Past Masters Eighty Four
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Another anthology of short fiction gathered from the pages of long-dead pulp magazines, from newspapers, and the like. All are in the Life+70 public domain 1: A Case of Dual Consciousness / W. L. Alden 2: Intelligence / Rafael Sabatini 3: A Chance Meeting / Anonymous 4: Grafter and Master Grafter / Achmed Abdullah 5: Interlude / Achmed Abdullah 6: Two Little Men / Roger Torrey 7: Whispering Death / Laurence Donovan 8: Another Pawn of Fate / F. St. Mars 9: $-Rays / Henry Leverage 10: Thieves Three / C S Montanye 11: He Gave Him a Gun / Laurence Donovan 12: Gorilla Girl / Charlton L. Edholm 13:

PAST MASTERS

EIGHTY-FOUR

26 June 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: A Case of Dual Consciousness / W. L. Alden

2: Intelligence / Rafael Sabatini

3: A Chance Meeting / Anonymous

4: Grafter and Master Grafter / Achmed Abdullah

5: Interlude / Achmed Abdullah

6: Two Little Men / Roger Torrey

7: Whispering Death / Laurence Donovan

8: Another Pawn of Fate / F. St. Mars

9: $-Rays / Henry Leverage

10: Thieves Three / C S Montanye

11: He Gave Him a Gun / Laurence Donovan

12: Gorilla Girl / Charlton L. Edholm

13: Death Makes a Man Mad / Laurence Donovan

14: Carnival Killer / G. Morris Sand

15: When Sky Crooks Fall Out / Raoul Whitfield

16: Red Evidence / Charlton L. Edholm

17: A Creeping Terror / Douglas M Dold

18: The Cruise of the Cadis / Raymond S. Spears

19: Mistress of the Undead / Lazar Levi

Cumulative Index  #61-84

___________________

1: A Case of Dual Consciousness

W. L. Alden

1837-1908

The Strand Magazine Nov 1893

"OF COURSE," said the doorkeeper, "we calculate, in the dime museum business, to deceive the public a little now and then, but as it is done for the amusement and instruction of the public, I don't see as anyone has any call to complain. Suppose I do exhibit a 'freak' that isn't quite genuine! If it draws, it is because the public likes it, in which case the public ought to be satisfied. If it doesn't draw, the public doesn't pay out any money to see it, and naturally doesn't feel that it is swindled. Now, I was swindled once, and pretty bad, too, by an artificial 'freak,' and it was me and not the public that suffered. If you want to hear about it I'll tell you the whole story, though I shouldn't like it to be known in the profession, for it don't do any credit to me as a professional man.

"I was exhibiting in Boston a good many years ago, and I am free to say that I was losing money. Boston don't seem to care for natural 'freaks.' It goes in for philosophical and philanthropic 'freaks.' I've nothing against that style of 'freak' myself, but I claim that a genuine giant, or a real fat woman, is just as improving, and a sight more interesting, than any philosopher or philanthropist that Boston ever produced.

"I don't like to lose money any more than you do, and things were looking pretty blue for me, when one day a carriage drives up to my door and a chap sends in word that he wanted to see me on professional business. I told my man to show him in, and when I saw him I put him down for a rascal without waiting to hear him speak. He told me that he had just arrived from Europe with a two-headed girl, and that she was the biggest thing that any museum had ever offered to the public. He had her with him in the carriage, and I was the first manager that he had called to see since he landed.

"Now, I knew well enough that a two-headed girl is about the scarcest thing that a museum can get hold of. I never knew of but one specimen of the kind, and she was worth pretty near her weight in gold. How this fellow should have got hold of a second specimen without my ever having heard of her existence was more than I could understand, for I kept as bright a lookout for attractions all over the world as Barnum himself. However, I went out to the carriage and had a look at the girl. There she sat, wrapped up in a big shawl, and, as far as I could see, she was all right. Anyway, there were two heads above the edge of the shawl, and they were as pretty heads as you could find in any young ladies' seminary. If the two-headed girl only. corresponded to the sample I saw in the carriage, she would be the biggest attraction that Boston or any other city had ever seen.

"Well! I went back to my office, and the fellow and I talked the thing over. He said the girl was a Laplander, and couldn't speak a single word of any language except Laplandish. She was sixteen years old, and had never been out of her native village until he had accidentally seen her, and hired her for a five years' tour of the world. So far he had not exhibited her anywhere, and he wanted her to make her debut in my show, so as to give her a respectable standing in the profession, from the start. His terms were a hundred dollars a week, and a benefit every six months, and he said that he should ask any other manager a hundred and twenty-five.

"I told him to bring in his girl where I could have a fair look at her, and then it would be time enough to talk about terms. He brought her in, and I noticed that she climbed down out of the carriage with considerable difficulty. The agent helped her into my office, where she sat down on the sofa, and smiled at me with both heads in a way that would have been dangerous if she had tried it on some managers that I know.

" 'There she is,' said the agent. 'The only genuine white two-headed girl the world has ever seen. Above the waist, where she is joined together, she is perfect; two distinct girls, and good looking ones, too. She's only got one pair of legs, which prevents her from walking easy, but she is as strong and healthy as they make 'em, and there ain't the least danger that she'll die on your hands.'

"Then he spoke some gibberish,, which I supposed was Laplandish, to the girl, and she drew up the hem of her dress so as to show two nice little feet, and no more. The size of those feet ought to have awakened my suspicion, for they were the regulation Boston size, which is about three sizes smaller than the average European foot. But I was so anxious to find that she was genuine that I didn't notice that there was anything wrong about her feet.

"'What do you say?' said the agent. 'Isn't she a first class attraction?'

" 'She'll draw safe enough,' said I, 'provided she's genuine. I don't mean to say she ain't, but I've got to be sure about it before we can do any business.'

" 'Oh! It's easy enough to prove that she is genuine,' cays the fellow. 'I've got certificates from three of the leading physicians in Lapland, besides the affidavit of her father and mother and the parish priest. If they don't satisfy you, nothing will, and I shall have to take her to another manager.'

" 'Show me the certificates !' said I.

"Well! he produced them on the spot, and they seemed all right. Of course I couldn't read a word of them, but they had a lot of sealing wax on them, which is always convincing, and had a genuine official look. I wanted the girl so bad that, perhaps, it led me to be a little careless for once in my life; so I said to the agent that I would give him twenty-five dollars a week and sign a contract with him for a year. We argued the matter for about an hour, and finally we came to an agreement on the basis of seventy-five dollars a week and three benefits a year. It was the steepest price I ever paid, but I was losing money at the rate of fifty dollars a week, and I was ready to take almost any chance of bringing up the business again. Besides, I knew that if the two-headed girl didn't draw I should be ruined anyhow, and it didn't matter what I might agree to pay, as there would be no money to pay it with. Whereas, if she did draw, as I expected she would, I could easily afford to pay seventy-five dollars a week for her. I always did go on the principle of dealing liberally with people, especially when it is clear that there is nothing to be lost by it.

"While the agent and I were trying to get the best of one another the two-headed girl sat with some of her arms around both her necks, and was that patient and sweet tempered in appearance that I began to hope that for once I had found a 'freak' that wouldn't be perpetually quarreling. As I have told you, I presume, 'freaks' do nothing but quarrel and fall in love. I don't wonder at their quarreling, seeing that they are shut up together day and night, and haven't anything else to do; but it was a long time before I found out why they are constantly falling in love. It is because they didn't get any exercise, except now and then a drive in a closed carriage.

"You never hear of a trapeze performer or a strong man falling in love; that's because they work off their affections on their muscles. On the other hand, a fat woman, who never gets any exercise at all, is always in love, and generally two or three deep. Naturally, the more 'freaks' fall in love the more they quarrel, and there is hardly a day that I don't have to smooth two or three of them down, or threaten to lock them up till they quit heaving candlesticks and language at one another.

"Well, I advertised my two-headed girl the next day, and when night came the house was packed. Ralph Waldo Emerson himself couldn't have drawn better. The very best classes of Boston society came to see the two-headed girl, and more women with more spectacles and more false teeth came into the show than I had ever seen before in my whole professional experience. The men and women used to stand by the hour in front of the sofa where the two-headed girl sat and argue about her soul, which, considering that her soul wasn't on exhibition, seemed to me a loss of time. They made out in some way that I don't pretend to understand, that the girl had something to do with philosophy, and that her two heads proved something or other that Mr. Emerson used to teach.

"You've heard of Mr. Emerson, of course. He was what they called a philosopher, and drew better than any 'freak' or primer donner that ever visited Boston. I couldn't see anything in him myself. I went to hear him lecture once, and it seemed to me that he wasn't to be compared with Artemus Ward. However, that was none of my business, though at one time I did think of making him a handsome offer to join my combination.

"There wasn't the least doubt about the success of the two-headed girl. In the very first week I took in two hundred and thirty dollars more than I had ever taken in in any one week in my life before. The museum was crowded day and night, and every mother in Boston brought her children and told them that the two-headed girl taught some great moral lesson, and that they ought to imitate her, or avoid imitating her, or some other rubbish of that general kind. I never pretend to understand such things myself. I don't associate with 'freaks' to learn moral lessons from them. When I want moral lessons I'll go to Sunday school and get 'em, instead of lowering myself to ask 'freaks' to give me lessons.

"The two-headed girl, as I have said in the beginning, was a Laplander, and couldn't speak anything but Laplandish. She had been with me about a month when I was astonished, one night after the exhibition had closed, and the 'freaks' had sat down to their usual banquet of pickles and cider, to hear one of her heads say to the other:

" 'You say that again, miss, and I'll tear your eyes out!'

" 'Halloa!' says I, 'thought neither of you could speak any English?'

"The girl blushed a double blush on all four cheeks, and said: 'We've learned considerable since we came to America, but we never try to speak English because it ain't professional— not in our case, at any rate.

" 'That's all right,' said I. 'Speak what you like, only remember that I don't allow no quarreling among my people.'

"The next day I made inquiries about the two-headed girl, and found out that both of her were in love with the same young man. He came to the show every day and always brought both of her flowers.

I found out afterward that he was a philosopher, and was studying what he called 'The Psychological Character of Female Dual Consciousness as Exemplified in the Two-Headed Girl of Lapland.' I remember this, because he wrote an article in the Atlantic Monthly with that title, which would have been a first class advertisement of the girl if she hadn't happened to have retired to private life when the article was published. He was a rather good looking young fellow, and both the heads of the girl considered that he was in love with them. Mary, which is what we used to call the right hand head, was sure that the young man was after her, and only gave flowers to Jane, who was the left hand head, in order not to give away the real state of his affections to the general public; while Jane was equally certain that it was she the young man was in love with, and that he considered the other head to be very much in the way.

'The fat woman, who sat close to the two-headed girl on the stage, was really frightened at the way the two heads used to go on. She could hear them whispering to each other when the audience couldn't hear anything said. Mary would put her cheek up against Jane's and smile so sweetly that the audience would say, 'How perfectly lovely,' but all the time she would be saying, I'd like to bite your ugly ear off, miss!' and then presently Jane would put her arm around Mary's neck and whisper: 'You mean, deceitful thing! Wait till we get to our room, and I'll let you know!' The fat woman, who was all the time reading dime novels, said she was afraid some awful tragedy was preparing, and that presently the place would be drowned in blood. She wasn't altogether wrong, as you'll see presently.

"One night, just after the banquet was over, and the 'freaks' had mostly gone to their rooms, we heard such a dismal shrieking from the two-headed girl's room that we all rushed to the door. That is, when I say 'all,' I mean the giant and the living skeleton, who had been sitting up with me a little later than usual. I never allow nothing improper on the part of nobody in my show, and I set the example in such matters myself. So I told the giant and the skeleton that we would withdraw, while the strong woman burst the door open and see what was the matter.

"Accordingly we did so, and the strong woman set her shoulder against the door, and it just sort of melted away, as you might say. She told me that she found the two-headed girl having the liveliest kind of a fight with herself. She was lying on the floor, and the half of her which was uppermost, and which happened to be Mary, was laying into the other half and hauling out the hair and the hairpins by handfuls. The strong woman, wanting to check the effusion of hair, went to work to separate them, and succeeded altogether too well. In fact, when she got hold of Mary, and tried to pull her clear of Jane's hair, the two girls came apart altogether. The strong woman, who, like the rest of us, had believed in the two-headed girl, was that frightened when she saw that she had pulled her clean apart that she, in turn, yelled for help.

"This time I had to lay aside my scruples and see for myself what was the matter. There sat the strong woman on the floor, holding half of the two-headed girl in her arms, and there lay the other half, two or three yards off, on the carpet, crying her level best, and cussin' the rest of her in language which, if I am any judge of language, and I ought to be, was learned somewhere down by the wharves. When I saw that Jane was more frightened than hurt, I told her to go to bed, and told the strong woman to take Mary into her room for the night. Mary went peaceably, for when the strong woman got hold of anybody, male or female, they generally did as she said.

"The next day I called up the two-headed girl and told them that our contract was at an end. 'I will never,' I said, 'be a party to a fraud on the public, especially when it is sure to be found out, as this fraud of yours is. A committee of Boston surgeons was going to examine you this very day, and I, believing you to be genuine, was to offer them every facility. What I am offering now is a free passage for you both from here to New York, and don't you ever let me hear of your trying to exhibit again, or I'll come out and tell the truth about you.'

"That was my only attempt at exhibiting a two-headed girl. I ought not to, be hard on the girls, for they pulled me through a very tight place in my professional career; but at the same time they took me in, and, not being a part of the public, I don't like to be took in. However, it all happened long ago, and I defy any 'freak' to play any sort of game on me again. If there is any. deceit to be practiced in my show, I conceive that I am the one to do it, and not the one to be practiced on."

________________

2: Intelligence

Rafael Sabatini

1875-1950

Grand Magazine, Jan 1918

A rare Sabatini story in a contemporary rather than historical setting.

FOR AN HOUR Professor Kauffmann had been deep in the slumber that is common alike to just and unjust provided that physical conditions are healthy, when he was aroused, first subconsciously, then consciously, by the loud insistent trilling of the electric bell.

Professor Kauffmann sat up in bed, switched on the light, and verified that it was ten minutes past two. A little while he sat quite still, an oddly intent alertness in the grey eyes that looked so very light by contrast with his swarthy black-bearded face and the black hair, cut en brosse, that rose stiffly above it. At last, moving leisurely, he left the bed, and from a chair-back near at hand he took up a heavy quilted dressing-gown. He was a tall, active man of about forty, who did not look as if he were an easy prey to fear. Yet he trembled a little as he put on that garment. But then the night was cold, for the month was December— December of that fateful year 1914. From a small table near the bed he picked up a life-preserver, a slight weapon of lead and whipcord, and he thrust it together with the hand that held it into the roomy pocket of his gown.

Then— the bell still ringing— he left his bedroom, passed down the heavily-carpeted stairs of that choicely appointed little house in Mayfair, and went to open the door. As it swung back, the light from the hall behind the professor fell upon a slim pale young gentleman in a fur-lined coat over evening clothes.

Professor Kauffmann's relief showed itself a moment, to give place almost at once to surprise and irritation.

"Elphinstone!" he exclaimed. "What the devil…? Do you realise that it is after two o'clock?"

His English was so fluent and colloquial that he might easily have passed for an Englishman. It was only occasionally that a too guttural note proclaimed his real origin.

The young gentleman lounged in without waiting to be invited.

"Awfully sorry, Kauff, to drag you out of bed. But I never imagined you would answer the bell yourself."

The professor grunted, and closed the door. "I am all alone in the house. My man is away ill," he explained. And he added without cordiality— "Come along in. There may still be a fire in the study."

He led the way upstairs, opened a door, touched a switch, and lighted up a spacious lofty room, the air of which was pleasantly warm and tobacco-laden. In the fireplace the remains of a fire still smouldered under an ashen crust. The professor went to stir it into life, and as he passed the massive writing-table that occupied the middle of the room he put down the life-preserver which the event had proved to be unnecessary.

Elphinstone removed his opera hat and loosened his heavy coat. His hands trembled a little. He was very pale and rather breathless. Uneasiness was stamped upon his weak face and haunted the restless eyes that took stock of the room, from the gleaming bookcases flanking a blank-faced mahogany press to the heavy purple curtains masking the French windows of the balcony above the porch.

"I'm a dreadful nuisance, Kauff, I know," he was apologising. "But I certainly shouldn't have knocked you up at this time of night if the matter hadn't been urgent." He paused nervously, to add a moment later— "I'm in trouble rather."

Kauffmann came upright again and looked round calmly, still grasping the poker. "Have a drink," he invited, and pointed to a side-table and a tray bearing decanters, glasses, and a syphon.

"Thanks."

The visitor crossed, poured himself a half-tumbler of whiskey, squirted a tablespoonful of soda into it, and gulped it down.

The professor's light eyes watched him inscrutably.

"Been playing bridge again, I suppose," he hazarded. "I've told you before that you ought to give it up. You know that you're not lucky, and everybody else knows that you can't play. You haven't the temperament."

"Oh, shut up," was the peevish answer. "It isn't bridge this time."

Elphinstone flung himself into the padded chair at the writing-table and looked across it at his host. "As a matter of fact, it isn't chiefly about myself that I'm troubled. It's about you."

"About me? Oh! What about me?"

Watching the man's calm assurance Elphinstone's lip curled in a deprecatory smile. He half shrugged.

"What do you suppose? Do you think a man can go on behaving as you do in such times as these— with the country excited about spies?"

Very quietly the professor put down the poker. In silence he crossed the room, and came to lean upon the writing-table, facing Elphinstone at close quarters.

"I don't know what you mean," he said in a very level voice.

"Oh, yes, you do. I mean that your damned mysterious ways of life have brought you under the notice of the Home Office. I don't know whether there's occasion for it or not, and I don't want to know. I've got troubles enough of my own. But you've behaved rather decently to me, Kauff, and…well, there it is. I thought you'd like to know that you're being watched."

"You thought I'd like to know it?" Kauffmann smiled. "Of course it gives me the liveliest pleasure. And who is watching me?"

"The Government, of course. Have you ever heard of Scott-Drummond?"

The light eyes flickered, and a keen ear might have detected the faintest change in the voice that asked— "Scott-Drummond? Do you mean Scott-Drummond of the Intelligence?"

"Do I mean…? What other Scott-Drummond should I mean? What other Scott-Drummond is there?"

"Ha!" Kauffmann stood upright again, his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown. "I know of him— yes," he answered easily. "What about him?"

"I have good reason to believe that he is in charge of your case. He is having you shadowed— or whatever they call it. That's what I came to tell you, so that you may take your precautions."

The professor laughed outright, a thought too heartily perhaps.

"That's very kind of you, Elphinstone— very kind. But what precautions need I take? Good Heavens, if Scott-Drummond chooses to waste his time over my affairs, the more fool he. Have another drink?"

But Elphinstone ignored the invitation. His weak mouth was sullen, and it was an impatient hand that thrust back the rumpled fair hair from his brow. "It's not very generous of you to pretend that my warning is of no value," he complained. "I don't suppose they'd suspect you without good reason. And I can tell you that I've come here at considerable risk to myself."

The professor smiled at him tolerantly as one smiles at a foolish child.

"You really believe that, do you? Well, well!" He sat on the edge of the writing-table. "Tell me, anyhow: Where did you pick up this priceless piece of gossip?"

"It's more than gossip. I happened to overhear something from a talkative young under-secretary at Flynn's this evening. And from what he said I should clear the country quick if I were you, Kauff. That's all."

"Bah! You've stumbled on a mare's nest."

"You know best, of course." There was vexation in the thin voice. "But at least you'll admit that I've acted as a friend to you— that I've taken a good deal of risk in coming here."

"Not much risk, really," laughed the professor. "Still you are very kind, and I am grateful to you for your friendly intentions."

"Oh, that's all right. I think I'll be going." He rose slowly. The uneasiness that had marked his manner throughout became more manifest. "That's all right," he repeated, faltering. Then he paused. "There's another matter I wanted to talk to you about," he said. And then, speaking quickly, like a man who, resolved, takes things at the rush— "Fact is, I am in a bit of a mess," he confessed. "I absolutely must have a hundred pounds by morning. Do you think you could…I mean, I should be most awfully grateful to you if you would…"

He left the sentence there, glancing self-consciously at his host.

Kauffmann's eyes considered the weedy degenerate with frank contempt. He even laughed shortly, through closed lips.

"I thought we should come to that sooner or later," said he.

Elphinstone made a movement of indignant protest. His cheeks flushed faintly.

"You don't suppose," he cried, "that I am asking you to pay me for the information I have…"

"Are you quite sure," Kauffmann cut in, "that you didn't manufacture the information for the express purpose of placing me in your debt?"

"Kauffmann!"

"Are you quite sure," the other continued, his light eyes almost hypnotic in their steady glance, "that you are not simply making capital out of silly suspicions of your own, and that this story about Scott-Drummond is not a pure fabrication?"

"What do you take me for?" was the resentful question.

"For a young gentleman who plays bridge for stakes far beyond his means, who loses persistently, and who is reduced by his losses to perpetual borrowing."

The flush deepened in Elphinstone's cheeks; then it ebbed again, leaving them paler than ever. With a great show of dignity he buttoned his coat and reached for his hat. "It's no use being angry with you…" he was beginning.

"No use at all," Kauffmann agreed.

Elphinstone shrugged, put on his hat, and turned to go. But his need was greater than his pride. He paused again.

"Kauffmann," he said seriously, "I only wish for your own sake that I could confess that you are right. But I haven't said a word that isn't absolutely true. From what I overheard I'll lay fifty to one that if you remain in England until tomorrow night you will spend it in prison."

"Don't be a fool." There was a note of irritation creeping into the voice that hitherto had been so smooth. "A man can't be arrested in this country without some sort of evidence against him, and there's not a scrap of evidence against me; not a scrap."

"If Scott-Drummond makes it his business to find evidence that you are in the pay of Germany— naturalised British subject though you may be— he'll find it."

"Not if it doesn't exist; and it doesn't exist; it can't exist. I tell you," the professor added vehemently, "that I am not in the pay of Germany. In fact, you would be insulting me if you weren't boring me, and after all you're obviously only half sober. It's very late, Elphinstone, and I want to go to bed."

"All right," was the sullen answer. "I am going."

But it was one thing to announce the resolve, and another to find the courage to carry it out. Far, indeed, from doing so, Elphinstone broke down utterly. Quite suddenly the lingering remains of reserve fell from him.

"Kauff, old man," he exclaimed desperately, "I'm in the very devil of a mess. If I don't get a hundred pounds before morning I don't know what will happen."

"Pooh! Creditors can wait."

"It isn't creditors— not an ordinary creditor. It… it's a case of borrowed money."

"As one who has frequently lent, I confess I don't perceive the difference."

Hoping to move him, Elphinstone was driven to make a full and humiliating confession. "This money was borrowed without asking permission. If I don't put it back before it is discovered it will look like… Oh, you know what it will look like. I shall be ruined. I don't know what'll happen to me. Kauff, for God's sake…"

But the professor remained entirely unmoved, unless it were to a deeper contempt.

"Do you know how much money you owe me already?" he asked coldly. "Do you realise that it amounts to close upon a thousand pounds?"

"I know. But I shall be able to pay you back very shortly."

There was a whine in the pleading voice.

"I am glad to hear it. But until you do I'm afraid I can't help you any further."

"Not after what I've told you?"

Elphinstone was overcome with horrified amazement.

"It's no use, my boy. You must get it from someone else. I can't afford it at the moment."

Elphinstone's lips tightened. His weak face became ghastly.

"You absolutely refuse me, then?"

"Sorry, of course." The professor's blandness savoured of contempt. "But I can't afford it."

"You can't afford it?" Elphinstone looked at him, and sneered. At bay, his manner assumed a certain truculence. "What about all this German gold you are receiving?"

The professor eyed him stonily a moment. Then— "Drop that, Elphinstone," he said shortly. "It won't pay you."

"Won't it?" Elphinstone's angry excitement was rising; his voice grew shriller. "I am not so sure. You think I am a fool, Kauffmann. If I've kept my mouth shut it's because you've been kind to me and helped me when I was in trouble. But it doesn't follow that I've kept my eyes shut, too. I know more than you think. I could tell Scott-Drummond something that would…"

And then Kauffmann became really angry.

"Get out of my house," he ordered. "Do you think I am the man to submit to blackmail? Get out at once."

The tall vigorous figure and grim swarthy face became oddly menacing. Elphinstone was scared.

"Wait a minute, Kauffmann." He was cringing again. "I didn't mean it. I really didn't. I am up against it. I…"

"I don't care whether you meant it or not. Go to Scott-Drummond and tell him anything you like. But don't forget that he may have some questions to ask you. Don't forget that it will come out that you have had about a thousand pounds from me, and that a jury of your countrymen will certainly want to know what it was for."

"What it was for?" Elphinstone stared in amazement. "I never intended…"

"No. But I did," Kauffmann answered dryly. "I don't pay a thousand pounds to seal a man's lips without taking good care to see that the seal is going to hold. My dear Elphinstone, when you realise that you are a fool you will have taken the first great step towards wisdom. Meanwhile, I have had enough of you. Get out before I throw you out."

"For God's sake, Kauffmann…" Elphinstone was beginning desperately.

Kauffmann advanced upon him round the table. "Get out, I tell you." He seized the young man by the shoulders to thrust him towards the door. But Elphinstone squirmed and twisted in his grasp.

"Take your hands off me, you damned German spy!" he cried, thoroughly enraged at this indignity. He wrenched himself from those compelling hands and sprang away, round the table. With an oath Kauffmann turned to follow him; and then the thing happened.

By purest chance Elphinstone's hand had found the wicked little life-preserver that lay among the professor's papers. Fierce now as a cornered rat he snatched it up, and in his blind unreflecting fury brought it down upon the head of his aggressor.

There was an ominous squelching crack. Kauffmann's hands were jerked violently up to the level of his shoulders with the mechanical action of an automaton, and he collapsed in a heap at Elphinstone's feet.

Standing over him, still clutching the weapon, Elphinstone apostrophised the fallen man, breathlessly, almost hysterically.

"That will teach you better manners, you dirty spy. That will teach you to keep your hands to yourself. If you thought I was going to let myself be man-handled by a…"

He broke off. There was something ominous about the utter stillness of the body and the red viscous fluid slowly oozing from his head and spreading to the Persian carpet.

"Kauffmann!" His voice shrilled up and cracked. "Kauffmann!"

In shuddering, slobbering terror he went down beside the professor, and shook him.

"Kauffmann!"

The body sank limply down again as Elphinstone relaxed his grip of it and it lay still and unresponsive as before. A sudden horrible realisation was borne in upon the young man's senses. With a whimpering sound he shrank back, still kneeling. "Oh my God!" he gasped, and covered his white face with trembling hands.

The next moment he almost screamed aloud, for somewhere in the room behind him something— someone— had moved. He whipped round in a frenzy of terror.

The heavy curtains masking the French windows had parted, and on the near side of them stood now a slight man in a shabby suit of tweeds, a faded scarf round his neck, an old tweed cap on his head. He had a keen, hungry-looking hatchet face and dark eyes which were considering Elphinstone and his work with almost inhuman emotionlessness.

For a long moment they stared at each other in silence. Then the newcomer spoke, his voice so quiet and self-contained as to sound almost mocking.

"Well?" he asked. "What are you going to do about it?"

Elphinstone sprang up. "Who are you?" he asked mechanically.

"Just a burglar," said the other, indicating the window behind him, from which a square of glass had been cut.

"A thief!"

The burglar let the curtains fall back into place, and moved forward soundlessly. "You needn't be so superior," said he. "I'm not a murderer, anyhow."

"A murd…! My God! He's not… he can't be dead!"

"Not if his head is made of cast iron."

There was something almost revolting in the cynicism with which the newcomer accepted the fact. He knelt beside the professor, and made a swift examination.

"Dead as mutton," he pronounced nonchalantly. "You've smashed his skull."

Elphinstone sank limply against the desk, and clutched it to steady himself. Breath seemed to fail him.

"I didn't mean it," he whimpered. "I swear I didn't. I… I did it in self-defence. You must have seen how it happened. It was an accident."

"Oh, I saw how it happened all right," the other answered, rising. "But you don't suppose my evidence would help either of us very much. This may be very nasty for you."

The burglar met the stare of the young man's dilating eyes, and saw purpose suddenly kindle in them, saw the hand that still held the life-preserver tighten its grip. But he was swifter of purpose and action than Elphinstone, and on the instant the latter found himself contemplating the nozzle of a pistol.

"Drop that weapon! Drop it at once," the burglar commanded, and there was steel in the voice that had been so languid.

Elphinstone's nerveless hand let fall the life-preserver.

"You didn't think…"

"No. But you might have been tempted, and one broken skull is enough in one evening." He slipped his pistol back into his pocket. "Well?" he asked again. "Have you made up your mind what you're going to do about it?"

"Do about it?" Elphinstone echoed dully. There was a gleam of perspiration on his brow. "You'll not give me away," he was beginning to plead, then suddenly he realised the situation as it affected the other, and from that derived a confidence that rendered him aggressive. "You daren't," he announced. "It would look pretty black against you, my friend. If anyone were to find us now, which way do you think appearances would point? Who's to say that it wasn't you who killed him?"

"No one— unless you do."

"Exactly," said Elphinstone, and he almost sneered. He had fancied that the burglar winced under that last question of his, as well he might. Far from being disastrous, it began to be clear to him that the advent of the thief was providential; that he, himself, was entirely master of the situation. In this comforting persuasion he recovered his nerve almost as swiftly as he had lost it.

"You had better not attempt to keep me here, or it may be the worse for you. You can get away as you came, and there's nothing to prevent you taking whatever you came for. There's no one in the house. His man is away ill."

"I know. I informed myself of that before I came."

"Very well, then. He's got a collection of jewels in there that is worth a fortune," and Elphinstone pointed to the blind face of the mahogany press standing between the bookcases.

"I know," said the burglar again. "That's what I came for."

"Then let me get out of this, and you can help yourself."

"Who's keeping you?" the other asked him in that uncannily cool, matter-of-fact voice of his. "I'm certainly not. In your place I should have cleared already. So long as you don't interfere with my job I don't care whether you go or stay."

He swung round with that, crossed to the press, turned the key, and threw open the double doors, revealing a safe immediately behind them. He knelt down to examine the lock. Then from one of his pockets he took a chamois-skin bundle. He unrolled it and placed it on the floor beside him, displaying an array of bright steel implements. From another pocket he took a bunch of skeleton keys, and proceeded to make a selection.

For a moment, Elphinstone stood watching the man's cool, expert address in amazement. At last he roused himself, shuddered again as his eye fell upon that thing on the floor, and he sidled away towards the door.

"I think I'll be going," he said. With his hand on the knob he checked. "Someone may have seen me come in, and may see me going out again."

"That'll be all right," said the burglar, without turning. "They'll know nothing about this until morning." By a jerk of the thumb over his shoulder he indicated the body. "And it'll look like burglary by then. It'll look uncommonly like burglary by the time I'm through. You needn't make a secret of having visited him. No one can say that this didn't happen after you had left. It will certainly look like it. You're quite safe. Good night!"

"Ah!" said Elphinstone, and on that he went out.

To his terrified, conscience-stricken imagination the night seemed alive with watching eyes. He dared not shut the front door of that house lest the bang should draw attention to his departure. Leaving it ajar, he slunk fearfully away, and as he went his panic so grew upon him that by the time he had turned the corner into Piccadilly he was persuaded that by leaving as he had done he had determined his own doom, walked into some trap unperceived by himself but quite clear to that incredibly cool burglar whom he had left behind. Already he saw himself arraigned and sentenced for the murder of Kauffmann. A sick giddiness of terror overtook him; his teeth chattered and his legs so trembled that he was scarcely able to walk. And then suddenly, upon the utter stillness of the night, rang a loud metallic sound that brought him shuddering to a standstill. It was the ring of a police inspector's baton, striking the pavement to call the constable of the beat.

For a moment Elphinstone's disordered mind connected the summons with himself and the thing he had left behind him. Then inspiration flashed upon his mind. There was a clear course that by definitely fastening the guilt elsewhere would make him absolutely safe. That burglar must be caught in the act by the police.

He ran forward in the direction whence the sound had reached him, and a moment later he was breathlessly delivering himself to a stalwart inspector.

"…Over there, in Park Gardens," he heard himself saying, "a house is being burgled. I saw a man entering a window from the balcony over the porch."

Two constables joined them as he was speaking. There was a brief exchange of question and answer, and then the four of them went back together at the double. Elphinstone pointed out the house, and the inspector was intrigued to find the door ajar.

"Looks as if we were too late already," he commented, and ordering his men to go up with Elphinstone, himself remained there to keep an eye upon the street.

They went softly upstairs to the study, burst into it and surprised the burglar still at his work. The safe was standing open, and there was a litter of its contents on the floor; among these were half-a-dozen small showcases containing the collection of jewels of which Kauffmann had been so proud. One of the constables shouted to the inspector below before the pair of them sprang at the burglar and overpowered him. Even as they did so, and the man offered no resistance, Elphinstone moving round the table almost fell over the professor's body.

The policemen heard his outcry; they saw him reel back, appalled. He was really acting very well.

"Look here!" he called to them, and dropped on his knees beside the dead man. "Lord! He's dead! Dead!" He looked up at them blankly. "We're too late," he said.

"We've got the murderer, anyhow," he was gruffly answered by one of the constables, who, leaving the handcuffed man in the care of his colleague, came round himself to view the body at closer quarters.

Elphinstone looked at the burglar, and the burglar's eyes met the glance. The fellow appeared to have lost none of his cool masterfulness and none of his cynicism, for as his eyes met Elphinstone's, his lip curled in contempt of the fellow who had made him a defenceless scapegoat.

"I had the idea," he said without resentment, "that this was what you would do."

And then the inspector came in. "What's this?" he asked as he entered.

"Murder," cried Elphinstone stridently, "that's what it is— robbery and murder. And there's the murderer. Caught absolutely red-handed. Caught in the very act."

"In the act of burgling— not murdering," was all the prisoner said, quite gently.

The inspector stooped over the body. He met the eye of the constable who had been making an examination, and the subordinate nodded with ominous eloquence.

"A clear case," said the inspector. "Fetch him along, and…"

The inspector looked full at the burglar, and quite suddenly he checked, stiffened, and stood to attention.

"Beg pardon, sir," said he with a quite extraordinary deference. "Didn't know as how it was you. What's this, sir?" indicating the body. "Had an accident?"

"No. It's murder all right as that fellow says, and he should know, for he's the murderer. It was he who killed Professor Kauffmann. I saw the whole thing from behind those curtains. I gave him his chance to get away. Very wrong of me, of course; but I didn't want any publicity on my own methods. Besides," he added slyly, "I thought it very likely he would come back with the police, and so save me all trouble. He would naturally imagine that a burglar could have nothing to say in his own defence."

"I see, Mr. Scott-Drummond. Very good sir," was the inspector's respectful answer, and he came forward with quick concern to remove the handcuffs from the prisoner.

It was then that Elphinstone roused himself at last from his horrified amazement.

"Scott-Drummond! Scott-Drummond!" he repeated, foolishly.

The burglar stooped to pick up a slender case of japanned tin, which he had dropped when the constables seized him. The lid had been wrenched off and the edges of a sheaf of blue tracing papers protruded.

"We had good reason," he said, "to suspect Professor Kauffmann of being an agent of the German Government, and I came to get hold of evidence. I've found what I was looking for— more even than I expected— so I'll be going."

He glanced across at the stricken Elphinstone standing limply between the two constables.

"You'd better take that fellow to Vine Street," he said quietly. "I'll forward my report. Good night, inspector."

________________

3: A Chance Meeting

From the Diary of a New York Detective

Anonymous

Book of Brief Narratives, Dec 1894

A magazine of 16 pages, billing itself as the "smallest magazine in the world," with an annual subscription of 50 cents, 5 cents a copy. Several issues of this extraordinary publication are at Project Gutenberg.

SEVERAL YEARS AGO I was detailed to undertake the solution of a mystery surrounding a robbery which had baffled the police for a month or more. Then two detectives had been set at work upon it and had failed to locate the thief. I was given the case. I did not exactly succeed in finding the thief, but I brought him to justice, just the same. How, you shall see.

The house of Mr. Bond had been broken into and a large amount of jewelry stolen. Among the latter was a handsome gold watch belonging to the daughter of Mr. Bond. It had been a birthday present from her mother, and was highly prized by her. Her father offered a large reward for its recovery. I called at the home of Mr. Bond to get a description of the missing jewelry and whatever other information the family could give me. This was little enough. The jewelry had been stolen and no trace of the thief was to be found. That was all. I was expected, with no clue whatever to work upon, to ferret out and bring the thief to justice, and at the same time recover Miss Bond's watch. The only thing that the thief had left behind him was a piece of paper on which was written the words:

"Remember the poor." I did not regard this as being of any importance, and gave it little or no thought.

I was a young man at the time, unmarried, and, as it may be guessed, susceptible to the charms of pretty girls. Miss Bond— Clara— was a pretty girl, and I may as well confess, I fell in love with her at first sight. I also made an impression upon her. This caused me all the more eagerly to work up the case and try to bring it to a successful conclusion. Who knows, thought I, what may be at the end of it? I made a good many visits to the Bond house, nominally to seek information, in reality to gaze upon the face of the charming Miss Bond. My search for the thief did not progress very favorably. In fact, I had made no progress whatever. It promised to remain an unsolved mystery. I could not find the thief. Now comes the strange part of the story— how the thief found me.

I had just boarded a railway train when a man followed me, and quietly slipped into the seat next to me. He carried a small bag which he hid under the seat. I also had a bag somewhat similar to his own.

"Well, Jimmy," he remarked, "how did you succeed?"

"First rate," I returned, in a whisper, so as not to betray my identity by my voice. It was clear that I was in conversation with a thief— he did not look to my well-trained eyes like an honest man— and I must keep up the deception.

"Got the swag?" he asked.

I merely tapped my bag for reply. It was nearly dusk and the car lamps had not been lighted. My companion had not yet discovered his mistake. I didn't feel exactly flattered at being mistaken, even in the half light, for a thief.

"How with you?" I asked.

"Ain't done much since I tapped 'Remember the poor.'"

"Remember the poor!" The words flashed across my mind. Was I on the track of the thief at last?

"Got the watch yet?" I asked.

"Yes, don't dare to try to get rid of it. Where is Baggy John, now?"

What the deuce was I to say? Just then a man came down the car aisle. I saw at once it was the man whom my companion had really expected to meet. The resemblance between us was remarkable. My companion looked from one to the other and then tried to get away. Not before I had a pair of hand-cuffs encircling his wrists, however.

That is how I caught the thief, got my promotion, the reward, and last, but by no means least, my wife.

_______________

4: Grafter and Master Grafter

Achmed Abdullah

Alexander Nicholayevitch Romanoff, 1881-1945

Alien Souls (1922).

IT IS SAID that, compared to the cunning of the fakir, the Holy Man of Hindustan, even an Armenian, a trustee, a banker, a widow, a demon, and a female cobra during the Grishna Season, are only lisping, prattling babes.

Listen, then, to the tale of Harafr Lai, the babu, the banker, the giver of many nautch parties, the sufferer from that envied disease of the idle rich, diabetes; and of Krishna Chucker-jee, the fakir, the Holy Man, the ash-smeared darling of the many gods.

Harar Lai, the babu, was the big man of the village. His earrings were of jade. His face was shiny with ghee. His wife was fat and very beautiful; none of your lean, panther-like women she, but a proper woman, with the walk of the king-goose and the waist of the she-elephant. A most proper woman indeed! Three times he had been to Bombay; and he had brought back marvelous devil-things; clocks which clucked like moor-birds, boxes which had songs and voices in their bowels, resplendent and beautiful ornaments with the magic legend “Made in Birmingham.”

He was a banker. And Fate endowed him with such a miraculous skill in the making-out of accounts that a man to whom he had loaned fifty rupees might go on making monthly payments of twenty rupees each for three years without reducing his debt by a single anna. Great are the virtues of Compound Interest! And, indeed, his books proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the debt, instead of being reduced, would grow with each successive payment, until in the end of a few years the original loan of fifty rupees had become half a lakh. He would then give thanks to Shiva, the great god, and to the just laws of the English.

For look you:

DURING the lawless old Moghul days, the days when the Moslem dogs ruled to the South of the Passes, a quick, crooked dagger-thrust would have ended the babu’s earthly career. But the British Raj, the guardian angel of the poor and the pitiful, had established the just laws of Europe in this land of oppression. Thus Harar Lai carried on his business in security, under the shadow of the law, even as they do in England and in America.

There was nothing he would not lend money on, from a nautch girl’s blue beads to an unborn calf, from an acre of indigo plants to ten yards of muslin turban cloth; provided the papers were drawn up in proper form and witnessed by a notary public.

And so in good years, when abundant rain watered the smiling fields, when the crops were green and bounteous, the fish swarming in the river, and the trees heavy with fruit, he would reap a goodish share of the gifts of the gods, and— everything being so rich and plentiful— he would naturally increase the interest on loans a little, just a little; while in bad years, when black famine stalked through the fields, when the sun burnt as do the eternal fires in the seventh hall of perdition, when the smoky yellow haze rose from the ground and suffocated the parching crops, when the fish perished of thirst in the drying streams, when the land was dying of hunger, and the call to prayer gave way to the maddening chant of despair— when his heart, his poor, tortured heart— bled with the pity of it all, even then he would prosper exceedingly. For behold: he was a Hindu, a babu, a follower of the praised god who is Shiva, charitable to a fault and quite unlike the Armenian pigs who suck the heart-blood of the unhappy land to the west; again he would loosen the strings of his compassionate purse and advance thousands of rupees to the men of the village. Never would he accept more than three hundred and twelve percent a month, and he would be content, as only security, with a mortgage on every bullock and goat, every cartwheel and fishing-net, every tree and well in the blessed village.

His eyes filled with tears of gratitude when he be held the righteous growth of his treasures. I said that he prospered— and, indeed, there was never cartwheel tired, there was never net anchored, tree planted or grain sown but he received his fair share of the profits.

He was the Corporation of the Village.

It was when the juice was being collected from the heads of the opium poppies that three wandering fakirs, a guru and two disciples, strayed into the village— seeking shelter and cow-dung fuel from a wretched peasant who lived on the outskirts of the village. Money? No. They had none. They were fakirs, followers of the many gods, very holy, also very dirty. They had no money. Not a single rupee.

“But do not let that worry you,” said the guru. “Tonight I shall pray to Shiva. He will repay you.”

So the poor peasant gave rice and ghee and sweet meats and oil and onions and sugar and tamarinds to the three holy vampires who had never done a stroke of honest work in their lives. They did not have to. For they were of a most thorough and most astounding dirtiness and ditto holiness. They lived thus on the superstitions of the land of Hind; and they lived exceedingly well. They also gave thanks to Shiva, the great god and to the just laws of the English.

For look you:

DURING the lawless old Moghul days, the days when the Moslem dogs ruled to the South of the Passes, a sharp sword would have quickly removed the heads of the three fakirs. But then the British Raj has established the just laws of Europe in this land of oppression; the laws which preach tolerance and equal rights for all religions and sects. And so these religious parasites had gripped their fangs in the bowels of the land’s prosperity, even as in England and in America.

The holy men asked the news of the village, carefully scanning the scraps of bazaar talk; and they learned about Harar Lai, the babu, and they evinced great interest.

The next morning the three were gone. But they had left ample payment for their entertainment. For in the shade of a great babul tree stood a brand-new idol, a Mahadeo which was so exceedingly ugly and bestial and obscene that it was certain to bring prosperity to the village, especially to the peasant who had been the host of the three so dirty, the three so holy men.

Soon its fame spread. Little chaplets of flowers were offered to the holy emblem of creation, and thin-lipped, weary-eyed men and patient, onyx-eyed women sent up many pathetic prayers to the grinning, staring, sensual idol. And the idol prospered. It shone with plentiful libations of ghee, and was more ugly and more holy than ever. The very babul tree did homage to it. For a gorgeous loofah creeper which for many hot and many cold weathers had used the tree for support and nourishment sent down strong shoots and encircled with its sweet-smelling, lascivious flowers the neck and the arms of the Mahadeo.

The babu saw it. He considered it. He was angry. For here was something in the village which could not be assisted with a mortgage at a reasonable rate of interest. Mahadeos are gods. Gods do not need money; only the fakirs, the Holy Men who serve the gods, need money.

Let it be understood that Harar Lai had no intention of fooling with the Mahadeo. He was a Hindu. He was deeply religious. He would sooner have killed his fat and beautiful wife than kill a cow.

Then, one day, the babu discovered how he could make the god pay without defiling his caste, without committing an irreligious act. On the contrary, he would do great honor to the Mahadeo. All he had to do, he thought, was to buy the plot of land which housed the idol. Of course the peasant would not desecrate the god by removing it from the shade of the babul tree which he had chosen for his abode. So he would buy a plot of land and would then acquire a reputation for sanctity by erecting a temple over it. He would spread the tale of the Mahadeo through the countryside. He would advertise in the Bande Mahrattam and other native papers; perhaps even in the English press, the Bombay Times, the Englishman, the Pioneer. There would be many offerings laid at the feet of the god. He would be the owner of the temple. He had a brother-in-law who was a Brahmin priest. Together they would collect the offerings. The plan was simple.

But the owner of the land absolutely refused to part with it. Neither cajolings nor threats were of the slightest avail.

“No, no!” exclaimed the superstitious ryot. “No, by Karma! I will not part with what the gods have sent me. The Mahadeo has brought luck to my house. Three weeks ago my wife gave birth to twin sons. And though she drank buttermilk, she did not die. Behold what a powerful Mahadeo he is! Also be pleased to observe his face. How ugly, how bestial, how obscene! No, there was never Mahadeo like mine.”

About this time one of the three fakirs, Krishna Chucker-jee by name, came again to the village. He was dirtier and holier than ever. Again he visited the house of the peasant. Again he asked for food and drink and cow-dung fuel. Gladly the peasant gave. He kissed the Holy Man’s feet.

Then he told him about the babu’s offer.

“Five times Harar Lai has asked me to sell him the plot of land which houses the Mahadeo. Five times I have refused. And each time the babu forecloses on some of my land. What shall I do, O Holy Man?”

The fakir blessed the peasant. He praised him for his devotion. He told him that in a month he would receive the answer to his question. But in the meantime he was not to breathe a word to anybody about his, the fakir’s, second visit. Also he needn’t worry about the mortgages. Everything would be straightened out.

“See, my friend,” he concluded. “For fifteen years neither water nor soap nor scissors have defiled my body. Daily I grow and gain in holiness and filth. Tell me, have you ever seen so much holiness, so much filth, before?”

“No, beloved one of the gods,” stammered the peasant.

“Then trust in me. Everything will be straightened out. Even tonight I shall cover my body with ashes and cow-dung. Have faith… and the gods will be good to you. Praised be the many gods!”

The fakir left, again swearing the peasant to secrecy.

Three days afterwards the babu was on the furthest confines of the village, surveying with grim interest the crops on which he held mortgages, when five fakirs appeared suddenly before him.

They were naked. Their beards and hair were matted. Their lean bodies were covered with dirt and perspiration. Their finger nails had grown into long, twisted, fantastic curves and knots. Even at two miles, with a fair wind, your nose would have convinced you of their exceeding holiness.

So the babu bowed before them.

“Salaam, O babu-jee,” exclaimed the oldest and dirtiest of the five. “I have a message for thee.”

“Salaam, O Harar Lai,” rejoined the other four in the heavy, impressive manner of a Greek tragedy chorus. “We have a message for thee.”

The babu was surprised that they knew his name, and he asked them how they knew it.

And Krishna Chucker-jee, the guru, the oldest of the five, answered:

“We know many things, O babu-jee. We are Holy Men, beloved of the gods. Behold our filth! We know that at the age of fifteen thou didst leave thy home in Shahjahanabad, and that thou hadst only five rupees in thy waistband. We know that the gods smiled on thee, and that thou didst prosper exceedingly. All is known concerning thee. And now the gods have ordered us five to travel many miles because they wish to build a temple in thy village to the Mahadeo. Thus the gods send thee message through us.”

“Be pleased to deliver it,” said the babu, amazed at their intimate knowledge of his affairs.

But Krishna Chucker-jee replied in a dignified and haughty manner:

“Patience, O babu-jee. Patience! For remember that patience is the key of relief, and that nothing comes to an end except the beard of the beardless. Patience, then!”

He squatted on the ground. He rolled up his eyes in a thoroughly disgusting and very bewildering manner. His disciples crowded around him.

“Hush!” they admonished the banker. “Hush, O babu-jee! The guru is now communing with the deity, with Shiva.” And they gave a well-trained shudder, in which the babu joined involuntarily.

Suddenly the guru gave a great sigh. He jumped up. His eyes assumed once more their normal, beady focus. He scratched his long, matted hair with his claw-like hands. Then he addressed the babu in gentle tones.

“Shiva has whispered to me. At the appointed hour everything shall be made most clear. But first it is necessary that thou, O babu-jee, shouldst give us food for twelve days. At the end of the twelve days my four chelas shall go away. Eight days more I shall abide with thee, and then the message shall be given to thee. For the gods are pleased with thee, and they have heard of thy pious desires in the matter of the Mahadeo.”

Here he winked furiously at the peasant who happened to pass by and who was watching the scene with open mouth and staring eyes.

The jubilant babu did as he was bidden. For ta his Eastern mind there was nothing incredible in such an occurrence.

For twelve days the guru and his four chelas were the guests of the babu. Then they departed. Only Krishna Chucker-jee remained in the house of the banker.

The guru had an earnest talk with his host. He told him that during the eight days which intervened between that day and the delivery of the message he must prepare himself and purify his mind and soul by deeds of charity, ceremonious visits to the Mahadeo, and complicated devotional exercises.

He could rest assured that every rupee given away in charity would be returned a hundredfold to him.

“Wherefore hold not thy hand,” said the ascetic at the end of his pious exhortation.

Strictly the babu obeyed the instructions of the Holy One. He tore up mortgages and he distributed food and coins to the gaping villagers.

