PAST MASTERS

EIGHTY-THREE

21 June 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Three Dead Men / Roger Torrey

2: The Frankie and  Johnny Murder / Roger Torrey

3: The Missing Mr. Link / Roger Torrey

4: The Coral of Idris / H. Bedford-Jones

5: The Man and the Motive / Scott Campbell

6: Mr. Keeble's Funny Story / Donald Devereux

7: Hostile Witness / Francis Marlowe

8: The Wrong Reception / Mrs. Baillie-Saunders

9: Conscience / K. R. Patterson

10: The Petrie Plan / Anonymous

11: Our Lady of Gwithian / A. T. Quiller-Couch

12: Menagerie / Alexander Kuprin

13: Bradford's P-Luck / H. Bedford-Jones

14: The Fetish of Remorse / Achmed Abdullah

15: Murder Backstage / Roger Torrey

16: The Absconder / Henry Leverage

17: The Conjurer of the Clouds / Muriel A. Pollexfen

Cumulative Index # 61-83

_______________

1: Three Dead Men

Roger Torrey

1901-1946

Thrilling Detective Sep 1940

Roger Torrey was an American pulp writer of the hard-boiled school, every bit as hard drinking as his private eyes. He died of acute alcoholism.

1: Judas Pinch

THE BAR was almost deserted when I came from the back room, with only one boiled customer and one bored bartender in it. The customer was Steve Kovacs and the barman, Henry Gillis. Steve had a small logging contract which probably made him about as much money as Henry dragged down In wages. And Steve, who was one of the few Hungarians in that part of the country, had been all over the world and liked to talk about it.

Henry had been tending bar for thirty years and had never crossed the county line. They got along just fine together, because Steve thought Henry was stupid for staying in one place all his life, while Henry thought Steve was a fool because he didn't stay in one place and get acquainted with the neighbors for a hundred miles around. They argued it all the time.

Steve was in the middle of the bar, all sprawled out, with his elbows wide and chin almost on the bar, so I stopped at the end of the plank. Steve stared at me for at least ten seconds before I registered on him. Then he waved a hand toward me.

"Hi, Joe!" he said. "You have drink with me?"

I had stopped with the idea of having a quick one and then home and to bed. I had been in the game since three that afternoon, and ten hours of tough poker playing is wearing.

Henry set up the bottle and the plain water chaser without being told, and Steve waved a hand at me again.

"You come here, hey, Joe?" he said. "You have drink with me, yes?"

I poured out a drink and held it up and nodded to Steve. There was no point in going down the bar where he was. I don't like being mauled around by a stew unless I'm one myself, and Steve, very plainly, was in the arm-across-the-shoulder mood.

"He's been on it three days, now," Henry said. "He's waiting for some friend of his that's just come over from the old country. He's going to work for Steve, I guess. Steve's been waiting for him since seven."

"Steve's a good boy," I said. "He tried to sit in the game, but Fales wouldn't let him light. He had too much. About ten, that was."

HENRY sighed and went back to Steve and poured out a drink for both of them. If Steve had tried to pour his own he would have spilled it all over the bar, and Henry was a careful man with the owner's stock.

So we all held up glasses and nodded and smiled and drank. I nodded at Henry, who poured another one for the two of them, and then drifted back to me carrying his glass. He nodded toward the back.

"Looked pretty steep," he said.

"How'd you come out?"

I had lost a hundred and forty dollars and said so. I'd been losing steadily for about three weeks and it about had me down. Any time I'd get a good hand I wouldn't get a play on it, and every time I'd get a fair one I'd find it beaten. I'd win a pot now and then, of course, but the percentage was going downhill with me all the time.

"Steve's a rotten poker player when he's sober and he's worse when he's tight," I said. "Fales did right in keeping him out. There's a bunch of sharpshooters in there that would put their hands in your pockets if they couldn't rob you any other way. I've been finding it out."

About then we took the second drink and I paid for it— and about then in came the night cop. A bird named Sol Dickie. Just a big country kid who had a gun and a sap and who didn't have the faintest idea of what either of them was for.

He came dashing in, put on the brakes when he saw Steve at the bar, and then hauled out his gun. A man could have walked from the bar to the door while he was getting it out. He pointed the cannon at Steve.

"C-come along," he got out.

Steve had heard him come in and had wobbled around on his seat to see who it was. He saw the gun was headed in his direction.

"Hey!" he said. "You be careful!"

Dickie tried to look like a policeman about to make an arrest, and didn't do well at it. He went a little closer to Steve, acting as though he was easing up to a cornered wildcat.

"Come along," he said again. "Don't make a move!"

I laughed and Henry laughed. Steve gave us a puzzled look and then laughed because we were doing it.

"Put away the gun— you don't need it," I said to Dickie. "Since when are they picking up drunks in this town? You're going to need a bigger jail to hold everybody from the mayor on down, aren't you, Sol?"

He quit pointing the gun at Steve, but he didn't put it away.

"I ain't picking him up for being drunk, Joe," he said. "He's killed a guy, that's what he's done. He beat him to death with a jack!"

"You gone crazy, Sol?" Henry Gillis asked. "You must've."

"The fella's out in the car," Sol said. "In Steve's own car. His head is all beat in with a jack. Steve must've had a flat and just left the jack out on the floor boards, and he must've picked it up and started to swing with it. The guy's deader than the Unknown Soldier!"

STEVE had stopped laughing when Henry and I had. He was staring at Dickie but he wasn't understanding what Dickie was saying. Henry's mouth was open and he was looking as though he didn't believe what he had heard.

"This jack's a big old thing, with a square base," Sol went on. "It must weigh ten pounds or more. Every time the guy was hit, one of those comers must've gone in. His head's spread all over the front seat of the car. You should see it! I guess I'd better not move the car until the coroner gets here."

"I guess you'd better not," I said. "What makes you think Steve did all this?"

"The dead man is the one that was going to work for Steve. He just come here from Europe, some place. He got in town yesterday, but Steve, here, wouldn't get off his bust and take him to camp.

"I got the doctor and the doctor said he'd been dead about three hours, and Steve was talking to him about nine o'clock. Couple of fellas saw him talking to him. Besides, Steve's the only one this guy knew in town. He just got here yesterday."

"You talk about what?" Steve said. "What's the matter with you? You crazy?"

"Look, Steve," I said. "I'm a friend of yours, ain't I ?"

"You my friend, Joe."

"Then come on and take a walk with me."

"Sure, Joe. I go. Where we go?"

I winked at Dickie and he got the idea. He put his gun where it belonged and went out ahead, starting for the jailhouse, and Steve and I followed. Steve was wobbling all over the street.

"What you been doing tonight, Steve," I asked, "besides drinking up all the drinking liquor in town?"

He said he'd been doing just that— that as soon as his friend from the old country came along, he was going to camp.

I asked him where he'd been around nine o'clock.

"Drinking," he said, and waved his

hand. "I drink because I have to go to camp and I not drink there. It is my camp and it does not do to drink where the men are hired."

He wasn't stalling, I was sure of that. He just didn't remember. About that time we got to the door of the jailhouse, which Sol had left invitingly open, and in we went. Steve didn't even hesitate. He was so tight he didn't have any idea of where he was.

Sol motioned toward the last of the three cells from where he was standing, and I walked Steve right into it and Sol slammed the door.

"Go to sleep, fella," I said to Steve. "I'll see you in the morning."

He held onto the bars of the cell and then suddenly realized what they were and where he was.

"Joe!" he cried out. "You! My friend!"

I felt like Judas, but it was better than having the big kid cop lose his head and start work with the sap, which is what held have done. He'd think he was dealing with a murderer and he wouldn't take any chances. We went out and Sol shook his head.

"I'd never have believed it of Steve," he said.

"I don't now," I told him.

"He must've done it."

"Well, you're the cop, you should know," I said, and went back and said goodnight to Henry Gillis.

I knew Henry would be glad to hear that Steve had ended up in jail without having his face all marked up with the sap.

2: Self-defense

I HAD been in Ellerville about a month by then, looking for a man named Schuyler. George Schuyler. At least,  that had been his name seven years before, when he had taken forty-eight thousand dollars from the bank he worked for and skipped out with it. The bonding house I work for had trailed him for awhile, but he got clear away and for five years we had let it rest.

But a month ago we had received a letter from a girl he'd run around with while he was in the bank, and she told us she'd heard from him and that the letter had been mailed from Ellerville. He didn't want an answer, he said, but just couldn't help writing her. He said he was going under another name and was living honestly, and that when he was able he was going to pay to the bank the money he'd stolen— and the rest of the line that went with it.

That's common. It's hard for a man to forget everything in the past. They'll write letters like that and visit the old home-town and telephone long-distance a surprising amount of times. Of course, lots of times it's when they are drinking and Old Man Remorse is walking hand and hand with them. And lots of times they really mean it— but they never do it.

I had a poor snapshot of Schuyler taken some time before he skipped, a general description of him that didn't necessarily mean a thing, and that was all. And a man can change a lot in seven years, particularly if he's a fugitive from justice.

I figured my best bet was to hang around town and wait for him to come to me, so I spent the time loafing around in bars and in playing cards when I could find a decent game. I'd be a lot more likely to run into him in such places than I would around the church crowd. I like to hang around them anyway, so I was combining business with pleasure and nobody was hurt.

Besides, I'd have to get acquainted with the man before' I could put my finger on him and say, "I want you, Schuyler." And there's no easier place in the world to get acquainted than in a saloon. The man would be going under a different name, would be altered physically and mentally, and I had to be sure. Then, too, I knew he wouldn't be inhibited.

The only thing in my favor was the size of the town. There weren't more than fifteen hundred people in it, and they all made a living from the mills and logging camps around. All I had to do was watch them, and the loggers when they came to town to spend their money.

I was staying at the best hotel, which would have classed as a rooming house in a town any bigger. It was clean, but that was about all you could say for it. Just a cubbyhole in a corridor with a washbowl in it. The bathroom was two doors down the hall.

You don't usually look for trouble in a bathroom and I had no reason to expect any, so I don't figure I was to blame for walking in on it in my shirtsleeves.

I'd taken off my shirt, shoes, and gun, even my undershirt. I was lugging a pair of pajamas and all I was thinking about was the shower I was going to take. So when I opened the bathroom door and a guy with a handkerchief over his mouth and nose stuck a gun at me, I was in no shape to argue.

"Inside here!" he said. "Out of the hall!"

I went inside, holding my hands up at shoulder height. I didn't drop the pajamas because there was no sense in dropping them on a dirty floor, and they were the last clean pair I had left until the laundry got back.

"What did Steve Kovacs have to say, huh?" the man said.

"He was too far gone to talk," I said, and tried to figure what was holding me up.

HE WAS dressed like a lumberjack, with pitch-crusted denim overall pants and a blue cotton work shirt. His logging boots looked as if they'd seen a lot of service. His hat looked okay, too— all battered and out of shape, but with a sort of reckless tilt to it.

But his hands were smooth and clean instead of calloused, and he didn't talk like a logger. He had just the trace of an accent, but I couldn't figure what it was.

"What was the idea of helping the cop take him in?" he said. "You a policeman?"

"Steve's a friend of mine," I said. "I figured the cop might go whacky and start sapping him all over the place. The cop's just a kid and he was scared of Steve and I figured he might blow his cork and start kicking Steve all over the place. Steve's so plastered he wouldn't know what the cop was trying to get him to do."

"Your name's Walters, eh?"

"That's right."

"What d'you do?" he asked.

"Play a little cards."

"Crossroader, eh?"

"Well, yes."

A crossroader is a gambler who plays in one town for awhile, then hears of a big game somewhere else and goes there. They'll jump five hundred miles to sit in one all-night game, if it's steep enough to warrant it. In other words, a professional gambler who's not working for the house.

The man with the gun looked me over, not missing a thing.

"You don't look like one," he said.

"You look like a wrestler."

"Too hard on the ears," I said.

"So you're not a wrestler, eh?" he said, and laughed. "Well, you're not a crossroader, either. You've been losing too steady. You're nothing but a damn liar!"

With that, he took a step forward and made a pass at me with the gun.

I'd lied to him both ways. I wasn't a gambler, and I had wrestled quite a bit. Amateur stuff, but there's a lot of good wrestling done among the amateurs, because they're leveling instead of doing the circus tricks. So when the gun came down I stooped fast and took the blow on the big shoulder muscles, and I got my arms around his middle before he could get away.

And that's where the pajamas wrecked us both. Instead of being able to grip one hand in the other, I had to get my right wrist with my left hand in order to get a hold. I still had the pajamas in my hand and I couldn't get them out of the way.

That extra four inches cinched his stomach against me harder than I realized. Enough so that when I yanked in with my arms and butted up with my head, I caught him fair on the chin and he had no slack to take up the shock.

When I heard the crack I knew I'd done it. It sounded as though somebody had stepped on a rotten stick— a sort of crunching noise. He sagged back against my arms, the gun dropped out of his hand onto the tiled floor, and then I let him down.

He had a broken neck, that I knew. But there was a chance, if the spinal cord hadn't been broken, that he could be put in a cast and would get over it. If the cord was just pressed he might still live. If it had been broken, he was dead.

The cord was broken. He was as dead as a man could be!

MY SHOULDER, where the gun had  landed, was already getting over the numb feeling it had and was beginning to ache. And so was my head, for I'd managed to kill a man who certainly knew something about the jam poor Steve Kovacs was in.

I hadn't done it on purpose. He'd smacked at me with the gun and I'd done just what I'd been taught to do by a wrestling coach, in case a thing like that should ever happen.

As far as the man himself was concerned, I didn't care at all. He'd threatened me with a gun and he'd tried to smash my head in with it with no provocation whatsoever. But a dead man can't talk, and I'd wanted to ask some questions and hear some answers.

I pulled down the handkerchief from his face and saw he was some bird I'd remembered seeing around the card tables once in a while. But that didn't mean a thing. There are always bystanders, if the game's of any size.

The gun was right by him and I didn't pick it up. I could see where it was worn, where the blue had been polished off the barrel and cylinder— which meant it had been carried for some time in a shoulder rig. For several years, at least.

I stood up, and then Sol Dickie said from behind me:

"Hey! What's this?"

Sol was in the doorway, gaping at the man on the floor.

"What's the matter with him?" he said. "Didja upset him?"

"I certainly did," I said. "He held me up and started to crown me. We scuffled around a bit and I guess I broke his neck. It was self-defense, Sol. I had to do it, or else get smacked on the head with the gun. The gun's there on the floor."

He edged ahead until he was between the gun and me, and he stooped for it, fast. I shoved him clear on over it.

"Leave it alone," I said. "It's got his prints on it and none of mine. It'll prove my story."

He didn't like being shoved around much, but he didn't argue. He picked up the gun, using a handkerchief I gave him, and we went in my room and I helped him wrap it so any prints on it wouldn't be damaged.

"The D. A.'ll be over," I said, "both about this and about Steve Kovacs, and this gun wants to be the same it is now. You've put in a call for him, haven't you?"

He said he had. That the whole law enforcement group had already left the county seat and were on their way.

"Say, who are you anyway?" he asked then.

"Joe Walters," I said. "Joseph H. Walters."

"What are you doing here? You're no gambler."

"How d'ya know that?"

"You always lose. Look, Walters!" he added. "I know there's something funny going on and I know you're in it. You stick around and you spend money and all you do is lose more in the games. You gave me a hand tonight. That Steve Kovacs, when he's been hitting it up he is like a crazy man if he gets mad. Here's two murders in one night and—"

"Now wait a minute," I said. "Maybe the fellow in Kovacs' car was murdered— I don't know. This man wasn't. I've got a right to protect myself. It's not murder when you're protecting yourself, is it?"

The kid shook his head. "I don't know anything about it," he said. "I hate to ask you on account of you helping out, but come on. We'll lock your room and the bathrom. It's not so bad in jail, we keep it clean. If I don't keep you there until the D. A. gets here, I'll lose my job, sure as anything."

"Wait until I get dressed," I said. "You know the guy in the bathroom?"

"Yeah," he said. "His name was Schuyler."

3: Circumstantial Evidence

DURING the rest of the night, there was a lot of time for me to think. The jail was clean enough, but it had a smell of disinfectants and of staleness, and I'm used to a mattress instead of iron slats under two thin blankets.

I knew that once I told the D. A. who I was and what I was in Ellerville for, I would be in the clear, and so I wasn't worried about myself. As far as the Schuyler case was considered, that was in the bag.

The one I'd tangled with was too young and too big to be the Schuyler I was looking for, but it was a cinch to be some relative of his. All I'd have to do would be to look around and locate this bird's running mates and my man would be among them.

But I was bothered about Steve Kovacs. He was tied up in the business, some way, because the Schuyler I had killed had been after me for butting in on the Kovacs angle.

And, worst of all, it was entirely possible that Steve had killed his friend during an argument and had been too tight to remember it afterward. While I didn't think he had, there have been a lot of cases where just that same thing has happened. And while Steve wasn't a pal or anything like that, I liked the lad and didn't want to see him railroaded if he didn't have the ride coming.

Sol stopped by and saw I wasn't sleeping, so he went over to the one all-night restaurant and brought back coffee for both of us.

"You see how it is," he said. "If I didn't take you in, I'd lose my job. It was a rotten trick, after you helping me with Steve Kovacs."

I asked him how long Kovacs had been in the country. He said Steve had drifted in about a year before, had worked for wages until he got an idea of what it was all about, and then had branched out for himself. Also that he had brought money in with him when he came.

"Who were the two men that saw Kovacs talking with the man he's supposed to have killed?" I asked.

Sol looked startled. "Golly!" he said. "One of them was this Schuyler— the one that held you up!"

"The one I killed, you mean."

He got red in the face. "Yeah! The other one was a pal of his, named McGrath."

I asked what McGrath looked like and got a description that might possibly fit the Schuyler I was looking for. I asked if the man Kovacs was supposed to have killed had been robbed.

"I don't know," Sol Dickie said. "I had the car towed to the fire station, and I ran the fire truck out and backed the car in the stall. That place is locked, so the coroner can't say I let anybody disturb the evidence. Same as the guy down in your bathroom. That door's locked and I got the key."

"Do me a favor, Sol," I said. "Go in and turn Kovacs over on his side. He's driving me crazy!"

I was in the next cell to him and he was sleeping on his back and sounding as though he were sawing through a heavy log.

"Tell me something else," I said, when Sol came back and Kovacs was quieter. "You asked me what I was doing here in town. What's the idea of that? You don't usually go around asking people who come here what their business is, do you, Sol?"

He got red again. "Well, no, Joe— I mean Mr. Walters— but I heard several fellas talking about you and nobody knows anything about you. I guess I was just sort of curious. I guess some of them think you're looking for a place to buy, and some others think you're some kind of a cop, and some others think you're hiding out. What they said got me thinking. I guess I just got curious, is all."

THAT'S a small town for you. All I was doing was minding my business.

"Y'see, you wear decent clothes most of the time," Sol went on, "and you got a good car and you talk like you been educated. So they wonder what you're doing here, like I say."

"Sol," I said, and made it sound mysterious, "I'm looking for the Lost Dutchman Mine. I have reason to believe there's gold in these hills."

"But there ain't no mines around here," said Sol, looking bewildered.

"There's no law against a man digging one, is there?" I asked. "I think I've run into a gold mine!"

He left me then, shaking his head as though he thought I was crazy. He was wrong, for if I dug up George Schuyler after he had been missing seven years, I was a cinch for a bonus— and gold is where you find it. George Schuyler was my particular gold mine and I'd found him in Ellerville.

The D. A. and the sheriff and two deputies and the coroner all got there between eight and ten the next morning. They came in two cars, with a hearse to boot, and as the D. A. was in the ten-o'clock car it was a quarter after that before I got out.

I told him who I was, what I was there for, how I had miscalculated and killed the brother of the man I was looking for, and how and why I was pretty sure I knew who my man was.

The D. A. scowled. "We'll have to have an inquest, you know," he said. "It's too bad you didn't have a witness to this attempted assault on you, Mr. Walters."

"If I'd had a witness the assault wouldn't have been attempted," I told him. "But you've got something here that's phony. These two Schuylers are tied up with Kovacs in some way."

"How? And why?"

"That's what I'd like to know. I can't very well find out while I'm sitting in jail. And my man is liable to get away and I'll have to start hunting him all over again."

Sol Dickie hadn't even bothered to search me for a gun the night before. I still had one, as well as all my identification. The D. A. checked this over again and compared my gun license with the number on it.

"I guess I can release you on your own recognizance until the inquest," he said grudgingly. "But don't leave town or anything like that. I'll tell you when the inquest will be."

"Thanks," I said. "Maybe I can help out."

"I don't see how," he said severely. "We apparently have an open-and-shut case against this man Kovacs. Kovacs is the only one in town who knew the man who was murdered. He's the only one that could have had a possible motive for the crime. He was seen talking with the man at the scene of the crime at approximately the time it was committed. The fact of his being drunk doesn't alter the matter one way or the other," he continued. "He claims he remembers nothing of the evening at all. Doesn't even know how he arrived in jail. It's an open-and-shut case, Mr. Walters."

"Well, maybe," I said. "I've been wrong before. Do you mind if I go and hunt up this man McGrath and see if he's the one that I came out here looking for?"

"I've already sent an officer after the man," the D. A. explained. "He's the one remaining witness to the talk between Kovacs and the murdered man at nine last evening. You, unfortunately, disposed of the other."

"I'd say 'fortunately' disposed of the other," I commented. "If I hadn't disposed of him he would most certainly have disposed of me. Do I understand that you'll release this McGrath to us after he's testified about the Kovacs case? I've got a warrant for him."

"Well, he might fight extradition," the D. A. said cautiously. "As long as he tells his story about seeing Kovacs and this man he killed together, he's nothing to me."

I LEFT then, just in time to join the sheriff and Sol Dickie. They were going to make the rounds and look at all the corpses again. Sol had already gone around once with the D. A. and the coroner, but the sheriff was up for reelection in the fall and had stopped to do a little campaigning.

Business before duty was his motto, I guess— and besides that, saloons are swell places to campaign in and I guess the sheriff figured he needed a few drinks before looking at a bunch of dead men.

After seeing the man in Kovacs' car I didn't blame the sheriff a bit. I'd expected something pretty bad, but this was worse than that. The poor guy's head was all over the front of the car and there was blood splashed up on the roof of it. The man was so badly battered around the face you had to guess what he must once have looked like.

The coroner was there, fidgeting around.

"A brutal crime, Sheriff!" he said to the lawman. "Brutal! The man who did this must be a maniac!"

The sheriff had heard the story about Kovacs' nasty temper.

"Or someone that lost his head when he was full of liquor," he said.

I'd been thinking hard about the night before, so I took the sheriff to one side.

"Now, look!" I said. "Last night, just about half past nine or a quarter to ten, Kovacs tried to sit in Fales' poker game. Fales wouldn't let him light because he was just about at the falling-down stage. But he was good-natured. Now if he'd been mad enough to beat a man to death a half hour before that, he wouldn't have taken it that way. He'd have still been on his toes.

"He was too far gone to pick up the jack the job was done with, I'll swear to it. There were six of us in the game besides Fales, and every one of us'll tell you the same thing."

The sheriff looked very wise. "I don't know what a drunk will do, and you don't know," he said flatly. "He could have forgotten all about it in that length of time."

"Well, the man was killed before that time, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, sure. Between nine and half past."

Then I gave him the clincher.

"I saw Steve after that, then. And anybody around will tell you he came to town in the clothes he's got on now. Figure it out— you've seen him."

"I don't get it," said the sheriff.

I waved at the car.

"Take a look," I said. "The killer was inside the car. Do you think he could have done a job like that and not be covered with blood? Steve hasn't got a speck of blood on him anywhere. I took him to jail last night, and I know!"

"Hey, Doc!" the sheriff called heavily. "Come here and listen to this!"

About then the D. A. wandered in, and in fifteen minutes Steve Kovacs was up in front of a bar, taking his morning drink and wondering what had happened the night before. He was telling both Henry Gillis and me that the town had gone crazy.

4: Everything in Line

McGRATH—  or George Schuyler, as I was beginning to call him to myself— was not to be found. Nowhere. He'd been the boss office man at the biggest mill and was fairly well known, but he'd apparently just dropped out of sight.

I thought he might have been afraid the Kovacs affair would bring a lot of law to town and that he would be recognized. But this didn't hold much water when I stopped to think how long he'd been in town and that he was wanted for something that had happened seven years before and about fifteen hundred miles away.

The D. A. seemed to think I'd given him a break by not letting him take Steve Kovacs to the county seat and charge him with the murder, so he was playing ball with me like a major-leaguer. He was letting his men do the looking, and their stall was that they wanted McGrath for a witness about whom he'd seen talking with the murdered man in the car and also about the Schuyler I'd killed in the bathroom.

Sol Dickie was also supposed to be looking for McGrath, though he didn't know what he was wanted for any more than the sheriff's deputies knew.

"I should have asked George Schuyler last night just where McGrath was," he said. "I mean when Schuyler told me about seeing Kovacs talking to the man in the car. But how'd I know you was going to break his neck?"

"It was Schuyler, then, who told you that he and McGrath saw the guy and Kovacs talking," I said. "That it?"

He said that it was.

About this time the coroner and the D. A. came down the street.

"How'd it be, Walters," the D. A. asked, "if we held the inquest on this man you killed day after tomorrow at the county seat? Can you make it? I'll leave two of my boys on the job here. They've got nothing to do until then, anyway."

"Broken neck," the coroner said to me. "Clean break. You must be a powerful man, Walters."

"It's a trick, is all," I admitted. "If he'd known anything about rough-and- tumble brawling he'd just have a sore back. He could have let himself go and it wouldn't have hurt him seriously."

We walked down to the hotel, the four of us.

"I don't think that there'll be any trouble about this," the D. A. said to me. "I'd like to know something about the man, is all. All I know is that he came to town and moved in with McGrath. McGrath has a house, you know. He's a bachelor."

I knew it, and said so. Since I'd decided McGrath was my man, I'd found out a lot of things about him.

"That's what makes me think your theory as to their being brothers is correct," the D. A. went on. "McGrath wasn't a friendly man by any means, and yet he takes this stranger in. That would tend to prove you correct—that this McGrath is undoubtedly George Schuyler, the man you're looking for."

"And the man you're Iboking for, too," I said. "It seems darned funny to me that a man as well known as he is could just drop out of sight."

"We'll find him," the D. A. promised. "He didn't leave in a car. Of that, we're fairly certain. They had a traffic check on both sides of town last night— state policemen checking licenses. He didn't go out by car, I feel I'm safe in saying."

By that time we were at the hotel, and we went to the bathroom to look at the corpse I'd made.

STRANGELY, the man looked smaller than he had the night before, but maybe that was only natural. Death always seems to shrink a person. He had a thin, hatchety face, which had become a discolored, dirty gray. There wasn't a mark on him except a half- healed scratch on his wrist, and there was a little blood on the sleeve of that shirt, which was surprisingly clean compared to the rest of his costume.

There was little tan on his face, and his hands were clean and well kept, with the forefinger on the left amputated at the first joint. It all meant plenty.

"Well, maybe I can give you a hand," I said to the D. A. "You check your records for a bird that's been vagged a good many times. This guy's a professional gambler and he's probably been playing the small camps around on paydays.

"He's not a logger, in spite of his clothes," I went on, "because his hands are too nice, and that forefinger being off makes him, in all probability, a fast man with the cards. He can get that stump under the deck and take off bottoms without the end of his finger flashing out into sight. He lit in here, and his brother had to take care of him and introduce him around. He hasn't played around town or I'd have sat in a game or so with him, so that means he's been playing the mining camps. The clothes make that almost a cinch bet. Does all this make sense?"

They all agreed, and the D. A. promised he'd look up the man's record.

"Well, you'd better get your boys on the hunt for McGrath and let 'em try and see what happened to him," I said then. "My guess is that when you find him you'll find something that isn't pretty."

Both the D. A. and the sheriff started to stutter together, asking what I was driving at. And then, before I had a chance to tell them, Sol Dickie came dashing in.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Come on! It's another dead one, by golly! Down by the tracks. Some kids found it!"

A train had run over this one, and my guess about him not being pretty was absolutely correct. From his shoulders up, you'd never have known it had once been a man. The train had just spread the mess for twenty feet down the track. Even the ties were smeared.

The clothes were ordinary business clothes and the D. A. went through the pockets.

"Well, here's your man, all right," he said to me as he straightened. "At least it's McGrath. Here's bills and a couple of letters and his wallet with a driver's license."

I'd been seeing too many dead people and it was getting me down.

"I'm going back to town and get a drink," I said. "When are you going to move the bodies back to town?"

"I doubt if we will until tomorrow," the D. A. said, shaking his head. "What do you think, Doc?"

The coroner looked up from the body, or what was left of it.

"I'm going to have the inquest here," he growled. "I can set it at the scene of death if I so desire. There's too damn many killings going on around here!"

"This is an accident," the D. A. said. The coroner shrugged. "If you can tell me why the man was walking out here along the railroad tracks, I'll maybe believe you," he said. "There's a road that runs the same way fifty feet from here, and it's a lot easier walking. He'd have had to climb up the bank to get here. We did, didn't we? Don't tell me he was trying to catch a ride on the train, because he'd have done that in the yards when the train was stopped, or just this side when it was pulling out slow.

"And"— he waved his hand— "if you'll look you can see how the embankment is all scuffed up. The kids might have done some of it and we might have done a little more, but we didn't make those deep gouges. They were made by two men carrying a third. This would be the third. They laid his head on the track and the train took care of the rest."

"But why should they do that? We know it's McGrath."

The coroner said he'd be darned if he knew, but that he intended to find out. That it was part of his duty to find out, and, by golly, nobody ever accused him of not doing his duty.

"It'll all come out in the wash, gentlemen," I soothed, "and I think we'll do the washing tonight. I've got ideas about this."

"Somebody's going to hang for this!" the D. A. promised.

"Five'll get you ten they don't," I said. "I'm in here pitching for my bonus and I can't get it by any guesswork. You'll never hang the lad that did this."

LEAVING them, then, I went back to the saloon.

"That was a shame about that Schuyler, Joe," Henry Gillis said. "Who'd have thought he was a bad one!"

"You knew him very well, Henry?" I asked.

"He came in the bar now and then. Once in awhile he'd get plastered, maybe. That's all. Always had money and he always spent it. I like people like that, Joe."

I didn't know whether the last was a hint or not, but I bought both of us another drink.

"What about McGrath?" I asked. "Was he good bar business, too?" "He never came in the place," Henry said. "But then, I guess maybe he didn't have any money."

"I wouldn't know," I murmured, thinking about the forty-eight thousand George Schuyler— McGrath to Henry— had taken off with. "He must've had a salary, at least."

Henry shook his head and said that most salaried people weren't good bar customers.

I left and went looking for Steve Kovacs, figuring to get to him before he got too full to talk. There was one point I had to straighten before everything fell into line. Steve was in the second saloon down the street but was still in fair shape, so I bought a round.

"Hey, Steve," I said. "I want to ask you something."

"You my friend," he said. "From the jail you take me. I tell you anything."

He had forgotten I was the one who had led him to jail, and I didn't remind him of it.

"It's about this friend of yours," I said. "I can't pronounce his name."

"It is Bela—" The last name was something that had to be half sneezed.

"That's right," I said. "Now tell me— he's supposed to be from the old country. Wasn't he here in this country before?"

"Bela, he travels like me," Steve said very proudly. "All around, all around. Four times Bela fias been in this country. He has worked in this country. He can the language speak."

George Schuyler had come from a factory town called Roslyn. I took my chance and asked, "Did he by any chance ever work in Roslyn?"

"Ho!" Steve chuckled. "In Roslyn Bela works in what you call cannery. The canned corn. The canned pea. The canned bean."

"How long ago?"

"Eight-nine year ago. It was Bela's second trip to this country. He save his money and he lose him to this Schuyler man you kill. That was a fine thing, my friend, that you kill this man. He was crook. He take Bela's money with the cards, the dice. All the money Bela has in the bank he takes."

"Thanks, Steve," I said. "You've done me a favor."

"Joe, you do me the favor," Steve insisted. "You kill the man that rob my friend, which is very fine."

Everything was in line, then.

5: "Gold Is Where You Find It"

NATURALLY, there was nothing doing until dark, because I had no way of telling if McGrath's house was being watched or not. The sheriff had gone through it, after a fashion, after finding the body by the tracks, but he hadn't been in there long. I had made a point of seeing he wasn't.

The D. A. and the sheriff and I now went in the back door without turning on a light, and I parked the D. A. in the front room and the sheriff in a small cubicle off the kitchen. I'd even borrowed a gun for the D. A.

It was only about nine-thirty, but we weren't taking any chances on missing our man through carelessness. I took a sort of roving assignment, but I'd found a pair of McGrath's carpet slippers and I wasn't making any noise while I prowled around. About eleven I had to stop the D. A. from smoking a cigarette. It hadn't occurred to him that somebody coming in from outdoors would smell fresh smoke and recognize it as such. About twelve I had to wake up the sheriff, because he'd fallen asleep in his chair and was snoring along in great shape.

But at one-thirty the screen door at the back creaked and we got ready to go into action.

I was just inside the dining room, with my back against the wall, so that whoever came in would pass me. I had a finger on the light switch. It was arranged that we were to let whoever it was get all the way in, so we'd be all around him and there would be no chance for trouble. But the sheriff must have gone to sleep again and was waked by the noise.

"That you, Walters?" he called out softly.

The screen door slammed when whoever was holding it let it go, and I went through the kitchen and past the sheriff and to the door. I could see a dim figure pounding toward the road.

"Hold it!" I shouted.

The man kept running, and I lined the gun at him about knee level and started in.

It's hard shooting like that. It was shooting by feel, and that means you have to know your gun. I didn't want to kill the man because he had done nothing to warrant that. All he was after was money. So I kept my shots low and got him through the ham on the fourth try.

He went down and never said a word. And that scared me. The sheriff and the D. A. came boiling out from behind me, but I yanked them back.

"Now wait!" I told them. "We do this right. Split up and each of you take him from one side. When I shout, you put the flash on him and be ready. I'll do the shooting."

"The devil you will!" said the sheriff. "Why should you?"

"I don't want him killed. Do as I say."

"Do as he says, Pat," the D. A. ordered. "It's his show."

So they spread out and turned their flashlights on when I sang out.

Henry Gillis, the bartender, was on the ground, with a gun held up and ready. His bad leg was doubled under him and he sat on it like a hen on a nest of eggs. He was grinning, but he didn't look as though it was at anything funny. He kept jerking his head toward each one of the beams of light coming at him.

"All right, come and get me!" he snarled.

The sheriff was at his right side.

"Drop that gun, Henry!" he cried.

Henry turned and swung the weapon up, and I took a chance and shot at it. The slug hit both the gun and Henry's hand, and it sent the gun spinning through the air for twenty feet.

And then we collected Henry and took him to the doctor's house.

THEY held their inquest the next day,  and I headed back for the home office the following morning. I had a letter from the D. A. to my manager, telling him what a help I'd been to law and order.

The stolen money that we'd found in the McGrath house had been put in the bank and would be released to us as soon as the formalities were over, which meant a bonus for sure for me.

This part of the business was a real break for everyone concerned. Usually an embezzler spends the dough as fast as he can get rid of it, but George Schuyler had happened to be a miser.

Henry Gillis was back of the whole thing, though Kovacs' friend just coming to town speeded it all up. But they didn't even make a charge against Henry. There was nothing they could hold him on that would stick.

George Schuyler's younger brother, who was a professional crook and gambler, had wandered into Ellerville, probably just passing through and dropping in to say hello, and possibly wanting a little dough. Of course he knew about his brother taking the bank for forty-eight grand.

He got tight and talked in front of Henry, and Henry promoted the idea of finding where the money was hidden and hijacking it. McGrath couldn't complain, because as George Schuyler he'd stolen it in the first place. The gambling brother had just found where the money was when Steve Kovacs' friend came to town.

Kovacs' friend knew both the gambling brother and the absconding one. He had banked with one, and lost money to the other. They knew he'd be a cinch to talk. So they knocked him on the head, figuring that Kovacs would be blamed for the killing, and even went out of their way to plant that idea with Sol Dickie. They were trying to make it certain.

Then the gambling brother got panicky and really went bad. He asked for getaway money and the miser brother wouldn't come through. They probably had a knock-down, drag-out fight about it, though it's possible it was just plain cold-blooded murder.

Anyway, the gambling one killed the absconding one and took the body down to the tracks, thinking the law would figure the man had accidentally been killed while trying for a getaway. Somebody was going to be blamed and he didn't want it to be him.

It was after this that he told Dickie about seeing Kovacs and the friend arguing in the car. He stuck around just for that. That would throw the first killing on Kovacs— and with his brother's death being passed off as an accident, he was in the clear. But then, when he saw me butting in and helping Sol take Kovacs to jail, he got worried and thought maybe I'd seen something fishy.

That's where he slipped. If he had let well enough alone he'd have probably made out all right. But he followed me and braced me, and he got a broken neck for it. I got wise to him being the killer when I saw the blood on his sleeve. The shirt had been put on after his arm had been scratched, so the blood must have got there from somewhere else.

It all checked up. After killing his brother he'd gone home and changed his clothes, all except the shirt. He either hadn't noticed the blood on the sleeve or figured no one else would. We found the clothes in a trash barrel out behind the house.

HENRY GILLIS had made the plans, and the gambling brother had told him where the money was located. The dead brother had even added to it. Just a miser. The gambling brother wasn't taking any chances in telling Henry this, because the money was under the floor and we had to tear up half the house to get it finally.

Henry had made the plans but no one had acted on them, and the D. A. couldn't do a thing about it. In fact, Henry threatened to sue the county and state for being shot, and the only reason he didn't was because we all three swore we would testify he had broken into the house.

He hadn't— he was just getting ready to. And the funny part of it was that he didn't hold a grudge against me and he knew I was the one who shot him, that I was the one who had figured he was back of it, and that I'd laid for him and trapped him so I could be sure and find the money. He explained to me how he felt.

"It's your job,'' he said. "You get paid for it year in and year out and I can't blame you for working at it. I don't hold a grudge."

There was something that puzzled me. Gillis had been thirty years tending bar in that one county and had never even seemed to want money. He lived quietly, and money seemed the last thing on his mind.

"What in the devil did you want with that much dough, anyway, Henry?" I asked.

He looked wistful. He was propped up in the hospital bed.

"I got thinking about what Steve Kovacs was all the time talking about," he mumbled. "About seeing different people, different places. It takes money to travel around like that, and I didn't have any. It wasn't like I was robbing anybody— the guy had stolen the money himself. And then, I didn't figure any killings in it.''

I started to laugh, and Henry asked me what was so funny.

"Just this," I said. "Here Kovacs gets you all hot and bothered about traveling. I was just talking to him, down the street, and he told me he's going to stay here the rest of his life, that he's never going away. He says he's going to settle down and grow up with the country. He's giving me your argument and you're giving me his. As near as I can make out, I'm the only one in the whole affair who wins. And I win for sure!"

Henry asked how I meant that.

"Well," I said, "I told Sol Dickie there was gold in these hills, and I was right. And part of it will be coming back to me on the bonus I'll get."

"You ought to travel on it, Joe," Henry said thoughtfully. "Get around, see things and people."

I told him I had.

_______________________

2: The Frankie and  Johnny Murder

Roger Torrey

Private Detective Stories Sep 1942

FRANKIE AND Johnny's Place was about as rough a spot as I'd ever been in, and it had Harry Shoreham's eyes bugging right out of his head. He couldn't understand how the law would let a place like that operate and he said so.

"It's places like this that are ruining our boys," he told me. ''Why, it's like something in those stories you read about the Old West!"

I was getting a kick out of it. It made me think of the old-time barrel houses. They even had a professor at the piano, with the guy smoking a cigar out of the corner of his mouth.

"The boys must like it," I said. "Nobody's dragged any of 'em in here. In fact, it looks as though some of 'em are going to be dragged out."

Two husky M.P.'s were standing by one of the booths, and the lad inside seemed to be giving them an argument. He had two girls with him, with bum written over each, and he was tighter than a tick.

He said: "G'way."

One of the boys said: "Come on, sonny."

Sonny said: "G'way."

One of the girls said: "Wha's a matter with you guys? Can't a soldier have any fun, without you come bustin' in and spoilin' it?"

The M.P. didn't waste any time. He wasn't rough but he was firm. He picked the girl up and dragged her out, without saying a word. He got sonny on the next haul— and had to hold him up when he got him in the clear.

Then the three of them sailed out, with sonny in the middle. With sonny's feet dragging, and with his head lolling over one shoulder.

Harry Shoreham said: "Disgraceful!"

I said: "It was a nice piece of policing. There was no noise and no fuss. They'll take the kid back to camp and let him sleep it off. They won't even charge him, unless he gets so tough they have to. That was nice work."

"These boys shouldn't be allowed in a place like this."

"How would you keep 'em out? It's their money they're spending. All that can be done is look after them, the way that was done."

"It isn't right."

I gave him more argument and then he gave me a clincher. And I didn't have another word to say. And what was worse, he gave it to me in a sad way.

"If it wasn't for this place," he said, "my brother George would be alive today."

And that stopped me, because his brother, or rather half-brother, George, had been found behind the place four days before then. Just at daylight. His head had been smashed in and he'd been rolled. He'd been drinking and he'd been flashing money and he'd been with one of the little tramps that hung around the place for what she could get. At least that was the story that came back to his people— and with it the information from the local police that they were stuck on the thing. Which was why the family hired me to look into it.

I just figured young George had been playing Stork Club in the wrong kind of joint.

RIGHT AFTER the bouncing we met both Frankie and Johnny. Johnny was a big blond wench, possibly thirty, and still good-looking if you like the husky type.

I do.

Frankie was little and slim and dark. About the same age. Still pretty, if you like 'em fast and snappy.

I like that kind, too.

They came over and slid in the booth across from us and introduced themselves as if they were a sister act. The old "I'm Frankie'— "I'm Johnny" business. Two wise heads, I figured. Then Frankie waved a hand around and baited for a rise.

"Howja like it?" she asked.

Harry Shoreham stammered something about it being nice, but he didn't mean it. I said the same and did.

I wasn't lying, either.

The place was about sixty feet long and half that wide. The back of it was all bar, even if all that could be sold legally was beer. Booths lined all the sides, except for a little notch where the piano player held forth. The middle was all dance floor, if what the boys and girls were doing out there could be called dancing. The bar was three deep; all the booths were filled; and the overflow was out on the floor cutting up didoes.

All in all, the place was making nothing but money— and I could understand why the girls were proud of the joint. It couldn't be classed as a nice place in any way— but it was certainly interesting. I could see where a man need never have a dull moment in the spot.

Then Frankie got down to business. She seemed to be the spokesman for the pair. She waved the card I'd sent her by the waitress, and started in.

"You're a snoop, eh? Looking into that soldier boy thing, eh? From his folks, eh?"

I said: "Right on all counts. This is his brother Harry."

Shoreham said he was glad to meet the girls. He didn't act or sound that way, though, and the girls caught it fast but let it go.

"The cops checked into it," Frankie told me. "They got Doll Higgins, the girl that was with him, down at the pokey right now. Only— one of the boys happened to stop by, and he told me they was going to turn her loose tonight. He said there was nothing against her, but that they had to hold somebody to make it look as if they was doing something. You know how these —— cops are."

I said I knew how the —— cops were and she got red in the face and said: "Excuse me! For a minute I forgot you was one."

I TOLD her I didn't take it seriously, and that got a laugh out of both of them. Shoreham looked pained, but I didn't expect him to go along with the kind of talk you get in that kind of spot. Then I told them what I wanted and they agreed to play ball with me. And then they left, with Frankie beckoning me out of the booth for a private word.

"I can't talk in front of that frozen-faced jerk," she said. "Look! Send him back where he belongs and stick around. Doll will head for here, the minute they open the door for her, and you can see her. Maybe you can get a line on something."

I said that was an idea and went back to Shoreham. We'd driven in late— just had picked a hotel and registered and gone right out to Frankie and Johnny's Place, and I didn't know whether he could find his way back.

I said: "You take the car and go on to the hotel. I'll get back some way. D'ya think you can find it?"

"I go back down the beach road until I hit Iris Avenue," he said. "I turn right there, until I hit Market. Then right up Market to the hotel. That right?"

"Right."

"I've got a good memory. I remember how we came out here."

I said that was fine and he left. Then both Frankie and Johnny came over, this time with a bottle of whiskey they were careful to keep out of sight.

This was to pass the time while we waited for Doll Higgins.

MY CLIENT'S boy had been in the army as a private soldier. He had been café society before then, but he'd enlisted like so many young fellows did, right after Pearl Harbor. It was a surprise to everyone, because he definitely wasn't the type. He was the kind that wasn't happy unless he was in the rotogravures each Sunday, and each Sunday he wanted to be shown with a different young belle.

And I give him credit... he got the different young belles in no uncertain fashion.

He's had a private income from money his mother had left him... all he had to do was get along on a lousy little four thousand dollar a month income from it. At that, he barely managed to make it last the month out— he was a fast man with a dollar. I didn't know him and now I never would, but I had him picked for a rich young heel, and nothing I'd found out about him made me alter the opinion,

That last was the only thing I didn't tell Frankie and Johnny. I gave 'em the rest of the set-up straight.

I said: "You can see how it is, girls. The folks have money and lots of it. They've got influence— enough of it even to reach down here. If this is cleaned up and the guilty party— or parties caught, they'll forget about you. If it isn't, they're going  to get up on their hind legs and demand something done about the  place where little George was killed."

"And you'll go along with 'em on it," said Frankie. "The first thing you see that's off-side, then there we go. That it?"

"Now, Frankie," said Johnny.

"You can see Drake's not that kind of fella. He wants who done the kid in. Even I can see that, and I'm not smart.'

"That's right," I said.

Frankie said: "Well, here's Doll Higgins."

I LOOKED at the girl coming in the door and saw she was far from alone. She had two men with her and she was carrying a load that wasn't groceries. Plainly Doll had stopped somewhere, after being discharged from the city jail, and plainly she'd tried to wear out her drinking elbow. Frankie called out something to her and she started to stagger our way and then I looked over the two boy friends.

The first was as big as a small house. He looked as though somebody would have to tell him when to come in out of the rain. He had a wide blank stare and seemed to fancy himself as a sort of Tarzan because he came across the dance floor in a straight line, elbowing everybody out of his way.

The other boy was thin and blond and wicked looking. I figured that if he was carrying a gun it would be in a hip pocket... there was no bulge under his arm nor around his waistband... and his clothes fitted him so fast that a gun would have shown. On second thought I decided he'd be the kind that would use a shiv, and that he was carrying it in his left coat sleeve.

This because he favored that arm— keeping it close to him and tipped a bit. If he wasn't carrying the percentage in that sleeve, I hadn't learned a thing in all my time around.

I had time to ask Frankie: "The little guy tough?" and to hear her say: "Just plenty!" and then they were with us.

Doll Higgins goggled at me when Frankie introduced me. She could still walk, but I figured two more drinks would put an end to that. The big guy's name was Hennessy, and he was about half that way. Just drunk enough to think he was tough. He scowled at me and started the party.

"Who're you?" he asked.

"Name's Sam Drake," I told him.

"What you want?"

"Nothing from you."

"Ho! Smart guy, hunh?"

His friend said: "Ah shut up, Three Star. The guy ain't bothering you any."

"I don't like his looks," said Hennessy, leaning back and glowering at me. "I don't like his looks. He better not diddle around with me or, I'll change 'em for him."

Frankie motioned to me not to take it up and introduced the thin one. His name was Mickey Sims, and unless I was wrong, he had me tagged as a cop that second. He had that watchful waiting air, right from the start.

So I gave 'em the rough hustle fast.

"You guys get on your way," I said. "I want to talk to Doll. When I'm through talking, you can come back."

Hennessy got to his feet just roaring. "Why you...!" he started, and then I stopped it. "Get out," I said. "All I've got to do is open my mouth and I'll have half a dozen M. P.'s over here. Then all I've got to say is that I think you two are the guys that killed George Shoreham. Get it?"

"You dirty ——!"said Sims. "You can't lay that on us."

"By the time you explain that you're in the clear to the Army, Mister," I said, "the Army'll have you in pieces all over the floor. George Shoreham may not have been such a wonder in the Army, but he was in it. The boys don't like what happened to him, and they'll work you over first and talk about it later. Catch wise?"

He said: "Come on, Three Star."

THE Higgins girl sobered up a lot with the first words I said to her, and she kept on going that direction the more I talked.

I said: "Look, sister, I'm a cop. I'm down here to hang this Shoreham killing on you. You rolled the kid here when you saw he had a bankroll, and you spotted him for your boy friends. I'm not local— I'm not interested in what the local boys do down here. I'm working for the dead guy's folks, and they've got money to throw away. They've got enough to put you away for life, if they want to go to bat on it.

She said: "Honest, Mister, I didn't have anything to do with that. Neither did Mickey or Hennessy."

"Were they here?"

"Why ...ugh... why, yes."

I said: "It's all over but the trial. It'll surprise you what a lot of money can do when it comes to digging up evidence."

It was just conversation but I figured the timing was right. She'd certainly been pushed around by the local cops before being let out of jail. You can trust small-town cops to work over a gal when she's in a spot like this kid was. I figured they'd thrown a scare into her already, and that all I'd have to do was carry on with it. She'd think she was clear, once she was out of jail, and then to have more of the same pitched at her before she had a chance to rest, might do the trick.

And it did. She began to cry, and a lot of the soldier and sailor boys dancing by began to give me dirty looks. One of them even stopped and asked the gal if I was annoying her, but went away when he decided she had a crying jag.

"Did you know George?" she asked.

"He was nuts," said Doll.

"He was still murdered."

"Mickey didn't do it. Look, Mr. Drake—"

"Sam's the name."

"—I can't talk to you here. I can't talk to you when Mickey and Hennessy are watching."

They were watching us, too. Standing by the bar and never taking their eyes from us.

"Well?" I asked.

"Now look! I live in an auto court. The White Pines Auto Court. Know where it is?"

"I can find it."

"Come there. Say about two o'clock. Mickey and Three Star will have gone, by then, and I can talk."

"Okay."

"Honest, Mr. Drake... I mean, Sam... this thing's got me down. The cops are raising hell with me. The chief told me he was going to give me a floater out of town, and I got no place to go. I... I been playing around some with Mickey, see, and that makes it bad, too. I'm afraid of Mickey. I don't know what to do. I just got in the middle on this thing."

I waved at Mickey and his Hennessy pal and stood up. "I'll see you at two," I said. "You better sober up before then— it don't do any good to talk to a drunken woman."

She said: "My cabin number's eleven."

FRANKIE and Johnny lived out behind their place in a trailer. I found that out and found that about half the workmen in the section lived that way. No accommodations, between all the extra defense work and with the Army and Navy there in force as well. And I'll say that a trailer, when it's fixed up, isn't a bad place at all to live.

The girls had a big one, and it was fitted up with half as a bedroom and the other half as a sort of sitting room. A sort of bar sitting room, if there's such a thing.

The three of us sat there, with first one of the girl's leaving to check business in the place and then the other. We were interrupted three times as well, when one of the help would come over and tell us there was an argument, and then both girls would leave and take care of the situation.

Between the M.P.s and the bouncer the house hired, trouble never got far. Finally, along about eleven, they Said to hell with it and Johnny brought back her boy friend, a big guy named Jerry Thomas. Jerry, I gathered, was a steamfitter and not a professional ladies' man. And he knew all about what I was there for— had been in the place the night George Shoreham had been killed. He knew what Frankie and Johnny were facing on the mess as well as they did— and so I spoke right out in meeting.

WE WERE evenly divided on Doll Higgins. Both girls said she was a bum in spades and both Jerry Thomas and I thought the cops were giving her the business because she was handy. We took the stand that she was being abused— and the girls took the stand she deserved abuse.

I told them nothing about my two o'clock date.

We were sitting there, all chummy, all happy and bright and arguing  whether the Doll girl was a bum. I had a highball glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and the rest of them were similarly laden.

And then the door opened and a man walked in behind as big a gun as I've ever seen in my life.

"Stand up!" he said.

We stood up. Holding to what we had in our hands. Not a chance in the world to go for a gun,

Another one followed the gunman in, another gunman. This one was holding a mail-order pistol as if he was afraid of it. The first man was tall and thin, with a mean-looking squint and with a nose that had been broken and badly set. It was humped like the back of a camel. The second. boy was pocked and his cheekbones and eyebrows were too thick. An ex-pug, without the shadow of a doubt. He was short and thick, and even figuring the extra weight he'd probably put on when he broke training, I thought he'd fought at least as a welter. A good-sized man.

Jerry Thomas growled: '"Wha's this? A hold-up ?"

Frankie said: "You dopes! The dough ain't here. We don't take off the damper until we put the place to bed, and then it goes down to the night bank with two special cops. We been held up before."

"Shut up!" said the first man.

"Yeah, shut up!" said his ex-pug pal,

"All you turn around," said the first.

We all turned around, still balancing the drinks and the cigarettes. There was nothing else to do, believe it.

THE ex-pug came in close and patted us over. He took some money from Jerry Thomas, some money and my gun from me, and he got a giggle from Frankie, when he patted her more than he needed to.

She said: "Aw, quit."

"Shut up!" he said.

"Fresh!"

"Now you shut up."

"Then quit. You don't have to pinch."

He was partly behind her and at her side. Also at my side, but level with me. I weaved a little, as if I was a little in the bag, and the tall one that acted as if he knew what a gun was all about told me to stand quiet. He was behind me, of course; all I could hear was his voice.

I said: "Sure! I'm standing quiet."

And then to catch my balance I put a foot out and managed to come down on the ex-pug's instep.

He howled and dropped the gun he'd taken from me, as well as the money he'd taken from both Thomas and me. I had my weight on my foot, and it must have hurt him plenty. He snarled something then and stepped back, raising his damn' cheap gun to swing at me, and the thin partner said:

"No, Ike!"

Ike stopped. It was plain that the thin one wore the pants,

"You ain't going to get rich that way," Frankie said to Ike. "You can't put money by if you throw it on the floor."

"Dirty !" Ike told her.

The thin one said: "This is for you, Drake— it's no heist. Get out. You're not wanted. We'll handle our stuff down here. We don't want any outside talent horning in."

I said: "Mickey Sims got to you fast."

"To hell with you. Pick up his gun, Ike. Now, Drake, you stay here. Don't stick your puss out the door, or I'll take a shot at it."

"You're the doctor," I said.

Ike picked up my gun and  they backed out. Then Frankie said: "Well, I'll be damned!"

I said: "I got to go now."

It was a little after twelve then.

Frankie said: "You can't do any good for yourself this late at night. Stick around; the party's just getting rough."

"I've got to go."

"Now look, Sam," she said. "You even haven't got a gun to work with. Let it go for tonight. You and I can have fun— Johnny's got a boy friend and that makes us evened up, don't it?"

I said: "I've got to go back to the hotel and pick up my spare gun. I want to do it in a hurry, too."

"In that case I'll call a cab," she sighed. "Just promise me one thing."

"Sure."

"That you'll come back when this is over. That's all."

"Sure."

"You and I've got some unfinished business."

"Sure, hon."

"I've got an investment in you."

