SEPTIMUS MARCH AGAIN

Lillian Bamburg

1881-1950

1929

Contents

1: The Missing Pearls

2: The Riddle of the Winged Death

3: The Sapphire Cross

4: The Violet Code

5:  Golden Sire

6: The Sleeping Guest

7: The Crystal Tubes

8: The Mystery of the Dying Plane

9: The Mystery of the Dead Singer

10: The Secret Cypher

11: The Mystery Of The Yellow Paw

12: The Jade Idol

13: The Silent Message

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Ms Bamburg is one of those authors who works have vanished almost without trace. She is known to have written the novel "Beads of Silence", and "Rays of Darkness", and possibly others, in the 1920s, as well as a series of short puzzle type detective stories featuring Septimus March. This batch was published weekly in the Sunday Times, in Perth, Western Australia, commencing 6 October 1929.These stories do not appear to have been published in any other Australian newspaper.

As no cover exists, I made one up by modifying a hand-tinted film lobby card image from the early 1920s.

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1: The Missing Pearls

Sunday Times (Perth) 6 Oct 1929

THE TELEPHONE BELL jingled sharply, and Septimus March almost jumped from his chair as he sat one sunny morning in his chambers high up in Jermyn-street.

"Hallo!" he called. "Yes; it is March speaking. Oh, you is it Mr. McBride? What? Come over to you now? Why, yes. Where are you— the Yard? What? Stephen Bollard, jeweller? Yes, I know that place in Old Bond-street. Very important— All right; I'll come right along now."

Replacing the receiver, the well-known private detective lost little time in keeping the appointment. He guessed that the Superintendent of Scotland Yard himself would not have sent for him from such a place if the matter were not of the utmost importance, and it was barely five minutes before he had entered the shop, and was being taken swiftly upstairs into what was evidently the private sanctum of the best-known jewellers In London.

"My dear fellow, that's good of you," said Superintendent McBride, jumping up from a chair at the side of a heavy roll-top desk. "Mr. Bollard, here is the only man who can solve our problem. Septimus March, Mr. Bollard,"

"Pleased to met you. Mr. Bollard. I only hope it will prove to be a happy circumstance."

"I hope so, Mr. March. I've heard of your powers often enough. You solved the Posansky mystery, didn't you? God grant you can solve mine, for it means ruin to me if you don't."

"Let's have the facts," said March briskly, taking the chair mutely pointed to by Stephen Bollard, who was an elderly man, ordinarily of a calm and suave appearance. At the moment, however, he presented a spectacle of deepest woe and excitement.

"What is missing? I presume a burglary has taken place, or that you have suffered a loss of some kind. Pearls, If I am not mistaken— lost in transit.''

"Good heavens, man, you have second sight!" ejaculated the startled Jeweller, and even McBride looked his astonishment.

"Not quite," murmured March, "but there's an open case which has obviously held pearls. See the round depression? There is a Paris timetable over there, and a P.O. registered receipt with it, so what else would you have me think? But now go ahead."

"Pearls indeed," moaned Mr. Bollard. "The £60,000 pearl necklace of Princess Varitza—"

"Now staying In Paris, at the Hotel Crillon," muttered March.

Bollard nodded. "She wrote me yesterday to send her over at once the necklace which was being re-strung by us. I packed it with my own hands, first in wadding, then in one of our special travelling cases, and it never left my sight till it went down to the post office to be registered. It should have arrived last night, and so anxious was I, that I put two trunk calls through to Paris, and again this morning. Finding that it had not come, I sent my son down to the St. Martin's le Grand P.O., where we are well known, and he phoned me an hour ago to say that it had not left the P.O. apparently, and could not be traced. I phoned through to the Yard at once."

March nodded approval. "Best thing you could do," he said. "But tell me, who knew anything about the necklace being despatched?"

"No one, except my son and myself and Miss Mellor, the typist."

March looked his surprise.

"She has been with me years, and I trust her as I would my own daughter," said Stephen Bollard earnestly. "She types all my correspondence, and knows all the business as my son is often travelling, and my sight is failing me. To-day, in fact, I am almost blind, as by accident, I had taken my spectacles off for a minute, and Miss Mellor brushed them off the desk yesterday. They have special lenses,  unfortunately, and will take a day or two to replace."

But March apparently was not interested. His own eyes were busy travelling round the room.

"Have you had a search made?" be asked abruptly. "And does anyone else know of the loss?"

"No one knows, save my son. Rex," was the answer. "I feel sure that the box has been overlooked, and as for a search being made, it would be sheer waste of  time. The pearls were taken from the safe in that case, packed by myself in the presence of Miss Mellor and my son in one of our own travelling cases, and sealed up. They were on my desk till just before post time, when Rex took them to the office in Regent-street."

"And where, is Miss Mellor now, by the way?" asked March, as he looked across at the still covered typewriter on a side table.

"She phoned that she might be late, as she had strained her wrist," said Bollard.

"That is unfortunate," said March. "Troubles never come singly, do they?" He rose, and prowled restlessly round the room, tapping walls, looking from the window, outside of which was a sheer drop of some fifty feet.

"Where does that door lead to?"

He waited on the opposite side of the room.

"That is my son's room," said Bollard, and March opened the door and entered it sharply.

It was empty, but furnished as ornately as the elder man's room was bare. Fern pots and cushions gave almost a feminine touch to it. March surveyed the hanging fern pot in the window appreciatively.

"Fond of flowers myself," he said as he reached up and stroked a leaf, then he wheeled round sharply and returned, to the two impatient men.

"You are absolutely certain that no one entered your room at all from the minute the pearls came out of the safe till Mr. Rex took them to the post?"

Stephen Bollard hesitated a moment. "No one except myself and His Highness Prince Boris of Rudentia. He is over here, as you know, incognito, and he came to me privately yesterday to see some engagement rings. This, of course, must be kept absolutely secret."

March nodded, "You have seen him before?" he asked.

"Well, no," put in Mr. Bollard. "But he came with an introduction from Princess Varitza in Paris and his own private card, and of course he was brought straight up to me. But he never mentioned the pearls, nor did he even see them, as they were already packed and the box probably covered with papers."

"H'm," said March. "And was he alone in the room?"

"No, Mr. March,'' said Bollard, and even in his troubled state be almost smiled at the idea of a detective suspecting the heir-apparent to a reigning monarch of theft.

"No; I attended to him myself; showed him several rings, and put one of them aside for him in the safe. He would not take it, but promised to send an aide-de-camp down with dotes biter to-day. As a matter of fact, he was not very well, and he had a fainting attack."

"Where was that? Here in this room?" asked March, sitting up erect, his face alight with intensity.

"No, outside, half-way down the staircase. I ran down and got a glass of water. Miss Mellor was up here, too, the whole time, and she held him up while I got the water. It was only a minute, and he recovered and begged me to be silent lest anything got into the papers. You can quite understand," murmured Mr. Bollard.

"Quite," said March dryly. "And what about your room— was it left open all this time?"

"No," said Mr. Bollard. "The door shuts automatically by a spring, and, as a matter of fact, unless the catch is put up it locks also, so that a key has to be used. Yesterday I had kept the catch down till the pearls were safe to their case. They have worried, me ever since they were entrusted to my care. I remember I had to get my keys out to re-enter the room. Ah! Here is Rex. Perhaps they will have found them."

Mr. Bollard's ears were evidently sharper than his sight, for the door was flung open, and a young man entered. Any hope of good news was dispelled by his  white face and his shake of the head.

"No, not a sign of them, sir," he began, then pulled up in dismay.

"It's all right. Rex. These gentlemen are from the Yard," said his father. "What do they say at the post office?"

March's quick eyes had noted the little start akin to fear at Bollard's words, and he realised as he shook hands that the young man was in a highly nervous state.

"They remembered my posting the box," he said, "but they cant trace it beyond St. Martin's. It's a put-up job, pater. Someone must have guessed the contents."

"Steady, young un," said March. "The post office are pretty reliable. Don't happen to remember, sir, whether the pearls were packed in pink or white wadding, do you?" He turned casually to Bollard.

"Pink," answered Rex, quickly; then adding in confusion, "at least it might have been white, but what the devil does it matter whether it was pink, green, or blue? What you've got to do is to find them," he said irritably and rudely.

"Exactly," was the bland reply, "and that's what I'm trying to do, my dear sir. Well, Mr. Bollard, see that no one leaves the building tin we return, and that no one learns of any loss, and we will go straight down to the post office and investigate."

A few minutes later found McBride and his ally down in Bond-street, filled with throngs of pleasure-goers

"It's a mystery this time," said McBride. "Got any ideas, old man?"

"Several," said March grimly, "chief among which is, that as I happened to  recognise Prince Boris of Rudentia departing from Victoria the night before last, he could not very well have paid a visit to Mr. Bollard; someone is at fault there. We have to find whether our amiable friend has a gift for romancing, or whether a bogus prince turned up. Secondly, our young friend Rex is in a state of funk over something, so I want to know if that box was actually posted."

A few minutes on the tube sot them to the classic building of St. Martin's Ie Grand, and their cards got them equally quickly Into the presence of one of the chiefs.

Investigation proved, however, that a box answering to the description had been posted, so that unless the young man had had a box already prepared and made a change it certainly, looked as if the box had vanished into thin air inside the building.

March and his chief were allowed to enter the special room in which very valuable registered parcels were placed, and to interview the official in charge.

"Yes, I do remember that box, sir," he said, "as I took it over and signed for it myself. I put it ever there on that shelf, just the very last moment it was, and I can take my oath that not a blessed soul entered this, room after I and my assistant Burke, came out of it, and locked it up for the night."

"Didn't hear any suspicious sounds later, I suppose," asked March.

A shade crossed the man's open face.

"Well, no sir, not really." he said. "I was on duty all night, too, and one fancies all sorts of things after anything has gone wrong. Still I did hear a sort of popping noise, like a ginger beer bottle, as you might say, but there was nothing wrong this morning, except that the blessed box was missing later—"

March strolled over to the spot indicated as that whereon the box had been placed. Then he stopped suddenly.

"See a pin and let it go—" he did not finish the proverb, but McBride had been quick enough to see that it was no pin picked up by his confrere, but just a scrap of fluffy wadding, and white. "Pink wadding or white?" he thought mentally and where was the importance?

Ten minutes later March turned back to his chief and announced that he was ready to depart.

Outside the building, his face tense and grim, he said sharply:

"Get a pair of handcuffs from the nearest ambulance box, Mac; sure to be a  pair there, while I get on the phone, also get a taxi—"

"What is it, March? Do you know!"

"I know how it's done, but God knows if we're in time to save the pearls. Hurry, man."

McBride needed no further words. Hurry he did, and before March had issued from the telephone booth, he had got a taxi beside him; and but a few minutes brought them once more to Bond-street.

March darted in, only stopping to whisper to a startled assistant, then up the stairs and into the private room. The detective gave a sigh of relief as be found Bollard still at his desk, beside him a slender cloaked figure. McBride, close on his beets, closed the door behind him, mechanically hearing the snap of the catch.

"Ah, gentlemen, back again. Miss Mellor here has just come in."

March nodded to her pleasantly. "Don't go, Miss Mellor," he said  "I shan't keep you a minute, sir; but I want Mr. Rex."

Stephen Bollard touched a bell on his desk, obviously surprised, and the young man entered from the inner room. Evidently he did not notice Miss Mellor, who had stood back again.

"Well," Rex exclaimed. "What have you discovered?"

"Everything," was the amazing reply. "No, don't make for the door, Mr. Rex— it's no good—"

"Wh-What do you mean?" he stuttered forth.

"Mr. March— are you daring to accuse my own son—"

"I'm not accusing anybody," said March crisply. "But stand over there, just where you are," for the young man had backed, guilt-stricken, close beside Miss Mellor, her own face white.

"Now, sir, perhaps you will be good enough to give me a hand," finished March, as he burled himself forward past Stephen Bollard peering dazedly past his chief, past and on till he bore down the slight figure of Miss Mellor, almost bearing her to the ground.

"The game's up," he cried. "No you don't! I've got you this time!"

Despite the oaths and struggles of the writhing figure, he snapped on the handcuffs, while the two jewellers gazed overcome.

"Maud— Miss Mellor," moaned Hex Bollard.

"No, my dear sir—" but March did not finish, for he gazed across to the open door of Rex's room, in which stood another girl, and towering behind her a tall constable.

"Right was I, Kelly?" said March. "Got the warrant too, there's a good fellow. No, my friends, not Miss Mellor as you see, but Ivan Smetanski, see?"

He bent down and switched off the glasses and a wig, revealing the close cropped head of a young man.

"But the pearls—"

March darted into the inner room and returned with the hanging fern basket. Diving his hand in, he gave a little yelp of delight as he pulled forth a bundle of pink wadding and let a string of lustrous pearls dangle before their delighted gaze.

"My God, the pearls!" ejaculated Bollard.

"Off you get, Kelly; use the back way, and we'll come on later."

A minute later and March turned the amazed men.

"Sorry to give you a fright, Mr. Rex, but I was afraid he'd recognise me. Smetanski is known to the police for his use of pocket bombs as well as female impersonations. You were probably 'phoned not to come yesterday, weren't you, Miss Mellor?"

"Yes," was the reply. "I came though directly you 'phoned me that the pearls were missing."

"Smetanski got to know about them?"

Rex hung his bead. "My fault that," he muttered. "I was talking about them at the Cosmopole Club, and this fellow was one of the waiters and I recognise him now. That made me so nervous."

March nodded in understanding..

"I take it that the false prince— oh, yes. Mr. Bollard, you are lucky, they were after higher game than an engagement ring— managed to pass the packed-bomb in white wadding, my dear Mr. Rex.

"Smetanski, banking on Mr. Bollard having no glasses, which he himself broke, changed the boxes and managed to conceal the pearls in their pink wadding, Mr. Rex, in your flowerpot. I saw the little bit caught, but didn't think of searching at once. What's that, Mr. McBride, the bomb? Oh, it was timed to go off in the night, which it did on the stone shelf, leaving, only faint acid stains, and this little bit of white wadding behind. So colors do matter sometimes."

With a laugh and a shake of the hand, March took his departure, leaving once more peace and happiness behind him.

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2: The Riddle of the Winged Death

Sunday Times (Perth) 13 Oct 1929

IT HAS BEEN truly said that "a calm precedes a storm," and certainly, on a recent summer morning, everything was calm enough at Scotland Yard. After a brief glance at the morning reports. Superintendent McBride leaned back in his chair With the satisfied mien of one who knows his work, and sees that others look after it thoroughly, which is indeed a very satisfactory state of mind.

But at that moment the telephone bell rang. With a muttered curse the superintendent fitted the receiver, and at the first words which fell on his ear, satisfaction vanished like the Sun behind a cloud.

Ten minutes later, having assimilated the facts of one of the most mysterious crimes of the month, of indeed, the year, Mr. McBride rang through to the chambers of Septimus March, the private detective who Invariably aided him unofficially, and in still less time had got that valuable ally seated beside him.

''What's the trouble?" had been the greeting of March, while he dived for his cigarette case.

"Murder's the matter," was the agitated reply. "A man found stabbed to death in a locked hall, without a window in the place. They've just had to force the iron door to get in."

"Sounds pretty mysterious,'' asserted March. "Where is the place?"

"Holland Park, the South-Americas Exhibition," was the reply. March sat up, alert and interested.

"Where they've been showing those big diamonds," he ejaculated, "including the 'Pride of Mexico.' I went there myself only last week. Nothing happened to that I hope, for money alone couldn't replace it. It's the most valuable and ill-fated jewel in Mexican history."

March prided himself on his knowledge of precious stones, and had written many articles upon them. He  was also the proud author of a small work on the subject.

"Secretary didn't say," said McBride, as he struggled into his coat. "Too upset over the murder, but we'll soon know."

In the car which was taking them to Holland Park, McBride told his confrere of the meagre details which he had heard by 'phone. The exhibition, devoted to South American interests, had included this collection of historic diamonds, and a special hall had been constructed to house them. A night watchman had been stationed inside the hall at night, while another man patrolled the corridor outside. As there were no windows, the place being lighted by electricity, the door was the only means of ingress or exit.

When Millett, the night watchman, had not unlocked it on his side this morning, officials summoned by the patrol had at last forced the locks and found him stabbed to death. Apparently nothing had been touched, for as the superintendent said, a glance would show whether the big diamond was still there.

The car arrived quickly enough and although only a little after 10 o'clock. already a little knot of people were gathered round the entrance, morbid sightseers alive to the fact that "something was wrong".  The two officials were met by the white-faced secretary and taken to the "Hall of Diamonds" as it had been called, where sturdy commissionaires were still on guard, gloomily watching their dead comrade.

The dead man lay just as he had been struck down. No weapon was to be seen; the blood oozing through a rent in the back showed that he had been stabbed by a sharp stiletto or a knife withdrawn immediately, while death had probably ensued at once. March bent over him, but he saw that there had obviously been no struggle; his assailant had struck silently from behind, and then proceeded to fulfil his object.

That object would presumably be attempted theft of the precious diamonds, and yet apparently this project had failed.

March looked round the brightly lighted hall. As the superintendent had said, there were no windows. The hall walls were covered with South American scenes, the floor was of close parquet, on which stood pedestal cases of glass with various exhibits, and occasional statues and models of natives. There was not a square inch of opening save the one forced that morning.

His eyes came back again to the silent figure. He stooped down and picked! up what was, to all appearances, a bit of fluff.

"Ah, I thought it was a feather. Don't keep parrots, do you? No, of course not!"

He surveyed the hall again, while Mr. Whiter, the secretary, almost snorted his scorn at this irrelevant remark.

"Parrots," he echoed. "Of course not! This isn't a zoo, nor yet an aviary, my dear man."

"I suppose everything is all safe," said March vacantly. "Doesn't seem any sense in committing a murder for fun, does there?"

Mr. Whiter led the way to the back of the hall, where, stood in the centre, was a glass case covered with steel bars. In the centre was mounted the great stone, and surrounding it little piles of cut and unset diamonds.

Septimus March stood stock still before the exhibit, then gave a little grunt.

"Clever man that murderer," he said. "I suppose he thought he could come back and clear the rest later. Your 'Pride of Mexico,' my friend, appears to me to be a paste model—"

"Good heavens, impossible!" almost shouted Mr. Whiter. "How could he unlock, the case when only I have the key—"

Then his voice trailed off as he realised the importance of his words, arid the suspicions that they must inevitably arouse.

But March took no notice.

"No need for keys," he said crisply. "He just filed through the bars, see?" Leaning forward, he took hold of one bar at each end and to the horror and astonishment of the men around him, raised the whole iron grille in his hands. With that gone, it was merely a question of lifting up the glass lid.

As he said, the big stone was indeed a clever forgery,  though the smaller groups of stones were untouched.

An almost horrified silence reigned for a moment. One and all realised that though the smaller stones could have been replaced, being merely a question of money, and which the backers of the exhibition would find, there was no money available that would restore the historic "Pride of Mexico," a jewel which had probably been responsible for more crimes committed in its wake than any other stone in the world.

The exhibition officials looked from the case tor each other's faces, almost dazed by the discovery, which meant more even than the death of poor Millett.

March alone was unmoved.

"A very neat piece of work," he said, almost complacently, just as a dog fancier at Wembley might have driven the performance of a particular favorite. "Now the question remains, how and when the man escaped."

"How did he get in?" wailed Mr. Whiter.

"Quite simple," my dear sir. He was part of yesterday's public," said March.

"Yes, but the place is cleared out at seven o'clock," said Mr. Whiter. "And yesterday, rather earlier, because a fuse went and the electric lights failed."

"Aha, now I see," said March. "The old Maskelyne trick, eh— black against black."

The officials and the superintendent looked puzzled.

"They were only out five minutes, if that," said one of the men. "Because, as you see, we have incandescent lights as well, in order to guard against that very contingency, and as one light went off, the other was turned full on. I was in the hall at the time myself when it happened."

"What time was it?" asked March quickly.

"About ten minutes to six. I looked at my watch directly the gas lights went up," was the reply, "and I cleared out the hall soon after, gave a look at the  diamond case, and as Millett had come on duty early, I locked him in—"

"Locked him in?" said March quickly. "I thought he locked himself in"

"So he did," said Mr. Whiter. "But we bad two locks fixed. One he locked, himself on the inside, the other was locked on the outside. Neither one nor the other could get out or get in till both locks were turned."

"Very ingenious," approved McBride.

"So then," said March, "and even if the murderer bad got Millet's key, he still couldn't get out till the patrol unlocked the door, is that so?"

"Exactly," was the reply.

"Don't happen to remember if the lights were on when you forced the door this morning, I suppose?" asked March

Mr. Whiter looked inquiringly at his assistants..

"Yes, sir, I do know," said one. "Full on they were, because I helped Pratt and Nelson to smash the locks, and we saw poor Millett at once. I admit I couldn't look at the diamond case. You see, Millett was my chum, and I was far too much upset."

"I quite understand." said March sympathetically, with a swift glance at the man's white strained face. "Death is not pleasant at the best of times, and when it comes like this—" He broke off suddenly and bent his gaze again upon the rifled case.

"But Nelson did," put in the other man suddenly, and turned to his companion beside him.

"I only gave a glance across, sir," was the answer, "and when I saw the big diamond there, and the case untouched, I didn't go over to it, but I do remember now, though, that the light was out."

March turned swiftly.

"What's that." he said. "The light out? Which one?"

"The one just behind the case

"There, sir," said Nelson, pointing to a small electric lamp behind the case.

"It threw up the sparkle of the stones," explained the secretary. "I never noticed it was out myself, though it was my own suggestion that one should be put there too."

March, looked keenly at him.

"Yes, and it would have shown up the forged stone, too," he said abruptly. "A clever rogue; that, no one small detail forgotten. If the smaller stones had been taken too attention would have been drawn to it immediately. As it is, he has had time to get away with his booty."

"But how could he get out?" asked Mr. Whiter. "No one but ourselves has entered or left this room this morning."

"Exactly, Mr. Whiter," said March sternly. "That is just what I was going to point out. Surely the inference is quite simple. Who has the duplicate keys to the room? Who Could enter the room without being questioned at any hour of the day or night? Who, Mr. Whiter, I ask you— Who but yourself?"