Eight long days passed. On the morning of the ninth day, Krishna Chucker-jee ordered the babu to fetch a new earthenware jar, two cubits of khassa cloth and a seer of attah flour. And now he would see how everything that he had given away in charity would be restored by the gods a hundredfold.

As a token he told him to bring a rupee, and, taking it from the babu, he asked him to prostrate himself on the ground and to say certain lengthy passages from the Kata Upanishad, while he himself wrapped the rupee in the cloth, placed it in the pot, emptied the attah flour a-top, and then closed the mouth of the jar with a piece of khassa cloth which was sealed with the babu’s own signet-ring. Then he told the babu to hide the jar somewhere in the open country.

The next day the jar was brought back. Nobody had tampered with it. The seal was intact. But, miraculous to relate, when the cloth was removed and the jar opened, there were two rupees wrapped in the cloth instead of one.

Three times the ceremony was repeated, with the same prostrations and prayers on the babu’s part, while the guru sealed the jar. And finally the rupee had grown to be eight.

“Thou aft beloved by the gods,” said Krishna Chucker-jee. “Thy deeds of charity smell sweet in their holy nostrils. Again I admonish thee: hold not thy hand!”

And the babu did as he was bid. He held not his hand. He tore up all the other mortgages he had and returned many acres of land to the original owners, the peasants of the village.

“The period of probation has passed,” said the guru.

Followed a day of prayer and fasting, and on the next morning the babu was told by Krishna Chuckerjee to bring an extra-large jar and to fetch all his currency notes, all his gold and silver coins, his own jewels and those of his beautiful, fat wife.

“Fill the jar with them,” said the guru. “But leave sufficient room on top so that the gods can double them.”

The babu did as he was told. He was jubilant. Then Chucker-jee asked him to prostrate himself and to recite an especially long passage from the Kata Upanishad. Meanwhile he himself closed and sealed the jar.

Devotional exercises over, he directed Harar Lai to carry away the jar to a spot twenty times as far as the one which had contained the jar with the one rupee, and to guard it until the following dawn.

“Cease not to pray for a single minute,” continued the Holy Man. “Let none approach thee or speak to thee. Do not fall asleep. Fast until thou comest here again. Obey strictly, so as not to kindle divine anger.”

The babu obeyed. He took the jar and carried it a long distance into the country. He watched it. He allowed nobody to approach. He prayed incessantly. But, finally, worn out with his fastings and his prayers, he fell asleep.

The sun was high in the heavens and the shadows pointing northward when he awoke. Terror gripped his heart when he thought that he might have angered the Mahadeo by failing in his vigil. He seized the jar in alarm. He examined it carefully. But the seals were intact. Nobody had tampered with his treasures. So he felt relieved. Again he watched and prayed.

Finally he could not stand the suspense any longer. He picked up the jar and returned to the house.

The fakir was not there. He searched through house and garden. But there was no sign of the Holy Man.

He called loudly:

“Guru-jee… O guru-jee!”

But no answer came. Then he inquired of the villagers, but none had seen the Holy One.

Then he thought that perhaps the guru had set out in search of him and would return sooner or later. And he waited a long time till finally anxiety and hunger got the better of his fear. He ate, and then he opened the jar with the proper ceremonies…

But the gods had not doubled his riches. In fact, they had removed them altogether and had put in their place three large and heavy bricks.

The babu sat down and wept. That was the end of all things. To call in the police to aid him against the gods would be a futility. He visited the babul tree and looked at the Mahadeo. And it seemed to him that the Mahadeo was solemnly winking at him.

And a great fury seized him by the throat. He cursed the deities of his native land.

And six months later the Christian Messenger printed the glorious news that another pagan, this time a high-class Brahmin, a charitable native Indian banker, after giving away all his wealth in charities to the village where he lived, and tearing up all the mortgages he owned, had been converted to the True Faith; and had even risked his life and been severely beaten because in his righteous new zeal he had endeavored to break a horrid and grinning Mahadeo idol which stood in the shade of a great babul tree at the confines of the village.

_________________

5: Interlude

Achmed Abdullah

Collier's, 7 May 1927

WITH HER bobbed russet hair, her pansy-blue eyes, her crimson, adventurous mouth, Edna Ashley was what is known in the vulgate as a Peach. But not the clingstone variety. For she had a hatful of ideas— ideas about men and women and what makes them tick— disconcertingly modern, independent ideas.

That's what Bob Harkness discovered when he proposed to her three weeks after he met her, which was a little over three weeks after his arrival in Shanghai. But three weeks is an eternity in Shanghai— I am speaking of the Foreign Settlement, not of Chinese Town, where even three decades mean no more than a passing moment—since the circle of the socially elect is small there and the same people meet almost every night: Monday dinner dance at the American Club, Tuesday at the Masonic Club, Wednesday at the Country Club, and so on until Saturday brings the grand weekly shindy at the Ward Road Athletic Club, commonly and sardonically nicknamed the "Spartans."

On that Saturday Edna and Bob were sitting out the third dance.

He was nearly six feet of not bad-looking, tersely masculine youth, well-bred, well-to-do, quite clever. The trouble with him was that, only son of a doting, widowed mother from whose Boston apron strings he had very recently escaped, he had a pathetically Mid-Victorian outlook on life. So, when he proposed to her, he did it the wrong way. He was deeply in love. His heart was drumming, drumming. But his words were stiff and formal; chiefly his final, bromidic:

"I'm not worthy of you, dear!"

Then— perhaps due to an atavistic throwback to his late, not at all Mid-Victorian father— he tried to kiss her; did it awkwardly; caused her cigarette to burn a hole in her delightful chiffon frock.

"Oh"— she exclaimed— "I won't marry you. You're clumsy— and old-fashioned— two things I can't bear. Go and learn something about love before you speak to me again."

Half in jest she said it, half in earnest. He took it wholly in earnest.

"Very well," he replied curtly and walked away.

On the ballroom threshold he met her father. John Ashley was an Old China Hand and a Taipan. This, let me explain to the uninitiated, means that he had lived many years in China, had accumulated great wealth there, and had grown very red-faced— in fact, the more red-faced the Taipan, the greater his wealth.

Bob, whose father had been John Ashley's dearest friend, had come to Shanghai on his invitation to be taught the intricacies of Far Eastern trade.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" asked the older man.

"To learn something about love!" came the unexpected reply.

"Well— I'll be damned!" mumbled the other, while Bob left the club, jumped into his 40-horsepower roadster, and shot away through the night, presently squirting a 90-horsepower gasolene stench over the dog-roses and hollyhocks of Nanking Road— the quite wrong side of Nanking Road— where the quite wrong people have a regrettably enjoyable time.

THERE AN hour later—after several drinks and a British baronet's sporting younger son's, "I say, Harkness! Surge over here and meet Kitty!"— he was alone with that same Kitty in her charming drawing-room.

Kitty Bromleigh. If you are the right sort— which, as often as not, means the wrong sort— you may remember her name. It was, incidentally, neither her maiden name nor that of her husband, who had divorced her seventeen years earlier for good and sufficient reasons.

A gorgeously red-haired, violet-eyed Kitty, she pursued the decidedly uneven tenor of her way, sometimes in Paris, again on the Riviera, Cairo, Biarritz— recently in Shanghai.

Not that she liked Shanghai; indeed, she hated it and said so now to Bob.

"Then why do you live here?" he asked.

"I don't. I'm here for a few weeks to annoy my former husband."

"Oh…?"

"He's rather a bigwig here. And if I annoy him enough, he'll increase my allowance— to get me out of town. Never mind him. Let's talk about you."

Then, when Bob, not exactly knowing what to say but very much wishing to say it, remained silent, she filled his champagne glass and told him how impressionable she was and that she didn't care what a man she liked said to her and— an old trick of hers— did he know anything about palmistry and would he mind reading her palm?… and she stretched out a slim, narrow hand.

What could he do but take it?

He was about to raise it to his lips, to kiss it. And again he did an awkward thing. For he upset the champagne glass. It poured its golden, liquid bubbles over Kitty's frock.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "you are so clumsy and, with your silly hand kissing, so frightfully old-fashioned!"

She was amazed when Bob burst into laughter— rather bitter, self-mocking laughter— when she heard him cry:

"That's what she said!"

"She? Who?"

"The other girl!"

"What other girl?"

"Edna Ashley!"

A peculiar, almost frightened expression came into Kitty's eyes. He did not notice it. But he did notice how, suddenly, her voice softened:

"Tell me about her!"

When he did not answer she went on: "Don't want to tell me because, I suppose, my hair is more red than it ought to be and my joy of living more intense? Don't be a moral snob. Nothing worse than that, you know. After all, I'm old enough to be your mother… and I do like you… and you seem so upset.… Why"— she laughed— "almost as upset as the champagne glass!"

So he told her; and she commented:

"You were wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Yes,"— she sighed— "a woman my age— likes inexperience. But a young girl likes experience— likes to think that the man she loves knows life. Proves to her that, after having known other women, you choose her—for keeps! Go back to her. Ask her nothing. Take her in your arms.…"

"And," he interrupted ruefully, "burn another hole in her dress?"

"In that case— listen!" She whispered to him.

"Thank you!" he said simply.

"Don't mention it. You may kiss my hand— now!"

HE DID, and half an hour later, again at the club, he saw Edna Ashley walking up and down the back porch. She was alone. He took her in his arms; kissed her.

"Oh," she expostulated, "you're crushing my dress!"

Then he remembered Kitty's whispered advice.

"Damn your dress!" he replied, and kissed her again.

"I love you—" she stammered— "oh, how I love you, Bob!"

And neither she nor he noticed the Chinese messenger boy who hurried up the gravel path, crossed the back porch, entered the club, and cried:

"Letter for Taipan Ashley! Letter for Taipan Ashley!"

"Here you are, boy!"

A tip changed hands. So did the letter.

John Ashley read:

Dear John:

I'll leave Shanghai by Monday's boat. Not out of regard for you— don't flatter yourself— but for Edna's sake. She thinks I'm dead, doesn't she? All right. Let her continue to think so.

Kitty.

John Ashley sighed.

"Decent old girl— in a way," he thought. "Guess I'll boost her allowance."

Again he sighed; then smiled as he saw Bob and Edna enter the room— heard Edna's words: "Bob's got something to say to you, Dad.…"

__________________

6: Two Little Men

Roger Torrey

1901-1946

Super Detective January 1946

I HAD the highball half way up to my face when the big guy, on my right, jostled my elbow. Hard enough so that half the highball hit me on the shirt front. I put the glass back on the bar and turned, waiting for the usual "Pardon me" or something like it, but I didn't get anything like it at all.

The guy said: "What's the matter, stupid? Too weak to hold a glass?"

He was around two hundred but he didn't stand more than five-ten. His nose had been broken more than once and he would have been offered a bid on his left ear in any vegetable market

He said: "Mama's  'ittle boy ain't huffy, is he?"

I tossed what was left of the highball in his face and he didn't step back, which was all to the good. I was half turned from him and that gave me a lot more power when I hooked him below the belt with my left as I spun. He said, "OOF!" and started to buckle and that's what made me miss with the right I heaved at his jaw. I caught him high on the temple instead, but it was enough to upset him.

I took a step ahead, intending to kick what was left of his teeth out the back of his neck, but right then somebody grabbed both my arms, above the elbows.

The next thing would be either a knee in my back or a kick in back of a knee, and one would be as bad as the other. I kicked back with one heel, hoping to connect with a shin, but missed completely. Then I turned my head in time to see the bar man take the towel he'd been mopping up with and flick it past me, like he was snapping a whip.

The grip on my left arm loosened and the one on the right just wasn't there so I jerked free and spun around. The bird that had been holding me had both hands up to his eyes and I stepped on his foot and clipped him at the same time.

The first man was on his feet by then and going for the door, and I didn't think it was right that he should leave his little pal behind. Little pal was long and lean and rangy, and jail bird timber if I ever saw a board. And little pal was dead to the world.

I got him by the wrist with both hands and dragged him to the door and out, then dumped him in the gutter. The other guy was a hundred feet down the street by then, too smart to run but certainly walking fast.

I shouted after him: "Hey, chum, here it is. Come and get it if you want it."

And then went back in the bar and said: "Thanks, Murph! Do as much for you sometime."

Murphy, the bar man, said politely: 'Don't mention it, don't mention it, Riley. Always glad to help a friend."

He even gave me a replacement on the highball without charging for it.

I'D JUST stopped in Murphy's for a fast  one on the way to the office. I was an hour and a half late then, but it didn't make any difference because it was my own office and I wasn't working on anything at the time.

When you've got a girl in the office to take calls, a couple of hours in the morning don't mean a thing. A private cop doesn't get many morning callers—they usually come late in the afternoon. It seems as if it takes them all day long to make up their minds to see you.

My office is on the second floor of the Nye Building, and it's a fair location for the business. It's an old building but well kept. It isn't expensive enough to scare middle price customers away and it's decent enough so that the higher priced ones core feel they're slumming when they call.

Also there's a front, side, back, and basement entrance and exit, and there've been times when this has been handy. Some people don't want to be seen calling on a private investigator, and some more of them want to make sure they're not followed from his office.

Not that I'm in anything crooked, but the very nature of the business demands secrecy a good part of the time.

But that was one morning I wasn't having any.

I noticed the elevator starter looked at me oddly but I put that down to the new suit I was wearing. Light gray, with a dark blue shirt, and a maroon tie that set that shirt off nicely. And a brand new hat as well, the same shade of blue as the shirt. My Spring wardrobe and I was proud of it.

I said: "Hi, Jimmy!"

He said: "Morning, Mr. Keenan."

I went past him and I thought he was going to say something but he gulped and didn't. I went up the stairs— I never could see any sense in taking an elevator up one floor, and as soon as I got to the first door of my suite I knew there was something wrong. There were voices and too many of them.

So I stepped in and thought I was in Grand Central station at the time the commuters were heading for home. The place was so jammed they'd overflowed into my private office.

There were three uniformed cops, apparently just standing there. There were three others who couldn't be anything but plain-clothes men. There was a photographer and he looked official. There was a spare little man with an air of authority. And there was Lieutenant Charles P. Lawton, whom I knew and who I knew worked homicide.

And also there was Ella, my office girl, though she called it secretary.

SHE was a sight. She had one of the prettiest shiners I ever saw. It was already closed and already green and black and purple. The cheek bone on the same side of her face was swollen and that side of her mouth stuck out like a pigeon's breast. Her right sleeve had been torn loose from the rest of her dress at the shoulder, and, when I came in, she was trying to fasten it back with a paper clip. Her hair was every which way; she'd been crying, and if anybody ever looked like the original witch-woman it was Ella.

I said: "What goes on?" to nobody in particular, and the little man who seemed to be in charge was on me like a flash.

"You Keenan?' he asked.

"That's me. What's up?"

"Riley Keenan?"

"That's right. What's happened?"

Ella quavered: "Oh Mr. Keenan!" but nobody paid her any attention.

The little man said: "Come with me," and turned toward my private office, taking for granted I'd follow.

I followed.

That office wasn't quite so full of people as the outside one had been, but there still were too many in it for the size of the room. Six, not counting my fussy new pal or myself.

But it was the first two that I saw that set me back on my heels, Two men in neat white coats and standing by a long and narrow wicker basket.

One of the other men—all I could see of him was a broad back, with the rest of him hidden behind my desk, straightened and turned around. I knew him, too. Assistant Medical-Examiner Rosetti.

He said: "I'm through, inspector. I can do the P. M. late this afternoon, if that's okay."

"Sure," said the little man. And to the men with the basket: "You can have him in just a minute."

And then to me: "Come along."

I followed him until I could see back of the desk and what I saw wasn't pretty. There was a lot of blood and in the middle of it some man I'd never seen before in my life. A man, I'd say, in his late fifties, a tall, spare man whose hair had been a dull white. The blood had changed the color, except for a little right in front.

He'd bled all over the place. My office rug doesn't extend to the back of the desk and there'd been nothing to stop the flow. His face was bruised and out of focus, mainly because one temple was crushed. He'd taken a terrible beating, though of course I didn't know whether that was what had killed him or not.

"Know him?' asked the inspector.

"I do not."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

"What was he doing in your office?"

"That I don't know: Miss Tompkins, my office girl, will tell you he's no customer of mine."

"No appointment with him?"

"No appointment with anybody. Miss Tompkins can also tell you that. She keeps a record of them."

"I'm not asking Miss Tompkins. I'm asking you."

"I mentioned Miss Tompkins because she's the only one who can verify what I say, inspector. That's all."

"Ever been in Hamilton, Indiana?"

"Not that I remember. I may have driven through it, coast to coast."

"Ever know anybody named Cyrus K. Winthrop?"

"Not that I remember."

"Ever hear the name?"

"Not that I can remember."

"You keep files?"

"Of course."

"Mind if I check them?"

"I DON'T mind your looking at the manila covers. I certainly object to your examining the contents of them. Of course if you find anything there that has anything to do with this, the objection is removed."

"I quite understand."

He nodded to the two men with the basket and they brought it behind the desk. I didn't see them load the body in it because I was showing the inspector where the W files were kept. And it didn't take him a minute to find I had nothing under Winthrop.

He thawed out a bit then. He said: "The man's name was Cyrus K. Winthrop and he came from Hamilton, Indiana. Staying at the Ramona, which is practically a residential hotel. Been there four days. Supposedly a stranger in town. Clerk says he asked points of interest to see. Not much money. A nut. Came all the way from Indiana to see this United Nations conference. A fanatic on the subject of world. peace, the clerk says. Talked to him about it all the time— talked to anybody in the lobby who'd listen to him about it. Clerk heard him."

I said: "If everybody would take an interest in it like that, it would be a good thing for everybody concerned. I should and don't, I'm sorry to say."

The inspector grunted, whether assent or not I couldn't tell. "Why should a man like that call on a private detective?"

"That I don't know."

"He was snoopy— we know the type. But why should he call on you?"

I shrugged. There was no answer called for.

"I'm putting Lawton on this. He tells me he knows you."

"I know Charley. Yes."

"You'll work with him?"

I wasn't sore but I was getting a little bit fretful. Two men had picked a fight with me for no reason. A man had been killed in my office. This inspector seemed to think I knew more about it than I did, which was nothing at all.

I said: "Inspector, I'll work with anybody on it. If you think I like murder done in my office, you're crazy. I'll work with Lawton or anybody. Did you find any prints or anything like that?"

"Not a thing. Lawton will no doubt tell you about that part of it, Keenan. He has the man's papers and identification and things like that—he'll turn them in to Property when he's checked them through for any lead."

"Okay. I'll help if I can."

He nodded and sailed out, without even bothering to say he'd be seeing me or any other one of the polite nothings.

The inspector was a busy little man and had an eye on his business.

2: One Little Man

LAWTON IS big and dark and quiet—  too quiet for comfort sometimes. In talking with him you get the idea that he knows more than he's saying, and that is upsetting at times. At the times you're holding something out.

He said: "It was like this, Riley. The man came in and asked for you, and Miss Tompkins, Ella, said you weren't down yet. He said he'd wait—that he had to see you at once. He sat down in one of those lounge chairs you have in the outside office, and Ella went on with her work."

"You mean, Charley, that she pretended she went on with her work. She don't write three letters a day."

Lawton grinned. "Well, she pretended then. Five minutes later the door opened and two big bruisers walked in. Ella says she never saw either of them before. One of them said to Winthrop, 'In the other office, bud' or something like that. Ella was pretty sure of the sense if not the wording. Winthrop just sat there—I don't think he had any idea of what it was all about. Anyway, Ella said he looked surprised instead of afraid. Ella said, 'You can't go in there. That's Mr. Keenan's private office'.

"She got up from the typewriter and stood in front of the door to your office then, Riley, and one of the two smacked her twice and knocked her down. It didn't knock her out but it dazed her. She saw them pick Winthrop out of the chair and shove him into your office then, and she heard them beating him up. She said he didn't cry out but once, and then in just a muffled way."

I said: "They probably had him out on his feet with the first sock."

Lawton nodded. "She was trying to get up on her feet when they came back through the outer office and one of them said to her, 'A present for Keenan, sister'. And then they left and she called in to the station."

"What did she say they looked like?"

He shrugged. "You know Ella. They could have been any two men in San Francisco, from her description."

I admitted that Ella wasn't quite bright and I was telling the truth. She could take a phone call, and if she wrote everything down right while she was taking it, I got it straight. If she tried to remember it, it sounded like code—and I'm not good at working stuff like that out.

So I have an office rule that everything is to be written down immediately.

She can type and very well, but this isn't much of a help to me. I have little business done through the mail. She knows nothing of short-hand, which would be a help to me. If she was good at that she could take down conversations between myself and the clients and I'd have a check on what was said.

However, she's nice-looking in a kittenish sort of way, and a nice kid. She's faithful, loyal, comes to work on time, and you can't have everything for the wages I can afford to pay.

So Ella stays on.

I SAID: ''I don't know what to make of it, Charley. I never saw the guy. Naturally I didn't see the killers. How was he killed ?"'

"Sapped silly and then knifed through the neck. Whoever beat him up was a little crazy— it was as brutal a job as I've ever seen. As long as they were going to put him out of the way with a knife, there was no reason for making pulp out of him before. One lick would have put him down so that he'd make no noise when they used the shiv. But they worked him over just the same. Even fractured his skull."

"I saw that. A sap wouldn't do that, Charley."

"The butt of a knife would. The dent was the right shape, too. I take it that one used the sap and the other the knife."

He put on his hat, going to the glass above the wash basin and being very careful about the way he slanted it to the side.

I said: "Where to now?"

"The Ramona. One of the boys got the dope there already, from the clerk, but I'd rather get it first hand. Be seeing you, boy."

He went out and I heard him telling Ella he'd see her in Heaven, or in front of the Paramount at eight, if she wanted to see a show with him. I didn't hear what Ella said, but I had an idea.

Lawton said: "Well, no harm in trying, honey. Anyway, I'll be seeing you."

Then I heard the outside door close and waited a moment and went out to see what I could see. I hadn't told Lawton about what had happened earlier in Murphy's place, and I didn't intend to for awhile.

At least not until I thought it tied in with my office murder,

ELLA looked like hell and knew it. I suppose she felt as bad, as well. Her shiner, by that time, was clear down on her cheek, and that eye was not only closed but puffed like a football. Her mouth was so swollen she could hardly speak. Her cheek-bone showed a nasty bruise through the swelling. Her good eye was red and angry-looking from crying, and though she'd tried to do something about her hair, she hadn't helped it much.

She had fixed her dress a bit— she'd found a safety pin somewhere and she had the sleeve tacked back on with it.

I sat on the edge of her desk, which was crosswise in a corner, and said: "Just a couple of questions, kid, and then you go home. I'll get a cab for you. Get straightened up a bit and then go to a beauty parlor and let 'em give you the works. Nothing will fix that eye except time, but they'll straighten you up a bit and you can wear dark glasses for a while. Okay?"

She said: "Oh, thanks, Mr. Keenan."

"Thanks for what? For fighting my battles for me? Even gives a bonus this week. Now tell me. What did those two guys look like?'

She gave me as vague a description as I ever heard in my life.

I said: "Now listen closely. Don't say yes unless you're sure. Was one of them short and stocky and did he have a broken nose? Heavy— heavier than I am? Did he have a funny looking ear?"

"I'm not sure about his ear, Mr. Keenan, but he had a broken nose. My brother's got one— it's got a sort of hump in it. This man had the same thing."

"Heavy?"

"Oh, yes!! That's the man that hit me."

"Was the other one tall and thin? Taller than I am but not as heavy?"

"You're very well built, Mr. Keenan. Yes, he was like that. And he had squinty eyes and looked as mean as he could be. It was him that said, 'A present for Keenan, sister'."

"Sure of that, now? You're not just thinking these were the men because I'm describing them?"

"No, I'm sure of it. Do you know them, Mr. Keenan?"

My right knuckles ached from where I'd hit the first one too high on the head. And I was willing to bet I had black and blue marks above my elbows, where the second one's fingers had bitten in when he'd held me.

I said: "I think maybe I've met them. But keep it under your hat. Now I'll call a cab and you go home and get straightened up. Got anything left of the pay-check?"

She colored and said she had, and I knew she was lying from the way she said it. I made her take a twenty dollar bill, over protests, then called a cab and got her started on her way.

AND then I went down to Murphy's which was two corners away. It was almost noon by then and Murphy had his bartender on the job. He was in the back booth, arguing with a beer salesman, and I gave him a nod and had a drink while I waited. The salesman either sold or didn't and left before I had time even to finish my highball, and I took it over to the booth and Murphy.

He said: "Ho, Riley! Lunch time already?"

I said: "I'm working. Really working."

He looked interested. And didn't ask a question. I'd been going to his place steadily, for the five years I'd had my office in the Nye Building, and he'd never asked a personal question during that time. He asked nobody personal questions— he just sat back and let them talk.

And found out more that way.

I said: "Ever see either of those two guys that made the fuss this morning?"

"Not before this morning, Riley. I won't let. 'em through the door if I see 'em again, either."

"Let 'em in and call me. Or call the cops. That'd be better."

He raised an eyebrow.

"They killed a man up in my office. Before I got there this morning."

"Sure it was them?"

"They fit the description my office girl gives. Or rather, when I described them, she checked it. They smacked her down—

I had to send her home."

Murphy said solemnly: "Now that ain't right, hitting a woman. I'd be sore about that myself. You say they killed a man?"

"That's right. A man I'd never seen before."

Murphy said: "See if I figure it the same as you do. They'd killed this man in your office. They start away. They see you turn in here. They follow you in—you remember they came in after you did. They pick a fight with you. I got a notion that if they'd got you down, they'd have put the boots to you. Right?"

I said: "That's right. It's the only way it could be. But how come they knew me? I don't know either of them."

Murphy said: "You've probably been pointed out to them at some time. They're hired thugs, hired killers. That's certain. They'd naturally keep posted on who was what. They probably know every quiet clothes men on the force. And probably every man that carries a private badge. I should know."

And he should. Murphy had done a three to five once, when he was little more than a kid, and I was one of the few that knew it. He'd got sensible then and played it decent, and there was less rough stuff in his bar than in most of the cocktail lounges.

I said: "Well, keep an eye out for 'em, will you, for me, Murph. Killing a man and smacking my girl around, all in my own office, I don't like."

Murphy said he'd keep his eyes open and I went back to the office well satisfied. I knew he'd do more than that. I knew he'd put the word out about the two men, and that coming from Murphy, the word might do some good. He could find out more in one day than all the police stoolies could in a week, because he'd kept his connections and the boys knew he wouldn't be running to the cops.

So I went back to the office and met the first one of the little men.

3: The Second Little Man

HE WAS very neat and dapper. Not over five-four and he wouldn't have weighed over a hundred and ten wringing wet. He walked as though he had lifts in his shoes and he probably did. He must have been kicking close to sixty, because his red little cheeks were wrinkled like a Winter apple. He wore a suit of grey cloth that was not only better material than my new Spring outfit but was better tailored. His white shirt looked as though he'd put it on not five minutes before, and his patterned tie matched his socks and his breast pocket handkerchief. He wore a grey homburg that fitted the rest of the rig to perfection.

If he'd been half again as big, he'd have looked like an advertisement of what the well-dressed man wears, Like something out of Esquire, by the New Yorker.

He said briskly: "Mr. Keenan?"

I said: "That's right."

"I'm Hatcherly. Robert M. Hatcherly. My card, sir."

His card confirmed him. Also, in the lower left hand corner it read Investments. It said nothing about his office address or telephone number. And it was engraved, not printed.

I said: "Glad to know you, Mr. Hatcherly."

He said: 'Before I state my business, Mr. Keenan, I must have some assurances. I understand that a private investigator is much in the same position as any other professional man. As a doctor or lawyer, let us say. Is that supposition correct, sir?"

I didn't know what I might be walking into so I played it safe. I said: "To a certain extent, of course."

"I refer to secrecy."

"That would depend. If a client confesses to a major crime, it would be my duty to so inform the police. If it was a minor matter, that could be arranged to the satisfaction of both parties— by that I mean if the injured person was satisfied— the matter could be handled secretly. It's a fine point and some members of my profession seem to fail to understand."

"Ethics, eh?"

"Exactly."

He breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief. "It's nothing like that, Mr. Keenan. However I wish it to be kept absolutely secret. I'm in this city on an important business matter. I'm not supposed to be here. If my, let us say, opponents knew I was here they would know the deal was ready to flower. They would move Heaven and Earth to block this merger I am arranging, and it is possible that they have power enough to do it. Am I clear?"

I admitted I wasn't much of a business man and that mergers and things like that were definitely out of my line.

He smiled, showing me teeth that were so good they were surely false. He said: "But you can appreciate the necessity of secrecy, surely."

"Oh, sure."

"I can depend on it then."

I DIDN'T like the way he was harping on the secrecy business but a client's a client and I could use one at that time.

I said: 'Certainly. Not a word to anyone."

"That's fine. It's about my brother, Mr. Keenan. My twin brother. I can't find him."

"No?"

"He was to meet me here. We always stop at the Fairmont, you see. He hasn't registered— the hotel knows nothing of him."

"Maybe he hasn't got here yet."

He started to reach to his inside coat pocket, then stopped. "I had a wire from him from here while I was en route. Saying he had just arrived. I naturally supposed he'd be at the Fairmont. Do you wonder why I am concerned ?"

I took a chance at master-minding myself out of the job and said: "Did he tell you for sure he'd be at the Fairmont?"

"Well, no."

"Then he's probably at one of the other large hotels. The town is crowded more than usual because of the United Nations conference, you see. It's possible that the Fairmont was full at the time he asked for a room there. It's possible that suddenly he decided to stop somewhere else. People take notions like that for no reason, I've found."

He shook his head. "I've called all the better hotels, Mr. Keenan. John is not the type to go to a cheap place, I may add. No, I fear something has happened to John."

"Then you should go to the police, Mr. Hatcherly."'

"Would my presence here be held a secret?" he demanded.

I had to tell him: "Probably not. The newsmen watch for such things. Personal interest stuff they call it. The police, at least some of them, would keep it as quiet as they could, if you requested it. Some of them, I'm afraid though, have a tie-up with certain newspaper men, and hand out bits of information they shouldn't. The minority, you understand, of course.'

He said: ''The rotten apples that spoil the barrel. Yes, I know. Will you try to locate my brother for me, Mr. Keenan?"

"Why, certainly."

"And your fee? I always think it best to have details settled in advance. It saves arguments later."

He looked, talked, and acted like money, so I asked double what I'd have to pay the leg man I intended hiring for the job.

I said: "Twenty a day and expenses. They shouldn't be much— some cab fare and a lot of telephoning will probably be all it will be."

He looked doubtful and asked: "Is that the usual charge, Mr. Keenan?"

"It is in this office, Mr. Hatcherly," I assured him,

HE hauled out an ostrich leather bill fold from a pocket inside his vest, having to unbutton it to get at the thing. His vest had white piping on it, I noticed. He counted out a hundred dollars and passed it over as though he hated to part with it, and I decided Mr. Robert M. Hatcherly might be in the chips but he wasn't letting them fly where they may.

He said: "On account, of course, Mr. Keenan."

I started writing him a receipt, and while I was doing it, I asked: "May I ask why you came to me with this? Instead of to one of the other agencies? It's just plain curiosity— it really doesn't matter."

He showed me a folded newspaper and said, in a surprised voice: 'Why, this, Mr. Keenan. Surely you've seen it."

I hadn't. My office murder had apparently been just in time to make the deadline on the afternoon sheets, and they'd given it a nice splash, DEAD MAN FOUND IN DETECTIVE''S OFFICE was the heading, and in the story itself they gave the thing quite a bust. And either the reporter or the rewrite man must have been somebody I knew—I know a lot of the boys, anyway—because he boosted me all over the sheet. I was "the well-known detective". I was "famous in crime-breaking circles", and the paper, while not quite coming out and saying it, implied I'd solve the murder before the police had time to get started on the matter.

The article, of course, would do me more harm than good with the cops, but it was swell advertising.

For example, it had already brought me a customer.

I said: "They give me quite a build-up, all right. If I could believe all I read, I'd be quite a guy in this racket."

He said: "Reading it is what gave me the idea of going to a private investigator. Frankly, I hadn't thought of it. I felt I had to do something about John, and had decided to go to the police. Knowing that in all likelihood it would spoil this matter I have been working on for months. But you were the logical answer, Mr. Keenan. I hurried right down."

"About John, now. Can you describe him?"

"Certainly. We are twins. I'm told people have difficulty in telling us apart."

"Any idea of how he'd be dressed?"

"John dresses, well, more sedately than I do. That is about all I can tell you. I haven't seen John for well over a year, you see, and I have no way of knowing what additions he has made to his wardrobe."

"John Hatcherly. Is that right?"

"John W. Hatcherly, Mr. Keenan, John William Hatcherly. I am Robert Morris Hatcherly. After the great American patriot, you know."

I remembered the name, faintly, from history lessons in the first year of high school, but I said that I remembered very well.

And then we shook hands and he went out.

Leaving me with a hundred dollar retainer and a definite suspicion that I was being played for a Patsy in some way.

SAN FRANCISCO is a big town, and hotel and apartment house town. I honestly think a higher percentage of people live in hotels, apartments, and furnished flats than in any other city in this country, with the possible exception of New York City.

I had no city directory to help me, because John William Hatcherly had only been in town three or four days, but I thought his recent arrival might lead to a break.

Coming in such a short time ago it wag just barely possible that some of the Fairmont people might recall his asking for a room. That is, of course, if he'd asked. So I thought I'd check that myself, before turning the routine over to one of the ten dollar a day boys who are always on tap.

I drew an absolute blank. Robert M. was registered, though not in. John W. had not been heard from. I took particular pains to hunt down each clerk who'd worked the desk during the last few days and none of them remembered him asking for a room.

For that matter, none of them remembered anybody named Hatcherly, except Robert M., my client. And they all had a little smile for me when they remembered him.

I took it Robert M.'s rather youthful way of dressing, along with his tinyness, had created an impression.

So I took a cab back to the office and called George Dixon—and he was over in twenty minutes. George works constantly making ten a day and what he can chisel out of the swindle sheet, and he never has a dime.

His bookie, though, is doing right well.

I said: "It's the missing person thing, George. And it's quiet. Nothing that anybody can put a finger on. Can do?"

He said: ''Can do."

"The name's John William Hatcherly. His brother wants him. He's worried about him. Here's what he looks like."

I then described Robert M. as best I could.

George said: "Sure he'll be under his own name?"

"As far as know, he will. Certainly his brother gave me no reason for thinking otherwise."

"And he was supposed to be at the Fairmont?"

"That's right. I've checked that, though, as I told you."

"The brother thinks he'd go to another good hotel?"

"That's right again. Only he tells me he's called all of them and still no brother John."

George stood up briskly and said: "If I work it right, I should get at least a month's work out of this. Give me some dough for expenses. What the hell is all this that happened in your office here this morning ?"

"A guy murdered, that's all. And Ella got pushed around."

George knew Ella. He said: ''That's a hell of a note. That kid's punchy right now. She can't stand much more pushing around, or somebody'll have to lead her on a string."

My poor little Ella.

4: The Bruisers

WHEN I stopped in at Murphy's the next morning for the morning's morning, he was, as usual, mopping away at the bar with a damp towel, and scowling at the world. I didn't blame him much. The usual morning trade in a bar is strictly hangover, and just looking at dying men like these would curdle anybody's disposition.

I said: "Hiya, Murph."

He brightened a little and said: "Ho, Riley. The usual."

I said the usual and he put out a glass of plain water, a shot glass, and the rye bottle. I can't drink the stuff straight. I've always been a sucker for laryngitis, and raw whiskey sets me talking in a whisper. We talked about the weather, the United Nations conference, about which we both admitted we knew nothing, about the movie Murphy saw the night before and the burlesque shows he'd seen in the past— the vote went two to nothing in favor of burlesque— and such chatter as that. I bought a bottle for the office— the office crock was running low I'd noticed the day before, and Murphy reminded me again that he wasn't supposed to sell packaged goods and that he'd lose his license if he were caught. And I reminded him again that I could always go down to the package store on the corner if he didn't want to make a buck on the sale.

We got along like that.

He had his back to me, making change for the ten spot I'd given him, and he spoke without turning around.

He said: "Yes, sir, Riley, the old Clayton rooming house, down on Howard, isn't a bad place to stay at all. At least not these days. Of course it's sort of a tough neighborhood and a man hadn't ought to go there without friends, but still and all it's a pretty good spot."

He turned then with my change and I took it and said: "Thanks, Murph! Do as much for you sometime."

He said politely: "Don't mention it, don't mention it, Riley. Always glad to help a friend."

And that was that. I'd asked him to do some locating and he'd come through. And in a lot faster time than I'd hoped for.

I WENT up to the office and here was Ella, who I hadn't expected to see for the next week. She was wearing smoked glasses and heavy make-up over her bruised cheek, but her mouth was still so puffed it looked as if she were pouting. But her blonde hair was fixed up with little ringlets— something new— and she looked as bright and chipper as a sparrow.

I said: "Hey! You're supposed to stay home."

She said primly: "And let my work get behind?" And then eagerly: "Oh, Mr. Keenan! Have the police caught those awful men yet?"

I told her I hadn't seen hide or hair of Lieutenant Charles P. Lawton and that he'd probably quit working homicide and had joined the United Nations conference, representing the San Francisco police department.

Ella carefully explained that this would be impossible— that it had to be a nation before you could represent it. It seemed Ella had made quite a study of the thing.

After hearing this and how she'd spent all the day before holding ice packs on her mouth to take the swelling down, I went into my own office and closed the door. The usual mail was on my desk— two circulars, one touting loaded. dice, marked cards of various kinds, hold-outs, with the best going cheap for only fifty dollars, and all this in addition to regular gambling house paraphernalia. It seemed I'd been recommended by a friend, who knew I'd be interested. The other was advertising police equipment, standard stuff that's regulation in almost all big towns.

The two made a nice contrast.

There was the notice about the rent being due and payable and I dumped that in the basket along with the circulars. I didn't have to worry about the rent until I got the one about it being overdue. There were four other bills, one small one which I thought I'd pay that day.

I filed the others in the waste basket, too.

And that cleared the decks for action.

I RARELY carry a gun except when I go to the police range where I've got a courtesy card. The gun's heavy and dragging on your shoulder, and you need one in routine work about as much as you  need another leg.

I've got two— a .357 Magnum with a five inch barrel, which is sheer murder at any distance a man can be hit with it. And it's also a brute to shoot. It bounces me back so hard it makes my teeth ache, and the muzzle blast in that short a barrel causes me to flinch after a dozen or so practice shots.

However, if a man was shooting it in a bit of an argument, little things like that would go unnoticed.

The other gun is a Colt Woodsman Target Model, a .22, of course. And it's the pet. It hasn't much shocking power, naturally, but neither has it any recoil to throw you off your aim. You can hit a running man with it and call your shot, right leg or left leg, shoulder or thigh, and with high speed hollow point shells, it's a deadly little gun if you want it to be. There are far too many kids killed accidentally with it, each year. Mostly because they're not taught how to use and properly handle a gun.

I picked this and the sling holster for it and was out of my coat and putting on the harness when Ella came in. She took one look at the shoulder rig, another at the big gun and the little gun on the desk, and then she started squealing like a pig.

"You're not going to do it, Riley— Mr. Keenan, I mean. You're not going to do it."

I said: ''Do what, kid? Clear that up for me."

"Whatever you're going to do. You're not going to do it."

I said: "Now, now! Any reason I can't go out to the range and punch holes in paper targets? That is, if I can hit the targets."

"You're not going to any range. You can't tell me that. If you were, you'd take your shooting kit. I know, all right. You're going to find those two men."

"I'm letting Lawton find 'em, kid. If I found 'em, I wouldn't know what to do with 'em."

She said firmly: "I'm not going to let you go.  'I'll... I'll..."

"Come on, don't weaken, kid."

"I'll call Mr. Lawton myself. He'll stop you. It's his work to catch those men. You're not a policeman—you're only sort of a policeman."

I said: "The license board would love that. Now you never mind, kid. Papa Keenan won't get hurt. He never does."

SHE said bitterly: "There's the time you tried to step on the running board of that hit-and-run driver and he pushed you off and you were three months in the French Hospital. There was the time that man broke in the window of Shreve's, and when you tried to stop him, he shot you in the leg. Two months in bed that time, too. No! You don't get hurt. Not Papa Keenan! I'm going to call Mr. Lawton, right now. He'll stop you— I know he will."

I put my coat back on and tucked the little gun in its clip. Then shoved the big baby into the waistband of my trousers, under my shirt. It made too much of a bulge but with the lower button of my nice new grey coat fastened, it wasn't noticeable.

Ella started to cry.

I said: ''Be back in about an hour, kid. Look after things."

She said: '"Boo-hoo, boo-hoo. I don't know what to do, Riley. You've got to take Mr. Lawton with you."

I said: "Lieutenant Lawton is far too busy a man to go out to the range and punch holes in paper targets. He's trying to catch those two men. Don't you remember those two men? Now run back to work like a good little girl."

"You... you know I haven't any work to do."

I said: "I've got something for you to do— I was going to ask you to get at it right after lunch. But you can start now just as well."

I took her telephone directory and turned it to Classified— Hotels. I said: "Start right at the A's and work straight through. Call every hotel in order. Just ask if John W. Hatcherly is registered there. He might sign under J. W. Hatcherly, so make sure the clerk gets it straight. Got that name straight now, Ella? This is important."

She quavered: ''Maybe I'd better write it down. I... I forget names sometimes."

She'd have forgotten her head if it wasn't fastened to her, but I didn't mention that. She acted as though she felt bad enough already.

THE sign, wooden, and with a fifteen watt bulb set in a gooseneck to show it up at night, read THE CLAYTON. This was over what looked like a hole in the wall, between a cleaning and pressing place on one side and a battery repair shop on the other. The hole turned into a tunnel running back maybe eight feet, and pie two steep stairs climbed to the second floor.

That was the Clayton, and a dirty, dingier dump I've never seen. And it looked even worse at that hour in the morning. Eleven o'clock sunshine made it seem even drearier.

I pulled my shirt out from my pants a little, so that I could tear it away with my left hand in case I had to get the big gun out with my right. I tried the little gun and it snapped out of the clip like it had a life of its own.

And then I said to myself, "Well, here goes nothing," and started up the stairs.

There was a table right at the head of them, and on it one of the kind of bells you ring by hitting a gadget on its top. Above this was a sign reading FOR MANAGER—RING BELL. Mrs. Keenan had always taught her little boy, Riley, to do as he was told, so I rang the bell. Nothing happened. I rang the bell again. This time a door well down the hall opened, and a big fat wench came waddling up toward me. She couldn't have been over twenty-five but she must have weighed all of two-twenty. And she wasn't more than five-six and carrying that weight. Really a Mrs. Five-by-Five.

I said: "You the manager?"

She simpered and said: "Who else, dearie?"

If she hadn't been so fat, she'd have been kind of cute. She had a round doll face and big blue eyes, only when she smiled, they crinkled at the corners and almost closed from the fat squeezing up from her cheeks.

I thought I'd try diplomacy first. I put a ten dollar bill down on the table and wad: "I'm looking for a couple of friends of mine. One's a big guy, an ex-fighter. Got a busted beak and a bad ear. The other is long and lean— I don't know his name. We used to call him Slim."

She looked at me reproachfully and said: "And do I look like a stoolie, dearie. I can smell copper on you and you stink to me."

I picked up the ten-spot, thinking there was no reason to waste it or my time any longer.

I said: "Okay! If that's how you want it. I try to play it nice and you get cute. Where are they, sister?"

She told me to go climb a tree. And I hit her with my open hand as hard as I could swing. She teetered like a pin the ball's just touched, but when she went down, it was with a crash. I picked her up by the front of the smock thing she was wearing—it took both hands and all the heft I had to do it—and rushed her into the wall and pinned her there.

I said: "I'm not fooling, sister. Where are they?"

HER face was working like it was a bowl of gelatine with somebody shaking it. Two big tears came out of her closed eyes, with one of them rolling over the nice red mark the palm of my hand had made on her cheek.

She said: "You... you hit me."

I said: "Sister, I'll put you down on the floor and I'll kick your teeth in unless you loosen up. What the hell is this? Sunday School? Where are they, I say?"

I put my left hand on her throat and stepped back as far as I could and still hold her. And then made a fist with the other hand, so that she could see it.

I said: "Okay, sister. Do I or don't I?"

She almost whispered: "One-twenty-one. Would you have hit me if I hadn't told you, dearie?"

I took my hand away from her neck and didn't answer. She said, in the same husky whisper: "You would have. I bet you would have."

I said: "Come on, show me one-twenty- one."

It was almost at the end of the hall, a room facing out on Howard. And I stopped just short of it.

I said: "Look, hon! Knock on the door. When they ask who it is, tell 'em you're the manager. They'll open up for you. But don't wait for them to open up. When you tell 'em who you are, you tip-toe to hell and gone away from here."

She said: "For you, sweets. They're both bad. Don't you take chances, sweets."

She knocked, and sure enough a voice I recognized said: "What th' hell is it?"

She said: "The manager, Mister Sayers. Can I speak to you?"

We heard a bed creak and then somebody coming toward the door, and the big girl picked up her smock thing showing me legs damned near as big as barrels. But she tip-toed away down the hall and didn't make a sound doing it.

I took the little gun from under my arm and went to the side of the door, the side where it would open. And went flat against the wall. The door opened and I heard somebody grunt, and then a head stuck out in the hall. I came down as hard on it with the butt of the little gun as

I could, and the man took a couple of pitching steps out in the hall as he started to fall.

And by that time I was in the doorway.

The light was in my eyes from that Howard Street window and it took me a second to see what was what. And then I saw the tall thin man, lying on the bed, and dragging a gun from under the pillow by trim.

A .22 Long Rifle cartridge doesn't make much noise when it lets go. Even in a pistol, and they're noisier than a rifle. It makes a sharp, vicious crack, but it's not loud, even in a room like that. The little gun made the noise and the man on the bed looked startled. That was all. He kept bringing out that under-the-pillow gun. I thought I'd been too far to the left and that I'd probably just burned his ribs, so I corrected with the next one.

He just put his head hack on the pillow, letting his hand fall away from the gun.

And then one ankle went out from under me and I went down to the hall floor, dropping the gun.

5: Dead Evidence

I FOUND out in the first place that I'd made a mistake. The broken-nosed man wasn't an ex-fighter—he was an ex-wrestler. He had me by the ankle and he went to work on it in a big way, and when I tried to squirm over to where the little gun had fallen, he yanked me away from it like Tarzan works on a monkey-man.

I figured to hell with it. I'd been trying to be quiet. I'd used the little gun, knowing it wasn't the proper caper for close-in work like I probably would have, and all this Just to make it a private quarrel.

And also I didn't want to have to kill either one of them. I wanted them alive so that I could find out why they'd killed the man in my office. But the guy inside had gone for a gun in the face of mine, and I was forced into killing him. It was shoot or be shot in that case, and I'd rather do the shooting when it comes like that.

It was the same right now. If I'd got my hands on the .22, I'd have taken a chance on crippling him. The way he was throwing himself, and me and my ankle with him, around, I couldn't pick my shot. I got the big gun out and tried to reason with him.

I shouted: ''Let go. Let go or I'll turn loose."

He looked up at me then and I'll always think he was crazy. I knew then who'd beaten the poor guy in my office so unmercifully. He was one of the kind that go out of their head when they're hurting somebody.

Right then he got my foot in both hands and bent it, and I almost passed out with he pain. I leveled the big gun at one of his thighs, that was motionless for a second, and touched it off— and the Keenan bad luck stepped in. As usual.

Just as the gun slammed out that cannon noise it makes he jerked back, I suppose with the idea of tearing my foot off. That  big slug took him through the right hip, plowed through his groin— and by that time it had hit bone and was spread out to about 60 calibre, and it kept on going until it broke his other hip.

He let go of me, I'll say that. I was almost deafened by the muzzle blast of that big gun, but I could hear him scream.

Just once, though. It sounded like a horse that had been hurt.

He was paralyzed from the hips down and what that slug, hitting at fifteen-ten velocity, did to his lower region must have been a pretty. He was on his belly, with the upper part of his body arched up from the floor, and he was beating at it, first with one hand and then with the other. His eyes were open but there were no expression in them. For that matter I doubt if he felt any pain —the shock from that much lead, hitting from that distance and at that speed, probably killed all sensation. It was enough to put him out, anyway, because his pounding stopped and he slid down until his face was on the floor.

And then I tried to stand up and found the leg he'd been working on wouldn't hold me.

I was half screwy by then, and not alone because of what he'd done to my leg. The pain from that was making me sick to my stomach, but rolling around on the floor with a man I'd just shot was making me a hell of a lot sicker.

Then somebody said: "I'll help you, sweets. Nell will help you."

She put a hand under my shoulder and heaved, but when I tried to help her by lifting up, I twisted my leg in some fashion and this time I knew I was gone. I could see things start to fade and that's the last I remember about the business in the hall.

I WOKE up on the fanciest bed I've ever seen. It was way up from the floor and very soft— there were three mattresses on it, though I didn't know it then. The spread was satin and thick, and I was surrounded by French dolls, at least a dozen of them. They were flopping on the pillow by me, they were at the side, against the wall, and they were down by my feet.

it was then that I noticed my new grey suit. Rolling around on that hall floor hadn't done it a bit of good, and the broken-nosed man had really done it damage. The leg he'd been so enthusiastic with was bare from my knee down, and what was left of that part of the pants looked like rags. I was blood all over— I took it that I'd either fallen or rolled where the ex-wrestler had bled, and blood on a grey suit isn't pretty.

And yet the big fat girl had put me, blood, dirt, and all, on top of her fancy spread. I thought she was quite a gal at that, and then she came through the door, carrying a pint bottle of whiskey.

She said: "I had to run down to the store for it, sweets. I didn't have a drop in the place. You feel any better, angel?"

I felt better but not much, but I said I was starting to feel fine.

She said: "You are a cop, aren't you?"

I said: "A sort of one."

