THE SINISTER COMPANY

Walter Ripperger

No dates available; active 1935-1940

1936

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13 | Chapter 14

Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

Chapter 17

_________________

Chapter 1

The Factory In The Woods

JOHN BATTLE'S low black roadster shot along the Jersey roads at a pace far in excess of the legal limit. He wasn't a reckless driver nor was he at the moment in any particular hurry to arrive at his destination. It was simply that he drove his car in the same way he did everything else, with a fierce, relentless intensity, unmindful of the possible consequences either to himself or to any one else.

John Battle might have been thirty or he might have been fifty. His well-knit, tall frame, the ease of his movements, his upright, alert carriage, suggested a young man; but then again there was that in his face which made him look much older. His dark hair showed a touch of gray at the temples. His fine, almost aesthetic face was deeply lined and had an underlying hardness. His eyes were purposeful, but along with that purposefulness there was bitterness and disillusionment.

Just now his habitual expression of controlled savagery was more marked than usual. Things were not going as per schedule at the factory of the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. of which he was vice president and general manager. The corporation had its offices in New York down at Nassau Street, and it was a routine matter for John Battle to visit the factory in Jersey once a week. But to-day he was going on a special mission, urgently summoned over the telephone by the superintendent.

John Battle glanced at the speedometer. He was doing seventy-six. Boonton was just ahead, and another ten miles or so beyond it lay the plant of the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. He slackened his speed a little until he had passed through the town, then once more the speedometer went up, After a few miles he came to a dirt road which he took after a hair-raising turn. It wasn't a good road, but his car was heavy and the occasional bumps which threatened the life of his springs left him unperturbed.

Presently a patch of wood came into view. The people in the neighborhood were wont to refer to it as Dusty Woods, because the foliage was never quite as green as it ought to have been. The trees looked dry, unfriendly, as though nature had forgotten to give them the urge to live and grow. All in all, no more suitable site or a more fitting background could have been found for the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp.

John Battle turned left. The road that led him through the woods was narrow, just wide enough for his car or the small truck that the factory used. He kept on until he came to a clearing. The clearing was completely inclosed by a barbed-wire fence. The gate was of steel, high and spiked. The sign did not give the name of the company, just a forbidding: KEEP OUT. He brought his huge roadster to a halt and blew his horn.

From a little shack inside the clearing to the left of the gate a surly, red-faced individual emerged. In his right hand he carried a huge club. At his heels two German police dogs yelped fiercely. He peered through the gate at John Battle, then unlocked it, at the same time quieting the dogs with two well-directed kicks.

John Battle drove through with a scarcely perceptible nod to the gatekeeper. He drove past a small shed of corrugated iron painted a dirty red that bore across its side in letters a foot high the legend: EXPLOSIVES! DANGER! The factory was a hundred yards beyond that, a long one-story building of gray, dismal concrete. He stopped the car, leaped out and with quick, energetic strides mounted the few steps that led to the office. Inside, he went past the sallow young man at the railing without a word on into the superintendent's office.

Kernochen, the superintendent, a burly individual with a heavy face and red untidy hair, lifted himself out of his rickety chair with an effort. He said. "Hello, Mr. Battle," without any welcome in his tone.

John Battle looked at him, saw the slightly bleary look in Kernochen's pale eyes, went closer to him and got a whiff of the man's ginny breath.

"You've been drinking again," John Battle said, his voice hard.

"You've never seen me drunk, have you?" Kernochen snarled. "You'd be drinking, too, if you had my job."

John Battle's lips curled contemptuously, but he did not dispute the superintendent's statement; instead he asked:

"What's the trouble?"

"It's Shieber. He's been loafing on the job. We haven't progressed a step since you were here the last time. He's been doing it on purpose. He wants us to let him go— to let him out of here. He says he wants a vacation— some stall about his mother dying."

John Battle said nothing. He only looked steadily at Kernochen, a look which the superintendent interpreted as a reflection on his own competence.

"What do you expect me to do with him? I can't make him work if he doesn't want to," Kernochen demanded resentfully. "I damn near knocked his block off the day before yesterday, but it didn't do any good. What's more, I can't tell whether he's really soldiering or not. What he's doing is so complicated that I can't understand it. Nobody but you can. He's always got an excuse. How do I know whether or not it's on the level? If I were you, I'd let him go and get some one else. You can't make a man of that caliber work if he doesn't want to."

"Can't I?" John Battle said softly, coldly. "As for letting him go, if your brains weren't soaked in gin you'd realize that we can't let him go. Let's go through the plant."

Kernochen flushed but said nothing. He went and held the door while John Battle went through.

The factory of the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. was laid out in a peculiar way. It was divided into sections and, while there were communicating doors between the various sections, these doors were invariably kept locked. Each group of workmen entered its own section directly from the outside. In this way the workmen of any one department never saw, never became acquainted with what the workmen of another department were doing. This procedure naturally excited the curiosity of the men. Speculation was rife. Some had it that the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. was engaged in the manufacture of a new linotype machine; others that it was a new type of steam turbine, and again there were some that maintained it was nothing more novel than a power lawn mower. But whatever it was, one thing was certain, no one tried to discover the secret; to do so would undoubtedly result in a most unpleasant encounter with Kernochen, the burly Irish superintendent, who on more than one occasion had demonstrated what he could do with his gnarled fists.

With Kernochen now leading the way, unlocking the doors between the different sections, John Battle went swiftly through the plant. He didn't stop in Section A, where two draftsmen were bending over drawing tables littered with blue prints and complicated graphs, nor did he pause in Section B, the laboratory. where an experiment with some grayish powder was being conducted. He kept right on, stopping only occasionally for seconds in the subsequent rooms which were practically all alike, fitted with lathes, boring machines, millers, shapers and similar tools; each crew busy in the manufacture of a single part to be ultimately delivered to Section M, where three men would assemble the various parts and in due course complete the device that was being manufactured.

The three men in Section M, of whom the recalcitrant Shieber was the head, alone knew what was being manufactured, and those three men for varying reasons had little, if any, opportunity to divulge the carefully guarded secret of the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. They were never permitted to leave the grounds. They lived within the barbed-wire inclosure in a small cottage fifty yards distant from the plant. They were never allowed to correspond with any one outside except through Kernochen who censored their outgoing mail as well as any incoming mail.

When John Battle and Kernochen went in, Lon Shieber looked up sullenly from a machine with which he was tinkering. John Battle stared at him silently, then shifted his glance to Shieber's two assistants. One of them stood with his back to a lathe at which he was working. A large casting was fixed between the head and tailstock of the lathe revolving slowly while a thick shaving was being cut from its outer edge. He was a small man with a weak chin and watery eyes. A cigarette hung limply from the corner of his thin mouth. John Battle watched him for a minute, then went over and slapped the cigarette out of the man's mouth. The man drew back and growled something unintelligible.

"It isn't that I mind your smoking," John Battle said. His tone was low but penetrating with cold, dispassionate fury. "That casting in your lathe cost six hundred dollars, and what is more important, it took a month to have made. Keep your eye on the lathe and see that nothing happens to that casting."

The man's lips moved. He seemed on the point of uttering a protest, but changed his mind and turned back to his work.

Oddly enough, Shieber and his two assistants, although they were all markedly different in build, in physical characteristics, did seem somehow to have come from the same mold. They had something in common, a furtive, cowed manner, a shuffling walk, a shiftiness of eye, a way of looking up from underneath.

John Battle went over to the piece of machinery at which Shieber had been puttering at their entrance. It was an odd-looking contrivance, an extremely complicated piece of machinery, a shining steel tube some two feet in diameter mounted on a platform at an angle of forty-five degrees. From its mouth protruded more than two dozen thinner tubes. It bristled with innumerable cogs, levers and wheels. John Battle bent over it, examined it carefully, moved some of the levers, changed the elevation of the steel barrel as well as its direction. Then he straightened up and fixed Lon Shieber with his frosty eyes.

"You're no further along than you were the last time," he said harshly.

Shieber avoided his glance. He was a small man with dark, hopeless eyes. He ran his long, thin fingers through his sparse hair, then wiped his mouth and said. "That ain't my fault. The parts ain't accurate. The rifling is different on some of the barrels. The firing device don't synchronize. What do you expect me to do?" His voice was piping and whiny.

John Battle turned to Kernochen. "What about it?" he demanded.

Kernochen took out a plug of tobacco and bit off a generous portion. He spat into a pile of steel turnings. "Nothing's ever his fault," he said. "I had some of them barrels measured myself. They're all true, exact to the thousandth of an inch."

Lon Shieber shifted uneasily on his feet. "It's the rifling," he muttered. "It ain't accurate."

Somewhere a bell clanged loudly.

John Battle looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. The man from whose mouth he had knocked the cigarette stopped the lathe. His companion shut off the power. It was quitting time. They stood for a moment watching John Battle and Kernochen with nervous sidelong glances.

"You can go," the former said. "You, too, Kernochen. I want to have a talk with Shieber."

Alone with the general manager of the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. Shieber stood looking uneasily down at the floor. There followed a silence which lasted until the little mechanic could endure it no longer. He suddenly lifted his head and unexpectedly looked John Battle squarely in the eyes.

"I can't stand it any more," he said desperately. "I gotta get away. I gotta get away. This place is driving me nuts."

"What is the trouble?"

His first quick outburst over, Shieber was once more looking down at the floor, digging into it with his toe.

"I don't know," he said. "I guess it's what you would call the atmosphere; it gets on my nerves—everything being sort of secret, never being able to get off the place, never seeing any one practically excepting them two jailbirds that's working with me."

"The company of jailbirds I shouldn't think would disturb you, Shieber," John Battle interrupted tonelessly.

The other winced. With an effort he looked up once more. "I don't ask you to let me off for good," he said. "Just give me a little vacation. I got a mother what's sick in Akron, Ohio. I want to go and see her; I'll be right back, back in a week."

"You have no mother, Shieber, in Akron or anywhere else as far as I know," John Battle declared coldly.

"Why can't you let me go for a little while? I won't run out on you for keeps. You know you can always make me come back."

John Battle shook his head. "I know we can make you come back, but the risk is too great. You might talk. My associates would never consent to it even if I would, which I won't. There are millions involved here and we can't take any chances. You're being well paid, Shieber, getting ten times what you could earn anywhere else."

The other's deadly impersonal manner convinced Lon Shieber of the hopelessness of his position, and it drove him into a frenzy.

"What do I care about money?" he shrilled out hysterically. "Money money, that's all you and your gang think about. Why can't you get somebody else in my place? All I want is my freedom. I want to be free, free to starve if I have to. Money, huh. This place is worse than being in jail."

"You ought to know, Shieber," John Battle said absently.

"You know when your time's up when you're in stir," Shieber interrupted, "but here— Say, how long are you planning to keep me here—is this going to go on forever?"

"That depends on you, Shieber," John Battle explained in his lifeless monotone. "I drew the plans, but I can't make it work without you. You're the finest mechanic I know. That's why I picked you. You see, you had established a reputation with your work on safes." A faint, sardonic smile came to John Battle's lips, then his face hardened. He advanced a step toward the smaller man, and his words now came with the cold impact of a trip hammer. "You're going to stay here until this job is finished whether it takes a month or ten years!"

Lon Shieber fell back. His lips quivered. His hands trembled.

"No, I'm not!" he whispered hoarsely. "I'm not! I'm gonna give myself up. I'd rather be back up the river than here. Sing Sing isn't so bad."

John Battle looked at him steadily. There was understanding in John Battle's eyes, understanding but no sympathy. His own past was such that while he could understand others, for himself he no longer had faith nor hope and least of all sympathy for the difficulties of a fellow creature.

"You've done a stretch at Atlanta," John Battle said quietly, "and you've escaped from Sing Sing. As prisons go, you don't think they're so bad. You think you can do the rest of your stretch 'standing on your head' at Sing Sing, but what about Alcatraz? You've heard of Alcatraz, Shieber?"

The little man's mouth fell open. His face turned the color of putty.

"What do you mean?" he gasped.

"I mean that if you give yourself up, or try to make a get-away from here that that's where you're going. That's where they take the tough prisoners, Shieber, and you're tough. My associates will see to that; they are influential. If you don't think so, just remember how you managed to escape from Sing Sing."

Lon Shieber looked about him wildly. It was as though he were at that very minute trying to find an escape for himself. He seemed to grow smaller, a pathetic, broken thing. After a long time he looked back at John Battle.

"I didn't mean what I said, Mr. Battle. You wouldn't do that to me— no Alcatraz. I'll have this thing" — his eyes shifted to the machine on the floor— "going in no time— honest I will. You'll see."

John Battle nodded. "You may go now, Shieber."

He watched the little man shuffle out of the side door, then stared off into space, lost in thought. He passed a hand over his tired eyes. Yes, he could understand Shieber, but then the poor fool had no one but himself to blame for his predicament. If his life was ruined it was his own fault. He had no cause for bitterness the way that he, John Battle, had. Fate had destroyed him.

Chapter 2

The Man Who Hated His Country.

ON his way downtown the next morning John Battle stopped off at the offices of the Yoshimo Trading Co., a pretentious suite in the Equitable Building, as befitted one of the largest Japanese export and import houses in the world. It had the reputation of having more influence with the Nipponese government than any other firm.

John Battle was admitted into the presence of Baron Ioto Yoshimo immediately upon his arrival, which was, whether he realized it or not, a distinct honor. Baron Yoshimo seldom saw any one, and when he did he made it a practice to keep his visitor waiting an impressive length of time. But John Battle had something that Baron Yoshimo wanted, and whenever the former called, the wily Oriental took good care to treat him with marked courtesy.

He rose from behind his desk, bowed ceremoniously, and remained standing while his visitor took the chair to which he had waved him with a slender hand, that held a cigarette fastened in a long black holder. He resumed his own seat, sat back placidly, and with his slanted eyes half closed waited for the other to speak.

John Battle frowned. This trick of Yoshimo's, making the other man speak first, always irritated Battle, made him feel at a distinct disadvantage. On his previous visit he had wondered what would happen if he himself remained silent, and had resolved some day to try it. However, this was not the day for the experiment. John Battle had too many things on his mind to waste any time. He said:

"We'll be ready in approximately two weeks."

"Yes," Baron Yoshimo said. It war, amazing how much he managed to convey by the manner in which he uttered that one word. It sounded as though he believed John Battle absolutely, and then again as though he had his doubts. Also, as though he had been waiting breathlessly for such news, yet that the matter was only of casual interest.

John Battle stirred restlessly.

"In accordance with our agreement," he went on tersely, "you are to have your experts ready at that time to witness a demonstration. If they are satisfied, I will turn over the— my invention— to you, along with a complete set of plans and specifications, in exchange for a first payment of five million dollars." He stopped and waited.

"Yes," said Baron Yoshimo again, with that same noncommittal inflection.

John Battle leaned forward in his chair. "What I've come to find out is," he said, "when will your experts and the money be available? We want no delay. We've guarded the secret carefully up to now, and will continue to guard it, but we are anxious to be rid of the responsibility the minute our part of the agreement has been fulfilled."

Baron Ioto Yoshimo puffed silently at his cigarette. His round bland face remained inscrutable. At last he said in his faultless English, marred only by a mere trace of an accent:

"My men and the money will be ready whenever you are. I assume that you have found a suitable location for the demonstration to take place in secret?"

"We will take care of that."

"And that if we accept your invention, you will be prepared to carry out the rest of our agreement immediately thereafter, so that we may pay you the balance?"

"I will be ready to take the first steamer for Yokohama after we have received the initial payment. I will stay there until the erection of your factory has been completed and the manufacturing is satisfactorily under way."

"What happens to the men here, those who are now making the demonstrator? What assurance has my government that after we have paid, these men will not disclose the secret to the ordnance department of your own government, or sell us out to some other foreign power?"

''There are only three of them," John Battle declared grimly, "and they'll sail with me. You can put them to work in your factory, keep them there as long as you want, or," he added savagely, "you can drown them— if you want to."

"I have your definite assurance on that?"

"Absolutely."

"That is very good. You see, I trust you, not only because I have to, as matters of this kind cannot be put down on paper, but also because I am a good judge of men."

"Then everything is settled?"

John Battle started to rise, but the other waved him back to his seat.

"There is something else," Baron Yoshimo said, his guttural tone now soft. "I said I trusted you, but that does not apply to any one— to every one in your company."

John Battle's face darkened. "I don't understand you. I've already explained on a previous occasion the steps I've taken at our factory to prevent any leaks—"

"I am not referring to the men at your factory. One of your directors, perhaps, has views that differ from yours?"

The lines in John Battle's face deepened. He flushed angrily. Then he uttered a dry, mirthless laugh.

"My directors couldn't build this machine if they tried. There isn't one of them that has the faintest technical knowledge. They could study the blue prints for a month and yet not be able to explain the mechanism to any one."

He stopped and glared at the man across the desk from him. Baron Yoshimo remained silent while he inserted a fresh cigarette into his holder. After a while he said:

"You do not control the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp., Mr. Battle."

John Battle leaned farther over the desk, fixing the Japanese with his cold, fierce eyes.

"What I'm trying to convey to you," Baron Yoshimo continued imperturbably, "is that without your knowledge one or more of your directors has secretly been negotiating with another country for the sale of your machine at a price higher than that which you and I agreed upon."

"I don't believe it," the other declared bluntly.

"I am creditably informed," the baron declared suavely. "And while I am quite satisfied that I can rely on your word, you can readily see it might go beyond your power to carry out your company's agreement if the other directors overruled you."

John Battle's hands closed more tightly about the arms of his chair. He glowered for a time, speechless, at the man opposite, then abruptly he rose to his feet and began to pace the floor until eventually he came to a halt in front of a window. For a time he stared out into the street far below, conscious that his pulses were throbbing madly, aware of a queer pounding at the back of his head. Was Yoshimo telling him the truth? Was he, John Battle, to be frustrated at the last moment? Was the only thing for which he had lived during these last few years to be snatched from him, just when his goal was in sight, and by some one in his own company, some one who already stood to profit to the extent of millions by his, John Battle's brains and work? He spun about, strode back to where Yoshimo sat.

"Whether or not what you say is true," he said through compressed lips, "your country is going to get my invention—no one else—you have my word on that."

Baron Ioto Yoshimo's half-closed eyes widened, but he did not look at John Battle when next he spoke.

"Am I right, Mr. Battle, when I say that you have no love left in your heart for your own country?"

The other's face grew black. "I came here to discuss our business affairs, not my personal feelings."

"Excuse the impertinence," Yoshimo begged smoothly. "It is not idle curiosity. Your directors see an opportunity to make more money with your invention by selling it to another power than Japan, yet you do not care about this, so I judge you are not in this for money. I am really paying you a compliment. In this instance money would be the lowest of motives. Any other motive— hatred, for instance, a desire for revenge— would be a far nobler one."

John Battle, his whole body taut, struck the top of Yoshimo's desk with the flat of his hand.

"I said I didn't come here to discuss my personal feelings."

"Excuse it," Baron Yoshimo said softly. "I bring it up only to be reassured. I am making a shrewd guess, a guess, Mr. Battle, that you hate your country, hate it with the same passion that some people love theirs."

"What is that to you?" It was no more than a snarl. John Battle's face was distorted as though with excruciating pain.

"You want your invention to go to Japan," the baron went on unmoved, "because for some reason— one that I have never been able to understand—your countrymen look upon mine as their natural enemies."

Baron Ioto Yoshimo stood up. He fixed the man that stood across from him with his shiny black eyes. "So you want this invention, this marvelous product of your genius, to come to us in Japan because you think it will hurt your country more to know that you gave it to us rather than to your own country or even to Germany—or to Russia. Isn't that true?"

"What difference does it make to you as long as you get it?"

"I ask only to be reassured," Yoshimo said, again looking away. "If you tell me that I have surmised your motive correctly, then I will know that we will get this invention, no matter what any one else in your company does. I have great confidence in you. What is more, if it comes to a division of policy in your company, you may need me. I have great resources, as you know. I will stand by you, ready to help, in return for a simple answer." Once more Baron Yoshimo faced John Battle. "You hate your country, don't you?" he hissed softly.

John Battle stared beyond him, stared into the past and recollected the bitterest day of his life. After a long time he heard himself speak in a voice that seemed to be coming from a great distance.

"All right—have it your own way."

Chapter 3

The Wardrobe

JOHN BATTLE walked the  few blocks from the Yoshimo Trading Co.'s offices to his own in a shorter space of time than he had ever done the distance before. He was in a towering rage. Seme one in his own organization was betraying him, was carrying on secret negotiations behind his back. Casual pedestrians eyed him curiously as he elbowed his way along, his lips tight, his eyes dark and stormy. Occasionally he muttered something, rehearsing what he was going to say to Krausmeyer, to Garrett, to Kern and to Measley the minute he got to the office. He'd get to the bottom of this thing. He'd have an immediate show-down. True, he didn't control the company; the others had put up the money. He, Battle, hadn't any money. But it was his invention, and they needed him. He'd show them where they got off, if any one or all of them thought they could thwart him in carrying out what had come to be more than his life's work, a passionate obsession.

Gustaf Krausmeyer was a tall, thickset man with a large, heavy jowled face. He wore his hair closely cropped and went about with an ever jovial expression, his blue eyes twinkling, his thick lips always smiling. This constant air of geniality was, however, by no means a true indication of Mr. Krausmeyer's character. He put it on every morning in the same way that he donned his clothing, and had Mr. Krausmeyer found it expedient to cut his grandmother's throat —a matter of which he was quite capable— he would have done so without wiping the smile from his lips, any more than he would have thought of removing his immaculately tailored suit during the operation. Instead, his smile would probably have broadened. He might even have chuckled. Mr. Krausmeyer was most dangerous when he chuckled.

He looked up slowly from his desk as John Battle burst into his room and said, "Goot morning."

Without preamble, John Battle said, "I want you to call a meeting. There's a matter to discuss now."

Gustaf Krausmeyer scrutinized the other, his smile fixed, his eyes twinkling.

"Someding wrong at de factory? Was?"

"There's nothing wrong at the factory," John Battle barked. "But there is something decidedly wrong here."

Mr. Krausmeyer's expression remained unchanged.

"Someding has made you angry, ja?" he declared. "Dot is not goot. De general manager must not be disturbed. It is not goot for business. I will call de meeting now. We will have it in your room. I am de president, but you are de real boss. Ja, ja." He rose heavily to his feet and said, "Come," at the same time he clapped Battle soothingly on the back.

John Battle jerked his body away. He was in no mood to be patronized or patted on the back by Krausmeyer. He led the way to his own office.

The smile on Krausmeyer's face widened as he lumbered along behind him. He said again in his deep voice, "Ja, ja, you are de boss."

The offices of the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. were unpretentious. True, each member of the firm had his own private office, but the rooms were small, formed by cheap wooden partitions that went clear to the ceiling and so insured privacy. They were cheaply furnished and gloomy, facing as they did on a narrow court which, the building being old and poorly laid out, gave but little light. The outer office used by four clerks and the office boy, had no windows and was dependent entirely on artificial light. The general air of desolation and shabbiness seemed to have communicated itself to the very souls of the employees, a drab lot who seldom looked up from their tasks and never spoke unless it was absolutely necessary.