"What?" shrieked Mr. Whiter, almost purple in the face with rage apparently rather than conscious guilt.

"How dare you—how dare you— accuse me of such a crime?  I—" he fairly spluttered in his attempt to find words, while remonstrances poured forth from the other men, aghast at such a charge.

"The law dares anything, Mr Whiter," said March. "It was a cleverly thought out crime, but like most, the criminal forgot one little point. Stand over there, and I will show you gentlemen how the murder was committed."

Dazed by the onslaught, and under the menace of the stern gaze of Septimus March, the unhappy secretary backed slowly till he had reached the  centre of the hall and, was in a direct line save for a glass case or two within the spot where poor Millet still lay.

"That will do, sir," cried March "This is just an idea of my own, but we will see if it works. Look, gentlemen—"

He hurled himself forward, made a spring like a cat on its prey, swerved to one side, shouting as he did so, "Hang on to my coat-tails, Mac, quick."

Then he shot forward past the cowering secretary, straight on to the inanimate figure of the model Aztec Indian beside him. In an instant pandemonium reigned. For the figure, instead of dropping to the ground, seemed literally to be transformed. Beneath the feather boa and trappings something struggle and clawed and kicked. But March, alive to the truth, threw himself forward closely followed by the other two men, and in an instant the impeding robes had been torn to pieces and revealed the sight of a small, lithe, dark complexioned man, clad in a black tight-fitting suit. His face was venomous with passion and disappointment, and it took the full strength of them all to overcome him.

"Get a rope quick, Mr. Whiter," shouted March, "I have no handcuffs."

Still dazed, Mr. Whiter regained sufficient of his wits to pull down a heavy picture and stashed at the cords. In a few minutes, their captive lay panting and harmless, while March straightened himself up.

"I owe you a thousand apologies, Mr Whiter, for that preposterous charge, but I know you will forgive me. I didn't know, but l confidently expected a shot from that little devil at any minute."

"Of course; I do understand now, but it was so awful to think—" said the secretary,  "and I realised how plausible it sounded, too."

"Let's get the precious 'Pride of Mexico'," said March, and bent over the bound figure once more. Diving his hand into the close fitting pocket, he drew out a shining object, at sight of which all three men gave vent to an unconcealed shout of joy.

"Not another night does it stay here," cried Mr. Whiter. "This model is good enough for the British public, and I'll get you gentlemen to lodge it at Scotland Yard for me, if you will."

"A very good plan, Mr. Whiter," said the Superintendent. "We'll send this little gentleman off, and meanwhile perhaps Mr. March will tell us what made him discover the truth."

''That's what we all want to know." said Mr. Whiter, once more his usual florid trailing self. "We can't restore the dead, but I'll see that poor Millet's family is looked after."

"Good," said March, and when a few minutes later the Mexican half-breed was removed by stalwart police, March turned to the waiting group.

"Well, the first thing was certain, that no one could have got in or out unperceived, " he said

"The feather—" he opened his hand wherein lay the fragment that he had picked up; "showed me that the weapon had been that winged arrow of the Indian, which was in a straight line. I was here myself fast week, and I remembered that the Indian had the arrow stretched in the bow, as if about to let fly. This morning it was resting against the robes, and I don't doubt that we shall find it stained with blood."

This indeed proved to be the case.

"Our dago friend mixed with the crowd, inconspicuously enough until the lights went out; the connections are probably cut somewhere outside. He was already prepared to jump beneath the feather robes of our model here, and here he stayed.

"To shoot Millett was a minor detail to him. All he had to do then was to file the bars, remove the big stone, and go back again "black against black" as I said, and anyhow he was safe enough beneath that robe. All I was afraid of was that he would lose his head, and either make a run for it, or use the revolver."

"Quite simple," sighed Mr. Whiter, as they turned to leave the hall. "And yet it teaches one the fallacy of circumstantial evidence, doesn't it? For if you had not been right, it would have looked very black against me."

March smiled.

"Not a scrap. Mr, Whiter," he said. "Don't forget you couldn't stab without fingers, or remove the glass cover without leaving finger marks."

And so, with the "Pride of Mexico" in the possession of the law, the South Americas Exhibition reopened its doors once more. That ill-fated stone had again taken its toll of life, but thanks to Septimus March, the honor of the country to which it had been loaned had remained unstained.

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3: The Sapphire Cross

Sunday Times (Perth) 20 Oct 1929

SEPTIMUS MARCH, private detective, after a particularly strenuous morning, was completing the details of a big case for his friend and chief, Superintendent McBride, of Scotland Yard. Small wonder, then, when Colson, his manservant, after a preliminary cough and a tap at his door, announced that a lady urgently desired to see him. March was in no mood to interview any ladies urgently desirous or otherwise, and he nearly sent down a curt refusal. However, he refrained, and sighting heavily as he took in his hand the thick ivory card, he read:

Mrs. Collier-Rivers.

7 Bond-street Square, W.

"The usual case of a missing husband or a lost poodle, I suppose," he muttered savagely. "Oh, well Colson, show her in, and let's have done with it"

Colson withdrew, and a couple of minutes later, the lady herself, an imposing looking woman, somewhat overdressed, and past middle age, sank into the chair adjacent to March's desk.

"It's so good of you to see me," she gushed, "I should never have thought of yon myself, but I was talking to a friend. Mrs. McBride, you know. She is one of my husband's patients, and the wife of the Scotland Yard official. As I said, I was averse to calling in the police, she said, if I came to you it would he just as good, and so, Mr. March—"

March gave a little nod. He knew now the lady's identity. She was the wife of a well-known society surgeon. He broke in abruptly on the stream of words

"I presume you have sustained a loss of jewels, possibly."

This was not unlikely, for the lady at that early hour, barely 12 o'clock, was laden with as many jewels as would have decked an Eastern temple, rings on each podgy finger, heavy jewelled bracelets, brooches, a watch, and a long chain of gems made up a small fortune in themselves.

Mrs. Collier-Rivers gave vent to a little shriek of admiration,

"Oh, how clever of you," she cried. "Yes, just what I have done. I have lost, or as I fear, have had stolen, my sapphire chain and cross. It consists of large Persian sapphires set in a gold chain, and is not only of great value, but it was the last gift my poor dear Jonas made to me, so naturally I value it."

"Naturally," murmured March, his mind and memory busy. Jonas was evidently the Jonas Collier, a big wholesale coal-merchant, whose widow, he remembered now, had married the clever surgeon but a year ago. The wedding had been well chronicled, and Superintendent McBride had orders  to tend special men down to keep guard over the wedding presents.

March came back with a little jerk to the resplendent lady by his side.

"Now, Mrs. Rivers," he said firmly. "I remember the occasion of your second wedding at St. Margaret's last year, and know something of the extent of your jewels, so that if you will give me the facts of the loss or theft, I can be better able to judge. Have you any conception as to how you sustained this loss?"

"In the house," said Mrs. Rivers, promptly. "I missed it yesterday morning, but I wore it on Wednesday afternoon, and remember taking it off, because it is very, heavy and I was very hot, and I removed it in my boudoir (she pronounced it "boojor"), and put it in a drawer at my writing-table. I know I'm careless with my things, and Henry has done nothing but tell me so ever since. Still I meant to take it upstairs with me, and I admit I forgot all about it. I didn't think of it till last night, and when I went to the drawer, it was gone. Of course, I had the whole place searched, and I should have gone straight to the police myself, but Henry does hate notoriety, but as I say, what are the police for? They must be made to do something for their money. I'm sure we pay heavy taxes enough, but no. He said I must have lost it out, and then Mrs. McBride was just leaving his consulting room, and as I said before, she said if I didn't want to go to the police, come and see you, and that's why"— she stopped, to take breath and March seized the opportunity to speak again.

"That's to say. It disappeared from that drawer between Wednesday afternoon and Thursday night. Have you any idea as to who entered the room during that time?"

"No. that I haven't," said Mrs. Rivers. "I use that room a rare lot, because it saves me tramping up and down stairs, and I always did hate stairs, and this room, although it's right opposite Henry's consulting room, is most convenient, but only ourselves, you might say, have the run of it."

"Do you suspect anyone?" was March's next query.

"Well, I wouldn't go as far as that because Henry would be angry," was the cautious reply, "but if anyone in the house took it, it would be Benson, the  dispenser, a nasty, creepy, crawly little man, always on the peep and listen. I caught him looking into my desk once, some months ago, but when I told Henry, he didn't take much notice, merely saying that the man was invaluable to him, and advised me to lock up my things if he were the guilty one."

"Well," said March crisply, "there's nothing to be done till I've seen the lay of the place. I suppose the doctor has no poor patients; he's not a panel doctor Is he?"

Mrs. Collier-Rivers turned a shade more scarlet.

"That's just the one thing we quarrel about. Mr. March," she said heatedly. "He will persist in keeping, on his panel practice. I'm sure there's money enough, but no, he just won't give up those horrid people, and goodness knows how many of those were in the house on Thursday night, though how anyone could have opened my door and gone to that desk without being discovered is more than I can say."

March nodded and rose, as a sign to terminate the interview. He drew out his watch. "Just a quarter past twelve," he said. "I'll have lunch, Mrs. Rivers, and come down to your place, in the guise of a friend, about 2 o'clock. , Don't mention my vocation as a detective, and I will have a look round on my own lines."

The good lady bade him a gushing farewell, and took her departure, having given Mr. Septimus March far more information than she realised. Evidently Collier-Rivers, having married the wealthy but ill-educated widow of a former wealthy patient, had found that money earned by his profession was sweeter than the fortune doled out to him; hence his retaining the panel patients. The loss of a few jewels would not trouble the doctor, as he had not got to replace them.

IT WAS a few minutes after the hour when Septimus March arrived at the somewhat pretentious house in Bond Street Square, and on being shown into  the "boojor," he found Mrs. Collier-Rivers, resplendent in still more jewels, anxiously awaiting him.

Investigation showed him that egress into the room from the patients' waiting room opposite would be quite a simple matter, though the possible presence of servants would have made the intrusion very risky.

March asked for the doctor, but he was out on his rounds; therefore Mrs. Rivers handed him over to Benson, the dispenser.

Mrs. Rivers' description was not altogether wrong, though possibly prejudiced. Benson was not a prepossessing individual, and his close set, suspicious eyes and furtive manner would not inspire confidence in anybody. He obviously resented the command of Mrs. Rivers to let Mr. March look at the consulting and dispensing rooms, and quite realised that the visitor was connected with the loss of the sapphire chain, though his mistress vouchsafed no explanation or even introduction.

"Come to nose round after those precious sapphires, I suppose." he said, as he busied himself with lifting medicine glasses and bottles, and March noted from a covert glance that the man's hands were trembling despite his veneer of cool contempt.

"Serve her right, too," he continued without waiting for March's disclaimer or admission. "Refused to let us have the drugs we wanted because of the price— the price, mind you, and her with all those thousands. 'Send them to the hospitals,' says she, just because they're for panel patients.  Serve her right, I say!"

March nodded as if in approval. Here was food for thought; so the good lady held the purse-strings tightly, did she Refused to pay for -expensive medicines-so that Dr. Rivers had not. made such a very good bargain after all. He was still dependent on his own few patients, and the occasional generosity of an uneducated woman.

"She seems a bit of a tartar," he said, adopting a common-place voice, in order to draw the furtive looking little dispenser. "Don't mind telling you as 'pal to pal!' " —he winked prodigiously— "that I'm sent down by a firm of private 'tecs. She don't want the police, evidently."

The dispenser gave vent to a little sigh of relief, or so it seemed to March. Evidently he, too, did not "want the police."

"Couldn't blind me," he said triumphantly. "I know, a 'tec when I, see one, even if he's not a real 'tec. I mean a Yard 'tec," he added, just a trifle apologetically. "But you won't find those blessed stones on this side of the house, that I know. There's plenty of her own old cronies, in and out, a sight more likely to have taken her beastly stones than our panel patients. Poor old souls wouldn't harm the doctor for all the money in the Bank of England. The been with the doctor for thirty odd years, bless him, and it was a bad day's work for him when he took on that old coal cellar widow, drat 'er. You look about Mr.—"

"March, my name," said the other. "Don't suppose for a blessed minute there's anything to see here, but it will satisfy her and my boss; you know what departments are, so just let me nose around a bit to pass the time.''

Benson nodded, and prepared to make up some medicines, lifting first one bottle, then another, measuring deftly and quickly.

Meanwhile Septimus March let his gaze travel over the serried rows of blue glass bottles, many ringed aim dust covered, showing how little they had been used. Below one shelf on the broad dispensing table that ran right round the room, stood a little tin marked silica. He picked it up, looked at Benson, whose back was turned towards him, then he slipped it into his pocket. Unobserved also, he picked up one of Benson's glasses and pocketed it also. Another look round, and he announced himself as satisfied, then with a nod lounged out of the room and later took himself off.

Back in his own rooms, however, March took down one of the big chemistry manuals which found a place in his library, and spent a good half hour's study. Then he went round to Scotland Yard, where he was privileged to get any help wanted.

"I want some finger prints," he said to the official in charge. "Want to see if those on the glass and the tin correspond. Can you manage it quickly?"

Mr. Peratt could, and he did.

When March saw the prints, he gave a little smile.

"Two different hands", eh, well, I feared so; both men's thumbs. That will do for me, I think. Thanks," and March returned to Bond-street Square, where he was shown into the "boojor" of the redoubtable "coal cellar widow."

"Well, Mrs. Rivers," he said. "I have come to the conclusion that you were right. That the thief lies amongst those panel patients of your husband."

The lady gave a little crow of triumph,

"If you will offer a reward," continued. March; "I think I can retrieve the stones, if you won't mind the setting being destroyed, but that's as far as I can guarantee."

"Of course I will, as long as they're the real stones, and not glass ones!"

"Of that I assure you. You can have them tested."

At that minute the door opened, and Dr. Rivers entered.

His wife turned on him triumphantly.

"There 'enery (the aspirate slipping in her excitement), what did I tell you? This gentlemen, he's the detective, Mr. March, what I told you about. He says, too, it's one of those blessed panel patients of yours; and he's going to get my sapphires back if I offer a reward. £500 I'll give you Mr. March, If you'll get those back—"

"Five hundred— and you refuse me—" Dr. Rivers' thin lined face went still whiter. Then he bit off his words.

"Well, it's my money, ain't it?" shrilled the woman; all the veneer of polite speech vanished in her rage. "My money and my jools, and not another of them beastly panel people step into this house."

"It's a mistake. Not one of my patients that night could have done it," stuttered Dr. Rivers angrily.

"Dr. Rivers," put in Septimus March, "please leave this to me. If Mrs Rivers will write me the cheque meanwhile, and let me make my own inquiries, I will return in an hour."

Mrs. Rivers marched over to the desk and flourished a cheque book.

"What's your fee, my man," she said brusquely.

"Fifty guineas, if I return the stones." said March quietly. "And five hundred pounds for their return with no questions asked."

"There," she said. "You bring me back my stones, and that's yours. Then she turned to her husband standing grim and silent.

"Henry, I forgot, a call has just come through from a Mr. Colson, saying an accident or something has happened to Sir Alfred Ben ct. Will you go round to— let me see, here's the place. I took it myself because Benson was not here as usual when he wanted— 17 Marlborough Square. I ordered the motor for you, and there it is."

With a muttered word Mr. River turned on his heel and went out without glance or word to March, who stood by secretly pitying this clever scientist at the beck and call of such a woman. He had arranged with Colson to put this message through, and now he turned to Mrs. Rivers.

"If you win come With me to the surgery," he said. "I will test out my theory while I can capture the thief later." She "led the way across the passage, into the dispensing room,

"I want a basin, ah, a mortar will do," said March to Benson, who came across the passage into the dispensing room thinking Dr. Rivers himself was there.

"Yes, and a spoon. There is one there. I think," continued March. Swiftly he passed along the rows of bottles, and took one down. On it were mystic chemical signs, and the words Nitrohydrochloric Acid (Aqua Regia).

He tipped the contents into his mortar, watching the thick grey liquid with some heavy silvered precipitate, as it fell from the bottle. Then he gave vent to a little exclamation of pleasure, grabbed the spoon, and plunging it in, drew forth a small object, which he dipped into the glass of water. A perfect blue sapphire revealed itself.

Mrs. Rivers gave a scream of delight as one by one, the stones were brought forward. As the last one came out the door burst open and Dr. Rivers himself stood on the threshold.

"How dare you— what, does this mean?" he cried.

"Quite all right. Dr. Rivers," said March quietly. "I have got the stones, and I can get the thief when we want him now, but if Mrs. Rivers will take these stones upstairs quickly and wash them with a few drops of eau de Cologne, they will be quite safe."

The lady grabbed up the handkerchief in which the precious sapphires  had been placed. She swept from the room, and March turned to the two men.

"Mr. Benson can clear all this up doctor, while we talk in the consulting room, can't he?"

The doctor nodded his assent.

As if still dazed by this onslaught an his own domain, Dr. Rivers led the way into his private consulting room and shot the heavy door behind him.

"It's all right. Dr. Rivers," said March quietly, "Just leave the explanation to me. Mrs. Collier Rivers can well afford that cheque to help you with your poorer patients, I will give you my own personal cheque for £500, and perhaps it will help to found a poor practice."

"You have guessed the truth. It's no use talking," said the doctor in a low shamed voice. "I was tempted to take the wretched stones. She had refused a penny piece for drugs to help my poor people— though how you knew is miraculous."

Mr March was busy writing a cheque from own book.

"I'll soon tell you that," he said. "Now don't say another word, Dr Rivers. Yon can rely on my intense sympathy; be assured of my silence. I'll invent a bogus client to deceive her, and thus help a good cause. Take it, quick."

He pressed the cheque into the doctor's hands just as Mrs. Rivers hurled herself back into the room, with her cheque in her hand.

"Ah, you haven't gone, Mr. March. Well 'ere's your cheque.  It's a big price to pay, but I'm not one to go back on my word, and as long as you've got the thief—"

"I've got him, Mrs. Rivers," said March quietly. "By an hour's time be will be probably safe out of the country. It's better than having a fuss in the papers, and the unpleasant results of notoriety."

"Oh Lor' yes, I don't want that kind of publicity myself, but now do tell us how you discovered my precious stones.

"Well I take it that this man got in on a false panel card, lent perhaps, just to nose about and pick up a trifle of silver. He probably strayed across to your room, opened the drawer, and made a snatch at the stones. Perhaps he took fright and went to the dispensary. Finding it empty, he dropped them into the first bottle he saw, and fled out again,"

March noticed with relief that this explanation seemed to satisfy the lady.

"Just what I said, Henery, and now perhaps you'll leave those panel patients alone," and with a beam to March, Mrs. Rivers sailed forth again.

"Thank heaven, and you, Mr. March!" said the doctor. "But that ingenious theory, which isn't true, doesn't explain how you actually did find those stones."

"And now, to quote a famous play," I said March with a twinkle, " 'I'll fetch you the real truth'."

"Firstly, I'm a bit of a chemist myself, and I know that Aqua Regia should not show a precipitate. I could see that although that stuff cannot be used by you once in a blue moon, yet the bottle had been moved recently, and just beneath it stood a tin of silica. As Aqua Regia would destroy gold, but not injure the sapphires, it set me thinking as to whether the "purloiner," shall we say, had dropped the chain into the bottle, and poured in the silica to hide the stones. Naturally I thought it was Benson, but as his finger marks and those on the tin of silica did not correspond, I put two and two together, and took the risk. My man Colson took you off on a blind alley, while I put my theory to the test. All's well that ends well, doctor. Don't worry over it; anybody would have done the same with that lady about."

With a friendly smile and a grip of Dr. Rivers' hand, March flashed open the door and was gone, having perhaps done an utterly illegal act, but as he considered, one that although "robbing Peter to pay Paul" was completely justifiable in the broader help of suffering humanity.

_________________

4: The Violet Code

Sunday Times (Perth) 27 Oct 1929

THERE WERE only a few words In the note brought to- Septimus March by special messenger from Scotland Yard, but the very fact that Superintendent McBride had written instead of using the quicker telephone, warned him that the matter was of the utmost importance.

Ten minutes, therefore, after its receipt, Septimus March ascended the stairs leading to his chief's private sanctum. He knocked and entered, expecting to find McBride alone, but the sight of an erect soldierly figure seated beside the Superintendent made him hesitate and turn. But McBride was obviously too relieved to see him.

"Come in, March," he said, and then turned to his visitor. But the grey haired gentleman bad risen, and McBride saw with unconcealed astonishment that March had almost mechanically stiffened and was saluting him, as soldier to general.

The Earl of Clive, late Commander of March's old regiment, stretched out  his hand.

"Captain March, I think," he said with a grave smile. "I'm afraid I did not connect the name mentioned by the Superintendent here, with one of my finest field captains."

Septimus March flushed like a woman, for this was praise sweeter than any music, and to think that his general had remembered him after all the intervening years. He was almost unable to stammer his thanks.

Lord Clive smiled again, a smile that seemed infinitely forced.

"But you— you— " he said hesitatingly, "surely Captain March you have not Joined-that-become—"

"A policeman," said Septimus March, realising what was passing in the other's mind, and appreciating the tact of expression.

"No, sir, I occupy my spare time between briefs, in assisting Mr. McBride  here if any untoward cases come along. We are very good friends, but that is all."

Lord Clive sank down. "That is good," he said. "But when you want a political post, come to me— but now I'm glad, oh, more than glad that you are here. Shall I give him the facts. McBride, or leave you to go over them?"

"I would rather you outlined the case, my lord," said McBride, deferentially. "March sees things from a different angle, and often catches points missed by myself."

"Oh, please, Mac," cried March, "don't make me out a wizard— but just tell me, sir, what is wrong."

Lord Clive cleared his throat. "The wrong lies with my son's arrest, or practically so—"

March started. "Not with Philip sir— surely. We were in the same company, you know."

"Yes, I remember, and also that you saved his life, and now you have got to save his honor."

"By God I will, if it be within the bounds of human possibility," was

March's earnest retort, while, the sight of his set taut face made Lord Clive relax as if indeed his problems were already solved.

