now and again with watchful, curious gaze.

Closing my eyes against the sky-glare, I lay lulled by the hypnotic drumming of a woodpecker somewhere above, while my thoughts drifted upon my situation. The thought of working over some puzzle sent by a crank letter-writer was amusing and vaguely attractive. The drumming of the questing bug-hunter stopped abruptly. After a moment it recommenced, closer at hand but slower, with a dull reiteration as though the bird were working on a more solid log, with a different tempo. Then I realized that it was no bird at all, but the sound of hasty feet thudding the earth.

I sat up and looked around. Drumming, frenzied haste— the very thought of any such thing jarred strangely upon this blissful solitude. A fleck of scarlet broke through the shadows of the trail to my left. There, from a fringe of young cedars, a woman suddenly burst into sight, running along the trail like a startled animal in panic urge.

Her arms were outstretched before her, hands clutching and thrusting as though reaching to push away something unseen. I could hear her labored breathing; her face was a contorted mask of emotion. And then, suddenly as she had appeared, she stopped dead.

Not because of me. My presence among the ferns above remained unsuspected. Why did she halt? She was staring at something; she was making a terrific effort to banish all her emotion— and she was doing it. For her, perhaps, it was no hard matter.

I gazed at her with a curious sense of unreality. She had ever seemed more actual on the screen than she did in life; and now, in the quivering, terrified flesh, she did not seem actual at all. She was Mona Vindon the incomparable, the exquisite, for whose brilliant triumph in "Cynthia" a full-throated chorus was demanding the next Academy award.

Frightened— in panic! Nothing stirred along the trail behind her. Now, however, a figure came into sight, approaching her. It was this figure she had seen; it was for him she now broke into a quick smile, though she was still ashen to the lips. In her gay slacks, in her scarlet scarf, in the sunlit masses of her hair, she was abruptly carefree and eager.

"Good morning!" she cried cordially. "Just the man I wanted to see!"

The other stopped, and I saw that it was Captain Brett.

"Anything wrong, Miss Vindon?" he asked, eying her frowningly. "You look rather startled."

"I slipped and nearly fell over the parapet there at Land's End," she said, and broke into a laugh. "Have you a cigarette? And then I'll ask your company back to my cottage. I want to get my car out, as soon as I can dress."

She wanted to keep him away— from whatever had frightened her. Then something plucked at me. Land's End! The message from "Mr. Fate!"

"I suppose,"— Brett was speaking and looking at her in his unsmiling, bleak way,—"you were warned by the stars of your near-tumble?"

"You needn't be sarcastic," she said, lighting the cigarette from his match.

"On the contrary, it's needed," he rejoined. "You know very well Dan doesn't approve of your belief in astrology. The stars— bosh! You struggle through life, and for what? Do you know?"

She exhaled thinly, smiling a little. It was easy to see that they were friends and intimate ones. I remembered that Herron had mentioned Brett as an old college friend.

"For success, my dear man," she rejoined. "Success and fame!"

"And do you know just what success and fame are?" he questioned harshly. "No, you don't. Men live long lives, seek furiously and painfully, rise early and bed late, forgo friends and let love fly unmourned, and still struggling come to death's narrow door— too intent on their prize to realize that they never knew what it was!"

She was quite herself now. With a delicious trill of laughter, she caught his arm and swung him around.

"You sha'n't lecture me— I'll not have it!" she cried gayly. "Life is nonsense, all nonsense! It's not real! I refuse to think it real at all, so come along."

They passed from my sight, going along the path to the right. But those last words of Mona Vindon's were transparent. Something had happened, that she was fighting desperately to deny all realities and to forget. I wondered if it was what the unknown Mr. Fate had predicted. And I wondered if this undeniably odd man Brett were perhaps the murderer— a murderer once more.

Chapter 2

MONA VINDON had not called for help, perhaps had wanted none. I had a chilly distaste for backtracking her steps. With these Hollywood people, an intruder usually got it in the neck; and, even though I knew Mona slightly, I did not intend to stick my neck out.

It was the buzzard that decided me. I noticed him in his downward carrion spiral; the target of his drop seemed close to me. The gust of some transverse air-current swept him out of his orbit, dead opposite me. He tilted his wings, turned himself like an ice-skater, and magically was catapulted back, without obvious movement, to his former position, dropping lower and out of my sight.

There was now no doubt what to expect. I rose and slid down the slope to the trail. This led me through the deep woods, then widened, dipped, and emerged upon a broad flagged pavement that completely covered a triangular spur of rock thrusting out above the gorge. The cliff rose steeply at the back; it was bisected by two stone pillars and a broad flight of steps which must lead to the Lodge, as a portion of the building was visible among the trees above. Several benches formed part of the parapet edging the great chasm. Here was Land's

End, as a neatly lettered sign informed all and sundry, giving a view of the dizzy gulf below and of the mountains beyond, unrivaled in nature.

It was the view closer to hand that caught my attention.

HERE was the reason for Mona Vindon's terror; a man, outstretched on that stone bench— a pool under and around his head, congealed and black.

I took a step closer, and another. The man was dead. Sight of him was what had sent Mona Vindon darting away in panic. This seemed odd; one thinks of an actress as better poised. And why had she so obviously tried to keep Brett from coming here and finding the body?

Well, no matter; I must let Herron know immediately. And I must, as I had so often and glibly written, "leave everything untouched until the police arrive." I turned to the broad stone steps and the flanking pillars; in one of those pillars I had glimpsed a tiny open door. As I thought, it proved to be a telephone container. The entire estate was honeycombed with a telephone system.

Handkerchief covering my hand, I lifted off the receiver; if there were any fingerprints in this murder case, far be it from Gordon Keyne to spoil them!

"Main House switchboard; good morning," said a cool voice. I gave my name and asked for Herron, and presently heard his voice.

"Hello, Dan!" I said. "I'm down at your Land's End place."

"Oh, you are!" he made polite reply, evidently wondering at my call. "Fine view, eh?"

"Not so fine as it was once."

"Eh?" Naturally, he was puzzled.

"Fog coming up?"

"More than that." I caught at the cue. "Remember the storm warning from Mr. Fate? Well, it's come true."

I could almost feel his startled silence. "The devil you say!" he broke out. "Stick around; I'll be right along."

I went back to survey the dead man more carefully. Now I was in for it, since I must make good with my detective lore or else lose face with Dan Herron. The thought of Lafe Newberry cheered me, however. He knew all the answers.

The corpse was youngish; in his early thirties, at a guess. His open mouth, lips drawn back in a smiling grimace, showed white and regular teeth. Blond hair. Careful grooming, shirt and collar immaculate, cravat unrumpled, shoes new and polished. Yet the suit, of excellent material, was wrinkled and heavily spotted, as with grease.

He had been shot. There was a bluish hole between his eyes, and nothing much left of the back of his head. Seeking a more pleasant prospect, I turned away from the bench, which was on the very edge of the gulf. If the corpse had fallen outward, he would have gone hurtling down into Sweetwood Chasm.

What a damnably banal name, I thought, for so magnificent a drop! The cliff fell away sheer for a couple of hundred feet, then was broken by the feathery blue-green tips of young trees; from there the rock bulged out and ran on down to the brush line, a mile below.

"When an uninvited guest is killed, look below him." So ran the message. Was this a guest? Was he uninvited? No matter; the grisly jest had the same savor. Look below him— and below him was the overhang of the rock face, empty space!

A few cigarette-butts littered the paving. There was no sign of any weapon; the face, powder-stained, was not relaxed as faces ordinarily relax in death. Sometimes, in the surprise and horror of murder realized, the dead face never loses its emotion; sometimes rigor mortis seizes upon the whole body instantly.

If suicide, a weapon would be here. There was no suicide; it must be murder. But why had Mona Vindon been in such fearful agitation, and why had she wheedled Captain Brett away?

Voices sounded; coming down the stone steps were Herron and Newberry, followed by two others. One was a stout, middle-aged man whose physician's case revealed his profession; the other was Brett, impassive, unsmiling as ever. The doctor went directly to the body on the bench. Herron came to me, with a nod and a troubled look.

"I don't know whether the name of our friend is Fate or Death," he said, "but he certainly calls his shots."

"That depends," I said. "According to him, remember, an uninvited guest—"

"This man's a total stranger," Herron broke in, and that settled it.

Presently the doctor straightened up and came to us with brisk words.

"Nothing to be done, Mr. Herron. It happened front ten to twelve hours ago, to judge by the state of rigor. The bullet entered at the forehead and went out at the back— rather obvious. Unless you want me for something else. I'll get back to the surgery. One of the guests had just come in with a badly strained tendon when you called."

"Go ahead," said Herron. "And not a word about this to a soul. White."

Doctor White bobbed his head and then crossed to the stairs and bolted up; he was always hasty in everything, always rushed, but a good man.

The four of us drew together. Herron introduced me to Captain William Brett. I gathered that the other three were on a basis of intimacy; it was Lafe and Dan and Bill, though Newberry usually referred to Herron as "the Chief."

"If he's not a guest, how did he get here?" I asked.

"They break into banks, why not into Alta Serafina?" Newberry countered.

"I suppose nobody here knows him?" spoke out Herron.

"Sure," said Newberry promptly.

"Eh? You do?" Herron jerked around. "Then who is he? What is he?"

"Allan Wilson by name. Chief. He's the one I've been dealing with all the while, in the Silver Syndicate."

The name, the words, meant nothing to me; but the face of Herron changed. It hardened, became cold and angry; he said nothing, however.

I WAS watching Brett, though not overtly. I surprised startled surmise in his eyes, a glance along the trail, a swift scrutiny of the ground. He knew now why Mona Vindon had seemed so strange, why she had got him away from here. Or did he? At all events, he had recalled the meeting.

He said nothing. As a matter of fact, Brett seldom or never opened his mouth in presence of Newberry. Among these three men, as I was shortly to learn, existed a singular intimacy, a relationship strange and terrible or beautiful, according to the viewpoint.

Herron gestured to me, walked across to the next bench, and sat down. He bit at a cigar and extended another to me. Newberry and Brett were examining the corpse.

"What d'you think of this murder, Gordon?" asked Herron.

"Ask Lafe," I said. "He's your man for details, and they're fairly obvious. Cigarette-stubs under the bench; fresh clothes, good clothes on the corpse, but his suit is badly spotted. By the way, if he's not a guest, how did he come here?"

"That's the question. What d'ye mean by turning up your nose at details and clues?"

"I'm not sure, to be frank." I lit the cigar. "To me, it vaguely seems that larger things will loom more important, Dan. Causes, personalities— what shall I say? As though forces were at work. You'll probably think I'm crazy."

"I think you're dead right!" he broke out. "I can't take this in hand as I should. I'm working day and night in two directions. First, with three of our lawyers who are here, effecting a complete reorganization of my affairs; that's the big thing. Second, on a tremendous story with Lafe, he and I together. I suppose his mention of the Silver Syndicate meant nothing to you?"

"Nothing at all."

"It's our private designation for the most secret and powerful gambling group on this continent. I'm not against gambling on moral grounds. But the men at the top of this ring are beyond the law. I'm down on men like that. You may remember that my radio interests exposed and blew up the Big Ten in the psychic racket.... You may remember how Murder, Incorporated, was blown up. That's what we're going to do with these gambling big-shots: Blow hell out of them, not by newspaper publicity, but by radio and movies.''

He paused, champing at his cigar, then went on:

"Lafe has ferreted out their secrets, their plans, everything; now he's working on the men higher up. They'll be men not a soul suspects of such activity, Gordon; men highly placed, able, respectable, who think in millions and get their profit in millions."

A wry smile twisted his strong lips as he stared out at the gulf. I surprised a quick weariness in his rugged fighting features.

"Gambling, one of the great sources of wealth in the world today— handbooks, lotteries, numbers, little and big games. A source of power for men who already have wealth. Release from the monotony of fat desires! It offers power to those cowards who want to fight while risking nothing, and to keep themselves hidden!"

Disdain and scorn flamed within him. Human, prodigal of mistakes, spendthrift of money and energy— Dan Herron was all this, but he was no weakling and no hypocrite.

"So this man was one of Lafe's stool pigeons," I said. "Is that why he's dead?"

"I doubt it," Herron replied. "We're not crusading against gambling, remember. Our sole objective is to expose the men at the top; only Lafe and I know this. I have the feeling that there's more behind this murder; the hidden forces you mentioned, perhaps."

Abruptly he dismissed this subject, and spoke confidentially.

"For the next few days I'm absolutely tied up with lawyers; this reorganization of the airplane industry and other interests have me sewed up. So let me explain here and now about Brett. We were in college together; he's younger than I am. About that murder mess in Paris: I pulled him out of it. Rather, Lafe did, with my backing. Got him acquitted. None the less, his whole life was wrecked, so I gave him shelter here. Great things in Brett, great things!"

He puffed anew, squinting out at the opposite peaks.

"Lafe pulled the finest thing a man ever did," he mused. "He fixed up an alibi that overbore all the evidence; and Brett did look damnably guilty. You see, it was Lafe's wife he was accused of murdering."

What bombs can be loosed in a word or two! Here was sketched human drama and anguish unequaled. Glancing at Newberry, I tried to match this with my appraisal of him, and failed.

"Did Newberry believe him guilty?" I asked.

Herron shook his head. "No. Brett convinced him that he was innocent; I knew such a barbaric crime was quite impossible to him, also. So Lafe went to work, and managed it. And here are the two of them, pulling a dead man's pocket to pieces!"

I got a new line on this man Brett, as he was now named, while I watched him carefully sorting the various objects from Wilson's pockets. His impassive, inhuman fixity took on color. The reason slipped into my mind— not clearly, but enough to register. He was not a resentful hermit savagely hating the world; rather, he was progressing, keeping in motion, moving forward to some deep inner goal that he alone knew. I began to want to know this man.

"By the way, Dan, I met your Uncle Pascal this morning," I said, smiling.

"Oh!" Herron wakened and turned to me, his abstraction gone in a swift laugh. "You ought to get really acquainted; the old boy is a human wonder, and a character such as never was before! His wife. Aunt Martha, is pretty much an invalid. They stay here the year around, and Pascal potters around with books and such. Well, I'm due back at the office. Two this afternoon, remember."

HE rose abruptly. As he did so, the other two men separated. Newberry came toward us, while Brett strode rapidly off by the eastern trail.

"Going to get the guy out of sight," said Newberry, in his flat, level way. "Dan, you and Keyne come and look over this stuff. Never can tell."

I am not sure to this day whether he already knew what we would find. Probably he guessed it, at all events.

We stood looking down at the odds and ends taken from Wilson. Keys, wallet, handkerchiefs, a lighter and such things. Lying with the wallet was a little sheaf of papers and envelopes. Newberry picked them up and spread them apart. All three of us saw it at once— a white envelope addressed to Daniel Parker Herron. Without a word, Newberry shoved it aside from the others. Herron reached forward and took it.

He tore it open and pulled out the sole contents: a check. He glanced at this, and his jaw fell. We crowded close. The check was certified. It was made out to Herron. It was issued by and on the Trinity Trust & Savings Bank and it was for two hundred thousand dollars.

"Small potatoes!" Upon the silence broke Newberry's jeering voice.

"What d'you mean?" snapped Herron. "Why would the Trinity Trust send me this?"

"Oh, merely as a bribe; it's perhaps one per cent of the Silver Syndicate's annual take," said the reporter calmly. "They hope you'll take the cash and let the story go."

"Bribe?" Herron exploded suddenly. "How d'you know that? Where'd they get the idea I could be bribed? Why would they dare try such a thing on me?"

"I guess I'm responsible. Chief," said Newberry.

"You? Explain."

"Well, I needed some motion in the back row. Y' see. Chief, when you begin poking into the Silver Syndicate, you're reminded of a nest of snakes. All the little reptiles down in front, rolled into a ball, while the big ones lie flat and sluggish, hard to pick out in the mess. So I dropped a word that you had a walloping big note coming due soon and couldn't meet it."

At this, Herron really did explode.

"I don't owe anyone a thin dime, blast your impudence!" he concluded more coherently. "To have such a rumor get around, just now when our reorganization is pending—"

"Cheer up. Chief, it won't," Newberry broke in coolly. "You agreed with me, a couple of weeks ago, that it was imperative to learn whether our source of information was reliable and close to the top. I slipped Wilson the word; he went to headquarters with the news, and headquarters acted. Therefore Wilson was considered entirely responsible; he was also close to the top."

"So this man was the one you were working with!"

"Yes. Now we can go ahead and break the story. If the syndicate can trust his judgment for this much money, I can trust what he told me."

"That doesn't follow, Lafe." Herron was in action now, alert and positive. "He could have transmitted your blasted financial tip through a dozen hands!"

"Sure. But would they have passed this certified piece of larceny back through those twelve hands? Not likely. Wilson was close to the top of the grapevine."

"And he's the fellow you've been so damned mysterious about, eh? See here— d'you think they may be on to us— that he was killed because he talked to you?"

"Not with a certified check for two hundred grand in his pocket," said Newberry. "They'd not hand you a bribe with one hand and a bunch of trouble with the other. If they had killed him, he would simply have disappeared. They're not gangsters, to advertise their killings. Not much! They're too clever."

Herron nodded his acceptance of this theory.

"How did you make him loosen up at all, Lafe?"

Newberry grinned. "Remember the card that used to stand on your desk in the New York office. Chief? It said: 'The best oil to use on a crook's jawbone is fear.' Well, I just knew enough at first to make Wilson think I really knew a lot; and I did know something about his past. I got him believing that the syndicate aimed to throw him to the wolves if things got hot. To make sure they wouldn't throw him without taking a slide themselves, Wilson gave me chapter, book and verse. I promised, in return, to deal him out completely in any gambling story that might break. Well, he's been dealt out now— poor fellow!"

Newberry's words were sympathetic, but his eyes remained hard and bright as two polished steel-blue gunsights.

Herron glanced at his watch,

"The devil! I must be on my way. Lafe, see you this afternoon; we'll have to make some decision about this business. You and Keyne get somewhere on it, if you can."

"And you'd better tuck that check out of sight and sit tight," said Newberry. "Or do you need my advice?"

"I do not. So long!"

Herron turned, took the steps that led to the Lodge two at a time, and was gone. He had the gait of an athlete.

NEWBERRY, who had worn no hat, was palming his round head, his eyes flitting about uncertainly. He observed: "Hm! It's a wonder to me that Wilson could lie there undiscovered all morning until you happened along— what with guards, guests and caretakers, the estate fairly swarms with life."

"You mentioned his past," I said, gesturing toward the corpse.

"A bad one, a dirty one," he nodded.

"I suppose it'll mean no end of a scandal when the authorities go into it."

"What authorities, Keyne?" he asked. "Sheriff's office, I suppose."

He shook his head. "They'll not mix in it until we find the killer. And that, if I'm any judge, means Mr. Fate."

"Hold on," I exclaimed. "You don't mean you'd conceal this murder?"

"Why not?" His gaze was hard. "That's a felony."

"Not unless it's found out. When it is, we'll have the killer. No sheriff will worry about trifles when he gets a murderer handed him on a silver platter."

"That's fantastic," I exclaimed. "Not even Daniel Parker Herron can get away with that sort of thing!"

Newberry stared at me.

"Now look," he said. "I deal with facts; you deal with fiction. That's a swell combination, if we play ball. You know a lot I'd like to know. The Chief said to spill everything; we'd better get on the job. For me, the job is double; find Mr. Fate and solve this damned puzzle— and protect the Chief. Get it?"

"Yes," I said. There was something about him which kept me from blurting out that I had not been the first to discover this dead man.

"You can help me protect him," Newberry went on, "by keeping your trap shut about due process of law and so forth. I'll spill the reason now, before Brett returns. Then we'll go to work on the case."

"But why not bring in the law?" I objected. "Herron would be the first to say so; he has nothing to hide and nothing to fear—"

"He has plenty!" snapped the reporter. "Even if he doesn't know it! Don't tell me you haven't heard the rumors about the Chief and Mona Vindon?"

The ground began to feel shaky. It was no secret that they were in love, were engaged, and had been for a long time past, but that they remained unmarried. Some of the rumors were ugly, naturally.

"They were almost married last year," he went on, not pausing for a reply. "Everything stopped dead. Why? I didn't know myself, then. I know now. When two and two make four, I can see it; when they make twenty-two, I'm puzzled. You're aware that she had a husband?"

I assented. Every movie fan knew of the heart-wrenching romance of Mona Vindon. She had been married years ago, as a mere child, to some aviator who later crashed and died. It was the old Lady Blessington story of a girl sold into marriage to a brute. All the world had rejoiced with Mona when her husband died; they had been separated but not divorced.

Newberry nodded as I sketched what I knew.

"Correct. All true, too, except that her husband crashed and died," he said placidly. "Let me give you the straight of it. His name was Underwood."

He told it simply. Back in the days of short commons and no luck and utter desperation, before the movies brought her fame, Mona's husband flew for money. He became a dope-smuggler; the F.B.I. got on his trail, and that finished him. When he crashed and burned to death south of the border, his passing was a public and private benefit.

"When I got into touch with Wilson on this Silver Syndicate story," went on Newberry, with that sardonic glint deepening in his pale eyes, "I sensed something familiar about him, but was slow to place it. About three weeks ago I placed it. Underwood didn't die in that plane crash. It was a blind to make the Federal men check him off as dead. He was smart enough to know that if you want to fool the dicks, you must fool the entire world. So even Mona thought him dead. I did too, until I placed this guy Wilson for what he really was."

The truth burst upon me:

"Good Lord! So that's it! And that's why the marriage was halted— the man got in touch with Herron, perhaps blackmailed him!"

"Sure. But Herron never dreamed he was this fellow— didn't recognize him this morning, naturally." Newberry paused. "I don't have the usual stock notions about murder, Keyne. I don't believe it's always a crime. This Wilson was a louse. But now you see why it can't be passed on to the authorities— why the Chief must be made to abandon any such notion. I don't want to tell him, of course. But he'd be in the soup, Mona would be in the soup— her first husband murdered, here on the Chiefs estate! Boy, what a yellow-sheet holiday it would be! Now d'you get it?"

I nodded dumbly. This dead man on the bench was actually Underwood, and Herron did not suspect it.

But I knew now why Mona Vindon had been in such panic terror when she saw him lying there.

Chapter 3

OUR conversation was abruptly ended when Brett came into sight, trundling a hand truck on which was an enormous wicker laundry basket. He pulled the thing close to the bench, opened the basket, and produced a camera and tripod. Wordless, efficient, he began to photograph the corpse and the scene from various angles.

"Our Mr. Fate must be a grisly sort of joker," I said. "Remember his advice— when an uninvited guest was killed, to look below him?"

Newberry ignored my remark.

"I'm going to cast about while the ground's untrodden," he said. "Back in five minutes. Wait for me, and then we'll join the cocktail crowd up above."

He circled about the flagstones, eying the ground, and I joined Brett. He gave me a nod and a quick look; he was putting away his camera.

"Got to have the pictures when the sheriff asks questions," he said. "And the coroner."

The man radiated a calm strength; he attracted me. It was not mere curiosity, but a swift interest.

Newberry had passed out of sight and hearing along the western trail. So, as Brett began to wrap up the stuff taken from the dead man's pockets, penciling each neat little packet, I obeyed the impulse.

"So the man's a stranger, an uninvited guest!" I said.

He nodded. "Apparently Newberry knew him, but no one else."

"Don't you?" I asked. His head jerked up, and he looked at me.

"I? Heavens, no! Never saw him before in my life, Mr. Keyne."

"I wonder,"— I meditated audibly,—"whether he knew what he was after?

Or was he too so savagely intent upon his prize that he died without ever realizing just what it was?"

Brett caught his breath slightly. His eyes widened on me. No doubt he had been puzzling over why Mona Vindon should have been so anxious to cover up her agitation and to steer him away from here, earlier that morning.

"So what?" he breathed, a challenge in his gaze.

I smiled. "That remains to be seen. Captain Brett. Apparently our views on astrology coincide, and—"

I was cut short. Newberry's voice drove at us, thinly urgent; he was out of sight up the path, but his words were meant for us.

"Cover up, quick! Uncle Pascal's coming."

Brett moved like a flash. From the basket he jerked out a blanket and flung it over the corpse. I was astonished by sight of his face; it was suddenly alive with emotion, with feeling, as though a mask had been lifted. And it was a fine, chiseled face as I saw it now.

"For God's sake, get the old man away from here!" he said softly. "I'll look you up later. I understand."

I swung around. A clatter of heels sounded from the stone steps, and there was Pascal Herron tripping down— a gnome with side-whiskers and a cheerful grin. As I advanced to meet him, he spoke sharply.

"Hello, hello! What's going on here? Ah, it's you, Mr. Keyne. Where's Lafe Newberry? Come out from hiding, you rascal! I heard your voice. What's going on here?"

Newberry appeared on the trail, but hung off. I caught Pascal's arm, thankful for the few words Herron had given me about the man.

"Hush!" I said gravely. "You might think that some repairs were being made to that bench, and that Captain Brett was taking a photograph of the view opposite; far from it, Mr. Herron! In reality, a corpse lies beneath that blanket, a hideously murdered corpse, and another one in that laundry-basket!"

He broke into a laugh. "You're the fiction-writer, eh? I found out about you."