"I don't get that one."

"You dope," she said. "Haven't you got about five bucks worth of my liquor in you? I'm not putting out for nothing, dearie."

I told her I'd try to make good on what I owed.

HARRY SHOREHAM wasn't in the room, but I wasn't surprised. He'd been giving every girl we'd seen the bad eye, and I figured he was out doing the tom-cat act. He was a fool for women and whiskey, just like his half brother had been— and I'd known it from the first hour with him. I got my spare gun from my bag and put it in its clip and then went back to the waiting cab.

And had the cab let me off a full block from the White Pines Auto Court. I made the block in the shadow, circling around number eleven, but outside of a little light drifting out from behind a drawn shade, I didn't see a thing.

So I knocked and Doll Higgins let me in. She'd been crying, and either that or the jam she was in had sobered her completely.

I ducked inside the door so I wouldn't be outlined and she looked at me as if I were crazy.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

I told her— told her what had happened at Frankie and Johnny's.

She said: "Mickey didn't have a thing to do with that. If he wanted you out, he'd have told you himself. He isn't tongue-tied."

"He's not laying himself wide open, either. If he'd told me himself, that's what he'd have been doing."

She said: "Sit down," and motioned me to a ratty-looking couch.

She brought out whiskey and apologized for having no ice or soda, but I told her I could go for it without a chaser.

So could she, it seemed.

Then she said: "I'm going to give it to you straight. Mickey'd beat the hell out of me if he knew it, but it's our only out. If I don't give you the right of it, you'll frame us. After this warning business, I know damn' well you would."

"I don't like that," I said. "I'll go when I get ready, and you can tell Mickey I said so. He didn't take the only gun in the world away from me."

"Now listen," she said. "Mickey sapped the kid, all right, but that's all he did. And that's what he was supposed to do."

"Hunh!"

"I'm giving it to you straight. He and Three Star were supposed to do it. It was all arranged:"

"Who by?"

"By the kid, of course. Mickey's going to beat hell out of me for telling you, but I'm going to tell, anyway. I'm not going to have you pushing me around on top of the cops pushing me around, It's just too much it's driving me crazy and I can't stand it."

BETWEEN being afraid of Mickey and being afraid of the cops and being afraid of me she was getting jittery. I put my arm around her to calm her down and it was no hardship at all. She was a chubby little wench, not over twenty, and while she was as hard-boiled as they come, she didn't look it. She had a round baby-face that went just fine. with her round little figure, and the combination wasn't hard to take.

"Nobody's going to push you around, honey," I said. "At least if anybody does, it'll be me, and you won't mind it so much."

She put her head down against my shoulder and kept on talking from there.

"This George Shoreham was goofy," she said. "He always had a lot of dough, and all he could think about was getting his name in the papers. That's why he enlisted— all the talk about a rich man joining up as a private when he could have waited and tried for a commission. You know how he was?"

"I've heard."

"A publicity hound, that's what he was. Well, after he got in, the papers forgot him: He couldn't stand it— it was driving him nuts. So he got me to introduce him to Mickey and Three Star. I was just playing him before then, see. He didn't know I was really going with Mickey. Then he asked Mickey to tunk him on the head, easy, so he could go to the cops and claim he'd been knocked out and robbed. It would have put him back in the papers. It would have reminded them of him again."

"Sounds crazy."

She sighed and nestled closer and said: "I know it. But it's straight. He was going to tell the cops that he got rolled for almost three grand, but all he had on him was two hundred and something. Mickey and Three Star were to keep that for clunking him."

"Go on."

"Well, they did. Mickey sapped him and rolled him and then he and Three Star came back inside. By and by, when the kid didn't show up, they went outside to see how he was making out. Just out of kindness, you might say. And there he was for good. Some —— had taken a pieceof pipe that was there and had just knocked his head in with it."

"Mickey probably sapped him too hard."

She said indignantly: "Mickey don't sap 'em too hard. He's an artist with that sap, Sam, and I don't mean perhaps. No sir! He left him there with a little bump on the jaw and he went back and found him with his head smashed in. Why should he lie to me?"

BY THIS time she was almost in my lap and getting closer every minute. I could see her angle— she was trying to make friends with me in the best way she could. So I let her cuddle and thought it over. Her story was so dizzy it made sense. If Mickey Sims had killed the kid, he certainly wouldn't have been admitting to her that he'd sapped him. He'd have claimed he'd changed his mind about going through with the proposition. And there was no reason for him sending anybody to me with a warning to get out of town. He was able to do that himself, if I was any judge.

And  his muscle, big Hennessy, would have done it if Sims hadn't wanted to. Hennessy was  stupid enough to warn the chief-of-police out, if Sims had told him to do it.

It boiled down to the old, old reason. Murder for gain was the only motive that would stand up, and Sims and Hennessy couldn't gain a thing by that particular murder. All they could get was what was in the guy's pockets and they'd taken that. There was no reason for them to kill him and every reason why they shouldn't.

I said: "Well, thanks, Doll. I'll go now. I've got to send a night letter."

She moved in closer and said: "A day letter would get there just about as fast. Look, Sam, I'm scared. After it's over, I'll be all right but I'm scared now. Mickey'll beat hell out of me if he should come around."

I said: "Ill look after you."

HARRY SHOREHAM was just coming in when I got back to the hotel after sending my day letter. He came in a little drunk, with the cat-that-ate-the-canary expression and he must have caught the same look on my face.

"You had a time for yourself, too," he said.

"Sort of," I told him.

"This is a swell town. A man can get out here and play around without running into a lot of people that you know."

"Where'd you go?"

He winked and said: "The Regent Hotel."

It was a tip-off. If he'd been a rounder, he could have dug up a joint like that in no time at all, but he was a nice boy. Or supposed to be one, anyway. Nice boys can't put their nice little fingers on the hot spots, not like that. I watched him go to bed and then went out and down to the station, and I caught the chief just going into his office. And introduced myself and told him what I wanted.

"It'll be at the Regent Hotel," I said. "I want a thin, mean-looking bird with a squint. I don't know his name, but he's a pal of a plug-ugly named Ike. This Ike's an ex-fighter. I can identify 'em, all right, but I don't want to go along with the raid if I can keep from it."

The chief asked why not and pointed out, very reasonably, that I was the one making the charge and therefore should be sure the cops picked up the right parties.

I said: "There'll be some noise and some confusion and somebody might see me. I might have been pointed out, anything like that. I can't take a chance on having the guy I really want tipped off. I want to pick him last."

The chief shrugged and said it was always a pleasure to pick up Ike Mors and Pinky Innis, which was who the thin man would be. He said they picked up that pair at least once a month, but never could hold them long enough to do anybody any good. That the two of them were hoodlums but that proving they were was a tough thing to do.

I said: "Well, you'll have 'em out of your hair from here on now," and went back to the telegraph office.

And there it was— the only answer to the whole thing.

I didn't even bother to go back to the station, but picked a beat man to go along with me and make the arrest.

Harry Shoreham was flat on his back and snoring and the first he knew about the thing was when I got him by an ankle and yanked him out on the floor. He woke up and the cop told him, very properly.

"You're under arrest for murder, Mister," he said.

Harry goggled at me. "Wha's— this?"

I said: "The officer is right. The two boys you hired to kill your half brother are down at the station."

"THAT was all there was to it. The answer was there, right from the start. George, the boy that had been murdered, had money left to him from his mother. A lot of it. He naturally wouldn't leave it to his dad, who didn't need it. His old man had dollars where he had dimes. He could have given it to some stranger, but that didn't make sense. He'd leave it to some of the family... and if it wasn't his father it would be his half-brother or his step-mother. He'd split it between them, it so happened. His half-brother Harry followed him down to where he was stationed and learned about the dizzy kid's publicity idea. Of how the kid was going to let himself be knocked out and robbed, to get back in the papers. The kid would be proud of the idea and would brag about it. Harry just hired Ike Mors and Pinky Innis to carry on from the fake knockout and robbery, and there he was with a fortune in his hand. It was almost fool-proof. If it came out that the kid had staged a fake publicity stunt that had gone sour, the cops would think he'd been slugged too hard by accident. There was nothing to connect his half-brother with the thing at all, except he'd got worried when he found I was going to put the pressure on Doll and her boy friends and might find out the original set-up.

I WAS telling Frankie about it the next night, while Johnny was over in the place keeping an eye on things. She was giving Frankie a break at Frankie's own request.

"It was a cinch, once I cut my head in," I said. "Here's this guy, supposed to be a stranger down here. Yet he knows his way back to the hotel from here, even telling me streets and all. I'd driven out here, but I didn't remember street names, and nobody else does the first time out. Then he manages to find himself a hot hotel and puts on an all-night party there. He could have picked up a girl, of course, but it would have been strictly business then and no party like he was on. It proved he'd been here before and he'd have said so if he didn't have something to hide. They'll stick him along with the two thugs he hired for the actual killing."

"What about Doll and Mickey Sims and Hennessy? Will the cops do anything about that fake hold-up?"

"No. Why should they? The kid wanted it done."

"Then money was back of it all."

"Sure. It always is."

"Not on everything," she said, sitting up. "Not by a damn' sight it ain't. You can't tell me it was money that made you quit me last night and spend that time with Doll Higgins. Maybe you can tell me, but I won't believe it. And it wasn't because you were afraid Sims a would come in and beat her up, either."

"That was just business, honey."

"Then what's this?"

I said: "This is just paying what I owe you, lover. Didn't you tell me you had an investment in me?"

She said she'd had her investment back with interest.

______________

3: The Missing Mr. Link

Roger Torrey

Speed Detective July 1944

THE spot was just run-of-the-mill, just an ordinary small town gambling joint. The sergeant knocked at a blank door that showed no sign of light, and somebody looked out at him through an eye slot. This somebody turned out to be a heavy-shouldered lad who looked a bit the worse for wear— I saw that when he opened up for us. Both cheekbones were too thick as well as his right ear, and both eyebrows were lumpy with scar tissue. He had a gold tooth right in front and he showed this to us when he grinned and spoke.

"Hiya, sarge," he said. "Is it a sneeze?"

"Just checking," said the sergeant.

The guy must have used a signal of some kind because the door from the main room opened and another man came out, This one was also short, but fat where the door-tender was solid. This one also had a gold tooth in front and looked enough like the other one to be a fatter, smarter, older brother.

This one also said: "Hiya, sarge," but let it go at that.

The sergeant said: "Hiya, Boleo! Just making a check. We're looking for a guy."

"What guy, sarge?"

"A guy named Link."

"The missing link, eh, sarge?"

I'd taken the same crack from the sergeant, when I'd told him my troubles. It hadn't been funny then and it wasn't funny now. I'd been looking for Link about three weeks by then, and if I'd heard the gag once, I'd heard it a hundred times and it was getting no better with age.

The sergeant said: "That's right, the missing link. Ever see the guy?"

HE handed over the photograph I'd given him and Boleo, if that was his name, took it to the side, where there was a little light coming from a dimmed-out bulb. He studied it carefully, but that didn't mean so much because the picture was just a snapshot and was five years old, He said briefly:  "Not here."

"Been here?"

"Not that I remember. You remember the guy, Sam?"

The doorman took his turn at the picture. "Not any. But I might forget."

Boleo said to us: "You want to look?"

"I do."

He shrugged then. He complained: "Every time you come in like this, sarge, it gives the boys a bad taste in their mouths. They drift out and they don't come back for a day or two. You can't blame 'em— they think I ain't been paying off and that you're trouble for 'em."

"Nothing like that, Boleo."

Boleo looked at me then and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. They were thick and bushy and he could do everything but talk with them.

"A friend of this Link's," the sergeant told him. "I'm just giving him a hand."

"Cop?"

"Oh no."

Boleo Jooked as if he didn't believe this, and I gave him the same stall I'd been using for the three weeks I'd been working on the thing.

"The guy slid out on his old lady," I said. "He took off with some babe, and the old lady's sore and wants to locate the two of them together. The guy's got a little dough, I guess, and she wants alimony."

Boleo shrugged agaim and said: "Go ahead and look. I'm dammed if I see what the cops are doing on it, though. It ain't like the guy's hot or anything like that."

"His old lady will pay a little dough if I find him. That's all."

Boleo said to the sergeant, and in the  same complaining way: "Another angle you're working, eh, sarge. It ain't enough that I pay off through the nose— you got to louse up my place making another dollar off it. Oh, well, go ahead."

"Thanks, Boleo," the sergeant said, and, so help me, seriously. "I hate to do it, but business is business."

Certainly lots of cops have their hand out, when a gambling joint's running wide open in their territory, but there's damned few of them act apologetic with the guy that's running and doing the paying-off. Most of them wear even a bigger chip on their shoulder than usual in that case. Just to show that they're tough, even if they're crooked.

But not my sergeant. He went through the door and into the main room as though he was grateful to be allowed in the place, was a crap table against the far wall— a big one, maybe sixteen feet Iong and with high-boarded sides a foot and a half above the table level.

There were about thirty men around it, jammed in and crowding and making the noise that goes along with a game that's running a temperature.

There were two poker tables, one straight draw and one stud, one five-handed and the other seven, and that's not counting the rake-off man. There was a blackjack stand right by them, but only one man was bucking it and he was playing just quarters. That's a pastime and not gambling, in a proper sense. There was a bird-cage, but nobody was by it except the house man. There was a roulette lay-out, too, but they hadn't even taken the sheet off it.

I said: "Quite a place you've got here, Mr. Boleo."

He said: "My name's Ortez."

"It's a nice set-up."

"Not with what I pay-off to keep open."

The sergeant winced and said: "Now, Boleo."

"I take in a dollar and pay out a dollar-ten."

"Now, Boleo."

"Go ahead and look, sarge."

The sergeant looked and I looked. He'd look down at the snapshot and then peer around at faces, and I just peered. I knew that picture by heart. This guy Link was thin, blonde, was going a little bald, and was kicking his early forties around, and there was nobody in the place that looked that way. About three out of every four men in the place knew the sergeant and ealled him by his name, which was Eberhard, and he knew 'em as well.

There were four whom he asked for identification, and they brought out social security and draft cards, johnny on the spot.

That made us through with that place —which was the biggest and best of the joints we'd covered that night, and we started to leave, but found Boleo, or Ortez, in our way.

This time he was grinning, but that gold tooth of his didn't make it a warm one.

He said: "I'll buy a drink, men, if you're open for it,"

"l— ugh—"

I said: "What Sergeant Eberhard is trying to say is thank you. You bet we're open."

The sergeant gave me a funny look and I had a notion about what he was thinking. I could be leveling and really looking for a man named Link, I also could be a spotter for some civic virtue outfit, in which case I had enough on the guy to hang him.

It was that that probably decided him, I thought, The harm was done in any ease, and he thought he might as well have a snifter for himself.

He said: "Ah yes, sure, Boleo. I'd go for that."

BOLEO led us to his office then, and I got a surprise. It was a plain door leading through a plain board partition at the back of the place, right next to the crap table, but inside it looked like a movie set. Like something the rich executive gave his orders from. A big flat desk, absolutely clear of everything but a desk set that held two silver-mounted pens. A leather chair back of it and three more facing it, A leather couch, but one of the comfortable kind, along the wall. They were covered with soft Morocco leather, too, instead of the usual cheap tan stuff. A cannon ball safe, big enough to do credit to a country bank against the side wall, this facing what had to be filing cabinets against the other. The cabinets were hand made though of mahogany, and looked like they belonged in the room.

The fourth wall, the one we'd come through from the gambling quarters, was lined with book cases, and the books looked as though they'd been read.

It was indirectly lit with no openings except through that one door, and Boleo, or Ortez, if that was his name, caught the look I'd taken.

"Sound-proofed," he said. "Air-conditioned. What'll it be, Scotch, rye, or bourbon. Or I can give you something fancey."

"Straight rye," I said.

"I figured you as a Scotch drinker, I can usually tell."

I gawked at this one, and he laughed, "It's a fact. I always guess, and I'm right three times out of four, Now the sergeant's a bourbon man—it's written all over him. I drink Scotch— I thought you would."

I said: "If you want to know the truth, I do. But I had an overdose, night before last, and it still gags me when I think of it. Another day or so and I'll be back on it."

As a matter of fact I drink anything at any time, but I thought it would be good policy to show the little fat guy how smart he was, carrying on the old one about catching more flies with sugar than with salt, He went to the filing cabinet— one corner of it was a handy little bar and built-in Frigidaire— and came back with the tipple, which he put on the desk with magnificent disregard for the finish.

"I'll get ice," he said, and did. "Here's soda, too, Plain water, mister, if you'd rather have it."

He furnished me a pitcher of water and the three of us glasses, with a shot glass for me and highball glasses for himself and the sergeant.

And then he sat down and showed us the gold tooth and said: "And now let's hear about this missing link. I'm interested."

I took my drink down and waited for it to hit bottom. It did and very satisfyingly, I said: "It's like I said. The guy couldn't stand his little home, so he did something about it. Mama doesn't like what he did, or who he took with him to do it. So mama hired me to find him."

"That all?"

"That's the size of it."

"Where did this happen?'

I lied and said: "Chicago." As a matter of fact it was in Muncie, but I couldn't see what difference it made. I just happened to be working out of the Chicago office and Muncie was in that territory.

"What makes you think he was here?"

I told the truth then. I said: "He wrote  a card from this town. Not to his wife, lage to somebody that happened to tell her about it. He likes to gamble— that and women and whiskey are his only weaknesses— so I figured it would be smart to look around the spots."

"What's it worth to find him?"

I shrugged and said: "I'm on salary and expenses, That's all. I can pay out  up to a thousand for information that leads me to him. I don't get a dime of it."

"Unless you work a cut-back with who gets the thousand."

I nodded and said: "I've thought of that, of course. It's been done."

The sergeant grunted and made himself another highball without waiting to be asked. He was nearing sixty; a fat puffy red-faced old man— and I could see he thought a lot of his little tot.

He poured his drink and said: "What d'ya say we move on and try another place, Ryan? Hey? After this drink."

I said: "Sure," and Boleo, or Ortez, didn't urge us to stay. But as we left he let the sergeant lead the way to the door, and he whispered to me from the side of his mouth so the sergeant couldn't hear a thing,

"Drop back," he said. "I'll tell my brother to be looking for you."

I nodded and didn't answer, but I decided I was finally getting a lead on Mr. Link.

2: Dead Men Don't Squeal!

I TOLD the same story I'd used right from the start and there was some basis of truth in it. Not too much, though. Link was missing, all right— that was perfectly true. He was married, as well, and his wife wanted him back. Also true. The poor lady had a hazy notion that he could straighten things up if he came back.

The guy had been cashier and treasurer of a company that was working full out on war contracts and was still using their old system of paying the men with cash money instead of vouchers. They paid once every two weeks instead of weekly, as they always had worked that way. But where they'd once hired around a hundred and fifty men, they were now using five times that, and practically every man was getting rich on overtime. It put that payroll up over the two hundred thousand dollar mark, every two weeks.

Mr. Link was in charge of the payroll and he'd taken complete charge of it. He'd just taken it, period, to be exact.

He'd worked things out in a pretty fashion, too, showing it was no sudden notion, The money had been sent to the plant by an armored truck, at ten, on a Saturday morning. By noon it was divided— seven hundred and fifty little pay envelopes, all bulging with good solid money. There was some silver in the swag, of course, but it didn't amount to much. The entire lot of envelopes wasn't too big to go into a small handbag, and that's what Mr. Link used when he walked out at the noon hour for lunch.

He just stepped out, carrying his little handbag, and he just dropped from sight from then on.

The plant was insured up to a hundred and fifty thousand, so the insurance company investigators were on the job. But the company was stuck for between fifty and sixty thousand and they'd hired me to do something about it. I'd finally got a line on a girl that Link had seen occasionally, and I'd got her a little bit drunk and more than a little confidential and she'd told me that Link had written her and asked her to join him in Callenville.

He'd given her no address to meet him, though; her idea was that he'd write her again and give her details. She could have written him general delivery, sending the letter to Joseph B. Conlin, but she claimed she hadn't done a thing about it.

She probably was telling the truth about not writing him because the guy was hotter than a pistol and she knew it. She probably was sorry she'd ever known him— she seemed like a pretty nice kid.

I'd put a plant next to the general delivery window at the postoffice, but I didn't expect anything from that. The guy had worked his. get-away too well to be caught on the postoffice stuff, I thought.

I HAD only the one lead— that he was or had been in Callenville and that he was nuts about gambling in every shape and form it came in. If it had been just horses, I'd have made the rounds of the tracks still open, but he played the horses just like he played everything else. He was no specialist, like most gamblers are. He went for cards, dice, horses, dog races, and I had it on good authority that he'd match pennies, pitch 'em at a crack, or spit at the erack with anybody for anything if there didn't happen to be any pennies in the crowd.

Just a gambling fool— and that's right because anybody that's bitten by that bug's the biggest chump there is.

It's worse than drink or women, when it comes to making a bum out of a man, though this Link drank and chased women as well as gambled. Sure he didn't do either of those if he could dig up something to wager on— and that's usually not hard to find in this day and age.

So I had this fever of his to work on and that was about all.

The sergeant and I got outside of the joint and I said: "This Boleo, or Ortez, or whatever it is. Who is he? And which one is right?"

"I don't get that?"

"What's his name? Boleo, like you called him, or Ortez, like he told me it."

"It's both."

I didn't understand and said go. "His name was Boleo, at first. That was his brother, tending door, and his name's still that. Sam Boleo; he's an ex-fighter."

"I caught that."

"Boleo managed him. Arthur's his name, or Arturo, I guess it is. I mean the older one now."

I tried to sound patient. He was drawing me little pictures of which was who and I didn't need 'em.

"I get it. Sam's the doorman. He's an ex-pug. Arthur's the big shot— he's the one that owns the spot. Well, when Arthur— just call him Boleo— we never think of Sam as anything but as Sam— started in politics, he changed his name. Legally. Because of all the talk, you see."

"What talk?"

"Why, about how a guy like him could run the town the way he did. He was the boss bootlegger in this part of the country, see, and he had a wire into the sheriff's office and into the department. That caused talk. So when he came out openly into politics he decided he should change his name. So he did. To Ortez— that's his legal name."

"I get it now."

"But we still call him Boleo. That is, us old-timers. I guess we always will."

"He still run the town?"

"Pretty much. Just between us, that is."

"That his only joint?"

The sergeant ticked 'em off on his fingers.

"We been in six places. We'll make maybe that many more, tonight. That'll be about the size of 'em. In every one you'll meet the guy that's supposed to own 'em. Everyone of the guys just work for Boleo. There's not a chiseler in town can spit on the sidewalk unless Boleo says he can spit. Nobody but a stranger would try."

"What if one did?"

"He'd spit out the back of his neck. He don't act it, but Boleo's tough."

"How big's the town?"

"About sixty thousand, now the boom's on. It'll run about forty, on the average, I guess."

I had the picture and I said so. It was a nice spot for a hustler, I could see that. If he ran the sheriff's office and the police department, and had the gambling concession in his pocket like that, it meant he also had every other racket the same way. Right in his hand.

And the fast money in a town of sixty thousand, filled jam full up with war workers, is a lot of dough.

I started looking ahead to seeing the little fat guy again.

WE made the rounds and didn't find a thing. We went through the same performance, except that nobody else complained about the protection money he was dishing out,

That checked with the sergeant's story— Boleo was the man who was doing the paying for the places and so was the one to squawk. The joints were about the same. Usually with a crap game going full blast and with little play on the fancy stuff— and that checked with the kind of town Callenville was turning into. When you put twenty thousand extra workers into a town and give'em dough to spend— enough to gamble with, that is— they go for the fast games and craps are certainly that.

And the percentage on a crap game is a lovely thing. For the house, that is, Even with a straight game it's pure and simple murder, and I didn't think I'd seen a game that classed as straight. The house men were handling the dice too much, and the dice in the jars they alternated with were too much of the same sizes and colors.

There's a system on the crap games and it can be worked by a good operator to perfection.

The house man's got a rake, in the first place. He pulls to the dice to him with this, after the shooter makes his pass. He'll let the same diee roll for a couple of passes, maybe more, it all depending on how they're running. Then he'll change them for another pair, taking the new set from a jar by his elbow that's full of them. He'll tip the jar once in a while, so as to keep the fresh dice on top, but a good operator can palm three sets of dice and change 'em as he tosses 'em back to the shooter. A few of the places used a cup, with the house man putting the dice in the cup and so not giving the shooter a chance to handle the dice at all, but this was the exception.

The house, in most cases, was taking a cut out of each pass, the amount depending on how much money was riding on the cubes. There were a few house games, where the players would bet against the houses straight through, rather than against themselves, but these were the exceptions.

Mostly the games were just straight crap games with no trimmings, except those the players took. But the big one, the game that ended the others, took place after the other joints closed, at Boleo's main spot. That was why he had his office there I thought. He could be handy to watch the heavy money roll— and roll into his pockets.

There'd be a few winners in each of the places, and they closed at two in the morning. Boleo's main place kept open as long as there was a play. So the winners would drift in there, riding their streak, and the play would be correspondingly high.

And the cut would be the same way, If a man had a hundred dollars down, the house would cut out five. If there was a hundred dollar side bet, the house would take another five. Right straight through like that. The result was the house would end with about all the money that had come into the game—it was just a matter of time.

I CAUGHT it all when I drifted back to the main place and while I waited for Boleo to get through with some business in his office, and decided it was the most brutal thing I'd yet seen. Gambling, the way it was run there, was good for at least three hundred thousand a month, counting the entire town, and here was one man taking the big share of it,

And from the people whe worked in the war plants. That was the bad thing about it.

I was steaming when Boleo finally came out of his office with the man he'd been talking with. A big, bland, smooth-faced bird who looked familiar, in an unpleasant sort of way. Boleo went to the door with the guy and then came back to me, and I said what was bothering me.

"I've seen that guy before."

"That's hardly likely, Mr. Ryan."

"He looks familiar."

"That's our district attorney."

"It must have been his picture that I saw then."

"No doubt. He's getting quite a lot of advertising these days."

They were touting the guy up for nomination for governor, so that was no story. And here he was in a gambling joint, the main one in town, and talking to the town's main gambler.

Boleo led the way back into his office and got out the drinks without bothering to ask me if I wanted one or not. He sat down, nursing his own which again was a thin highball, and watched me pour my shot glass full.

"About this Link," he said. "This, ha, ha, this missing Link? I'm interested in that, Mr. Ryan."

I shrugged and said it was worth a thousand bucks worth of interest to anybody.

He watched me carefully. "It's worth two hundred thousand bucks, isn't it, Mr. Ryan? Outside of what he's spent."

"I suppose you read about it in the paper, eh?"

"Not so. The D.A. just told me about it."

That was bad luck but something to be expected. Of course the papers had made a hell of a fuss about the steal when it had happened, but it had been dying down and I'd hoped nobody five hundred miles away from Muncie would remember it. But the guy's name was against me— when a man named Link is missing, it's beyond news— it's a gag.

I said: "The guy took that much, but between his bond and the insurance, the company was covered a hundred and fifty grand worth. The rest is their loss."

"You're working for the company? Or for the insurance people."

"The Company. The Amalgamated Tool & Die Works."

"That's better. Much better."

I asked why but it wasn't necessary and I didn't get an answer. All I got was a gold-toothed smile. He meant, of course, that if I was just a run of the mill private cop I'd be interested in cutting in on two hundred thousand dollars, whereas if I'd been a decent, honest guy, the kind that works for insurance companies, I wouldn't touch the thing.

I came right to the main point. I said: "You know about the guy. Why cut me in at all? If you find him, why not work it out by yourself?"

He widened his eyes. He said: "But, Ryan! Suppose he's not in Callenville. In Callenville I'd have things the way I wanted them, but out of town, no. Suppose this man Link's out of town, out of the country? That's where you come in."

"How?"

"You locate him. You tell me. You bring him back here, how I don't care. I'll even help you bring him back, if you know what I mean. When he's here, I can handle the rest of it."

"There's others working on it."

"Do they know he was here?"

"Well, no."

That was also true. I'd found the girl who'd got the letter from Link, here in Callenville, and I'd kept it to myself.

Boleo said: "That's fine I'm going to have to put others in this—you know that. But there'll be enough left to really mean something to both of us."

I didn't think I could make him put himself on record, but I didn't know how confident he was. I said: "When I get him, or if I get him, and get him back here, what then? If we just take his money and turn him over to the cops, why, he's going to squeal like a pig."

"He won't squeal," said Boleo.

I knew then that he meant to kill Link, just as soon as he'd found and robbed him. And that I was to go along on it, or else. He wouldn't have come out in the open that way if he hadn't meant business —and telling me about it meant it was my business, too.

I was beginning to think I was up against somebody really tough, by that time.

3: A Loser Both Ways

I WAS staying at the Callen, the town's best hotel. And very good, too, for a town of that size. It had about four hundred rooms, a dining room besides a coffee shop, and a nice little bar. The bar was supposed to close solidly at two in the morning, but I'd already found that I could get service from it later than that if I wanted it.

And when I got back to the hotel, I decided I wanted it— for my company if nothing else.

My company was the D.A., the same big smug guy I'd seen in Boleo's place. He looked like a bond salesman rather than a lawyer, but I suppose that was beeause most bend salesmen have that syrupy way of talking.

He met me, inside my own door, holding out his hand and smiling cheerfully at me.

"It's Mr. Ryan, isn't it?"

I said: "Well, it's my room, so that's a safe guess. And what in hell are you doing in it?"

'My name's Lauders. You may have heard of me,"

"I have, Running for office don't give you any right to come in my room. That's breaking and entering, isn't it?"

He looked pained. "Oh no, Mr. Ryan. I simply explained to the desk clerk about wanting to see you and he suggested I eome up and wait for you. The bell boy let me in, I can assure you. Now you can see that's not breaking and entering."

"It's your law, I guess, You run it;"

"Ah, yes, that's why I'm here."

I said: "As long as you are, I'll provide a drink, I want one."

"That would be very nice."

He beamed on me while I phoned room service, and when the night bell captain brought up the bottle of rye and the ice I'd ordered, he beamed at him, too, They called each other by name and I took it the D.A. threw a party in the hotel, once in awhile,

THE bell boy left and I poured drinks and said: "And what is it, Mr. Lauders? If it's credentials, I've shown them to the police. My gun permit is in order. I haven't done a thing I'm not allowed to do under my license."

"I'm sure you haven't Mr. Ryan. I'm here to arrange it so that whatever you do will also be as safe."

"I don't get it."

"Link, Mr, Ryan. The missing Mr. Link. I know why you're here, you see."

"From Boleo?"

"And from the police, as well. Sergeant Eberhard is a good friend of mine. He has found it pays to, let us say, cooperate,"

"Sure. Let's say it."

"It's two hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Ryan. Between ourselves, if Mr. Ortez— Boleo, if you'd rather call him that— if he gets his hands on that money, nobody else will. I'm speaking plainly. Once Boleo has it, you and I are out."

"What did you do? Try to cut yourself in on it with Boleo?'"

"Naturally. I heard why you are here. I assume, of course, you have a line on your man that leads you here. The man certainly has that money, or has it where he can get it promptly. What would be more natural than that I should cut myself in, as you say?"

They were coming too fast for me to catch. The town was bad enough, All the racket stuff run by one man and that a had one, But here was even worse—here was the sworn protector of the people— the man who was supposed to uphold the law and who'd been elected for that purpose— here was that man, selling out and on a wild chance. And to a stranger!

I said: "I still don't get it, I guess. You mean you want to cut Boleo out of it? Or won't he work with you on it? Or what?"

"Why should he enter into it? We have no need of him. I can give you protection anywhere in the county. That's all. You'll be safe, no matter what you do, I see no way of speaking plainer."

"I'm to get the guy, take him for his dough, and how or what I do to get it makes no difference. I'm protected; I won't be stuck, no matter what. That it?"

He hesitated delicately and said: "No matter what, that is, if everything is as it should be between us two."

"As long as you get your bite, you mean?"

"Exactly."

I stood up, intending to throw him out. I didn't have time. The bathroom door, at my right, opened and a short, husky young lad stepped out. He wasn't more than twenty-two or three, and I wodered how the Army had missed him. He held a .45 Automatic in his hand, which is maybe why I thought of the Army, but I don't know.

He said "Hold it, Ryan, Welt, Lauders."

Lauders said happily: "Why, it's Tommy, Little Tommy Chime."

And with that Little Tommy Chime shot him three times. A 45's a big gun and it makes a hell of a lot of noise in a small room. When three slugs are ripped out like those were, just one-two-three, just as fast as the man could aim and shoot, it's deafening. I just stood and watched it. I had a gun under my arm and absolutely no chance to get to it because Little Tommy turned that big gun my way and just grinned at me above it,

"Come on," he said.

"Hunh?"

"I said come on."

Then he moved closer and I took a step back. I shoved up against a heavy chair though and had to stop, and he kept coming,

That is he kept coming until he was elose enough to reach me and he did just that.

He clipped me alongside the jaw and I saw it coming and didn't have either time or space enough to duck the smack, I twisted and rolled with it— that was all I could do.

I CAME to on Boleo's couch and I couldn't have stalled on it if I'd wanted to. I was sick the second I snapped out of it and in a big way. I was so sick I couldn't even see— I could just hear Boleo laughing and hear him call somebody in from outside. It was a goofy looking bird with a mop, and he and Little Tommy Chime put me back on the couch and the mop man cleaned up the mess I'd made.

By that time my stomach had settled, though not back to normal. Boleo went to his little bar, in the corner of his filing department, and found some ammonia, and that and a little water did help. In fact it helped enough so that a drink of rye stayed down a few minutes later.

Boleo was back of his desk again and Chime was by me, at the side. I had no gun but he still had his Army .45, and it looked as big as a cannon even if it wasn't pointed at me. Chime just dandled it on his knee, with it pointing every which way, but I couid see the safety catch was latched off and I knew it wouldn't take him long to get it in action, if I got ideas.

He said: "I didn't mean to hit you so hard, chum. My hand slipped."

It was a wonder I didn't have a broken jaw and I said so. I had a knot on the side of it as big as an egg and I could move a couple of teeth back there with my tongue. The inside of my mouth was cut, too, though there was just a break in the skin on the outside. It was black and blue, though—I could tell that without looking in a glass,

Boleo said: "I had to get you out of there, Ryan, in a hurry. There was no time for arguments. I think that Chime did very well. Very well indeed."

"You had to get me out of there?"

"Of course. The shots were heard. The police were there not five minutes after Chime took you down the fire escape. You should thank him."

"I should like hell. My gun wasn't fired. They'd have found that Lauders wasn't shot with my gun. My story would have held up with them."

"It won't now," said Chime, easily.

"They can say now that you shot him with a .45 and took the gun with you when you left, And that you got rid of it. You can tell 'em different but they won't believe you."

"I could help you on that, Ryan," Boleo said, showing me his gold tooth. "I can indeed. If I told them what to believe, they'd believe it.'

"That's what Lauders told me he could do."

"Chime heard it, Just about all of it."

I looked at Chime.

He said: "Yeah, I got the bell hop to let me in the room next to yours. You remember when he brought you ice? Remember when he went in the bathroom and filled the ice pitcher with water? That's when he opened the door between your room and mine."

"He know why you were there?"

"Hell, no. And with a shooting like that, he won't admit I was in the building, He's no fool."

"Of course I know him, too," Boleo said, grinning.

I was a nice frame, with me as the picture. I'd killed the D.A., or so the cops would think unless this Boleo told them different. The cops knew me, knew I was registered there, and some of them even knew me by sight. Like Eberhard, for instance. I was in a strange town, a town run by this grinning Boleo, and I was in a hell of a spot no matter which way I jumped.

Boleo said: "I've been wondering about Lauders for some time. He seemed even too reasonable about things I'd suggest. You've got to watch a man, Ryan, who gives in too fast. It isn't natural, and when something isn't natural, it pays to keep your eyes open. I'm glad that you didn't put in with him. For your sake, I mean."

"There'll be a lot of stink over this. The guy was all set to run for governor. That won't die down fast."

Boleo shrugged, and I decided finally that he was probably a Syrian. Possibly Roumanian, but not Italian as I'd first thought. There's a difference, though how it can be told I don't know. It's something that's sensed, rather than thought out.

He said: "That won't matter. l let just enough out about him to take him off the hero's stand. When the people find out what a crook he was, they'll be glad he's out of the way."

I could have laughed at that one, if I'd been somewhere where it would have been safe to do it. Here was Boleo, about the worst I'd ever met, talking about another man being crooked.

"I'd like to know where I stand now," I said. "You didn't bring me here just to keep me safe. I know that."

"You're here to find Mr. Link. The missing Link, ha, ha, ha. That's why you came to town and that's why I want you to stay in town. That's alk"

"Any idea of how I'm going to do it? If I go out on the street, the way you've got me framed, the cops will have me then and there."

Boleo said: "I've thought of the way for you to work it, Ryan. You will write to the young lady who got the letter from Link, I presume it was a young lady, though you didn't say. You will ask her to come here and help you."

"She's a nice kid. She don't want any part of Link."

"You can tell her you'll broadcast her connection with Link if she doesn't do as you ask. That will bring her. If she's a nice girl, like you say, she won't want that. If she isn't, she'd help you for a share in the money."

I began to see then why he wanted me to work with him. Other than a five year old picture of Link, he had no idea of what the guy looked like, He knew nothing of the man's habits, other than what I'd told him. He couldn't get in touch with anybody in Link's home town, Muncie, without cutting out-of-town crooks in on his gravy.

That left me as the logical person to find the guy, and after I'd found him, I had a notion of what would happen to me. I'd either be found in a ditch, someplace out of town, or I'd be turned over to the cops for the murder of Lauders.

I was the one to lose, no matter which way it went, and my only chance of life was to work along with the gang and do the best I could to break things up my way.

I didn't have much hope but I went ahead on it. I said: "Okay, Boleo. I'll ride along. I'll write the gat a letter, here and now."

"And you can live with Chime, while you're waiting for an answer," Boleo told me.

That meant I'd be guarded day and night and by a guy that was a good guard, if what I'd seen of him in action meant a thing.

Chime was a good guard and a good gun man, and he wasn't as dumb as he appeared to be. If he had been, he couldn't have taken me out of that hotel as nicely as he had.

4: "Safe as Gold"

THE girl's name was Marie Walters and knew she had a job. It wasn't much of a job as they go these days— she was stock girl in the same plant that Link had worked for. The Amalgamated Tool & Die Works. That's where Link had met her—she'd told me that. She'd gone out with him a couple of times and found that he was married and dropped him, but he didn't want to stay dropped. He'd kept sweethearting her right along, up to the time he'd skipped out with the bank-roll.

She was a good-hearted kid and hadn't dropped him hard enough to hurt him, | I thought. The guy, from what I'd heard, was a conceited sort, and so probably hadn't even realized he wasn't welcomed by the kid. He'd still had hopes and was working on them when he'd written her to join him in Callenville.

I wrote her and took two hours on a two page letter. I'd taken the girl out a few times, but we weren't what you'd call sweethearts, at all. Just friends, though that's as far as I'd tried to go along that path with her. I told her nothing of the jam I was in; just told her she could help me if she'd quit her job and move to Callenville. I told her— this was Boleo's idea— that she'd be on salary and expenses while she was here, and I got a funny feeling about it when Boleo told me how. much to tell her the salary and expenses would be.

They were far too high— they were so high it showed Boleo thought he'd never have to pay them.

I explained she could get her old job back, when I'd caught Link, and that no harm would be done on that score. I pointed out that stealing a war plant's payroll money, in time of war, was a form of sabotage against the workers themselves, even if most of the loss was covered by insurance.

I stressed that angle some, knowing the gal was working in the plant just out of patriotism. I finished, acting as though I didn't have a doubt about her joining me, and I gave her a phony name and 'Boleo's address, for her to tell me when she'd get there. The name was John Kaufman—another suggestion from Boleo.

I was all through and ready to put the letter in the envelope and seal it, when Boleo reached out a hand for it. I gave it to him—Chime was there, with the gun, and it wouldn't have done any good to object. Boleo read it through, carefully, and then gave me some news I didn't want to hear.

"You'd better tell her not to believe all she'll read about you in the papers," he said. "They'll be full of this business, in the morning. You'd better tell her that it's part of some scheme you're cooking up or something like that. You know the girl— you tell her something she'll believe."

I put a postscript on, using the scheme idea as the stall. Naturally the Muncie papers would have space on a prospective candidate for governor in a neighboring state being knocked off, and the main suspect would be mentioned by name as a matter of course.

That would be me, and it would be too much to hope that Marie wouldn't see the item.

I'd been hoping that Boleo would use his pull and keep the thing under cover— at least hold the cops down so they didn't go all out for me. But he was showing no sign of doing that and he was the one that held the cards.

He held them as long as Chime held the gun—and the way he stuck with me he might as well have had it jammed in the small of my back.

He did everything but sleep with me— he even locked me in my room, when we went to his place after leaving Boleo's.

HE did himself well and I figured that the gunman business must be paying him well. He lived in an eight room house, at the edge of town, and he was married to one of the prettiest wenches I ever saw in my life. This Marie Walters I'd written was a good-looking girl, but Chime's wife should have been in pictures.

She looked like Hedy Lamarr, and they had one kid, a brat of about four.

Chime said, as we went up the steps:

"Don't make a crack, Ryan. The kid don't know a thing. She thinks I'm still a dealer for Boleo— she don't know that I've changed work."

I found out afterward that he'd been a stick man on one of the crap tables.

We went in and I was introduced, and Chime said: "Mr. Ryan, honey, owes the boss a piece of money and I'm supposed to keep an eye on him until it's paid. Mr. Ryan ran short and had to send east, to his bank, and the boss don't want him to leave until the dough gets back here."

The girl took it as a matter of course. It explained why I was a prisoner, and she apparently thought nothing wrong in my being one. It was five in the morning then, but she was up and waiting for Chime. She cooked us scrambled eggs and coffee, and we had ali the butter we wanted and real cream, thick and yellow, the way it should he.

I took it that if you worked for Boleo, ration points were something that didn't bother you. It put the guy in the black market, too— something else I could hold against him.

After breakfast Chime took me upstairs and to my room, which was very nice and with its own bathroom, It was also at the back of the house, which was well by itself and at the back of a double jot with nobody living on either side. There were no bars on the windows but the wall went straight down, too far to jump.

Chime pointed this out. He said: "This has been used before, for something like this same thing. So don't get notions. If you make a fuss, I'll make one with you. You be nice and I'll be nice. You crack wise to my wife, and I'll beat your head in."

"Don't she know a thing?"

"Why should she? A man should leave his business downtown. He shouldn't bring it home. That's the way I work it, always."

"I'm here, mister."

"You're business, and the way I'm working it, she don't know a thing. Keep it that way, Ryan."

There was no point in doing anything eise so I didn't argue it. He'd brought up most of a pint of whiskey for me, in case I felt the need, and when I told him I liked to read myself to sleep, he shouted down and his wife brought me up some magazines.

I didn't do so good on this because all she had were women's magazines and the only things interesting in them were the eorset ads. But I checked through a couple of them while I took a bath— there was no shower and I made up my mind to somplain about the lack of one—and then I took a drink and went to sleep.

And woke up staring at Eberhard.

HE was worried and plenty. His fat red face was sweating and he was breathing like he'd been running a fast mile. He was overweight, anyway, besides being past his chicken years, and excitement hits an old man like that sometimes. He said: "Shshshhh," and put a finger to his lips.

I said: "How did you get in? Chime locked the door— I heard him turn the key."

He nodded toward the window and I saw it was open a lot wider than the way Id left it.

"Through there."

"You fly up there?"

"Ladder. Hurry up, get your clothes on."

"What for?"

"You want to get away, don't you?"

"And go to the pokey? Not any."

"You haven't got a chance here, Mr. Ryan. You've been framed."

"Sure. How'd you know?"

"I can tell Chime's work. Always three times. Always from the belly up to the neck, with the slugs placed even. Always a .45. I've seen too much of it."

"Why not pick him for it, then?"

Eberhard laughed, but didn't sound as if he was laughing at a joke. "How long would it stick? Until Boleo got news of it, that's all. He'd have him out on a writ in half an hour. I'd be off the force."

"Aren't you working with Boleo?"

"Some. We all are. We have to. Some of us don't like it much."

"Suppose I go with you. The frame'll stand against me. Boleo wouldn't have put Lauders out of the way unless he had somebody to step in and take his place. He just as much told me so."

Eberhard said: "I'm not going to take you to jail. I'm going to take you out in the country. I've got a place out there. I think the guy's gone too far this time. With you where we can get you, we can maybe break him up."

I wanted time to think. I said: "How did you know I was here?"

"I knew where you'd be. I took a plant outside of Boleo's and saw you come out with Chime, I knew he'd bring you home. I've been here in this house— I knew where this back bedroom was."

I'd been thinking of the letter I'd written to Marie Walters, and that was the sticker. She'd come— I was fairly sure of that— and she'd go to Boleo's place, expecting to find me. That, would put her in bad all the way around because Boleo would have her to use against me.

I said: "I'm sorry, but I don't see it. You guys can get a warrant, I suppose, and take me out of here, but that's the way you'll have to do it."

"I can take you now. I don't need a warrant."

"Not if I sing out for Chime. You'd have to shoot it out with him, and you don't want that. Boleo would be in the clear."

"That's right, too. You going to stay here?"

"If that's what Boleo wants, I am."

"You're depending on him, Ryan? Can't you see, man, that he's going to put you out of the way, after you've found Link for him? That's just common sense."

"I know it."

"You won't be killed in jail, even if I took you there. And I won't take you there. We want you out where we can use you, when we need you."

"We?"

"There's others," he admitted,

"Who?"

"I won't say."

"More cops?'

"Some of them."

I had a notion to tell him about the girl coming and then decided not to. I wasn't sure of him. He was Boleo's man, even if he was trying to break loose, and I had no guarantee he would do the breaking.

So I said: "Well, that's that. You show me something that will help me, and I'm with you. But that's the way it has to be."

HE went down the ladder and I watched him until he got to the bottom. It was a little after seven— broad daylight— but the room was at the back of the place and nobody could see a thing from the street. I saw him step off the jadder and saw somebody else come out from behind the garage and help him carry the ladder away, but I couldn't see who this other party was. He wouldn't look up and give me a peek at his face. Mrs. Chime was asleep, as was Chime, and the only chance the two of them took was in having the kid wake up and hear them— and that wasn't much of a chance.

I didn't realize how little a chance it was until I saw the kid, later in the day, and then I knew they'd taken no chance at all.

The kid was crippled, poor little brat, and didn't get around much by itself. Spinal meningitis, Chime told me. One leg was warped and twisted, and a child that young don't do well on crutches, so the baby had to crawl.

It was a smart kid, too. It was too thin— which couldn't be blamed on the way it was taken care of— and the veins on its forehead stood out against its skin, which had no color. It had dark blue eyes like its mother, and would have been a swell-looking boy if it hadn't been for that bad leg.

There's nothing a man can say about a thing like that and I didn't try to say it, but Chime must have known how I felt.

He said: "The boy was just over a year old when it happened. That's the best the doctors could do. We tried 'em all."

"There's quite a lot about a system some nurse invented," I said. "I don't know anything about it— I just read an article or so."

He knew what I meant and told me a lot about it. He'd studied the subject and knew what he was talking about, at least as much as any amateur knows about the professional side of medicine. I actually sort of liked the guy by that time. In spite of what he was and what he'd done to me. And he gave me what could have been taken as an explanation of what he'd done and why.

He said: "That's why I've done a lot of things, Ryan. The kid cost dough, all the time I was trying to do something for him that would help. More dough than I was making as a dealer, if you know what I mean. It didn't leave me much choice in making up my mind, when I got a chance to do better."

Murder for hire was his idea of doing better, but he was honest about his reason, anyway. I don't suppose a man dies any easier, because he's killed to get money to look after a crippled kid, but somehow you don't hold it so much against the killer, It isn't as though the guy had done the job to get money for a blond,

l said: "Those things are bad, all right. And nobody's fault. No chance at all, you say."

He shrugged and said the Mayos hadn't offered any hope.

I GAVE him something to think about right then and there, I said: "The boy certainly would be in a bad way if you weren't around to look after him, wouldn't he?"

"I'll be around,"

I saidt "I'll bet a hat that's what Lauders thought. Only Boleo thought different."

"Lauders was trying to cross him up. That's all."

"That's enough," I said, and laughed. "You may trust him— I don't. He isn't my boss, except for this little deal, and he wouldn't be, I don't like to have to watch for that knife all the time."

He wasn't bright, He asked: "What knife?"

I said: "The one aimed between the other guy's shoulder blades. The one he's got ready, any time he thinks it would pay him to use it. Figure it out,"

"I'm all right with him. Boleo and I are like ham and eggs."

"Eggs go bad, mister. Ever think of that?"

He shut up and went back to his morning paper. It was three in the afternoon but we'd just got up, and we were waiting for breakfast. But I noticed, after we'd had the breakfast, that he acted pretty thoughtful, and a couple of times when I looked up, I'd find him staring at me.

I gave him something else to think of then, on top of the other. I said: "Two hundred grand, cut two ways, would go a long ways toward helping a man get his wife and kid away from this town. And from a beef that's sure to come in time and that'll take in everybody."

"Boleo's safe, Safe as gold."

I just laughed and let it go at that, I could see the guy was thinking— and he wasn't the type that does it much. He was a bit screwy, anyway, and when a man like that starts using his brain anything can happen.

Anything but common sense stuff, that is.

5: The Tip-off

CHIME had a Cadillac convertible that was a pip and we went down to Boleo's in it. That was the third day from the time I'd gone to Chime's with him, and during those three days I hadn't been out of the house. Mrs Chime had gone out and bought me some decent magazines to read, though, and she'd shown me she was a master cook, so I'd been comfortable enough.

Boleo had sent up a case of assorted hootch, too, and both Chime and I had been pleasantly loaded for at least half the time. I was liking him better all the time, and I was nuts about his wife and the kid. Two better people than those I never saw—and it got me to see the way Chime was putting it over with them. He was the honest decent family man at home and nobody ever played it smoother.

Boleo ealled that third day and we started, just at dusk. Chime explained: "It's before the joint opens tothe trade. You'll probably have to stay there until after they close up."

"In that back room?"

He just grinned,

"You've got a niece car," I said.

"It was Ducky Fowler's."

"Who was Fowler?"

"Fowler," Chime said indifferently, "was a guy who ran a couple-three road-houses, out past city limits. He started a game in 'em, when the town opened up, and he shouldn't have done it, It was his own fault."

"For opening the games?"

"For not closing 'em when Boleo told him to. I got his ear— Boleo gave it to me for free."

"That all you got?"

"Five grand, mister. I own my own place. No mortgage, no nothing, I even carry insurance, so help me."

That was the family man, talking and bragging. He'd just admitted he'd killed a man named Fowler, for five thousand dollars, and that he'd been given the car we were in as a sort of bonus.

And I liked him in spite of it.

I said: "This Fowler, now. Didn't he have any friends?"

"Lots of 'em. It made quite a stink at the time it happened. But there was nothing against Boleo on it. Nobody could even say that Boleo had warned him out of business."

I said that Boleo was undoubtedly a smooth worker, and Chime agreed. Just as we pulled into the parking lot alongside of Boleo's place he gave me Boleo's system.

"He warns 'em, personally. Then he does what he's told 'em he'll do. But he don't warn 'em in front of witnesses and he don't do anything in front of witnesses. Not unless theyre his own people, that is."

"That's what'll stick him," I said.

"How you mean?"

"His own men will turn on him. They'll beat him to the punch. They'll turn on him before he has a chance to turn on them."

We got out of the car then and went inside, with Chime not saying a word. I'd put another thought in that bird brain of his, and he was working on it.

MARIE WALTERS was waiting for me, and she looked scared. I could see why, too, as soon as I got in the room. Sam, Boleo's brother, was in the room with the girl and Boleo, and he couldn't keep his eyes away from her. I also noticed he had lipstick smeared across his cheek, and that the other one showed four red lines.

Boleo was grinning, and Sam looked as though his feelings were hurt. Marie started talking before either of them had a chance to. She ran to me and caught hold of my coat and hung to me like a kitten on a curtain.

"Oh, Mickey," she said. "I thought you'd never get here. This big ape tried to kiss me."

I didn't think being kissed by Sam would poison her but I didn't say anything. I let Sam say it for me.

He grumbled: "What the hell! The dame walked out with me, didn't she?"

"He just told me, Mickey, that he'd show me how people gambled. About the games and all. Then he tried to kiss me."

"A little smooching never hurt anybody," Sam argued.

Boleo said: "Get out, Sam."

Sam got out, but I noticed he watched Marie even as he went to the door. And I learned something else— that Boleo had had trouble with him before and over— women.

Because Chime said: "You ought to watch that guy, Boleo, even if he is your own blood brother. He goes wacky when he sees a dame, and it ain't right."

"Sam's all right," said Boleo, absently, "Look here, Ryan, The girl's here, so we might as well get down to brass tacks. Link isn't in town— that is, he isn't in any of the hotels or boarding houses, I'm sure of that. I had copies made of that picture of yours, and a bunch of my boys made the rounds. He could be wearing a phony beard, or something like that, but it isn't likely. He's out of town, just close enough so that he can drop in now and then. So let's narrow it down."

"Let's," I said. "It's all right, kid. I see that that big guy don't bother you any more."

Marie sat down then and I parked on the arm of her chair.

Boleo asked: "What kind of a guy is he? Fussy? I mean about one and where he sleeps?"

"He is, He's an old maid that way, or that's what I heard. How about it, Marie?"

"You mean Link?"

"Yeah."

"He's cranky about such things," Marie said. "I didn't like to go out to dinner with him because of it. He'd be mean with the waiter if things didn't suit him."

"He'll be worse," said Boleo, "Now that he's got money to spend and lots of it. He'll be more finicky than ever, What about clothes? Was he fussy about them, too?"

I said: "He was, Very much so. How about it, kid?"

Marie said: "His suit always had to be pressed just so. Everything had to match, or contrast in color."

Boleo thought that one over and proved he had a mind and could use it. He said, consideringly: "Now he may fool us on that. He probably will. He'll probably be wearing rough clothes. Good ones, maybe, expensive and all that, but rough. That would be a change from normal for him and he'd do something to be different. He wouldn't miss on meals though— your skin don't care what's put over it but your belly cares what's put inside it. What you think, Ryan?"

I said he sounded reasonable.

"He wear a mustache, miss?"

"Oh, no."

"What color would it be, if he wore one."

She hesitated and said: "His hair is grey, but I think it used to be dark. So his mustache would be dark."

"Or grey," Boleo said. "That would change his looks some—he'd probably go for that, too. His hair, now? He wear it long?"

"Oh no, Short and always with a hair cut. He was a fussy man, Mr. Boleo."

BOLEO thought this over and turned to me. He said: "It figures just one

way. That is, if he's still handy to Callenville. He's got to be at Forest Lake, That's just over the county line, twenty-two miles from here. It's the only place he'd stay."

He was making positive statements with no basis for them that I could see.

I said: "I don't get it. I don't know this country very well, but there's a lot of places either right in town or just outside where he could stay. Your men couldn't cover everything."

"You're a cop, Ryan, but I'll tell you something. Figure this, now. The man wouldn't go to a private house, one of the rooms-for-rent places. Now figure out why?"