"Philip, since the Armistice, has been attaché at the Lithuanian Embassy. As yon know, Mr. March, several of the Continental Powers are very anxious to know of our plans and our agreement with this nation. Just recently a new agreement had been drawn up, and in this, a new code fixed. The Violet Code it had been named, being written on a special violet paper to make it the more easily distinguishable. Well, to cut matters short, this code was to have been handed over to our Foreign Office yesterday morning. Only my son was aware of its existence, and he alone could open the safe, apart from his Chief. When he went to the safe to hand it out yesterday, it had gone. As you can see, while of course, no accusations or even suggestions have been made, suspicion points to him. He is believed to have sold it to a foreign Power."

"Impossible,'' exploded March in a fury, "it's madness to think of such a thing."

"Yes, to we who know him, and his friends, but to strangers, the evidence of circumstance tells—"

"To what country would these be most useful?" rapped out March.

"To France," almost whispered Lord Clive, "It would be almost invaluable to them. They have already approached him with huge bribes, of course indignantly refused. But, unfortunately, and against my wishes, he is engaged to a French lady, Mlle Renee de la Motte, a daughter of a French foreign official. You Bee what this infers? To further complicate matters, Philip was known to change a French note of large denomination quite recently, one, he says, given him by Mlle Renee herself. No harm in itself, but when synchronising, so to speak, with this loss (or theft as the Chief calls it) you can quite understand my son's position. He is not actually under official arrest, but he is being detained at the Embassy, and a secret watch is being kept over his movements. He phoned to me, and I have just left him. What is to be done?"

"Come straight round to the Embassy," said March, rising swiftly, and seizing his hat and gloves. "Let me look round." He turned to the Superintendent.

"Why, of course, March. If you take the case right, I will come to the Embassy later, if wanted!" was the answer.

Five minutes later. Lord Clive and March were admitted, after a short consultation, to the offices of the Lithuanian Minister, where in one of the small rooms was found the Hon Philip Clive.

He lumped up at sight of his father, and as he looked at March, his eyes lit up.

"Why, it's old Seppy, isn't it, as I'm alive. Seppy March." He stretched out a hand, quickly grasped by the other. "Lord, Seppy, I'm in as sticky a mess as you pulled me out of before, only no star shells bursting as yet," said the youngster, for he looked years younger than his comrade. "But what are you here for by the way?"

"Merely to help you," was the reply, "I'm Secret Service, you know, and help Scotland Yard a bit; and Lord Clive, here has had me entrusted with your unhappy plight."

"Thank the Lord," was the devout response. "It's good to have someone with brains about, but can you tell me how a paper can vanish into thin air from a sealed iron safe? It beats me."

"Not without fingers, old man," said March. "Now suppose you tell me just what happened that day and night and who entered the room.  Is this it by the way?"

"No, it is not," said young Clive. "Here is the actual room." He rose and crossed through a door opposite, followed by the two men, "and there is the safe. There is a guard outside as you doubtless noticed."

March had.

"So I am allowed free passage in and out of these rooms, supposed to be working, but if I try to go out, that's when questions arise."

"Disgraceful," groaned his father.

March had gone to the safe, and was examining it closely.

Obviously it had hot been tampered with, nor did his microscopic use of his eye-glass reveal any finger-marks.

"Anyone touched or dusted the safe since the discovery?" he asked.

"No," said Philip. "I wouldn't let anyone enter the room when I found the thing gone. I wouldn't even leave until I myself had gone over every scrap, and I fairly had to insist that Renee should be allowed to come in to see me."

Lord Clive frowned slightly."

"Has Mlle de la Motte been here?" he said.

"Why, of coarse, pater. Why not call her 'Renee,' and let's drop formalities. You're not suggesting surely that she has had anything to do with the loss, are you?"

"I suggest nothing, my dear boy, but it was foolish indeed to allow her to come here in the circumstances," said Lord Clive, tartly.

"Well, I couldn't get out to her, and when I phoned what had happened—"

"Heavens, yon don't mean to say you told her about this loss over the telephone!" said Lord Clive. "No wonder the papers got hold of it so quickly. I wondered how it became known."

"Never thought of that," said the Hon. Phillip, a shade abashed. "Well, any-way, she came round, and I managed to get her in. You see, she had called for me the night before, so—"

Lord Clive snorted, and Septimus March wheeled round from the sate, a trifle startled himself.

"What's that, Philip?  This Miss de la Motte was here on the night before it disappeared?"

"I won't have her dragged into this mess," almost shouted the young man. "Lord, why I'd sooner say I had sold the wretched thing than have her questioned to the third degree."

"Don't be a silly ass," said March, before Lord Clive, almost purple in the face with anger, could express himself.

"All I'm trying to do is to find out what happened: Now come off heroics and down to hard facts."

'"When did you last see this piece of purple paper?"

Philip hesitated, and then said a trifle sulkily, "I put it into the envelope and it lay on this table, sealed up, while Renee was here. She never went near it so it's no use keeping on that tack."

Before March could make any further interrogations, however, there came a discreet knock at the door. A servant entered, and following close on his heels was a young lady. It merely needed Philip Clive's exclamation of delight, with his whole face proclaiming his adoration, for March to decide that here was the young lady in question. Nor did it escape the keen glance of Septimus March that a look of fear seemed to enter the pansy-like eyes of the young lady when Phillp blurted out that he, March, was from "the Yard."

But the sweet tremulous voice was reassuring as she said fervently, "Oh. Philip, thank heaven. No we shall get at the truth."

She turned, impulsively to the detective.

"Oh, if I can only help yon to clear him!"

"Well, first of all. Mademoiselle, did anyone else enter the room while you were here?" asked March.

"No, not a single soul," was the quick reply. "Eh, Philip?"

But Philip Clive gave a start.

"Well, no," he said hesitatingly. "At least you can't count the baby, little Barbara, Babette, as we call her, you know."

Renee frowned a trifle. "Yes, I had forgotten her," she admitted.

"And who is Barbara?" asked March.

"The five-year-old baby of Brooks, the Commissionaire and caretaker. The family live at the top, and she often runs down to me. She came to show me her box of chocolates, and Renee, like myself, loves kids. We took a sweet just to please her, and off she went."

"Was the envelope still there?" asked March.

Philip Clive looked sarcastic. "Lord. You'll be accusing the baby next," he said. "You're the limit. Seppy. But it was there, as it happened, because I lifted Barbara on to the table, while she opened the box. Afterwards Renee and I picked up the envelope and put it in the safe together, didn't we, dearest?"

"Yes," said the young lady. "It certainly was there, because I remember noticing how heavy it was."

"Well, no one entered the room after I had locked up, till I came in with the Chief, and then when I opened the safe, and handed him the envelope, I was paralysed when the Chief said the code was not there."

"What was in the envelope, then?" asked Lord Clive, and March nodded silent approval of this question.

"Some other quite unimportant papers: I never looked at them, I was too staggered. It won't make any real political trouble because the Chief has altered the Code, but it affects me, because I'll be dismissed for carelessness or for some petty charge as an excuse to dispense with me and everyone will believe I have sold the damned paper—"

March stood grim and silent, looking from table to safe, and safe to table, at if seeking to wrest their secret from them.

Suddenly in the hall beyond came the sounds of a woman's cries, and a disturbance. The door burst open, and a man in the uniform of a Commissionaire rushed in.

"Mr. Clive!" he cried. "My baby— oh— he has been found dead outside in the garden, strangled— someone said she came to you last .night after we had put her to bed. Is that right—"

"Heavens, man, you don't think I've murdered her do you?" said the Hon. Philip Clive, white with horror. "Babette, the pretty darling. Oh, this is awful."

March stepped forward. "I represent Scotland Yard," he said, sternly. "Pull yourself together, man, and I'll see her."

Brooks, the caretaker, pulled himself together with a jerk, then turned, followed by others, the guard outside locking the doors behind them as they passed out.

In one of the outer rooms, a sobbing mother beside her, lay the pathetic little baby figure in its soft frilled nightdress.

"Babette!" cried the young Clive, "just as she left us last night. What devil could have touched her?"

"Where are the chocolates?" asked March.

Philip glared at him. "What on earth does it matter about such a trifle—"

But March was bending over the little body. He made a thorough examination, pulling down the lips, touching the golden curls, looking at the finger tips.

"What time was it?" he asked, "when the child came in to you?"

"Just six," said Philip Clive. "I looked at my watch and let her see the wheels go round."

"Just after I'd tucked her up for the night, sir," sobbed Mrs. Brooks. "She must have got up directly I'd gone downstairs, and I never thought to look in at her before I went to bed myself. When I heard nothing of her this morning (you see I have to come down at six to clean the offices), I went up, and she wasn't there, and I being in a hurry like, thought she'd gone down again, or out into the garden she's so fond of my poor mite—"

Her sobs broke out again, and March turned away.

"Let's come back to the office," he said  in a whisper. "Nothing more can be done here."

The little party turned and followed him. In the passage, Mlle de la Motte put out a trembling hand.

"I don't think I can bear any more this morning," she said in a broken voice. "it is so awful. I'll come back later—"

But March shook his head.

"You must come in to see the Chief," he said. "I won't keep you a minute, but—"  he lowered his voice, "for Philip's sake I want yon to stay a few minutes longer. I may want your help."

Pale and shaken, the girl nodded and March shepherded his little party back into the office, now tenanted by one whom be recognised as the Chief Ambassador, and Superintendent McBride. March's eyes brightened as he met those of his own Chief.

"Did you look up that note for me?" he asked quickly.

"I did, March," was the grim reply. "You were right."

March wheeled suddenly as if his doubts were now. at rest.

"Yes, I thought as much." he cried. "Philip Clive," he said, sternly, "we are going to arrest you on suspicion in connection with the murder of that child."

"Good heavens. March, are you mad?" cried father and son, almost in one  breath, "It's preposterous—"

March stood silent just for a second.

Then he took from McBride's hands a pair of handcuffs.

The young man had gone white, but made no sign of resistance. March stepped forward, then as he stood in front of his almost dazed captive, he swerved, darted past him and gripped with overwhelming suddenness the slender girlish figure, standing silently beside him.

"Got you, you fiend," he cried. "Heavens, you'd have let an innocent man hang for the crime you committed—"

So sudden had been the attack that the whole party seemed turned to stone, but the sight of the struggling, writhing figure of Mlle Renee de la Motte, no longer a young, innocent girl, but transformed into a very virago of cursing hate, was as remarkable a metamorphosis as anyone could wish to see. It did not seem possible that the two were one and the same.

McBride had come to his confrere's rescue, and despite the cries of Philip Clive, they had her handcuffed and handed over to a couple of constables who appeared at the door, before three minutes had passed.

Then March turned back to the others.

"Philip, I'm sorry to have had to give you such a bad quarter of an hour, but knowing that my Chief here had followed my suggestion of looking up the history of the de la Mottes (bad eggs every one of them), I wanted to prove to you that she would have let you go to prison, and probably to the gallows rather than attempt to clear you. As it is, I can show you more how the trick was done."

"My God, but I can't believe It," moaned Philip. "Why, she never touched the paper."

"I know she didn't," said March, sympathetically. "But she probably helped to distract your attention while the so-called child substituted another envelope for the real one. The real Babette or Barbara never entered your room last night. She had not been dead many hours, and she has no trace of either eating or touching a chocolate. She was carried off, while the mother was downstairs, and another substituted, trained to act, or perhaps even a dwarf. We shall see—"

"Heavens, but that explains it!" shouted Philip Clive. "Do you know, I told you I lifted the child on to that table, and it flashed into my mind though not strongly enough to mention it that she was heavier than usual?"

March nodded. "Yes, a dwarf, armed with that chocolate box, and a violet envelope underneath hidden by ribbons. In the dusk, aided by his confederate, it was easy to substitute one for the other, and then escape up-stairs. Instead of returning direct, I expect Mlle carried off the real child, and when she struggled, strangled her, for the marks on the throat are of a slender steel-like grip. I noticed the woman's hands as I greeted her. We shall find out by the finger prints this is the case or not."

"Both she and her husband, who she had been calling father lately,  probably much to their own secret amusement, are members of the French Secret Service, and will be deported from the country as silently as possible."

"Well, it is a good thing that you have unravelled the mystery, Mr. March," said the Ambassador, to whom McBride had explained matters prior to the other's re-entry. "The Code we can alter, but a bad woman is unalterable. In future, young man, make a career first and choose a wife last."

He gave a friendly pat to the bowed shoulders of Philip Clive, and, shaking hands with Lord Clive and the officials, went out again, and following his example, the others, too, departed, leaving a sadder but a wiser attaché behind them in a house of mourning for a tiny life sacrificed on the altar of political intrigue.

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5:  Golden Sire

Sunday Times (Perth) 3 Nov 1929

FROM Wembley to Wimbledon, greyhound racing had spread like an epidemic, and greyhounds were fast becoming as valuable as Derby winners. Possibly the most famous kennels of canine winners was that of the Hon. Percy Fleming, at Edgware. Here the breeding and education of greyhounds had been conducted on the highest scientific principles, money being of no object with the Owner, his aim being to place the whole business on as high a plane as that of horse or motor racing.

Mere races and cups, let alone bets, had been won through the magnificent performances of Golden Sire than by any other dog in the world. Consequently when it was announced in the press that Mr. Fleming had arranged to wager the sum of £6,000 and an effigy of Golden Sire in the precious metal itself, against Beau Sabreur, the French prize winner of the Count Leclaire, excitement ran high in all racing circles.

A special guard had, of course, been placed round Fleming's Edgware kennels, and the race was due to take place in two days, when Septimus March received an urgent call from Scotland yard. March being on holiday in Scotland at the time, many precious hours were wasted before, immaculate and cool as ever, he entered the private sanctum of Superintendent McBride at Scotland Yard. That the chief was in a state of intense excitement was evident as he shook hands with March and motioned him to a chair beside his desk.

"It's too bad to hurry you back so soon," he apologised, "but Fleming has been on the phone almost hourly since yesterday morning, and I could do nothing until your arrival."

"Fleming?" echoed March. "Fleming. Who's that? The name seems familiar."

"Familiar! I should say it is, for probably all England is ringing with the name of Fleming and his cursed dog."

March started.

"Ah, yes." he said. "I know now. The greyhound racing man, well, what about him? You haven't brought me all the way from the glorious Trossachs to keep watch over a bow-wow, have you?"

"Keep watch, indeed! I wish I was able to, but it's no use shutting the stable door after the horse has gone," said McBride somewhat bitterly. "That precious bow-wow. as you call it, on whose racing rests the hopes of the racing world to-morrow, has vanished off the face of the earth. Though how, for was taken from a doubly-locked and sealed kennel, in a guarded enclosure is, and seems likely to remain, an absolute miracle. All we know is that, yesterday, when the man went on his last round, he found the kennel man lying in a pool of blood, stabbed to death, and his bulldog, which always accompanied him, also dead and apparently poisoned. Golden Sire had disappeared. Fleming has,  of course, nearly lost his reason, and so for that matter, have we. It's not only the actual loss of the race itself, for of course, without that particular dog, it will not take place, but Fleming insists that it is a plot to ruin him."

March looked grave enough by now, for he was fully alive to the power  which the Hon. Percy Fleming held, and he had known before he had left for his brief, but interrupted holiday that McBride had received special instructions from his own superiors.

"I wonder that I saw nothing of the matter in the papers," he said.

"You wouldn't— for the simple reason that not a word has been allowed to  leak out at present. Mr. Fleming phoned through to me and so far as his own people are concerned, it is as much as their lives are worth to mention it."

"But what about to-morrow's race? Surely the expectant dog lovers won't be allowed to go to Wembley to find the race off?" asked March.

'"No. I suppose something, will have to be done, at the latest, to-day. If you don't succeed— but March, my dear chap, you simply must find that dog."

"I can't do impossibilities," said March, "and besides, he may be dead for aught we can say. Best thing to do is to get down to the place without further loss of time."

McBride was only too glad to fall in with this suggestion, and a few min-utes later, they were well on their way to Cana Court, as Mr. Fleming's kennels and premises were called. They found it nearly as difficult to force their way through the barbed-wired, iron-palinged enclosure as any war camp. Cards were surveyed sternly, private house telephone set in motion, while the two officials fretted and fumed. But at last the car was allowed to pass and they eventually reached the bungalow set aside for the use of the Hon. Percy Fleming himself.

That gentleman was on the step to greet them, but in no very amiable temper judging from his scowl, and the gist of his opening remarks.

"Oh, you have deigned to turn up at last," he said. "Be in a hurry. Can't imagine what we pay you for at all, I am sure."

Turning to March:  "Is this the— er— person," he inquired, with a sarcastic smile, "for whom we have been waiting twenty-four hours?"

"This is indeed Mr. Septimus March," said McBride stiffly, more angered by the contempt shown his confrere than the jibe at his own precious force. "Furthermore," he continued, "If he cant solve the mystery, well, no one can."

"Splendid, my dear Holmes," sneered Fleming, with another covert glance at March, while that gentleman was gazing around him somewhat vacantly.

"Pretty place you've got here, Mr. Fleming," said March, jauntily, at the same time sniffing vigorously. "Only just had it done up, too, evidently. Still smell the paint, don't you know."

The Hon. Percy Fleming snorted angrily.

"Paint— paint," he echoed; "place hasn't been painted for months— what's that go to do with this business, anyway?"

"Ah, my mistake," said March, absently. "Saw a paint spot or two, so there you are. Well, let's trot along, shall we?"

Mr. Fleming gave a groan of despair at the thought of this fool being of the slightest use, while even McBride seemed worried by March's attitude.

But in silence they followed the owner out into the brilliant sunlight and across the path where stood a large number of huts and kennels, Bach had its occupant, save the middle kennel, surmounted by a golden flag, for in this had lived the wonder dog, Golden Sire, himself. As they stopped at the gate, a tall muscular man stepped quickly forward.

"If a all right, Glender," Mr. Fleming assured him. "These gentlemen are from Scotland Yard. This is Mr. Glender, my trainer and right-hand man," he said, as the men exchanged nods. "He has kept watch almost continuously night and day, alternately with poor Jim Dent, another faithful friend, who has been done to-death by those French scoundrels." He paused for breath. "Yes, I know what I'm saving," he cried excitedly. "There's a whole gang of Latin crooks staying in Edgware, who have been prying round trying to get a look at my place, and if it hadn't been for Dent and Glender they would have succeeded before now. Well, Glender, tell these gentlemen what you know."

"Certainly, Mr. Fleming," said he In sympathetic tones.

"Clearly a case of where, oh where, has my little dog gone; where, oh where can he be— as the Dutchman said," was March's ejaculation. Fleming turned away with a smothered oath and a remark which was fortunately inaudible.

March looked inside the enclosed kennel. Then he drew back in surprise.

"Hullo," he said. "Here's another bow-wow. Who is this?"

"That's only Campden H," said Glender coldly. "Just a runner-up for Golden Sire, and companion for him at night. No value whatsoever:

"Ah, a pity they didn't take him instead of the other, but I suppose they knew what they were about," was March's inane remark. "Well, can't say I know much about dogs—" He sniffed and sneezed, and sniffed again. "Sorry, got a bit of a cold. Let's go over and see your poor corpse. That is more in my line. I suppose he was on the straight, eh?"

Glender gave a cautious look at the figure of Mr. Fleming, now a short distance ahead.

"Well, Mr. March," he said, haltingly. "That is the only point on which Mr. Fleming and I disagree. One hesitates to speak ill of the dead, but I must tell you that I did see him only two days back, deeply in conversation with one of those French scoundrels and I warned the chief, then, but to no avail. My own candid opinion is that he sold the dog; that is to say, he admitted them, and then having achieved their object, they quietly poisoned him and got away."

"I see," said March thoughtfully. "Well, 'pon my soul, where's the mystery then? I mean, who was the last person to see Dent alive?"

"Well, I was," returned Glender. Then he stopped abruptly, as Mr. Fleming returned with a stable boy, evidently much upset and almost on the verge of tears.

"Here's Turner now," cried Fleming. "Says he saw Dent opening Golden Sire's door, at 2 o'clock in the morning, with a pot of paint in his hand. Now, what on earth was he doing at that time of night?"

"I told you the place had been done up," said March triumphantly, which innocent remark caused Mr. Fleming to employ several ungentlemanly adjectives.

"Damned fool," he continued. "I repeat not a thing has been painted. You've paint on the brain."

March ignored the epithets.

"Don't see that it matters one way or the other," he said, stolidly, "but I would like to see Dent."

"I trusted Dent as myself," said Fleming. "It's no use telling me anything against him, dead or alive."

"Question of price, I expect," said March, and followed the others down the bed of the gravelled path till they reached a tiny corrugated bungalow, similar to that of Mr. Fleming himself. On the side of the path, barely concealed by a sack, lay the body of the dead bulldog, which had been Dent's constant companion. To the openly avowed anger of the trainer, March insisted on stopping and submitting the dead animal to a close and minute scrutiny. As he stood up, he said, almost blithely, "That dog's been dead a long time, hasn't he?" And not even Mr. McBride could attach any importance to this apparently inane remark.

Words were evidently beyond Fleming or Glender, and they entered the cottage in angered silence. The body of the trainer had been carried into the front room. Beside the gruesome spectacle knelt a mis-shapen figure, starting up in affright at the sudden entry of his master and two strangers.

"Banks! What are you doing here?" cried Glender, angrily. "Clear out to your work, there's plenty of it—"

Mumbling and muttering, the boy— for he was but that— half knelt, making strange motions with his hands, his eyes looking up imploringly from one to the other.

"Clear out!" repeated Glender, this time raising his fist, and the boy fled.

"A dumb half-wit Dent kept, to clean the kennels," he explained, in answer to March's look of interrogation.

March walked over to the silent master of the bungalow. The knife had. not been, touched, and March drew it forth with deft fingers, in order to lose no trace of any possible finger prints. Placing it in his despatch case, he made a thorough examination, bending down and sniffing vigorously at the fingers and clothes of the dead man.

Then he faced the others.

"Sorry," he said stolidly; "but I must agree with Mr. Glender here. Dent let the men take off the dog, and got stabbed for his pains. I don't see what's to be done, Mr. Fleming, but if you'll give me a few hours more, I'll nose around and see what I can pick up."