"Right. And Dan was telling me that you're fond of books. If there's time before lunch, do you suppose—"

INSTANTLY he turned me to the stairs and plunged into a torrent of speech as he urged me upward. I was a little slow to get the connection, for his remarks apparently had to do with some archaeological discovery on the site of Troy. As we gained the upper flight of stone steps, however, and he guided me away from the looming Main House toward the cottages at the right, I began to get the man ticketed.

Pascal Herron was an ardent passer-on of superficial information. He had a weekly half-hour "column," as he called it— actually a talk over one of the Herron broadcasting stations, filled with queer scraps of information, supposedly cultural. His "column" had attained great popularity, too.

"Have you read Kaempfer's scholarly monograph? It recasts all our ideas of the Siege of Troy, which really lasted nine months instead of ten years!" he was chattering volubly. "The Iliad is merely a collection of soldier-legends. There was no Wooden Horse; that was a tunnel under the walls, with wooden beams or supports. Troy was not burned, either, being built of stone. Aeneas—"

So he rambled along till we reached his cottage. He ushered me into a study lined to the ceiling with books.

I murmured something about luncheon. He said it was still an hour off, and shoved me into a chair. As by magic he had an aperitif before me, plumped himself into another chair— and with a word had me sitting upright, startled.

"How queer that those two men should be so amicable! I refer to Brett and the reporter Newberry. You know the hideous story."

THE relish he put into the word hideous showed what a gossip he was. "Dan mentioned the matter," I replied. "But it's none of my business, so—"

"I'll tell you the whole truth," he broke in: "Newberry's wife was murdered, brutally stabbed. And bloody fingerprints of the killer were found. They were Brett's prints! He was not known then as Brett— handier to keep the name. He was an old college friend of my nephew Dan. It has the horror of a Greek tragedy, the fascination of a plot by Euripides! Well, I've learned that you're a writer of detective stories. Look at the opportunity given you here!"

His impish manner is beyond description. And he was right. The story he was unfolding to me did have a certain horrible fascination, especially in view of what Herron had said about Newberry's splendid action. I threw off my scruples.

"The stories," I said, "are conflicting. Dan, for example, vows that Brett was not the murderer."

"Bosh!" broke in my host. "He's under Brett's thumb! Afraid of him, that's what I am; afraid of him! You'd better be afraid of Brett too. He'd murder us all if he had the chance. He's everywhere about here— now as a guard, now as a guest."

"He struck me as a fine sort of man," I said, reflecting that Pascal Herron must be a trifle flighty.

"Just the same, he fights with everybody. Well, now— Newberry's wife wasn't a bit wild, but she played around the way some young women do. She was at some night-spot and came home, and Newberry found her dead next morning — he had been in London and came back to find that!"

"Then Brett and the Newberrys were friends?" I inquired.

"Didn't know each other," he chirped. "But they got the fingerprints, and Brett had been at the night-spot that night, earlier. Just running everyone down, they found the prints fitted him, and they jugged him, and it was a hell of a scandal. Then Newberry finally got him out of it. Fixed up an alibi for him, see? And put money where it'd do the most good. Oh, you can get away with anything in these Latin countries if you know what palms to grease! Dan should have left the man alone. I tell you, he's a false friend!"

I saw clearly that he had a down on Brett. He was flighty and had no doubt talked a lot, and either Herron or Brett had shut him up hard. Just to prove it, I tested this out.

"Well, I'll tell Dan what you've just said—"

"Don't you breathe a word of it!" he cried at me. "This is confidential, so you can use it in a story. I'll tell you things about Dan, too, that you might use. I know some fine secrets!" He winked solemnly at me. "Historical things, too. D'you know why Hannibal did not take Rome when he had the chance?"

"No," I said. The leprechaun had become a child, to be humored.

"Because he had a dream, showing him that Carthage would fall under the weight of conquered Rome. And Genghis Khan turned back from India for the same reason; he had a dream that he'd die if he set foot in Tibet. Oh, I like to root out queer things!"

"Then tell me where Sir Francis Bacon is buried," I said wickedly, thinking to settle his hash for good and all. To my amazement, he shook his head.

"No. I know, but I can't tell yet. In a certain place in Durham Cathedral; and it's down in the records as Francis Paston. Can't tell more till it's been authenticated. I'll talk about it in my column some Sunday. Next week is to be about Friar Bacon and how he got the secret of gunpowder from an Egyptian merchant who died in London in 1374. The Egyptian, whose name was Hadad, got it from Arabian seamen who were attacked by Chinese pirates. And—"

I tore myself away, but he followed me outside despite my protests.

"You know the man you saw this morning?" he rattled on. "Raja Naga. A great man, Mr. Keyne, a wonderful man! He reads the stars as we read a written page. You must make his acquaintance. He has rendered Miss Vindon great services. He has saved her from many errors and has helped her to fame."

I got rid of him at last, sighting Newberry heading for the cottage, and meeting him near the sunken gardens. The entire south side of the Main House and cottages was taken up by these gardens; they were marvels of nature suited to the altitude.

"Well, I see he's been blatting away as usual," said Newberry, with his slightly mocking grin. "You look damned glad to be rid of him. Suppose we sit here and get down to brass tacks, then separate and meet later on?"

"Suits me," I rejoined, accompanying him to one of the benches.

"We've just time before lunch to cover the field," he said, shifting some folded papers from his pocket. "I've typed out a list for you— names, if you need 'em. Besides you folks and me, eleven guests. Three are Dan's lawyers— check 'em off. Leaves eight."

"Why all the rigmarole?" I demanded.

He grimaced. "What the hell! Don't you do it in every whodunit you hammer out? Seriously, Keyne, Wilson was killed on that bench, by someone here; 'Mr. Fate' predicted it. Therefore Mr. Fate is somebody here."

I nodded. Oddly enough, since a mere word with Captain Brett, I had ceased to think of him as either a murderer or an ex-murderer.

Among the caretakers and other employees, who ran to a staggering number, it was of course possible to seek our man; but not probable. All were steady help, well known, and the only exceptions were the chauffeurs of several guests.

NEWBERRY, in his emotionless way, astonished me by proposing that I inform Herron of the dead man's identity, when I saw him after lunch. The reporter said frankly that he shrank from doing so, and that it would come better from me.

"Besides, I've got other things to look into— that check, for one," he said. "And at two-thirty the Chief has one hell of an important conference with those lawyers. If you spill tire news, it'll buck him up. Nothing to stop the marriage now, see? You and I are the only ones to know who Wilson is. Besides, he'll appreciate the necessity of hushing this thing up."

I took the matter under advisement, promising nothing; and we went back to routine exposition of the situation; none the less, my mind played with the possibilities of giving Herron this startling information....

A good half of the Main House was out of use. The guests here, aside from the three legal lights, were on hand for a party that was to be given two nights hence; Newberry confided to me that it was a birthday party for Mona Vindon— a surprise to everyone concerned. No one else had thus far been informed of it.

All the other eight guests were in the Main House. The three lawyers were in one of the cottages. Mona herself, with her secretary, occupied another cottage. Herron's quarters were in the main building.

However, Newberry had no interest in the list of guests. Our business, he said, was not so much to find the murderer as to hush up the murder; and he was right.

"Let's wait till morning; then we'll meet with Herron and settle things— say at eleven o'clock," he concluded. "You can give him this information about Wilson, and keep your eye peeled for anything else. I'll check on some leads of my own."

I agreed. I said nothing about my glimpse of Mona Vindon; it was not important, and was something of a secret between me and Brett, for the moment. Noon was approaching. We rose and started away, and Newberry said thoughtfully:

"You know, the bitterest congressional election in years is coming up here in California in a few months. And one of Dan Herron's tangled radio affairs is his control of a whole string of small stations, up and down the State. The local politicians would give their eye-teeth to get his political support!"

"There's a Federal law about—"

"And there are tricks in all trades." Newberry winked, sagely. "Look here; suppose we meet in the bar at five for a cocktail? I might have some news about that whopping big check to impart."

I agreed. We were nearing our destination. Before us was opening the magnificent loggia with its gay sun-umbrellas, guests grouped everywhere and waiters passing about. Beyond was the central living-room, where a buffet luncheon was set— no formality, just do as you prefer. Newberry showed me where the washrooms were, and I left him.

After a quick clean-up, I came back upon the luncheon scene. Seeking Mary, I surprised what struck me at the moment as a slightly ludicrous brawl of words between two men who disliked each other. But after the first moment, I realized that it merely continued a scene of which I had witnessed the first passages earlier this morning.

Remembering the status of Brett in this place, and all Pascal Herron had said, I was not astonished when I came upon Captain Brett, no longer in his uniform, but now in white flannels.

They were all in one corner of the big room. Brett, his face like a thundercloud, stood facing the swarthy, handsome Raja Naga; Mona Vindon sat looking at them uneasily, beside a table that was being set by two waiters; and just beyond her sat Mary, who caught my eye and made a slight gesture that halted me. None of the others noticed me.

"You are wrong," Raja Naga was saying, with a superbly suave manner that did not quite hide his sneer. "The stars are immutable sentinels of eternity, watchers knowing and serene. Students and seers may say yes or no, but they care nothing, nor will they bend one moment toward another, no matter how you beseech them. But though they are inflexible, do not believe them to have no connection with your destiny."

"Tripe!" said Brett. "I'm not polite about it, either. The stars didn't tell you that death was close at hand, did they?" At this, Mona Vindon tried to check him, but he went on harshly: "They didn't warn you that someone was dying last night, did they?"

"All that death means, is another life," said the Hindu, for such he was. "Shall I tell to you a little parable of India, about death?"

IF Brett did not want to hear it, Mary and Mona did, and said so. Raja Naga's voice was flexible as an actor's.

"The gods had whispered to the prince that there was a jewel in the sunset," he said. "He sent his captain of guards to bring it. The captain bestrode his horse and went, but he came not back. The prince dispatched another and another, until a score of his best warriors had gone; but none returned. At last he, old and failing, went himself, and found the jewel— which was death. None may send for that which is in the sunset."

Raja Naga bowed and saluted the ladies.

Suddenly Brett smiled, and that acid smile of his was poised and calm again. "Look, Raja! I'll give you a better one: I'll match your inspired bit of nonsense with the story of an old woman from a Chinatown alley. I'll tell you of blue lagoons and pagodas against a twilight sky like ideographs of finest brush-strokes. I'll tell you of a brazen bell whose throat held a sound so human and so divine that a tale was told of it; the bones of a god were burned beneath it in the making, and its heat was quenched in the tears of a thousand wives bewailing their dead! I'll tell of a mountain so serene and high that its crest is a blowing veil in the face of eternal light; a sword so keen that tigers who behold it are like kittens forever after; a river so broad that on one side they pray at moonrise, and on the other bank the sun looks back at night!

"Here in this land of enchanted surprises are maidens more fair than the robes of an emperor on a throne of milky jade! Here trees are rooted deep in honeyed wells, and birds sing endless praise to the goddess of mercy. And where is this land? It is not to be found on the globes of scholars; nor may it be told of by returning travelers. Come— where is it, Raja Naga?"

The Hindu, disdainfully aloof, held his peace. Brett smiled, and his smile was no longer bitter, but very tender.

"Why, it's in the heart of my youngest child!" he said. "Or so, at least, spoke Ng Li, so long ago that the hills he lived beneath are now in sandy beaches on the eastern shore."

"I think the gods have spoken through your lips," Raja Naga said simply, and turning, he strode away.

Brett glanced after him with thinly narrowed eyes; that unexpected praise had been unpleasant. He swung around, spoke to the two women briefly, and also strode away.

I came forward, shook hands with Mona, and took the chair between the two.

"Well, this is about the rummiest go that I ever ran into!" I said. "What was it— a contest in parlor stories?"

Mona Vindon tried to smile, but her eyes were wide and dark.

"I'm afraid it was deeper than that," she said.

"Well, let me in on the secret," I said. "Let me in on it. Miss Vindon, and I'll let you in on one of mine that will banish all your most secret fears. I'm a magician too; I'll put to flight all the trouble in your heart. It's a promise."

Mona Vindon stared at me. "You mean that, Mr. Keyne? But you can't know my trouble!"

"Try me," I said, smiling. Mary gave me a puzzled look and stepped hard on my toe, but I ignored her. "Try me. First, let me in on this byplay between the Seer and the Dark Angel."

"Oh!" The words struck a spark in Mona's eyes. "You're really a mystic?"

"Try me," I said.

She drew a deep breath. "Well— it's nothing new. Raja Naga and Mr. Brett were in Paris at the same time, and Brett doesn't believe in astrology or psychic powers, or at least in Raja Naga's kind, and they just aren't friends. And now they got into an argument, and you heard how it ended— and that's all. Why did you call Brett a dark angel?"

I looked at her for a moment. That some intimacy lay between them, I knew from what I had seen this very morning. How deep did it go? How innocent was it? Well— all that was none of my business. Between this Hindu seer and Brett there existed a bitter hatred, which was enough for me.

Taking out a card and a pencil, I scribbled on it:

"What threatened you this morning is gone forever. Forget it."

I was about to sign it, quizzically, with the name of Mr. Fate— and checked myself. I could barely repress an exclamation, and stared down at the table with a startled pulse-leap coursing through me.

"Your promise, please!" exclaimed Mona Vindon.

I looked up, met her eyes, and held out the card. "Show it to no one— not even to Mary here! Agreed?"

She nodded. She took the card, read the words, lifted frightened eyes to me again— and across her lovely, delicate features swept a rose-pink color.

But I was still thinking of the card and the pencil in my hand, and the signature I had not jotted down; for I believed that I had suddenly comprehended who, or what, Mr. Fate was.

Chapter 4

"DAN," I said gravely, "I'm afraid you'll have to let me stick my nose into your private affairs, so pin your ears back meekly. I've a thing or two that I must tell you. A peculiar set of circumstances has given me, in the few hours I've been here, more information about you, possibly, than I'll obtain all the rest of my life."

Herron laughed and extended cigars.

"Smoke up, and go as far as you like, Gordon!" he exclaimed. "I'm free until two-thirty. And after tomorrow, thank God, I'll not be tied up with lawyers and shall be free as a bird day and night!"

"Perhaps freer than you think," I said. That caught him, and banished his mirth.

Two o'clock had come and gone, and I sat in Herron's sanctum— the two of us alone. Luncheon had afforded me no opportunity of private speech with Mona Vindon, or to be honest, I had evaded any such opportunity. So far as Mary was concerned, she was the one female in ten thousand who could hold curiosity in check.

"I suppose," Herron observed, lighting a cigar with his usual care, "Uncle Pascal has been telling you my life's history?"

"He hasn't opened his mouth about you, Dan. He's an interesting old chap; his mental angle is pitiful and needs correcting; it's not good for him to be stuck away here, out of the world."

"I know it; but you can't do anything with Uncle Pascal; God himself can't!" Herron grimaced wryly. Then he broke into a smile. "Listen, Gordon; don't hesitate to go to bat with anything that's on your mind. What's this all about?"

I took him at his word. "Miss Vindon's husband."

He drew at his cigar for a moment, then laid it down. A curious change took place in him; he leaned back in his creaking desk chair, and became utterly relaxed— which warned me of his intense concentration. It is only in Hollywood that concentration requires knotted brow and tense attitude.

"So you know he's alive, do you?" he said quietly. Then, not giving me a chance to speak, he went on rapidly:

"It's been a terrible ordeal, Gordon; I'm thankful you do know, thankful that I can lighten the burden by confiding in you. Yes, he's alive; I haven't dared breathe it to a soul, not even to Lafe. Alive, and blackmailing me! And I have preached that there should be no compromise with blackmailers!"

He uttered a harsh, bitter laugh. "And I'm helpless. Not for my own sake; if that hophead dared to show himself, dared to come alive, I'd have him clapped into a Federal prison in five minutes— if I were alone in the matter! But it's Mona. She doesn't dream he isn't dead. And if this fellow came to life publicly, think what it'd mean to her! We're both prominent; rumor has been at work already because we're not married. This rascal could bring down the vultures of publicity— another Eugene Aram case! And it'd wreck her."

"Did you ever see this man?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No. He's worked by telephone and by letter. If he ever revealed to Mona that he was alive— I don't know what she'd do!"

"I know what she'd do," I said, and smiled. "She'd probably be scared to death lest you discover the matter. You'd better go find her, Dan, and get the thing all cleared up!"

He stared at me. "What the devil are you talking about?"

"She discovered that corpse this morning, before I did, and recognized him. And your Lafe Newberry knew him; Wilson was really Underwood. Newberry asked me to break it to you— he shrank from doing it, he said. I rather doubt that he'd shrink from anything, but none the less—"

The jolt took Herron off his feet for a moment. He tried to speak and could not. It was a revelation of all the pent depths of his emotion, of his soul-harried worry. He was still trying to assimilate all that my words implied, when the buzzer sounded; he threw the interphone switch and replied.

"Captain Brett is here, sir," said Lennihan's voice.

"Oh! Yes, all right; send him in." He swung around to me, and his face was radiant. "By glory, you've given me the best day's news I've had in years! If I knew who killed that scoundrel, I'd give him ten thousand dollars and help him make his get-away!"

"Better ask Mr. Fate who did it," I said. "Oh, that reminds me! I wanted to tell you—"

THE door opened and Brett came in.

His entrance cut me short. It was no moment to reveal what I had discovered about Mr. Fate.

Herron leaped up. Years had fallen away from him, and he was like a boy.

He exclaimed: "Well, Brett? Anything special?"

"Might be." Brett regarded him in some astonishment. "Why, you look as though you'd just won the Sweepstakes!"

Herron laughed and dapped me on the shoulder. "Better than that; Keyne just brought me some grand news. I must hurry away with it. He'll tell you! No secrets from Brett, Gordon."

"Well, I've found how Wilson got into the estate," said Brett.

Herron stopped short. "As a corpse or a live man?"

"Oh, he was killed on that bench— the blood's proof enough. But he was driven in, curled up in the luggage-compartment of some guest's car. The dirt and grease spotting his clothes gave the clue."

"Whose car?"

"No telling, as yet. He may have stolen a ride in."

"Good! Keyne will tell you more about him—"

"Hold on!" I broke in. "If you don't mind, I'd like to get Brett's help in a little job."

"Sure!" said Herron, from the door. "Brett, do whatever he wants, like a good chap."

With that, he was gone. I looked at Brett, and suddenly he laughed.

"I've been hoping for a word with you," he said. "The remark you made to me, there at Land's End, was an amazing thing, but I suppose it's all right."

"Yes," I said. "Miss Vindon had discovered the corpse, when you met her this morning. What's more, she had recognized it. I was just telling Herron who it was: Underwood— her husband. He wasn't dead, as had been supposed."

"Oh!" said Brett, and there were volumes in the word.

He got out a cigarette and lit it. In his white flannels, he looked trim and fit, but not the soldierly figure he cut when in uniform. His features were curiously softened, now. He was thinking back to that meeting with Mona Vindon, probably trying to figure out how I knew of it. I helped him.

"No mystery, Brett. I was sitting directly above you among the ferns; neither of you noticed me."

He flashed me a glance, broke into a quick laugh, and his face cleared. Moment by moment, he was a totally different person from the Brett whom I had seen this morning, in the presence of Newberry.

"I owe you one for that, Keyne," he said. "You popped in on my bout with Raja Naga; no doubt you thought we were both crazy?"

"More or less," I rejoined.

"The fellow's a blasted fake— no picayune stuff, but plays for big money in high circles. I don't like Miss Vindon to be a dupe, that's all. Now, what did you want me to do?"

I accepted his explanation without comment, though I did not believe it.

"First, change into your uniform," I told him. "Then get six or eight pounds of flour, about three hundred feet of stout manila rope to let you down a precipice, several small paper sacks, and two strong men to handle the rope and you. Meet me at Land's End in twenty minutes."

"Okay," he said. Turning, he departed without a single question.

I LOOKED up Mary, found that she and Mona Vindon were still as inseparable as ham and eggs, and went my way to Land's End. There I saw only a stain to speak of the tragedy that had marked the spot— a stain on the bench. I sat down and waited. When Brett at length appeared, in uniform, announcing that the two men and the things I wanted would be along in a moment, I told him why.

He knew nothing about Mr. Fate, so I did not go into this phase of the matter, although it was that message which lingered in my mind, with its "look below him." Instead, I drew his attention to the narrow stone bench, dangerously close on the brink of that dizzy gulf; in fact, it would never have been allowed there in any public place. If Wilson had been murdered, he could easily have been knocked over the edge— or first shot and then knocked over. However, suppose he had shot himself? The powder stains on his dead face allowed for such a theory.

"If he did shoot himself," I concluded, "the gun might have fallen from his hand and gone over the verge— and the gun can be found."

Brett heard my scheme, shrugged, and agreed as his men came on the scene.

The average revolver weighs between one and two pounds; so we made the flour into two-pound lots, wrapping each little paper sack well with twine. One by one we dropped them off, at the end of the stone bench where Wilson's head had lain. One by one we watched them drip flour at every, contact with the cliff, as they fell. One by one they burst and became white spots, down below where the first trees grew and the rock face bulged outward.

Then Brett went down, with the two men tailing on to the rope. I would have liked to go myself, but I had regretfully abandoned the thrill of discovery along with my youthful waistline some years ago. I hoped that the trail of those flour-sacks would approximate that of the pistol— if there were a pistol....

After half an hour Brett came up; he had a bundle stuffed under his shirt, and did not disclose its contents until he had sent the two men away with the rope. Then he sat down on the bench with me, took out the objects wrapped in his handkerchief, and carefully bared them to sight.

"Don't touch 'em," he cautioned me.

Here was a handsome .38 automatic pistol, unusual in that it had an ornamental silver plate in the butt; nothing was engraved on this plate, however. To the weapon was tied a four-foot length of cord; and the cord led to a piece of lead pipe pounded into a chunk as big as one's fist.

"It's what the French would call an engine— not meaning what we'd mean, however," Brett said gravely. "Get the idea? Wilson simply hung the weight over the end of the bench and shot himself. The pull of the weight dragged down the gun."

"Even better than I thought," I commented. "Plain suicide, eh?"

"That," said Brett, "is obvious."

"And now what? To Herron with the whole thing?"

He shook his head thoughtfully, rolling up the bundle again.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather not. I want to go over this carefully for fingerprints."

"Are you a criminologist?"

He lifted his head and looked me full in the face, a way he had.

"No. But I'm particularly interested in prints— I'm pretty good there. I'm not through with the body and so forth. I've a lot to do tonight. Suppose we let this ride and say nothing of it till morning, then take it up with Herron."

"Right," I assented. Newberry and I were to meet with Herron at eleven. I must regretfully admit to a sneaking desire to put something over on the famous Lafe Newberry, and to achieve something independently of him. Still, it occurred to me that this might not be cricket.

"Do you," I asked, "want to get Newberry in on this? He's working on it, you know."

Brett looked at me anew, looked at me for a full half minute, and I read queer things in his face.

"I'd rather not," he said slowly, as though feeling out my attitude.

"Okay, then," I replied. "Suits me. Nine in the morning with Herron."

"And I'll leave word with Lennihan," Brett added, "so we'll be sure to see him at nine. If you need to get word with me meantime, phone my room."

On this, we separated.

As I made my way back to the upper level, I recalled that I had a five o'clock date in the bar with Newberry; he had anticipated unearthing something about the two-hundred-thousand-dollar check.

REACHING the Main House, I ran slap into Mary, who promptly collared me and took me into a corner.

"All right, now come through," she said, and she meant business. "Have I any right to inquire into my husband's rather eccentric silences and actions?"

"No," I said, smiling. After some years, we had attained a pretty good understanding. "Not yet, my dear. By a rare chance given to few whodunit-writers, I have the luck to be on the spot while mystery brews and bubbles, and to breathe the same air with Death; and I don't like it by half, but I can't talk about it."

"All right, then I'll ask no more. The note you gave Mona, whatever it was, made her deliriously happy. She's a different woman; look out she doesn't kiss you. Come along, now, and join us. That Hindu astrology faker is good at tennis; we'll play doubles. Can do?"

We played doubles, for which my waistline fits me better than singles. Luckily, all of us were pretty terrible. Mona— well, I had never imagined her as she now was, a living flame of laughing energy, all her delicate beauty touched with fire. Raja Naga was the best one among us; and before we had played two sets, I was seeing this Hindu in a new light.

Faker he might be, probably was, but he had personality. He had been around a lot; had lived abroad, spoke superb French and German, knew England well. I was anxious to get Mary's angle on him, for she has infernal skill at sizing up people.

The third set finished, we took a table under a sun-umbrella and ordered a drink all around, before going in to bathe and change. As we chatted here, I got a line on some of the other guests, for Mona was discussing them with Mary, and Raja Naga made laughing comments. With him out, there were seven— Mona's secretary did not count.

Princess Gantimiroff, the green-eyed Russian beauty whose title, vitriolic pen and adventuress background had lifted her to cinema fame, came in for some savage digs. Then there was Frederick Lammengeyer, the banker; he was well treated, for he had been Mona's backer in Hollywood; he and his wife were her old friends. Cregar, the socialite from Santa Barbara, poloist and sportsman, whose wife had inherited the soap millions. Last came Norton, European manager of the Herron interests, and his French wife.

A distinguished company, certainly; an odd assemblage, because drawn together by the central figure of Mona Vindon. I recalled that the reason of this assemblage was a surprise of some sort for Mona Vindon; what it was, I neither knew nor cared at the moment. She, however, gave me her hand across the table, as we rose— she was the type of woman who did nothing secretly.