"Easy. Because there's too much talking in a place like that. People are curious about other people, when they're together im a little place like that. He couldn't stay by himself without comment,"

"Right. So that puts him in either a rooming house, where they don't give a damn what you do, or a big hotel, where they figure the same. That right?"

"Sure."

"Now he's fussy. That cuts him out of the tourist camp places. He likes good food and you don't get it in the tourist traps. You don't get it in the little towns around here, either. There's nothing but grease joints in any of them. Except Forest Lake. And now I'll give you the clincher. There's gambling at the Lake and big stuff. Bigger than anything here in town. That's where a guy like that, with a brand new set of money, could get action for it. They really play in that place."

"Your games?"

"No, damn it," Boleo said. "They're in the next county, like I said. I wish they were mine, It's a resort and a high class one, and everyone that lives there has to have dough to afford it. The games there are run by Joe Fowler."

"Ducky's brother," Chime put in helpfully. "That's how Ducky got the notion of nosing in here."

"You talk too much, Tommy."

"He knows about Ducky, Boleo."

"How?"

"Well, I told him. But nothing that could hurt."

BOLEO gave him a look and I could see the thoughtful expression creep into Chime's eyes. He was remembering, then and there, what I'd said about Boleo getting rid of anybody he didn't want around.

I said: "If Link's there, then what? What can I do about it, the way I'm tied down?"

"Tommy can take you and the girl over there. No cop or deputy's going to stop Tommy's car, They all know it. Once you get there he can show you the places and you can look around. Will you know this guy Link, if he's got himself fancied up?"

I said I thought I would.

Marie said: "I'd know him, Mickey. So would you if you'd known him as well as I did. But Mr. Boleo!"

"Speaking," said Boleo.

"I won't help you at all, unless you make your brother leave me alone. You've got to promise,"

Boleo said: "I promise."

I made the same promise but I made it to myself. I was getting pretty well fed up with the brothers Boleo— and they were harder to take each time I saw them.

Not that I was stuck for Marie or anything like that. She was just a nice girl that was lending a helping hand in time of trouble. I just didn't like the idea of her being pawed by fat Sam.

FOREST LAKE was bigger than I thought it would be. Probably five thousand people, either tourists or people making a living from tourists. There were four big hotels, all of them bigger than the one in Callenviile. And more expensive, as well. There were two that looked to be tops, besides these— something that belonged in Sun Valley or a place like that.

I hadn't known it but Forest Lake was famous for some kind of mineral water that was supposed te be good for what ailed you, whether it was a bald head or athlete's foot, and all points between. It had been going for a hundred years and I'd never heard of it.

Some places like that don't advertise— they don't need it, They get the same clientele, year in, year out,

Chime drove us through the place, showing it off like he was running a sight-seeing bus. He said, and wistfully:

"This is the spot where they really spend dough. Imagine it. The wheels get more of a play in this town than the crap game does."

That was a tip-off right there. Moneyed people like to lose their dough with style instead of speed, and that's the difference between roulette and dice.

Chime finally dropped us on the main street and in front of a restaurant that I could see was below basement level, A nice looking place, too. Called just Fowler's.

He said: "This is the main place, in back of where they eat. Good eats, too— best in town. You might see your guy as you're passing through to the back, so watch."

I said: "How'll we get in the back?"

Chime said he almost forgot and handed me a card with a signature serawled on it. That was all. The signature could have been anything, but he assured me it was Joe Fowler's.

He said: "That's your entrance card. Nobody goes in without one. He don't hand 'em out like they were for free, either."

"What's Fowler look like?"

"Why?"

"He might be in here. He might ask me where I got the card."

"Tell him you met him in Chicago, and that you both were drinking. He don't drink here in Lake Forest, but when he goes out of town, he really puts one on. He doesn't remember a thing about what he does, either. So tell him any name you want and tell him you met him three raonths ago in Chicago and you'll be all right."

"What's he look like?"

Tommy Chime considered. "He's about forty, only he looks about thirty-five. He's about six feet tall and he's got a nice build. He's dark and he's got a mustache like Ronald Colman. He talks like Ronald Colman does in the pictures, too. Very soft and refined, sort of. Only he's a pretty tough guy."

"What did his brother, Ducky, look like?"

"Like Joe, only younger and not so nice. He looked iike what they are, not refined like Joe puts on."

He told us he'd park and wait for us, right down the street, and I knew he would. I didn't have a chance at getting away from him and I knew it— I wasn't too sure I could even go through the restaurant and to the gambling room without being stopped.

6: Safe Under Convoy

THE Callenville papers had played me up big, and in some way they'd gotten a picture of me and had splashed that over their pages, too. It waa an old one and didn't do me justice, but it showed the way my nose is bent and it showed the couple scars I've got over one cheekbone.

If somebody remembered the picture, he'd spot me in a second, so I went through the restaurant without doing much looking for Link. About all I saw was that it looked to be a darned nice place, and that it was doing the same kind of business.

Marie tooked for Link, though, and told me she didn't see him. This was while we were waiting in front of a door at the very back of the place—a very innocent looking blank door that had no knob on our side.

Chime had told me about this and all I did was stand before it and wait. By and by it opened and a Jittle dark man, in a dinner eoat, came out and stared around him with no curiousity.

I said: "My name's Kline. Billy Kline. Mr.— uh— Mr. Fowler suggested I call on him here, when I came to Lake Forest."

"Card?"

I handed him over the pasteboard holding Fowler's signature, and he looked it ever carefully.

"Where'd you meet the boss?"

"Chicago, And man, was he high! We had a few drinks together in the hotel and then we went out and had a few more, At the College Inn."

The dark man nodded and opened the coor for me in an odd way. He stepped back, somehow, and the door swung open a crack without help from anybody. I know that because we went inside and the stairs leading up were empty.

I said: "Mysterious stuff, like in picture shows, baby. Doors open by themselves: Voices will come out of the air, next thing."

"Is this all right, Mickey?" Marie asked, and I realized I hadn't had a chance to talk to her since I'd met her in Boleo's. We weren't alone there, and we'd been with Chime, in the ear, all the time after leaving there.

I said: "You're doing fine, kid. Just point out Link, if you see him. And I think you'll see him— Boleo seemed pretty sure that he'd be here."

"His reasoning about it was good, Mickey. You said so yourself."

I laughed and said: "He's got more to go on than reasoning, kid. He's got a line on the man and the thing I can't figure out is why he hasn't grabbed him."

"I don't understand why he wants to find him, Mickey. After all, that's a job for the police, Or for you, because the company's hired you to do it. I don't see why this awful man Boleo's concerned at all."

I COULDN'T explain because, by that time, we were at the top of the stairs and facing another door. This one opened for us, too—but there was a man on the either side of it, He could have been a twin to the one who'd let us on the stair— short and dark and smooth.

He said: "Good evening, Mr. ..."

"Kline. Billy Kline. Well, William Kline, Jr., to be right. Ha, ha, ha, ha."

"Your first visit, Mr. Kline?"

"That's right. I met Mr. Fowler in Chicago, about three months back. A fine man. Is he around tonight?"

"Not just now, Mr, Kline. Just go ahead—the bar's at your left and the games are right ahead. The checkroom isn't open yet, I'm sorry to say."

We passed the cheekroom and turned into the bar the guy had mentioned. It looked like a very good hotel bar and was getting a fair play, but I noticed there was no register and that no cash, other than tip money, changed hands.

I nudged Marie and said: "Big stuff, kid. More like in movies. Drink on the house, tike free hunch in cheap bars."

It didn't mean a thing to Marie— she didn't know whether that was good or bad, We got a booth, just inside the door, and then I looked around, And I didn't see any sign of Link but I did see something that I hadn't seen since I'd Iast been in Reno.

It was a window in the back of the bar, up high where it commanded the whole floor of the place, One man was looking out, and I could see the muzzle of a shotgun standing up beside him. There was a slit below the window, which even at that distance showed it was made of funny looking glass.

"It's a look-out cage," I told Marie. "More movie stuff. Bullet-proof glass and a guy inside to cut down any hold-ups. Hie could pick 'em off like shooting at clay pigeons."

Marie looked up at the window and shuddered. She was a home girl, and things like that were a little out of her line.

THE waiter came over and I ordered straight rye for myself and an Alexander for the girl. Home girls like the fancy drinks that make the strong men shudder.

She said, while we waited: "I missed you a lot, Mickey. But I think the only reason you ever took me out was to find out something about Charles Link, Tell me the truth, Mickey. Wasn't that the only reason?"

If I'd told her the truth, it would only have hurt her feelings. The only reason I'd arranged to meet her, in the first place, was because she was a friend of the guy and would know about him,

But I lied and said: "Of course not, kid. Nothing like that at all. It's nice that you knew the guy because you can be a big help to me by pointing him out, but that's all. I don't mix business with pleasure and I like taking you out."

The waiter brought the drinks, good, very good rye for me, and that awful mixture for the kid, and I thanked him.

He said: "I wish you luck tonight, sir."

I thanked him for the drinks, which sure enough were on the house.

And then Marie said: "Oh, Mickey, there he is."

It was Link but I don't think I'd have known him. All I had to go on was a five year old snapshot of him that wasn' too clear when it was new. This man looked younger than he did in the snap, even in spite of that five years' difference. He'd dyed his hair brown, almost a reddish brown, and he'd made a perfect job of it. He had a scrubby mustache that showed more red than did his hair, and that was also right. He looked heavier than he had in his pictures, and he wore an outfit that looked like it was out of one of the Hollywood fan magazines.

A checked tweed sport coat that was loud enough to speak up for itself and grey flannel slacks that were cut pleated at the waist and came up almost to his short ribs. A brown shirt, with a fancy collar. No neck tie but a scarf, though this last was swinging loose. Brown and white shoes that looked custom made. His eyes were blue, very blue, and they went with both his new brown hair and his fancy clothes. He was forty-five by his service record with Amalgamated Tool & Die, but the only way he showed he was over thirty was by tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. And you had to look close to notice that.

I asked: "You sure?" even if I was myself.

"Positive. Oh, Mickey. If he sees me, he'll know me."

I said: "Just sit quiet, kid. If he talks to you, tell him you're visiting your aunt, in Callenville. Stall. I'll be back."

I got out of the booth and over to the bar and just in time. Link turned his head and saw Marie, and for a second he could have been looking at a ghost. Then he turned his head and ducked out toward the door that opened to the gambling room, I went after him but I stopped at the booth and told Marie what to do while I was on my way.

I said: "Just sit here, kid. Take another drink or two—they won't hurt you. I've got to line this out."

She nodded and I went out into the gambling part of the set-up.

I HAD the answer to everything then.

I knew why Boleo wanted me in on the deal and there was no chance of error on his reason. It all tied up.

Link hadn't gone in to the bar alone, that was the thing. Two men were with him and the same two men had followed him out, to the gambling room.

One was thin and tall and not a bad-looking guy, if you don't mind 'em having too much space between the eyes and with a smirk on a face that comes too much to a point at the chin. He carried his hands swinging free but there was a bulge under his left arm.

The other was also thin, but short, not over five feet tall. He carried his head forward, as though he was looking for something he'd dropped on the floor. The first one about twenty-five and the second at least forty-five. Both were guarding Link, with the first man packing his gun in a shoulder rig and the second, as near as I could figure, carrying his in his coat pocket.

At least he kept a hand in it all the time.

They had to be Fowler's men. There was no other answer to that one, either. Link couldn't have hired guards from any agency, as hot as he was. Any agency man in the world would have spotted him for who he was. They couldn't have been trivate gun experts, working for Link, for the same reason. They'd have known he needed them to protect his two hundred thousand dollars worth of stolen money, and they'd have ganged on him and taken it for their very own.

That left it squarely up to Fowler. He was protecting Link for some reason, and he was keeping him safe under convoy. That meant Boleo couldn't get his hands on the man without waging a pitched battle for him, and away from Callenville and out of Callen County, Boleo couldn't get away with a small war like he'd have to fight.

Fowler couldn't keep Link away from the cops, if they located the guy, naturally. But he could keep him away from another hustler, even if the other hustler did control the adjoining part of the country—and he was doing just that.

And Boleo was going along with me, on my wagon, so I'd make the break that might get Link loose and in the open where he'd be Boleo's meat. I had some authority and could always claim I was honestly trying to arrest the guy. That is, I could if I could get clear of the charge 'hanging over me on Laudersg' killing. That would give me an out, if any rough stuff came into the open. Boleo had me solid, or thought he did, on the charge, and he thought he could depend on me going to bat with him because of the fix I was in, It was a frame that he could either push or drop, and he'd think I'd play it his way on account of it.

I WAS in the middle all the way around. The cops were on one side, Boleo on another, and now Fowler on the third.

Link had shoved his way into the crowd around one of the three wheels. that were running, and I was right behind him. I had expense money to spend and no grudge against dropping a little of it in the tiger's mouth. Link bought chips and so did I. He was on my left, with the older, shorter bodyguard between us, as well as just another customer. This one happened to be a fat, red-faced man who was putting twenty dollar chips all over the lay-out, and who depended on the croupier to tell him whether he won or lost.

He lost, of course. The wheel man was only human.

Link put a red— ten dollars— on black, another on the first twelve, and another on seven, on the nose. I put the same amount on red. Playing colors won't make a man rich, but he won't lose near as fast and he has the fun of watching the wheel spin.

It came black and I doubled on red. It came black again. I put fifty on that time, still riding the red, and red showed up for me.

Link had won on his color bets the first two times, but he'd lost on the others. The wheel was running high and he lost betting that it would hit the lower third of the thirty-six possible numbers the ivory ball could end up on.

I played along easy, losing forty dolfars in half an hour, and by that time I'd decided that the short man did carry his gun in the side coat pocket next to me, and that the fat customer was going home in his underwear if he kept on playing.

Link ran out of chips twice and he was buying 'em five hundred dollars' worth at a time, but from the conversation he was having with the croupier, I gathered he'd won a little the night before, Playing like he was, with an oceasional hit like the night before, his two hundred thousand would last him quite a while, I thought.

THEN I deeided to do something about the situation and, as I did, I saw Fowler come in. There was no mistaking him. Chime's deseription would have been good enough to tell him, and the way he came in and looked the place over would have tipped me anyway.

He had that owner's look. Checking on how much and how heavy play was going on. Looking to see that each table had enough bank money to run nicely with. Having a word with the cashier, who had an office at the side of the place. Looking up at the window at the end of the place to make sure his shotgun guard was on shift.

He came near the wheel I was working on and | waved at him and he nodded back at me. He looked a bit puzzled, as though he was trying to place me, and I decided I might as well start with him, I picked up my ehips— I had a hundred and sixty dollars worth of them left— and moved over next to him.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Fowler," I said.

"Ah yes," he said, shaking hands, "And how's everything with you?"

"I'm losing a little."

He looked down at the chips in my hand and said that luck went that way. That a man might lose for hours and then pull ahead in ten minutes of the evening's play. Just ordinary edme-on talk.

I stopped that. I said: "You don't know me, Fowler, but you should, You really should. Where can we talk?"

"Why should we?"

"It might pay both of us."

He shrugged and nodded toward a door at the side of the room. "My office is there, mister—I don't believe I know your name."

"It's Ryan."

"Oh, oh."

"That's right. Same man."

7: Both Ends Against the Middle

HE led the way to his office and motioned me to a chair across the desk from him. He was as hard as Boleo, but in a different way. This man was smooth, but ] didn't think he was as smooth as he fancied himself. His office, though, was nothing like Boleo's. Boleo's was fancy and this was plain and business like. This was a place to work in and Boleo's was a place to impress people.

Fowler said: "Ryan, eh? Well, Mister Ryan, you're hotter than a fox. You're a damn' fool to be out in public. It was Chime that killed Lauders, wasn't it? Little Tommy Chime?"

"That's right."

"You see it done."

"I did. How'd you know it was Chime?"

"It bore his trade mark, from what I heard. The man was shot three times. All centered, and running from the pit of his stomach to his neck. It takes good shooting for that."

"That's what I want to talk to you about."

"The shooting? I can't help you, Ryan. That isn't my county. You should know that by this time."

"I know it. It isn't about that shooting— it's about another."

"Whose?"

"Your brother's. Ducky's."

I was watching his face but he didn't change expression. His eyes maybe looked a little different but that was all.

He said: "I'll do something about that, but I'll pick my own time. That was Chime's work, too."

"Just on order."

"Sure. I know that. I told him not to try and buck that combination over there, but he wouldn't listen to me. I can't do anything about it, not the way things stand right now. I've got to wait for the proper time."

"Suppose I arrange it? Will you turn Link loose if I do?"

"You know about that, eh?"

"I can guess. That's who I'm after. That's something the papers didn't know."

He considered this and he took a minute to do it. "Look, Ryan," he said. "Suppose I am taking care of him? He's got two hundred grand and I don't know where it is. I want to know that, before I turn him over."

"You've had time to find out."

"I can't work on him. The guy's got a bad ticker. Anybody gets rough with him, and he'll pop off. That's why he took the dough, he tells me. He says he has only so long to live and he might as well live high while he's doing it."

That was something neither Boleo or I knew. I kept my mouth shut and let Fowler argue it out with himself. He said:

"You working for the company or for yourself?"

"Why? What difference does it make?"

"Plenty. There's enough to split. There'd be no split if you're working for the company."

"That's Boleo's thought."

"I'll turn him over for half of what he's got. For Boleo thrown in, I mean."

I said: "I'll be fair. I didn't know about Link having a bad heart, and that makes it different. Suppose I give you Boleo, and we'll argue it out about Link after that. We can get together — there's enough dough in it so we can."

"I want Chime, too. He was working for Boleo— I know that— but I want him, too."

"You can have him."

"You got a plan?"

I had and I began telling him about it.

MARIE had taken three more Alexanders and they'd acted on her, or acted up on her, whichever it was. Her eyes were about twice as big and she wasn't talking as usual. She didn't exactly stutter, but she was starting to. She wasn't drunk but she wasn't sober —she was at that in-between stage where everything's peaches and cream.

She said: "Oh Mickey, honey! I didn't think you were ever coming back."

"They been treating you all right?"

"Oh, yes. A couple of men sat down here and tried to talk to me, but I told them I was waiting for my husband. Wasn't that right?"

"Sure."

The waiter came over and I ordered another rye and another Alexander. Another snifter wouldn't hurt the gal, that I could see.

I said: "We're going back to Callenville now, kid. There's going to be quite a lot happen and don't let any of it get you down."

"Why, what will happen, Mickey?"

"I'm not sure yet. Nothing tonight."

We had our drink and went downstairs and found Tommy Chime parked half way down the block. He was sitting well back in the seat with his face in shadow, and when we got in the car I saw he had that Army .45 in his lap, all ready.

He said: "I had a close one, mister, and I don't mean perhaps. Fowler walked by here and looked right at me. If it hadn't been for a car coming by and blinding him with its lights, he'd have seen me sure."

"He know you?"

"Sure."

"You know his boys, too?"

"Most of  'em. They leave us alone and we leave them alone. That is, if they stay where they belong, to hell out of Callen County."

"He figure the same about this one?"

"Sure. The county line's the dead line. We can come over here and give his games a whirl and his crew can come over to our joints and try us if they want. But no trouble, that's all."

"What about you?"

"Not me. The bars are up for me on account of Ducky. And for Boleo, too, of course."

Marie asked: "Who is Ducky?"

I said: "You mean who was Ducky? Ducky was a man who didn't know where he belonged. Isn't that right, Chime?"

Chime got the car out into the line of traffic and agreed that I was right. And for the rest of the ride into Callenville I spent my time fending Marie away. Those Alexanders were taking hold and she'd decided that if I thought anything of her I should be showing it more, and she moving half way toward the showing.

It would have been embarrassing if Tommy Chime hadn't been a family man, but as it was it worked out all right.

We went straight to his house, and when he'd called Boleo to tell him we were back, and Boleo had told him to keep the girl there in the house, the same as I was kept. Marie never complained. For one thing I could see she liked Mrs. Chime, and for another I was with her there. That made it perfectly fine.

IT was just after daylight when I saw Eberhard, and I was worried for fear he wouldn't show up. He'd said he'd keep in touch but I was afraid something might have interfered with the plan. I dropped the note I'd written him and watched it flutter to the ground with him chasing it like a cat chases a butterfly, and when after he'd read it and motioned toward the back of the garage where the ladder was stored, I waved him away.

I knew what he wanted, He wanted to argue what I'd lined out for him and his pals to do, and I didn't want any part of it. It was too tricky as it was. I had to depend on Chime, on Boleo, on Fowler, and on this bunch of cops that wanted to get out from under Boleo's thumb, and I had to work on each one of them from a different angle.

Each angle, of course, had something in common. Each depended on the well known double cross— each bunch was after something the other one had.

All I had to do was work 'em against each other and slide out with Marie and Link, during the pay-off, It wasn't going to be easy.

Marie was sleeping with Mrs. Chime, not more than half realizing she was a prisoner, and Tommy had made himself up a bed on the front room couch. I woke him up from that about nine.

I said: "Look, Tommy, it's about time we had a talk. I'm going to give you a chance to get out. To get out while you're alive and to get out with the wife and kid."

"You're nuts," he said, but he was paying close attention, I noted. "Why should I want to get out? I'm doing all right with Boleo. There's no reason why it . won't go along like that."

I needed him and I had to have him on my side. He'd gone to sleep on the couch with his gun on the floor by the head of it, and he was lying back on the couch, then, with a hand propped under his head and staring at me.

I WAS five feet away but I had the advantage of the first move. I dived for the gun and landed on top of it, and he rolled off the couch on my back and started to pound my head up and down on the floor.

As a gun man he was good, very good. On the rough and tumble stuff he was only fair. I twisted so I got a purchase with my feet against the couch, and then I kicked out as hard as I could. It moved me away from there fast, with the rug sliding under me like a pair of skates, and it tipped him to the side and gave me a chance to roll clear. I had the gun in his belly then and had the safety catch off— he carried it on full cock, the way the gun should be carried if a man has any idea of having to use it in a hurry.

I said: "Behave now. Sit back there. I don't want to blast."

He coughed— I'd jabbed the muzzle of the gun into him pretty hard. He got back on the couch and stared at me, and I when he spoke, he sounded as though his feelings were hurt.

"I sort of trusted you, Ryan," he said. "I wasn't watching you the way I should have been doing."

"What did you do with my gun, Chime?"

"It's in the car pocket,"

I took the magazine out of the .45 and jacked the shell out of the chamber, I tossed it back to him and said:

"I don't want this, Tommy. I want my own."

He held the gun as though he'd never seen it before.

"Why'd you give it back to me?"

I knew then the beef was over and that I could talk him into what I wanted, I gave him back the shells and watched him shove the magazine up in-place and jack a shell into place. I noticed though that he put the safety on them.

I said: "I'm going to give you a chance, Tommy. The pay-off's coming tonight. I want Link, you know that. Now I want Boleo. If you work it, I can have 'em both. If not, you go out with Boleo."

"I don't get it," he said.

"Play it my way and you've got a chance to go clear. Maybe not—there's a chance, of course. But play it against me and you're through. I've got Fowler in it now."

"You double-crossed us, hey?"

I laughed and he got the idea. He said: "Not that I blame you. We put you in a spot, all right."

"I'm getting off it. You want to go along?"

"Go ahead."

I talked— and we ended by going out to the garage together and getting my own gun. I felt better with it, too. There was going to be shooting that night and I wanted my own gun to do it with.

8: Last Act Curtain

FOWLER was where he said he'd meet me, and with him were Link, Link's two bodyguards, and two other men I'd wever seen before. Link's hands were tied behind him, which couldn't have been comfortable, but he wore no gag. When I walked up to the car, he was cursing Fowler steadily, but not as though he were mad. It was a discouraged sort of swearing, more than anything, and Fowler just sat next to him and listened.

The car was parked about two blocks from Chime's house, just as we'd arranged.

I walked up to the car and spoke to Fowler and then looked at Link. Link had quit swearing as I came up, but he picked it up where he'd left off.

Fowler pointed a thumb at him and said: "The guy's sore. What the hell! He don't seem to realize that money isn't everything."

"How much of it you got left, Link?" I asked.

He started cursing me then. I said: "It's going as planned. There's just one thing. If there's any shooting, and there will be, I want you boys to be careful. My girl's in the house, too, and 'm going to try and get her down in the basement. But if I can't, I don't want her to stop any wild ones."

Fowler said: "Don't fret, Ryan."

"We might as well start."

Fowler and three of the men with him got out of the car, leaving the older one of Link's guards still with him. Fowler said: "If he gets noisy, just knock him on the head. Link, if you're smart, you'll keep that trap of yours shut."

Link told him to go to hell, in detail.

We started toward the house then. I said: "Now remember! I want Chime  left alone until the last. I need him right straight through, until then. That plain?"

Fowler said: "I said so last night, didn't I? I want Boleo more than I want Chime, anyway."

We walked up to the house and on the porch and through the front door, and there was Tommy Chime to meet us. He held that Army gun of his at full cock and he had the safety off it and he was as tight as a wound up watch. He was so scared he was white around the lips. He lined the gun on Fowler's middle and said:

"Hi, Joe! If there's any cross on this, you go. first."

"Don't be a chump," Fowler said. "I don't want you, Tommy. I want Boleo."

"Play it that way," Tommy said.

I put in with: "Okay, Chime. Now's the time to do it."

AND I told him again what to do. I said: "Go ahead now. Tell Boleo I went out last night and got Link, and that I'm barricaded with him down in the basement. And that you've got to have help to get me out. That'll bring him."

Fowler made the same objection he had made the night before, when I'd given him the plan. He said: "He'll send somebody else out here. He won't come out himself."

I gave him the same answer as I had before. I said: "He will not. He won't take the chance. He knows he has to have Link alive, if he's going to get the money from him, and he won't trust the job to anybody else. Get going, Chime."

Tommy eased around to the door, watching Fowler all the time. They were like two strange dogs, circling each other with their hair up on their necks and growling, He baeked out the front door and I heard his ear start up from where it was parked in front, and I breathed a whole lot easier.

I'd been afraid of that first meeting. There was a ehance of Fowler losing his head and shooting it out then and there with the man who'd killed his brother, and there'd been the chance of Chime going panicky when he faced him.

That was over. I told the boys to sit down and have a drink while they waited and they did. And then I went upstairs, to where Mrs. Chime and Marie were playing cards with the boy.

It was some sort of casino that the kid was nuts about. Both Chime and his wife played it with the kid all day long, and now they'd roped Marie in on it.

I said: "Mrs. Chime, you're to go down in the basement. You and the boy. Marie, you too,"

Mrs. Chime said: "What's wrong, Mr. Ryan? Where's Tommy? I thought you went with him— I heard him drive away."

I didn't explain but told her the one thing I knew would get her moving.

"There's going to be some trouble here in a little while," I said. "I want the boy out of the way."

She got moving right then. She and Marie and the boy were in the basement, locked in, inside of five minutes' time. If it had just been herself, there'd probably have been an argument, but there was none when the boy was in danger.

It seems like people think more of a crippled child than they do a well one.

FOWLER and I sat by the window, where we could watch the street. I was looking for it and so saw something Fowler didn't, There was quite a lot of shrubbery in the vacant lot next to Chime's house, and every now and then Fd see a movement there that didn't eome from the wind.

Then Boleo came— just as it was getting good and dark. It had taken him about an hour to make up his mind and collect his gang, and he came in force. There were two cars of them, and I saw Fowler lick his lips and figure out the odds.

He wasn't backing up on them, I'll give him that. There were five of us, counting me on his side, and Boleo had seven men with him, not counting Chime. I didn't know just how to count Chime, either. He was supposed to be out of it, but I knew it wouldn't work that way. I hoped it would work so that he'd be out of the first of the mess, but that was the best I could do for him.

Boleo and his crew came up the walk, first Boleo and Chime, side by side, and then Boleo's brother and the rest of them. They were in a huddle and a good man could have murdered the bunch of them with any sort of shooting, but that wasn't the plan.

Ht worked out as it should. Chime and Boleo came to the door and Chime opened it and stepped to the side, so the others could go past him. It was the natural thing to do and he did it that way. Just opened the door and stepped back and said:

"Okay guys."

By that time Fowler was against the wall, right next the door. The end drape from the front window covered him entirely. One of his men was behind the couch. Another was in the doorway leadmg to the kitchen and the third was clear up on the stairs leading to the second story. I was still by the window, but sitting at the side of it, and every man of Boleo's was inside before he saw me. Chime even had time to close the door behind them before Boleo spoke.

He had a gun in his hand but he didn't raise it. He must have been surprised, expecting to find me in the cellar, but he didn't show it.

He said: "Hah, Ryan. I thought Tommy said he had you locked in and that you had him locked out."

Then Fowler, who was behind them, said: "Let's go."

The shooting started and I went out the window. Boleo shot, but whether at me or at Fowler I didn't know. He could have hit the window glass but I was going through it shoulder first and there was no way of telling. I saw Chime running toward the street and his car, and I shouted:

"I'll see you, Tommy."

He raised a hand but didn't stop.

I COULD see Eberhard and his merry men breaking out of their cover in the next door lot, then. There were about ten of them. and one of them was carrying a gas gun— a short-barreled, nasty-looking thing that could do three times the work the old-fashioned kind could ever do. It sounded like every man for himself inside the house though, and I didn't think the boys were going to need gas to take charge.

There were eight men standing in the center of that small room, and Fowler and his boys were cross-firing into them. Fowler was taking a chance and knew it, but his men were under some protection. The eight in the middle of the room had none and it was just a matter of how much lead they could take and still shoot back.

I got to the sidewalk and started down it just as Eberhard got to the front door. Two of his men were at the side of the house— I could see that— and another couple were racing around toward the other side to blanket that as well. He'd have a pair at the back, too— I knew that without seeing them.

I didn't wait. I wanted to get down to Fowler's car before the man guarding Link had time to get worried and pull out of there.

And I just made it. I heard the starter grind when I was half a block from it and the guy was just putting the car into gear when I ran up beside it. He leaned his head out when I came up to the window, but if he was scared he didn't look it.

He said: "How they coming out? There's plenty of noise."

I hit him on the head, rather than argue with him. I wanted Link, not talk about him.

And then I drove the car back and parked it in front of Chime's leaving Link still tied in the back seat.

EBERHARD had things under control, but he hadn't had much of a job getting it that way. The boys had really shot it out.

Boleo and his brother were both dead. Boleo had been shot six times— the boys had sort of centered their fire on him it looked like. Boleo's brother Sam was hit twice but both were centered.

Of the other six men with Boleo, two were dead, one was dying, and the other three would live, barring accidents. They can do a lot with gun shot wounds this day and age.

Fowler was hit twice, both through the right lung, and that gave him about an even chance. One of his men had taken a slug through the arm— that was the one who'd been shooting out from the shelter of the doorway. The other two hadn't a mark on them and were handcuffed together.

Fowler was conscious when I went in, and if looks killed, I'd have been down on the floor with the Boleo boys.

"You kept Chime out of this," he said.

"Right."

"You double-crossing rat."

"You got enough for your money."

"I wanted Chime."

"You don't want anybody but the doctor, chum," Eberhard told him. "He's coming now. By the time you get out of the can, you'll have whiskers down to your knees. If you want Chime then, you can have him."

I did what I'd told Tommy I'd do for him, I was putting the blame on a dead man and so I didn't mind too much.

I said: "Listen. It was Boleo that killed Lauders. I saw him do it. It was Boleo that killed your brother, Fowler. It wasn't Chime— Chime just took the blame. It wasn't as though he was up in court accused of it— it was just talk. Boleo paid him to take the beef and he took it, that's all."

Both Eberhard and Fowler said: "You said it was Chime."

I said: "I just agreed with you when you said that. I should know— I saw Lauders killed. About your brother, Fowler, all you can figure is the same man killed him, too. That is if you go by the way the job was done."

I DIDN'T think it would stick with Fowler but it would keep the police away from Chime, and that's all I'd promised him. I knew Fowler would have men gunning for him as soon as he could get in touch with what was left of his crew. The protection would be off Chime and he'd have to depend on himself to stay clear, that was all.

I stayed there until I heard the ambulance siren sounding nearer, and then I went to the basement. I went down and found both girls huddling back of the furnace, with the boy still further behind them.

I said: "It's over. Mrs. Chime, Tommy got clear. He'll write me when he gets located and then I'll tell you where to go. He won't write you— you may be watched for awhile. I'll see you get out so that nobody follows you, and that's the best I can do."

Marie was shaking all over. She said:

"Good heavens, Mickey, what's happened?"

I said: "Nothing of importance. The town is out from under, that's all. No more of the Boleo brothers, which means the police can start in and do a little policing. The same will be true of Forest Lake— the boys just sort of cleaned up their own situations. It's a good thing for everybody— this town needed cleaning up and now it's done. Marie, if you'll get ready, we'll go back where we started from."

She started climbing out from behind the furnace then, but I wouldn't let them go upstairs until Eberhard called down to me that the house was clear.

That front room was nothing for a woman to see.

CHIME got free from the men Fowler put on him, but I didn't know it until I got a letter from him. It was mailed from South Africa and it said he was now a sergeant and he liked the Army fine but missed his wife. The letter had to pass the censor, of course, and so it didn't say a great deal, but I could read between the lines and guess what it was he wanted.

That night I made arrangements about it. I told Marie: "You and I'll drop over to Callenville, toward the end of the week. I got a letter from Tommy Chime and I've got to tell his wife about it."

By that time Marie knew all about it. She didn't know whether she approved of what I'd done, though, and now and then had things to say about it. She said some of them right then.

She said: "You let that man go, knowing he was a murderer, Mickey. You shouldn't have done it."

What to do had puzzled me, too. I'd crossed everybody but Chime, but I'd played it square with him. And he was the actual killer of both Lauders and Ducky Fowler, that I knew— and maybe others as well.

I said: "Look, kid! The guy had a wife and baby, and the only people he killed were better off dead. There's that angle. Another thing is, he's doing all right now. He's in the Army and he's been made a sergeant. That's swell. He'll come out of it okay, see if he don't. And working it the way I did, cleaned up that town all right, so it must have been partly all right, anyway. A man can work in that town and play around a little now, and still go home with money in his pants. So that's something, isn't it."

Marie said she thought it was.

"And I found Link, and the D. A. turned up his loot. That's something else. When it was a question of getting ten years and keeping the dough, or getting five and giving it back, he gave it back, didn't he?"

"Well, yes, Mickey."

"Then everybody won, didn't they?"

"Mrs. Chime didn't win."

"Tommy wouldn't have lasted another year, kid. Boleo would have killed him  because he knew too much. That was the way the guy worked. So Mrs. Chime won— Tommy's alive and making a hero out of himself."

The funny thing is that Mrs. Chime agreed with me She gave me a letter to forward to Tommy, that just in case any of Fowler's crew were still checking on her mail. Fowler couldn't— he was doing twenty to forty in the State pen.

She said: "I was going to sell the house, so that I'd be ready to join Tommy, as soon as I heard from him, Now I'll just wait until after the war."

"I'll get the guy to send you a picture, Mrs. Chime."

"Sonny would like that, too."

The kid said: "l bet my dad's a good soldier, too. It isn't everybody can be a sergeant, I bet you. Why that's higher than a captain, I guess."

Neither Marie nor I told him different. The way it was working out he'd find that a sergeant maybe wasn't as high as a captain— but he'd never find out what his old man really had done for a living, anyway.

I counted that on Chime's credit side, too, The kid would grow up thinking his daddy was a hero, rather than a gun man, and that was all to the good.

I was sort of proud of Chime myself.

___________________

4: The Coral of Idris

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Argosy, 9 May 1931

1: Moroccan Cabaret.

BURKE LANDED at Casablanca at two in the afternoon, from the Marseilles boat, and Merrit got him through the Sherifian customs and up to his apartment in the Avenue Kléber within half an hour. Merrit had the agency for the Goliath car in Morocco, and Detroit headquarters had cabled Burke in Paris to go down there and investigate.

Merrit was friendly enough. He was swarthy and looked capable. Going uptown in the taxicab, he looked at Burke and made a straight proposition.

"I know why you're here, of course. Suppose we devote the afternoon and evening to getting settled and having a bit of fun? Then, in the morning, you can take over the office and the books, and go through everything."

"Fair enough," said Burke cheerfully. He was blond, wide-shouldered, and with warm blue eyes that could turn icy at times. He had a good idea that Merrit was crooked as a corkscrew and he would have some nasty work, but there was no need to be unpleasant. "We go to your quarters?"

"For to-night, if you don't mind. You'll be more comfortable there, and to-morrow you can either stay on, or get a room at the hotel. We have a brand new one here," Merrit smiled evenly. Evidently he expected trouble, and meant to meet it like a man, with a shrug and a laugh. "Thought I'd take you down to the low quarter of town to-night— the new Arab town built by the Sultan. Some Berber dancers are in from the hills, and you will see something you won't often find around the corner."

"Suits me," rejoined Burke.

Casablanca, with the exception of the native town inside its walls, is a new, up-to-date French colonial city, and possesses nothing romantic or appealing, except the costumes and uniforms. It gets little tourist business, and consequently what it offers the night wanderer is not showy or fake, but the real article, frankly immodest and without shame.

Burke left the taxi with his companion at the entrance to the part of town known as the New Medinah. Off to the left the ground fell sharply in a ravine, rising again to the palace; this hollow was a mass of roofs and adobes. The moon was high, flooding everything with silver. The signs on the high walls to which the two men turned gave clear indication that they were entering upon no Sunday school excursion. Besides affording living quarters, this section of the city was a place of amusement for soldiers and hillmen, seamen from the port, foreigners from the town, Arabs from the old town and the open country. Women were muffled and veiled, men wore voluminous garments, with chechia or turban, or both— all of them looking rather shopworn, and all of them wearing yellow slippers. Many wore ragged jellabs of old sacking.

"They distinctly lack romance," said Burke.

Merrit laughed, but his tone came with a touch of eagerness.

"You may find it ahead— who knows? We'll hit the carnival section pretty soon."

They were walking along the narrow sidewalks now. Here were vendors of fruit and candy, women without veils, plenty of electric lights, and music on every hand. Presently Burke found himself dipping into a big room, half underground, with one main entrance and several exits; a café, in effect, with a regular cabaret. Along one end, on a shoulder-high platform of solid beams, sat the Berber dancers, eight in number. Burke sidled into a place at a table beside Merrit, a long table, with a bench for seat, and met with a real surprise as two of the hillmen struck into a dance, drums and pipes making music.

This was real dancing— a sort of clog and tap, mixed with a real buck-and-wing. But there was no tap to it. Every touch of heel or toe was a rousing wham! It was hard to see why the platform did not come down or why they did not smash their ankles. This was a real mountain breakdown, and was kept up without a pause for full fifteen minutes, when the hat was passed.

BY THIS TIME, however, Burke's attention had been diverted to those around him. A glass of strong mint tea was placed before him, and as he sipped it he used his eyes. About him were Arabs, Berbers, French—both soldiers and civilians—and girls galore. Brown girls with wild eyes and silken garments, Berber girls with tribal tattoo marks on chin and cheeks, negroid girls with frizzled hair.

And one other girl.

Merrit had moved down to the end of the bench, and was talking with two of the Arab girls there in his rapid, fluent French; he did not see the other at all. This one sat under an arch with two French officers. She was looking straight at Burke and smiling; a girl in a rose-pink dress, a drooping leghorn straw hat, and a white coral necklace at her throat. A French girl? He fancied not; impossible to say, however.

"Burke!" Merrit was leaning over toward him. "I'll be back in a minute; a chap outside wants to see me."

He departed, shouldering aside the girls. Burke fancied that some one had brought him a message. Looking again at the girl with the two officers, Burke caught one swift, startling look that jerked him upright. She glanced after Merrit, then looked directly at him with a most imperative gesture. The two officers were laughing with one of the Berbers and paid her no heed.

Burke frowned, half started up, then resumed his seat. He had heard about the women in Morocco— how they had flocked in from all countries to make things lively for the troops. Yet this girl was not one of the sort. He looked at her again, and met an impatient grimace. Then she was talking with her companions again, gayly, quite ignoring him.

One of the officers rose and left the place. The other, a burly man whose heavy black mustache partly concealed a purple scar at the right corner of his mouth, looked at Burke for a moment carelessly, then turned at a sharp outcry from outside. He leaped up and strode out.

Swift as a flash, the girl slipped from her seat and in three quick strides was leaning over the table before Burke, her voice low, tense, striking at him. And she spoke English.

"Get out of here quickly! Get him away!"

"Eh?" Burke was startled. "Who do you mean?"

"Merrit. Quickly! Don't you know he hasn't a chance in the world here? It may be too late even now. Get him away! Move!"

Burke read the urgent anger in her eyes, and rose.

"I don't know what it's all about, but I'll get him away," he responded. "With whom am I speaking, if you please?"

She broke out in a passion of anger and despair.

"Fool! To stand here talking that way— move! He must have been mad to come here! Quickly, tell him to call me later to-night at this address—in an hour. Off with you!"

Burke thrust into a pocket the card she handed him, and made his way out of the place. The hubbub had subsided: it had been a fight between two women, he gathered.

He stood out in the street, dimly lighted, and glanced around. At this instant, from some point not far away came the crack of a shot, then another. A burst of cries went up; in a moment the street was filled with rushing figures and wild voices.

Burke stepped back into the darkness beneath an arched entrance, waited there, listening. Presently two Frenchmen came past, stopped to light cigarettes; he caught the glint of uniforms. One of them spoke softly.

"Who was it? Why, that fool American, Merrit. They did for him. He was crazy to come here to-night— but there you are. We knew he'd get it sooner or later."

"There was another man with him," said the second voice. "Who?"

"Don't know. The Intelligence will know, of course. It doesn't matter; he is not involved. Better get back, mon ami. This means we'll be ordered up to Merrit's apartment presently, to search for the yellow box. Baraud is set on having it. Come along!"

They disappeared. Burke remained motionless for a moment, stupefied by what he had just overheard; then, as a crowd surged past, he slipped in among the figures and made all haste to get out of the place.

Two minutes later he stepped into one of the waiting taxicabs, gave Merrit's address, and went whirling away at breakneck speed toward the French town.

WITH THE SPEED of the cab, his thoughts fell into some coherence. What it all meant, what it was about, he had not the faintest idea; but if Merrit were really dead, then it was a form of suicide. He knew perfectly well that Merrit, on the morrow, had faced exposure and disgrace for embezzlement and forgery. Merrit had known it, too. And Merrit had apparently come here deliberately seeking death. Who had murdered him, and why?

"No use asking foolish questions," thought Burke, with a shrug. "The police or soldiers will be along soon enough. According to those French officers, I'm not under suspicion, and I'd better look up that yellow box myself and see what's in it. And where does the girl come in? She was a stunner!"

He paid off the taxicab and mounted to Merrit's apartment. Luckily, he knew all his papers were in order, and he had nothing to fear from any one.

Entering the apartment, he found it as they had left it, and went directly to Merrit's bedroom; here, if anywhere, would be the mysterious yellow box, and he would not be likely to have much time.

Glancing around, he went to the dresser and opened drawer after drawer, in vain. Burke paused, asked himself what he would do if he had something to hide— and went to the closet, where a number of empty grips were placed high on a shelf. With a grunt of satisfaction he felt a rattle in one, as he got it down. It was unlocked, and he opened it, to find a package wrapped in newspaper— a large, square package. He stripped it open and disclosed a square box of yellow Morocco leather, locked. It had no key.

For a moment, Burke hesitated. This was none of his business. It was very likely something illegal. The part of wisdom was to leave it alone. Yet Merrit had been murdered, and Burke meant to know why, and if possible to bring the killers to justice; curiosity, a slow anger, a sense of comradeship with the dead man, consumed him.

He replaced the grips, and took the yellow box into his own room. It fitted inside his toilet case, which he dumped out. Putting the leather box inside the toilet case, he snapped it shut again and left it on his dresser, shaving materials on top of it. As he finished, there came a long and authoritative ring at the bell, followed by a sharp knocking on the door of the apartment.

2: A Sinister Frenchman

WITH THE police, whose six-pointed stars proclaimed them civil servants, were two officers, Frenchmen of a Sherifian regiment. One introduced himself to Burke as a Captain Lamarte; he was very polite and cordial. When he had inspected Burke's papers, he nodded and returned them.

"Entirely in order, m'sieu'. We know you only arrived to-day. You were with M'sieu' Merrit when he was killed to-night?"

"I was at the medinah with him, yes. I heard the shots, some one rushed past saying that he had been killed. I did not know what to do, and came back here."

"Wisely. You know why he was in trouble?"

Burke explained why he had come here, and the officer nodded again.

"I am of the Intelligence, m'sieu'. Not only was M'sieu' Merrit in business trouble, but he had become involved with gamblers and worse. It is our duty to seal his rooms and inspect his belongings. May I suggest that you, being in no way involved, may find it more comfortable if you remove your own things to the hotel? We shall be glad to assist you."

This was, obviously, the thing to do, and Burke jumped at the chance.

Half an hour later he was installed at the Grand Hotel, with the comfortable knowledge that the gentlemen of the Intelligence had given his belongings a good search and had found nothing. The toilet case with its contents had been passed-up.

Once alone in his room—this spanking new hotel was well equipped with telephones— Burke went to the instrument, took the girl's card from his pocket, and looked at it. Upon the blank card was scribbled a name, Marie, and a telephone number. He called the number, and a woman's voice responded.

"I would like to speak to Mademoiselle Marie," said Burke.

"One moment, m'sieu— she has just returned," was the answer. Then, after a moment, he heard the crisp, English voice of the girl he had seen that evening.

"This is Miss Thornton. Well?"

"This is Mr. Burke speaking— the gentleman to whom you gave a card—"

"Oh!" Her voice leaped slightly in alarm. "Wait a minute— where are you?"

"Room four twelve, Grand Hotel."

"Mention no names," she said quickly. "However, I don't think you can do anything for me. I wanted our friend to call me up, as he has been keeping something for me—"

"Something yellow?" asked Burke.

"Oh! You know?"

"I have it here. Others have been looking for it. Is it yours?"

"I'll have to tell you— it's frightfully dangerous! You can't possibly keep it! Where can I see you now, to-night, at once? That thing must be taken to Fez immediately—"

Burke intervened quietly.

"Suppose you meet me at one of the cafés near here? It's still pretty early. Name the one, and I'll be there in ten or fifteen minutes."

"The Marmontel, then. It's on the Place de France, close by you. Get an inside table if you arrive before me— not out in front, remember!"

"Very good, miss," rejoined Burke with a laugh, and hung up.

"SO!" He turned and regarded the yellow leather box. "This thing must go to Fez to-night, must it? And dangerous. Hm! And Merrit was in with gamblers and a bad crowd generally. And if it hadn't been for Jim Burke, the police or somebody would have had their paws on this long ere now. Hm! Taken all in all, looks to me like Jimmy Burke had better know what he's getting tangled into. If I'm any judge, that girl was straight as a die. But just the same, let's play safe."

He picked up the box, perceived that the lock was some small but ingenious mechanism that probably held it fast all around by steel bars in the French fashion, and without hesitation dropped it on the floor and stamped hard.

The top of the box was crushed in.

Burke picked it up, tore aside the wood and leather, and revealed a mass of tightly packed pink cotton. When he had removed this, he brought to sight something that drew a low whistle from him as he eyed it.

It was a necklace made from large disks of red coral. Each disk was carved intricately and mounted in gold, upon which were Arabic characters graven, and between each disk was a little ball of gold, likewise engraved. The pendant, however, was what drew Burke's eyes— for it was an emerald full two inches long, with one flat surface upon which was deeply cut the word "Allah," a word so common in Arabic that even Burke recognized it.

Then he perceived that this must be no necklace, but a Moslem rosary, each bead representing one of the hundred "ineffable names" of God. It was enormously long, and was very obviously of great age and value, even apart from the huge emerald. Opening one of his long windows, Burke switched off the lights in the room, flung the fragments of the box from the window, careless where they fell, shoved the rosary into his pocket, and strode out.

"What counts, evidently, is not the container but the thing contained," he reflected cheerfully, as he sought the street and the big Place de France just around the corner, the center of life in Casablanca, with the walls of the older Arab town just opposite. "So we'll dispense with the box, which doesn't matter, and thereby get rid of danger also."

In this eminently sensible frame of mind, he came to the Café Marmontel, one of the large cafés half bordering the square, and walking in, got a table inside, where there were few people. The outer terrace was well filled, as always, with French, officers and Arabs, but a private conversation might well be carried on here without eavesdropping.

BURKE HAD no more than ordered a Rossi, when Marie Thornton entered, now wearing a warm evening cloak over her shoulders, and he held a chair for her. Then she accepted a cigarette, and as the match went out they looked for an instant into each other's eyes. Burke read in the cool gray gaze that here was a girl straight as a die indeed, and unafraid.

"Come clean," he said quietly. "If we're going to do business, as I think we are, I want to be in on the whole thing. You're a friend of Merrit?"

She nodded slightly. "I knew him back home, yes. Hadn't seen him for years, until I came here a few months ago. I'm putting in a year here, painting."

"Oh! You're an artist?"

"Trying to be one. Before I do any confidential talking, however," and her cool eyes probed him, "suppose you tell me who you are and why."

Burke laughed. Laughter became him, lightening his rather harsh features and warming his blue eyes wondrously. He obeyed her behest, telling her frankly about Merrit's trouble, and she appeared little surprised.

"And you think he took you there to-night—  on purpose?" she said, when Burke had told her everything.

"Yes," he rejoined. "You knew that he was in a bad crowd?"

"He admitted it," she said. "Some of the Arabs are a bad lot—the younger generation, with money, no morals, and some position. Plenty like that! I think they got him in their grip, and when he saw a chance to break clear, he took it; and failed."

The Rossis arrived. When the waiter had departed, Burke spurted water into the glasses and sipped the carmine drink.

"Come clean," he repeated laconically. "Where does Baraud come into it?"

He thought a swift pallor flashed across her face.

"Baraud? The man with me to-night? You know him?"

"Not at all. He was the chap with the scarred cheek, eh? An ugly brute. And he's after the rosary is he?"

She leaned forward, gripping the table edge, staring at him.

"Are you— have you lied to me?" she demanded. Anger flashed in her eyes. "You said you knew nothing—"

"Come clean," said Burke. "You first. Then I'll reciprocate."

With an effort, she relaxed and assented.

"All right. Baraud has been in the army here, with the Intelligence. He's made money, and has resigned. Tonight was his last night in uniform. I'm not fond of him by any means, but he's a gentleman, is very agreeable, and has influence. Also, he's intimate with many of the Arab chiefs and great men. Merrit has lost heavily to him at various kinds of gambling."

She paused, sipped her drink, and then resumed.

"Well, a week ago poor Merrit bet Baraud that he could steal the rosary of Idris from the tomb of Idris at Fez. Idris founded that city a thousand years ago and is buried there in the chief mosque. No Christian can even enter a mosque here, you know; the French uphold that law very strictly. This is supposed to be the rosary used by Idris, who is a saint among the Moslems, and was lavishly mounted in gold and jewels by one of the old Sultans. No white man has ever seen it, even, unless he became a Moslem. Merrit bet Baraud a hundred thousand francs that he could get away with it."

Burke whistled. Marie Thornton leaned back in her chair and nodded.

"He did. Presumably one of his disreputable Arab friends, Hussein, helped him do it. They figured that a huge reward would be offered; perhaps Hussein stole it and Merrit took it over. I don't know. Anyway, Hussein was found dead two days later, a knife in his back. They suspected Merrit was in on the robbery, but probably were not sure. Baraud, of course, told the natives nothing about the bet—"

"Are you sure of that?" interjected Burke.

"No; but he wouldn't do it, anyway," she returned with some indignation. "However, they suspected. A huge fuss was made about it. Baraud saw the necklace to-day, and paid Merrit the amount of the bet, or at least told me he had paid him. The rosary was in a yellow box."

"It's in my pocket now. The box was too dangerous, too easily recognized," said Burke, and while her startled eyes dwelt upon him, told of smashing the box. Further, he told of the scrap of conversation he had caught about Baraud. "Looks to me like your friend Baraud wants that necklace. You think he's straight, do you?"

He was astonished by the sudden pallor that came into her face.

"Oh!" she said in a low voice. "Oh! Then— then that explains it—"

"Explains what?" said Burke.

"A— a good deal." For some reason she seemed badly shaken. "I— I never mistook Baraud for any angel, certainly. But I didn't think—"

SHE FELL SILENT for a moment, then looked up and met Burke's gaze.

"Something happened there to-night, and this explains it," she said in a low voice. "Would you— would you be very shocked— if I were to think that perhaps Merrit had not been killed by the natives, after all?"

Burke's brows went up. "So! No, after sizing up your friend Baraud, I'd not be surprised at anything he might do. He looks to me like a bad egg. You think he might have had some one do the trick, do you?"

"I heard some one say, back there, that a Frenchman had done the shooting," she answered. "No one saw just who it was. Of course, there's no evidence— but—"

"But we don't need any more, just now," added Burke, with a short nod. "Want to see the rosary? There's a whopping big emerald on it— the thing must be worth a small fortune."

He reached for his pocket, but she stopped him swiftly.

"No, no— are you mad? Not here, in public! If it were suspected that you had it, the natives would be after you in an hour's time! Valuable? It's worth a fortune, to the Arabs! And if it's as I think, if Baraud really wants to get hold of it—"

Burke grinned. "Then his secret service work would have him all set to get it, eh? I see. Well, I've got the thing, and what am I to do with it? Turn it over to the police?"

"Not unless you're anxious to see Baraud get away with it," she rejoined. A glow of color grew in her face, and her eyes hardened a little. "And that he shan't do! Poor Tom Merrit— I don't hold any brief for him, and I certainly don't excuse him, but I hate to think of his having been murdered. And if Baraud really had it done or was behind it—"

"Then he has something coming to him," said Burke quietly. "I tell you what I'll do, Miss Thornton. I'll put this rosary into the proper hands— Arab hands— and bargain. I'll turn it over, on condition that Merrit's murderer is brought to book. How'll that be?"

"Excellent!" she exclaimed quickly. Burke nodded.

"Right. Now, young lady, let's have a clean breast of it, and excuse me if I'm too personal. Were you and Merrit in love?"

"Not in the least," she returned, with a slight smile. "I'm not in love at all. My whole interest in him was because we were friends years ago, back home."

"Good; no entanglements, then. You know this country better than I do. You said that the thing must go back to Fez at once. What would you suggest?"

"Well, I intended to take it back there myself and turn it over to a man I know," she responded. "It would have to be very carefully done, of course. But since you have it, and since this other matter— about Baraud— has come up, perhaps you'd better do it."

"Why not do it together?" asked Burke. "There's no great rush about my business here; I can untangle Merrit's affairs later. How far is Fez from here, by car?"

"We could make it to-morrow, easily." Her gray eyes lighted up. "Good! I'll take you up on it, Mr. Burke! Have you a car?"

"Three or four, unless Merrit's burned 'em up!" Burke laughed. "I'll have a Goliath eight ready any time you say, in the morning."

"Here at your hotel, then, at eight." She rose. "We'd better not be seen together— let me leave alone, please. You've no idea how everybody in Morocco is a spy! And above all, be careful about letting a soul see that rosary. It's a safe bet that every native is on the lookout for it, and about half the French. You will?"