Without waiting for consent, or comment, he lounged out of the bungalow, and McBride saw him vanish swiftly up the path and out of the gates before he had time to catch him up.'

Used as he was to, the methods of his ally, Mac felt a little aggrieved at the bad impression given by his friend and was almost inclined to agree with Mr. Fleming's outspoken remarks.

He decided to await March's return, and leaving Glender to resume his interrupted duties, the superintendent returned with Mr. Fleming to the latter's quarters, to pass the time as best he could.

But it was fully two hours before March reappeared, and he did so just as Glender had come into the office for instructions as to the race next day.

McBride looked up at his ally.

"Well," said March complacently. "I've found your dead dog anyhow."

"Dead," groaned Mr. Fleming and Glender. In one breath. "God! What's to be done?"

Oaths burst fluently from the purple lips of the Hon. Percy, while clearly Glender was speechless with horror at the news.

"Yes," said March, "and just where I expected—"

"Where?" cried the men in unison.

"In Jim Dent's bungalow, of course."

A smile of triumph played about the lips of Glender, while Fleming shrank back in horror.

"I can't believe it— no, no, not a traitor, not poor Dent" he cried.

"Well then," said March. "Come and see for yourself."

Followed by the three men, be retraced his steps to the other, bungalow.  He crossed over to the broad fire-place.

"Here it is. Up here," he cried,

Glender and Fleming stared at him incredulously.

"Nonsense, man," said the former. Up the chimney? Impossible."

"Oh no," returned March. "Kneel down and put your hands up, like this. You can feel him ... Feel for yourself, man—"

Still incredulous. Glender knelt down and put his hands up the gaping chimney.

In one minute, March made a spring, hurling himself at the kneeling figure, like a cat on to a mouse.

"Got you, you fiend," he snarled. "Quick, Mac: Get his legs. I've hand-cuffs here."

"What— How dare you—" cried Mr. Fleming, striving to free his cursing trainer. "You fool, you damned fool. This is an outrage."

But March pushed him aside, all his strength needed to overcome the writhing fighting man beneath him. But a few minutes, and his task was done.

"Got you," he said. "Thought you'd get off, did you, my man? With poor Dent out of the way, eh? Ah, here you are, boys." He looked over his shoulders to where two stalwart policemen were waiting, evidently under private orders. "Here's your  man. I've got the warrant executed all right. Get him down to the station and we will follow presently."

Still struggling violently and calling on the dazed Mr. Fleming, the prisoner was removed.

"Come, Mr. Fleming," said March now his own stern self again, all trace of foolery having vanished.

Swiftly he passed along till he reached the empty kennel of Golden Sire. Here the others found the mute boy Banks. March opened the gate.

"Got the things ready, eh? Good boy," he said approvingly, and bending down, he picked up a bottle and cloth held in Banks' hand.

Snatching hold of Campden H, he poured some turpentine on the rag and wiped at the neck and haunches. Away came reddish stains clearly showing the pale gold skin beneath.

A shout burst from the lips of the greyhound breeder, as he shot forward and kneeling down, put his arms round the dog's neck.

"Golden Sire," he breathed. "Gad, you wonder man— you genius. And I called you a fool! Golden Sire!"

March laughed outright. "Let's get the peroxide of hydrogen off him as well. Mr. Fleming. Then if you give him a good grooming, he will be as right as rain to-morrow."

"I've got a posse of police outside to help you keep guard to-night, and Banks here will watch better than any of them."

A little more rubbing and the dog was indeed right as rain.

And as Fleming came forth from the kennel hut, he saw a posse of the men he didn't know what they were paid for stolidly taking up their posts.

Back in his bungalow he turned again...

"How did you do it?" he inquired of March. "And my dear, fellow, how can I make amends for my rudeness."

"Forget it, Mr. Fleming, forget it," said March. "I could make allowances but I had to act the bally fool, for directly I entered this room I noticed the private telephone receiver off the hook. See— there it is, acting like a microphone, for some extraneous person to hear every word." He replaced that useful instrument.

"Then again. I could smell paint. I've a nose like a cat, and when I heard of poor Dent entering that kennel with a tin of it at 2 o'clock in the morning, I smelt more than paint, I assure you. Traitor, did you say, Mac? Not he, the bravest soul in the world. He must have come round and found the poor bulldog poisoned. I said he'd been dead a long time. I meant really by that, longer than his master. Naturally his suspicions were aroused for only Glender could possibly have entered with the duplicate keys. I expect then he decided to change the dogs, knowing that Campden H would be safe. I have to go now on supposition, but when he had finished the job, assisted by the boy Banks (who tried to show you how to wash and scrub with his hands this morning, you remember) well, Glender must have come along with one of your Frenchies,  while one of them stabbed poor Dent. We shall know which by the finger marks on the dagger, while the other dealt with the bull dog. It is in Dent's bungalow right enough, though not up the chimney. When I smelt poor Dent's fingers reeking of paint and peroxide, I knew what he had done. All I had to get was a warrant and risk catching Glender red handed."

On the morrow a huge crowd filled the stadium of Wembley to see Golden Sire beat the French competitor, with his usual ease, and not a single man amongst them realised how, within a few hours, the most idolised dog in the country had been in danger of his life.

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6:  The Sleeping Guest

Sunday Times (Perth) 10 Nov 1929

SEPTIMUS MARCH, detective, and private ally of Superintendent McBride, of Scotland Yard, turned in at headquarters, with a view to breaking the news that he was "off for a holiday."

But one glance at his Chief's perturbed face, banished that idea promptly.

"What's the trouble. Mac?" he said. "Got a ticklish case for me? Something to do with a strange illness, I should say."

McBride fairly bounced from his chair, while March smiled.

"Only a chance hit, old man," he said. "But the room smells of iodoform,  there's a bit of straw by your chair, while your Encyclopaedia is open at 'Sleeping Sickness'. "

"Quite right," grunted McBride,  "Mr. Norman Spencer has lust been here; his things reeked of some disinfectant, and he told the story of a girl who won't wake up, and her father found dead in a locked room.

"I've just had a strong hint from the Chief to get the matter cleared up immediately, and no Press facts to be allowed."

"Let's have the details," said his ally.

"The man is Mr. John Breton—"

March sat up erect. "Breton— not any relation to Breton, the Pickle King, as they call him—"

"The very man," said Mac "He it is who has been murdered, and his daughter may follow at any moment."

March jerked up his head, his taut lips and keen eyes revealing an intense interest.

"Murdered," he echoed. "Heavens, when— why—"

"The night before last," answered McBride, "and as to the reason, no one knows, a better man never lived. All that we know is that he was found dead, with the window fastened, the door locked, and not a sign of any wound. His own doctor blames a heart attack, but Sternroyd Brill, the specialist, disagrees, and five thousand pounds has vanished. I personally incline to the specialist's view."

"Yes, indeed," agreed March. "Can you let me have more details?"

McBride took a deep breath before replying.

"Reginald Challis," he said, "the man now very much in the public eye on account of his munificence in giving to the public the St. Anne's Playing Fields, was a great friend of the deceased. As you may know, he has a large house near Hendon, where Breton was in the habit of spending many week-ends. He and his daughter Nina were (and in fact still are) there during last week-end. That is where the tragedy occurred and where another seems impending. Challis was apparently very anxious to make a match between his cousin Norman Spencer, and the Breton girl, but his scheme will not come to fruition on account of her engagement lo her second cousin, Philip Drake, a  departmental manager at the factory. It seems that Mr. Breton had had words with the young man in this matter, and in fact that only the strong pleading of Nina had prevented his dismissal."

Septimus March looked across at his friend.

"He was pretty quick to tell you about Ibis quarrel; perhaps he was trying to divert suspicion."

"According to Spencer, Mr. Breton retired about 11 o'clock when a fancy dress ball was in full swing."

"Oh, so anybody disguised could have entered, and concealed themselves in the bedroom," interpolated March.

"H'm— I never thought of that," said McBride, "but I expect every care was taken against strangers. However, Mr. Breton locked himself in, and they had to force the door, finding him dead."

"And what about the girl, Miss Breton?"

"Well, she was all right the whole evening, and went to bed, I presume, when the ball ended. But she didn't wake up in the morning, and when the family doctor. Dr. Bentham, was sent for, he refused to let her be moved."

"And what happens to the Breton fortunes if she dies, too?" asked

March.

"With a goodly slice to the hospitals, I think it goes to the other brother. William Breton."

"H'm. I see. Well the best thing to do is to get to the spot," said March, rising. Mac followed suit, thankful that assistance was at hand.

From Scotland Yard to the aeroplane suburb. Hendon, is not a long Journey in a fast car, and Challis Court was soon reached.

Despite its high sounding title, it was one of a pair of very large semi-detached houses. Its neighbor, however, being empty, and its windows and palings defaced with agents' bills, it presented a queer contrast to its highly decorated neighbor.

Hardly had the car rolled up the straw-bestrewn path, when the gaily green-painted door was flung open, and a somewhat portly gentleman hurled himself down the steps.

"Mr. Challis," said Mr. McBride.

"Yes," replied the gentleman.

"I am Superintendent McBride, of Scotland Yard, and this is my confrere Septimus March."

"Thank Heaven you have come, gentlemen," said Mr. Challis fervently, and led the way swiftly up the steps and into a small drawing-room. "This is an awful affair," he said, when they were seated, "as you can understand."

"Yes, indeed," assented March sympathetically.

"I suppose Miss Breton has not recovered consciousness," he asked.

"No, not yet," was the troubled answer. "I suppose Norman explained all he possibly could? You see the nurse installed by Dr. Bentham won't let my wife go near her, as absolute quiet and isolation is insisted upon."

"Yes, indeed," assented McBride Then the door opened to admit Mr Spencer himself.

"Well, here I am. Mr. Spencer," said McBride, "as promised, and here ii Mr. March. No chance of our seeing Miss Breton,! suppose?"

"No" such luck," almost walled that young man.

"The first thing to do is to examine the body of Mr. Breton," said March  cheerfully. "You people needn't be present at that, and then I should like to see the sleeper, if it's only for a minute."

Meanwhile Mrs. Challis had joined the party, and both husband and wife  looked at each other significantly at this remark.

"I simply daren't do that," cried Mrs Challis. "You can't think how angry Dr. Brentham and the nurses were this morning, just because I let her up! Mr. William Breton look in, only for a minute, too."

"Yes," said Mr. Challis, speaking again in his nervous voice. "People are very spiteful, and I am placed in a very awkward position. You see, Mr. Breton wanted his daughter to marry Spencer, to whom he had taken a great fancy, and he had told us all the tenor of his will which he made afresh only last week before coming on this visit. By it, Miss Breton is left his entire fortune if she marries Norman; failing that, the money goes to him."

"And what if she dies?" said March abruptly, as the other man left off, moistening his dry lips again.

"Why then, the money goes to Mr. William Breton, at least half to him and half to the North Western Hospital, an institution highly approved by Mr. Breton; furthermore I am on the board of that very needy hospital, and it looks, as I say, awkward."

"It did indeed." And March began to realise why the Challises were in such a nervous state. He did not think that Mr. Reginald Challis was likely to commit a murder in order to enrich a hospital, but still there were always ways and means of extracting the money if it were under his control. Septimus March faced that position grimly.

"Well, well!" he said, aloud, "It's no use wasting time down here. Mrs. Challis will show me the first room I want, and just indicate the door of the other."

The lady, obeyed, but was evidently very dubious, and led the way from the room up the broad staircase. At the first door along the corridor she stopped. Opening the door she ad-vanced almost timidly, March close behind her. The nurse, a tall grave-faced looking woman looked up at sight of a stranger.

"I expect the doctor now at any minute, madam," she said significantly and at the veiled reproach Mrs. Challis turned her agonised gaze at the unconscious figure to Mr. March who was looking round the room. His eyes finally came to rest on the sleeping girl, small and fragile, her eyes closed, her head turning restlessly to and fro as though striving to escape from some invisible discomfort. The dainty bed stood, like that of her dead father, between the door and the window, and faced the marble fireplace, over which hung an exquisite picture.

March turned His gaze once more to the bed, just as there came a discreet knock at the door behind him, followed by the entry of an aristocratic looking man, portly and benevolent of mein, and carrying the inevitable black bag, the hall mark of his profession.

Dr. Bentham, for such it was, looked even more surprised than had the nurse at the presence of a stranger, as Mrs. Challis advanced nervously to explain the visit of an old friend.

"A highly dangerous thing to do Mrs. Challis," said the doctor heatedly. "This is not the time to allow strangers to enter my patient's room. The poor girl might have died of shock if she had awakened suddenly."

Mrs. Challis stood scarlet with mortification, and March, obviously upset, murmured apologies and pulled at his monocle, breaking the slender cord in his agitation. The glass fell and rolled under the bed.

"Confound it," he muttered confusedly. "I'm dashed sorry, doctor. Wouldn't have come in for the world if I'd thought. Now I can't see a yard without the wretched thing. May I move the bed a bit and look for the glass?"

"No, certainly not. I will get it myself," said Dr. Bentham angrily, and in a whisper.

He moved the bed ever so little, and going down on his knees, felt beneath the valance, and finally emerged with the object in his hand.

"Here it is," he said angrily. "Now kindly leave the room, as I cannot be responsible for the life of my patient if you allow such a thing to happen again."

He fairly flung open the door and abruptly bowed the intruders outside.

On the landing. Mrs. Challis looked at Septimus March reproachfully.

"I had to see the girl," said March, "and now I will go into the other room. Ah! here comes Mr. McBride. You may leave us, Mrs. Challis, and trust to me."

McBride joined them, and as March turned and proceeded to the second floor, he whispered, "What do you think about it, March?"

"The answer is in the bed, and the rainbow, old man," came the surprising remark. "If the bed is against this wall, I shall know the method, and in two hour? more I shall know the man. Come along in."

McBride knew his man too well to, press further questions, but be started a little as he noted immediately that the bed was against the wall, opposite the mantelshelf. March gave a little grunt almost of satisfaction, as he crossed towards it.

Bending over the still figure, he subjected it to a thorough examination. Apparently about 65 years of age. James Breton had to all appearances died a natural death, and it was indeed little wonder that both doctors, specialists as they were, had disagreed as to whether it were death caused by heart disease, or by the administration of mysterious poison.

With grim face, March stood back frowning. Then he turned on his heel and went round and round the room, finally stopping in front of the barred window and looked down on the path covered with straw.

"What on earth did the woman want to have straw put down there for?" he muttered. "She couldn't disturb the dead."

Without waiting for any answer, he turned and plunged from the room, and that was the last McBride saw of Mr. Septimus March until late that evening. It was close upon nine o'clock at night when March returned to the bouse, and was shown once more into that inner room. He found assembled, a most impatient Superintendent, Mr. and Mrs. Challis obviously worn out, Philip Drake, as sullen as it was possible to be, and Norman Spencer, worried and nervous.

One and all looked anxiously at the detective, and at sight of the barely concealed triumph, McBride exclaimed involuntarily.

"The truth. March. You've discovered it?"

"Yes, in the rainbow, my dear chief." he retorted. Then turning to Mrs. Challis, he said, "I want to make a little experiment in Miss Breton's room before Dr. Bentham comes I around again. Will you come up with me? It will do no harm, and may avert another tragedy."

Without waiting for any answer, he scribbled a note and turned to Norman Spencer.

"Just run up and pop this under Miss Breton's door quietly. Mr. Spencer; and Mrs. Challis, I would like a jug of water, please, a tea tray, and a strong ball of string. I'm sorry I couldn't get these beforehand."

From his own despatch case, March produced a flat empty whisky flask into which he poured a small quantity of white powder, filling up the flask with the water for which he had asked.

Armed with a flat metal tray, and followed by a mystified little band, they tip-toed once more up the stairs, and into the invalid's room.

To the surprise of Mrs. Challis, Nurse Grayson was not at her post, and she gave a sigh of relief.

March gave a look at the twisting figure of the girl, then set to work. With wide open eyes the others watched as he tied a long piece of cord to each handle of the tea tray and stretched the string across the room so that it formed a sort of shield on the bed between the wall and the patient's head.

"Now, Mr. Spencer, when I say 'off', turn out the light. Mrs. Challis, sit close to Miss Breton, and be ready to give her this restorative when she requires it.  All ready?"

Septimus March advanced into the room, holding the mysterious bottle, corked end downward, high above his head, the crystal clearness of its contents shining under the shaded electric bulbs with a white light.

"Off!" he ejaculated, and the room was plunged Into utter darkness.

For a few minutes nothing was heard save the labored breathing of the various members of that watching band, tense with impending tragedy and the restless tossing of the sick girl upon her bed.

In the pitch dark it was an uncanny performance, but all at once the silence was broken by a low chuckling laugh. Every eye strained in the direction of the sound, while the bottle of impregnated water shone out suddenly with a strong bluish light, giving a weird and ghostly appearance to the whole affair. There was a stifled scream from Mrs. Challis as she saw it, a quick caught breath from some male member of that little party, and then March's voice was heard calling across the stillness, "lights up!"

The room blazed into brilliance, and they stood there blinking blindly at the sudden light as Septimus March dropped the bottle and slipped out a revolver: Aiming at the centre of the picture over the mantelshelf he fired.! There came a crash, the picture tumbled to the ground, and an aperture that had only been thinly papered over, was seen to be gaping beneath. From the other side of the brick wall there came the sound of a scuffle, mingled with oaths and shrieks.

"Quick!" Septimus March sprang to attention. "Through here," he cried.  They'll want all the help we can give 'em!"

Swiftly be turned and made a dash at the wardrobe, standing in one corner of the room. Pulling open the door, he tossed aside the clothing and disclosed a door hidden in the wall. Through this he climbed, inviting the rest to follow. In the centre room of the house next door, surrounded by a dozen or more burly policemen, and fighting like two wild beasts, struggled the figures of Dr. Bentham and the grey-gowned nurse.

"Smashed your apparatus very successfully," remarked Septimus March, as he surveyed a wreckage of complicated machines. "You won't commit any more murders with your electric light cures. I know you. Dr. Bentham— though possibly you don't know me. We've had an eye on your North Western Hospital, as you call it, for some time."

Turning to the bewildered people at his side, he said: "Let's get back to the patient. I'll be bound she's awake by this time."

Awake she was, in very truth, sitting up and supported by Mrs. Challis; an empty glass was on the table beside her, and her eyes were rather frightened and wide.

"What does it all mean, Philip?" she asked in a tiny voice, as he crossed to her and gently put his arms about her slim body, holding her close.

Septimus March beckoned to the others. A few minutes later, the party in the dining-room were plying Septimus March with eager questions.

"Yes, Mrs. Challis," he said, "I recognised Nurse Grayson through another case, some years ago. I began to have my suspicions, and as I knew that Dr. Bentham practically owned the North Western Hospital, where he was experimenting with a new theory of curing diseases by various light rays. It struck me that here perhaps he was putting other light rays to wrong purposes instead of right ones.

"That was why I brought that plain glass monocle of mine into action. Directly that bed was moved though ever so slightly. Miss Breton became a little easier, so I knew something was being directed upon her. The puzzle was how to make sure, and to catch both the criminals red-handed. All I could do was to have police at hand to rush the empty house next door directly I fired a shot, and I did not dare do that till my bottle changed color."

"But how could the water change color?' asked Norman Spencer, voicing the general curiosity.'

"Because it wasn't plain water." explained Septimus March. "It was a strong solution of quinine hydrochlorate. Light rays will split up into the colors of the rainbow, or spectrum, as it is called. Because we cannot see them, it does not mean that there are no other rays beyond the violet or the red rays. There are others, possibly harmless, possibly harmful to the nervous system. Quinine acts as a kind of transposer. It transposes down the ultra-violet rays to blue, and these as you saw made the contents of the bottle shine out. That showed me the exact spot of the danger, and I fired at it. But I was also afraid lest a hole in the paper covering that part of the wall would show the doctor what we were doing; hence my using the tray as a shield. Directly the shot was fired, Inspector Grantly and his men rushed in. I took the risk of applying for a warrant, after I had seen the rubber soles of our good doctor when he so obligingly crawled under that bed. There was a still further proof of guilt, for there were his footmarks under the window and all round, in fact, wherever Nurse Grayson had suggested so kindly that plenty of straw should be laid down.

"What's that, Mr. Challis? Pool Breton! Why he was killed with the same apparatus. His heart being weak he succumbed at once, and to bring his plans to a head. Bentham took the opportunity of having both father and daughter in the house of people who would also benefit so materially by their deaths. You may be sure Bentham took the money, for you will fine another paper-covered hole in Mr Breton's room through which it was possible for him to see what tool place in it.

"The awkward position of that wardrobe, and the obvious fact that it had been recently moved, made me guess that there was probably a door behind it, and that part of the back of the wardrobe had been removed."

March smiled and stood up. "I think our task here is done, don't you Mr McBride? We can leave the rest to the police, while the lovers will provide their own happy ending."

_________________

7: The Crystal Tubes

Sunday Times (Perth) 17 Nov 1929

ALTHOUGH not officially attached to the staff of Scotland Yard, Septimus March, barrister and private detective, usually held himself at the Yard's service, to the officials of which, he had on so many occasions, rendered such signal service. So that when he heard his chief Superintendent McBride, on the telephone, asking him to accompany him to Dover forthwith, all his other work was temporarily suspended.

But it was not until they were ensconced in a private compartment in the 11.30 express that March learned of the actual nature of the case in which his co-operation had been sought

"It's too bad to take you out of London, like this, old chap, at a moment's notice," said McBride, "but I am literally at my wits end being unable to solve, or even to visualise the mystery from such a distance, and it will probably save time to have you with me from the beginning."

"That's all right; Mac, I don't mind a bit," said March, "but what's the trouble? Something to do with the Customs. I presume, as we are bent for Dover."

"Yes," assented McBride. "It's smuggling, and smuggling of the worst type. Cocaine is simply being poured into London, and I can get no idea as to how it is being done, or where it's coming from. I got my first clue last night; hence this journey."

"And what is?" queried March.

"A bottle, or rather a tube."

From his pocket book, Superintendent McBride produced a tiny crystal tube or phial similar to that used by chemists, but with one difference; the base was hollowed up like a wine bottle.

March examined it critically. "It's Belgian made glass. I know by the peculiarity of the tint."