John Battle's office was at the farthest end. He went in first, holding the door briefly for Mr. Krausmeyer. His room was larger than any of the others. It had to be, because he needed more furniture. Besides the flat-topped oak desk and the half a dozen inexpensive office chairs it held a drawing table, a wardrobe, and a cabinet for the filing of blue prints. John Battle sat down and pressed a button.

Eddie, the office boy, a pimply-faced, emaciated lad, came in.

Mr. Krausmeyer said, "Like a goot boy, Eddie, go and ask Mr. Garrett and Mr. Kern and Mr. Measley to come here. Tell dem it's important. Dot's a good boy, Eddie."

If Eddie was flattered by being thus addressed by the president of the company, he failed to show it. His narrow face remained expressionless as he turned on his heel and went out.

Presently, Woolf Kern, followed by Sigmund Measley, came in.

Woolf Kern was a tall man, but not quite as tall as Krausmeyer, nor was there any of the latter's geniality in Kern's face. His eyes were quick and alert. He seemed at once furtive and apprehensive. His look of apprehension was not one of fear, rather the look of a man who wanted to be prepared for anything. He walked with a slight limp, the result of a wound acquired in the War.

Sigmund Measley was a head shorter than Kern, a thin, unpretentious figure with long, grayish hair neatly parted in the center and slicked down close. His yellow skin was so tightly drawn across his face as to reveal clearly the bone structure underneath. He was the sort

of individual who would look first at the papers on a man's desk and then at the man himself.

Woolf Kern's eyes went from Krausmeyer to Battle, then back again to Krausmeyer.

"What's up?" he demanded shortly.

"Mr. Battle wants to have a meeting," Krausmeyer explained. "Mr. Battle is mad about someding," he added in the tone of one who is indulging a precocious child.

Sigmund Measley's pale eyes came up from the desk for a quick glance at John Battle, then he looked away.

"Where is Mr. Garrett?" Gustaf Krausmeyer asked. "He should be here."

"He's not in to-day," Mr. Measley said. His voice was thin, reedy.

Krausmeyer turned in his chair and looked inquiringly at John Battle.

"You want to have de meeting anyway? Ja?"

The other nodded. He was gazing at Woolf Kern and Measley.

"Sit down, gentlemen," John snapped.

Little Measley jumped and sat down. Mr. Kern growled something under his breath, hooked a chair with his foot, drawing it over closer to John Battle's desk.

"Now," Gustaf Krausmeyer said, smiling, "wot's de trouble? Everyding's got to be straightened out. Everyding's got to be harmonious here."

John Battle went straight to the point.

"When I went in with you gentlemen," he said in icy tones, "it was agreed that if we could come to terms with the Japanese government, my invention was to go to them and to no one else. Wasn't it?" His eyes traveled around the group, coming to rest on Measley.

The little man shifted uneasily and began studying his finger nails. "Wasn't it?" Battle barked.

"Ja, ja," Krausmeyer agreed good-naturedly. "And why not? Japanese money is goot."

"Then how does it happen," John Battle demanded harshly, "that behind my back negotiations have been going on with another country, Germany, to be exact?"

There followed a moment's ominous silence.

Gustaf Krausmeyer, still smiling, began caressing his chin with his thick fingers. Woolf Kern, his legs stuck out in front of him, his hands in his pockets, was studying John Battle. Sigmund Measley exhibited a more intense interest in his nails, considering them from different angles.

After a while, Woolf Kern said, "Why should you care if we can make a better deal with some one else? You get your proportionate share."

John Battle leaned forward. "Then it is true?"

"I didn't say so," Kern said angrily. "But if it were, I frankly don't think it is any of your concern. Your job is to make the damn thing, to see that it works—ours is to sell it, to sell it for the most money. What the hell do you care where it goes?" A look of suspicion came into his eyes. "Say, why are you so dead set on having this go to Japan? You haven't—you haven't made a little deal on the side of your own?"

John Battle half rose in his chair, a look of uncontrolled fury on his face. Gustaf Krausmeyer, without moving or raising his voice, said, "Gentlemen, gentlemen, didn't I say everyding must be harmonious mit us? I'm surprised you should say a ding like dot, Mr. Kern."

Kern gave an angry toss to his head. "Well, why the devil is he so anxious to have it go to the Japs? What's the idea?"

John Battle sank back in his chair, his lips curled contemptuously. "I doubt whether you would be able to understand one of my reasons. The other is that on our behalf I entered into an agreement with Yoshimo, and it's got to be carried out."

Krausmeyer looked thoughtful. "I'm sure you got a goot reason, Mr. Battle. Not dot dot agreement means so much. Agreements like dot don't mean anyding. It's not in writing. They couldn't sue us. And if we could show you how we could make more money, you would listen to reason. Ja?"

John Battle, his face hard as granite, said, "There'll be no change in the original arrangements."

Mr. Measley stirred uncomfortably. "Perhaps the Japanese can be induced to raise their price," he ventured. "Then everybody will be satisfied."

"How about it, Battle?" Woolf Kern demanded in a more conciliatory tone.

Before John Battle could answer, Gustaf Krausmeyer said, "I don't dink dot would be possible. I don't dink dot would be edical."

Woolf Kern stared at him.

"Ethical? I suppose the other is," John Battle sneered.

Krausmeyer said nothing. Still smiling he let his eyes travel slowly around the room, studying each separate piece of furniture, until they came to rest on the wardrobe. After a time his gaze went back to John Battle.

"Now I dink it would be nice, Mr. Battle," he said, "if you left all dose dings to us. We're business men. We know all about dose dings. You're not. You're a genius."

John Battle shook his head angrily.

"You put all de blame on us," Krausmeyer went on. "If Yoshimo doesn't like it, you tell him you couldn't help it. We'll take all de blame. And you get more money, much more money. Ja?"

John Battle's hand came down on top of his desk with a bang. "It goes to Yoshimo, and that's final! Either that, or I won't go on with it!"

A heavy silence, oddly portentous, followed.

Little Measley opened his lips to speak, then shut them again without uttering a word. Woolf Kern drew back his lips, displaying strong, yellow teeth.

After a few minutes, Gustaf Krausmeyer said, "Dot would be too bad. Dot would be a katastrophe."

Again his twinkling eyes roved about the room and again they came to rest on the wardrobe. With his thick fingers he drummed thoughtfully on the arm of his chair. "We shouldn't come to a decision," he continued after a while, "widout Mr. Garrett. De matter is too important." And to Kern and Measley, "You boys go back to your rooms. Mr. Battle and I will have a little talk. Just we two. We will have a nice little talk, and everyding maybe will come out all right."

The two men rose. Woolf Kern turned back at the door. For a moment it looked as though he were going to give utterance to an angry thought as he glowered at John Battle, but he changed his mind and stalked out, followed by Measley.

Alone with Battle, Krausmeyer got up and began to wander aimlessly about the room. Eventually he came to a halt beside Battle's desk.

"You should be reasonable, my boy," he said. "You should be sympadetic."

"What's sympathy got to do with it?"

"Mow dose two boys, Kern and Measley, dey're goot boys, but all dey dink about is money. Mit you and me and Garrett, too, maybe, it's different. We got our edics. Money isn't everyding—"

"I don't know what you're driving at."

"Now you got a goot reason, Mr. Battle. You want dis ding to go to Japan because you gave Yoshimo your word. Dot's a goot reason. But if you can't keep it, dot lets you out. Me, I got a goot reason, too— a better reason. Dot's wot I meant when I say you should have sympady."

John Battle shifted irritably in his chair. "What the devil are you trying to say?" he demanded harshly.

"You wasn't in the War," Gustaf Krausmeyer said. "You was too young. But I was."

John Battle rose and confronted Krausmeyer. He was as tall as the latter. Their eyes were on a level. John Battle, his manner unyielding, his expression stubborn, said:

"Listen, Krausmeyer, I'm not sympathetic; I've forgotten how to be sympathetic. Whether or not you were in the War doesn't interest me. The fact that we can make more money by breaking our agreement with the Yoshimo Trading Co. doesn't interest me. I made a deal with Yoshimo, and we're gonna stick to it—till heil freezes over!"

Nothing in Gustaf Krausmeyer's face changed except that his smile broadened. "So-o," he said. "So-o."

He turned away from Battle and made for the door. As he passed the wardrobe he stopped as if his eye had caught something unexpected. He stooped down, ran his index finger along the lower edge of the closet. A puzzled expression came into his face. He held his finger for Battle to see. "Wot's dot?" he asked.

"What's what?"

"It looks like blood."

John Battle frowned, then went over to the wardrobe. He did as Krausmeyer had done, ran his finger along the bottom. It came away a dark muddy red. He stared at Krausmeyer.

"What does it mean?" he said.

"You should know," Krausmeyer answered. "It's your wardrobe."

John Battle seized hold of the knob and tried to open the door; it wouldn't budge. It was locked and there was no key in the lock. A sudden, inexplicable feeling of apprehension seized him. He again stared at Krausmeyer.

Krausmeyer was smiling, a brittle sort of smile, like glass.

John Battle went to the drawing table and pulled open the drawer. There was a small claw hammer inside. He came back with it and inserted the claw in the edge of the door and yanked. It was a flimsy lock and the door gave way easily, springing wide open.

Involuntarily John Battle fell back a step. An inarticulate cry came from his lips.

There, a rope around his neck, dangling from a hook at the top, was the body of Martin Garrett! It was a ghastly sight. His head was lolling to one side; his body was swaying gently, set in motion, no doubt, by Battle's assault on the door. There was a dagger protruding from his breast, a Malay creese which John Battle recognized instantly as his own. There was no doubt that Garrett was dead.

John Battle stood rooted to the spot. He turned his head and looked at Krausmeyer.

The big German grinned back at him, then he went and locked the door that led to the outer office. He came back and said:

"Dis is bad business, Mr. Battle. Ja, it is very bad." His solemn tone presented a strange contrast to his expression.

"You don't think I had anything to do with this?" Battle asked, his eyes burning fiercely.

Krausmeyer shrugged. "Wot I dink doesn't matter. It's wot the police will dink—unless we can do someding. Maybe we can get rid of de body. Ja, dot would be best, to get rid of de body, to hush it all up."

John Battle stared at him, speechless, for a minute, then he shouted, "Damn you! What are you trying to do?"

Krausmeyer shut the door of the closet gently.

"We do noding till to-night after every one is gone. Den I get some one to help us."

John Battle remained silent, standing there rigid like a figure of stone, though he had a feeling that he was swaying; a sensation of dizziness threatened to make him collapse. He wanted to move and couldn't. There was something he wanted to do, yet didn't know quite what. Then it came to him, but it seemed ages before his legs responded to the dictates of his brain. He turned slowly and walked stiffly like a man in his sleep to his desk and picked up the telephone.

Krausmeyer said, "Wot are you going to do?"

Through compressed lips John Battle said, "I'm going to call the police."

Chapter 4

The Investigation

THE police came, headed by a medium-sized, stocky individual with a squarish face and large round lackluster eyes. He wore an aged derby and held the butt of a cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. Followed by his men, he ambled into John Battle's room as though he had all the time in the world.

"I'm Sergeant Ponder," he said. "C. O. Ponder from headquarters."

John Battle, sitting at his desk, his bearing tight, expectant, nodded.

"My name is Battle. This is Mr. Measley, Mr. Kern, and Mr. Krausmeyer."

Measley and Kern said nothing but Krausmeyer, grinning faintly, said:

"C. O. Ponder? Dot's funny. You're a—"

"Yeah, I know," C. O. Ponder broke in wearily. "My initials spell cop. It's a scream. I laugh every time somebody points it out to me. Now, if my last name had been Dugan instead of Ponder, my initials would spell cod, and if I was in the fish business, instead of being a policeman, it would even be funnier. Where's the body?"

"In there," John Battle said, indicating the wardrobe.

Sergeant Ponder evinced no surprise, and stepped over to the wardrobe as though there was nothing unusual about a dead man being in a closet. He opened the door and at the same time, over his shoulder, gave instructions to one of his men.

"See what you can learn, Lipschitz, in the office outside. Maybe you can solve the case all by yourself."

Lipschitz, a plain-clothes man, grinned and went out.

C. O. Ponder devoted his attention to the ghastly dangling figure of Martin Garrett in the wardrobe. He made no move to touch the body, just stood there staring at it long and earnestly. Eventually he said:

"All right, boys, take a picture, then cut him down and put him over there in the corner. See what you can do in the way of finger prints. And you, doc"—turning to a short, fussy little man with a black bag, an assistant medical examiner— "give me an idea how long he's been dead, and all the rest of it."

To the four members of the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp., Sergeant Ponder seemed singularly unimpressive. He came back into their midst, took a chair, tilted his slightly greenish derby far back on his head and, without removing the stump of his black cigar, said, "Let's have it." He looked straight at the white, drawn face of John Battle.

"Mr. Krausmeyer here," John Battle said, "is the president of our firm; Mr. Kern is first vice president; Mr. Measley is the secretary, and I am the second vice president and general manager. The dead man is Martin Garrett. He was our treasurer."

"Whose room is this?" C. O. Ponder asked.

"It's mine," John Battle said, and stopped. After a time he added harshly, "And that dagger, the dagger that killed him, is mine, too."

C. O. Ponder said nothing. He removed his dead cigar, knocked the ashes off on the sole of his shoe and relit it.

"Maybe," he said after a time, "maybe he wasn't killed by the dagger. Maybe he was hanged and the dagger stuck into him afterwards. Let's have the rest of the dope."

John Battle told him how they had discovered the body; how they had been under the impression that Garrett hadn't come in that morning. No one in the outer office had seen him come in. None of the members of the firm had seen him. He was either murdered the previous night, before he had left the office, or else had arrived that morning before any one else and had been killed. No, he had no idea as to why any one should want to kill Garrett; knew of no one who could gain by his death; knew of no possible motive.

Sergeant Ponder apparently was not greatly interested. True, he asked endless, meaningless questions; questions that led nowhere, such as, how many people the firm employed; the addresses of the various members of the firm. Was Garrett married? And learned that he was, but that his wife was dead, and that he had a daughter. Ponder instructed one of his men to call up Garrett's house from the outer office and request Garrett's daughter to come down. "Maybe she can tell us something," he said with ingenuous hopefulness. He turned away and for a moment surveyed the activities of his men.

The body of Garrett had been taken down and placed on the floor. The dagger had been removed. One man was busy testing it for finger prints. Two others were similarly occupied with the door of the wardrobe. The medical examiner was on his knees bending over the dead Garrett.

Lipschitz came in.

"What they know out there you couldn't write a book about," he reported. "You couldn't write even a letter— a note. To talk to them, it's a waste of time."

"Nice work," C. O. Ponder said. "What I like about you, Lipschitz, is that you never find out anything. Some detectives find out things that only make the case harder. Now, with you, it's different."

Lipschitz looked aggrieved.

The man who had been examining the dagger came over. He was holding if gingerly between his thumb and forefinger.

"There are a lot of prints on this, sergeant," he said, "but they're all the same, all made by one man."

C. O. Ponder studied the stump of his cigar regretfully. It was down two inches. Then he turned slowly and fixed John Battle with his round, expressionless eyes.

"They're mine, of course," John Battle said harshly. "I told you the dagger—it's a Malay creese—belongs to me. I use it every day to open letters. Sometimes I use it to remove thumb tacks from the drawing board."

"How long have you had it?" the sergeant asked casually.

"For years. I picked it up in Singapore while on a cruise."

"What kind of a cruise?"

"Just a cruise," John Battle answered, as if annoyed.

C. O. Ponder remained silent for a short time, then:

"I'm kind of dumb. Little things interest me. Was any one with you on this cruise?"

"A lot of people— hundreds of people. What difference does it make?" John Battle's voice broke.

"What kind of a ship was it?" the sergeant asked phlegmatically. He appeared not to notice John Battle.

The latter had suddenly stiffened. It looked for a moment as if he would refuse point-blank to answer. Oddly enough, there was bitterness in his face.

"It was a battleship," he ground out at last.

At that, C. O. Ponder seemed to lose interest. He turned to the medical examiner.

"What's the dope, doc?"

The doctor straightened up. "From the brief examination that I've been able to make, I should say that the man has been dead at least twelve hours, perhaps longer. He was stabbed first and then hung up. I think it's safe to say that he died instantly from the dagger thrust."

"Anything else?"

The doctor looked mysterious. He stepped close to C. O. Ponder and whispered in his ear:

"He's got something stuck between the fingers of his right hand. I left it there for you to see."

The sergeant went over and knelt down beside the dead man. He took his time about it. Garrett's hands were open; they weren't clenched. Between the second and third fingers Ponder saw a small black object. The dead man's fingers were stiff, close together, and the sergeant's own fingers being thick and stumpy, he had some difficulty in getting what he sought. When at last he managed to dislodge the object, he discovered it to be a button, an ordinary button, such as might have come off a man's coat.

C. O. Ponder got to his feet, and with his back to the others, stood for a moment looking at the thing in his hand, then he went to the wardrobe and peered inside. There were no clothes there. He came back and studied the four men he had just examined. John Battle was still sitting at his desk, staring broodingly into space. Sigmund Measley was standing with his back to the window. He looked frightened. Woolf Kern stood next to him, his flexible mouth curled into a sneer, a sneer which the sergeant surmised was for him. Gustaf Krausmeyer was perched on top of the cabinet that held the blue prints. He was dangling his left leg to and fro. He was smiling, but there was a look of keen interest in his eyes. Sergeant Ponder wasn't interested in their facial expressions. He was interested in their clothes. If a button were missing-

He turned away—there was no button missing—and beckoned to one of his men, the one who had been busily but unobtrusively taking notes and was, therefore, in possession of the home addresses of the four men. Ponder gave the detective some instructions. The latter nodded and disappeared.

C. O. Ponder went back to where John Battle and the others were. He stood there for a time without looking at them, just kept flipping that button up and down in the palm of his hand. After a while he put it down on the desk in front of John Battle.

"Ever see that before?" His unreadable eyes traveled slowly from one to the other.

Battle stared at the thing. Sigmund Measley looked down at his coat, so did Woolf Kern. It was an involuntary gesture, having no special significance. Krausmeyer stood motionless, smiling. After a time, John Battle said:

"I don't know. It looks like a button from some one's coat. I might have seen it on anybody without realizing it." There were sharp little creases over the bridge of his nose.

"It's a clew, is it?" Woolf Kern sneered. "Something you combed out of Garrett's hair, I suppose." The whole business, especially this Ponder with his lethargic ways and his evil-smelling cigar butt, was getting under his skin.

Sergeant Ponder picked up the button and stuffed it into his vest pocket.

"It's a clew, all right," he declared affably. "And I didn't comb ft out of his hair. I found him holding it between his second and third fingers." He removed his cigar and studied it long and pensively; then he held it up for them to see; then made an astounding observation. "You know, it's a funny thing. The clew lies not with the button itself, but in this cigar— well, maybe not this particular cigar, but in any cigar."

They stared at him nonplused while the policeman who had been stationed in the outer office came in.

"She's here, sergeant," he said. "Miss Garrett."

"Does she know?"

The policeman looked uncomfortable.

"She figured something was wrong," he explained hesitantly, "and I kind of hinted around, but I didn't have the nerve to tell her he's dead."

Sergeant Ponder nodded understanding; then he went over to the chair on which he had flung his overcoat when he had first entered, picked it up and covered the body on the floor with it as best he could.

"Let her come in," he instructed the policeman.

Ann Garrett was slender, with dark, fluffy hair and bright, luminous eyes. She carried herself well and betrayed no sign of the apprehension she felt. She searched the faces of the men, as though trying to determine whom she should address.

For once there was some expression in C. O. Ponder's face. He appeared decidedly distressed, obviously not relishing the task of breaking the news to this girl. A little awkwardly he placed a chair for her, saying, "Sit down, Miss Garrett."

"Something's happened to my father. What is it?" Her glance crept slowly from one to the other, meeting only averted faces and receiving no answer. She turned back to Ponder. Her lips quivered for the fraction of an instant; then tonelessly, "Is he—is he dead?"

Sergeant Ponder nodded silently.

Once more her eyes traveled about the room until they came to rest at the body lying on the floor. She rose to her feet, walked steadily to where her father lay, knelt down and drew back the sergeant's overcoat, remaining there for a long time, looking down on Martin Garrett's upturned face. At last she replaced the coat gently. She rose, stood where she was, surveying them all. She was dry-eyed, self-contained, but her grief was apparent and far more poignant because of the way she held on to herself. After a while she murmured to Ponder:

"Murdered?"

Without looking up, C. O. Ponder said, "Yes."

She turned away, looked at John Battle, at Measley, at Krausmeyer, and longest at Woolf Kern. Slowly she walked up to the last.

"Are you Mr. Battle?"

Woolf Kern stared at her. It seemed ages before he made up his mind to say, "No." With a motion of his head he indicated where John Battle sat.

She faced about until her glance centered squarely on John Battle. C. O. Ponder watching her, saw the trim figure grow taut, her small hands clench and her dark eyes fill with anger or hatred, he wasn't quite sure which. "You—" she said to John Battle, then stopped as if unable to go on with what she had in mind. She swayed a little and Ponder thought that at last she was going to break. He went over to her quickly, took hold of her arm gently and said, "Sit down. Miss Garrett. There are a few questions I have to ask you. This is a mean way for you to have heard the news. I'm sorry."

She recovered herself instantly and took the chair he indicated. He took another facing her.

"I'm from headquarters—" he began, then broke off abruptly. It just came to him that he was still wearing his derby. He removed it hastily and perched it on his knee, conscious that he was blushing like a schoolgirl. "Excuse it," he said sheepishly, and then deliberately trying to inject a lighter note to get her mind off the tragedy, he added, "If you ever meet Mrs. Ponder, don't tell her, will you? She'd lay me out for a thing like this."

Ann Garrett smiled wanly.

"That's better," C. O. Ponder said. "I won't keep you long. I was just wondering if maybe you could tell me something that might give me an idea as to what or who is responsible for this—this tragedy."

Minutes went by before she spoke, then slowly and evenly she said, "Yes, I think I can."

A hush fell over the room.

Gustaf Krausmeyer, who was in the act of lighting a cigar, stopped and was only recalled to himself when the flame of the match burned his fingers. He dropped it and stepped on it. Woolf Kern moistened his dry lips. Sigmund Measley was rubbing one moist palm against the other. John Battle sat grimly silent, motionless, never taking his eyes off the girl. The two men still busy with the finger-print tests on the wardrobe turned and glanced at her.

The silence was broken at last by the doctor who had finished and was putting away his instruments.

"I'll be getting along," he said. "I suppose you'll want a quick autopsy?"

"Yes," C. O. Ponder said absently, without looking at him. Like Battle he was gazing fixedly at Ann Garrett. To her he said, "You were saying that you had something to tell me."

"Yes," she declared simply. "It is something my father said—said in his sleep."

Ponder's dull eyes widened. "Tch-tch. Something he said in his sleep," he murmured a trifle dubiously. "What was it?"