She gave a relieved sigh and started pouring whiskey into a wine glass. She said: "Then it's okay. I thought it'd be all right, but I'd have had to do it anyway. With that damned cannon of yours blasting in the hall, everybody on Howard Street knows there was a shooting here. So when I passed the cop on the way to the liquor store— and he was sniffing around like a bird dog, trying to locate where the shooting was, I told him. He'd have found out anyhow. He's down right now, looking over the bodies. I told him I had you here and that you'd be here when the rest of the boys come along, but he don't trust me, the ——. He's looking at the stiffs with one eye, and up at this door of mine with the other, and he's got the old artillery out and handy, right in his hand. I had to tell him it was here, sweets. He'd have found out anyway, and I've got no backstairs to this scatter. You could never make it out with that gimpy leg."

By that time I had a wineglass full of whiskey inside of me and I actually was feeling better. The sick feeling had gone away, at least.

I faintly remembered hearing her call herself Nell, so I said: "What about my guns, Nell? Cop get 'em?"

She looked worried. "I've got 'em, angel. Now you're not going to try and shoot it out with the cops, are you? You wouldn't have a chance."

I said: "It isn't that— I'm clear. I've got a private license and I'm supposed to be helping a cop that's in charge of a murder that happened in my office. It's just that I don't want the cops holding my hardware while they make up their minds what to do with it. Did that guy ever come to?"

"No, no, no. He never will come to. I looked at him, while you was passed out. He's shot all to hell. He might have had a chance if you'd hit him way upstairs but not where you did. He'll never say a word."

"What about the other one?"

"Right through the heart. You got him at the side of it the other time. He won't talk, either."

I DIDN'T get it for a moment but she went into details. She said: "Here it is, sweets, and I'll swear to it for you. You knock on the door. These guys are wanted and they're nervous. One of them answers the door and takes a pass at you and you grab him and throw him out in the hall. We don't have to say you clunked him on the head, sweets. Then you look in the room and you see this guy coming out with the percentage from under the pillow. There's only one thing to do and so you do it. You go for your own and you beat him to it. We can say the front sight of his gun snagged in the pillow ease. Then the first guy grabs you and upsets you and the battle is on. Say! Is that big gun registered to you? Can it be traced back to you?"

"It can, Nell."

She looked regretful. "I was hoping it was hot. Then we could say he pulled it on you and that you took it away from him and that he got shot during the fuss about it. Oh well. The truth will do, I guess. So he was killing you and you let him have it. After warning him. I heard you do that with my own ears, angel. What you should have done is blown his head off without saying a word to him."

"I guess so,' I said, holding out the glass for more whiskey. '"There's just one thing more you can do for me, if you will. That's telephone the central station and leave word for Homicide-Lieutenant Charles P. Lawton to get down here in a hurry. I may have to have him to keep from being worked over a bit."

She bristled and said: ''They lay a hand on you and I'll have my own lawyer on 'em. They're not going to get rough with you, angel—don't you fret."

I said I wasn't worrying too much.

And then she laughed— a nice full-throated chuckle. She said: "It ain't you that should worry about getting rough. It'd be them. You are the most violent man I ever met— and how I love it."

And with that she waddled away to put in the call to Lawton—but she left the whiskey in easy reach for me.

LAWTON didn't get down to Howard Street and the Clayton for more than an hour, and by that time I'd had a damned sight more attention than I'd wanted. Two lieutenants, one of them homicide, the medical-examiner, who looked at my leg and told me I had both a bad sprain and bruised tendons, and that I'd be lucky if I walked on it inside of two weeks, and at least a dozen assorted policemen, both in uniform and quiet clothes, who looked in to see the killer at ease.

I was at ease, outside of them. I told the homicide man I was not only working with Lawton but waiting for Lawton, and I judged he called the station and verified the call my new big fat girl had put in for me. Anyway, he left me alone, just asked me how it happened. I told him the two were the ones that had killed the stranger in my office, and he looked sad about it.

He said: "One's dead and the other's dying. The M. E. says he hasn't got a chance to come out of the coma he's in. We never will know now what was back of that killing. I wish you hadn't shot as straight, Keenan."

I said: "Now what the hell! What was I to do? One of them's getting ready to shoot at me. I'm no clay pigeon. The other was pulling me in pieces and even then I tried to just break his ham. Is it my fault that just at that time he jumps back, trying to pull my foot off?"

Nell said: "You should let him alone until he's in shape to talk, lieutenant. I saw the thing, remember. That guy was tearing Riley apart."

The lieutenant grinned at me, then shrugged and left the room. With me and the whiskey and Nell all alone.

She said: "They're not going to badger my sweets. Nell won't let 'em. Nell'll tell em off."

I really had a lot of mama, I could see that. The cuff I'd given her had made her mine— and I was afraid for keeps.

I said: "It's okay! Lawton will straighten it out. I never tried to kill that last guy. I wanted him alive so that he'd sing.

She said: "I know, sweets. I hear somebody else talking, now. Maybe that's this Lawton man."

It was.

6: Poor Little Ella

LAWTON straightened everything up in short order, mainly because I had a deputy-sheriff's commission that had lasted over from the time of a general strike, a year ago. That made my going up after the two thugs an attempt at a legal arrest, something a private cop hasn't got.

Of course, he's got the same right as any citizen. He can arrest anyone that he secs in the act of committing a crime, but he can't just tap somebody on the shoulder and take him in on suspicion.

It's quite a distinction.

And then I made the M. E. out a liar. He'd told me I wouldn't walk for two weeks and I got up and hobbled out of there.

And my big girl didn't like it a bit.

She said: "Now, sweets! You stay right here with Nell. Nell will look after you. Nell'll see you're okay. You'll hurt yourself, walking around on that gimpy leg, angel, and you'll be only half a man."

I said that I had work to do, that I had a family to feed. And I thought she'd fall over her lower lip it drooped so.

She said: "Somehow, sweets, I thought you was a single man. You just ain't got that married look."

I said: "No wife. No kids. I've got a girl in the office, two landlords, a bartender and a bookie, and a guy out doing leg work for me. They're worse than a wife and kids because it takes more dough to feed them."

"A girl in the office?" she said suspiciously.

"Sure. To answer the telephone. These two guys beat her up, at the same time they killed the man."

"Pretty?"

I said I'd never stopped to think about that, but that I guessed she was fair-looking.

"Blonde? Like I am?"

Nell was more than blonde— her hair was almost straw-colored. Too much and too extreme bleaching does that, I understand.

I said: "No, sort of brown hair. I never paid much attention."

She said: "I bet. When you coming back to see me?"

"Ag soon as I get time, kid. I'll be busy on the rest of this business, though, and I don't know how long it will take to clear it up."

"It's all cleared up now. You've got the guys that killed the man in your office, haven't you?"

"Yes, damn it."

"Well then?"

I explained: "They didn't just follow the man in my office and kill him for no reason at all. There was something behind that, kitten. That I've got to find out. Killing the man in my office made it a personal thing. And the cops can't help but think I know more about it than I do. That's why the inspector suggested I work with Lawton. It gives Lawton a chance to keep an eye on me without tipping his hand by putting a tail on me or anything like that. You can understand."

She said: "I guess so, sweets, but you promise to come back to Nell as soon as you can. Now promise."

I promised. And if I kept my fingers crossed, she didn't see them.

I guess had a police car below, a sedan with no insignia on it. He pulled out into traffic, made a right turn at the next corner to hit Market, and then started to blister me in a nice way.

"You certainly made a clean sweep, Riley," he said.

"I couldn't do anything else."

"You shouldn't have gone alone."

"I was just working a hunch."

He jeered at that one. "Like hell you were. You mean to tell me it was a hunch that took you to that one rooming house out of all there are in this town. Hunch my eye."

"Well, maybe somebody gave me a hint," I said.

He was on that fast. "Who? If this somebody knew where they were, he might know who they are."

"You can find that out. They'll both have records and you know it."

"Maybe he'd know who they've been with. I want to know why they killed that man in your office. Who tipped you, Riley?"

"I can't tell you that. You should know that, Charley."

He admitted he knew I couldn't stoolie on my own stoolie.

And then he took a new slant. He said: 'What you working on these days, Riley?"

"Nothing. No work at all."

"You wouldn't be stalling, now would you?"

I said: "If I was working on anything, I could tell you about, you'd hear it. If I was working on something hush-hush, I'd have to keep it that way. I'd have to protect my client. If you can make sense out of that answer, why okay."

He could make sense out of it and I knew it. I'd the same as told him I was working on something I'd promised secrecy on.

He pulled up outside of the Nye Building then and asked: "Want me to give you a hand up to your office?"

I said: "The more I walk on this leg the better it will be. I'll send the girl out to buy a cane for me, if they still sell the things."

He said: "Tell her to go to that United Nations conference. The boys wear striped pants and canes and the works, part of the time. Maybe she could borrow one for you."

I said she could go out to the park and cut me one from a tree if she had to, and he agreed that she'd try it, anyway, if she was asked to do it.

He also said: "And if I know Ella, the tree she'd pick would be a poison oak. The gal's not bright."

I said: "But willing! Poor little Ella."

SHE'D been crying, but she had the phone in her hands and the directory in front of her. Even as I came in the door I could hear her ask some room clerk if a J. W. Hatcherly was registered with him. She looked up and saw me and automatically checked off the hotel she'd called before speaking.

She said: "Oh, Riley! Mr. Keenan, I mean. It came over the radio, not ten minutes ago."

She nodded toward the inside office, where I've got a set to pick up the news broadcasts.

"It said that a well-known private detective shot and killed the two men suspected of the earlier killing of a man in the detective's own office. It said that the detective was injured in the mel... mel..."

"Melee?"

"That's the word it said. It said the detective was released on his own recognizance, awaiting action of the Grand Jury. Is that right?"

"Sure, kid. There's so much red tape to go through when you kill a man."

"Did you really kill them, Riley?"

"One of them. The other was still alive. They took him to the receiving hospital, but he probably was D. O. A."

"D. O. A.?"

"Dead on arrival. He'd never stand the trip."

Ella shuddered and said: "I think it's horrible."

"I thought it was horrible to walk in here and find a man, first beaten half to death and then killed."

"Of course, Riley, Mr. Keenan, I mean."

"And I thought it was horrible to find you with a shiner and a busted face."

"Don't pay any attention to it, Mr. Keenan. It really didn't hurt very much. And it was sort of exciting."

I said: "You'd better make up your mind, kid. Either make it 'Riley' or make it 'Mr. Keenan'. You get me confused— I keep thinking there's a strange man in the room.

She gave me her best kittenish look and said she'd always liked Riley as a name for a man. And that somehow it fitted me. I went into my own office thinking I should be grateful that my folks hadn't named me Algernon. I didn't think I could live up to Algernon very well.

I HAD the office bottle about half way down and was getting so that I could almost forget the ache in my leg when Ella came in, all excited.

The successful lady detective in person, no less.

She said: "I've found him. I've found him, Mr. Keenan... Riley, I mean."

I said: "The same routine, only backwards. Now clear it up."

"It's Mr. Hatcherly. Mr. J. W. Hatcherly. He's at the Washington—it's on Bush Street, right by where you go to Chinatown."

I said I knew the place. It's an old hotel, medium-priced now but a good hotel in its day.

I said: "How'd you get down to the W.'s so soon?"

"I got tired going A— B— C. So I thought I'd start up the other way for a change. That way I'd meet myself in the middle, you see."

She had logic on her side, all right, and it had worked out.

I said: ''Well, that's fine, kid. Now see if you can get me Robert M. Hatcherly, at the Fairmont. Then put me on."

Hatcherly answered so promptly he might have been waiting for my call. I said: "I've located your brother for you, Mr. Hatcherly. He's at the Washington. I don't know whether he's in or not— I just found out he's registered there."

"Now that's fine, Mr. Keenan."

"About your retainer. There's been some expense, of course. Telephone calls, cab bills, salary for an extra man—I'm charging you ten dollars a day for him is all— and it will take a little time to determine the amount. If you'll stop in tomorrow, say about this time or later, you'll have a refund."

He said: "That's perfectly all right, Mr. Keenan. You have done a fine job and I believe a workman is worthy of his hire. Let's not speak of a refund. I thank you, sir."

I said: "I thank you!" and we hung up. I knew it was phony by then. I'd figured I was in the middle of something when he'd been in the office asking me to find his brother, but now I was sure of it.

Anytime people don't take a refund that's just the same as laid in their laps, there's something wrong. They usually not only take it but shout for more.

He had the refund coming to him and no mistake. I'd done nothing. And George Dixon hadn't done anything. I was just thinking of Dixon, and taking next to the last drink in the bottle, when he called in.

I said: "Nothing to report, eh, George?"

He said: "You took the words right out of my mouth. I see by the papers you've been having fun, down on Howard Street."

I said I'd just been having a swell time, and that he might as well call it a day. That I'd found the man we wanted —that he was at the Washington. And that if he hurried up, I'd take him down to Murphy's and buy him a drink.

He said he'd come running.

And then I went out in the front office and asked Ella to dinner that night. I thought the poor kid had earned it.

She'd found the second little man, which was certainly worth a dinner to me.

7: Lawton And The Little Man

LAWTON came in while George Dixon and I were waiting for Ella to come back from the corner with another bottle. I'd more than punished the one I had— I'd killed it. But it had taken almost all the ache from my leg, or maybe it was just that I was in no condition to feel pain.

I said: "Come on in, Charley. Ella will be back in a just a minute with the wherewithal."

He said: "I can't stay long," but I noticed he took off his hat and settled himself comfortably in his chair.

He said: 'Now if Ella don't get side-tracked, start buying a new hat or something with the whiskey money, she'll probably run her little errand successfully. Did you send her for whiskey?"

"Why, yes."

He said: "Chances are she'll come back with rum. There's more rum than whiskey in town, and Ella's the ideal gal to unload it on. Five'll get you two that it's rum she brings."

Knowing Ella, I kept my mouth shut. George Dixon also knew her but not as well— and he'd heard me tell her to get whiskey.

He said: "I'll take it, Lawton."

Then Ella came in with a paper bag and a bottle in it. And beaming. She said: "Oh Riley, I mean Mr. Keenan. It was the nicest man in the liquor store. He was having a special on rum, he said, so I got that instead. It was almost a dollar cheaper, too."

George sighed and handed Charley Lawton five of the ten dollars I'd just given him.

I said: ''Okay, kid. Now run back and get the bottle of whiskey."

She looked hurt. "Should I take the rum back, Mr. Keenan?'

"We'll keep it for emergencies. Think nothing of it, kid. You were saving money, and that's a good deed in a naughty world."

I gave her whiskey money and Lawton said: "You get a cane yet?"

"Forgot it."

"Cane?" asked Dixon.

I hadn't told him anything about the Howard Street fracas so I went through it in a hurry. And just finished with it when Ella came back with the hootch.

I SAID: ''And now, kid, one more thing and then you skip on home. D'ya suppose you can find me a cane? Something to lean on, mind you, nothing to twirl. Can you do that?"

She asked where she'd look for one and none of us knew. I finally suggested either the Emporium or the White House, knowing they'd have it if anybody would, and away she went. With me telling her again that I wanted it for use, not for show.

Lawton held his drink up to the light and said: "It'll be funny to see old man Riley Keenan doing the hobbling grand-father act with a cane."

Dixon said: "This I should see."

I said: "Old man Riley Keenan is lucky to have a leg to hobble with. I thought that—— was going to tear it off and beat me over the head with it."

Lawton said: "That's what I came up to tell you, Riley. The big one died on the way to the hospital. Never said a word. His name was Joe Meggs and he's done it in both Quentin and Folsom. The other was Harry Parrish. Another two time loser. Both of them worked guard when they were running whiskey between here and the South and both of them were in a bunch of hi-jacking. Meggs beat a second-degree rap back in '27, and Parrish beat three armed-robbery charges between '29 and '34."

I said, with hope: "Reward?"

"No reward."

I mentioned the Keenan luck, which was ever bad.

"And I talked long distance with the chief, back in Hamilton, Indiana. He said that Winthrop, the man who was killed here in your office, was an absolute stranger out here, as far as he knew. And that he'd known Winthrop all his life. That he knew of no enemies, although Winthrop was a fanatic on world peace. He could think of no reason why the man should have been killed. Said he didn't drink, but was ne Prohi. Unmarried, though he had been. Wife died five years ago. Didn't chase women. In other words, no rounder."

Dixon said: "If a man don't drink and don't chase women, what the hell can he find to occupy his time?"

"He sits home and reads a good book," I told him. And asked Lawton: "He have any money, Charley?"

"He did not. A small annuity which he got from his wife's insurance and by cashing in his own. The chief back there thought it would run around a hundred a month, He kept books in three or four small businesses back there— a day a week in each one. That sort of thing. He cashed in his own insurance because he had no relatives. When his wife died, it was useless to him."

"You got details on him, anyway."

Lawton said: "The call cost the City of San Francisco twenty-seven dollars and eighty cents. I've got to know as much about the man as I can find out, don't I?"

Dixon said: "Isn't it closed? Riley's got the two that did it. From what Ella says there's no doubt it was them. And they were hotter than a pistol or they wouldn't have tried to battle it out."

LAWTON said absently: "I guess they're the ones, all right. We'll have 'em cleaned up by tomorrow and she can look at them and make the identification. It isn't that. It's who's behind it. They were just paid killers and I want the man that hired them."

I said: "Don't look at me that way. I'm damned if I'll let a man shoot me to pieces just so you can ask him questions. Or let another one break my leg. That last one was an accident— I've said that right along."

"So you have, so you have," Lawton agreed.

I didn't like the way he said it but there was nothing about it I could put a finger on. And if I could have, I'd have kept my finger at home. A man had been killed in my office, and the police had only my word for it about not knowing him. I'd killed the two men who'd done it, and one of the killings might have been avoided, as far as the police knew. They had only my word for it about the man jumping back just as I pulled the trigger. I couldn't prove I'd aimed at his thigh.

Of course I had my big fat girl to testify for me, but in action like that it's the result that counts, not what a bystander sees or thinks he or she sees. Witnesses, during excitement like that, aren't reliable, even though they're telling the truth as they saw it.

It was easy enough to see why the police were keeping a suspicious eye on me, and I thought the best thing I could do was sing small and let it blow over if it would.

I poured another drink and Lawton took his down and was just getting ready to leave when Ella came back.

And came back just beaming. She had a long, paper-wrapped parcel under her arm, and she started talking as soon as she was through the door.

"I got one that's just beautiful, Riley, Mr. Keenan, I mean. Just simply beautiful. And only eleven dollars and fifty cents."

I'd given her a twenty dollar bill to shop with and I could see right then I'd made a mistake. I'd wanted and expected something simple, and while I didn't know the price of canes I'd expected the thing to be not over five bucks.

She unwrapped the package as though she was uncovering a statue to civic virtue then, and she brought out one of the most horrid looking things I've ever seen.

It was black and gnarly, and I will say it was built for use. It was about an inch and a half thick. But the handle was the curse.

It stuck out at right angles to the rest of it, and so help me, it was carved to look like a man's face. It finished in sort of a bulb, just about right to fit a hand, but this bulb was a man's face, profiles at the sides and full face on top.

And to cap it all the model the carver used, if any, must have been the homeliest man in the world. I could see why he'd have to have practically no nose—it would have stuck up in the palm of your hand if it had been in proportion. But the eyes were sunk in and the thing had chin whiskers. I suppose so they would help give a firm grip.

Lawton said: "My good God!"

Dixon looked at me and started to choke.

And I thought of how Ella had certainly done the best she could, and that she thought I'd be pleased.

I almost strangled but I managed to say: "That's fine, kid."

THE three of us went down to Murphy's then. As long as I had the damned cane, I thought I'd better use it. Murphy had two bartenders working, but he was strolling around, seeing that things ran smoothly. He saw me and started over, but I looked at Lawton and shook my head, so I got just the usual salve.

He said: "Hello, Riley! Want a booth— the back one's empty."

I said: "You know George Murph, And this is Lieutenant Lawton. This is Murphy, Charley."

Murphy said that yes indeed he knew Mr. Dixon and that he was glad to meet the lieutenant. He mentioned a couple other cops he knew that Lawton knew and they were chatting about that while we walked back to the booth. Lawton said he could stay only for a fast one and Dixon then said he had to see a man about a dog.

What he had to do was lay the five he had left out of the ten I'd given him with his bookie.

They left together, and then Murphy slid into the seat they'd vacated, and I told him about the shooting down on Howard Street. And asked him how he knew those two were holed up there.

He said vaguely: "Uh... I guess maybe I spoke of it to a geezer I used to know who done a little time up Folsom way. I figured that at least one of them guys would be a two time loser and a hard loser, so a Folsom graduate was the guy who might know."

Folsom is where they put most of the recidivists in California—with San Quentin for easier jolts.

I said: ''The guy must remember like an elephant to pick out a guy like that just from a description."

Murphy said, as vaguely: "Maybe he was a trusty or something and worked on records. Maybe filed 'em or something like that."

And that was all I could get out of him. What he'd done was put the word out that he wanted two men that looked like such-and-so, and some old pal of his had turned them up.

He said: "You certainly got action with 'em, Riley? You busted up bad?"

"Just shoved around some."

"I saw the cane and you hobbling."

"Some cane, eh?"

He said, with honest admiration: ''It's got class. Real class. I never had a cane in my life but I'm going to get me one. One like that.'

I said: "You can have this one in a week, Murph. I shouldn't need it after that."

"That's good of you, Riley. I'd sure appreciate it. I don't suppose there's many like it, either."

I agreed with him on that. I thought that whoever had carved it had probably lost his mind when he realized what he'd done.

SOAKING for an hour in a hot tub took away almost all the ache that was left in my leg, but it brought full value out of the whiskey I'd taken. I fell down three times getting from the tub to the bed, and I was mumbling so that I had to give the switchboard girl Ella's number three times before she got it straight.

I said: "You, Ella?'

She said: 'Yes, Riley. I think it's a bad connection. I can hardly hear you."

I said: "It's me. I over-estimated. We'll have to call it off tonight. Make it tomorrow night instead."

"Oh, Riley!"

"I'm just too tight to make it." And then I got a happy thought and added: "And my leg's going like a toothache. I don't think I could stand it."

Her voice changed and got actually motherly. She said: "You get right into bed and stay there and rest. And don't you dare come down to the office before noon. I'll call you if there's anything important happens. Now you go right to bed."

That was that. She hung up and I put down the phone and pulled the covers over me and passed out. And didn't wake up until eleven. Then I sent down for the papers and a pint of rye and some ice, and I made myself a drink before I even looked at the headlines.

And, in a full column, was my first little man. Picture and all, His name wasn't Hatcherly, but Higgins. He'd been cashier of a bank in Maysville, Indiana and he'd skipped out with sixty thousand dollars worth of cash and twice that much in negotiable securities.

But that wasn't all he'd done. That wasn't enough to win him the newspaper space he was getting. He'd had his throat cut, in his room at the Fairmont, and there was no trace of the money or securities he'd absconded with.

A caper like that will get space in every paper in the land.

8: The Other Little Man Again

THE WASHINGTON has a small lobby, neat but not gaudy, and I didn't have to go to the desk and ask about the second little man. He was in a lobby chair, surrounded by papers, and he looked like the wrath of God after a bad Indian.

He looked like his brother, but didn't, if that's plain. His brother had said they were twins and I thought they probably were, but where the brother had worn flash clothes and looked as though he took good care of himself, this one looked seedy and half sick. The first one had struck me as pushing sixty—this one looked at least sixty-five. The first one had red cheeks, this one's were greyish. The first one was trim and neat, and this one wore a suit of black cloth that looked like it should be seen coming down an aisle, on a deacon.

The other, I'd thought, had worn lifts in his two-tone shoes. This one wore elastic-sided Congress gaiters.

The first one was bright and chipper, with his shoulders back and a twinkle in his eye. This one was stooped and sad-looking.

I sat down by him and said: "Mr. Hatcherly?"

He said dully: "My name is Higgins, sir. John W. Higgins."

"I know it."

He didn't even show a sign of interest.

I said: "Your brother commissioned me to locate you, Mr. Higgins. This, when he didn't find you at the Fairmont, upon his arrival."

He said: "The Fairmont is dreadfully expensive, sir. I haven't the means to stay in such a place."

That brought that line of conversation to a dead end.

I said: "I read about your brother. Dreadful, isn't it?"

He said: "To think a Higgins a common thief. I dread to return to my home. In the history of the family, sir, and I have personally traced it back well over three hundred years, this is the first time such shame has fallen on us."

I said: ''I wouldn't call your brother a common thief, Mr. Higgins. Far from it. He was tops. Any time a man can nick a bank for as much dough as he did that Maysville outfit he worked for, he's not common by a damn' sight. I'd like to know how he got this far with it— they usually catch bank embezzlers before they get out of the state."

"It is not funny, sir. As far as Robert eluding the authorities, I know nothing about it. Robert was always clever— he was always a schemer. Even when we were boys together."

"D'ya live in Maysfield too, Mr. Higgins?"

"Why, no. My home is in Hamilton."

"Indiana?"

"Why, yes. Hamilton, Indiana."

I WAS starting to get a tie-up with the murdered man in my office, but I couldn't figure just how. g

I said: ''Your brother visit you much? I understand that Maysfield and Hamilton are not far apart."

"He visited frequently, sir. May I ask if you're an officer?"

"I am, of sorts." I pointed down to the paper he still held, where there was a rehash of the Howard Street shooting.

There was an old picture of me, looking like something out of the rogue's gallery, and I made a mental note to raise hell at my hotel until I found out who'd swiped the original out of my room. Some news-man had bribed a bellboy or maid to get it, that was certain. There were two morgue shots of the guys I'd killed, and even one of my big fat girl, Nell. This was captioned: ONLY WITNESS OF HOWARD STREET GUN BATTLE.

The article went on to give the names and records of the two dead men and ended with a pretty nice blurb for me.

I said: "That's me, getting some free publicity. I'm the one that looks more like a thug than the real ones."

He looked and said: "My, my, my."

And then read farther. He said: "This is the strangest thing I've ever heard of. Is this correct, sir?'

I asked: "What?"

"This article states there was a man murdered in your office. A man named Cyrus K. Winthrop? Is that correct?"

"That's right. I went to my office and found it full of city police. The man had been killed an hour before then, and my secretary had called them. These two men did it. They also smacked my secretary around, when she tried to interfere."

"Dreadful, dreadful," the little man said. "I knew Cyrus quite well, sir. It would be Mr. Keenan, wouldn't it? I have known Cyrus for ten years or more. Why was he calling on you, sir?"

"That I don't know. Would he have known your brother?"

"Possibly. I don't know. But Cyrus was a Hamilton man and Hamilton is where Robert and I were raised. Robert, who was always restless, left Hamilton while a young man, although of course he frequently returned. Sometimes just for a visit, sometimes to take a position there. He accepted the position in the Maysfield bank, I am sure, to be near Hamilton and his old friends."

I said: "I'm interested in this, Mr. Higgins. Robert, after all, was my client. He was murdered, as was this man Winthrop. There's a connection there, of course. That will explain any personal questions I ask."

FOR a moment he looked a little like his brother. That is, he had a little of his brother's fire. He said: "I do not feel obligated to answer any personal questions, sir. Robert did a disgraceful thing. He has been punished. I naturally grieve over Robert's passing, but I cannot help but feel it was best. To take advantage of his position, of his employers, was ingratitude of the basest sort. Money stolen like that is a curse."

"There's a point there, Mr. Higgins. The money and the securities were not found. Your brother was certainly killed because of them. It wasn't only murder, it was murder and robbery, with the second the motive for the first."

He nodded assent to what was self-evident.

I said: "I told him where you were, Mr. Higgins. Yesterday afternoon, about four. Did he get in touch with you?"

"I heard nothing from him. There was a message from him asking me to call him at his hotel. This was awaiting me at the desk, when I returned last night. I .... uh... I confess I am a motion picture fan. My one vice, Mr. Keenan. I saw the picture at the Paramount and at, I believe it is the California. It was after eleven before I got home."

"You call then?"

He nodded. "Eleven was not late for Robert, though long past my usual bed-time. I called but Robert was not in. At least he didn't answer his phone. By the account of his death, he was killed at approximately that time. Possibly a few minutes one way or the other."

"They can't set the time exactly."

"He was found this morning, you know, by a chambermaid. I have little sympathy for Robert—I feel he has disgraced the family name—but he met a terrible end. His throat cut like an animal's. I dread returning to my home."

'Married?"

"Oh, no. Neither Robert or I ever married."

I said: ''Then it shouldn't be too tough. It's not your fault what your brother did. How did you happen to come out here, Mr. Higgins?"

"It was Robert, Mr. Keenan. I should have known at the time that Robert was up to something. He came to visit me some weeks ago and we arranged this trip. He asked me to register at the Fairmont, under the name of Hatcherly, and this I agreed to do. But when the clerk at the Fairmont quoted me their prices, I decided a less expensive place would fit my pocket-book better. I am not a wealthy man, Mr. Keenan."

"What was the idea of the phony name? Did he give you any explanation? Of course we know now why he wanted it, but did he give you any excuse?"

THE little man actually blushed. He said: "Robert told me— this is in confidence, Mr. Keenan— that he had been having an affair with a San Francisco woman whom he had met in Chicago, while on a business trip. He did not want to become involved with this woman and so told her his name was Hatcherly, rather than Higgins. I did not approve, naturally, but I have always followed Robert's wishes in small things. Robert, I am sorry to say, always had a weakness for the opposite sex, and I am ashamed to say that I was, in a sense, grateful that he'd used an alias in this affair. I didn't want our name smirched, and from what Robert said, I judged this woman to be no better than she should be. In fact, I me the impression that she was a... a..."

"Bum? Tramp?"

He smiled faintly at me, showing me teeth as false as those his brother had worn. "'That's it exactly. I fear I'm not in the habit of using modern slang. The word I was thinking of was trollop."

I said: ''Well, it's a mess all the way around. About all you can do is hold your chin up and ride it right through. When you go back home, just act as though nothing had happened, and it will surprise you how little attention people will pay to it."

"I am thinking seriously of not returning for some time, Mr. Keenan. The thought of seeing friends and neighbors, with this cloud on my name, is almost more than I can bear."

The little geezer was getting on my nerves, with his prissiness. What his brother had done was no fault of his, yet here he was blatting about it like a little lost sheep.

I said: "You're going to have a tough time of it before you go back, Mr. Higgins. There'll be a homicide detective named Lawton up to talk with you, and probably some more of the boys from the same detail. There'll certainly be insurance men, representing the company that carried the Maysfield bank. They'll ask you more questions about your brother Robert than you think are in the book. The money and securities he took are floating around somewhere, and they're going to do their damndest to find just where. This affair with the woman will be aired, and they'll try to locate her, just in case she might know something that would be of aid. I'm afraid you're in for a bad time of it."

He said stiffly: "I will assist the law and the insurance company as best I can, Mr. Keenan. That I assure you. I shall ask them to respect my name and to avoid publicity as much as is possible, but I shall do everything in my power to assist them in finding the stolen money. If found and returned to the bank, it would erase some of the stigma Robert has brought on me. I'm sure you understand."'

I said: "Oh, sure," and that it had been a pleasure to talk with him.

And then I put in a call for Lawton and told him where to find little brother, and chat little brother knew more about the business than he was telling.

It looked to me then as though little brother was mixed up in the steal. He'd talked too damned much about the family name being shamed.

9: The Girl Friend

ELLA, outside of her eye, was almost back to normal. Of course her cheek was black and blue, but heavy makeup covered most of it. Her mouth had lost practically all the swelling, and her smoked glasses covered her shiner in first class shape.

I said: "Looking a lot better, kid. I'm sorry about last night."

She said: ''It was all right, Riley. You really shouldn't have gone out last night, anyway. You can barely walk, right now."

I was using the cane, all right, but my leg wasn't hurting too much. Time will take care of a lot of things. In fact, I was in more misery from my hangover than I was from my leg, but I didn't tell her that.

I said: "Any calls?"

"Just one." She started to look mad. "From a girl. From a girl named Nell."

I said: "That was my witness to the Howard Street thing, kid. I've got to keep friendly with that one, at least until after the grand jury meets."

Ella said firmly: "She sounds like a bad woman to me. Just the way she talked."

I said: ''You're wrong, kid. She's a swell scout. Anytime a girl looks after a stranger, who's come in her place and loused it up like I did hers, she's all right."

Ella sniffed and didn't answer and I went inside and looked over the usual collection of bills. I was through with them and trying to decide whether a drink from the office bottle would kill or cure when she knocked and came in without waiting for me to tell her off.

She said: "There's a woman out here to see you. She won't give her name. I think it's that woman that already called —that woman named Nell."

"Is she big and fat?"

"Why, no."

I said: "Then it's not Nell. Let's call this one Madame X. Will you send her in?"

Ella sniffed again and sailed out, and I decided that jealousy was a bad thing for a business office. And then Madame X came through the door, with a sort of Mae West swing, and I forgot about Ella for the time being.

The gal was fair-sized, probably running around a hundred and forty on her bathroom scales. As she was, she would go ten pounds over it—she wore that much fur. She had a short jacket, made out of some kind of animal that had resisted all attempts at dying, and over this she wore three fox skins. With heads. One head at each end of this throw thing and the third peeking out at me from behind her right ear. It looked like it was hiding in her hair.

This hair was a brilliant brassy blonde, or a sort of shade between blonde and red. It looked as coarse as rope. She had make-up plastered on so thick I wondered how she kept it from sealing. One patch on each cheek and one on her chin, and she hadn't blended these into the area around them.

Under the fur she wore a yellow silk dress, and it was really yellow. The most yellow dress I've ever seen. And this had bangles, if that's what you call them, spotted here, there, and everywhere over it. Not just buttons—they looked as if somebody had pinned them on the dress in the dark. Her shoes, which were of some kind of crinkly leather, had heels at least four inches high, and she teetered on them as though she were walking on stilts.

She gave me a smile that showed some gold bridgework and said: "I just know you're Mr. Keenan."

I said: ''Don't tell me—let me guess. A lady Sherlock Holmes."

She said: "Huh!"

"You picked me right out, didn't you? That's real detective work."

"I'm not here to fool, mister."

"Then let's get right down to business."

"A copper named Lawton sent me down here."

I said: "Good old Charley."

"He said you were working for Bobby Hatcherly. Only his name's Robert Higgins, instead."

"That's right."

"I want to know where I stand."

"I don't get it, miss. You'll have to clear that up."

"Do I get what money he left or don't I?"

I said: ''Off-hand, if it's found, I'd say the bank gets it. Or rather, gets it back. Stolen money is usually returned to the people it's stolen from."

She waved a hand impatiently. "I don't mean that money. I mean his money. If he had any, that is. He always said he did."

I said that so often men were liars, and thought that the late Robert Higgins had, undoubtedly, the vilest taste in women of any man I'd ever met. This battle-ax could bite through chain mail—she'd really have been an asset during the middle ages.

She said: "He promised me every dime he had, that is when he died, if I'd meet him here in 'Frisco."

I said: "It's San Francisco, dearie. Out here they call it by its proper name."

"Well, San Francisco, then, What I want to know is how I stand."

"You'd have to see a lawyer about that. If the money he took from the bank is recovered and replaced, I imagine the court will still take all expenses from his personal funds. That is, money to cover the investigation of the loss and the pursuit of him. Then, if there's anything left, you have a chance at it. If he left a will naming you, that is. If not, it will go to his brother. That's the way I think it will be, but you should consult an attorney to be sure."

She cursed the late Robert Higgins and showed a nice command of the dirtier kind of language. And finished with? "The little jerk! The only reason I let him play around me was because he said he had dough. It looks like I was just wasting my time."

"Did he look you up, since he got to town?"

"He did not. He told me to meet him at the Granada Rooms— we picked that place out of a 'Frisco, excuse me, I mean San Francisco, directory, one day in Chi. I mean Chicago. He was to meet me there. He never even called me. I didn't even know he was in town until I read about him in the paper this morning. Then I went down to the cops and they showed me around until this hick cop of a Lawton gets me and tells me to come to you. And you're not a damned bit more good to me than they were."

"How well did you know him?'

"That little jerk? Front and back and sidewise. If you must know, mister, he paid my rent for a year and more, in Chi. He'd come up from Maysville on what he called business, but it was done in my apartment, mostly. Do I know the little feist? Too damned well, mister. I should have had something down in writing, right from the start. Giving him my time and getting nothing but a lot of talk for it."

I'd been thinking, ever since I'd talked with little brother, and I thought I had the answers. And answers that fitted everything that had happened. The trouble had been that it was too simple. I'd been trying to complicate an easy situation, that was all.

I said: "Let's you and me take a little cab ride, sister. By the way, what is your name?"

She said: "Dolly La Varr. I was on the stage, Mister Keenan. In fact I practically quit my career to devote myself to Bobby Hatcherly, only his name is Robert Higgins."

"Let's not have secrets, Dolly," I said. "How long before you met him was it that you quit the stage? Now don't story to the old folks—just tell me how long it was."

"Well then, about five years. Maybe six."

She was in her forties and I wasn't giving her any of the worst of it at picking that age.

I said: ''Okay, Dolly. Let's go."

"Where?" she asked, suspiciously.

I said: "Just you ride along and see."

10: A Modern Lazarus

WHEN I ASKED FOR John W Hatcherly the desk clerk looked faintly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "He's in his room but he's talking with a police officer. The officer left strict orders that they weren't to be disturbed."

"A big, dark man?"

"Why, yes sir."

"I'm working with him. Put him on the phone, please."

In a moment I heard Lawton's irritated voice say: "Well! What the hell is it?"

"It's Keenan."

The voice eased. "Got something, Riley?"

"Wait until you see her."

"Her?"

"Her. The girl friend. Don't crack—I want to have a surprise."

Lawton sounded puzzled but all he said was: "Come on up."

I said: "Okay, Miss La Varr. We're going calling."

She said: "I hope to —— you know what you're doing. I'm damned if I do."

I said: "For one thing, I'm trying to get back a lot of dough for a bank. They give rewards for such things, Dolly. The Bankers Association does, and usually the bank breaks loose with something. And I use money all the time, first for one thing and then another."

"Where am I going to come out on this?"

"That's where you're going to have to see a lawyer, like I told you."

We rode up in an elevator that moved like slow motion and ended at the fourth floor. The bell boy jerked a thumb that needed washing and said: ''Down th' hall, mister. Seven-eight doors."

And then I knocked on the door and Lawton said: "Come in!"

I opened the door and, not out of politeness, waved Miss La Varr ahead of me. And Miss La Varr, once out of the little hall and into the main room, went into action with a speed no United States Marine would be ashamed of. She screamed: "You little jerk! Who th' hell d'ya think you're fooling?"

And then she tore at little brother like a wildcat, with her fingers curved like claws and with her blood red finger nails ready to slash.

Little brother ducked behind a chair and Lawton caught her. He said: "Now what's this?"

I said: ''All right, Dolly. Look him over. Is it or isn't it?"

She said: "I'd know the little jerk if I met him in the dark. I know the lying little —— well enough, don't I? So you were going to meet me, were you, Bobby? What was yours was mine, was it? I give you one of the best years of my life and I don't even get what the chickens picked at. You little ——! I'll tear your eyes out and make you swallow 'em."

I WINKED at Lawton, who plainly didn't know what it was all about.

The little man quavered: "Madame! You are in error. I'm not Bobby, I'm John. His twin."

She said: "Twin my eye! Don't tell me, you little jerk. You can maybe fool a bunch of dumb coppers but you can't fool me."

Lawton, still holding her, said: ''Now what's this, Keenan?"

I said: "The little guy isn't John, that's all. He's Robert. John is the guy they found up in the Fairmont, dressed in Robert's clothes. They may have been identical twins, but it's certain that one or the other had some slight accident at some time that left a scar, and a tracer back to Hamilton, Indiana, will bring that out. That'll be your proof, though I think little smartie-pants will break down and tell all, if you leave him with his lady-love a little while."

Dolly La Varr said: "I'll make the little jerk tell the truth if I've got to pull him to pieces. He can't play with my affections, the little—"

I said: "You see, Charley, he knew the bank and the insurance companies and the cops would be after him for the rest of his life. He couldn't skip the country because there's a war on and travel is watched and limited. So he gets his twin out here, kills him, dresses him in his fancy clothes, and tries to make it look as though he'd been murdered for the dough he'd looted from the bank. His brother is quiet, and he's flashy. All he thought he had to do was act quiet for two or three years, back in his brother's place, then leave town and start spending his loot."

"What about the guy killed in your office?"

"That's the pay-off. The guy rode out with him. The minute he heard about the embezzlement he'd have gone to somebody with the story about riding out with Higgins. As it was, he must have been suspicious about it, or he wouldn't have come to my office. If he'd known anything was wrong, for sure, he'd have gone to the cops, so he must just have had a hunch something was wrong. Something wrong enough to maybe interest a private cop, but nothing definite enough to take to the police. That's only logical. But Higgins saw a squawk coming and hired those two thugs to put him out of the way before he could talk. They followed him to my office and did the job there. He'll confess to it, if you give him a choice between that and talking with Dolly, alone here, for an hour or so."

Dolly said earnestly: "You give me ten minutes with the little jerk, will you, copper? I'll kill the little ——"

I said: "Only two things, Higgins. How much did you pay 'em and where did you meet 'em? You might as well talk— you're sunk."

He said: ''I met them in a Howard Street bar and I gave them a thousand dollars apiece. You'd prove I was Robert, anyway. I broke my leg in a car wreck, three years ago, and it shows. There's no object in fighting, when it does no good. I'll say now that I'm sorry about Cy Winthrop being in it—I always liked Cy. But I've hated my brother since we were kids together and I don't regret killing him a bit. He was a smug, Psalm-singing Prohi, and I'll hang happy, knowing he went before me."

Charley Lawton said: "Well, you'll hang! But whether happy or not I won't say."

Miss La Varr said: ''And serve you damned well right, you nasty little jerk. To think of the time I wasted on you!"

Higgins looked as though he were glad Lawton still held her.

THE money was in a safe deposit box in the Anglo-London-Paris National Bank. Higgins quite cheerfully told us where it was, and released it the next day. He hadn't spent a cent of it—he'd been operating on his own savings up to that time. I put in an official claim for reward money at the same time the insurance people and the cops took it from the bank —and there'll be no trouble in getting it.

If it hadn't been for the red tape, I think the insurance people would have paid me in cash, out of the box.

Higgins got life, I suppose because he pleaded guilty and didn't fight his case at all. A break for him that he didn't have coming. Lawton got a citation for clearing up his ease so quickly, but it was nothing he could cash at the bank or buy groceries with.

The only bad after effect on the whole thing happened to me. My big fat girl, down on Howard Street, calls me at least every other day. And we go through the same routine.

She will say: "This is Nell, sweets. When
you coming down to see me?"

I say: "Just as soon as I can get a minute's time, dear."

Then Ella will hiss: "That dirty fat slob!"

Nell will say: ''Now you promise me, angel."

I say: "I promise, hon."

Ella will say: "Why don't you go down and see that big cow? Why don't you?"

Then Nell and I hang up and Ella goes into a tantrum, claiming all men are beasts. And on and on and on.

Sometimes I think it's a mistake to have a girl working in an office at all. A man may not be as pretty to look at, but at least they don't break out in a jealous rage with little or no provocation. In fact, if Ella keeps it up, I'll probably be down at Howard Street, in spite of Nell going around two-twenty or up on the hoof.

She wouldn't nag, anyway— and after a course of Ella, that two-twenty don't look near as big to me. At least I'd have peace, which is more than I'm getting in my office.

_____________________

7: Whispering Death

Laurence Donovan

1885-1948

Action Novels, August, 1929

WE'RE down on our bellies in the whisperin' grass, "Plug Ugly" and me and the looie.

How come that bunch of stalks had survived down there in the narrow bottom of that ravine, I don't pretend to know. But it had kept on growing until it seeded and dried right in the nose of a three-months rain of hell.

Every time the grass tops, no more than a foot over our heads, sh-sh-sh-ed and whispered like, I scrooched my face into the dirt.

I was scared. So was the looie. And Plug Ugly? He was, too, but you couldn't pick out a smooth spot in his miscellaneous assortment of features to discover if he was pale.

Beside that, Plug Ugly's mug was all mudcaked where he'd been chewin' wire. And he had a lot of blood dried in his beard from where he'd left a sizable chunk of one cauliflower ear hangin' on that last bunch of inch-long barbs.

Whisper! Whisper! Whisper!

Until I felt like screaming, what with the swooshing death callin' from the big ones rushing by high up and the tops of the grass bendin' and swayin' under the clip of that machine-gun barrage from the Heinies' double nest up there in the cottonwood stumps.

Slap that rim of machine-gun fire down on a hard road and it would sound like men walking. But there in the grass tops it only swished and whispered like.

Talkin' to us and hissing, "Come up! Come up! Come up!"

What with the numbness passin' and the fire risin' up from the hole in my right knee, where it had been drilled by a piece of shrapnel or a bullet— they were comin' so thick back there I couldn't tell which— I was afraid I might listen too long to that whisper and, "come up."

Just stick my old bean up once. That'd be all. No more pain, no more ice on my chest, chillin' and chokin' me.

Maybe the Heinies knew we were there. Maybe they didn't. But they'd spotted us, eighteen of us, Plug Ugly and me, and Rafferty and Spink, chewin' their wire and lettin' the looie and the other thirteen through the gap.

Before we got onto our bellies down in the grass, they had the thirteen piled up. Whether the looie was behind them, or where, or how, I don't know, but he come crawlin' back to the gap in the wire.

By that time there were only Plug Ugly and me; and Plug Ugly had been all for going ahead after the others. I admit I hadn't any enthusiasm for it.

But Rafferty and Spink were gone. Rafferty lookin' at me like I'd know what to tell his girl back in Beloit where we'd both come from. He couldn't speak, and his face turned green in the flare of a star shell that come floatin' down just then.

It was that star shell that played hell with the looie and his bunch. I still don't know how the looie missed out on the show and come wormin' back to us like a snake on his stomach.

I got it in the old prayer bone about that time, and for a minute or two I was so sick that all I knew was that Plug Ugly was draggin' me. And the looie was coming along, kind of whimpering. Guess Plug Ugly thought the looie was mournin' for the boys he'd led, or pushed, into that slaughter ring under the gun nest. Plug Ugly was sold on the looie. I never saw the like of it before, and I don't suppose I ever will again.

The pain reached a jumpin' off place at the end of my toes. I got sick at my stomach for a minute. Then that passed and I could look at Plug Ugly and the looie and think.

Nothing to do but wait. Probably the Heinies would ease up pretty soon, and we could sneak back over the ridge and through the wire. That would be the only chance. F company was down to its last thinnin'.

We'd known, when we started on that raid that we had to roust that machine-gun nest or Captain Jack would have to slack off on the point of his push. There'd be no more men to spare for a rescue. The thirteen that went with the looie and us four wire chewers had understood that.

I LOOKED at Plug Ugly and he was looking at the looie. The smoke was getting gray in the east, and light was coming. We knew what that meant. If we didn't shimmy out of there before daylight, it was going to be just too bad.

I said Plug Ugly was looking at the looie. I was trying to puzzle out why Plug Ugly's face had seemed to become different from what it was when what was left of F company a month back had first greeted it.

Except for this Lieutenant Simms, F company was long or short on looks, according to the way you took it. I remember old Colonel Bowling, the first time he reviewed the F outfit, tried to look like he hadn't noticed anything unusual. But he shook his head several times, and put on his glasses, and took them off and wiped them. Sergeant Jock was a fair sample. He had a broken nose and was cross-eyed.

It sure looked like F company had been made up of left-over parts after God got through creatin' all the rest of the homely guys in the world. It was lucky for the colonel's peace of mind that Plug Ugly wasn't there then.

"Pug" Hogan was his name. He was among the replacements after our first jam when we got back to the rest billet with forty-two men and a few pans salvaged out of the remnants of the field kitchen. Seems Pug had been a punching bag for years around New York's lower East Side, and what nature hadn't done to him, a bunch of second and third-rate pugilists had added.

The first crack Lieutenant Simms made was "For Pete's sake, let th' Heinies capture 'im, have a look an' end this war."

And Sergeant Jock, of whom there was no one more profanely qualified in the A. E. F.— all he could think of when he looked at Pug was, "My gosh— it ain't possible!"

Lieutenant Simms rechristened him "Plug Ugly."

I hadn't explained about this boy Simms. He was F's only misfit. He had curly black hair and big brown eyes a la Hollywood, a nice straight nose and even teeth. Right from the first Simms froze onto Plug Ugly. Seemed to like to have him around. Guess it helped set off more than ever what a grand gift to women the looie believed himself to be.

And "Plug Ugly"?

Would you believe it? That cross-section of everything that human facial architecture hadn't ought to be, he falls for the looie like he was the world's last kind word. He fetches and carries for him, and is always right in between the looie and trouble, whether it's a jam in an estaminet or a pushover through the stinkin' mud and wire. Pretty soon they began to make this Damon and Pythias affair look like those old days were a couple of hostiles. Seeing that I was messin' with Plug Ugly, and had got so I didn't mind his face much, I saw a lot of what was going on.

WELL, it went along like that and then the looie happens onto Jeanne. Knowing the looie, any one could see that Jeanne was just one of a whole series. The looie must have kept a card index on his sweeties back in Paris.

But Jeanne wasn't the soft sort. Haughty-totty, Jeanne was, and I found out it was on account of old Broullier, her dad. He'd come home, feeling his way with his hands.

For all that they had only the loft of a stable that wasn't anyways sanitary underneath, this Broullier had the makings of an aristocrat. And the girl had been taught.

She didn't savvy English, but the looie had a good smattering of French and they got along. Plug Ugly, you would have thought, would have been discarded, but he wasn't.

Seemed like the looie wanted him around. You'd have thought Uncle Sam had drafted him to play bodyguard and valet to the looie.

It set the looie off, having Plug Ugly around. And Plug Ugly would sit by the hour and listen to old Broullier talking with his hands, while the looie played the white-haired boy to Miss Jeanne.

Along about this time I noticed that Plug Ugly, for all of his scattered countenance, didn't have such bad eyes. Sometimes I'd catch him staring at nothing in particular, and his eyes would get blue and misty and wishful. I couldn't figure it out.

After a while, all of F company was wise. Plug Ugly had divided his hero worshipping of the looie. Not that it lessened his devotion to Simms, but he had added the girl Jeanne to his dreams.