"Naturally," said Burke, rising. "Run along then, and all good luck! Until to-morrow."

With a wave of the hand, she departed. Burke remained a few moments longer, finished his drink, and then sauntered back to his hotel. He was rather acutely conscious of his sagging coat pocket. He was still more conscious of it when he reached his own room, and opening the door, saw Captain Baraud, still in uniform, sitting there awaiting, him.

3: Clash of Wills

CAPTAIN BARAUD bowed and introduced himself, cordially enough.

"I must apologize for being in your room," he said in fluent English. "I am, however, of the Intelligence, and have a few questions to ask in regard to Mr. Merrit— a mere formality, of course. If it will not inconvenience you—"

"Of course not. Make yourself at home," said Burke dryly. He did not need to be told that the Frenchman had made a thorough search of his room. As he dropped into a chair and met the probing dark eyes, he felt a flash of antagonism, but repressed it. Nothing had been found in Merrit's apartment, so the man had come here direct.

"By whom was poor Merrit killed?" asked Burke abruptly.

"By a soldier, a Frenchman," said Baraud. "I must tell you that Mr. Merrit was under suspicion of smuggling or handling narcotics. He was stopped for search, and resisted. He even drew a pistol, upon which he was shot and killed. A large amount of morphia was found upon his body, I might say."

Burke nodded. Very prettily covered up; the murder had been well planned. He did not believe for a moment that Merrit, whatever his faults, had been a narcotic peddler, but it would be rank folly to say so now.

"I'm at your service, Captain Baraud," he answered. "I imagine that you know all about me?"

"We are well informed, yes. I should say that you are in no way implicated in this whole affair, fortunately for you. I merely desire to ask a few questions."

Burke relaxed and took a cigarette. "Shoot," he said briefly.

"We are looking for a further supply of morphia, believed to have been kept in a box of yellow leather," said Baraud. "Did Merrit mention such a box, or did you see it, while you were in his apartment?"

The American shook his head.

"Sorry I can't help you there," he rejoined. "I was at the apartment only for a couple of hours this afternoon; then Merrit took me for a drive, we had dinner, and went out to the medinah. No, he never mentioned such a box, and I don't recall having seen the thing lying around. If he were in the dope business, he wouldn't want me to know it, naturally."

"Of course," agreed the Frenchman smoothly. He was studying Burke as they talked. "Still, it is rather odd that the very box we are seeking was found half an hour ago, crushed and broken, out here in the street— almost below this window."

"Yes, that is rather odd," agreed Burke amiably. "By the way, did you say your name was Baraud? I believe Merrit was speaking of you this afternoon. You were friends?"

Baraud's black eyes narrowed slightly.

"Yes, in a way. He did not know that I was handling the investigation of his case?"

"Apparently not," rejoined the American. "He said something about having won a large bet from you— I believe he was counting upon the money to help him out when I came to look over his accounts and books to-morrow."

The black brows shot up. "Yes? But I paid him the amount of the bet only this morning. A hundred thousand francs, quite a sum! In cash, also."

Burke knew the other was lying. Merrit had cashed a check that evening at the restaurant where they had dined. He looked at Baraud with a slight smile, but changed the subject.

"And what other information can I give you, captain?"

"None, at the present moment. You will be here for some days, no doubt?"

"For several weeks, I imagine. I'm going to Fez in the morning, to check up matters with the local agency there, and shall be back here in a few days."

BARAUD nodded carelessly and looked at the table by the wall. Upon it was heaped the pink cotton that had come from the yellow box.

"That looks like the stuff used by jewelers," he observed significantly.

"It is," said Burke. "Pretty, isn't it? By the way, I think Merrit said that you were out of the Intelligence Service now, didn't he? Or was I mistaken?"

In these words, the Frenchman sensed the antagonist who confronted him. The two men exchanged a level look, Burke smiling, Baraud keen-eyed and angry. It was a moment of sharp awakening for Baraud, who now perceived that this American had been quietly having fun with him all the while, had pierced his lies, probably knew a good deal more than he let on.

"Let me tell you something," said Baraud slowly. "Morocco can be either a friendly or a very dangerous country, Mr. Burke. It is as you choose to make it."

In a flash, Burke took his decision. Already the fat was in the fire— that accursed pink cotton had exposed all.

"Very well," he rejoined, his eyes suddenly icy cold. "And let me tell you something, my dear captain. I know very well that you are not in the Intelligence Service; I know that you are not in charge of any case against Merrit; I know that he had nothing to do with any narcotic handling; I know that you did not pay him a hundred thousand francs to-day; and what is more. I know who was behind his murder and why he was murdered."

Baraud's dark features turned darker, and the scar half-hidden by his mustache became an angry, flaming purple. Yet he kept himself well in hand.

"It seems to me that you are a little out of your head," he observed coldly. "Am I to construe your tone as a threat?"

"As you please, and be damned to you," said Burke, and smiled a little. "Do I make myself clear?"

"You do." The Frenchman bowed slightly, mockingly. "Au revoir! I shall make myself clear to you, in turn— before very long."

He departed without more words.

Burke smiled, and undressed in a bad humor. He was disappointed. He had hoped that his abrupt defiance would throw the Frenchman into a temper, get some impulsive admission out of him; but the other had been far too clever. It was that confounded pink cotton that had given the game away! Still, Baraud had undoubtedly searched everything in the room with great care, and would not be sure about the rosary. Burke got out the relic and looked it over.

"You may be sacred, and worth a pile of money, but you're blamed dangerous, all right!" he addressed the string of coral. "I expect there'll be visitors to-night, and I need my sleep— so we'll just take care of you right now."

He filled his wash-basin, scrubbed his hands thoroughly, put the rosary plump into the soapy, dirty water— and left it there. Ten minutes later he was sound asleep, without even troubling to lock his door. He was dead tired, for the day had been long and eventful; not even the ray of an electric torch, falling on his face two hours later, awakened him.

He had left an early call, and sent the native boy who summoned him with a note to the Goliath garage, to have an eight sent up for his use. Then he started dressing, and discovered immediately that he had entertained callers unawares during the night. Going to the wash bowl, he drew out the rosary, chuckled, and dried it off carefully before pocketing it.

"Outsmarted 'em for once, anyhow!" he reflected cheerfully, and went down to breakfast.

THE CAR arrived at seven thirty, and he arranged with the garage man to have Merrit's remaining stock taken care of until his return. He had packed a few things and had them fetched down, and was putting them in the car when a taxicab drew up and Marie Thornton alighted, bag in hand. She came directly to him, and he saw a glow of excitement in her face.

"Can we get off quickly— this very minute?" she demanded breathlessly, without so much as a "good morning."

"Hop in," said Burke, and took his place under the wheel. With the slam of her door, the car was off. "What's the rush? Trouble? Better direct me, first."

Across the square, and in five minutes they were on the Rabat Highway, which runs along the coast to the capital.

"No trouble," she explained, "but I was followed here. Something's happened. What?"

"Nothing much," said Burke amiably, "except that you and I have met. Oh, yes— Baraud paid me a visit last night. He got nasty, and so did I, and he departed. He lied like a house afire, too. There isn't a bit of doubt that he did in poor Merrit."

Once out on the highway, with no speed laws to hold him back, he opened up the eight and an excited laugh broke from the girl.

"Splendid! And you really had it out with him? He's a bad man to have for an enemy."

"And a worse for friend," said Burke. "I'm not worrying, so cheer up. If you see any one following us, let me know."

She laughed again. "Small chance of that! They'll be ahead of us at Rabat, though."

"Nonsense!" scoffed Burke. "Look here, young lady, be sensible! This is broad daylight and the Twentieth Century. Baraud isn't going to have us pinched, believe me. That bird doesn't drag in any police— he's too wise! He might try banditry, I'll grant you. Let him! If we're going to Fez, can't we pass up Rabat?"

"We'd have to stop at the hotel in Rabat to get some lunch," she rejoined dubiously. "But it's only a two-hour drive with this car. Hm! We might stop at roadside hot-dog stands, or what passes for them here, and then skim the outskirts in Rabat and over to the Meknez and Fez road. But I'm afraid he'll be ahead of us, or will have telephoned."

"Never be afraid," said Burke. "It doesn't pay. By the way, here's the rosary, in case you'd like to look it over."

While she exclaimed in delight and wonder over the coral, the big eight purred on, past other cars, past busses loaded from running-boards to roof with Arabs, past donkeys and carts and fortified farms and ancient castles, with the Atlantic smiling to the left in the sunlight and the great Moroccan upland swelling and billowing off to the right.

The better he became acquainted with this American girl, the better Burke liked her. He even managed to pick up a mutual friend or two, thanks to having summered in the little Michigan resort town whence she came, so that in no time at all they were on a very friendly basis. Then, abruptly, as they swung about a curve and pitched down into a deep ravine, she caught suddenly at his arm, in swift alarm.

Burke had already seen the blockade, however— a cart overturned below, a big bus drawn up waiting to pass, with a number of soldiers and Arabs from the bus helping to right the cart. Two French officers were standing to one side, watching. They looked at the approaching Goliath and exchanged a word.

As Burke brought the car to a halt behind the bus, one of the officers, very gay in his blue and scarlet and tan and gold, stepped up and saluted smartly.

"Good morning," he said, "Am I by any chance addressing Monsieur Burke?"

"Correct," said Burke. "What can I do for you? Give you a lift?"

"Thanks, but it is not necessary, monsieur." From his tunic pocket the officer produced an envelope, and passed it over with a flourish. "I was asked to give you this, in case I met you on the road. Thank you."

With another salute, he turned away and rejoined his companion.

Burke tore open the envelope, which bore no address, and from it removed a single sheet of paper bearing a few lines of writing. He scanned it, gave a sniff, and passed it on to the girl beside him. The cart was just being swung off the road, and the bus, taking on its load, resumed its way. Burke swung in behind, then opened up and passed it.

"Our friend Baraud thinks he's being very durned impressive, eh?" he said. "That's the French of it for you!"

Marie Thornton held up the paper and read the brief epistle:

M. Burke:

If you stopped at the Transat Hotel in Rabat and asked for Captain d'Estrees, you would be able to turn over what you carry at a very good profit. If you neglect the opportunity, it will be most unfortunate— for you.

Baraud.

A gasp escaped the girl. "Of all things! Delivered in this manner!"

"Bah!" Burke chuckled. "We'll just call his bluff, savvy? That's us, comrade!"

4: Land of Spies

RABAT dropped behind, with only a pause for gas and oil to fill the maw of the Goliath. On up over the hills to the east, and a pause toward noon at a roadside bus stop, with wine and sandwiches for refreshment, and luscious crimson pomegranates, dead ripe at this season, for dessert.

Then on again, until the gigantic walls of Meknez came into view, the big car purring smoothly with the throttle wide open most of the way. The afternoon was hot, sun-white, blinding. They wound along past those massive walls, into which were budded the bodies of Christian slaves by the thousand, down to the stream and on up the long slope beyond, leaving the ancient city behind, toward the new French town on the opposite hills.

"This Baraud of yours," said Burke, as they hummed along, "is a poor bluffer. If he's any good, he'll have the description of this car, and will have telephoned ahead— he may even be ahead of us himself, for we've seen several airplanes this morning. But I think we'll stop in here, and do a little of the same work ourselves."

He drew up before the imposing structure of the P. T. T.— Postes, Telephones and Telegraphs— and met the inquiring glance of his companion with a smile.

"Who's the chap we're going to see in Fez? The one to work the deal for us?"

"Oh! Of course." She swung open the door on her side, and alighted. "Come on. I'll get him on the line— he's the manager of a branch bank there and knows me. You can speak with him. His brother is one of the big lawyers here. They're French-Algerian, and hate the military, and all the big natives are their firm friends. Allons!"

Burke swung in at her side. "Does he know Baraud?"

"Of course. Every one here does."

In another ten minutes Marie Thornton got her connection and broke into smiling speech with one Monsieur Souzane. She introduced Burke, and handed him the receiver.

"Hello!" he said in French. "Mademoiselle Thornton is here with me in Meknez. We have something with us which most of the natives are looking for— something in a yellow box. Do you get me? It was recently stolen—"

"For the love of heaven, m'sieu'!" came the sharp response. "Are you in earnest?"

"Entirely. So is a certain Captain Baraud, who is either ahead of us or behind us or somewhere on the trail. We want to turn this object over to you, for restitution. I've a large car, a Goliath, and we're heading for Fez. I have every reason to think we may have trouble before getting there. What do you suggest?"

"Does Baraud know your car?" came the instant query.

"He does."

"Where are you now?"

"At the Bureau des Postes."

"Good. Stay there." The voice was curt, energetic, vibrant. Burke liked the unseen man at once. "Within fifteen minutes a Fiat car will come to pick you up; the driver will mention my name. Trust him. Good-by!"

And M. Souzane hung up.

Out on the sunlit steps of the building, Burke turned to regard the girl whimsically.

"He's a fast worker, eh?" he observed, telling her what Souzane had said. "Evidently he'll telephone some chap here— and we'll be relieved of the Goliath. I'd better arrange to have it taken care of here, then. Hop in. We'll apparently depart, but stop at that garage down the street and walk back here."

"Where's the rosary?" she asked. "Still in your pocket?"

Burke nodded, as he swung the car about. "It bulges, too. Can't be helped."

"Let me tell you something," she said gravely. "You take all this very lightly, Mr. Burke, but you don't know Morocco. Every man you meet may be a spy. Every native, every resident, has heard about the theft of that rosary. Baraud may be out of the secret service, but he has all the connections necessary; and human life is valued at less than nothing here. You must realize—"

Burke grinned. "My dear girl," he intervened, "if we stopped to realize how serious every step of our daily life might be, we'd go crazy! Now, forget it. Here's our garage."

They turned in at a small garage. Inside the entrance, Burke halted the car, and the girl alighted, taking her hand bag. No one was visible here, and he drove on to the far end, where a mechanic was talking with two Arabs.

"I want to store the car with you for a day or two," said Burke, as the mechanic came up.

"Gladly, m'sieu'," was the smiling response. "It will be quite safe here."

AS BURKE got out, he was aware that the two natives had come up and were watching him with a curiously intent expression, but with the cordial, friendly smile which he had noted upon the faces of all the Arabs in Morocco. Just what that smile meant, he had not yet learned.

He glanced at the entrance, and saw that Marie Thornton had stepped outside and was waiting on the sidewalk. The mechanic saluted him.

"One moment, m'sieu'— I will get a receipt card from the office."

As the mechanic departed, Burke leaned into the car for the toilet case that carried his few personal belongings. Some vague prescience— certainly no sound—caused him to glance around. Not three feet away, he saw the two Arabs darting upon him, one of them with knife plunging in for his side.

Off balance as he was, unprepared, unarmed, Burke could do only one thing— but he did it like a flash. Shoving against the car, he kicked up and backward. His boot, with all the weight of his shove behind it, slammed into the knife-wielder. The blow caught the Arab somewhere amidships with terrific force. The man uttered a startled gasp, doubled up, and dropped to the cement floor.

The second native, however, fell upon Burke, clawed him away from the car, and bore him to the floor, tearing at the bulging coat pocket. Obviously the plan had been for one man to knife him while the other secured the coral.

This scheme had already gone agley. Burke let the Arab claw, and got to one knee, then smashed in a hammer-blow to the brown face. The man snarled, and erupted in a perfect fury of passionate rage. A knife gleamed in his hand. Forgetting the rosary, he was now at Burke's throat with a lightning blow.

Somehow, Burke knocked the knife aside, and then came to his feet. His fists drove in, right and left; the Arab staggered, but recovered and leaped back at him. Burke met that leap with one smashing drive, accurately timed. It went straight to the angle of the jaw, and knocked the native off his feet. He stretched out with a spasmodic jerk of his knee, and then lay still. The first Arab was drawn up in a groaning knot, clutching his stomach.

Burke leaned forward and explored the ragged garments of the senseless man. A grunt of satisfaction broke from him as his fingers came upon a pistol. He jerked it out and thrust it into his pocket, then rose.

The mechanic was returning, gaping, staring at the scene. Burke chuckled.

"These fellows tried to rob me. Are they friends of yours?"

"But no, m'sieu'!" burst forth the mechanic. "They had but just come in when you arrived. They had begun to inquire after a car— yours, perhaps. I will call the police—"

"Let them go," said Burke. "I'm in a hurry."

He pocketed the car ticket, got his toilet kit, and a moment later was joining the girl outside. She looked at him and uttered a sharp exclamation.

"What's happened? You— oh! Your hand!"

Burke looked down and saw blood over his left hand. The knife had cut across the back of it, but he had not felt the hurt. With the grimace, he produced a handkerchief and wrapped it about his hand.

"Come on, no time to waste," he said. "A couple of Baraud's men were in there. I got a gun off one of them, so now I'm fixed for business. Is that a Fiat in front of the bureau?"

It was. They hurried along to the building, and were met by the driver of the Fiat, a bearded Arab in nondescript garments and a wretched jellab made of burlap sacking. He grinned and spoke in French.

"Good morning! M. Souzane sent me—"

"Then move quickly," said Burke. "In with you, young lady! Get going, my friend."

BY THE TIME they were in the back seat, the Arab was under the wheel, and the Fiat went away from there with a jump.

"I have iodine here," and the girl opened her bag. "Give me your hand."

"With pleasure," said Burke cheerfully. "Both of them, if you like!"

The driver glanced around, saw the crimsoned hand, and grinned. Burke asked where he was taking them.

"To Fez, m'sieu'. You have had trouble?"

"No," grunted Burke. "Others had trouble."

The native laughed and sent the car forward at breakneck speed, with imperative honks of his horn at any one in the way.

In ten minutes they were out of town, following railroad tracks across high gorges, winding through deep valleys, sweeping up again to the highlands. His hand bandaged, Burke lit a cigarette, met the anxious eyes of the girl beside him, and laughed. He hauled the rosary from his pocket and shoved it into her lap.

"You take it— Marie is the name, I think? No use standing on formality. You see, I'm the one they're after, now, so you'll have more chance of getting through with the thing."

She hastily put it out of sight, and with a nod leaned forward to the driver.

"Where are we going in Fez?"

"To the Dar Jamai, mademoiselle. M. Souzane said to take you there, as it is the closest to the gates, and he will meet you there. Thus you will not have to pass through the city. He said that he might meet us on the road, but was not certain."

Marie turned. "Good! That's the Transat Hotel— an old palace made over. I'm beginning to feel that we've pulled through, Mr. Burke!"

"Eh? Who's Mr. Burke? My name's Jim."

"Jim, then." Laughter rose in her eyes, then they sobered. "And to think that only last evening I was at that native café with Baraud, when everything began to happen!"

"It sure began then, when I saw you," observed Burke. "No use blinking the fact, Marie. And I noticed the way Baraud looked at you, too! That's why I didn't like him from the start."

She met his gaze, and nodded.

"I know; just the same, he's always been very polite. I was a little afraid of him at times, though he's really rather fascinating."

The Arab glanced around at them. "Baraud, eh?" he said in English, to the amazement of Burke. "You friends of Baraud?"

"No, we're not," said Burke. "Where in the devil did you learn English?"

"In America," and the native laughed. "Ringling's circus two years, mister. With fine horses. Ismail my name."

"Hurrah! Glad to meet you, Mr. Ismail," responded Burke. "Step on the gas, boy! I laid out two of Baraud's friends back yonder, and we're in a hurry."

"You bet, damn' good," was the merry rejoinder, and the Fiat spurted down a long steep hill. Marie touched Burke's arm and spoke very softly.

"You never know what you'll strike in Morocco, Jim! Be careful."

He nodded. Five minutes later, her words were exemplified, when there came a drumming roar from overhead, and Burke looked out the side of the car to see a military airplane not a hundred feet above, sweeping along beside them and then zooming up with a roar and a leap, to swerve, away and vanish above the hills.

5: An Arab Stumbles

THE AFTERNOON was more than half gone when Fez came into sight, their first glimpses of it being the new French city off to the right, with sprawling brown walls on ahead. Here was Fez-Bali, or Old Fez, the so-called "new" city of Fez-Djedid having been founded a hundred years or so later.

They turned abruptly from the gates of Fez-Bali, to follow the road along the walls and animal market toward the heights of Fort Chardonnier and the Merinide tombs of the twelfth century. Even the anxiety of the girl, caused by the sight of that hovering airplane, had now vanished, for the end of their road was in sight, and danger over.

The cattle market behind, with its dust and herds and throngs of Arabs, they were winding up among the trees, when a native scurried out on the road ahead, to cross before them. The driver honked at him. The Arab gave the car a startled glance, tripped, and went down in the road square in front. The driver slammed on his brakes, missed going over the man by a few feet, and leaned out to pour a flood of invective upon him. The native rose, to show a negroid countenance and a forked black beard, and flew into a passion. He came up to the side of the car, shaking his fist and crying out furiously— then, unexpectedly, seized the driver by the arm and half jerked him out over the side of the car.

And at this instant a dozen men came running from the side of the road, closing about the car before Burke realized their presence. The hapless driver was hauled out into the road and hammered senseless.

Burke leaped out, the pistol in his hand. Even as he did so, he sensed that it was a trap, that this was no haphazard affair. The spot was isolated, with the vast city of Fez far below, to their right, stretched out across the valley in a blue haze. As he came to the ground, an Arab leaped upon him from behind, bringing him down, and iron hands seized his arms.

He pressed the trigger blindly. A shot cracked out, and another. He heard a cry from the girl in the car, then a harsh, imperative voice that he vaguely recognized. Something struck him heavily across the head. For the third time, he fired, weighted down by bodies, and heard a man scream in response to the shot. Then a blow on the head laid him out senseless.

A second car came up beside the first. One of the Arabs flung back the hood of his brown jellab and stepped up beside Marie Thornton, revealing the face of Captain Baraud.

"Into my car, if you please," he commanded curtly. "No argument, I beg of you! Talk later. Or must I have you put in the car?"

"You beast!" she returned heatedly. "And I took you for a gentleman—"

"Put this woman into my car," he said in French, beckoning his men.

"No need," said the girl angrily.

She left the Fiat, whose bleeding driver had been lifted and flung senseless in among the brush, out of sight. Going to the other car, whose Arab driver held the door open for her, she got in. Baraud ordered in two of his men, then spoke to her again.

"Your pardon, Miss Thornton. You will not be hurt unless you call out or endeavor to attract attention. In that event, you will suffer, and I shall be forced to kill your friend here. Remember!"

Burke, fast bound, was flung into the Fiat. The group dispersed and vanished, leaving Baraud and two other men beside the Fiat. They searched this car swiftly and diligently, having already gone over Burke's body. Then Baraud nodded and climbed in.

"All right, Emile. You know where. They have hidden it, or she has it. Go ahead!"

The Fiat was turned about and driven away rapidly, following Baraud's car.

WHEN BURKE came to himself, he was lying upon a couch in a handsomely furnished room with tiled walls and floor. His head ached painfully, but he was unbound. A trickle of water came from a wall fountain at one side, and rising, he repressed a groan and bathed his head. The high windows admitted level sunset light, and he looked around in quick interest. There was one massive door to the room, and it was fast barred or locked.

Except for his lost pistol, none of his belongings had been disturbed. He sank down on the edge of the couch, wondering at it all.

"Baraud was too smart for us, eh?" he reflected savagely. "And now he's probably got what he was after. He's got me as well, blast him! But he's not through with me, that's certain."

A moment later he looked up, at a sound from the door. It was opened by a native, and into the room stepped an officer in uniform, the same Captain Lamarte who had come to search the apartment of Merrit. He gave Burke a smiling greeting.

"So we meet again, mon ami!" he said pleasantly. "Sorry to find you in this fix. My friend Baraud will see you in half an hour or so. Make yourself comfortable. I'll have some food and wine brought to you. Mlle. Thornton is quite safe, so be at ease."

"Very kind of you, captain," said Burke. He rose and glanced at the open door and the native there. "You didn't find what you wanted at Merrit's rooms, eh?"

"No, but it's all right now," and Captain Lamarte laughed.

"Probably. You and Baraud are in on the game together, eh?" Burke shrugged and broke into a laugh. "Well, you've won the big stake, anyhow; and as you can't get the emerald necklace without my help, I suppose you'll be satisfied."

"Eh?" Lamarte's countenance lost its good-humored negligence. His eyes narrowed greedily, and he gave Burke an intent look. "What necklace is that?"

With an air of surprise, Burke glanced at him and then at the door.

"But I thought you knew! Well, since you don't, there's no more to be said."

Lamarte turned, went to the door, shot a few words at the native, and then slammed the door and came back to Burke.

"Now, my friend, just what is this about an emerald necklace?" he said quietly. "Baraud knows nothing of it; he need not know. I can befriend you, if you make it worth while."

"Yes?" said Burke, hesitant. "But why am I a prisoner here?"

Lamarte waved his hand. "Oh, Baraud merely wants some information from you. He has the rosary, we're in his house in Fez-Djedid, and if you play up a bit, there'll be no more trouble. About the emeralds, now! You left them in Casablanca? Trust me, and in half an hour you'll be out of here and on your way to safety."

Lamarte made the unlucky error of thinking that the American wanted to get out of here at any cost. Burke wanted no such thing.

"I suppose you're right," said Burke, lowering his voice and glancing around. "Merrit may have been wrong, of course, in saying the necklace was worth a million francs—but if you'll promise to help me—"

"Gladly, gladly!" exclaimed the officer, his dark eyes gleaming eagerly as he scented the chance to grab off something rich on his own account.

"Then," and Burke leaned forward, "I'll tell you—"

His right came up. It was a short, snappy uppercut, but he was balanced to get full weight into it. Lamarte's head rocked back, then he sagged forward as his knees loosened; Burke caught him, laughing a little, and lowered him to the couch.

"That was a mean crack, but you deserved it!" murmured the American.

He removed the Sam Browne belt, unsnapped the shoulder strap, and with the two bits of leather bound Lamarte very effectually, pocketing the pistol from its holster. Over the recumbent, senseless figure he drew two thick Shleu rugs from the floor.

"Quite as good as any gag!" he observed cheerfully. "Ta-ta, my dear Lamarte— pleasant dreams! And now, let's see your friend Baraud, a little before he's ready."

HE WENT to the door and flung it open. As he had expected, the native had departed. Stepping out, Burke closed and barred the door again.

He found himself at one end of a long corridor, closed on the left, with doors opening off. On the right were arches, opening on a huge tiled court, with a fountain in the center. Opposite, across the court, were the usual native rooms, opening full upon the central square, without doors in their open arched walls. Baraud was certainly not over there, and since the doors down the corridor were closed, with no natives loafing outside, he would not be in any of those rooms either. The daylight was now rapidly failing.

To his right, Burke saw a circular staircase, and went to it. He descended halfway, and paused. Below was a glare of electric light, and two Arabs were talking idly and smoking, before a closed door. This was probably a hillside house, he reflected, and Baraud's private rooms would be on the first floor, below.

As Burke paused, a bell jangled. One of the two Arabs jerked open the door, and Baraud's voice came in Arabic. The two men responded. One of them disappeared. The other closed the door and came to the staircase, starting upward.

Burke crouched down behind the three-foot inner wall of the staircase, waiting. In the obscurity, the native did not see him until too late. One startled cry burst from the Arab, checked midway as he was hurled against the outer wall; then, before he could cry out again, Burke's boot drove into him and he lay sprawled and motionless.

A moment later, Burke was at the door below. No one was in sight. Carefully grasping the knob, Burke drew open the door a crack, and heard Baraud's voice.

"You see, my dear Miss Thornton," the man was saying in English, "it was really very foolish of you and this man to combine against me. I gave him full warning, and he ignored it. You ask me for his life— well, what can I do? I will grant your request. I will let him go free from here, on one condition."

"And what is that?" came the voice of Marie Thornton.

"It is, that you will give me your company for the evening. We shall dine with El Mokri, whose house not half a dozen Christians have ever seen. He is the wealthiest man in Morocco. And later, you shall go to the Dar Jamai or where you will. Come! This is a little price to ask, eh?"

"Far too little," she made answer angrily. "What is behind it?"

"You shall see there is nothing behind it," said Baraud, with a silky laugh. "I have sent for Lamarte— you remember him? He obeys me. You will hear my orders regarding this foolish American; you comprehend, I must keep the man in my power, even if I let him go free. You shall see! I will have a million francs in cash to-night from El Mokri for this little bauble on the table. A million? Two million at least! These dogs of Arabs are wealthy men, many of them, and they can afford to pay for their relics. What do you say? Do you agree?"

"I must," came the girl's voice. "You must not harm Mr. Burke. If you merely want to have my company for the evening, very well. If there's anything behind it, then look out!"

Burke smiled grimly, having a fairly good idea of what might lie behind it, for he had seen Baraud's eyes when the man looked at Marie Thornton, and he knew what thoughts bred such a look.

Then, straightening up, he knocked at the door.

"Enter," came Baraud's voice.

Pistol in hand, Burke walked into the room and closed the door behind him.

6: A Fighting Attempt

THE ROOM was magnificent— the floor thick with Berber rugs, the walls half tile and half the ancient carved plaster work which is now a lost art, the ceiling of inlaid woods, a superb fountain plashing softly down one wall, old mosque lanterns filled with the soft glow of electric bulbs.

Upon a divan against the far wall sat Marie Thornton. In an easy chair, facing her, his back to the door, was Baraud. The rosary of Mulai Idris lay on a tabouret beside him. He was just lighting a cigarette, and did not turn as the door opened.

"Enter, enter, Lamarte!" he repeated. "I want to speak with you about the American upstairs. Give him a strong dose of narcotics and take him to-night to the Dar Jamai. Plant some morphia in his belongings, and have the police seize it, while he sleeps. Then leave the rest in my hands. You understand?"

Burke stepped forward.

He came to the side of Baraud's chair and his pistol-butt tapped down. The Frenchman never knew what hit him. He slumped in his chair and the cigarette fell from his fingers to the rug. Burke stepped on it calmly, and looked at Marie Thornton.

She had fainted.

"Oh, heck!" muttered Burke disgustedly. "If I— hello! Why, the poor kid—"

Swift revulsion of feeling seized upon him. One of the girl's arms was outthrust, and upon the exposed wrist he saw the marks of bruises, fast turning black. He seized her other hand and found more marks. He realized now how Baraud had gained that rosary beside him, and cursed the precious thing as he glanced down at it, the coral and gold and emerald gaudy in the shimmer of light.

Striding to the door, he locked it and then brought water from the fountain in an ash tray. After a moment, Marie opened her eyes, and her fingers closed on his hand.

"You— it's really you!" she murmured, and sighed as he helped her to sit up. "I thought it wasn't real!"

"Real enough," Burke said, and her eyes dilated upon the slumped figure in the chair.

"The women!" she murmured, and shivered. "Those women— they hurt me, and then they found it— those black women—"

"Forget it," said Burke. "Snap out of it, Marie. Do you know your way out of here?"

"I— I think so," she returned, with a puzzled frown. "I'm not certain. Is he hurt?"

"Not as badly as he should be," said Burke, and leaned over the Frenchman. His fingers went through the man's pockets swiftly, and he thrust a number of papers into his own pocket, then produced a second automatic, which he handed to Marie. "Can you use it?"

"Some."

"Know your way around this burg?"

She nodded. "Pretty well. I was here for a month, sketching."

"Then let's get out. Feel able?" He inspected her critically, and his blue eyes lighted up with his warm smile. "Marie, you're a peach! I don't wonder this bird wanted to take you along for the evening! It wouldn't have been a healthy visit, though. He figured on making me out a dope handler, and you'd have gone to sleep at this Arab's house, and so forth. The more I think about it, the sorrier I am I didn't hit our friend harder! Feeling fit again?"

She smiled and rose.

"Quite, thanks." Her hand came out and touched his bandaged hand. "Jim, you're wonderful! I don't know how you did it, but— well, when you showed up I was thinking of grabbing one of those weapons on the wall and going for him."

Burke glanced at the wall above her, which was decorated with all manner of ancient weapons, most of them inlaid with ivory and silver and stones. He ran his eyes over them, and then stepped to the divan.

"That's quite an idea, young lady," he said, and caught down a heavy whip of woven thongs intermeshed with gold wire and having a handle of barbaric silver workmanship. "I'll just take this along. You'd better be prepared for a scrimmage. We'll not get out of here very easily."

Ripping the bandage from his left hand, he shifted his automatic, and swung the heavy whip. Its lash hissed and cracked sharply.

A QUICK RAP sounded at the door, and Burke swung around.

"Ready for it, Marie?" he said, and lifted his voice. "Enter!"

The door swung open, to reveal an Arab who started into the room. He checked himself in amazement at sight of them. Then the long lash flicked out at him. With a shriek, he turned and fled, holding his hands to his face.

"Clumsy," said Burke, striding forward. "Come on. Start shooting if you see any one— it's noise we need now! The sooner the police show up, the better."

"You don't know Fez," she responded, and laughed shakily. "Turn right outside— I know that much— we'll get to the gardens that way."

Burke swung down the corridor in which he found himself, obeying her direction. Ahead of him flitted several figures. He flung up the automatic and fired, the shot reëchoing with a roar through the place.

His bullet missed its mark, but the figures vanished. Shrill voices, the pounding of feet, resounded on every hand. A trim figure appeared running toward them, an officer in uniform, flourishing his pistol and calling sharply at them to halt. Burke laughed and fired, and the officer pitched sidewise and was gone from sight. A moment later appeared a wide archway, with gardens beyond, dimly lighted by occasional electric bulbs.

"This way, Jim!" The girl's voice came, clear and cool, to guide him. "We came in across these gardens from the gates."

"Right," he said, and swung toward the arch. Then his whip curled up. "Look out— stay behind me! The fools are rushing us."

A burst of voices, a mass of Arab figures ahead, suddenly massed to block their passage. Careless now of the outcome, Burke fired into the midst of them, and with the shot his pistol jammed. A growl, a savage animal snarl, and the Arabs leaped at him, knives agleam in the light. A shot rang out, and the bullet sang past his ear.

Burke hurled himself full at the lot of them, his eyes aflame with the lust of fight. The whip curled and cracked among them, battered at them, lashed across arms and faces like a golden snake. One native plunged forward, screaming, flinging himself at Burke's throat, but the whip butt crashed over his head and he went down. At his elbow, Burke heard the girl's gun crack out, and then the throng broke and he was through, striding along a graveled path among the trees.

"Hurt?" exclaimed Marie, panting. She was running now, to keep up with his fast stride.

"Not a bit."

Sharp while it lasted— a swift, deadly ten seconds of cruel work, but they were through, and yells leaped up behind them. They passed under a light, and rushing shapes came hurtling at them from ahead, voices yelping in shrill excitement. The whip cracked and bit out, the yelps changed to wild shrieks. An Arab rolled at their feet, blinded; the others screamed and vanished.

Burke laughed as he strode, a fierce wild note in his voice.

"There'll be a great clean-up of this rats' nest when the authorities get busy!" he exclaimed. "Baraud and his gang staked everything— and lost. Officers in uniform, eh? Courts-martial by wholesale on that head alone— Look out! Damnation—"

They came suddenly, leaping from the trees and bushes on either hand, three or four of them. Marie fired twice, as Burke lashed out, but it was a near thing. One Arab bore Burke backward, gripping for the throat, and was stabbing desperately when the whip butt cracked his skull. Burke straightened up, unhurt.

"Get to the gates, quickly!" he exclaimed. "We can't keep this up."

He could see only bushes, trees, fountains, a dark mass of high walls, the lights of the building behind. If they were in the city, it was invisible. Burke felt something dragging at his pocket, and felt for it. A chuckle came to his lips, as he felt the rosary of Idris. He must have caught it up as he left the room, stuffing it into his pocket.

Just ahead showed another light, a bulb hanging in a tree. As they came to it, two rapid shots cracked out somewhere.

Burke halted. The whip dropped from his hand. He half started to pick it up, then checked himself, repressed a groan.

"Marie! Give me your gun. Go on ahead, reach the gates, get through— somehow—"

Startled by his voice, she caught at his arm, clung to him.

"You're hurt, Jim— oh, where is it? Come on with me, you must! It's not far now—"

He swung around a little, grimacing with pain. He got his back to the trees, snarled at her fiercely, almost incoherently.

"Damn it, let go of me! Go on, I tell you— yes, they've got me, all right. Go on, will you? Get out of here— damn it all, get out! Move! Run for it!"

The desperate urge of his voice compelled her. With a half-strangled sob she shoved the gun into his hand, pushed on past him, disappeared, running in the darkness. Burke knew that her pistol could have only a shot or two left. A groan broke from him. He put a hand to his back, felt the warm sticky blood.

Above the uproar sweeping through the gardens he caught the voice of Baraud. The weight dragged at his pocket; he jerked out the rosary, and with grim bravado flung the thing about his neck. A dark mist came over his eyes; only with an effort did he keep himself from falling. He stood there, a swaying, hurt figure, awaiting the end.

IT CAME swiftly enough. As the dark mist cleared away, he saw them there fronting him, a half circle of savage faces staring at him, eyes rolling wild, weapons glittering. They were pointing at him, pointing at the coral of Idris about his neck. He laughed grimly as he looked at them.

"Forward, rabble!" he taunted them. "Finish it, finish it! And the first of you will go down the road to hell ahead of me. Come along! Where is your master? Where's Baraud?"

The Arab voices broke into a furious snarl of hatred and rage. The circle started forward, then broke. Baraud came bursting through them, pistol in hand. He saw the American, and halted.

"You dog!" he cried out. "So it was you, eh? Take it, damn you!"

He fired. Burke felt the shock of the impact, then stared curiously as Baraud toppled forward on his face. A man who falls that way is done for. He realized that his own pistol had spoken. Then he saw them closing in, saw the steel flashing in the light. This was the end.

Burke laughed as they yelled at him in a surging wave of hatred. His automatic cracked, and again. They wavered— another shot would break them. But his last shot was gone now. The hammer clicked. One fierce yell of exultation, and they surged forward. Burke hurled the empty weapon in their very faces as the dark mist closed down.

About him was a furious, swaying, fighting mass of figures. His eyes cleared. A dark shape rushed at him, and Burke's hand went out, gripped a throat, clung tight. Voices were at his ears, he heard Marie Thornton crying at him, pulling at his arm. She was there indeed, her face a blaze of excitement.

"Let him go, let him go! Jim! Wake up!"

His grip relaxed. The man before him was no Arab, but a bareheaded Frenchman, trying to uphold him. Burke tottered.

"It's all right, my friend!" came the man's voice. "I'm Souzane— thank the good God we got here in time! My driver brought us word. You're all right now. Ma'm'selle, get that cursed rosary out of sight! Quickly, hide the thing!"

Burke tried to realize it all, and succeeded dimly. The tide of figures had ebbed and broken and left them there alone, Baraud dead on the ground. Police whistles were shrilling. Souzane patted his arm, after a moment.

"All right, my friend, take it easy! Two bullets, but neither of them vital. We'll have you bandaged in a jiffy and taken care of— and there's a million francs waiting in Arab hands for a reward."

"Reward be damned!" said Burke, and laughed a little as his hand closed on that of Marie. "I've a better one— eh, my dear?"

Her fingers pressed his in response, and he was still laughing gayly as darkness closed over him.

__________________

5: The Man and the Motive

Scott Campbell

(Frederick W Davis, 1858-1933)

Popular Magazine Sep 1907

Another adventure of Mr Felix Boyd, an investigator from the blandly named Central Office, in Washington, whose earlier adventures can be found in the eBook  Below the Deadline  (1904)

OBVIOUSLY it was something portentous. No ordinary communication could have brought that expresion to the face of Mr. Felix Boyd. Startled by it, the Central Office man halted on the threshold and was about to quietly depart, when Boyd observed him, signed for him to enter, and presently hung up the telephone receiver.

"From Washington, Jimmie," he said tersely. "A message from the secretary of war."

"Is that so?" Coleman stared, dropping into a chair. "What's wrong?"

"He wants me to locate Amory Seward as quickly as possible. He's been trying to get in touch with him for several days. Seward is wanted in Washington on very important business in the ordnance department, and neither letters nor telegrams to him have brought any response."

"That's strange."

"Not at all like Amory Seward, who is punctilious in all business matters. There must be some serious occasion for his silence, unless he is ill, out of town, or— I guess I'll call up his office in Wall Street, and see what I can learn about him."

Before Boyd could look up the telephone number of this well-known capitalist, for years a conspicuous figure in Wall Street and a power in national politics, the ringing of his own instrument again broke the silence. He seized the receiver and responded to the call, while the Central Office man grimly waited, with a vague impression that this was the introduction to a mysterious case.

"Well, this is strange, following upon the heels of the other," Boyd presently declared. "The call is from Seward's office. I am wanted there as quickly as possible."

"By Seward himself?"

"Hardly, since the voice was that of a woman." Boyd started up and closed his desk. "I'd rather go down there at once than defer for questions by telephone," he said. "Wall Street, eh? That, Jimmie, is like setting foot on one's native heath!"

And Jimmie grinned understandingly.

"It's many a day since you were transferred from the banking district; many a day since I meandered about Wall and Broad Streets on special duty for nearly a hundred secret clients, the biggest toads in the great financial pud¬ dle. Amory Seward was one of them, Jimmie, and I shall be glad if I now can do him any service."

"Have you any idea of the trouble?"

"Not the slightest. We left that section of the city well cleared of crooks after downing the notorious Big Finger and his gang. Possibly some worthy successor of that accomplished knave has finally turned up, since things in that locality have gone to the bad of late. Two bank burglaries, a mysterious theft from the sub-treasury, a Maiden Lane jeweler murdered and robbed, a brokerage firm cleverly swindled out of a hundred thousand in government bonds— that was the record, Jimmie, merely during the three months we were abroad."

"Black enough it was, too."

"It reminds one of our days below the dead-line, when we carried our lives in our hands and— come along with me, Jimmie. We'll see what's amiss with Seward. Possibly we shall run upon an old-time problem, one that will test our nerve as well as our acumen. All ready, eh?"

Felix Boyd had made ready while speaking. These reminders of bygone days, of sensational episodes in which these two had figured, were not without effect upon him. His voice had an eager ringff His eyes were alert with awakened interest. Followed by Coleman, who eagerly accepted his invita- tation, he led the way .from his Union Square office, into which Coleman had drifted that afternoon early in December, some weeks after their return from abroad.

The season was a laggard one, and the weather wretched. The first fall of snow was long overdue. There had been no clear sky, no crisp, wintry air for ten days— only a warm, enervating atmosphere, as humid as in the dog days, laden most of the time with dull gray fog and drizzling mist, that turned afternoon into evening at the end of one's lunch hour. Though not yet five o'clock, the street-lamps and shop-windows were lighted, shedding a sallow glow on the muddy pavements.

"This weather is devilish!" Coleman growled, wriggling into his overcoat. Then his thoughts went back to Amory Seward. "I thought Seward was living in Washington this winter, identified in some official capacity with the war department."

"Seward never held a government position; never would accept one," Boyd rejoined, as they, hastened toward Third Avenue. "He has too many millions to look after, too many financial irons in the fire, to give any time to the government. He could have had the naval portfolio in the last administration, but he refused even to consider the offer quietly made him."

"Yet he has been in Washington for some time."

"Quite true, Jimmie, but only on personal business. He owns, I am told, a controlling interest in several valuable inventions useful both for land and naval warfare, and his mission in Washington was only to negotiate for their purchase by the government. The submitting of plans and models, together with tests in various departments, and the many red-tape details pertaining to such business, have required several weeks. He returned to his home in Fifth Avenue a month ago, I believe, and if any ill has befallen him it must be— step lively, Jimmie, and we can hit that train."

Twenty minutes brought them to the Wall Street building in which Seward's office was located. At the street door there was a handsome closed carriage, with a stiff-backed coachman in livery. From the man on the box to the tires on the wheels the rig bore the stamp of opulence, culture, and dignified aristocracy.

"That's the old man's turnout," Coleman commented, as they entered.

"So I see," nodded Boyd. "We may find him here, after all."

They found, instead, the wife and youngest daughter of Mr. Seward; the one a dignified matron of nearly seventy, the other a tall, attractive girl just turned twenty. They were seated in a private room adjoining the main office, both rooms being at the end of a long corridor on the street floor. Several clerks in a railed enclosure glanced up when the two men entered; and Seward's private secretary, Mr. Radford, hastened from the adjoining room to meet them.

"I'm glad you could come at once, Mr. Boyd," he said, with a nod to Coleman. "Come this way, both of you. Mrs. Seward insisted upon my sending for you, as we are very anxious over the strange disappearance of— this is Mr. Felix Boyd, ladies, and Detective Coleman, of the Central Office."

Both of the fashionably dressed women arose to acknowledge the introduction, and the elder hastened to explain the occasion of their anxiety, which was plainly reflected in their pale faces and nervous manner.

"I have had Mr. Radford send for you, Mr. Boyd, because Mr. Seward has mentioned you as one on whom he would call for aid in certain serious emergehcies. We are in painful suspense over his mysterious absence just now-"

"Ever since last Wednesday, mama," the younger woman interrupted.

"Allow me to explain, Ethel, darling. Two tongues telling a story make only a mess of it."

"Very well." And Miss Ethel subsided.

These remarks passed without the slightest irritation, and Boyd, suppressing a smile, sat down.

"Mr. Seward has been absent since last Wednesday?" he said inquiringly.

"Yes, Mr. Boyd, six days, including a Sunday," Mrs. Seward quickly exclaimed. "That is something he never has done in all our married life without explaining his absence."

"Can you state any circumstances bearing upon the case ?"

"We know that he left this office about five o'clock on the day mentioned. Half an hour later he telephoned home, stating that important business would detain him down-town during most of the evening, and that he would not come home to dinner. He did not return that night nor the following day, Mr. Boyd, and we then began to feel anxious.

"On Friday morning I received a letter from him, or presumably from him, stating that he had gone to Philadelphia and might be absent several days. Pie did not so much as hint at the business calling him away, however, but added that we must not worry about him. Since then we have heard nothing from him, and I can only—"

"Pardon my interrupting," Boyd interposed. "Are you in the habit of worrying about your husband when he is away?"

"No, no, never," Mrs. Seward quickly replied. "I'm glad you bring up that point, for it also occurred to me. Though he now is over seventy, Mr. Seward enjoys excellent health, and retains all of his mental vigor. In no sense is he infirm, or incapable of taking proper care of himself. His business frequently takes him away from home for a considerable period, but never before has he cautioned me not to worry about him. The very fact that he did so in the letter mentioned, Mr. Boyd, serves only to increase my fears and misgivings."

"Yes, I see the point," Boyd thoughtfully remarked.

"Unless some serious occasion existed, he would not have remained away over Sunday without sending me word," Mrs. Seward positively declared. "I know, moreover, that he has very important engagements in Washington at this time which he would not voluntarily neglect. Since yesterday morning several telegrams have been received here from the secretary of war asking Mr. Seward to communicate with him, which plainly shows that my husband has not gone to Washington."

"Quite true, madame," Boyd admitted, yet he said nothing about the message he also had received.

"Something must be done at once, Mr. Boyd. I cannot longer endure this anxiety and suspense. I came here this afternoon to consult Mr. Radford and to have him send for you, that immediate steps may be taken to clear up this mystery. I am convinced that there is some serious reason for Mr. Seward's strange absence, and the fact that he has not again sent some word in explanation of it."

"You may be right, Mrs. Seward," Boyd gravely rejoined. "I will look into the matter. I would like to ask a few questions."

"Certainly."

"Who talked with Mr. Seward when he telephoned home after leaving his office last Wednesday?"

"Jacobs, our butler."

"Did he state why he was detained down-town?"

"He did not. I should have learned had I been talking with him, but Jacobs did not venture to inquire."

"Do you know of any business, Mr. Radford, that he expected to transact that evening?" Boyd turned to the private secretary, who stood in respectful silence near the door.

"I do not," said Radford. "He mentioned none to me."

"You thought he was going home when he left here?"

"Yes; certainly. In fact, Mr. Boyd, he said so."

"The business, then, must have come up unexpectedly after he left here?"

"I infer so."

"Has he recently received any letters, or dictated any, that might possibly suggest the nature of it?"

"I do not think so. I recall none."

"You see most of his correspondence?"

"I do."

"Have any strangers recently called here to see him?"

"I have seen none."

"Or at his residence, madam?" Boyd put the query to Mrs. Seward.

"None, sir," said Mrs. Seward positively. "Not one."

Boyd turned again to the secretary.

"Is he engaged in any stock-market operations at the present time, Mr. Radford, that so seriously affect the interest of others that his abduction might be to their advantage in the market ?"

"Far from it, Mr. Boyd," Radford quickly shook his head. "He now has hardly any interest in the stock-market."

"Do you know whether he carried much money when he left here ?"

"No more than usual, I'm very sure."

"Not a large amount?"

"No, sir."

Boyd was silent for a moment, then abruptly he asked Mrs. Seward:

"Have you, until now, taken any steps to trace his movements, madam?"

"No. I did not wish to act hastily in the matter, so have waited in the hope of hearing from him," she explained.

The expression that gradually had settled on the face of Felix Boyd was not encouraging. He knew Amory

Seward to be a man of sterling integrity, of strict business habits and exemplary conduct. In the light of these characteristics the circumstances plainly pointed to something wrong, yet to fathom the feature of it and the motive for it was by no means easy.

For several moments Boyd appeared wrapped in thought. From the Persian rug at his feet his gaze drifted to a large oil-portrait of Seward on one of the frescoed walls; a strong, attractive face, with silvery-gray beard and wavy hair. Then he stared vacantly up at the arched ceiling, noting in a vague way that it was made of ornamental steel and studded with innumerable translucent lenses, through which the room was lighted during the day.

Presently he came out of his abstraction, turning to Mrs. Seward and saying, with a curtness habitual to him when perplexed:

"The letter you received from Philadelphia— is it here?"

"I neglected to bring it with me," she nervously answered.

"Humph! That's too bad."

"Do you consider it important?"

"Is it written with a pen?"

"Yes."

"Certainly, then, it's important. It may be a clever forgery. I wish to compare it with writing known to be Mr. Seward's."

"I can send home for it, Mr. Boyd."

"That will take time."

"My carriage is at the door—"

"Much better." And Boyd started up from his chair. "We'll go up there at once. Meantime, Jimmie, try to trace Seward's movements last Wednesday evening, will you? Give no publicity to the case, however. I first wish to look into it a little deeper. See me in the morning, and let me know what you learn."

"I'll do so, surely," Coleman readily assented.

"Get at it lively, too, Jimmie— I don't like the looks of this affair," Boyd whispered as he passed Coleman, then hurried the two women through the main office and out to the carriage.

It was after six o'clock when they reached the Seward home, an enclosed estate on a fashionable Fifth Avenue corner, with a driveway entrance from the side street. The avenue was veiled with falling mist and swirling fog. The nearer buildings were magnified by it. The vista of lights in either direction had a wan and sickly appearance, and the perspective was reduced to a few hundred yards.

Boyd's inquiries during the ride had brought out no additional facts, and he had sunk back in a corner of the carriage, vainly racking his brain for some theory to fit the case. Seen in the dim light, his thin, clean-cut face looked white and austere, with his brows knit and his lips grimly drawn— not a face from which his companions derived any encouragement. They had found, moreover, that he was not in a mood to answer questions.

Suddenly, however, the carriage swerved toward the driveway entrance, and Boyd started up as if electrified. At the risk of being run over, a man had stepped nearly between the wheels of the moving vehicle, and glanced sharply into it, then hastened away.

Boyd had only a momentary look at the fellow's face. Seen through the mist and drizzle it was not inviting. It was a thin, haggard face; that of a man of fifty, with abnormally brilliant eyes and an expression of mingled eagerness and desperation. His chin was hidden by a scraggly brown beard, sadly in need of trimming.

"Good heavens!" Mrs. Seward nervously exclaimed. "What is the matter, Mr. Boyd?"

Boyd saw that neither woman had observed the man, who had appeared and vanished in an instant.

"I'll inform you later," he said quickly. "Do nothing more until you hear from me. I'll call or telephone this evening."

He did not wait for an answer. He had opened the door while speaking, and now sprang from the moving carriage and darted after the stranger, leaving both women dumb with amazement.

ii

IT HAD TAKEN Boyd only an instant to decide that he had less interest in Seward's letter for a time, than in the identity and motive of a man who would hazard the breaking of a leg in order to glance into a moving carriage. That the fellow had some strong incentive, that he might be a spy employed to watch Seward's residence or its inmates, that he possibly was informed of the latter's whereabouts, if not in some way responsible for his mysterious absence—these conjectures occurred to Boyd, and started him after the fellow.

Upon reaching the corner he discovered him on the opposite side of Fifth Avenue— a gaunt, raw-boned six-footer, with rounded shoulders, long arms and legs, clad in a suit of rusty brown, baggy at the knees, and obviously much the worse for wear. Such a figure could not but be somewhat conspicuous amid other pedestrians, and Boyd readily located him.

From under a black alpine hat the man was gazing over at the lighted windows of the Seward home, at the same time moving quickly down the avenue with long strides and a curious, ambling gait that accentuated his almost grotesque appearance.

Boyd followed him without crossing the street, taking care that his espionage should not be suspected. Before fifty yards had been covered, however, he discovered that the man was exceedingly cautious. He was seeking the darker portions of the sidewalk and avoiding the glare of every street-lamp. His restless eyes were constantly alert, casting swift glances in every direction. He began to hurry; moreover, after leaving Seward's residence behind, and now appeared bent upon safely reaching some point for which he was heading.

With some little difficulty, for the man's vigilance did not relax for a mo¬ ment, Boyd followed him undetected to a cheap East Side lodging-house, in front of which the fellow briefly paused, glancing sharply in each direction, then bounded up the stone steps and entered. From an opposite doorway Boyd saw that he did not use a key. A few moments later a light appeared in a front room on the third floor.

"Gone to his room. I reckon it's up to me to pay the rascal a visit."

Boyd demurred only for a moment, then crossed the street and quietly entered the house. A sputtering gas-jet lighted the narrow, deserted entry. The air was impregnated with the scent of cooking cabbage. Quietly climbing the bare stairs, Boyd reached the third floor and peered into a front room, the door of which was ajar. A man's hat was lying on a bed, but the owner of it was not to be seen.

Boyd stepped into the room, leaving the door as he had found it, and glanced sharply around. It was a cheaply furnished room of moderate size, with no door except that through which he had entered. The only object worthy of his attention was a strong, iron-bound trunk, which he hastened to examine, finding it locked and in no way marked with its owner's name. While he was thus engaged, however, a few hurried steps fell on the bare floor of the entry, and the gaunt six-footer rushed into the room.

Boyd started up from the trunk and turned to meet him. Then he saw that a wonderful change had come over the man. His gaunt face turned fierce and desperate. The spirit of one ready for bloodshed leaped up in his startled eyes. Quick as a flash, despite his awkward build and bearing, he closed the door and leaned his narrow shoulders against it. In the tenth part of a second Boyd found himself gazing into the mouth of a leveled revolver, which the man had snatched from his coat pocket.

"Don't move!" he cried, with his jaw fiercely twitching. "I've got the drop on you this time! If you stir a finger I'll shoot you like a dog!"