"Well, this was found in one of the well-known 'dope' houses raided a week or two ago. It had rolled under the couch, and there were still one or two grains of 'snow.' No trace could be found, until this morning by the first post, when the Customs Officer at Dover enclosed this. It had been picked up near the Customs House. Of course, I sent a description to every port on the coast and asked for special precautions. I don't say there's anything in the idea, but I want to see the nature of every boat, and find any traces of suspicious passengers."

March nodded approval. He knew too well the difficulty of preventing this trafficking in cocaine, and did not undervalue the difficult task ahead of  them.

They were evidently expected as a car was waiting for them, which in a very few minutes conveyed them to the Customs House itself, where they were welcomed by Captain Bevett, the officer in command.

"I thought you had better have the little tube at once, sir," he said, when the Superintendent mentioned it, "and I would not even risk the uncertainty and possible danger of a trunk call."

"That's right enough," assented McBride. "Only wish a few more were like you. Captain, but they go blurting out the most important news over the phone, just as if there is no possibility of an eavesdropper. Now what we want to know is firstly, do you suspect anyone yourself of being a party to the business?"

"Can't say I do," was the reply. "As a matter of fact, I don't think these little tubes are as unique as you imagine them to be, sir (unless they are also being used for other purposes, because my daughter showed me one this morning, that was given her with some scent in it, an exact replica of that in your hand. As a matter of fact, I almost regretted bothering you with it."

"No bother at all, Bevett," said McBride. "There may he nothing wrong here; but at any rate we'll have a good look into things. Let's see your list of  incoming boats."

For the next half-hour, the men pored over shipping lists, but in every case the boats were quite above suspicion. Cargoes from reliable firms: passengers whose names were beyond reproach.

"Well, we'll stay down here a day or two now," said McBride. "The Gordon Hotel will do us best, I expect. Well look you up from time to time, Captain."

Accompanied by the captain, the two came forth from the office, waiting while Captain Bevett locked his door behind him, and together they came up the gangway, at the end of which the Customs was established.

March looked down at his immaculate patents, now all smeared with white.

"Didn't bargain for a floured path," he said with a little laugh.

"It isn't flour, it's brick dust," said Captain Bevett. "One of the Belgian boats brought in a cargo of special bricks for Monsieur Lanelle, one of out best-known townsmen. He has been settled here since the war. His hobby is the cultivation of cacti, for which he's always building new hot-houses. One of the show places of the town is his house; it stands a mile out of the town, but he gives flower-shows every year, and prizes for the best gardens, and he is expected to be our next mayor."

"Jolly good," said March. "I'm a bit of an enthusiast myself on gardening, so perhaps you'll get us an introduction."

Captain Bevett looked across foe space and on to the quay.

"As it happens, quite a simple thing to do," he said. "For here is Monsieur Lanelle himself. Possibly he has come to see the last of his bricks. He is building a very large conservatory now, I gather."

Still speaking, he led the way across and greeted the white-haired, genial looking gentleman, whose face lit up with enthusiasm when March, after introductions had been made, spoke of his own love for gardening.

"Come up and see my house," said Monsieur Lanelle quickly. "Any friend of Captain Bevett a would be welcome, while a fellow gardener is doubly so."

After promising that they would pay a visit on the morrow, March and his friend went on their way to the Gordon Hotel.

"A very pleasant man, Lanelle," said McBride, "but I don't see why you want to waste time going over his greenhouses."

"Oh, it's all experience," said March lightly, and nothing more was said till they had engaged rooms at the Gordon Hotel.

"Got such a thing as a free library here?" March asked the clerk, and having directions as to where to find the valuable institution, March took

It was an hour later when he returned to the hotel, to find McBride somewhat irritable, waiting his return with a young girl and a man seated beside him in the lounge.

"At last, March," said the Superintendent. "Thought you were never coming back. "This is Miss Bevett, our captain's daughter, and this is Mr. Jack Western, her fiancé. They have come to see us unofficially, shall we say."

Miss Bevett, a fair, fragile looking girl, yet with an underlying strain of strength as shown in a firm chin, raised her head proudly,

"Well, Mr. March," she said. "How do you do? Mr. McBride's words need a little qualifying as we are not officially engaged, because father objects to Jack going into business on his own account; but, thanks to Mr. Lanelle, he did do so. It was Jack who gave me that little bottle of scent father made such a fuss about, and sent you one of his bottles, probably, so we thought we'd better come and see you."

"Quite right, Miss Bevett," said March. "And now, Mr. Western, suppose you tell me something about this bottle business. What is it exactly that you have taken up?"

"That of a chemist," said Mr. Western, a young man of about twenty-eight. His clear eyes looked straight into those of Septimus March, who nodded approval. "Up to a month ago, I was clerk to Captain Bevett, but when I asked his consent to marry Aline here, naturally he refused, as £3 a week won't keep a wife."

"Well, I resigned, and then just as I was getting sick of the apparent folly of answering advertisements, I met Mr. Lanelle and somehow or other, he was so jolly sympathetic, I found myself telling him all about it, and he suggested my haying a business for myself. I had studied as a doctor originally, but couldn't afford the full fees, and Mr. Lanelle said the business of  Fonds in the High-street was in the market. He offered to buy it, and put me in till I could pay off the purchase price, and I accepted. But even then, Captain Bevett was against us; still, I daresay we shall get over it with Mr. Lanelle's influence, for he is one of the finest men I have ever met."

'"And what about those bottles, did Mr. Lanelle provide those?" asked March.

"Good gracious no. They come from one of the wholesale firms, and are sample bottles of scent," said Western. "I gave one to Anne, and I expect it was one of the same batch that Captain Bevett found on the quay. He is so upset over this smuggling business that he fairly worried my life out of me over it, insisting that the bottle in question is one of the suspected ones. But as I have another dozen at least in the shop. Aline thought I had better come and tell you about them straight away. The one drug I haven't in my stock is cocaine. You are welcome to come down and search the place if you wish."

March smiled as the young people rose to go.

"It's jolly good of you to have come down and saved my time," he said. "I might have wasted days tracking down those bottles, and as it is, all I have got to track down is the thief, eh?"

Relieved obviously that their duty was done, the two young people took their departure.

"Nothing to be done at this end," said McBride, dejectedly. "But I did think those bottles were going to help us."

"So they are, Mac," said March, cheerfully. "I don't say for a minute I've solved the problem, but if our friend knows an Epiphyilum from an Opuntia, to-morrow, then I can go off ea a fresh track."

He refused to disclose another word, and McBride, knowing his ally's methods, made no further comment.

On the following morning, hiring a motor, March and the superintendent having phoned Monsieur Lanelle at his house, drove oat, and were welcomed on the threshold by the gentleman himself , who seemed delighted to see him.

"I am a bachelor," he said, "so cannot offer yon any welcome from the fair sex, but you shall see my plants."

He led them out into the grounds, where numerous small green-houses had been erected, constructed of peculiar white-grey bricks, which glittered brightly in the sunlight.

They refused his invitation to stay to lunch, and left their host with many promises to call again whenever they should come to Dover.

It was not until they were about to re-enter the motor, that March remembered his notebook.

"Must have left it by the end green-house," he said to Monsieur Lanelle. "next to that row of Opuntias, I'll get it in a minute,"

Before his host could offer to go himself, March was speeding over the velvet green lawn, and re-appearing a few minutes later with the book in his hand.

"No wonder I forgot it," he said. "It had fallen behind one of the shelves, but I wouldn't have lost it for worlds."

Once more farewells were said, and soon the motor was back in the old town again.

"Stop at the chemist shop," he said to the man,  and arriving at that place, March darted in.

"Ah, Mr. Western," he said. "Can you come along with me to the Customs? I want to make an experiment presently."

"Certainly," said the young man. "I will join yon now as I can leave the assistant here in charge."

Captain Bevett was, evidently surprised when March entered the office, with his whilom assistant, but he made no comment.

March went straight to the point.

"Captain Bevett," he said sternly, "it is possible (I cannot assert it definitely until I have made a chemical experiment) but it is possible that I have made a discovery; if I am right, it will be largely due to the assiduity of this young man here, so I hope, in justice to all, you will treat him and his business with greater respect. Now please supply me with a basin of water."

Mystified by this speech, the worthy captain gave the necessary order, and shutting the door behind the servant who had brought in the water, he asked March to proceed.

To the surprise of all, March dug deep in his pocket and drew forth a grey-white brick. With his pocket knife he scraped vigorously ay the concrete surface, and dropped it into the bowl of water.

Here, to the amazement of the watchers, they saw the solid brick soften, and helped by March's deft fingers, it rapidly became a white pulpy mass, in the midst of which were three tiny crystal tubes, similar to those already found, but now filled with a white powdery substance, which all four realised was the cocaine they so anxiously sought;

A shout arose from Captain Bevett. "Not those bricks; they belong to Monsieur Lanelle!"

"Yes, just Monsieur Lanelle," said "March. "I've got a man on the watch in case he suspects us (I do not think he will), but if we get a warrant, we will arrest him forthwith. But I wanted to prove the case to you first."

"But what are these bricks then?" gasped Captain Bevett.

"Blocks of Plaster of Paris, my friend, concreted over sufficiently to stand slight rain, and destroyed probably as quickly as possible and 'fresh bricks' ordered. The whole place would be searched and no-one would have thought of looking here or guessed what they contained. I doubt not that each brick contains its quota of tubes."

"But how on, earth did you guess his secret?" asked Mr. Western.

"I wasn't sure till you told me about those bottles of scent, and Monsieur Janelle's help," said March. "He evidently wanted an outlet for those tubes, so that in the event of discovery, they could be easily identified as your scent tubes, and not empty cocaine tubes.

"What's that Mac? How did I discover the bricks? Well, firstly, concrete bricks should not have left those white marks. When I found that our friend, although making such a special study of cacti plants that want very little water at any time of the year, and after August none at all practically for the end of the winter; did not know which was an Epiphytlum from an Opuntia variety (I spent a very profitable hour in that free library of yours, Captain) well, I began to be more than suspicious. So I hurried back and managed to dislodge one of the bricks, this one here, and that's all there is to it."

"If we can do without a scandal and persuade Monsieur Lanelle to flit in the night, perhaps, almost it would be best; but as it is, if you could get a warrant so as to allow a search of that Moor Tower, and provide a lorry, we could get all those 'green-houses' to pieces before nightfall."

An hour later, McBride, armed with the necessary warrant, appeared on the steps of the Moor Tower. This time however, no genial host awaited them. The servant who opened the door informed them that Monsieur Lanelle on receipt of an urgent telephone message had motored immediately to London.

The officials surveyed each other significantly.

"He found that brick was missing and guessed what has happened," said March, which proved later to be the truth.

The greenhouses yielded up their quota of tubes, and Monsieur Lanelle,  the most kindly, suave and prominent man of the town was never seen again.

Mr. and Mrs. Western often wonder if he will return.

____________________

8. The Mystery of the Dying Plane

Sunday Times (Perth) 24 Nov 1929

ALTHOUGH IN THE majority of cases Septimus March worked with the co-operation of Scotland Yard, yet on some occasions he had undertaken private cases, when the nature appealed to him. Jewels were one of his especial passions, and accordingly when the card of Sir Coulson Brixham, of Brixham Court, Hatfield, was brought to him as he sat absorbed in some official reports at his rooms in Jermyn-street, he gave instant permission to have the gentleman admitted. The name of Sir Coulson was a familiar one to him, for he was aware that that gentleman but lately retired from the Indian Government had brought with him some of the finest jewels in the world, bestowed upon him by many a grateful Rajah whose political ships he had steered into safety.

"It is good of you to see me, Mr. March," said Sir Coulson, after he had seated himself. "Your name was given me by Mr. Fleming, for whose family, I believe, you unravelled a great mystery."

March nodded.

"I am in a difficult position," went on the visitor. "As perhaps you are aware, I am in possession of some remarkable, and I may say historic jewels, and my wife insists on wearing some of them at the coming- of- age ball to be given next Saturday, for my son Philip. Of course, I am taking every precaution as far as possible, and have set a private detective agency on guard for the night, but between ourselves there are one or two of the men guests, friends of Philip, whom I distrust. They are men he has picked up in the course of his recent Continental tour, unknown in our own world, and I do not want to hurt his feelings by refusing to receive them. Yet on the other hand, I should feel safer If I had a real expert in the house to guard against any trick."

Septimus March knit his brows. This was not exactly the type of case in which he specialised, but he himself was interested in jewels, and he hesitated against a refusal.

"Please oblige me," said Sir Coulson, earnestly. "Come just as my guest if  you like, but on the understanding that should you agree with me in suspecting these men, you will make the matter a professional one."

March smiled and agreed to the arrangement, and it was arranged that a car should meet him at Hatfield Station on the following Friday.

"Before you go, Sir Coulson," said March, "I should like the names given of these acquaintances of your son, though if there is anything wrong, of course the names will be assumed ones "

"Willard Steer is the one I really fear, ' said Sir Coulson. "He gives himself out as an American, but his French is faultless, and there is not the slightest trace of the American accent. The other man is a Captain Wyvern, who was with Philip in the Air Service. They met again in Paris recently, and be insisted that they should both join the house-party That is all I know about them myself."

"Well, I will wait till I see them for myself, sir," said March, as he shook hands with his visitor.

The detective resumed his labors again, and Sir Coulson returned to Brixham Court considerably more at ease.

Septimus March duly arrived there on Friday evening, and it took but little time to establish himself in the confidence both of Lady Brixham, and the young heir himself, a youth inclined to trust to his own judgment and resent any criticism of his movements.

In turn March was introduced to Williard Steer, typically a man of the world, as Sir Coulson had stated, and as March, later on, in the card room, noted the deft movements of the white hands, he concluded that much of Mr. Steer's income was won not on the playing fields of Eton, but the green tables of bridge

Captain Wyvern was not visible. He had flown up to town to get some fresh parts for his engine, prior to departing on a Continental trip, but was expected back in the morning.

After dinner March, declining to take a hand in a bridge foursome, was taken to the library where Sir Coulson and he spent a pleasant hour examining some of toe jewels dear to the baronet's heart, and as interesting almost to March himself.

"I don't wonder you are nervous, my dear sir." he said, as he picked up a string of pigeon blood rubies, worth a king's ransom in themselves, quite apart from their historic value. "Why, half the jewel thieves in Europe must be after this collection."

"Well, so far. I have been most fortunate," replied Sir Coulson, "but then also I have kept them in the safe room of my bank, but with Lady Brixham's wish to wear to them at this ball to-morrow, I was obliged to take the risk."

Suddenly March made a warning sound, and looked toward the curtains which shut off part of the library. There was not a sound, and yet March had an uneasy feeling that they were being watched, and he said as much to Sir Coulson.

Hastily replacing the jewels, he locked the iron safe, while March pulled back the curtains and looked out of the door. There was no sign of an intruder, but as March turned to rejoin his host, the light glittered on a tiny object. Stooping, he picked it up. It proved to be that harmless thing, a burnt vesta, of the old-fashioned sulphur-headed type,

"No one about, but I would like to join the guests again. Sir Coulson," said March. "I felt sure I heard a sound just now, and if I could once get a clue— "

His host needed no further words, and a minute or two later, March was in the smoking room, cigarette In hand, wandering aimlessly about looking for a match. It was Williard Steer who noted his dilemma first.

"Match," he asked genially. "Have one of mine?"

He extended his silver box. "Can't bear those automatic petrol lighters. Beastly smelling things," he remarked. "Give me a match that gives you a chance."

March agreed as he drew forth one of the stubby sulphur-headed matches, a replica of the one he had just found In the library.

He lit his cigarette and thanked the donor as he handed back the case. From without came the sound of a little hubbub of voices, as the door opened to admit Philip Brixham, and with him a tall, slender man, whom March rightly guessed to be Captain Wyvern.

"Here's luck, Steer," cried young Brixham. "Wyvern got back by train, so now we can have a proper game of cards, none of your beastly 'beggar -my- neighbour- tiddley- winks' kind of game."

"Oh, bully," said Williard Steer, and it was evident that the gambling instinct was inherent in young Brixham: hence his choice of companions, who would pander to his enjoyment.

March sighed as he slipped back into the shadows of the room. Given these companions, he did not consider it would be long before the historic Indian jewels were transformed Into money, once the young man came Into his inheritance.

Quietly he drifted over to his hostess at the far end of the long room.

She welcomed him with a smile

"I hope you have everything you want," she said, pleasantly

"Just one thing. Lady Brixham. Do you think I can get some moth-balls before I go to bed?"

Her Ladyship stared, as well she might, and her tone was a little bit colder

'I daresay the housekeeper can oblige you, she said "I will interview her myself before retiring and ask her to send them up to our room "

March thanked her and made his escape, a little smile twinkling in his eyes He knew the good lady was simply struggling with the temptation to ask him what on earth he wanted these odorous articles for and why he had not brought them with him himself if they were so essential

Bed-time came, and with it a portly butler who brought, on a huge silver salver, a pound or more of the round carbon balls so beloved of women folk to save their furs March rewarded him with a crinkly note and a demand for more if possible that obviously aroused the same struggle in the worthy man as in that of his mistress, and once more March smiled

The following morning the whirr of an aeroplane was heard, and Captain Wyvern explained that he had left his pilot to bring down his plane.

March, whose apparent ignorance of the machine was almost sublime, considering that he had been known as an "ace" of the air, while in France, contrived to be one of the party and it was not long before Captain Wyvern was asking his friend young Brixham, "Where on earth bad he picked up such a damned fool as this March doesn't know the joy-stick from a carburettor " he growled, "and insisted on my showing him all the parts as if it were a toy clockwork."

But as Philip Brixton was in ignorance of his father's arrangements, he could only say that March was a "pal of the Gov's," and wait till his friend had "simmered down."

But for the rest of the day everyone was too excited over the coming festivities in the evening to note what March did or where he went, though a close observer would have noted that he spent a considerable time at the telephone extension which be found in one of the upper rooms, and emerged with a blissful smile on his face which his friends would have said, augured badly for his enemies, for March was never so dangerous as when quiet.

The ball progressed as balls will, becoming more and more brilliant as the hours passed, and more and more wine was got through at the luxuriously fitted buffet.

The guests who had driven in from miles around were gorgeously Jewel-led, though far outshone it is true by their hostess herself, with ropes of pearls, the great ruby chain, and a tiara which was a fortune in itself. It was no wonder that Sir Coulson had taken every precaution.

Twelve o'clock struck, and marked the coming-of-age of Philip Brixham. Sir Coulson made an appropriate speech, and amid the clappings and shouts of the guests, the young man bowed and tried to thank them. Then just as he turned to step down from the band platform on which he had taken up his stand, to toe horror of all, the lights went out. The great ballroom was in utter darkness, and amidst the hubbub arose shrieks of women. "My jewels— No, no, I won't—" and then more shrieks.

Soon it was evident as the dim light from the candles at the side of the room began to make things clear again that two masked men were mingling with the frightened guests, pulling at pearls, grabbing bracelets and forcing the women to yield up their ornaments, at the mouth of a revolver.

Suddenly a cry came from the open door.

"Come on boys. I've got the others," and a tall slim figure appeared in the doorway. The two others backed swiftly, and before even March could make a movement, the men had vanished through the door.

Outside could be heard the whirring of a plane. March dashed out; a sound of thumping against a closed door showed him that the servants had been bolted downstairs, hence their not coming to the rescue. Releasing them, lights were brought, the guests assembled down in the hall, the men cursing and preparing to find cars, although rescue was impossible. Investigation proved too that the 'phone had been cut off. A quick survey proved to Sir Coulson that not only was Captain Wyvern missing, but Williard Steer as well, and his curses were intermixed with many "I told you so" to his son the chagrined Philip, and demands to March "why he hadn't done something."

As a matter of fact, that gentleman was the only calm person in the mass of tearful, angry figures.

"I have done something," he said, a little complacently. "I sent for the police an hour ago, who will, I hope, do the rest."

A roar of rage escaped from the exasperated Sir Coulson, only interrupted by the sound of a motor drawing up outside.

The butler flung open toe door, and March stepped forward. Up the steps came Superintendent McBride. Behind him, assisted by two burly constables, came the manacled figure of Captain Wyvern, while hovering in the back-ground was the figure also of Williard Steer.

"Found them all right, eh, Mac?" said March, as he shook hands with his chief.

"Yes, they'd come down in a field a mile away, and were heading for France. Picked up Mr. Steer here in his car, with a burst tyre. I've explained things a bit," said McBride.

"Yep, I guess you have explained a mouthful," said Mr. Steer, speaking in what was evidently his own vernacular.

The careful English and precise manner had vanished; it was America speaking now.

"I was sent over from little ol' New York after this gentleman here," motioning to the scowling prisoner, "and when I lamped him in Paris making love to Mr. Philip, as you might say, I guessed something was in the wind. So I took a stake in the cards, too, and I don't mind telling you, Mr. March, I thought you was one of his pals, till—"

"You came into the library last night, eh, and heard us talking," put in March quickly.

"That's so. I struck a match outside—"

"And dropped it inside," said March, with a smile, "and I'm afraid the suspicion was mutual, Mr. Steer, till I saw our friend here, and recognised him as Jacques Piraud, the French 'cat burglar.' after which I simply phoned to my Chief here and got ready with my moth-balls, as I knew I couldn't catch him till in the act, so to speak."

"Moth-balls" burst out Sir Coulson. "I don't understand. That's what you said before. What have moth-balls to do with this—"

"Everything, Sir Coulson," said March. "But first, let us get back these ladles' jewels, then the prisoner can be taken off."

Suiting the action to the word, the detective made a dive at the heavy coat, and plunging his hands into the pockets, produced a jumbled mass of jewels, at sight of which cries of delight burst forth from the guests, and an additional string of French oaths from the prisoner.

"Nom de Dieu," he spat out', "I see now, you put the moth-balls into my petrol tank, and generated the naphtha. I wondered what had brought it down like that."

"Exactly, Monsieur Piraud," said March. "I was not empowered to arrest you but when I heard the distant drone of a plane last night, and were told you had returned my train, while the plane arrived in the morning. I began to smell a rat, so I gave you a little additional luggage to carry In your petrol tank."