"I want to thank you for that card you gave me at luncheon," she said, and turned to Mary. "My dear, may I steal your husband for— oh, say ten minutes?"

"Well," said Mary critically, "he's rather perspiry and bedraggled and could do with a shave—"

She and Mona broke into laughter together. "Five o'clock, then," said Mona to me, her eyes radiant. "In the cocktail lounge. And Mary shall come too— if she won't listen!"

"Don't be silly," said Mary. "Five o'clock will find me soaking in a hot tub, my dear!"

We broke up, with Raja Naga beaming upon us. As we went to our rooms, I asked Mary what she thought of the Hindu.

"I don't want to think of him," she said simply. "He's far too suave, Gordon; he's dangerous, if you ask me. How long are we going to be here?"

I figured. Today was Wednesday: the party for Mona was Friday night.

"Probably till the end of the week, maybe longer," I said. "Things are happening, Mary. A lot of things are coming to a head here; we've dropped into a hot spot, believe me! You met Brett this noon— learn anything about him?"

She nodded. Mona had told her Brett's story.

"She likes him a lot too," she added. "So do I. I don't know where Herron comes in, though! If she became as radiant over you as she does over Brett — well, you wouldn't be keeping cocktail dates with her, I can tell you!"

We let it go at that....

I came into the bar a moment or two before five, somewhat hesitantly. I had two engagements for the same time, and could only hope for the best; however, I need not have worried. The bar, or rather lounge, was gorgeous in its simplicity. Every inch of the walls was covered by deep-sea charts fitted together, and the sole decorations were heads of game fish breaking through these charts — deep-sea fishing was Herron's pastime. He had fished all over the world, and these mounted heads came through the charts at the approximate places where each had been caught. A neat idea, neatly put into effect.

Before I knew it, I was stumbling over Newberry. He was in one of the bays, and had a companion, whom he introduced me to— Princess Gantimiroff; both urged me to join them in a drink, and it was hard to refuse. When the Princess turned on what she had, the heat was terrific. I could see that Newberry, despite his blasé soul, was a lost man; but oddly enough the Princess appeared to be really captivated by him.

HOWEVER, catching a glimpse of Mona Vindon coming into the lounge, I refused.

"No, Lafe; I've a date," I said. "Just came to see if you'd done anything about that check. You said to turn up at five."

"Oh, that!" He waved his cigarette grandly. "Let it wait till we see Herron at eleven in the morning, Keyne. Until then. I'll keep the valuable information locked in my own bosom; can't trust you with it."

"Very well," I said rather tartly. "In that case, I'll even the score by keeping what I've learned to myself. Anyhow, there are more important things than work. Let me congratulate you on the discovery!"

The Princess accepted this as tribute to herself, and we parted with a smile and a handshake. I hurried off to join Mona Vindon, who greeted me with lifted brows.

"What, Gordon? Didn't you see that she expected you to kiss her hand?"

"I wasn't raised to that," I said. "Neither was she. Raja Naga had her down pat, if you remember, when he said she was the daughter of some Russian cook, and had worked her way to America via the primrose path. Further, I happen to know she's no princess. The last Prince Gantimiroff-was Viceroy of Mongolia— he and his entire family were wiped out when the Reds took Russia years ago. She picked a poor monicker."

"Well, she has a good line and gets away with it," said Mona. "That's success as it's usually reckoned. And she certainly has a place in Hollywood any actress might envy, if not too particular. Dan had his own reasons for asking her to come here."

I gathered that the delicate and lovely Mona Vindon had not picked all the guests herself, or for reasons of affection.

We settled down in one of the cushioned bays and gave our order.

"I'm really in love with your Mary," she said, her eyes on me, "and it seems that I'm getting terribly in your debt as well. First for what you told Dan today, and second for the message you gave me at noon. Are you just a good angel who goes about distributing hand-outs of cheer and courage?"

"The wings aren't visible by daylight," I said, smiling. Something warned me that all was not as it should be.

"Well," she stirred her cocktail, still watching me with a curious air, "I don't know what information you gave Dan; he merely said that you had helped him remove all the trouble in the way of our marriage— he would never tell me just what it was, you know. I'll not ask anything about it, either. I never trouble trouble. But I can't imagine how on earth you could know anything about the other! Unless, of course, you're psychic."

The other? I felt as though my brain needed clearing. She had not known about Underwood's being alive— yet she had understood my message.

"Let's get it straight," I evaded. "You were at Land's End this morning."

"No, I wasn't," she said, and smiled. "I started for there, yes."

"But," I blurted, "I caught a glimpse of you running away!"

A startled expression shot through her eyes. She leaned forward earnestly.

"You know, Gordon, I do believe in the occult! Not entirely, perhaps, but a little bit. And last night I was looking at the stars with Raja Naga. Oh, he's wonderful, truly! He told me that something threatened me, that I was about to make a false step; he said that horrible evil was close to me, and would not be gone until the gods sent word by a chosen messenger that it was past."

She paused, to sip her drink. I had the insane impulse to kick the table over and beat the air with my hands. It was almost impossible to credit a fine, intelligent person with believing this psychic rot, as she obviously did. Informing the sucker of a frightful impending evil, and thereby winning gratitude for lifting the curse, is the first trick in the bag, more ancient than history itself.

"Then, this morning," she went on, "I took a walk and started for Land's End. Just before I got there, I had a terrible experience. My heel turned; my foot slipped, and I almost went over the stone parapet— I actually hung over it, looking down at nothing! I was simply too frightened to scream. The thought of plunging down into that chasm seemed to paralyze my brain. I must have run back along the path— the first thing I knew, I saw Captain Brett, ahead. I was ashamed of my panic and got myself in hand, and that's all. You see. Raja Naga was right. Then came your note at luncheon. It was wonderful that Raja Naga should have the ability to protect me— but how did you know anything threatened me?"

I seized my drink and gulped it frantically.

She was not lying, not trying to ease off the matter of her dead husband. No, she was sincere, earnest, telling the truth. Then she had never seen the corpse at all! It was quite possible that she had passed along the path below, while I lay with my eyes closed, then had come back, running, wakening me.

What the devil should I tell her now — what could I tell her? That blasted Hindu was trying to get her under his thumb, somehow. I had stepped into his game by sheer coincidence; and one must admit coincidence in real life, though I have consistently refused to admit it in fiction.

"Well, Mona," I said desperately, "I'll have to be honest about it. Why I wrote that note, I haven't the least idea! It just came into my head to do it. Of course, there are times when I'm psychic, but—"

She came close to fulfilling Mary's prediction and kissing me. She was radiant, so filled with delight and happiness and belief in my occult powers that I felt downright ashamed of myself. So I thought it as well to get in a blow while the iron was hot.

"You'd better lay off this astrology stuff," I said gravely. "Raja Naga may be the white-haired boy in Hollywood and all that— but lay off him! Whatever you do, tell him nothing. You're going to marry Dan, aren't you?"

"Well," she said, "I— yes, I suppose so."

Queer— no eagerness, no gladness, just a far-away look in her eye and a grudging assent that was eloquent of regret.

"Then tell your Raja Naga nothing!" I said. "Why, look! I could pull all kinds of occult stuff, if it would swing you away from that faker. I could predict death, surprises, anything! But I wouldn't go in for it. And if you marry anyone, then you're one with him, and have no business dragging in the stars."

Chapter 5

I TOLD Brett about the singular mistake I had made, and recounted the facts in Mona's meeting with him. This was toward nine the following morning, as we sat in the office outside Herron's sanctum, awaiting his arrival. No one else was around, and Lennihan was rattling a typewriter with loud abandon.

"Well, don't get Mona wrong, Gordon," observed Brett, his face saturnine. "She's the finest of women. Anybody can fall for that psychic gabble; Napoleon was a sucker for it, remember! With people like Mona, it's a passing phase; she'll come out of it in no time."

"You think Raja Naga's a faker?"

Brett smiled thinly. "I say so, but I don't think so entirely. He really has something on the ball. The trouble is, that he digs in his hooks; you've no idea how many people hate and fear him and don't dare let go of him! Any man who makes it his business to know secrets, is dangerous. I'm not going to let him go too far with Mona."

I wanted to ask why, but checked myself. If Mona were none too anxious to marry Daniel Parker Herron, this amazing fact must have a reason. She had wanted to marry Herron badly enough some months ago; why not now? Brett might well be the reason.

"What does Herron think of the Hindu?" I asked. "Does he fall for his line?"

"Of course not," Brett replied. "Dan pays him no mind, as they say down South. And he doesn't have Naga here now because he likes him, or because Mona likes him. He's got the fellow here for use; making a deal with him on information for the Dies Committee. Dan's given that committee a lot of stuff, you know, and Raja Naga can spill no end of material on the Reds in Hollywood."

"Queer, about Mona's stumbling," I observed.

Brett's voice deepened. "Stumbled and nearly went over the parapet, eh? Keyne, that just can't be done. It's doubly impossible for Mona; she's a real athlete, in perfect condition. At that spot in the trail, too, it couldn't be done unless she stumbled over a bench."

"I'm sure she was telling the truth, Brett!"

"Oh, of course! It's clear enough." A glowing light swept into his face. "If necessary, I can play hell's game too! Perhaps not so well as he can, but I can play it. If I thought he had used suggestion or hypnotism on her—"

He paused, cutting off his words.

"Just what is his game? What's he after?" I demanded.

"Oh, power, intrigue, money! He makes fools of the women, who are fools to start with; men too. Joe Carey, the producer, never makes a move without asking Raja Naga's occult advice first. The man has his finger in half Hollywood's pies."

"Since we seem to be growing intimate, you and I," said I, to divert his thoughts, "will you tell me why Newberry should act as—"

"No!" He jerked around with the vibrant word, then shrugged and softened. "Keyne, I owe all that I am to Lafe Newberry and to Dan Herron. I'd rather not discuss them with anyone; at least, just now. Learn my story, and you'll know why. Didn't that old fool Pascal Herron bellyache everything he knew and guessed, about me? I remember you were with him, yesterday."

"Yes," I said, impelled to honesty.

"Then make the most of it." He came to his feet. "Here's Dan. Morning!" Herron swept in upon us breezily; he was like a clean wind of vitality rushing through the place. In his bare sanctum, he was a focal point of blazing energy, and Brett was once more changed in his presence— a new man again, laughing, exuberant.

But I, dreading what I foresaw must be said, kept quiet.

Brett opened up his package, showing the automatic and the cord and the weight; and I saw Herron's eyes jerk incredulously at sight of the pistol. Brett told how we had found the things, and explained how the weight had made sure the pistol would vanish into the gulf below. Herron swore softly under his breath, still staring at the weapon.

"Then— the blasted scoundrel wanted it to look like murder!" he exclaimed. "Any fingerprints on that gun?"

"Plenty," said Brett. "All those of the dead man— Wilson, as he was called. Keyne told me who he was."

"Glad you know everything," Herron rejoined. Relief had come into his face. "Then it's clearly a suicide case, eh?"

"Absolutely," agreed Brett.

Herron looked at me, and his laughter died. "What the hell are you so sour about, Gordon?" he shot out.

"Trouble, Dan," I said regretfully. "Shall we face it down?"

"Go the limit, here and now."

"Wilson," I said, voicing the reflections that had come to me overnight, "had to smuggle himself here, or be smuggled. It must have pained him to soil and stain his clothes, for he was a careful dresser. He wouldn't have rigged up this suicide contraption, with that check in his pocket! He was murdered; the act was made to look like murder, but this gun was planted so that if desired, the suicide theory would stand. And there's a conclusive reason, which I just now learned, that knocks out the suicide theory."

"Well, what's the conclusive knockout?" demanded Herron.

"Your recognition of this pistol."

THIS caught him off guard. Brett was staring at us in alarmed conjecture. Herron's face changed, and he tried to bluff.

"Gordon, what on earth are you driving at? I never saw the gun in my life!"

I shook my head, smiling. "Dan, don't try to fool your lawyer. Brett and I are your only friends, right now. So give down, give down!"

"Be damned if you're not worse than a Dutch conscience!" he said ruefully. "Yes, I did recognize it."

"Yours?"

"Certainly."

He lied. We both knew, in this instant of silence, that he lied. I caught the answer from his mind, could read it in his eye as he frowned at me.

"Well? Don't you believe me?"

"No," I said. "It belonged to Miss Vindon, eh?"

Brett exclaimed in sharp surprise. Herron flung up his hands.

"All right, blast you! Yes, I gave it to her last summer and taught her to use it. Haven't seen it since then. Has the gun been fired?"

"Once." Brett spoke in a low voice.

"If the killer had really wanted to lose that gun," I said, "he'd have tossed it far out into the gorge. Had he wanted the death to look like suicide, the gun would have been lying beside the bench. The obvious conclusion—"

"By the Lord Harry, I get it!" burst out Brett.

Herron checked him, answered the interphone, and next moment Lennihan came in with a yellow envelope.

"Sorry, Mr. Herron. One of those urgent and personal things."

Herron tore at the envelope, glanced at the message, and his eyes lit up with a sudden blaze. He reached for the phone.

"All right, Lennihan; no answer! Hello! Give me the communications room. Yes. This you, Hilda? Where did this message come from? Who filed it, and when?"

He listened, hung up, and turned to us.

"Boys, here's a honey!" he said. "Urgent and personal message. Filed here at Serafina last night— probably in a coin booth; we have a couple around the place— for delivery this morning. Now read it."

I took the message from him; Brett came to my shoulder, reading it with me:

Daniel Parker Herron

Alta Serafina

Announce before three this afternoon your complete and unconditional support of Andrew Millinger for Congress. Otherwise will give to press the full story of Underwood's death, presumably murder. If you make announcement as requested I will undertake to prove that death was suicide.

Mr. Fate.

From Brett broke a hasty yelp.

"Keyne put his finger on it, Dan! The gun was planted! The killer stole it from Mona and made this job look like murder.... But agree to his terms, and he'll make it look like suicide! Therefore Mr. Fate is the killer! And we've beat him to it by finding the gun!"

Herron, despite the blaze in his eyes, was white and shaken by the threat.

"But he's got me," he said with forced calm. "Imagine the newspaper stories: Mona's husband resurrected, only to be found murdered on my estate, at my very door! Why, it'd be the sensation of the century! He figures I'll agree; then he'll tell us where to find the gun. He knows I'd recognize that gun: it'd keep me from double-crossing him. Why, the damned scoundrel is clever as ten devils!" He leaned forward and threw the interphone switch. "Get hold of Lafe Newberry at once.... What? Oh, the devil! I forgot." He leaned back wearily. "Lafe took a car and left, a couple hours ago. Just when we need him most!"

"But you don't need him," I said.

They swung around at me. I went on:

"You've got a great chance to pull every one of the killer's teeth, Dan! He doesn't know we've found the pistol. Phone the sheriff now, instantly; send a plane, get him here on the jump! Get the coroner, hold the inquest; have the thing settled for good and all as suicide — have the dead man recognized as Underwood! Then break the story."

"The story?" Herron gaped at me.

"Yes! On all your radio stations. Give it to the press, to make the noon or early afternoon editions. Give an interview, get one with Mona. Spread everything; don't leave one solitary detail for Mr. Fate to break in any newspapers! Why, you'll knock this murderer silly!"

Herron blazed up, then checked himself.

"Wait! You forget about the rigging on that gun. The coroner might not be so ready to grab at the suicide theory."

I laughed. "Throw the damned cord and weight away— forget 'em! The gun bears the dead man's prints and was found under his body."

"Sure! I found it myself, under his body!" cried Brett in wild delight. "Dan, it's a natural, it's a beauty!"

HERRON chewed at his cigar; then suddenly he went into action. And to watch the Herron machine going into high gear was something to see. He had several planes at his landing-field; inside of five minutes he had one warming up, was talking to Sheriff Kemp of Serafina County on the phone, and had a dozen people at work, including me.

I was doing a spread story. Herron dictated the main story and alleged interviews with himself and Mona Vindon; these were all for release via teletype transcription to his radio stations, who would cooperate with the press by holding back until the newspapers appeared. A wise move. Of course, nothing could go out until the coroner's verdict was secured. The sheriff agreed instantly to all that was desired; before he was off the phone, the plane was on the way to get him. Every detail moved with almost incredible speed and precision.

Inside half an hour the plane was back. Sheriff and coroner went to work, more than pleased to have everything handed them on a silver platter. The evidence was clear. A jury was impaneled on the spot. The verdict of suicide was obtained.

The story was broken. Herron, Brett and I were of course the only persons who had all the threads of the affair complete. So swiftly did everything move, that it was barely eleven o'clock when we stood out on the landing-field and watched Herron's big transport drop down the sky, bearing the officials and the corpse. All was over.

"And all I want," said Herron, "is to get my hands on that fellow. And—"

A shout broke from one of the field men. We swung around, and sighted another plane sweeping in from the north, banking slightly, evidently intending to land.

The field was a half-mile from the Main House. It was a rather misty morning, with clouds drifting along the peaks, and the radio reports had said that the lower country was gripped by fog and inclement weather.

"Looks like a private plane," said Herron, watching alertly. "Might be putting in here— we're listed as an emergency field, of course— to avoid a bad landing below. Ah! Here's the radio operator."

From the instrument-house the operator came at a run for us.

"It's a chartered plane, Mr. Herron!" he reported. "It has Millinger aboard— you know, Andrew Millinger, the congressional candidate! They say it's pretty stormy below and they're landing here."

Brett gave me a wink and a grin. It was not an opportune moment, to say the least, for Mr. Millinger to be landing on Mr. Herron's estate.

Herron's face was a thundercloud as he strode out to the halted plane. From it descended the pilot, followed by two other men. The face and sturdy figure of Millinger, radiating brotherly love and puritanical shrewdness, were well known.

Those qualities had won him wealth and nation-wide publicity; he was a rugged son of the Western soil, caricatured, respected, even feared for his downright honesty. The man with him was small, cadaverous, shrunken in appearance; I heard Millinger introduce him as R. G. Raymond.

Millinger shook hands with Herron; the two had met previously, it seemed.

"Grand to find this emergency field, Herron!" boomed Millinger. "Everything around Los Angeles is blanketed in fog. If we hadn't received your urgent invitation, we'd have had to come down somewhere in the desert."

"My invitation?" Herron echoed. Raymond came up, laughing delightedly.

"An inspiration, Mr. Herron, to mention that Norton and Cregar were here! Norton and I are old pals, you know, and Cregar is one of Andy's staunchest supporters."

"Yes?" Herron eyed him. "Seems to be a mistake somewhere. Millinger, what do you know about an attempt made to blackmail me in your name?"

GOOD strategy; for Millinger was one of those men physically and mentally incapable of a lie. His breezy Western character was real, and like that of Gladstone, was rooted in a firm religious conviction.

Millinger stiffened and lost his smile. "This is a queer greeting, Herron! Do you actually charge me with blackmail?"

"No," said Herron. "I ask if you know anything about an attempt that was made this very morning to force me into supporting you. A straight question."

Millinger reddened with anger. "I'd give a good deal to win your support, but I'm not jeopardizing my immortal soul to win anything! I know nothing about any such attempt, and repudiate it absolutely."

"Your word's good." Smiling, Herron extended his hand. "Forgive the question. I'll explain later. Now, what's all this about an invitation?"

"Why, you sent us one last night!" Looking bewildered, Millinger turned. "You have it, Raymond. Let's see it."

Raymond produced a telegram. Herron glanced at it, a startled flash in his deep blue eyes. He pocketed it and looked up, with a hearty laugh.

"Someone was playing a joke; never mind! I'm delighted to have you with us, gentlemen! We've a few guests, an intimate party. If you find other friends here, that's good luck all around. Come along. Your pilot and luggage will be taken care of. — Oh, Brett! — Keyne!"

We were introduced, then followed the others toward the Lodge, trailing well behind.

Brett nudged me. "Invitation, eh? I'll bet Raymond pulled the trick himself!"

"Who is he?" I asked. "The name's vaguely familiar."

"It's vaguely familiar to a lot of people." Brett's face darkened. "One magazine branded him, in oblique fashion, as 'the shadow to end all shadows.' He's suave, silent, immensely rich, has brains like a rattlesnake, and is trying to shove Andy Millinger into Congress. Why? I don't know. His only human failing is mountain-climbing; he's nuts about it!"

"You don't seem to like the little gent," I observed.

"Like him? I hate him. He's not overtly connected with anything.... The spark just leaps the gap, if you get me. But his financial operations have left suckers broke and hungry all over the country. My father died of a broken heart on a deal where Raymond waxed fat and a thousand stockholders were ruined. Like him? I'd kill him in a minute if—"

He broke off abruptly. "Sorry. Forgot myself, Keyne. Forget it."

He strode off and left me. Herron had swept his two new guests into the Main House. I looked for Mary and glimpsed her amid half a dozen riders, heading away by the trail. Having no yen for boots and saddles, I turned into the cocktail lounge, perched on a bar stool and absorbed a bottle of beer to make up for my morning's labors.

A TOUCH on the shoulder; I turned to look into the green eyes of Princess Gantimiroff. She slid her long thighs onto the stool next me, smiled in her intimate way and ordered a champagne cup, then spoke softly to me.

"So, my friend of the charming wife! Do you know you're famous because that bundle of animated beauty wears your name? We're all mad about her. She is the frankest, freest, gayest piece of honesty I've met in ages!"

"Yes? What's the catch?" I asked. She gave a trill of laughter and placed her hand on my arm.

"You think there is a catch if one woman speaks good of another? Nonsense! You must know that your wife is no woman, but angel!"

"Impossible, Princess!" I said. "Angels are all of the other sex. That's why the superiority of the male animal is always so obvious."

Her eyes laughed into mine; her white teeth glistened. "You think so, eh? Like all writers, all good actors, you're an egoist! Tell me something. This Raja Naga is an old friend of yours?"

"Never saw him before I came up here yesterday. Why?"

"He said a terrible thing; it was last night." She shivered a little. "No, no, I cannot repeat it! I wondered if you knew him. I have heard of him often, but do not like him."

I frowned. "You mean that he said something about me?"

"Yes: about you and Mr. Newberry. That you reminded him of the tiger and the babu; it is some Indian story. And that Mr. Newberry had the soul of a devil, plainly visible to informed eyes."

I broke into a laugh.

"Don't worry, little cousin of the Czar," I said. "Newberry's all right; not pretty, but worth a dozen of this Raja Naga. And if his eyes or any other can locate any devils around here, I'd like to see 'em!"

We were interrupted by my name being called. The barman leaned apologetically toward me.

"Mr. Keyne, sir? Beg pardon, but a general call's just come in for you. Mr. Herron is in his office with Mr. Newberry, and wants you there, sir."

I excused myself to the alleged Princess, and got away. But as I went, it suddenly came clear why she had thus plastered herself on me. That fool remark I had made last evening to Newberry— he had not missed it, after all, but had carried it to her. And she had seized the chance to curl herself around me and purr, and investigate what Raja Naga had said about her. She probably knew already. The call had interfered; but I had the vivid impression of an enmity here that startled me.

These thoughts were still in my head when I stumbled into Herron's sanctum — and remembered that eleven o'clock appointment. It was long past eleven now. Herron was at his desk. Newberry scowled. Trouble was in the air.

"Brett will be along any minute," said Herron. "Gordon, Lafe doesn't like the way we've washed up the Wilson affair. I've assumed full responsibility—"

"But," Newberry broke in, "Keyne found the gun, kept quiet about it, and persuaded you to act without letting me know. Brett had a hand in it. Of course, that's your privilege and I've no squawk coming," he went on in his flat, tired voice, "but it was my understanding, Dan, that I was in charge of the case."

"No," said Herron directly. "I'm in charge, Lafe. Always."

Newberry did not take up the challenge. He turned to me, instead. Brett came into the room while he was speaking, but Newberry ignored him.

"I see now what you meant last night, Keyne; and I guess I had it coming. All the same, you've gummed things up. You've smeared the prettiest case I've seen in a long time. You're a crackpot to have let the Chief drag in the sheriff!"

"Just why?" I demanded. "If you know the whole story, you know we were justified."

"No," he dissented flatly. "The sheriff has the gun now. It should never have been turned over to him. If that gun should be traced to the Chief or to Miss Vindon, all the trouble will break that you hoped to avoid. Another gun should have been substituted; you and Brett could have done that without harming your consciences."

I SAID nothing; his criticism was justified. We should have done exactly as he said. Herron was looking from one to another of us, saying nothing. Now Brett spoke up:

"Dead right," he said quietly. "We should have done it. Didn't occur to us."

"No." Newberry shifted his head and his eyes, looking full at Brett. "No. You wanted to chisel me out and act independently. Well, that's all right with me."

"Careful, Lafe," said Herron warningly. "They didn't want anything of the sort."

"I think they did." And Newberry shrugged. "What of it. Chief? Doesn't make me sore. I urged you to get Keyne here, in the first place; I suggested it. That was my mistake. Now, so far as working with him goes, I'm out. Either the case is mine or his. Let him go his fictional way with Captain Brett, and I'll go mine."

"Suits me," I said.

"Hold on." Brett's eyes fixed on Newberry. "I owe you a lot—"

"You owe me nothing!" For the first time Newberry showed a trace of heat. "Nothing, understand? I never did like you, anyhow; I helped you because I was confident you didn't do the job in Paris. And because the Chief cabled to help you. Well, I did. It was my duty. That's all."

"I knew you were no friend," Brett said in a low voice. "I felt it all the time."