Oh, we all had them then, even that horse-faced Sergeant Jock. It's something that comes along of listening to the damned guns and the whirring and the whispering, and wondering which whisper is packin' your ticket.

You betchu, it wasn't long until I could see Plug Ugly was up to the eyebrows in love with Jeanne. But that didn't make any difference. Guess he figured that the looie was the world's prize draw for any dame, and he wanted Jeanne to have him. That's the kind of love you read about in fiction, but you don't stumble over it so often in real life— and not once in a million times in war where anything goes double.

Just before this last push and this raid, the looie had given out that he was ticketed for a leave and he had let it be known around that maybe, if he went to Paris, Jeanne might not be seen around, either, for a few days.

Not that the looie had any idea of making a double hitch— not him. And Jeanne wasn't saying anything. But you could tell that Plug Ugly thought they intended to be married, and he looked sad and pleased all at once.

Just before we went in this last time, Jeanne came running out with a lacy affair wound around her head, her face dark and mysterious in the rain. She talked a little to the looie. Then, as we was pushing off, Jeanne ran over to Plug Ugly, and said something that I know Plug Ugly took to mean that she wanted him to be extra careful of the looie, for he said, "Sure t'ing. Youse'll git 'im back all K. O." And Jeanne said something more and waited.

And of course Plug Ugly only guessed at what she was trying to say, and I could see his twisted ears go fiery red in the rain when Jeanne reached up suddenly and kissed him on the cheek.

"Sure t'ing. Youse'll git 'im back," he muttered again.

AS I said, I was lying there, listening to the whisperin' in the grass, puzzling over what it might be in Plug Ugly's face that made it seem different. And Plug Ugly was looking at the looie lying there.

The looie must have raised his shoulder a little too high, trying to ease himself over. I saw his face go white through the mud and his eyes go suddenly wide.

Next he slumps down and groans, and a little river of red runs along the back of his hand. Plug Ugly saw it, too. He got to the looie and tries to lift him up a little, but the looie only moans and sinks his face between his arms.

It was getting lighter now, and only about fifty yards away I could begin to make out a grotesque hump above the ravine, between us and the tree stumps where the machine guns were. It made me sick all over. That was what was left of the thirteen that had been with the looie.

Further along the sector the dawn barrage of the heavies opens up. Plug Ugly rolls the looie over and looks at his white face. The looie's lips were twitching.

Plug Ugly must have thought he was out for keeps. He turned to me. His whole face had changed. He looked at me lying there, but I don't think he saw me. His blue eyes glinted and set on something it wasn't for me to see. I heard his teeth grit out the words,

"Sure t'ing. Youse'll git 'im back."

The Heinies' were quiet now in the machine-gun nest. I guess, giving it the once-over, they didn't figure any one was left alive out there. They'd sowed the grass over our head so full of whispers that it looked like a mowing scythe had passed over.

I didn't quite get what Plug Ugly intended to do, until I saw him take a couple of grenades from the looie's shirt. Then he rolled over to me.

"Gimme them apples," he muttered, reaching his hand.

"You damn fool, you can't go out—"

"Gimme them apples," he repeated, pushing my hands away and grabbing at my shirt front. He didn't bother dragging his rifle. All he had was his pistol and a shirt full of bombs.

I wanted to keep him from going, but the Heinies have long ears and I couldn't argue.

Last thing Plug Ugly did was ease the looie over.

He started out, snaking through the grass to the left. I saw his idea, and it was crazy.

Up to the left of the stumps where the machine guns were planted, was a little hummock. Even if he got up there, I knew there would be at least a dozen Dutchies in the emplacements.

Maybe it was only a few minutes, but it seemed like I had been laying there for hours. One of the Heinies must have seen Plug Ugly crawling before he got to the top of the hummock back of the stumps. Pistols began cracking in the gun emplacement. Still there wasn't a sound from Plug Ugly. I got weak all over. I thought sure they'd got him.

I saw a Heinie sneak out from the stumps and up toward the hummock. Then— that damned fool! The ugliest face in the A.E.F. came leaping from the ground. That Heinie must have thought he had met the devil in person.

I saw Plug Ugly pull the pin of an apple. The Heinie's pistol cracked, and Plug Ugly went down on one knee. But he drew back and he didn't deviate an inch from the regulations in throwing that bomb.

I drove my face into the ground and covered up with my arms. Dirt and rocks and pieces of tree stumps showered down. When I looked up, something had cut the looie across the forehead, and his cheek was streaked with blood. He groaned, and I knew he was still alive.

But Plug Ugly?

God, he waited until that Heinie had drawn back his bayonet and was coming down. Plug Ugly ducked and his pistol spat a red streak into the Heinie's stomach. The Heinie pitched forward and his bayonet went into the ground.

I could hear men groaning and yelling where the gun nest had been, and a half dozen of the Heinies started up out of the ground at once. Maybe it was luck, and maybe it wasn't. It may be that Plug Ugly, looking death in the teeth, deliberately timed that second pineapple.

Fragments of Heinies was mixed with the flowerpot of dirt that went up. And then, with an apple in each hand, Plug Ugly came yelling down that hummock, straight for the stumps.

Three, four Heinies were falling over each other running away. I got one straight look at Plug Ugly's face. Say, at that minute, I haven't seen a handsomer map in the world.

Plug Ugly? Hell!

Then it got so quiet, except for a booming far away, that I could hear the looie breathing heavy. He was getting up. He looked across and saw there was no one by the machine-gun nest alive but Plug Ugly.

"By God! By God! He got 'em— huh? He got 'em?"

And what do you think? The next thing the looie did was to begin brushing the mud off his clothes. He'd only been nicked a little on one shoulder.

"Sure t'ing," I said. "Youse'll git 'im back."

I couldn't think of anything nastier than that. I guess it hit the looie between the eyes. I think he would have kicked me, except for my busted prayer bone.

Yellow? Sure as hell, he was yellow. We know now he wasn't with the lost thirteen when they got theirs. He'd crawled off to one side somewhere.

That Jeanne. I don't see why I hadn't guessed it. Didn't I say she was a haughty-totty. She'd been taught, Jeanne had. She could read men, that Frenchie, and she had had the looie ticketed long before we guessed him out.

They had me stretched out across from Plug Ugly in the base hospital when Jeanne came in. She went straight to him. Plug Ugly had been drilled three times, but I tell you, he was tough. He'd been a punching bag a long time. He opened his eyes and saw Jeanne.

"Sure t'ing," I heard him murmur. "Youse'll git 'im—"

And that was as far as he got, for Jeanne's lips were on his mouth and both her arms were cuddling his ugly cauliflower ears. That's one language that never has to be translated.

_______________

8: Another Pawn of Fate

F. St. Mars

(Frank Howard Atkins) 1882-1921

Adventure, 20 June 1922

IF YOU had killed, and what was worse, barely otherwise made use of, three colts, a heifer, twenty-one sheep and eleven pigs belonging to other people, so that four hundred dollars would not even begin to cover your debts— if, moreover, you had done to death two valuable dogs sent to interview you upon the subject, and spoiled the sleep of not less than two dozen stockmen for an uncounted number of nights, you might have expected consideration— but you would certainly not get it.

All these things, and more, had the jaguar done, and he was beginning to reap his harvest. Things became hectic for him, and by the time he had escaped death by bullet and poison four times, and worse than death by trap upon nine occasions, he came to the conclusion that a change of air was for him imperative.

The jaguar was like a large leopard, only with his spots run into rosettes. He was heftier than any leopard, though, and fiercer by some few fierces.

The trouble was, where was there a refuge to go to for a hunted wild hunter upon all those desolate plains and sun-baked stretches? Where, indeed?

The jaguar left home— the ruined tomb of the king of some long-forgotten race— in the almost intolerable glare of the full sun upon his journey. He would much have preferred to “flit” during the darkest night, but a pillar of dust as yet far away but approaching, warned him of the starting of a big hunt on horseback— for him.

As the horsemen might be accompanied by dogs, he knew he would be found if he stayed. So he decamped— at a long, loose, padded, swinging trot, that hiked him over the rough ground much faster than it appeared to; and, of course, being a cat, a supercat, he hugged what cover he could get.

This time, however, the stockmen were in earnest, and did not stop to think on the brink of a drink when the sun got hot enough to frizzle all things save the little lizards upon the rock-slabs. They kept right on going. So did the jaguar; but with the grim, slow realization that he was a sprinter, but no stayer, and that his ever growing thirst was worse than death.

Thus it came about that by noonday he could not very well ignore the drumming of a bronco’s hoofs not far to his right rear, and another to his left.

He heard also a shout, and threw an ominous snarl over his spotted, tawny shoulder in reply as he broke into a gallop.

He was heading toward the coast. The smell of water, any water, in his nostrils made him do that. Water, said instinct, means forest in that land; and he was a forester by right, or his ancestors had been.

Then came the lasso— the first one.

The jaguar did not see it. He heard it fall short just behind, and make slithery noises like a snake. He set back his ears. His fangs bared.

Then came the second lasso. The jaguar saw that. He had to jump over it as he flew— fairly flew now, in his last desperate dash to the shelter of some thick but shortish grass.

He gained the grass-patch even as the third lasso hit, and slipped along his back.

Untamable, ferocious beyond compare, a dread that stalked by night, a terror among the Indians, intolerant, implacable, lonely, the jaguar dived to the middle of that slight cover quaking in every limb, a beast beaten and cowed even to inertia. It was the lassos that had done it.

For full ten minutes the jaguar lay there, spent, in the middle of the grass-patch, only his head visible, a picture of fury and hate, while the finest horsemen in the world circled around outside, trying to lasso that furious head— and failing.

The broncos would not enter the grass, and the dogs thought that the reason the horses had was a good one— for a cornered jaguar in thick grass is several kinds of a deadly proposition.

And in the end the stockmen set fire to the grass, and waited.

THE seared stems burned like tinder, the flames racing along before the wind in a crackling, reeking furnace, but the jaguar did not move.

The red, dancing, leaping line fairly flew down upon him, chasing its own choking clouds of smoke, till they both together seemed to envelop him, and that terrible, great, spotted, broad head, still and motionless and grinning, faded, faded gradually out before the amazed onlookers— faded and was swallowed up.

Not when the smoke fumes nearly asphyxiated him; not when the smell of his singeing fur mingled with the rest; not till the sting of the flames, actually licking up his legs, broke the spell, did the jaguar come to life, as it were back, and leap for that life ahead of the fire.

By then he was invisible. If it had been a race before, it was a greater race now. The flames fairly tore along in that dry place, and he could not see a yard on either hand whither he was going. He only knew that the flames were gnashing at his tail, and that instinct shrieked in his ear—

“Make for the sea!”

He made for the sea accordingly, the sea he could not see— nor anything else for the first quarter of a mile, for the matter of that— but knew was there.

The fire was far behind when the great spotted cat got to the shore by way of sandhills, and lay down, panting. It had stopped with the gutting of the grass-patch— but the stockmen were not far behind.

They had spotted the jaguar at last, clear of the smoke, galloping like a great dog far across the blistered plain, and were now drumming down upon him, dogs, horses, and men, in a yelling cloud of dust, that— it seemed— must end with his end.

Now for it!

The sea, in that burning sun, almost blinded him; but the jaguar could see far enough across the waves a low line of dark trees, walking, so it seemed, upon the face of the waters— or was it a mirage dancing tauntingly in the heat flurry? Could the jaguar see a mirage anyway? The big, flat, spotted, brilliant head turned slowly and gazed steadfastly at the excited crowd sweeping down upon him. For a moment he permitted himself a bare-fanged, twisted-lipped, evil snarl— the jaguar’s “blessing”— then waded into the warm, glinting, blinding water and resolutely struck out.

The brute was a fine swimmer. Though he personally had been born and had lived upon the plains all his life, and never crossed anything bigger than a stream, he came of forest ancestors used to dealing with the world’s largest rivers.

He forged ahead grandly, head well up, and with the confidence that comes of conscious ability.

A rifle cracked along the old-gold sand, but the sundance on the water dazzled, and the bullet spat— plup— yards short. Another and another spoke, and the bark of the .30-30 Marlin repeaters came to the swimmer’s ears plainly as the bullets shot up miniature spouts all around him; but the broad, yellow head kept on, and on, and on, steady, straight, untouched, unflurried.

At last one long shot clipped his right ear. It looked like a biscuit from which a piece has been bitten, but even that did not turn or stop him. A last flurry of reports, a last “covey of death” spattering up the surface, and he was out of range—their range anyway.

“Never mind,” said the stockmen to each other. “Guess the sharks’ll get him, fellers. You betcha.”

But the sharks did not get him. They had heard the firing, or felt the concussion of the bullets in the water, or something, and turned their knife-bladed back-fins the other way.

Slowly but strongly the jaguar came to the mangrove forest. It was a remarkably wet, and a lugubrious, dark, noisome, muddy, and smelly place.

In fact, it was not like any ordinary forest at all. Dante might have described it.

It was not tall— the sea winds saw to that. It had no true tree trunks— the sea itself saw to that. It was like a forest of pier-piles; a forest of manyheaded hydras with hundreds of legs stuck in the mud. And the sea sucked and gurgled in and out among the legs, otherwise roots. Great freak crabs, blue and freakish crabs, red played grimly in and out among the branches that wound and twisted like a thousand snakes.

THE jaguar— his claws rasped in the wet hollowness— had hauled himself up the roots, high above high tide among the writhing stems and branches, before he discovered that the mangrove forest was a world unto itself— inhabited by its own living beasts and birds, insects and sea folk, beside the crabs.

Wings flapped above, and great herons removed themselves from his company. Some diving bird thing, all wet and shiny, hit the water with a loud plop as it took the sea.

A head, yellow, flat, broad, black-spotted, big and slit-eared, thrust from a tangle of branches and foliage and made evil remarks to his address in a language that— petrified him. It was his own language, the talk of the jaguar people, their swear words.

And the jaguar changed as he stiffened from heavy jaw to padded heel. He contorted into a calamity, ready set for trouble— a cast statue of ferocity. It is a way cats have. Nine times out of ten it is just thrice perfected bluff.

This was the tenth time.

For one thing, the plains jaguar had grown larger; that was fur on end. For another, he had sprouted some height; that was arched back. For another, he moaned, horribly, quietly, and to himself; but it is not quite clear what that was for. The head remained, like a head in a picture, framed in gnarled stems. The jaguar did not. He turned half side-wise— to side-leap at need. He stood like a horse hard held with a bearing rein on, champing at air. Then— he faded out, still sidewise, crab-fashion, a step at a time.

But he had seen what human eyes could not have seen— the flick of a thin ear tickled by a fly, two yards to the left of the head among the foliage. And he had smelled what human nostrils most assuredly could not have smelled on the salt breeze— though the bigger cats bear an acrid taint— the odor of not one jaguar, but two, and the other a lady— dux femina facti.

Upon the plains, where the jaguar had lived all his life, the stockmen had seen to it that lady jaguars were rare creatures. Indeed, this plains jaguar had never seen one till that precise psychological moment. If he had, he might not have wandered afar worrying the herders of cattle. As it was—

The return of the jaguar ten minutes later, and flying— at least, he was not touching anything as he came— from the opposite side to that in which he had faded and gone out, was intended as a surprise, and would have been to humans, but not to the other jaguars. Cats do that sort of thing. It is one of their little specialties.

Surprise is the essence of tactics.

Meeting it— the art.

The other male jaguar did not show whether he was surprised or not; probably not. He was not there when the plains jaguar landed where his back had been. He left the branch as the other arrived upon it. Also he exploded like a firework benefit in the process. Perhaps he realized what he had missed, or what had missed him.

But both jaguars were so obsessed with each other that they forgot their surroundings. Cats are likely to do that when they squabble, all the world over. There is no health in it, though.

The plains jaguar’s lathy hind-limbs landed upon a crab and a branch; you could hear the claws scrape upon the horny carapace. And he knew nothing about crabs! Then he spun with a startling explosion.

The crab had locked home one pincer to his tail.

The jaguar would have acted the same if a baby had touched him from behind with a little finger; his nerves were in that state. He pictured rival male jaguars on every hand.

He was all heated up and scorched! But even a jaguar cannot for long chase his own tail on mangrove branches slippery with the green scum of the sea.

A loud and spluttering double splash announced the end of his catherine-wheeling.

The other jaguar, to save himself, had sprung at what seemed to be an inviting wall of foliage he could pull himself up on. It grew, however, like a screen that gave toward the sea. Thus resulted the picture of one fine male jaguar, very flat-eared, hanging futilely on to some branches of mangrove that swung out and out, and bent down and down, until he realized that there was no sense in hanging on to them any longer. He was already up to his neck in water.

Now, see how Fate lets down those good, scientific, learned ones who dogmatize upon the survival of the fittest.

The water was shallowish at that precise spot. There was mud upon which the mangroves throve in their own peculiar way. As the jaguar turned and struck out for the nearest root-landing his hind legs churned up this mud.

THERE was a flash as of red flame in the depths, a blurry, indistinct outline of something big and long that writhed, and— the jaguar shot upward, pawing wildly, with a blood-curdling roar. Then he fell back inert, struggled feebly, galvanized to madness again, collapsed and drifted away on the strong tide, swimming feebly, banged his head on a root, spun round, drifted on, hit something else, revolved, and so, in and out among the lugubrious roots, was carried, slowly, surely, drifting from sight.

He did not come back.

He had touched off an electric eel, a nasty, big, brown, compressed thing, with a flaring scarlet throat, from what little could be seen; and it, fearing attack, had given him a shock, perhaps two shocks. A flood must have washed the eel to that unfortunate place.

Meanwhile, the plains jaguar, having shaken off the incubus of the crab, slowly scratched, and scraped, and scrambled his way up the first roots he found that offered a hold. As he did so his tail came within an inch of the gigantic eel thing, and had that tail touched it, contact would have been effected and the tail would have been as good a conductor as any other part of the body so far as the resulting shock was concerned. But that is Fate.

Above, among the twisted mangrove branches, the jaguar found the eternal feminine, sitting humped and cynically comfortable, as she had sat all along.

She turned her yellow, spotted head and regarded him with cruel, inscrutable eyes. Then she rose, and, stretching deliberately and insolently, yawned in his face. The other jaguar had been the finer beast, but— well, he was gone, and meanwhile there was this one purring and blandishing in his place.

Enough. She patted at that other a furtive, saucy pat, the sort of pat that would have ripped half his cheek off if he had not dodged unconcernedly as only cats can.

Then the two slouched off to fish for turtles, which is perhaps a more exciting way of spending a honeymoon than fishing for compliments.

________________

9: $-Rays

Henry Leverage

1885-1931

All-Story Weekly, 22 June 1918

MORGAN ALDRICH, olive-eyed and sleek, dropped his feet from his desk in the sub-treasury and stared blankly at the figure of his chief weigher, who had burst through the doorway in the manner of a man getting out of the way of liquid-fire.

Roscoe, the chief weigher, brought up with a jerk before the severe rebuke in his boss’s eyes, raised his hands and passed them across his forehead, then blurted: “We’ve been robbed!”

Morgan Aldrich replaced his patentleather shoes upon the edge of his desk, drew forth a special perfecto, lighted it with a safety-match, then smiled up into the face of his chief weigher. The smile was one of utter confidence. It was the perfect composure of a man sure of himself. He removed the perfecto from between his lips, glanced at its end, then said slowly:

“Roscoe, this is a very hot day. You better punch the clock and drop down to Coney Island. Take an Iron Steamboat and cool off.”

The chief weigher mopped his brow with his shirt-sleeve. Tiny wrinkles of doubt spread from the corners of his eyes.

“I know,” he said brokenly, “that you’ll think me crazy, but we’ve been robbed! The gold in the third vault is fifty-three pounds, six ounces, light. I’ve weighed it all on the big scales, sir.”

Morgan Aldrich lowered his feet, tossed the perfecto out the wide-open window, and rose to his full height of five feet eleven.

“Impossible!” he exclaimed. “Absolutely impossible! There’s something the matter with the scales. There’s a sack short—or something.”

“The scales are all right, sir. I tried two, with the same result to a pennyweight. The sacks check. We’ve verified them three times with the record of the vault.”

Morgan Aldrich paced back and forth across the floor. He avoided Roscoe, who shrunk into one corner and waited. The care and management of the sixty-odd employees of the sub-treasury was no light task for any man. Aldrich always held the fear that one of the many would “go wrong” or abscond. He did not believe that it was possible to rob the sub-treasury from the outside. The great vaults, of which there were eight, were protected by concrete and steel. The building was guarded day and night by two shifts of special detectives. Each man was bonded by a reliable company.

He paused in his stride across the room. “Roscoe,” he said after a shrewd glance at the doorway— “Roscoe, go back to the vault, check up once more, then bring me one of the sacks. Also, Roscoe—”

The chief weigher had turned to go. “Roscoe, say nothing of this to anybody. Bring a sack here, leaving a receipt with the vault-keeper, and also bring a scales— the kind that automatically weigh gold pieces. There’s one in the assay room.”

Aldrich fished a second perfecto from his vest-pocket, lighted it, and stepped to the window. He breathed deeply of the outer air. The bustle of the street, the shouts of the newsboys with their war-extras, the shuffling of passing feet, all seemed a reality of the new world. Roscoe had thrown him into a doubt which all but passed as he waited and dragged upon the cigar.

“The worst that can be the matter,” he concluded. “is that the sacks are short in count, or that there ain’t five hundred double-eagles in each sack. We’ve never lost a cent. I’ll bet a box of cigars it’s this heat that’s affected old Roscoe and his count!”

The chief weigher appeared as Aldrich was finishing the cigar. Aldrich sat down in his swivel-chair as Roscoe deposited a sealed sack and a coin-scales upon the extension of the desk.

“What did you find?” asked Aldrich with a good-natured twinkle in his olive eyes.

“The same,” husked Roscoe, wiping his forehead where beads of moisture had sprung from clear skin. “It’s the same— each time. There’s one thousand sacks in the vault. They should weigh fifty-three pounds, six ounces more than they do.”

“Eh-m!” Aldrich glanced at the sack. He lifted it, held it out, ran his eyes over its surface, then dropped it upon the desk. “It looks all right,” he mused. “Looks as if it had never been tampered with. Did you weigh it?”

“Yes, sir. It’s about seven ounces short— they are all about that much short.”

“All?”

“Yes. I weighed thirty of them from different parts of the vault. Something’s the matter— somewhere. I don’t understand it at all.”

Aldrich drew out his gold knife that was attached to a watch-chain. He opened it, slit under the cords that bound the neck of the sack, and pried the red seal loose.

“We’ll count them first.” he said as he spread the sack open and dumped the doubleeagles upon the desk. Roscoe watched as Aldrich stacked the coins into piles, of twenties. He leveled them off, stooped and ran his eye over the piles, then said:

“They’re all there— five hundred. Twenty-five piles.”

Roscoe mopped his forehead. The heat seemed to have risen in the room.

“Now,” said Aldrich seriously, “we’ll weigh one.” Roscoe set the scales upon the center of the desk. Aldrich picked up a coin from off a pile, felt of it, balanced it in his hand, then allowed it to settle in the groove marked “double-eagle.”

They both leaned. The scales lifted the coin with a quick snap— the weight went down.

Both men glanced at the coin.

“I’ll try another.” said Aldrich in perplexity. The second twenty-dollar gold piece weighed light, as had the first. Aldrich’s hand trembled as he reached for more. He tried a dozen with nervous fingers. The result was the same.

“Good God!” he exclaimed, reaching for his handkerchief and wiping his face. “What can be the matter? They’re new coins minted this year at Washington. They look right. They haven’t been in circulation. Roscoe, bring me another sack. Take it from the back of the vault.”

Aldrich gathered up the gold pieces and dropped them into the sack. He opened a drawer and laid the sack among some papers. His hand trembled as he turned the key in the Yale lock. He sat down, then tapped upon the edge of the desk. Now and then he turned and glanced out the doorway. Roscoe seemed long in coming. The chief weigher staggered in finally. He had brought two sacks. These Aldrich opened, as he had opened the first sack. The coins checked— five hundred to a sack. The weight of each gold piece was light. Aldrich tried a score. He sat down then, stared blankly at the open sky through the window, then turned toward the perspiring Roscoe.

“Check the number of sacks in the vault,” he ordered. “Then after you have checked them seal the vault— and do not let any one take any sacks from it. I shall keep these three sacks of short-weight coins.”

Aldrich glanced at the drawer where he had placed the first sack.

“Shall I try the other vaults?” asked the chief weigher. “The coins are in boxes there— but you might open one and bring me a few. We’ll try them with the scales. We’ve had no complaints from the banks, have we?”

“None that I have heard— but the banks have never had any of the gold out of the third vault since the last shipment from Washington.”

“This entire shipment was checked as to weight?”

“Yes— and found correct. I’ll swear that the weights in vault one, two, three, and four, which are in the old building, are correct with Washington’s figures. That is, they were checked in correct.”

“And vault three is short now!” Aldrich’s voice was final. “That’s the situation,” he added.

“Well— try the others in the old building and report your findings. This matter is serious, and but for our receipts to Washington I’d think the trouble was at the mint. You may go now.”

Aldrich picked up one of the gold pieces as Roscoe softly closed the door. It appeared to his trained touch a trifle light. He dropped it in the slot of the scales, then leaned and eyed its milling. Finding this sharp and perfect, he compared it with a gold twenty he drew out from his pocket. There seemed no difference. He weighed the pocket-piece. The scales balanced to a hair.

“They’re all about a quarter of a pennyweight light,” he concluded, glancing at the coins on the desk. “That much is settled. Now, how did they come to be that light? The mint did not make a mistake— they never make mistakes. The weight was correct when the vault was closed. Each coin is a fraction light when the vault is opened. I don’t know whether it’s a case for a detective or an assayer. I’ll try both.”

Aldrich pressed a button on the side of his desk. He turned then and lifted the telephone-receiver.

“Give me Hudson 3-9-0-4!” he said. “That you, Frank? Say, Frank, get the chief on the wire— yes, this is Aldrich. This you chief? Say, chief, I want you to send a smart man down here right away. No— not Bull. No, Grace won’t do— somebody they don’t know here. Some Washington man, if you’ve got one. I want an operative with something besides bone in his head! Have you got one?”

Aldrich listened, then smiled.

“All right,” he said, “send him along. I’ll be in my office— tell him to come right up. Good-by!”

Aldrich hung up the receiver and turned toward the door. He listened a moment, then wheeled in the chair.

He was leaning back with a perfecto in his mouth when a light tap sounded on the panel.

“Come in,” said Aldrich. The door opened, admitting the chief assayer, who had worked for the government twenty years.

“A job for you!” exclaimed Aldrich, picking up three of the gold-pieces and toying with them. “I want you to rush an assay of these right away. You’ll find them light. I want to know what makes them light. There may be too much alloy— there may be something else the matter with them.”

The assayer weighed one in the hollow of his palm. “Seems a shade light,” he said. “Perhaps they’ve been sweated by an acid. They look a little different.”

“Test them out and bring the result. I’m not prepared to say what is the matter— except that something is wrong. The thing is serious. Be careful and keep your findings to yourself.”

The chief assayer went out. Aldrich waited, debating the problem over and over in his mind. Now and then he turned toward the pile of gold-pieces on his desk and fingered them reflectively.

A knock sounded then.

“Come in!” said Aldrich. The door opened.

The figure that stepped in caused Aldrich to stiffen in his chair with suspicion. He ran his eyes over a perfect specimen of an old-clothes peddler. A brown derby was hung on the back of a long, shrewd head. The eyes that fixed upon his own were cunning and sharp. The peddler’s outfit savored of Grand Street or the East Side. A rolled-up newspaper was under one arm.

“Well,” said Aldrich, half rising from his chair— “well, who let you in?”

“I’m from th’ chief,” explained the peddler with a light laugh. “Chief said ‘you wanted a man without a bone-head’— so I came over!”

“Good!” exclaimed Aldrich. “I’m glad there’s one in the world. Here’s the situation. What’s your name?”

“Drew— ‘Triggy’ Drew. ‘Triggy’ Comes from a bad habit with my triggerfinger.”

Aldrich smiled.

“Sit down,” he said. “Now look one of these over while I talk.”

Aldrich passed over a twenty-dollar goldpiece taken from one of the two sacks.

It was ten minutes later when Drew rose, coughed, and went to the window. He thrust his hands in his pockets as he glanced up and down the street.

He turned and said: “You’re short over ten thousand, then. My opinion is that the trouble lies at the mint.”

Aldrich frowned as he glanced at the detective. He drew out a perfecto, bit off its end, then struck a match on his shoe.

“I thought of that,” he said coolly. “That was the first thought. I’ve been here ten years, and I never knew of the mint to send out a light coin let alone thousands of them. They have automatic machines which weigh, count, and sack the gold pieces. Besides, their weight was correct with ours when the coins were received.”

“I’m to start with the supposition, then,” blurted Drew, “that a thief went into the vault and nicked about a quarter’s worth of gold from every double-eagle.”

“That’s the way it looks.”

“How—” started Drew when the door opened and the assayer stepped in.

“Well?” asked Aldrich, glancing up. “The coins are seven pennyweights light. The ratio of gold to base metal is correct— nine to one. They were not drilled or sweated or clipped. I looked them over very carefully.”

Aldrich glanced at Drew.

“That’s the assayer’s report,” he said. “Sweet, isn’t it? I’ve given the government a receipt for full weight— I’m responsible unless we can find the reason.”

Drew laid down his roll of newspaper and his hat.

“Let’s go take a look at the vault,” he suggested. Aldrich nodded. He rose, gathered up the coins on his desk, then turned swiftly. The door swung open, the chief weigher staggered in, white-faced and wildeyed.

“We’re robbed more!” he stuttered. “We’re hit hard! Some of the kegs and the boxes— the ones I weighed— are way short. They’re sealed and all that, but they’re short. It’s in all four vaults. Everything is wrong with our figures— everything!”

“Good God!” exclaimed Aldrich.

The chief weigher glanced at Drew.

“He’s all right,” husked Aldrich. “He’s on the case.”

Drew started toward the door. Aldrich tossed the bags of gold into a lower drawer, locked it, then led the way down through the hallway to a stairs that descended into a darkvaulted basement, out of which the government had partitioned strong boxes for the storage of gold and silver.

The chief weigher led the way to the old wing where they paused before the iron door of vault No. 3. It was locked and sealed. A watchman hurried up as Aldrich called. He unlocked the outer door. The chief weigher drew it open, stooped and inserted a flat key into the lock of the inner door. It came open with a rusty wheeze of the hinges. Aldrich reached and snapped on a light.

The sacks of gold were arranged about the vault in orderly rows save in the place where the three had been removed by the chief weigher.

Drew sat down on a sack of gold, crossed his legs, and shot a shrewd eye about the vault. He surveyed the ceiling, then the floor. He rose with a languid air and went over the side plates.

“I don’t know why we’re here.” he laughed good-naturedly. “If each vault has been tapped it’s a job for a lot of thinking. I wouldn’t say offhand that it’s going to be something we can see close up. This place would disgrace a country bank. It’s old and falling apart. The rivets seem loose.”

Aldrich ran his finger along the damp sides of the vault.

“I never thought they were as loose as all that,” he mused thoughtfully. “Why, you can almost pull them out!”

“Rust,” suggested the chief weigher.

“That’s what seemed to happen to the gold—rust! I never heard of gold rusting, though,” said Aldrich. Drew furrowed his brows. “There’s an idea there,” he said. “I’ve heard of gold growing in mines— why not rusting away in a damp vault?”

Aldrich stepped to the door of the vault. “We might as well leave this,” he suggested. “The walls are ten feet thick, sheathed with the plates you see. The floor is concrete on railroad iron. There’s no tunnel or anything like that. If there was we’d lost the gold in a bunch. The stuff simply melted away—or all our scales are wrong.”

“A good checking up— a new count all round wouldn’t hurt,” said Drew. “The first thing to do is to find out how much you are short. If five or six hundred pounds of gold have gone in the thin air they must have gone somewhere. If it isn’t natural causes it’s unnatural. If it’s that, there’s a thread we can pick up somewhere some time.”

Aldrich led the way to the other vaults. These were examined in turn. In each the same careful scrutiny was made by Drew. The one point of interest to him seemed to be the loose rivets of the iron-sheathing— the decrepit condition of the government strong-boxes wherein was stored bullion that reached into many millions of money. He scratched his head in perplexity.

“The protection of these places,” he said cuttingly, “lies in the watchmen—not in the construction of the vaults. They are impossible. I wouldn’t expect a pawnbroker to keep plated stuff in this type of vault. Perhaps, though, that’s our very reason to conclude that the gold has never been tampered with in here by human hands— the simpler a thing the more difficult— sometimes. This layout reminds me of English vaults where the total protection is in the hands of watchmen. I suppose for a base we can assume that yours are like Caesar’s spouse— above suspicion!”

Aldrich held up his hands. His olive eyes flashed.

“If I were to tell you the precautions we take here in the matter of guarding these vaults you would not believe me. I don’t believe that there is any spot in all the world more closely guarded.”

Drew nodded and stepped out into the hallway. He counted six watchmen in various corners of the long, dark hallway.

“Looks like it.” he snapped, glancing at his watch. “Well, let’s go up to your office. I think this is a matter of finding out just how much gold is gone— also of getting Washington on the wire. I can start the investigation there. We’ll have an operative go over the government shipments to you and check the weights. There’s always a chance of a slip somewhere.”

Aldrich led the way up-stairs. He sank into his swivel-chair as Drew telephoned to his chief, then to Washington.

The detective hung up the receiver. “That’ll start them,” he said. “Now let’s check up. You’ve given orders to weigh and count all the gold in the four vaults, I presume?”

“I have,” said Aldrich.

“You’ll have this report soon?”

“Yes.”

Drew leaned upon the window-sill and glanced up and down the street.

“The richest and most talked-of in the world,” he mused aloud. “We’re in the very hub of the financial world. Its spokes extend to the four corners of the world and the rim of the universe. If a crook were to pick out a spot for a gigantic operation this would be the spot. Since the war I have heard there is more gold gathered in this building than was ever in one place before. Is that correct?”

“There’s over a billion and a half.”

“Some swag! I don’t wonder that the attempt was made. I don’t wonder that it was successful so far. I’m acting on the assumption that Washington sent you the correct count and weight. Your figures show that this was the case. The shortage is here. If there was no other lead to follow I would suggest that we start from a more careful guarding of the vaults and a secret watch being set. It is idle to say that the thing could not be done. It has already been done. You are short over ten thousand— perhaps a million when the full count is in.

“This leads to the deduction that if there is a million missing there is a million of gold, in the world that somebody somewhere will try to convert into other security. It’s a criminal trait to convert spoils. The natural means to convert gold bullion is to get banknotes for it. Do you follow me?”

“It’s about as clear as mud,” blurted Aldrich with asperity. “How did a crook take seven grains of gold from each gold piece? Answer that and I can follow you.”

“I don’t know how,” laughed Drew. “But the thing was done, as you yourself admit. You say it happened. All right, then— I’m working from the known fact. I’m supposing that all of your watchmen and guards are honest. I’m supposing that you are honest. I’m going over all this and arriving at one conclusion: Gold was stolen or, at least, has disappeared from your vaults. It went away from under your eyes as if it had wings. If it was taken away it must still be in existence. If it’s in existence then the holder of it will naturally try to change it into something else— perhaps into gold pieces or gold certificates. Where in the world would he find a better place than right here? I suggest you look over your receipts and we will run down every purchase of magnitude. If we find some seller who can’t explain where he received his gold, then that’s the man, Aldrich.”

“Suppose you were right regarding the disappearance of the gold. Suppose it is in some crook’s possession— he might hold it and not try to change it. Mind you, I’m only supposing— the thing is beyond me, right now. I haven’t an idea or a clue in the world— everything seems to be beyond my brain.”

“It’s a material world— almost,” said Drew. “It’s an age of inventions and applied mechanics. There is an eternal balance of things that leads me to believe that we owe it to ourselves to conclude that the human mind will err under certain conditions. The mind that worked out a plan for nicking your gold pieces of seven grains each might err in disposing of these seven grains. That’s my theory of going about this case— it’s a chance, at any rate.”

“And a mighty slim one.”

“What else have we to work from?” The detective thrust out his hands, palms upward.

Aldrich chewed savagely at the butt of his perfecto. He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. His fingers drummed upon the edge of the desk. He leaned then and inserted a key in the lower drawer. He drew out one of the three sacks and poured the gold pieces upon the desk.

“Nice,” he muttered. “Nice, and they look right— but they ain’t. They’d pass till they reached some careful bank. We’ve had all kinds of things tried on us— sweating by means of an acid— shaking up in a bag till some of the gold is worn off— drilling and a copper wire plugging the drillhole. We’ve even found platinum wire in the old days before platinum was dearer than it is now. We’ve found everything, but this beats me! Seven grains gone and they’re not even worn! Ump!”

Drew paced back and forth across the room.

“We’ll start with Washington’s report,” he said. “We’ll check up with the total amount missing as soon as you receive it— we’ll act on th’—”

Aldrich turned to the door as it was opened. The chief weigher stepped in, closed it, then glanced at a paper he held in his hand as he approached Aldrich.

“You remember me saying that there was a shortage of fifty-three pounds, eight ounces in the third vault?” he blurted to Aldrich.

“I do,” said Aldrich. “Well, counting the three sacks you have, the shortage has now increased to fifty-nine pounds, four and a quarter ounces. Every time I weigh the sacks they get lighter!”

Triggy Drew bit his lower lip. His eyes swung from the white, drawn face of the chief weigher to Aldrich.

“Lighter!” snapped Aldrich.

“Yes, sir, lighter.” The chief weigher glanced from the paper in his hand to the gold pieces on the desk. They seemed to fascinate him.

“I can’t make head nor tail of my own weights,” he said blankly. “I don’t seem to get the same result twice— which is unusual. I’ve had every sack weighed in the third vault. Their total, added to the weight of the three sacks you have, shows a considerable shortage over the weight I had this morning.”

“We might weigh these,” suggested Drew, pointing to the gold pieces on the desk.

Aldrich gathered them up, counted them, then dropped the gold double-eagles into the sacks. “Get scales,” he said over-shoulder to the chief weigher. “Get another sack, too— one that you have already weighed.”

The chief weigher returned with small gold scales such as assayers use. Into the pan of this he laid the sack from the vault. Its weight was just under 507 grains of gold per coin, deducting the weight of the sack. This made the coins nine grains short from 516 grains, their standard weight.

Drew, who figured the weight, turned then and laid one of the sacks from Aldrich’s desk upon the pan of the scales. This weighed 509 grains per coin. He glanced at his scrawled figures on the back of an envelope, then he passed the result over to Aldrich.

“We’re getting nowhere,” he exclaimed— “unless— yes, unless the longer the gold remains in the vault the lighter it gets. That seems to be one answer. One would think we were talking of ice— or snow. If the gold of the world starts melting it’s time for us to throw up the case. If, however, it melts or rusts or just disappears in one spot, it’s time we were getting into the game.”

Aldrich fished another perfecto from his vest pocket. “I’d say,” he said between puffs of smoke. “that we were getting closer. Suppose we go over the records of gold received from private assay offices and the like. Also, suppose, we make a careful search throughout the city of any buyer or seller of gold in quantity. In the mean time I’ll have a check on our weights, and just how much we’ve lost by ‘melting’ or whatever it is. It’ll take days to get a full report of every pawn-shop and assay office. I’ll have the weight by evening— that is the weight of the gold in the four vaults. The others are all right.”

Aldrich turned toward the chief weigher.

“Yes, they check correctly,” he said. “It’s all in the vaults of the old building. Perhaps we better transfer the gold, sir.”

“I don’t think that would be a bad idea.”

“It might,” said Drew. “In fact I’m pretty sure that it would. But one thing— if the gold is ‘melting’ by an outside agency, we better leave it there another day. At any rate, I’m going to spend the night in vault three and wait for further developments.”

“But why take chances of losing more?” asked Aldrich, in dismay.

“If,” started Drew, “if— now I’m only supposing— if there is an agency at work destroying or copping your gold, and this agency is human, they would take alarm at the removal of the bullion or the gold pieces from the vault. You see my point— any power whatsoever that is subtle enough to penetrate through all your defenses, in the way of concrete and plating, would also be subtle enough to detect the fact that the gold had been removed. Therefore we must let things be natural— for another day— at any rate.”

“This is all weird to me!” exclaimed Aldrich. “We seem to be in another age or in the fourth dimension, or something queer.”

“There’s always an answer,” said Drew. “The answer to this riddle may be simple— I doubt it though.”

Aldrich chewed upon the butt of his perfecto. “You may go finish the weighing,” he said to the chief weigher. “Leave the four sacks here, and the scales. Bring me your figures of the old vaults as soon as you finish. We’ll get to the bottom of this thing, or I’ll resign.”

“I’ve known,” said the detective, as the door closed behind the form of the chief weigher. “I’ve known of vaults being robbed by blasting the doors with nitroglycerin— I’ve heard of them being opened with oxyacetylene blow-pipes—I’ve read somewhere of allowing an acid to drip on the gold and collecting the acid at the drain pipe of the vault. I’ve all these things to refer to, but I never dreamed of the thing we’re up against— taking gold out without disturbing the walls or the door. It’s a new twist to larceny.”

“Or a natural cause!” exclaimed Aldrich. “And I think that we’ll find it a natural cause. There isn’t a particle of evidence of anything else. I ought to go round pulling my hair and crying the news to every detective and official in the service— but I’m so sure we’ll work it out ourselves I’ve kept my nerve. I’m responsible for this gold down to the last grain, but I don’t believe in the supernatural.”

“It’s mostly bosh!” snapped Drew. “Natural causes in a natural world— I agree with you. Just the same we must remember the age we are living in. There’s a lot of things coming up with seven-league boots— wireless, and radium, and the theory of atoms. Suppose that some master mind hit upon an adaptation of new-found energy?”

“I’d have to be shown!” exclaimed Aldrich.

The detective picked up his hat and roll of newspapers. “I’m going over to Central Office,” he said, turning at the door. “I’m going to have the city operatives scout me up all the information they have on file concerning the purchase of gold by any of the thousands of pawn-shops, assay-offices, and refiners. They have this record in case of theft. It might lead to something, Aldrich.”

“Hardly with the pawn-shop records— perhaps with the refiners or assay offices. If you don’t find anything you had better try the other cities — Washington, Boston, and Philadelphia.”

“We’ll try them all before we’re through, unless I run across something. I’ll be back by five. You better make arrangements for me to spend the night in vault three. You ought to have your chief weigher’s report by then.”

Aldrich nodded as Drew passed through the doorway. He feared this chief weigher’s report as some condemned felon would fear the drop. Its coming hung over him like a sword of Damocles. The shortage was already sufficient to cause consternation at Washington. It promised to make a national sensation. He thought of German spies, of master minds, of treachery somewhere within the massive walls of the Sub-Treasury.

The chief weigher crept into the room at four o’clock. His face was as long as his lists of triple-checked weights.

“We’re ruined and robbed,” he muttered, with slight control of his voice. “Vault one shows a shortage of sixty-seven, odd, pounds— vault two is eighty-four pounds short— vault three is sixty-two and a quarter pounds short, and vault four, where the bullion is stored, checks fully four hundred and ninety pounds of gold under what we put in it.”

“What!” exclaimed Aldrich. “Yes, sir. I’ve the figures here— there’s no mistake. We’re roughly speaking, seven hundred pounds of gold, short!”

Aldrich mopped his brow with his shirt sleeve. He glared at the cringing figure of the chief weigher as if he would spring on him and throttle his neck. He tried to speak and found his throat parched.

“Good God!” he managed to gasp. “It can’t be!”

The chief weigher shook his head. “I checked three times,” he whispered. “I’ve had twenty-five men working over the gold. I’ve put it all back and sealed the vaults.”

“Have you tried the other vaults?”

“They’re all right— the shortage is in the old building. The kegs and boxes I tried in the new, check to a grain. There’s nothing missing there.”

“Leave your report,” said Aldrich, mopping his brow for the tenth time. “Leave it. I’ll warn you, or any one who assisted you in the weighing, to keep silent as a graveyard about the matter. We can’t allow the newspapers to get hold of it. If they do we’re never going to get the gold back.”

“Get it back?” queried the chief weigher.

“Sure— it’s gone somewhere.”

“So has the winter. Do you know what the men say who were helping me?”

Aldrich frowned as he glanced upward. “They say, Mr. Aldrich, that the mint’s bought some new imitation gold that goes into vapor like phosphorus or radium. They say that somebody’s discovered how to make a near-gold that isn’t stable. Do you think that can be?”

“Say,” said Aldrich. “Say, Roscoe, if you or anybody else were to walk in here and tell me that pink monkeys were chasing brass parrots about the assay-rooms, I’d believe them.”

Roscoe edged toward the doorway.

“Yes—I’d believe them! It ain’t a bit more unlikely than gold melting or violet rays to kill at twenty miles or powder so powerful that a pinch would destroy the city, It’s a great age— this age of war and invention. They’re melting my gold away right under my eyes, and I can’t see it go. I’d sooner have the pink monkey about, than what is really happening.”

“So would I.”

Aldrich, who was looking for sympathy, frowned as the chief weigher edged out through the doorway, and closed the door softly behind him.

“You’re hard luck!” he snapped as he swivelled in his chair. “You’re about as cheerful as a picture of No-Man’s Land.”

Aldrich tired finally of accusing himself. He tapped the desk, found a halfsmoked perfecto in one of the pigeonholes, lighted this, and leaned back with his feet cocked upon the extension slide.

“I’ll wait,” he decided, more cheerfully. “I’ll wait for that ‘old-cash-clothes’ detective to return. I’ll lock him in the vault overnight, and then I’ll make my report out to the treasurer. It’ll take me two hours to tell him what I don’t know about the missing gold.”

TRIGGY DREW stepped into the SubTreasury as the clock in Trinity Tower was striking five. He tapped on Aldrich’s door, then entered at a low voiced, “Come in!”

Aldrich was tossing a gold piece in the air, then catching it on the fly. “I’ve got an idea!” he blurted, glancing round.

“Same here,” said Drew. “Let’s hear yours.”

“I’ve been over the receipts of gold from outside sources.” Aldrich reached and picked up a report submitted to him by the chief clerk of the receiving department. “There’s just three prospects in it— the rest are too well known to question. One smelter of gold is Levi of Houston Street. He deposited with us all of $20,000 during the last week. Another is Simpkins of the Bowery. He brought in $83,000 gold and a lot of bullionbricks which are not yet refined. The third is Grossman and Monneson of Wall Street. They sent over yesterday and to-day about $100,000 in gold ingots. These ingots run well to lead and other base metals.”

“Their place isn’t far from here— is it?” asked Drew interested. “Half a block.”

“Ump!”

“Close, eh? So close that I looked them up. Grossman is dead. Monneson runs the business which is considerable, judging from the records of our office. Queer they should jump their transactions with us just when the shortage was discovered?”

“Were they paid for the gold they left?”

“Yes— in large, gold certificates.”

Drew glanced at a paper he drew from his coat pocket.

“Great minds,” he began, then paused. “Do you know that I had that firm marked from the police sheets. It’s locality, so close to the Sub-Treasury, set me thinking. Their report given to the police this morning was practically nil— a few thousand dollars’ worth of bullion and watch-cases bought from Maiden Lane jewelers. The day before that it was less. From the sheet I wouldn’t believe they did enough business to pay for the lights.”

“A hundred thousand in a day is no trifle.”

Drew thrust his hands in his pockets and strode across the floor of the manager’s office. He brought up with a sharp turn.

“I’ll put the Center Street runners on Monneson’s trail!” he snapped, as he reached for the telephone. “We might as well find out all we can of Monneson. They can trail him to-night, and report in the morning.”

Aldrich leaned back as Drew spoke rapidly into the phone. He hung the receiver up, then stretched his arms.

“He’ll be put to bed, and then some, by that bunch,” said the detective. “They’ll have his whole history, the story of his life, the kind of beer or wine he favors and his general character, when we need it. It’s only a suspicion, anyway. Queer, though, we both thought of him? I suppose it’s because he’s the nearest.”

“We might take a stroll down there,” suggested Aldrich, rising. “What do you say to a walk round the block? It might freshen us as to locality. It might give us an idea. The street’s dead from now on. I don’t believe there’s a thing stirring save a few watchmen and private detectives.”

Drew led the way down the steps of the Sub-Treasury Building. They both struck toward Broadway as if by intuition. They turned at an up-town corner, walked rapidly eastward, and passed the Sub-Treasury upon its blank side.

“That’s the old building where the four vaults are,” said Aldrich, pinching Drew’s arm. The detective turned and said, pointing: “The next is a bank— the next a bond house— the next is a back extension to Grossman and Monneson’s nice little assayoffice and smelter. Doors and windows covered with sheet iron in regulation security. No lights that I can see. Looks all right but then looks, like twenty-dollar gold pieces, may be counterfeited.”

Aldrich turned back and drew the detective across the street.

“We’ve seen all there is to see,” he said, glancing at his watch. “We’d better go to the Sub-Treasury and think this over. Monneson is up-town, perhaps, and the Central Office is taking care of him.”

Drew paused at the corner. His glance at the barred windows of the smelter and refiner was long and shrewd. Then he went on with Aldrich.

AN HOUR LATER he was securely locked in vault three. Aldrich had assured him that there would be plenty of air, as a small ventilator was in one of the corners of the vault. Drew found this and tested it with cigar smoke. It was in working order. He sat down then, moved the catch on his flash-light, and leaned back against the sacks of gold.

He was in total darkness— a darkness so profound he was not aware when his eyes were open or closed. The dull booming of Trinity’s bells was a faint sound to mark the passage of the hours. The rumble of passing trucks came to him as slight tremors. His hearing became so acute that he detected the passage of the subway-trains that ran under Broadway. Nothing else disturbed his vigil. He went over the entire matter of the disappearance of the gold— the gradual melting of the coins which savored of the supernatural. He had believed that he would detect the presence of vapor or fume which might prove the answer to the problem. He sniffed the air now and then without any result. It was pure and sweet. He flashed the light about the corners of the vault. Nothing was there save the whitecanvas sacks and the rusty walls of the place.