A few minutes later, with jewels restored to their various owners, toilets repaired and nerves soothed with various beverages, March explained his trick with the moth balls again, and refusing to spend the rest of the dawn with the Brixhams, followed McBride thankfully into the Yard s car and slept a well-deserved sleep for the rest of the journey.

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9: The Mystery of the Dead Singer

Sunday Times (Perth) 1 Dec 1929

AT THE close of what had been one of the most spectacular of London seasons, the whole musical world was stirred by the announcement that an International concert was to be given as a climax to the great artistic functions that had been recently given In other Continental cities. Each nation was to be represented by the most famous of its singers or musicians, and it is hardly necessary to say that as the choice was announced bitter heart-burnings and much professional jealousy, had been roused. But now all but the artist to represent Italy bad been chosen, and it must be admitted that the Committee composed of every musician of note, had been unable to decide between the claims of the Neapolitan tenor, Paolo Martonzo, or the baritone Eduardo Valetta. As the days slipped by public interest was roused to a surprising degree, and numerous were the letters appearing in the daily Press advocating the claims of one or the other.

Naturally, too, a bitter enmity existed between the rivals not only owing to this last race for public favor, but It was whispered that both were rivals for the hand of a compatriot artist, Giulia Sidella, a well-known pianist. It was known, too, that the lady had promised her hand to which of the two was chosen by the Committee, for this would set the seal of the world's approval on the singer.

Excitement  raged still higher when within a few days of the actual date of the concert, the Committee were put to the vote, and the majority were in favor of Eduardo Valetta. Not a ticket was to be bad for love or money, for everyone was agog with excitement to hear this singer whose rivalry in art and possibly heart had beaten a rival who might he expected to commit any act of violence in revenge for the slight passed on him, and had been heard to say that Valetta should never live to sing, if he were chosen.

It was within two days of what was now termed "the concert", when Superintendent McBride after a breathless talk over the private telephone of Scotland Yard, rang violently for a car, and within an incredibly short space of time, was speeding across to Jermyn-street to the chambers of Septimus March, private detective, and barrister-at-law.

It must be said that Marc welcomed his Chief with a somewhat rueful smile.  "But one more minute," he said, "and I should have been heading for the Thames and a little fishing."

"Thank goodness I'm in time," said the Superintendent, fervently. "You've got to go fishing In deeper water this time, old man, for I'm up against a stiff proposition. It looks as if that, blessed International Concert is going to plunge us into a political war with Italy, for one singer is dead, and probably murdered by the other."

March sat up abruptly, his professional interest now as keen as that of McBride.

"What's that? Dead—murdered? Who— Which— not Valetta?"

The words burst from his lips almost ha Jerks, for he himself was an ardent admirer of the great artist

McBride nodded.

"Yes, Valetta. I was phoned for this morning; and am going right down to Purley. He had a house there, you know. He was apparently found stabbed to death early this morning where but an hour ago he had been rehearsing his songs, poor fellow. A sad choice, too, as it turns out, Tosti's 'Good-bye'. He chose the song himself, according to the Daily Messenger. I thought perhaps you would come straight down there with me."

"Of course," exclaimed March. "Tell me, have you got any facts at all? Who discovered the crime? Who rang you up?"

"The body was discovered by the old housekeeper, and although she promptly went into hysterics, she had the gumption first to ring up the local police, and Inspector Jenkins phoned me, and had a watch put on the place.

"This occurred at 10 o'clock. "

"But Valetta was undoubtedly alive at 8 o'clock this morning."

"Why, how can you be assured of that?" asked March, as the car swung  into the Streatham-road on its way to Purley.

"Because, Jenkins, who, sensible fellow, had evidently been busy, learned that the postman who delivered the first post at ten to eight, heard Valetta singing that very song; and he stopped at the gate till it was ended. As he says, according to Jenkins, it was as good as going to the concert itself."

"Yes, that certainly clinches the time of the murder," said March.

"Looks as if it might be an indoor job— what about the other servants? Didn't they hear anything?"

"No, there aren't any at night. That was one of the dead man's fads, according to Jenkins. Would have the place to himself at night, so the three other servants used to come at 8 o'clock and leave at 6 after dinner. That's how the body was discovered, when old Martha came down to let the servants in. When she found that her master was not about, she went first to the music-room and then to the bedroom, and her shrieks brought the others up."

"H'm, so she didn't hear her master singing then, at that rate," said March reflectively.

"As Jenkins said, she is as deaf as a post, and probably sleeps at the top, too," was the superintendent in reply.

Then, as the car swept round a lonely lane and drew up outside a small house set in the midst of lovely gardens, March knew that they had arrived at the scene of the tragedy.

There was no further time for questions. Policemen guarding the door saluting the Chief of Scotland Yard as he came up, with Jenkins close in attendance.

"Nothing has been touched, sir," he said, "and I wouldn't even let the doctor move the body, once he said the gentleman was dead."

"Quite right," was the approving reply, and March followed the men quickly up the broad staircase and into a long room, exquisitely carpeted, and arranged evidently for a music studio.

Music was scattered about on every chair, but the room was not empty, for in one of the big divans sat, or rather slouched, a slender, dark-haired woman. In ordinary circumstances she would have been beautiful, with the dark beauty of a Cleopatra, but now as she started up, her eyes flashing, face white and drawn, she looked a creature half maddened, and March realised before she spoke that this was the dead man's fiancée, as she would have been publicly announced at the concert, Giulia Sidella.

"Oh, I thought you were never coming; these fools know nothing; can do nothing; they will not even let me see my beloved. But now you will give orders that I go up at once, will you not?" Her voice softened and thrilled even the stolid superintendent.

But before he could give possibly the desired permission, March flung himself into the breach.

"Can't be done yet. Miss," he said stolidly. "I must make my examination first. That's the strict rule."

A stream of Italian burst from the scarlet lips of the distraught girl, and were apparently not understood by Septimus March, despite the fact that McBride knew him to be a fluent Italian scholar. But he backed up his colleague, and March followed Inspector Jenkins through the music room and into an inner room which had served the singer as a bedroom.

Here on the bed, clad in silken pyjamas, lay the dead man. Evidently he had arisen early, still anxious about his songs for the concert, had run through the Tosti song, then retired to his bed again, where he had been immediately stabbed by a hidden assailant.

As both back and front rooms had a balcony outside, it was a comparatively simple matter for a man to have climbed from the outside, bidden in the bedroom while the singer went into the music-room and from which he had been heard by the postman in the lane beyond. A stab with the slender almost needle-like stiletto still visibly protruding from the heart, and death had come silently and instantaneously. It certainly looked as if Paolo Martonzo had indeed carried out his threat that Valetta should never live to sing at the Albert Hall.

With grim face, March made an examination of the body, drawing forth the stiletto, with professional care so that finger-prints would be able to be photographed.

Then he straightened himself up.

"Better get on to the phone, Mac," he said harshly, "and find out Martonzo's movements last night. Don't forget that whatever alibi he puts up, it will have to be a very thorough one, for any fast car would bring him down to Purley and back to town almost within an hour this morning."

McBride nodded. In his own opinion, Martonzo was as good as hanged. There seemed no other person to suspect.

"Let's go down and set that poor girl's heart at rest," he said.

"Yes, she can come up now," said March. "But where has she sprung from? I thought Valetta lived here alone."

"So he did," said Inspector Jenkins, who had remained in the background, but now was ready to volunteer any available information that be bad gleaned.

"Miss Sidella lodges in the Red House, further up the Purley Park lane. She used to run in and out here though, so old Martha says, just as she liked, and as Mr. Valetta had told Martha, that she was going to be her mistress after the concert was over, her orders were always carried out. The poor old woman is simply heartbroken. She has been with Valetta, I believe, all his life."

March nodded, and agreed with the Inspector, for as they opened the bedroom door, a sobbing figure crouched outside proved to be the faithful old nurse and housekeeper. She started up when she saw the police officials.

"Get him" she cried in broken tones. "The monster! He kill my master, my nurseling. He swore he could, and he came in the morning I know—"

"Who do you mean?" asked McBride sharply.

"Who?" she shrilled, "who should I mean but Martonzo, jealous. He want that nagging chit in there, too, and she— oh she wanted both, she wanted all, and now she falls In the end." A dry chuckle which turned into a sob burst from the old crone, and she turned and disappeared down the stairs, as the music-room door was flung open and Giulia Sidella came forth.

Taking no notice now of the man or making any further attempt to view the body of the man for whom she had professed a wild love, she rushed out of the house of death.

"Well, I'm blessed," ejaculated Jenkins, losing his official precision. "She's done nothing but worry my life out to see that poor fellow in there, and now I said it would be all right, off she goes."

Superintendent McBride agreed whole-heartedly with him, but Septimus March smiled a little enigmatically as he said, "Let's go up to town. Chief. We can't beat her to the nearest phone, but we can get up quickly and have a watch set on Martonzo. As he is bound to be chosen to sing at the concert on Thursday, he won't try to escape."

Both the other men looked puzzled.

"But it was Valetta the lady loved," said Jenkins.

"Engaged to, my dear man, as the chosen representative," said March, "but until I have had these fingerprints identified I wouldn't like to say to what lengths she may have gone;" and leaving an open-mouthed, astounded Inspector to digest these words Septimus March swung on his way back to the waiting car. Five minutes later, on their way back, March pointed silently to a public telephone box at the bottom of the lane, from which emerged the figure of the broken-hearted Giulia Sidella.

Before the afternoon had come, the paper boys were announcing the mysterious murder of a "famous singer," while others published the choice of Paola Martonzo as the representative of Italy at the coming Albert Hall concert.

Back in town, March went first to the hotel at which Martonzo was known to stay, and found the tenor subdued by the sudden tragedy and publicity thrust upon him, though finally triumphant at his desire thus achieved.

Both March and the superintendent had followed close on the heels of the page boy, and although it was evident that the singer had meant to send out a refusal with the officials of the law on his threshold, so to speak, he was compelled to let the boy go. But he turned with rather sullen mien to face the intruders.

"We shall not keep you long, Signor Martonza," said March, sternly. "But we shall want to know when was the last time you saw Signor Valetta."

"Do you dare to accuse me of murder?" almost shouted the Italian.

"Certainly not," was the quiet reply,  "but everybody will be under suspicion until the murderer is found, and as you were known to be at enmity it is only natural to hope that you will give us every assistance possible."

For a moment it seemed as if Martonza was also going to utter imprecations, but common-sense prevailed, and he swallowed hard, then bowed, and waved towards seats.

"Well, of course, gentlemen, my nerves are on edge, as you can imagine, for Valetta was not a friend of mine, but the accounts have been grossly exaggerated, and I had decided to leave for Italy again yesterday when the announcement of his choice as singer was made. I spent the whole time since in this hotel, and have not yet moved out of these rooms. Send for the servants and prove for yourselves."

March could get no other statement, and a subsequent Interrogation of staff proved indeed that Martonzo had not been seen to leave the hotel since the early forenoon of the previous day, and as a waiter testified to taking in the gentleman's breakfast at the hour at which the murder must have taken place, there was no chance of convicting him.

"Have a watch kept over his movements, and let's get those fingerprints looked at; then well go back again to Purley," he said, when they emerged from the Grand Hotel.

McBride obeyed instructions without demur, and only stopping to get tome lunch themselves the two men were driven back once more to Purley. March stopping in the High-street to send a telegram.

Back in the house of death March put in a busy hour wandering over the house, then came down to the music room and, much to McBride's surprise, sat quietly down.

"Aren't you going to do anything else?" asked Mac.

"No, old man, there's nothing to do. It's a case of 'walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.' So we'll put that screen round us for a net and see how many flies we can catch."

A half-hour had passed, when there came the sound of hurried flying foot-steps, and through the suddenly opened door of the music-room came Giulia Sidella, pale and anxious. She walked up and down the long room like a caged tigress, but quite unaware of the proximity of the two men behind the screen.

Five minutes later came the sound of a fast-driven car down the lane, stopping short outside, and close upon it there followed the figure of Paolo Martonzo.

"GiuIia," he cried, directly he espied the black-clad figure, "why did you send for me— and here, of all places?"

The girl looked at him.

"Send for you? No, it was you— you wired me to come here, and you would explain. See here is the message."

"And here is mine," cried the man, his olive face sallow and drawn. "It is a trap; we are caught!" He, too, produced a telegraph form, and McBride guessed now March's visit to the local post office.

"And very neatly, too," said March, flinging down the screen. "No, it's no use trying to escape. The doors are guarded," he added. "And now I want the real truth from both of you."

"I did not kill him," cried Martonzo, passionately.

"Thank Heaven. I was afraid," cried Giulia— "for—"

"You saw him, Miss Sidella, on the front balcony, eh?" said March.  "Come the truth will be the best from all parties."

"Yes, I did, last night," cried the girl, "and I was frightened."

"That's why you wanted to steal the dagger before I went up there," said March.

"But he was dead, then, last night, when I came to see him," said Martonzo. "I admit I did come. I came to beg him to yield up Giulia. She had given in to his threats that he would kill me unless she consented to be-come engaged to him, and I came to plead. I found him lying there dead in his bed, I swear it—"

"That would be about eight o'clock last night, I presume," said March and McBride stared in surprise.

"Yes, about that," was the reply. "I was nearly mad with horror because I knew what everyone would say, and I fled back to the hotel. Luckily no one knew I had been out, and I just kept quiet."

"But he was alive this morning," said Giulia. "That is what puzzled me, and yet I was afraid, Paola mine! They heard him sing, you know."

"He was not alive," Miss Sidella," said March. "Here is the singer—" He strode over to the window, and pulled aside the curtains. There was hidden a portable gramophone, and on which was still seen the record of Tosti's "Good-Bye" sung by Valetta himself.

"This is what sang, and the voice I heard by the postman. Here is the dagger that stabbed Valetta, and on it the finger prints of a woman."

"A woman!" cried both the Italians in one voice.

"Yes, a woman," said March sternly "a jealous woman who feared the entry of a strange mistress and her rule over her beloved son— death was preferable and so she escaped, sending him before her."

"Not old Martha?" gasped Giulia incredulously.

"Yes, old Martha. She died by poison half an hour ago, and I have a confession here."

"I guessed something of the sort when I saw Valetta had been dead at least twelve hours, for decomposition was already showing signs. Therefore, he could not have been stabbed this morning. A search around showed me many things, this included," be pointed to the record. "Of course, I could not be sure as to who had done it, though I could see the likeness between Martha and Valetta. The finger prints told me it was a woman; investigation proved that yon. Miss Sidella had not been near the place, so I bluffed Martha into confession, but was too late to bring her to justice; and perhaps this is the best way. So now we win look forward to hearing yon sing. Signor Martonza on Thursday, accompanied, I hope, by your future wife."

With a nod and a smile to the two dazed lovers, freed by death to future happiness, March slipped from the studio, followed by McBride, mopping his forehead as be realised that he might have made a very grave mistake and arrested the wrong man, now the greatest and happiest singer in the world.

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10: The Secret Cypher

Sunday Times (Perth) 8 Dec 1929

HIGH UP in the private room of Superintendent McBride, of Scotland Yard, two men, the Chief himself, and Septimus March, the private detective who often aided him In his most difficult cases, faced one another, each completely bewildered by the facts of a case just brought to the attention of headquarters.

"But that's quite impossible, Mac," said March after a tense silence, "you can't tell me a young man can go to bed in perfect health at night, and be found dead in the morning, without some signs of foul play apparent."

McBride sighed heavily.

"It's a fact however. Ronald Elderson, from the facts given me, was 28, in a good Government position, engaged to he married; wedding day fixed for next week, and as a matter of fact as healthy as a child. He went to bed last night perfectly healthy, and this morning at eight o'clock he was found dead in his bed. his door locked, his window down a little at the top, but screwed so that it cannot be opened any further, and as it is on the third floor of one of those tall houses in Cromwell-terrace, even a cat-burglar would find it difficult to hang on to the window-ledge. There is not a sign of wound or of poison, and although the family doctor has been implored to say it might be heart disease, he declares this is impossible. Elderson passed a stiff examination only last week for heavy life insurance, and was pronounced absolutely sound in heart and limb, so you see heart disease is really out of the question."

"Life insured, eh?" said March. "Who benefits by his death, do you know?"

"Yes. I asked that question myself," said Mac "But it was his future wife, a Miss Rosalie Greening, but as it only operated from the date of their marriage, a ceremony which will never take place, there's nothing to be gained there. From all accounts he hasn't an enemy in the world, and his parents with whom he lived are heart-broken. The worst of it is, from our standpoint, I have had a hint from the powers above to look into the matter closely. But to solve the mystery is beyond me."

"It certainly looks a stiff proposition," said March, rising slowly to his feet "Well, let's get down to the spot— Kensington, you said."

"Yes, 16b, Cromwell-terrace, a quiet turning off the main road."

A quick run in the Yard's car I brought the two men to the quiet house, and a pale-faced housemaid took them up the stairs to the room lately occupied by the cheeriest, happiest man in the Kingdom.

The room was in the front of the house, the bed against the wall, opposite the tall curtained window, and on it lay the still figure of Ronald Elderson. So calm and peaceful was it, that it seemed to both the grim-faced men of law that the boy, for all he seemed, must awaken and sit up to greet them.

It took March but a few minutes to convince himself of the truth of McBride's statements. There was not the slightest vestige of wound or struggle. The young man had turned into bed, and slept into eternity, and yet there was no sign of suffocation nor any trace of fumes. It was indeed a silent death of inexplicable mystery and tragedy.

March drew the sheet up over the still body and turned away, his lips set tight his brows frowning, as he gazed found the room from one object of furniture to another, as if seeking to wrest the secret from them.

His eyes came to rest at length upon an expensive wireless set at the side of the room.

He crossed over to it but everything was in order, turned off, and absolutely "dead."

The room was in fairly good order, the young man's clothes lay on the chair close to the bed, just as he had removed them, a cigarette lay on the ash tray on a little table beside the bed, unsmoked; evidently Mr. Elderson had turned in and gone right off to sleep, at any rate no secret poison had been administered by means of a cigarette.

March walked round the room tap-ping at walls, examining behind the few pictures that hung on them, but all was solid, without a hole or crack.

At last he gave a little hopeless shrug which literally struck despair into the heart of Mr. McBride, for he had grown to depend on his ally performing miracles.

"Nothing to be gained by staying," said March. "Let's see some of the household. Who discovered it?"

He followed McBride from the room, the outside of which showed traces of the forcing of the door.

Down in the dining-room awaited Mr. Elderson, senior, a man about sixty, whose lined face showed traces of the mental pain he was enduring.

"I was told of your arrival, gentlemen," he said, as he shook hands. "But I felt I could not come up— there."

"Certainly not," said McBride, sympathetically. "Mr. March, of course, had to come with me, as he is taking up the case."

"I don't see any 'case' in it Mr. McBride," said the old man hopelessly. "Doctors are sometimes mistaken, you know, and I expect my dear son's heart was affected, though why he should have been upset last night I don't know. He was certainly happy enough and was transmitting away for all he was worth, till past 12 o'clock, I know."

"Fond of wireless, eh?" said March casualty,

"Fond? Obsessed with It was more like it," said Mr. Elderson, irritably. "Spent a small fortune on his set and I don't know which was the worst, Ronald or Charlie Mettson, his friend."

"I suppose you don't know to whom he was transmitting, last night Mr. Elderson," said March.

"Yes, it was Mettson, of course. He told me that he was going to try out a new code on him when he went up to bed. I didn't wait up. I have no patience with it. The programmes are bad enough without wasting time and money on amateur broadcasting, when there is already a telephone In the house."

"Oh, so this Mr. Mettson lives near, does he?" said March.

"Oh, quite," was the reply. "Over at Golders Green, and they were fellow clerks, you know, in the same department."

"I see," said March. "I should like to see this Mr. Mettson. Perhaps he could throw some light on the matter."

Never was wish granted so quickly, for even as he spoke, there came a violent peal at the bell, the sound of the front door being opened, and a young men almost burst into the dining-room, his agitation so acute as to make him unconscious of the two strangers, his gaze being bent only on the face of Mr. Elderson.

"It isn't true, Mr. Elderson," he burst out "Ronnie isn't dead— the message came through at the office, but I wouldn't believe it. Tell me—"

His voice broke, and McBride looked at the lad, for he was a year or so younger than his dead comrade, in intense sympathy.

"I am afraid it is, Mr. Mettson," he said. "And I and my confrere here are trying to get some light on the tragedy. Mr. Elderson tells me that his son was transmitting to you last night. Is that so?"

"Yes," he said, his voice shaking. He turned away for a minute, and all three respected in silence his grief for the one who had been almost a brother for they had been at school, college, and office together. Only a minute, and then as if he had grown older within those few minutes, he turned a stern young face to them.

"Yes, we both held transmitting licenses. But tell me first was it an  accident— no one at the office could say."

"That is what we are trying to discover, too," said March. "Apparently he simply died in his sleep of heart failure, but Dr. Brill will not coincide with that opinion, so we want to know if there is any chance of foul play. If this is not a rude question, on what subject were you transmitting last night"

"We were practising a new official code," was the quick reply, "one only perfected last week in our department ' and it worked beautifully. Ronnie was awfully bucked—" his voice choked for a minute, "and we switched off at 12.36. It's horrible! It's not possible, for he hadn't an enemy in the world."

There was a tense pause, then Mettson spoke again.,

"Does Rosalie— I mean, Miss Greening, does she know?"

His face flushed at the slip, and the quick brain of March turned to it. So this young friend loved the same girl, did he? Was his grief assumed? But his doubts vanished again as Mettson continued.

"I was to have been 'best man' next week, you know, and I've known Rosalie since we were all kids together. Has anybody told her, I wonder!"

"Yes, the wife did," said Mr. Enderson, sadly, "the poor girl is heart-broken, too."

March turned to the master of the house.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but I must feel I have the entire lay-out of the house, so to speak. Who sleeps in the next room to Mr. Ronald?"

"No one," was the reply. "It is a spare-room used for stray visitors, and we have no one with us just now. But why not go in and see it? Charlie, you can spare the time? I must get on to my own office. We are all be-side ourselves this morning."

"Why, of course, Mr. Enderson," said Mettson. "I shan't go back now until after lunch. Come. Mr. March, I know this house as well as I do my own, I think."