"Up to a few months ago," she explained, "my father was a very sound sleeper. I was generally up at night much later than he, and since my bedroom is across the hall from his, I would have known if that hadn't been so. But one night as I was about to retire I heard him moaning softly. I heard the bed creak as he tossed about. I thought perhaps he was ill, and went inside. He was sound asleep. But he was tossing about and mumbling unintelligible words. I thought he was having a bad nightmare, and woke him up. I asked him if anything was the matter. He said, 'Nothing, nothing. I was just having a bad dream.' The same thing happened several times during that week. Something was preying on his mind, something that had made such a deep impression on him that it even troubled his sleep.

"I made it a practice after that to sleep with my door open with the idea of waking him whenever his nightmares got too awful. For a while it seemed to me that there was never a night when he didn't go through the most ghastly tortures while he slept. I used to listen, trying to make out what he was saying, hoping to find a clew that would enable me to help him. He always denied, whenever I asked him, that anything was wrong. Finally I suggested that he take some sleeping powders, and he did for a while and things went better. Then he gave up taking them, and it was as bad as before." She stopped, turned, and looked for a moment steadily at John Battle.

"And then," C. O. Ponder suggested gently.

"And then two nights ago," she went on, "I was awakened in the middle of the night by my father. He had turned on the switch in my room, and was standing there— sound asleep. Suddenly, in a terrified voice, he cried out, 'Battle will kill me!'"

Chapter 5

The Arrest

ALL eyes fastened themselves on John Battle. He half rose in his chair, bracing himself with his fists on top of his desk. His knuckles showed white. His face was ashen. His eyes were burning as he glared at the girl.

"Miss Garrett, who told you to say that?" he rasped.

She spun around, facing him squarely.

"Nobody told me to say it," she flashed at him. "I have told what I heard my father say, and he's dead, and he's been murdered in your office."

The lines of strain in John Battle's face deepened. His lips moved as though he were about to give voice to something else, then he dropped back in his chair without a word.

Gustaf Krausmeyer came over.

He placed one of his thick hands on Battle's shoulder.

"Now don't get excided, Chon. Maybe Mr. Garrett did say it, but dot don't mean anyding. He was asleep. Miss Garrett she says herself he was asleep. Dot's so, isn't it, sergeant?"

To Ann Garrett, C. O. Ponder said, "You're sure that's what your father said? Those were his exact words?"

She nodded.

"Did you ask him at any time later what he had meant by saying such a thing?"

Before she could answer, a detective whom the sergeant had sent on an errand some time ago came in. He carried a bundle under his arm, a bundle which he placed in C. O. Ponder's lap, at the same time bending down and whispering to him.

Sergeant Ponder waved him away and pulled on his cigar. It was cold. What was more, it was too short to light without burning his fingers. With great deliberation he produced the inevitable pin from the lapel of his coat. By holding the pin between his thumb and forefinger and impaling the stump on the end of it, he was enabled to light and enjoy it further. After blowing a few poisonous clouds into the air, C. O. Ponder undid the package the detective had brought. It proved to contain a coat. Sergeant Ponder held it up, looked at it curiously. He looked into the inside pocket for the tailor's label.

"I didn't think you wanted the pants and vest," the detective who had brought the coat was saying.

C. O. Ponder ignored him. He was looking directly at John Battle.

"I sent a man out," Ponder said laconically, "with instructions to visit the various homes of you gentlemen. Maybe that was a little irregular, but I did it. The idea was to see if he could find a coat with a button missing. He found it at the first place he went to—your apartment, Mr. Battle."

John Battle was breathing hard. The arms of his chair creaked, he held them so tightly.

"This is the coat of one of your suits, isn't it, Mr. Battle? It's got your name on the tailor's label on the inside pocket."

John Battle, his voice hollow, said, "Yes, it is my coat."

The sergeant went and spread it out on the desk in front of him. "Take a look," he said. It was a double-breasted coat. The lower right-hand button was not present. C. O. Ponder dug into his vest pocket, fished out the button he had taken from the dead hand of Martin Garrett and placed it alongside of one of the other buttons. "Would you say they matched, Mr. Battle?"

"Yes, they match," John Battle said through clenched teeth.

Sergeant Ponder stuck the button back into his vest pocket. He threw the coat to the detective who had brought it. Then he went back to his chair, sat down and took a few thoughtful puffs. When he spoke it was with even more than his customary deliberation.

"The dead man, Mr. Battle, was found in your private office. He'd been stabbed with a dagger that you admit belongs to you. It's got your finger prints on the handle and no one else's. I find a button between the dead man's fingers. That button has come off your coat. You admit it yourself. Miss Garrett heard her father say—he was asleep, that's true—'Battle will kill me.' Now, any one of those things by itself doesn't mean much. But you take them all together, well—"

"Well?" It sounded like two rocks being crushed together.

"There's only one thing I can do," said C. O. Ponder almost apologetically.

"You said the button in itself hadn't much significance," John Battle rasped desperately. "You said something about it having to do something with a cigar. Does that fit in, too?"

Sergeant Ponder looked about for an ash tray and, having found it, flicked the last tiny remnant of his butt regretfully off the pin. He stuck the pin back into his coat lapel; then:

"You already know all the evidence I've got. Leave me a little something—for the trial." He looked at his overcoat covering the dead Garrett and decided to leave it there for the time being. "We might as well get going," he added.

John Battle rose. His face was white, the lines in it like rough hewn gashes. For a moment he turned and looked at his associates—into Woolf Kern's dark, scowling features, into the frightened face of Measley, into the heavy features of Gustaf Krausmeyer, still smiling thickly—then he went and picked up his overcoat and hat from the chair, where he had thrown them.

"Just a minute, inspecdor, or sergeant, or wodever you are," Krausmeyer suddenly broke forth, "you are making a big misdake. Mr. Battle wouldn't do such a ding. It's just a coincidence— dese dings."

C. O. Ponder looked at him solemnly. "Maybe you're right," he said; and to Battle, "Ready? I guess you and I can go to the D. A.'s office just by ourselves. We won't need any of the boys. They can stay here and finish up. We won't need any handcuffs or anything like that. We'll just take a taxi. In case what I'm doing is a mistake, I'll pay the fare."

Eddie, the pimply-faced office boy, watched them going side by side through the outer office and waited till he was reasonably sure that they had gone down in the elevator, then Eddie, without taking his hat or coat, himself went out. He lingered a few minutes in the hall; then he pushed the elevator button.

Out in the street Eddie looked cautiously right and left. There was no sign of John Battle or the sergeant. There was a small lunchroom half a block away to which Eddie made his way hastily. He entered a phone booth, closed the door tight, then inserting a nickel, he dialed a number. When he got his connection he would be in direct contact with the office of the Yoshimo Trading Co., but on a wire which did not go through the switchboard of that company. Eddie waited. Presently a guttural voice said:

"Hello."

Eddie shivered; he said, "This is G 12-21."

The guttural voice said, "This is X 42-3."

Eddie said, "No go."

The voice said, "Excuse it, please. I meant this is X 48-3."

Eddie in his thin, quavering voice, said, "That's no good, either. Do you want me to ring off?"

The guttural voice said, "I am glad to note that you are discreet, G 12-21. This is X 58-3."

"Now you're talking," Eddie said. His tone was flippant, but his manner extremely nervous. "Mr. Martin Garrett was murdered in the office. Martin Garrett is the treasurer."

"I know who Martin Garrett is," the voice at the other end said peremptorily. "Don't waste words."

"They've taken Mr. Battle away for murdering him," Eddie explained hastily.

"Anything else?"

"No," Eddie replied. He felt cold. He should have worn his coat, but then those in the office would have known that he was going out.

"Report again when anything new develops," the guttural voice directed.

A click at the other end told Eddie that the conversation was over.

Chapter 6

The Hearing

JOHN BATTLE was arraigned in court the following morning.

He sat at a long table with his attorney, Phil Barton, beside him. Two plain-clothes men sat directly in back, keeping a wary eye on John Battle. Over to the left at another table a young but experienced assistant district attorney— Bertrand Randall—had taken his place. This wasn't an important hearing; it would only be a matter of mere routine. All that Randall had to do was to cite the evidence against Battle, and ask that he be held on a short affidavit. He would be held, and in due course the grand jury would indict him. The whole thing was a formality to be handled impersonally and with a chilling lack of interest on every one's part except on the part of John Battle. His Honor, Magistrate van Loomis, had not yet put in an appearance.

In an undertone Phil Barton said to Battle, "I am telling you again, Battle, that I'm not the right lawyer for you. I don't know anything about criminal law. I'm just a little corporation lawyer. I don't know the procedure here. What you need is some big shot; some one who can make a showing and impress the magistrate sufficiently to let you out on bail."

John Battle laughed mirthlessly. "I told you," he said, "I haven't any money. I don't even know when I can pay you." Then he lapsed into silence, half closing his sunken eyes. He didn't want to think; he had spent a sleepless night thinking; and yet his mind even now refused to give him any rest. What an incredible situation! For the second time in his life within a few short years something unbelievable was happening to him. The first time Fate had seen fit to destroy his career, his spirit, his very soul. And now Fate seemed bent on destroying his very life. That couldn't be just chance. Some human agency was directing the malign forces arrayed against him. The first time perhaps had been chance, but now—and yet he hadn't an enemy as far as he knew, not a real enemy, any one who would wish utterly to destroy him.

For a moment his thoughts were distracted by leisurely heavy steps. That detective. Sergeant Ponder, who had arrested him, was coming in and taking his place beside Randall, the assistant district attorney. No doubt he was there to give evidence. John Battle looked wearily about the room.

It wasn't crowded—just a few idlers, a shifty-eyed individual in the back between two men who were obviously police officers; another prisoner, probably. Farther to the right, a few young men were cracking jokes. Presently two of them came over. They were reporters. They spoke to Phil Barton without much enthusiasm, wanting to know if he had anything for their papers. Who was his client? What was the nature of the case? And so forth, and so forth.

Phil Barton turned to John Battle. "Want to make a statement?"

John Battle said, "No."

The reporters shrugged and drifted over to the district attorney's table. But he also had little to say; it was obvious that he considered that there wasn't much news value in having John Battle held for the murder of Martin Garrett. The two reporters returned to their companions and went on with their spicy stories.

Presently a voice said, "All rise."

His Honor, Magistrate van Loomis, came in. He made his way to the bench in stately fashion, like a full-rigged ship under sail, paused for a moment to look about the room, striving to combine in his round features an expression of benevolence, of mercy, and stern justice; an expression which he had practiced before the mirror when his appointment was imminent.

The clerk went through the reading of the calendar; various trifling matters were disposed of. A bail bond was submitted and accepted. All of which John Battle heard as though in a dream, and even when Assistant District Attorney Randall was on his feet, reciting in a monotonous, dreary tone the evidence against John Battle and his reasons for asking that the defendant be held for the grand jury, it took some time before John Battle realized that his own case was on. It seemed incredible that so little fuss should be made about the matter. Here he was accused of murder, and yet no one seemed particularly interested, least of all, his honor, who, so far, beyond his original nod to the district attorney to proceed, hadn't even looked up, was busy scribbling on a paper in front of him. A feeling of utter helplessness overcame John Battle, that it was all a formality, that he had absolutely no say in the affair. They were just going ahead with their deadly routine, and it would go on and on like this, and weeks hence, perhaps months, he would be tried and—convicted. He looked at his lawyer.

"There's still time," Phil Barton whispered. "I can ask them for an hour's postponement or so. I can try and get you somebody, somebody that knows the ropes here, knows how to handle this thing. At that it mightn't do any good; this kid's making out quite a case against you."

"What's the use?" John Battle said dully.

The assistant district attorney had finished and sat down. His Honor, Magistrate van Loomis, threw a disinterested glance in John Battle's direction, a glance which the latter interpreted to mean, "I'll hear what you have got to say, but it won't do you any good."

Phil Barton rose. He was visibly embarrassed and out of his element.

"If your honor please," he began, "in view of the fact that my client is a reputable citizen—" he stopped and involuntarily looked at the assistant district attorney. In his face he read instantly what the verdict would be. Assistant District Attorney Randall, despite his youth, had presented quite a number of these cases and he was serenely sure that nothing that this unknown lawyer, representing the defendant, could say would alter the outcome of the hearing.

Phil Barton started to resume, then stopped and turned around. Behind him had come the sound of steps, not the muffled sort of steps one expects to hear of a person coming into court while it is in session, but a firm, very deliberate tread.

His honor, a look of displeasure on his judicial features, looked up; then his expression changed. His face became wreathed in smiles. He motioned Phil Barton to sit down and beckoned to the man who had just entered in his most gracious manner.

Phil Barton sat down, at the same time nudging his client.

The man who was coming down the aisle was a tall, broad-shouldered individual with statesmanlike features, crowned by a wealth of silvery gray hair. His manner was easy, immensely assured.

His honor said, "Good morning, Brother Gore. What brings you down here?"

"It's Peter J. Gore," Phil Barton whispered, "the greatest criminal lawyer in New York—in the country."

At the back where the reporters were lolling a buzz of interest rose. One of them said, "I wonder what Gore is doing down here. Believe me, boys, when he comes into a magistrate's court he's slumming. Even when he's got a big case he doesn't appear in a preliminary hearing in person. He sends some one from his office. If he's here defending somebody, it will be a senator at least."

His honor rapped with his gavel to still the buzzing in the back rows, then turned an attentive ear to the great Peter J. Gore.

Mr. Gore was saying, "I regret having been delayed, your honor." For some reason he had backed away a few steps from the bench until he was standing quite close to Phil Barton. "My talk with the district attorney has detained me somewhat."

One of the reporters poked a fellow reporter in the ribs. "That's the way with these big guys," he said from the back of his hand. "They go to the D. A.'s office, fix it up with him, and then they come into court. I wonder who he's appearing for."

"May I ask that the minutes of what has gone before be read?" Mr. Gore went on in his impressively soft tones.

His honor nodded graciously. He was no longer preoccupied. He was all attention. It wouldn't do to offend the great Gore, the big man of his honor's own party.

In a droning voice the stenographer read off the minutes.

He was almost through with them before John Battle realized the unbelievable thing that was happening; the stenographer was reading the minutes of his, John Battle's, case. He turned to Phil Barton and said, "What does it mean?"

Phil Barton looked bewildered. He cast a suspicious glance at his client and was convinced that John Battle was as much in the dark as he himself.

"The great Gore is here in person to defend you!" he whispered. "An angel must have sent him."

John Battle looked incredulous, and yet—

The reading of the minutes had been concluded. Peter J. Gore gave Assistant District Attorney Randall a condescending glance, then looked at his honor as though to say, "We mustn't blame these young district attorneys. They're ambitious. Of course, there's no case against my client."

His honor nodded faintly, ever so faintly, in agreement with the unspoken words, but he said nothing, being quite sure that Mr. Gore would shortly show him his way out. The case against this Battle, of whom his honor had never heard, was far stronger than the cases against nine men out of ten whom he had held for the grand jury, and for the sake of the record he must not show any favoritism— if it could be avoided.

Peter Gore was saying, "Mr. Battle, my client, is a reputable citizen, a man of vast affairs—"

Almost the identical words with which Phil Barton had begun, but how different, how infinitely more impressive they sounded coming from Peter J. Gore. The whole atmosphere in the courtroom had changed in the twinkling of an eye. People were looking with interest, more than that, with respect at John Battle. Even his honor ventured one quick benevolent glance in his direction. This Battle, if he could retain Gore, must really be a man of importance. The reporters began to scribble furiously. Assistant District Attorney Randall suddenly sat forward in his chair, galvanized into action by the realization that this was to be no cut-and-dried proceeding. This was important. Here was a chance for some of that long coveted publicity that could be the making of an intelligent district attorney. He was on his feet the instant that Mr. Gore had concluded, shouting his objections vociferously, repleading his case, and discovered that instead of having a friend in his honor, he had a distinctly hostile magistrate to contend with.

"Please don't shout, Mr. District Attorney," said his honor icily. "And may I remind you that the court is most capable of deciding for itself the weight of your evidence?"

Young Randall bit his lip. But he kept on stoutly. He might go down, but he'd go down fighting, and he would give the great Gore, who so obviously had captured the sympathy of the magistrate, something to worry about.

"Before your honor comes to a decision," he said, "I ask that I may be permitted to place the police officer who made the arrest on the stand. I think I should have the privilege of doing this in the interests of justice-"

"The interests of justice have always been served in this court," his honor declared even more frigidly. "You may put the witness on the stand." Whereupon his honor proceeded to set himself ready to express by his demeanor incredulity at everything that this policeman would have to say.

C. O. Ponder looked just a trifle uncomfortable on the stand. This, however, was apparently due only to the fact that he wasn't permitted to wear his derby and that he was obliged to be without his inevitable cigar butt. Now and then he would unconsciously reach for his lips, forgetting that there was no cigar there.

"The murder weapon," young Randall began after the preliminary identifying questions had been concluded, "was a Malay creese. Will you, sergeant, as an officer of long experience in homicide cases, be good enough to tell the court what significance you attach to the fact that there were no other finger prints, besides those of the defendant, on the hilt of the dagger?"

"I would say," C. O. Ponder said slowly, "that any one who had worn gloves could have used that dagger to kill Martin Garrett."

The assistant district attorney looked at his witness aghast. Of all the dumb answers! But he rallied hastily.

"On the other hand, you could also draw from that the inference that the defendant was the one and the only one who had used the dagger in committing the murder, couldn't you?"

"If you wanted to," said the sergeant laconically.

Assistant District Attorney Randall took no pains to hide his disgust.

"Just answer yes or no," he said testily. "Now on the day that the murder was discovered, the defendant wore a hat and overcoat when he came into his office, and instead of going to the wardrobe and hanging up his coat and hat. as would be only natural, he left them on a chair. Would you, in the light of your experience, attach any special significance to that?"

Mr. Gore was instantly ready to interpose an objection, but he saw a peculiar whimsical expression now creeping into C. O. Ponder's face, and he shrewdly withheld his comments, waiting to see what trend the witness's answer would take.

"In the light of my experience," said Sergeant Ponder, "or maybe I ought to say in the light of Mrs. Ponder's experience, it is more natural for a man to throw his hat and coat onto a chair than to hang them up in a closet where they belong."

The assistant district attorney purpled with indignation. His own witness was betraying him. His Honor, Magistrate van Loomis, chuckled. John Battle gazed curiously at C. O. Ponder. It almost seemed as if the latter were going out of his way to help him.

"You found one of the defendant's coats, did you not?" Randall demanded sharply.

"One of my men did," Ponder qualified.

"And there was a button missing on that coat, was there not?"

"There was."

"And the button which you found clutched in the dead man's hand was identical with the buttons on that coat— the defendant's coat— wasn't it?"

"The button wasn't clutched in the dead man's hand," Sergeant Ponder declared bluntly. "It was stuck between his second and third fingers."

"All right, all right," Randall said exasperatedly, "it was stuck between his second and third fingers. But it was unquestionably the button that was missing from the coat?"

"I can't testify as to that," C. O. Ponder said carefully. "It matched the other buttons, but it is just an ordinary button. There must be thousands of buttons like that on thousands of—"

"Please don't make speeches," the assistant district attorney cut in.

He paused for a moment's consideration, then stepped up in front of the witness and asked sarcastically, "Did you have any reason for arresting the defendant, or was it just a passing whim?"

His honor turned and favored Randall with a look of displeasure.

"It seems to me, Mr. District Attorney, that you are attempting to impeach your own witness. I won't permit you to do that."

"I don't know what I'm expected to do under the circumstances," Randall said, choking with wrath. "If the police department won't cooperate—"

His honor stopped him with a look and turned expectantly to Peter J. Gore.

"It must be obvious to your honor," the great Gore said, "that there is not one scintilla of real evidence against my client. No case whatsoever has been made out, and it must have struck your honor as especially significant that no motive of any kind for the murder has been advanced. That in itself ought to be sufficient to stigmatize the whole proceeding as puerile, outrageous, unworthy of your honor's consideration. But, if your honor has the slightest doubt, let me say that I am here prepared to put up any amount of bail guaranteeing my client's future appearances. A representative of the bonding company is in court."

John Battle was completely bewildered. What mysterious agency was active behind the scenes, interceding on his behalf? Who had arranged, not only for the great Gore to represent him, but also arranged for his bail as well, bail that might run to such a huge sum as fifty or a hundred thousand dollars? He stared at Peter J. Gore, but that gentleman wasn't looking at him. He was sitting majestically with his arms folded, giving all his attention to the magistrate.

His honor was clearing his throat. His face was a picture of benevolence. He was beaming not only on Peter J. Gore, the spectators, the reporters, but on John Battle, too. Once more clearing his throat, he said, impressively:

"After giving due consideration to all of the facts, I hold that no case has been made out, that nothing has been adduced that would warrant my holding the defendant for the grand jury." He bowed in the direction of the great Gore and bowed again graciously toward John Battle. "The case is dismissed."

The whole thing was over.

Peter J. Gore went and said a few words to the magistrate, then he came and shook hands with Phil Barton as though the latter had done a magnificent piece of work. He shook hands with John Battle who responded mechanically, too dazed to grasp the situation.

Gore said, "If you hear anything more on this, get in touch with my office. Don't worry, we'll take care of you." With that he was gone.

At the instance of Phil Barton, John Battle followed a minute later. On the steps of the courthouse, Barton eyed him curiously.

"Say, you've got friends! What beats me is why you didn't go to them in the first place."

John Battle stared at him. "Friends?" he said, then shrugged, said good-by, and walked away.

A minute later Sergeant Ponder, followed by the assistant district attorney, came out.

"Just what was the big idea?" Randall demanded angrily. "You had no business to let me down like that."

C. O. Ponder looked blank. "I don't get it," he said. "I answered all your questions, didn't I? Maybe I didn't answer them right. I'm kind of dumb."

"You're dumb all right," Randall said wrathfully. "Dumb or— something."

The sergeant was busy chewing at the tip of a thick, black cigar.

"You know," he said, "while you were presenting the case, it came to me that we didn't have so much of a case after all; that we ought to get more stuff on this fellow Battle, and that the way to get it was to turn him loose, not to keep him locked up."

The assistant district attorney gaped. "Is that on the level?"

C. O. Ponder grinned. "What do you think?" he said.

Chapter 7

Krausmeyer Suggests

WOOLF KERN was pacing the floor in Krausmeyer's small room. The slight limp with which he walked seemed only to accentuate the nervousness of his strides and his present irritability. Little Measley, his ordinarily neatly combed hair now rumpled—he had run his fingers through it many times during the course of the afternoon's conference —sat watching him, moving his head from side to side like a man following the flight of a ball in a tennis match. Gustaf Krausmeyer, deep down in his revolving chair, was smiling. Eventually, Woolf Kern came to a halt in front of Krausmeyer.

"What made him do it?" he demanded fiercely. "What reason could Battle have had for killing Garrett?"

Krausmeyer shrugged. "How should I know? Maybe he didn't do it. Maybe some one else did it."

"Well, who?"

"You're asking me riddles. Anybody could have done it. Maybe Measley did it."

The little man looked up startled. "Why should I want to kill Garrett?" he squeaked.

Krausmeyer paid no attention to him. To Woolf Kern he said:

"Maybe you did it."

Something like a snarl escaped Woolf Kern. He glowered at the big man lolling in his chair.