ALDRICH let him out in the morning.

“Anything?” he asked as he led the detective to his office.

“Not even a mouse. Have the gold, checked, just the same.” Aldrich pressed the button on the end of his desk, for the chief assayer. To him he repeated Drew’s request. As the door closed, the detective picked up the receiver of the telephone and called up Central Office. His face grew hard as he listened to the report. He turned finally and stepped to the window. Out of this he thrust his head and glanced up and down the street. The market was not yet open but the great financial district teemed with clerks and stenographers who were hurrying to their positions.

“We’ll wait for the chief weigher’s report,” said Drew, drawing in his head. “After we get this report, we’ll act one way or the other. The matter has cleared considerable overnight. Monneson has two places of business— one is the assay and refining office down the street from this building. The other is in the Financial Savings Building. By a strange coincidence both his offices are in the basements of the buildings. This fact is suggestive—very suggestive!”

“The Financial Savings?” exclaimed Aldrich. “Why — why that’s right over there.”

Aldrich pointed toward Broadway.

“Sure,” grinned the detective. Aldrich paced the floor. He was on the point of speaking, when the chief weigher knocked on the door and then came in.

“Well?” asked Aldrich. The chief weigher glanced at his figures, upon a scrap of paper.

“I’ve checked up the gold in vault three,” he said slowly. “Checked it up and we are now short one hundred and nine pounds, eight—”

Drew’s exclamation caused the chief weigher to pause. Aldrich turned. Drew was at the telephone. His voice, as he got the connection, was terse, eager.

“Twenty men,” he said. “Yes—  twenty! Get them here right away. Send them down, two at a time. We’ll start from here! Yes— from the Sub-Treasury. Have a wagon or two handy. We’re going to raid both offices, Charlie.”

Drew hung up and turned.

“What’s this mean?” asked Aldrich.

“Quick action! If we don’t have quick action you won’t have any gold worth mentioning. Thirty or forty pounds of the yellow metal melted while I was sitting on it. Let’s see— what time it took.”

Drew glanced at his watch. He shook it and listened. He wound it with a puzzled expression on his face. “Funny,” he said. “Funny— it won’t run. I thought for a minute that it had run down. Wonder what’s the matter with it?” Drew opened the back of the case and peered inside. He thrust in his finger and fished out the hair spring which had broken. This he held up to the light like a strand of human hair.

“Nice,” he muttered below his breath. “Nice thing. Look at it, Aldrich. It’s lost its spring and temper— it’s half eaten away!”

Aldrich took the spring. He felt of it, then moved to the window. His face wore a puzzled twist as he crushed it between his fingers.

“Like lead.” he said slowly. “It’s been eaten by some acid.”

Drew grinned. “You’re close,” he said positively. “You’re closer than you think— but it’s not acid or vapor or anything you could put your fingers on and say you had something. No. it isn’t as crude as that. One thing, though, the same thing happened to that watch spring that happened to the rivets and the walls of your vaults. In another week they’d all be gone.”

Aldrich stared at the detective, blankly.

“I don’t see yet—” he began.

“Nor I!” snapped Drew. “I know this, however. There’s a force at work that attacks all metals at a distance. It not only attacks but it also takes away. This force can be governed and directed. I’m no scientist, but it is not a far step from what has already been done and what is known. Somebody— Monneson perhaps— has jumped the age a decade or more, and, being a crook, he’s used it against the greatest collection of gold in the history of the world. If we don’t stop him he’ll have it all. We’ll stop him. I’ll take the chance of a raid. If I’m wrong, then it’s flowers and another job for me.”

“But can’t we go slower?” asked Aldrich. “Don’t you think we’d better investigate his smelter and his office before we raid?”

“No I don’t!” Drew’s voice was positive. “I’ve seen too many birds fly, to wait for an empty nest. Now’s the golden moment.”

“It’s golden, all right,” said Aldrich. “Well, here’s the ‘C. O.’ detectives, so let’s get on the job.”

Drew marshaled the twenty detectives who arrived within minutes of each other.

“Surround Monneson’s smelter place down the block,” he told twelve of them. “Surround it— don’t let anybody in or out. Four of you go through the whole plant— hold everybody—then report to me. The rest of us will be at the office in the basement of the Financial Savings Building. There’s enough to take care of everything.”

Aldrich followed Drew who led the way down the steps and then along the street. The detective split. Drew posted two men at the entrance of the building where Monneson had an office and a small exchange-room below the level of the sidewalk.

“Now,” said the detective, “we’ll spring what the French call, ‘A fly trap.’”

Drew rapidly turned the corner, grasped Aldrich’s arm, and paused as he reached the basement steps that led to Monneson’s exchange-room.

“A quick rush, boys!” he exclaimed. “Draw your guns and round up everybody you find below. Come on Aldrich!”

The detective sprang down the stairs, thrust open the door and dashed in.

“Take those two!” he shouted over shoulder, as he pointed toward the clerks behind a netting. “Come on, Aldrich!” he repeated as he twisted a knob, then sprang in through a second doorway.

Aldrich followed at his heels.

The room was bare, save for a litter of strong boxes, kegs, and papers. Drew stood in the center of the floor, allowed his eyes to wander over the walls, then stepped to a closed closet door. It was locked.

The detective squared his jaw as he swung his leg, lifted his foot, and brought his heel crashing against the panel near the lock. He repeated the blow. The panel splintered. Drew reached inside, fingered the catch, then smiled grimly as the door came open.

Aldrich leaned over the detective’s shoulder. The closet was about eight feet square. Against the wall on the side furthermost from the door hung a black covering such as photographers use. Drew reached out and brushed this aside. Behind it in an alcove that ran under the sidewalk, stood an arrangement of wires and plates, with one insulated conductor extending to a small wash-basin.

Drew stepped to this, wrapped his hand with a handkerchief, and disconnected the wire from the water pipe.

“A ground!” he exclaimed. “The plate you see there with the collectors in front of it was grounded to the water-main. Take a look at the plate. There’s no danger now.”

“It’s gold!” declared Aldrich. “It’s gold on the street side. It’s so heavy I can’t lift it.”

“What’s the other metal? What’s the plate made of?”

“Looks like lead,” said Aldrich. “All right— leave it. This is the receiving end of the game. This is where all your gold has come. Now for the other end— the sending end. Monneson ought to be there!”

Drew gave instructions to the detectives as he passed through the outer office. He climbed the stairs to the street, two steps at a time.

“Come on!” he snapped to Aldrich. “Come on, quick! The quarry is at the other place— I thought this would be the generating end.”

Aldrich followed after the detective, his head in a whirl. They mounted the four steps to the entrance of Grossman and Monneson’s. Drew paused and whispered to the detective on guard. The man pointed over his shoulder.

“They’re trying to break in a basement room,” he said. “It’s some job. They sent for axes and crowbars.”

“Good!” exclaimed Drew. “Stay right here and don’t let anybody out except our own men.”

Heavy and ringing blows confirmed the detective’s statement. Drew hurried through the outer room, turned at a landing, and listened. The blows were repeated.

Aldrich clutched his arm.

“It’s all right,” said Drew. “Come on!”

The stairway was dark and dusty. It seemed to lead to a blank wall just beyond the bottom step. Drew flashed his light and discovered a small opening, through which he crawled on hands and knees. Aldrich followed him.

They straightened in a cellar filled with old kegs and boxes bound with iron. The detectives were at the furthermost end where a great, sheathed door had barred their progress. This door was tottering on its hinges as Drew sprang forward and seized an ax. His third blow sent it inward where it crashed upon a stone floor.

Drawing a revolver, Drew charged through the gloom. His light flashed as he stood in the center of a dark vault and searched each corner.

“All right, boys,” he called. “Come in— the whole game is here.”

Lights were lit by the detectives who had found the snap-switches. Aldrich stepped over the fallen door and reached Drew’s side.

The vault presented the appearance of a cyclone-cellar struck by a cyclone. Wreckage was everywhere. A large rotary-generator, driven by a motor, had been overturned and smashed with a hammer. From this, wires led to a huge, lead disk that was supported by glass insulators of the petticoat pattern. In front of this plate lay the remains of a glass tube which had once been all of six feet in diameter. Beyond this tube was a tangled mass of white-metal wires arranged in a cagepattern. These wires flared as a funnel where they reached the stone walls of the vault. It was as if the lead plate, the tube and the outer screen had formed the petal of some giant flower. This flower pointed toward the Sub-Treasury.

Drew stooped and picked up fragments of the tube. The thin glass cut his finger.

“A transformer of some kind,” he said. “It’s smashed now beyond putting together. I’ve an idea it’s the first like this that was ever made.”

The detective stepped back and eyed the entire apparatus.

“Clever,” he said, half to himself. “It’s clever and ten-years new. The current from that rotary generator was transformed in some manner by this tube. Rays were directed from the reflection of the lead plate. They were guided by this funnel— coil of wire. In other words this whole plant was a gigantic cathode or electric projector from which rays were projected to the other plate, or anode, in the basement of the Financial Savings Building.

"These rays, whatever they were, had the property of disintegrating gold and other metals and carrying their ions or atoms until they reached a lead disk. On this disk the gold was deposited somewhat in the manner of electroplating. The vaults in the old portion of the Sub-Treasury were in line with these rays, consequently the gold was ‘melting,’ as we called it.”

Aldrich passed his hand across his head.

“Yes,” said Drew, “that is what happened. Good thing we got it in time. Monneson would have ‘melted’ all of your gold by the discharge of electricity through matter. He probably took his clue from electroplating and from the action of radioactivity in a Crookes’s tube. This plant of his is nothing less than the transmission of electric waves through air or stone without the use of wires. The transmission of electric power ‘via wireless’ has long been expected.”

Drew paused as a detective shouted at the far end of the vault. Lights were flashed there. The detective, who had been stooping over a dark form, rose and came into the light.

“There’s a dead man over there,” he said grimly. “It’s Monneson, I guess, from description. He’s all twisted. He’s taken poison or been electrocuted.”

The detective glanced at the overturned transformer.

“Anything else over there?” asked Drew.

“Yes, there is. There’s a chest crammed full of big yellow bills.”

Drew turned to Aldrich. “That closes the case,” he said.

__________________

10: Thieves Three

C S Montanye

1892-1948

Detective Story, 1 April 1919

THE GIRL first came under Red Rooney’s notice when she entered the bus somewhere uptown. But then he had not paid particular attention to her. He had merely noticed that she was more than ordinarily comely, that she was garbed in a modish suit and that there was about her an air of both breeding and refinement.

Red Rooney was quick to notice things. It was part of his business to be observing; he was a pickpocket by profession and his stock in trade consisted of a pair of keen, discriminating eyes and nervous, agile fingers.

When the bus invaded the uptown business section of the city, the dip for the first time began to take a decided interest in the girl. This interest was inspired by a quaintly-patterned beaded bag the girl carried. It was when she opened the bag that she first attracted Rooney’s attention. She delved into its depths, and produced a tiny powder puff, holding the bag elevated so that she might peer into a small mirror and dust her pretty nose. As she performed, this delicate operation, Rooney, without moving, allowed his gaze to sweep over her shoulder and to focus on the interior of the beaded bag.

What he beheld caused quick thrills to surge through him. His eyes fell on a fat roll of money. The top note of the wad was engraved with three figures. Then, as the dip feasted his optics on it, the girl replaced her powder puff, and in doing so, shifted the contents of the bag, revealing the sparkle of a number of rings.

Rooney felt his sensitive fingers twitching, as the girl snapped an emerald catch on the bag and dropped it to her silken lap.

In front of the new Hotel St. Charles she alighted. Rooney, twisting about, saw her enter its impressive entrance.

At the block below, he too got off and hurried back to the hostelry. As he entered the lobby, he saw the girl vanishing into the Persian tea room.

The dip chuckled to himself, sauntering to the cigar counter where he purchased an expensive weed. In the Persian room were music and dancing. He always worked best where there were gaiety and people. Somehow, he thought, these things inspired him to take chances and to escape, where under other circumstances he might hesitate. He had not the slightest doubt he would soon make the beaded bag his irrevocably.

Red Rooney had great confidence in his own ability.

Then as he clipped the end from his cigar, lighted it, and took a step forward, he gave an imperceptible start.

A man had entered the lobby of the St. Charles; a slim, well-dressed young man with a flower in his buttonhole. At sight of him, Rooney stepped behind a convenient pillar, with a muttered exclamation. He recognized the newcomer immediately. The man was no other than a well-known crook, known throughout the underworld as The Deacon. Moreover, The Deacon knew him well by sight and reputation.

The dip cursed softly as he saw the new arrival cross the lobby and enter the Persian room. Any attempt now to lift the beaded bag must be made under the eyes of The Deacon. And the crook had an unpleasant reputation for butting in on other people’s affairs.

After a moment, Rooney flicked the ash from his Havana and entered the room himself.

The place was comfortably crowded. In a circle made by a ring of small, wicker tables, an animated throng danced to the strains of a Negro jazz orchestra. Rooney dropped into a chair at a vacant table and gave his order to a pacing waiter. He made a mental note that he could well afford to spend a little money in pleasure. Business had been good with him of late, and the pigskin wallet in his pocket was well tilled with crisp bank notes.

He let his gaze wander about the room. After an interval, he discovered the girl of the bus. She was seated in the extreme rear of the place and before her was a tall, frosty glass containing some iced beverage. She sat alone and had dropped the beaded bag to the table top where it glittered oddly under the garish glow of the smoke-obscured lights.

At an adjoining table sat The Deacon, puffing a cigarette imperturbably, but Rooney saw that the man’s keen eyes were appraising both the girl and the bag. Hot rage tingled within him. He had spotted the girl first, and had marked her for his own prey. To have the debonair Deacon intrude at the moment when the snatch was to be made filled him with both anger and dismay. His nails bit deep into the palms of his hands.

A half hour danced by. The room grew more crowded. The waiters, hurrying on their errands, moved more rapidly. The drone of voices deepened. Under other circumstances Red Rooney would have delighted at the filling up of the Persian room. He enjoyed working among crowds, but now the prospect brought him no sense of elation. He dared not approach the table of the girl or make any effort to steal the bag while The Deacon held her table under scrutiny.

For one thing, the man would surely intercept him. If not he would interfere and demand a rake-off. Rooney knew the crook’s reputation well. The Deacon was rather noted for the clever way he had of wriggling out of tight corners, and of conveniently shifting the responsibility of his crimes onto the shoulders of others. Rooney knew of two or three men who were doing time in the stir up the Hudson because they had been unfortunate enough to have mixed into The Deacon’s affairs.

The dip moved his gaze back to the table of the girl. An elderly man had picked a way through the congestion and was bowing to her. The two conversed together.

Then, the orchestra, full of strange melody and queer rhythm, swung into the music of a fox trot and the man nodded toward the center of the floor. It was evident he was asking her to dance with him. The girl rose to her feet. She caught up the beaded bag, swung her arm through the loop, letting it dangle from her crooked elbow. The pair moved out to the floor and trotted off to a blare of syncopation.

Rooney watched them as they revolved in the small circle. The girl was laughing and chatting. The bag on her arm bobbed with every step she took. The dip almost hoped it would open and spill out its contents. Half a loaf was better than nothing. He would have the satisfaction, too, of knowing that the watcher at the other table would get nothing.

The dance over, Rooney, staring, became aware that the table of The Deacon was vacant. The man himself, he saw, was pressing through the crowd, coming off the floor close to where the girl of the bus stood. A number of people passing before the dip’s table shut off his view.

He stood up to see better. As he did so, his lips tightened to a thin, red streak. Over the bent arm of the girl hung the loop of the beaded bag, but there was nothing at either end of the ornamental strap!

In a flash Rooney understood. The Deacon, with lightning like swiftness and precision, had cut away the bag without alarming the girl! The dip wheeled about, madness possessing him. The trick had been neatly done, but The Deacon must still be somewhere about.

As he looked, Rooney saw the man passing through the portals of the room. With a haste that bore no hint of politeness, the dip elbowed a way to the door and emerged into the lobby. As he came out he saw the crook disappearing down a flight of thickly-carpeted stairs. Without hesitation Rooney followed, his mind a red cauldron of rage.

On the floor below was a deserted grillroom. Beyond were located the wash rooms and the barber shop of the hotel.

The Deacon, flushed with success, was making for a quiet spot where he might empty the bag and rid himself of it. Rooney knew this. He had often done the same thing himself. The crook passed through a darkened foyer and entered a narrow corridor. Close behind him the dip followed, his rubber-soled shoes making no noise on the tiled floor. Down the corridor lay the wash rooms, protected by heavy swinging doors. Through these doors The Deacon hurried, and behind him followed Rooney.

The room into which he entered was tenanted only by a sleeping bootblack. As Rooney halted, The Deacon drew the beaded bag from under his coat and, with quiet satisfaction, fumbled with the catch. It was then that the other came into action.

With a snarl, Rooney flung himself forward and swung his clenched fist with all the power he was capable of. The blow caught The Deacon behind the ear and he fell to his knees, releasing the bag. Rooney snatched it up and ran for the doors.

But the crook was not out of the game yet. Dizzily he gathered himself together, and stumbled after the retreating figure of the dip. Outside, Rooney halted, his lips drawn back in a grim smile. The situation was made to order for him.

He caught one of the doors, held it back and waited until the crook appeared in the entrance. When he did, the door was released and swung sharply back with a creak of its powerful hinges. There came the sound of a muffled grunt; then a dull thud.

Holding the bag tightly in one hand, Rooney crossed the foyer and came out by the empty grillroom. He paused; unable to resist the temptation to steal a glance at the contents of his prize.

But as he opened the emerald catch, there came an interruption. Some one glided into view from behind the stairway and the dip looked into the muzzle of a small, pearl-handled revolver.

“I beg your pardon,” a coolly amused voice said; “but what you have there is mine! Hand it over!”

Rooney gasped. It was the girl of the bus and he saw that her eyes were burning with a queer light.

“Hand it over, I say!” she snapped. “I’m in no mood for trifling!”

He looked at the unwavering muzzle of the small but highly efficient weapon she carried. Then he handed her the bag without a word.

“Thank you,” the girl murmured. “You did a neat piece of work, but you made one mistake. You were in too much of a hurry to make your getaway.”

She paused and a smile trembled on her lips.

“Now while I’ve got you stuck up,” she continued, “I might as well see what kind of a day you’ve had!”

Rooney glared into her face. “What— what do you mean?”

The smile still edged the vivid lips. “I mean lift up your hands higher while I go through you!”

She jammed the muzzle of her gun against his chest with a quick, decisive move. Rooney felt himself tremble. Any moment The Deacon might recover and appear on the scene. He had no desire to taste the crook’s revenge.

With an expression of defeat, he raised his hands higher.

The girl with a delicate, professional touch explored his pockets. His wallet she slipped into a slit prepared artfully in the lining of her jacket; then she plucked his scarfpin from his cravat.

She laughed quietly. “Not such a bad afternoon, after all,” she observed. “The old duck I danced with is minus a watch and chain; and I’ve caught you for the roll and the sparkler! Not so bad. And the day isn’t done yet!”

She turned away, her slender shoulders moving with silent mirth, and mounted the stairs, keeping the gun pointed over the balustrade. Rooney followed her with his eyes. When she reached the top of the stairway, she blew him a kiss from her pink finger tips and disappeared.

_________________

11: He Gave Him a Gun

Laurence Donovan

Exciting Detective, Fall (August), 1940

MORIARITY, the traffic cop, rubbed the back of a red-haired hand across his eyes. When he took his hand away, the man with the gun was still there. He was walking toward the Greystone Branch Bank now. The man with the gun was wearing a neat, brown business suit. A soft hat that had a snap-brim at the right angle to shade his vision from the mid-afternoon sun. He was moving purposely toward the entrance to the bank.

The gun was carried carefully under the man’s left arm, the muzzle pointed down at the sidewalk. The man appeared entirely oblivious to the gaping peasantry of midtown Manhattan. He seemed to be accustomed to those villagers who will crowd around a ballyhoo boy threading a needle, and who will buy thread because it went into the needle.

Moriarity’s traffic whistle shrilled.

His thumb flicked a button on the flap of his holstered revolver.

“Hey, you!” he shouted, leaving traffic on its own and shouldering his way onto the sidewalk. “You with that gun! Stand still there now! What th’ devil do you think you’re doin’?”

The tall man halted, turning mild, blue eyes upon the cop. He blinked behind rimless glasses secured on a fine gold chain. His left hand gently stroked his long chin.

“Meaning me, Moriarity?” he said pleasantly. “I’m the only one about who seems to have a gun.”

The traffic cop partly restored his dignity by roughly pushing three goggling youths and wanted to know why they were holding up traffic that way? Moriarity’s ripe tomato face suddenly became redder. He made a movement to conceal the hand that had been furtively sneaking his revolver from its leather. His other hand wiped sweat from his forehead.

“By damn!” he grunted apologetically. “I didn’t know you, Mr. Burke, in that new suit. Everybody was actin’ kind of scared when they seen you—”

“Apparently going out for a little hunting in the peaceful jungles of the West Side,” finished the tall man cheerfully. “It’s a fowling piece, Moriarity, designed to kill birds. Seeing that birdshot would hardly make a dent in the tough stool pigeons of this district, and they being probably the only worthwhile game on the wing. I’ll not be violating the ordinance against discharging firearms, et cetera.”

“That’s a good one, Mr. Burke,” said Moriarity, chuckling. “But I seen you goin’ toward the bank an’ I had to think fast. Maybe you might’ve been a tougher bird than a stool pigeon.”

HE saw George Burke’s mild grin, so he judged his retort must have been clever and he laughed. A policeman halting a man with a gun carried openly was enough to block any sidewalk. Moriarity turned and waved a big hand.

“Move along, alla yuh! There ain’t gonna be any shootin’! Out of the way there, an’ let Mr. Burke through to his bank, you. This way, Mr. Burke.”

Moriarity wedged an opening with a rough shoulder. In the entrance to the bank, George Burke smiled again.

“Thanks, Moriarity,” he said. “Sorry to have caused you all that trouble. The fowling piece has jammed and I couldn’t find the carrying case for it. I brought it down to a shop to be fixed. I’m going up country tonight. Season opens at midnight.”

“Good luck, Mr. Burke,” Moriarity said, and went back to unsnarl the traffic at the corner.

So Moriarity failed to see the stony grimness that erased all the smiling mildness from Burke’s face. He did not hear the words that gritted through Burke’s suddenly clenched teeth.

“And good hunting, Mr. Burke!” said the banker to himself.

Moriarity, four years now on the bank corner, the recipient each Christmas of a brand new five-dollar bill from the mild George Burke, would have been greatly shocked to know that a dead man sat in a locked apartment which Burke had visited less than an hour before. A dead man dressed in a tuxedo and a bullet in his head, whose very evident suicide the mild George Burke had set himself out to avenge.

George Burke walked swiftly through the bank lobby. Two clerks who were checking up books, glanced up and saw his longchinned face, and immediately returned to their figures. Burke opened the door with the word “President” marked on its frosted glass. He walked inside and set the light shotgun, a hand-tooled fowling piece, inside the washroom door. Then he came back to the wide, neatly kept desk.

James Foster, the president, had always been a careful, orderly man. His desk always was as clean when he went to lunch, as when his papers were locked away for the day. It was well that this was so, for today James Foster had not returned from lunch. Burke had been at his own cashier’s desk when Foster had gone out at one o’clock. Foster had nodded, then had an afterthought and turned back. He had removed a bright, newly notched key from his ring.

“Thought you should have a key to my private file, George,” he had said, and smiled when he said it. “Might save you the trouble of having it jimmied open if I should forget to come back from lunch some day.”

Burke now took this bright, new key from his pocket. He went over and inserted it into a steel filing case, the oldest and least modern in the office. Before he removed any papers, Burke stepped swiftly to the narrow, heavily barred window giving light from a short alleyway at the rear of the bank.

“I didn’t imagine it then,” he muttered. “They were in the crowd when Moriarity stopped me, and they followed me here.”

All he had seen in the alleyway had been a man’s slouch hat. But it had been pulled back too quickly as he had walked to the window. Burke reached up and closed the slatted shade.

THERE were various papers concerning the bank’s business in James Foster’s private file. Burke’s mouth went tight when he picked up one and read:

Changes in my will, as suggested, doubtless will be unimportant when this document is read. It is my sincere hope and belief that my daughter, Lela, will by this time have become Mrs. George Burke....

Burke’s face was grimmer still a minute later. His hand shoved aside all other papers when he had opened a letter from a small package that had been carefully sealed. He read:

So, my dear Foss, I told you in stir why I never would carry a gun. I didn’t start out to become a torpedo. They take the raps, just as I took that one. I leave the rods and the choppers to the boys. That has kept me out of trouble. The Law can be morally certain of my little rackets, but the damned cops will never pin another rap on me. This time I am compelled to request more than the usual remittance. The time has arrived to clean up our old affair. So you will get together the fifty grand by the 20th, even if you have to “borrow” some from your bank. Much better this way than to see the depositors lined up after the tabloids have been anonymously informed that James Foster, bank president, is none other than one Gilbert Foss who served a stretch up the river.

A crossed “X” was the only signature. But Burke’s blue eyes were no longer mild behind his gold-chain glasses.

“So that was why he was sitting in that East Side dump with ‘Silky’ Stevens the night I blundered upon him,” murmured Burke. “If he had seen me then—”

Burke broke off his short soliloquy sharply. He pulled newspaper clippings from his pocket. One of these said:

Inspector Monahan told the Reflector that the man killed attempting to collect the Groton extortion money is a member of the Silky Stevens crowd. It’s a moral certainty that Silky knows all the answers in the Groton case, as well as in several unsolved homicides. The public criticizes the police for not taking drastic action against such known employers of killers and heads of rackets. But the best boys from the D. A.’s office never have pinned anything on Silky. His alibi is always unbreakable. He has personally never been known to go armed. Surprised in his office at the Red Roller Roadhouse, Silky Stevens has proved more than once that he will not permit a more dangerous weapon than a toothpick about him, unless it is in the pocket of one of his own personal torpedoes. Though absolutely convinced that Silky is the head of numerous shady enterprises, there has never been a time when the police have been able to get evidence that would stick. For more than twenty years, the smooth Silky had beaten every possible rap. The cops can’t walk in and shoot a man down, however strong may be their personal belief he is a killer who works through others....

The clipping was dated but two weeks before.

GEORGE BURKE read it through twice. Then he stuffed it with the letter from James Foster’s personal file into an inner pocket. The open statement in the Reflector merely repeated the charges that had appeared in other newspapers. It was easy to see that editors had little fear of libel.

“You can’t libel a man who openly boasts of his power and hires killers,” said Burke softly. “The big town’s full of them. The police know them by their first names all over, and the dumbest cop on a beat can pretty well recite the rackets and the murders for which they are responsible.”

Burke arose to his little better than six feet, then his shoulders drooped slightly. They helped maintain the mild aspect of his blue eyes and queer, long chin. He went into his own office, came out with a short ramrod and an oiled cloth. Glancing at the shaded window, he walked into the washroom. Anyone close to the door would have heard a phrase coming from his tight-set teeth.

“I told you in stir I never would carry a gun,” he recited. “I leave the rods and choppers to the boys!”

The ramrod could be heard thudding softly as George Burke cleaned the handtooled fowling piece.

One of the clerks looked up as Burke emerged a few minutes later from his own room and locker at the rear of the bank. Burke was wearing a light tan coat, cord breeches and laced boots, with a longvisored cap over his gold-chained eyeglasses.

“Well, well, Mr. Burke!” said the clerk cheerfully. “I can see this weekend is going to be tough on the birds. How about a pheasant for my collection?”

“Perhaps I’ll have no luck, Jenkins,” said Burke, smiling. “Would you like a nice stuffed buzzard? Or a crow, Jenkins? Last season I shot only a skunk. Purely in self defense, of course.”

The clerks guffawed over the pleasant humor of their boss. “Good hunting, Mr. Burke!” the other clerk wished heartily.

GEORGE BURKE brought his coupe into the parking spot at the Red Roller Roadhouse in a drenching rain that made the darkness of the night more tense, and the lights of the roadhouse more brilliant. When he climbed out, his tan hunting coat was spattered with red clay and hung in discouraged, wet folds around his slightly stooped, bony shoulders.

Only a dozen customers were in the dining room around the dancing floor. A fat bartender was wiping glasses. The orchestra hadn’t begun to get hot yet. Perhaps there were other customers behind the green baize doors at the head of a stairway. Burke wondered if newspaper hints that Silky Stevens paid good protection to county officials for his gambling layout might be true?

A hat-check girl drooped a lower red lip and stared at him. Burke strode past her, wiping the rain from his glasses, his right arm cradling a muddied shotgun lightly.

A broad-faced doorman with a squint in one eye and bulging shoulders, stared awedly at the new arrival. His eyes played over the uncased fowling piece. It was his business to make sure none of the customers threatened the dignity of the Red Roller by appearing with weapons conveniently concealed.

“Wait a minute, mister,” he said to Burke. “Better check your artillery. This ain’t no target range.”

BURKE blinked at him benevolently, and looked ruefully at his light shotgun. “I am merely having a drink to keep me warm, and I must wipe off the mud before it spots the barrel,” he stated quietly. “It’s a nice piece, hand-tooled by Steger. You know, the Steger who puts in weeks on a light gun like this.”

The doorman quirked his mouth and scratched a crumpled ear. “Steger?” he said. “You wouldn’t mean ‘Butch’ Steger over in Brooklyn? Hell, mister, he’s poison. An’ he ain’t peddlin’ no rods. He buys ‘em.”

“I’m afraid we are not thinking together,” said Burke gently. “I’ll not spoil any napkins. I’ve got an oiled rag in my pocket. Going upstate for the birds in the morning. Season opens, you know.”

Two waiters wearing coats with side pockets conferred quickly with the fat bartender. A drunk customer mumbled and pointed. The other customers faced around, but Burke sat down at a table and beckoned to a waiter.

“Toddy,” he said. “Hot, with cinnamon.”

He ignored the waiter’s narrowed eyes on the shotgun.

The waiter swallowed a couple of times and went after the toddy. Something ought to be done about it, the waiter was thinking, but he didn’t know any more what to do than the ex-pug at the door. Another man with slick, black hair went through a door at the end of the bar.

Burke was busily rubbing the mud off the blue, hand-tooled shotgun with an oily rag. Presently his drink came and he sipped at it. The mumbling drunk had had enough liquor to have intuition.

“ ‘Tain’t right,” he muttered to a slackmouthed woman. “Come on, baby, we’re gettin’ outta here. It’s too funny to be funny.”

Burke was aware he might have been followed here. He had been closely shadowed ever since he had left the apartment where the dead man probably was still sitting. The men who had followed him didn’t know the man was dead, for they had been only street shadows when he had entered and left the apartment building.

A man equipped with big muscles came from the door by the bar and a diamond flashed on his little finger as he leaned nonchalantly for a moment on the mahogany. He talked a minute with the bartender and permitted his little black eyes to stray to Burke’s table. Burke guessed Silky Stevens did not identify him. Perhaps he had never seen George Burke, the cashier.

Silky nodded and smiled a little at the spectacle of a customer openly cleaning a gun at one of his tables. Two waiters replied to the nod, but they didn’t smile. Other customers went on with their drinking, eyes only flashing now and then to the man with the gun. Hell, they thought, the spattered hunter was too damned casual to mean anything.

Burke downed the last of a steaming toddy. Then he arose, cradled the light fowling piece carefully over his left arm, and started toward the exit door. He paused, rubbed his long chin with the back of one hand and turned. The waiters, the doorman and two other hard-eyed men were breathing easier now.

Burke walked straight toward Silky’s office door then. That wasn’t a common thing for a stranger to do in the Red Roller. But only one man soft-footed to his side before he reached the door. The customers were stirring at the tables. They weren’t so sure now that this didn’t mean anything.

THE man came beside Burke and his hand in his side pocket was roughly suggestive.

“Wait a minute, you!” he snapped. “Where you goin’?”

Burke’s mild eyes showed bland surprise. “Why, I wish to speak to Mr. Stevens about his hunting farm upstate,” he said. “I thought perhaps he might permit me to have a go at a few birds. He has the best cover in the country.”

The bouncer-bodyguard of the person of Silky Stevens shook his head dazedly and swallowed hard.

“He ain’t got no—” he began, then he changed it. “That’s right, I’ve heard him mention it. But maybe he don’t want to see you, mister.”

“Surely, he will see me,” said Burke patiently. “A friend of his, James Foster, the bank president, said Mr. Stevens was a good fellow and—”

The guard’s whole body stiffened suddenly. The thing in his pocket abruptly jabbed hard into Burke’s ribs.

“Okay! Okay!” he said icily. “You’ll see him, brother. But I’ll take care of that shotgun.”

“Why, yes, certainly,” agreed Burke, passing the fowling piece into the guard’s hand without hesitation. “You can hold it for me until I talk to Mr. Stevens.”

The guard’s eyes blinked rapidly. He took the shotgun into one hand.

“Walk on in, mister,” he said then. Silky Stevens sat beside the single desk in the room. Two other men lounged over at one side. Silky looked up with sleepy black eyes.

“Well, what is it, Card?” he demanded. “This fella wants to see you about some huntin’, Silky,” said the guard. “I took his gun because—”

“Sure, Card,” said Silky softly. “Put it on my desk. H’m! Nice piece of work.” Silky’s hand went out and his fat fingers rubbed along the hand-tooled barrel. He smiled with his mouth at Burke, but his eyes did not smile. The guard leaned closer to Silky. Burke didn’t hear all he said, but the name “Foster” could be seen on his thick lips.

Silky Stevens showed no reaction outwardly, but his eyes studied Burke more intently now. Silky waved the guard to one side. T
he man joined the other two at the side of the room, thus placing the three partly behind Burke.

“Sit down,” Silky said. “Have a cigar, Mr—?”

“Burke’s the name and—”

The phone on Silky’s desk buzzed softly. Silky reached for it. So, Burke decided, he had been followed from the dead man’s apartment. No time now for preliminaries and Burke hadn’t intended any.

“Don’t touch that phone, Silky!” he snapped. “You other punks, get ‘em up! It’s a holdup! I said, up!”

Three gasping mugs saw a hand move faster than light. A neat, blue automatic came from under Burke’s tan hunting coat. The guard who had taken his shotgun swore over his stupid oversight. Then he made an instant move to correct it. His hand dived into his pocket and stayed there.

FIRE leaped at him from Burke’s hand. The mug knew then what it felt like to have a leaden slug pound into a man’s vitals. He didn’t feel it long, for he was dead when he toppled over. Another of the three had been trying to crab sideways. But his hands were up.

“Drop your rods one at a time, or you get it, too!” commanded Burke. He was all the way around now, his back presented to Silky, Silky Stevens who wouldn’t have a gun about his person since he took a rap up the river because of one. Burke heard feet scuffling as customers milled about excitedly in the room outside. Still he heard no movement behind him. Then he started, as if to turn slowly toward Silky. One guard whipped a hand downward. But Burke had not turned all the way. A slug jumped from the automatic and made a neat slicing wound in the mug’s throat. The guard looked surprised and sat down, dead. Burke heard the shotgun scrape across Silky’s desk, but he started walking toward the remaining guard, anyway.

“I’ll take your rod, fellow!” he said tersely. “It might be unlucky for you, too.”

Burke knew now that Silky had a gun.

He could almost feel the hand-tooled barrel of the fowling piece centered upon his back. He knew the instant when Silky’s forefinger was tightening on the trigger. Silky had never possessed a gun of his own since that rap up the river. Silky was about to kill a man with the man’s own gun.

Burke fired his next shot deliberately, cold-bloodedly, adding up all of several events until they came to the dead man sitting at a table in his apartment. The score came to justified murder. Until Silky Stevens pulled the trigger—

Time passed with dragging slowness for Burke. But in only one swift second, all hell erupted.

It came with a detonating, bursting blast of splitting steel and smoking, gaseous flame.

A tearing piece of metal went into Burke’s shoulder. His back tingled as if it were bare and the coat had been blown off of it. The hand-tooled forward half of the fowling piece hit the rug and slid past Burke’s feet to jam into the wall. Burke now slowly turned around.

Silky Stevens must have sat down heavily in his chair. But he did not know about that though. Where his face had been was only the bare, crushed frontal bones of his skull. The hands that had not used a rod in the years since that rap were no longer on the bleeding dead arms hanging inertly at his sides. The phone was shattered, and lay on the floor. Burke knew the police soon would come.

Two waiters with drawn guns appeared in the opening door. But they gaped and mumbled, and they suddenly decided to go away before the police arrived.

“YOU SAY James Foster was cleaning his revolver when an old cartridge exploded?” said Inspector Monahan.

George Burke nodded. “It looked that way to me, Mr. Monahan,” he said. “His daughter, my wife, was up in the country. Foster had the short gun and the oiled rag in his hand when I found him. I knew he had been desperately worried over threats that came from Silky Stevens.”

“So you started on the hunting trip, and dropped in to have a word with Silky, is that it, Mr. Burke?”

“That was it, Inspector,” stated Burke in a mild voice. “I had dropped my fowling piece in the mud. Perhaps some got into the barrel and I hadn’t noticed. When I mentioned Foster’s name, Silky’s boys decided to get rough. I was compelled to defend myself.”

“And the wounds from the bursting shotgun are convincing proof that Silky tried shooting you in the back, Mr. Burke,” said Monahan slowly. “But what about the matter of the threat, Mr. Burke?” he added. “The motive for Foster planning— well, cleaning his revolver?”

“I believe Silky Stevens threatened to kidnap Foster’s daughter,” said Burke. “That was mainly why I dropped in to speak to Silky.”

“And gave him a gun,” said Monahan thoughtfully. “That shell made one helluva blast.”

“Smokeless powder is powerful, Inspector,” said Burke.

But, not one-tenth as destructive as the nitro poured into the magazine under the choked and exploding shell, he said to himself.

“Yes, I gave him a gun,” added Burke, aloud.

_________________

12: Gorilla Girl

Charlton L. Edholm

1879-1945

Gun Molls Magazine, October 1930

MURKY side street. A speakeasy door that slid open, showing a streak of smoky light. And two drunks lurching in an unsteady way across the sidewalk. That was the opening of the Gorilla Girl's crime drama, the case of Cora Corinta.

The time was three o'clock of a mean, dirty morning. The place was a double row of houses, equally mean and dirty, that faced a dead and almost deserted street. A few cars stood at the curb. Some appeared to be parked for the night. Others might or might not be occupied. They had a sinister appearance, standing there like monstrous shiny beetles.

Toward them staggered the two drunks, dim shapes in the shadow; not noisy but wrangling in undertones. They came to an unsteady halt beside a luxurious Rolls-Royce, in which, at the wheel, sat Oscar Schultz. Oscar was thick-muscled and carried a gun, for he was not only a chauffeur, but a strong-arm man for Max Lorrie, "Sparkler Maxie," a big-shot of the Fevered Forties.

One of the drunks was trying to light a cigarette. He leaned against the car and fumblingly scratched safety-matches on its varnished hood. The smaller drunk braced a foot on the fender of the machine and went on with his argument.

"That bird is yellow," he said thickly. "Dutchy is yellow. He won't fight."

"Yeah? What makes you say he's yellow?"

"He takes it lying down. Dutchy is a damn yellow rat," the drunk asserted.

Oscar Schultz bristled. He thrust open the door of his car and ordered: "Be on your way, you bums!"

The bigger drunk moved a pace or two. The other held his ground. "Talkin' to me?" he asked.

"You heard me. Git the hell outta here. Take your foot off that fender. That ain't no brass rail, you barfly."

"Oh, yeah? Ain't you the wisecracker! Say, I bet you're just a big windbag."

"I'll show you who's a windbag. Take away your foot!"

"Aw, you're all yellow. Let's see you make me take my foot away."

He gave the fender a kick.

Oscar Schultz was sore. He jumped out of the car and the man with the box of matches retreated. The other kept his foot on the fender, lurching unsteadily, and Oscar ran at the supposed drunk, striking out with heavy, awkward fist.

But he only fanned the air. A tap on the jaw staggered him. It was the K.O. of a ring expert. At the same instant a blackjack landed at the base of his skull and Oscar went down with a faint groan.

"The sap fell for your spiel, Skeeters," said the bigger of the two, putting away his weapon. "Like they always do. Make it snappy, Chubb. Roll him back of them ash cans."

With the speed of long practice, the two thugs deposited their victim in a cellar entrance, and Chubb stripped off the chauffeur's coat, putting it on over his own. He donned the cap, also, and stuffed his own soft headgear into his pocket.

"All set," he remarked. "Give Cora the high sign."

"Sure. Wait till I roll this sap."

"That's right. If you hold out my split, Skeeters, it will be your last dirty deal."

A policeman turned the corner far down the block. Chubb stepped into the car, looking straight ahead, while Skeeters, after hastily cleaning out the chauffeur's pockets, strolled calmly up the street and entered a small and very discreet nightclub, known as the Jungle.

It was only a few doors from the scene of the swift and silent drama. The cop passed the car with only a glance. As for the limp figure screened by the ash cans, he did not even look that way.

CORA CORINTA, whose soft beauty masked a brass-bound character, was seated at a table that commanded the bamboo-screened door of the Jungle. Her companion was in his glory that night, a big beefy gambler with diamonds glittering on his fingers, his shirt front, his cuffs.

Sparkler Maxie was feeling good that night. On a "fixed" race in New Orleans he had cleaned up better than $75,000.

Life was easy for Max. Easy money and easy women! Tonight he was stepping out with a new jane, whom he had taken from Smoke Gattler, Smoke having left in a hurry for parts unknown.

Cora Corinta was a prize worth paying for; small, regular features, big tantalizing eyes, skin like milk and roses, and hair that blew about her face in a golden mist. She was a sweet morsel, thought Maxie, never guessing that he was keeping company with a charge of human dynamite.

While the blackface jazz band was crooning the latest blues, Cora saw a slender, wiry figure at the doorway of imitation foliage. Skeeters was so much like the other night club hangers-on that he attracted not the least attention. A little below medium height, thin-faced and blue-jawed in spite of a recent shave; a body that seemed made of steel springs; that was Skeeters, the bright boy who had deserted the ring for a more profitable business of racketeering.

His narrow black eyes caught the innocent orbs of Cora Corinta, who saw him, but appeared to look straight through him. Skeeters touched a cigarette with a jeweled lighter and sauntered away. The lighted cigarette was the signal.

"Come on, Maxie. I'm fed up on this joint," said Cora, patting her escort's arm. "Wanna go home so early?"

Max Lorrie leered amorously.

"Jus' as you say, hot lips!" He banged sharply on the table and his waiter came on the jump.

Everybody sprang to attention when Sparkler Maxie demanded service. The big-shot placed a hundred-dollar bill on the table and waved away the change. He passed out five and ten dollar tips to all the parasites that came his way and sent the captain with a twenty to the orchestra leader. The lordly fellow's exit was quite an event in Jungleland.

The boss smirked and shook hands as the beautiful girl and the heavy spender left the room, and a buzz arose from the tables:

"That bird is Sparkler Maxie."

"Yeah. Some queen he's got!"

"Get onto the ice he carries. He needs a bodyguard."

"Maxie's chauffeur is his bodyguard. Oscar Schultz, the Iron-Fisted Man."

AT A TABLE removed from the dance floor lights sat an impassive bored-looking man in his thirties. Already his hair was sprinkled with grey, for he had played nerve-racking games with sudden death for years. It was Danny Moran, plainclothes man from Headquarters who had been detailed on the Lady Brooks-Patterson gem robbery.

He glanced up as Maxie and the girl passed out of the room. It seemed to Danny Moran that her smile had a certain tigerish expression, such as he had seen in the zoo at feeding time. But when he looked again, Cora Corinta was smiling like a prima donna, queenly and radiant in her beauty. The tigerish expression must have been caused by the lights, thought Dan Moran.

He let his keen grey eyes wander from table to table. The detective had another quest besides his official duty. Some friends had tipped him off that his kid brother, Artie, was running to shady night clubs. It was no place for that young fellow and Dan was ready to give him a call-down if they should meet. But there was no sign of Artie.

OUTSIDE in the dark, slimy street, Cora Corinta and her infatuated escort paused for only a second. The doorman had whistled for Maxie's car: it stood at the curb with motor purring and the familiar livery of Oscar in the shadows back of the wheel.

"Home, Oscar," said Max.

"No, no," exclaimed Cora. "I've changed my mind. Let's take a whirl to Harlem first."

"You want a dash of black and high yellow? It's all right by me, hot lips."

"Hot lips!" Cora Corinta echoed the words with a cynical laugh. If the big sap only knew how cold her kiss was: chilled with the chill of the grave.

"To Club Creole," said Max. "Up in the Black Belt."

Oscar said nothing, but the car started gently and sped up Broadway, through the dark mystery of the Park, and then into the depths of Harlem. There was an all-night drugstore and, not far away, a fried-fish shop tainted the air, but no customers were in sight. All the hectic of life was underground or in rooms where the distant blare of jazz mingled with shrill excited laughter.

"Stop here," said Cora suddenly. "I'm goin' in the drugstore for an aspirin."

"Let me go," said Max.

But already the girl was running across the sidewalk, her high stilt-like heels tap-tapping on the concrete.

Max leaned back in his seat with a fat, contented sigh. He was full of food and drink and the best looking jane in the city was his for as long as he cared to keep her. Easy life, easy money, easy women!

A shadow darted from the nearest tenement doorway; a figure resembling Skeeters, but not so mature. He opened the car door and thrust in a hand.

"Crack!" The report of the pistol in the car brought a few dusky heads popping out of windows. They stared with rolling eyes but saw nothing exciting, just a car standing quietly.

On the next block a man was sitting with his girl in a doorway.

"What was that noise?" he said. "Sounded like shooting."

"Don't get nervous, big boy! They're not gunning for you, are they?"

"That's right. It was just a motor backfiring, I guess."

"I guess so, too. Sit closer, kid."

THE killer saw Max Lorrie slump forward, shot between the eyes. Chubb, in the driver's seat, asked out of the corner of his mouth, "Is one slug plenty?"

"Yes—Yes, I guess so," whispered the boy.

"Then scram, you! We gotta get outta here."

The boy slid into the shadow of the walls and into an area. Cora came from the drugstore with the aspirin, and her heels went tap-tap-tap across the pavement. The drug clerk did not even follow her to the door. He was used to backfiring motors.

"O.K?" she whispered to Chubb.

"Let's go. Get in front here with me. You don't want no blood on your clothes."

"That's right. Don't waste time looking for his roll. I got it here." She tapped her stocking.

The driver sent the car at a moderate speed to the corner, turned and drove through the Park to Riverside Drive, where he left Cora at her apartment. Then he sped up the Drive to a wooded, unfrequented section not very far from the subway. Here he parked under a tree, stripped the body of its jewelry and stepped out, leaving the chauffeur's cap and coat in the machine.

Chubb strolled over to the nearest station— and so to bed, a day's work done. Max Lorrie had been "put on the spot," and one of the heavy sports who had lost money on Maxie's fixed races was paying out more money to get revenge, no less than fifty thousand dollars.

Smoke Gattler, Chief of the Killer Mob, had collected that fifty grand for bumping the big shot. It was worth the money, for Max Lorrie owned millions and had hosts of influential friends, judges and small-fry statesmen included. Fifty grand would pay for rubbing out a district attorney or the city editor of a big newspaper. It cost only five grand to croak an ordinary business rival, a storekeeper or small contractor, while an obscure citizen like a clerk or a truck driver who stole another's girl, would be bumped at bargain rates of about four or five hundred dollars.

When the sap was put on the spot, Gattler was always out of town. A perfect alibi. He never soiled his hands with killing. He could hire it done for a small price. In fact, he could get it done for nothing, as in the case of Max Lorrie.

THE pale kid, with the washed-out blue eyes, who had fired the shot, did not even know who the victim was.

Cora had smiled at the fledgling gangster, snared him, given him little, but promised much.

"You want to trail with our mob, don't you?"

"Sure, I do."

"Well, you've got to prove you have the guts first."

"I'll do anything you say, honey mouth!" Cora smiled.

"Honey mouth!" Why did those poor boobs always think she was sweet? Sweet and soft she was as a buzz-saw!

"You be at Jackson's drugstore at three tomorrow morning," she said. "Pack a rod. When you see me get out of a car and go into the drugstore, you walk up to the car, stick a rod in the sap's face and give him the works. Then scram!"

"Is that all?"

"That's all. I'll see you the next night at Porky's place and we'll go home together. And from then on, you belong in our mob. How about it?"

"I'd bump twenty guys if you asked me to, Cora."

The kid was positively sticky, so green and lovesick. Cora granted him one perfumed kiss to bind the bargain— and then went to find Max Lorrie.

THE kid never showed up at Porky's place to claim the reward. Skeeters was there, though, Skeeters who had always jollied him along.

"Well, what about the kid?" asked Cora, who was acting as payoff for Gattler.

"I picked him up an hour after the big-shot was polished," said Skeeters. "The kid's in the East River now with a load of scrap iron wired to him."

"That's the best way," said Cora, handing Skeeters his cut. "Those soft mushy kids are sure to squawk."

Skeeters pocketed his bit. One grand. He had already drawn a thousand berries. It was not a big bit, considering all he had done, but Cora sweetened it with a smile that promised much.

THE killing of Sparkler Maxie blew the lid off the town and Dan Moran was detailed to work on the case, together with Sergeant Steve Rixey. Twenty or more detectives handled various angles, but Danny Moran and Rixey were assigned to get the facts from Cora Corinta who was seen with Max at the Jungle that last night.

Steve Rixey, a granite-jawed detective of the rough and ready type, was willing to give the woman the third degree, but Moran thought more could be done by tact and persuasion.

"If it was up to me, I'd beat hell out of her like a bum," said Rixey.

"You can't beat up a woman," answered Dan.

"Can't I? Anyhow, she ain't a woman. She's a gorilla's moll, an' that makes her a gorilla, too. Sure I'd beat her up."

Cora Corinta laughed at the pair when they grilled her in her luxurious apartment on the Drive.