Turning, be led the way up the stairs again, his face paling again as he reached the broken door of his friend's room.

"No," he cried, "I can't go in. I've spent too many happy hours there with him." He gave a little sob, and hurried on till they reached the back room. He opened the door. In this, the bed stood also against, the wall, level therefore, with the one beyond. In the midst of its snowy whiteness showed a round black ball of fur.

"Hullo, Tom, you've no business here, you know," said Mettson, going over towards the cat

"Good heavens! He's dead, too!" he cried, and put out a shaking hand. The others rushed over. It was true enough, the big cat was indeed, like his master beyond, sleeping for all time.

The men looked at one another. Here was another mystery. March went round the room like he had done the front one.

"Who lives next door?" he said presently.

"No one at present. It's for sale," said Mettson. "Been empty for months."

March nodded. "Can I go out at the back?" he asked.

"Why, of course," said the young man. "Down this staircase."

Again he led the way, and as March noted the heavy bolts and bars which had to be removed, for evidently no one had as yet been out this way, be realised how impossible it was for anyone to have come in from the outside.

He emerged into the short garden, with its lawn and a tree at the end. Suddenly young Mettson uttered an exclamation.

"Just look at those dead birds." he said. "Fallen off the tree as if it were a live wire."

March spun round. There on the ground lay quite half a dozen dead sparrows, dead without a mark or struggle.

"What's the building there at the back," cried March, after a pause, as he noted the high brick wall which made the end of the garden.

"A disused stable. Cromwell Lane Mews," said Mettson. "There's no entrance on this side at all. Have to go round the front of the house and out into the street."

"Oh, well, that's no good," said March. "Thank you. Mr. Mettson. You've done all you can. Well get back now and make some inquiries at the other end."

With a few words again, the two officials took their leave. Out in the street, March stopped short

"Got any idea, old chap?" asked McBride, anxiously.

"Can't say I have as yet," was the rueful reply. "But I'd like to know why that youngster didn't phone the house, instead of taking the time to come from Whitehall: and also who has a transmitting license on that third floor level? Anyhow, I'll poke a bit for myself, and if you can contrive to get young Mettson back into the house about two o'clock, and old Elderson, if I have discovered anything, so much the better."

With a nod, March swung round, and was gone before Mac had time to take in his words, and what he did or where he went for the next three hours there was no one to say.

But at two o'clock, McBride had obeyed instructions, and by discreet phone messages, had got Mr. Elderson, senior, and Mr. Mettson, also the doctor, who was anxious to know wherein his medical knowledge might be at fault and punctual to the minute. Septimus March was admitted into that room of waiting.

To the inquiring look of his Chief, he shook his head.

"Can't say yet" he said, "This is another case of our national motto, 'wait and see.' "

"Mr Mettson, I shall want your help I'm afraid, upstairs, to transmit for me."

Young Mettson rose bravely.

"Why, of course, sir, if I can only help to avenge his death in some way, I shall be satisfied."

He led the way to the room.

"Now," he said briskly. "Mr. Elderson, I want you to sit over here right away from that bedside of the room. Dr. Brill, too; Mettson, you'll have to take your chance, but we'll move the set as far away as possible.

Now Mettson, transcribe this into Morse, dot and dash, and for heaven's sake, don't stop short Ready? Go."

"Lokowsky— friend calling-glad you killed Eld— you know the rest— can give you code but you are in danger— police have discovered all— smash apparatus and nip into taxi I am sending down your road— before police arrive— don't delay— Friend."

March stopped, and Mettson looked up. "What on earth does it mean? Who wants the code? I'm not going to betray it. Don't you believe it."

March smiled. "Wait till you're asked, my boy. But now let's see if our 'toasted cheese' has worked. Don't let yourselves be seen. Just watch out."

Following his example, the others bent down and watched through the windows. Five minutes, ten minutes, March looked at his wrist watch. Round the comer came a slowly moving taxi. The driver seemed half asleep, and looked neither to right nor left. He drove along, just as the door of No. 19 opposite opened, and an elderly man with a despatch case came swiftly out.

March gave a little sigh of relief, while Mettson said, "Why that's old Simpson, one of our clerks. Didn't know he lived this way."

And then from cover of doorways shot out half a dozen burly police. The taxi man jumped down like lightning.

"Got him," shouted March. "Come on. The rest of you lend a hand."

One and all needed no asking. They shot out of the doorway, and were in time to join in the melee. The man fought like a demon, and it needed all the strength of the men to get him handcuffed.

"That's all right Peratte," said March to the sleepy taxi-man. "They're waiting for him up at the Yard, only don't let him escape."

"Not much chance of that," was the reply, and the car drove off.

March led his bewildered companions back to the bouse again.

"Now," he said. "Our prisoner is a Polish inventor who has been experimenting on death rays for years. Also he thought to gain money by selling any information he could pick up, so that when he got wind of that new code you were practising last night, he made up his mind to get it. Probably Mr. Ronald refused to give him any information."

"He did," said Mettson. "Told me Simpson was getting too nosey for his work, and he was going to inform the Chief this morning."

"That accounts for the murder, then," said March. "Well, I take it that he got the code, and then turned on his ray apparatus. That killed poor Ronnie, also the cat on the bed, and the birds. Literally those trees did become live wires. But it couldn't go any further,, because I found that garage was lead lined on the other, side, to prevent fire, I expect. Well, luckily it was, as that stopped the ray from doing more mischief. Likowsky wouldn't mind how many he killed. You would probably have been the next Mr. Mettson, only he wasn't quite sure of the code."

"But how did you discover it?" asked Mettson in tones of honest admiration. "Funnily enough, I warned Ronnie against that man months ago."

"Well," said March, "your words 'live wire' and the dead birds gave me the first clue. It was evident that only something electrical could have killed right through brick walls, all on the same level, as it were. I hunted out the names of other transmitters, found the one opposite, went down to Whitehall and saw 'Simpson' and recognised him as Likowsky, whom I had had pointed out to me years ago as a Russian spy in the war. Of course, I couldn't arrest him on suspicion, but I thought if I could frighten him into smashing up his apparatus and trying to escape, we would take our chance and it turned out all right I sent a man across to search his room at No. 19, while we were rounding him up. and he says it is a mass of smashed glass like electric lamps; heavy power valves he has been using, I expect—  So that's that. Now all I want to know,  young man, is why you didn't phone for confirmation, instead of coming here this morning?"

Mettson looked surprised.

"But I did ring. I rang for ten minutes, and then couldn't bear the suspense."

March uttered an exclamation. "Why, of course. The ray burnt out the phone wires up here as well."

He looked significantly at McBride. and when they took their departure later, Mettson never knew that even he for a brief time, had been under suspicion of causing that "silent death."

__________________

11: The Mystery of the Yellow Paw

Sunday Times (Perth) 15 Dec 1929

IT WAS not often that Septimus March, detective, felt inclined to refuse a case, but when his telephone bell brought him back to his desk, just as he was on the point of leaving for Waterloo, en route for Richmond and a riverside weekend, he had determined to adopt that attitude at whatever financial cost. The sound of Mr. Angus McBride's voice, from Scotland Yard, dissolved those ideas like mist beneath a morning sun, for he bad never refused him help, and ten minutes later found him, bag in hand, sitting beside a much worried Superintendent.

"I wouldn't have worried you, March, but this is a case of helping one of my old comrades, and I simply couldn't refuse."

"That's all right, Mac," was the comforting reply. "Fire away. What's the trouble this time?"

"It's to try and prevent trouble," said Mac, leaning back with such an air of decided relief, that Septimus March smiled involuntarily.

"I've had a call from my old friend Colonel Wenderby. He and I were comrades in one of the Boxer risings."

"Wenderby— Wenderby?" said March with knitted brows. "Is that Percival— yes, I think that's right. Percival Wenderby. He was mixed up in one of those secret society wars in Peking— I forget the exact date."

"That's the man, March," said the Superintendent excitedly, "and it's one of those societies, or a member rather, that's at the bottom of it. He cleared out a nasty little gang, known in the vernacular as the 'Society of the Yellow Paw.' and their sign manual was a golden paw-like sign. As a matter of fact they were simply 'dope runners, and Wenderby cleaned up the street. One or two escaped, swearing vengeance, but Wenderby says he has never heard any more of them, and that's twenty year's ago, remember, until about a month ago, when he got a document bidding him send £1,000, and giving him instructions etc. and of course, swearing death if he tried to escape."

"Did he send the money?"

"No of course not; simply took no notice, but yesterday I met him in town, and he told me all about it, and said that he bad had another and stronger warning that very day. He was not frightened, but he had come up to see his solicitor, James Woden, in Lincoln's Inn, about the only friend he's got. He's a bachelor; no relatives, and a pretty lonely being I should, say. Well, I warned him to be careful, because you know what unforgiving devils those Chinks are, and off he went. This morning, I got a letter saying he had seen a Chinese in his village, Shenstone, near Bournemouth, and asking advice."

"What have you done?" asked March. McBride looked at him almost sheepishly.

"I wired I was sending the only man down that could help him, and sent for you. I expect an answer any minute now."

He got it almost before he had finished speaking. A knock, and a young constable brought in the yellow envelope, which was opened before the door closed upon him.

"Good heavens!" The words burst from McBride's white lips, and he handed the slip over to March, too overcome to read it aloud.

"Wenderby murdered last night. Send instructions. Bolton."

"Dead. It's monstrous—" an oath burst from McBride, more overcome than he had ever been in all his official life.

"Who's Bolton?" asked March" tersely.

"His secretary," said the Superintendent. "He told me about him. Philip Bolton, a boy of about ten whom he rescued when they burnt down the mission schools in Pekin, and he brought him along home with him, treating him like his own son."

"I don't believe in mission school products. I'll go down at once," said March. "Good thing my bag is with me."

"I'm coming to," said McBride, his face stern and grim. "A motor will take us about as quietly as a train."

For a few minutes he busied himself with issuing orders. Subordinates were busy; telephones hummed, but it was still barely eleven o'clock when the Yard's car hummed its way out on to the Embankment and on to the road which would take them to Shenstone.

Both men were practically silent during the long drive, March absorbed in reviewing the meagre facts at hand, McBride in memories of the fights which he and his dead friend had waged together.

They found the Gables, the house in which Colonel Wenderby had housed himself and his Chinese treasures, a veritable place of gloom.

But even March started when the door was opened by a yellow-faced Chinese.

"Wong-Pu," explained McBride in a swift undertone, "the Colonel's devoted slave."

"Ah, Wong! So we meet again, eh, remember me, do you?"

"Yes Sare. You One-Punch-Mac. Veree glad you here."

Mac nearly smiled at the old nick-name which came from the thin-lipped mouth. He had been renowned for that single "punch" in his days.

"We're here to avenge Colonel Wenderby, Wong," he said, "and this is ¡ my friend, too. Mr. March. Help him all you can."

"Me so do" was the reply, and with a nod of understanding McBride passed on.

Running down the broad staircase came a man whose white face and reddened eyes betokened an intense grief, and March guessed that was the secretary, almost son. Philip Bolton.

"Thank Heaven you've come, Mr. McBride. If only it were not too late! I begged him to send for additional help before. I had done all I could— bolts and doors, windows, burglar alarms— just everything."

"I am sure you did. Mr. Bolton; it is Mr. Bolton, is it not?" said McBride.

"Oh yes, yes, I had forgotten every-thing. I am half beside myself. But I wired you and Mr. Woden. I expect him here too, soon."

"Quite right, and this is Mr. Septimus March, who will try and unravel the mystery, if mystery there is."

"Not much mystery, if you've got a Chink already in the house," said March, almost stupidly. "It's just a case of Chink to Chink."

Bolton wheeled on him almost savagely. I

"Good Heavens, man. If you lead off by suspecting Wong-Pu, you'll do no good. He's the most faithful soul alive and he would have died any day to save the Colonel a pin-prick. Like myself, be owes his life to him. and neither of us will forget it, dead or alive.'"

McBride beamed approval, but March only grunted something about "sorry if mistaken."

As if ashamed of his outburst, Bolton led the way up to the room in which lay his dead benefactor.

"No need for you to come in," said McBride, as the younger man hesitated, his lips twitching painfully.

Bolton flashed a grateful look at him. "I will wait downstairs for Woden," he said, and March opened the door and entered, closely followed by McBride.

The sight was not a pleasant one, for Colonel Wenderby had been killed In true Chinese fashion, that is to say, strangled, and by a close woven leather strap, the marks showing deeply on the thin throat. Clutched tightly in the dead hand was a tiny yellow object.

"Look," gasped McBride, almost in horror. "It is a yellow paw."

March bent down, and with difficulty unclenched the stiff fingers. The object proved indeed to be a yellow paw, not unlike a hare's foot, only golden yellow. For some minutes March stood silent and thinking hard. Examination was unnecessary, as far as he was concerned. It was evident that a thong had been thrown noose-like over Wenderby's head, and pulled hard, the Colonel dying before he could utter a sound.

"The murderer must have come in very quietly," March said at length, almost more as if he were voicing his thoughts. "Why didn't the Colonel cry out, or was it someone he knew?"

He looked across at the window. It was a long French one opening on to a verandah outside. Not so far from the ground but that a good climber could have ascended. There was no sign of a forced entry, so it was obvious that either the window had been open or the. stranger entered In the conventional way.

For a few minutes March went to and fro, peering here and there, returning to look down again at the still figure. Once he stooped and smelt the dead lips, smelt at the yellow paw, then back to the window again, till at last he announced himself satisfied as far as that room were concerned.

As the officials emerged once more, they looked down. Into the hall had just been admitted the tall figure of an elderly man.

Bolton introduced him as they reached the level.

"Mr. James Woden, the Colonel's solicitor."

"This is an unhappy business," said the newcomer, in a deep, pleasant voice. "My poor old friend! It seems unrealisable."

He led the way into what was evidently the dining-room, as much at home in the house as Bolton himself.

"I was coming down in any case," he said, "when I got the telegram. I was bringing that new will down for signature. But now, of course, the old one will stand. luckily for our friend there," he nodded significantly towards Bolton, who was going out of the door.

"Of course, legally I ought not to speak yet, but as I understand you are on duty, it's only safe to say that if that will had been signed, it would have made a vast difference. I understand poor Percival and Philip had had a disagreement— not a quarrel, you know, but still sufficient to make my friend alter it. As it is well— " He shrugged his shoulders significantly, and Septimus March looked very grave. Here indeed was an unexpected development. Truly the young man showed grief, hut March was not deceived by any outward show. He had seen too much fine acting on the part of potential murderers, in his time. Equally be would net allow himself to be prejudiced.

It's too Chinese a method of murder," he said, "to be an inside job. Mr. Woden. No, I'm off to poke about in China Town. Somewhere down Limehouse way we shall find some trace of this yellow paw business. I'll leave you here to represent the law and all that sort of thing. There's nothing for us police to do here. What do you say, sir?" he turned to McBride.

"I agree with you, March, but I don't mind saying that I'd like Mr. Woden here to keep an eye on our young friend there, as this will business alters the complexion of things. Fortunes are not lost easily."

But Mr. Woden looked almost shocked.

"Oh, I couldn't act as a spy on Philip. I wouldn't dream of suggesting that he did such a vile thing. But even for the sake of twenty thousand pounds could a man kill his benefactor. I will wait here, sir, but you people must do your own work."

McBride said no more, and in a fen minutes they were back in their waiting car.

"And now what do we do?" he asked Septimus March, as he cranked up and followed him into the car's seat.

"Drive down the road out of sight. Drop me in the village near the post-office which we passed, and if you can contrive to get an open warrant to use if necessary, we'll take our chance later if my theories are correct. I'll stay here at the post office."

McBride wasted no time on questions. He knew he would get hut evasive replies till March himself was ready to speak out, and the car shot forward till the Gables and its problems were left far behind.

In Shenstone village, March passed into the post office, put a trunk call through to Colson, his man-servant in London, and having got through, spent a considerable number of shillings in a conversation which would have vastly interested Philip Bolton could he have overheard.

Finally, Mr. March, giving the number of the telephone booth, sat down to wait with the proverbial patience of a cat waiting for a mouse. Between cigarettes and a local paper, he contrived to pass a more or less monotonous two hours, before his return call came, and judging from the satisfied expression on his face, the wait had more than repaid itself.

Another half-hour, and the Yard car came to a halt.

"I got it," said McBride. "Got the country magistrate to give me a free hand, and I've brought a couple of men with me."

"Good," said March. "We'll get back to the Gables, and see if we can bluff our friend into telling the truth for once," said March.

That Philip Bolton was surprised when the car drove up before the door of tho Gables was more than evident.

Admitted by the soft-footed Wong Pu, the officials had walked right into the dining-room where Mr. Woden and Bolton were evidently just finishing dessert. Grief had certainly not robbed the young man of his appetite.

He started to his feet, as the door opened and shut upon the fresh arrivals.

"Sorry to trouble you. Mr. Bolton," said March crisply, "but there are one or two things I want to know. I understand that you had quarrelled with Colonel Wenderby recently. I want the facts, please."

Mr. Bolton turned white.

"I don't know what that has to do with the case," he stammered. "We had not quarrelled, but Colonel Wenderby wanted me to go to China for him, and I refused. I hate the country and will never set foot in it."

"But you will draw your money from it," said March quietly. "You know the Colonel's fortune came from Chinese sources."

He drew nearer and nearer, and young Bolton seemed to shrink back.

March pressed nearer and nearer. Both men were standing now with their backs to the long French windows, unseeing the shadows of the two policemen just outside.

"The game's up, my friend," said March. "I know the truth, and so do you."

Again be moved, then pounced like a cat on its prey, swerving just sufficiently to throw himself upon the tall, watching figure of Mr. James Woden, bearing him down to the ground before he could utter a sound.

From that instant, confusion reigned supreme. The policemen entered as if through the floor, so quickly were they, and once handcuffed, Septimus March stepped back.

"How dare you—" spluttered the solicitor, his pleasant voice harsh and rasping.

"The law dares everything to catch a murderer, Mr. Woden," said March I quietly.

"I arrest you for the murder of Percival Wenderby. You entered by the French window, probably talked to him a little while, threw that noose over his head, put the yellow paw into his hand, and went out again."

"It's a lie— I was never near the place, I was attending a wedding at Christchurch— my nieces can prove it."

"Certainly you attended the wedding, unfortunately for you. That's how I knew you had done it. See!"

He drew from his pocket a little wad of paper, and undoing it, he showed two or three grains of rice.

"I found these beside the bed of our friend," continued March. "Your hat also dropped one or two grains, and your fingers finished the evidence."

Woden looked hopelessly at his handcuffed wrists.

March darted over to him.

"Lord man, that dyed hare's foot of yours reeked of peroxide of hydrogen," he cried, "and the tips of your fingers, whitened with the acid of it, gave the game away at once. Take him away my men, we'll do the rest at the office."

Crestfallen, the prisoner allowed himself to be dragged out. Then March turned to Bolton.

"Sorry to frighten you. Mr. Bolton," he said, "but I was afraid our friend would try to escape. I got my man busy after I left you, and we found that Colonel Wenderby had insured his life in favor of that gentleman outside for a very large sum. He was heavily in debt, speculation, and knowing the story of the Colonel's Chinese exploits, set to work to first frighten him with bogus messages, written on pieces of his own typewriting paper (my man got a sheet from his office, with the same water mark), and finally made away with him. That will, taking away half your fortune was, I expect also a bogus one, written after he got back to the office, but it would have given a motive for your committing the deed. He was so very anxious to tell me the change, that I was suspicious in a minute, and investigation did the rest."

_____________________

12: The Jade Idol

Sunday Times (Perth) 22 Dec 1929

IT WAS not often that Mr. Angus McBride, Superintendent of Scotland Yard, paid an unofficial visit to his friend and confrere, Septimus March, private detective, but having been called up west and passing through Jermyn-street, he had taken the time to mount up to his friend's private rooms and office.

The field of crime had been comparatively quiet as far as March himself was concerned, and he was thinking of taking early holidays, and discussing the point with McBride, when the sound of voices was heard outside, almost a scuffle, and the door of his room was thrown open. Outside could be seen the outraged face of Colson, March's man-servant, but March had fastened his gaze on the intruder, a young man of about thirty, one as excited as it was possible to be.

"Sorry to rush you. Mr. March, but I just had to see you at once," said the gentleman, and March nodded to Colson who shut the door almost with a snap, while McBride at an imperceptible flicker of the eyes, obeyed, and sank down into his seat again.

"Good morning, Lord Denham," March said quietly. "So you have tried Scotland Yard at last. Take that chair behind you. My friend here will be quite discreet."

The young man looked his surprise, for he himself had never seen Septimus March before.

"Just one minute, I see you're a sufferer from that summer complaint known as hay fever," March continued blandly.

He touched the bell as he spoke, and at Colson's entry, bade him remove a big jar of marguerites from his desk.

"Heavens man, are yon a wizard?" gasped his lordship. "I was just dreading lest the beastly things set me off."

"No, I'm a detective," was the reply. "I presume you have come to talk about that jade Idol to steal which a murderous attempt was made two days ago."

"I have," groaned Lord Denham. "And l wish I'd come straight to you instead of calling in those fools at Scotland Yard. It was Lord Clive who sent me to you to-day."

"Splendid force, the police," quoted March softly, and McBride chuckled audibly. He guessed that March wanted him to see where his own men had failed, so sat silent and alert,

"May be so," said his Lordship, "but I'm about fed up with the methods. As you seem to be aware, one of my servants was killed two days ago, and now another one was found dead this very morning, in the same place, only this time the idol itself has vanished, from a locked room, mind you, and a fool of a policeman stationed right outside the door."

"Let's have the whole story," said March quietly. "I have only the facts as stated in the newspapers at present"

"Well, as I expect yon know, I am a collector, mostly of old jewels and articles of vertu. I have the old picture gallery of Grosvenor Court specially fitted up to protect my treasures, as I am generally out of England, especially during the spring and early summer owing to that wretched complaint of mine, though how yon spotted it so quickly, fairly beats mw, for I haven't had an attack to-day. However, this year I visited New Zealand, spent a couple of months there and brought back with me that jade idol. It's a splendid piece of work, not another one in existence, and probably stolen from one of the old temples. But I bought it in open market, and brought it back and had it mounted on a pedestal in the Long Gallery."