"And by God," spoke up Herron warmly, "that's another mark to your credit, Lafe! You didn't care much for Brett, eh? But you pulled him out of the mess regardless— duty and conviction. Good for you! And you never told me this before."

"Never needed to," said Newberry. "Now, Chief, I've some news for you. It's agreed that I go my own way, is it?"

"As you like," Herron responded calmly. "Only an Arab can make a camel and an ox pull evenly at the yoke. I've no Arab blood."

"Okay, then." Newberry rubbed his hands and beamed. "I've got the whole story about the two-hundred-grand check and who's behind the Silver Syndicate. Do you want it?"

Herron's voice exploded. "Glory be!

Of course we want it! Where'd you get the story?"

"Out of my head," said Newberry.

"I'll have the evidence by tomorrow night."

"Oh!" Herron's exultation died. "Just theory, eh? Want to tell it privately?"

"Lord, Chief, I've no hard feelings!" Newberry grinned at me and Brett. "Now that I'm in single harness again, I love the whole wide world! And I have some evidence; remember the letters and papers in the pocket of the Wilson-Underwood corpse? I kept 'em. They helped. And the man at the top of the Silver Syndicate, the one who sent you that check, is your honorable house-guest Fred Lammengeyer."

To me, the revelation sounded fantastic. I knew Lammengeyer slightly, knew more of him by repute, and had seen him several times about the place. To Herron, the name was like a bomb.

"Why, Lafe, he's the very last man on earth to be suspected—"

"Yeah; and that's the guy we've been trying to put the finger on," broke in Newberry. "And I can tell you what you've never suspected until now: the political affiliations of the Silver Syndicate— and why. Want it or not?"

"Talk," said Herron curtly.

Newberry talked, beginning with Millinger and his present manager, R. G. Raymond, who controlled great industrial and financial influence; the rugged Millinger was like a child in his hands.

"Or in anyone's hands," Newberry went on in his sardonic way. "He looks up to Pat Cregar's social position and the Bristol soap millions. Therefore Cregar could handle him. Anyone could. I could step into Raymond's boots and carry on, myself!"

"One minute, Lafe," intruded Herron. "The telegram of invitation Millinger received was sent from here, all right. It was phoned, probably from a booth, and was accepted as from Lennihan; but he had nothing to do with it. Someone else sent it."

Newberry nodded. "Maybe Lammengeyer; he's behind a lot of skulduggery, I find. Now, he and Raymond are old friends. He's giving Raymond financial and other support. Why? Because, if elected, Andy Millinger will do precisely what the gamblers want done."

"Easy, Lafe!" warned Herron. "That sounds fantastic."

"Lammengeyer is president of the Trinity Bank, that sent you the check. Ask him about it, and he'll deny all knowledge of it."

"I have," Herron said curtly. "He did."

"And you believe any bank could issue a check for two hundred grand, and the president know nothing of it?" Newberry was exultant. "Wilson was sent here with the check, and killed. You might fall for the check, they thought; if not, you'd fall for the blackmail. And they would be rid of Wilson. They didn't like him any more; knew too much."

"Lammengeyer would never do such a thing."

"Of course not; he'd just shut his eyes and cross his fingers. But now you've blocked their game. That wasn't wise, Dan. You should have played 'em along and let me steal their thunder by finding the gun and substituting another for it."

"But," I asked, "how would you have found it?"

Newberry cocked an eye at me and grinned. "Same way you did! Now, Dan, let's get down to cases. If you supported Millinger, his election would be certain. Granted?"

"More or less," Herron admitted cautiously.

"This State is broke,— or worse,— like some others. Nevada, next door, has grown rich on gambling. Well, on the day before election, what happens? Millinger springs the grand little surprise: a State Lottery to reduce the debt, reduce taxes, keep at home the money that now goes elsewhere! We used to have lotteries, you know; some of our most swanky colleges were founded on lottery earnings. And with this, or in place of it, a big Sweepstakes scheme. And, boy, it will sweep Andy Millinger right into office! Especially if you're supporting him."

"He would never come out for such a thing."

"Sure. He'll be honestly sold on it, though. It's a tremendous stake, remember! And it's not the underworld that's at work, but the upper crust— men like Patrick Cregar. The big men, the visionary millionaires, the powers of this world. Men like Raymond."

Herron, chewing at a cigar, nodded slowly.

"Might be. But Lammengeyer's a banker, a philanthropist."

"I'll have some dope on Lammengeyer tomorrow. Chief, that will open your eyes!"

"Then I'll be sold on it," said Herron. "It would fit in with everything, Lafe. It would fit with the Wilson affair and the check. What d'you want?"

We were, I think, all sold on it. The story and inferences rang true.

"I'll grab my car right now and beat it for Los Angeles," said Newberry. "I'll be back tomorrow with sufficient evidence to let us go ahead and break the radio story. We'll play it all up as a lot against Millinger, and show the old boy for the honest simp he is!"

Herron frowned. "That would be almost supporting him, wouldn't it?"

"Not the way we'll handle the story. Chief."

"Okay, then. Go to it."

NEWBERRY swung around, waved a hand to us, and strode out the door with his cynical grin.

Herron looked after him admiringly. "There goes the most brilliant journalistic brain in America!"

"With the thought-processes of a rascal," I said.

Herron whirled. "I can't let you say that."

"Hold on, Dan! I didn't call him a rascal. It's his manner of thought that makes him a great reporter, a great investigator. He pierces instinctively through all pretense and sham. What I said was actually a compliment."

Herron eyed me dubiously. "I suppose you resent Newberry's attitude toward you?"

"Yes; but I don't regret it," I said frankly. "We'll work better separately."

"And you?" Herron flung a glance at Brett, who shrugged lightly.

"Lafe and I are now aware of each other's real feelings. It's a relief, Dan. It doesn't mean that we're enemies or anything like that."

Herron's face cleared, and he came to his feet, with a glance at his watch.

"That's fine all around. I'm late for lunch, blast it! Sewed up with those lawyers all afternoon— and I must crowd in half an hour for Millinger.... See here, you chaps: Tomorrow is Mona's birthday, and the servants' frolic. But on Saturday— how about a ride to Arch Lake on Saturday morning? No women along. A stag ride and trout-fry. Sound good?"

It did; and so we left him and went our ways. As Brett and I were separating, he paused.

"If you're free tonight after dinner, Gordon, I'd like to have a chat with you. Say, in my cottage. Eh?"

"It's a date!" I rejoined. "I'd like nothing better."

Mary and I got upstairs after cocktails that afternoon and set about dressing for dinner. I am not a great hand at unpacking; when away from home, I usually stay half packed. Thus, being at the shaving-point, I unzipped my toilet kit to get at my things.

On top of them was lying a folded telegram. I had put none there. I opened it, and found that it was merely typing on a telegraph-blank:

GORDON KEYNE, ALTA SERAFINA

SMART GUY, AREN'T YOU? IT ISN'T EVERYONE WHO CAN OUTSMART DEATH. EVEN IN ALTA SERAFINA DEATH COMES TO LIFE, SO SEE IF YOU CAN DO IT AGAIN. DEATH COMES TO LIFE.... A GOOD TITLE FOR ONE OF YOUR STORIES, IF VOU LIVE TO WRITE IT.

MR. FATE

So the killer knew my share in blocking his blackmail scheme! And if I've needed any proof that he was among us, was under this very roof, was in fact one of us— here it was.

Chapter 6

I SAID nothing to Mary of my discovery. While I waited for her to dress, however, I made a second discovery.

My portable typewriter is old and faithful, and has several letters out of alignment. Taking another look-see at the Mr. Fate message, I noticed that some of the letters here were a bit off. No microscope or enlargements were required to prove that the message had been typed here in our rooms, On my own machine! During the day, therefore, Mr. Fate had been in our suite.

I was not pleased by this. It rather spoiled my dinner, in fact— a magnificent dinner in the lordly hall, around the noble oaken board that had served Queen Elizabeth.

Herron was in rare fettle this evening, with his reorganization concluded and his three attorneys speeding away later by plane. Andrew Millinger looked weary and troubled. Raymond, who never looked anything except his dry, cadaverous self, ate sparingly and talked all through dinner with Mrs. Lammengeyer, whom he took in. Princess Gantimiroff, I noticed, kept Norton thoroughly absorbed. He was a typical Herron executive, suave, heavy-set, capable, with a crisp air of knowing just what he was about. His French wife was having a grand time with Raja Naga, who was at the other end of the table from Mona Vindon and therefore innocuous.

Somewhere at this table, in all probability was Mr. Fate.

Herron, who had a harmless admiration for old-fashioned customs, sometimes chose to let the ladies leave, and to keep the men about a bottle of port. He so elected this evening, protracting the dinner more than usual, and let Millinger draw him into a political discussion which interested all of us— and particularly Millinger. For once, Andy was getting a lot of horse-sense handed him, and several times I detected a frown of annoyance on Raymond's face. It was not likely, I reflected, that Raymond had planned this stopover at Alta Serafina.

When we went to join the ladies, it was past eight; Brett and I quietly slipped away together, left the Main House, and crossed to his cottage. There we lit cigars and relaxed, while I waited for some inkling of his purpose in wanting this talk.

"Do you realize," he said, as we chatted of nothing, "that the unexpected arrival of Raymond here is rather startling? You spoke of strange forces at work; perhaps that's truer than you know, truer than most of us would admit. I feel the same thing; a gathering, as it were, a focal assemblage of influences, of results from old causes— a concentration here of converging forces—"

"Maybe this will help reduce them," I said, and showed him the message from Mr. Fate. He read it thoughtfully.

"Think we'd better bother Herron with it tonight?"

"No. Suppose we let it wait. Herron's not the man to be bothered just now— a hundred things on his mind, from Mona's birthday to his own lawyers. I'd bother him myself, if I could. Instead, I'm bothering you," he added with a slight smile.

"Suits me. But Newberry should have this as soon as he gets back. It was written on my own typewriter, by the way; must have been done in my room today."

He whistled softly. "Well, who knows! You may be Mr. Fate— I may be; Herron may be! Or Raja Naga. This isn't the first time I've run up against the Hindu. Last year in Paris, when I had my trouble there, he was mixed in it. Newberry's wife was the woman.... She was a simple little thing."

Simple, yes, but as he went on to sketch that old trouble, he made it clear that she had been no angel. She was flighty; she was amoral; and she was even promiscuous; Lafe Newberry had been well rid of her, and knew it. All this did not excuse her murder, of course. But Brett had been with her that evening, earlier had picked her up in the American Bar and taken her home and left her, merely as a charitable action. And when she was found murdered in the morning, his bloody fingerprints were also found in the apartment.

"Newberry was a prince. I've tried hard to like him; it's impossible. But he was a prince," went on Brett. "It never came out about Raja Naga— he had been making a dupe of the girl. Newberry thought it all rather amusing and didn't object; he had a cruel streak and even was cynical enough to make a story or two about it. Raja Naga was going big in Hollywood just then, and some movie people had brought him to Paris on a visit."

"How on earth did Newberry get away from the evidence of those fingerprints?" I asked.

Brett smiled wryly.

"I had a vague memory of returning to the apartment, later in the night, to make sure she was all right— one of those crazy things champagne breeds in the brain," he said. "Probably I had done so, had walked in, found a bloody mess, and wandered out. I'm not excusing myself— just being honest about it. I couldn't account for myself, and those prints were damning."

He was bitter, and I could scarcely blame him.

"Newberry came to bat, provided me with a cast-iron alibi, and somehow threw suspicion on those prints. How? Damned if I know. He had Dan Herron's money behind him, and money can buy anything in Europe except honor, which long ago died of old age there."

He had been cleared, but his life was wrecked; everyone considered him guilty. He went to pieces. Herron got him here and kept him here, building him up into what he now was. Daniel Parker Herron did things like that all the time.

"Was Newberry badly crushed over his wife's death?" I asked curiously.

"Lord, no! He hated her like poison; she feared him and despised him. I don't think he cared about her smirching his honor, for that means little to him. He did care because she was cheap, and because he had somehow been tricked into marriage, I believe. Queer thing— she had been stabbed through the jugular. Blood everywhere."

WHAT did this have to do with our situation at Alta Serafina? Plenty, if one did not demand clear-cut and definite reasons.

"When you spoke of unseen forces," Brett told me gravely, "you hit upon the very thing I fear and hope and dread— a convergence of lives and destinies which may carry out here what was begun in Paris a year and more ago, before the outbreak of war. Mutual hatreds may come to a head here, because these people are drawn together."

This might seem fantastic, but as he pointed out, there was much beneath the smooth appearance of things here. The arrival of Millinger and Raymond had precipitated trouble. There was something shadowy— from the past— between Raymond and Princess Gantimiroff.

"She's running with Newberry now, and has been for a long time past," Brett stated. "No more morals than a wildcat!

"But that's only a small part of the dynamite stacked up here," Brett went on moodily. "Take Raja Naga. We had trouble in Paris; we may have trouble here. Uncle Pascal admires the beggar. Mona is still too much under his spell for my notion. He and our fake Russian Princess are somewhat at daggers' points, perhaps literally. Why, you and Mary are almost the only persons here who have no jealousies, no concealed hatreds, no ax to grind!"

I sipped the liqueur he had placed before me.

"See here, old man, I like you," I said quietly. "Suppose both of us come clean; come through all the way. Now let me pass all the known bounds of propriety, simply because as you say I've no ax to grind. The woman loves you; and you're both too sensitive, too finely drawn, to face it."

Our minds met; he comprehended, without my saying it, that I did understand his position. In brief, he loved the fiancée of his friend and benefactor, and could not help himself. And Mona Vindon—

"No, no!" he exclaimed, but with a steady poise that I liked. "Don't get the wrong slant. I want to save her from that damned Naga; I won't let him tamper with her brain. If I love her, that's no crime. I've said so to Herron himself; he knows everything. But what I'm afraid of is more things coming up like this Wilson murder. Explosions can come out of the pot brewing here—"

"Bosh! People don't bump each other off, in these circles, because of a disagreement," I broke in.

He shook his head. "I mean chance — the damned bad luck of it all—"

"Chance? There's no such thing," I intervened. "You're acquainted with the principles of the karmic law; Emerson set them forth in one of his greatest essays. What you did yesterday, has to do with what you did today."

Unfortunate words; I could have bitten off my tongue-tip, but too late.

"That's the very thing!" exclaimed Brett, his eyes wide on me. "What I did yesterday— that murder in Paris! I've waited patiently to learn the truth; what is the truth? Was I guilty? How did my fingerprints come there, unless I was guilty? Don't you see— there's the torture of a lifetime, Keyne! It stands between me and any future at all! I might be suspected of having murdered this man Wilson— probably I am so suspected, by those who know about me!"

I got him argued out of his dark mood; and after another drink or two he became more cheerful. So we parted, on a note of friendship and mutual liking.

IN the morning I saw Uncle Pascal in the Main House for the first time. I was down early for breakfast— a hit-or-miss affair in the English fashion; and as I stepped out for a lungful of the brisk air, I ran into him. He caught at my arm excitedly.

"Here! I'll show you something— come on, quickly!"

He led me toward the gardens and came to a halt behind a leafy hedge.

"Now look!" he said, pulling the greenery aside. "Look!"

I obeyed. Below us, in a niche of the sunken gardens, were Andrew Millinger and Raymond. Millinger was furious about something; Raymond, thinly cynical, apparently was goading him into greater anger.

I drew back, and walked away with Uncle Pascal. He was grinning delightedly.

"Fighting!" he said. "Having a grand row off to themselves in secret! There's something to make a newspaper man gloat, eh? Millinger, the pompous pillar of forensic rectitude, having a rowdy fight with the man who set him up! What a wow of a story if it got out!"

"And what Dan would do to you for betraying his hospitality!" I said.

"Oh, I'm no newspaper man; I'm just a radio columnist," he rejoined. "Do you know the Cregars?"

"I've met them. Why?"

"Don't talk to me about Dan's rectitude! He got 'em here for Mona's party— she knows them well. His real reason was to work on 'em. Soap millions, you know; they advertise by radio exclusively. Dan wants some of those millions for the Herron stations."

"You must like to bite anyone near you, Uncle Pascal," I said. "Herron's not that kind. Anyhow, advertising is handled by regular firms, not by Cregar and his heiress bride; so forget it."

Leaving him somewhat abruptly, I went back inside and came unexpectedly upon Lafe Newberry and Lammengeyer, standing before the buffet in animated talk while they ate. The reporter hailed me eagerly, apparently with no animus whatever. I was surprised to see him back so early, and still more surprised to find him intimate with the very man he had been investigating and accusing.

"Didn't know you were back," I said. "How's everything in the lower world?"

"Fine," he observed. "Stick around; come along with me and see the Chief, as soon as I fill up. Just got in half an hour ago. Now, Lammengeyer, let's have that schedule of the State obligations once more, will you? I'm not a political writer. I didn't know your boob State was floundering in near-bankruptcy. Is it true that all the rich people are being driven out by the whopping income tax? Give me the whole picture."

He winked at me as he spoke. He was merely drawing out his man for some purpose of his own.

As always, I felt attracted and yet repelled by Newberry, and lingered. He was brilliant in his questions, and Lammengeyer talked freely, only too anxious to hold a lodge of sorrow with anyone who was disposed to mourn the State and national insolvency with him. He was full of remedies, too, all on the conservative side.

While we were talking, Mrs. Cregar showed up. She, poor thing, gave no outward indication of the soap millions except a rather dowdy taste in jewels. She sought beauty by an early ride every morning, and had just returned from it with a ravenous appetite. Newberry and I left Lammengeyer to her tender mercies and went our ways.

"You seem to have got over your dislike for fictionists," I commented dryly. "Or is it just that your disposition is better in the morning?"

NEWBERRY hooked his arm in mine with a laugh.

"Forget it, Keyne, forget it! I do like to work alone; I did feel envious because you had found that gun; and altitude puts my nerves on edge. Those are my excuses, and I'm sorry for the whole thing. Let's not hold a grudge."

"Far be it from me to cherish vengeance!" I rejoined. "Just to prove it, here's what I'm about to show Dan Herron."

Newberry whistled softly as he read the typed message from Mr. Fate. When we walked into Herron's office, Dan was ruddily delighted to see us friends again. And somewhat to my surprise, the message with its assurance that Mr. Fate was among us, worried him little.

"I'm more interested, Lafe," he said, "in whether you've succeeded in linking Lammengeyer with your pet theory."

"It's all buttoned up under my vest. Chief," replied Newberry. "I'll get my notes typed out and hand them in. What's more, we've got that guy cinched for good and all. You know what a skeet expert and crack shot he is? Well, twenty years ago he shot a man— killed him. It was all hushed up, and there's where we've got him nailed. Hushing doesn't pay.... Duck-shooting; a cold wet day, a stumble and a loaded gun goes off— and the previous night, Lammengeyer had enjoyed a fight with the man, after a drunken poker game. How's that for a story, if we ever want to break it? I've got every fact nailed tight."

"No one would ever believe Lammengeyer ever played a game of poker in his life," I said.

"That's what makes it good; I've got the proof. It was accidental, mind."

"I'm playing no dirty cards over my air-waves," struck in Herron crisply. "Keep the story for your newspaper column, if you like. Have you really got the goods on Fred as the head of the Silver Syndicate?"

"I have."

"Then get to work on the radio scripts; when you've got the series in shape. I'll go over it with you."

"And the Mr. Fate guy? If he's really here, it's bad for somebody."

"Keep after him till you trip him, sure."

Newberry took his leave, casual and calm as ever. I was following, when Herron checked me; his secretary Lennihan had just announced Millinger.

"Hold on, Gordon! I'd like you to stick around. May need a witness. Hello, Andy! You've met Keyne, I think? You don't mind if he sits in, as a friend? It's a rule, of course, that whatever goes on at Alta Serafina is off the record."

Millinger stalked in, shook hands, assented heartily to my presence, and planted himself in a chair. He accepted a cigar, bit at it, and spoke his mind.

"Herron, I'm an honest man, or try to

be one. No matter what's said about you, no one denies that you're genuine. That's why I want your advice."

"Advice? My advice?" Herron's brows lifted in unfeigned surprise. "Why?"

"Just as one honest neighbor to another, Dan. I'm in a pickle. The more I see of this politics game, the less I know whom to trust." Millinger's rugged features were hard-set. "Now I'm in the notion that the man who's been running things for me is a rascal."

"Raymond?"

"Yep." Millinger was opinionated, more or less rustic, but earnest. "We had a row, and he let slip a few things. What do you think of him?"

"Off the record," said Herron quietly, "I know nothing definite against him; but I'd take him for a smooth one. However, I suppose you're indebted to him."

"I'm indebted to nobody. If you were in my boots, what'd you do?"

"Send him packing."

"I've tried that; he refuses. He just laughs at me and says—" Millinger paused, reddened, then continued: "Says e built me up as a figurehead, and he can slap me down. Now tell me what to do."

There was something pathetic in this appeal to an admittedly keener brain.

"Are you in any rush to leave here?" Herron asked abruptly.

"No. Right now, I aim to settle this matter first. I couldn't really trust Cregar or Lammengeyer or anyone else, except a man who has no ax to grind and isn't a friend of my party."

"Thanks for the compliment." Herron resumed his usual brisk air. "Suppose you wait till tomorrow. I've just been through a reorganization hell. This afternoon we're having a frolic for the servants. Tonight, a birthday party for Mona. I'll wake up tomorrow with a clear, untroubled mind. We'll go for a ride or a hike. After lunch, I'll be better able to talk with you honestly and clearly. I'll give you the best advice I know how, and you can take it or leave it."

Millinger came to his feet and shoved his big paw across the desk.

"Shake!" he said. Just the one word. He shook hands with Herron and went striding out. When the door slammed, Herron gave me a quizzical glance.

"Gordon, be honest in your turn. What d'you make of that man and his errand?"

"He and Raymond were having a hot row in the gardens, an hour ago," I said. "I think Andy Millinger's on the level. Raymond has let slip a few things, as he said. And he trusts neither Cregar nor Lammengeyer. Yes, I think the man's straight— and it looks as though

Lafe's theory were right."

Herron nodded Slowly, thoughtfully.

This was excitement enough for one day, and a Friday at that. As though to make amends, destiny played no more tricks. All afternoon, and all that evening, there was not a breath, not a hint, of unpleasantness in any quarter. Friendliness descended upon the whole party. During the games and races in which the servants and workmen participated, and on into the formal dinner, and on through the festivities in the ballroom later, the atmosphere of happiness and of high spirits was unmarred by any discordant voice or act.

"FOR your birthday, Mona, we've JP done our best," said Herron, later that evening as we stood about a punch-bowl in old-fashioned style. "Is it fun?"

"It's been perfect, perfect!" Mona was radiant. She looked around, her delicate beauty touched with a glorious happiness. "I don't know when I've had so thoroughly delightful a day— just perfect!"

Uncle Pascal, looking rather ridiculous in evening attire, shoved forward.

"And do you know why, my dear?" he said. "Listen, now. It's a fact, an honest fact, that beginning this blessed morning, the Little People cast a spell on this house and all in it!" He wrinkled up his face, and again I thought of a leprechaun. "A spell that would last till midnight or after— a spell of good fortune and pleasant hearts and kindly spirits among all here, to give you pleasure and delight!"

He scraped her a bow. She caught him and kissed him impulsively, amid applause from all directions. I took it all at face value, too, until Mary and I were in our rooms, and she turned to me with startled eyes.

"Gordon— did you hear about it? About what Raja Naga said?"

"No, my darling, and I don't give a continental what the Hindu said!"

"But it's rather terrible, really! I didn't hear it myself, and I don't know just who did, but there seems to be no doubt that he and Cregar had a quarrel, and that before they separated. Raja Naga lost his head and said that inside another forty-eight hours Cregar would be lying in his coffin!"

"He didn't say that!" I protested, staring at her. "No mystic would predict such a thing to a person, even if he believed it! Who told you?"

"Princess Gantimiroff. She had it straight from Cregar himself."

"Then it's been exaggerated, depend on it. Forget the whole silly story, my dear!"

We forgot it— until next day.

Chapter 7

NEXT morning I left Mary asleep and stole down in the dawn, to find a gay crowd breakfasting.

All the plans to make a stag ride or hike of it, had gone agley. Mrs. Lammengeyer, Mrs. Cregar, Princess Gantimiroff and Mrs. Norton had demanded admission on hearing of the outing; and the demure little mouse who acted as secretary for Mona was also in the group. So, for a wonder, was Pascal Herron.

Raymond, a great walker, had infected Lammengeyer and Millinger with his hiking fever; Cregar, who had planned to hike, was forced to stick to the saddle because of a wrenched knee. This left the three to keep company, and Millinger was trying to drum up another in the person of Newberry, when I joined them at one end of the buffet. Uncle Pascal edged in with me, listening to Millinger pontificate anent geology. It was his one great hobby.

When we trooped outside to the horses. Raja Naga was magnificent in turban and jodhpurs and scarlet jacket. He had a superb seat; I heard Cregar saying something to him about polo, just as Mrs. Lammengeyer created a diversion. In mounting, she caught her foot in the reins and startled the horse. She swayed half out of the saddle with a frightened scream, and the alarmed beast began to rear and paw, and finally went into a stiff-legged plunging.

Before anyone else could intervene. Raja Naga brought his mount alongside and laid his hand on the neck of her horse. Instantly the beast stopped dead in his tracks. He voiced a shrill protest as though in terror, and stood shivering.