Boyd felt no great alarm when the shot was withheld. He saw that the man was intensely excited; that he was trembling violently; that he was listening even while he threatened, as if in fear that confederates of the intruder were in the adjoining entry. A more eccentric-looking fellow, even in his threatening ferocity, Boyd had never seen.

"Put down that gun," he coolly commanded, while he discreetly refrained from moving. "You have no occasion to do any shooting."

"Haven't, eh? What are you doing here?"

"I came in only to ask you a question. It's no fault of mine that you were absent."

"That's a likely story. You were at my trunk—"

"Only to see if your name was on it," Boyd curtly interrupted. "I've a fancy to know who you are."

"You're a thief—"

"You're wrong again, sir. I'm a detective."

Though the glare of desperation and suspicion lingered in the man's frowning eyes, his countenance lighted perceptibly and his weapon began to droop.

"A detective— how am I to know that?" he demanded.

"Call in a policeman and have him vouch for me," Boyd dryly suggested. "If you are not the rascal I've been led to suspect, you have no occasion to fear me."

"I'm not so sure of it. If you'd been up against what I have for six months you'd trust no man."

"Do you mean that you've been in danger?"

"Never out of danger. I've been dogged by spies half-around the world. I've been knocked out twice and left for dead. Yet I'm still alive and kicking, and ready to blow your head off if you're in with the infernal rascals."

"Well, well, this sheds a new light on your recent actions," Boyd replied, with a laugh. "I begin to think that I, too, am in error. At least, my man, I'm not in with any gang bent upon harming you, take my word for that."

"I'm done taking the word of any stranger," declared the other, with an emphatic wag of his unsteady head. "What do you mean by speaking of my actions? Why did you think me a rascal?"

"Only because your conduct this evening invited suspicion."

"How was that?"

"You've been watching a house in Fifth Avenue whose owner is mysteriously missing. I saw you take some little risk in order to glance into his carriage, in which I was seated at the time, and I sprang out and followed you here. I have been employed to locate the missing man, if possible, and your actions led me to suspect you of—"

"Oh, that's the way the wind sets, is it? You mean the house of Mr. Amory Seward?"

"I do."

"And his carriage?"

"Yes."

"Don't you know where he is?"

"I do not. Do you ?"

"No. I'd give a good deal if I did. I've been looking only for him— and dodging rascals who are looking for me."

"Persons you stand in fear of, eh?"

"I've mighty good reason to fear them."

"Well, well, it appears obvious that we've mistaken one another's motives this evening," Boyd now declared, with genial frankness. "Put up that gun, my friend, and let's come to an understanding. I have been employed both by Mrs. Seward and the secretary of war, in Washington, to locate Mr. Seward, who has been missing since last Wednesday. Here is my badge, and here are half a dozen letters bearing my name and address. If these are not sufficient to convince you of my identity, I will send for persons who will—"

"Felix Boyd, eh?"

"That's my name."

"Ever heard of Lemuel Pope?"

"I think there is an inventor named—"

"That's right! Lemuel Pope, inventor! Behold him!"

Boyd burst out laughing. He saw that he had won the man's confidence, for the weapon had been thrust into his pocket; yet the gingerly caution with which he first had studied Boyd's letters, the grin that finally displaced the look of distrust and apprehension on his gaunt face, the air with which he had announced his own name, drawing up his tall, lank, ill-clad figure to its full height— in these there was something so irresistibly ludicrous that Boyd could not contain his amusement.

"I don't look like a cracker jack, do I?" Pope croaked and chuckled, not in the least put out "Well, well, Mr. Boyd, gold and genius don't always trot in company. Talent and business tact seldom dwell in the same house. I'm as poor as a church mouse; as near low tide as I look-"

"Pardon me, Mr. Pope." Boyd instantly turned grave. "I would not for the world appear to make light of your—"

"Tommyrot! Don't mention it. I'm used to it," Pope glibly interrupted, with a wave of his long arms. "Oh, I can loosen up all right, Mr. Boyd, now that you've set yourself right and eased my fears. I can spin my little yarn for you at a canter; and you'll not find it uninteresting. It'll explain my doings to-night, sir, and-"

Boyd checked him with a smile and gesture.

"Let's get at it without delay, Mr. Pope," he suggested, drawing up a chair to the table. "I have other important business this evening bearing upon the case I have mentioned, yet before leaving I would like to hear your story. Possibly I can be of some service to you."

"That's a right good spirit, Mr. Boyd. Put it there, sir. Mebbe you can." Pope thrust out a hand as lank and bony as that of a skeleton, and Boyd shook it warmly.

"Who are the persons having designs upon you?"

"Three Russian spies, Mr. Boyd, who were set on my track by army officers who served in Korea during the recent war with Japan. One is named Zuboff, another Ivan Malovitch; but the name of the third I have not been able to learn. They have employed other rascals, however, in their repeated attempts to turn me down and rob me of the plans and models of an invention I have perfected. The cost of their construction left me penniless, Mr. Boyd, and, despite the dangers by which I have been menaced, I was resolved not to destroy them. They now are in that trunk, which I have guarded for months, watching it almost constantly with a gun in each coat pocket—"

"What is the invention?" Boyd interrupted.

"Hush! Not too loud. I'll tell you." Pope spread himself over the table and made his disclosures in suppressed whispers, with a mingling of confidence and caution that would have appeared ludicrous but for his intense earnestness. "My invention is a submarine torpedo, Mr. Boyd, one that will completely revolutionize naval warfare. Don't look incredulous. I'm not daffy, even if I appear to be. I know, the worth of my invention. Its value to any of the great powers is beyond estimate. It will give the nation possessing it absolute protection against foreign battleships. I could sink a score of them in half a day with as many of my torpedoes. Don't smile, Mr. Boyd, for I know what I'm talking about. Tests have been made, and my models examined by experts, in whom I was led to confide by Mr. Anthony Blackmar, the American consul at Yokohama. He has helped me in this, and knows its vast value. If I hadn't been robbed of it, I could show you a letter he gave me to Amory Seward, who he said would jump at a chance to back me financially, and insure the sale of my invention to the American Government. I'm an American myself, Mr. Boyd, and am determined that no other nation shall profit by my discovery. It is all that I assert, all that I—"

"Hold your horses, Mr. Pope," Boyd again interrupted, for the man's tongue now had become as loose as his joints. "You are going too fast. Tell me your story more calmly, without rambling, for there may be details of greater importance than you suspect. Tell it connectedly from the beginning."

Pope dropped back in his chair and undertook to comply, but his narrative was punctuated with numerous digressions which he plainly could not omit.

the whole evincing his remarkable eccentricity and his utter inability to grapple with any serious problem except along the lines of his own peculiar genius.

It appeared that he was in Japan and Korea during most of the Russo-Japanese War, and there had devised the remarkable invention mentioned. Having no means, he had confided his secret to the American consul at Yokohama, the Honorable Anthony Blackmar, and applied to him for advice and aid. After a careful investigation, including tests and the opinions of experts who could safely be trusted, Blackmar was so thoroughly convinced of the great value of the invention that he provided Pope with funds, instructing him to keep his discovery a secret, and hasten to New York with his plans and models, also giving him a letter to Amory Seward, a personal friend', of whose interest and influence Pope had been assured.

Despite the precautions taken to conceal the facts from the two powers then at war, the nature and exceeding value of the invention evidently became known to secret agents of the Russians, for before Pope had fairly begun his long journey he discovered that he was being followed by Russian spies. Despite his secret alarm and constant vigilance, moreover, he met with experiences that not only convinced him of the persistency and desperate determination of his pursuers, but also brought him to a state of nervousness bordering on distraction.

Twice before reaching Port Said attempts were made to rob him when ashore, the last nearly costing him his life; and his cabin on several occasions was secretly entered and searched. At Marseilles he succeeded in learning the names of two of the Russians, but had no proof of their designs, or that they had instigated the assaults upon him. Hoping to elude them he crossed France to Havre, intending to embark by steamer for New York; but there, also, another desperate attempt was made to rob him.

Again changing his plans, he made his way to Liverpool. He secured passage on a returning cattle-steamer, the best he could then afford, and believed he finally had eluded his followers. Purely by chance, however, on the very day she cleared he learned that all three of the Russians had embarked for New York the previous day on one of the fast liners, and would arrive there nearly two weeks before him.

Boyd checked him at this point of his narrative. It was encroaching upon his time. That he was deeply impressed by it, however, and now believed most of the statements of this eccentric genius, appeared in his own grave face and the intent expression of his eyes.

"You've made it plain enough for the present, Mr. Pope," he said. "I now can appreciate your caution on the street, and the threat with which you received me."

"Do you wonder at it?" cried Pope, parting the hair above one of his ears and displaying a scar that still glowed red and feverish. "I got that in Port Said. In Havre I fared but little better. If those ruffians now are in New York and on the watch for me, you bet Pm lying low until I can meet Amory Seward and land my trunk in the keeping of one I can trust. When he hears my story-"

"Why haven't you appealed to the police?" asked Boyd.

"Too much at stake," Pope tersely declared. "I'll not trust them."

"Yet you have confided in me."

"Only because you, also, are seeking Mr. Seward, and you had me where I must make ah explanation. Your frankness impressed me favorably, and I decided to trust you."

"I think I may be able to help you," Boyd replied. "Are you willing to try me?"

"I reckon so. You look and talk on the level."

"When did you arrive in New York?"

"Last Thursday."

"Have you called at Seward's office ?"

"Not by a long chalk! I reckoned the three Russians might be watching it, or some one in their employ, with a view to locating me again. So I took these lodgings and telephoned to Seward's office instead of going there. I was told that he was out of town, that it wasn't known when he would return. Since then I have ventured to watch his house each evening, hoping to see him there when he returns. It was for that I glanced into the carriage to-night when it entered his driveway. I dare not go to his office. I tell you, Mr. Boyd, I am up against desperate men. They know the value of my invention, and are determined to rob me. They would kill me without a scruple in order to secure—"

"Your plans and models— I have no doubt of it," Boyd interrupted. "Listen to me, Mr. Pope. I have a much better head for this sort of business than you have. Your nerves, moreover, are in no condition for you to properly tackle a threatening situation, as the bad judgment you already have used plain¬ ly indicates. I now suspect that your affair and mine are closely united, never mind for what reason. I wish you to follow my instructions for a day or two, however, if you are willing to do so."

"Will it be to my advantage ?"

"Not to your disadvantage, I promise you."

"I'll chance it, Mr. Boyd. Say what you want."

"At present I want only to know where you were robbed of Blackmar's letter to Seward."

"In Havre."

"You think that Zuboff, or one of his confederates, secured it?"

"Yes, surely. I haven't a doubt of it."

"Nor have I," Boyd dryly declared, rising to go. "You lie low here until to-morrow, Mr. Pope, and leave your affair to me. I will land these Russians for you, take my word for that; and I'll locate Amory Seward at the same time. You shall hear from me before noon tomorrow."

iii

JIMMIE Coleman, the Central Office man, found Felix Boyd with knit brows and a threatening gleam in his eyes upon entering Boyd's office in Union Square at nine o'clock the following morning. He was reading a letter received in the morning mail, and he tossed it quickly to Coleman, remarking curtly:

"Read that, Jimmie, and see what you make of it."

The letter was from Amory Seward, postmarked in Philadelphia at twelve o'clock the previous night. It was addressed to Felix Boyd, stating only that his services might be required soon on an important case, and requesting that he would defer making other engagements; also that the writer would return to New York in the course of a week and arrange a personal interview.

"Humph!" Coleman returned the letter with a shrug and grunt. "That settles the matter, doesn't it?"

"Far from it, Jimmie. It only complicates it."

"How's that? You think it & forgery ?"

"No. Seward wrote it; also the letter received by his wife. I established that fact late last evening."

"He's in Philadelphia, eh?"

"No. He's here in New York."

"Come out of the clouds," growled Coleman, frowning perplexedly. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I say, Jimmie," Boyd replied, with a convincing nod. "Seward wrote this letter, but he was forced to write. One of his abductors then took it to Philadelphia on the evening express, and dropped it into the mail in that city. It was done to throw me off the track; to convince me that Seward voluntarily is away on business."

"Abductors! Do you think he has been abducted?"

"I know that he has."

"But how can they have learned of your interest in the case? You were engaged on it only yesterday afternoon."

"That's just the point, Jimmie. Obviously, my interview with Mrs. Seward must have been overheard. There must be a spy in Seward's office; one bribed by the rascals responsible for his absence. In no other way could they have learned of my part in the case."

"Got any clue'to their motive or identity?"

"Both."

"The deuce you have!"

"Could you learn anything about his movements last Wednesday evening?"

"Not a thing, Felix."

"I'll tell you what I learned," said Boyd, with a dry laugh.

The Central Office man listened, stared amazedly at times, and finally cried with a growl when Boyd concluded :

"Well, by thunder! You must have run up against a curious freak. If what he told you is true, it looks as if the Russians who are after his pelt now have Amory Seward in their clutches."

"In my opinion, Jimmie, that hits the nail on the head," replied Boyd. "I'm inclined to believe most of Pope's remarkable story. That he's a rattle-brained genius, with all the idiosyncrasies of one, as well as an utter lack of practical common sense occasionally seen in such characters, was painfully obvious."

"I should judge so."

"I am convinced that he has an invention of great value, however, or Russian spies would not have dogged him half-around the world to steal it; nor would Blackmar have become so interested in it. It's odds that Blackmar already has written to the secretary of war about it, which accounts for his anxiety to communicate with Seward."

"I reckon you're right," Coleman assented. "There are too many out after his blooming invention for it to have any insignificant value. Yet I fail to see why these Russians have abducted Seward, as you suspect, since he at present knows nothing about-"

"Pshaw!" Boyd quickly interrupted. "It's as plain as the nose on your face. They robbed Pope of Blackmar's letter to Seward, which informed them of this cranky inventor's intentions and destination. In all probability, Jimmie, they afterward lost track of him. They then rushed to New York, and have contrived to abduct Seward, whom they now are holding prisoner, thus aiming to discover Pope again and accomplish their designs. The two letters from Seward, neither of which is entirely consistent, plainly show that he is in the hands of rascals who forced him to write them, with a view to heading off an investigation until they can find Pope and confrive to rob him."

"The Russian spies ?"

"With others employed to aid them— I have not a doubt of it," Boyd declared. "In this case, Jimmie, you have my deductions in advance of the work to be done. It now is up to us to accomplish something. I want those three Russians in irons .before sunset. Come with me. First of all, we'll learn who has turned crook in Amory Seward's office. We may force him to reveal the hiding-place of the rascals."

His hurried movements, his frowning eyes, the threatening ring in his low voice— these now displayed Boyd's eagerness, his determination, his faith in his various deductions. That he had measured the case correctly and now had it well in hand he had not a doubt. Upon arriving in Seward's private office, where he found Mr. Radford, he at once demanded, with characteristic bluntness:

"Whom have you got here, Radford, that is not trustworthy?"

"Not trustworthy!" Radford stared with surprise.

"Who is capable of accepting a bribe? One who would betray Seward into the hands of—"

"Not a person; not one, Mr. Boyd! There's not a clerk employed here who would deceive Mr. Seward, or in any way injure him. He's beloved by one and all, and-"

"Nonsense!" Boyd curtly interrupted. "I've no doubt you think so, Radford, but you are mistaken. Seward has been abducted. His abductors have learned, moreover, that I have been employed to find him. They can have done so only through some person in this office; some dishonest clerk who over heard my interview with Mrs. Seward yesterday afternoon, and who has been bribed to inform— oh, by Jove, hold on a bit! I'll take it all back!"

With a toss of his head while he so forcibly declared himself, Boyd's upturned glance met the arched ceiling previously described, and the myriad of translucent lenses through which the morning sunlight then was shed. His countenance changed like a flash. Without waiting to make further apologies to Radford, he turned abruptly to Coleman, and cried:

"I'm wrong, Jimmie. The spy was not here, but above. Come with me, old man. I'll wager now that I'm on the track of the rascals."

Coleman followed in some amazement, despite that he was familiar with Boyd's peculiar methods and the startling moves that he frequently made. Without another word Boyd dashed out of the office and up a flight of stairs, then hastened to a window of the second-floor corridor, from which he could look down on the roof above Seward's office.

"Ah, here we have it!" he cried. "Don't display too much interest, Jimmie. There may be watchful eyes in some window of the opposite wing. Note the roof just below us. That's where the spy was last evening, take my word for it. Yes, by Jove! and there's the window from which he climbed down. Note on the bricks below it the marks left by his boots. The office now appears to be vacant, however. Can it be that the birds have flown?"

The roof mentioned extended over several ground-floor offices, located in a space left for light between two separate wings of the lofty building. The second-floor windows of the, wing opposite that in wnich Boyd then was standing were not more than twenty feet away, with the slightly arched roof, studded with lenses, about five feet below them. On the bricks under the window of one of the opposite offices, Boyd's searching eyes had quickly discovered numerous long marks, such as might have been left by the boots of a man who had let himself down to the lensed roof, and afterward climbed back through the window.

Coleman now appreciated the significance of the discovery so shrewdly made, but before he could reply to Boyd's remarks the latter quickly added:

"We'll see what that vacant office has to offer. This way, Jimmie. We can reach it by passing through the front part of the building."

He led the way while speaking, and they presently arrived in the corresponding corridor of the opposite wing. There they encountered one of the janitors, whom Boyd at once led to the door of the office mentioned.

"How long has this been vacant?" he inquired, after making himself known.

"Well, it's not exactly vacant," said the janitor. "It has been rented by parties who haven't moved in."

"How long ago?"

"About two weeks."

"Two weeks, eh?" cried Boyd, with a dry laugh. "Just about the time our quarry arrived, Jimmie. You've seen these new tenants, I suppose."

"Yes, sure," the janitor nodded.

"How many?"

"I have seen three at odd times."

"What style of men?"

"Two are dark, bearded fellows, who appear to be foreigners. The third, who always comes with one of the others, is a smooth-faced man, evidently an American. He does most of the talking."

"Some local crook, Jimmie, who has been employed to aid them."

"They paid a month in advance, but said they might not move in for a week or two," the janitor continued. "They're waiting for furniture that's coming from the West. They've got an old desk and some chairs in there, and two of them have been dropping in late in the afternoon to do a little writing, they say. They are never here mornings—"

"That's enough," Boyd tersely interrupted. "Got a key that opens the door?"

"Yes."

"Open it for me."

Followed by his companions, Boyd quickly entered the office. It contained only two chairs and an old desk, in which there was not so much as a scrap of paper. Opening one of the windows.

Boyd glanced at the bricks below it, on which, upon closer inspection, the numerous marks previously mentioned were plainly visible.

"One of the rascals has been down to the roof each afternoon, Jimmie, as soon as it came dark. It was easier than watching for Pope on the street, which. they probably have done while daylight lasted. These are short days, you know. No chance to miss him here, Jimmie, if he called, which they might have done on the street after dark. They rented this office for no other purpose than to peer down into—"

"But those lenses are not transparent, Felix," growled Coleman. "It would be impossible to see through—"

"Stop a bit, Jimmie."

Boyd climbed over the sill while speaking, then let himself down to the lensed roof. For several moments he moved about on his hands and knees, studying, one circular piece of glass after another until he had covered several square feet. Finally he discovered one held in its place only by some soft putty, which he easily removed with his knife. Then he pried out the lens, and peered down through the small circular hole that was left— straight down into Amory Seward's private office!

"That's alf there was to it, Jimmie," he cried, glancing over his shoulder and hglding up the piece of glass. "He could both see and hear. No wonder, Jimmie, that I received a letter in the morning mail."

"You've called the turn, Felix, for a fact," said Coleman, with hearty approval. "But what's the next step? The rascals may become shy, and possibly will not show up here again."

Felix Boyd did not reply until after he had replaced the lens and putty and clambered back into the vacant office. Then he cautioned the janitor to say nothing about their visit, after which he turned to Coleman and said, with grim assurance:

"There's one way, Jimmie, by which we can land them— one sure way!"

"How is that, Felix?"

"Have Pope visit Seward's office a little later. We will be on hand, and— ah, but you know the rest! Surely you know the rest!"

That Felix Boyd clearly foresaw it appeared later in the day. Just before dusk the tall, gaunt figure of Lemuel Pope appeared in Wall Street, heading with uncertain gaze and wobbly strides in the direction of Amory Seward's office.

There could be no mistaking such a man. There never was another face and figure like his; never a form on which garments hung so lax and loose, flapping with his every move like those of a bean-field scarecrow on a windy day. He could be seen from afar, like a lighthouse, and identified as readily.

This may account for the fact that, just as he arrived at the entrance of the proper building, an elderly, well- dressed man who was approaching through the corridor— a man with gray hair and beard— hastened up to him and cried, with manifest eagerness:

"Isn't your name Pope— Lemuel Pope?"

"Yes; sure." Pope turned and gazed.

"I thought I couldn't be mistaken," cried the other. "In a letter from Blackmar to me he describes you perfectly. My name is Amory Seward, and I judge you were about calling at my office."

"Yes, yes, I was!" Pope eagerly admitted, grinning broadly while his hand was warmly shaken. "You're just the man I want to see."

"I'm aware of it, Mr. Pope, perfectly. I returned to town only this morning. The letter to me from Blackmar has told me all about you; all about your wonderful— but we'd better discuss that under cover. I'm sorry I cannot go to my office with you, but I have a brief engagement outside. If you will come with me, however, I will detain you only briefly, and we then will go to my residence. There we may discuss your affairs at our leisure."

It is needless to say that Pope readily complied.

As they moved away together in the falling dusk other figures moved after them; plain-clothes men who followed singly or in couples, mingling with the throng of pedestrians in the several streets through which they passed— until Pope and his companion disappeared into a faded brick dwelling in the Russian quarter.

There was very little to it after that— only the stealing of men to the rear of the house, the shrill sound of a whistle on the deeper gloom of the evening, the noise of doors violently opened, the rush of many feet through entries and over stairs, the hoarse cries of alarm from men unexpectedly cornered—mingled with that of one unexpectedly. rescued.

"Quick work, Jimmie, so it was," Felix Boyd admitted, as. they sauntered up-town an hour after the raid. "As you already know, however, the case was exceedingly simple after I heard Pope's remarkable story. A curious fellow, that. The simplicity of genius, Jimmie."

"I should say as much," commented Coleman.

"Ah, well, I reckon that Seward now will look after his interests, since there is so much to be gained. He tells me that he was approached after leaving his office last Wednesday evening by one of the scamps we've just taken in. Pretending to be Pope, the rascal showed him Blackmar's letter, and prevailed upon him to go to the house in which the Russians were located, stating that the plans and models were there, and that he must take them to Washington the following morning. Seward consented to go, thinking there could be no delay in the matter, and he telephoned home that he should be engaged most of the evening."

"Ah, that explains how it was done."

"Yes, and that settled it, Jimmie," Boyd dryly added. "Upon arriving at the house he was promptly overcome, and afterward compelled to write the letters received by his wife and myself. You know what I deduced from them. 'Twas a curious case, in a way, take it all in all. Luckily we've landed the rascals, however, and they now must pay the price. Let's go to dinner, Jimmie."

________________

6: Mr. Keeble's Funny Story

Donald Devereux

Huon Times (Franklin, Tas) 27 April 1928

The on-line Index to the Fiction Magazines gives only one story title for Donald Devereux (not this story) but has no other information.

'FUNNY THING happened last night,' grinned George Keeble, on the way down to the links with Stephen Calvert. 'I'd been to fetch a dog off the nine-twenty down train— it hadn't come, though— and just as I was coming away in the pouring rain I saw ahead of me what looked like a woman carrying a heavy suit-case. You see it was pitch dark— that was why I'd put on the most dilapidated coat and the oldest cap I'd got. I nipped ahead and offered to carry it for her.

'She assented and said she was going to The Towers, but whether as a guest or as a servant I had no idea. It was too blithering dark to guess her class or age or looks or anything. And, of course, it was the same for her; I didn't realise that. You could have knocked me down with a feather, Steve, when she stopped outside The Towers, took the bag, and gave me sixpence!'

'Ha, ha, ha!' roared Mr. Calvert. 'Well, and what did you say?'

'Nothing,' said the only son of the wealthiest resident in Stonebridge. 'By the time I'd got my breath back she was gone. I wonder who she was?'

'The new companion,' said his friend. 'Of course. I remember Mrs. Tudor-Smith saying the night before last that Lady Sharpington had got a new lady-companion coming down next day.'

'That was her, then. I shouldn't have taken her for the lady-companion sort— middle-aged and all dried-up, I mean— but, of course, it was too dark to—'

Here Mr. Keeble's mind suddenly recalled from humorous trivialities to the serious and vital affairs of life.

'Come on, old boy. There won't be a caddie left.'

'MR. KEEBLE!' called out old Lady Sharpington from the window of her gorgeous limousine as he was turning into the chemist's in High street early. that evening, 'would you mind telling my companion— Miss Wells; she's in there— that I'm going on? She can walk home, tell her. Thank you, Mr. Keeble. Summit House, James— quickly!'

Mr. Keeble entered the shop. The only customer there was a young and extremely pretty girl whom he did not remember to nave seen before— except in dreams and pictures. He hesitated doubtfully. 'Er— excuse me,' he ventured nervously, 'but are you Lady Sharpington's— ah— companion?'

She said she was; whereupon Mr. Keeble, with a touch of confusion, only partly due to his surprise, delivered her ladyship's message.

She thanked him and went out. After further hesitation he followed her.

'I say,' he said— '— er— did you only come down, here last night? Off the last train?'

She nodded.

'Then,' grinned Mr. Keeble, fishing in his pocket, 'I want to refund that sixpence you gave me.'

Miss Wells' face went the color of a newly-painted pillar-box.

'I— I say,' she stammered, horrified— 'was it you...?'

'It was. You see if I stick to the sixpence,' explained Mr. Keeble, solemnly, 'I thereby forfeit my amateur status under the rules of the Bag-Carriers' Control Board. And professionalism is the curse of modern sport.'

'I say, I— I'm awfully sorry! I— well, I was too tired to realise—'

'Oh, that's all right,' laughed Mr. Keeble. 'My fault for not dressing respectably.... er— ah— which way are you going?'

She told him. 'I hope it won't get about,' she said, when they had walked some distance, and Mr. Keeble, having made himself known by name, was wondering what to say next— 'about last night, I mean. I should feel an awful ass if it did. And things do get round in places like these, don't they?'

'It won't,' he assured her, making a mental memo to tell Calvert to keep his mouth shut.

'You haven't told anybody, have you?'

Mr. Keeble, disconcerted, hesitated. He had a sudden intuitive conviction that a very great deal depended upon his answer. He could not afford to take risks.

'No,' he answered with a twinge of conscience. 'Oh, no.'

She looked relieved.

Outside The Towers, Mr. Keeble threw out a deceptively vague suggestion about a walk the following afternoon— Sunday— if, of course, she could get away; adding that the country round about was well worth seeing. She said she wasn't sure, but she might be able to. Mr. Keeble went away jubilant.

On the way home he called at the bungalow where Stephen Calvert wrote romantic novels and lived the life of a confirmed and contented bachelor.

'About that story I was telling you this afternoon,' he said, 'about Lady Sharpington's companion and the sixpence, I mean— I want you to keep it dark, old boy. Of course you haven't told anybody, have you?'

Mr. Calvert looked perplexed. 'Er— why, yes, I have,' he said after a moment's thought. 'I was telling Gunter and his wife and they laughed like— what's the matter, George?'

'Matter!' shouted Mr. Keeble, stricken with sudden consternation 'You juggins, what did you want to go and spread it all over the place for?'

'But I've only told—'

'Only Mrs. Gunter!'

'But why the fuss?' Mr. Keeble calmed himself sufficiently to explain.

'When I said no, I hadn't,' he concluded, 'it never entered my head that you were already broadcasting it to all stations. In a few days everybody'll know it and sooner or later she'll know that everybody knows it. And when she finds out I'm a liar, pop goes my chance of— or— oh, you jabberwock!' burst out Mr. Keeble bitterly (and rather unreasonably); 'you've been and gone and busted everything!'

And the door banged behind him.

STILL DISMALLY wondering how long it would be before her discovery that he had told her a deliberate untruth snapped the slender thread of their acquaintanceship, he met Miss Wells coming out of The Towers the following afternoon. They had walked some way, and he was speculating as to whether it wouldn't be better to confess his mendacity rather than let her find it out herself, when he heard the unexpected voice of Mr. Calvert above the grinding of brakes.

'Hullo,' grinned Mr. Keeble, half-turning. 'Thought you were golfing. Oh— ah— '

Remembering the requirements of courtesy, he turned again to Miss Wells and made the necessary introduction. Mr. Calvert got out of the little two seater and bowed.

'I suppose,' he suggested after a few polite trivialities, 'you people wouldn't care for a lift?'

Mr. Keeble swallowed a prompt negative and looked at Miss Wells.

'I'm going as far as Bull Hill,' explained Mr. Calvert. 'Fine sight across the valley in autumn— red and gold, you know.'

'I should like to see it,' smiled Miss Wells hesitatingly. 'But I think Mr. Keeble would prefer walking.'

'Not at all,' muttered the intensely annoyed Mr. Keeble untruthfully. 'Just which you prefer.'

The two-seater went on its way with Miss Wells and Mr. Calvert chatting animatedly in front and Mr. Keeble nursing disappointment and indignation in the dickey.

On the way back a sudden downpour caused the hood to be put up. Rainwater gathered in puddles on the hood and at frequent intervals overflowed on to the already saturated occupant of the dickey. When Miss Wells got out at The Towers he promptly took her her inside.

'Not wet, I hope?' inquired Mr. Calvert solicitously as they drove on.

'Dry as a bone,' said Mr. Keeble briefly and bitterly.

'Nice girl,' murmured Mr. Calvert abstractedly. 'I like her eyes rather. Have you noticed her eyes, George?'

Mr. Keeble stared. 'Thought you didn't care for girls,' he said as soon as he could speak.

'But I've never met one like her before. Never.'

'But— but look here—'

'Well?'

'You don't think you're coming butting in, do you?' demanded the incensed Mr. Keeble.

'Why not?' inquired Mr. Calvert blandly. 'You've no proprietary rights. Hang it all, you hardly know her.'

Mr. Keeble almost fought for speech.

'Besides,' pointed out Mr. Calvert with the air of indicating the silver lining in the dark cloud, 'as soon as she finds out about that fib you told her, pop go your chances anyway. Almost your own words, George. So why the fuss? But here's your house. Ta-ta!'

Mr. Keeble got out. And before he could express in speech the boiling, libellous things in his mind, the car was gone.

ON MONDAY, still brooding anxiously and darkly over this new and totally unexpected development, Mr. Keeble, having contracted a bad cold through getting wet the previous afternoon, did not go to the city. In the afternoon, however, finding confinement intolerable in his state of mind, he went out, and happened by pure chance to meet Miss Wells alone in High street. His hopes rose slightly.

To avoid running into his rival— Calvert roamed about at all sorts of odd hours— he suggested a cup of tea at Skinner's Cafe.

But a malignant fate arranged that the only table at which there was room for them should be occupied by the very gentleman whom he had come in to avoid.

'Oh, thank you,' smiled Miss Wells, in response to a pressing invitation to share the table. 'If you don't mind — '

'Not at all,' beamed Mr. Calvert. 'What did you say, George?'

'Nothing,' wheezed the disgusted George. That was practically his last contribution, if one can call it that, to the conversation. Mr. Calvert monopolised Miss Wells' attention from the start.

Mr. Keeble perceived that in everything he was at a disadvantage. Mr. Calvert was ten years his senior— seasoned, experienced, interesting; invested, too, with the glamor of a literary reputation. Above all he hadn't got a cold.

He told Miss Wells a diverting story of how, during the war (he had won the D.S.O. while Mr. Keeble was still at a preparatory school), he and another subaltern in a railway carriage had said things to each other— biting things about shirkers and profiteers— for the benefit of a prosperous-looking middle-aged gentleman in a grey suit sitting opposite, whom they met later in France wearing the uniform of a major-general....

'Ever put your foot in it like that, George?'

'No,' grunted Mr. Keeble.

'Have you, Miss Wells?'

'No— oh, well, yes, I have,' Miss Wells amended with a sudden smile. 'Oh— when?' She hesitated.

'Let's have it,' urged Mr. Calvert. Mr. Keeble was momentarily perplexed by his eagerness to hear a story which he knew already. Then he understood. The blighter wanted to be able to swank about her willingness to confide in him (curse him!).

'Oh, it was nothing much,' said Miss Wells a little confusedly, and proceeded to tell how in the darkness the other night, being almost too tired to think, she had mistaken the entirely chivalrous Mr. Keeble for some station loafer out for the price of a drink.

'And when I met him next day,' she concluded, 'I never felt so silly—'

'Ha, ha, ha!' roared the cunning Mr. Calvert. 'Poor old George!'

Then, glancing at his watch, he sobered suddenly. 'Just remembered — appointment. Five minutes late already. Bye-bye!'

Then a swift, exultant realisation of something flashed into Mr. Keeble's mind. Leaving Miss Wells with a muttered apology, he caught up with Mr. Calvert in the outer shop. 'You were just a thought too clever,' he grinned maliciously.

Then, with a necessary pause for a mighty sneeze:— 'You silly cuckoo, whed she fides out that everybody has got hold of that story, you'll, be as likely to get the blabe for it as I ab! A jolly sight bore. You didd't say you wouldd't tell eddybody— tshoo!— so it isn't likely she'll thik I've told a fib. You'll get the blabe! Ha, ha, hn! Tshoo!'

Mr. Calvert was strangely unmoved.

'Only just figured that out?' he smiled pityingly.

Mr. Keeble was utterly taken aback.

'Eh?' he gasped stupidly.'

'What do you think I've been aiming at, then?'

'You— you dod't bead to say,' stuttered Mr. Keeble incredulously, 'that'—that... but I thought; you were after— her. You— well, you bade me thik so.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Calvert severely— because you were so jolly rude Saturday night. But I hadn't the heart, George, to let you take your chance. And I saw that If she told anybody else the story— me, for instance— she couldn't very well doubt your veracity when she found out— and it's a wonder she hasn't already; you know what Mrs. Gunter is— that almost everybody's heard it; and so... Well, now have you got it?'

Mr. Keeble was silent.

'Steve,' he muttered at last, humbly and gratefully, 'you're a thuddering good sport.'

MISS WELLS saw little of Mr. Calvert after that; and when some tactless person asked her at a dance if she was the girl who'd mistaken George Keeble for a luggage porter, she told Mr. Keeble that she was afraid she had been mistaken in her estimate of his friend. She said Mr. Calvert was no gentleman to go spreading things about like that.

Mr. Keeble apologetically conveyed this opinion to its subject.

'I don't mind, old boy,' sighed Mr. Calvert, deep in press-cuttings. 'I'm hardened to injustice. Look here, what the 'Daily Blare' has said about my last book, old boy.'

________________

7: Hostile Witness

Francis Marlowe

1870-1944

Australian Worker 29 Dec 1937

British writer active from the beginning of the 20th century; several novels and many short stories

POLICE-CONSTABLE RETFORD was in a quandary. Recently transferred from a quiet suburban beat to the West End of London, the first break in the routine of his ordinary, duties was a call to a Tube railway station and an imperative demand from an excited man that he should at once take into custody a slim, palefaced girl, whose obvious unsophistication, general air of unhappiness and distress, and extropie prettiness, inspired him with a feeling of sympathetic interest.

The charge on which he was asked— commanded— to make the arrest was pocket-picking, but there was no evidence against the girl save the unsupported word of a stout, pompous, ruddy-faced individual whom instinctively he disliked.

This man's greeting to the constable was brutally uncompromising. 'Arrest this young woman at once, constable,' he boomed; 'she stole my pocket-book.'

Constable Retford looked at the girl, and for an instant had the odd feeling that he ought to remove his helmet while addressing her.

'What have you to say, miss?' he asked. She answered him in the charming well-bred voice he expected, faltering a little in her speech, but with perfect self-possession. There was, he thought, just the suspicion of an ironical I twinkle in the lovely blue-grey eyes she turned on him.

'It seems almost useless for me to make any statement,' she said. 'The gentleman, as you see, has his pocketbook in his hand, and yet he insists on charging me with stealing it.'

The constable Shot up a peremptory hand to stem the flood of angry accusations that came from the pompous man. 'Excuse me, sir,' he said coldly, 'but is that pocket-book you have in your hand the one you charge the young lady with stealing?'

'That young woman, officer,' shouted the man, 'is a pickpocket. She stole this pocket-book, but just because she wasn't smart enough to get away with it is no reason why she should get off scot-free. She got it out of my breast pocket as olean as a whistle, but when she found I'd spotted her— I just missed catching her hand— she dropped it on the floor of the lift and shammed innocence.'

Frowning troublously, Constable Retford again looked at the girl, this time just a little doubtfully, but when his eyes encountered the earnest, distressful gaze with which she awaited his decision his brow cleared.

'I'd advise you not to make this charge, sir,' he said gravely, 'when it's just your word against the lady's. If it's not proved it will mean a lot of trouble for you, and maybe heavy damages—'

His hand went up again to check a fresh outburst, and at the same instant a hand fell on his shoulder and a male voice with authority in its tone said pleasantly:

'Excuse me, officer, but I fancy I can help you in this awkward business if I may.'

The speaker was a tall, athletic man of about thirty, with sun-tanned face, a gold-mounted monocle screwed in his left eye, who smiled at him engagingly, flung an arrogant stare at the pompous man, and raised his hat to the girl.

'It will be just as well,' he said, 'to establish my identity before I shove in my oar. Here's my card.' Constable Retford looked at the card and saw engraved on it the name of a young baronet who was extremely popular in sporting circles. Funny, he thought, that he had not recognised him at first sight; but, then, newspaper portraits were often misleading.

'Everyone knows your name, Sir John,' he said.

'Well known to the police, eh, officer?'

Constable Constable Retford permitted himself to join in the chuckle with which this quip was uttered, and then composed his face to serious attention.

'I haven't the honor of her acquaintance,' explained Sir John, 'but I know quite well who she is. It's absurd that such a charge should be brought against her, and it would be nothing less than scandalous to arrest her. It happened that I was in the lift, and an eye-witness of the whole beastly affair.

'The lift was quite crowded, but I saw her enter it, and as I noticed that she appeared to be unhappy about something I kept my eyes on her from start to finish. Quite rude of me, I admit, but not intentional rudeness, I assure you. In any case it's lucky I did so, 'for I'm able to say of my own knowledge that there's not the slightest foundation for the charge.

'If she's done the slightest thing to have justified it I couldn't have failed to have seen it. I hate butting in on other people's affairs, and I positively loathe publicity, but I felt that something had to be done when it seemed I possible that you would take the charge.'

Nearly choking with impotent rage, the pompous man again threatened turbulence, but almost savagely the policeman thrust him aside and motioned to the girl that she was free to go.

'After hearing Sir John I want no more from you,' he said roughly; 'clear out of here and think yourself lucky I don't arrest you for obstruction.'

With a flick of a finger, as though dismissing with satisfaction a piece of work well done, he removed a speck of dust from the left shoulder of his uniform, and, turning about to return to his beat, found his way obstructed by a well-filled cigar-case.

'Help yourself to a cigar, officer,' said the owner of the case. 'That was a nasty bit of business well handled; you and I must have a chat some day when you're off duty. By the way, the young woman has accepted my escort as far as her home; she's feeling very shaken.'

Constable Retford received the compliment and cigar with a genial smile, bowed reply to a grateful smile from the girl as she was stepping into a taxi-cab, shut the door of the cab on the couple with an approving nod, and stood thoughtfully looking after it until he had buttoned the cigar into his breast pocket.

IN the taxi-cab the girl was first to speak.

'Why,' she asked, 'did you lie for me?'

'Who wouldn't?'

'That's not the answer I want— nor expected from you,' she said, reproach in her tone.

'Please excuse my flippancy.' The man was suddenly grave. 'It's just jrr.y way with serious matters.

'Drive to Regent's Park and round the Outer Circle till I stop you,' he instructed the driver, as the cab stopped with the lights against it. He flicked a penny to a passing newsboy and snatched in an evening paper. While dropping the paper beside him a heading of one of its columns caught his eye, and a secret smile twitched his lips.

'If you were watching me;' the girl continued, 'as you told the policeman, you must have seen me try to steal, and yet you lied to save me from arrest. Why?'

'My dear girl'— he gave her his whole attention now— 'I did not see you try to steal, but what I did see was that something was troubling you terribly, and I feel I'd like to help you if I could. I'm right about the trouble, am I not?'

'Yes, you are right,' she answered drearily.

'And you still have it to face?'

She nodded. 'It's only just the problem,' she said, 'of how, at the end of my resources after eight months' unemployment, I am to live and keep an invalid sister alive, until in a fortnight's time I start work on a job I got to-day.'

'And the pocket-book was to have solved the problem?'

'I meant it to. But it was not a premeditated theft. The man was a beast; I had to stand in the train, and he purposely crowded himself against me. I stamped on his foot once to keep him away from me, but in the lift he got as close as he could to me again, so close that it seemed easy to steal his pocket-book. I had a mad impulse and tried, but I was awkward. I was glad, immediately, that I had failed.'

Her companion nodded sympathetically. 'And the brute was vindictive,' he commented. 'Well, it's good to know,' he added brightly, 'that your troubles are no worse and that they're over.'

He drew out a note-wallet.

'But I can't take money from you,' she said.

'You haven't a chance in the world; of stealing it from me,' he joked. 'Let's call it a loan, then. I can comfortably let you have five pounds, or, more.'

'I can't be foolish enough to refuse a loan when so much depends on it,'she smiled, 'but you must tell me to what address to return it— I saw your name on your card.'

There was a smile on his. lips as again he took out a card similar to that he had handed to Constable Retford. He started to pencil on its back, but broke off to hand the evening paper to the girl, indicating the heading.

'You'll see,' he said, while he tapped a glass to stop the cab, 'that rich as well as poor have their troubles.'

The girl saw a heading— 'SOCIETY HOSTESS ROBBED OF JEWELS' — and was. scanning the report when he handed her the card and a five-pound note.

'But this is your wife,' she said, round-eyed.

'Not my wife— some other chap's,' he twinkled at her impishly. 'You'll find my real name and an address that will find me on the back, of that card. I must rush now. I'll square the taxi— you tell him where to go.'

He was out of the cab, door shut, before she could reply. Through the window came his head for a moment.

'Lucky— wasn't it,' he said, with another twinkle, 'that I pinched a few of the noble baronet's cards when I lifted his missus's jewels? My first job, it was— and my last.'

__________________

8: The Wrong Reception

Mrs. Baillie-Saunders

1873-1949

Australian Town and Country Journal 6 May 1908

Edwardian novelist, daughter of a solicitor, married to an Anglican clergyman.

"YES. I have a perfect right to insist on being invited to the new Member's Reception," said Miss Bellamy, tossing her head angrily. Her thin shoulders wriggled with feeling. "One can't insist on invitations one doesn't get," said her sister-in-law, deprecatingly.

"Indeed one can. And I will prove it. I shall go to the reception, invitation or not. Am I not the eldest daughter of the late Frank Bellamy, K.C.?"

"Oh, yes; but—"

"Sir Kelly Watkin, even if he is a famous Member of Parliament, as an old friend of my father, ought to have invited me. He must know I am in town. It was put in the Times."

"Yes; yes, but it is many years since he saw any of us, and the busy Member of a West End division like this cannot hunt round the directory to look up old friends. I wouldn't go, Eliza."

"Wei will not argue, Alice. In my own home, in Dovechester, I am treated as an owner of a comfortable little property should be; when I come to town I refuse to be ignored... I shall go to the reception, uninvited, as Royalty would."

A FEW DAYS passed, and the night of the Member's Reception arrived. A cab was ordered for Miss Bellamy (as Royalty would), and she got in; saying:-— , "Welbeck Hall," to the driver in freez.ng tones.

"Did you say 'Woolpack Hall?' "

"I said Welbeck Hall.  Is there not a reception there?"

"Well, yes, so there is—" began the man in some hesitation.

"Pray do , as you are told, and do not argue," snapped Miss Bellamy from the Royal halo.

And with a chuckle the man drove off.

When she reached the hall, and went up into the cloakroom, a surprise waited her in the ladies' dresses. She had expected to be slightly shocked at the exuberance of London fashions, and to go home to Dovechester with many stern anecdotes of over-decorated and decollette dames. But these good ladies were singularly free from decoration. Their general effect was a clumsy and badly done masculinism. There were crops of short hair, pince-nez, monocles, and the queerest collars. Some were wildly aesthetic, some even flamboyant, but nobody could, by the wildest stretch roL imagination, be called "smart." They talked incessantly and loudly.

"Of course," said Miss Bellamy, "political life has gradually gone down in the social grade. But, dear me, these persons look most peculiar."

She made for the reception-room. At the door stood the host, a tall, thin-faced, clean-shaven man, with a nervous and self-conscious manner. He was occupied in hurriedly shaking hands with the guests on entrance.

"Good gracious! How he has altered!" said Miss Bellamy. "He used to have quite a noble deportment. I should not have known him."

She held out her lavender-gloved hand. The crowd pressed very much, so she forebore to recall herself to him then, merely saying: "So charmed that you got in!"

To her surprise the rather spasmodic, courteous smile on her host's thin face disappeared suddenly into a stern gravity, almost a look of fear.

"Er, I beg your pardon " he began.

"I said it was wonderful— the rapid way you were run in," said Miss Bellamy, nodding cheerfully.

The look of angry astonishment in her host's eyes became more marked, and it suddenly occurred to Miss Bellamy that she wasn't invited, and might expect a cold reception. Royalty ought not to expect it, but still it was just possible in the present lamentable state of London politics. So rearing her small head, she passed out into the room, and was joined with the crowd. After a time, feeling herself a little unnoticed, she decided to do the great lady in being condescendingly chatty. She singled out a red-moustached young man near her, and said: "This is a most interesting occasion."

"Yes," said he good-humoredly. "Rather a rum go! They daren't make it a banquet for fear of the silver forks."

Miss Bellamy coughed. What did the man mean? Really, the jokes of the people were often incomprehensible.

"I was acquainted with our host many years ago," she went on primly. "But I have lost sight of him for some years."

Again the young man laughed.

"Well, yes," he said. "A lot of us did! That's not to be wondered at."

"How wonderfully he has worked up in the world," said Miss Bellamy, moralisingly. "What a model he should be to young men."

"Oh, come," laughed the young man, throwing her a deprecatingly familiar glance.

Miss Eliza cleared her throat, a thing she always did when she was angry.

"You are at liberty to hold your own opinions, she said, "but I feel myself at one with all his precepts."

"Well, they do say the ladies are rather advanced," began the young man, repressing his astonished giggles.

She turned away really offended. Her right-hand neighbor was an older man of more sedate appearance.

"How much one is constrained to admire our excellent member," she remarked.

"Our what, madam?"

"I spoke of our host to-night. What a clever man; what a splendid career!"

"H'm. Dear me. Well, yes. Clever. I don't deny the cleverness. But the career—"

Again Eliza's head went up in the air. "Allow me to tell you," she said, "that it is my ideal of a career for an Englishman."

Her neighbor turned heavily round and gave her a slow stare, a stare that under other circumstances might have been a whistle.

"Indeed?" was all he said, but he looked much.

She felt really angry this time.

"What a sickening thing is political jealousy!" she said to herself. "Dear me! What unfortunate things one learns of human nature!"

However, she had succeeded in coming to the reception. That was something. Wouldn't James and Alice look silly? As if Miss Bellamy, of Dovechester, would ever be refused admission to any reception, however select.

But now the party was breaking up. She thought she would go, and fetching her wraps she made her way to the Hall doors. When she got back to the country she would regale Dovechester with a full account of this festivity. The weather had changed seriously since the early part of the evening, and there was a great rush for carriages or cabs. The snow and hail were coming down in blinding sheets and the streets were becoming impassable.

Miss Bellamy stood, her little figure in its crimson cloak, vainly trying to hail the now rare cabs that were being seized rapidly by the younger and quicker guests. A chartered brougham drew up and her host prepared to step into it, when, seeing her standing there, he turned and very hesitatingly said:

"Can I offer you my carriage, madam?"

She jumped at the offer. To be driven home by the Member himself. What a triumph! This was a truly Royal conclusion to her little adventure.

Of course she allowed herself to be handed in.

But as he lingered outside the carriage door she said: "Are you not coming, too?"

He gave another of those nervous, eager movements. "I thought you might not like—" he began.

A few guests were still lingering on the snowy steps listening. "I should consider it an honor sir," rang out Miss Bellamy's bell-like voice .

With a low bow, and a second of hesitation, he got in and they drove towards her sister-in-law's house.

"Of course, we are quite old friends," she went on chirpily. "You knew my father, Frank Bellamy, K.C."

His face blanched in the dim light, and he started. There was no answer.

"But you have left our friendship alone for many years," she went on. "Now I must ask that we renew it on new and better lines."

He seemed hardly to understand her. His hollow eyes gazed at her face questioningly. For such a rich and famous man he looked terribly worn and wretched.

"You must feel proud of such a successful reception," she continued.

"Proud?" he replied bitterly. "Oh yes, they'll make 'copy' out of it, of course. Plenty of that."

"So many enthusiastic friends and supporters."

"Oh, they're only spectators. Londoners will come to look at anything— even a man's ruin and despair!"

"Oh you cannot talk against your supporters," said Miss Bellamy, archly shaking her earrings. "A man who has made such a name as yours!"

"No, I have no right," said he. His thin face in the half-lights flickering from the cabs they passed, turned to her pathetically, suddenly lighted up.

"But I must not repay your angelic kindness by saddening you," he said, putting out a timid hand and lightly touching her.

"My kindness?"

"Yes, in allowing me to drive you home. In being seen with me," he said, his voice tense with feeling. "Is it possible that you will let me see you again? Or do I ask too much?"

A slow blush mounted to Miss Bellamy's faded cheek. What a moment in her dull limited life.! A famous politician and a baronet urging her thus, with such a world of yearning in his eyes! Her heart went pita-pat.

"Say no, if I ask too much," he went on eagerly. "But you are the first and only woman to offer me real friendship— a gleam of hope, since—"

"I am staying with my sister, Mrs. James Bellamy, at this address," she said, as the cab drew up at her brother's door. "Call and see me to-morrow if you like."

He wrung her hand, and drove away. Upstairs she found Alice still sitting up for her.

She plunged into an excited account.

"Where did you say it was?" said Alice.

"At Welbeck Hall."

"You mean Woolpack Hall— opposite the Fire Station."

"No, certainly not. Right the other end of the town— Welbeck Hall, opposite the Police Station."

Alice chrew up hen hands. "Oh, Eliza— never!" she cried. "Yes, certainly. Why not?"

"Oh, Eliza!"

"Good gracious, Alice, are you going mad? Why 'Oh, Eliza?' I tell you I went, as I said I should, to the Member's reception, and Sir Kelly—"

"Oh, but my dear ELiza, if you went to Welbeck Hall, not Woolpack, it— it wasn't—"

"What?"

"It wasn't the Member," said Alice.

"Nonsense! Wasn't the Member? What do you mean?"

"What I say. After you had gone I asked James about it. He said the Member, Sir Kelly Watkin, was giving his reception at the Woolpack Hall."

"My dear Alice, I tell you I went only to Welbeck Hall. There was a reception, a party, a perfect crowd, mixed, but still— yes, the reception was right enough."

"Oh, I don't doubt that."

"Then why—"

"It was a reception," said. Alice lugubriously. "But it was an affair got up by the Opposition Press to reinstate in society— a criminal."

"A what?"

"A forger!" said Alice, solemnly, "James told me all about it, too late. Your host to-night was a forger."

There was a long pause.

"What is his name? W-h-what is he like?" faltered Miss Bellamy.

"James says he is a tall, good-looking, thin man, clean-shaven, nervous of manner. You ought to remember his name yourself— it is Thirkell. Your own father tried and condemned him twenty years ago. He was a bank manager. I only heard to-night that the Opposition were making a party matter of it. He was condemned under a very severe Home Secretary, who would not commute his sentence, though I recollect there were remarkable extenuating circumstances."

Miss Bellamy, sat in stony, stricken silence.

"But, never mind, Eliza dear," added Alice Bellamy kindly; "you have done yourself no harm. That's the best of London. No one really knows one. All those Press people that you must have met will never remember it against you. Besides "

"No, no," said Miss Bellamy, "but— I asked him to call to-morrow. A forger!"

"He can be sent packing!" said Alice.

THAT NIGHT Miss Bellamy had no sleep. She paced her room to and fro through the long hours, seeing again the crowded party, hearing the sneers of the guests, and realising now the meaning of all the things that had seemed so odd. A criminal! And yet the worn, sad face, the grateful tones, the pathetically eager grasp of her friendship. came before her like a recurring symphony in all the confusion and distress. Could she send him away to-morrow?

And yet, of course, she must. Yes, the daughter of a K.C. must be firm.

When, next day, he called, she was already in the room, pretending to arrange some asters with trembling hands. Her old-fashioned "drop" earrings were shaking. She hardly glanced up as the grey, hollow-eyed man. her host of last evening, entered the room.

"Mr. Thirkell," she said hurriedly, witn-out any greeting. "Last night I made a great mistake. I thought you were Sir Kelly Watkin, the new member for the borough. I went to the wrong reception by mistake. I—"

The man's "Oh" was a kind of groan. He drew back as if struck in the face.

"Stay a moment," said Miss Bellamy, still trimming the asters with fluttering hands. "I now know your story. I believe my own father was your Judge . Mr. Thirkell"— she paused a second. I am not your Judge. I am a dull, plain, lonely old maid, but I have a little income and a little home, and a sorry heart. If you as you said last night— if— if— you are in need of kindness— I offer you that home and that heart, for always."

There was a moment's hush, as with a cry, like a sob, the ex-convict slipped on to one knee, and kissed the thin little hand passionately.

And even Dovechester had to admit that, for a mad marriage, it was a genuine success.

______________

9: Conscience

K. R. Patterson

The Argus (Melbourne) 29 Sep 1928

The Author is Australian, and published at least two stories in "The Argus". (The other is entitled "The Great Mallee Oil Field".) Other than  that, I could find out nothing about him.

I RECEIVED a shock when Benjamin Hook, the only lawyer in our little country town, did not ask for his fee in advance. He was supposed to be particular in money matters, and he was certainly not defending me for love or to gain popularity with the towns-people. I had been the villain of the place ever since I was convicted of offensive behaviour four years before.

Although I was released on a bond they treated me like a criminal, and would not let me go straight. When Wattie Robertson's place was broken into they were all down on me. If I had had any sense I would have left the town years before. A small, one horse, stick in the-mud place it was, and the people were just like the town but I stayed on with my wife and two children in a little tumble-down cottage on the edge of the town next to a paddock which they called the 'Park'.  No one came near us except the landlord, and he came only when the rent was due. Hook was not likely to be popular for defending me; he was sure, in fact, to lose any popularity he had.

I will give people their due. There was some evidence against me. Waters had been one of the justices of the peace on the bench where I was tried so I owed him a grudge. Besides, I had been seen coming from the direction of his house carrying a bag soon after the robbery, and I had been free with money for a few days afterwards. It was no use saying that there had been nothing but sand for my fowl house in the bag, and that I had been free with money only because I had managed to save enough for some things I had needed for years.