"Yes, maybe I did it," he sneered, "and then again, Krausmeyer, maybe you did."

Krausmeyer nodded placidly.

"Ja, ja," he said, "dot's possible. I could have done it."

"Let's not quarrel," Sigmund Measley protested weakly. "We are wasting time. The question is what's going to happen with Battle in jail? Who's going to finish the gun? Who's going to supervise the demonstration?"

"That's it," Woolf Kern declared angrily. "If the damned fool wanted to commit murder, couldn't he have waited? Perhaps we ought to have gone to his aid, gotten him a lawyer or something—anything to get him out of jail until he's finished his job. Maybe there's still time; perhaps we can get him out on bail."

"I don't know about dings like dot here," Krausmeyer said. "In Germany it wouldn't be so easy. Anyway, a few days in chail—"

"Yes," Kern agreed, "a few days in a cell might soften him up. Perhaps if we get him out after that he'll be more ready to fall in with our plans."

Gustaf Krausmeyer nodded in agreement. "Anyway," he said, "we don't need him. I talked to Kernochen over de telephone dis morning. Shieber says he can finish de gun alone. He's got all de plans. And de demonsdration— dot's easy."

Woolf Kern's face cleared. "You mean it?"

"Absolutely. Dere isn't any doubt about it," Krausmeyer declared emphatically.

"In that case," Woolf Kern spat savagely, "Battle can rot in jail for all I care. We're through with him. He's served his purpose. If he were here, he'd only make trouble."

Little Measley ran his fingers through his disheveled hair.

"I think," he said timidly, "we ought to take care of Mr. Battle. He's not the kind of a man to drive too far. If he ever found out—"

"How's he going to find out if you keep your mouth shut?" Woolf Kern barked.

"Ja, ja," Krausmeyer said. "If nobody talks, everyding will be all right." He was staring steadily at the little man, a speculative light in his eyes, and then he chuckled.

Woolf Kern's eyes narrowed, and Sigmund Measley shifted nervously in his chair. He didn't like it when Krausmeyer chuckled.

"It's a funny ding," the big German declared. "Maybe dot's why Garrett is dead. Garrett had a conscience." Again he chuckled. "Maybe he was going to talk, to tell Mr. Battle everyding. And maybe Mr. Kern here found it out and killed him; or maybe I found it out and killed him; or maybe you, maybe you, Mr. Measley, found it out. You wouldn't hesidate, would you, Mr. Measley?"

Sigmund Measley's face took on the color of putty. He scraped back his chair until the back of it was against the partition. He cringed with fear.

"What are you saying?" he squeaked. "Are you accusing me of having murdered Garrett?"

"Nein, nein," Krausmeyer said soothingly. "I'm not accusing you any more dan de rest of us. Mr. Kern and I we wouldn't have hesidated to do away wid Garrett if we had found out dot he was going to talk. We wouldn't hesidate," he was still grinning broadly, but his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper, "we wouldn't hesidate to kill anybody whom we dought was going to desdroy our plans, would we, Mr. Kern—not even each other —would we, Mr. Kern?"

Woolf Kern glowered at him steadily through the minutes of silence that followed.

"I don't think you would," he said slowly, "and—I don't think I would."

Sly Gustaf Krausmeyer nodded brightly. "You see," he said to Measley, "I told you."

The little man hunched down in his chair, a terrified figure. He kept moving his lips but no sound came forth.

Gustaf Krausmeyer looked at his watch. "It's after five," he said. "Time to go home. I wonder if de liddle lady, Mr. Garrett's daughter, is still in his room. She asked me if she could go drough her fadder's papers and I told her, ja. A very preddy liddle lady; beautiful. It's a shame dot her fadder was killed. But—"

"You shouldn't have let her do that," Woolf Kern interrupted him.

"Why not? De police were dere first. I don't dink dey left anyding word finding."

"Just the same," Sigmund Measley ventured, "there might be papers there which would have no significance to the police, yet mean a lot to her, in view of the fact that she's Garrett's daughter."

Gustaf Krausmeyer smiled. He started to rise, then dropped back in his chair. The door was thrust violently open.

John Battle stood there.

For a moment they stared at him as though he were a ghost.

Krausmeyer was the first to recover himself.

"Good," he said. "Good. You got away. Dey let you go."

"Yes, they let me go," John Battle said tersely. "Thanks for your help."

They thought he was being sarcastic. He wasn't. He had deliberately made that remark with the idea of discovering whether or not he was indebted to them for Peter J. Gore's appearance in court. He had spent the day, ever since his release that morning, studying the situation from every angle without coming to a definite conclusion.

"We were just having a conference, Chon," Krausmeyer said quickly, "trying to find wot would be best to do, but I see you didn't need us."

John Battle had his answer. It wasn't they who had come to his assistance. Then who had and why? Some one who had something to gain by giving him his freedom. Unconsciously his forehead puckered into a frown. Was he ever to be master of his own destiny, or was he forever to be kicked around by forces unknown over which he had no control? Subconsciously he heard Krausmeyer say:

"It looked bad, Chon."

"So bad," Woolf Kern interjected, "that even a flat-footed policeman like this Ponder could see the answer. What made you do it?"

The corners of John Battle's lips drooped. He looked Woolf Kern hard in the eye.

"The way I feel these days," he said with harsh precision, "it wouldn't take much to make me kill a man." Then he turned to Krausmeyer. "I trust that during my brief absence, nothing unforeseen has happened."

"Ja, ja. Everyding is fine, Mr. Battle." Mr. Krausmeyer was always formal with his associates when discussing business. It was only on rare occasions that he used their first names, at moments when he wished them to realize that he was a friend to be relied upon. "I talked to de facdory dis morning. Shieber dinks he can get de gun finished in a week. You don't have to worry about it any more." He stopped and looked speculatively at Battle. There was just a chance that Battle was holding out on them, that he had something up his sleeve which would be necessary to complete this invention from which they expected to reap so vast a fortune. "Ja, he can finish it all by himself, danks to your plans," he went on.

"Can he?" Battle said shortly. "I've got some work I want to finish. You'll excuse me." He started toward the door, turned and gave them all one sharp glance.

Sigmund Measley stuttered. "I'm glad everything turned out all right, Mr. Battle."

John Battle walked out.

Chapter 8

Eddie's Strange Behavior

THE outer office was deserted. John Battle, instead of going directly to his own room, went farther along the corridor to Garrett's room. During the day the notion had come to him that it might be wise to go through Garrett's things to see what he had left behind. Battle wasn't well versed in police procedure and it had never occurred to him that their investigation, as far as the office of the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. was concerned, hadn't been concluded with his arrest, that the police would subject the dead man's office to a thorough search. He didn't know just what he expected to find among Garrett's belongings. Possibly something that might incriminate him further, that he had better destroy; and then again perhaps something that might prove useful in his defense in the event of the case against him not having been finally dropped. He pushed open the door, started in and stopped.

Ann Garrett was sitting at her father's desk. It was piled high with papers and little leather-covered books in which Garrett had kept his records.

"I beg your pardon. I didn't know you were here."

Closing the door behind him, he advanced farther into the room and met the look of loathing in her eyes steadily.

"They let you go!" she breathed, after a long silence.

"Yes, they let me go, despite your best efforts," he said sardonically.

She looked at him dazedly. She couldn't understand it. To her way of thinking the case against him was so strong, so clear. And the thought that he had been promptly arrested and placed behind bars had in a measure assuaged her grief.

"You really think I'm guilty?" he said.

"Of course, I do," she flared up at him. "Everybody does. My father said you would kill him. I told the police the truth."

"And nothing that I can say will convince you that you're mistaken, will it?" he demanded bitterly.

"No, nothing."

"I thought not," he said. "The world is full of people like you."

And then for some reason that he could never afterward explain to himself, he unleashed on her that sense of life's injustice that he had carried with him for the last few years, ever since that day when, charged with treason, he had stood defending himself futilely before the general court of the United States Navy. "Yes, the world is full of people like you," he stormed. "You meet them in every walk of life, stupid, unimaginative people, swayed by prejudice, by unintelligent feelings; people who'll damn a man thoughtlessly, who are swayed by straws, who don't care what they do to their victims, who'll tear the souls out of them to satisfy their lust for revenge."

She drew back, staring at him, wide-eyed. She wasn't frightened, just overwhelmed by the intensity of his passion. She had a feeling that she was seeing a glimpse of the man's inner self and coupled with that a doubt arose in her mind, a doubt as to his guilt, and yet—

"Why should my father say a thing like that, even in his sleep? Why would he say 'Battle will kill me' if he weren't afraid of you, had reason to fear you?" she asked.

"How do I know why he would say a thing like that?" he demanded angrily. "What's more, I don't care." He wasn't being rude. It was simply the way he felt. "I don't even care what happens to me as long as I'm not interfered with now. All I want"—each word came like the crack of a rifle— "is time— time —time "

Ann Garrett experienced a sudden desire to flee. She had a feeling that she was looking upon something that she had no right to view. The man's tortured eyes, the harassed look in his face, the way he was unconsciously revealing himself to her was almost more than she could endure. This man was no weakling, far from it, and if he stood there baring his soul without realizing it to a complete stranger, something terrifying, something that had happened to him must be driving him on relentlessly. She wanted to run from the room and yet she couldn't. Somehow he fascinated her, and before she was aware of it her hatred of him had tempered.

"You want time," she said softly; "time for what?"

"Time to finish my job," he said. He wasn't answering her. It was as though he were answering himself. "And when it's finished—"

He stopped, shook himself, gazed at her as though he were now aware for the first time of her presence. "What are you doing here?" he asked coldly.

A sense of disappointment took hold of her.

"I asked Mr. Krausmeyer if I might go through my father's papers," she explained with a certain listlessness. "I was looking for something in particular."

"What?"

"I don't know exactly," she admitted. "Three days ago, on the night— on the night—"

"On the night that he said 'Battle will kill me,' " John Battle helped her out raspingly.

"Yes," she conceded firmly. "On that night my father was working on what looked like a long report, writing it himself by hand. There were pages and pages of it."

"And why are you looking for that?"

"Because when I went to kiss him good night I got a glimpse of one page, the top page. I got a glimpse of the name of the man to whom it was addressed. It was you."

He looked at her blankly.

"I thought I might find it," she continued, "and I thought if I did that it would prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that you had killed my father and why you had killed him. Am I wasting my time? Did you get the report?"

She looked at him level-eyed, steadily, yet deep down inside she felt a little forlorn. The desire in her to convict this man somehow seemed to be weakening.

"No, I didn't get it. You can believe that, if you don't want to believe anything else about me."

She stood up, looked down at the desk piled high with papers.

"I haven't had time to go through these," she said, "only sufficiently to know that the report is not among them. I'd like to read them all. I don't want to take them home; some of them may be office records. May I come again?"

"If you want to."

She put on her hat, her gloves, and picked up her coat.

He made no move to help her with it, not for the lack of politeness; it was simply that she didn't exist; nobody existed for him in a personal way.

She stood with her hand on the door, faced him for a final word.

"Did you kill my father?"

He laughed discordantly without a trace of mirth.

"What do you expect me to say to that?"

She opened the door a few inches and still stood there apparently about to say something else, but suddenly he held up his hand. He was listening. He thought he had detected a sound in the outer office. Ordinarily he would not have given it a thought, but to-day his nerves were so frayed, he was so on edge by the unexpected happening of the previous day that the most ordinary things acquired a peculiar significance. That sound he had heard was the sound of some one walking softly. It couldn't be Krausmeyer, Measley, or Kern. They had left; he had heard them depart a while ago.

Treading swiftly, lightly, he walked over to the girl, took her hand away from the knob, and shut the door.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Some one's out there." For a moment he was lost in thought, then said, "Stay where you are. Don't make a sound. I'm going to turn out the light."

He plunged the room into darkness and noiselessly opened the door a few inches, listening intently. He heard a voice which he recognized immediately. It was Eddie, the office boy. Eddie had apparently returned under the impression that every one had gone home for he made no attempt to keep his voice low. He was saying:

"This is Mr. Krausmeyer's room."

John Battle was about to step out to discover the meaning of it all when another voice caused him to pause. The second voice was deep and had a peculiar accent. It said:

"Show me Mr. Battle's room, please."

John Battle opened the door wider, peered cautiously around it and was in time to see Eddie conducting the stranger, a small stoop shouldered individual, into his, Battle's, private office. The upturned collar of his overcoat hid the lower part of the man's face and he wore a cap pulled far down over his eyes. Under his breath, John Battle said, "What the hell—" He went back, switched on the lights in Garrett's room and snapped at the girl:

"You stay here. I'm going to find out what this is all about."

He stepped swiftly out and with noiseless steps made his way to his own office and flung the door wide.

Eddie let out a little frightened cry. The stranger oddly enough was busy examining the wardrobe in which the dead Garrett had been found. At the sound of John Battle's entrance he turned without haste.

"Mr. Battle!" Eddie gasped.

John Battle, his face grim, said, "What are you doing here?"

Eddie tried, but couldn't answer him. He was obviously paralyzed with fear.

John Battle turned to the stranger. For a moment he wondered if the man could be from the police department, and was conducting a further investigation.

"Well, what is it?" John Battle snapped. "Speak up!"

The stoop-shouldered, narrow-chested individual coughed a hollow racking cough. He said nothing, just put a hand in his overcoat pocket.

John Battle tensed. For a moment the thought came to him that the man was reaching for a gun. He was mistaken. When the hand came forth it held a small envelope. He passed it silently to John Battle.

The latter with one eye on the stranger opened it and discovered a card inside, a card that bore at the top in neat engraving "YOSHIMO TRADING CO." In a fine Spencerian hand it said:

I would appreciate it if you would come to see me at your earliest convenience. YOSHIMO.

John Battle stared at the message perplexed. He and Yoshimo had long ago agreed that it was advisable that John Battle's visits to the office of the Japanese firm should be as infrequent as possible. But if Yoshimo wanted to see him specially, it surely wasn't necessary to send a messenger long after office hours, and in this strange manner. And why was the man busy examining the wardrobe? John Battle said:

"What's your business here besides this?" He flicked at the card with his finger.

The man whose features were practically entirely concealed, save for tiny black eyes that shone with an unhealthy light, shook his head.

"Bring message," he said.

And suddenly he did a startling thing. He made a leap, a leap that took him past Battle standing in the doorway. He scuttled around the desks in the general office with remarkable speed, and was out the door before Battle could realize what had happened. His first impulse was to follow, then he changed his mind. He took a threatening step in Eddie's direction. Eddie shrank away.

"I want to know what this means," John Battle insisted harshly.

The terror in Eddie's face mounted.

"Please, please, Mr. Battle," he quavered, "don't ask me!"

John Battle seized Eddie with one hand by the lapels of his coat and shook him.

"Why shouldn't I ask you? I want to know the meaning of this."

"I can't tell you," Eddie gasped. "I can't!"

Battle held him for a minute longer, then flung him off. Something told him that he wouldn't get any answer out of Eddie just then, at least not a true one.

"Get out," he said.

Relief came into Eddie's face, then the terrified expression came back into his eyes.

"Mr. Battle—Mr. Battle, please, please, don't tell Mr. Krausmeyer. Don't tell any one. It will be terrible for me. Please—please. Sometime, sometime maybe I can do something for you."

John Battle let out an oath. This pimply-faced boy, just out of his teens, thought he could do something for him. Did he know anything? What could it possibly be? Could it have anything to do with the murder of Garrett, or had he in the course of his snooping about the office discovered something about the other men, about Krausmeyer, Woolf Kern or Measley? Those three had made it plain enough that they intended to sell the thing that Battle had invented, the thing that Shieber was working on feverishly, not to Yoshimo but to some one else prepared to pay more money. Had Eddie stumbled on some plot that those three were devising? Was that what he meant when he said that some day he would help him, Battle?

Suddenly John Battle felt the heat of his anger die down, felt himself grow cold, calculating. He contrived a smile, a humorless smile. He said:

''All right, Eddie, we'll forget all about it. You come and talk to me when you get ready."

A look of gratitude swept over Eddie's face. He stuttered a "Thank you," and all but ran out of the room.

John Battle went back to Garrett's office, but Ann Garrett had gone.

Chapter 9

The Murderer

WHEN late the next day John Battle called on Baron Yoshimo he was as usual admitted immediately into Yoshimo's presence. If anything, the Japanese seemed more certain, more assured of himself than on any previous occasion. He smoked and watched Battle blandly, waiting as was his custom for the other to speak first.

John Battle sat down and flung the card that the stranger of the previous night had given him on Yoshimo's desk.

"Did you send me this?"

With scarcely a glance at the white pasteboard, the dapper Yoshimo said, "Yes."

"Why did you have it sent to me late, after office hours, by a man who kept his face hidden, who sneaked into my office, who was plainly bent on doing something there which he had no business to be doing?"

Yoshimo smiled thinly and arched his eyebrows as though he were surprised that his visitor should ask such a question. He said:

"It will all be clear to you."

He reached over and with a delicate finger pressed a button.

A secretary came in and Yoshimo said a few words in Japanese.

The young man disappeared and presently returned accompanied by another man, a figure that set Battle's pulses throbbing. There was no doubt about it; it was the same man who had invaded his office the night before. Battle was certain of it. He recognized the man by his stooping posture and presently by that hollow cough as he stood there immobile, his wrinkled, monkey-like face turned toward Yoshimo.

The Japanese dismissed his secretary and, with unwonted kindliness in his tone, said, "You may sit down," to the stoop-shouldered individual. To Battle he said, "This is Hiroshi."

John Battle didn't understand. He kept his face stony. Yoshimo snuffed out his cigarette, smiled that thin superior smile of his.

"Hiroshi," he said, "you knew Mr. Garrett?"

"Yes, I knew him." He spoke as though every word required a terrific effort.

"Where did you see him last?"

"In the office there, that gentleman's office, late at night."

"When, Hiroshi?"

"Three days, three days before."

"What were you doing in Mr. Battle's office?"

"I go look for Garrett. Garrett a very bad man. Owe Hiroshi money; a lot of money."

"You went there to ask him to pay you, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"And Mr. Garrett said he wouldn't pay you, wouldn't ever pay you, that you had no proof that he owed you money?"

"Yes, that's what him say."

"And what did you do?"

"I kill him," said Hiroshi with devastating simplicity.

John Battle half rose in his chair. He glowered at the withered little Japanese.

"You killed Garrett!"

"Yes, I kill him. I—" A fit of coughing seized him. When it was over, a tiny drop of blood showed on his nether lip. "I take knife from table," Hiroshi continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I stab him and hang him up in closet. Hiroshi sick, but strong, very strong."

John Battle glared at Yoshimo, then at the little man perched gingerly on the edge of his chair, then back again at Yoshimo.

"Something doesn't jibe here," John Battle barked. "Garrett was found with a button in his hand, a button that came off one of my coats. Can he explain that?"

"Hiroshi can explain everything," said Baron Yoshimo sweetly. "It appears that when Hiroshi opened the wardrobe, he discovered a coat of yours hanging there and Hiroshi being a man of few scruples and realizing that muddy waters best conceal the fish, decided that it would be wise to remove one of the buttons from the coat and place it in the hand of the man who had defrauded him. He placed it between the second and third fingers. Thereupon he left, taking the coat with him and, discovering by the label inside that it was your property, he waited until you had departed for the office on the following morning. Hiroshi is a man who has a way with locks. He found no difficulty in entering your apartment and leaving the coat with the rest of your clothing. It may appear to you as a needlessly vindictive thing for him to have done, but aside from the reason already mentioned, it seems that Mr. Garrett informed him that if it were not for you, he, Mr. Garrett, would have had the funds wherewith to pay Hiroshi, so Hiroshi had no love for you. Have I stated the facts correctly, Hiroshi?"

The little man with the monkey-like face appeared slightly bewildered, but he nodded earnestly.

"You may now go," Baron Yoshimo said to him, and added a few words in Japanese.

Without a word Hiroshi obediently rose and left the room.

A strange silence filled the atmosphere.

After a long time Baron Yoshimo said, "Excuse it, please. It was not polite of me to speak to Hiroshi in a language with which you are not familiar. I was merely telling him to guard his health. It is necessary that he must live."

The manner in which this last was said impelled John Battle to ask, "Why is it necessary that he must live?"

"He must live," the Japanese said calmly, "so that he may die—so that he may die for you."

John Battle leaned forward in his chair. He bored into Yoshimo with his eyes.

"Enough of this. Why do you see fit to entertain me with these lies? Hiroshi did not kill Garrett."

"You are undoubtedly in a position to know," Baron Yoshimo said softly. "But why do you say Hiroshi did not kill Garrett?"

John Battle hesitated; then, "For one thing that coat never hung in the wardrobe. It was in my home. Are you planning to enlighten me as to the purpose of all this?"

Baron Yoshimo began tapping the top of his desk with his long finger nails.

"It is necessary," he said, after an interminable pause, "that nothing should happen to you. If you were confined at this stage in our affairs, it would be a great catastrophe for us—for Japan." He lowered his voice and almost hissed the next words, "With your multiple antiaircraft gun that will make my country impregnable to attack from without—we can defy the world."

"I understand that, but the rest of it is a riddle. This business of Hiroshi. I tell you I know he didn't kill Garrett."

"I know it, too," Yoshimo said suavely. "But it is of no consequence. Your eminent attorney, Mr. Gore, has had a talk with the district attorney. He has been put in possession of all of the facts, and it is clear that your position is extremely precarious now. The case against you will be prosecuted further. It will in due course be presented to the grand jury." Yoshimo rose, stood for a time looking out of the window. When he turned back his face was extremely grave. "When that time comes, it is important that we are able to produce the actual murderer of your former associate, Mr. Martin Garrett, and that murderer is—will be, Hiroshi."

John Battle, too, had risen. For a time he stood speechless.

"You are insane," he stormed. "Why should Hiroshi confess to a crime of which he's innocent? Why should he have himself be sent to the chair?"

"We need you not only here, but in Japan to start the factory. Hiroshi is a great patriot. There are many such men in my country," Baron Yoshimo proclaimed proudly; "men who are ready to die for Japan. But in Hiroshi's case the sacrifice will not be so great. He is old. He is in the grip of a deadly malady. He cannot live in any event. And his wife in Kobe and his two sons shall be well rewarded; great honor will accrue to them."

"What was Hiroshi doing in my office last night?"

Baron Yoshimo smiled. "We are not creative like you here in America, but we are wonderful imitators. We imitate meticulously. Hiroshi is planning to imitate a murder and when the time comes for Hiroshi to confess to his crime, he will be questioned, and it will be necessary for him to be familiar with the ground. He must know the place where he committed the murder; where the wardrobe stood and such details, otherwise he will not be believed. I myself have furnished him with much information, details the police gave the district attorney, who in turn very kindly gave them to the eminent Mr. Gore."

"It was you who sent Gore to represent me?"

Baron Yoshimo nodded. "I promised to assist you, to befriend you. I am a man of my word. And now an opportunity has arisen to do more for you than even I had expected. On the day that the multiple anti-aircraft gun comes into our possession, on that day, Hiroshi will walk into the station of your police and will give himself up as the murderer of Mr. Martin Garrett. He will die in your place. You will be forever free—free even of suspicion."