"You ain't got a thing on me, boys," said Cora lighting a cigarette. "I was playing around with Maxie, sure! I helped him blow his money and have a good time. What of it? If that's a murder case, you can round up a hundred janes on Broadway, for Maxie loved 'em all."

Cora was sitting back in a low-hung "love seat." She was clad in a gay robe that did not hide the active, muscular lines of her body. Cora had been an acrobatic dancer. She had been a queen of burlesque. She had been a trick sharpshooter in a wild west show in her time. No wonder the woman was muscled like a man.

But with all this, she clung to her feminine fluffiness in dress, a pink and frilly negligée, and she wore absurdly high-heeled slippers. Her face was made up with broad patches of red and lines of black. By daylight her hard expression showed through the mask. Her lips were thin and determined when she spoke; they curled in a feline snarl when she was angry.

Dan Moran and Steve Rixey had not been quizzing her for more than half an hour when a phone call came from Headquarters for Moran. It was from Captain Brady, and it was bad news.

"It's a tough break for you, Moran," said Brady. "A body has been fished out of the East River. Tied up with wire and weights. As far as we can tell, it's your young brother, Artie. Better hurry to the morgue and make sure."

Danny's voice choked as he tried to answer.

"Heaven! So that's the end of poor Artie's night life." His thoughts were wild and whirling. He saw red.

"The rats have murdered my kid brother. I'll get 'em for that! Poor little Art. He never had a chance!"

Danny told Steve Rixey what had happened. The older detective nodded.

"Hard luck, Dan," he gripped the other's hand. "Anything I can do, let me know."

Dan could not say much. His throat was full. His eyes caught Cora's glance and he seemed to detect a malicious glint of triumph as if she were pleased to see a hated "dick" suffer.

She said in honeyed tones:

"It's a tough break. Maybe it's somebody else they found," but she could not make her voice sound sincere.

When Steve Rixey was left alone with the woman, and only the policeman outside the door could hear anything, the hardboiled detective grilled her with the ferocity of a tiger.

"You know who croaked Max Lorrie," he shouted in her face. "You— I'm goin' to choke the truth out of you."

"Keep back. Don't lay a hand on me!"

"Come clean or I'll lay both fists on you. Out with it!"

"I don't know. Keep back!"

"It was Smoke Gattler. That's who."

"You're crazy. Smoke's in Chicago."

"You think so? He's got a swell hideout on Park Avenue. He's got a jane with him. Get wise to yourself. The cheater is giving you the dirty end of it."

"That's a damn lie."

Cora sprang at her tormentor with the nails slashing at his face. He shoved her back with his elbow. Cora dropped on the low couch and he rushed her with both fists clenched.

"Tell all you know," he growled, "or I'll beat you till you look like a hamburg steak."

As the enraged man charged, the girl kicked out one foot as if to defend herself. In her eyes was the savage glare of a beast and she barred her teeth and gums as she snarled like a gorilla. At that instant there was an explosion; a bullet penetrated Steve Rixey's brain, and the big husky crumpled on the floor beside the couch.

THE patrolman burst into the room. Cora was yelling and screaming hysterically. They had to pick her up bodily and carry her to the patrol wagon, struggling and fighting every step of the way. In the last violent attempt to force her into the wagon, she even lost her shoe and it was left in the gutter as the Black Maria drove away. But only for a second. A blue-jawed youth, with narrow eyes, had seen it, snatched the dainty prize and hurried away.

At Headquarters Cora swore that she knew nothing about this killing. "Suddenly there was a crash, a groan from Rixey, and then he was lying dead on the floor."

That was her story. Inspector Walsh and his experts gave her the third degree, and even the police commissioner tried to shake her, but it was no use.

Cora Corinta knew nothing of this shooting and stuck to it. Her apartment was fine-combed for the murder weapon, but there was no gun in the place. The windows were closed and had not been disturbed. The shot could not have come from the outside. The wild theory that Rixey might have shot himself with his own gun was out. His service revolver had not been discharged.

The Mystery Moll, as the papers called her, had a friend who knew how to work the legal technicalities and, as there was no evidence against Cora on either killing, she was released before the month was out. She left the prison laughing at the detectives.

BUT there was one man on the case who never gave up hope of solving the string of murders. There were four in all that linked up like beads on a chain: Oscar, who was picked up in a daze, wandering the streets and died in the hospital without recovering his senses. Then there was Max Lorrie, the big-shot; Artie Moran, pulled out of the river with wires and scrap iron bound to his body, and last of all, Sergeant Steve Rixey, murdered while interrogating Cora.

Danny Moran, who had known that Smoke Gattler was Cora's heavy sugar, also learned that Smoke had been in Chicago during the shooting and that he had not returned to New York, but was now living lavishly in Havana. An investigator was put on the job and sent back some interesting details of Smoke Gattler's amusements in the gay city together with some snapshots.

Armed with these proofs, Danny went to the shabby quarters to which Cora had moved after her release. It was nothing like the Riverside Drive apartment, but a squalid lodging on the fringe of the slums, and, when Cora admitted him, she was no longer the radiant queen of the nightclubs, but a hard-faced vixen without enough makeup to disguise her ferocity.

She was dressed in some of the old finery, worse for wear by now, a dingy wrapper and high-heeled slippers. They went taptap-tap across the carpet-less floor, and Danny Moran saw that the heels left round marks among the cigarette butts on the dirty boards.

With a firmer grasp on his malacca cane, the detective laid aside his hat and took a chair uninvited. Cora dropped on the couch before him, her eyes like a trapped tiger's.

Beside her was a flash of brandy, half-empty, and a dirty tumbler.

"I've got something to show you, Cora," said Danny. "Evidently your sweet man has not been spending much on you. I think you'd like to know who is helping him blow his coin these days."

"I don't want anything from you," said Cora. "All I want to hear from you is the noise of the door shutting when you go."

She took a drink from the bottle and laughed hoarsely.

"I'm going, Cora, but when I go, I'm taking you along. You are going to tell me who shot Max Lorrie."

"I'll tell you," she snarled, suddenly enraged. "T'hell with you an' your smug-faced ways. It was your brother Artie. That's who croaked Max!"

Dan leaped from his chair. As if she had been expecting an attack, the woman jerked back on the couch, threw up her foot to kick— and at the same instant Moran's stick came down on her ankle with a blow that made her scream.

Her slipper flew wildly across the room and from its high heel jetted a vicious burst of fire and smoke, while an explosion echoed from the bare walls.

LIKE a flash Dan jumped for the other slipper, but she surrendered it with a weak laugh.

"Take it. This one is regular. It's the other one that's fixed to kill."

She poured some brandy into the glass and, while Dan picked up the infernal footwear, turning his back to her for a second, she shook a powder into the drink.

"Have some?"

He shook his head. "This was a clever job, Cora. A gun-barrel in the heel of a shoe. And I suppose this wire exploded the cartridge?"

She nodded sullenly, and her answer was despondent.

"I guess it's the chair for me. Why not spill it? Sure, I worked the wire with my toe. It shoots like a regular gun. Pretty slick, ain't it?" she added boastfully.

"Very clever. Is this Gattler's idea?"

"I'm telling nothing. You've got the weapon. Now take me along and try me for Rixey's murder. But I'll never snitch on my friends."

"Your friends? Listen, Cora. Your friends are not worth it. If you tell everything you know, you may get life instead of the hot-seat. In fact, I can promise it if you don't hold out." He spread a sheaf of snapshots on the couch before the girl.

"Here's your friend Gattler at the races with Lola Manette, the dancer. Here he is swimming with her. There they are on the beach. This is a hot one—"

With a snarl of animal fury, the girl swept the snapshots to the floor.

"I'll spill the works," she screamed. "I'll help strap Gattler in the chair. Hell, I'd be glad to throw the switch myself!"

Taking up the glass of brandy she flung it into the corner where it smashed. "That drink was loaded," she said. "One swallow an' my troubles would be over. But I want to live now. I want to live long enough to send Gattler to the chair, and Skeeters and Chubb, and the whole murder mob!"

The gorilla girl was still the jungle brute. But now she was turning on her gang and never did the Female of the Species in her jealous rage appear so deadly.

Cora calmed down before they left in a taxi for Headquarters. On the way she asked Moran abruptly: "Who tipped you off? About the gat in my heel, I mean?"

"Nobody. But when I saw round marks where you had walked, little circles as if someone had held a gun-muzzle to the floor, I got my stick ready."

The woman was brooding. "I got the rotten breaks! Now, I'll get the chair."

"I told you how to sidestep the chair."

"Can you make good?"

"If you come clean."

TRUE to his promise, Danny Moran induced the district attorney to accept a second-degree murder plea in return for Cora's complete confession of how Smoke Gattler's murder mob did business.

Skeeters and Chubb were picked up in Chicago. Lesser lights at Porky's place. Smoke Gattler felt the come-alongs clipped to his wrists just as he was about to board a steamer in Havana, bound for South America.

Lola Manette, younger and prettier than Cora, was with him. Danny Moran, who made the arrest, gently smiled when Gattler protested that he was innocent of any wrongdoing. That he was a respectable businessman traveling for pleasure with his lawful wife.

"Can that," said Moran. "Cora spilled everything."

Smoke's jaw dropped. His eyes went glassy.

"Cora squawked?" he blurted. "Why, damn that broad! I thought Skeeters had croaked her!"

"Shut up, you sap!" Lola whispered fiercely. But Gattler had said enough to indicate how romances may end between a gorilla and a gorilla girl.

Yet they say that Cora wept in her cell when the judge condemned Smoke Gattler to the chair.

______________

13: Death Makes a Man Mad

Laurence Donovan

Popular Detective June 1946

1: Corpse on Board

THE big northbound United Airways passenger clipper from Lima to Miami was coming in close to the lower Florida Keys. Jim Rock, pilot, looked up as Peggy Devlin, the stewardess, stuck her blond head in through the control room door. Her usual smile was gone, and he was surprised to see her pretty little face was soberly serious.

"Jim," she said. "I wish you'd come back and give two of my passengers the double-o."

"Is something wrong?"

She knitted her brows and gave her slender shoulders a little shrug.

"I don't know. It's Señores Don Vargos and Camora. One of them started to examine a camera. It flew open. He closed it in a hurry, but a little bug that was in it got away." She opened a piece of paper. "Look at it, Jim. I slapped it dead with a newspaper, but I'm sure there are others in that camera. Jim Rock turned to see what she held in her hand. One glance at the hourglass de¬ sign on the back of the insect she was showing him was enough.

"A black widow spider!" he whispered hoarsely.

He grabbed the paper and crushed it with the spider, as if to make sure the poisonous thing was really dead. He had scarcely finished when a muffled explosion came from the rear of the plane. The giant four-motored clipper staggered, slipped off its dipping port wing and commenced to belch smoky fire through shattered portholes.

"What the devil!" cried Joe Wade, the co-pilot.

Rock worked the ailerons this way and that to compensate for the sudden crazy gyrations of the big ship. It was tossing and pitching like a small craft in a hurricane sea.

With a sharp cry, thinking of her passengers, Peggy Devlin groped her way back into a cabin that was filled with acrid smoke. The clipper went into a long, thundering dive— a dizzy descent. It tossed Peggy to her hands and knees in the smoky darkness.

The cabin lights had been knocked out, but except for explosives oaths, there was little evidence of panic.

Peggy breathed a swift prayer for Jim Rock, as the clipper continued its spinning dive.

"Everything will be all right!" she called out to the passengers as the thundering spin of the dive eased off into a sickening side slip. "Buckle on your lifebelts. There's been only a slight accident."

Voices could be plainly heard now, because somehow Jim Rock had leveled off and cut down the motors. But fire still trailed from the rear of the fuselage. Rock could see smoky tongues of it against the star-spangled sky.

"Rudder's slapping, Joe," he snapped to his co-pilot. "But we're holding on the flaps. Take over. I'm going back to help Peggy."

He stepped back into the cabin. A couple of the passengers had lighted matches and Rock had snapped on his emergency pocket flashlight.

"Miss Devlin!" he called, formal now. "Did you find out what broke loose? I see a little smoke back there. It must have come from a fuse blowing out. I'll have it fixed in a jiffy. Everybody take it easy. The trouble's under control."

He wished it were true. But he knew that whatever had caused the explosion was burning now, back of the washrooms. And he had a hunch that a deliberate attempt had been made to knock the Lima-to-Miami clipper from the sky.

He hurried past Peggy who was beside a moaning woman, giving first-aid to a gashed forehead. His hand touched Peggy's fleetingly.

"The men's washroom, Jim," the girl said in a low tone. "There's someone— something — there."

Acrid smoke pouring from the shattered door of the small washroom made Rock's eyes smart. There could be no mistaking the odor of cordite and thermogenic chemicals. He reached for an extinguisher— and was all but hurled through a gaping hole in the side of the fuselage when he stepped on something. One downward glance showed a dead man between his feet.

WHERE the washbasin had been, a hole had been blasted. The plumbing had been ripped out, and a large section of the fuselage was gone. The blast had ignited the wooden fittings, and the blaze was creep¬ ing along the side walls.

Rock started the extinguisher going and quickly put out the fire inside the narrow tail. If there was still fire outside the fuselage there was not much they could do about it. They would just have to trust to luck that the flames did not gain too fast before they made a landing.

Jim Rock dropped the extinguisher now and examined the corpse. The body had been so badly mangled and scorched that even the color of the man's skin was not distinguishable. His hands had been smashed, and his face was an unrecognizable ruin.

"And I thought this was a routine trip," Rock muttered grimly.

After a brief search, he found the broken wires of the blasted fuse box. His emergency repairs brought on the cabin lights.

When big Jim Rock strode back into the cabin, the first thing he noted was that where two Spanish passengers from Peru had been seated, there now was but one.

"Are you Señor Don Vargos or Señor Camora?" he asked the tall, black-haired man who remained.

"Señor Camora, Mr. Rock," said the passenger steadily. "But if you want my friend, Señor Don Vargos, he was—"

"We'll talk about that later," interrupted Rock. "Meanwhile, I'll take that camera."

He reached for the little black box that was set on the rack above the seat. He was completely taken by surprise when Señor Camora clipped him on the chin with all the force of his powerful right arm!

The blow jolted Jim Rock back to his heels. He half fell and, before he could recover, Camora, lithe as a whip, was out of his seat.

Eluding Rock, he grabbed the camera from which the deadly black widow spider had been spilled, and darted back toward the washroom. Rock was after him instantly. But he was too late. Señor Camora had hurled the camera through the blasted hole.

Rock slapped the man's head with the flat of his hand.

"Tried to murder your friend with poison spiders, huh?'' he demanded. "And when that missed, likely you planted a bomb on him! Talk, Señor Camora!"

Camora's nostrils flared with anger.

"I have nothing whatever to say, Mr. Rock," he answered quietly.

Jim Rock's own anger flamed higher. Having a hole blasted in his ship, and his unblemished record with United Airways spoiled was enough to make any man mad. But on top of that, having a man murdered and then this cool Peruvian announcing he had nothing to say— that was too much.

Peggy Devlin's entrance stopped whatever Rock might have done.

"Stop it, Jim!" she pleaded. "Joe Wade's calling for you. One of the motors has conked out, and we're losing altitude. You're a pilot, remember— not a policeman."

Jim Rock could feel the big clipper falling off. Though they were over these lower keys and only minutes out of the Pan-American Airport at Coconut Grove, there was still danger of a crackup.

"I'll see you when we land, Señor Camora," Rock said grimly. "Peggy, keep that gun of yours handy. Use it instantly if the Señor tries any more murder tricks!"

In the bucket. Rock took the controls. Looking back, he saw smoke was still trailing thinly from the tail of the fuselage.

"That's only a fabric or grease fire back there— I hope," Rock said tightly. "Good glory, Joe! We're coming in with our tail smoking and a murdered man in the cabin— not to mention that box of black widow spiders we'd have had if our Peruvian passenger hadn't jettisoned it after smacking me one."

Joe Wade grinned, looking at the bruise on Rock's craggy chin.

"Anything can happen to us now," he declared. "We may even make a safe landing."

Jim Rock accomplished wonders within the next ten minutes. It was said that he could have put a motor on a canoe and flown it. When finally he set the clipper down on the landing canal of the United Airways depot, it was with a side slip that dragged off the remnants of the tail assembly, but the ship remained upright.

Then Rock went in the cabin to confront the passengers.

"Just keep your places," he announced. His gaze centered on Camora. "All of you know we've had a murder on board. It may even have been intended that the clipper was not to arrive at this port. No one can leave until the police take over."

2: Mysterious Señor Camora

PEGGY DEVLIN had one hand in the pocket of her uniform, on her small automatic. Joe Wade was calling the Miami Homicide Squad on the ship- to-shore connection.

"You might save yourself plenty of trouble by talking now, Señor Camora," Jim Rock told the Latin-American. "What about the black widow spiders? Why, and how come the explosion?"

"I might call to your attention," Camora said calmly, "that the explosion would have ended all our lives, except for luck. Only the fortunate blowing of the washbasin through the side of the fuselage, instead of into the cabin, saved the plane from being ripped apart. And had a bomb been in my friend's clothing, as you intimate, his body would have been blown to bits."

"Is that all you have to say?" demanded Rock. "It doesn't explain the poison spiders, or why you ditched them. Who are you, and who was Señor Don Vargos?"

"We are plantation managers for the Transit Latex Corporation in the Amazon Basin. But to get back to what we were discussing. Do you think I would have risked my life to get rid of Señor Don Vargos?"

"Why don't you leave it up to the police, Mr. Rock?" urged Peggy Devlin.

"Somebody wanted this plane destroyed," Rock said harshly. "The explosive might have been planted in the washroom, perhaps in the drain pipe. Water could have set off the fulminating cap."

Police sirens wailed. Squad cars were coming off Bayshore Drive onto the grounds of the Pan-American Airport. Rock frowned at Señor Camora.

"Just what is the Transit Latex Corporation anyway, Señor?" he demanded.

"Oh, I can tell you that," Peggy Devlin put in brightly. "It's a company belonging to the Andrews Ship Corporation which, in turn, is owned by Miss Isabelle Andrews, better known on Park Avenue and various yachts as 'Billy' Andrews. And Billy Andrews—"

"Hasn't enough brains to stuff sand in a rat-hole," snapped Jim Rock. "Come on, Señor Camora. I'm going to look over that washroom before Captain Ramer takes over.

I may want to ask you some questions. And I'll guarantee you one thing— your business, Miss Billy Andrews' millions, and the whole Andrews Ship Corporation won't pry you out of jail until Captain Luke Ramer has a good and sufficient answer to this murder."

Camora bowed elaborately, smiling a little.

"Your friend, Captain Ramer, has no jurisdiction outside of Miami, Mr. Rock," he suggested quietly. "The death of my friend occurred in a jurisdiction that comes under international law."

Jim Rock's jaw tightened. Murder over the Caribbean, he realized, might prove up in the air in more ways than one.

He could hear a gangplank already being connected to the locked door of the clipper as he took Señor Camora's arm.

"Have Joe keep off the police for a few minutes, Miss Devlin," he directed, and urged Camora ahead of him into the blasted washroom.

Camora moved past the body of his friend and bent as if to examine some broken pipes. Abruptly, he kicked backward, catching Jim Rock squarely in the stomach.

Rock roared. For the second time Señor Camora had taken him by surprise. Then, while Rock was doubled up, Camora leaped through the hole in the side of the fuselage into the black water below.

Instantly, though agony burned through his body, Jim Rock dived after him. He might be handicapped by pain, but he meant to snatch Camora out of the bay to face the police. This attempt to escape seemed confirmation of guilt, in spite of the Peruvian's argument that the exploding bomb had endangered him as greatly as it had anyone else.

Rock emerged from his dive, swimming painfully and slowly. He could see Camora's head bobbing past the landing platform into the darker area of Biscayne Bay.

Captain Ramer would be demanding admittance to the clipper for himself and his squad by this time, he knew. But Peggy Devlin and Joe Wade could tell them all that was known.

Then Jim Rock began to swear. Peggy would not be telling the police anything for a while. Her white uniform and her blond head showed briefly near the tail assembly of the clipper— then her slim white form flashed downward, and there was a splash as she struck the water.

"And the bay full of barracuda!" groaned Rock.

HER clean, quick strokes carried her toward him.

"Jim, you fool!" she gasped as she came alongside. "Why didn't you let the police search for Camora? Where did he go?... O-o-oh!"

For at that moment they both saw Camora wading ashore into the mangroves below the fence marking the boundary of the big airport. Without a word, they struck out for the spot.

Where they came into the mangroves proved to be the deadend of a Coconut Grove street.

"Jim, how about calling it a day," the girl panted. "In spite of the black widow spiders, I don't believe Señor Camora expected that explosion. Besides, I think what was in that camera box surprised both him and Don Vargos. That's why they didn't notice I killed one of the spiders. Don Vargos must have gone to wash his hands because he'd been handling that box."

Jim Rock nodded. That seemed to make sense. Except why then had Camora been so anxious to escape the police?

"I have it, Blondie!" Rock exclaimed suddenly. "Camora must not have taken that dive because of the police at all! He was probably trying to get away from someone who was going to meet him at the landing float— someone who may have been responsible for the explosion."

Rock halted, whispering.

"The police will search the bay. If Camora is mixed up in the murder, he'll likely get to a telephone soon. If he does, I'm going to see if I can find out whom he calls."

"Jim, please drop the whole thing," pleaded Peggy. "There's no mark against you. And what do you care why Señor Don Vargos was murdered?"

"Or why someone tried to blow us to Kingdom Come?" snapped Rock. "Look! Someone is looking for Señor Camora."

A car had slipped silently in among some coconut palms, and a huge man climbed out. He came on toward the lighted street inter¬ section.

"Jim!" Peggy shuddered. "He looks like a ghost walking! Did you see his face?"

Jim Rock's own quick glimpse of the man's face had sent a chill down his spine. There was a peculiar set fixity about the man's pallid features which reminded Rock of what a walking zombie, a corpse resurrected from the grave, might look like.

Reaching the edge of the water, the frozen-faced giant paused, listening. Then he called out a few words in Spanish, and repeated Camora's name. Señor Camora emerged from the mangroves.

"Señor Conklin?" Rock and Peggy heard him say. "How did you know where to find me? Did Tom Grove come with you"

"I was waiting for the clipper, Señor," the big man with the dead face said. "I tried to reach you by cable before the clipper left Lima, but I was too late. Then when the police boarded the clipper I learned that Don Vargos had been slain— as planned. Tom Grove will be at the office. We must get there before the police arrest you."

Jim Rock touched Peggy's arm. "Go to your bungalow," he whispered. "I'll call you later. I'm going to get to the bottom of this or never fly another plane."

He silenced her protest and left her, circling toward the small parked sedan of the dead-faced man called Conklin. Rock meant to follow Camora and this spectral-looking Conklin who had just admitted knowing that Don Vargos was to be murdered.

Taking a chance that the two men would get in the front seat, Rock got in the back of the sedan, planning to huddle his big body to the floor. At that moment, however, the dripping Señor Camora and Conklin came under the street light, and another car appeared, leaping from the darkness like a pouncing monster. Its driver swung it around on the graveled roadway and the machine-gun in its back began to stutter.

Rock saw Conklin push Camora to the ground. Then Conklin himself dropped and rolled to one side.

Whatever might have been Camora's connection with the murder of Don Vargos, the machine-gun settled forever any possibility of his talking. The weapon tore him to pieces.

Swearing furiously, Rock jumped from the parked sedan. Gravel from the killers' car kicked up into his eyes, then the car was gone. Whirling, Rock glanced toward where the big, deadfaced Conklin had dropped, but detected no movement. Then from the darkness came a frightened cry as Peggy Devlin ran across the street to Rock's side.

"Didn't I tell you to beat it?" he raged, as he pulled her behind the sedan for protection. "Want your head blown off? That was a beautifully framed killing. Conklin either brought Camora into a trap, or they both walked into it accidentally. At any rate, the killers got Camora, and Conklin got away."

He drew Peggy back into the shadows alongside a stone wall. The shooting had been heard, and already police cars were con¬ verging on the spot.

Conklin took no chance on returning to his own parked car. Rock caught one glimpse of him. The man was cutting across lots for another street.

"Look, Blondie," Rock said. "The police will be here in another minute or two. You search the car. I'll take a chance on looking through Camora's pockets. It looks as if we've been pitched head-on into this murder business, and until I get somewhere I think I'll let the police do their own guessing."

"I won't let you get mixed up any worse than you are, Jim!" objected Peggy. "Look, Jim! Here's a driver's license in the car. It may give us a line on Conklin!"

Jim Rock took the paper from her hand. It was not a driver's license. It was the car's ownership certificate and it was made out in the name of Isabelle Andrews. "Well!" he said excitedly. "The cops will never iden¬ tify Conklin by this license.... Stick here a minute, Blondie!"

ROCK ducked back under the light, and bent over Señor Camora's body— and for the second time that night shuddered over a faceless corpse. He probed into the dead man's pockets. He was removing a wallet and several letters when Peggy screamed shrilly. Then her cry was choked off.

Rock started running, but his lumbering speed was no match for the car owned by the heiress to the Andrews millions. Conklin, apparently, had returned and snatched Peggy.

The red tail-light disappeared from the street just as howling sirens heralded the arrival of two police cars from an oposite direction. Cursing bitterly, Rock dodged back in the darkness.

"If I hook up with the police now and start a chase," he thought, "Conklin might be the kind of killer who would use Peggy as a hostage."

It came to him then that only one person might be able to assure Peggy's safety. That person was Billy Andrews.

"But would she be mixed up with a mob of killers?" he asked himself.

He didn't know. But he meant to find out.

3: Jim Rock "Stays Dead"

LUKE RAMER, Homicide Captain of the Miami Winter Police, was from New York. The resort town required tough and weathered coppers. Jim Rock sat with him in a rear booth of a Coral Gables tavern and told him what had happened to Peggy Devlin. Rock had phoned Captain Ramer from a place near the Pan-American Airport.

"I've told you every detail, Ramer," Rock said. "Peggy was taken away by someone I didn't see. I was afraid sending out a general alarm might result in our finding her somewhere in a ditch. As for myself, I'm officially dead— drowned— see?"

"I never went in for fancy stuff, Jim," said Captain Ramer. "But because you've confided in me, you're drowned, so far as I can report. And I'll hold off awhile on sending out a routine alarm for the stewardess. You're sure you didn't see who took her away? Were they the same men who chopped down Señor Camaro?"

"There were two cars, but I couldn't identify either one of them," said Rock. "But perhaps I can give you a clue as to the motive for all this. Don Vargos and Camora undoubtedly were on their way here to transact business with the Andrews Ship Corporation. It was obviously intended that they should not arrive, and that my clipper should go down."

Captain Ramer nodded.

"There are other curious angles, Jim," he said. "About a year ago, the Andrews Ship Corporation went on the rocks, since practically all South American business was cut off. Then Mark Temple, executor of the Andrews Estate, was trapped in an embezzlement as he was about to get out of the country."

"A few embezzled thousands wouldn't affect the Andrews playgirl much, would it?" Rock asked impatiently.

"But Mark Temple wasn't playing for peanuts, Jim," said Ramer. "He cleaned out a vast amount of cash and several millions in negotiable bonds. In fact, the former international pain in the neck known as Billy Andrews wasn't left one dollar not tied up in useless shipping property, or in rubber lands somewhere in Peru."

"Heck!" exclaimed Rock. "She could always get credit on that kind of gilt-edged property."

"Not in the amounts Billy Andrews needs, Jim. The rubber trees are all new plantings. They may not pay off for ten or twelve years."

"Listen, Captain," Rock said thoughtfully. "Did the papers of Don Vargos and Camora show they were interested in anything besides the ship corporation?"

"They showed only personal interests, Jim," said Captain Ramer. "Don Vargos' son and Camora's daughter attend the University of Miami."

"Captain," Rock said, more thoughtfully, "if the Andrews Corporation was cleaned out, how are those rubber plantations being worked? They have big payrolls. I've heard no hint of any threatened smash-up of the Transit Latex Corporation. Are you positive someone in the company never was tipped off where Mark Temple hid some of the stolen cash and bonds?"

Captain Ramer swore shortly.

"That's the devil of it," he said. "Mark Temple was farmed out on a road gang from Raiford Prison. He made a break, landed in Big Cypress Swamp chased by the hounds, and never came out alive. The efforts made by the Andrews Corporation to borrow money since are proof none of the embezzled money ever got back into the company."

Jim Rock had a sudden illuminating thought which he did not care to pass along. But it brought up his final question.

"You know where Don Vargos' and Camora's kids are staying?"

"Sure. They're at the San Palos, a small hotel in Miami Beach. The Andrews Ship Corporation offices are not far from the hotel. But they're not kids, Jim. They're both around fifteen or sixteen, and you know Latin-Americans."

Jim Rock rose to leave.

"Oh, by the way," he said, "how about the identifications of Don Vargos and Camora? From what I saw, I don't believe their faces would be much help."

"That isn't the half of it," said Captain Ramer. "Don Vargos' hands were mutilated beyond getting fingerprints. And Señor Camora seemed to have tried to stop a hundred chopper slugs with his hands. We only know who they are from the passenger list, and the passports and papers on their bodies."

The night edition of the Miami Herald was on the street when Rock climbed from a taxicab in front of the small stucco San Palos Hotel. Being so near the Andrews steamship offices he had decided to stop off at the hotel first. Anyhow, he had little hope of finding Tom Grove in his office now. He had learned from Captain Ramer that Grove was the present manager of the Andrews Ship Corporation, and he meant to have a talk with him.

The wrinkled Spanish woman who came to the door of the hotel, with a newspaper in her hand, had been crying.

"May I speak with the Don Vargos boy and the Camora girl?" he inquired. "It's important."

"You are from the police?" the woman asked, and moaned as she held up the newspaper with the murder headlines. "It is so terrible, so unbelievable!"

"Yes, it's terrible," agreed Rock. "But I wish to speak with the boy and girl at once. They may be of assistance."

"Why, they had a phone call only a few minutes ago," the Spanish woman said, puzzled. "The man said he was of the police. He asked them to meet him at the Andrews Ship offices. My husband drove them over in his car."

"Thanks," said Rock hurriedly. "I'll see them there."

He pushed a fiver into the taxi driver's hand.

"Make it to the Andrew Ship Corporation as fast as you can," he ordered, for he knew it might be a matter of life or death. Why else had the Don Vargos boy and the Camora girl been summoned to the waterfront on the pretext that they were wanted by the police?

The taxi headed back in along the shore, and as Rock watched the dark blotch of Biscayne Bay he thought of the car owned by Isabelle Andrews. A heavy-calibred revolver that Rock had newly purchased was a comforting weight in his pocket.

A darkened sedan came suddenly from a side street not far from the Andrews Corporation pier. The driver of the sedan narrowly missed the taxi.

"The dumbhead!" the taximan roared. "Why, he— Look!"

Jim Rock was jumping for the street, even as the driver slammed on the brakes. A girl's voice had screamed. One door of the speeding sedan had partly opened and Rock had seen a girl— before hands inside pulled her back.

Jim Rock, hitting the street, was thrown to his face by the impact. But the stumble undoubtedly saved his life for slugs from the flying sedan scored the pavement beyond him.

A plopping explosion followed the shooting. The taxi driver swore. One front tire of his taxi was down.

Two pier guards came running up, but by this time the car carrying the screaming girl had turned into another street.

"What goes on here?" demanded one of the guards angrily. "You fellas do that shootin'?"

Jim Rock wanted no trouble now.

"Nothing's wrong here," he said hastily. "But some fellows appear to be playing Wild West. Their car almost hit us, then one of them shot off a tire."

The guards glanced sharply at Rock and the taxi driver.

"Yeah?" snapped one. "You wouldn't know anything about the dead man in the car down the block, would you?"

Jim Rock never thought or acted faster in his life. He couldn't be detained and questioned now. His big hands snapped out. Two pier guards had their heads cracked together before they could blink. They slumped to the pavement, out.

"Holy catfish!" the taximan babbled. "Them guys is tough babies. Oh— oh, but you've got me in a jam!"

"I can't let you take the rap for me," Rock said quickly. "And you sure can't get away on that bum tire, either. So here's what I'll do..."

His huge fist thudded against the taxi driver's jaw, and the man went over backward, also in dreamland. Rock didn't like to sock the driver like that, but it was the only thing he could do and still get away.

"At any rate, that driver can lay all the blame on me now," Rock told himself, as he raced down the street.

Two blocks away he took shelter in a yard filled with thorny tropical bushes, while he surveyed a small crowd around a smashed coupe at the corner. A shrill-voiced woman was giving several cops her version of what had happened.

"I saw the whole thing!" she shrieked. "Those hoodlums deliberately ran into that poor devil's car so they could grab a boy and girl out of it! When he tried to interfere, the hoodlums shot him down! "

"I know who that dead man was," one policeman said emphatically. "Anyway, it's his coupe. He's the feller who runs, or did run, the San Palos Hotel."

Jim Rock slid back through the bushy yard, cut around the bungalow, and reached the next street. He still meant to visit the Andrews offices, but that taxi driver would now be recovering from his knockout punch.

"And by the time he gets together with the two pier guards I'll be mighty unpopular in Miami Beach," reasoned Rock. "But if that boy and girl were called to the ship offices, maybe Peggy was taken there, too!"

But the street was well lighted, and company guards were on duty on the wharves. It was scarcely likely that Conklin could have brought Peggy Devlin there without being observed.

Four cars were parked in a small lot at the end of the Andrews building. Rock evaded the guards to get a look at those cars. And as he reached the second one— a sedan— and saw its registration, he swore.

"Isabelle Andrews" was the name on the tag fastened to the steering post. This, apparently, was the car Conklin had driven Peggy off in. He could have brought her here. But why?

Silently Rock crept through the shadows, heading for the offices. Out of the darkness a long arm came snaking out at him. It came so swiftly he could not duck or pivot.

Few men, however, could hold Jim Rock at a disadvantage for long. Reaching back, he grabbed a handful of shirt and flesh with an iron grip which brought a quick grunt of pain from his assailant. Then he lifted and pulled, arching two hundred and twenty pounds of hard muscle in a quick duck forward. As he dropped to his knees, the clinging hands of the man on his back were torn loose and the fellow went sailing through the air, to land with a heavy thud.

Rock bounded after him, his big fist cocked. With the resiliency of a rubber ball the man bounced to his feet and came at Rock. And for the first time Rock saw him. Those waxy, white features were becoming familiar. It was Dead Face Conklin again!

Rock let him have a short, looping overhand to the jaw. Conklin staggered back, recovered, and with a savage snarl let go a sizzling punch to the solar plexus that sent Rock spinning into the brick wall. His head crashed against the bricks and he slithered to the ground.

4: Knives in the Dark

EVIDENTLY Conklin thought Rock had been knocked out, for he started to turn away. But Jim Rock was anything but finished. He was about to leap to his feet, ready for more combat, when he heard a scuffling of feet and saw several men rush up on Conklin. Conklin squared away and began swinging his fists with devastating effect. But when Rock saw the dull gleam of knives he realized it would only be a matter of time before the zombie man would be put out of action.

Rock climbed to his feet just as one of Conklin's attackers was knocked down. The man held a wicked-looking knife, and now he gripped it by the tip of the blade, preparing to throw it into Conklin's broad back.

Rock had no reason to feel friendly toward Conklin, but he couldn't stand by and see any man made the victim of a sneak knife-throw. Besides, Conklin might be the only one who knew the whereabouts of Peggy Devlin.

Some loose bricks lay on the ground. Rock swooped one up and hurled it with all his strength. The whizzing brick caught the knife wielder squarely on his bullet head. The knife clattered to the ground as he went down.

Then Jim Rock plunged into the fracas. He had to admire the fighting ability of the dead-panned Conklin. Despite their knives and numbers, Conklin's attackers were not having an easy time of it.

Rock picked off two men in his initial rush, putting them out for good. Two others came at him like maddened wolves. He felt a ripping pain as a knife cut into his shoulder, then he swung a pile-driver left into the foremost man's middle.

Rock was giving his attention to his remaining assailant when there came a shrill whistle from the darkness beyond, evidently the signal of a lookout. Jim Rock was having the satisfaction of hearing ribs crunch under his iron fist when a man came running down alongside of the steamship building.

"Scatter quickly," the man yelled in Spanish. "Meet on the boat. Tayora expects you!"

Then, from further away, another voice in the darkness called bitterly:

"In the next meeting you shall not escape, Señor Conklin!"

Conklin seemed dazed by the abrupt termination of the fight. Jim Rock seized his arm. Now he'd be able to find out what had happened to Peggy. But first he had to get away from the threat of dock guards and policemen who were already headed this way.

Rock shoved the muzzle of his gun into Conklin's side.

"Run, Dead Pan!" he ordered. "Or this thing is liable to go off!"

Lights were flickering nearer as Conklin trotted off with a queer, unearthly laugh.

"Don't know who you are, pal," he clipped, "but thanks for keeping a shiv out of my back. Under the wharf platform— that's the best spot for us now. The slimy knifers nearly got me. But you proved you're not one of them."

Jim Rock, with his gun against Conklin's ribs, jumped with him into a shallow space formed by the pier meeting the shore. As they made it, they heard a boat scrape against piling as it moved away, without lights, into the bay.

"What the devil has been cornin' off here?" Directly over Conklin and Rock a pier guard with a flashlight was searching. "See them fellers? They're out cold. And here's a bloody knife. There must have been a fight. But where'd the rest go?"

The powerful motor of the departing boat, well out now, suddenly roared. The guards yelled, their feet thudding overhead. A searchlight abruptly cut across the smooth bay. An officer yelled a command to halt the motorboat.

"There's only one man in that boat," said Rock. "Who is he, Conklin? Who are those men who attacked you? And I want to know—"

A guard started shooting. The machine-gun sliced a silvery stream of spray over the bow of the speedboat— as a warning. But when the boat roared on, the shooting guardsman's slugs cut like a great knife through the slim prow of the boat.

The tip of the prow dissolved. Then the whole craft went slanting down like a submarine making a crash dive, and disappeared under the water.

JIM ROCK'S grip upon Conklin must have relaxed momentarily. In that instant the man with the corpse face knocked aside the gun, tore himself free, and vanished into the darkness of the pilings.

Rock's search for Conklin proved futile. And he was sore in body and soul when finally he crawled from under the wharf. Just when he had begun to think Conklin might be all right, the man had somehow managed to trick him.

Guards and Miami Beach policemen were talking near the door of the Andrews Ship Corporation. The "Mr. Grove" being questioned was a clean-cut, blond fellow who did not seem old enough to be managing a steamship company.

Two old men of the bookkeeper or director type were with Grove.

"Sure, I'll give you all the help I can," Grove was telling the police. "But we know nothing of any fight out here. We got out too late to see anything except the sinking of the speedboat."

One of the elderly men spoke.

"I am Amos Calder, company auditor," he said. "We have had no trouble here. Only one visitor called at the office tonight— Miss Andrews' gardener, Conklin. And he's a peaceful sort who wouldn't have been in a brawl."

"Someone used knives," said the Beach policeman harshly. "We found this gold cross and chain, too— one of those religious emblems the Spanish like to wear. You have any Spanish employes, Mr. Grove?"

"Yes— Spanish, Italian, Cuban, and any other men we can find to help load our few ships," Grove said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some business at the home of Miss Andrews."

"You visit your boss at this hour of the night?" demanded a police officer. "Little peculiar, isn't it, Mr. Grove?"

"It would be peculiar for a policeman to mind his own business, too," snapped Grove. "Your department permitted killers to escape with a kidnaped boy and girl tonight. That certainly ought to be enough to keep you occupied."

Jim Rock slipped quietly away. Minutes later, he hailed a cruising taxicab. He felt a little uneasy about hiring a cab after having so recently slugged one driver. But Tom Grove and Amos Calder had driven off in a car and Rock needed some means of trailing them.

Grove turned into Washington Street, and shortly drew up before an old two-story building that was completely dark. As Grove and Calder got out and entered the building, another man, whose skin marked him as Latin-American, hurried away along the sidewalk, carrying a satchel. His actions were furtive, and he kept an eye cocked over his shoulder.

It apparently had alarmed him to see Grove and Calder enter the old building.

Since it was past midnight, Washington Street was deserted. Rock, hidden in the shadows of another building, saw two more men of Spanish appearance come along. The reaction of the man with the satchel was immediate when he saw the two men turn into the building into which Tom Grove and Calder had gone. He hurried at once toward an all-night drug store across the street. Jim Rock followed.

Cap over his eyes, Rock entered a phone booth next to the one occupied by the man with the satchel.

He caught fragments of what the man was saying in rapid Spanish.

"You were right, Señor. Now is the proper time to get them all. Si, Señor. I saw Don Vargos and Camora... Very good, I shall wait a while. Pedro has just left. He also has a satchel, and he will manage to smuggle it aboard the yacht somehow. Don't worry."

Rock was so startled by the announcement that Don Vargos and Camora had been seen that he lost the remainder of the conversation.

Then the man had hung up and was leaving the place. Rock emerged and followed him.

In short order the man became aware that he was being shadowed. Rock decided to cast off all pretense, collar the fellow and extract some information. If this man knew anything about what had happened to Peggy, he'd find out, using force, if necessary.

"Hi, fellow!" he called. "You dropped something."

The man shot one look at the big air pilot and took to his heels.

"Hey, there, stop!" Rock yelled. "Halt, or I'll shoot!"

The fleeing man paid no attention. And he was so fleet that Rock would either have to fire or let him escape.

Rock hauled out his heavy revolver and blazed away.

His intention was to fire over the man's head, but he had never been particularly adept as a marksman. His first shot hit the man's satchel.

THERE was a blinding flash, a thunderous explosion. The whole street seemed to buckle, and Rock was hurled violently from his feet. When he was able to crawl to his hands and knees, dazed, he saw no sign of the man who had carried the satchel. Where he had been, only a ragged hole and a few curling wreaths of smoke were all that remained.

Rock ran. That blast had been powerful enough to rouse half of Florida, and crowds would be milling around in no time.

He dived back into the doorway of the building from which the man with the satchel had emerged. The crowds came all right- fast.

There were plenty of radio cars. Immediately, the police established lines and cleared a zone around the crater.

Others searched for a corpse, but the man carrying that satchel had been blown to such bits, apparently, that not a sign of him remained.

Finally, someone found a fragment of satchel and a few twisted steel tools.

"Soup man," announced a plainclothes officer. "Must have been nitro in that bag, and that once was a steel drill. Probably meant to go to work on some safe. Poor sap must have stubbed his toe."

Jim Rock eased himself into the building. Mounting the stairs, he began to listen at doors.

He heard nothing, then he saw that through the glass panel of one rear door a light showed, outlining a sign that read:

AMOS CALDER

Real Estate

Rock tried the knob, found the door unlocked, and entered a cheaply furnished, shoddy outer office. From behind the closed door of the inner office came the sounds of conversation. Rock was moving nearer when his foot caught on a chair and knocked it over.

Instantly, there was silence in the inner office. Quick as a flash Rock was beside the door of the inner office.

When it opened, he was concealed from view behind it.

WHOEVER opened the door must have looked the room over carefully. Then he said:

"There's no one here. It must have been the wind." The voice was that of Tom Grove, the young manager of the Andrews Ship Corporation.

The door was closed again. Rock placed his ear against the panel.

"There's nothing to be excited about," he heard Grove say. "We are alone, and can get on with our business. Now, if you men are Señores Don Vargos and Camora, as you claim, why haven't you brought your credentials?"

"We did not expect to have our identity questioned," answered a deeply accented voice. "We wish to see Señor Mark Temple. He asked us to come, and it is with him we wish to confer. He would recognize us both at once."

"Haven't heard about Temple, Señor Camora?" asked Grove, in surprise.

"We have heard nothing."

"Then Temple must have sent for you before he perished in the swamp," said Grove. "He got into trouble over estate funds, received a prison sentence, and died while trying to escape from a chain-gang. The money he was accused of stealing has never been traced or recovered. As a result, our steamship company is in financial difficulties and we employes have been working practically without pay. Miss Andrews owns your Latex Company also, so perhaps you can solve the difficulty. Have you an idea, Señor Don Vargos?"

"Some parts of Señor Temple's letter we did not understand," said another voice with a South American accent, "but now we comprehend better. So he is dead! When we know you better, Señor Grove, perhaps we will talk. But first we must recover our children who have been abducted.

5: Peggy's Strange Job

THE conference in the inner office was about to break up, and Jim Rock thought it best to get away before he was discovered. But he was puzzled. What was Tom Grove up to? The young manager had struck him as honest.

Rock also had noticed an old-fashioned safe in the outer office, and he wondered if that was the safe the "soup man" outside had been intending to crack. If so, why?

Crowds were still thronging the street outside the building, as Rock slipped away. He took a bus to the Midway Bridge. He meant to have a try at interviewing Billy Andrews. She might know where Peggy was.

Hiring a boat at this hour was impossible, so Rock borrowed a row boat. Luck and the tide were with him, for he passed unchal¬ lenged through Flamingo Basin.

A night fiisherman directed him to the huge home, half hidden by tropical shrubbery, called The Heron. So Billy Andrews was broke, eh ? The only place the poor child had left was this mansion on exclusive Hibiscus Island.

Rock rowed as close as he could to a vine-covered wall. He swore at the jagged glass fixed in the cement on the top of it. Astride the wall, he looked up at an open window on the second floor of the mansion. At the window was a small blond girl— and at sight of her Jim Rock almost fell off his perch.

"I'm getting goofy!" he groaned. "It couldn't be her!"

But as the blond girl turned, her lovely profile was fully revealed. There was no mistake— it was Peggy Devlin!

Plainly she was not a prisoner of dead-face Conklin who had snatched her. Nor was she under restraint. Instead, she was clad in the neat uniform of a maid!

Rock jumped from the wall and landed in an hibiscus bush inside the grounds. He was near a driveway which, curved away to the ornate entrance of the house. He decided then and there to go in and ask Peggy for an explanation. His eyes fell on a small side door, and he found it unlocked. Entering, he discovered himself in a living room where a dark-haired woman, evidently a housekeeper, seized him by the wrist.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Get out before I call the police! "

Rock did not stop to argue. He left. Outside, in the darkness, he drew a deep breath.

He was trying to figure out the best way to reach Peggy when an expensive limousine drew up before the house. Rock received another shock then. In the driver's seat, stiff and straight as a ramrod in his chauffeur's uniform, was the dead-faced Conklin.

Peggy herself came running out of the house as Conklin tooted his horn.

"Miss Andrews phoned, Conklin," she called. "She said you needn't bother to meet her. She'll come home with Count Garno."

Rock stared at the girl. He had been eating his heart out and breaking laws because he believed her to be in danger, and seemingly she had been all right all the time.

"Garno!" Conklin muttered angrily. "All right, Miss Courtney. I'll put up the limousine."

As Peggy reentered the house, Rock started toward Conklin and the shiny auto¬ mobile.

"I'll darn soon find out what all this screwy stuff adds up to," he vowed. "Peggy working as a lady's maid! It doesn't make sense."

Jim Rock halted in his tracks. Perhaps it did make sense. He had been chasing all over Miami trying to dig up a reason for the murder of two men, and what better position was there to obtain plenty of information than the one in which Peggy had put herself?

He thought of the message she had just given to Conklin, that he needn't bother meeting Miss Anderson. But Conklin, apparently, had no intention of putting the car away.

GRAVEL flew from under the wheels of the limousine as Conklin sent it toward the gateway, and Rock had just time to sprint for the machine and hop onto the rear bumper before the car went into high gear. He managed to cling there as the limousine sped over the Causeway.

Rock slipped off the rear bumper just as the limousine pulled up alongside a factory building. He could not guess why Conklin had come here except that in doing it, he was disobeying Miss Andrews' orders.

Conklin left the limousine and remained in the shadows, watching. Then a girl came out that Conklin must have been looking for. Jim Rock often had seen pictures of Billy Andrews, but he never would have identified her with this girl in overalls, her face covered with grimy oil, and with a small lunch-box in one hand. She went up to a slick little roadster pulled up at the curb and a man got out and bowed from the waist. He was a foreigner, though Rock was not sure of the nationality.

"Now do you see, Artie, what I meant?" she explained gleefully.

"Yes! Yea!" the dark-faced foreigner cried gaily. "You look marvelous, Billy! It was a wonderful idea to come to a factory to get an authentic costume for our 'workingmen's' yacht party."

The girl got in the car, and the foreigner went around to get in beside her.

"Artie?" whispered Jim Rock. "Yeah, I get it now. Count Arturo Garno. The papers have had Billy Andrews hooked up with Count Garno— some distant connection of the defunct royalty of Spain, or Portugal."

Then Rock saw Conklin make a sudden move toward Count Garno's car. Billy Andrews was about to be entertained aboard a yacht, and it looked as if Conklin, gardener, chauffeur, kidnaper, or whatever he was, had an idea of breaking up the party.

"Let her play out her own cards," Jim Rock muttered grimly, moving forward to intercept Conklin.

Rock took no chances this time. He let go with a jaw-cracking punch that snapped back the dead-pan face. Conklin sighed and sank down, and Rock reached into the man's pockets swiftly for the ignition key to the limousine. In a moment more, Rock was following Garno's bright blue roadster, in the Andrews' limousine.

The roadster sped into the Venetian Causeway, and swerved toward the road that crossed numerous small bridges toward Flamingo Basin. A sedan passed Rock, going fast. A light showed men and women in overalls, with soiled faces. Rock chuckled. They were Garno's guests.

"All the world's crazy," he told himself. "Just the same, I want to get on that yacht. I've an idea I'll learn plenty."

He pulled up and got out. The trunk at the back yielded nothing, but when he lifted the front seat he found greasy overalls and a jumper stowed for emergency repairs. When Jim Rock headed for the Flamingo Basin shore docks five minutes later, he looked as much the part of a factory worker as anyone.

Big Jim Rock had never witnessed such a party as that aboard the yacht. Women in overalls gushed over little Billy Andrews; and Count Garno, who had changed into overalls and had greased his face, appeared to be a gracious host. Still, Rock thought he had never seen anything so screwy.

All of a sudden he realized he had wandered near Count Garno and Billy Andrews where they sat in a shadowed spot. They were so interested in each other they never even noticed him.