Mrs. Lammengeyer, a pleasant laughing woman, was helped into her saddle, none the worse for her alarm, but the horse refused to budge a step and remained in a shiver of fright. Another mount was brought, and we all set off. I found Uncle Pascal beside me, prating mysteriously about what he called "the night side of nature," and as we drew up the trail he explained himself.

"Do you know what he did, Mr. Keyne? I've heard of it and read of it, but never saw it in real life! It's what they call giving a horse the cobra hiss!"

I thought he was joking, but he proved to be in deep earnest.

"It's known among gypsy folk," he averred gravely. "Gypsy John, or Parry Hearne, a famous Seventeenth Century gypsy, described it in his memoirs. And something else! The name—"

"Wait a minute," I broke in. "What the devil are you talking about? Did Raja Naga hiss like a cobra?"

"That's the way it's described," replied Uncle Pascal. "That's the name for it. And in his book Hearne also says that the gypsies, who came as you know from India in the Twelfth Century, belonged originally to the Naga tribe, expelled by the Mongols. And Naga means snake — they were the ancient serpent people, legendary all over the far East, even to Siam and Angkor. I'm going to do a radio column on the subject next month. You see the obvious connection: Raja Naga, the serpent people, the gypsies, and this horse trick?"

"I see no connection whatever," I said. "Raja Naga is a name assumed for the benefit of suckers; if he called himself that in India, he'd be lynched."

This wounded Uncle Pascal, who straightway deserted me.

We passed the four hiking enthusiasts, who had started ahead of us. They were waiting, it seemed, for a geologist's hammer to be brought for Millinger. He and Lammengeyer were in ordinary garments. Newberry was oddly resplendent in khaki breeches and an emerald green jacket, and had a camera slung over his shoulder. Raymond wore shorts and sweater, with a feathered Alpine hat; he carried an alpenstock and had a musette bag at his hip. With an exchange of somewhat rude jokes, we rode past, and Newberry vowed loudly that they would yet get to Arch Lake ahead of us.

This was possible, as Herron explained when I' fell in beside him. Our trail hugged the little stream, while the foot-trail climbed immediately and made a short-cut to the lake. But ours, as Herron said with a shrug, was safer for a parade with females!

Arch Lake, when at last we reached it, proved to be a tiny crystal-clear body of snow-water. On its shore stood a miniature of the Main House at Alta Serafina, which was used chiefly for fishing parties. The cooks and camp-crew were on hand; boats were brought out, and a meal was being readied in a screened pavilion beside the water.

Since the hikers would be along in an hour at most, and it was a trifle early for luncheon, Herron suggested that we wet a fly. Most of us fell in with the idea. The water had not been fished this year; the fish were ravenous, and we had caught enough for all hands before the shrieks of the famishing women fetched us ashore. Millinger and his companions had not yet shown up, but the fish were put on the fire regardless.

I turned over my fish to the cleaners, heard Pascal hail me, and joined him without paying any heed to the others at his table. I would not have chosen Raja Naga and the Princess for my company, but could not draw back without giving offense.

"Nine cooks!" Princess Gantimiroff was drawling, with a gesture toward our helpers. "And a forest ranger, and others. Apparently we're well served."

The Hindu flashed her a look and a smile that held no mirth.

"Belief in the brotherhood of man, I resume, doesn't forbid one to have domestics?"

Her brows lifted. "How should I know?" She gave him a wide, earnest look, and overdid the innocent one sufficiently to make the mockery apparent. "I've no beliefs whatever!"

"Oh, my mistake! Pray pardon me," Raja Naga rejoined. "I was under the impression— something General Boguslav said to me before his tragic death, or perhaps something else entirely! Forgive my error."

AT the name of Boguslav, she caught her breath, and I wondered where I had heard the name before. It gave her a jolt, certainly; then she smiled sweetly on the Hindu.

"Dear Raja Naga!" she murmured. "I didn't know that a magician could make mistakes! Is it possible that he doesn't foresee everything? That he could even do very dangerous things, like talking, without being aware of their peril?"

It was all suavely, beautifully said, but the sense of restraint startled me.

"Oh, I'm no magician!" Raja Naga laughed lightly. "I'm merely a humble slave of the karmic forces. Princess. We believe, you know, that there's no such thing as accident; that whatever was done, say a year ago in Paris, might have its repercussion today in California. Some very interesting things— but you say that you have no beliefs."

Something hit her again in those words; what it was, I could not tell. With a laugh, the Gantimiroff rose and flounced away, catching Herron's eye and rejoining him. Raja Naga's gaze drove after her. Then, ignoring us, the Hindu came to his feet and strode off.

"Well, that's a queer business!" I observed. "They weren't kidding, either."

"Devil a bit," agreed Uncle Pascal. Suddenly it came to me where I had heard the name of Boguslav. Why, of course! That was the old White Russian whose death had been foretold by the first "Mr. Fate" message!

"No, they weren't kidding," rambled on Uncle Pascal. "I'll bet he's got a lot on her. I've heard rumors that she's an agent in Hollywood for the Communists. But what a fine woman she is, Keyne! A barbaric cat, a tigress—"

Before he could say more, the stentorian lunch-call went out, and with the odors of fish-fry in the air, we fairly leaped for the board.

That was a meal for the gods, and we made the most of it. We were nearly finished when Millinger and Lammengeyer came into sight. I noticed that Lammengeyer was carrying Raymond's alpenstock.

As the two wolfed some food, they told us that Raymond had kept dropping back; all his boasted walking ability had evaporated— no doubt due to the altitude. He ordered them at last to go on without him, and they complied. Uneasy at his non-arrival, Lammengeyer had. gone back to meet him. As he did not return, Newberry went to find the pair of them.

"I couldn't find hide nor hair of Raymond," recounted Lammengeyer wearily. "When Newberry came along, he said to come on in, and he'd go back till he found Raymond. Now the two of them are in the soup."

Herron exchanged a glance with the forest ranger who had shown up to lunch with us. "What d'you think, Woodruff?"

"I think we'd better get after 'em, Mr. Herron," the ranger replied. "You know, there are old trails branching off the High Trail they followed. They may have struck off on one, or they may have struck down to the horse-trail you took. Or they may have turned back."

"All right," said Herron. "We'll take along a couple of horses for them; you phone the Main House to send up a couple more for the party here. Brett, you and Keyne, Woodruff and I. How about it, Gordon?"

"You bet," I assented. "And the others?"

"The party stays here," said Herron, and his tone permitted of no argument.

We were off in ten minutes with the two led horses. As the ranger and Herron both knew the trails intimately, we struck away from the lake at a good pace. And we were scarcely out of sight of the lake when we saw Newberry ahead, and alone. His hat was gone, and he was dead beat,

"Raymond? Search me," he said to our questions. "I went clear back to where we left him; no sign of him anywhere. He may have turned back, of course. He had said something about feeling the altitude."

"Hop into the saddle," said Herron.

Woodruff and Newberry, finally, rode off along the High Trail. Herron, Brett and I took the lower trail. It so happened that I was in the lead, when we came into a little clearing and saw a single blasted pine in the center; and seated on a rock at the base of the tree was Raymond, holding his Alpine hat between his knees.

Letting out a hail, I spurred on and dismounted. Then, realizing that he had made no response, I started toward him— and halted in sickened amazement.

Two furrows of blood ran down his face. From his skull protruded a splinter of wood; beside him lay a branch, apparently fallen from the tree above. I went to him, caught his wrist to feel his pulse. He was dead.

Chapter 8

FIVE-THIRTY that afternoon found the main party of riders not yet returned to the Main House. In Herron's bare pine sanctum sat Brett, Newberry, Herron, Dr. White and I, and a silence of horror hung upon the room.

"Good God, White! Say that again!" breathed Herron, openly incredulous. "You must be mistaken. It was quite obviously an accident!"

The puffy little physician, nervously eying us in challenge, drew a long breath  and repeated his amazing statement.

"Mr. Raymond simply did not meet his death through being struck by that falling bough, as you thought. The splinter which was embedded in his skull did not make the wound. In fact," he added, "I withdrew it quite easily."

"But, Doc, they found him that way!" protested Newberry. "He was brought in just as he was found. Brett took pictures of him. Keyne, you discovered him— the splinter was in his head then?"

"Yes, and ghastly it was," I replied.

"Here." Brett, who had a wad of blotters in his hand, parted them and produced a number of photographic prints, not yet quite dry. "I wanted to let these dry, but take 'em now. That's exactly the way we found him. Doctor."

Doctor White examined the prints, spreading them on the desk, and grisly things they were, showing the seated corpse from various angles.

"I can't help it," said White, with a stubborn air. "Pictures or no pictures, the wound was not made by this piece of wood. He met his death in some other fashion."

"You mean that it was no accident?" Herron asked sharply. "Is that it?"

"Really, Mr. Herron, I can't assign causes," protested the Doctor uneasily. "I can't go that far."

"Then for heaven's sake go as far as you can! Explain yourself."

"Well sir, from what you say and from these pictures, the assumption is that the man was seated there, and was killed by a dead branch falling. The point went through his head and broke off, the branch falling beside him. Right?"

He was right, we all agreed. He went on:

"Have you any idea how far that dead branch fell?"

"No," rejoined Herron. "But the tree had no branches at all within about sixty feet of the ground, I estimated. So it fell that far, at least."

"From those photographs, I should say the branch was about two inches thick."

We agreed that it was— a long, weathered, dead limb.

"Consider," said White, gravely, "the impact of that weight falling such a distance."

"The devil!" Herron said abruptly. "I hadn't thought of that!"

"Such a blow would have shattered the bones and caused a terrific internal hemorrhage. The wound that killed Mr. Raymond was knifelike. There was a trace of contusion, but no parietal fracture. The wound is regular, and quite circular; a bit over an inch and a quarter in diameter but very, very deep."

"The splinter in the wound—"

"Could not possibly have caused it," asserted the physician firmly.

"Any chance of some other interpretation, Doctor?" asked Brett.

"None, unless we assume that either the laws of anatomy or those of gravity were suspended," replied the physician with a certain dry humor.

"Then," said Herron abruptly, "we have to face it, that's all. The sheriff and coroner will have a technical holiday when they get here. They're on the way now. Lafe! You see what this means?"

The crisp, kinetic energy of him struck across the room suddenly. "A hell of a thing all around! You handle it for the newspapers; play it up as an accident. First, let's have your yarn. What happened during the hike that was significant?"

Newberry pondered. "Nothing," he said at length. "We bunched up on the trail until Raymond began to tire; he felt the altitude. He loitered so far behind that I went back for him a couple of times. He held us all back. We figured a way to get on faster; one of us would stay with Raymond for a bit, then hike out and overtake the others, another dropping back to keep prodding him along. We were afraid of some accident. He refused to turn and make for home. That's about all there was to it."

"Any quarrels?"

"No, and I kept my ears open. I was disappointed because I had gone along in hope of getting an earful. You know how I hate to walk, anyhow."

"Who was the one to think up your shuttle system?" demanded Herron.

"Lammengeyer, I believe."

"Which of you last saw Raymond alive?"

Newberry reflected. "Must have been Millinger. He was puffing and steaming when he caught up with us. I went on with him, and Lammengeyer sat down to wait for Raymond to come along. About twenty minutes later Lammengeyer overtook us, alone; said he had waited, and even had gone back a ways, but had seen nothing of Raymond. It was by the little waterfall that he overtook us."

"And then you went back to look?"

"Correct, Chief. Had no luck. Met you. So it must have been Honest Old Andy who saw the guy last."

"That is," added Herron, "provided Lammengeyer was telling the truth about not having seen him."

NEWBERRY rose, with an elaborately casual air which did not conceal his wolfish eagerness.

"Well, I'll get on the story. Chief.... Mind if I borrow Brett for a while?"

And the puzzled Brett departed with him.

Dr. White, who had no mind for mysteries and wanted to be about his business elsewhere, took his leave also. He had barely gone, when the phone rang. Herron answered.

One startled oath was ripped from him. A minute later he slammed down the instrument, snapped open the interphone, and roared at Lennihan to find where the call had come from.

"Damned impudent rat!" he burst out at me. "That was our Mr. Fate himself! He said this was one murder in which he was not concerned; he laughed and rang off. How the devil could he have known about it? He must be one of us, in this very house, just as you said!"

His agitation was pardonable, for we had kept Raymond's demise a close secret among ourselves. Herron's fist crashed down on the desk.

"Gordon, there's the murderer! He denies having had anything to do with it, in order to divert suspicion. What's Lafe done about tracking him down?"

"Ask Lafe, not me," I said. "And for God's sake, don't breathe the name of Mr. Fate to the Sheriff! Every newspaper in the country would grab at it with a whoop!"

"Of course." He looked up, as Lennihan entered. "Well? Where did the call come from?"

"It came from here— from Alta Serafina."

"From what room?"

"It didn't come from any room, sir. It was a long-distance call, from Alta Serafina 676. That's the coin booth for special use— it has an outside wire."

Herron dismissed him, with an oath of irritation.

"Gordon, there are damned queer things here!" he said to me. "For example, that telegram inviting Millinger here— who sent it? I swear none of us did! But—"

He broke off to answer the interphone. The riders had come home. Herron had left word that he wanted to see Millinger and Lammengeyer the instant they returned, and this was an intimation that they were on the way here now. I rose to leave, but he waved me down.

"You keep your nose to the grindstone, blast you!" He fairly glared at me across the desk. "I mean it. I need help here. God knows what may break any minute! We're dealing with a political pinnacle of professional virtue," he added, "and a banker who's an absolute rascal at heart. You sit right in, Gordon, and be here in case I need a witness to what's said."

Practical man, Daniel Parker Herron!

"All right," I said, rising. "I'll sit in. But first, your old friend Gordon Keyne is going to step into your outer office on important business."

As I stepped into the lavatory, which opened off Lennihan's office, I almost ran into Newberry coming out.

He caught my arm. "Keyne! The rest of the crowd are back!"

"I know it," I said. "Millinger and Lammengeyer are on their way now, and Dan wants me to sit in as a witness."

"Don't you let 'em go before I get there," he exclaimed quickly. "Boy, I've got the whole thing by the tail! Brett's digging up some stuff; I'll get this damned story sent in— then we'll be along. You hold 'em. Mind, now! Don't let 'em go before I show up! You can send for me, if you must."

I CAME back to the sanctum just in time to follow Millinger and Lammengeyer in. The former, walking stiffly, lumbered over to a chair and sank down with a deep grunt of relief. Lammengeyer, floridly sunburned, was limping, and his well-groomed, hearty radiance was absent. Neither of them knew of Raymond's death, naturally.

"Glad to hear, by your phone-call before we left the lake, that Raymond was ' found," said Millinger cheerfully. "What happened to the old buzzard? Wasn't like him to quit, I thought. Do or die is his motto."

"Evidently he did, today," Herron said grimly. "Was he well when you saw him last?"

"Fagged out a bit with the altitude. I remember he took off that fool knapsack he had packed along, and hung it on a tree. What d'you mean? He isn't ill?"

Lammengeyer, perhaps sensing something amiss, regarded us with an uneasy frown.

"We should have had better sense than to go hiking at this altitude, all of us. What's the matter with Raymond, Dan?"

"The same old thing that comes to all of us sooner or later," said Herron.

Millinger, holding a match to his cigar and puffing, got the import of the words and stared at Herron, his mouth open, while he slowly lowered the cigar.

"You can't mean— no, no! You said you found him— found him—"

"Sitting under a tree, yes. Dead. It seems that our friend Raja Naga last night predicted a death, but picked the wrong man as the victim."

"My Lord," exclaimed Lammengeyer under his breath.

Herron turned to him. "You saw him last, I think? How was he looking then?"

The banker met Herron's scrutiny with a steady, almost challenging, gaze. "He was tired; the altitude, of course. But I didn't see him last. Andy, didn't you see him after I did?"

"Of course I did," said Millinger, his face troubled and dismayed. "This is terrible, Herron— terrible! Yes, I must have been the last to see him in life. I walked with him till he got short of breath again. Then he sat down beside the trail, and I steamed ahead, to catch up with the others."

"Excuse me for asking the question, Andrew," Herron said gently, "but did you have any altercation with Raymond today? Any quarrel over the political situation?"

"No, not a word," Millinger made frank reply. "You see, I've been waiting until you and I have that talk this afternoon— at least, we were to have had it. Now everything's both simplified, and in a mess. The plane, you know, was chartered by Raymond. I'll have to make other arrangements regarding my speaking tour, and in other directions as well."

Herron waved this aside. "Hold on, Andy. You gentlemen don't fully understand. Raymond is not dead as the result of an accident, as we first thought; we've discovered that he was killed— murdered."

Millinger gaped, shocked into silence. Lammengeyer stiffened and sat staring.

"We don't know who killed him," Herron went on. "It'll have to be run down. The county officials are on the way here; I'll try to make the newspapers think it was accidental—"

"So that's it!" cut in Lammengeyer. "Are you intimating, Herron, that either Andy or I are in any way connected with his death?"

"As far as we know," said Herron quietly, "you two and Newberry were the only people within miles of Raymond when he was murdered. What Sheriff Kemp will think, what anyone would think, is rather obvious. However, some other person may have been in that vicinity. I'm hoping to check on all such matters with you two, before the Sheriff comes."

"Yes, yes, I can see all that," Millinger murmured unhappily. "You're right, Herron. We were the last to see him, or I was. Unfortunate, most unfortunate! Let's get the matter cleared up, by all means." He relapsed into silence, brooding heavily, chin sunk on chest.

"I'd like a word with you in private," shot out Lammengeyer abruptly.

"Eh?" Herron regarded him sharply. "Certainly not, sir. Mr. Keyne is fully in my confidence; so is Mr. Millinger. Under the circumstances, it would be most unusual."

"I fail to see that," said the banker, an edge to his voice. "However, as you like. If Raymond's death seemed accidental at first, why not leave it that way?"

Herron smiled a little, but his nostrils began to flare; I saw that he was furious. His voice, however, remained calm.

"The very suggestion throws a most unfortunate suspicion on you, Lammengeyer. There'll be no hushing up, I can't afford to have skeletons in my cupboard."

I began to appreciate why Herron had wanted a witness present.

"I think you mistake," Lammengeyer said softly. "We can't let this thing get out of hand until it involves us all— me and you and Millinger— and, shall I say, Mrs. Underwood."

Herron froze. Then, surprisingly, Millinger spoke up.

"Lammengeyer, don't make a fool of yourself! We have nothing to fear."

"Shut up!" snapped the banker viciously. "Your brain died this afternoon. Until you get another, keep quiet! You'll be the chief sufferer here. I know that I had nothing to do with Raymond's death, and I don't propose to be put on the block. You'll be ruined if a breath of suspicion touches you; it'll shrivel your campaign, your whole future!"

"Just a minute," said Herron, and his eyes were dangerous now. "You mentioned a Mrs. Underwood?"

"Precisely. The wife of a man who came here recently on business."

"Then you admit you sent him! Fine!" Herron's face lit up. "But you don't know where he is now. You don't know what happened to him."

"I'm talking about Raymond," countered the banker. "I know that I didn't kill him."

Millinger heaved himself up in his chair. "Are you pointing a finger at me?" he boomed.

"Not necessarily. After all, Newberry was on the trip too."

"But I was the last to see him." Millinger's face was grim. "That is, unless you lied about not having found him!"

Lammengeyer spread out his hands. "You see? If this sort of thing goes on when the authorities take hold, what will happen to all of us? Far better to decide that it was an accident. Raymond's no loss to the world. Who's to gain by newspaper publicity? Not you, Herron. And certainly not Millinger."

"I haven't heard one good reason why I should conspire to defeat justice," Herron replied coldly.

"No? I've given you plenty of reasons; two hundred thousand of them!"

HERRON jerked slightly.

"So you admit that you sent the check by Wilson, eh? Or Underwood?"

"I know, naturally, that you received a check," Lammengeyer said warily, "since it was drawn on my bank."

"Sent by your bank, you mean." Herron leaned forward and touched a switch. Lights sprang on in the room, which was darkening rapidly. He opened a drawer and produced the check found in Wilson's pocket. "Trinity Trust, yes. So you've tied yourself in with Wilson, with this check!"

"Not at all," denied the banker.

"A check for two hundred thousand dollars," went on Herron. "Bribe—  blackmail! And you think you can swing me with your filthy money! When I've got you tied up with the syndicate of gamblers— when this very check ties you up! Here's the check; here's what I think of it, and I'll keep it for evidence."

He swiftly tore it across.

Then Millinger spoke ponderously. "Better keep it, Herron. Don't lose it, if that's your attitude. If you want a motive as to Raymond's killing—"

Lammengeyer, suddenly white and ablaze with anger, leaped up.

"Andy! You fool. I've warned you to keep out of this!" His voice shrilled. "Keep out, or I'll crack you wide open!"

Herron nodded to Millinger.

"Go on, Andy," he said quietly. "Now we're getting somewhere. How did you learn about this check? Did you know what they were using it for?"

Millinger quite ignored the furious banker.

"No, but I learned of the check yesterday," he said. "The money was put up

by Raymond. He supposed it was being handled as cash; he found a check had been sent, and was angry, very angry. He claimed it was a dead give-away. Lammengeyer was confident that it was not. Raymond said if evil came of it, he would expose Lammengeyer as head of the gambling syndicate. This is how I learned of his connections, of his unholy alliance. He was so angry he kept nothing back."

Lammengeyer, who had become very calm, came forward to the desk, leaned both hands on it, and stared down into Herron's face.

"Now it's my turn," he said. "I tried to save Millinger, but the old fool lets his tongue run on regardless. Do you want to know how Raymond was killed?"

"Yes, if you know," said Herron.

"I saw it done."

The words hit upon the tension like a funeral bell. All of us froze intently upon the man standing there before the desk.

"You— you saw it done!" gasped Millinger, staring at him.

"Yes." Lammengeyer turned slightly, face to face with the candidate. "Yes, Andrew. I tried to save you. Now I'll have to tell the truth— that I saw you hit him with that hammer you carried. You didn't know I saw it, eh? You came up behind him as he sat on that rock—"

A roar escaped Millinger. He came out of his chair as though on springs, and would have leaped at the banker had not Herron acted swiftly, darting from behind the desk and catching Millinger by the wrists.

"Quiet!" His words, his eyes, silenced the stalwart old candidate. "Quiet, Andy! Let Lammengeyer talk; your turn will come."

Newberry opened the door and stepped into the room.

"Sheriff Kemp's just been announced from the lower entrance, Chief. I had to have a word with you before he got here."

"Not much to talk about now," said Herron. "Lammengeyer saw Millinger commit the crime."

"Oh!" Newberry started. "The devil he did!"

"There's still time," spoke up Lammengeyer, "to show some sense and keep this an accident, Herron. I don't want to see Millinger ruined by this thing!"

"You won't," shot out Newberry. He turned to Millinger, his pale eyes alight. "I'll take care of you, Andy; sit tight and say nothing. I know who actually did murder Raymond."

Herron barked at him. "Careful, Lafe! Lammengeyer saw the thing done, I tell you!"

"Of course," said Lammengeyer coldly. "With the sharp end of that hammer. After killing him, Millinger threw the hammer away and—"

"You lie!" broke out Millinger furiously. "You lie! You heard me say I'd dropped that hammer somewhere on the trail!"

Herron made another appeal to the reporter.

"Be sensible, Lafe, be sensible! Lammengeyer couldn't have known all this unless he had seen the murder committed, as he says—"

"Or," struck in Newberry in his sardonic way, "unless he had committed it himself, which he did. ... Quiet, Andy, quiet!"

He looked down, saw the torn check on the desk, and broke into a laugh.

"So we're coming right out into the open, eh? Lammengeyer, philanthropist, banker, and big shot of the gambling syndicate! Chief, this is going to be the biggest story of the decade!"

Chapter 9

NOBODY down at the county-seat was missing a chance to hit Alta Serafina on business. Truro, the district attorney, showed up with Dr. Burton the coroner, and Sheriff Kemp with his sandy hair and bristles brought a technician and several deputies. Newberry was the white-haired boy and no mistake. Before breaking in upon us to recount his triumphant version of the killing, it seemed that he had spoken with Sheriff Kemp by phone at the lower entrance. Consequently, everything now went off like clockwork.

The furious and protesting Lammengeyer was sent to his rooms under guard.

So was Millinger, after a few words with Newberry. Then we all went straight to the hospital, where the coroner had been conferring with Dr. White. They were in thorough agreement, and little White puffed with pride as the coroner confirmed his finding.

"I've signed the disposal order, Sheriff," Burton concluded, "and you may have the body whenever you wish. I shall want it later for the P.M., of course."

"And," said Brett, at a nod from Newberry, "if you'll all step down to my office, we'll go into what actual evidence has turned up. I have a binocular microscope there, and if you—"

"I have my own instrument along," spoke up the technician. "Let's go."

So we went. That Brett and Newberry had been working together ever since they had left Herron's office, was now evident.

In Brett's office we found, lying in the folds of a white felt cloth, the geologist's hammer carried that day by Millinger. Woodruff, the ranger, had discovered it lying in the upper trail, nowhere near the body of Raymond.

"Take my microscope. Dr. Burton," Brett said. "I think you'll find the hammer as clean as a whistle."

Burton examined the metal carefully.

"Apparently you're right," he said. "And superficially, I should say this was not the instrument that caused the man's death. The measurements of the wound do not coincide."