"That isn't necessary," John Battle said sharply. "You have my word that the gun will be turned over to you and to no one else."

"You have a phrase," Baron Yoshimo said smoothly, "that is called 'making assurance doubly sure.' That is what I am doing. And Hiroshi won't mind. He'll be only too glad to confess— or to testify to anything. If it were more expedient, Hiroshi would be prepared to swear that he saw Mr. Krausmeyer, or Mr. Measley stab your ex-treasurer, Mr. Garrett." Yoshimo stopped and looked for a long time unblinkingly at John Battle; then, "He would even testify that he saw you do it."

The blood rushed to John Battle's face.

"I am not to be moved by threats," he said harshly. "Besides, in this instance, they are wasted, unnecessary."

"Yes, I know," said Baron Yoshimo softly. "You hate your country."

"I have no country."

Chapter 10

Ponder Drops In

THE next two days John Battle spent at the factory, working with the ex-convict Shieber and his two assistants to finish up.

Shieber's attitude had changed. The threat of being sent to the dreaded prison of Alcatraz, America's Devil's Island, had had its effect, and he had made amazing progress. Lon Shieber was an extraordinarily clever mechanic. It was a pity that he hadn't from the outset decided to devote his talents to an honest career, instead of the one he had selected. Now working directly under Battle, inspired by the latter's driving force, Shieber forgot his position. He forgot that he was working under compulsion, forgot the menace hanging over him if he didn't succeed. The ingenuity of the device had captured his imagination and he found himself as anxious as John Battle to make the thing work. At the end of the second day he ventured to approach Battle.

"It's a wonderful piece of mechanism, Mr. Battle," he said. "I know machines and what they can do, but I've never seen anything like this."

John Battle nodded without comment.

"There's only one thing," Shieber went on hesitantly. "I don't think it's gonna work. I can't quite tell you why, because it's not finished yet, but the firing control don't synchronize the right way. I've been studying the plans, and it kind of looks to me as if you'd forgotten something, as if something had been left out."

John Battle smiled grimly.

"I haven't forgotten anything, Shieber. But you're right. Something's been left out. Don't worry about it. Keep on with your work."

Late that afternoon John Battle drove back to New York and went directly to his office and sat for an hour at his desk, motionless, completely lost in thought, wondering what life would be like when his task had been completed, reviewing in his mind the events of the past few days. The consequences to himself of Garrett's death; Yoshimo's implied threat and what would happen to him if he failed to deliver his multiple anti-aircraft gun to the baron he ignored. The Yoshimo Trading Co. would get the gun. He had determined on that long ago. It wasn't necessary for Yoshimo to threaten him. But his controversy with his associates who wanted to sell the gun to Germany troubled him. Could he handle them? He no longer needed them. They had put up the funds, had backed him during the years necessary for the tedious experiments, had advanced the money for the expensive machinery needed to construct his invention. They had known how to get their hands on men like Shieber, who could be trusted, because they were afraid.

John Battle wasn't grateful to them in the least. They were in this thing for money, and he was willing that they should have the money, even that they should cheat him out of his share. He was in it for something else—for revenge. And by God, he'd have his revenge! He'd have it at any cost. He'd double-cross Krausmeyer and the others, if necessary. He'd send Shieber and his two jailbird assistants to a life of exile in Japan. He didn't try to justify himself.

But after his task was completed, then what? Life would hold nothing more for him. He would be as badly off as Hiroshi. He would be dying, not physically, the way Hiroshi was dying, but mentally. He'd be no better off than that poor devil. He made a sound that was like laughter, and yet wasn't laughter. A whimsical, sardonic idea had come to him. He saw himself together with Hiroshi, the monkey-faced, stoical little Jap. They were having a drink together, and suddenly he, John Battle, was saying, "I'll flip you, Hiroshi, to see who goes and confesses to the murder of Martin Garrett." What an amusing idea.

Unexpectedly his mind jumped to Martin Garrett's daughter. She was an attractive girl, a girl of courage and spirit. Idly he wondered what her future would be like. Now that her father was dead, she, too, was alone in the world. He half closed his eyes, then shook his head, as though trying to clear his mind. What concern of his were women?

There was a knock on the door.

John Battle said, "Come in."

Eddie appeared.

With a note of apprehension, Eddie said, "That detective what was here the other night is back again. He wants to see you."

With a scowl, John Battle instructed the boy to show the detective in.

Sergeant Ponder, in the wake of a cloud of cigar smoke, wandered in. As usual, he had the air of one who had nothing in particular on his mind; was just there for a sociable little chat. Uninvited he took a chair and deposited his derby on the corner of John Battle's desk.

"I just dropped in," he said, "to talk over old times."

Battle stared at him, an expression of perplexity on his face. What did the man mean—old times?

"I'm the dumbest detective in the world," C. O. Ponder declared amiably. "The trouble with me is that I haven't any system. I just go poking around, digging up this and digging up that, without knowing what it's all about. If it weren't for people helping me out, I don't know where I'd be. I thought maybe you'd help me out now."

"Why should I?"

"There isn't any particular reason," Sergeant Ponder conceded, "unless maybe you think that when I was on the stand I didn't do you any harm. I thought maybe you appreciated that and—"

"I lost my capacity for appreciation long ago," said John Battle frostily.

"Yeah, I guess that's right," C. O. Ponder replied slowly. "I don't know as I can blame you."

John Battle looked at him intently. "What do you mean by that? What do you know about me?"

"A lot," said the detective with some satisfaction. "I know for instance, that you were in the navy, up to a few years ago; were quite a big man, a lieutenant-commander, which is a big job for a young man like you. I know that you were attached to the ordnance department. I know that everybody thought that you had a tremendous future in the navy, Mr. Battle. There never was a man in the navy who had the talent for engineering that you showed."

"Stop it!" John Battle said through his teeth. "I have no desire to discuss my past with you or any one."

C. O. Ponder considered his cigar with satisfaction. It was longer than usual.

"Battle," said the sergeant, reflectively, "it's a fine name— a fighting name."

"It was a fine name."

"Something happened. You were summoned to appear before the general court at Washington. The plans of some invention on which you had been working for the navy had been stolen. They accused you of having had something to do with it, and you can hardly blame them; the case against you looked pretty bad, just like this one that I'm working on now. This Garrett murder looks pretty bad as far as you're concerned."

"Where did you hear all this?"

"I flew down to Washington; got it from a friend in the ordnance division. He showed me the records. You were court-martialed. They let you off easier than they might have, in view of your past record and the fight you put up at the trial. At that, they did plenty to you. They called you a traitor. You were dishonorably discharged from the navy, and they took away your citizenship. I don't blame you for being sore—if you weren't guilty."

"And suppose I was?"

"Tch— tch," said C. O. Ponder. "I'm supposing that you were not guilty. I read the evidence, and I could see where it could point to some one else just as easy."

John Battle's features were distorted as though he were in pain.

"If you've come here to sympathize with me," he muttered, "consider that you've fulfilled your errand. What's more, I want no sympathy from any man—or woman, for that matter."

"Sure, sure," said Sergeant Ponder soothingly. "I was only wondering whether that case, that old case, couldn't in some way be hooked up with what's happened here."

For an instant John Battle looked startled, then contemptuous.

"That's a ridiculous suggestion," he said shortly,

"Well, maybe," said C. O. Ponder, in no way offended. "Did you know that Garrett had an office in Washington while you were stationed there? Did you know his business was to buy munitions for foreign governments, to pick up inventions which could be used in the manufacture of armaments?"

John Battle's breath came faster. He stared intently at C. O. Ponder. Was it possible that this dull-looking individual had stumbled on something in his circuitous way, had discovered the thing that John Battle would have given his life to discover?

"Go on," he said tensely.

"I have checked up on every one in this office," Sergeant Ponder said, "so I know a lot more than you think, but you've got to help me. Nobody apparently benefited by Garrett's murder. He left all his money to his daughter. And she didn't kill her father. The most likely motive for his death, the way I look at it, is one of two— revenge, or to keep his mouth shut. Revenge alone won't let you out. Let's say maybe that you had found out that Garrett had done you dirt while you were in Washington. A man of your temperament, and considering what has happened to you, wouldn't hesitate a minute to put Garrett on the spot, would he?"

"No, I wouldn't," John Battle said again through clenched teeth. "As it happens, I found out nothing about Garrett. I didn't even know until this minute that he had ever been in Washington or connected with the munition industry."

"Then let's suppose that this Garrett was going to squeal and he was killed to shut him up."

John Battle rose to his feet and began to pace the floor with long quick strides.

"This is all just guesswork," he declared impatiently. "Garrett could have been killed from a dozen other motives."

"Tch, tch. I'm not saying he couldn't," C. O. Ponder admitted patiently. "Say, don't you want me to find out who killed Garrett?"

"No, I don't care who killed him. I've got other things to worry about."

There was for a time a silence, a period which the sergeant devoted to smoking industriously. Then suddenly he said:

"What are you making out at that factory of yours— out there in that place they call Dusty Woods?"

John Battle spun around. "How did you discover that we had a factory there?"

"I had you tailed," said C. O. Ponder. "You seem to forget that you're an important suspect, and it's up to us to pin something on you, if we can. What's your business with the Yoshimo Trading Co.?"

Ponder wasn't looking at Battle or he would have noted that the latter was poised on the balls of his feet, as though about to spring. It lasted only for a few seconds before Battle recovered himself.

"I don't care to answer," he declared icily, "any questions in connection with the affairs of my company."

"All right," said the sergeant. He replaced his worn derby on the back of his head, rose and made for the door. "If I were you," he said with his hand on the knob, "I'd keep an eye on Eddie, that office boy of yours. He came back here late a few nights ago and met a Jap named Hiroshi and let him into your office." C. O. Ponder began rolling his cigar between his thumb and fingers. "I guess that's no news to you," he added; "probably you saw him, because you came out of the building after he did."

"No, it's no news to me."

"I guess you now realize," Sergeant Ponder said ingenuously, "that I've got plenty of men watching this place, watching everything. Maybe that'll do you some good; then again— maybe it won't."

Chapter 11

Another Murderer

JOHN BATTLE left the office. He hailed a taxicab and gave the driver an address on the lower East Side. When the address was reached, Battle got out, paid the driver, and dismissed him. But Battle did not enter the building, which bore the address he had given the taxi driver. Instead, he took a rambling walk. Suddenly he stopped and stepped into the basement of a dilapidated old brick building on Second Avenue, just below Twelfth Street. Battle stood at the entrance of a small machine shop.

An individual clad in overalls, which, along with his hands and  face, were grimy with grease, came to meet him.

John Battle said, "Is it finished, Tony?" His words came tight, expectant.

"Yeah, it's finished, Mr. Battle," Tony said. "It's finished and every part is exact to the thousandth of an inch. I never did a better job in my life."

John Battle wasn't interested in that. "Where is it?" he demanded quickly.

"Here, I'll show you," said Tony, and led the way between power drills, machine pressers, lathes, and shapers to a bench at the rear where, alongside of a vise, a shining contrivance reposed. "I made it according to your blue print; it doesn't mean a thing to me. I can't even guess what it's supposed to be."

John Battle picked the thing up. It was no bigger than the works of a small alarm clock; a thing of cog wheels, of cams, of tiny points, all made of hardened tool steel. John Battle examined it. His expression softened. He looked at it almost lovingly, turned the delicately balanced wheels, touched the little steel points with the tips of his fingers.

"It looks all right, Tony," he said. "Give me a pair of calipers, and where's the blue print?"

Tony produced both.

John Battle with one eye on the blue print began to measure the various parts, did it delicately, with the precision of a practiced mechanic. Eventually he said:

"It's a good job, Tony; perfect, in fact."

"Dot's good," a voice behind them said. "I am glad to hear it, Chon."

John Battle spun around. He and Tony had been bending over the bench, so intent upon checking the measurements of the contrivance Tony had manufactured that they hadn't heard the steps of the man who had come in behind Battle only a minute after his arrival.

Gustaf Krausmeyer was standing there, his thick lips in a wide grin, his eyes twinkling as they rested on John Battle.

John Battle's lips grew into a tight line. His sunken eyes burned fiercely. He held the thing behind him as though to keep it away from the big German.

"You are a smart man, Chon," Krausmeyer said. "You dink of everyding."

Battle said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on Krausmeyer. He noted that the latter kept his right hand in his overcoat pocket.

Tony stared at the two men without understanding.

"Maybe I bedder take care of dot ding," Krausmeyer said significantly.

Still John Battle made no reply. He picked the blue print off the bench and wrapped it around the piece of mechanism he held in his hand.

"Maybe you had," he said carelessly, throwing a glance about the shop.

Over to the right, less than ten feet away, a small furnace which Tony was accustomed to use in melting the metals for his castings was seething, burning white hot.

John Battle walked toward it listlessly, as though he had nothing in mind.

Krausmeyer, his smile widening, said, "Wot are you doing, Chon? I dink I said I would take care of dot liddle machine."

John Battle nodded. He held the contrivance out but not toward Krausmeyer, Instead he held it directly over the furnace. The heat seared his hand.

"You know me, Krausmeyer," he said with deadly calm. "I wouldn't be afraid to die. That gun in your pocket won't do you any good. I'll prove it to you. I'll give you five seconds to take it out and chuck it over to me. If you don't, I'm going to drop this thing in the furnace where it won't be of any use to anybody. The blue print is going with it. If you shoot, it'll fall in anyway, because I'm holding it right over the furnace. So you better throw it over to me."

The big German's body grew taut, his eyes twinkled steadily. He held his smile. The veins in his forehead stood out, thickened. One could almost see his brain working, calculating his chances. After what seemed like hours, Krausmeyer chuckled.

"Why, Chon, wot a ding to say. As dough I would shoot you! Sure, I carry a gun; I always carry a gun. Look." He drew a small shiny automatic from his pocket, held it with the butt toward Battle. "Here, take it."

"Throw it," John Battle said without budging an inch.

Gustaf Krausmeyer shrugged. "Don't drop it," he said, and flipped the weapon at Battle who caught it neatly with one hand and dropped it into his own pocket. Then he came away from the furnace.

Krausmeyer studied the other speculatively. "I dink you and I bedder go some place where we can have a talk. Dere's some dings dot got to be straidened out— dey got to be straidened out now. It's for your own good, Chon."

John Battle, stern-visaged, unbending, considered. Then:

"All right, we'll go to my apartment. A cab will get us there in a few minutes."

John Battle had a small apartment at Eleventh Street, just east of Fifth Avenue. They rode across town in silence, and not until they were inside the apartment did either of them speak.

Battle took the contrivance out of his left-hand overcoat pocket and placed it on a book case in back of him. He took out the gun and held it carelessly in his hand while he divested himself of his coat and hat.

His eyes sultry, he said:

"Don't ever try anything like that again, Krausmeyer."

The big German smiled and made no pretense that he had misunderstood, nor did he attempt to defend himself.

"Dot ding," he said, "I suppose is part of de gun?"

"Part of it?" John Battle said, twisting his mouth into a sardonic line. "Yes, it's part of it. It's the 'brains' of the gun. It times the firing of the various barrels, synchronizes the entire mechanism. The gun isn't worth a hoot without it. With it, it's the greatest defense that was ever devised against an airplane attack. Properly handled nothing but a miracle would enable an airplane to escape the gun, Krausmeyer, once this little device has been attached to it."

"Ja, I understand." Krausmeyer's smile dwindled. He looked thoughtful; then, "You're a hard man to fight, Chon, and I'm a bad man, too. De trouble is we don't understand each odder; at least I don't understand you. You would like to see your gun go to Japan. But Japan or Germany, it don't make so much difference, Chon, and it means a lot to me. It's not only de money, Chon, but wid a dousand of dose guns, Germany can laugh at de rest of Europe. Dey don't have to be afraid of nodding. Dey can be big and powerful again. I was in de last War, Chon." For one brief instant a startling change came into Krausmeyer's expression. The twinkle went out of his eyes. That ominous smile left his lips. He looked wistful, indescribably sad. But when John Battle spoke, the old expression came back.

"It's no use," said Battle, his voice hard and uncompromising. "The gun goes to Yoshimo. That's where it will hurt most. In Washington they think of nothing but Japan, Japan, Japan."

Gustaf Krausmeyer looked about for his hat. He kept running the brim through his thick fingers.

"You wouldn't let anyding stand in your way, would you, Chon?" He kept looking down at his hat. "And I wouldn't let anyding stand in my way. Dink it over, Chon. I'm a bad man, a very bad man to say 'No' to, Chon."

John Battle's short scornful laugh echoed through the room.

"You're not nearly as tough as you think you are."

Krausmeyer lifted his eyes. Behind the twinkle a steely glint shone viciously.

"Maybe not," he said evenly. "Who do you dink killed Garrett? I did, Chon. I did. And it looks as dough in the end dey'll send you to the chair for killing him—unless maybe you'll change your mind about where dot gun is going."

"You killed Garrett?" "Sure, Chon. Don't bodder to tell the police. Dey won't believe it. Dere's no evidence against me. It's all against you, Chon. If Yoshimo gets your gun, you'll go to de chair as sure as I'm standing here. I'll take care of dat."

John Battle stared at him, bereft of speech. Krausmeyer couldn't know the irony of the thing he was saying. He couldn't know about Hiroshi; couldn't know that Yoshimo had made the same threat, that if Yoshimo didn't get the gun, he had promised to see that Battle was convicted. Suddenly John Battle laughed, gave forth a sound that had something of madness in it.

Krausmeyer stared at him for a moment, then shrugging, walked out.

Chapter 12

The "Brains" of the Machine

JOHN BATTLE slept that night with Krausmeyer's gun under his pillow, his door securely locked and a chair against the knob. The priceless device, the thing that he called the "brains" of his multiple antiaircraft gun, lay beside him on a little table. In the morning he had his breakfast sent up from a near-by restaurant. And there was an extra large pot of coffee, which Battle consumed while he gave thought to his position.

He felt completely hemmed in by foes on every side. Ponder was determined to fasten the guilt of Martin Garrett's murder on him. There was Krausmeyer, Woolf Kern, and Measley trying to prevent him from delivering his gun to Yoshimo. The fact that Krausmeyer had seen fit to follow him the previous night to Tony's machine shop, indicated clearly, not only that they had suspected him, but the lengths to which they would go in order to frustrate his plans. Then there was Yoshimo. Yoshimo had made it plain that unless he got the gun, Hiroshi would swear that he had seen Battle kill Martin Garrett instead of taking the blame for the murder. That would make Ponder's case complete.

Of course, he could trust Yoshimo to help him against the others. But what could Yoshimo do? The difficulty lay in getting the gun, when it was completed, out of the factory. Kernochen, Shieber, and the others there weren't working for Battle; they were working for Krausmeyer, and would take Battle's orders only as long as Krausmeyer supported him. If Krausmeyer left instructions that Battle was not to be admitted to the factory, he. Battle, would be helpless. It wasn't likely that such instructions would be issued, as long as he had the "brains" of the gun in his possession. It was far more likely that they would let him finish the gun, and then take it away while he, John Battle, was restrained by force at the factory. He could expect, in the meanwhile, that further attempts, such as Krausmeyer had made the night previous, to steal the "brains," would be made.

He swore. A feeling of desperation came over him. If he only had one friend, a single person whom he could trust! And then some odd quirk in his thoughts suggested Ann Garrett. She wasn't a friend, anything but a friend, but she could be trusted. He was convinced of that. If he could hold out the proper inducement to her, she might help. He didn't exactly know how, but that would come later. He gave way to the new impulse immediately, searched through the telephone book, found Martin Garrett's name and picked up the receiver.

She answered the phone; seemed in no wise astonished when he asked her if she would come to his apartment now, immediately.

He didn't bother to explain that he himself couldn't leave, didn't dare leave until he had hit upon some secure hiding place for the "brains" of the gun.

Yes, she would come. She would be there in less than half an hour.

John Battle hung up, went into his bedroom, and picked up the little mechanism where it still lay beside his bed, wrapped in the blue print. He took off the blue print, tore it into small bits, then burned them one by one over the ash tray. At least the specifications wouldn't fall into Krausmeyer's hands; Battle required no specifications. If ever he found it necessary to construct another, every measurement, every dimension was etched in his brain.

True to her word, Ann Garrett arrived in less than half an hour.

"You wanted to see me," she said. She looked cool, competent, and self-contained as she took the chair that Battle indicated. She didn't seem to think it strange that she should be here.

"You want to find the murderer of your father, don't you?" he began without preamble. "Nothing but that will satisfy you? No one can understand that better than I. The irresistible urge to get even, to get revenge. I've been living for that for years, and when I get it, what happens after that doesn't matter." He stopped as though waiting for her to confirm what he had just said.

"Go on," she said quietly.

"Can you drive a car?"

"Yes," she said.

"I may need some one to help me, some one I can trust. I haven't a friend in the world; there isn't anybody I can trust except perhaps you. You have a double interest in this matter. That little machine there," he said, indicating the "brains," "is part of something that I'm building. It will be finished shortly. It's going to be sold for millions. Your father's share will naturally go to you. My associates want to sell it to some one else rather than to the people to whom I want to sell. My people are going to get it or nobody is going to get it. It sounds a little mad; it is mad. It's become an obsession with me, I know. What I need is your help, and you're interested because if I don't succeed you won't get a cent."

She looked at him long and steadily. "You said there were two reasons why I ought to help you."

"The other is—if I can count on you when I need you, I'll deliver the murderer of your father into the hands of justice. That'll make you happy, won't it?" he said bitterly. "The day that my plans are completed, I'll give myself up. It won't take more than a week. I'll give you a signed confession now if you want it, dated ahead. You won't be able to use it until my job is done because the district attorney will think it's a phony if it's dated ahead. You can rely on me, because when my task is finished I won't care what happens to me."

Now her eyes widened. She was staring at him incredulously. She looked somehow a little horrified. There was something shattering about the tense, passionate way he spoke; about the way his hands gripping the arms of his chair quivered.

"Why do you look at me like that?" he burst forth. "What is there so strange about what I'm saying? Why shouldn't I give myself up? Confess that I killed your father? Why should life be so precious to me, who has no friends, who'll have nothing, once my work is finished? People are always committing suicide, aren't they, with less reason than I have?" He looked off into space, then back at her and swore. "Damn it! What are you doing—crying?"

She blinked rapidly several times and shook her head. It was ghastly to look at him, to see that hunted, desperate expression in his eyes. Her pity for him threatened to overwhelm her.

"There's nothing to cry about," he snapped. "Here I'm offering you money, tons of money and revenge in return for a little help."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know yet," he said, "for the present I want your assurance that you'll stand by, that I can call on you to help in any way you can. If I have your word of honor, I'll write out the confession now." He took out his fountain pen, went to a small writing table and snatched a sheet of paper. "Do I get it?"

"I'll help," she said, "don't write— don't write the confession now."

"Why not?" he said harshly. "I may not get another chance." He took the cap off the pen.

The house telephone rang.

He went and lifted the instrument off the hook. "Hello."

The hallman said, "There's a Mr. Krausmeyer and two other gentlemen here. They're on their way up."

John Battle said, "Damn!" and replaced the instrument.