Hook not only offered to defend me when I came up for trial in a town about 30 miles away, and refused to talk about his fee. He actually bailed me out— I who had such a bad reputation that mothers used to say to their children, "Be quiet or Mr Wilson will come and take you."

There were other things I could not understand about Hook. He seemed to know that I was innocent. I knew that I was, but outside my family no one else thought so. He was quite confident, too, of getting me acquitted, which was to me the most surprising thing of all.

My trial was really sensational, but I was not responsible for that; it was Hook who made it sensational. He first of all asked that all witnesses should be ordered to leave the court. Then he asked Robertson, who had identified some goods which they had found in the park near my place as things which had been stolen from him, whether he had not lost also a tall glass vase.

Wattle looked scared and muttered something about not having reported it. I did not know why he looked so frightened, but he and Hook had never been friends.

"Did you not lose also a tall blue glass vase with a floral design round the top and a coat-of-arms on the side?" repeated Hook

"Yes," Wattie murmured

"Did you keep it in a cupboard, on the door of which was a conspicuous red cross and the lock of which was of the combination type, made by Smith and Company?"

Robertson looked very frightened. "I don't see what that has to do with the case," he said.

The judge asked look what he meant by the question. Hook said that he was trying to prove that the man who had broken into the house knew how to pick a combination lock and had taken something which no one in the town knew about.

Everyone in the court was watching Robertson. Many were wondering what Wattie was doing with a vase which needed a hiding so carefully. It had the jury thinking, I could see.

When Constable Perkins, who had arrested me, got into the box he gave his evidence straight-forwardly and told the jury how Mr Robertson had reported to him that his house had been broken into and how he had found some of the stolen goods in the park near his place. He said that he had heard me make threats against Robertson, and he told them what I said and did when he arrested me.

Hook did not bother much about cross examination. All he asked was whether the constable knew that a vase had been stolen also. Perkins had been outside while Robertson was giving evidence, and he did not know what Hook was asking about. He had to say he did not know about it, and that he did not know that Mr Robertson had a vase like the one Hook described. When Hook asked him whether he had ever known me to pick a combination lock, Perkins nearly fell out of the box with surprise, but he said that he had not known me to do that. Then Hook asked him whether he had found any of the stolen goods in my house. Of course, he had not.

Then Sam Smith came in and said that he had seen me getting out of the window of Robertson's house carrying something.

He knew it was me, because I passed in a front of a lighted window and he recognised me.

"Did you see the man getting out of the window very clearly?" asked Hook

"No, he was in the darkness," said Sam.

"What was he like— short and fat, like me?"

I am tall and thin. Sam had to say he did not quite know, he could not see very clearly, but the man might have been short. He had to admit also that he did not recognise me until I passed a shop window and that before then he had lost sight of the man who got out of the window. He admitted further that I seemed to take a long time to pass the dark part of the street

Then took asked Sam whether he knew that Robertson had a tall blue glass vase, and described how it was kept. Sam, very surprised, said that he knew nothing about

Hook asked him whether he had ever known me to pick a combination lock and Sam find to say he had not.

There were other witnesses. Hook asked them all about the vase and whether I find ever picked a combination lock. He did not seem to worry much about anything else. They all said that they knew nothing about the vase, and that they had not known me to pick a combination lock.

The jury did not seem to be convinced that I was guilty, and I expected that they would acquit me without asking me to give evidence, but they did not

I gave my evidence as honestly as I could. I told them I had not committed the theft, that it was a bag of sand that Sam Smith saw me carrying, and that I came up a side street to the dark patch where Sam saw the man disappear. I did not know of the things they found in the park, and had not heard about the robbery until I was arrested.

The lawyer who was prosecuting tried to embarrass me, but he could not shake me He tried to induce me to say that I had once worked for a locksmith, and that I knew combination locks, but I said that I had not, and I did not have to commit perjury to say so.

The jury did not take long to decide. About half an hour after I they had retired they came out again and said that I was not guilty. I told Hook that I was pleased with the way in which he had got me acquitted, and asked how much I owed him. I said that I would pay him all that I could each week, and would pay him all his fees as soon as I could, but he only laughed and said that I need not worry about it. He wanted, he said, to tell me a story that would interest me, and he asked me to come and dine with him.

I and my wife and the the children all got into his car. When we arrived home we left the wife and children at my place, and I went on with Hook

After dinner we were having some port, when he took out his pipe and said, "Heaven forbid that an innocent man should be sent to gaol." (Hook is very pious sometimes.) "That vase I was talking about to-day is supposed to be lucky, and has belonged to the Hooks for generations. The Robertson's and the Hooks have always been enemies. Robertson's father got our vase by a trick. We never knew where it had gone."

He stopped and lit his pipe.

"My conscience would never have let me rest if you had been convicted. I had to take a few other things, so that Robertson would not suspect me."

I was gasping and wondering what was coming next.

Hook got up and went over to part of the wall. He tugged at a panel. It opened and I saw a beautiful vase, just like the one they had been talking about in the Court.

_________________

10: The Petrie Plan

Anonymous

Sunshine Advocate (Vic) 6 May 1938

This story had neither title nor author's name, making it impossible to identify the author. I have invented a title.

GURNAND had many months ago decided to kill Petrie, but Gurnand was not the sort to hurry. He believed in taking things calmly and being sure where each foot was going to land before he stretched it out. It was, perhaps, this slow carefulness of Gurnand that had enabled Petrie to ruin him.

Gurnand's Restaurant, in the market square at Bedchester, had done a flourishing business for many years, and from it three generations of Gurnands had drawn a pleasant income, leaving the management to employees, and just dropping in occasionally to see that things were shipshape.

It was Bedchester's only restaurant, and Gurnand had never felt any necessity to move with the times. People had to eat at Gurnand's if they wanted to eat anywhere, so what was the use of new wallpaper or a new system of lighting or new carpets? One manager had suggested that in these days some people expected an iced sweet in summer, and had timidly proposed to install a refrigerator. Gurnand, feeling that the man was dangerously modern, had sacked him.

That man had been Petrie, a clever fellow who smarted under the indignity of dismissal and sought revenge. He found a man with money, and put a proposition to him. A month later Petrie's Restaurant, a glimmering palace of glass and shiny tiles, opened opposite Gurnand's. People admitted that the food was not so good or so well cooked as at the old place, but they went there, all the same.

Gurnand's waitresses were old and stern and frumpish. Petrie employed only pretty young girls, and dressed them daringly. The menu was five times as long as that at Gurnand's, and BIud Bumptious and his Banjo Boys distracted attention from the stringiness of the meat.

By the time Gurnand grasped the situation and started thinking of taking a leaf out of Petrie's book, he was ruined. He had been living beyond his income before, and suddenly there was no income, only a constant tale of losses.

SO he decided to kill Petrie, and he planned the killing carefully, as he had no wish to be hanged. Petrie lived in a neat house outside the town, and was usually to be found (luring the evenings in what he called his "office," a tiny room on the first floor. This Gurnand knew, because there had been some talk of an amalgamation between Gurnand's and Petrie's.

On Petrie's side the desire for amalgamation was genuine, for he had a feeling that sooner or later people would grow tired of glass and tiles and iced sweets and inferior cooking, and of Bud Bumptious and his Banjo Boys, and start drifting back to the solid comfort of Gurnand's. Petrie was running on a very narrow margin of profit, for exenses were high, and he knew that in the long run there was no room for two restaurants in Bedchester.

On Gurnand's side the desire for amalgamation was feigned. He would as soon have thought of taking the devil into partnership with him; but it was necessary that when Petrie's body was found with a knife wound in the throat and a knife by his side there should he no chance of anybody saying that he had an enemy.

On the evening before the murder he called round at Petrie's house, ostensibly to make final arrangements about the amalgamation. It was Tuesday, and he knew that on Wednesdays Petrie's old housekeeper always went to the pictures. Gurnand had read many detective stories, and he knew that most murdcrers were hanged because they were too clever. He had no illusions about the quality of his own brain. He knew that he was a simple man, and that the only sort of murder he could carry through was a simple one.

ON the Tuesday evening the old housekeeper opened the door.

"You know your way up," she said briefly.

"Thanks," grunted Gurnand and climbed the stairs.

Petrie greeted him effusively.

"We ought to be able to settle the last details to-night," he said, "and if it suits you we can sign the agreement to-morrow."

"Make it Thursday," said Gurnand. "I've a rather tricky job tomorrow and I want to keep the day free."

"Right," said Petrie. "Thursday will be O.K. for me. Now, about the fittings—"

They talked for half an hour, but Gurnand's eyes wandered round the room. He saw with satisfaction that Petrie had an Indian dagger which he used as a paper knife. It would be much more satisfactory to use Petrie's own knife, and it looked a useful sort of weapon.

To-morrow evening he would call on Petrie, pretending to have remembered a small point in connection with the fittings. Petrie himself would open the door and take him upstairs. Gurnand would be wearing his gloves. He would take an unopened letter from his pocket and pick up the paper knife, ostensibly to open the letter, but really to stab Petrie. Before he realised what was happening the man would be dead.

Gurnand had carefully considered at what angle a knife would enter the throat if the wound were self-inflicted. The knife he would place on the floor as if it had fallen from Petrie's hand. A simple, straightforward murder, with no clues and no witnesses.

Approaching the house across the fields from his own house he should meet no one, and he could return the same way. His own servant would be out, and nobody would be able to prove he had not spent the whole evening at home. Petrie's office overlooked the street, but nobody standing in the street could see inside the room, owing to the fact that the office was on the first floor.

"I'll be glad to have things settled," said Petrie, as they parted.

"So will I," said Gurnand cheerfully.

EVERYTHING went exactly according to plan. Nobody saw Gurnand leave his house on the Wednesday evening by the drawing room window. He met nobody when crossing the fields, and he had to stand at Petrie's door for a minute before it opened.

"Sorry to keep you waiting " said Petrie, "but Mrs Calman is out at the pictures. She always goes on Wednesdays, so I have to answer the door myself. Come along upstairs."

And it went on happening exactly according to plan, as it was pretty well bound to do, everything being so simple. Gurnand said a word or two about fittings, then mentioned that he had a list in his pocket, and took out an envelope.

"Let's have the paper knile," he said casually, and Petrie, innocent as a lamb, handed it to him.

"You're a nasty, oily little chiseller," said Gurnand sharply, "and I'm going to kill you!"

Petrie went as white as a sheet. Then Gurnand struck, and made no mistake. Petrie died without a groan, and Gurnand placed the knife where he wanted it, and walked calmly out of the room.

MURDER trials are usually a long business, so much of the evidence being circumstantial, and a witness of the crime being very rarely available. But when Gurnand was tried for the murder of Petrie the trial was the shortest on record. Fifteen respectable citizens went into the witness box and swore that they had seen Gurnand actually deliver the fatal blow. In face of such overwhelming evidence the result was never in doubt.

"If ever you feel inclined to murder anybody," said Gurnand quietly to the chaplain on the morning of the execution, "make sure that you have remembered all the relevant factors. I thought I hadn't forgotten anything, but I had. I forgot that the 6.15 bus passed passed Petrie's house at 6.37, and that the 6.15 is always a double-decker!"

_______________

11: Our Lady of Gwithian

A. T. Quiller-Couch

The Watchman (Sydney)  5 Mar 1914

1863-1944

"Mary, mother, well thou be!

Mary, mother, think on me;

Sweete Lady, maiden clean,

Shield me from ill, shame, and teen;

Shield me, Lady, from villainy

And from all wicked company!"

—Speculum Christiani.

HERE is a little story I found one day among the legends of the Cornish Saints, like a chip in porridge. If you love simplicity, I think it may amuse you.

Lovey Bussow was wife of Daniel Bussow, a tin-streamer of Gwithian Parish. He had brought her from Camborne, and her neighbours agreed that there was little amiss with the woman if you overlooked her being a bit weak in the head. They set her down as "not exactly." At the end of a year she brought her husband a fine boy. It happened that the child was born just about the time of year the tin-merchants visited St. Michael's Mount; and the father— who streamed in a small way, and had no beast of burden but his donkey, or "naggur"— had to load up panniers and drive his tin down to the shore-market with the rest, which for him meant an absence of three weeks, or a fortnight at the least.

So Daniel kissed his wife and took his leave; and the neighbours, who came to visit her as soon as he was out of the way, all told her the same story— that until the child was safely baptised it behoved her to be very careful and keep her door shut for fear of the Piskies. The Piskies, or fairy-folk (they said), were themselves the spirits of children that had died unchristened, and liked nothing better than the chance to steal away an unchristened child to join their nation of mischief.

Lovey listened to them, and it preyed on her mind. She reckoned that her best course was to fetch a holy man as quickly as possible to baptise the child and make the cross over him. So one afternoon, the mite being then a bare fortnight old, she left him asleep in his cradle and, wrapping a shawl over her head, hurried off to seek Meriden the Priest.

Meriden the Priest dwelt in a hut among the sandhills, a bowshot beyond St. Gwithian's Chapel on the seaward side, as you go out to Godrevy. He had spent the day in barking his nets, and was spreading them out to dry on the short turf of the towans; but on hearing Lovey's errand, he good-naturedly dropped his occupation and, staying only to fill a bottle with holy water, walked back with her to her home.

As they drew near, Lovey was somewhat perturbed to see that the door, which she had carefully closed, was standing wide open. She guessed, however, that a neighbour had called in her absence, and would be inside keeping watch over the child. As she reached the threshold, the dreadful truth broke upon her: the kitchen was empty, and so was the cradle!

It made her frantic for a while. Meriden the Priest offered what consolation he could, and suggested that one of her neighbours had called indeed, and finding the baby alone in the cottage, had taken it off to her own home to guard it. But this he felt to be a forlorn hope, and it proved a vain one. Neither search nor inquiry could trace the infant. Beyond a doubt the Piskies had carried him off.

When this was established so that even the hopefullest of the good-wives shook her head over it, Lovey grew calm of a sudden and (as it seemed) with the calm of despair. She grew obstinate too.

"My blessed cheeld!" she kept repeating. "The tender worm of 'en! But I'll have 'en back, if I've to go to the naughty place to fetch 'en. Why, what sort of a tale be I to pitch to my Dan'l, if he comes home and his firstborn gone?"

They shook their heads again over this. It would be a brave blow for the man, but (said one to another) he that marries a fool must look for thorns in his bed.

"What's done can't be undone," they told her. "You'd best let a two-three of us stay the night and coax 'ee from frettin'. It's bad for the system, and you so soon over child-birth."

Lovey opened her eyes wide on them.

"Lord's sake!" she said, "you don't reckon I'm goin' to sit down under this? What?— and him the beautifullest, straightest cheeld that ever was in Gwithian Parish! Go'st thy ways home, every wan. Piskies steal my cheeld an' Dan'l's, would they? I'll pisky 'em!"

She showed them forth— "put them to doors" as we say in the Duchy—  every one, the Priest included. She would have none of their consolation.

"You mean it kindly, naybors, I don't say; but tiddn' what I happen to want. I wants my cheeld back; an' I'll have'n back, what's more!"

They went their ways, agreeing that the woman was doited. Lovey closed the door upon them, bolted it, and sat for hours staring at the empty cradle. Through the unglazed window she could see the stars; and when these told her that midnight was near, she put on her shawl again, drew the bolt, and fared forth over the towans. At first the stars guided her, and the slant of the night-wind on her face; but by and by, in a dip between the hills, she spied her mark and steered for it. This was the spark within St. Gwithian's Chapel, where day and night a tiny oil lamp, with a floating wick, burned before the image of Our Lady.

Meriden the Priest kept the lamp filled, the wick trimmed, year in and year out. But he, good man, after remembering Lovey in his prayers, was laid asleep and snoring within his hut, a bowshot away. The chapel-door opened softly to Lovey's hand, and she crept up to Mary's image, and abased herself before it.

"Dear Aun' Mary," she whispered, "the Piskies have taken my cheeld! You d'knaw what that means to a poor female— you there, cuddlin' your liddle Jesus in the crook o' your arm. An' you d'knaw likewise what these Piskies be like; spiteful li'l toads, same as you or I might be if happen we'd died unchristened an' hadn' no share in heaven nor hell nor middle-earth. But that's no excuse. Aun' Mary, my dear, I want my cheeld back!" said she. That was all Lovey prayed. Without more ado she bobbed a curtsy, crept from the chapel, closed the door, and way-to-go back to her cottage.

When she reached it and struck a light in the kitchen she more than half expected to hear the child cry to her from his cradle. But, for all that Meriden the Priest had told her concerning the Virgin and her power, there the cradle stood empty.

"Well-a-well!" breathed Lovey. "The gentry are not to be hurried, I reckon. I'll fit and lie down for forty winks," she said; "though I do think, with her experience Mary might have remembered the poor mite would be famished afore this, not to mention that the milk in me is beginnin' to hurt cruel."

She did off some of her clothes and lay down, and even slept a little in spite of the pain in her breasts; but awoke a good two hours before dawn, to find no baby restored to her arms, nor even (when she looked) was it back in its cradle. "This'll never do," said Lovey. On went her shawl again, and once again she faced the night and hurried across the towans to St. Gwithian's Chapel. There in her niche stood Our Lady, quite as though nothing had happened, with the infant Christ in her arms and the tiny lamp burning at her feet.

"Aun' Mary, Aun' Mary," said Lovey, speaking up sharp, "this iddn' no sense 't all! A person would think time was no objic, the way you stick there starin', ain' my poor cheeld leary with hunger afore now— as you, bein' a mother, oft to knaw. Fit an' fetch 'en home to me quick. Aw, do'ee co', that's a dear soul!"

But Our Lady stood there and made no sign.

"I don't understand 'ee 't all," Lovey groaned. "'Tiddn' the way I'd behave in your place, and you d'knaw it."

Still Our Lady made no sign.

Lovey grew desperate.

"Aw, very well, then!" she cried. "Try what it feels like without your liddle Jesus!"

And reaching up a hand, she snatched at and lifted the Holy Child that fitted into a stone socket on Our Lady's arm. It came away in her grasp, and she fled, tucking it under her shawl.

All the way home Lovey looked for the earth to gape and swallow her, or a hand to reach down from heaven and grip her by the hair; and all the way she seemed to hear Our Lady's feet padding after her in the darkness. But she never stopped nor stayed until she reached home; and there, flinging in through the door and slamming to the bolt behind her, she made one spring for the bed, and slid down in it, cowering over the small stone image.

Rat-a-tat! tat!— someone knocked on the door so that the cottage shook.

"Knock away!" said Lovey. "Whoever thee be, thee 'rt not my cheeld."

Rat-a-tat! tat!

"My cheeld wouldn' be knockin': he's got neither strength nor sproil for it. An' you may fetch Michael and all his Angels, to tear me in pieces," said Lovey; "but till I hear my own cheeld creen to me, I'll keep what I have!"

Thereupon Lovey sat up, listening. For outside she heard a feeble wail.

She slipped out of bed. Holding the image tight in her right arm, she drew the bolt cautiously. On the threshold at her feet, lay her own babe, nestling in a bed of bracken.

She would have stooped at once and snatched him to her. But the stone Christling hampered her, lying so heavily in her arm. For a moment, fearing trickery, she had a mind to hurl it far out of doors into the night.…It would fall without much hurt into the soft sand of the towans. But on a second thought she held it forth gently in her two hands.

"I never meant to hurt 'en, Aun' Mary," she said. "But a firstborn's a firstborn, be we gentle or simple."

In the darkness a pair of invisible hands reached forward and took her hostage.

When it was known that the Piskies had repented and restored Lovey Bussow's child to her, the neighbours agreed that fools have most of the luck in this world; but came nevertheless to offer their congratulations. Meriden the Priest came also. He wanted to know how it had happened; for the Piskies do not easily surrender a child they have stolen.

Lovey— standing very demure, and smoothing her apron down along her thighs— confessed that she had laid her trouble before Our Lady.

"A miracle, then!" exclaimed his Reverence. "What height! What depth!"

"That's of it," agreed Lovey. "Aw, b'lieve me, your Reverence, we mothers understand wan another."

_________________

12: Menagerie

Alexander Kuprin

1870-1938

Telegraph (Brisbane) 28 Aug 1934

IN Johann Muller's travelling menagerie, the keeper had not yet lit the  lamps for the evening performance.  A heavy half mist rested on everything.

The iron lattices, cages. barriers, benches, pillars supporting the roof, the tubs, with water, and the boxes of sand— in the dying flicker of an autumn evening, all seemed parts of heaped up disorder.

Shivering with cold and closely snuggling against one another, the captives were slumbering heavily In their cages, for at this hour they could relax from the tiresome curiosity of the public.

Caesar was asleep, and like a dog in delirium softly whimpered in his slumber.  One of his mighty yellow paws protruded through a slit the bottom of the lattice where his food was usually pushed in, and hung down carelessly on the outside. His head was hidden in his other paw, which was bent down at the knee, and from above one could only see his thick dark mane. Beside him his lioness rolled herself up into a ball like a sleeping kitten.  Caesar slept uneasily , and shuddered from time to time, the breath puffing out of his wide nostrils in volumes of hot steam.  Caesar was having troublous but blissful dreams.

THE keeper lit the lamp. Its light glared into Caesar's eyes and woke him. At first the lion could not easily come to himself, for he still felt the taste of fresh blood on his tongue. But as soon as he realised where he was, he quickly jumped to his feet and roared in a more wrathful voice than had ever yet been heard by any of the monkeys, llamas, and zebras who always trembled as the lion's roaring. The lioness also awoke, and, lying out on the ground, added her voice to his.

Caesar no longer remembered his dream, but never yet had this restricted cage, these execrable lamps, and these human figures irritated him to such an extent. He flew from corner to corner of his cage, growling spitefully at the lioness when she happened to be in his way, stopping only to give expression, In a furious roar, to the impotent but terrific rage of imprisoned Caesar.

"Ple-ease, ladles and gentlemen— the explanation of the beasts begins. Ple-ease!"— the German keeper cried at the entrance. The ladies and gentlemen, including whom were 10 or 12 ladies with children and their nurses, several schoolboys and cadets, and about 30 neatly dressed men, came nearer and, surrounded the keeper. The rest of the audience remained gazing from behind the barrier. The keeper stood with his back to the first cage, and, rapping his cone behind his back against the lattice, began the explanation:—

"Here is the American po-orcupine. He has a body armed with long, prickly needles, which he throws out at his enemies who pursue him..."

This explanation was uttered in a trite tone, with the most complete indifference to the porcupine. Then came the next number.

"Here is the black panther, better known as the "black death," also called the grave-digger. Disrupts graves and devours corpuses, together with the, skin, bones, and even hair. Ma-ake way, gentlemen. The children cannot see...."

The public, stooped down to the lattice,, but could see nothing except two burning green eyes in the farthest corner of the

"Maybe there ain't no panther," a voice suggested from the gallery.

"Then the keeper explained the hamadrille who "walks in moonlight, and if there ain't no moonlight, then without moonlight, and devours crocodile eggs."

At last the crowd stopped in front of the lion's cage.

"Here is the African, lion, Caesar. He cost 26,000 marks, and his lioness cost 11,000 marks— " sang the keeper. Then in his hands suddenly appeared from nowhere, a tin collection box, and, shaking the coppers inside it, he extended it to the audience.

"Now the daring performance, will begin," he said. "The taming of lions and feeding of wild beasts. Make your donations, ladies and gentlemen, whatever you can, on behalf of the servants of the menagerie."

At the same time, with his free hand, he began ringing a handbell which was to announce the commencement of the performance and 10 Jewish, musicians broke Into a merry march.

"CARLCHEN, the bell!" cried the neat little elderly German woman, emerging from the till, and opening the door of. the dressing-room where the tamer was dressing.

"All right!" Carlchen replied. "Please shut the door, mother. It's cold."

Brother of the proprietor of the menagerie, Carl Muller, was standing in a tiny dressing-room made of planks, in front of the looking-glass, already attired In pink tights. His older brother, Johann, was sitting near him watching Carl's toilette vigilantly, and handing him the requisite articles. Johann himself was severely lame (a tame lion had mutilated his right leg), and did not ever appear as a tamer, but, when in the cage, would hand his brother hoops, Bengal lights, and pistols.

"Here's rouge," said Johann, holding the box out to his brother. "Put on a little."

Sure enough Carl did look pale. At the very first notes of music he felt the blood rush from his face and a hot wave gushed to his heart. His hands became chill and quivering This trepidation, however, was not a sign of cowardice. For two years Carl had been taming lions and always experienced the same sensation— that of a bracing of nerves.  The music, the lamps, the timid and deferential curiosity of the crowd, the Bengal lights, finally the rush of will and daring during the performance in the cage, and that terrific moral force which he would experience all the time thrilled his whole being, and gave fire to his glance,  which could make the lion shrink timorously into the corner.

Yet all this agitated him while he was dressing.

After putting on a coat of rouge he pencilled the lower and upper eyelids which made his eyes become huge and appear to sparkle. Then he looked at himself in the mirror.

He saw a brave, agitated, but very handsome face, with a sharp, obstinate chin, with large blue eyes glowing with a happy smile.

"Whip," Carl ordered abruptly, adjusting himself in front of the mirror.

His elder brother hastily handed him a long lash and turned to the door, opening it widely before Carl's appearance. He thoughtfully felt the revolver in his pocket. Carl flung the mirror onto the dressing table and made several rapid movements with his arms and legs so as to test his suppleness.

HIS brother glanced at him questioningly. Carl nodded his head and passed through the door with elastic, easy steps, out into the menagerie. Johann walked behind, ringing the bell, and the tidy little old woman behind the till furtively made the sign of the Cross over her handsome young son— her darling.

About half-way to the cage Carl stopped by the keeper, who whispered a few words in his ears. This was bad. A tamer should never halt for a second when approaching the cage, because the beast watches him intently from the moment he leaves his dressing-room

"Caesar frets? Snarls—?" Carl repeated the question deliberately, loudly posing, with his fearlessness before the people.  "Oh, nonsense! He will soon be as gentle as a lamb."

Caesar stood pressing his face against the lattice, watching the tamer's every movement. Carl quickly passed through the spectators who made way for him, adroitly jumped the three steps of the ladder and found himself in the protective area, from which an iron door opened into the large cage.

Scarcely had he reached out to touch the handle when Caesar leaped in a spring to the door, leaned against it with his head, while he thundered a roar, half- scalding Carl with his hot breath and the aroma of meat.

"Back! Caesar! Back!" Carl shouted, and deliberately brought his face near the lattice so as to fix the beast with a steady, stare. The lion ignored the. stare,  but would not retreat, and bared his teeth.

Then Carl thrust his whip through the lattice and began to strike Caesar on the head and paws.

Caesar roared, held his ground, and met glance with glance.

"Stop it!" said Johann in a quiet, uneasy voice, imperceptibly drawing his revolver from the pocket under his cloak.

"No!" Carl snapped angrily and hit the lion again with all his strength on the head, again crying, "Back, Caesar, back!"

"That's enough! Stop it!" the spectators screamed, almost paralysed and unable to move from their places.

"Lights!" cried Carl.

The momentary fit of indecision which he had experienced at the lion's disobedience now gave way to anger, and he resolved to make the beast obey at any price.

Johann snatched from the brazier which the keeper brought a red-hot rod which he handed to his brother, together with the lit stick of sparkling Bengal lights.

DAZZLED by the light, the spectators did not observe Carl's quick motion, but saw as, with a loud groan of pain, Caesar jumped away from the door and at same instant the tamer found himself in the cage.

What happened afterwards? No one could clearly realise. There resounded Carl's fearful scream, a terrific roar of Caesar and his lioness, three deafening shots, the terrified cries of the spectators and the frantic, despairing senile wail: "Carlchen! Carlchen! Carlchen!"

Carl lay on the floor of the cage, torn and mangled, with broken arms, legs, and ribs, but still alive; behind him was the lioness whom Johann's bullet had struck in the head, and beside her Caesar, in his last agony.

Pale, scared spectators stood around the cage in dumb terror and would not move in spite of the keeper's entreaties to them to leave the menagerie.

__________________

13: Bradford's P-Luck

H Bedford-Jones

(as by Allan Hawkwood)

1887-1949

Tiptop Semi-Monthly, April 25, 1915

"YE'RE an obstinate, stubborn, wayward brute of a lad," said old man Garvin, with a grin, as he drew on his mittens and picked up his dog whip. "Will ye, who talk of good luck, listen to one word, with me blessing, John Bradford?"

"More than one, and gladly," replied young Bradford. "Fire away!"

"It's this, lad. There ain't no such thing as luck— it's luck with a 'p' in front of it, Ye'll not last, I warn ye— no man could; they'll drive ye out afore ye get a trap line set— "

"They will not," broke in Bradford, his brown eyes hard. "You've helped me buy that trap line, and buy it honestly. It belongs to me, and I'm able to work it."

"Ye're not," repeated old Garvin doggedly. "But mind this, John, my lad. Put a 'p' in front o' your luck, and if ye stick it out three weeks, ye'll do a man's work. Good-by to ye, and we'll look to see ye at Fort Churchill for Christmas."

"You'll not," said Bradford. But there was regret in his eyes, as they rested on the rugged features of his old friend and guide.

The two were standing outside the gate of Fort Steadfast, and old man Garvin was on his way back to Fort Churchill and civilization. They had come up together two weeks previously, and now John Bradford was about to face the long winter alone— and with it, a sterner struggle than he dreamed of, despite Garvin's warnings.

"For the last time, lad, will ye let me stay?" pleaded Garvin suddenly.

"No," said Bradford. "I'm no baby. You've got me started right, I've bought my trap line, and I'm going to stand alone. These half-breeds can't frighten me."

Admiration dwelt in the old-timer's faded eyes.

"All right, then. But mind— even if ye have bought that felley's trap line, ye'll have trouble. These 'breeds don't like outsiders coming in. Pluck be with ye, lad, and good-by till Christmas."

"Good-by— until next spring!"

"Perhaps he was right," thought Bradford, gazing after his friend. "But if I can't handle my own end— I'll not whine! And they can't freeze me out!"

Yet, despite the steady confidence in his eyes and the firm purpose stamped in his strong, cleanly-built features, he knew well that he faced a conflict.

Up here on the White Loon River all the long leagues of barren lands had been parceled out among the Indians and half-breeds for generations back. Bradford had bought the trap line, which covered the unwritten, but legal, right to all trapping in its bounds, of an old man named Peter Napoleon, and the Hudson's Bay Company factor had witnessed the sale. This gave Bradford absolute right to handle that trap line, which covered a stretch of country fifty miles in length. But Peter Napoleon had nephews, and one nephew, in especial, named Tin-cup Jean.

Tin-cup Jean had been heard to say that Peter Napoleon had no right to sell his trap line to a white boy; that no intruders in the White Loon country were wanted, and that such intruders would be sent packing without ceremony. All of which had disturbed old man Garvin, but had not ruffled Bradford in the least. Bradford had lived most of his life in Minnesota, had done a good deal of hunting and trapping, and knew how to take care of himself. Though he was but eighteen, the young American was quite justified in his self-confidence. He had been in northwestern Canada for a year. Having made some money by guiding fishing parties that summer, he had struck for Fort Churchill, in the north, where Garvin, an old family friend, was working as storekeeper. Garvin had, with many protests, brought him up to Fort Steadfast, and had there helped him in getting rightly started. Bradford, gazing off at the dark speck on the snow, shook off the uneasiness that gripped him on the departure of his friend. "Bosh!" Then he laughed inwardly, and turned to the gates of the post.

"These Indians up here aren't going to hurt me! Now for my dogs, and I'm off to Lac du Chien and my trap line!"

He entered the gates, for Steadfast was an old fort, built within a stockade. Just outside the store, Bradford had left his dog team and ready-loaded sled, since he was departing at once for his trapping grounds. As he turned, however, he checked himself abruptly. A glance showed him what was going on— and the scene brought a sparkle of anger to his brown eyes. With a sudden cry of rage, he sprang forward, baring his clenched fists of their mittens.

ii

STANDING OUTSIDE the store of the fort, heavy dog whip in hand, was a tall, dark half-breed, clothed in a red capote, or blanket coat. Crouching in the newfallen snow, a trickle of blood freezing on her cheek, was a frightened squaw. Both were Woods Crees. The young American had seen that blow struck. Now he saw the half-breed raise the whip again, an expression of snarling rage stamped on his cruel face. It was this sight which had wakened Bradford to such quick anger. The 'breed had not seen him. Quick as a flash, John Bradford leaped forward and seized the heavy hide whip, tearing it from the grasp of the surprised half-breed.

"How dare you strike a woman, you coward?" he cried hotly. As the Cree's eyes fell on Bradford, his swarthy hand flew to his knife. But it rested there. The half-breed knew that the butt of his dog whip was heavily weighted, and in the face of the young American he saw a readiness to use that heavy butt. Bradford, looking into the man's venomous gaze, felt as though an icy blast had struck him. Yet no sign of that feeling was revealed in his features, and his eyes held steady.

"Mebbeso you want for scrap, huh?" demanded the Cree belligerently.

"No," returned Bradford. "I don't want to fight. But I've a good notion to give you a taste of your own whip, my friend! I suppose you think you're a heap big chief to be beating up a squaw like this, eh? You coward!"

Without immediate response, the half-breed turned, stirred the crouching squaw with his foot, and snapped out a word in Cree. She arose, drew her shawl over her head, and started out between the open gates toward the river. Hand still on knife, the Cree looked at Bradford with such malignant hatred that the young American gripped the dog whip more tightly.

"I'm know you," said the half-breed, his voice thick with rage. "You's be de feller what come here to make for steal ol' Pete 'Poleon's trap line— "

"That's a lie, and I think you know it," interrupted Bradford evenly. "I bought that trap line, and I mean to run it."

"I'm tell you dis!" said the Cree passionately. "Dis be Injun country! You white man keep 'way! You stay, mebbeso you get hurt!"

"My greasy-haired friend, you're away off on some points," exclaimed Bradford. "This is open country. I've bought that trap line from Lac du Chien to Lonesome River—"

"By gar, you's be de big t'ief!" cried the other, shaking with anger. "I'm tell you dis, me! You go 'way from here quick. You stay, mebbeso you get hurt, mebbeso you lose dem traps, mebbeso—"

Bradford smiled, and there was such anger in his smile that the excited Cree fell silent.

"I'm tell you this, me," said the young American with calm mockery, "I don't like to be called a thief, understand? You take this message to your red friends: Keep off my trap line! I know your customs up here. If you find anyone monkeying with your traps, you shoot, and shoot to kill. I'll do the same thing— savvy? I mean it."

Bradford did not mean it at all, but he looked as though he meant it very much. The Cree, astonished for the moment, only swept into a blacker rage.

"Den you watch out!" the Cree shouted menacingly. "I'm going make for kill you, some day! I'm going make for kill you, white boy—"

"Here, what's all this?" interrupted a harsh voice.

Bradford turned. The H.B.C. factor had opened the door of the store, and was standing on the steps, regarding them sourly.

"Get out of here," he said to the Cree, who obeyed the peremptory orders with a final black look at the young American.

"Mr. Bradford, will you step inside?"

"Certainly, sir," responded Bradford, who well knew what autocratic power the factor wielded in this wilderness outpost. Entering the store, he threw back his thicket capote, and turned with a smile.

"I suppose you heard our discussion, eh? That fellow was beating a woman with this whip, and I interfered."

"You should have minded your own business," growled the factor, inspecting him keenly.

"Eh? Are you in earnest?"

"Of course I am, lad," said the other more kindly. "You must never interfere between these people— leave them alone, absolutely. But another thing. Do you know who that fellow out there was?"

"No," returned Bradford, wondering.

"Tin-cup Jean." With that, the American understood the furious rage of the half-breed.

"I didn't know it," he said slowly. "Still, it makes no difference. Garvin warned me that I'd have trouble."

"You will," said the factor, his face grave. "But let me tell you something. From what I can find out, this man Tin-cup Jean has taken up the general dislike of all outsiders into his own personal handling. Overcome him, and you'll have no trouble with the others."

"You mean," asked Bradford, "that he is a sort of— of champion?"

"In a sense, yes. You'll have to best him, and do it thoroughly. If you do it, you'll have won your place. Understand? And if you find him robbing your traps— shoot."

Bradford flushed a little, remembering his own recent words.

"That was a bluff," he admitted. "I don't intend to— "

"I said, shoot!" broke in the factor keenly. "Up here, it's a criminal offense to tamper with another man's traps. Now get along, Mr. Bradford— and luck be with you!"

Bradford smiled, shook hands, and departed. But, as he marshaled his dogs and hauled around his loaded sled, he reflected that luck, preceded by a "p," was certainly going to be with him. Yet, he did not intend to shoot Tin-cup Jean, or anyone else— if he could help it.

iii

Two hundred miles from Fort Steadfast, as the crow flies, but nearer four hundred as the dog sled goes, lies Lac du Chien. Following White Loon River onward for fifty miles north, one comes to Lonesome River, a tributary. From Lac du Chien to Lonesome River was the trap line now owned by John Bradford— provided he could hold it. On the west, White Loon River was his boundary; thirty miles to the east, the Dog Hills. It was a good trap line, possessing every manner of game and every kind of country, from hills to swamps and muskegs. Of any human life it was quite bare.

Leaving Lac du Chien, Bradford lashed his team up the frozen White Loon in the midst of a driving snow, and, after fifteen miles of it, came to a halt. Here, in his own fur kingdom, he fed his dogs, lashed down his sled against their depredations, and rolled up with them under a snowdrift to sleep out the storm. Here, too, he made his permanent camp on awakening, deciding to build a cabin later, when he had found himself.

Aside from the stock supplies on his sled, he was now dependent on his own resources for absolutely everything he needed. Any man he met could be accounted an enemy, in fact if not in actual deed.

During two long, crowded weeks the young American labored as every man must labor who would bring a toll of fur from the Northland. With his camp as a base, he went north along the White Loon to Lonesome River; went up Lonesome to the Dog Hills; circled around, and came back to camp. Then he went south to Lac du Chien, circling back as before.

After him he left a line of traps, snares, and deadfalls. Each one had to be made, set, and baited with utmost care. He had to study out mink runs and otter slides. He had to keep each trap hidden, and free from contamination of human touch. He had to keep in his head the location of each and every snare he set.

In that first journey, he saw that he had been in luck, and he understood more clearly why Tin-cup Jean had been so furious. Old Pete Napoleon had been too old to cover much ground in late years, and fur was there in plenty. It was a rich trapping field.

This trap line set out, Bradford rested two days, then started for Lonesome River to follow his line. For a week he worked harder than his dogs, rebaiting and resetting traps, skinning his take, getting better acquainted with the lay of the land.

By the time he returned to camp, he was overcome with amazement and joy. That first trip had netted him a sled load of mink, otter, fox, and beaver pelts. Moreover, he had located two of the tiny, discolored air holes in snow banks which tokened that bears slept underneath, and had found a muskeg swarming with muskrat lodges.

"By thunder!" he ejaculated, as he conned his take, "if this keeps up all winter, I'll make a fortune! Now to see what's doing toward Lac du Chien— ought to be rich."

And it was rich— for one day's journey. On the second morning he came to a long swamp which extended clear to Lac du Chien. Here he had seen plenty of "sign," and had counted on reaping an abundant harvest, for marten, gray fox, and lynx were here in large numbers, and he had shot one magnificent dark mink.

Oddly enough, however, he found not a catch all that morning. Toward noon he took a beaver from a well-hidden trap— and was promptly puzzled.

That trap was one of a dozen which he had set in the vicinity of a large beaver village, but none of the others had been sprung. He examined them carefully. They seemed to be exactly as he had set them.

At length he concluded that he might not have given the beavers time to get caught, and so proceeded on to the lake. To his growing consternation, he discovered that, with the exception of a few muskrat sets, every trap had failed.

That evening he visited what he had considered a certain "take"— one of his few steel traps, carefully staked just beneath a newly made otter slide. It was exactly as he had left it. As he circled around the lake shore into the hills on his way back to camp, Bradford grew more puzzled with every hour. There was no lack of game— indeed, he shot a lynx and two timber wolves in one morning; why, therefore, did his traps fail? He had set them cunningly, and knew that his judgment was not at fault. But his marten scent had drawn no martens; his snares and deadfalls had drawn no victims.

The American had by no means forgotten the threats of Tin-cup Jean, but as he wended his discouraged way into camp after five days of fruitless work, he knew that he could lay no blame at any man's door for his failure. His traps had not been touched, it seemed certain, nor had his baits been removed, nor had the traps been robbed.

"We'll see what the north line shows up," he thought grimly, and started out the next morning for Lonesome River. He was amazed to find the same thing repeated there. This northern line, which had yielded so rich a haul on the first trip, now produced a solitary mink and two fishers. It was incredible!

Weary, discouraged, perplexed, Bradford plodded on doggedly. On the third morning of this hopeless round, when starting up Lonesome from White Loon River, he visited a very neatly set mink trap, beside a large log on the shore. It was untouched, but, at the very edge of the ice, ten feet away, the youth saw a flat indentation in the untrodden snow.

He sat down and studied that indentation, frowning. It looked exactly as though a long pole had stood there, butt down. To Bradford's eye the thing was not caused by any animal or other forest procedure. Presently he went over to the ice and examined it. After some search he found scratches on the smooth surface.

Yet, he reasoned, why should a pole be laid here, one end on the ice and the other end—

Ah! The other end! Swiftly he ran to that mink trap by the log. He pulled it to pieces slowly, carefully examining every twig and line; suddenly he leaned over, sniffing. From a bit of brush ascended the faint, pungent odor of— violet perfume!

Bradford drew back, white with anger, and stared at the trap. He saw it all, at last. Someone had dogged his steps, watching every trap; someone had approached those traps with infinite cunning, leaving no trace of his approach; someone had carefully left a drop of cheap store perfume at every trap.

It was cunning— cunning! No animal, smelling that perfume in winter, but would immediately shun the proffered bait. And, except for chance or quick suspicion, Bradford would never have discovered why his traps had failed.

Silently, the young American went to his sled and took his rifle from its moosehide cover. He filled the magazine with the soft-nosed thirty-thirty cartridges.

"I think," he muttered grimly, "that this perfume business is going to stop!"

And he set out to trail down Tin-cup Jean.

iv

Half-breeds are cunning men. Tin-cup Jean was no exception. He knew that by traveling on windblown ice, and by following the woods trail which John Bradford had broken, he would leave few signs of his going. He knew that a touch of rank perfume on a trap would keep any game away from the bait. He knew that, as a woodsman, he was far superior to John Bradford, and he despised the young American.

The trouble with cunning men is that they are usually too cunning. Tin-cup Jean, his dark-red capote like a great splotch of blood on the white landscape, moved through the woods at splendid, silent speed. He knew the location of almost every one of Bradford's traps, and spoiled each one very cunningly. He did not care if Bradford saw him, because, ostensibly, he was doing no wrong.

The fool of an American would never guess about that perfume! If he met Bradford, he would smile and scowl and pass on. He had robbed no traps, and if he did not interfere with another man's trap line, the country was open to him. Presently this American boy would be discouraged; would get down on his luck.

Tin-cup Jean knew that woodsmen are great believers in luck, and he knew nothing whatever about luck as spelled with a "p." And when this American had grown discouraged and had gone back to Fort Churchill, he, Tin-cup Jean, would take possession of his uncle's former trap line, and no one would object. It was all in the family!

Of course, though, he must be careful not to be caught spoiling a trap. To this end, he gauged his trips by those of Bradford, keeping a day ahead of the latter. In this he overreached himself at the very start, for the perfume on that mink trap had been just fresh enough for the young American's nostrils to detect it. But this, naturally, Tin-cup Jean could not know. Nor could he know that John Bradford was ranging those miles of wood and stream, rifle under arm and grim resolve driving him ever forward, careless of eating or sleeping.

So Tin-cup Jean went his way craftily, and eventually came to one of those places where Bradford had detected the air holes of a bear. And here fate caught him. It chanced that Bradford, knowing that the snows were newly fallen and that a bear may sometimes be disturbed in his retreat and so venture forth, had set the one large trap which he carried, and had set it in this wise:

Near one of the bear holes he had first set a noose for lynx or rabbit. This noose had caught a rabbit on the first setting, and Bradford had let the body alone. Two feet from this, and close to the bear hole, he had set his large steel trap, partly in the hope that it would catch a prowling wolverine, baited by the dead rabbit, and partly in hope that the bear would emerge. This trap he had covered completely with smoothed-over snow, and had staked it down.

Tin-cup Jean knew nothing of the larger trap, and, upon his arrival, was puzzled by the frozen rabbit. At length he concluded that Bradford had missed the spot on his first visit, so he calmly appropriated the frozen body for his supper, and decided to camp. He was quite aware of the bear in the snow bank, and he wanted that bear himself. How to get it without actual robbery was the question, for the bear belonged to Bradford, nominally.

So Tin-cup Jean set his cunning brain to work and evolved a splendid scheme that same night. He was a day ahead of the American boy. Good! Next morning, then, he would build his fire on top of the bear— cutting off the animal's supply of air, and rousing up the naturally angry beast. Upon that, he would shoot the bear and carry off the skin. Bradford would come. Perhaps he could come while Tin-cup Jean was skinning the bear. Good!

Any man could see with half an eye that Tin-cup Jean had unwittingly aroused the hibernating brute, had been attacked, and had slain in self-defense. Of course, the boy would know better— but would have no proof. That was the delicious part of it, to Tin-cup's notion!

So, when he had slept well, the half-breed got up, and very carefully covered his first embers with snow, hiding all trace of that fire. Then, with his rifle ready to hand, he built another fire, directly on the air hole of the sleeping bear. That done, he filled his pipe and sat down to await events, delighted with his cunning scheme.

An hour passed, and then the snow bank began to shake. Tin-cup Jean knocked out his pipe and leisurely uncased his rifle. Surely, no one could blame him for this act, which would be sheer selfdefense! He was not hunting on another man's ground! The snow bank quivered and uprose with a cloud of frosty snow spume. The fire embers flew asunder with a loud hiss, and, amid the stinging snow-cloud appeared the huge, ungainly figure of a bear.

"Pardon for taking your life, my brother," murmured Tin-cup Jean as he drew a careful bead, for he was superstitious. "The Great Spirit knows that I need your warm fur!"

His rifle cracked. The bear spun around, but did not go down, and lunged forward with one low growl. Tin-cup Jean saw that he had missed a vital spot, and hurriedly threw out the bolt of his rifle. The cartridge jammed! The ensuing events came with whirlwind swiftness. The bear, whose paws were not yet soft with the long winter sucking, came plunging at Tin-cup with a claw sweep that would have disemboweled an ox. In an agony of fear, the half-breed leaped to one side. Another swift leap— and he came down with both feet close to that rabbit snare. There was a whir of snow— a snap— and the big No. 9 trap had him fast.

In that first horrible instant, the quick brain of the Cree told him the whole story. He worked frantically at his rifle, and freed the cartridge. With the angry bear a scant six feet away, he fired, and fired again. The brute sank down, dead!

Wondering that his legs had not been broken by the shock of the trap jaws, and with an agony of pain swirling over him, Tin-cup Jean flung away his rifle and bent down to loosen those steel jaws. Then he straightened suddenly.

"Hands up, please!" had said a quiet voice. Tin-cup Jean looked over his shoulder into the haggard but resolute face of John Bradford. He also looked into the muzzle of Bradford's rifle, and his hands went up.

"I've been watching you for about an hour," said the young American coolly. "You have a vial of perfume in your pocket. Toss it here!"

Tin-cup Jean mumbled something in Cree, but the pain of the trap conquered him. He took a small flask from his capote pocket, and threw it to Bradford.

"All right," said the latter, picking up the flask and Tin-cup's rifle.

"Now loosen that trap. We have a little journey ahead of us— and you'll march in front."

He did not think to relieve the half-breed of his long skinning knife, and for that omission he was destined to pay dear.

v

AFTER A continuous tramp of fourteen hours, Tincup Jean limped into Bradford's camp. Behind him trudged John Bradford with his sled.

"Here's a first-aid packet," said the young American, when he had started a fire. "Bind up your legs."

The Cree obeyed sullenly. That steel-jawed trap had bruised him badly, but had wrought no lasting injury. Meantime, Bradford was busy writing with pencil and paper. When he had finished, he held up the paper and read aloud as follows:

"I, Tin-cup Jean, hereby admit that I tried to spoil the trap line of John Bradford by putting perfume on his traps. I admit that John Bradford followed me and caught me. I admit that he caught me killing a bear on his grounds."

Tin-cup Jean glowered in savage hatred, but Bradford only smiled sweetly.

"Now sign this," ordered the American, holding out the paper and pencil. "Then you may go free. Otherwise, I'll take you to Fort Steadfast for punishment."

Still silent, the half-breed obeyed. Bradford did not fail to observe the glum deviltry in the man's face, but he folded the signed paper and put it in his pocket with a nod. He knew, and the Cree knew, that were the writing made public, all the Northland would laugh at the joke on Tin-cup Jean. Bradford was confident that he had practically conquered his greatest enemy, by the fear of ridicule.

"Now," he said quietly, "we'll make some tea before you go. And understand, Tin-cup, I hold no hard feelings against you. So far as I am concerned, we're friends from now on."

The half-breed only bent over the bandages on his legs, without response. But his cruel eyes watched Bradford ceaselessly.

What followed came with amazing swiftness. The American tossed some frozen whitefish to his dogs. As he did so, Tin-cup Jean made a rapid motion— and his long skinning knife was transferred from its sheath to the sleeve of his red capote, ready for instant use.

"You make for give me grub?" inquired the Cree, speaking for the first time since Bradford had captured him.

"Sure," came the cheerful answer. "We'll have grub, then we'll shake hands and call our accounts square, eh?"

While speaking, the young American leaned over the fire, setting his copper kettle in adjustment. The Cree's shifting eyes measured the distance between them. A stealthy movement, and the knife gleamed in his hand. He caught his breath suddenly.

Then, with one low cry of hatred, he drove the weapon, at Bradford's shoulder blades. It was the blow of a pitiless half-breed, deadly and venomous.

But Bradford had heard that sibilant catch of the breath— it had warned him. As the blow fell he had straightened up; true, the keen knife ripped through capote and shirt and flesh beneath, but it gave no more than a glancing, ugly wound. It was no time for words.

Bradford staggered, swung around, and his fist smacked into the Cree's jaw. Tin-cup went reeling across the tent, and then began a savage battle in those close quarters— knife against fists.

The rifles were covered, and there was no time to get at them. Bradford, with conflict forced upon him, became a surprisingly active person, and there was an astonishing force to his blows. Yet he had little chance to land another fair drive, for the half-breed was as lithe and active as a cat.

In and out, in and out sprang Tin-cup Jean, snarling like a maddened animal, his knife lunging again and again at the American youth. There was stark murder in the cruel, merciless face of the half-breed, and Bradford had all he could do to evade the deadly lunges of that naming steel.

Again and again he felt his fists drive home into the half-breed's grinning mask of a face, but Tin-cup only snarled again and renewed the attack. A stab of pain in his left arm— Bradford's face went white, for the knife had ripped across his wrist, and blood lay crimson on his hand. Desperately, he stepped into Tin-cup's rush, knocked up the knife hand, and sent his right crashing into the man's mouth. It was a good blow, and the Cree staggered back.

But in the same instant Bradford's foot caught in his blankets. Unprepared, he tripped and plunged headlong to the floor. Tin-cup leaped forward with a savage cry of exultation. The American saw that he was powerless to save himself. There was no pity in the half-breed's maddened leap. With horror closing on his soul, Bradford reached out in desperation— and his fingers gripped his hand ax, its blade guarded by a steel protector.

As Tin-cup leaped at him, Bradford flung the weapon with all his force, trying only to gain time in which to roll clear of that descending knife. The hand ax flew truer than he had dared hope, and its heavy head caught the half-breed squarely between the eyes, and halted him abruptly. With a choking cry, Tin-cup Jean threw out his arms. The knife dropped from his hand. Then he staggered, and fell senseless.

"Pray Heaven, I didn't kill him!" gasped the American, struggling up. He leaned over the unconscious man and, to his relief, found that Tin-cup was no more than stunned.

Panting, weak with the reaction of that terrible battle, Bradford seized a thong and bound the man hand and foot. Then, catching up the first-aid packet, he examined his wounds. That on his wrist was bleeding badly, but was not dangerous. Along his back was a six-inch slash. Fortunately, it had done no more than break the skin. With a little prayer of gratitude, Bradford bound it up clumsily. Then he stood looking down at his captive.

"For rank treachery, you take the cake!" he said slowly. "By all the canons of wilderness law, you deserve to be turned out to freeze or starve. By cracky! it was lucky that I found that ax under my hand!"

At that he laughed suddenly, and rescued the copper kettle, which had been upset.

"I don't know about luck, either," he reflected. "I've a hunch that Providence had a whole lot to do with it. Well, Mr. Tin-cup Jean, I'm going to have some tea and biscuits, and then I'm going to sleep. When I wake up, you can go home— hungry!"

Wearily, Bradford crouched over his fire, but strong happiness was surging through him. He knew that he had conquered Tin-cup Jean beyond all doubt, this time. He had established his right to his trap line; he had won his spurs among these people, and in that signed confession he had a weapon of ridicule which would stand him in good stead. So, well satisfied, he drank his tea, ate some food, and rolled up in his blankets.

He quite forgot what old man Garvin had said about luck; instead, he fell asleep, with a prayer in his heart, thanking God that he had neither killed nor been killed.

Yet, old man Garvin had been dead right about the way to spell luck!

________________

14: The Fetish of Remorse

Achmed Abdullah

(Alexander Nicholayevitch Romanoff) 1881-1945

Short Stories, April, 1916

ANATOLE GAUTIER lost all idea of time and place. Twenty years of life were wiped clean from the slate of his memory. Once more he was in Tonkin. Once more he was young and very enthusiastic. Once more he faced Durand, good old Durand, the friend of his youth.

The moon, a bloated thing of copper swinging among the trees, threw down a single broad ray of orange which fell on Durand's face. Gautier recognized the familiar features, the round face, the black, silken beard, the crooked sabre cut across the forehead which he had received at fencing school when the leather tip had slipped from the blade.

They were both deep in thought.

Something had to be done. The Tonkinese had given them until daylight to decide. Two more hours! A low wind stirred the dead leaves at their feet, a wind as hot as a breath of flame. Somewhere in the distance a jackal howled.

They were both afraid. Of course. But there was something else, a nameless, brooding, sinister feeling which crept through their souls. A harshly discordant note was pealing through the recesses of their beings. And so they looked into the spectre-pregnant, Stygian darkness, and listened to the night-sounds of soft-winged things which flopped lazily overhead, and of slimy, swishing things which glided and crawled underfoot. Both were afraid to speak.

When on their way back to the Coast, to Saigon, from the interior of French Indo-China, their guides, bearers and interpreter had deserted them more than four days ago, here in the jungle, they had not taken it very much to heart. They were young and strong; they were fairly familiar with jungle-craft. They would make the Coast somehow. And then— just three minutes' talk with the agent of the Australian syndicate. They would pass over what they had brought from the interior, and in return they would receive a check of six figures. Even split in two, it would mean a comfortable income for life; more than that: it would mean riches and the chance to multiply them.