"Have you received any threatening letters or demands for its return?" asked March.

"Not since I left Auckland. Several of the natives tried to bribe and bully when I refused to sell it back again, but I never gave it another thought. I was preparing to go to New York last week when the first shock came.

"One of the maids who dusted the gallery was found dead in front of the idol, the same as this girl this morning."

"Was anything missing ?" inquired March.

"Not a thing. You see, the door being locked on the outside—"

"On the outside? How could that be?" interrupted March.

"It is fitted with a spring lock," explained Lord Denham. "It can be opened trove the Inside by turning the handle, but takes a specially made Yale lock key to open from the outside."

"I see. and who keeps the key?"

"I do," was the grim reply. "It hangs on my watch guard, night and day, and there is only one duplicate, locked up de bank. The Gallery is aired and dusted every day, and they have to come to me for the key."

"They," interposed March quickly: "Who are 'they' please. I want every detail."

"Of course" returned his lordship. "The fact is I've gone over the facts so many times that I feel as if every-one knows the whole business from A to Z. Simmonds, my man, always undertakes to superintend the dusting. He and one of the maids go together, and when finished, the Gallery is locked up and barred automatically by the closing of the door."

"No reason to suspect Simmonds, I suppose?"

"Suspect old Sim— Good lord no! Quite as soon suspect myself. He's as true as steel, and I never knew a man so upset in his life as when he rushed in to me this morning and told me he could get no reply from the girl inside the Gallery."

"How did she come to be left alone in the Gallery?" asked March swiftly.

"That's just the irritating part of lt. Simmonds and the girl, Alice Baxter, one of the parlor maids, went off as usual, and then she discovered that she hadn't got her leather or something. Anyhow Simmonds went off to get it, and must have left the key with her."

"What's that?" said March, sitting up erect. "Left the key with the girl? Then how did he get in again, or did h leave the door open?"

"No, the door was closed. Both Simmonds and the policeman outside distinctly heard the door lock behind them. But of course. Simmonds didn't worry because he had only to tap on the door when he returned. According to him, he just raced down to the servants' quarters, wasn't gone five minutes, and during that time, the policeman swears that not a soul came up the  corridor.

"Well. Simmonds returned, and getting no answer, naturally was frightened, because he found the first girl Mary Pierce, on Friday, so he came rushing to me."

"Didn't the policeman hear any; sounds, a scream or struggling?"

"No, perfect fools the police are. If he had, though, he couldn't have got in. It would take dynamite to force that door. Of course I phoned through to the bank, the branch is just round the corner luckily, so that no time was lost. We had the door open within ten minutes, and there was the poor girl lying dead, just as the other one, only this time the idol had vanished."

"I suppose it was there when Simmonds and the girl entered."

"Yes. Simmonds said it was. He always looks to that first, because he hated it, and wanted me to let it go back months ago."

"Ah," said March tensely, and perhaps only McBride guessed the thoughts roused by the statement.

"What about the windows?" was his next query.

"There aren't any," came the prompt reply. "There is only a long glass ventilator, about eight feet long by twelve inches, practically a glass slit; it some five or six feet above the ground, and a monkey couldn't get through, much less a man. The Gallery is lit by electric light at night. The man on duty outside never heard a sound. It's just the most appalling mystery."

"It sounds baffling," said March rising. "Best thing to do is to come round, and I think Superintendent McBride of Scotland Yard, here, might like to come too, don't you?" He smiled at the look of consternation on His Lordship's face.

"Good heavens, sir, and I've been slanging your people like anything."

Mr. McBride smiled. "It wasn't exactly fair of Mr. March, was it? But I wanted to see if our people had been really slack, and as I should have sent for March myself, directly I heard of this new development, no time has been lost."

The three men descended the stairs where outside Lord Denham's car waited, and it took but a few minutes to whizz through the park to the town house known as Grosvenor Court.

Outside the iron-studded door of the Long Gallery, the policeman saluted the Chief of Scotland Yard, and as Lord Denham fitted the key into the lock, the great door swung open. The morning sun shone through the narrow horizontal window, revealing the dead girl as she lay just as she had been struck down by this unknown death.

March bent down and subjected the body to the closest scrutiny. Poison of some kind had evidently been administered.

"There isn't a glass or object of any kind," said Lord Denham. "I called in Dr. Smith from round the Square, and be came at once, but he declares that she has been poisoned. It was too long after breakfast to be caused by! that meal, besides none of the other servants have suffered."

March stood tense and silent, gazing down. Then he swooped suddenly, and pushed the wisps of hair over the forehead aside.

"Yes, here you are," he exclaimed triumphantly. "Here is the gate through which Death entered."

He pointed to a tiny scratch, high up on the dead girl's forehead, so slight as to be almost unnoticeable.

Bending down, he sniffed at the scratch, then rose suddenly. "That's Wooral!" he said, "the stuff the natives use to tip their poison arrows."

He turned to Lord Denham. "Do you know whether she was found lying with her face to the pedestal or not?"

Denham looked helplessly at him.

"Hanged if I remember. Perhaps Simmonds would know, I'll send for him it you will wait."

He went swiftly from the room, while March, taking a foot measure from his pocket, proceeded to measure the height of the girl.

"What's the height of that window, Mac," he asked. "No, it's higher than the girl, so that theory won't do."

Lord Denham returned with a little; fair-headed man of about forty years of age; his frightened eyes looked from the stern ones of March to the silent figure on the floor.

"Let's get out of this room, my lord," he said. "There's death in the very air."

"Don't make an ass of yourself. Simmonds," said his master sharply. "Just answer Mr. March's questions."

"Were the maids found lying face downward or not, my man?" said March crisply.

"No, sir, they wasn't. I was the first to enter both times, and both poor Mary and Alice were on their backs, but all twisted up, and—"

"That's all I want to know," was the comment. "There's nothing more to be learned here. I'd like to see the back of the building."

Simmonds led the way, obviously only too relieved to get out of the roam alive.

"No need for you to come, gentlemen," March flung back over his shoulder. "I will come back in ten minutes."

But it was nearer twenty minutes when he did return, with hands and face begrimed, and clothes torn, causing Lord Denham and McBride to spring up from their seats in the gallery corridor.

"I should like a few fire-lighters, please. Lord Denham," said March quickly. "Oh, and a pail of water, too. Simmonds, perhaps, can get them for me."

Simmonds needed no instructions, even from his master, but vanished in the direction of the kitchens.

"I think we'll have that policeman with us now," continued March. "There's no need for him to watch a locked stable after the horse has been stolen. Is there, Mac?"

McBride, as mystified as Lord Denham, gave the necessary order, and a puzzled little group of men followed March, as, armed with a bundle of objects known as "fire lighters," he led the way out into the garden at the back of the long Gallery.

Turning to Lord Denham, he said, "Have you ever burned a 'possum out of a gum tree, my lord?"

"Yes, often," said the other. "Smoked 'em out. Oh, by Jove, is that what you mean to do?"

He looked at the -fine oak tree which stood some distance away. March turned, and, lighting one of the little tarry bundles, flung it up into the trunk of the tree. The effect was startling. As the "bomb" vanished into the depths of what was evidently a hollow trunk there came a hoarse, sibilant shriek, a scramble and scuffling, as a lithe, sinewy brown body hurled itself out of the smoking hole.

March darted forward, followed by the policeman and McBride, and in a minute or two they had tripped up and seized a native Maori.

"Handcuffs, officer," said March, and gave a little sigh of relief as those useful objects were slipped on to the prisoner.

Then he turned back to the tree, swinging himself up the trunk. "The pail of water now."

Lord Denham handed it up, and March poured it down, and then disappeared himself into the depths as the smoke subsided.

A minute later he reappeared with the jade figure in his hands still encircled with a leather thong.

"Good heavens!" cried Lord Denham. "Why, that's a lariat. It was lassoed!"

"Yes," said March, "and here" —he dived into his pocket— "here is the instrument that killed your servants—"

He extended an almost crescent-shaped piece of white wood.

"A boomerang!" exclaimed Lord Denham.

"Exactly. These natives are like monkeys. He must have climbed up to the top branches, and directly that window was opened by Simmonds to air the room he seized him opportunity to throw the poisoned thing. The first time Simmonds returned too quickly. But this morning, owing to the poor girl keeping the key, he was able to kill her and lasso the idol. Then he climbed back and down into the hollow trunk."

An exclamation from Simmonds and the policeman in charge interrupted him, and, turning quickly, they saw that the struggling figure had become suddenly quiet, and March guessed what had happened, even before McBride said that the man had passed beyond the power of the law.

"He must have had more Wooral in his hand."

There was a tense silence, then Lord Denham thrust the idol into Simmonds' hands.

"Take it away," he said, "and pack it up. It has had three more sacrifices, and now it shall go back."

Turning to March, he said: "How you discovered the secret I don't know, but this is the last death I hope through my agency."

"Wooral was apparent from its peculiar smell," said March. "The absence of any arrow or weapon showed that only a boomerang, so known in Australia and New Zealand, could possibly have been used. I found the little slip of wood just outside the window as it dropped, or even perhaps another one; he may have made several efforts, and we shall find the actual death one somewhere in the Gallery, but that showed me the way, and the tree being so handy the rest was an experiment, and one that has succeeded."

But, later, when McBride and March were back at Scotland Yard, the Superintendent looked across at his ally.

"Just one thing. How did you know it was Lord Denham, and that be suffered from hay fever?"

March laughed. "First, his photograph was staring me full in the face in the paper which I was reading when you came in, and, secondly, his glance almost of fear at the marguerites, together with his slightly inflamed eye-lids, did the rest."

"A case of sheer bluff," laughed McBride.

"Exactly, my dear Mac.  And that's the born detective's chief asset," with which summing up of his chosen profession Septimus March departed on his much-desired holiday.

__________________

13: The Silent Message

Sunday Times (Perth) 29 Dec 1929

"THERE'S no help for it!" almost groaned Mr. Angus McBride, Superintendent of Scotland Yard, as he reached for the telephone. "I must get hold, of March somehow. Hope to goodness' he isn't on that holiday of his."

Fortunately for the much-worried official, apparently Septimus March was still in his chambers at Jermyn street, and ten minutes later found him seated opposite his chief.

"It's too bad to have to worry you the instant you come back," said McBride apologetically, "but I am absolutely up against it, as they say. You know, there is a special confab going on at the Foreign Office in connection with new terms to the Irish Free Slate. Well, it is highly important that these terms and arguments do not reach the general public through the Press, or the heads of the Irish League. But now the Chairman, your old friend, Lord Clive, by the way, has applied to us for help, and it is plain that as fast as clauses are drawn up and agreed to in the Foreign Office, the terms are known to both a certain Opposition paper and the League itself. I went down myself and saw the room where the meetings are held, got a list of the people who are in the room, or know anything of what is going on, but it is absolutely inexplicable. Now, March, Will you go down this morning, and see what you can make of it?"

"Of course," said March, readily enough. "But can't you give me any facts?"

"You'll get them better first hand from Lord Clive, I think," said the Superintendent "He's fearfully worried over it, still feels sore you know, about his son and that Violet Code mystery, and now another leakage, where he himself is concerned— at any rate he is head of the Commission— well, you can imagine for yourself his state of mind. I told him yon were coming, down, and that seemed to comfort him a bit. Here is the list of the other, members, and send for me if you want me."

March took the list of names, all unimpeachable, and not likely to be bribed or coerced into indiscreet admissions

"I'll go down now," he said, "and you might 'phone through that I'm on my way, so that I am admitted straight into Lord Clive's presence without undue explanation. You never know who is at the bottom of these affairs."

McBride agreed, and before he had got his 'phone number through to the Foreign Office, March was on his way to that classic building.

As he had wished, he was shown straight into a large room at the back of the building, on a level with the grounds, and the Earl shook hands heartily with him.

"Glad you're on the job," he said, forcibly. "It is the most mysterious business I've ever met."

"Let me have the facts, your Lordship," said March. "In which room does the Commission hold these meetings?"

"In here," was the reply. "This room has double doors, with a guard placed at the end of the corridor, so that no one can approach, and it is absolutely impossible to hear a sound outside. Windows the same. There are a dozen of us. You know the names, I expect, from McBride. We come in here, discuss the matter, have typed records made, and then depart. Yet I know from our Secret Service, people that the Irish League and the Daily Tribune know the terms before the hour is out—"

"What about the typist? Is he reliable?" asked March.

"It is a girl," was the reply. "A thoroughly good typist, but one of the fluffy-headed variety with a penchant for reading cheap love literature and wearing imitation jewellery, as far as I can see; and, in any case, she couldn't do any harm, because she types down the minutes in cypher, which is impossible for her to carry in her head."

March nodded thoughtfully.

"Any objection to my being present at a meeting?" he asked.

Lord Clive hesitated. "No, I don't see why there should be," he said at length. "I expect the members any minute now."

"Well, suppose instead of holding a real discussion," said March, "you talk over things that really don't matter; and then let us see what happens. Meanwhile, I'll nave a look round the room for myself."

Lord Clive agreed to this proposal readily enough; and as the various members arrived, he met them with the whispered arrangement of a dummy  conference.

Meanwhile Septimus March inspected the room minutely. He soon found that all walls were sound-proof. No secret openings were behind the one or two pictures, nor did the solid parquet floor with its single rug allow of wires for invisible microphones. The electric light hung from cords, and there were no telephones in the room; clearly it was all titter impossibility for any sound to escape by any illicit means.

The last person to enter the room was the girl typist, a frail fair-headed little girl, who certainly bore out Lord Clive's cynical description, for concealed in her notebook, March espied the gay covers of the latest sex novelette, and her jewellery would certainly have been worth a fortune, had it only been real— a string of large pearls, bangles innumerable and flashing "diamond" rings of the type found in the popular "nothing worth sixpence" stores, completed her scanty summer costume. March found himself wondering why such an unsuitable choice had been made for so important a conference. Yet probably it was these very qualities of want of brain-power that had led to it. She was evidently a perfect manipulator of her machine, and that was all that was required.

The various members took their places at the table, a chair being set for Mr. March, and a pad of paper and pen provided, giving the appearance of an additional member.

"Only a short meeting this morning, gentlemen," said Lord Clive, "as I have already made these notes, and if you will read and verify them each and several, we will have them typed in code as usual, and leave the actual figures until to-morrow.''

There was a murmur of assent, and for a little while, nothing was said, while the paper of unimportant items went round the tablet each, member solemnly initialling. Finally the secretary rose, and walked over to the table at the side and dictated these notes in code, translating the Written English into the code as he went along. The girl's fingers absolutely flew as she took down the queer jumble of letters; her fingers flashing in the light as they danced up and down.

Having finished, Lord Clive rose.

"That is all, gentlemen;" he said. Then, turning to the girl, he said: "I should like a double copy made, Miss Wray, if you don't mind, and do it right away, will you?"

"Certainly, your Lordship," said the girl, in her soft voice, and set to work again, apparently oblivions of all things, as the member's took their departure.

"You see how impossible a mystery it is," said Lord Clive, as he stepped outside the door with March.

''Yes, I agree there, but what about that typescripts: could somebody translate that cypher, supposing Miss Wray took a carbon copy?"

"In the first place, there is no carbon paper allowed," was the reply. "I take the papers from her, and any papers left over, if she makes a mistake for instance, and screws up a page, as happens in most offices, I see the papers burnt oh the hearth before I leave."

"Ah; that reminds me," said March, suddenly; "I didn't think of the fire-place." He turned back and re-entered the room, followed by Lord Clive.  They walked over to the fireplace, but March found that the chimney plate was pulled down so that again no aperture was to be found.

With a little shrug he turned. "Well, sir, I can do no more?" he said, softly. "Let me know the results tomorrow."

He returned to Scotland Yard decidedly ruffled in mien and spirit.

"This is a teaser," he said, as McBride looked op hopefully. "I don't often own myself beaten," he continued, "but if this morning's work has leaked out, well, the listener must be invisible, that's all."

But on the morrow, it was made plain that the terms of that meeting were known to the Daily Tribune though they were distinctly puzzled as to what the various clauses meant. A message came through also from Lord Clive to the effect that the information was known to the Irish League; and for the first time in his life March was inclined to despair.

"Hold another meeting," he said over the 'phone, I'll try again."

"Is there any day on which the news has not leaked out, do you know?" he asked Lord Clive, who looked worn and anxious. "And have you tried holding the conference in any other room?"

"Yes, we tried another room last week," he said, "but it' was Just the same. The only day on which we were not betrayed was about the middle of last week, Wednesday, I remember because it poured all day, and we had lunch sent in. That is why I know it must be one of the members, and yet it seems so altogether incredible that one of them can be a traitor."

March stood grim and tense, watching; the various men enter; then he said with a little apologetic smile as they took their places at the table, "If you don't mind, gentlemen, I don't think I am of much use, I'll sit over here in this chair, while you get along with it and have a look at the reports afterwards."

"Just as you like, Mr. March," said Lord Clive, and the committee settled down to work.

The sun shone in brightly. Miss Wray sat quietly at her table, and outside came the thump of-one of the road breakers or gardeners. It was warm, and the subdued voices seemed to have a soporific effect on Mr March, for presently he sank lower and lower, and finally subsided, his eyes closed, his breath rising evenly in a pleasant nap. Then the sudden scraping of a chair on the parquet floor aroused him, and he jumped up, in apology and dismay.

"Good heavens, your Lordship,'' he said, "I must have gone right off to sleep."

It must be confessed that Lord Clive's tones were rather stiff, as he said, "That was quite all right."

"Well, sir," continued March,  "there's nothing to be made of it here. Here's my address if you want me at any time, but I fear you will have to give the matter up as a mystery that can't be solved."

He wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, put it into the hand of Lord Clive, and with a bow and a "good morning," was gone before the others had realised that the door was even open.

March went straight back to Scotland Yard again

"Mac," he said directly he was shown into the private room, "I want you to lunch at the Cavour with me."

"Good heavens, man, don't bother me about meals.  Have you found out anything  at the Foreign Office?" was the irritated reply.

"Can't say, yet," said March, imperturbably. "If you come with me to the Cavour, I shall know myself."

McBride sighed heavily, but rose to his feet and consented to accompany Septimus March.

At that cosmopolitan restaurant they found Lord Clive; and at March's suggestion they took a table well at the back, half hidden behind some tall ferns and palms.

"Is this your, usual place of lunch, Mr. March?"  said his Lordship, a bit curiously as an attentive waiter bore down on them.

"No, my lord," was the reply; "As a matter of fact I've never been in here before, but as one of your gardeners, I think it was, proposed to lunch here, I thought I would accept his silent message."

"One of my gardeners," said the amazed peer.

But March was busy ordering three glasses of wine, a beverage never fated to be quaffed, for as thee man disappeared to carry out the order, March gave a little grunt of satisfaction.

Coming in at the door was a tall figure, typically Irish in face, and following close upon his footsteps was a small dainty figure.

"You go first, Mac," whispered March,'' and block, the way to the door. Now, Lord Clive, let's see what yon think of this."

McBride had already risen, but as he was not known to the pair in the recess of the window, they took no notice. It was not until Lord Clive himself stopped at their table, that the girl looked up and gave a little cry of fear. But it was March who spoke.

"Well, Miss Wray! I hope you don't mind my accepting your friend's invitation to lunch as well as yourself. "

The girl half rose. Then, looking from him to Lord Clive, and onward to McBride, whose burly figure blocked the door, she sank down again.

"What do you mean? I don't understand," she commenced.

Mechanically , Lord Clive noted that the jewellery of which she had seemed extraordinarily proud had vanished; not even the diamond rings were to be seen.  The man, too, had risen, but at March's gesture, he too sank down again.

"It means,  Mr Michael O'Dare, that you and your wife— oh yes, I reckon that's the case, will both leave this country, at once, or I will have you arrested  as spies, and we have a short way with them, you know.

Both man and woman, for her age seemed now apparent, turned white.

"We haven't done anything," stuttered the man weakly.

"You've done the last Morse code messages to the Foreign Office grounds, my man; and you, my dear lady, though I was too much asleep not to see you flashing the code with those diamondy mirror rings of yours. You know the old saying 'you never catch a weasel asleep.' "

"Now off you go. I have you under watch as you will see outside; and if . you are not out of the country within twelve hours, well look out for yourselves, that's all."

The pair rose with an alacrity, that was almost amusing, and, fairly scrambled out of the restaurant, which luckily was practically empty at that hour of the day.

"I guessed you wouldn't want them arrested, my Iord," said March. "It would only make a disturbance in the Press and constitute all sorts of political irritation.  I don't think they'll try it on again."

Both Lord Clive and McBride sank down into the empty  seats.

"Man, you're a wonder. But now I don't see how it was done, or how you discovered it."

March smiled. "Well, it was a teaser, I admit. But you gave me the right clue  when you said that no news escaped last Wednesday, when it rained. There was no sunlight, you see."

"I realised Miss Wray was Irish. Her accent alone was sufficient, and then when I heard the message being  thumped out in the grounds. It was presumably a gardener or a workman with a pick-axe; but I recognised the dot and dash of the Morse code; and I noted Miss Wray's fingers flashing, with that diamond, the answer. When he suggested meeting her at the Cavour at 12.30 I thought it was safe to bring you along, too!  A man isn't always as asleep as he looks. I went outside and recognised one of the gardeners as O'Dare, the Irish agitation strike leader, so all I had to do was to put some men on to watch, and see if Miss Wray came to keep the appointment."

"I say again, you're a wonder," said his Lordship, "and I vote we pay the manager something for using his place, and come to my club. You deserve the best dinner in the world, to say nothing of a fee."

And it was over one of the best dinners that a famous chef could provide, that March announced his intention of taking' a further holiday, a reward to which not even Mr McBride raised any objection, for once more official peace was his.

End

Table of Contents

1: The Missing Pearls

2: The Riddle of the Winged Death

3: The Sapphire Cross

4: The Violet Code

5:  Golden Sire

6: The Sleeping Guest

7: The Crystal Tubes

8: The Mystery of the Dying Plane

9: The Mystery of the Dead Singer

10: The Secret Cypher

11: The Mystery Of The Yellow Paw

12: The Jade Idol

13: The Silent Message