Krausmeyer was here. With him, probably were Woolf Kern, and Measley, and they had come for the "brains." John Battle was certain of that. He picked the device up, looked wildly about the room for a hiding place, at the same time he opened the drawer of the writing table and took out the gun that he had taken from Krausmeyer.

Ann Garrett watched him fearfully. "What is it?" she said.

"Nothing," he snapped, "nothing. Get out. Go through there; there's a servant's entrance. It's Krausmeyer, Kern, and Measley. I don't want them to see you here." He was pulling some books out of the bookcase feverishly with the idea of hiding the thing in his hands, there.

She was quick to understand.

"It'll be the first place they'll look," she said.

"I'll be here to defend it," he said with a savage gesture of the weapon in his hand.

"They're too many for you—I made a bargain with you—I promised to help." She stretched out her hands. "Give it to me."

Instinctively he drew back. He couldn't part with this priceless thing, he couldn't, and yet—

The buzzer rang. Krausmeyer and the others were at the door.

"You said you trusted me," she whispered, looking him fixedly in the eye.

Still he hesitated.

The buzzer rang again, more peremptorily this time.

He snatched a newspaper from the waste basket, wrapped it hastily about the little machine and thrust it into her outstretched hands. He seized her by the wrist so that it hurt.

"If you think," he whispered hoarsely, "that I killed your father, the way for you to get even is to turn this thing over to Krausmeyer."

She said nothing, turned quickly and made for the door he had previously indicated.

"Wait in the pantry," he whispered, "until you hear me letting them in, then go out the back way."

He slipped the gun into his pocket, went to the door and let them in.

Krausmeyer, big and smiling, stood there: beside him Woolf Kern and, a little to the rear, little Sigmund Measley.

"Come in," John Battle said. He turned on his heel and preceded them to the living room where he flung himself in an armchair.

They followed him slowly, with an air of caution, Measley hanging back more than the other two. Once inside they cast quick, darting glances about the room.

John Battle knew the thing for which they were looking.

After a time Krausmeyer said, "Good morning, Chon. It's early, I know. But we wanted to make sure dot you hadn't left before we called."

Woolf Kern said, "Let's not waste any time. The difference, Battle, between the offer we've got and the amount that Yoshimo is able to pay is three million dollars. Don't forget we put up the money. We risked our capital. You only invented the damn gun."

"Yes," John Battle said, "I only invented the damn gun. That's why it's going to Yoshimo."

Woolf Kern's face darkened. He looked quickly at Krausmeyer.

Krausmeyer said, "Don't be foolish, Chon. You can't get away wid it. Dere are a dousand ways dot we can stop you. Where is it—where's de ding you call de 'brains' of de gun?"

"In a safe place," John Battle said slowly.

Gustaf Krausmeyer smiled broadly. His hand came out of his pocket holding a flat-nosed, ugly-looking automatic. With his free hand he reached for a chair and seated himself opposite Battle. To Kern and Measley he said, "All ready, boys, look around."

Ann Garrett had been right. The first place where they searched was behind the books. Woolf Kern tearing them savagely from the shelves, dumping them on the floor. Sigmund Measley was more gentle about it. Occasionally he threw a half-apologetic glance over his shoulder at John Battle. When they had finished with the bookcases they went through the writing table, looked behind the radiators, searched everywhere and, discovering nothing, went into the bedroom.

Alone with John Battle, Krausmeyer, who had been scrutinizing Battle's features intently, all of a sudden said, "I guess, Chon, it isn't here. I guess somehow you got it out. I can tell by your face."

"There's no hurry," John Battle said. "Let 'em look."

"No, I'm sadisfied," said Krausmeyer. "You're a smart boy, Chon; I always knew it. I'm gonna play my last card, Chon, before I get unpleasant. You know I can be unpleasant, Chon, don't you? I told you I killed Garrett. Do you want to know why I killed him?"

John Battle leaned forward in his chair. "Why?" he asked.

"Because Garrett was going to talk. He was going to give de whole show away, Chon. He was going to tell you how you had been framed in Washington dot time dey court-martialed you. He had it all written out, but I found out about it. Dot's why I killed him."

"I don't believe it."

"Maybe not," said Krausmeyer carelessly, "but I got Garrett's report to prove it. Would you like to have it, Chon? Would you like to be able to show the world dot you wasn't a traitor? Wouldn't you like to be able to go back to Washington and tell a lot of stupid admirals dot if dey had treated you fair, de greatest gun dot was ever invented would be in de hands of de United States Navy instead of— instead of Germany? Your way— when dey find out about de gun— dey won't dink much about it. Dey'll just dink dot's de sort of a ding a traitor would do, sell a gun to Japan instead of to his own country. It won't be so much of a revenge. But if dey find out dot you were innocent all de time, it will hurt dem, Chon, it will really hurt because dey will blame demselves."

John Battle, his teeth clenched tight, said, "You say I was framed? If I was framed, you were in it, too. Garrett's report will incriminate you."

"Ja, ja," Krausmeyer said indifferently. "Sure I was in it. But wot do I care about being incriminated. I'll be in Germany wid your gun. I'll be a great man, Chon. You see, I'm being honest wid you."

"If I turn the gun over to you," John Battle said, "you'll give me Garrett's report? And will you give me a signed confession that you killed Garrett?"

"I couldn't do dot, Chon. Dey can extradite you for murder. Dey could bring me back from Germany. But dey couldn't for dis odder ding dot I'm willing to clear up for you."

"And what'll happen to Kern and Measley?"

Krausmeyer bared his teeth. "Why should you and I care what happens to dem? Dey're in dis ding for money. You and I are in it for nobler dings. Wot do you say, Chon?"

Woolf Kern, followed by Measley, came back. The former's face was black with rage.

"We can't find it. We turned the place upside down." He started to take off his coat. "But I guess we can find a way to make him talk."

Little Measley let out a squeak.

Krausmeyer said, "Mr. Kern, I'm surprised at you. You forget Mr. Battle is one of our partners."

Woolf Kern glared at him.

"We've got to be going." Krausmeyer continued, "Mr. Battle is going to dink dings over. He's going to let us know tonide— tonide by six o'clock, no later." He gave John Battle a significant glance, then added, "We've got to get to de office. I want to hear how dings are going at de facdory."

He started out with Measley in his wake.

Woolf Kern remained behind for a moment to say, "I don't know what Krausmeyer has in mind, but you better come through. Battle; you better play with us. We've got too much at stake to be fussy with you, if you don't."

John Battle waved him out.

He stood staring at the door that closed behind them. War, Krausmeyer telling the truth? There was a chance that he was. His statements seemed to bear out C. O. Ponder's guess that Garrett was killed because he had been about to talk. Then that horrible thing that had happened hadn't been just a mistake, the result of a blundering court, but planned with a view to getting him to join the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. when they came with an irresistible offer at the psychological moment. Should he accept Krausmeyer's offer? Could he trust the German to give him Garrett's report, if such a report existed? How would it feel to be rehabilitated? To look those men, with whom he had been associated for so many years, in the eye and say, "You condemned me unjustly."

And then the hopelessness of it all struck him. He wouldn't be really rehabilitated. Garrett's confession would exonerate him of the first crime, but in order to get it he would have to commit another. He would have to sell his invention to a foreign power, which, by every code, he ought not to do. No one had a right to that marvelous gun except his own country. An incredibly ironical situation, enough to drive one to distraction.

And then he thought of something else. He thought of Yoshimo, resourceful, vindictive. The Japanese had made it only too clea? that unless John Battle kept his word to deliver the gun to him, he would see to it that Hiroshi would complete the chain of evidence that C. O. Ponder had against Battle. What good would it do him then to be exonerated? Whether or not he lived hadn't mattered up to now, but now things were different.

If he were to be reinstated, his citizenship restored, why damn it, he wouldn't want the gun to be sold! It was his gun and it would be his country once more. And that's where the gun belonged.

John Battle raised his hands to his throbbing head, pressed them against his temples. The complications of the situation were too much for him just then. What could he do? What could he possibly do?

Chapter 13

Eddie Talks

IN the meantime the leisurely Ponder had taken it into his head to pay another visit to the offices of the Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. He was anxious to interview Eddie. That pimply-faced individual interested him strangely. He had had him shadowed continually as he had the members of the firm, and on the previous day Ponder's men had reported that Eddie had gone to make a deposit at his bank. It required only a little effort to discover the extent of Eddie's balance, and it proved to be of such a size that C. O. Ponder involuntarily let out a low whistle.

"What do you want with me?" Eddie demanded with more courage than he actually felt.

"Just a nice little talk," Sergeant Ponder said laconically. "Nobody seems to be able to help me, but maybe you can, Eddie. I've got great faith in you."

Something akin to fear came into Eddie's eyes. "What do you want to know?" he asked reluctantly.

"Different things," C. O. Ponder said. "But this isn't a good place. Put on your hat and coat, Eddie, and we'll go for a little walk."

"I can't leave the office," Eddie said. With his hands he seized the seat of his chair as though to keep himself from being forcibly dragged away. His pale, shifty eyes avoided the sergeant's.

"Yes, you can, Eddie. It will be all right if you're going for a walk with me. Of course, I could take you to the station house, but I don't want to do that unless I have to. The boys are sort of rough down there. Some of them like to play games with a rubber hose, Eddie."

Eddie looked wildly about. "You can't do it," he cried. "I'll call Mr. Krausmeyer."

There was a show of interest in the faces of two or three of the clerks in the office.

"Or, yes, I can," said C. O. Ponder, lowering his voice. "I can even take Mr. Krausmeyer down there, if I want to. There is nothing to be afraid of, Eddie. This is just going to be a friendly talk."

Eddie hesitated only a minute longer, then slowly he got to his feet.

"Get your hat and coat," said the sergeant, keeping at Eddie's side as he went to the hat rack.

Out in the street C. O. Ponder took Eddie by the arm.

"We're going to go down to the Battery and pick out a nice comfortable bench looking out over the harbor. That will take your mind off of things and maybe you'll concentrate on just what I'm interested in."

Eddie gave him a fearful sidelong glance from time to time as they made their way along in silence. Eventually they found a bench that stood apart from the others, and as they seated themselves the sergeant reached into his upper pocket and extracted a thick black cigar.

"Here, Eddie, have a smoke," he said.

"I don't smoke cigars," Eddie said.

"I didn't think you did," said C. O. Ponder. "Mr. Krausmeyer doesn't either, does he?"

"No, he doesn't—not cigars—and neither does Mr. Kern," Eddie said. After all, the sergeant didn't seem so formidable. He was beginning to feel reassured. "If it interests you, Mr. Measley smokes cigars," he volunteered pertly.

"That interests me very much," said Mr. Ponder. "I always like a man who smokes cigars; makes me feel at home." Then suddenly, "How much do they pay you where you're working, Eddie?"

"Not much," said Eddie. "Twelve dollars a week."

"And how long have you been working?"

"Three years; with the same people, ever since they started."

"Are you good in arithmetic, Eddie?"

The boy shifted uneasily. The sergeant's vague questions somehow disquieted him.

"Twelve dollars a week, Eddie, is how much a year?"

"About six hundred dollars," Eddie said sullenly.

"That's right," C. O. Ponder agreed brightly. "And you've been working three years, so all together you've made about eighteen hundred dollars?"

"I guess so."

"I was wondering, Eddie, if you could tell me how you managed to save more than three thousand dollars out of such a little salary?"

Eddie's mouth fell open.

"I didn't," he gasped.

"But you got that much in the bank."

Eddie's shifty eyes searched the bay as though for an inspiration.

"I inherited some money," he said at last.

"That's nice," said C. O. Ponder. "Did you inherit it all at once or in little pieces?"

Eddie gulped twice; then, "I got it all at once from an uncle who died, but it's being paid me a little at a time." Considering the explanation adequate, he relaxed a trifle, but the sergeant's next question brought him up sharply.

"I suppose this uncle of yours," said Sergeant Ponder, looking out to sea with his round opaque eyes, "was a Japanese?"

Once more Eddie gulped, tried to speak and couldn't.

"Don't tell me," said C. O. Ponder. "Let me guess. This uncle of yours worked for the Yoshimo Trading Co. and the Yoshimo Trading Co. is paying you your inheritance a little at a time; there's a little Japanese chap that brings it to you a hundred dollars at a time. Isn't that right?"

Eddie's brain began racing at a furious pace. He was by no means stupid. It was obvious to him that the sergeant was toying with him, that he knew or had a pretty shrewd suspicion of his relationship with the Yoshimo Trading Co. Considering the matter, Eddie decided that complete frankness was the best course. After all, what could the sergeant do to him? At best, he could report him to his employers and Eddie would lose his job, which was no serious matter for one in his financial position.

"No, my uncle never worked for the Yoshimo Trading Co. To be honest with you, sergeant, I didn't inherit any money. The Yoshimo people pay me to keep them informed of what's going on down at our office. I think we're making something that they want to buy."

"What are you making?"

"I don't know. Honest, I don't, sergeant. That's the God's honest truth."

"I believe you," C. O. Ponder said. "You've been a good boy so far, Eddie."

That last sounded so much like the way Mr. Krausmeyer was in the habit of addressing him that unconsciously Eddie shivered.

"You've never been in trouble, Eddie, have you?"

"No," Eddie said.

"You've always been a good boy?"

"Always tried to," Eddie declared virtuously.

"Except that one time," Sergeant Ponder suggested in his most casual way.

Eddie started to jump to his feet, but C. O. Ponder's restraining hand kept him there.

"You see, I know all about it, Eddie. There's no use trying to hide anything from me. I've got some more questions to ask you, Eddie, and if you lie to me, it will only mean trouble for you."

With a trembling hand Eddie reached into his pocket and extracted a crumpled package of cigarettes. Unsteadily he lit one.

"How—how did you know?" he said.

"I've been looking you up," C. O. Ponder told him frankly. "A few years ago you were charged with grand larceny, stealing a couple of thousand dollars from the payroll of the people you are now working for. The charge wasn't pressed. Why wasn't it, Eddie?"

Eddie was shaking in every limb.

"I'm trying to help you," said the sergeant kindly; "that is. I'll try to help you if you'll try to help me."

"If I tell you," Eddie quavered, "if I tell you the God's honest truth, sergeant, will you promise not to do anything to me? You won't let them arrest me? You won't let them send me to prison?"

"If it's that old charge you're worrying about," Sergeant Ponder said, "I think I can promise that nothing will happen to you."

"Anyway, I paid half of it back, and Mr. Krausmeyer said that I didn't have to pay the rest as long as I was a good boy and did what he told me to."

C. O. Ponder's head came around slowly. His vacuous eyes rested on Eddie.

"And what did he want you to do?"

"Nothing special," said Eddie; "just to keep my eyes open and tell him what was going on around the office."

C. O. Ponder was disappointed. For one brief moment he had thought that he had hit a trail that might lead somewhere.

"Think a little harder, Eddie," he said in a voice that held little hope. "Wasn't there ever anything special, anything to do with Mr. Garrett, or Mr. Battle, or any of the other of your bosses that Mr. Krausmeyer wanted you to do?"

"Nothing," said Eddie firmly. He was taking heart from the sergeant's manner, "except maybe a few days ago when he sent me up one night to Mr. Battle's house with some papers for him to sign, and then he was only playing a joke."

"What sort of a joke?" Ponder asked slowly.

"He wanted me to snitch something out of Mr. Battle's house; a handkerchief or a cuff link or something personal like that— nothing that was worth anything." With some difficulty C. O. Ponder kept his tone casual as he asked the next question.

"And did you do it, Eddie?"

"It wasn't much," Eddie explained. "Mr. Battle didn't leave the room where I was. All I could do was to yank a button off of Mr. Battle's coat, which was hanging on a chair next to where I stood."

"And what did you do with it, Eddie? You didn't give it to Mr. Krausmeyer, did you?"

"Why, sure I did," said Eddie in a tone of surprise. He was obviously telling the truth.

Sergeant Ponder was so astonished that he opened his mouth wider than he intended. His cigar butt dropped to the ground and went unheeded.

"You gave it to Krausmeyer— you didn't give it to any one else?"

"No," said Eddie simply.

"And what did he say?"

"Why, he seemed satisfied. He said, 'Dot's a good boy, Eddie.' You never heard him say that to me, did you, sergeant? The way he says it sends shivers down your back, makes you feel that he's going to do something terrible to you if you're not a good boy. Then he said not to mention it to anybody; he was just playing a joke on Mr. Battle. Then he said again, 'Dot's a good boy, Eddie.' Don't tell him I told you about it, sergeant. You'll only get me into trouble."

C. O. Ponder, with a look of almost comic bewilderment, was studying the boy. It wasn't possible that Krausmeyer could have been so rash as to place himself in this boy's hands by taking that button from him. He couldn't possibly have killed Garrett and been so simple-minded, under the circumstances, as to have stuck that button in Garrett's dead hand. But still—

"Did you ever hear what happened to that button, Eddie?"

Eddie was plainly nonplused; no, he hadn't heard.

After a long time C. O. Ponder said, "Run along. Forget all about our little talk. You won't get into any trouble over it. Take my word for it."

With a sigh of relief, Eddie hastened away, and C. O. Ponder, watching his retreating figure, soliloquized :

"I suppose he told me the truth, and, if he did, poor old Ponder's one little clew is knocked sky high— poor old Ponder's one little real clew—"

Chapter 14

Mr. Measley Takes a Nap

C. O. PONDER got home late that night. His wife, Molly, a trim little figure, though slightly buxom, with jolly blue eyes and a sweet mouth, chided him with, "If you had been late for dinner again, Charley, I would have taken you right out of that police department. I'm a trusting soul, I am, with a husband that's always staying out late, claiming that he's working on a case."

"Don't scold me, Mommer," said Sergeant Ponder.

"You're tired, darling," she said, and came up to him and threw her arms around him, giving him an affectionate hug.

"I'm not so tired, Mommer; just a little mixed up. I was playing a hunch on this Garrett case, but I guess I was wrong. I just got one more chance."

"You forget all about it," she ordered; "wash up and sit down. I'm just putting dinner on the table."

C. O. Ponder followed instructions, stopping on the way to pick up an ash tray from the sideboard. He placed his butt in the ash tray, right beside him, and started on his steaming soup with relish, conscious that the watchful, motherly eye of Molly was resting on him, to make sure that he ate every spoonful. Having finished his soup in silence, he looked up and said:

"You won't mind, Mommer, if I don't talk much? I've got to do a lot of thinking. There's a lot of work ahead of me to-night. It's going to be a long evening."

"You're not going out again?" she protested.

"No, I'm not. Some one's coming here; some one that I want to talk to about the case."

"Now, Charley, how many times have I told you not to bring your filthy old murders home." She tried to put indignation into her voice but couldn't quite manage it. As a matter of fact, it sounded much more like sympathy.

"It's got to be that way, this once, because—well, because," he went on apologetically, "I need you to help me."

Mrs. Ponder looked surprised, but thoughtfully refrained from questioning him. He would tell her all in good time, and in his own way.

"Forget about it now," she said, "if you don't want to talk, don't— till you've finished your dinner. There's one thing though I've got to say: I got a letter from Katie and she says you forgot to mail her her allowance again."

C. O. Ponder grinned. Nothing could prevent his wife, thoughtful and considerate though she was, from reminding him whenever he was remiss in his duties toward the pride and joy of their life, their daughter, Katie, away at college.

"I didn't forget it," he declared stoutly. "I didn't get paid until yesterday."

"Go on with you," Molly said. "You've always got an excuse."

Her husband, busy with a juicy steak, said nothing. That finished, he waved the dessert aside, relit his half-smoked cigar, and relaxed on the sofa. After a while he got up and went into the kitchen where his wife was busy with the dishes. From his vest pocket he took a little white paper package.

"Listen carefully, Molly," he said. He invariably called her Molly instead of Mommer when he had something serious to discuss, "There's a man coming to see me. I'm going to keep him talking a long time, and some time or other I'm going to ask you to bring in some coffee or some tea or drink of whatever he wants, and I want you to put this in his coffee or whatever he's drinking. Be sure you put it in his cup and not in mine."

She stared at him incredulously for a time, then with unwonted firmness said, "Charley Ponder, what are you up to?"

"Nothing much," he said soberly; "only something that the commissioner would throw me off the force for, if he found it out. I just want our guest to have a nice little nap. Maybe it will do him good—maybe it will do me good, too."

"But why?" she said in a puzzled tone.

"Why?" said Ponder, as though it were a novel question, "why, because I want to see what he does with his cigar when he falls asleep."

Sigmund Measley arrived half an hour late. He looked about the simply furnished room and then at C. O. Ponder. There was about him an air of trepidation that he strove valiantly to conceal.

"Really, sergeant," he began, "this is a most extraordinary request. I can't understand your asking me to come here."

"I told you over the phone," C. O.

Ponder said in his leisurely way. "It's about the Garrett case. I've got a lot of information that I know will interest you. I feel that you're the best man with whom to discuss it." No one would have suspected it, but in his way. Sergeant Ponder was quite an actor, and he suddenly managed to look secretive and to give an ominously dramatic note to his voice. "I'm not sure, Mr. Measley," he said, "that Battle is the guilty party. There are things about this case that point to Krausmeyer!"

The way that C. O. Ponder said, "Krausmeyer," literally made Sigmund Measley jump.

"Really," he managed, "really, you surprise me."

"Take off your hat and coat; make yourself comfortable." He pushed forward a huge armchair. "It's going to take a long time to discuss this. Have a cigar."

Mr. Measley looked askance at the thick, black, villainous weed that Sergeant Ponder held out to him. "If you don't mind," he said timorously, "I'll smoke one of my own."

Ponder held a match for his guest, then for himself lit the cigar that he had proffered Measley. It was an important occasion, had the latter only realized it, when Mr. Ponder lit a fresh cigar. Then the sergeant began to talk; and it soon became apparent that he was out to establish a record, a record of which any filibustering congressman might have been proud. He began with the history of John Battle, his life in Washington, the brilliance of a career cut off in its prime. He recited the evidence submitted at Battle's court-martial; from time to time he plied Measley with endless questions, questions which the latter answered with care while he fidgeted, waiting for what was to come.

Mr. Measley was several times on the verge of telling Sergeant Ponder that he knew all of these things, knew them better than the sergeant did, but he perceived a certain danger to himself in that, and wisely held his tongue.

When the old clock on the little table in the corner of the room struck eleven, Sergeant Ponder had gotten as far as the discovery of Martin Garrett's body hanging in the wardrobe, and that was still a long way from home.

Mr. Measley had by now given up even the few feeble attempts to hurry the sergeant along, that he had made earlier in the evening. He was watching C. O. Ponder, somewhat drowsy-eyed, yet with the fascination of a bird watching a snake. So far the sergeant had said nothing that might definitely alarm him, yet the latter had the conviction that all this was leading up to something, something that would involve him somehow unpleasantly.

The sergeant himself was somewhat fatigued. He thought he saw at this point a chance to get a little well-earned rest.

"Now you heard all the evidence so far, Mr. Measley, that connects Battle with this crime. You look like a smart man and maybe you can give me some ideas. I want you to give me your opinions, in detail, mind you; tell me everything you think about it. Sometimes an outsider's angle is a big help."

But all that Mr. Measley said was, "I don't know what to make of it."