"And it was found half a mile from the body," Newberry put in.

"But now look at this alpenstock," said Brett. He brought the thing, wrapped in a curl of brown paper. "I've examined it; you may do so and satisfy ourselves. You'll notice that the steel head is not unlike the sharp end of the hammer in shape and size, but a trifle larger at the base. If Dr. Burton will examine it and determine just what are the fibers caught in the roughened metal and around the jointure with the wood, I think the matter will be dear."

In some excitement we watched while Burton and the technicians examined the alpenstock head. They figured, conferred and agreed.

"This did the job, all right," said the coroner. "Just to be on the safe side, I'll prepare a slide and use the other microscope."

"Apparently," said Brett, "the steel head has been cleansed with sand or dirt."

"And it looks clean to the naked eye," the coroner assented.

The technician opened up his big leather case. Burton took a slide, and with a knife and a low-power lens scraped indefinable particles from the alpenstock head to the slide. He touched a drop of liquid to the glass, and with a teaser poked at the result. He then placed the slide in the big German binocular microscope and went to work.

"Nerve corpuscles are unmistakable, both multi-polar and pyramidal," he muttered. "Shred of the dura, too.... Cortical brain tissue, mingled with grit."

BRETT now took up the story, as we had already heard it from Newberry.

"The dead man, upon leaving the Main House this morning, carried this alpenstock. Tiring on the trail, he gave it to Lammengeyer, who later brought it to the Arch Lake lodge with him. He stacked it there with the impedimenta of the party. He came home on horseback, and the alpenstock was brought in with the other stuff."

Kemp was busily taking notes, while the happenings of the day were reconstructed. When the photographs were mentioned, Truro demanded them; they had been left in Herron's sanctum, and Brett posted off to get them. Newberry, meantime, carried on the story.

"Could Millinger have had access to the alpenstock before the murder?" Truro asked.

"Not unless he borrowed it from Lammengeyer, who was carrying it," said Newberry.

"Who, aside from Lammengeyer, has handled this alpenstock?"

"The crew, in packing it back here. I, when I got it from the equipment-room, to show Brett. No one else. Lammengeyer had it most of the day."

"Can either you or anyone else," snapped Truro, "swear it was the one taken out this morning by Raymond?"

"The men who brought it back told me it—"

"No hearsay evidence, Mr. Newberry. Can you swear it was the same one?"

"Certainly," said the reporter angrily.

"How can you be positive?"

"Because no other was taken. There are a dozen in the equipment-room. No other was gone all day. No other is gone now."

"Were you here all day, watching the equipment-room?"

"Of course not! But I—"

"You should know that you can't hang any man on that sort of evidence," Truro said. "But I don't want to minimize the real importance of the help you gentlemen are giving us. What's this about Lammengeyer claiming to have seen the murder committed and describing it? How did he happen to know so much about it?"

"Wait!" I exclaimed hastily, remembering. "Herron, do you recall how he stood over your desk? The photographs lay there, telling him the whole story! And I noticed that he glanced at them. He felt himself slipping in deeper and deeper, and I think he just let fly with the accusation, desperately."

"And you're all convinced," Truro said slowly, "that this atrocious murder was committed by a gentle old man known as a philanthropist, a banker—"

"And the man at the top of the gambling racket," put in Herron quietly. "Lafe, you may break the Silver Syndicate story in all our radio stations tomorrow, and arrange with the news services to follow each broadcast with their releases. Lammengeyer said enough to tie himself fast to the Wilson deal."

He told the amazed county officials about Lammengeyer's behind-the-scenes activities. In the midst of this, Brett returned with the photographs, which were examined with keen interest. The sliver found in the wound, and other bits of physical evidence were produced, and the district attorney's temper began to improve. Truro at length pointed to the photos, with a question:

"I understand that this clearing is on the lower trail. Why would Raymond or Lammengeyer have gone there? Did they know these trails well?"

"No, not at all," said Brett. "But there's a sign on the upper trail, an arrow and a marking 'To water' pointing anyone along the connecting trail. I assume that they went to get a drink."

A few more questions, and the officials were satisfied.

"I think we've enough here to justify Lammengeyer's arrest on suspicion of murder," said Truro. "To inflict that wound, the killer had to grasp the alpenstock just above the point; also, the wound was inflicted from behind. Thus we have premeditation fairly well proven. If we find Lammengeyer's fingerprints on the damned thing—"

"They'd be there anyway," I put in, "since he carried it a good part of the day. And there's one curious thing: Why did Raymond fall behind?"

They all stared at me. Raymond was tired. Raymond had felt the altitude. The thick shoes and alpenstock and knapsack had been too much for him. Voices dinned at me from all sides, but I stuck to the question. Why should Raymond have grown so quickly weary, when his passion was hiking and climbing?

"Probably he was an armchair mountaineer," suggested Truro.

"No: he was a real climber. If you look at his boots as he lies on that table, you'll see that the nails are worn down and the leather scuffed by many a hard climb; also, he's the president of some climbing society. Now, a professional climber, or one who makes a hobby of it, doesn't bog down so suddenly under a few miles, or a little altitude."

Truro regarded me thoughtfully. "What do you think the reason was?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," I said frankly. "Did someone suggest that he lag behind? If so, with what purpose? Was it so that he and Lammengeyer might discuss something privately? When you're proving premeditation, it might be important to bring out that Raymond didn't lag because of exhaustion, but for some other reason."

"I'll remember it. Good idea," said Truro. "Well, suppose we go and get statements from those two; and if we turn up nothing new, Lammengeyer it is."

Lammengeyer it was; and except for ourselves and Mrs. Lammengeyer, not a soul knew of the day's happenings. That poor woman was tremendously broken up, but rose to the occasion like a good one, and insisted on leaving with her husband. Herron provided them with a car, and two deputies set off with them for Serafina.

I WAS standing outside, at the front steps, when the cars got off. Brett was with me. When the banker and his guards passed us, I saw Brett's face twist and wince in the lamplight. It came to me that he must now be living again those horrible moments when he, in Paris, had been led away for a murder he had not committed. As the cars departed, I took him by the arm.

"Come to the bar, and forget it. A cocktail before dinner."

"No; I want to keep a clear head," he said in a low voice. "You must understand; I helped fasten those handcuffs on him. And now I'm wondering— Well, see you at dinner!"

He swung off and away. Wondering— what? Whether he had helped to corral the wrong man? That struck me as nonsense, so I went into the bar and ran afoul of Millinger and Newberry, who were in a corner nook by themselves.

"This young man has displayed positive genius today!" boomed the candidate, real affection in his rugged countenance. "I can never be too grateful for what he's done this day!"

Newberry grinned. "Your enthusiasm may kindle the Chief into giving me a raise, Andy! Talk it up to him, like a good scout."

Millinger was in earnest, however.

"Better than that: Our talks have given me an idea, Newberry. At the present moment I'm like a marooned mariner; my party heads are back East; I'm cut adrift from everything, and I'm scarcely equipped to handle the political niceties of the campaign. I left such matters to Raymond. Of late years, however, newspaper men have come heavily to the fore— in a word, my boy, I need a campaign manager. Can you step into Raymond's shoes if I get Herron's permission?"

The swift gratification in Newberry's face was answer enough. Before he could reply, Millinger continued gravely:

"A few hours ago, the end of the world was in sight for me. You walked in, showed intuition, intelligence, capability; I still shudder to think of the outcome, if the wild charge of Lammengeyer had reached the newspapers of the nation. You changed all that, and I'm grateful!"

"All I did was use the tools I'm trained to use," said Newberry, and added frankly: "I do think I made a good job of it, however!"

Guests were drifting into the bar for a pre-prandial cocktail. Dan Herron had come in with them; he drifted over to us.

"Glad things turned out right for you, Andy," he said. "Hello! You and Lafe look like two plotters!"

"Dead right," said Millinger, and plunged straight at it. He wanted Newberry and said so. "Lend him to me, Dan," he concluded, "and I'll give him a really wide path to travel! Especially if I'm elected."

Herron looked at the reporter with twinkling eyes. "How about it, Lafe?"

"Well," drawled Newberry, "I've got the Raymond story covered; the follow-up goes in after dinner. The Silver Syndicate stuff is written and ready for release, except for the final scripts. The answer's up to you."

"The best story of all hasn't been written yet," Herron said. "If you want a real one for your first press release in your new job. I'll give it to you."

Newberry's grin vanished.

"What is it. Chief? What's up?" he demanded tensely.

"The Herron interests, after thorough investigation," said Herron slowly, "have decided to break their long-standing rule and support a candidate for public office. I'll tell you his name, Lafe, if you'll promise to run down that Mr. Fate rat before you leave me."

"Chief, that guy is a goner right now! I'll do it if it takes a leg!" burst out Newberry. "Who's the candidate? What party are you backing?"

"Andrew Millinger for Congress," said Herron.

The rest was pandemonium.

Chapter 10

MORNING found Alta Serafina subdued and somber, for there had been no point in keeping the tragedy a secret. What hurt far more than the death of Raymond, who had few friends, was the arrest of Lammengeyer.

Cregar, an intimate friend of the banker, was hard hit. So was Mona Vindon, for the accused man had been her first backer. And it was here that cause and effect began to get in its deadly work. Mary, later in the morning, told me about it. She was at Mona Vindon's cottage when Herron came, and Mona made her remain; perhaps Mona knew she had Herron at a disadvantage, with Mary present.

"Yes, I sent for you, Dan," she replied to Herron's greeting. "Now the time has come for me to claim your many promises! I want you to do something for me."

Herron laughed. "Well, nothing hard about that, my dear! Name it, and if it's in the world, it's yours!"

"Oh, this isn't a thing," she said smiling, and kissed him. "You've probably done it anyway. I mean, get behind Fred Lammengeyer. We must do it. With all your influence and backing, we should be able to prove this charge absurd."

"Look, my dear— let me tell you the truth about this," began Herron. "You must face the fact that Fred's come to the end of the road. I've been working for months, getting the dope on him; the stories are being broken now. He's back of the organized gambling—"

Before he got far with his revelation, Mona was in mounting anger.

"You can't talk that way about him! I won't have it, Dan!" she cried. "I owe my first recognition to him, and it's a debt I sha'n't forget. That you, of all people, should have been working in secret to wreck him— I can't believe it!"

"Confound it, Mona, anyone would think the old hypocrite was your long-lost brother!" exclaimed Dan, which did not help matters a bit. "Now let me tell you something more: Lafe Newberry has built up the gambling story, and it can't be shaken; and in this instance he's built up Lammengeyer's guilt beyond all possibility of doubt, Mona. I can't turn on him now. I can't deny what I believe to be the facts, what is obviously a crime — you wouldn't have me do that. I just can't do it!"

"Why can't you?" She looked him in the eyes, and it was a look that went deep. "Why can't you, Dan? I'm afraid that there's only one answer: you really mean you won't do it?"

Herron could have done it, of course. But he was stubborn and grew more so.

At length Mona put her hand on his arm and smiled, and spoke.

"All right, Dan; suppose you think it over, and we'll take it up again after lunch. I must get at my mail with Miss Hartley. Say, two o'clock? — No, Mary, don't you go! After the mail's done, we might take a ride."

Dan Herron went his way, nicely and completely dismissed; and Mary, telling me about it, was most admiring.

"And after all, Gordon, why shouldn't Herron do a little thing like that?"

"Little thing?" I repeated. "Woman, get wise to yourself! This is murder! Besides, it's a tremendous story he has worked up; for a whim, she's asking him to go against facts, against all he believes, against all his business instincts and—"

"Bosh!" said Mary. "He'd do it in a minute, if he really loved her with all his heart and soul!"

"If she loved him that way," I retorted, "she wouldn't ask it!"

Mary looked at me, I looked at her; the same idea had hit us.

"So that's it!" I observed. "After all the talk about them, have they discovered they're not in love? Would she pass up the richest catch in America?"

"Perhaps she has just that much sense," said Mary.

THIS was Sunday, and for some of us here, Monday meant business. The Nortons were getting off after luncheon, and Millinger was leaving an hour later; he was not taking Newberry, however, for the latter had many loose ends to take care of. Herron promised to send Newberry in one of his own planes, to join Millinger, within a few days. The Cregars were staying over, as were the others.

Luncheon past, I discovered Brett filling his pipe in a corner of the veranda, and joined him.

"When will we get any papers with the story?" I demanded.

He shrugged. "Dan probably has them now, for a couple of planes came in this morning. When he'll hand 'em out to everybody, is another matter. They may be in the reading-room, though. Say, tell me something! Why did you put so much importance on Raymond's having lagged behind?"

"Just a hunch, Brett; no actual reason. I still think it may be important."

"It is," he said. "Want to come over to my shack?"

I assented, and we crossed to his cottage. When we got comfortable in his place, he jerked his thumb toward a couch under the windows.

"Ever see that before?"

I frowned. The object on the couch was, apparently, a musette-bag.

"No."

"Think back. Somebody— Millinger, I think— said that Raymond had been so tired he hung his musette-bag on a tree; that was when Millinger last saw him. Our sheriff paid no attention. I went out

and brought the thing in."

"So that's the one!" I exclaimed. "Anything of interest about or in it?"

"Apparently not. Cigars, gum, chocolate and a small thermos half full of coffee. And yet— well, it's a queer thing."

Brett paused, cocking an eye at the couch.

"I have a hunch, a feeling, that if Raymond's murder is ever solved, that musette-bag will have something to do with it. And your query as to why he was so tired."

"The murder has been solved, Brett," I said gently.

He swung around and gave me a look. "You really think so?" he demanded in skeptic mockery.

He relaxed and smiled. "I thought so, Keyne," he said. "First, let me ask why you aren't satisfied with the outcome of the mystery?"

"Simply because it doesn't satisfy," I said. "It answers all the requirements, and yet fails to convince me. My reason says Lammengeyer is guilty; yet I can't believe it."

He nodded. "Right, right! That brings me back. ... Let me talk of myself, will you, before we go into the Lammengeyer thing? I've crowded a lot into the past year; now it's crowding me, apparently. Look at the people here, all of a sudden, who were in Paris then! Gantimiroff; Raja Naga; Raymond—"

"Whom you hated," I said impulsively. "Remember what you said about him?"

"Yes," he said. "That I'd like to kill him. And with my story, the murder might well have been laid at my door. But others here also hated him. Let's not get off the track; think of Paris. Is it by accident that those people whom I knew then are here now? Certainly it's not by human design."

"There are no accidents," I said, "from the psychic viewpoint."

"Quite true. Then it's by design of the fates. And think what that means to me!" His voice shook slightly. "I've prayed and hoped that forces were at work to establish my innocence; surely there is a just Deity! This thought has upheld me. And I've suffered, Keyne. I lost the woman I loved, because of that affair. Yes, Mona Vindon. I had gone to Paris; she was coming later. Then— well, she turned to Herron; but we've become good friends again, under his aegis. It could be nothing more. I couldn't betray his friendship."

He paused, puffed his pipe alight, and went on;

"As I say, I waited, in a secure confidence that things would ultimately come around to remove the shadow from my life. Now these people are here— doesn't it mean something? And these people aren't friends. You know the antipathy between me and Newberry—"

I probed. "Be frank, Brett. Take one more step. You've evaded on the cause of your feeling toward Newberry; it's not vague. Let's have it!"

He nodded. "True. I've no basis, mind you, for thinking so; but I'm convinced that he helped me, that he got me clear, because he knew I was innocent of that murder. And he knew I was innocent because he knew who did commit the crime."

"You've no idea yourself who did it?"

"None whatever. But I believe with all my heart and soul," he said, with an earnest tensity that was impressive, "in the approach of justice, whether you call these invisible forces God or Karma or Retribution. The truth will out, Keyne, and the singular way in which these people are gathered here, makes me believe the truth is close upon us."

He laid down his pipe, broke into a smile, and waved his hand toward the couch.

"So that's that, and we may return to the musette-bag yonder— and to Lammengeyer."

"If you remember," I said slowly, "Lammengeyer denied all knowledge of that check to Herron; and later, when accused of murder, wound himself all up in acknowledgment. So he lied, which is a presumption of guilt. And Newberry was convinced of his guilt in regard to the Wilson affair— which has not, remember, been solved. We must regard Lammengeyer, not as the actual murderer but the man behind that crime. With Raymond, he was himself the killer."

"And that brings us back to the query whether the mysterious Mr. Fate were not really Lammengeyer."

"But Mr. Fate called Herron this afternoon!" I exclaimed. "While Lammengeyer was still out on the trail!"

This effectually answered that.

The telephone rang. Brett answered.

"Oh! You've got it! Good! Let me have it, yes. I'll jot it down."

HE scribbled rapidly, spoke again, and rang off. He leaped to his feet and came to me, excitement in his face.

"I knew it, Keyne! Let's get back to your first query, now— the one about Raymond!"

"Eh? Oh, you mean as to why he lagged behind and felt so tired?"

"Right." Brett jabbed his pipe toward the couch. "After I got that musette-bag, and found what was in it, I sent off a sample of the coffee, sent it down to Serafina to get it analyzed. That was the report on the phone: The coffee was heavily drugged with one of the barbiturates, frequently used as a pre-operative sedative. That's why Raymond lagged! He was meant to lag! Didn't I tell you that Mr. Fate was a genius? And I say again, there are no accidents!"

Scarcely was I out of Brett's cottage when Uncle Pascal bobbed up out of nowhere and nabbed me. He insisted on walking me over toward his cottage, and pointing out a green for bowling, freshly rolled and seeded, and surrounded by a gravel path on all four sides.

"Just been rolled," he said, gazing at it lovingly. "I should state, Keyne, that this has been done for my benefit. I love the ancient game. When you can put in three or four hours of an afternoon—"

"Unfortunately, I can't," I said, and broke away, leaving him lovingly eying the new-seeded patch that was to be his bowling-green.

Cregar met me and dragged me into a tennis match, for which I was not sorry, since Raja Naga and Herron made up the four. After two sets, we broke up, and I beckoned the Hindu into a quiet nook and went at him deliberately.

"If you please, information! I'm a curious person, and you've roused my curiosity; since you've spoken openly before me, I can ask you to explain your words to Gantimiroff. Twice you've said you know something about her, about Paris. Will you give me a hint as to what your knowledge comprises?"

He regarded me steadily for a moment. "Tell Mr. Brett that since my knowledge concerns him, it is at his disposal. Shall we say, nine tomorrow morning? Good. And thanks for a very pleasant game."

He had certainly guessed the truth, or had some means of knowing it; I made no effort to deny that I spoke on behalf of Brett.

When I met Brett, late in the afternoon in the cocktail lounge, I told him exactly what had been said. He grimaced slightly and shook his head.

"This is the second time that man has overcome me with courtesy! Nine in the morning, eh?" He laid down an early afternoon edition of a Los Angeles paper. "Seen the Chronicle? It arrived by plane half an hour ago. It has the full Raymond story written by Newberry. The ones yesterday and this morning were rather sketchy, but this is good. Some pictures, too. Look it over."

I did not miss the insistence in his manner; I skimmed through the story and looked over the pictures of Raymond without catching anything amiss. He only smiled when I so observed.

"Take a good look at the picture of Raymond taken by Newberry."

I did so. It was captioned as the last picture of Raymond alive, having been snapped on the trail during his fatal hike. And I grew more puzzled. It was a fairish picture, with the background out of focus and the figure beautifully precise.

"I've never won a prize at puzzle pictures," I said. "I'll bite. What else?"

"The musette-bag. Millinger stated, you recall, that Raymond was tired and hung it on a tree or bush— where I found it this morning."

I stared at him. "Yes. But what's the point, Brett? This picture was taken after he had hung it up, of course."

"That's the whole blazing point, man!" he rejoined tensely. "Millinger was the last to see him alive, when he got rid of his musette-bag. Well, this picture was taken later— taken by Newberry."

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed, waking to it at last. "Then Newberry lied about not having found Raymond when he dropped back the last time!"

"Right. He found him. He talked with him. He took this picture. He never missed the musette-bag. He had no way of knowing that the very absence of that bag would positively identify this picture as having been taken at a certain time. And as you've so often said in your fictional outpourings—"

He paused, and I concluded:

"Those are the things that killers overlook; precisely. And the answer is that Newberry is Mr. Fate! It fits, man, it fits! Everything fits!"

Chapter 11

FROM the newspapers at which I glanced that evening, I appreciated what an island of peace this estate in the Sierras really was. Herron's announced support of Millinger had created a sensation. The murder of Raymond had created another. The arrest of Lammengeyer had sent all of southern California into a regular tailspin. All in all, it was a Monday long to be remembered in newspaper annals, as one Monday when there was news and to spare. The flood of wires, letters, and phone-calls beating in upon Herron beggared the imagination; Lennihan had to whip a special corps of assistants together to handle it all.

"What news from the domestic front?" I asked Mary, when she showed up. I was in bed and reading comfortably. "Good or bad?"

"Depends on the point of view," she replied. "I like Herron, of course; at the same time, he's a man who has absolutely everything, and one can't feel much sympathy for him if he loses in love; while Mr. Brett— well, he's a man who has lost everything, Gordon.... If Mona really loves him, he deserves it."

That was a woman's argument for you.

"Which puts Brett in a hell of a position, considering what he owes Herron," I said. "Hm! Well, I've had enough arguments for one day. Want to pull out of here and go home?"

"Certainly not," said Mary with decision. "Mona depends on me to stand by her."

That settled it; and I went to sleep....

A SUBDUED hammering wakened me; and I located the sound as coming from the door of our suite. I stumbled into the other room, switched on a light, and opened the door to admit Brett. He was half dressed. His face was expressionless but strangely drawn; his eyes pulled to pin-points against the light.

"Sorry to waken you at this ungodly hour, but hell's broken loose. Get your pants on and come along, like a good

I gaped at him. "What the devil's up?"

"Another dead man."

"Who?"

"Damn it, I don't know!" he broke out. "Flack, one of the guards, found him and reported to me; didn't know him. I called Dan. He said to get you and meet him there. Now, if you're fully satisfied, will you climb into some clothes? It's chilly outside."

His ill humor was quite justified. I must have appeared stupid; and so I was. It was three-thirty in the morning, I discovered. ... I fumbled into some clothes, slipped into my tennis shoes, and joined Brett. He had a flashlight with a powerful beam, and in no time we were out of the house. In reply to my questions, he shot the beam ahead.

"Over yonder. By the new bowling-green, Flack said. He's probably there now with Dan."

Leaving the tennis-courts behind, we headed for the bowling-green; it lay between Pascal Herron's cottage and the tiny lake which served Alta Serafina as a swimming-pool; and I recalled the new-seeded ground as we approached in the darkness. A haze was over the stars and the night was pitch-black.

Ahead showed the tiny red glow of a cigarette. We caught Herron's voice; he was there with the guard, Flack. Then everything was silent except the scrape of our feet. We were on the graveled path that bordered the green. The flashlight leaped and struck upon the body ahead, lying across the gravel.

HE was long dead, apparently. Blood had poured into the path from a wound in his neck, and had welled across his clothes. His hands had evidently pawed at the wound, for they were crusted. It was a revolting sight.

"Cregar!" I exclaimed. "Pat Cregar!"

"Yes," grunted Herron. He drew a quick, deep breath, and I sensed that his nerves were at the breaking-point. Nor did I blame him. Relief seized me when the flashlight ceased. The death, the stillness, and the circling loom of black night, combined to raise a panic touch within the heart.

"I'll get some clothes on and rouse up White," said Herron, who was in pajamas. The dawn here was bitter chill. "This is a hell of a thing. Wonder why Mrs. Cregar hasn't missed him?"

"Probably they have separate rooms," said Brett. "Flack, go over to my cottage, will you, and get my camera and bulbs out of the bedroom closet."

He described what he wanted. Flack departed, and Herron also left. The two of us were alone, yet not alone.

"By the way," I asked, "have you tried to find who primed Raymond's coffee?"

"Of course. Impossible. The flask came from the kitchen with others. Raymond took one at random and put it in his bag. As the coffee was half gone, someone might have got a drink from him, and slipped the stuff in. Millinger's gone, so we can't ask him."

"Try Newberry," I suggested, and he grunted. "At any rate, Mr. Fate hasn't left any record of this visitation, apparently. Why the devil would he kill Cregar?"

"Why would anyone kill Cregar?" said Brett. "You think that Mr. Fate did this?"

"Naturally. And if you want to reopen our discussion of yesterday, and attempt to identify the gentleman—"

Brett moved restlessly, and broke in upon me.

"Listen, Keyne. We can settle that matter instantly, for good and all. Newberry is not Mr. Fate— at least, Lafe didn't have anything to do with this murder."

"You seem damned positive of it," I remarked in some surprise.

"I am. Last night I was— well, I was almost convinced," he said in a low voice. "I'm ashamed to confess it, Keyne, but I had one of the guards do nothing except shadow Lafe Newberry last night. I know precisely what he did. I hate to say it, and you'll regard it as strictly confidential, of course."

He hesitated, at my assent. "Must seem like a low-down trick," he went on. "Damn it! Well, Newberry worked in the communications-room until one-fifteen. Then he went to his room and was there ten minutes; then he went to another room, and is still there."

"Another room?" I echoed, quite missing the point. Brett swore softly.

"Yes. Gantimiroff's room."

I WHISTLED in surprise. Now I comprehended Brett's reluctance to speak. "Well, cheer up," I said. "That gal hasn't any reputation to lose, by all accounts. And I don't blame Newberry."