"Why not do it, darling?"' Count Garno was persuasive. "We still have the license. It was such a mistake, your believing I wanted to marry you for your money. Now, everyone knows you've lost your money. So let's get married tonight. I've already made arrangements with a padre. I want to prove to you, darling, that I'm not a fortune- hunter."

Jim Rock slid back, crouching in the dark¬ ness behind a lifeboat. He was puzzled. This Count Garno seemed on the level.

But Rock would like to know whether the Count— and Billy Andrews, herself— fitted into all that had happened within the last few hours. The events passed in swift review before his mind.

Señores Don Vargos and Camora had been murdered. Or had men impersonating them been killed? An attempt had been made to wreck the Lima clipper. A boy and girl had been abducted, and a cracksman had been blown up while fleeing from the offices of Amos Calder, Andrew ship auditor.

Before that, Dead Pan Conklin had appeared, slugging everyone, including Jim Rock. He had kidnaped Peggy Devlin, who had turned up working as a maid for Billy Andrews, and on good terms with the zombie man.

"My aching brain!" groaned Rock. "I can't make head or tail of all of this."

And now here was Count Arturio Garno, reputed to be a fortune-hunter, laying his title and his life at the feet of a once glamorous heiress who now was penniless. None of it made sense.

"Oh, Artie!" Billy Andrews cried rapturously. "Now I know you love me for myself. But— but— Well, my steamship company is about to be sold to satisfy creditors, and all I can bring you would be—"

Count Garno cut her short With a kiss and a laugh.

"Pooh, for your fortune, sweetheart mia," he said lightly. "We will sell your home on Hibiscus Island and get another not so costly. I have an offer of a splendid brokerage position. The income may seem small, at first, still I will be able to give you some luxuries."

Garno swept Billy Andrews into his arms.

"Let's leave right away," Rock heard him say softly. "I long to have you all to myself— my wife."

ROCK suddenly noticed Garno make a motion to a sailor not far away, and the man ducked below. Billy Andrews did not see that as she moved away with the Count.

The two had not taken half a dozen steps when three men in overalls moved into view from behind a superstructure. Rock recog¬ nized the frozen face of Conklin, although it was covered with grease and oil. He recognized Tom Grove, too, though Grove looked like a garage mechanic.

The third man was old Amos Calder, who had concealed his dignity behind smudges of black.

"Billy," Tom Grove called to her. "I thought you had more sense! Get away from her, Garno! There's going to be no hasty marriage tonight!"

A quick flush of anger spread over Billy's pretty, smudged face.

"How dare you try to interfere with my personal affairs, Tom Grove!" she cried. "And you, too, Amos Calder! Conklin, I'm surprised! I thought you were a friend of mine!"

Suddenly understanding came into her expressive features.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I see it all now! Tom Grove, you and Calder have been looting my company. If I marry, there must be a quick accounting to my husband. You've been telling me that my last hope of saving anything out of the fortune my father left me depended upon the arrival of Señores Don Vargos and Camora. You prevented that! You killed them! You scheming vallains, I'll— I'll—"

"Shut up!" yelled Tom Grove. "You're wrong, Billy!"

"Don't you dare try to shut me up!" retorted the excited girl. "I'm going to get married tonight! I'm going to discharge you all and get some good honest men in your places!"

Count Garno laid a placating hand on her arm.

"Not so fast, my dear," he said. "Your friends are overzealous, perhaps, but after we're married these misunderstandings can be cleared away."

"Not so fast yourself, Garno," Conklin rasped. "She'll never marry you. We've brought help along to prevent that."

He leaned over the rail and waved an arm. A score of husky dock workers who had been waiting in small boats came swarming over the rail. They went for every sailor on deck in a prompt general melee.

6: Jim Rock Blunders

JIM ROCK remained where he was, not knowing what to think about Billy Andrews' frenzied accusations. Had Grove and Calder been looting the steamship company? Was that the reason for the straitened financial circumstances of the heiress?

With that fight going on, though, there was little time for logical thought. Everybody was battling. Tom Grove, Conklin, and even Amos Calder, old as he was, were punching at the heads of anybody who happened to be handy.

Then Jim Rock got a surprise. He knew Conklin's fighting ability only too well, so it was a shock when a stoker darted up and launched a vicious kick on the zombie man's ankle before Conklin could fairly get started. Conklin yelled with pain and limped away, out of action.

Coming near the lifeboat where the air pilot was concealed, Conklin bent over, pulled up the bottom of his trousers, and began to massage his bare ankle.

Seeing that ankle by the light of a nearby lantern, Rock was horrified. At some time the man must have been tortured without mercy. Nothing else could account for the scars Rock saw— and the man's tragic face.

Conklin straightened up and went limping away. But he did not again mix in the fight.

Count Garno was in it, though— plenty. He might be a nobleman, an idler, but he knew how to handle himself.

With two powerful blows he had knocked over a couple of his antagonists, and was sailing into the rest. Some of his overalled guests had taken a hand in the conflict as the sounds of blows and yells echoed over the shadowy bay.

In the midst of it, the sailor who had gone below in answer to Garno's signal, barged on deck. He rushed up to Garno, yelling something in Spanish.

Rock could not understand what was said, but the effect upon Garno and the other Spanish-Americans was electric. Rushing from the fray, they began to dive into the bay.

Garno wrenched himself loose from the clutches of a dock worker. In two long bounds he reached Billy Andrews, snatched her up, and leaped with her into the bay.

Rock instantly got the idea. The yacht was in peril! And the next moment he also went over the side.

He landed in the water with a big splash and went down deep. When he popped up to the surface he began to swim away from the yacht with all his strength. He touched long, silky, floating hair and held on to it. Billy Andrews— he was sure of it.

Rock had turned on his back, supporting the girl, when the yacht let go with a thunderous explosion. Flames, smoke and debris shot high into the air. Fire lighted up the basin.

Around Rock were bobbing heads, and floating fragments. And plenty of dark figures were still coming over the side of the fiercely blazing yacht. Were Grove, Calder and Conklin among them?

"Thanks," the heiress gurgled to Jim Rock.

A man swam up to them. Rock recognized the dark, lean handsome face of Count Garno.

"Thanks, Señor," Garno said gratefully. "I'll take her now. Billy, my love, are you hurt?"

"I'm okay," she said. "Oh, Artie your beautiful yacht!"

"Never mind" said Garno. "The important thing is you're safe."

From all over Flamingo Basin now came the toot of warning whistles and sirens. Boats were coming to the rescue from all directions. Men aboard one speeding cruiser spotted Rock, Garno and Billy Andrews, and made a wide circle to pick them up.

Jim Rock did not want to be taken aboard that cruiser and have to give his name. So he quietly swam for shore, toward where he had left the Andrews limousine. Peggy Devlin was still on Hibiscus Island. He meant to go there, get some dry clothes, and some vital information.

As he swam, he revised some of his previous opinions. He would have sworn the young manager, Tom Grove, was honest, and that white-haired Amos Calder was honest too. But apparently he had been wrong. He had even cherished a secret hope that Conklin was not a villain. Drawn to the dead-faced man because he was such a hard, clean, skilful fighter, he hated to believe that Conklin had had a hand in looting the steamship company.

But what of the explosion aboard the yacht? Had Grove, Conklin and Calder planted a bomb to help prevent Billy Andrews' marriage? Could that man with the satchel have been Grove's agent, and had he phoned Grove just before being killed?

What Rock could not understand was where the real Don Vargos and the real Camora came into the picture. Was Grove trying to obtain concessions from them by using the abducted son and daughter of the South Americans as a lever?

"I'm getting Peggy," growled Rock. "Then I'm going to have a look in that safe in Calder's office. I'll find out who and what is back of all this deviltry, or else!"

THE Andrews limousine was where he had parked it. Getting the motor going, he set out for Hibiscus Island. Twice, he had to make long detours to avoid the police. When he finally drew up in front of The Heron he was surprised to find the big house as brightly illuminated as a Christmas tree.

"Looks like a party," muttered Rock. "Could Count Garno and Billy Andrews be planning on a wedding anyway, in spite of what's happened?"

He was moving toward the house when he stumbled over something soft and bulky. He bent to examine what had tripped him, and smothered a whistle. It was a man's body! Rock lighted a match and took a look at the face. It was the white-haired Amos Calder.

"When a man gets in the habit of murdering people," he muttered grimly, "he apparently can't stop."

By the light of another match he made a more thorough examination. Calder had been stabbed.

"This doesn't make sense," Rock growled, as he rose to his feet. "If Calder was in the deal to loot the steamship company, why should he have been killed?"

His toe kicked something, and he picked it up. It was a knife, still wet and bloody. As he straightened, a voice spoke from the shrubbery.

"Drop that, you murderer! One move and I'll fill you full of bullet holes!"

Jim Rock knew he could not afford to be caught this way. He made a wild lunge toward the voice. His huge body ripped through the shrubbery, then his hands closed on a dodging body. The muffled cry which went up was in a voice he could not mistake. He let go in a hurry.

"Peggy!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

His arms went around her and he kissed her hard, so hard that when he released her she was gasping for breath.

"Jim, I'm so glad you're all right!" she exclaimed. "But I ought to ask you what you're doing here. I followed Count Garno when he came out to look for the padre who's expected here to marry the Count and Billy Andrews. The priest has been delayed and the Count is worried. I haven't seen Garno, but when I saw you— and didn't recognize you— lighting matches and standing over a dead man, I thought of course you were a murderer. I'm still carrying my little gun, you see."

Rock had dropped the knife beside the body. He thought it best to find the weapon and wipe his fingerprints off the handle. Peggy Devlin tagged beside him.

"How long have Count Garno and Miss Andrews been here, Peggy?" he asked.

"Only a few minutes," said the girl. "There was a big explosion on the count's yacht where they were having a party. Miss Andrews jumped overboard, he followed, found her in the darkness and rescued her."

"Oh yeah?" Rock said grimly. "Who else is here?"

"Everyone who was saved from the yacht," said Peggy. "All sopping wet. Tom Grove, the steamship manager, burst in, too, and objected to Miss Andrews' marriage. He swore he'd prevent it, if he had to kidnap the priest.

I guess he did, too, because he left in a fury, and the padre hasn't shown up. But I guess Billy Andrews can marry whom she wants to, and the count is so handsome—"

"Period," growled Rock. "Who stuck the knife in Amos Calder?"

"How do I know?" said Peggy. "I thought you did, but— Calder? Was that his name?"

"It was," said Jim Rock. "Now tell me— how do you happen to be working as a maid ?"

"When Conklin found me in the Andrews car, he knocked me out. When I came to, I told him about being a stewardess, and maybe I'd lose my job, so he offered to get me another as maid for Billy Andrews. I— er— thought I might find out something. I have— so far. That heiresses are pretty swell and Conklin's fine. And I will find out—"

"Hold it," snapped Rock. "Was Dead-Pan Conklin here with Grove? Maybe he humped off Calder."

"Oh no, Jim," Peggy said quickly. "Conklin wouldn't hurt a fly!"

"Sure," growled Rock. "He's tame and gentle— like a wolf. You don't know what happened to Grove and Garno after they left the house?"

"All I know is they didn't come back."

Jim Rock decided to have a better look at the knife which had killed Amos Calder. Lighting more matches, he examined the weapon.

The knife was a peculiar affair. On the yellowed bone haft were Inca carvings such as he had seen on knives in Peruvian shops. Thinking of Peru brought to mind the mysterious men who had been in Calder's offices, but whom he had not seen, and who had called themselves Don Vargos and Camora.

That reminded Rock that he had delayed a long time in trying to get a look in Amos Calder's safe. He decided to take Peggy with him and make another visit to the real estate offices in that ramshackle old building. He could use some of that explosive which had been in the satchel his bullet had destroyed in the street, he thought. But. he would get that safe open somehow.

He took Peggy Devlin firmly by the arm.

"Come on," he snapped. "We're getting out of here!"

He started to turn away with her— and it was at that moment that a police car, bearing down on Billy Andrews' estate, flashed its headlights across the shrubbery. The beams disclosed Jim Rock and Peggy Devlin standing beside the body of an old man on the ground.

EVERY detail of the scene must have been revealed to the policemen in the car, who were probably investigating the destruction of Garno's yacht. From the radio car came startled exclamations. Brakes squealed and gravel flew.

Jim Rock had better reason now than ever for not wanting to be questioned. Snatching up Peggy Devlin, he went crashing through thorny branches, dodging in and out of the trees.

Radio police were yelling for them to halt. Some began to shoot. But the whining slugs failed to come anywhere near the fleeing man and girl.

Instinctively Rock headed for the garages. Once, many cars had been housed there, for it had been claimed that Billy Andrews always bought a new car to match each new Paris frock. Rock hoped to find one of those cars there— unlocked.

But he didn't dare stop at the garages to investigate. Pursuit was too hot. He set Peggy on her feet, seized her wrist, and ran on, dodging the radio car headlights as the car whizzed around the curving drive.

Suddenly there were renewed shouts, so loud and excited that Rock stopped short.

Then he saw the fleeing man that the car headlights had revealed. The police shouted for him to stop, but he paid no attention. Again they began to shoot.

"It's Tom Grove," Rock whispered to Peggy. "Gosh, how that lad does get around. But why didn't he stop when they ordered him to? Why is he afraid of the police? I don't like it, Peggy. The more I see of that fellow's actions, the less I understand them."

Rock was hoping that amid all the flurry and excitement over Grove, he and the girl could get away. Presently, he realized that he and Peggy were standing by a canal. Farther on was a wharf and, moored to the piling, near a light, was a big cabin cruiser.

Tom Grove was heading toward that cruiser.

7: Torture Boat

MEN were busy on the deck of the cruiser casting off lines, just as Grove appeared. The engine already was humming. Grove yelled for them to wait for him, but they paid no attention. As the boat started to pull away, he put on speed and leaped aboard. Even as his feet landed on deck one of the crew hit him over the head with a piece of iron pipe.

Grove fell back into the canal and sank like a stone. Another crew member tossed something onto the pier that landed with a thud.

This was too much for Jim Rock. He was tired of murder being committed all around him. He raced for the wharf and dived into the water, groping blindly along the bottom for Tom Grove's body. He found the limp form almost at once.

Holding the injured man's head above water, Rock made for the shore. He discovered the water at this point was only waist deep, and he turned to make his way back to where he had left Peggy. Just as he turned, a heavy explosion shattered the pier.

With the limp body of Grove, the pilot made for the other side of the canal, anxiously wondering what had happened to Peggy. Radio car headlights began to gleam on the bushes behind him, as he landed on the opposite shore.

Tom Grove had only been stunned. His head was bleeding, and there was a big lump on it, but in a moment he began to stir.

"Conklin!" he muttered dazedly. "We've been crossed! Try to get the stuff out of the safe before they find it."

Then he lapsed into unconsciousness again. Jim Rock watched the beams of flashlights play over the foliage on the opposite bank as the police searched the shrubbery.

"There's too much action in this murder case," he thought sourly. "Too many hair-breadth escapes, and too many trusted pals doublecrossing each other and slicing each other's throats."

Water splashed nearby. Rock reached for the gun under his armpit, and discovered it no longer was there. Then a stray beam of light showed Peggy in the water. Rock dragged her ashore.

"How did you get away from the police?" he demanded.

"They aren't after me," Peggy said indignantly. "They happen to be chasing you and Tom Grove, you heel. Here I've been worried to death, thinking you were drowned, so I jump in the water to find out— and all you do is talk to me like I was a crook being chased."

"Quiet, Peggy!" Rock cautioned. "Tom Grove is waking up again."

The young steamship manager was, in fact, sitting up and surveying them.

"I remember being knocked into the canal," he muttered. "I thought Conklin pulled me out. Who are you two?"

"We happened to be passing and I saw you floating in the water," Rock said glibly. "So I jumped in and pulled you out. My girl friend here got wet trying to help us ashore."

Before Tom Grove could answer, a scrambling sound caused them all to lift their eyes to the canal wall in back of them. Two dark figures there were peering in their direction.

One of them spoke Grove's name in a low voice, and a few words in Spanish. Grove heaved a relieved sigh.

"Don Vargos— Camora," he called. "It's me, Tom Grove. Why didn't you remain in the car where I left you?"

"We could not, Señor Grove," one of the men answered. "Some men surrounded us and tried to capture us. We had to flee. They are still after us."

Tom Grove scrambled to his feet.

"Wait— I can guide you," he said. "I know these grounds like a book. We should be able to give those men the slip."

Tom Grove climbed the wall and joined the two Latin-Americans. In a moment more Rock had helped Peggy over the wall.

Tom Grove was holding out his hand. "Thank you, my unknown friend," he said earnestly. "My name is Tom Grove, and I work for the Andrews Ship Corporation. Be sure and look me up tomorrow. Sorry I have to leave now, but my friends are in trouble and—"

He got no further. From the bushes on all sides squatty shapes abruptly materialized. They came swarming over the four men and the girl.

Taken by surprise, Rock emitted a smothered bellow and tried to fight. But a heavy club landed with crushing force on his head. There was a blinding flash. Then he knew no more....

SEVERAL hours passed before Jim Rock painfully opened his eyes and knew, from the placid lift and fall of the boat on which he was a prisoner, approximately where he was. Off-shore for a distance from the Florida coast, there was something about the smooth swell of the tide, as it met the current of the Gulf Stream, which distinguished it from all other ocean waters the world over.

The air pilot's feet were loose, but his hands had been secured behind his back with ropes. He began to work on them frantically, exerting his strength to the utmost. His frenzied efforts were redoubled when he heard the screaming voice of a boy.

"Not her—not her!" the youth shrieked. "Madre do Dios, she will be blind, you devils! Let it be me— I can bear it!"

A low, soft voice answered in mocking tones. By shifting his body, Rock managed to obtain a view of the scene being enacted at the end of the cabin.

A stout little man, as pudgy as a Chinese idol, was crouching there on a rug, smoking a long, thin dgarro. Opposite him was a sweet-faced Spanish girl of about fifteen, with smooth masses of raven-black hair. She was fastened to a post. Beside her, a villainous-looking man was dipping a cloth into some liquid and applying it to her forehead and eyes.

If ever anyone witnessed an exhibition of sheer courage, Jim Rock saw it then. The girl uttered no sound, though her frail body quivered and jerked with anguish.

In a bunk nearby the boy who had protested was fastened with ropes.

"You have only to speak the word, amigos, and the girl's suffering will cease," said the fat man, in Spanish.

"Stop it!" another man's voice boomed agonizedly. "Do not blind Dolores! Have we not promised everything you wish?"

The voice of the man who spoke was one Jim Rock had heard twice before— Señor Camora's voice.

Rock understood now what was happening. These were the abducted children of Don Vargos and Camora, and the fat brute was torturing the boy and girl to force something from the parents.

It was daylight now, but the light in the cabin was subdued. It was almost dark where Rock lay. Presently, however, he was able to make out a tier of bunks opposite. In one of them Peggy Devlin was bound. In the bunk above her was Tom Grove.

The pleas of Señor Camora finally prevailed. At a signal from the fat man, the brown-faced fiend who held the cloth stepped back. Rock smelled the pungent odor of some acid, but though he could not recognize it, he had a dim idea that it was one that would sting and pain, but would leave no permanent injury.

"It is good you two Señores have seen reason," the pudgy man said to the bound and helpless Don Vargos and Camora. "Though it soon will not matter to you."

"You mean to kill us?" shouted Don Vargos.

The fat man laughed.

"A quick end is better than prolonged torture. That will be the reward for you four at this end of the cabin. As for the others— I have different plans."

Rock had been working unremittingly at his ropes, and at this moment they came loose. He was free. But he remained quiet, for the fat man was waddling toward him. The man stopped near Rock's bunk.

"Señor Jim Rock and his bright-haired young friend," he wheezed. "They have mixed into affairs which were none of their concern. For that, we shall feed them to the barracuda and the crabs."

This threat brought a chill even to the cold-steel nerves of Jim Rock. While one might search in a hundred miles of ocean for man-eating sharks, millions of barracuda— sea tigers— were always in the Gulf Stream waiting for any fish or flesh that might come along.

A sailor entered the cabin, bellowing loudly.

"We are nearing the reef where the barracuda make their feeding place! Shall we anchor, Señor Tayora?"

"We will slip the yellow-haired woman into the water first where the propeller will strike her," the fat Tayora said. "All the barracuda require is a little blood to draw them to the feast. Then we will toss in the air pilot. The other four we shoot first, because I have given my promise, and I am an honorable man. As for Tom Grove—"He began to whisper.

Rock, stealthily rubbing his wrists to restore circulation, had his eye on a man who was attending the motor.

From the deck came an order, and the engineer allowed the motor to idle. Someone opened the cabin door and wisps of fog drifted in.

Tayora and the boat crew now betrayed signs of nervousness. Rock knew why. The Coast Guard maintained a close patrol in these waters.

"As soon as we have disposed of the prisoners we shall become innocent fishermen," Tayora was telling the sailors. "Then we shall not be bothered."

THE sailor who had been talking with Señor Tayora, and the engineer, ap¬ proached Peggy Devlin's bunk. The next moment one of the men flinched back with an oath. Blood was streaming from a wound on his wrist.

"The little devil!" he shouted. "She has bitten me!"

Peggy screamed then, and began to fight. Rock had to force himself to lie quiet. It was difficult, but the play he had in mind would turn the tables on Señor Tayora and his mob.

Somehow the two sailors managed to force the screaming, struggling Peggy to the front of the cabin. And abruptly there came a furious shout. A tall, thin mustached Spaniard in soiled white clothes appeared in the center of the cabin floor. Although the upper part of his body was trussed like an Egyptian mummy, his spirit was not leashed.

"You shall not slay that helpless woman!" he shouted. "Camora, help me!"

Another prisoner, trussed the same way, rolled up beside the man who must be Don Vargos. Camora was stockier, smooth-faced, and wore rumpled black clothes. Though their hands were bound, Don Vargos and Camora hurled themselves into battle with Tayora, kicking and butting with their heads.

The sailors dropped Peggy and leaped to the aid of the fat man.

Now, Jim Rock knew, was the time for him to act. Leaping from his bunk, he sprang toward a small valve wheel set low in the woodwork of the stern.

Tayora came sailing down the cabin, propelled by a mighty kick from an infuriated Peruvian. Sputtering oaths, he bounded to his feet, his hand darting to a knife at his belt. Weapon in hand, he sprang back toward the fray, looking like a black demon.

Jim Rock was straining at the valve. He spun it as far as it would go and clamped it so tightly he was sure it would require the combined efforts of two men to loosen it.

Even with the uproar he could hear the gurgle of water beginning to pour into the hull. Unless that valve could be closed, the cruiser would sink.

A fighting sailor wheeled, saw Rock free, and shouted an alarm as his hand swept up his revolver. The cruiser rolled as Rock surged toward the man, dodging bullets in his bull-like charge. His big fist caught the sailor on the jaw and sent him spinning, head over heels.

Don Vargos and Camora lay on the floor, their bound bodies bloody. Tayora and the other sailor tried to doge the onrush of the furious air pilot, but Rock's knuckles collided with the middle of the fat leader of the killers.

Tayora went down, and Rock hit the sailor like a sledge-hammer. Blood and teeth flew in every direction. Groaning, the man dropped.

There were shouts from the deck, and more men came pouring into the cabin. Peggy Devlin sprang up from the floor. To Rock's surprise, he saw that her captors had not bothered to tie her. An exultant light leaped into Rock's eyes. Those men would regret that oversight!

8: Accused!

JIM ROCK closed with two of the men who pounded down the companionway, Peggy dashed after another who was headed for the motor. The man had reached out to throw it into gear when Peggy flew at him tooth and nail.

Her clutching hands caught his long black hair and began to remove it in bunches. He tried to hit her, but she grabbed his flailing arm and bit it. Her feet kicked his shins as she began to claw at his eyes.

The mariner, first surprised, swiftly became terror-stricken. For Peggy had started on the ju-jutsu tricks Jim Rock had taught her, and every time she touched the man it hurt.

He turned to flee. Peggy made a flying lean to his back, where she clung, removing more handfuls of hair.

The sailor stumbled and fell. His head collided with an iron stanchion. He groaned once, and lay still. Peggy eyed him warily for a moment, then leaped to her feet.

"I got one of them, Jim!" she called.

But Jim Rock was busy. He was trying to keep his two sailors from knifing him. The keen blade of a knife grazed his cheek, and he began to pound at the dark faces with heavy blows. In a moment one man's face resembled hamburger, but he refused to go down. Rock tried a kick to the stomach. That worked. The sailor didn't bother him any more. And as soon as Rock managed to close with the other sailor, that one folded up like a wet rag.

Peggy, disheveled and panting, ran to him. Rock looked at the floor.

"Jeepers, Peggy!" he exploded. "This danged thing is sinking under our feet! If I don't close those sea-cocks pronto we'll get our ears wet!"

He whirled at the sound of movement, and was just in time to see Señor Tayora darting toward the companionway door. Rock sprang after him. But, fat as he was, Tayora got away. As the air pilot reached the deck the fat man was disappearing over the side into the sea.

No one was at the cruiser's steering wheel. No one was in sight. A curtain of gray fog blanketed the boat. The dark waters of the ocean rose and fell in long, oily swells. Señor Tayora did not bob up to the surface, and Rock decided that his drowning was good riddance.

There was not a single craft in sight or hearing that might be hailed for rescue. Rock knew their only chance was for him to do something about those sea-cocks. When he hurried back to the cabin, Peggy was attending to the wounds of Don Vargos and Camora.

Rock shut off the motor and, knee-deep in salt water, fumbled for the handle of the valve. The wheel jerked loose in his hand. He had yanked it so hard he had broken connections. The sea-cocks refused to close!

"We'll have to move out of here, Peggy!" he called. "The boat's sinking!"

Tom Grove promptly climbed down from his bunk. His eyes were bright and his manner alert. He had not been unconscious. Rock sizzled with anger at the thought of all the fighting he and Peggy had done, while Grove hadn't lifted a hand!

The next moment the cruiser rocked as something bumped into it. Then from above a voice shouted:

"Hey, there! Anyone aboard? This is the Coast Guard."

Rock gave a bellow of joy.

"Whoops! Saved by Uncle Sam!"

Twenty minutes later the Coast Guard launch which had accidentally found them in the fog, was headed for Miami. Don Vargos and Camora had been treated for their injuries, and now Dolores and the young Peruvian boy sat beside their unconscious fathers.

The dark-skinner sailors of the cruiser had been revived, then put in heavy irons. Tom Grove sat alone and silent. He had refused to make any comment about his actions aboard the cruiser.

At Miami Beach, where the vessel tied up, the first man Rock saw was Count Arturio Garno. Standing beside him was Billy Andrews. Both seemed surprised to see Peggy Devlin. They didn't know Rock.

"We've been waiting here for a friend of mine who went out fishing," the Count said to Peggy pleasantly. "I want him to be my best man. You seem to have been in some trouble."

Garno looked shocked at the tale Peggy hastily told him. Billy Andrews looked worried. Then she smiled at Peggy.

"I'm glad you're back," she said. "I intend to discharge Conklin who hired you, but I'm going to keep you on. I'm sure you're not mixed up in all that's been happening. I—"

She stopped short as she spotted Tom Grove, froze him with a glance, and deliberately turned her back.

"Thanks, Miss Andrews," Rock said, firmly getting her attention. "But Peggy won't need your job. After all we've been through, we've decided to get married ourselves. We're on our way to City Hall now."

"You ain't goin' to marry anybody for a time yet, young man," a harsh voice broke in. "I know you. You're Jim Rock, the airlines pilot. The police have been searching all over for you for the last twelve hours. Your fingerprints are on file and they were on a knife that killed a man. You were supposed to have been drowned, but you sure were seen here last night. I'm Chief Davis, of the Miami Beach Police. I'm holding you for the murder of Amos Calder!"

JIM ROCK stood at the barred window of his cell in the small Miami Beach lock-up, accused of the murder of Amos Calder. Twenty-four hours had passed since he had seen the man who had been impersonating Señor Camora cut down by machine-guns in Coconut Grove. Rock was wondering what had become of Peggy. Had she forgotten her whispered promise?

He had turned to pace the cell again, swearing resentfully, when he heard a slight noise. He turned again quickly, and saw Peggy Devlin looking at him through the bars of his window.

"Hello, Wild Man," she said. "I've a good notion to let you stay in there. You were supposed to marry me this morning, and instead you choose to sit here all alone."

With one spring, Rock crossed the floor, looking eagerly at the girl who had scaled a barbed-wire fence and climbed the tree she was in to get to him.

"Gosh, I'm glad to see you, Peggy!" he cried. "Did you bring it ?"

"I certainly did," she said. "Come a little closer, Big Boy. I want to use it to whack you over the head, you cold-blooded, heartless jilter!"

"Gimme," ordered Rock, holding out his hand.

Peggy slipped him a long bar of polished steel. Rock uttered a heartfelt sigh as he handled the weighty tool.

"Just the thing," he murmured. "I could tear out the whole side of the dinky jail with this."

"Any news, Peggy?" he asked, as he prepared to attack the window grating. "Count Garno and Billy Andrews all hooked up now?"

"Billy Andrews has disappeared, Jim!" Peggy said excitedly. "And Count Garno is wild. He's sure she's been kidnaped."

"Billy Andrews snatched!" Rock growled. "Who do they think did it, Peggy?"

"They haven't any idea. Captain Ramer and Chief Davis are running around everywhere, trying to pick up clues. Ramer blames more of those Spaniards, like you and I ran into. But Count Garno thinks either Tom Grove or Conklin is responsible. They've disappeared, too. They—"

Jim Rock suddenly lifted his hand, as he heard approaching footsteps in the jail.

"Duck, Peggy!" he warned.

As her face disappeared, Rock hid the steel bar under the mattress.

A key scraped in the lock and the door was pushed open.

"Visitor to see you," announced the attendant.

As the visitor entered, Rock looked his surprise. The man who had come to see him was Count Garno. The man was as sleek and well-tailored as ever, but his smile was missing. Rock had never seen anyone appear more worried.

"I come here to you, a stranger, seeking information," Garno said at once. "My fiancee, Miss Isabelle Andrews, has been stolen."

"So I've heard," Rock said. "I'll be glad to help you if I can, Count. What is it you wish to know?"

"All day I have been trying to pick up some clue to where Billy is being held prisoner," he answered. "But everywhere I— and the police— have come up against a stone wall. Something terrible may be happening to her and I am helpless. You are my last hope. Captain Ramer thinks you may have picked up some information from the Señor Tayora who had you a prisoner aboard the cruiser. It may be just possible that you can tell me where either Tom Grove or Conklin is hiding."

Rock's eyes narrowed.

"You think they're responsible for Miss Andrews' disappearance?"

"I'm sure of it!" the Count cried vehemently.

"The only thing I can suggest, Count Garno," Rock said, "is for you to go to Amos Calder's real estate office on Washington Street. You may find either Conklin or Grove there."

"I have already been there," said Garno. "Neither of them could be found."

"If you keep watching the place," said Rock, "I'm certain that sooner or later one or both of those two men will turn up there."

Count Garno's face lighted up. He wrung the pilot's hand.

"Thank you! You have given me new hope."

Before he could say more, another visitor was ushered into the cell. It was Captain Ramer, of the Miami City Police. He boomed a hearty greeting to Rock, shook hands with Count Garno, and reported that although neither Conklin nor Grove had been located, the city was being scoured from end to end.

Count Garno looked gloomy. In a few minutes he departed, and Captain Ramer grinned at Rock.

"Chief Davis tried to keep me from seeing you," he said. "Some day I'm going to take an hour off and change that man's face. What did Count Garno want with you, Rock?"

"He thought I might be able to tell him where to find Conklin or Grove. But how could I help him, locked up like this?"

"You've got yourself in a jam, all right," said Ramer. "Did you kill Calder, Jim? A couple of Beach cops swear they saw you standing over the body the minute after you'd knifed him."

"Sure I killed him!" Rock shouted angrily. "I always go around murdering everybody! Don't be dumb! What happened to Don Vargos and Camora?"

"They're in the hospital," said Ramer. "Their children are being guarded by police, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were bumped off at any minute."

"What were you able to learn from Don Vargos and Camora?"

"Nothing, Jim." Ramer's lips clamped grimly. "They've shut up like two clams. But they sure hate Tom Grove. I wouldn't give a nickel for Grove's life when they're in fighting trim again."

9:  Jail Break

WHEN the cell door clanged shut behind Ramer, Peggy Devlin's face again appeared at the cell window, in the moonlight.

"Hist, Big Boy!" she whispered. "Do you think I'm the kind of bird that's used to roosting in trees? How about getting a move on?"

"Coming," muttered Rock.

With the steel bar he went to work on the window grating, a simple task for a man as powerful as Rock. Prying the grating loose, he laid the twisted frame on the floor and boosted himself through the window. In only moments more he and Peggy had surmounted the barbed-wire fence and were out in the street.

"What next?" asked the girl.

"I'm going to follow the advice I gave Count Gamo," answered the pilot. "The key to the whole mystery is locked up in Calder's safe, and I still mean to find out what it is."

"All right," Peggy promptly agreed. "Let's go."

"Hold on," Rock said sharply. "You're going straight home."

"I'm not," she said firmly. "I'm sticking right along with you."

Rock sighed. He saw a cab and flagged it, ordering the driver to head for Washington Street. Rock had not gone far, though, when he had a new idea. Instructing the driver to pull up near a drug store, he told Peggy to stay put, and went inside. From a booth, he called Captain Ramer.

When he heard the raspy tones of the police officer, he sighed with relief. It had been such a short time since Ramer had left him at the jail he had been worried he wouldn't answer.

"Hello, Cap," he said. "Glad I got you. I want to ask you some questions."

"Rock, huh?" Ramer said, surprised. "Has Davis put a phone in your cell?"

"I'm out," said the pilot.

"Fine! Who furnished the bail— Hey!" Ramer grew excited. "They don't accept bail in murder cases!"

"I'm too busy to waste time in jail," said the pilot. "Besides, I have a hot hunch. I want more details about the Andrews Ship Corporation scandal that you told me about. Short and snappy, Captain. Who was it ran off with the funds"

"Mark Temple," Captain Ramer said. "Got a fortune and was sentenced to a long term. Tried to escape from the chain-gang and died in the swamp."

"Was there anything about the case that struck you as phony?"

"Yeah," said Ramer. "It looked as if three men were in on it, but Temple took all the blame, and charges against the others were dropped. Tom Grove had been testifying when Temple suddenly stood up and asked the court to allow him to plead guilty. Kinda funny, I thought."

"Who were the other two suspected men?" asked Rock.

"Tom Grove and Amos Calder— Say, Rock, what's this all about?"

"Go back to your beat," jibed Rock. "But when the shooting starts in Calder's office over in Miami Beach, hop into your kiddy-car and come a-running!"

When Rock went back to the taxi, he noticed a strange-looking van, with lights out, in an empty lot next door. There was a canvas over the wagon, but beneath the cover Rock caught a glimpse of bright red paint. An old man who sat on a box nearby, seemed to be keeping guard over the van.

"New kind of a trailer, eh, Pop?" Rock said, with a nod toward the vehicle.

"Nope." The old man shook his head. "I'm kinda worried, too. Maybe I shouldn'ta let 'em park in this here lot of mine, but they gave me a nice piece of change." He lowered his voice. "Know what that truck is full of  Nitroglycerin!"

"Wow!" said Rock. "Well, Pop. So long. Don't blow yourself up."

Rock had the cabbie drive away, but down the street he had him park, and got out again.

"What's the big idea this time?" Peggy demanded.

Jim Rock reached toward her in the darkness.

"Just hand me that hunk of steel I used to break out of jail, and keep still," he whispered. "I won't be gone more than ten minutes."

He was back in less time than that, carrying a small can, cushioned with rubber, which he carefully deposited in the back of the taxi.

"What's that?" asked Peggy. "A can of lard?"

"That," whispered Rock, "is nitroglycerin. Be careful not to go kicking it around."

The cab driver made quick time when once more Jim Rock set him off on his interrupted journey to Calder's office. When Rock and Peggy left the taxi, only a few persons were on the street. They paid little attention to Rock and Peggy as they entered the building and mounted the wooden steps.

Upstairs, Rock halted before the dingy door to Calder's offices. He set down the nitro can, safely out of the way.

"Stand back, Peggy," he said. "I'm going to break down the door."

"Why don't you try the knob first?" asked Peggy. "Maybe the place isn't locked."

Rock laughed, but turned the handle. Peggy was right. The door was unlocked.

When they entered the poorly equipped office, Jim Rock thought again that if Amos Calder had been conducting business here, it must have been small and sparse indeed. Yet Tom Grove and Calder had brought two prosperous managers of the Peruvian Latex Company here to dicker with them.

Rock was not interested in the shabby fur¬ nishings, though, but in the old-fashioned safe, set upon iron wheels. He examined it, figuring how he could open it with his nitro.

He glanced around as Peggy put her hand on the knob of the door to the inner office.

"Don't go in there, Peggy," he said. "I'll take a look around first. Someone might be there."

"Then we ought to find out about it right away," said Peggy.

She flung open the door to the practically bare inner room.

"Lurking enemies, did you say, Jim Rock?" Peggy grimaced. "Lurking dust. I'm going to raise a window and let in some air."

As he heard a sash being raised, Rock turned back to his safe-cracking problem. He had begun to apply strips of paper around the cracks on the safe door when he heard Peggy scream.

He reached the rear office in two bounds. The room was empty. But the rear window was open and Peggy was on the roof of a small, adjoining shed.

"There's someone here— tied up in an old packing case! " Peggy cried. "Help me, Jim! It's a woman!"

JIM ROCK sprang to her assistance. It was too dark to tell who the woman was, but between them they lifted her from the box, and Rock carried her through the window and laid her on the floor. He lighted a single globe of the electric light bracket on the wall. One glance told him who the woman was. The missing Billy Andrews!

Jim Rock set to work on the ropes and gag and quickly she was free.

"Oh, I never thought they would treat me like this!" she choked angrily. "Tom Grove was bad enough, but Conklin was worse. And to think that I once trusted Conklin!"

She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

Rock was surprised by her emotion. After all, Conklin had only been her chauffeur and gardener.

Peggy was kneeling beside Billy Andrews, trying to console her, when two men projected themselves violently into the scene. One was Tom Grove. The other was Dead-face Conklin.

Conklin launched a pile-driver blow at Rock's jaw. Rock went down, but was up like a flash, and went to work on Conklin in a furious assault.

In the heat of his attack, he did not at first notice that Grove had not stopped to mix in. Instead, Grove had darted into the front office, and Billy Andrews ran after him. Angry voices arose in a fierce argument.

10: Too Much Murder

FIERCELY, Rock waded into Conklin for all he was worth. He swung his fists as if they were weights at the ends of his arms, and every punch he landed brought a grunt from the stony-faced man.

But Conklin had power in his punches too. Rock felt his ribs growing numb under the pounding Conklin was administering, but he kept after the man, never giving him a chance to rest.

He soon discovered that Conklin had one fatal weakness in his style of offense. He had a habit of launching a right cross to the jaw, then bending over to launch a curving hook to the mid-section.

The next time the dead-faced man tried it, the big airlines pilot cut loose with an uppercut which sent him backward over the rickety table in a sprawling heap. Rock sprang after him, but got tangled in an overturned chair and fell flat.

Before he could regain his feet, screams came from the next room. Conklin scrambled to his feet and barged through the door. Rock was slower in rising.

"Grove Conklin, put up your hands quick!" a loud voice rang out.

"No, no, Artie!" Billy Andrews cried in agonized appeal. "Don't shoot! It's all right!"

But apparently Count Garno paid no attention. Two quick shots rang out, followed by a man's groans.

Rock was on his feet now, and beginning to grow angry again. He had seen enough of murder within the last day or two, and murder always made him mad. With an enraged roar he sprang for the door.

Just as he reached it, Tom Grove came bounding through. Rock cut loose with one of his pile-driver punches. The young manager went flopping over and over like a beheaded chicken. He crashed against the wall and lay still.

Jim Rock burst into the front room. Count Garno was standing over Conklin with a smoking pistol. Billy Andrews was tottering, white-faced.

"Artie! " she gasped. "You shot him down like a dog! You never gave him a chance!"

Count Garno swung around, snarling at her. Then he seemed to realize that was a mistake, and he managed to control his emotions.

"Billy, forgive me!" he begged. "I've been frantic with anxiety for your safety. I was justified in shooting Conklin, on account of the crimes he has committed."

Abruptly there was a rush of heavy boots and policemen dashed in. At their head was Chief Davis. On the instant, he spotted Jim Rock.

"There he is!" he yelled. "Jim Rock! Grab him, men!"

In one corner lay the body of a man in a pool of blood. Standing over the body was a man with a smoking pistol, and two horrified women were nearby. But all Chief Davis could think of was that he had found an escaped prisoner!

But Jim Rock had no intention of being captured. When the uniformed men surged forward, he went into action again. Then just as things were beginning to get lively, Captain Luke Ramer came charging in with half a dozen of his men.

"Quit it, Rock!" Ramer roared. "Stop it, Davis! This thing has gone far enough."

"What do you mean, Ramer, by butting into a mess which is none of your concern?" Chief Davis shouted. "We're arresting an escaped prisoner. Jim Rock murdered Amos Calder! You're out of your jurisdiction!"

"Rock didn't kill Calder!" bellowed Ramer. "I have evidence to prove he didn't. My men and I came over here to the beach to arrest a man and we mean to do it. Shut up!" He turned to Rock. "You're cleared, Jim. I know who murdered Calder."

The airlines pilot emitted a roar.

"I knew it before I broke out of jail!" he retorted. "I practically told you his name over the telephone!"

Obviously Count Arturio Garno was a good guesser, for he acted at once. He discarded as useless his mask of good-breeding and, with an expression like a demon, he whipped up his gun and leveled it at Jim Rock.

Fire laced toward the airlines pilot as he dodged, then launched himself toward the Count. Bullets sent plaster and dust flying, but Rock was moving too fast to be hit. He landed on Garno and began to batter him with all his might, completely altering the contours of Garno's handsome face. The Count fell, out cold.

Rock whirled to the Miami Beach policemen who were leaping forward.

"Let me introduce to you the murderer of Amos Calder, and the mind behind all the deviltry that's been going on here ever since the Lima Clipper arrived— Count Arturio Garno!"

Then, while the police were snapping handcuffs on the wrists of the semi-conscious Garno, Rock bent over Conklin's motionless form.

THE frozen-faced man was not dead, but he had a serious wound in the chest, and a hole in his leg from which blood was pouring in a crimson stream. Swiftly Rock applied a tourniquet. As he ripped open the leg of the man's trousers to apply the necessary pressure, he caught a glimpse of the flesh around the ankle, and a grim smile spread over his face.

Those marks, which he had first seen during the fight on Count Garno's yacht, as well as something the Count had let slip in the Miami Beach jail, had given Rock the key to the mystery— the motives behind the murders.

Conklin was beginning to regain his senses, and a call had gone out for an ambulance. Billy Andrews was having a wild case of hysterics, despite Peggy's efforts to calm her. She was heaping reproaches upon the head of Count Garno.

"So you are like all the rest— a liar and a fortune-hunter!" raved Billy. "I was willing to give up everybody for you, and you deceived me. Are you a murderer? Did you take away my fortune, and leave me without a cent? Tell me it's all lies!"

But the Count only shrugged.

"I'll tell you, Miss Andrews," said big Jim Rock. "You might just as well take it on the chin. Count Garno is a phony, including his title. From his accent, I suspect he hails from Peru."

A flush mantled Garno's face.

"That is not true," he said. "I come from Brazil, which is Portuguese. My family is an ancient one, and it is from Portugal my title is derived. My right to it cannot be questioned."

"Okay, then," conceded Rock wearily. "But that doesn't make you any the less phony." He pointed to Conklin. "Now take Mark Temple there, Miss Andrews. He's a brave, honest fighting man."

"What did you say?" barked Captain Ramer. "Conklin is Mark Temple?"

"Certainly," answered Rock. "I ought to have been sure on Garno's yacht, but I didn't tumble until I was in jail. Mark Temple escaped from the chain-gang, leaving behind a boot, his convict clothes, and other planted evidence. He was helped by his firm friends, Tom Grove and Amos Calder. Temple had to submit to a face-lifting job and although it kept him from being recognized, it wasn't a success so far as beauty was concerned."

"That's right," spoke up Tom Grove, who at last had recovered from the blow Rock had given him. "There's no use trying to hide it any longer. Conklin is Mark Temple all right."

"Ah," said Captain Ramer. He walked over to Conklin. "What became of the funds you stole from the Andrews Ship Corporation?"

Conklin did not answer. Grove also kept tulent.

"I'll tell you," answered Jim Rock. "Those funds are right behind you in that old safe. If you'll let me go to work with a little nitroglycerin, I'll prove it."

Billy Andrews stared at Tom Grove.

"Is what Mr. Rock says true, Tom? Did you and Calder and Mark loot my steamship company?"

"None of us ever stole a nickel in our lives," Grove said tightly. "You'll find all your assets in that safe, just as Rock said. We wanted to keep you from marrying a scoundrel and handing over your fortune to him. The only way we could do that was by putting your company into financial difficulties. We believed if we did that he would lose interest."

"But Garno had spies in your employ," Rock cut in. "He knew all about the Latex Company in Peru. He knew Isabelle Andrews was wealthier than ever. From his spies he learned when Temple sent secretly for Don Vargos and Camora to come to Miami. If they came, he knew, the truth of the prosperity of the Latex Company would have to come out. Garno didn't want that— yet. So, through his agent, Señor Tayora, he gave orders for them to be killed. But, warned of danger by Temple, who knew Garno would go to any length to gain his ends, the Latex managers sent substitutes. Both of them were killed."

"No men would hire out to be killed, Jim," scoffed Ramer. "That's screwy."

"They didn't know they were in danger on the clipper," said Rock, "until they found black widow spiders in their belongings. They thought, as Camora and Don Vargos did, that the only danger was that they might be abducted in Miami, to keep anyone from knowing the truth about how prosperous the Latex Company is. Nobody had an idea a bomb had been planted on the clipper."

"How do you know Tayora was Garno's agent?" asked Ramer.

''Because Garno accidentally let slip his name when he saw me in jail. The man's name hadn't even been given to the police— then. How did he know it?"

"Who blew up Garno's yacht?" demanded Chief Davis. Revelations couldn't come too fast for him. 'Tom Grove and Conklin? Or Mark Temple? Count Garno wouldn't have destroyed his own property."

ROCK laughed.

"But he did," said the airlines pilot. "And that was the slickest trick of all. He knew Miss Andrews was not actually in love with him— just fascinated and flattered. He had to make a grandstand play. So he blew up his yacht and pretended to save her life. You can bet it was no sacrifice. The yacht must have been insured for more than it was worth.

"Garno slipped up though when a bullet of mine hit a satchel of nitro carried by another one of his agents who was on the way to blow up Amos Calder, Tom Grove, Don Vargos and Camora, the Latex managers, when they were in conference in Calder's real estate office. That little chore didn't come off. I heard that agent of Garno's talking to him, just before the soup man was killed, though of course I didn't know— then— that he was talking to the count. I had to figure that out in jail. Great place for thinking."

"Why are you so sure Garno killed Calder?" put in Ramer.

Rock turned to Billy Andrews. "Remember he went out of your house to look for the padre? That was when he stabbed Calder with the Inca knife that can be traced to him. He was afraid his marriage plans would go wrong when he ran into the old auditor out there."

Rock turned back to Captain Ramer and Chief Davis.

"Garno was never fooled about Miss Andrews' finances. When she was supposed to be in financial difficulties, that was right up his alley. He could prove that he was not a fortune-hunter by marrying a 'penniless' girl. He didn't want anybody to know her real financial status— if he had to kill everybody who knew the truth."

"Then I'm not a pauper?" Billy Andrews said, as if she could not grasp the fact.

"No," Grove told her. "You're wealthier than you were when your father died. When the Latex Company began to prove up so big, Temple— or Conklin— had to send for Don Vargos and Camora to persuade them to keep still about it until you could be saved from Garno. You were so determined to marry him. You always did act the fool after you broke your engagement to Mark Temple."

He scowled heavily.

"So Mark, Calder, and I concealed your assets, but the stockholders made a howl and Temple went to jail. I told him he was a sentimental fool. I still think so. But Mark said he'd die before he'd let you marry Garno."

Billy flew across the room to Conklin and put her arms about him. He now was swathed in bandages, waiting to be taken to the hospital.

"Mark—Mark!" she moaned. "Do you still love me like that? I thought you hated me."

"I'll never be able to quit loving you, Billy," said the frozen-faced man.

Billy lifted her head and looked at the others defiantly.

"Yes!" she said. "And I love him, too! I always have. I want everybody to know it! I'd love him, no matter what he looked like. But I know a surgeon who can fix him up all right. I loved Mark even when they said he was a thief. I nearly died when they said he'd perished in the swamp. Now I've got him again— and I'll never let him go!"

No one paid any attention to Count Garno as a couple of policemen led him away, Billy Andrews' avowal of love for Temple ringing in his ears.

Jim Rock started wandering toward the door.

"Hey, wait a minute, Jim!" Peggy grabbed his arm. "You've got a date to marry me. Remember?"

"Sorry, dear, but City Hall is closed and—"

"But the church rectories aren't," said Peggy. "I just asked. Come on— let's go!"

_______________

14: Carnival Killer

G. Morris Sand

Double-Action Gang, Feb 1939

This appears to be the only story by this otherwise unknown writer

STRANGE, pulsing music filled the carnival show tent. There was a wild rolling of drums. Then she flashed upon the brightly-lighted stage, the famous, featured dancer of the midway. Dark, slender, fascinatingly beautiful, they billed her the "Exotic, Sensational Zorine."

Tonight, automatically, almost unconsciously, Zorine's body dipped and whirled. Her eyes gleamed savagely. Her brain was a madhouse. Raoul, her lover, was lost to her. He loved Carolyn. He preferred Carolyn. The drums twittered her as she danced. Laughing devils, they beat out the steady tattoo: "Raoul prefers Carolyn; Raoul prefers Carolyn."

Zorine's thoughts became angry and confused. They heated her whole body, sweating it like an ever constant flame. Pertinaciously, she swept on until at last the music ceased. Then a fiendish echo reminded: "Raoul prefers Carolyn."