C. O. Ponder groaned inwardly, and went on as before. He was on his third cigar. Sigmund Measley had finished his fifth.

"Better light up again," the sergeant suggested. "We've got a lot to talk over yet."

"Couldn't we—couldn't we," Mr. Measley ventured, "abbreviate it a little? Really, it's getting quite late."

"We haven't come to the most interesting part yet. I'll tell you what. You light a fresh cigar and I'll have my wife make us some hot coffee."

Mr. Measley felt his upper pocket and, finding it empty, said, "I guess I better not smoke any more."

C. O. Ponder went to the door and called out, "Molly, would you be good enough to make us some coffee? Mr. Measley and I are having a hard evening. We are going to need it."

He came back and resumed where he had left off, asking Mr. Measley at great length to consider if it were reasonable to think that a man as intelligent as John Battle would commit a murder and then leave all that evidence around. "Man to man," he demanded, "doesn't that seem a little foolish?"

Mr. Measley ran his tongue across his lips. He felt again for a cigar and looked a little helplessly at C. O. Ponder.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I haven't had any experience in these things. What makes you think that Krausmeyer had anything to do with it?" he asked with a sudden inspiration. That ought to bring matters to a head.

"The funny thing is," said the sergeant, "I have investigated the matter and Krausmeyer has an unshakable alibi for the night on which Garrett was killed. More than a dozen people can vouch for the fact that he was nowhere near your office."

"Well, then?"

"That's just the point," said C. O. Ponder, contriving to look very shrewd. "Most people suspect the man who hasn't any alibi, but I suspect the man who has, Mr. Measley. The very fact that a man's got a perfect alibi makes me think that he's the guilty party."

Mr. Measley looked a trifle bewildered. It was a mistake, for it only led the sergeant to recite the history of a half dozen cases in which he had participated where alibis had subsequently turned out to be entirely false. Sigmund Measley looked suggestively at his watch and in a tired voice said again, "It's getting late." He also looked longingly at the butt that was clenched between C. O. Ponder's teeth.

At this point Mrs. Ponder, with a tray bearing two cups of coffee, came in.

"This is my wife," said Sergeant Ponder with pardonable pride. "Mr. Measley, who is interested in the Garrett case."

Sigmund Measley rose halfway from his chair. He was very tired and was grateful to Mrs. Ponder for telling him not to get up. It was a deep chair, and one from which it was difficult for a short man to rise. He sank back and appreciatively accepted the coffee proffered by Mrs. Ponder. No, he took neither sugar nor cream.

C. O. Ponder helped himself to the other cup, dropped six lumps of sugar into it and said, "Thank you, Molly," whereupon his wife withdrew.

"Now you've got to have a cigar. I'll bet you're out of them. Try one of mine. They're not as bad as they look. You get to like the flavor when you're used to them."

Mr. Measley accepted the proffered cigar with some hesitancy, but to an inveterate smoker any cigar is better than none. He bit off the end, lit it and started to sip the coffee.

C. O. Ponder in the meantime resumed with renewed energy from the point where he had been interrupted.

When presently Mr. Measley had finished his coffee, his eyes were half closed. He puffed mechanically at his cigar.

Sergeant Ponder leaned over and took the cup from his unresisting hand and placed it beside his own on the table.

"I'm very tired, very tired," said Mr. Measley. Unconsciously he shifted his cigar from one hand to the other and allowed his arms to droop in slack fashion down the sides of the armchair.

C. O. Ponder kept on talking. His voice grew lower and lower, and presently, when Mr. Measley's eyes were entirely shut and a faint but unmistakable snore kept wheezing through his nose, Mr. Ponder stopped entirely. Then he arose and stood contemplating Sigmund Measley, or rather, Mr. Measley's hand—the one that held the cigar. C. O. Ponder tiptoed toward the door. Almost there he heard it open softly. Molly was standing there. He beckoned her to come into the room. He pointed to the sleeping

Measley.

"A good guest," he said in a whisper. "He'll never burn a hole in the rug and he'll never set a bed on fire."

The satisfied smile on Sergeant Ponder's face was not entirely due to the fact that he had his arm about Molly's waist as he led her softly from the room.

Chapter 15

John Battle Won't Quit

JOHN BATTLE had scarcely finished bathing, shaving and dressing before Ann Garrett was announced over the house telephone.

"Let her come up," he told the doorman.

There was a little package in her hand. She placed it on the table in front of him.

"You see, I didn't turn it over to Mr. Krausmeyer— or to any one else."

He said, "Thank you. Does that mean you think I didn't kill your father?"

She looked him in the eye for a long time; then, "Yes. I don't think you had anything to do with my father's death, in spite of what he said, in spite of everything. What is it?" she said, indicating the little machine that she had returned. "I looked at it. It doesn't mean anything to me. It doesn't look like anything that would make me millions. I'm not being mercenary; in fact, I don't need the money. I'm just interested why you and the others should fight over it."

He shook his head without replying.

"Why won't you tell me?" she said curiously. "I've shown you that you can trust me. Krausmeyer and the rest must know what it is or they wouldn't want it. Father must have known. I think perhaps I've got a right to know."

And still he maintained his stubborn silence.

"The trouble with you is," she said spiritedly, "that you're all tied up inside. You won't confide in anybody. You said yourself you hadn't a single friend. You don't make friends by not confiding in people, by being secretive."

He had been looking away, but now he turned his dark, sunken eyes full on her.

"What you say is true," he said coldly. "It's all true, especially that I'm all warped, twisted deep inside. What was once a soul is nothing but a sense of injustice, hatred, and an overwhelming desire to get even with those that wronged me and the country they represent. And now that I'm on the very verge of getting my revenge, I find that I can't do it, and all because of something that a man I can't trust, Krausmeyer, said yesterday, after you left." He stopped and stared into space.

"What did he say?" she asked.

"He said that the court that condemned, disgraced me, had been misled by a conspiracy, a conspiracy in which Krausmeyer and probably the others were involved—" He stopped suddenly. He had thought that he was devoid of any human feelings, but he must have been mistaken, for now that he was confronted with the necessity of telling her that her own father had participated in that conspiracy, he couldn't bring himself to do it. She was clean and decent, trustworthy and friendly, and considering what she had done for him and what more she was ready to do, it would be a poor return to tell her.

Then, as from afar, he heard her say, "This conspiracy which ruined you, embittered your whole life— was my father in it?" And as he maintained a stubborn silence, she said more insistently, "Tell me; it won't make any difference. My father was good to me. We loved each other dearly. The knowledge that during his life he succumbed to some temptation, that there was a weakness in his character isn't going to change all that."

Without looking at her, he said, "Krausmeyer says that your father made out a report that would establish my innocence; his conscience troubled him. You see, he was rather decent after all. He probably couldn't bear to see me the way I was. I can't blame him. I can't bear myself." He stopped, looked listlessly about; then added, "Of course, you can't believe Krausmeyer. He says he has the report; that he'll turn it over to me if I give him this little machine."

"He's speaking the truth," she said excitedly. "Don't you remember my telling you about the report my father was writing? The first page was addressed to you."

John Battle started. Of course. He had forgotten about that entirely.

"What were you accused of?" she asked.

"Of being a traitor to my country. I was a lieutenant commander in the navy, in charge of a section in the ordnance department. Some plans were stolen. They got into the hands of the Japanese. And I was accused of having sold them. They found money in my desk; quite a large sum. I don't know how it got there. I can't tell you all the details, but it did no good, my defending myself, my throwing the money into their faces. I was court-martialed, thrown out of the navy; my citizenship was taken away from me. Do you wonder that I hated my country?"

"I wonder how you stood it," she declared with deep sincerity. "But it's over now. It's so simple. Let Krausmeyer have this thing, this little machine. I still don't know what it is, but if he wants it so badly that he'll give you my father's report, so that you can prove your innocence, there's nothing else to do. I don't like it myself. I don't like the idea of my father's name being dragged in the mud, but I insist on your doing it. You've got a right to do it."

A sad, half-whimsical smile came to John Battle's lips.

"It's not as simple as you think. The thing I'm building at a factory out in Jersey, and of which that thing there is only a part—it's the essential part—is an anti-aircraft gun. I'll tell you just a little so that you'll understand why it isn't so simple. It's a gun that every time it's fired—it can be fired at the rate of a hundred and twenty times a minute—it shoots not one bullet but fifty bullets out of fifty barrels and each barrel is set at a very slight angle so that the gun, when it sprays the sky with bullets, covers a wide area. The gun revolves continuously and so constantly changes the direction of the shots. An airplane might as well attempt to pass through a snowstorm untouched, as to cross a battery of these guns. A country equipped with these weapons can laugh at airplane attacks. Do you understand now why I can't turn this over to Krausmeyer?"

She looked as if she only half understood.

"It was my idea to give it to the Japanese. I have, as a matter of fact, a contract with them. That was the way I was going to get even with my country for what it had done to me. But I find that I can't do it. You can't sluff off a country. It's in your blood. And you can't sluff off the navy, not if you've been in it the way I have. I belong to the navy. My brains belong to the navy. My gun belongs to the navy."

His voice was low, but the hand with which he gesticulated trembled a little. "Krausmeyer wants that gun to take back to Germany—"

She stood quite close to him, looking into the desperate misery in his eyes. He swayed a little, then sank into a chair.

"Excuse me," he said, "I haven't slept all night, trying to think of a way out. The last two weeks have been a little too much for me, I guess. I worked so hard to get the thing finished, and I never realized before how much I wanted to talk to somebody. There's some whisky over there. Would you—would you pour me a drink?"

She nodded, went to the table and filled a small glass to the brim. He emptied it at a single gulp.

"You see," he continued wearily, "the gun is in Krausmeyer's factory, but it's no good without that thing that you guarded so well, and that thing is no good without the gun. I want to get my gun out of the factory, but, of course, they won't let me. In the meantime, they're going to try and steal this thing from me." Suddenly that strained, hard look of old came back into his eyes. "We'll see," he said. "We'll see."

The house phone rang. He started to rise, but she waved him back. "I'll see who it is." And presently she announced, "It's Ponder."

"I don't want to see him."

"I think you'd better," she said. "I think you'd better tell him about my father's report—and about the gun, too. I like the sergeant. I think he's the sort of man who would stand by."

C. O. Ponder looked quizzically from one to the other when he came in, but his glance finally remained on John Battle.

"You're all in," he said brusquely. "If it's the Garrett case you're worrying about, forget it. I never did think you had anything to do with Garrett's death. I couldn't believe that any sane man would commit a murder and leave all the evidence in the world against himself."

John Battle regarded him without a change of expression.

It was Ann Garrett who spoke up indignantly.

"Then what did you arrest him for? For practice, I suppose," she demanded sarcastically.

Sergeant Ponder was amused. "You wanted him arrested, didn't you? Besides I thought that if he were arrested it would throw the guilty party off his guard. It didn't," he added ruefully.

Ann Garrett colored slightly, then contrived to look as though it was all C. O. Ponder's fault, and that if he were a gentleman he wouldn't mention the matter at all.

"You appear to have been right, sergeant," John Battle spoke up, "when you told me that you thought Mr. Garrett had probably been killed because he was on the point of talking. Shortly before his death he was busy on some sort of a report. Miss Garrett got a glimpse of it. The report was addressed to me. It's now in Krausmeyer's possession and he is offering it to me in exchange for something he wants."

C. O. Ponder chewed fiercely on his cigar. For once he was really put out.

"Why didn't you tell me about this before, from the beginning?" he asked Ann Garrett. "And you, Mr. Battle, why didn't you tell me that Krausmeyer had the report?"

Ann Garrett said, "I didn't think it mattered."

"Tch— tch, you didn't think it mattered," the sergeant mimicked her impolitely. "It's always a great help to the police when people decide for themselves what's fit and what isn't fit for the police to know. In this particular instance, if you had told me about the report, I might have relieved your mind right away concerning the thing your father said: 'Battle will kill me.' Mr. Battle had some trouble a few years ago and it looks to me very much as if it had been a frame-up and your father was going to tell him about it. I don't like to say it, but I'm afraid he was connected with it in some way. And when he talked in his sleep what he meant was, 'When he sees this. Battle will kill me,' or, 'When he hears about this. Battle will kill me,' or something like that. It's the sort of thing everybody is constantly using."

"I'm sorry," Ann Garrett said, but she said it to John Battle and not to C. O. Ponder. "Maybe you can tell me how Krausmeyer got a hold of this report?"

"He says he killed Garrett and took it away from him."

Part of the wrapper on Sergeant Ponder's cigar became loose. He moistened the tip of his finger and pasted it back. Then:

"Krausmeyer may have that report, but he didn't kill Garrett. I've found a dozen reliable witnesses that give him a perfect alibi."

Ann Garrett was watching the sergeant steadily. The color mounted in her cheeks, her eyes took on a deeper hue.

"I thought that what I wanted more than anything else in the world," she said slowly, "was for you to find my father's murderer. I still want that, but it's not as important right now as some other things. What I want now is for you to get the report my father made, so that Mr. Battle may be exonerated—and we want you to help us with something else."

"Tch—tch," said Sergeant Ponder, good-naturedly. The "we" had not escaped him. "You want me to help you with something else. What do you want me to help you with?"

Ann looked at John Battle.

"Tell him," she said. "Tell him about the gun—please."

For a moment it looked as though John Battle would refuse. His mouth was set in a grim line, then suddenly he changed his mind. The girl was right. C. O. Ponder looked like a decent sort, and he. Battle, would need all the help he could get. So he told Sergeant Ponder about the gun; how he had had a sudden change of heart; he no longer wanted the gun to go to Japan, nor to Germany; told him about Yoshimo and Hiroshi. And when he had finished, C. O. Ponder whistled softly.

"I never knew a man in a worse fix," he said. "Who's got a legal right to this gun?"

"The Warlock Tool & Steel Corp. When I agreed to associate myself with them, I, of course, had to assign the rights to my invention to the corporation in return for the money that Krausmeyer and the others were putting up. At the time I told them that I wanted the gun to go to Japan. None of them raised any objections. I suppose they calculated that it was time enough to bring up the final disposition of the gun when it had been completed."

The sergeant said, "That's bad. If the gun legally belongs to them, the police can't do a thing. Even if you could manage to steal it out of the factory in Jersey, we couldn't help you. If they took it away from you by force, we couldn't interfere. What's more, the chances are they'd probably have you locked up for theft, and it wouldn't do you any good if an understanding jury acquitted you, because by that time the gun would be in Germany or in Ethiopia or wherever they wanted to ship it. There's nothing I can do for you there, Mr. Battle, except of course, to try and see that they don't beat you up—or kill you. If you want a police guard, you can have it, but I don't see what good that'll do you. It won't help you get your gun."

"No," said John Battle, "it won't help me get my gun." He said it hopelessly, wearily, in a desperate way.

C. O. Ponder rose, bestowed a look of sympathy on John Battle and shook his head.

"The breaks a man gets sometimes make you kind of sick. You said Krausmeyer gave you till six o'clock last night to make up your mind to come across with that thing you call the 'brains' of the gun? You didn't do it—has anything happened?"

"No," John Battle said listlessly. "I called him up last night and told him that I was considering his proposition favorably and would let him know in a day or so. I was only trying to gain time; probably nothing will happen for a few days."

"Maybe not," said Sergeant Ponder dubiously. "If I had the slightest case against Krausmeyer, I'd clap him into jail for you, get him out of your way for a time, but there'd still be this Kern guy and Measley and the people at the factory for you to worry over, and Yoshimo. You don't have to worry about the Hiroshi angle of that. We'll take care of him. But from what you tell me, Yoshimo wants this gun as badly as Krausmeyer, and when these Japs want something, they go after it. Watch your step. If I wasn't a policeman who's got a job on his hands, I'd go out there and help you steal that gun myself. Well, I'll be seeing you. I've got to go and look for my murderer."

With that C. O. Ponder ambled out.

John Battle sat slumped deep down in his chair, staring at the floor. He was engulfed in a feeling of lethargy, dejection, despondency.

Ann Garrett watching him said, "You're not going to give up now, are you?"

"What can I do?"

"When you were against your country, you had courage," she said. "You fought and you were ready to continue to fight—fight them all. But now that you're for it"—it hurt her to put so much disdain into her voice; he looked so tired, so worn; but she had to do it, she had to rouse him—"but now that you're for it, you're lying down; you're quitting."

His head came up. His eyes far back in his head, burning, took her in from head to foot.

"Give me a drink," he said harshly.

Obediently she went and poured him a drink. It struck her as odd that she felt as though she belonged here in his apartment, waiting on him, looking out for him, spurring him on to one final effort, lending him some of her courage, and when the time came she would give him her sympathy and her understanding.

He drained the glass, placed it down hard on the table and straightened up in his chair.

"I'm not quitting," he said in a tone so low that she scarcely heard. "I told you, your country is something that gets into your blood. The service gets into your blood, too. Something inside me won't let me quit. Maybe it's you, Ann Garrett" — he jerked his head back and said again—"maybe it's you."

Chapter 16

Ann Drives a Truck

JOHN BATTLE got to his feet. He began to walk the floor, thinking rapidly.

Ann Garrett sat watching him quietly without saying a word, not wishing to interrupt the trend of his thoughts. Sometimes her gaze strayed to the window. It was snowing, the first snow of the year. She had a strange feeling of contentment, and attributed it to the snowflakes falling gently, softly. That feeling couldn't be due to the fact that she was there with him. How could there be any peace just being with him when he was confronted with so many difficulties, immersed in a turbulent, dangerous situation? And yet perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps in spite of everything, sharing his troubles accounted for the way she felt.

Suddenly John Battle came to a halt in front of the writing table. He opened a drawer, took out his check book, looked at his balance, and with a shrug flung the book on the desk. He turned to her.

"Have you got any cash?"

"Plenty," she said. "How much do you need?"

"Enough to buy a second-hand truck," he said. "Do you think you could buy a truck? Do you think you could drive it late at night? Do you think you could hide it in a patch of woods?"

She felt her heart beat wildly. "Why not?" she said.

He gazed at her for a long time, doubtfully she felt; then:

"You said you'd help. You've been urging me on not to quit. I'll need somebody, and there isn't anybody but you."

"You're not very gracious about it, John Battle."

He brushed that aside with an impatient gesture of his head.

"There isn't time to be gracious; just time to tell you that you're a fool to stand by me; that you're running a big risk. If you stand in the way of Krausmeyer or Woolf Kern or any of them, they'll wipe you out, just the way they would me—the way they did your father." He stopped, stared out of the window, then spun around. "Go on home. Mind your own business. I am a man that the Fates have selected for destruction. Anybody that ties up with me will go the same way."

"How big a truck do you want?" she asked evenly.

He glowered at her. "A five-ton truck; a second-hand one will do. You ought to be able to get a good one for about fifteen hundred dollars or less. An open truck will be best. Do you know Jersey?"

"Yes, I know Jersey."

"If there were anybody else," he said, "I wouldn't let you do this. I can't do it myself. I know that they're going to watch me, watch my every move. Sooner or later they hope I'll slip up and they'll get their hands on that little contraption there, the 'brains' of the gun."

"I'm sorry," she said, "if I seem so inadequate."

"Damn it!" he roared at her. "Stop being a woman. You're not important; I'm not important; only what we're going to do is important."

She accepted the rebuke without protest.

"What do I do with the truck?"

"Wait till it's dark. A girl won't attract so much attention when driving a truck, and go out to Boonton. When you come to the third traffic light beyond the town, you'll find a road that bears left. Take it, stay on it for about eight miles, till you come to a sign advertising a motor oil. There's another left turn there, a road that's no more than a cow pasture. Take it; it leads you into a patch of woods. You'll see an abandoned shack on the right-hand side. There's a clearing there. Drive the truck into that and as far as you can into the woods beyond. Leave the truck there."

"And what happens to me?" she said. Despite the seriousness of the situation, there was merriment in her eyes.

He looked nonplused, even crestfallen.

"I hadn't thought of that. The worst of it is that I'll need you back here."

"Otherwise you wouldn't mind my staying there till spring, and the robins had come and covered me up with leaves."

But she couldn't shake him out of the seriousness of his mood.

"I'll tell you what happens to me," she said. "I'll walk back to the other road."

"A matter of almost two miles," he said.

"Don't be silly. Two miles, what's that? I'll walk it and then get a lift home or to the railroad station at Boonton."

He started to protest, but she silenced him with:

"It's your job to tell me what you want done, and mine to do it in my own way. I've never driven a truck. It ought to be fun. What happens when I get back?"

"You telephone me, and I'll tell you what to do next."

She rose, put on her coat, captured as much of her fluffy hair as she could underneath her perky little hat, then held out her hand.

"Good-by, John Battle. You'll hear from me when the truck is safely tucked away in the woods in Jersey."

"It's no sort of a job for a girl," he said moodily.

"I couldn't think of a girl with an ounce of adventure in her," she replied, "who wouldn't give a year of her life to be in on this."

Before he could say more, she was gone.

John Battle sat down at his desk and began to write a long letter to a man he hadn't seen for years. It took him over an hour. When he had finished, he stuck it in an envelope, sealed, stamped, and addressed it. He put on his hat and coat, went over and stuffed the "brains" into his overcoat pocket. He felt that he was perfectly safe with it on his person in broad daylight. It was far safer that way than to leave it behind. He went downstairs, mailed the letter, hailed a taxicab, and gave the driver the address of the Yoshimo Trading Co.

Baron Yoshimo eyed him curiously, and for the first time during their intercourses he was the first to speak.

"I trust," he said sibilantly, "that there is nothing wrong."

"Not yet," John Battle said, "but there will be, unless I have your assistance."

Yoshimo flicked an invisible speck from the trousers of his immaculate suit.

"What do you wish me to do?"

"My associates," said John Battle, "are determined that my gun shall go not to Japan but to another power. You know where it is being manufactured. You can appreciate that they actually control the factory, that the gun weighing more than two tons is not the sort of a thing that can be smuggled out. Nevertheless, I think I will get it out. I want some men to help me."

Baron Yoshimo nodded. "I was not mistaken in you," he said. "You are a man of determination, a man of great genius, and it is a pity that your services are lost to your own country. How many men do you wish, and what do you wish them to do?"

John Battle reached over for the memorandum pad on Yoshimo's desk. Quickly and deftly he sketched a map.

"Here," he said, indicating a square, "is our factory. It is completely inclosed with barbed wire. The gate is guarded. It would be impossible for me to take your men inside. I am counting on my authority in the factory and on the element of surprise to get the gun out. But once on the road, I expect to be followed by men that are as unscrupulous as yours are—are determined," he amended quickly.

Baron Yoshimo smiled thinly. "Well put. And what are my men to do? I presume they are to be waiting there in a car. Do you wish them to transfer the gun from your car into theirs?"

"That would hardly be feasible," John Battle said. "It will be on a truck, on a truck that I will drive myself. In any event, the time required to make such a transfer would take too long. If I am pursued, the pursuers would be on top of us before we could complete the transfer. What I want your men to do is to run the pursuing car off the road. Failing that, somehow or other, to get between them and my truck; to guard me from attack in the rear."

Baron Yoshimo blew smoke rings at the ceiling. After a time he said thoughtfully:

"It looks like a dangerous proceeding, to which great risk is attached. Is there not some other safer way?"