Then, a few hours ago, the Tonkinese had come from nowhere, out of the jungle, hundreds of them. Tonkinese rebels they were, and they called themselves les poings du patriotisme et de la paix— the fists of patriotism and peace— a gentle touch of Mongol humor which did not appeal to either Gautier or Durand.

Suddenly the two Frenchmen had understood why the guides and the interpreter had deserted them. It was evident that they had been watched every step of the way; that even at the Coast, in the very office of the Australian agent, there had been spies in the pay of the Peacock Banner.

They were two against a small army. There would be no arguing, no bargaining whatsoever. These yellow devils had the whip-hand.

The leader of the Tonkinese, a tall, courtly, well-bred man, had left them two hours ago. Durand, who had a smattering of the local dialect, had given greetings in it; florid, flattering greetings. The Tonkinese had bowed to the ground and had replied in the same language.

"By applying oil or flattery most things are softened. But these three never soften: a sword, a leather receptacle for clarified butter, and a Tonkinese."

Then he had continued in French, perfectly correct French, though with the peculiar stiff wording and the gentle sing-song of the Mongolian.

"Do not break your tongue over our barbaric patois, my friend. I speak French. I have lived in your country. I have studied in Paris. I have learned there that dealings with Christians are uncertain. Either three times the principal is obtained— or nothing at all. Thus shall I make sure to obtain from you three times the principal."

There had been nothing intimidating in his voice. His accents had been rich and gentle; with a bronze tone to them like the echoed murmurings of an ancient temple gong.

"Look," he had continued, and his face had been as stony and as passionless as that of the Buddha who meditates in the shade of the cobra's hood. "I am an open book before you, and I bid you read. I am Vasanda."

He had paused. They had shuddered at the name; and the Tonkinese had smiled gently, very gently.

"Yes. I am Vasanda. I am the man who makes war on you French; according to the way we make war."

Again he had smiled; and again the two Frenchmen had shuddered. For they had heard at the Coast about the way Vasanda, the Tonkinese outlaw— "patriot" he styled himself— made war.

The Tonkinese had bowed to the two Frenchmen.

"With your permission." He had squatted easily on his heels, and had lit a cigarette, first courteously offering his case to the two. Then he had continued. "I and my young men have again stepped on the path of strife. We have performed the proper ceremonies before the many shrines. We have laid naked blades on our shaven heads, thus symbolizing our voluntary renunciation of this life's vanities. We have offered rice and drink to the shades of the departed heroes who died for our land in the ancient days. We have consecrated our souls and our bodies to our people." Again he had smiled, a boyish, impish smile. "But it appears that prayers and the laying of blades on shaven heads do not purchase the rifles and ammunition the French are using. Yet there is a shipment of such weapons waiting for me somewhere"—he had made a vague, circular gesture— "but the payment demanded for these so necessary weapons is exorbitant. Also the foreigner who has the weapons demands gold. A cursed swine he, who will be born again in the bodies of noisome, crawling insects for many lives to come. But gold he demands, and gold he shall get. It is an easy matter. You may consider it as done."

He, Gautier, had then regained part of his wits.

He had spoken with a suspicion of arrogance.

"What have we got to do with it all, Vasanda?"

"Everything, my master, everything. Because, look you: you will supply the gold. You do not believe me? Behold. I will show you."

He had lit another cigarette, swaying gently from side to side, to ease the strain on his heels.

He had proceeded to explain that he knew all about their little expedition. How they had visited the court of Bahngoh, the great king of the interior, who, short of cash because of his latest fantastic harem extravagancies, had been forced to part with his famed one hundred-carat pink diamond "The Star of the Middle Kingdom"; how even before leaving the Coast they had made arrangements with the Australian agent to sell the stone to him for five million francs—ten times the sum which they'd pay for the stone; how they had completed their transaction in the interior and were now returning to the Coast with the stone.

Gautier had looked wild-eyed. He had stammered.

"You— you want— the stone— the stone—"

He had taken the diamond from an inner pocket, clutching it madly to his breast as a mother clutches her first-born when fever stalks through the land. The light of the camp fire had mirrored a thousandfold in the facetings of the diamond, like countless, intersecting rainbows; endless, zigzag flashings of electric blue and deep rose and keen, arrogant emerald-green; like the shooting of dragon-flies and purple-winged tropical moths.

But Vasanda had only smiled and waved the stone away.

"No, no. By the lives of the many Bodhisats! I do not wish your plaything."

They had felt relieved at such altruism. But a moment later their relief had changed into impotent hatred and rage. Vasanda had risen to his full height. There was a look in his oblique eyes as sharp and clear as edges of splintered glass. His voice had lost its gentle, soothing quality. He was now speaking with harsh-riveting emphasis.

"What good is the stone to me? I cannot eat it. I cannot drink it. I cannot kill with it. I am not a woman of the inner bazaars to long for scented hair oil and jewels. Neither could I sell it. For behold: the stone is known. Also is it known who bought it. The Australian agent waits for it now, there, at the Coast." He had pointed to the East, into the silent, brooding jungle. "He is waiting; and he is waiting to pay— five million francs. He will pay it to the one of you two who brings the stone. Such was your agreement. For, careful men, you considered the possibility of one of you dying of fever. An unhealthy land this!" He had smiled. "And so it will be. One of you will go to the Coast with the stone. He will go unharmed, peaceful. I myself shall show him the right way. He will give the stone to the Australian and receive the money— in gold. Then he will return to a place which I shall appoint, with the gold. The other— I shall hold him as hostage. He shall be honorably treated. For thirty days I shall hold him. For thirty days I shall wait for the return of the first— with the gold. And then, if he does not return with the gold, also if he should play false and talk to the French— and remember that I have many spies— I shall kill the hostage." His voice had again been very soft and gentle. "I shall kill him slowly. Oh, so very slowly. There shall be no hurry. The first day I shall cut off an ear and the next day his tongue. Perhaps. A matter of choice, my friends, of the moment's inspiration. A little bit of his throbbing body cut off to-day, another to-morrow. Thus for two weeks. Perhaps three. It depends upon the vitality of the man who is being killed. You both look strong and healthy. You would last a long time under the little knives. Raw wounds, my friends, remember that. Also there will be insects, the flying cockroaches and the bramras which follow the smell of blood and festering flesh. Also there will be ants, many ants, and a thin river of honey to show them the trail."

He had lit another cigarette. He had yawned. Then he had continued.

"Consider. One goes to the Coast. The other remains as my guest. It has been told me that you two love each other with the love of twin brothers. Thus I believe that he who goes to the Coast will return— with the gold. It is a safe gamble. I give you two hours to decide which one of you two shall go, and which one shall stay behind. Remember the little knives— and the little ants which follow the trail of the honey—"

The Tonkinese had bowed and stepped back into the black jungle.

AND now the two hours were nearly over.

Vasanda had said that they loved each other with the love of twin brothers. It was true.

They had visited the same school in Paris. They had been copains de lycee; roommates, class-mates, bench-mates during the long plastic years of childhood and youth. They had served in the same regiment, at Tours. They had sown their wild oats along parallel lines. No woman had even come between them. They had been apprentices, then clerks in the same office. Finally they had established themselves in business as partners. They bought and sold precious stones. They were the best of friends. They knew that their mutual liking and friendship, their trust in each other, their combined honest, square-souled decency and strength was a solid edifice which sheltered them against petty jealousy and envy.

When they had gone to Tonkin to buy jewels, they had done so eagerly, expectantly. A little adventure, they thought; a ray of vivid tropical light to break into the complacence of their home business. And they had done mighty well in the Far East during the two years of their stay.

Finally had come their chance to buy and sell "The Star of the Middle Kingdom," the famed pink diamond which had been the dream of every jeweler for three generations. It had been a big, promising chance; and they had gone after it with the enthusiasm of youth. Yes. They knew each other well. And they knew that each knew the other as well as he knew himself, and that their characters, their virtues and their shortcomings, were exactly the same. And so, when Vasanda had come to them out of the jungle they felt suddenly as choked in mephitic air. The thought of the unspoken, half-formed desires in their hearts stretched before them as a boundless bog.

For, knowing each other so well, they also knew that the foul tropics had bred in each the sordid love of gain, the cruel ruthlessness of desire. They knew that, though enigmatic and close-hidden, there was yet in both their hearts that grim craving after money— hard and merciless as a bitter-cored stone fruit.

Friends? Why of course they were friends. But then they had lived in the tropics for two years, breathing, thinking, eating, drinking the poison of the yellow lands. There was the chance to reach the coast— with the stone— and then the Australian agent— the gold— and over there, across the way, was Paris.

Friendship? Duty of friendship? If friendship it was, it was a friendship of their own making— of their own unmaking, if they wished. So they thought, and each could read the other as an open book. For they were friends who loved and knew each other as twin brothers rocked in the same cradle. One would go to the coast—to bring the gold. The other would stay behind as a hostage— and there were the little knives and the ants which always follow the honey trail.

And suddenly they knew, both knew, that the one who would go to the coast would never, never come back. For there were five million francs in gold— and back yonder was France, Paris, home— and the chance, the lovable, damnable chance!

Suddenly Durand laughed— that dry, harsh laugh of his— and he threw a greasy pack of playing cards into the circle of meager light which came from the little camp fire.

"Let the cards decide, old friend," he shouted. "The loser stays; the winner goes to the Coast. And he returns here with the gold— inside of thirty days. It is understood, is it not, mon vieux?"

And again he laughed his cracked, high-pitched laugh.

"Of course," Gautier replied. "The winner comes back with the gold— inside of thirty days."

But he could not look into Durand's eyes, nor could Durand look into his.

"One hand of poker! Draw to your cards and show-down!" cried Durand.

Anatole Gautier picked up the deck. He shuffled, slowly, mechanically, his thoughts far away, at the Coast. Suddenly it seemed to him that his brain was frantically telegraphing to his fingers. A fit of nerves? No, no. He looked at his hands. They were shuffling; shuffling in a perfectly normal, perfectly steady manner. It wasn't nerves. Still his brain kept telegraphing, and he kept watching the motions of his fingers— and then he saw that his second finger and thumb had shuffled the ace of clubs to the bottom of the deck.

Had he done it on purpose? He wondered. All his life he had amused his friends with card tricks. He reflected. There was the Coast. There was the stone. There was the gold. There was Paris. And here was the stinking, festering jungle— the Tonkinese— Vasanda— the little knives— and the ants— the ants.

Another ace joined the first at the bottom of the deck—the third—the fourth. Then the harsh, jarring, arrogant voice of Jean Durand.

"Deal! Damn you, deal! You'll shuffle all the spots from the cards."

Gautier was about to shuffle again. But the other stopped him with a savage gesture. "No, no, no. Don't you dare shuffle them again."

Gautier cleared a little space on the ground with the point of his shoe. The dead leaves stirred with a dry, rasping sound. Something slimy and phosphorous-green was rapidly squirming away.

"Cut, Durand."

He put the cards down between them, on the ground. The other was calmly lighting a cigarette, making no attempt to cut the deck. Gautier spoke again. There was entreaty, supplication, despair in his tense, strained voice.

"Cut, Jean! Cut, for the love of God!"

The sweat was pouring from his face. Little luminous blue spots were dancing in front of his eyes. Something like a gigantic sledgehammer was striking at the base of his skull. His blood throbbed thickly in his veins.

His hands seemed swollen out of proportion.

"Cut!" he cried again.

Durand laughed at him with a mad, demoniac light in his beady eyes. He laughed. "No! Deal them as they lay. I shan't cut. You are too anxious for me to cut. Too anxious. No, no. Deal, and be damned to you!"

Gautier dealt. And mechanically, even as he was watching them, his fingers gave to himself five cards from the bottom of the deck. Four of them were aces. The fifth was the queen of hearts.

Durand picked up his hand. He looked at it. He laughed again.

"Give me two cards, Anatole. I'm going to take a chance. I have a hunch that I'll win."

Gautier studied his own hand. Four aces— and the queen of hearts. The queen of hearts! He would never forget that red queen. She seemed to smile at him. A sardonic grin was on her silly, painted lips.

The queen of hearts! Of course he would discard her. Alight as well make the other believe that he had bought one of the aces. So he discarded the queen. She fell face upward. The wind carried her a little to one side—a little away from the circle of light— over to where Durand was sitting.

But still Gautier could see the mocking smile on her painted lips.

Then he dealt. Two cards to Durand, one to himself.

There was a short, tense silence. Durand was studying his hand. He looked up and stared at Gautier.

Gautier felt embarrassed. Did the other suspect him? Now was the time to act, to act well, to simulate surprise. He looked away from the other. He studied his hand; he studied it again and again as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

Then he gave a mad shriek of joy. "I win! I win! Four aces! By the Madonna, four aces!"

And he threw his hand on the ground, face up.

Durand picked it up. He examined the cards one by one.

"One— two— three — four— four aces." His voice was thick, choked. Then he studied his own cards. Again and again. Beyond the feathery tops of the trees a haggard morning sun was rising. A flickering, pale-yellow ray fell on Durand's face. It looked drawn and green.

Suddenly a change came over him. He straightened himself up. He rose. At the same moment, Vasanda stepped out of the jungle. He bowed deeply, courteously.

"You have decided?" he asked in his gentle sing-song.

"Yes." It was Durand who spoke. "I stay with you. Gautier goes to the Coast. He returns here with the gold— inside of thirty days." He broke into his dry, harsh, high-pitched cackle. "He returns here with the gold— with the gold— with the gold! Au revoir, mon ami."

He did not offer to shake hands. He bowed mockingly. He was about to go.

Suddenly he noticed that the cards were still clasped in his hand— the cards were losing cards which had cost him fortune and life. He threw them on the ground, in front of Gautier, face up. A second later, he was gone.

Anatole Gautier looked dazed. It seemed to him that he had lived through all this before. In a former life? Yes. It must have been in a former life, a former incarnation. He remembered the whole scene, every single detail.

But wait, wait! There had been a difference. What was it? He thought and thought and thought. Then doubt came into his soul. Had it really all happened in a former incarnation? Had it not been in this life; twenty years ago? Old memories flashed up in red streaks. Yes. Twenty years ago.

He remembered the whole scene. But there was a difference, a little difference.

Suddenly he knew. He knew where the difference was. There, in that scene of his dead life, Durand had gone into the jungle. Of course. He had lost. He had seen the four aces; a nearly unbeatable hand. And then he had laughed. But he had torn the cards into small pieces; he had thrown the pieces into the dying camp fire!

And here— here were the cards, whole, face up. He looked at them. He studied them. It was a heart flush— up to the queen.

The queen of hearts.

But he remembered that he himself had discarded that same identical queen of hearts. A gust of wind had carried the bit of pasteboard a little to one side, to where Durand was sitting. Had then Durand cheated?

Had he picked up the card to make his flush?

Gautier trembled in every limb. He called after the other.

"Durand! Oh, Durand!"

The other turned and looked at him, questioningly.

Gautier stared. He rubbed his eyes. But this was not Durand at all. This was Jenkinson, the American, his friend. And the other, the Tonkinese by his side. Why it was Lee Mon-Kau, the Chinaman with the long, gold-encased fingernails, and the heavy-lidded purple-black eyes.

Suddenly the whole scene flashed up.

He remembered. Why, yes— this was Paris— his home; and he had arranged it all; he and his two friends: Thomas Jenkinson, the big, good-natured, slightly sarcastic American, and Lee Mon Kau, the Chinaman. Yes. Together they had arranged it all. He, Anatole Gautier himself, had coached the American in the sound of Durand's voice... he himself; because he wanted to get an actual picture, an actual moment of his dead life, visualized once again, lived once again. Of course it sounded real. Jenkinson did remarkably well. Jenkinson should have been an actor....

And of course the atmosphere, the carefully staged, carefully prepared atmosphere of the room made the whole cursed impression more real than ever. Florist and painter and decorator had joined hands to change the large living room of his house into a bit of Tonkinese jungle. Even the moist heat had been faithfully reproduced. Also there was the incense; that mad, blue-clouded Indian incense in the jeweled silver censer, breath-clogging, mind-choking. And the acting— the acting! Yes, yes— he remembered it all! He turned on Jenkinson. He spoke with a thick, angry voice.

"You— why didn't you do as I told you? Why didn't you tear up the cards as Durand did? As he did twenty years ago? Look— look— you picked up the queen of hearts from the discard. You cheated. And Durand did not cheat. It was I who cheated. I who killed my friend. Durand did not cheat."

He broke into a paroxysm of tears.

Lee Mon Kau smiled. He opened the windows. A gust of fresh clean air came from the garden.

Jenkinson put his hand on the Frenchman's shoulder.

"Yes. Durand tore up the cards. So you told me. But then, my friend, how do you know? You did not see his hand. He might have cheated. Eh? He might have cheated."

Gautier looked up.

He spoke mechanically, stupidly.

"He might have cheated." Again and again he said it. "He might have cheated. He might have cheated."

And suddenly, with a great throaty cry of relief, he fell on his knees. He raised his hands above his head.

"Thank God, thank God!" he shouted. "He might have cheated!"

And he dropped on the ground in a swoon.

________________

15: Murder Backstage

Roger Torrey

Private Detective Stories, August 1940

BACK stage was in the disorderly order that's usual before curtain time— and it was just like coming home. I hadn't seen it for six long months. I said hello to Leo Marks, the stage manager, and he said:

"Yeah! You been hiding?"

I said, "I'm making an honest living. I've quit acting."

He grinned and said that every time I'd ever taken a dime for walking on a stage I'd made myself liable for arrest on a taking money under false pretense charge. And then he asked:

"What are you doing?"

"I'm a private investigator," I told him. "I played a part like that in that show that folded over at the Grand, and all the guy had to do was walk around and look wise and every now and then say 'this is a difficult case to solve.' So I got myself a job with the Arnold Investigation Service. I eat steady now, which is more than I ever did in show business."

"What you doing here?"

"Some gal named Lois McAvoy called the office and asked for me. Already you see, I've got a reputation. Who is she?"

Leo rolled his eyes and made motions with his hands. "A pain in the neck! Her guy is the one that's backing the show, so she's in! A society tramp, no less! With a yen for show business! She smells! My God! She's driving me nuts already, and now she drags you in. I got trouble, and plenty, and now you."

I said, "I don't make trouble, Leo."

He grinned again and said, "If you could keep away from women, you wouldn't. I'll admit that. The gal's got dressing room number two, and the only reason she ain't got number one is because Mary Mars, and you know her, told the McAvoy menace that she'd scratch her eyes out if she asked for it. McAvoy believed her, thank God, or we'd have had murder back here. You know Mary Mars, Teddy."

I said I knew Mary Mars— and headed back for the number two dressing room and my client. Mary Mars was a demure looking little wench that wasn't much bigger than a drink of water— and who was hell on wheels. I'd worked in one show with her, and I'd run like hell every time she'd looked in my direction. She collected new men like some girls collect mink coats— but she wore them out a lot faster.

So I went past the first room, the one with the big star on the door— and knocked at the second, which had one almost as big.

MY CLIENT wasn't as big as a horse but wasn't certainly in the smaller pony class. She was in her stocking feet— and not much else— and she was at least an inch taller than I am. I'm five eleven, too. She made a pass at holding her dressing gown around her, missing the pass, and said:

"Ah yes! Teddy Rawlin! I've heard so much about you, Mr. Rawlin."

I said I hoped it was all good. I really meant it— the big gal was as pretty as she could be, in spite of looming up like the Statue of Liberty. Blonde. Built in proportion, which meant a lot of mama in a lot of interesting places. Maybe it was curiosity, but I right away started to go for her— I'd never been out with a gal the size of her. She sat down in front of the dressing table, showing me a lot of white and powdered leg, and started to do her face. She said:

"A lot of it was bad. Or good, if that's the way you look at it. I heard you were an actor who quit show business because he was always in trouble with women."

I said, "A man's got to protect himself in the clinches, don't he?"

She laughed at me in the mirror— and I started wishing the show wouldn't be on in fifteen minutes or less. She had that kind of eyes and laugh. She said:

"I'm broad minded. It's this. I'm going to wear real jewelry in the show tonight— a press agent gag— and I thought it might be better to have somebody to keep an eye on it. And I remembered hearing that you'd turned policeman, so I called your agency and asked for you."

"If the jewelry's on you, it'll be no chore to watch it," I said. "Just the opposite. I'd work for nothing, but the union wouldn't like it, Miss McAvoy."

"Call me Lois. I wish Harry wasn't so jealous, I really do. If he was back stage tonight, he'd have never let me get you."

"Harry?"

"Harry. Harry Brice – you've heard of him, haven't you – Mr. Rawlin."

I said, "It's Teddy, Lois. Yeah, I've heard of him."

HARRY BRICE had angeled more musical shows than anybody on the street— and always for the same reason. Some gal he'd be playing around with would want a job in show business, and Harry would back the show to get it for her. I didn't know him but I'd heard he was a guy of about fifty that held his age and had only that one weakness. Just women. Outside of that he was supposed to be as hard as nails and as tough in business as an Armenian. He watched how his money was spent— knew plenty about show business, and kept a finger on the show his money was in— and made money with four out of five of them.

About then my client shucked out of her dressing robe and climbed into an evening gown— and I couldn't tell whether she was just trying to tantalize me or really wasn't paying me any attention. She said carelessly:

"I told my maid not to come in tonight— I knew you'd be here. Help me with this, will you, Teddy?"

I buttoned buttons and snapped snaps and zipped zippers— and my hands were shaking so I had a bad time with all of them. Then I looked past her, in the glass, and saw she was grinning at me. I said:

"Oh hell! I'd be better if I was taking off instead of putting on."

She said she'd heard that about me. And then the call boy knocked and shouted, "Five minutes, Miss McAvoy."

I helped her powder her shoulders.

MARY MARS was just outside her own door when Lois and I went outside. She saw me and squealed and ran over to me, holding out both hands. She said: "Teddy! Teddy! Of all people!"

And then she gave my big client a dirty look and added, "And with what people! With a crowd, no less."

I felt sorry for the big girl— she'd probably taken plenty of those kind of cracks about her size, and Lord knows that wasn't her fault. But when I looked at her she didn't act as though she was upset about the dig at all. She looked frightened, rather. She said:

"I'm on right away, Mr. Rawlin."

I said, "And I'm going along." I said to Mary Mars, "Be seeing you later, Mary. How's things?"

Mary threw another harpoon on that one. She said, "Not so good! Half the time I think I'm working in Jumbo."

My client passed the elephant gag right along with the other. I followed her over to the wings, and she said, in a low voice:

"I'm really afraid of that girl. She's the most vindictive thing I've ever met. She really scares me silly— I don't sing half as well as I really can, just because she upsets me so."

I said, "Mary Mars is a cat if ever one meowed. An alley cat, at that. "

"Well, she's had to make her own way," the big girl said. "Maybe that's not fair to say."

"It isn't fair to the alley cat," I said. "I know Mary. I think I know a way to set her back where she belongs."

Miss McAvoy asked where the Mars girl should be set and I told her I really didn't know her well enough to go into detail on that.

Then the orchestra started the curtain music and she went out and took her place in front of the chorus line.

She wasn't bad— in fact, she was surprisingly good. She didn't look as big, out there on that big stage, and the line back of her were mostly show girls and not dancers— and they usually are fair sized gals themselves. She didn't stand out like a giantess in front of them. She had a nice voice, too. Big and throaty and full of the same sort of appeal the gal had so much of. The finale of the act was when the whole flock of them— the gal and the line behind her— all moved to front stage, taking a full chorus to do it, and with the show girls joining in with her one at a time. It made a nice climax... they'd picked the gals for looks, and they just set the big girl off to perfection. The curtain went down with her standing there, front stage center, and with a show gal close to her on each side, though maybe three feet in back. Far enough back so the audience would know whose song it had been.

And then it happened.

THE curtain barely hit the stage before it started up again, so the bunch of them could take their bows. They took just one, and this time the curtain was supposed to be left down long enough for the girls around Lois McAvoy to get away from her so she could take the next bow alone. I just saw them start to duck back and away from her when the lights went out.

And they went out all over. No mistake— the stage was as dark as the inside of a barrel, and the change from the glaring brightness of the foot and floods and spots all focused on white legs and shoulders was more than startling.

The girls on the stage all screamed— and I heard a noise that didn't sound much louder than a cap pistol fired a block away. More of a snap than a bang. And it could have come from anywhere. Somebody stumbled into me, and swore viciously, and I recognized the voice and said:

"What in hell's the matter, Leo?"

He said, "That damn electrician! He's drunk again! He's pulled the master switch, the—"

He crowded past me, and then I could hear the sound of the audience, cutting through the noise the girls on the stage were making. A sort of dull roar— the sound a lot of voices make when their owners are puzzled and a little frightened but still not panicky. I thought of what might well happen unless Leo got the lights out front on in a hurry and started to pray— one fool can start a panic at a time like that. I could hear Leo, still swearing, over by the switchboard— and then the lights went full on.

They were set just as they'd been when the master switch had been pulled down and so they lit the stage in the same blaze it had been before the accident. And the guy pushing the button for the curtain to rise had apparently done his stuff before— because the curtain was going up in the stately way front drops always do. That's what made it so bad. It gave the audience a chance to see everything that had happened— and to see the panic on the stage. The girls were all huddled toward the back of the stage, against the back drop, in a tight little mob, and with their heads all turned toward the front and center of the stage.

My client, Lois McAvoy was there, stretched out flat, with her evening dress up around her waist. Her upper body was stretched out and covered the face and shoulders of another girl— one of the chorus line— and already blood was showing on the polished stage floor.

Leo Marks was standing by the switchboard, with his hand still up and on the master switch. His mouth was open and he was staring at the stage as though he didn't believe what he saw. He wasn't paying any attention to the man who was lying by his feet. I got to him in a hurry, just as the audience started really to make noise, and I said:

"For God's sake, Leo! Get that curtain down. Get out front of it and tell them there's nothing wrong. Tell them it's just part of the show."

He gave me a dazed look and said, "Sure, Teddy, but it isn't."

"D'ya want a panic?" I said. "Get that curtain down. Get out in front of it and quiet them."

He just stared at me. I slapped his face hard, first one side and then the other, and the dopey look went out of his eyes and he shook himself a little. He shoved a button on the board that was marked CURTAIN— EMERGENCY, and it started to drop as he ducked out in front of it. I could hear him start with "Ladies and Gentlemen! There is no cause for alarm. This is..."

The curtain came all the way down then and the thick asbestos cut off the sound of his voice. And I went out on the stage and to the two girls.

FIRST, I lifted Lois McAvoy away from the other girl, and that was a job. I didn't know whether she was hurt or not so I had to move her gently— and moving a girl that weighs around one sixty gently, when she's limp as a rag, is a trick I don't know. There were at least twenty people from the show, standing around and watching, but nobody made any move to help. I got Lois to the side and spread her out the way she'd been, and then quit worrying about her.

There'd only been one shot and the other girl had taken the slug and no mistake. Through the neck, and where it had hit the jugular vein. The blood was pumping out in spurts and there was still a lot of it. I wadded up a clean handkerchief into a solid point and crammed that into the hole the bullet had gone in, then lifted her head enough to do the same with the place the bullet had emerged— and both handkerchiefs started to darken fast. Leo came back from in front of the curtain, white-faced and trembling, and I said:

"Leo! Fast! Get a doctor here! Call an ambulance, just as soon as you get the doctor— or better, have somebody else do it. This girl might live, if they can get her to a hospital and give her a transfusion in time. It's loss of blood that'll kill her, and she's still got some left. Hurry, man!"

He dashed off, toward the house phone that was by the switchboard— and I knew there'd be a doctor there in a hurry. They often leave their names and seat numbers at the box office, in case of a call. Mary Mars came up and bent down over the girl and said:

"Oh, the poor dear! Well, she would run around with that kind of a man."

I said, "What does that mean?"

Mary said, "Her boy friend was terribly jealous. I expected something like this— he beat her up something terrible last week."

I said, "Where were you when the shot was fired?" I made it low, right in her ear, and so nobody else could hear it. She said back as low:

"I've got to talk to you, Teddy! Come up to my apartment— I'm in the telephone book."

"When?"

"Any time after the show— we'll have to go on."

THEN a fussy little bird with a Vandyke and a medical bag came bustling through the crowd, shoving them every which way. He knelt down by the girl on the floor, and said both to me and to Mary Mars:

"Give this girl air. The ambulance will be here at any time."

He sniffed at the handkerchief plugs I'd shoved in the little holes the bullet had made going in and out and replaced them with gauze. He did say, grudgingly:

"The girl would have died without this rudimentary first aid. Who is responsible for it?"

I said, "I'm guilty."

He said, "Indeed!" and looked me over.

I asked, "Have you had any experience with gunshot wounds?"

He sniffed again and said, "My specialty is gall bladders, sir."

I told him I'd wait to hear what the police surgeon said. That I was trying to find out what the girl was shot with and from how far away and a bunch of technical stuff like that.

He said:

"I can tell you this, young man. I was in the audience and distinctly heard the sound of the gun. It was not loud, therefore I judge it was a small calibred gun. The girl shows little sign of shock, which also bears out my theory of a small calibred gun fired from a distance. It happened just as the lights went out, I may add."

The ambulance came then, and with it a lot of policemen. They put the girl on a stretcher and took her away— and they mopped up the blood on the stage and put on a sort of show. My client, Lois McAvoy, was in her dressing room all during it, with me with her, and I didn't get a chance to see it— but Leo Marks stopped in and told us that only about half the girls would go on stage and that the ones that did acted as though they were on it for the first time. I said:

"How was Mars?"

He said, "You know Mary. She's a tramp but she's a trouper. She'd put on a show if the walls of the theater were falling down. She's so damned tough I don't think this business tonight bothered her at all."

My client said, "And she's such a sweet looking little thing, too."

Leo said thoughtfully, "So's a bumble bee. It looks so nice and soft and fuzzy and what a sting the damn things have."

AND then a big, hard looking bird came in, without knocking, and said, " 'Lo, kid!" to Lois. And to us he said:

"Get out."

Leo started to head toward the door. I said, "Wait a minute, friend. Who're you?"

My client said, "It's all right, Mr. Rawlin. I'll... just have your office bill me, please."

With that she looked toward the door and I got the idea. I went out with Leo, and Leo said, "If it wasn't for that big slob having his dough in the show, I wouldn't let him back stage. Harry Brice! Harry Brice, hell! If it wasn't that he's got more dollars than Mr. Carter's got pills, they'd have him in jail for chasing kids. He's a louse! He's a rat! He's been nothing but trouble for me and this show since he angeled it. He comes every night, with about twenty friends, on passes, which is the front office's headache. It ain't mine, but I still don't like it because the girls all play to him instead of to the money seats. You'd think he was the Lord himself, sitting up in that box."

"I thought the girl had money. If she hasn't, how come the press agent stuff about her jewelry?"

"That's what it is," said Leo. "You called the shot— it's press agent stuff."

"No money?"

"Lord, no. Just another show girl that thinks she's getting a break. A nice kid, too, even if she is bigger than a small Jersey cow."

I gave up trying to get anything more out of him after fifteen minutes of trying— and went down to the police station. They'd asked me a few questions and I'd told them I'd stop down after I'd seen my client was safe at home.

And now this Harry Brice was beating me out of the job of taking her there— and I didn't like it a bit.

THE police had gotten a lot of action in a hurry. They'd found out that the electrician hadn't pulled the main switch and so had thrown the house in darkness. He'd been standing by his board, waiting for his cue, and somebody had slugged him from behind and then had yanked down on the switch handle. They'd found no fingerprints on the handle, which meant the slugger had worn gloves or had had a handkerchief over his hand. The girl that had been shot was going to live, barring complications, which was all right with everybody but the boys working on Homicide. They were sore because they'd lost a cast iron case.

I talked with Joe Ellers, a friend of mine in that department, and he actually acted ugly about it. He said:

"Now look! This girl that was shot was named Mitzi Mareaux. That is, for show business— her real name was Mabel Welch and she was born over in Brooklyn. She was running around with a guy named William Morris— we've got him downstairs right now, working on him. He beat the girl up, only last week— he's crazy jealous about her and has threatened her plenty of times. Everybody in the show will testify to that."

I said, "So-o-o!"

"So that's it. Cast iron, Teddy! This Morris has got a permit for a Colt Woodsman twenty-two Hatch Target pistol. Got it just a little while ago— claimed he wanted to shoot at targets, I guess. We found that out from some of the people in the show, too. He was in the audience, and he tried to get back stage and the doorman had to almost fight with him to keep him out. We picked him up right there— he was still trying to argue his way in, after we went looking for him."

I said, "I don't get that, Joe."

"Well, one of the people in the show told us about him— his name and about the gun and all. So we remembered the guy that was making the fuss at the stage door, and sure enough, it was this guy Morris. So we picked him up and took him down to where he lived and he couldn't find the gun there. He claimed it must have been stolen. Stolen, hell! We picked it up in a trash basket in the men's room. His prints all over the inside of it, but the outside wiped clean. You see the spot he's in."

"Looks bad, all right."

Ellers sounded disgusted. He said, "You still don't get it. The girl's going to live. All we can do is rap the guy for attempted murder and assault with a dangerous weapon and disturbing the peace and a few things like that. I don't think we can put more than five years on the guy, instead of burning him."

I said, "I'll be going. I wouldn't be too tough with the guy, Joe. He can bring suit for false arrest and make trouble for you boys if you're wrong."

He stared and said, "If we're wrong. How in hell can we be wrong?"

I told him I'd heard that people often made mistakes and left. I still had a date with Mary Mars and that was one date I was going to keep.

Harry Brice had knocked my other plans for the evening sky high. When he'd appeared on the scene to take Lois McAvoy home.

MARY MARS lived in the East Sixties, in an apartment she couldn't afford. Not even with the money she was making in the show— and she was drawing down plenty. I called her from downstairs, and a little colored girl let me in and took my hat when I went up, and then La Mars made her appearance. And what an appearance.

She was dressed in black— but it was black lace and you could see right through it. And Mary Mars was something to see. You don't get by as a lead in a big town musical show unless you've got what it takes— and Mary had it. Plus. She was little, but then, they put the most expensive watches in small cases these days. She ticked just like one of them with me— and I didn't like her and never had. But then I'm only human— and I could forget all about not liking her I found out. She smiled sweetly at me and held my hand with both of hers and said:

"Oh, Teddy! The time we've wasted! And after the play I made for you, when we were working together. I'd just love to do a love scene with you, Teddy. I mean on the stage, of course."

The way she said it didn't mean on any stage.

She turned then and snapped at the maid, with, "Don't stand there like a stupid. Bring in some Scotch and some ice and a siphon bottle. Hurry now."

I said, "I can wait for a minute, Mary. The gal don't have to jump out of whatever she wears under that uniform on my account."

The Mars didn't pay any attention to this piece of politeness. She was still clutching my hand as though she was afraid I'd get away, and she pulled me over to a chesterfield and almost shoved me down on it. And then flounced down alongside, swinging her feet up on the couch, as she did. She was afraid I couldn't see enough through the black lace thing she was wearing, so she let most of it slide away from her legs. Still holding my hand in the grip, she leaned over as far as she could, without actually climbing up on my lap, and said:

"I like you better because you're that way, Teddy. Honest."

"What way?"

"Hard to get."

I laughed. I'd quit show business because just the opposite was true... and she knew it.

The maid came in with the tray full of whiskey and ice and soda, and the Mars said:

"Go ahead, stupid! Mix two drinks. Make 'em both with a little authority."

The maid did, then started to take the tray back to the kitchen. The Mars said, "Leave it, stupid! I'll call you when I want you. Understand?"

The maid said she understood— and left. I said, "What's her name besides stupid?"

"Carlotta," said the Mars. "I have 'the damnedest time with maids. I just can't keep them. It's my temperament, I guess. Here's

your drink, honey."

SHE handed me the highball and I didn't tell her that temper was the word she should have used to account for her maid trouble. I took the drink and she snuggled down and said:

"You were so cross to me tonight when that poor girl was shot. That was terrible. It was lucky I knew about the trouble she'd had with her boy friend, and about how he had the gun, wasn't it? They might not have caught him like they did, if I hadn't told them."

"You were the one that told them, eh?"

"Why yes, honey! He had no right to shoot the girl like that. Not during the time the show was on, anyway. I always say the place for family troubles is at home."

This from the wench who put on scenes all over the town. I said, "Well, it's none of my business. I was just there looking after Miss McAvoy's jewelry."

The Mars said, "Oh that big horse! Imagine a wench that big in show business."

I'd have rather been with Lois McAvoy than where I was— but I couldn't see any sense in foolish wishing. Besides, I had something to do that came under the heading of business. I figured if the gal wanted to make a little love while I was finding out about the business, why that was all to the good.

And beside that, I'd always been a fool for women and I could see I hadn't changed. And I was glad of it. By and by she disentangled herself and whispered:

"I'd better tell Carlotta to go home, hadn't I, honey?"

I said I thought it was a good idea. It took her another five minutes to get clear, and then she went to the kitchen— and I heard her say:

"Go home now, Carlotta. And I want you back here at eleven in the morning."

I heard Carlotta say something in return, but I didn't catch what it was. I was too busy looking at a stack of pictures that had been put face down behind a chair. I'd been figuring them out ever since I'd been in the apartment, and I wasn't wrong. I got back to my seat on the couch, and the Mars came back and poured us another drink and snuggled down next to me and whispered:

"Let's go on from where we left off. Shall we, Teddy honey?"

I heard a door close and figured it was Carlotta going home. I waited a minute and said, "Let's not. Let's just hold that for a minute. Why the sudden rush of love for me, Mary?"

"I always made a play for you," said the Mars.

"You're sure it wasn't something that just came on you tonight? So I wouldn't angle around and ask questions about where you were when the electrician was knocked on the head?"

She laughed and told me not to be silly.

And I said:

"I'm not being silly, you tramp. It was a nice frame. The poor guy they've got down in the station was the patsy, for sure. Swipe his gun, for the first. Shoot Lois McAvoy for the second. Tell the cops about him having trouble with his girl and owning a gun for the third."

She said, in a very reasonable voice, "But, Teddy honey! McAvoy wasn't shot— it was the other girl. His girl. And what would I have to do with it?"

AND then Brice said, from the door,

"Don't stall him any longer, kid. He's wise." He was standing there with a gun in his hand and a grin on his face.

It had been him coming in instead of the maid going out. He said to her:

"Let's not have any noise here. Get me a wet bath towel. I can take him down the elevator in the back."

The Mars said, "Oh, Harry!"

He said, "Come on! Move!"

She got away from me and started for the bathroom, which was off the hall leading to the kitchen. She went through the swinging door that led to the hall— and then there was a sort of muffled squawk from that way and Brice turned his head for a second.

And then I shot him— and I don't think he realized for a minute what had happened to him. I'd aimed the gun low, thinking a bullet in the shin would knock the pins out from under him and that he'd drop his gun. But his leg buckled and he stood there on the other one, like a chicken does on a cold frosty morning, and just stared at me. I said:

"Drop it. Or I'll make it center this time."

His gun was out of line and mine was lined on his middle. He dropped his, and teetered a bit and said:

"Where'd you have the gun?"

I said, "Look, stupid! While I was making love to your gal, I took it out of the sling. It was in the way and I put it down alongside of me. Clear?"

He said, "Yeah!" And then fell down.

I picked up his gun and went out toward the kitchen— and there was a sweet sight. The colored gal was sitting on top of Mary Mars and was just beating her silly. She smacked her in the face a couple of times more, for good measure, and looked up at me and panted out:

"Mister, I is just sick and tired of this bad woman calling me names. I is quitting. I is doin' her what I been wantin' to do. My boy friend says he pay my fine when she jails me."

I said, "Look, Carlotta, let her up before you kill her. And there'll be no jail for you. It's her that's going there."

And then I went back and called the cops.

The last I saw in the kitchen hall was the colored girl bouncing up and down on La Mars stomach, straddling her like she was riding a bucking horse. And I'm damned if even in the middle of that excitement I didn't notice the colored gal had a nice looking pair of legs herself.

I should have been born blind.

JOE ELLERS, of Homicide, said in a disgusted voice, "Hell! I should have thought of that. Here I talked to the electrician and knew somebody back stage had knocked him out and never thought to tie it up with the shooting. I'm losing my mind. "

I said, "That's what made it so simple. I had the reason for it when Leo Marks made the crack about Harry Brice running around after kids. I never thought about Miss McAvoy being just a kid— I took it for granted she was older than she was— I suppose because she's so big. Brice wanted to get rid of her because he'd fallen for Mary Mars, but he thought the McAvoy gal would make trouble for him."

"She should be glad to get rid of the heel," Ellers said.

"Sure. But he's so damned conceited he didn't think anybody would give him up without a struggle. So he swiped this young fellow's gun— fixed it with the Mars gal to do tricks with the electrician and the lights— and lined the gun on the McAvoy girl. When the lights went out, he pulled the trigger— but in the excitement the girls had shifted and he potted the wrong girl. That's what he was figuring on, the smarty. He thought the cops would think the McAvoy girl had been killed by mistake— thought they'd think the kid had aimed at his girl and had missed her and hit McAvoy."

"You wouldn't think a cute little trick like the Mars girl would slug a guy, like she did the electrician."

"You don't know the Mars girl. Brice was big money and she was nuts about him. She made the play for me so I'd fall for her and not suspect her nor Brice."

Ellers nodded and said, "Yeah! We found the blackjack in her dressing room— and that broke her down. Ah well! I always said a man should never trust a woman. They'll both do a little time for it, anyway. What are you going to do now, Teddy?"

I slid off from where I was sitting on a Homicide office desk and straightened my tie and said, "I'm going down to the show and take the McAvoy home. She likes me— she thinks I'm a marvelous detective."

Ellers stared, then shook his head. He said, gloomily, "And you'll get in trouble, like you always do. Didn't you just get through telling me the gal is under age?"

I said, "Was under, Joe. The word is was. She had a birthday, just yesterday."

He shook his head again and said, just as gloomily, "She'll still get you in trouble."

It turned out, afterward, that he was right. But I'd never give him the satisfaction of letting him know about it.

__________________

16: The Absconder

Henry Leverage

1885-1931

Argosy, 23 Feb 1918

THE cashier's cage in the Lumberman's National Bank at Handover was considered the last word in protection and efficiency. It had been designed by a firm that made a specialty of this class of work. The circular glass opening over the money-counter precluded the possibility of a bank-sneak operating with a cane and hook. The netting at the top of the cage was there for this same purpose. The great triple-dial vault at the back of the cage was the final answer to any who might seek to rob the Lumberman's National of hoarded treasure.

Notwithstanding these precautions, the bank was short just eighty-eight thousand dollars in bank-notes of large denominations.

These notes were reposing in the suit-case of the assistant cashier, who was waiting for the hour to close the bank. He had dropped them from a tin box into the suit-case, then had replaced the box within the vault. The loss would not be discovered until the cashier opened the doors in the morning. By that time the assistant cashier figured on being many hundreds of miles from Handover and the scenes of his boyhood.

Fred Walsen had planned each detail. He was tired of being paid twenty dollars a week for the privilege of handling other people's millions. He had returned from his month's vacation with one thought in mind. This thought was to abscond with as much money as possible, enjoy life, and forget the past. He believed that this could be done by the exercise of ordinary precautions.

The chance came a few days after old Peter, the cashier of the bank, had returned from a two weeks' vacation and fishing trip. Old Peter had been a fixture of the bank since the first day it had opened its doors. Fred Walsen had listened to old Peter's recital of the big fish he had caught near a town called West Forest, Maine. It was far from the railroad and had to be reached by a stage. It was not down on the maps in the bank.

It was to this very town that Fred had decided to go with the suit-case full of money. It was the last place that the police would expect him to go. It was in an opposite direction from the beach where he had spent his vacation.

Fred washed his hands as four o'clock struck. Old Peter counted the day's cash and carried it into the vault. Samuels, the watchman, who had taken the place of Dugan, the bank's detective, who had left the day before for his vacation, stepped to the circular window and offered to bet two dollars that the home team would win the game that afternoon. Fred took the bet. He considered it worth losing, for he would not be in town to pay it.

Dugan's going on his vacation at the opportune time had lifted a load from Fred's shoulders. Dugan prided himself upon being somewhat of a sleuth. He was a taciturn man, with big feet, and shoulders like a prizefighter's. His one fetish was to sneak away somewhere and fish. He could sit by a stream for hours without moving as much as an eyelash.

Dugan's biggest catch— a black bass— hung in the bank president's office. Dugan had sworn he had waited seven hours to catch the beauty. His position at the bank, where he kept his eyes on the long line at the paying-teller's window, had always seemed like that of a patient angler waiting for a bite. He had been overheard to state that he was "an ordinary plug who was holding down a soft job."

Fred Walsen remembered this. It fitted in with his plans.

By the time that Dugan was called in on the search, and the agency got busy, Fred figured on being in the heart of Canada, with the money buried in three graveyards, and his appearance so changed that even old Peter would not recognize him.

Fred finished with the towel, hung it up, and turned for his coat and hat. He was interrupted for a moment as Samuels appeared at the opening and offered to double the bet. Old Peter clicked the door of the cage in his anxiety to get home to his wife. Fred went over to the opening, called Samuel's attention to a window that had not been completely closed at the side of the bank, then reached in the closet where he and old Peter kept their clothes. He turned then, with his coat half on and his hat in his hand.

"Just a second." he said. "I almost forgot my suit-case. I'm going to do some light marketing for the landlady— that's why I brought it down this morning."

Old Peter's fingers trembled upon the latch. Fred wanted him to get a good view of the case. It was the one he was going to take the money away in when he started for Maine. Dugan would have a good description of it when the blow fell. It was just as well that Dugan should occupy some of his time following youths with yellow-leather cases that were bound with straps and cornered with bright brass trimmings.

Fred had two weeks to plan the matter in, and things were occurring as he had anticipated. He left old Peter at the side door of the bank. His rooming house and the market lay the opposite direction from the cashier's home. His heart beat high as he turned for the last glance. Samuels was still working on the window. He waved to him, then went on. He stopped at the market, went inside, inquired about some bananas, and mentioned, as a dozen were wrapped up for him, that he was fond of tropical fruit. This was an added touch to throw Dugan or whoever would take up the trail, in the wrong direction. Fred prided himself upon his forethought in thinking of the simple things. He had read somewhere that a thief always acted first and thought afterward. He was not going to make that mistake.

The landlady was in the hall when he entered. She, also, was allowed a glimpse of the bananas and the suit-case. He mentioned the tropics and sunnier climes to her, with a wistful voice. This seed sown, he mounted the stair-way and entered his room. He dropped the suit-case, turned and locked the door, then sat down on the bed.

All had gone well. He had eighty-eight thousand dollars in the case, twenty hours start, and the whole world to roam in. He thought deeply before he rose.

He went over the details in the bank. Samuels had suspected nothing. Old Peter had merely blinked at the case. The safe was locked with a time-lock and could not be opened till 8 A.M. There was no danger of discover till then. He was willing to have the blow fall before noon. By then he would be through Boston by trolley. The trail he was going to leave behind was broad enough for a blind man to follow. He would take the accommodation to Boston, circle about in a taxi, then almost retrace his steps in a northerly direction. No one would surmise that a man headed for Boston from Handover would double back to the north again. More likely they would think he had either taken ship at Boston, or one of the night boats for New York and the South. He had often mentioned the Southlands since returning from the vacation.

He took off his coat and hung it upon a chair. The hat he tossed into a closet. He was not going to wear it. A cap would be better until he could buy other clothes in the backwoods. Besides, a cap looked more like travel— less like his photographs scattered about the town. He listened once or twice as he went about the room. The landlady was sitting upon the porch. He heard the sound of her rocker.

He tiptoed to the small table at the head of his bed, and opened the drawer. Out of this he drew four tourist folders. One was a steamship line that ran to Havana. The other three were lists of east and west coast hotels. They were filled with pictures of magnolias and palms, rolling-chairs and winter bathers. He placed these in the grate and struck a match. He listened, then touched the flame to their edges. He waited till they were half-consumed, then stamped upon them. They looked for all the world like evidence destroyed and forgotten. Dugan would be sure to uncover them and deduct that he had gone South.

To aid Dugan when he was called to the job, Fred sat down at the table, took out an envelope, and scrawled across its face the address of a hotel in Florida. Before the ink was dry upon this he blotted it upon a clean blotter. Then he tore the envelope into pieces and burned them at the edge of the grate. The ashes he sifted through his hands and dropped out the window. All Dugan or the agency needed was a mirror to read the writing. It would be a clue which a clever detective would pride himself on finding.

Fred Walsen was rather proud of his work as he finished dressing and turned at the doorway. He caught a reflection in the mirror that remained as he tiptoed down the stairway. It was of an ordinary looking tourist with an ordinary looking suitcase. There were thousands of young men dressed like himself in the world. He wore a black suit, black shoes, black tie and a plaid cap. He wanted the landlady to see him that way, then, afterward, he could change to play the part he was going to assume. This part would be a hunter in the big Maine woods, who had come for game and who would be well supplied with money to hold the trail all the way to the Pacific coast by easy stages.

The landlady gave him a little friendly nod as he stopped by her side. She glanced at the case, then up at him inquiringly.

"I'm going to run down to Boston tonight," he said vaguely. "I'll be back by the seven-sixteen in the morning. In case I miss the train, and the bank calls up, tell them that I'll be in on the eleven-ten. I won't miss, though, unless I get run over or something like that. Good-by."

He went on down the steps, and turned at the gate. She had watched him with idle interest. Her chair was still rocking, which was a good sign. Had she suspected anything she would have been more alert— less at her ease.

He took the dark side of the well-known street until he reached the railroad platform. Here he waited for the train without showing himself to the agent. He could get on and state to the conductor that he had lost his ticket. This would call for a cash fare and a rebate at the Boston terminal. The inquiries he would make at the station as he cashed the coupon should be a well-dropped clue. Dugan could pick it up without great effort. The train arrived on time. He crossed the platform, climbed the steps, and took a seat in the back of the smoker. There were no other passengers from Handover in this car.

He leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief. Everything had gone as he had planned. The first step on the long journey into nowhere had started. The drudgery of his work as assistant cashier was a thing of the past.

He pressed his foot upon the suitcase with a reassuring feeling that no detective, or group of detectives, would be able to return the money to the bank. He paid a cash fare and took the coupon from the conductor. He made inquiry as to how to cash this coupon, and incidentally remarked that he was somewhat puzzled about connections for New York and the South. The conductor took the trouble to furnish him with details enough for ten absconders. This given information might be repeated, word for word, later to Dugan, who would most certainly be led astray.

The great South Station at Boston teemed with life as he came through the gate, inquired, and found the way to the coupon office. It struck him, as he pocketed the refund, that he had overplayed the part. A man with eighty-eight thousand dollars in a suit-case would hardly stop to collect a rebate.

He stood stock still. The trail ended with the thought. He was no longer Fred Walsen. He was the other man he was going to be. He sought for a name and decided upon Westland. It would match the initials upon his jewelry, and was more or less prophetic as to his ultimate destination. He glanced round, lifted the case, and started across the terminal.

"Bellmore Hotel," he told the taxi driver who had come forward.

At the Bellmore he passed through the lobby, emerged and took another taxi. This he dropped at the intersection of an avenue and a trolley road. The trolley went northward toward a small railroad junction where he could catch a train for the Maine woods. The thought came to him as he waited that the suit-case he carried might furnish a clue. It was the same as other cases he had seen about the station. He realized, however, that he had allowed himself to slip a trifle in the matter. It would not do to take any chances.

The final trail had been broken with the taxi driver who had deposited him upon the trolley corner. He decided to remove the last chance from this direction by purchasing another and larger case and placing the yellow case within it. This would be the last touch to an already well-thought-out plan. He walked down a side street until he came to a pawnshop. Here, after considerable searching round, he found what he wanted—  a huge, black alligator bag that was big enough to hold two of the yellow cases.

He carried this away in an opposite direction from the trolley line, then doubled round a corner and dropped the yellow case into the bag. He breathed freely then. No one had seen the disappearance of the suit-case. It was as if the ground had swallowed it up.

He smiled with superior freedom as he started for the trolley. The trail was most certainly broken.

The trolley was crowded. He managed to find a seat on the back platform. From this he watched the streets unroll until the car struck out across country. The lights of Boston faded in the night He breathed the country air in great gulps of freedom. He had planned well. There seemed no possible chance of pursuit and capture. No man in all the world knew where he was going. No detective he had ever read about in fiction or fact could hold the trail he had broken so often. He was sure of this. The danger might come later, when a country-wide search was made. He hardly thought it would extend to West Forest. Old Peter's description of the place suited him to a nicety: "Where no one goes, and the dogs bark at strangers."

The trolley-car reached the junction with the railroad at midnight. Fred dropped off, after passing the crossing, and walked back. He seated himself in the shadow of the platform and waited for the northbound train. The agent came out as a whistle sounded down the track. He walked to the end of the platform with some packages for the express car in his hand.

Fred jumped aboard and entered the smoker. A group of hunters with guns, a trio of drummers playing cards in a forward seat, comprised the passengers. He took a rear seat, coiled his legs about the alligator-bag, and waited for the conductor. To him he explained that he was going "up to camp," and named a station at a junction point which they would reach about daylight.

The conductor took the bill, made change, but gave no coupon. Fred slid back in the seat, drew his cap down over his eyes, and went over each detail of his flight since leaving Handover. The getaway seemed masterly. He recalled no clue that would lead northward.

Then he slept.

He awoke an hour before reaching the junction. The first, faint flush of dawn was in the sky to the east. The air felt cold. He drew his coat-collar about his neck, and peered out through the window. The land was broken, with here and there green glimpses of farm land and up-land meadows. The train roared through a tunnel and emerged in the heart of a valley whose slopes were covered with heavy timbers. Later he saw the sheen of a river and logging operations above a mill.

It was a different world than any he had ever known. It seemed a big world and a broad world— a safe place to hide in for all time. It was as he would have chosen.

He dropped off the train at the junction, crossed the street, and entered a general store that had just opened its doors. Here he purchased a hunter's outfit and a shotgun. He went on down the road to the first woods, changed clothes, then retraced his steps to the railroad station. Surveying himself in the mirror of a slot-machine, he felt satisfied that the clerks in the bank at Handover would not have recognized him had he walked in upon them. He looked like the typical tenderfoot hunter who would be more dangerous to a guide than to game.

Satisfied, he took a train that would stop at the nearest station to West Forest. It occurred to him before he reached this station that it would be well that he walked into the town instead of taking the stage, which, he had learned from the conductor, took three hours to make the trip.

Ignoring the stage-driver at the platform as he stepped from the train, he struck down the road with the shotgun in one hand and the alligator-bag in the other. He rested at times at the side of the road.

During these periods he went over the details of his flight. They seemed to him to be perfect.

He could see no slip or danger from pursuit. He had planned as well as a cool brain could plan. He had not taken a drink for fear it would cloud his mind. He laughed once as he thought of Dugan finding him. That individual was probably rushing to Handover on some train The police of the Southern cities had undoubtedly been notified to look out for a slim youth wearing black clothes and carrying a yellow suit-case.

He smiled with superiority at the thought of how clever he had actually been in breaking the trail, not once, but a score of times in a score of different ways. He did not believe that a flight had ever been so skillfully managed. The road to West Forest was longer than he had figured on.