Brett chuckled at this. He was still chuckling when Herron rejoined us, with a brisk word.

"White will be along. Well, boys, what d'ye know about this? One thing I've remembered: this death was predicted by Raja Naga. Newberry jeered about that prediction, only last evening."

Then we all jumped, as a voice came at us out of the gloom; a thin, piping, jeering voice:

"What sinful conclave takes place here upon this lonely upland heath? What ho, first, second and third murderers!"

An oath from Herron and the beam of his flashlight fled out across the darkness. It picked up a figure squatted under the broad branches of a blue cedar— the figure of Uncle Pascal, who sprang nimbly to his feet as the light revealed him.

"You! What are you doing here?" snapped Herron. "Go on back to bed! You'll catch your death of cold here."

"Rats!" retorted Pascal. "I'm dressed warmer than any of you, except Keyne. He had sense enough to put on a leather jacket."

How the devil could he have known this? I was enshrouded in darkness, and no beam of light had touched me. Before I could speak the query, however, another light jabbed at us, and here came the guard Flack, with Brett's camera and equipment.

"You'd better take that corpse away from here," went on Pascal. "It's nothing to leave lying around, so close to my house."

"How do you know there's a corpse here?" snapped Herron.

His uncle laughed wildly. "There's something tangible in the light of the night sky, Daniel! My young friend Dr. Kaplan at the university has made remarkable discoveries about it. He's captured the veritable afterglow of deep space in a quartz bottle. He and I differ on—"

"Stop your nonsense!" barked Herron angrily. "What brought you out here?"

"Now, boys, turn off your lights and keep 'em off," rejoined Uncle Pascal, "and I'll show you a trick. Also, I'll tell you something important you don't know. Keep your temper down, Dan, and you'll all learn a thing or two."

"Some of your night-seeing tricks?" Herron demanded scornfully, and turned to us, muttering: "The old goat has the gift of nocturnal vision; his cat's eyes can see in the dark. I suppose he's talking about that."

The flashlights had been snapped off.

"All right," said Pascal, chuckling. "Leave the lights off. Now where am I? In what direction?"

Fuming though he was, Herron probably guessed there was something under all this foolery, and kept himself in hand. We tried to locate Uncle Pascal, but he had skipped into the darkness somewhere, and none of us could find him by the sound of his voice.

"All right!" he said at last. "Shoot on your light."

A beam picked him up. He was coming toward us, dusting off his knees.

"An old Injun trick, my lads," he chirped in his cheerfully idiotic way. "The savages knew that the dispersion of sound increases with the— but you're not interested in primal acoustics, I fear. Somebody give me a cigarette, and I'll impart some real information."

I complied with the request, and held a match. The flare lit up his wildly whimsical features, and unbrushed hair.

"Do you know who did this thing?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No; but it shouldn't be a very hard job for you, Keyne, with your hedonist's brain, to find who did kill them. Even for me it would be simple."

"Them? There's only one dead man, Uncle Pascal," snapped Herron.

"Oh, is that so?" rejoined Pascal gleefully. "Smart lad, Dan! Then what's wrong with the other fellow? Maybe he's merely fainted?"

"What other fellow?" Herron demanded sharply.

"The corpse who walked out into the middle of my new bowling-green!"

The others turned from us; the pencils of light swept out across the newly seeded green, and picked up what seemed an inanimate heap of clothes. Horrified ejaculations broke from everyone— and small wonder! If the appearance of Cregar had been horrible, the other man before us was worse; when the jugular is cut, the results are not pretty.

"Listen!" Uncle Pascal leaned close to my ear. "Keep your eye on Brett. I always said it was tempting fate to have a murderer around loose! You'll find that he did it!" Freeing me, he turned away, and his voice crackled out abruptly. "Stay on the gravel, all of you! Keep off the fresh ground!"

I joined the others; we stared along the converging light-pencils at the object beyond. A man, yes, but it was impossible to tell who he was.

"Looks like Newberry's dark suit," I said, with a chill feeling. "Didn't he have an argument with Cregar?"

"Newberry's not here," Brett reminded me.

"Doesn't matter a jiffy who it is— the big thing is those footprints in the ground!" chirped Uncle Pascal. "Dan, use your eyes! Throw your light along the ground— level, not downward! Realize what those tracks mean?"

The urgency in his voice was compelling; and obeying, we saw that he was right. In the level flashlight rays, the indentations in the freshly rolled earth were quite plain: The dead man had walked half across that seeded space, and died. To him came tracks from the far side; to him, then they left him and came straight to the body of Cregar. It was Cregar who had walked out there, as though to meet him— then had walked back here and dropped.

"Gad!" exclaimed Dan Herron. "Can a man walk that far with his throat cut?"

"Anything can be done— once," I observed grimly. "Nothing's impossible. See what it means? They met there—"

"Met— and killed each other!" added Brett. "Yet it's damned queer. Cregar has been stabbed, not shot. Pascal, did they wake you while they were fighting?"

"No," said Uncle Pascal. "I saw your guard's flashlight flitting around. I was awake and reading. I came out to see what was up."

"Well, for the Lord's sake, let's find out who it is yonder!" exclaimed Herron. "You go, Gordon; we'll hold the lights. Keep away from those tracks and be careful not to muss up the ground."

Two flashlights lit the ground admirably. Keeping well clear of the three lines of footprints, I started toward the body; but even on closer approach, could not see whose figure it was.

The freshly rolled and pulverized earth took a perfect impression of anything that touched it, and there was not a mark of any kind except the tracks of the dead men walking out and ending, the prints of Cregar coming out and then going away at a sharp angle. I halted six feet away from the huddled figure, which lay face down, the face twisted away from me and from the lights.

Whipping off my leather jacket, spreading it on the earth ahead of me, I stepped on it, reached forward, and touched the extended hand of the dead man. It was icy cold; he had been dead for hours. I struck a match and got a gleam of light on the dead face.

It was the face of Raja Naga.

Chapter 12

WE were still stunned, all of us, by the finding of this second body. It had a ghastly unreality, like something out of a dream that could not be true. I called out the name; and Brett, lifting his voice, said that Uncle Pascal had just told them as much, claiming he could recognize the figure.

Herron called to examine the ground attentively, and I did so. There could be no error about those footprints. Naga had walked out here and dropped; he had walked straight out, and heavily. Those of Cregar had not come straight out, but went off at tangents, then came to the body of the Hindu, then went heavily to where Cregar's body now lay, as though with plunging steps.

About the head and shoulders of Raja Naga were confused prints, as though one or both of the men had fallen; an expert might make something of them, but I could not. So, walking in my own tracks, I backed off and rejoined the others.

"Apparently he was stabbed to death also," I said, concluding my report. "I didn't turn him over to see, but the blood indicated as much."

It was, on the face of it, clear that both men had started across the seeded ground, had met, had fought; Naga had fallen, and Cregar started away, getting as far as the edging gravel path before he keeled over. Yet as Herron pointed out, Cregar was hardly the man to be using a knife.

"Unless the Hindu used it first, and Cregar took it away from him," said Brett.

"Then where is it now?" demanded Uncle Pascal.

The white coruscation of flashlight bulbs split the night, as Brett got his photographs of Cregar's body. He went on to operate on the tracks and on Raja Naga likewise, while Herron and I undertook to answer Pascal's inquiry. It was soon answered. We lifted Cregar, glimpsed the weapon lying beneath him; and Herron, handkerchief around hand, drew it forth and stared at it.

"Recognize it?" I asked.

"Of course! A kitchen knife, and from our own kitchens. I brought over a complete set from the factory in Sweden, just before the war. Good Lord!" He drew a deep breath. "All this just doesn't make sense, Gordon! Do you realize that the knife was lying under him, not in the wound? Of course, he may have jerked it loose in a dying spasm."

He had just begun to react to the horror of it all, but Uncle Pascal seemed entirely oblivious to any such angle of the affair.

Brett, his pictures made, was working away at something; it proved that he was trying to brush out his own tracks as he backed away. This was absolutely impossible. That fresh-seeded ground had been perfectly rolled. He rejoined us, breathing hard.

"Well, that settles it," he said. "No one else could have been out there. They killed each other— why, we'll probably never know. They'd had a quarrel, remember; and there was Raja Naga's prophecy. Well, now what?"

Herron turned to Flack, ordering the guard to go after a hand-truck.

"We'll get the bodies out of sight before daylight, and leave Flack on guard to make sure this ground is not disturbed. It's getting on to morning now. I'd say, get a bit of sleep, if you can, and we'll get together early, say seven o'clock, to decide on what's to be done. Meet in my office, breakfast there, and face the issue. This is going to be one hell of a thing all around."

"I'm off to bed, then," I said, and moved away. Uncle Pascal joined me and walked with me toward the lights of the Main House.

"So," he observed softly, "you all think it's so easy as that, do you!"

"As what?" I rejoined.

"Oh, the solution! Murdered each other, says you— as if that were likely!"

"Can you improve on the idea?"

"Certainly I can," he replied. "Ten to one, mark my words, we'll find that Brett is the murderer!"

"And while you find it so, I'll make up some lost sleep," I rejoined, and entered the house while he turned back again to his own cottage.

WITH morning, I was up and off without waking Mary. When Herron, Brett and I forgathered in Herron's sanctum, I expected to see Uncle Pascal and Newberry, but they were not in evidence. Nor was there any sign of the promised breakfast.

"Isn't Newberry in on this?" I asked. Herron grimaced, and made curt reply. "No, he's not. Look here, will you two help me out? I'm in a hell of a jam in several directions, and I want two or three hours before I have to talk to sheriffs or anyone else." Herron's appeal gathered incoherency; I had never imagined he could so lose his self control. "Take charge of this whole damned thing, Brett! You help him, Gordon. Notify Sheriff Kemp, close the gates and let no one leave, do anything you damned please— but give me until nine o'clock or so absolutely undisturbed."

"Okay. Leave it to us, Dan," Brett said briefly. "Come on, Keyne."

Outside, I gave him a look. "Here, what's struck him?"

"Search me. Come on and get breakfast. I expect he's found out where Newberry spent the night— probably was trying to get in touch with Lafe about these murders. Not that Dan gives a hang about anybody's morals, but when a man falls down and fails to show up when news breaks, then Dan goes wild. You go along to the breakfast-room; I'll stop and phone Sheriff Kemp— might as well do it now and save trouble— and then join you."

So I went to the big empty room and conjured up breakfast. Looking out at the drive and the entrance, I saw a car standing there, loaded with baggage. Mona Vindon and her colorless little secretary were getting into it. The car got off as I watched. When Brett showed up, I shot a quick question at him.

"Did you close the gates to prevent anyone leaving?"

"Tighter than a drum, till the sheriff gets here and takes charge. Why?"

"No particular reason. Here, try these sausages; they're really prime. By the way, I suppose it didn't occur to you to look over the rooms of the defunct gentlemen?"

"Didn't want to disturb Mrs. Cregar." He lifted his head and gave me that bleak, level look of his; then his eyes melted in friendly warmth. "About the other— yes. And I was surprised. I never dreamed Raja Naga knew so much; for example, he must have known Fate. Here— this was lying on his writing-table. No accident that it was torn, eh?"

He passed me a folded sheet of the Alta Serafina notepaper. Upon it were a few lines of writing in a neat script:

General Boguslav was murdered by the Red Group in Los Angeles; all Communists hated him bitterly. Mr. Fate, who is in constant intimate touch with the Reds, was tipped off ahead of time. Mr. Fate is our very good—

I looked up in dismay. Obviously no accident that it had been torn off there, left as a mocking challenge by the killer, no doubt Mr. Fate himself!

"He did know, then! And he was going to tell us everything this morning! About your Paris affair as well."

Brett nodded. "Too bad.... Each of those men, last night, was stabbed in the same spot; downward, through the jugular."

"You mean that it was impossible, then, for them to have killed each other?"

"I mean that, and more, Keyne. Newberry's wife, in Paris a year ago, was stabbed in precisely the same place and manner."

I stared at him.

"They were killed by the same person who killed her?"

"There are no accidents," said Brett. A flash leaped through his eyes, a terrible flash. "Did I not tell you that the karmic forces were at work here— that somehow, somewhere, retribution was at hand? I believe it. I know it!"

"But it doesn't fit!" I exclaimed. "Raja Naga might have been killed by Mr. Fate, for fear he'd tell too much. Why, then, the murder of Cregar? And if it's all as you say, then suppose we revert to my theory that Newberry is Mr. Fate. Perhaps Newberry killed his wife in Paris!"

Brett shook his head, peering at me through a cloud of smoke.

"No. Lafe was well accounted for that night; he was at work. His whereabouts were known. Believe me, that supposition is entirely out of the question. Well, suppose we get busy. We've a couple of hours, or more, before the sheriff arrives; which means that Dan will have the time he craved."

IN the morning sunlight there was no longer any sense of mystery. The bowling-green was now a pitifully circumscribed plot of ground flanked by its graveled walks. By daylight it was even more obvious that Naga and Cregar had walked across the seeded patch to meet each other. Only one weapon had been found. Cregar, then, must have used it, himself getting his death-wound in the struggle.

"Yet he held the knife, carried it off with him — that doesn't make sense, Brett!" I exclaimed. "And it was lying beneath him."

"Can't always tell what'll happen in a struggle. Look at the direction Cregar took when he left the Hindu!" He pointed. "Straight toward Pascal Herron's cottage. It was Cregar's first visit here. He didn't know the place well. He saw a light burning at Pascal's house and started for it, as the nearest place of help."

"Sounds logical," I assented. "Did Dr. White fix the time of the murders?"

"If it was a fight, it wasn't murder," said Brett dryly. "Yes. Approximately before eleven last evening. Suppose we go see what Pascal can tell us about all this. You know, I've got a hell of a job to face— telling Mrs. Cregar! I think I'll pass it on to White. Yes, I'll call him from Pascal's."

We walked over to the big cottage, and found Uncle Pascal sitting on the front steps, smoking an elaborately decorated corncob pipe with an amber stem. He greeted us with a twinkle in his eye, and assented cordially to Brett's request, much to my relief. He took Brett inside to telephone, then hurried out and came to me.

"I was wrong, Keyne!" he said breathlessly. "All wrong. About Brett, I mean."

"Glad to hear it," I exclaimed. "Does your wife know about the happenings?"

"Yes— here she is now."

The frail, gentle old woman came out, greeted me, and took a rocker in the sunlight, knitting in hand. Presently Brett reappeared, with a curt nod to me; evidently White had assumed the dreaded task. We sat down on the steps, and Pascal tittered.

"I was watching you boys over there. Find anything new?"

"No," replied Brett. "Did either of you folks hear anything out of the ordinary last night, before you turned in?"

"I didn't turn in," said Uncle Pascal. "I read late. Martha, you said something about voices. What was it?"

She nodded. "Yes. It was after the symphony ended and I turned off the radio. That would be nine-sixteen, wouldn't it, Pascal?"

The old leprechaun winked elaborately at me. "Nine-seventeen, I'd say."

"Well, I heard voices. It sounded like a woman calling and a man answering. I couldn't hear any words, of course. At first I thought they were on the water, for sounds carry from the lake; (but they might have been on that— that bowling-green."

Brett looked at Uncle Pascal. "Did you hear them?"

"I can't have the eyes of a cat and the tears of a dog both," came the retort. "In fact, I've quite rusted away except for my brain. Martha's the ears and looks of the family, I'm the eyes and brains— and that leaves Dan with nothing but money." He chuckled and mouthed his pipe stem.

"You're sure about the two voices, Mrs. Herron?" asked Brett.

She nodded. "Yes; it was only an impression, of course. I didn't pay it much mind."

We dropped the subject. Presently she went in, and Brett turned to Pascal.

"You know something more than you've said, don't you?" he asked directly.

"You're damned right I do! I know everything," said Uncle Pascal delightedly. "When you two boys get brain-

fever and quit, just come to me and I'll help you out."

"Brag's a good horse, eh?" Brett rose. "Come on, Keyne. Let's look over the ground once more. Thanks for use of the phone, Pascal. See you later."

WE strolled away. At least we had learned something, provided those voices had been at the time of the killing. As Brett pointed out, the suavely modulated tenor voice of Raja Naga might easily have passed for that of a woman.

"I've checked up on the two of 'em, last night," he went on thoughtfully. "Both men left the house before nine o'clock."

"Together?" I asked.

"Apparently not; can't be sure. Raja Naga had been playing chess with Newberry, who remained in the game-room until he went to do his story, about eleven. Cregar had been drinking quite a bit. The waiter at the buffet table remembers when they left."

"How so?"

"Because,"— and Brett smiled,—"he had a date with his girl, one of the housemaids, and wanted to get off, and couldn't." We had come to the damned square of bloody ground and were circling it. "Cregar demanded one of those kidneys nested in a mushroom top; the waiter got what he wanted, and he went out eating it."

"Obviously," I observed, "Cregar and Naga did not leave together."

"Obviously, Keyne?" said Brett, surprised.

I pointed to the tracks. "Yes. You see, they reached here from different directions; one arrived here on this side, the other over there. As though they had a rendezvous here. For a duel?"

"Duel, my eye!" said Brett, and laughed excitedly. "You've hit something, Keyne! Here's what it was— by George, all the puzzle pieces fit together! They had a date here, say. Raja Naga got here first and called Cregar to him— perhaps assumed a woman's voice. Now look at Cregar's uneven line of footsteps going out to the center."

"Looks like the lurching stagger of a drunken man."

"Cregar was a tank; he was seldom so drunk as that! But the outgoing line of footprints is straight. If he staggered in, he walked out straight." He broke off, staring at the tracks in the ground, his eyes alight. "Hold on, now! Let me get it right," he muttered. "Yes, it fits— it fits!"

We were standing at the spot where the tracks of Raja Naga led out across the seeded ground. I looked down at the path; something curious about the gravel had caught my eye. All this plot had been most carefully tended by expert hands. Yet here, for a little space of some feet, gravel had been scraped from the path into two small piles. I drew Brett's attention to it, and he nodded abstractedly.

"Looks as though some kid had been playing here."

"Right here, where Raja Naga turned off," I said, frowning. "Why?"

"I can't believe those two men met by chance," Brett said abruptly. "Things just don't happen that way, Keyne. There's no chance— there are no accidents! Here, come around to the other side of the green. I've got the. whole thing now— ah, it's beautiful; it fits!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm.

We passed over to where Cregar had made his entrance on the seeded ground. Careful to keep away from his prints, Brett pointed to them, interpreted them to me like an Indian tracker.

"Here's the first of his zigzags, Gordon! Both feet together; there's no throw of dirt from the toes. He stood here, listening; the impressions of his feet are comparatively deeper. He was listening, trying to place the sound of Naga's voice. It seemed to come from the right; he took four steps in that direction— see them? Then he halted again, as the voice seemed to come from the left. He steers left; twice more he changes direction before he comes to the center of the green! Do you get the idea now?"

"No. I'm a dumb cluck," I said, "and it's over my head. No matter how dark it was, I could make up my mind as to the direction of a voice."

He grinned. "Didn't you learn anything from Uncle Pascal's little demonstration last night, and his mention of acoustics? He had been fooling us, scattering his voice by a method old as man! He got down on his knees— he was brushing the dirt from them when he showed himself— and put his mouth against the ground. We couldn't tell where he was. And that's precisely what Naga did. And Uncle Pascal caught on, the smart old devil!"

He began to explain the laws of acoustics, and how the earth could act as a reflector instead of a conductor, scattering sound— until I broke in upon him.

"All right, Brett. Let's grant your whole argument; and you tell me just one little thing! Why did Naga go through all this hocus-pocus? Why tempt Cregar out into the middle of the seeded space? Why not knife him more conveniently?"

Brett compressed his lips for a moment.

"I guess you've got me," he said at last, reluctantly. "There must have been a reason. Want to go into the house and look at the knife? I've got the physical evidence all together there."

"Yes, suppose we do," I replied. "And I want to get a copy of the Chronicle— the one that carries Newberry's story about Raymond. I haven't read it. We got off on the subject of that musette-bag, if you remember."

We turned back toward the Main House.

"I have several copies— I'll give you one, of course," said Brett, frowning. "Have you thought over your suspicions of Newberry?"

"They're absolutely barred," I returned, "by the fact that he did not have the alpenstock on the trail; that is, if the murder was committed by the alpenstock."

"It was," he said. "They took a cast of the wound and proved it; phoned up about it last evening, because in their excitement they left the alpenstock here. I've kept it locked up. Said they'd send up for it today. Now, however, they'll be up on a larger errand as well. You can't very well suspect Newberry of this double killing, anyhow!"

"No," I said, as we approached the building. "As long as you know where he was at the time Mrs. Herron heard those voices."

"And for some time later," he agreed, and led the way to the basement.

Here, besides the saddle- and ski-rooms, were the workshops and a small laboratory, for Alta Serafina was largely self-sufficient. Equipment of all sorts was kept here, from tennis racks to alpenstocks, from ski-wax to parts for automobiles and snowplows.

BRETT introduced the genius of this place, an angular old Scot named McWhirter, who shook my hand warmly and said he had read my stories. Then we went on, and Brett unlocked the door of his own sanctum. Since the discovery of the two bodies, he had not been back to bed, but had remained at work here. His binoculars, microscope, violet-ray and other instruments were flanked by much homemade apparatus. The walls were covered with camera studies and all kinds of enlargements. He pointed to the mess surrounding his microscope.

"I wanted to learn," he said, "which of the two men was first stabbed, but both proved to be of the same blood group. Otherwise, by finding which blood underlay the other on the seeded ground, we might have determined it. Here's the knife. No prints were on it except their own."

The gruesome object was cradled in a wire frame within a wooden box eighteen inches long, over which a piece of glass had been sealed with adhesive tape. Pinned to the wall was an enlargement made by stripping together small enlarged photos; Brett had been working, and no mistake. On the table were blowups of the predominant prints from the knife. With them was a pile of other prints, which I perceived had come from the alpenstock. This tool itself lay along two nails driven into the wall; below it was the steel head, which Brett had removed. He shoved rubber gloves at me.

"Use these if you touch anything. The knife—"

"Wait a minute," I said. "Why did you take the head from the alpenstock?"

"A hunch," he replied, and shrugged. "Nothing developed. I'll have to put it together again before the sheriff gets here. As for the knife, I tried for some story of the order in which it was handled. Apparently the Cregar prints overlie those of Naga— these enlargements show it. It seems obvious that Cregar was lured out, stabbed, then pulled out the knife and stabbed Naga, and stumbled away. Probably he didn't realize that he had killed Naga with the one frantic blow."

I fell to picturing the scene mentally, with his words. Remembering the dark, controlled Naga, it was hard to credit any murderous frenzy in him. Cregar would have fitted better as the aggressor, though it was difficult to see him as a knife-wielder.

"The whole conflict of the ages is passing between your eyebrows and your mouth," Brett said dryly, as he watched me. "What's the big idea?"

"I just can't believe they did it, Brett. It just ain't sol"

"The evidence points to it clearly."

"No doubt. Let's go back to my idea that Mr. Fate is really Newberry. You spoke of his wife having been killed in Paris, precisely as these two men were killed. That may be coincidence. But suppose it's not? Suppose he killed his wife, there, himself; suppose he wasn't pegged down, as you think, last night— and slipped out to do this?"

"Why would he do it?"

"I don't know; that doesn't make sense either," I admitted. "If he were Mr. Fate, and had killed Raymond, there'd be a motive— he'd have the job he was after."

"Weak," said Brett. "Besides, the alpenstock proves conclusively that he didn't do it, and Lammengeyer did."

HE glanced at his watch, and whistled softly.

"Holy smoke! Time has fled! I'll have to take that knife up, and the photos, and put 'em with the bodies and other stuff, before Sheriff Kemp gets here. Then I'll have to put that alpenstock together."

"I'll do that while you're gone," I said, seeing the two stout screws that had held the steel head to the staff, lying with the head.

"Right. Mind the gloves, then," said Brett. "I'll bring you one of those papers with the Raymond story. Give the devil his due; Lafe did a marvelous piece of writing on that story."

He began to get his scattered prints together and moved the knife and box, just as it was. I donned the rubber gloves and started to refasten the steel alpenstock head to its staff. The door slammed behind Brett. As it did so, I suddenly froze, staring down at the alpenstock head; I laid down the screwdriver, looked at the screws, and took both of them over to the microscope— though I scarcely needed more than an ordinary glass to verify my curious discovery.

It was not strange that I had chanced upon something that Brett had missed. His whole attention had been given to the staff and the head. Mine had lighted upon the two screws.

I examined them minutely. Under the heads, and also upon the threads, was a dark stain. Scraping at this with an old scalpel that lay to hand, I obtained numerous particles of it on a glass slide. If it was rust, my whole discovery would mean nothing. But if it was not rust— Brett returned when I had just finished putting the screws in place, and had the alpenstock together again. I took off my gloves, as he laid down a newspaper.

"Here's the Raymond story again. I'm still puzzled by that blasted picture! Oh, the thing's ready, eh? Fine. Just got a phone-call from the gate— the sheriff's party is on the way. They made damned good time. I'll take that alpenstock—"

"Wait a minute," I said, showing him the slide. "I'm not sure whether I discovered what you missed, or whether I didn't. Is there any way of determining whether this brown stuff is dried blood, or whether it's rust?"