"There is no other way," John Battle snapped. "I am counting on your men to be resourceful and intelligent. Perhaps I won't need their assistance. Perhaps my actions won't arouse suspicions. The factory may not be warned by my associates in time. A dozen things can happen."

"When do you want the men there?"

"I don't know. I shall have to act quickly, at the most suitable moment. Have them ready at all times, and I will telephone you when they are to start from New York. One thing more. How will I recognize them? How will I know that it's your car and not some other car, which happens to be there by chance?"

"The men will be ready whenever you want them," Yoshimo said succinctly. "They shall have the use of my own car, a light-blue sedan, capable of great speed, and," he added enigmatically, "the men will be under a capable leader."

John Battle rose. He pushed the pad toward Yoshimo. "There's the map," he said. "The X indicates where they are to wait. It mightn't be a bad idea for your men to study the map."

Yoshimo rose, bowed politely to John Battle as the latter turned on his heel and left.

John Battle went back to his apartment. He had luncheon sent up. Afterward he called the factory, got Kernochen on the wire.

"It's all finished," Kernochen said. His voice was thick. "But the damn thing won't work. Battle. Shieber says it won't work."

"Never mind that," Battle barked. "I'll be out to make it work."

"When?"

"To-morrow, or the next day."

John Battle hung up with a feeling of relief. Apparently Krausmeyer had taken no steps to apprise Kernochen of the rift in their relations. Kernochen hadn't been told to withhold any information from him. Battle, hadn't even been instructed not to permit Battle to come to the factory, or Kernochen would have mentioned it. He called up Krausmeyer at the office.

"How are you. Chon?" the big German's voice came cordially over the wire.

"A little under the weather," John Battle said. "I just spoke to the factory. Kernochen tells me everything is in shape except for the final attachment. I'm going out there to-morrow or the next day, as soon as I feel able, and fix it up. We can talk about what happens to it after it's finished."

"You're going to be reasonable, Chon, aren't you? You're going to do de right ding?"

A grim smile twisted John Battle's face as he called back. "Yes, Krausmeyer, I'm going to do the right thing."

He spent the afternoon trying to make up some of the sleep he had lost the previous night, but he slept fitfully, constantly waking up, listening for the telephone, hoping for word from Ann Garrett.

At five o'clock it came.

He snatched the receiver off the hook, said, "Hello."

"It's the most beautiful truck you ever saw," Ann Garrett's voice came to him. "The man said it was a great bargain. I told him I was going into the trucking business and he promised to throw a lot of business my way."

Underneath the lightness of her voice, he caught an undertone of excitement.

"You're not scared?" he said.

"No," she said. "I'm starting right now for the Holland Tunnel."

The hours that followed seemed to John Battle the longest he had ever spent in his life. His own enforced inaction made him nervous, drove him into a frenzy. Every now and then he brought himself up sharply, conscious of the fact that he wasn't worrying about the thing that he ought to be worrying about, a successful carrying out of his plan, but was worrying about the girl. It was perfectly insane to let her do a thing like that. Anything might happen to her walking along those roads by herself at night. He had confidence that she would manage to get the truck there. But what would happen to her after that?

At half past ten the buzzer rang. Some one was at the door.

John Battle reached for his pocket. Krausmeyer's automatic was there. He went to the door, opened it part way and heard a voice say:

"You haven't got any trucking you want done, mister, have you?"

He threw the door wide and literally pulled her inside.

She stood there smiling, a beret covering most of her hair, a great coat concealing the slim lines of her figure. One hand was tucked in the pocket of her coat, in the other she held something out to him.

"The key," she said, "for your truck, Mr. Battle."

"Are you all right?" he said.

"Yes, I'm all right. I'll have one little drink with you, then I'm off for home. It's highly improper for me to visit you alone at this hour, chaperoned by nothing more than the 'brains' of a gun."

Chapter 17

Lon Shieber

DIRECTLY after lunch on the following day John Battle had his car brought around to his home. He was waiting with his hat and coat on. The little machine— the "brains"— was in his pocket. He had no intention of attaching it while he was out at the factory, but he wouldn't be parted from it. He stopped only long enough to make two telephone calls. First he called Yoshimo, to tell him that he was starting. Then he called the man to whom he had written the day before.

"You got my letter?" he said. "All right, then you understand. I expect to be there sometime late in the afternoon. See that the gate is open the minute I signal. It's going to be close work."

Then he went out and entered his car.

He made no effort to look around, but once inside he looked into the driving mirror. He wasn't sure, but parked less than a block away he saw a big touring car, a touring car which he thought he recognized as Gustaf Krausmeyer's. He had once driven to the factory with Krausmeyer, and he remembered the car well. Now there were three men in it.

He started his car. The other car started. He took another look in the driving mirror. The big man at the wheel was Krausmeyer.

He hadn't outwitted the big German; he hadn't fooled him by saying that he would let him know when he planned to go out to the factory. Krausmeyer had anticipated him, had very likely bribed some one in Battle's garage to let him know the instant that Battle sent for his car. The question was, had he anything to fear on the road? Battle decided not. He decided that they would follow to make sure that he actually went to the factory. It would be much easier for them to handle him there than right out in the open road, in broad daylight.

John Battle drove directly to the garage, and took the elevator up to the second floor. He instructed the garage attendant to go downstairs and get him a tire gauge, then he looked around.

From behind one of the many cars, Ann Garrett came.

"Get in," he said. "Quick!"

She got in and sat down beside him.

"Get down on the floor. I don't want even the garage man to see you, if I can avoid it."

She squatted down on the robe that he had provided for her.

He drove back on to the elevator and ran the car down to the main floor. He climbed back behind the wheel, started the car in motion heading downtown. After a few blocks he glanced again into the driving mirror. The big touring car was some distance behind. He drove along at a leisurely pace.

"I don't want to lose 'em," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because if I lose them, they'll stop off somewhere and telephone Kernochen. They're following me only to make sure that I actually go to the factory. Nothing would suit them better than to find me there."

Once through the Holland Tunnel and out on the open road and certain that Krausmeyer and the others were behind him, John Battle picked up speed, and after he had passed Boonton and taken the first turn to the left, he fairly raced along. The big touring car behind him had difficulty in keeping up. Perhaps they weren't trying too hard, now fairly satisfied that he was making straight for the factory.

As they were approaching the second turn that gave on the little road that led to Dusty Woods, he said, "Your job begins now, Ann. You'll have to do some quick driving."

He looked into the driving mirror. The pursuing car was more than half a mile behind. If they could see what he was doing, the chances were that they would attach little significance to his actions. He took off his felt hat and dropped it down to the girl.

"Put this on," he said, "and turn up the collar of your coat. The minute we come to the turn where you drove the truck into the woods, I'm going to turn in and stop the car. We'll be lost to view for a minute or two. I'm going to jump out and you'll take my place, back the car into this road again and keep on straight ahead. Drive like hell, Ann! This car can do ninety without trying. They'll go after you with the idea that I suddenly realized that they're following me. They'll think I'm trying to escape with the 'brains.' You won't find any towns on this road for quite a while or any traffic cops. Keep going as long as you can without letting them catch you. When they do, don't try anything funny; don't try to wreck their car or anything like that."

"Why not?" she said.

"Because, you little fool, I don't want anything to happen to you."

"That's what I wanted to hear you say," she said, sweetly giving his knee a friendly little pat.

He paid no attention, the turn was at hand. He skidded around it sharply, so that the tires groaned, brought the car to an abrupt stop, leaped out, said softly, "Good luck, Ann!" then stepped behind a tree. He watched her as she maneuvered the car back on to the road they had just left and start forward at a breakneck speed.

John Battle stood where he was, waiting, waiting till Krausmeyer's car shot past straight ahead after Ann without turning into the little road that led to Dusty Woods. Then he started for the factory. He walked fast, sometimes breaking into a trot. Every minute was precious. After fifteen minutes the shack came in sight. He hastened through the clearing, found the truck. He leaped behind the wheel, fished the key out of his pocket, inserted it, took a look at the gas. There was over ten gallons, enough to take him to where he ultimately planned to go.

When he came to the gate, the dogs came running out, barking fiercely. Behind them came the guard with his club in his hand.

"What do you want?" the man snarled. "This is private property."

"Open up," John Battle shouted at him. "Are you blind?"

"Didn't expect you to come in a truck, Mr. Battle," he grumbled, striking out at the dogs with his club.

John Battle said nothing. He drove on to the factory, not stopping at the office, but directly to the far end of the building, the section where Shieber and his men worked. There was a loading platform there. He backed the truck up so that the end of it was flush with the platform. Then he pounded on the door.

It opened slowly. Lon Shieber stuck out his head. He started to say something, then stopped, struck with surprise that John Battle should be there with a truck.

Battle went inside, looked around, saw the gun. There it was, finished. A thing of gleaming, menacing steel.

Shieber looked troubled. "It's all there, Mr. Battle, every part, according to the blue prints, but I told you, you left something out. It don't revolve. The barrels fire only intermittantly, not the way they ought to."

"I know it," John Battle said. "We're going to put the other part on later, Shieber. You've done your job. Now help me put it on the truck."

"Do you want us to load it on the truck? You mean you're gonna drive it away yourself, Mr. Battle?"

The emaciated little man could hardly believe it.

"Yes," John Battle barked. "Don't waste any time. Run that block and tackle over here. Put some cables around the gun, so that we can hoist it up. You," he snapped at one of the other men, "get those rollers; put them over by the door. Snap into it!"

The excess of his energy paralyzed them for a moment, but they came to life after a time.

It was slow and tedious work. Parts of the gun consisted of delicate mechanism. They couldn't put ropes around those without distorting the machinery. Everything had to be adjusted with great care. Sufficient cable had to be found. The gun had to be unbolted from the floor where its base-plate had been fastened.

John Battle kept looking at his watch. It was after two. Almost an hour had elapsed since Ann Garrett had gone off by herself, decoying Krausmeyer, Kern, and Measley somewhere into the hills of Jersey, he hoped. How far could she have taken them?

At last they were ready. John Battle said, "Pull away." Shieber and his two assistants seized hold of the rope and tugged; the gun came off the floor an inch at a time. Then they began to push it forward, the block running on a rail overhead. They had it halfway to the door, when the other door, the one that led into the rest of the factory, burst open.

Kernochen, a towering figure, stood there, his face livid, distorted with an evil smile.

"What's going on here?" he said, coming forward with slow, deliberate strides till he was close to John Battle.

"Get out of the way, Kernochen," Battle ordered. "We're loading the gun on the truck."

"Is that so? Is that so?" the big Irishman sneered. "You boys lower that gun to the floor," he told Shieber.

John Battle swung around. "You'll do no such thing," he said sharply. "I'm giving orders here."

"Oh, no, you're not; not any more, you ain't," Kernochen said, coming even closer. His breath reeked of gin, and then John Battle noticed that the man had a short, stubby revolver in his hand. "It may interest you to know, Mr. Battle, that I've just had a telephone call from Mr. Krausmeyer. I guess I don't have to tell you what he said, do I?" Kernochen leered.

John Battle, his temples throbbing madly, looked around. The men were letting the gun down slowly. Kernochen was watching him with a baleful eye. Even if he could overcome this drunken sot, armed though he was, could he now persuade Shieber and the others to load the gun on the truck? Was this the end? He looked at Lon Shieber. There was something in the little man's eyes that made John Battle think.

Slowly the gun was going down. It was once more resting on the floor. Shieber released his hold on the ropes, brushed his hands. He looked a little sadly at the gun.

John Battle turned to Kernochen. He said:

"Kernochen, you're a drunk and a fool, but I think at heart you're a decent man. Krausmeyer wants to sell this gun abroad. I want to keep it here, where it belongs, in your and my country. Are you going to see it go?"

Kernochen's leer became more pronounced. "Nuts!" he said. "I'm working for Krausmeyer, and whatever he says goes."

John Battle turned to the others. "What do you say? Do you feel the way he does?" He saw no hope there. "You're jailbirds, escaped convicts, and I guess you don't think much of the way society's treated you." His voice dropped with utter hopelessness.

Lon Shieber was looking at him.

"All right," John Battle said, "if that's the way you feel. But this gun won't do Krausmeyer any good; it won't do anybody any good." And to Kernochen, "Ask Shieber. He knows. There's something missing in this gun, and if I don't put it on, it won't work. I'm going to destroy the part that's necessary for the gun. Think of that, and maybe you'll consider it best to let me take it away." His words came desperately, tumbling over one another.

Lon Shieber had picked up a mechanic's hammer in his hands. He was toying with it. He was edging over, a little at a time, to where Kernochen and Battle stood, and then suddenly he struck.

The head of the hammer came down on Kernochen's wrist with terrific force. The gun went clattering to the floor. Kernochen let out a howl of mingled pain and rage. He started for Shieber. The little man backed away, came closer to Battle.

John Battle lashed out with his fist, and Kernochen, unsteady on his feet from drink, went down.

Lon Shieber turned to his men. He had picked up Kernochen's revolver and stuck it into his pocket.

"Get busy with them ropes," he screamed. "This is Mr. Battle's gun. And it's my gun. We made it, and nobody's going to take it away from us. Him and me built it."

He was half sobbing, and when Kernochen started to get to his feet, he went over and kicked him in the face.

Then he took hold of the rope. Shieber and the men worked with frantic energy till they got it to the door, on to the rollers, and on to the truck. While John Battle kept an eye on Kernochen trying to read the meaning of the glint in the man's eyes, Shieber and the men lashed the gun to the truck.

Presently Shieber was back. "All set, Mr. Battle," he said.

"Tie him up," John Battle said indicating Kernochen with a motion of his head.

That took only a minute, then John Battle mounted the truck. Before he started he looked back at Shieber, standing in the doorway with his two men beside him.

"Hop on," he said. "I'll take you through the gate. After that, you'll have to shift for yourselves. I can't take you with me."

They hopped aboard.

The truck went roaring to the gate, and as they reached it, John Battle understood that glint in Kernochen's eyes. The gate was closed; the gatekeeper was standing there with his unleashed snarling and growling dogs.

"Open the gate," Battle shouted.

The man shook his head. "Nothin' doing," he said. "Kernochen says you can't go out."

So Kernochen had taken the precaution to notify the gatekeeper before he had made his appearance. John Battle looked at the gate, weighed the possibility of crashing through and realized instantly that it would be impossible. His radiator would be smashed, to say the least.

And then there was a shot and another.

Once more Lon Shieber had come to the rescue. With two well-directed shots he had disposed of the dogs, and his thin voice, remarkably penetrating for the moment, was saying, "You'd better open the gate! There's a couple of more shots left in this thing."

Sullenly the gatekeeper complied.

The truck went through.

John Battle wondered how long it would be before Krausmeyer would be on his trail, whether he would be waiting for him at the end of the road where the first turn was. He went on half a mile, then stopped.

"You better jump out here, boys. There may be trouble when I get to the other road." To Shieber he said, "If I get through with this, they'll owe me something and I'll do something for you— just the way you did for me."

He threw the car into gear, shot ahead with Lon Shieber's, "Don't let nothing happen to our gun, Mr. Battle," ringing in his ears.

A few minutes later he was at the turn. He swung around. There was nothing in front of him. He looked back and experienced a sudden sense of elation. Krausmeyer's car was not in sight. He went on for a couple of miles. The truck was a stanch one, but not very fast, something that he realized more poignantly, when a minute later he heard the distant honking of a horn. He looked in the driving mirror. Not more than a quarter of a mile back was Krausmeyer's touring car. Unquestionably the gatekeeper had informed Krausmeyer of what had happened, and the latter had set out in hot pursuit. It would only be a matter of minutes or so before the touring car caught up with Battle. He gave the truck more gas, but it was useless. The touring car was now directly behind.

John Battle held the center of the road. Fortunately the road was narrow.

Presently there was a shot; a bullet went over his head. It was intended to frighten him. They wouldn't dare risk hitting him for fear the truck would be wrecked, and along with it, the gun. If they took it into their heads to shoot at the gas tank, if they succeeded in puncturing it, all would be over. And then he realized why they weren't firing at the tank. They had no desire to disable the truck. They were perfectly content to follow him along this road, knowing that when he came to the traffic light he would have to stop, and they could then catch up with him. At that point, things would be simple for them. They could even call a policeman and announce that he had stolen the gun from the factory.

Where were Yoshimo's men?

If ever he needed them, now was, the time. If they had arrived, they ought to be somewhere along here. He hadn't counted on their arriving before he got to the factory, knew as a matter of fact that they wouldn't, being less familiar than he with the roads, but he certainly expected them to be here by now. And then straight ahead he saw the blue sedan parked on the side of the road.

He blew his horn several times. The men in the sedan understood. Their car slowly got under way.

John Battle drew to one side and, when he got abreast of the blue sedan, he heard Krausmeyer's horn blowing frantically. The touring car had kept some fifty yards back, afraid, no doubt, that John Battle would take it into his head to apply his brakes and pile up the car behind. But now it started closing up the gap. Whether or not Krausmeyer realized that the blue sedan was coming to Battle's aid, John Battle had no way of knowing. It was more likely that he thought nothing of it, that he simply didn't want it between himself and Battle's truck.

The blue sedan slowed up a little. The truck crept ahead and then John Battle saw in the mirror a curious sight. Krausmeyer's touring car and the blue sedan side by side, neither giving ground. And then it happened. It happened during a moment when John Battle had been obliged to take his eyes away from the mirror because of a coming curve.

There was a crash, the horrible sound of metal tearing into metal; despairing cries of fright. And when John Battle ventured to take his eyes off the road for a brief instant and looked back, he saw the blue sedan coming on alone. The touring car was no longer in sight. He knew what had happened, realized that those cries had come from the touring car; that Yoshimo's men had driven the other car off the road.

It must have been a remarkable piece of driving for as far as John Battle could tell the sedan had come off unscathed save for a battered bumper and a crushed fender. It was following now as sedately as an aged nurse, shepherding a playing child, and it stuck to him, never trying to come up with him or attempting to pass him. Obviously, Yoshimo had instructed his men well. They were to guard him, and to see where he was taking the gun.

In the Holland Tunnel, where trucks take one lane and pleasure cars another, the blue sedan for the first time came abreast. From his high seat John Battle looked down. A figure in the back of the sedan was leaning forward, making a graceful gesture with its hand in his direction. A yellow sardonic face smiled up at him— Baron Yoshimo himself!

John Battle smiled back grimly. He went across Canal Street, south to the Brooklyn Bridge, across the bridge, the blue sedan still trailing. He turned left on Sand Street, then right and left again on to Flushing Avenue, until he came to a wall, a long wall that seemed to inclose an institution of some sort. Halfway along there was an iron gate, and as he approached it, John Battle honked his horn three times, then twice more. As if by magic, the gates flew open.

John Battle turned in, and the gates were closed, but not before the blue sedan had also gone through.

He stopped his truck, climbed down. A curious thing happened.

From nowhere apparently a half dozen marines appeared, stood at attention with shouldered arms guarding John Battle's truck.

John Battle walked back toward the sedan. The chauffeur was holding the door and the elegant figure of Baron Yoshimo stepped out.

He met John Battle halfway, looked at him curiously, then looked at his surroundings. A sad, bitter smile formed on the baron's lips.

"Am I mistaken," he said, "or is this—"

"You're not mistaken," John Battle said. "This is the Brooklyn Navy Yard."

"Ah!" said Yoshimo. "You've had a change of heart."

"What heart there was left in me," John Battle said, "has changed."

"A proper sentiment," said Yoshimo. "I wish for my sake, Japan's sake, that it had not occurred to you. Japan could use a man like you. Yet I, who know what the love of one's country means, cannot blame you."

The little Japanese's disappointment was keen, terribly apparent. He clicked his heels together, bowed, hesitated, then held out his hand.

John Battle took it. He stood watching Yoshimo making his way back to his car.

A voice behind John Battle said, "How was the service?"

John Battle turned. Beside his truck the commandant of the navy yard stood.

John Battle went over. The commandant, a grizzled veteran, was smiling at him.

"It's been years, John," he said.

"Yes," John Battle said soberly. From his pocket he took the "brains," passed the contrivance to the commandant. "See that nothing happens to this. It belongs to the gun there," he said. "Without it, the gun's no good."

"Will you come up to the house, John, and have a spot and tell me about it? If that gun is all you said it was in your letter, you've done a marvelous thing."

"It's all I said it was," John Battle said. "I'll be back to-morrow to tell you about it. Just now I've got something that's more urgent. Will you lend me one of your boys to drive me home?"

JOHN Battle inserted the key to the door of his apartment. He was glad to be back. If she was all right, if nothing had happened to her, this is where she would get in touch with him. He pushed open the door, advanced a few steps, and then stopped.

Ann Garrett was sitting there. Beside her stood Ponder smoking his inevitable cigar.

Ann Garrett sat there, looking smilingly at John Battle, who looked back at her in silence, until C. O. Ponder considered that it was time for him to say something.

"Maybe you'd like to know why I'm here," he said. "There's been a bad accident just outside of Boonton. The car was all smashed up. The Jersey police reported it to us because the car had a New York license plate. There were three men in it, three partners of yours. Krausmeyer, dead; Woolf Kern has got a broken leg, and Measley is in a hospital— dying.

"When I heard who they were, I got the chief of police to send a man over to the hospital to see if he could get a statement out of Measley. The little fellow came through with the dope. It was just the way I figured. Measley killed Martin Garrett."

"Why did you figure that?" John Battle asked.

"Well, it was either Measley or Krausmeyer or both. In a way, Krausmeyer killed him, too. It was he who suggested it. Mind you, I got all this over the phone from the chief of police of Boonton, so I can't give you all of the details, but somehow, Krausmeyer found out that Mr. Garrett was going to tell you how you'd been framed, and little Measley was so scared of what you'd do to him, that Krausmeyer only had to suggest to him that the only way to save the situation was to get rid of Mr. Garrett. Krausmeyer got a hold of that button that came off your coat, but it was Measley who stuck it between Mr. Garrett's fingers. Only an inveterate cigar smoker like me, Mr. Battle, would hit on a thing like that. If you ever think you're going to fall asleep in your chair while you're smoking, instead of holding your cigar between the first and second fingers, stick it between your second and third fingers. Those fingers close automatically. You won't drop your cigar, even if you fall asleep, and you won't burn any holes in your rug." C. O. Ponder picked up his derby. "You don't smoke cigars, do you?" he said. "They found Mr. Garrett's report in Krausmeyer's pocket. He probably took it along with him, figuring that when he met you out at the factory he'd try to make a deal with you once more. I've got to get back to the station. There ought to be another murder by this time."

ALONE with Ann Garrett, John Battle stood looking out of the window. After a while he turned.

"I'm going back to Washington," he said, "back to where I belong."

She said, "Yes," and then: "You'll be strutting around, loaded down with gold braid, sailing all over the world, being an admiral."

"No," he said, "I won't be sailing on battleships. I'll stay right there in the ordnance department, back at my old job— I think I can get it back— and I won't be an admiral. I won't, that is, unless you can't be happy with anything less."

She came close to him then, and said in a tone so low that he scarcely heard, "You can be anything you want to, if you'll be it with me."

End

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17