It was late in the evening when he passed the last mile-post sign, underneath which was a collection of rural free-delivery boxes. He glanced at his watch as he came to the first scattered evidences of back wood civilization. It was ten o'clock. A stage had passed him at eight. This had been the second stage from the junction point during the day. He had noticed that all of its passengers had been sleeping or were too far back in the seats to glance out at him. He reached the one hotel of the place, saw that it was as he had anticipated, then he knocked loudly upon the door and waited. Steps sounded along a creaky hall. The knob was turned. A head was thrust out. "I'd like to put up for the night," suggested Fred with a light laugh of relief. "We're full," answered the clerk.

"Every room's taken in th' house."

"But I've got to stop somewhere," blurted Fred. "I've come on a hunting trip. I want a place for maybe a week. Can't you fix me up?"

The clerk scratched his head in perplexity. "I'll tell you what I can do," he decided as an afterthought.

"I'll double you up with a man who's up here fishing. There's two beds in th' room. He won't mind if you don't."

"That'll suit me right down to the ground," said Fred, picking up the bag and the gun. "Any port in a storm, you know."

The clerk led the way to a register at the back of a deserted parlor and sitting-room.

"Sign here," he said, as he opened a fresh page and dug a pen from out of a box of shot. Fred signed his name as "Frank Westland, Chicago."

He followed the clerk then, along a hallway and up a narrow stairs that led to a second hallway. Down this they went on tiptoes till they reached the last door. The clerk hesitated, stooped at the keyhole, and inserted a key. He fingered this till he had thrust the key on the inside out and upon the floor. Fred heard it jingle as it fell. The door swung open. The clerk stood to one side.

"I guess you won't be wakin' him," he said with a grin. "Just pile in th' far bed an' I'll try to fix you up in th' mornin'. Better lock th' door."

The room was dark save for the light that came in through a curtained window. Fred tiptoed across the creaking floor till his outstretched hands came in contact with a bed. He felt of it. It was soft and alluring. He went back and brought over the gun and bag. These he thrust under the bed, undressed, and rolled within the covers. The man in the other bed had not moved.

Fred listened and heard the low breathing of a sound sleeper. He wondered, as he  drowsed, if the bag would be safe. He reviewed the events since leaving Handover. They had been well thought out and well planned. He sank into slumber with one idea lulling his tired brain. He had planned and carried out the flight too well to lose or to fail from that hour on. He would bury some of the money in an out-of-the-way graveyard, and go to Canada at the first opportunity.

His awakening was almost a torture. His limbs ached as he rolled over and blinked at the white light that came through the window. He lifted himself upon one elbow, and glanced across the room at the other bed. The man was piling up there. His face was puzzled and uncertain. He was raising, inch by inch from the coverlet.

Fred stiffened as his eyes met those of Dugan, the detective. There was no mistaking that homely face.

It was Dugan's, of Handover— of the Lumberman's National Bank.

It was a surprised Dugan but the detective in flesh and blood. Fred leaned his weight upon his elbow. His teeth gritted as Dugan thrust out his bare feet, sat up on the edge of the bed, and stared across the room with eyes that protruded from their sockets like loose buttons. Then slowly Dugan's hand lowered to the pillow at the head of his bed. He fumbled under this, his eyes hardened, his hand came out and up with a quick jerk. An ugly, automatic revolver was pointed directly at Fred's head. Dugan squinted along the sights.

"Throw up your hands!" he snapped. "Get them up— you're under arrest! Damn you!"

"How— " began Fred.

"Get them up! I suppose all the money's in that bag under the bed, there. They telegraphed me last night that you had skipped out."

"But, Dugan, how did you happen to be here?" asked Fred weakly.

"Happen— why, old Peter at the bank said this was a good place for fishing."

_________________

17: The Conjurer of the Clouds

Muriel A. Pollexfen

(Muriel A. Pollexfen Tressidder, 1876-1923)

Adventure, August 1911

An illustration shows the "Gray Ghost" to be a sort of cross between an airship and a winged aircraft. In 1911 this was still just a possibility, at least in the lay mind. The author wrote several stories in this series.

(American-born showman and aeronautical pioneer S F Cody had built an Antionette piston-engine powered airship for the British War Office in 1907, which may well have been the inspiration for the "Gray Ghost". But by 1911 he was designing and  flying biplanes for the War Office.—Pulpmeister)

GRAY GHOST hung like a great shadow in the midst of the lumbering banks of storm-foretelling clouds— a vast shadow of luminous gray, her long, pointed nose thrust and smothered into a curling, encroaching cloud, her shining deck of steel looking like a pathway of bright light across the darker heavens.

The sun was at its zenith of early morning glory and shed a rosy brilliance on all the polished metals of the airship, on the innumerable levers, the countless buttons controlling unseen mechanism, making the narrow length of slippery deck appear a bar of glittering ore.

Gray Ghost!  Alsopp Ostermann's wonderful airship Gray Ghost!

A thing of magic, a thing of colossal power, a thing of menace and the powers of evil, but still a thing of perfect beauty and the perfect expression of a master mind!

No wonder the man himself thrilled to the very soul as he stepped up on deck from below and surveyed the work of his genius lying motionless as a resting bird upon a nest of white-tipped clouds. No wonder he cherished resentment against the airship's enemies and that black hatred filled his heart as he thought of the two men in the cabin below whom he had caused to be abducted the night before and whom he intended to murder in cold blood as soon as they recovered their senses from the effects of the drug which had been administered to them. Two men who had been Gray Ghost's most active and dangerous enemies and who had schemed and plotted and striven to trap him a dozen times and once or twice all but succeeded—perilously nearly succeeded!

Yes, Algy Brett and Sir Dean Densham had been the greatest source of danger and anxiety and even now Ostermann marveled how his luck had held so long against the success of their well-planned attempts to capture. Even now he shuddered to remember the narrowness of his escape from the house behind the boarding and the hut among the sandhills at Formby; and, even as he remembered, his teeth gritted together in impotent rage at the failure of the schemes which should have, by this time, made him the most powerful man on earth.

"But I've got them now!" he muttered grimly, his green coyote's eyes bulging from their colorless lids in triumph, a cruel, gloating, unholy joy of anticipation twisting and curling his thin, sucked-in lips. "I've got them now and this time they shall not escape me! This time I triumph; this time I call the tune for them to dance to! I've got them safe— roped hand and foot in the cabin there, and today I'll reward them for their vigilance!"

Ostermann laughed as he glanced backward over his shoulder at the steps which led to the interior of the airship and thought of the two poor men who would wake presently to the horrible reality that they were prisoners in their enemy's grip. He went forward to a solitary figure stationed in the narrow bows.

"Gherston," he said abruptly, as the man turned and saluted, "I am going up to the wireless platform and I want you to go down every now and then and report to me how the prisoners are. The moment they are conscious I want them brought to me. Understand?"

"Quite, sir. Shall I call Andersen forward to take my watch and go below and keep constant guard? It would be unfortunate if one or both of them contrived to cut their bonds and escape."

Ostermann showed his yellow teeth in a snarling grin.

"Unfortunate? Unfortunate for the man who lets them get free! But as to escape— how could they? The only thing they could do would be to fling themselves overboard and rob us of the pleasure of doing it for them. And that, Gherston, would annoy me very much! I want to gloat over the suffering, mental and physical, they will endure when they hear the fate I have mapped out for them! It makes it sweeter to know that they will realize it all the better for having witnessed Carlile Darien's death. And that reminds me. When the time comes to treat Mr. Brett and Sir Dean Densham in the same manner as we treated Mr. Darien, see to it that they are searched thoroughly before being thrown overboard. Remember what disaster overtook us because we forgot the simple operation on that other occasion! Remember the betrayal of the 'seeds of destruction' episode and see to it that our great plans for next week are not frustrated through the agency of a scrap of paper. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. And what about Andersen?"

"Yes, send for Andersen, but not immediately. Until they recover from the drugs the prisoners are safe enough and Andersen did some hard work last night. Better keep on with your watch forward and go down every ten minutes. First of all see to it that their bonds are firm; no chance of working loose. I don't think there is, but still—I'm taking no chances this time."

"Good. I'll go down at once. By the way, Stoltz told me to tell you that he's got No. 3 motor running again— it was a clog of oil. He says he's ready to start at a second's notice."

"Ah, that's good hearing. Tell him to see to the others also while he has the chance. I want everything fit for this afternoon. Tell him we start about ten o'clock."

OSTERMANN turned away and mounted to the little platform where the wireless apparatus was fitted. He was some time getting an answer to his repeated calling, but at length it came, the electric flashes illuminating the tiny box-like house.

"Yes, we are the Pratzlau wireless; who are you? Ostermann? Good. We've been wanting to get hold of you and have been trying for some hours. Have you any news?"

"Yes," flashed back Ostermann. "We have succeeded in getting Brett and Sir Dean and they are prisoners here on the airship. They are insensible at the present moment, but I intend putting a stop to their interfering powers the instant they are reported conscious. Even as it is, they have done harm to us. They have succeeded in rousing up the War Office and the Heads generally and if I didn't have Gray Ghost, I should be sure to be captured before many hours had passed. As it is, however, I can afford to laugh at them. They have sent aeroplanes and balloons after me, scouring the skies for me, but they might as well save themselves the bother. They won't catch me that way! Any orders?"

"Yes. The Emperor Maximilian is anxious to come over and see you himself— and to see how the scheme is progressing, and whether everything is really as far on as you say. He intends leaving in his yacht this evening and would arrive at the cove about midnight tomorrow. Suit you?"

"Very well, indeed. I will alter my plans accordingly. Anything else? Does he approve of what I intend doing to Brett and Densham?"

"Heartily. They were the mainspring of every failure we endured. In fact I believe he would not mind giving them a helping hand to send them quicker on their way! Anyway, I hope we'll have a turn of luck now, eh? You deserve it anyway!"

"I think I do! I want to touch some of those two millions! Good-by."

"Good-by. Remember, twelve midnight, the cove, tomorrow! And, by the way, we shall want a chart of the entrance to the cove— will you send it to Berwick?"

The flashes and mutterings ceased and Ostermann descended once again to the deck. Gherston was coming up the ladder from the cabin at the same moment and, saluting in military fashion, stepped up to him.

"I have just been down, sir. The prisoners are still unconscious and show no sign of coming round. The elder one is breathing strangely and looks ill. I moved him to the couch and made him a bit more comfortable as I did not think you wanted him to slip out of your hands."

"Quite right, Gherston," replied Ostermann grimly, sucking in his lip over his teeth as was his fashion when feeling annoyed.

"Quite right. I don't want him to slip through my hands that way! Is the young one all right?"

"Oh, yes, quite. I left him where he was under the table. He's screwed up pretty tight, so even if he does come round he can't move a hair!"

"Quite sure they're still safely under the influence? I want you to send Lieutenant Berne to me in the cabin, but I want to be very sure those two won't overhear our conversation."

"Oh, I'm sure they're dead unconscious— both of them. I took jolly good care to find out if they were fooling, I can tell you. Besides, even if they do hear a bit it won't do them any good or you any harm, considering they are on the verge of being jettisoned! Eh, Captain?"

"Quite so, Gherston. I'm hanged if I hadn't almost forgotten that. I'm so accustomed to that young Brett worming and twisting himself into my innermost secrets that I believe I'm frightened of him even now when he's trussed and roped and within a few minutes of death! After all, it might be only making the pill a little more bitter if he did happen to overhear us! So send along Lieutenant Berne and you continue your watch. If you see anything of that flying-man Denton just direct the projector at him and send him a present of a bomb to teach him sense! Not that I expect him, but they say he's scouring the clouds for us on the occasions he manages by some fluke to leave the ground, and it would liven things up a bit in the intervals if we could come to close quarters with another airship."

"There's only one airship worth talking about, Captain, and I'm happy to have the honor to belong to her! There's only one Gray Ghost!" Ostermann looked at his junior navigating lieutenant with a gleam like a laugh in his prominent green eyes.

"Only one Gray Ghost at present!" he said enigmatically. "For the others you must wait and see, Gherston! You won't have long— only till next week, I think; only till next week, if all goes well! And now send Berne to me."

ii

ALGY BRETT stirred uneasily and breathed hard, and at the same moment was conscious of wonderment as to the reason of the cramped stiffness in his chest and arms and the gnawing pains that seemed to be eating into the very bones of his legs.

He tried to sit up, but a suffocating something prevented, and his head fell back heavily on to a hard floor, while the things eating into his muscles hurt more than ever with the slight movement. An intense feeling of sickness overwhelmed him and the faint beating of his heart made him wonder whether he had been ill. A cloud wrapped his brain in shadows and he could remember nothing; he even failed to understand what had happened or to realize that anything at all had happened. Overcome by the effort to sit up, he almost went back into unconsciousness, and it was fortunate that it was the very moment Gherston had come down to inspect them. A second sooner and he would have had to report that Brett had come to. As it was, he applied the test of touching the eyeball with a fingertip, and went up to Ostermann quite satisfied that both the prisoners were still deeply drugged and, to all intents and purposes, dead to the world.

But the second time that Algy opened his eyes the cloud had almost gone from his brain and a wave of memory rushed over him.

He remembered everything! Everything, and a bitter nausea welled up in his heart. He had gone to his uncle's house in Whitehall the night before in response to a telegram signed "Densham" and addressed to him at Liss. He recalled clearly the sudden feeling of dread and the touch of warning that seemed to stay him as he entered the big library where he expected his uncle to meet him. He recalled the sensation of fear that gripped him as he viewed the empty room and realized the open window, the heavy velvet curtain torn almost from the pole and dragged outward over the balcony as though a man fighting for life had clung to it in desperation; recalled the cry he strove in vain to stifle as he rushed like a reckless boy to the window, ran, ruthless of the consequences, on to the iron balcony where, hovering above, a dim shape swayed and balanced— Gray Ghost! He remembered the two words passing his terrified lips, "Gray Ghost!" and then a hand that seemed to materialize from the darkness of the balcony corner, a grip of iron fingers on his throat choking his cry for help, a sponge saturated with chloroform pressed over his mouth and nose, and then nothing— nothing— nothing till this moment!

He turned his aching eyes stiffly in their sockets and saw his uncle stretched out on the narrow bench that circled the tiny room. Was he already dead? Had death mercifully come to him while still unconscious? Or was he still drugged? Even so, that was better than the bitterness of consciousness and helplessness, waiting, waiting, waiting for the end! He thought of poor Darien and shuddered. Was his fate to be the same— smashed to an unrecognizable pulp on the stones of the streets? Again he strained his eyes in the direction of Sir Dean's body and again he hoped and prayed that all was well with the old man.

"Ostermann's got us this time!" he murmured inwardly, closing his eyes again that the tears of sheer weakness he felt rising to them would not brim over and betray his terror. If Ostermann was to gloat over their murders presently he should not also gloat over their cowardice. "He's got us this time and I suppose we ought to think ourselves lucky to have escaped his talons for so long. But if only I could have hounded him down first I could have borne this better!

"If only England believed in Gray Ghost! But after this perhaps they will— if it's not too late. The sacrifice of Darien was too unimportant for them to attach a meaning to it; perhaps the sacrifice of Sir Dean Densham will wake them up. But at what a cost! Poor Uncle Dean! I'd give my right hand to save you. I'd die a dozen times if it would avail you anything. But I know Ostermann too well. He wants his pound of flesh and I go to make up the weight!"

Footsteps sounded on the deck above, metallic and echoing. They came nearer and nearer and Brett realized that someone was entering the cabin— two people. From under his eyelids he saw that one was Ostermann, and the faintness of helplessness rushed over him once more as he recognized the tall thin body, the bulging, colorless eyes, shifty and restless and watchful as a prairie wolf's, and the narrow, cruel mouth sucked in over the teeth. The man stooped and looked at him, kicking him contemptuously, believing him still insensible.

"Andersen gave them a good dose while he was at it, I must say!" he said to the man following him. "But I suppose he was afraid of them escaping during my absence. The old fellow looks like lying there for good, eh? Presently I'll send him down a dose of brandy so as to hurry things up a bit. I don't want him dying quite so comfortably as all that! But first I want to settle definitely the arrangements for the next few hours.

"Listen. I've just been speaking to the Pratzlau station and from the tone of their messages I don't think they are very satisfied with me. These two meddlers here have interfered with me so often that they are beginning to lose confidence in me— and I don't know that I altogether blame them. I must admit it looks like bad management on my part to let my secret plans get abroad as they have done, and they think that I should have earned their offer and reward of two million before this. However, I told them I'd got my prisoners safe and that the future would be all plain sailing and that England could be theirs for the mere asking by this time next week!"

"I expect that will satisfy them."

"I expect it will, but all the same the Emperor is making it his business to come to the cove tomorrow to see with his own eyes how I am obeying orders! It shows the way the wind is blowing, eh? Personal supervision, eh?"

"Phew! It seems to me as though we'd only got those two chaps there in the nick of time! Another failure and we'd have been given the cold shoulder! And now what's to be done?"

"Our arrangements will have to be altered. He will arrive at the cove tomorrow night at midnight; he is coming over in his yacht and I shall have to be there to meet him and make him realize how ready everything is for the projected invasion next week. We are ready, Berne, and he must admit we have done our work well when he sees for himself the preparations."

"He will be a stoic if he can look on the result of the last two months' work and not realize and pay homage to your genius, Captain! Whatever have been our failures lately, they will be compensated for in the moment when the Emperor enters the cove!"

"That moment will be one of the proudest in my life, Berne. And if, as you say, it will compensate for all my betrayals— why I almost find it in my heart to let those two fellows there live! Almost, but not quite, eh? Not quite, friend Brett! Not quite, friend Densham!"

"Indeed no; not unless we want to go on being made the laughing-stocks of the world! And now, sir, any orders for me?"

"Yes. They want the code-chart of the entrance to the cove. You will have to go to Phelps— there's the address, Carmichael Chambers, Jermyn Street. He is doing the plans for me; tell him they are to be sent immediately to Berwick, where they will be called for by the Emperor some time tomorrow afternoon. Tell him on no account to fail. You know the address in Berwick?"

"Yes, sir. And what time shall I go? Am I to go now?"

"Let me see!" Ostermann looked at a tiny indicator hanging on the wall and measured up the markings before he spoke again.

"We are just about three thousand feet above Ilford. I think if we sail immediately over London, drop down to between one and two thousand feet and get rid of our cargo, then sail back to Aldershot or thereabouts to land you without attention being drawn to us, it would be the best plan. It won't do for you to be a marked man. Disguise as soon as possible and take the train to London the moment you are able to. You've plenty of time, so don't run the risk of bungling things for the sake of a few minutes. Remember they'll be on the lookout for us and beware."

Berne looked considerately at the figure of Sir Dean on the narrow seat and the portion of Brett's body sticking out from under the table over which Ostermann and he were talking.

"You don't think it might be more advisable to dump them down in some quieter place than the City of London, sir?" he asked, indicating the recumbent prisoners. "It's running a big risk, sir."

"A big risk, Berne, as you say. I admit it. But I've been waiting for this hour to come for months past and I'm not going to be balked of a single ounce of sweetness! I want London to ring with the news! I want Whitehall to witness the thing for themselves! I want to make England realize the strength of my power, the iron grip I've got them in, the kind of enemy I make! I want them to know me for what I am— the Conjuror of the Clouds! It's my rightful title and I'm proud of it! I want those pygmy Englishmen down there to call me by it and tremble before it!

"The Conjuror of the Clouds! I am a conjuror, Berne, and I'm going to make them know it and worship me! They'll call me murderer if they like, but they'll call me conjuror, too. And if they don't today, they will next week when the secret of the cove is visible and known to all the world. They've scoffed and jeered and sneered at me down there in Whitehall— when I was a struggling beginner, starving in brain and body for funds to carry out my great invention, they turned me from their doors and laughed at airships! Laughed at Gray Ghost! At me! Today they'll begin to be sorry, they'll begin to realize their mistake, they'll begin to barter and haggle with me— not direct with me, because I'll be a murderer in their eyes, but through spies! Through spies like that dog Brett there!

"And by this time next week they'll be ready to fling every ounce of gold in their coffers at my feet for my secret! Too late, this time next week, too late! And that's why I want to publicly revenge myself on my prisoners even at the risk of your liberty. It's my revenge and I can't renounce a drop of it!"

"I won't ask you to, sir," replied Berne in a subdued voice, impressed by Ostermann's sudden baring of his feelings. "I'm not a bit anxious about myself— it was you and Gray Ghost I was thinking of. I'll be all right, never fear, sir."

"Thank you, Berne. You've stuck by me through thick and thin and I'll see your share of the two millions is a pretty good one in consequence. And now you'd better get to your bunk and prepare for the journey. Tell Gherston that the others need not be disturbed for another hour yet; they are sleeping like logs after yesterday's trip and last night's work— and no wonder. Three thousand miles— and some of it across a frozen continent—isn't bad work, eh? And then the capture of the two spies, eh? However, let them sleep on for a bit. I shall return here in fifteen minutes. Meet me here in that time, ready to start. If those two brutes have not come round by then, I'll wait no longer but heave them overboard as they are. It won't be sport, but they'll have to be got rid of within an hour if you're to be landed in time. Till fifteen minutes, then."

iii

AS ALSOPP OSTERMANN'S footsteps died away and once again the little cabin was empty, Algy Brett ventured to stir slightly and gaze round. The stiffness was gone from his eyes and he was feeling alert and strong, with brain eager and active and all the nausea gone.

If only his hands and feet weren't tied so firmly! He wrenched his shoulders violently and tried vainly to burst the rope bound round his shoulders. The memory that in fifteen short and flying moments Ostermann would again enter that narrow, steel-walled chamber was like molten fire in his brain and stirred him up to wild endeavor. A frenzy of determination flooded him and he swore thickly to get free. A demon of strength seemed to come to him; an unnatural power swelled his muscles and made his fingers iron.

Like a man possessed, a man with the sinews of the Ancients, he wrenched and stretched and tore at the bonds that held him.

And at last they gave! His hands were free— swelled and bleeding and purple, but free. He felt in his coat and all but shouted with glee to find they had not searched him, that still his knife was there and his revolver. In two minutes he was rid of the last rope and staggered to his feet, drunk with the joy of freedom and the knowledge that at least he would not die trussed up like a pigeon! Let Ostermann come in now; let the airship's crew come in! They would not take him alive while there was a shot in the Colt!

He crept slowly to the bench where his uncle lay and stooped over him. Sir Dean was very white and very still and a look of perfect happiness had settled on his face. Algy put a trembling hand over his heart and bent his ear to the pale lips. Then he straightened himself suddenly and found himself praying.

Sir Dean had cheated Ostermann even of his revenge.

And then a step on the stair above warned Brett of the approach of someone and he sprang back behind the table, crouching down so that the newcomer would be absolutely in the cabin before he would notice that the prisoner had risen from the floor.

The man was Berne and he carried a valise in his hand as though prepared and ready for the immediate journey. He saw Brett the instant he entered the chamber, but astonishment robbed him for the moment of his senses, and before he recovered them and could call out for help, Algy had sprung upon him and stunned him with the butt-end of the Colt. As he fell he was dragged under the table and the rope flung over him; only his legs projected from the table, and a person looking into the cabin from the steps would be just able to see the protruding feet and satisfy himself that Brett was still safe and sound and helpless beneath the table.

A piece of thin steel wall, forming a lazarette, abutted from the main wall by the door and it made a screen serviceable enough for a man to hide behind. Algy squeezed in behind it and tried to think.

The only certain thing was that within a very few minutes Ostermann would be coming down into the cabin and the instant he stepped into it Algy would have to act. Could he trust his revolver again to be so clean and quick in its work as it had been with Berne? He was aware that his arm was stiff and shaking, and a fear that he might bungle filled him with nervousness. If there were only something else! Thank heaven there was! In the nick of time he remembered it. Sir Dean always carried a bottle of a certain drug on him which he was in the habit of taking for a weak heart. The drug, Algy knew, would, if applied under the same conditions, act in the precise capacity of chloroform. A few drops inhaled from a handkerchief was enough to send a man into a state of unconsciousness lasting some considerable time.

With barely one minute to spare, Algy ran noiselessly across the cabin and felt for the bottle. In the inner pocket of the dead man's coat he found it and drew it out. It was quite a biggish bottle and was almost full. He slipped behind the screen again just in time. A tread sounded on the step of the dwarf companion-ladder and Ostermann's thin body came into view— Algy could see the feet first, long and narrow and shod in rubber overshoes; then the limp, lean, yellow fingers swinging aimlessly at his sides, then the gray, clay-colored face and virile, working mouth.

Algy could see that Ostermann's cold, hard eyes were fixed on Sir Dean's face almost as though the thought had struck him at last that perhaps, after all, the man had escaped him and was dead. He walked within an inch of Brett, but was so arrested by the conviction and fear that Sir Dean had checkmated him that he had thought for nothing else.

Even the strong and pungent odor of the drug poured out by Brett escaped him. Perhaps it was because the narrow cabin already reeked of chloroform that the new smell was unnoticed.

He had passed a yard in front of the screen when Algy leaped upon him like a panther of the forest leaping on his prey. The thick handkerchief, folded into a pad and saturated with the drug, was pressed over his nose with the same sudden gift of strength that had come to Algy when he struggled to be free from the ropes that bound him. Ostermann never even struggled. The drug overcame him almost the instant it was applied. Brett's powerful grip was an agony to endure, and, before Algy could bring himself to believe his senses, the man was stretched out limp and unconscious at his feet.

Scarcely crediting his luck, Algy slipped to the door and closed it. Then he made two thick pads from his own handkerchief and Ostermann's and strapped them tightly over his victims' mouths.

"That will ensure my safety till they are discovered, at least!" he muttered, giving Ostermann's pad a vicious thrust as he remembered the kick administered in a like temper upon himself.

"And now to work! First, Mr. Ostermann, I want to borrow your cap. Thanks; and now your coat. Thank goodness, it's a fit and has a high collar. Now your goggles. What a fortunate thing it is you seem to be in the habit of wearing them! Now, am I ready?"

He paused a moment, thinking. Ostermann's cap, a close-fitting fur, covered his head and ears and proved an excellent concealment for his face. Ostermann's great coat of skin, with its high stormcollar, enveloped him in its generous folds, and Ostermann's gloves and shoes of rubber hid his hands and telltale feet. Then, though adding by it to the risk of discovery by the delay of precious time, Algy went again to his uncle's side and with his knife freed the thin white hands and poor body from the indignity of a traitor's bonds.

UP ON DECK all was silent and peaceful. The clouds that had been threatening storm had passed over and now a thin haze, chilly and wet and enveloping, wrapped the airship in a shroud-like vapor.

Gherston, on the lookout in the narrow bows, could barely be observed and Brett's heart thrilled within him as he understood what the fog meant to him. It was as though a kind Providence had come to his aid, and he saw in the opportune, wraith-like mist a promise of victory and escape.

The grayness and the closeness of the encroaching clouds hid the beauty and power of the motionless ship from him, but he could see enough to admit himself afraid of the genius that had brought into being such a wondrous achievement; such a perfect machine; a thing almost rivaling the very birds of the air. No wonder the man called himself with such colossal pride the Conjuror of the Air! For so he was. He was something more than ordinary man. He was superman! He had the brain of a superman— and this was its product! The boy shivered even as he admired. For there was always about Gray Ghost that feeling of slumbering enmity, of hidden menace, of suggestive power to send down death and havoc and destruction. And now that it had claimed his uncle as another victim it was more than ever a thing of evil and a vampire of steel.

Shuddering, devoured with the one idea of escaping from the feel of the thin steel decks and the presence of those silent propellers, Algy roused himself and walked along into the bows. He touched Gherston on the shoulder.

"Berne is going to land immediately. I want to go with him. You can see to the prisoners in my absence. Make for London—somewhere near Whitehall. Call me when I'm wanted."

Gherston wheeled round with a suddenness which betrayed his suspicions. He peered into Brett's face and his hand flew to his belt.

"You're not Ostermann!" he cried, fear touching him. "You're not the Captain!"

His fingers had fumbled for his revolver, but Brett was too quick for him.

"No, I'm not," he said, his pistol at the other's head. "I'm not, but you've got to act as though I were! One move on your part is death. I mean it! I've killed, or almost killed, one man down there, and your precious master is as good as dead, and I'd as soon put a bullet through you as a rat. Now then, understand. I've got to land safely and you've got to see to it!"

Gherston was but a boy and the whip in Brett's voice was serious.

"I cannot! They'd be suspicious— they'd spot you in a moment. I cannot!"

"It was arranged for Lieutenant Berne to be landed and the same orders will do for me. See to it, or I'll treat you as I've treated them. Give the orders at once!"

Gherston, deadly white, struggling for selfpossession but conscious of the pressure of the cold steel of the revolver against his cheek, picked up the tube of the telephone and called up the engineer.

"One false word— one word too much— one warning, and remember you are a dead man! Whatever happens to me, I'll see that you precede me. Remember that and play fair! Even if you cough I'll take it as the signal for me to pull this trigger. Now, then, fire away!"

iv

MOTIONLESS and silent in the shroud of mist and wrapping of crowding clouds, Gray Ghost still hovered, but a faint murmuring, a distant muttering was becoming louder and louder as every moment passed and Algy knew that the engineer had started the motors. Once again his heart began to cherish hope.

If Gherston had not played him false by mingling a code-warning into the brief orders he had telephoned down below then there was a chance! But there was also the risk that someone might enter the cabin! If they did, not all the bullets in the world could save him. He listened to the humming and the throbbing of the starting motors with an intensity which seemed to make the waiting drag like a hundred years.

Then the muttering became regular, the great propellers thrummed and sang and the banks of clouds seemed to sail past them, slowly at first, then faster and faster, till the wet mist drove like a sheet of solid rain against them and the cutting wind whistled and shrieked and yelled mocking, angry diatribes in their ears. Then a sudden dip, a sweeping, downward flight that sent Algy sick and helpless against the rail. And for this Gherston had been waiting. He sprang forward, revolver in hand and a half-uttered shout on his lips. But Brett recovered instantly and with an oath he knocked the other's weapon from him over the side, down, down into the abyss of cloud below them.

"And you'll follow, you fool!" said he. "Send those fellows about their business or it will be the worse for you! Do you hear? Order that man back!"

At the sound of Gherston's half-articulated cry two men who had been working aft came running up, and if Gherston had valued his life a little less, Brett's chance of escape was gone for good. But Gherston was young and life was dear and Algy's eyes were red with passion. He waved the men away and strode to the far end of the little bridge spanning the deck, his face dark with ill-suppressed rage against the man who now so completely had the mastery over him; his cowardly brain trying desperately to think of some way of revenging himself and saving his master and at the same time running no serious risk of putting his own life in danger.

For the impostor was deadly in earnest; one had only to look at his set teeth and snapping, redflushed eyes to know that. And it was one thing to be brave when armed and prepared, but quite another to have had one's revolver sent spinning overboard and to know that there was only strategy left. So he remained sulking and silent in the corner and kept a watch on Brett's every movement like a cat waiting to pounce on a wary mouse.

The ship had dropped down to between one and two thousand feet and Algy could occasionally see the dotted villages and townships marking the earth below them when the fog lifted at intervals. He longed with wild intensity to be able to step over to the navigator in charge of the airship and order him to make the descent then and there regardless of locality, but it was certain that Ostermann must have mentioned that Berne was to be landed on the lonely plains around Aldershot, and not to do so would rouse suspicion. Therefore he would have to endure the suspense as best he could till the flat wastes of Laffans Plain appeared beneath them.

Yet the danger of landing in such a place revealed itself very plainly to him. He knew that the instant he left the airship Gherston's hands would be free and that he would muster the entire ship's company with one call. And what chance would there be for him? He would be a very visible and distinct target for them and the possibility of escaping or finding shelter from their attack was something he was too wise to believe in.

The more he thought over it the plainer it became that the one hope of his escaping with his life would be to insist upon their landing him in a populated spot where opportunity for safe shelter offered itself readily. So, having made up his mind, he decided to act without further loss of time. He called Gherston over to him and the fellow came slowly, his face betraying the helpless resentment he felt.

"You must land me in London," Brett whispered determinedly. "It's no use to tell me it will make 'em suspicious. I'll have to risk that. Tell the chap at the steering wheel to make for London; tell him I've changed my mind since this fog's come on, and will chance London. Do you hear? And remember I shall be exactly behind you and at the smallest sign I fire! Remember!"

"It is madness. It may mean capture and death for us all. They will be on the lookout for us since your disappearance last night. You ask too much."

"I ask what I intend to have, and no more. I ask a safe landing and you will see that I get it. Now, go!"

Gherston scowled for answer and turned on his heel. The man at the wheel was but a few feet away and it took Gherston barely a moment to reach him. Brett followed closely, yet managed to keep hidden and indistinct in the thickening fog. The three of them— the man at the wheel, Gherston and Brett— were alone on the deck of Gray Ghost; they might have been alone in an empty world, so wrapped in silence and solitude were they, with only the beating of the mammoth wings cleaving the air, the race of the propellers stirring the fast following clouds, the throb and roar of the motors as they registered almost full speed, sounding in the mistclogged space. Even though he knew that Ostermann lay unconscious and perhaps dead behind the cabin door, Brett felt again the wave of superstitious awe of him he had felt when he realized the magnitude and power of Gray Ghost. It was incredible that he, Algy Brett, a mere boy, had conquered and made captive the superman who had wrenched the secret of the air from the gods and called himself the Conjuror of the Clouds! It was foolhardy to dare hope to escape, and yet—and yet he did hope. Gherston reached the steersman and was speaking to him. Algy tried to hear his words, but the fog muffled them and he was afraid to venture too near. But he waited and watched and his revolver was aimed dead true at Gherston's head. AND then the moment came. He saw the man at the wheel start and felt the great swerve Gray Ghost took as the wheel swung round for a brief instant. Gherston had told the other man! Gherston had warned him! In the winking of an eye the revolver spat and Gherston fell sprawling forward in a heap on the wet deck. Brett sprang across him to the steersman. "One word—one movement and you are lying there with that fool! Obey me and you're safe. Understand?"

"What do you want?" the man asked, his voice weakening on the words, his fingers trembling as he gripped the wheel. "What do you want? You are not the Captain!"

"No, I'm not Ostermann. I want to be landed immediately, immediately, do you hear? If I'm not safe and sound on the earth inside ten minutes, I'll make this little thing speak again! Understand?"

The man nodded dazedly and altered the course without comment. Brett searched him hurriedly and relieved him of a sinister-looking knife and a small pistol. Then he stood by him, alert, ears pricked for the approach of newcomers, eyes directed constantly to the big map fixed to the stanchion before the wheel, and with a revolver now in each hand, ready to fight till the last breath rather than be taken alive again.

The engines were going beautifully, Gray Ghost flying as easily and as smoothly as a clipper in a flat-calm sea. Even in those moments of anguished anxiety and with the knowledge that he had killed a man eating into his soul, Algy could not help a feeling of exaltation sweeping over him, compelling the old admiration for the brain of the man who had solved the great problem. In spite of the clinging mists and thickening fog, the towers and spires and bulks of buildings were becoming plain and once, when the sun burst through and dispelled the clouds for an instant, Brett could see the winding Thames glistening and sparkling in the sunshine.

He turned to the man beside him.

"Where are we?" he asked sharply, seeing that the fellow's eyes were filled with a kind of lurid triumph and excitement. "Where are we? Why don't you descend here?"

"We are just over Mortlake. I will make the descent now— now—" His eyes betrayed him! They strayed again to the cabin door, which was scarcely abaft the wheel and only a stride away. But they betrayed him! As though a live wire passed from his brain to Brett's the knowledge was flashed to Algy that someone was coming through the door!

Who was it? Ostermann? Berne? Who was it? Brett's eyes were stiff with sudden fear and scarcely had the power to turn in the direction of the door to see who came. His heart turned sick and a wave of abject misery overwhelmed him. Was this the end after all? Oh, was it Ostermann?

Yes, it was! Ah, no, no, no! Thank heaven, no! Not Ostermann, but Berne! Berne, bleeding and weak, but alive and dangerous! Berne, mad with anger and revenge and about to summon the sleeping crew! And behind Berne? What was that tall shadow swaying at the foot of the companion ladder? That was Ostermann!

Ostermann, too weak yet to climb the tiny flight of steps; Ostermann, reeling and swaying and summoning all his powers of endurance and virile strength, but as weak still as a rabbit.

At the sight of his weakness new strength came to Algy and he leaped forward. At least he would not give in without a struggle and they were almost within hailing distance of the earth. If he could hold out for another three minutes, if he could beat them back through that steel door, could he win through? If he could!

To the man at the wheel he yelled an order to descend immediately or suffer death on the spot, and then dashed behind him and across the deck to the cabin door.

Berne was still leaning against the wall, the sudden freshness of the air almost depriving him of his senses for the first minute and causing the whistle he had intended to call the crew with to drop from his limp fingers. Ostermann had climbed up two steps and was struggling to reach the third. It was as if they had been intoxicated with the drug and were still under its influence.

Even as Algy leaped across the narrow space, Berne had found the whistle again and had it between his teeth. But just as he was about to blow it Algy sprang at him and flung him backward. He went down helplessly, crashing over the steps, carrying Ostermann with him with horrible force— and then Algy could hear them struggling on the cabin floor.

Without waiting for anything save to slam the door and shoot the bolts above and below the handles, Algy raced back to the wheel.

"I give you five seconds to reach land!" he threatened the man.

"We are just down," said the fellow insolently, giving the wheel a vicious jerk and signaling down to the engineer. "And if it had not been that, had I let go the wheel, we would all have lost our lives; I would have warned the engineers and chanced your bullet, my young dare-devil Englishman! My neck's not so precious as all that, let me tell you! But I believe the Captain would sooner I let you escape than hurt a rivet of Gray Ghost!"

"Chance is a fine thing, my brave-after-the-event fellow, and you never had one! I had one eye on you, don't you worry. Ah, here we are!"

Like a gull settling on the water the airship took the earth; not a jolt, not a quiver shook her; she glided down and rested on the green field.

Reluctantly Algy reversed the big revolver in his hand and drew his arm up. Then he brought it down heavily on the man's head and saw him double up and sink down in a heap beside Gherston's body.

"I had to stun him!" he muttered in extenuation. "I had to do it or I should never have got away!"

He was running as he spoke, running at top speed, racing and running for dear life!

A big motor-car was coming down the hill toward him and he called madly for them to stop, begged them to take him in, and then, when speeding on again, dashing to London, he broke down and told these strangers, with childish tears, of his escape, of his uncle's death and the man he had killed deliberately. They did not believe him for one moment, but they humored him and poured brandy down his quivering throat and did their best to quiet him, looking at each other with raised brows over his bowed head and heaving shoulders.

Until one of them looked up.

Flying high, rapidly disappearing into the mists above the lower blue, a long gray airship crept like a specter into view and like a specter vanished.

__________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-83

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has been uploaded separately.

Achmed Abdullah

The Fetish of Remorse 83

Framed at the Benefactors' Club 73

The Mystery of the Talking Idols 63

Cleve F. Adams

Default With Doom  81

George Ade

Making the Grade 78

"A. E. P."

The End of Sherlock Holmes  67

W. L. Alden

After the Comet 67

Foote's Catorium 70

How the Fat Woman Eloped 68

The St. Bernard Myth 68

A Scientific Balloon 72

Silver Plated   67

The Wild Man of Borneo 67

A Tricycle Made For Two 82

Mark Allerton

A Christmas Mix-Up 70

The Stanhope Scandal 70

Frederick Irving Anderson

The Signed Masterpiece  82

Anonymous

Armistice  78

A Barrack Ghost Story 76

Beauty in Flight 76

Chinese Murder  80

A Detective Adventure  80

The Diamond Necklace 62

The Great Auk's Egg Affair 61

Fool Proof  75

The Hat Trick 71

Haunted  78

Jacobs and Gale, Tobacconists 70

Local Color 75

An Old Norman-French Story 76

The Petrie Plan 83

A Railway Murder 70

Remorse 76

Retribution 74

Revenge 74

The Ruins of the Abbey of Fitz-Martin 64

The Skipper's Scheme 73

The Stamp Thief 71

The Thriller 71

A Solicitor's Story (as by "S.S.")  75

F. Anstey

Taken By Surprise  66

Alice and Claude Askew

Heritage of Lucille Rivers 82

Francis Henry Atkins

The Lay Figure  63

Edouard A. Aujard

The Flood 75

The Swing of Sentiment  75

Stacy Aumonier

A Source of Irritation 73

Straight Griggs 78

F. Britten Austin

Into the Blue 79

Irving Bacheller

Holy Poker 71

The Prodigal Village 71

Mrs. Baillie-Saunders

The Wrong Reception  83

James Barr

The Man in Moccasins  82

Robert Barr

The Last Straw 72

J. M. Barrie

The Adventure of the Two Collaborators 75

My Brother Henry 72

John Arthur Barry

Baleston's Secret Reef 72

The Mystery of the "Mountain Maid"  64

Frederick R. Bechdolt

Before Michael Came  63

The Lie-Detector 73

L. Adams Beck

The Interpreter (novelette) 62

H. Bedford-Jones

The Artificial Honeymoon 66

Bradford's P-Luck 83

Breakfast at the Savoy 79

The Coral of Idris 83

Death Gave Him His Chance  63

Not Upon the Sleeve  79

J. J. Bell

The Lovely Little Dinner 70

The Price of a House  63

"Sir William"  61

E. F. Benson

Negotium Perambulans  64

The Terrace 69

J. D. Beresford

The Hidden Beast 75

Harold Bindloss

Trooper Jenkins 68

Ottwell Binns

The Britisher 73

Dixon's Romance 75

George A. Birmingham

Jimmy Cassidy's Picture  80

The Spy 81

Algernon Blackwood

The Kit-Bag 76

M. McDonnell Bodkin

The Will and the Man 79

Christopher B. Booth

"Doc" Meets the Train (as by John Jay Chichester)  72

Mr Clackworthy Collects 63

Mr Clackworthy Gets His Tonic 64

Mr Clackworthy Sells Short  63

Mr Clackworthy Stakes a Friend 70

Solly's Last Forgery 64

When Mr. Clackworthy Needed a Bracer 64

Guy Boothby

By Right Of Conquest 72

B. M. Bower

The Ghost in the Red Shirt  63

Jack Boyle

The Beauty-Fountain 70

A Woman Without Fear 70

Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Good Lady Ducayne  71

Max Brand

Five Minutes to Twelve 61

Honor Bright 64

Lion Heart 61

Percy James Brebner

Cat or Devil 65

The Corner of John Street 80

Her Ransom 80

The Ghost of the Cabinet 80

Lady Langton's Jewels 80

A Literary Secret  66

Scarsley Moor Mystery  66

Coutts Brisbane

Without Fear 76

George Bronson-Howard

The Prophetic War Correspondent 79

K. R. G. Browne

On the 6.15  80

The Green-eyed Remedy  82

Two Women in the Case   80

Thomas Burke

The Bloomsbury Wonder 61

The Horrible God 62

Laughing Lillian 62

The Yellow Imps 62

Edgar Rice Burroughs

Who Murdered Mr. Thomas? 68

Ellis Parker Butler

The Inexorable Tooth 79

Just Like a Cat 71

Mr. Wellaway's Host 77

The Ninety And Nine  69

Something for the Kid 77

Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited  80

Thomas Byrne

Prima Donna's Diamonds  80

Sir Gilbert Campbell

The Mystery of the Essex Stairs 62

Scott Campbell

In the Powder-Box 80

The Man and the Motive 83

The Point of Contact 70

The Price of Perfidy 78

A Study in Green 73

Under the Crown 70

Without Air 73

Reginald Campbell

The Howling Of Dogs 80

Agnes and Egerton Castle

The Great Todescan's Secret Thrust 70

Robert W. Chambers

The Princess Zimbazim 79

Mark Channing

Intrigue 74

Anna Alice Chapin

Through the Dragon's Valley  63

The Scales of Time 63

G.K. Chesterton

The Sword of Wood 65

Peter Cheyney

Christmas With a Punch 75

Cocktail For Cupid 65

Dance Without Music  64

Irvin S. Cobb

The Eminent Dr. Deeves 72

Faith, Hope And Charity 71

The Thirteenth Degree 72

Sylvanus Cobb, Jun.

The Bottomless Jug  64

J. J. Connington

After Death the Doctor 63

Dorothea Conyers

Meave's Ride  69

Captain Henry Curties

Redeeming Flames 79

Norbert Davis

You Bet Your Life 77

E. M. Delafield

The Luggage in the Hall  66

Donald Devereux

Mr. Keeble's Funny Story 83

Charles Caldwell Dobie

The Open Window 71

Sir Geo. Douglas, Bart.

Unconscious Interloper 69

L C Douthwaite

The London Guillotine 66

Prospector 75

Richard Dowling

The Going Out of Alessandro Pozzone 62

The Pass of Nolan's Welcome 81

Edward Dyson

A Golden Shanty 65

The Third Chair 65

Fred Engelhardt

Heritage of Osiris 75

George Allan England

Drops of Death  68

A Question of Salvage 81

Ribbon of Fate 81

Charles J. Finger

The Lizard God 81

The Shame of Gold 81

Howard Fitzalan

The Red Hand 78

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Three Hours Between Planes 65

Francis Flagg

By the Hands of the Dead 81

The Master Ants 81

The Superman of Dr Jukes  72

Mrs. May Agnes Fleming

How The Lone Star Went Down  68

J. S. Fletcher

Ex-Officio 76

Homer Eon Flint

The Planeteer  77

Ford Madox Ford

Riesenberg 61

Andrew Forrester Jr.

Arrested on Suspicion 61

Robert Edward Francillon

A Circumstantial Puzzle 62

R. Austin Freeman & Clifford Piers

By the Black Deep  64

Ltnt Edgar Gardiner

The Cruise of the Vega  82

The Snake Strikes 81

Up Irrawaddy Way 74

Arthur Gask

Rejuvenation 66

Strychnine for Village Dogs 62

Theophile Gautier

The Mummy's Foot 62

George Gilbert

In Maulmain Fever-Ward  63

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure  75

J. U. Giesy

Not Down on the Bill  82

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

The Yellow Wallpaper  64

Why I wrote "The Yellow Wallpaper" 64

Guy Gilpatric

The Artful Mr. Glencannon 70

Crocodile Tears 68

The Glasgow Phantom 66

The Homestretch 61

The Masked Monster 72

Where Early Fa's the Dew 65

Susan Glaspell

A Jury of Her Peers 67

F. A. J. Godfrey

Not Proven 76

Dahlia Graham

Her Fatal Gift 79

Frederick Graves

White Flame  62

Evelyn Everett Green

The First Class Passenger 82

The Grey Lady of Lakeside 82

Intimate Enemies 82

Fred V Green

Markham's New Partner 65

A. S. Gregory

The Death Window 68

Valentine Gregory

Third Time Unlucky 71

While on Remand 71

James Norman Hall

Death on an Atoll 72

Fame For Mr. Beatty 75

Uncle Ned's Teeth 76

Julian Hawthorne

Calbot's Rival 67

Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Great Stone Face 66

Miles Henslow

Mystery Flight 75

Kenneth Herford

An Echo of the Quarter 73

Smiley's Scoop 73

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Act of God 74

The Outcast 65

Headon Hill

The "Artemis" Mystery 65

The Bank Clerk's Love Story 65

The Dining-Car Clue 65

Limping Justice 65

Roy L. Hinds

The Murder Master 80

Roy W. Hinds

What He Taught Best  80

S. B. H. Hurst

The Ball of Fire  74

The Receipt 74

W. W. Jacobs

Captain Rogers 71

A Love Knot 70

M. R. James

Canon Alberic's Scrap Book  82

Malcolm Jameson

The Anarch  69

Tricky Tonnage 81

Val Jameson

"Burglin' ain't the game it was" 61

Edgar Jepson

The Infernal Machine 79

Madderson's Mascot 79

A Troublesome Widow 79

Jerome K. Jerome

The Dancing Partner 74

Rudyard Kipling

The Phantom Rickshaw 73

A. W. Kapfer

The Phantom Drug 82

Otis Adelbert Kline

The Dragoman's Secret 74

Stolen Centuries 65

Thomas H. Knight

The Man Who Was Dead 61

Alexander Kuprin

Menagerie 83

Edmund Leamy

My First Case 74

R. C. Lehmann

The Umbrosa Burglary 67

Henry Leverage

The Absconder 83

Black Light 66

The Crimp 66

Crooked Charity 67

Over the Wall   76

Sinclair Lewis

The Cat of the Stars 68

Seven Million Dollars 68

The Willow Walk 61

Sumner Locke

A Question of Rights 82

H.P. Lovecraft

The Colour out of Space 81

Obit: Henry St. Clair Whitehead 71

Marie Belloc Lowndes

An Unrecorded Instance 61

Richard Mace

The Emerald Beetle  62

Arthur Machen

The Shining Pyramid 71

Fred MacIsaac

The Abominable Test 76

Julia Magruder

The Secret of the White Castle 65

William J. Makin

The Death Barge 73

The Planes that Never Returned 73

Charles J. Mansford

The Brigand of Kairouin the Holy  82

The City of the Scarlet Scarabeus  82

Francis Marlowe

Hostile Witness 83

Don Marquis

Accursed Hat! 70

Richard Marsh

A Silent Witness  77

Huan Mee

The Russian Cipher 65

J. J. Meehan

The Squirrel Motor 69

Abraham Merritt

The Woman of the Wood 72

William Henry Moberley

The Great Valdez Sapphire 63

C. S. Montanye

Old King's Coal   72

F. Frankfort Moore

Joan Dark 65

Ainsworth Morgan

Lady in Lower 11   72

Ward Muir

Detective Tempest Faces the Music  80

Talbot Mundy

Bengal Rebellion 69

Edith M Nesbit

In the Dark 64

Man-Size in Marble  65

Number 17    61

Clarence Herbert New

The Passing of an Angel 79

The Warburton Mystery 82

Where There Ain't No Ten Commandments ("Culpeper Zandtt")  79

Douglas Newton

Straight Enough 73

David Wright O'Brien

Hokum Hotel  68

Fitz-James O'Brien

The Wondersmith  64

Owen Oliver

The Awakening  74

A Feminine Stand 81

Vincent O'Sullivan

The Business of Madame Jahn  64

Thomas Nelson Page

What was the Lady's Choice? 62

Miles  Overholt

Wrong Number 75

Sir Gilbert Parker

At the Sign of the Eagle  70

K. R. Patterson

Conscience 83

Max Pemberton

The Devil To Pay 63

The Dumb Avenger 75

G. G. Pendarves

The Black Camel  65

The Sin-Eater 74

The Withered Heart  74

Hugh Pendexter

Lyacus Whittle— Globetrotter 70

Ernest M Poate

A Person from the Police 63

The Cotton Stopper 79

Doctor Grimes Awaits Probate (as by Arthur Mallory)  73

Expert Testimony 74

Inside the Limousine 78

To Professional Services— $100,000   70

Muriel A. Pollexfen

The Conjurer of the Clouds 83

Melville Davisson Post

The Laughing Woman 79

William Le Queux

The Baron's Snapdragon 68

The Faith of Men 62

The Mystery Man 68

The Mystery of the Third Thumb 68

The Story of the Chief of Police 61

The Third Cracker 68

The Velvet Hand  68

The Woman Who Hated London 68

The Yellow Jasmine 68

A. T. Quiller-Couch

Our Lady of Gwithian 83

Anna Steese Richardson

Morrell's Memoriser 81

Edith Rickert

The Chair That Smiled 74

W. Pett Ridge

The Fixing of Mrs. Farwell  80

Expert Interference  82

Walter Ripperger

The Cardboard Clue 62

School For Murder 69

Morley Roberts

The Egregious Goat 73

Arthur Somers Roche

A Cancelled Sale 82

In the Money (novelette) 67

Michael Romain

Genesis   76

Anthony M Rud

The Invisible "Blinker" 73

Duncan Campbell Scott

The Witching of Elspie 78

Chris Sewell

The Intruder 82

J. Johnston Smith

Queen Of Diamonds  75

Thorne Smith

Birthday Present 66

Andrew Soutar

Bluebeard 63

D. H. Souter

Conroy 74

Charles B. Stilson

Dr. Martone's Microscope 72

The Sky Woman 67

The Soul Trap 72

Halliwell Sutcliffe

Handsome Jack  67

Miss Phyllis Brown 67

Murgatroyd's Wife  67

Georges Surdez

Charles the Bold 76

Spite Corner 76

Carl N. Taylor

The Opium Smugglers  80

Emile C Tepperman

Coffin Cache 63

E. Temple Thurston

A Cameo 69

Roger Torrey

Black Murder 78

Dice and No Dice 77

The Frankie and  Johnny Murder 83

The Missing Mr. Link 83

Murder Backstage 83

Murder By Accident 77

Three Dead Men 83

Ticket to Death (as by John Ryan)  77

Edward W Townsend

A Deal in Mines and Morals 77

H. D. Umbstaetter (as by Barnes MacGreggor)

The Great Star Ruby  80

E Charles Vivian

How the Girl Came to Bentley's 62

Cyril G. Wates

The Visitation 76

Edgar Wallace

The New Doctor  76

R. A. J. Walling

A Chat With William Le Queux 68

Mrs. Rooth's "Murder" 61

The Spook of Cornelius 61

"Wanderer"

Waif of the Bush 74

Stanley G Weinbaum

The Red Peri  69

Albert Richard Wetjen

The Chief of the Loch McCree 61

The Devils Ransom 82

Raid on Jigger's Reef 76

Harvey Wickham

The Man With the Painted Nose 75

Ethel Lina White

An Unlocked Window  78

Fred Merrick White

Early Closing Day  64

Gentlemen of the Jury  65

The Missing Blade 75

The Purple Terror 66

Victor L. Whitechurch

The Convict's Revenge  61

How the Captain Tracked a German Spy 61

In a Tight Fix 61

Henry S. Whitehead

Bothon 78

The Chadbourne Episode 75

The Door 71

Passing of a God 75

The People of Pan 77

Sea-Tiger  78

The Shut Room 75

Sweet Grass 76

The Wonderful Thing  70

Raoul Whitfield

The Great Black 65

The Next-to-Last Laugh 79

H. C. Witwer

Money to Burns 71

Mary E Wilkins

The Shadows on the Wall  64

Edward Woodward

Clarence 75

Arthur Leo Zagat

Coward's Kill (novelette)  69

E. F. Ziska

Man of Ages 78

_________________

Table of Contents

1: Three Dead Men / Roger Torrey

2: The Frankie and  Johnny Murder / Roger Torrey

3: The Missing Mr. Link / Roger Torrey

4: The Coral of Idris / H. Bedford-Jones

5: The Man and the Motive / Scott Campbell

6: Mr. Keeble's Funny Story / Donald Devereux

7: Hostile Witness / Francis Marlowe

8: The Wrong Reception / Mrs. Baillie-Saunders

9: Conscience / K. R. Patterson

10: The Petrie Plan / Anonymous

11: Our Lady of Gwithian / A. T. Quiller-Couch

12: Menagerie / Alexander Kuprin

Unnamed

14: The Fetish of Remorse / Achmed Abdullah

15: Murder Backstage / Roger Torrey

16: The Absconder / Henry Leverage

17: The Conjurer of the Clouds / Muriel A. Pollexfen

Cumulative Index # 61-83