"Nothing easier," he replied. "But the alpenstock—"

"Tell me where to take it, while you make the test for me," I said, quivering. "By golly, Brett, I may have struck oil here!"

"All right. There's a box for the alpenstock; take it up to Lennihan, like a good chap. I'll meet you there."

He routed out a long cardboard box stuffed with cotton, laid the alpenstock in it, and I went off with it.

When I had given it to Lennihan, and learned that Herron was not around, I went out on the wide front terrace, and settled down to read the Raymond story. Looking off across the greensward, I saw a car in front of Mona Vindon's cottage, and made out a group there— Herron, I thought, and a figure that looked like Mary, among them. So she had been turned back, eh?

The story caught my eye. It was good. His lead was magnificent:

Hat in hand, R. G. Raymond, shadowy Wall Street giant, sat down to rest at Alta Serafina, mountain estate of Daniel Parker Herron, and Death found him there, far from the click of the tape.

Hat in hand, resting beneath a tall pine on a mountain trail, as though doffing the Alpine headgear in greeting to the approaching Presence—

Something clicked twice in my brain. I went back and read that lead once more; and my eyes bulged. Holy smoke! And Newberry had written it— had written it that same evening of Raymond's death!

I checked back over the whole afternoon and evening, and satisfied myself that this strange, incredible error was no figment of my imagination. I reviewed everything I had said, everything that had been said among us, before Newberry went to get his story off. Then I crammed the paper into my pocket, rose, and was heading indoors when two cars came sweeping up to the entrance, disgorging a crowd of men. Sheriff Kemp and his satellites had arrived— probably the district attorney as well, though I did not wait to see.

I was suddenly on fire. The photograph showing Raymond without his musette-bag— that had been the starter. This story was the clincher; another slip on the part of Mr. Fate! The whole thing was taking shape before me. Thanks to Newberry, who must be entirely unaware of it, the mystery of Raymond's murder was no longer a mystery! The proof, the conclusive proof, the key to the whole affair, must lie in the stain on those two little screws.

I made all haste to the basement and go to the laboratory, but Brett was not there. The laboratory door was locked. As I turned from it, the old caretaker McWhirter came into sight, calling my name.

"Where's Captain Brett?" I demanded.

"He just went to Mr. Herron's office, sir," said McWhirter. "That's why I was calling you— they want you there too."

"All right," I said. "Tell me one thing: where do you keep your alpenstocks?"

"Over here, sir, in this rack."

He led me to a rack in one corner, switched on a light, and showed me a row of alpenstocks and other aids to climbing-ropes, grapnels, everything that one could desire. The case was not locked. I pulled it open. Beneath the alpenstocks were several extra heads to fit the shafts, and my heart leaped.

Eureka! I had it now, had every last detail of it at my fingers' ends! Seizing one of the extra heads, I slipped it into my hip pocket and turned.

"Thanks, Mac. I'll return this sometime."

Then I made haste to reach Herron's office.

Lennihan passed me on into the inner sanctum. Sheriff Kemp and the district attorney, Truro, were there, and most unpleasant they were about it. Herron was there, with Lafe Newberry. Brett had just come in, and was moving up a chair. He flung me a significant nod, as though to tell me that the stain on the screws had been blood; but I no longer needed his assurance.

MY arrival evidently interrupted a heated discussion: Herron was looking red and angry, and the sheriff, who had broken off, resumed his speech before I could get in a word.

"If you were anyone but a man of your size, Herron, I'd pull the whole damn' lot on suspicion I Do you realize that within twenty-four hours the country will be smoking with rumors about you and every guest you got here? That Truro and I will be lucky if we don't get slapped in the face with a recall petition? They're already saying that you've paid us to cover up your private cemetery! And now two more men killed!"

"Careful, Kemp, careful," struck in the smooth voice of Truro. "Mr. Herron, I'm sure, will cooperate with us. You see, Mr. Herron, we had to book Lammengeyer in the face of all that evidence, but it didn't smell right to us then, and it smells worse now. And now, two more men killed last night! Don't tell me you have two killers running around loose up here."

"Cregar and Raja Naga obviously killed one another—" began Herron.

"Nonsense!" Sheriff Kemp broke in. Newberry rose and left the room quietly; no one paid any attention to him. I watched him leave, with swift relief; so much the better for what I had to say! And I could no longer keep back my excitement.

"Well, gentlemen, I can settle all this," I exclaimed, leaping up. "I know who killed Raymond—"

Kemp turned on me with an absolute snarl.

"Shut up! When I need some half- cooked fictioneer to tell me who's doing the killing around here, I'll give you a badge!"

"But, Sheriff!" I broke out in dismay. "You've got to listen to me! I can show you every step—"

"Yes, and what's wrong here is too much amateur detective test-tubing," roared the sheriff, bringing down his fist on the desk with a bang as he glared at me. "That's got to stop. From now on, I'm taking over, and I mean completely over! I'm going to tear this place apart, if necessary. That goes for you too, Mr. Brett! You and your damned pictures and fancy treatment of evidence— arrgh! Captain Brett, are you? Well, around me you're just another tourist, so bear it in mind."

"If you'd show more sense and less anger," I snapped, "I could tell you precisely who did the killing."

An oath burst from the sheriff. "Then bring him in here with a confession signed, like in your blasted books! Now keep out of it." He turned to Brett. "While we're about it, there's a few things I'd like to check up on you, yourself. So let's go to bat and get 'em settled."

I went out and closed the door, and nodded to Lennihan.

"Where'd Mr. Newberry go?"

"Communications-room, he said."

When I went down the hall, I found Newberry not there; he had ducked in and out again, and someone said I would find him in the gun-room. This was a small but interesting room on the main corridor just outside the business offices. I hurried there at once, and walked in to see Newberry by the window, at the bench.

The shotguns, rifles and hand arms here were all racked in locked cases on the wall. A workbench and a very complete library on guns completed the little place. Newberry had brought one of the books to the bench, and looked up as I approached.

"Hello! Are you after information too?"

"No," I replied. "I have information."

He grinned. "Quite a scene back yonder, eh? The Sheriff's putting on a tough line to impress Truro, who's the real political power in Serafina County. What's your information about?"

"Well, I have a hunch on the killings," I said. "They refused to listen to me, in Dan's office, so I thought I'd try it out on you. In fact," I added, with an unashamed lie, "Brett helped me on it, and he's getting it all typed out now."

"Swell!" Newberry exclaimed cordially, laying aside his book. He picked up a small iron machinist's hammer from the bench, and played idly with it. "Swell, Keyne! Try it out on me, by all means! Theory, eh? Spill it, and I'll spoil it!"

"Yes, you would if you could," I said quietly, holding his gaze.

"Oh! Who's the killer, then?"

"You are."

HE evinced no surprise, no emotion of any kind.

"Why on earth do you say that, Keyne?" he asked in a flat voice.

"You're Mr. Fate yourself. You got tipped off on the Boguslav murder by some of your Red friends. Probably Gantimiroff, since you've been swapping information with her. Raja Naga knew as much and said as much."

He produced a cigarette and lit it, with his sardonic grimace.

"Quite true. That Hindu had something on the ball."

"You admit it, then?" I demanded, surprised.

"Of course, of course. No harm in writing notes, is there? You say I've done these killings here? How many do you blame me with?"

"All of them, naturally."

He shook his head, chuckled, and puffed at his cigarette.

"Keyne, you're priceless! But sadly mistaken."

"They need only one killing to pull the gas jets in this State. You brought Wilson up here. Before passing the gates, you loaded him into your luggage compartment; after passing the gates, you let him out. You probably told him you'd bring Herron down to Land's End to meet him. Instead, you bumped him off there."

"And why, in the name of goodness?" drawled Newberry.

"You were hoping to turn Herron to Millinger's support. It might have worked, too, only we discovered the suicide and stole your thunder and blocked your game."

He exhaled thinly, his pale eyes narrowing slightly on me. "Not bad, Keyne. Do you blame me for Raymond's unfortunate demise also?"

"That's the one you'll take the raps for, when Brett and the others get here," I said. I was watching him sharply. For being entirely sure of myself now, I was not sure that I had done a wise thing in facing him with the matter. "You had your eye on Millinger, if you could earn his gratitude and make a place for yourself. You played the hand superbly, I will say."

Newberry shook his head. "Keyne, I'm disappointed in you. Guys who don't like me could read that in the teacups too. Haven't you any real downright convincing stuff?"

"Plenty of it," I said, keeping my same casual tone. "You hit Raymond over the head and knocked him cold; then, having along the trail fitted a stick into the spare alpenstock part you had brought along, you drove it down into his skull. You removed the weapon, forced the stick out of the alpenstock head and threw it away, then wrapped the steel point in your handkerchief. You made pretense to cleanse it, first, with dirt, and packed it safely in your hip pocket."

He laughed at me, as I reached into my own hip pocket and brought out the long steel alpenstock head. I tossed it down the length of the workbench.

"You're terrific, Keyne!" he observed amusedly. "I suppose you found the stick out on the trail?"

"It's probably there for the finding; I haven't needed it," I rejoined. "You propped Raymond up on the stone against the tree, you stuck a piece of dead branch into the wound— you like to draw red herrings over the trail, don't you?— and you put his hat in his hands, on his knees. Only you and I, Newberry, knew the hat was there. Nobody else knew I had found it there. I didn't mention it. But you wrote about it in your story— get the point, do you? You slipped up there, Lafe. The way you did in using the photo you took of Raymond, just before you killed him. That was dated, but you didn't know it."

He took the cigarette from his lips, held it forgotten in his fingers, and his eyes dilated on me as I spoke. Those pale eyes held an infernal light now; he made no further pretense of being amused.

"SO THAT'S what gave it away!" he said in a low, tense voice.

I nodded. "Precisely. You came back here and replaced the head on the alpenstock Lammengeyer brought in, with the smeared one in your pocket. Then you went ahead with your program, casting the blame on Millinger, only to prove him innocent and thus gain his eternal gratitude, then putting Lammengeyer in clink for the crime. I suppose you'd have left him there, too, if Brett hadn't thought to take the head off that alpenstock. Then we found that blood had been inside that steel head or shank when it was put on. Inside, Lafe, so it was under the heads of the two screws that you put in!"

"Brett!" he ejaculated sharply. "Brett, eh?"

"Yes, Brett," I said. "You saved his neck in Paris, true; it was because you knew who had killed your wife there!"

"Damn it, of course I knew!" he broke out.

"Naturally, since you did it yourself."

His jaw fell. He stared at me in such genuine amazement that I fell silent.

"What a fool you are, after all!" he exclaimed abruptly. "I suppose you blame me for that double killing last night!"

"Certainly," I told him. "To clean up the other matter first, how the devil did you induce Raymond to hide, the last time Lammengeyer went back to look for him? Of course you had doped his coffee, so his brain wasn't working right."

"A trifle like that shouldn't bother you," he broke in with a sneer. "However, I had nothing to do with last night's work. I don't know who did. Why, it threatened to spoil everything, just when I was ready to cash in on what I had accomplished! If you're such a fool as to think I murdered my wife, then you'd believe anything. So you think you and Brett have pinned all this on me, eh?"

"Don't you?"

"I'm afraid so." He sighed a little. "Well, it can't be helped now. And yet, Keyne, remember one thing: Wilson was an utter scoundrel! And Raymond, behind his mask, was no better. Killing them was good riddance."

"What about Cregar and Naga?" I demanded.

"Oh, don't be absurd!" he said petulantly. "I slipped up, yes; you've done a superb job of work here, so don't spoil it. As for Brett— well, at least I'm not the sort of heel that he is! Do you know what's been happening in the past half- hour or so? Mona and that wife of yours and poor Herron— well, Mona gave him his come-uppance, that's what. Brett, sheltered here by Dan, has wormed his way into Mona's good graces. Now it's all over. Herron made mistakes, as I did; his dream's gone too."

"But why in heaven's name did you pull that crazy Mr. Fate stuff— the messages to Herron, and so forth?" I demanded curiously.

He gave me a scornful, weary look. "First as a trick, a joke, to build up my crime column; then as a means of wakening Herron's interest. Don't you see, you fool, that I had no future, no nothing? A reporter has no future, unless he makes it. However, the poor but honest wench of journalism must still triumph over your painted Jezebel of fiction, old man! There's one thing you seem to have given me no credit for."

"Yes?" I rejoined, wondering what he was driving at. He took the cigarette from his lips, exhaled a thin cloud of smoke, and nodded.

"Yes. If I'd been as clever as you think, wouldn't I have made my preparations in case I lost the gamble? Wouldn't I have a get-away all planned and ready?"

"Well, I hadn't thought of that."

"You're damned right I would!" he exclaimed, and flicked his burning cigarette straight into my face. Instinctively, I flinched aside.

With one tiger-leap he was in and under my guard, landing a terrific jolt beneath the belt that left me dazed, staggering, sick. He followed me closely, and I saw the little iron hammer glint in his hand.

"Be damned if I'll burn for killing you!" he was gasping. "But I'll give you something to remember."

The hammer crashed home, and all the world went black and starry.

Chapter 13

IT is a terrifying thing to waken and find oneself on the floor, head vibrating with pain and face sticky with blood. The frantic impulse is to scramble erect, at all costs.

I did so, and the pain in my head redoubled; that iron hammer had caught me a nasty crack over the temple. When I staggered out into the hall, not a soul was in sight, nor did I meet anyone until I came into Herron's outer office and saw Lennihan gaping at me with eyes a-bulge. He leaped from his chair and jerked open the door of the sanctum, with an incoherent babble to Herron.

They all came running at me. Herron put an arm around me and drew me into the inner office; someone held a tumbler of whisky to my lips; Dr. Burton, the coroner, began to swab and bandage my head; voices were yammering; everything was unreal.

"What happened to you?" Sheriff Kemp was standing over me, barking away. I put up a hand and touched my head, as Burton bandaged it.

"You said to get a confession— this is the signed statement," I said, and broke into hysterical laughter. "Newberry! It was Newberry who killed them all."

"What the devil are you talking about?" roared Herron. "Lafe? Nonsense! Explain!"

"Stop him. Don't let him get— get away—"

This was all I could say. Reaction had set in, and I could not coordinate my thoughts, could not pull myself together.

"Don't worry about anyone getting away," growled Kemp. "I left a man at the gates. Here, gimme that phone!"

He called for the gate-house, got the deputy he had left there, and learned that no one had departed.

"Good," he said. "Nobody's to leave — nobody! Especially the reporter, Newberry. If you get any argument, keep your gun handy. Okay." He slammed down the receiver and glared at me. "Did you say Newberry killed 'em all and tried to do you in?"

I tried to assent, but Uncle Pascal broke in ahead of me.

"No, no! He had nothing to do with the murders of last night! Perhaps he did kill Raymond; that was a crude business. But the deaths on the bowling-green— ah, there's a classic! A beautifully planned crime!"

"My God! Have we got another amateur Sherlock here?" burst out Kemp.

Truro intervened. "One minute, Kemp. Mr. Herron, do you know who killed those men last night?"

"Yes!" bleated Uncle Pascal. The district attorney gestured to him.

"You have the floor, but be brief about it. Tell us what you know, while we're waiting for Mr. Keyne to recover. I suppose you'll say those two men killed each other?"

"Of course not!" rejoined Pascal loftily. "No man's hand was responsible for their death. That's where I made my own mistake at first."

"Now look," broke in the sheriff, who was purpling in the face, "if you pull any of this occult stuff on us, so help me I'll pinch you for obstructing justice! No man's hand, huh? I suppose you'll say they were killed by a falling star?"

"No," said Uncle Pascal cheerfully. "By a woman."

The tension snapped abruptly; somebody uttered a harsh laugh. Kemp bit his lip and subsided, at a gesture from Truro. Uncle Pascal, flinging a grin at me, proceeded.

"The facts were plain, gentlemen. It was impossible to cover any traces of footprints; no third person had walked over that ground; yet without a third person, there could have been no murder. To accept the theory that Cregar and Raja Naga killed one another would not flatter the intelligence. So I had to discover how the killer had worked. I was like the astronomer Leverrier, who through sheer deductive brilliance postulated the existence and position of the planet Neptune, years before Galle located it— within one degree of Leverrier's announced position."

He smiled upon us all, the picture of gratification, then shot a query at me.

"Surely you don't believe Newberry killed those men?"

"He denied it," I summoned up the words. "He did kill Raymond. Admitted it."

"Ah! Perfect, perfect!" said Uncle Pascal blandly. "Well, gentlemen, since I've given you all these hints, undoubtedly you are now aware how the woman crossed that seeded ground without leaving a footprint?"

A growl escaped Kemp. "With water-wings, I suppose! Get to the point, will you?"

Uncle Pascal chuckled. "In my own good time, Sheriff. Well, this woman was carried, that's all. Carried."

And now he received no further interruptions. The attention of every man there was riveted upon his words. Carried! So simple, so obvious, that it had occurred to no one.

"This woman," he went on happily, "had made an appointment with both Naga and Cregar. How or why is of no interest to me; though since both men were probably hot-blooded, the answer might be found in a deep primal urge." He gestured dismissal. "She met Naga on the east path; I should say she was smoking, to guide him, since it was very dark. At a certain point on the gravel path, she collapsed, no doubt complaining of a heart attack."

"A certain point?" Truro asked calmly, curiously. "Did it have to be a certain point?"

"Oh, definitely!" said Pascal. "Her entire scheme depended upon great exactitude, even precision, of timing and spacing."

"Then how, if she was walking with Naga, did she know when she reached this certain place, in the pitch darkness?"

BUT if Truro thought he had his man there, he was mistaken. Uncle Pascal tugged at his whiskers and fairly beamed.

"I'm glad you reminded me! You'll find that certain place marked by the gravel having been scraped aside, making two slight mounds. She had done this previously, of course. When her footsteps encountered one of those little gravel ridges in the darkness, she knew that she was at the exact spot."

Truro sat back, with a nod. "Continue, by all means," he said dryly.

"Naga had her in his arms; the lights of my house were visible, it was close by. If he did not start there for help, she suggested It. He picked her up— something of an athlete, remember— and started across the green straight for my cottage. She was counting the steps. At the desired spot, she stabbed him. He fell; she fell across him, on top of his body; but she did not move, that clever woman, until she heard the sound of Cregar's footsteps on the gravel of the west path, as he strolled along, awaiting the expected meeting with her."

"She called Cregar," pursued the little man. "Her face was against the ground; he could not at once locate her. She probably said that she had had to defend herself from Raja Naga. At any rate, he picked her up, and he too started for my house as being the nearest spot to get aid. When he reached the solid ground, the gravel path, she stabbed him. You'll observe that she knew precisely where to stab, too. And there's the amazing simple and beautiful way those men were killed, gentlemen."

"WHERE'S your proof?" spoke out Truro.

"Proof?" Uncle Pascal waved a scornful hand. "Isn't the whole thing inevitable? Why, it resolves itself like the octave in music!"

"Like hell it does," Sheriff Kemp spoke up harshly. "You know how anyone knifed in the jugular spouts blood? If she did what you say, this dame had to lie still while one man bled all over her, then stab another guy in the same way!"

"Oh, absolutely!" Pascal was radiant. "This woman had superb courage, enormous energy! She was really a tigress, Sheriff!"

"H'm! You seem to admire her," said the practical sheriff. "Then she was bloody as hell, dusty, disheveled. She couldn't show up anywhere like that."

"Brains, Sheriff! Splendid! Quite true!" Uncle Pascal grinned. "I thought of that, too. She went down to the lake, removed all her clothes, tied them to a weight that was ready, swam out with them, and let them go to the bottom. Then she swam back—"

"And walked in here all pink and naked?" sneered Kemp.

"Oh, no! There was no one about the locker-house at that hour, you know. From the water to the lockers was only a few feet; she had clothes in one of the lockers. She merely dressed and came back here. Really, it was beautifully planned."

"Rats!" broke out the sheriff. "I think the lot of you are a bunch of screwballs— you and your women murderers that sound like a movie! Now it's my turn to talk. I'm taking this man Brett in on suspicion." And he shot a glare at Brett, who was sitting at one side, very white and shaken. They must have had a set-to about it before I appeared.

"Wait, Kemp," said Herron gravely. He too was looking badly, ten years older than I had last seen him. The affair of Mona Vindon must have hit him hard. "I'd like to know why you suspect Brett."

"We know all about him, for one thing," retorted Kemp challengingly. "His name isn't Brett at all, but Currey. He wriggled out of a knife-killing in Paris— yeah, we've got the whole story! That killing was identical with these; jugular vein sliced by a down-stroke. It looks to me like—"

"Just a moment, Sheriff." Truro spoke with quiet authority, and turned to Uncle Pascal. "Mr. Herron, you've given us a nice little fairy-tale; have you any proof of it?"

"Best in the world," chirped Pascal complacently. "Want to hear how I tracked her down?"

"An excellent idea," said Truro. "Where do we start?"

"With the footprints. When Cregar walked off the seeded ground, his prints were far deeper than when he walked on; this caught my eye and I experimented. It would take about a hundred pounds extra to account for the difference. Then I examined the bodies. If you gentlemen will apply your scientific and technical ability," he went on with jubilant sarcasm, "you'll find traces of little feathery strips on their sleeves and coats, smeared in the blood. You'll find traces of the same material on the soil, where it's disturbed at the point occupied by Raja Naga's torso. She fell there, you see."

"Horse feathers!" snorted the sheriff.

Uncle Pascal beamed at him. "No; stuff off a woman's dress. Marabou, I think."

A momentary silence was tribute, mute but eloquent. For the third time, he had reduced the fantastic to abrupt commonsense. Then he went on, blithely:

"I think you mentioned the murder of Newberry's wife in Paris? Well, the same person who killed that woman a year or more ago, killed these two men last night."

At this, Truro lost his calm entirely.

"Who's the woman? Where's your proof? Where's this dress?"

"In the lake, I told you," said Pascal blandly. Brett was staring at him, open-mouthed, eyes bulging. Truro emitted a roar.

"In the lake! Are you making fun of us?"

"Heavens, no!" Pascal's eyes widened. "She admitted it. I talked to her about it a little while ago. She admitted everything; her poise was admirable, in fact. Oh, she's a most superior woman, although I fear in the sense that Nietzsche—"

"My God!" gasped the sheriff. "You— you braced her with it?"

"Certainly, certainly." Pascal produced an old silver turnip of a watch, hung on a massive gold chain, and consulted it. An expression of gratification came into his face. "Look, gentlemen! Really an extraordinary thing! I'm barely one minute and thirty seconds out in my calculations."

"What in God's name are you blatting about?" cried the sheriff.

"My prediction! I made an estimate of the precise time required in order to convince you gentlemen."

I intervened, with memory spurring me. Pulling myself together, I sat up and frantically shouted Pascal down.

"Listen, listen! Newberry boasted— said he had his get-away all planned if. things went wrong! Stop your gabbing, or he'll trick you yet! Get after him!"

"Quite right," agreed Uncle Pascal blandly. "No doubt she's going with him. She murdered his wife in Paris because she was in love with him. Oh, she's a superb tigress, I tell you! She had to kill Raja Naga, because he knew about the Paris murder and meant to spill it. She had no compunction whatever. She brought Cregar into it— why? Merely because her plan required two killings, to look as though each man had killed the other.... What a tigress!"

"Gantimiroff!" The yell broke from Brett. "It was Gantimiroff! She's the one!"

"Of course!" assented Pascal, beaming. "You should have guessed long ago."

A DULL roar grew into closer sound: the drumming crepitation of an airplane motor. The plane itself flashed into sight. We all turned to the enormous window in one wall of the sanctum: there was the plane, mounting, circling up above the farther trees. A choked cry of recognition burst from Herron.

"My old ship! The old Herron Special! And Lafe's a pilot, a good pilot."

The room was in pandemonium. Then Sheriff Kemp flung himself at the desk and scooped up the phone.

"Operator! Get me the sheriff's office in Los Angeles— quick!" Breathing hard, he glared at us. "We'll get out their patrol ship and stop this damned rat in his tracks.... Making for Mexico, eh? Not much!"

There was an instant of silence. Newberry had made good his boast. He had taken one of Herron's ships from the Alta Serafina field; the sheriff had never thought to stop that hole of escape! And now it was too late. The plane was lessening upon the sky and was lost to our field of vision.

"You damned monkey!" The sheriff flung a snarl at Pascal. "If they get away, it's your fault— and I'll have you behind the bars for it!"

"My fault? Oh, not at all, not at all!"  Pascal was blandly innocent. "I had nothing to do with it, upon my word! I did my best to persuade you. Why, Sheriff, you mocked at me! Yes, you mocked at me!" He was enjoying himself, as the twinkle in his eye showed. Then he sobered. "But you can kill that call," he added. "Won't do you any good."

"What d'you mean by that?" demanded the district attorney.

"That old Herron Special of Dan's." Pascal shook his head sadly. "Only yesterday I was talking with your mechanic, Dan. You've probably ignored the report he sent you last week, in the press of more important matters. Just goes to show the real importance of little things... Well, the ship's quite useless. She's been stored here all winter, you know, and developed a split in the prop. It seems that she uses the old wooden propellers—"

"What d'ye mean, useless?" barked the sheriff scornfully. "There she goes— or rather, she's gone by now!"

"Yes, I'm afraid she has," assented Uncle Pascal. "The vibration, you know. The mechanic said she wouldn't last more than a few minutes in the air. We'll probably get the report of the crash before we leave this room."

And he was right. Death had indeed come to life— with a vengeance!

End

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13