The tent-audience dwindled away. It would be twenty minutes before the last performance of the evening. Until then Zorine was free!

Snatching her long, black cape, she drew it closely about her. Shaking, breathless, fighting for control of herself, she walked to the open flap of her tent. A moment she stood there, gazing out at the carnival crowds jostling each other about under the glaring, white lights of the midway. The mob milled expectantly about a huge cannon that, in fifteen minutes, now, was to furnish them with the thrill of a lifetime. At ten o'clock, Herman, the human cannonball, would be shot from the cavernous mouth of that iron monster. The noise of the explosion would be deafening. It would reverberate and fill the midway.

SHE must hurry. Recrossing to the back of her tent, she lifted the stiff canvas, bent and crawled out. How different from the midway's gaily-lighted front! No lights flickered here; thick blackness engulfed her. Carefully she picked her way over the uneven ground; avoided stumbling over tent ropes; circled trucks and packing boxes. Finally, beside the door of Raoul's trailer, she stopped.

Raoul, the too-good-looking, too-popular, little French artist who so cleverly and quickly cut out lifelike silhouettes for carnival crowds.

A slender, dark shadow, Zorine glided within; noiselessly she closed the door. Motionless as any statue, she waited, following with her eyes the graceful movements of Raoul's long, slender fingers as with scissors and black paper he toyed with some new idea for his cutting. The muscles of her angry face twitched. Raoul, sensing her presence, glanced up. Instantly, he understood. She had heard about his affair with Carolyn! Mentally, he shrugged his shoulders. Well, a man had every right to change his mind and, incidentally, his mistress!

Zorine stepped nearer. "Go on with your cutting; don't stop for me."

Without comment, he snipped the black paper. It gave him a moment in which to think, to cover his annoyance at her intrusion. He would speak to her, kindly.

Maddened by jealousy, she gave him no opportunity. Enraged, she flew at him:

"So! You thought to push me aside like you would an old shoe. Well, you can't, do you hear? You can't. You thought I would step down like a lady. Let someone I hate steal your love. But I won't, do you understand? I won't."

She stamped her small feet and stopped for lack of breath.

"Zorine," Raoul soothed, "my dear."

Choking back her rage, she mimicked: "I was 'your dear' once, but I certainly am no longer. If you don't believe me, look!"

Her hand flashed in and out of her cape pocket. Raoul's blood ran cold. Zorine's tiny, gloved hand held his own gun. He knew it to be loaded.

"Fool," he breathed, "to steal my gun." His hand shot out. "Give it to me."

Zorine was too quick for him. "Sit still. Don't worry. I'll give it you soon enough."

Raoul sat tense. Zorine must not guess his fear.

Lightly, he questioned: "Are you enjoying yourself? Just what would you like me to do?"

"What should I like you to do?" she repeated, "nothing. Nothing except sit where you are, and listen while I tell you I hate you. Hate you a thousand times more than ever I loved you! Hate you so much that I intend to shoot you. I came here, Raoul, to kill you!"

Her voice was icy; her hand steady; her eye flaming, murderous. Obviously she meant all she said. This termagant, could she be that same Zorine whom he had held in his arms, soft and clinging, night after night? She was like some wild thing!

"You can't kill me now, Zorine. Put that gun down. Think. Just the other side of those tents, only a stone's throw away, a thousand people wait. I need only to call. They will be here. If you dared shoot that gun, Zorine, you could never hope to escape. You must be mad to plan so heedlessly!"

She laughed, mirthlessly.

"So! You think me mad— crazy? Maybe I am. Crazy for my dead love. Crazy because I would rather look upon you lifeless than think of you in her arms." Her eyes shone, craftily. "But I am still smart, Raoul. Of course, I dare not shoot you, now. But suppose I fire this gun as Herman's cannon booms? Who'll be the wiser then? That's all we're waiting for now."

Raoul's mouth opened. No words came. He was trapped, unless—

THE cannon thundered. Simultaneously, the gun in Zorine's hand spoke. Raoul slumped forward, slipped grotesquely to the floor.

Instantly, Zorine knelt, curled the fingers of his out-flung hand carefully about the gun, rose, turned and without one backward glance, walked out into the night. Next morning, someone found him.

They came for Zorine immediately. Tightly clasped in his one hand they had found it.

They held it out for Zorine to see— a small, perfectly-cut-out, black paper silhouette of Zorine brandishing a gun!

They all knew that Raoul could make no likeness of anything unless the subject stood before him.

__________________

15: When Sky Crooks Fall Out

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Flying Stories, April 1929

THIS man, Harden, had me puzzled from the first time I laid my eyes on him. Flying men are usually easy to size up. They don't hold much back, because the game's dangerous, uncertain. Here today— crashed tomorrow. Most of the pilots are easy to get along with, pretty frank fellows. But a few of them are the other way.

Harden gave me the feeling that he was one of the few. He came up to the field from Washington with a couple of letters, not exactly official; letters that required a little tact in handling. It seemed that he'd been a War pilot and had a rather sweet record. He'd shot down four enemy ships, officially. He'd been in the newspaper game since the end of the War, but wanted to get back to flying again— a lot of the boys want to get back.

Right at the start, he said that he had a lot of plans, if things worked out. He had too many things on his mind, I guess.

That worried me a bit. Sanderson was away on a fishing trip when Harden arrived at the Field and I was running the flying operation. It wasn't hard work, because there isn't much formality at Rook Field; a few hard and fast rules— and the rest is pretty free and easy. I was reading the report of a ship crack-up that Jake Maron had written and was getting a good laugh out of it when Harden was shown in.

He was tall and rather thin, but he had those grim, sharply focused eyes that are fairly unusual. We shook hands and he produced a few letters, talking as I read them.

"The idea is that I'm not certain about wanting to fly again. I think I'll like it. Barsonly told me that you could always use a few men who'd had two thousand or more hours in the air and a certain temperament. I thought I could try it for a few weeks and if it worked out—"

I nodded. The letters were all right. Both were from Government men who had something to say about the Field. And both suggested that Harden be given a chance at the regular test-pilot work. If he fitted— well, I got the idea that he'd get a civilian appointment. It sounded pretty fair to me. It was only when I got a look at Harden's eyes that I was a little uneasy. And I put that down as foolishness.

"Supposing," I ventured, "you take a few hops with Williams in some two-seaters he's testing out; dual control, you know, and you can handle them. In a couple of days you can tackle one alone."

"Fine!" Harden agreed, but I noted that he wasn't particularly enthusiastic. At least, his enthusiasm didn't ring true.

"It may not take me that long. As I said, I may not want to stick at it," he added.

I nodded. It didn't matter to me. I figured he might have had a bad crash, just before the War was ended, and that might have got his wind up, to the extent that he wasn't certain. So we talked over the details and he cleared out. He seemed to me to be pretty nervous and he reiterated continually. Just before he went through the door leading to the porch of the headquarters office, he fixed those dark eyes on me.

"AS I said, I may not want to stick more than a few days," he repeated. "I'm not sure—" He broke off, smiling a little twistedly, his fingers twitching a bit. I frowned and went back to my old habit of muttering to myself.

"Something funny, at that. He certainly wants me to know that he may not stick. If he told me that once he told it ten times! And those eyes—"

The 'phone made me snap out of it and I forgot Harden pretty quickly when I heard that O'Malley had cracked up a few miles from the Field and was being driven to the hospital with a broken right arm. We were pretty busy at the time. I was sort of hoping, a little later, that Harden would stick.

It was Tommy Williams who dropped in at the office the next day and gave me the dope. Tommy is a good judge of ships— and that should give him some sort of idea about men. Both are inclined to be temperamental, around a flying field, at least.

"This man Harden's good!" Tommy stated, "Damned good! He took that ship away from me, using the dual controls, and put her through some hot stuff for a D. H. His loops were smooth and his landings smoother. And he says he hadn't been up for six years! Beats me!"

"Not so funny," I replied. "He has that perfect sense, fine coordination of senses, rather. Take him up for an hour this afternoon and, if he's all right, turn him loose. There are three, new, training-field ships set for straight tests. Let him tackle them, if he's willing."

Tommy nodded, squinting at me.

"Notice those eyes of his?" he asked. "Kind of get you, don't they. Keen type, I'd say. Does some thinking. Can't see why in hell he wants to fly this junk we turn out here."

I chuckled. "Maybe his girl turned him down," I suggested and let it go at that.

His first name was Brent, I noted by the letters. Brent Harden. Sort of a strong-sounding name, I decided. And it was funny that the puzzled feeling still persisted within me. There was nothing, on the surface, unusual about the coming of the man. He was tired of newspaper work, for one reason or another, and he wanted to try the flying game. He had letters; and he flew a ship well.

"Forget it!" I muttered to myself, but didn't quite succeed in doing that little thing. It was his eyes, I guess.

Three days after Harden had first arrived at Rook Field, he came into my office and made a request. It seemed that an editor friend of his was coming down this way to visit relatives. He planned to stop off and see Harden and the exnewspaperman wanted to give him a joy-ride.

"Sure," I told him. "Go ahead. But before he goes up bring him in here and let me get a releasefrom-injury-or-death statement."

Harden nodded and was gone. There was nothing unusual about the request. Often the boys take a friend or adventurous relative up. The Government isn't crazy about the idea, but there is no iron-clad rule preventing such fun, if you happen to look at it that way.

At two o'clock the same afternoon Harden came in with his editor friend. He introduced him as Mr. Revelier. I shook hands with that short, rather stout individual, shoved across the printed statement and watched the man scrawl his signature at the bottom. It was a warm afternoon, with little sun and a fair breeze blowing low, gray clouds across the sky. Revelier rose from the chair, in which he had been seated, and smiled at me cheerfully.

"I've always wanted a flight," he said slowly. "It's a thrilling prospect."

I NODDED. Revelier preceded Harden through the door and the latter turned toward me before going out.

"I'm using Number 6H.2," he stated; I thought his voice was rather grim. "I tested her out yesterday and she handles easily."

I nodded again and Harden went through the door and out of my sight. Ten minutes later Sanderson came in and took things over, expressing considerable delight at the fact that the Field had not been completely disorganized during his absence.

We talked over a few things and then I told him about Harden. I saw right away that he was puzzled.

"Brent Harden—four planes in the War?" Sanderson grunted. "You're crazy, Mac. I know the boys who got three or more. There's no Harden among them; not officially. Let's see those letters. He must be one of these unofficial plane-droppers of the late War. But how he got the Washington—"

I tossed over the letters and the Chief ripped out their folded contents. I hadn't had them filed with the regular business data. He read them both, then he got to his feet.

"Mac," he muttered slowly, "there's something wrong here. Did you confirm either of these?"

I stared, thinking of my own doubts. Then I shook my head. "Didn't think it was that important," I stated.

"That's Livingstone's signature. I've seen it several times, and it's distinctive. I've heard of Bracely. He was on the last Board of Investigation—"

"Livingstone," the Chief said slowly, staring down at the letter, "sailed for France ten days ago. This letter is dated the eighth. It's now the sixteenth." I stared at Sanderson. Then I remembered seeing that clipping about Livingstone's sailing on the Paris.

"Are you sure of the date he sailed?" I asked. "He might have dated the letter ahead."

The Chief smiled grimly. "Maybe I'm wrong," he said slowly and pressed a button on his desk. "I'll get a confirmation, by wire, on this Livingstone letter. It doesn't seem important, but—" He broke off. "Where's this Harden now?" he demanded. I grinned. "Getting a D. H. off the field with a joy-riding friend in the rear cockpit," I replied. "He asked permission—and I gave it." Sanderson narrowed his eyes. Then he shook his head slowly.

"MAC," he ordered. "You trot out on the dead-line and cancel that permit! Be nice about it— make some excuse that sounds legitimate. Then bring him back here. In the meantime, I'll get a wire through to Livingstone's secretary. He'll have a copy—"

He broke off as I started for the door. There wasn't much time in which to catch Harden and we both realized it.

"Be diplomatic, Mac," he warned as I got out of the room. "We may be wrong."

But I had a hunch as I walked rapidly toward the engine-roaring ships on the dead-line, that we weren't. And, even though I didn't see any particular reason for it, I was mentally kicking myself for handling the Harden case the way I had handled it. I'd had a hunch that something was wrong— and I usually played safe on hunches.

This time I'd slipped. Number 6H.2 was a thousand feet up when I got to the spot she had held on the dead-line.

I borrowed a pair of glasses from Slim White and watched proceedings. Harden was climbing her in nicely banked circles. I could see two helmets above the fuselage streamlining. It took him about ten minutes to climb up near the clouds, and I was wondering why he didn't level off and let Revelier get a look at the country. Not that there is anything much to look at around Rook Field, but it's country from a high altitude, that interests a first-timer in the heights.

Then she was in the light mists, trailing down below the clouds, and I was muttering to myself. What the devil was the sense of giving Revelier a taste of cloud stuff, right at the start? It isn't a pleasant feeling.

The D. H. vanished from sight as I watched. I held the glasses on the clouds near which she'd climbed out of sight, thinking she'd drop through again, but she didn't.

Five minutes passed and then I heard a voice at my elbow. "Get him, Mac?"

I shook my head. "He took his passenger up through the clouds about five minutes ago," I stated. "I'm waiting for him to drop."

Suddenly I stiffened. My glasses caught the downward flash of something black and small. I jerked them down, clutching Sanderson's arm in my excitement.

"It's a—human!"

I got the words out and watched, grimly, the fall of that object from the sky. The Chief's fingers were gripping my arm tightly. He was staring, too. It fell about a half mile out on the field; we both turned away before it struck. Then, instantly, we whirled, staring at each other.

"Hell!" muttered Sanderson. "That wasn't any human!"

I managed a grin. "Let's get out and see what, it was," I replied. "It sure gave me a jolt."

The Chief signaled his side-car driver and we both piled in. It wasn't dignified, but we were both curious.

A couple of minutes later we stared down at a pile of clothes. I picked the stuff up from the grass and recognized it instantly: two flying suits furnished by the Field, belted together bulkily. Sanderson grunted.

"Charge to one MacLane— Number 6H.2— DeHaviland plane," he stated grimly. "Stolen from the field while MacLane was substituting for a real operations man!"

I looked at the flying togs I held and then tossed them into the side-car. I stared up toward the clouds. There was no sign of the DeHaviland. I swore softly.

"He faked a couple of letters, stalled around a bit until his friend showed up and then calmly took off with an eight-thousand-dollar plane," Sanderson muttered. "We'll have one hell of a job convincing Washington—"

"Look here, Sandy," I interrupted, "I feel pretty bad about this thing, even though it wasn't exactly my fault. Suppose you give me a ship with plenty of fuel and a three-day leave of absence. Harden had only ten gallons of gas or so. He can't get far without refueling— and it isn't easy to get high-test gas—"

"He don't need high-test gas," the Chief cut in. "And he's got papers on him showing that he's a Rook Field man; that'll make him safe from suspicion with that numbered ship."

"Not if you get the wires busy, it won't!" I came back. "Let me get up in the air right away. He can't get far. Send up some of the boys—  in different directions. What in hell does he want with—"

"Paint it up, file off the engine and dial-board numbers and he's got a good ship. It's practically a ten-thousand-dollar haul."

I grunted. "He'll be easy to trace," I stated. "He's got to land. We'll have every one looking for him and that other bird. We've got good descriptions—"

"Have we?" Sanderson's tone was grim. "What kind of clothes were they wearing, Mac?"

I groaned. They had been wearing the flying togs when they had come into the office a half hour ago. I hadn't the slightest idea as to what was underneath. And the flying clothes had been dropped.

"We're wasting time here," I muttered. "We should get started. They're clever, Sandy. They got rid of the flying togs right away, all but helmets and goggles."

The Chief nodded. "Pile in!" he ordered "We'll get things going. You're one hell of an operations boss! Letting a couple of crooks come in and steal a ship from right under your nose!"

I SAID nothing. There was plenty of thinking to be done and I started as the motorcycle driver headed for the Chief's office. When we got there I'd reached a couple of decisions. I was sure that Harden was a crook. I was fairly certain that the man he'd called Revelier was a second crook. Yet it seemed to me a bit risky— the way he'd come right into the Field on a bluff and stolen that ship. He might have worked it with less trouble.

"Wait about five minutes," Sanderson advised as we arrived in front of the. Headquarters Building. "You can't climb up above the clouds quick enough to pick him up, anyway. He dropped the flying stuff and headed for one of the horizon directions. Then he probably dropped into the clouds, or just below them, after ten minutes or so of flight. It'll be a blind hunt." I nodded. We went into Sanderson's office and found a wire from Livingstone's secretary, who had remained in Washington.

"'No filed introductory letter for man named Brent Harden,'" the Chief read aloud. "'Must be mistake or fraud case.'"

I swore. The Chief did the same. He shook his head slowly.

"It's a mess," he muttered. "I'll get the wires working, Mac, and you pick out some of the boys, put them wise and tell them to keep quiet about it. Then let them start a search for the ship. But don't do any talking. The press would eat this thing up. They'd think it was some joke."

I smiled grimly. "Sandy," I said slowly, "you can't make me believe that this fellow who calls himself Harden would steal that ship just to paint over and joy-ride in. He took a big chance and he got away with it. But he and that friend of his are up to something. They wanted that plane for a purpose. And it wasn't a good purpose; you can bet a little something on that."

"WE'RE talking too much and not getting busy," the Chief muttered. "We may get this bird yet, Mac. You know what they say. The best laid plans—"

The Chief broke off. He had got a line through to the Field telegraph operator and was commencing to put out the net. I started for the dead-line to round up some of the boys. I had a hunch that something was going to break— something bigger than the stealing of an eight-thousand-dollar Government ship, although that was bad enough— for me. I could see the man who had called himself Harden and those grim eyes of his. One thing was sure; he couldn't get rid of those eyes as easily as he had the flying togs.

"He's going to pull some sort of a stunt with that D. H.," I muttered. "If he isn't, why the devil did he wait for his pal, that stout bird he called Revelier?"

I quit thinking and got the boys together. They were considerably surprised at the stunt, it being about the first time a crook had pulled such a nervy thing on a Government field. I told them not to talk, knowing that the press would get the news off the wire, in any case, by following the Chief's instructions.

Then we climbed into our ships and hit the air.

We hadn't any idea of the direction taken by the man who called himself Harden. He had a half hour's start and ten gallons of gas. In the small amount of fuel lay our one hope. If we could blunder upon him after he was forced to land or if the Chief's use of the wires caused some sheriff to blunder upon him, well, I might hold my job, after all. But it looked tough.

The man with the dark, grim eyes was no fool. I remembered what he had said about not staying more than a few days. He had possessed a sense of humor, I reflected. A sense of humor, a knowledge of flying and some information about the big boys at Washington. In this case, the combination had been successful.

The spit-spit! of my engine told me that I'd have to hit dirt and take a look. I was about thirtyfive miles to the northeast of the field, over a section not too thickly populated, and below was a country crossroads, a barnlike structure near it and the red gleam of a gas-pump. It was the latter sight that cheered me.

I'd been in the air more than four hours, never getting beyond the thirtyfive-mile radius away from the Field, and I was nearing the time when I'd have to cut into the emergency supply. No good pilot likes to do that. I cut the engine and came down three thousand feet in an easy spiral. The crossroad stretch was level and wide. I hit it, nosed into the wind and the D. H. pulled up a hundred yards or so from the pump.

Jerking the goggles and helmet from my head, I climbed over the side. I was thirsty and tired— and hadn't caught a glimpse of No. 6H.2. It was almost seven o'clock and the sun would be down within two hours. That would mean the end of the search. My feet touched the road and then I stiffened. My eyes were looking into the muzzle of a firmly gripped automatic, held in the right hand of a dignified, old, white-mustached gentleman.

"Stick 'em up!" he commanded agreeably enough. "I'm looking for two gents flyin' in a two-seater numbered 6H.2 and stolen from Rook Field not long ago! I'm Sheriff White."

I couldn't help grinning at that one. But I stuck my hands up with a right good will, contemplating my captor.

"That makes two of us," I observed, "doing the same thing, Sheriff! I'm from Rook Field, and if you look closely you'll note that the ship I'm flying—or was flying—is not Number 6H.2."

The Sheriff shrugged his shoulders. "Don't mean much," he countered. "Easy enough to change numbers."

I saw right then that the Chief had advised care in his wires. But it didn't take me long to convince the Sheriff that I was on the level and not one of the crooks. Then I got another jolt.

"THAT bank over to Holdenville has offered a five thousand dollar reward," the Sheriff observed. "And I can use the money as well as the next guy." I stared.

"Reward?" I muttered. "What for?"

The Sheriff regarded me suspiciously. "For that cashier, Brown," he stated grimly. "He walked out with fifty thousand in large bills, stuck in his coat pocket, him an' a fellow named Pullen, who was hangin' around the town for the last few weeks. The bank sent out a discription of 'em both and some one at that field of yours checked up an' figured they was the same birds that got off with a flyin' machine."

I blinked. Then I nodded my head slowly. It wasn't very mysterious, at that. Two crooks, robbing a bank from the inside and using the ship for a get-away. Or, perhaps, the tall man, with the eyes that had bothered me, was the real crook. And the stout fellow who had scrawled the name of Revelier on the release-from-injury-damages blank might have been, must have been the cashier— a weakling whom the other man had used as a tool. In any event, I now knew the real reason for the stealing of the DeHaviland.

"I left the Field," I explained as the Sheriff stowed his automatic away in its holster, "before they got together with the bank on the descriptions. I gave Sanderson descriptions of both men— he's the field boss, you know— and he's checked up. Where can I get a 'phone?"

The Sheriff pointed. "General store right there, Mister," he stated, and I thought there was disappointment in his tone. "You're kind of blocking the road with this machine of yours."

I nodded. "I'll be in the air in ten minutes," I promised. "And a car can get around, with a little effort."

Then I headed for the general store. I wanted to talk to Sanderson.

The Sheriff's information made the thing a lot more serious. A couple of crooks might not spill lead over a plane. But when they had fifty thousand in their pockets, it was very likely that they would do just that thing. I wanted to see what the boss thought about it.

SANDY'S got a good head, and I was a little doubtful about my own ability to reason.

These crooks had nerve, coming into a Government field and swiping a ship. But they possessed cunning, too. And the man who had called himself Harden was a skilled pilot. It was a good combination, but not for the pursuers.

Ten minutes later I was back at the DeHaviland, trying to fix a clogged feed-line. I had plenty to think about while doing it. Sanderson had given me the full dope.

The stout man, whom the flyer had introduced as Revelier, was none other than James Brown, the cashier of the Holdenville National. He was missing and so was fifty thousand in large bills. He had been seen, several times in the past week, on the streets of the town with a man who answered to the description of the man who called himself Harden.

The police had checked up. Livingstone had fired a secretary six months ago, an ex-flyer of the War, named Tulong. There had been some mix-up over funds, but Livingstone had dropped charges. Tulong had been picked up in Cleveland, two months after his let-out, by Livingstone, on a charge of fraud in connection with some so called, flying school. He had wriggled out of the thing and left the city. That was the last heard of him until now.

A hasty check-up led police and federal authorities to believe that Tulong—  his first name was Marvin— had been the brains of the get-away stunt.

"And, Mac," Sanderson had finished up, "I've got every ship in flying shape in the air. If we don't land them by dark— well, they can get far enough away to lay low for some time. The money wasn't marked and it wasn't in new bills either. They must have known just what they were up to, only they figured on getting farther away before the Field got wise. My coming back gives us a slim chance. But I'm not worried about that coin; it's the D. H. we want."

I chuckled grimly as I worked on the clogged feed-line.

An hour and a half of light! There were several little details, however, that made me disagree with the Chief. In the first place if this Marvin Tulong was the man they suspected it was easy to see how he had faked the letters and how he happened to be good in the air. But, also, I didn't figure him so clever as the others did.

He'd dropped flying togs right down on the Field, instead of hanging on to them for a while. That would be bound to cause considerable interest. Pilots don't toss their flying stuff overboard without some reason.

Again, he must have known that when a crook mixes up with the Government he lessens his chances of escape greatly. The Government hangs on the trail for years, while local authorities forget, after a time. By stealing a Government ship this crook was exposing himself to a bulldog pursuit.

"Funny!" I muttered to myself. "Why the devil couldn't this cashier simply jump a train with that coin or split it with Harden— or Tulong— and both of them jump trains? Why all the trick stuff at the Field?"

By the time I had the D. H. refueled with low-test stuff and the gas line was cleaned out, I was ready to give it up. But I was certain of one of two things; either the man with the grim eyes was a super-crook or just plain stupid! It looked to me as though he'd gone to a lot of trouble for nothing and when it looks that way to me I usually figure the other way.

I said goodbye to the Sheriff and climbed into the front cockpit. While there was light, I was determined to look around for that DeHaviland. The crooks couldn't have got far without gas. The Canadian border was nearest, so I decided to fly to the north, but my hunch was that a landing had been made and the ship abandoned.

It was only a hunch—but it was strong. I'd had one hunch during the week and had failed to play it. This time I would not fail.

I got the D. H. off the road and climbed to the north. And, remembering that fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money, I tapped my automatic holster, beneath the flying coat I was wearing.

"The best laid plans—" I muttered and let it go at that.

I'm not much on classical quotations, or any kind, for that matter. But I still had an idea that two crooks could slip up somewhere along the road— or in the sky. I was within two miles of the Field, flying at seven thousand in the dark, when the engine started to miss. There was the emergency tank and I cut it in right away.

She picked up nicely and I decided to investigate some bright lights, congregated at a spot along the east road, about a mile from the Field. So I cut the switch and spiraled down to a thousand feet. Then I pushed the throttle over and nothing happened! I wasted three hundred feet of altitude trying to find out just what was wrong, then I quit and looked for a landing spot.

I'd got away from the road in the last five-hundred-foot drop and the best spot I could see was some rough ground and Kelley's Creek. The creek was wider in most places and the ground was rougher. So I banked her over sharply, released a flare and headed for the creek surface. I hadn't expected the flare to work— and it didn't. Set for a bigger drop, before automatically lighting, it simply splashed below the surface of the water. But there was some light on the water, reflected from the sky, and I made a good, pancake landing.

That is, it was good for me. The landing-gear cracked up and the ship's right wing collapsed. I scrambled down from the cockpit, walked along a wing surface and jumped for the shore. Then I drew a deep breath.

"Sandy might just as well charge two ships to me today!" I muttered, limping a bit from a battered right knee.

BUT that wasn't quite so. The D. H. was in a few feet of slowly moving water and was not badly damaged. Evidently, there had been something wrong with the emergency feed-line, or else there had been only a little gas in the tank. I remembered the lights I had seen back along the road and started in that direction.

Fortunately I wasn't far from the Field. As I neared the east road, moving slowly over the rough ground which I had avoided by landing in the creek, I noted that the lights were gone from the spot at which I had seen them. But I kept on going.

The east road was little used. It was rough and in generally bad shape. My eyes picked up the bulk of a car and, at the same instant, I heard the crash of a shot. Instinctively, I dropped and lay still. My heart beating fiercely, I reached for my automatic and got it out of the holster. Then I remembered what had happened back at the crossroads. Was this another case of mistaken identity or—

There were more shots; dirt was kicked up near my left elbow. Then I heard the engine of the car start. My next action was instinctive. I raised the automatic, fired four shots in succession, low and at the white of the tires. Then I crawled about ten feet to my right. But there were no answering shots.

The car remained the same motionless bulk. After five minutes or so I crawled forward. I stiffened as I neared the car. It was one of those used at Rook Field!—painted khaki color—and numbered! Face downward, with chest across the wheel, was the slumped figure of a man.

FOR seconds I stood motionless, trying to get courage enough to see whom I'd shot, perhaps killed. I never was a marksman and I noted now that the tires were all filled with air. Then I moved forward, cautiously, with my automatic ready for action.

But it wasn't needed. The dial-board light, inside the machine, was off and I snapped it on. Then I stared at the face— what I could see of it—of the unconscious figure. It was the face of the man I'd known as Revelier! Spilling from his pockets were bills— bills of a high denomination. The loot from the bank! Bills were strewn on the floor of the car.

I swore softly, my eyes widening. Sprawled in the rear seat of the machine lay another form, face upward to the stars, his forehead spotted with red.

Harden! One swift glance showed me that he was dead. There were more bills in the back of the car and Harden was clutching one in his left hand. His right, thrown out from his side, held an automatic.

I don't know how long I stood there, staring, trying to think things out. But after some time I got the small-caliber weapon from the right hand of the man seated back of the wheel. I made sure that the man I knew as Harden was dead. Then I raised my own automatic and fired a few shots. I remember, while waiting for some one to come, muttering to myself.

"A Field car— and what has happened to Number 6H.2?"

Sanderson grinned at me. "It was a good stunt," he stated cheerfully, watching Doc working over the former cashier of the Holdenville Bank. "You heard what Brown was saying. They had gas and oil cached up north of here— and, just about at the mileage limit of the D. H., Tulong knew how much gas these test ships carry, of course, and he planned accordingly. He figured you wouldn't get wise for an hour or so and then you'd only think the plane was down somewhere with engine trouble. Neither Harden nor Brown knew that the bank bonding company was watching Brown, simply because of his association with Tulong.

"They'd have been across the Canadian border if things had worked right, but they didn't. They'd planned to get rid of their flying togs right away, so that if they did have a forced landing and were seen before they got clear of the plane, they wouldn't answer to any possible description we might have sent out— if we were wise.

"Tulong was probably out of his overalls before they'd climbed to three thousand and then, when they got above the clouds, Brown dropped them over the side too quickly. He said he was pretty scared, anyway; and that made Tulong sore.

"Right on top of that the engine went bad. Tulong decided to dive to the south, which he did. I came down through the clouds slowly— and you and I were watching the overalls fall and looking in the other direction, when he came through. It was hazy to the south, anyway, and there are the trees, you know, to the south of the Field."

I nodded. I hadn't heard all that Green had said and the Chief's words were filling in the gaps.

"None of the boys at the Field saw him come down, but even if they had, they wouldn't have bothered much. You know how often ships dive through clouds around here. It isn't rare and we were the only ones interested— at that time.

"They hit the level field by that burned barn, off the east road. Tulong made a good landing and taxied the ship around to the side of the barn. The trees are thickly-branched there and he got perfectly camouflaged. Then they both crawled into the barn and waited." The Chief smiled grimly. "And that," he stated, after a brief silence, "was the big slip-up in their plans. You can picture them— forced to wait for darkness, each of them with twenty-five thousand on his person— and aware that the other had a similar amount! Both were armed. They would have to separate, in any case."

"Each wanted it all," I muttered.

"Just that!" Sanderson cut in. "And after six hours of waiting, thinking, scheming for a way, who comes along but Cromwell and leaves one of our cars out on the road, while he looks around for the plane a farmer has seen drop down near the barn."

Sanderson paused. They were carrying Brown on the stretcher, sliding him into the Field ambulance.

"THEY made a break for it," he went on, "and got the car going. Then you winged along— coming back home— and seemed to be heading right down on them. They didn't stay cool, too much coin on them. Tulong shot first— at Brown. And that crook came right back at Tulong. You heard those shots. Each man figuring he'd have a better chance for a get-away by himself—"

"And that he'd have all the coin," I cut in. "They figured I'd spotted them from the sky, in spite of the car being from our Field."

Sanderson grinned. But his eyes held a grim expression.

"They had a lot of plans," he stated slowly. "Sky plans. Some of them worked. One of them didn't. That one licked them."

I nodded. "I was suspicious of him from the beginning," I said slowly. "He didn't seem— air sized."

___________________

16: Red Evidence

Charlton L. Edholm

G-Men, April 1936

CHAN MOCK picked out the shirt that Red Grady flung on the counter in a lot of soiled garments.

"No can washee clean this week," he said with a bland grin that showed all his yellow fangs. "Heap washee to make him white."

Red Grady hiccoughed drunkenly, "Oh hell, that's just a little wine— red wine— you savvy, John."

He crooked his elbow as if tossing off a drink.

"Him no wine stain. Him red like blood. Wassa malla, you maybe kill somebody? You makee chop-chop with hatchet?"

"Don't crack wise with me, you yellow scum," snarled Grady. He reached for a package of smokes, pulling out a fat roll of currency from the same pocket, which he hastily replaced. He lighted a cigarette to kill the heavy, sickening odor of the Chinese laundry and pulled the cap over his greenish eyes, glaring savagely from under the visor. With his reddish stubbled beard, his sunburned chest tattooed with an anchor, and his huge hairy fists, Grady looked as though he had just left his ship, and headed for Chinatown with his shirts and underwear.

"Allee light," said Chan Mock. "You come Slatterday for this." He indicated the other garments on the counter. "Next week you come for shirt."

With his ink brush, Chan Mock traced a scrawl on a scrap of paper. Then a second scrap of paper. A laundry ticket for each call. "You no lose tickee," he singsonged. "No tickee— no washee."

"No tickee— no washee. I get you, John," laughed Red Grady. "Mind you have that shirt clean next week, or I'll take you apart."

Grady lurched out into the street and filled his lungs with fresh air, clean and sweet from San Francisco Bay. He breathed deeply to clear his nostrils of the nauseating odor of the laundry, a mixture of steam, soiled clothes, and another clinging sweetish scent that he recognized.

Chan Mock threw the sailor's laundry into a tub to soak, but first set aside the red-stained shirt which would require special cleansing. It was splashed and spotted as though Grady had been in a brawl with knives, and the yellow man, with his sharp, almond eyes narrowing greedily, wondered whether it was the evidence of a murder. In that case, there might be big money in leaving it with the telltale spots. There might be a reward offered for the apprehension of the murderer. Or the sailor might be willing to buy it back at a stiff price if he realized that it was evidence that could be used to hang him.

Chan Mock examined the shirt while his mind was busied with the thoughts of gold and more gold. He set it away presently with a sigh of satisfaction. The red stain was blood. Of that there was no doubt. The absurd story of spilled wine was another evidence of guilt. Why should the sailor lie about it, if his conscience was clear?

Chan Mock went out into the narrow alleys near Stockton Street and came to a brick wall of a grimy building plastered over with great red posters, sheets covered with Chinese characters which carried announcements of the tongs, or secret societies, and bulletins of news of the quarter. A crowd hung about them at all hours of the day and night. It was a place where one could always pick up gossip and rumors.

Chan Mock's avaricious heart beat faster as he learned from a crony, Wong Lee, that his surmise was correct. There had been a waterfront murder the night before. A man had been stabbed to death and robbed, and the killer was still at large.

CHAN MOCK went to the detective agency run by Jess Mawson, a white man who took nothing but Chinatown cases, and asked his advice on getting the goods on the sailor and squeezing him for a good round sum in exchange for that damning evidence.

"Hang on to that shirt, my friend," said Mawson. "When the sailor calls for it, stall him off and send a messenger for me. I'll be along with a fake warrant and a gat and shake him down for all he's got."

Saturday came and Chan Mock anxiously waited for the sailor to call for his laundry, but Red Grady did not come. The laundryman was so nervous that he kept peering through the grimy window constantly, watching for the husky figure with the rolling gait.

But not until the middle of the following week, did Red Grady barge into the laundry. As he entered, a yellow lad darted away to notify Jess Mawson and Chan Mock accepted a laundry ticket in his long yellow fingers and took plenty of time to find the bundle. Grady opened it.

"Where's the rest of the wash? The shirt I spilled wine on?" he demanded.

"Him in other bundle. You got tickee?"

"No can find, John. But come across anyhow. You know me."

"No tickee, no washee," said Chan Mock stubbornly.

"Say, listen, you monkey. Don't stall. I want that shirt. See?" Red Grady's temper was up.

"No can find," said Chan Mock, pretending to search in a high stack of bundles. "You lose tickee?"

"Sure I lost it. But I'm goin' to find that shirt."

Grady leaped over the counter. Chan Mock backed away, fury and fear in his yellow face.

"No tickee, no washee," he yelped, trying to push Grady away. Red made a dive for the laundry bundles and the Chinaman reached for the pocket where he carried a gun—then thought better of it. Footsteps were hurrying along the sidewalk.

"Help, help! P'leece!" screeched the Chinaman. Grady was pulling out bundles from the shelves as Jess Mawson's burly figure crashed into the laundry. "What's goin' on here?" Jess bellowed. "Get from behind that counter."

"I'll come out when I find my shirt. An' who the hell are you?" demanded Red.

The detective flashed a badge on his big chest. He barked, "I'm Jess Mawson of the Mawson Detective Agency. I take care of all of Chan Mock's business affairs."

"That's all I wanted to know," said Red Grady. He jerked out package after package of laundry from the lower part of the shelves and ripped off the papers.

As the contents flew out, Chan Mock yelled in terror, his saffron face turning ashen, his black eyes starting from their sockets. "You no can do!" he screamed. "You no can touch!"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Do as he tells you," snarled Mawson. "Keep your dirty paws off those bundles, sailor, or I'll open you up."

Mawson's gun hand reached for his arm pit but Red Grady's fist shot out with a Joe Louis wallop and connected with Mawson's jaw. The private dick staggered back, gun sagging in his fist, and, with a fast kick, Grady sent it spinning clear across the floor.

"Come in, boys," he shouted through the half open door, and as three husky aides in civilian clothes, rushed in, he ordered:

"Put the bracelets on Chan Mock and Jess Mawson. Mock has been peddling dope for a long time— too long." He shook out an opened laundry bundle and a small flat can of opium fell from the folds of the garments.

"There's the secret of his cache," said Red Grady. "He kept the dope stored in dummy laundry packages and made his sales to customers who took it away with their shirts and collars. Pretty slick! No one would suspect a Chinese laundry of peddling the stuff, until the G-men noticed that a lot of Chan Mock's customers looked a little too much like addicts."

"Take that hardware off me," rasped Jess Mawson. His swollen jaw made talking difficult. "You ain't got a thing on me, you lousy Fed."

"We've got your admission that you handle Chan Mock's affairs," said Grady with a grin. "And with that lead to go on, we'll land you and the Chinaman in Leavenworth. We didn't have enough evidence to get out a search warrant. But looking for my own shirt was perfectly legal, wasn't it?" He grinned amiably.

"You can't do that! I tell you I'm a detective. Head of a licensed agency. Here's my card."

"Thanks. We'll get a search warrant and comb the agency records. I'll bet dollars to plugged nickels that there's enough evidence there to get you twenty years."

The G-man laughed. "And the bait you fell for, bright boy, was blood on my old shirt— chicken blood!"

_________________

17: A Creeping Terror

Douglas M Dold

1888-1931

Jungle Stories, Aug 1931

GARRY LLOYD lurched into the open, staggered and fell. He was aware that the Terror crept up behind him. He got to his feet, grasping the thorny branch of an acacia for support. He must reach higher ground before it caught up.

His bony, mask-like face set. The flat black mustache bristled stubbornly, his brown eyes grew glassy as the pain pounded and pulsed.

He longed to take time to cut the "jigger" from its sac under his toenail. Objects swayed distorted before his eyes; he hoped that it was not the walking fever. Never had he felt such heat. The sky was pale, parched blue. The sun blazed formless and white-hot. A steamy shroud-like haze gnawed at the horizon.

Back of the mist lay safety and the hills. Far to the southwest was the forest beyond the Bahr el Ghazal. To the south where the Mountains of the Moon should have been, was a sooty cloud fading into yellow. Was this the cause of the flood? Could the Mufumbiro volcanoes be at it again? No chance to reach Kota or Wadeli.

About him, vast in its solemn desolation, was the swamp. To his right flowed the saffron flood of the river, lapping, gurgling as it slid silently into its backwaters. From under the haze it slipped, coiling, and beyond it slid into the haze, a shape of fear. There was no peace or quiet here, not even when one listened. And death— death was in the air, the morass breathed decay. It flew on harp-like wings, it crawled, it pounced. It was the home of death— this swamp.

Beyond, mile upon mile, the apple-green mop-headed papyrus quivered, its bifid filaments glistening, broken here and there by stagnant pools. Lilies of blue, red, and white grew here. Here the razor-billed stork with its red beak and bronzygreen, black and white plumage stood a silent sentinel. It was in such a pool of silence that Lloyd had lost both his Somali gun bearers; the only survivors of the rapids.

His mouth set stubbornly, his eyes glowed with dull fury to destroy, his hands clutched at the hot barrels of his Holland. He pulled the battered green Topi further down to protect his neck, shifted the pack on his galled shoulders. There was little time, for the Terror crept higher with dirty little tongues at his very boots.

A flock of cowherons hovering over a matted patch of elephant grass spoke of danger. Probably a herd of buffalo, but it might be elephants.

Lloyd plunged once more into the game trail. The papyrus met over his head. After the glare the shadows seemed purple-black and the air stank, freighted with hot steamy decay. His boot splashed. Snails slimed the black mud. He slapped at the "booma" fly, killed it. To the cloud of mosquitoes that rose he paid no attention. Again he slapped, this time examining the dead fly. It was a tsetse. He prayed to God it was not infected with sleeping sickness.

God! How he hated Africa!

Again he emerged into glare and white heat. A flock of egrets froze into immobility. Beyond them, very still, sprawled five crocodiles, jaws agape, eyes cold and baleful. The sand spit on which they lay was yellow; about its ends curled the yellow current.

The egrets rose with a sighing rustle and floated off like the petals of a white flower. Warily Lloyd crossed the spit. From high over head floated down the wail of a kite. And never ceasing rustled the papyrus, furtive and sly with hidden life. Never ceasing churred and croaked the frogs, and never ceasing shrilled and buzzed the insects.

Ahead of him, now so near he could see the scarlet midriff of the raphia palm fronds, rose the kana or island of higher ground. Again he paused. A hippopotamus squealed. Hollow, mysterious, the pulsing notes beat into his ears. The shenzi drums beat out their message, boom, boom, boomaroom, boom! From afar beyond the horizon followed silence. Then from the west, nearer, he heard the answer. Boom-a-ranga, boom, boom!

He could almost see the naked black men squatting beside the yellow tree trunks, beating their message. They might be laughing at him— at him—

"Another white man dead. Mjuba, we are glad. It served him right. The river gods were angry. They ate his canoes, his servants, all his belongings, in the rapids it had taken place. The crocodiles were many. Eya, they feasted on those swakilis. He is a great man, but the gods of the river they ate him. Ha! ha! He was a great hunter— oh, yes, he was a great hunter. The linghas have said it. It was to shoot the white rhinoceros— he of the square lip. Yes, it was so. But he will shoot no more— and we are glad, eya, Mjuba."

The Terror had grown bolder. It lapped at Lloyd's feet, hungry. Suddenly he gasped.

Beyond his vision he heard the notes of a launch engine. It would mean rescue. He forgot caution and began to run at a stumbling trot.

Once he all but fell on a crocodile. He must reach a vantage point where he could signal the launch. The wooded island in the swamp loomed. There was no mistaking, it was a launch, but the trees and thick bush hid all the sight of it. He waded waist-deep. So far as he could see, the ground was at least sixty acres in extent, and it was now surrounded by water. He had been just in time. He stumbled onto dry ground, but was forced to use his heavy kukri knife, as the jungle was thick. He shouted, wild with anxiety lest the launch should leave. He was about to fire the elephant gun when an explosion louder than a hundred rifles shook the air. Followed splashing sounds, then silence.

Panting and sweating, Lloyd cut his way toward the east side of the island. Here the main river ran close and it was from this direction he had heard the sound of the explosion.

The going was easier. He forgot thirst, fatigue, tortured body. Of the launch he could see nothing. An agony of doubt and fear assailed him. He cried out from beyond a clump of flowering acacias. He heard a shriek. What in God's name might that mean?

From behind massed yellow blossoms fled a white woman! A girl in battered pith helmet, her skirts clinging to her, torn and muddy.

"Hurry, oh, hurry, it's taking Uncle John!" In her hand she held an automatic. "I don't know how to fire it. Oh, God! Hurry!"

Lloyd said nothing, but rushed behind the screen of blossoms. There, littering a sandy beach, was strewn the remains of a steam launch. He arrived just in time to see an old man's face, bloody in death, vanish beneath the swirling saffron flood... for a moment above the swirl there was a serrated tail that lashed the water.

Despair seized Lloyd. Was it worthwhile fighting? What was the use? The girl joined him, sobbing. Lloyd snorted. What was a woman doing out here? No sensible man would venture into this country.

"Sit down," he said, clumsily patting the heavy shoulders, "here on this crate."

Lloyd saw the river rising with terrible rapidity. It might be the sudd damming up things.

"Let's chin, this isn't so bad. Six feet of land yet before the flood gets up— then there are the trees. You need not worry, your uncle was dead before the crocodiles got his body."

Lloyd told her of his predicament, of his misfortunes. She was a weak, helpless little thing, but somehow she gave him courage. Her pale little face with the velvety, soft brown eyes held a poignant appeal. The drooping scarlet lips, the clenched little hands, the dented helmet all touched his manhood. Watching him as he deliberately cut the jigger from his toe she spoke haltingly:

"I'm Myrtle Tabor, a missionary. We came in a launch from below Lado, on our way to Kota. Mr. Gleason was my uncle. We had to come in here for wood, fuel, you know. We hit something. The Mercy," nodding toward the launch, "began to sink. We were getting our things out, she was near shore. I was carrying some kerosene up there by the palm and then the boat blew up and the two Uganda boys— were gone. I pulled Uncle John up, he was all bloody, and ran for the bandages, then a crocodile poked its head out of the water and got his foot. I screamed."

"We must get ready for— anything," he replied. "We aren't the only refugees on this— er— I suppose it's an island now. First we must make a fire and boil some water. I'm dry as the 'Gobi.' Watch out for the flies with crossed wings; they look like small house flies. Don't let them bite you. Put gloves on if you've got them."

Lloyd gathered wood. Never had he seen so many insects. The woods were alive with scorpions and centipedes, driven there by the floods. Cicadas and great blue and red butterflies patched the wild datewood palm fronds; ants swarmed. Myrtle Tabor watched the man work and shuddered at the great gray scorpions.

Soon they had water to drink, and both ate, for Lloyd had insisted on this. The Terror was all about them now, eating away at the bank; a great mapoli tree like an English elm fell splashing mightily into the flood.

Carefully choosing the highest point on which grew a tall borassus palm, Lloyd cleared away the ground. A bloated puff adder lividly chevroned black and white struck from its lurking place beneath the fleshy-mottled aloe leaf. Around the palm bole Lloyd built a strong boma of thorn limbs. The fire was built in there; all the cases that might prove useful he carried here, the girl obeying him mechanically as he directed.

The girl sobbed and often shuddered. The afternoon wore on. Always the creeping Terror licked higher. Always the horror was nearer. Lloyd shuddered at the thought of the night they faced. Hour by hour the island grew smaller as the river rose, only the mop-headed tops of the papyrus rose above the water. Of the shore they could catch no glimpse. Only a swirling, polished saffron flood that lapped and whispered.

Back of them in the gloomy, moving bush there came sound of many living things, restless and afraid. About the island in gathering numbers floated dark objects patiently waiting for the gift of the creeping Terror. Back in the purple-mottled gloom the restless sounds were growing louder, more fearful. A dreadful menace was gathering; these dumb things felt it first. Ever increasing, the crocodiles swam about the doomed island. Slowly, inch by inch, the land was swallowed by the river.

The heat was less tormenting. The insects, however, grew more and more numerous. Life of all kinds was gathering, packed closer and closer by the Terror that crept. Now even the elephantgrass tops only showed here and there. A great sea slid by almost silently. As it touched the haze the sun grew scarlet. It lit the river in a deep, blood color, while the little waves were tinkling, dancing flames. Only ten acres remained above water. The girl moaned; he saw that she gazed at the redheaded, red-tailed lizards that moved restless, at the hordes of beetles and insects of all kinds that wove about on the ground. Above them the slate-gray bats hung feasting with twitching ears. The crocodiles had moved closer, circling.

Lloyd put more wood on the fire and prepared to climb the palm. There was plenty of rope; he thanked God for that fact. Tying his feet together and making a loop, he began to climb. Bracing himself, he hitched jerkily up the trunk. At the top he had to dislodge a horde of ants, who attacked him savagely, until he was able to drive them out with kerosene. Here amid the dark green, fanshaped fronds would be safety if anywhere.

Never would he forget the girl's cry as he began to lift her by means of the rope to the palm top. She turned and saw the lions! There were three of them, all males. Even as he heaved and strained, he watched their nervously twitching tails, heard the angry snarls. Again and again she shrieked. Now she was up gasping and clinging to him; he tied her so she could not fall. He laced lianas amongst the fronds.

The lions had vanished and in spite of her pleadings he descended to the ground. In place of the lions he saw a monitor lizard and two warthogs grunting and snuffing. A darting mongoose ran hither and thither, barking, strangely excited. Then he saw snakes everywhere. Cobras for the most part, gliding restlessly about, twined in all the lower growth. Around the branch of a Euphorbia which was in the sunset light, he counted six big snakes; one of the largest was almost lemon yellow. Two slim, green mambas, three of the dreaded ringhals breed.

Article after article they pulled into the palm top. As the darkness crept on, the animal life more and more crowded, became articulate as the Terror seized and held them. The huge fig tree branches swayed and trembled with its many refugees. Now the island crawled with life. Once more he was in the palm top. Myrtle's hand sought his and held it. Below them the island slowly changed shape as the river rose. More and more numerous were the black oblong patches. They looked like floating coffins. A myriad of cliff swallows flitted about.

Lloyd endeavored to cheer the girl. "Like Noah's Ark or—or a menagerie, isn't it?" He was surprised at the high, cracked tone in which he spoke. The Terror that crept had now got him in its power. It was terrible to think of that slow, slow rise with those saurian guardians to drag one down, deep down into the mud. It had grown almost dark amongst the trees; so dark that many eyes glowed and winked out; eyes of all shapes and sizes, but all lit with the same Terror.

There was something very unnatural in seeing so many wild things crowded together. Amongst a grove of hyphaene palms Lloyd saw the restless swaying hulks of a herd of elephants; further away at the far end of the shrinking land, a ring of buffaloes pawing and snorting, their bossed horns clicking sharply as their heads met. Along the water line, moving restlessly and gazing toward the hidden hills, stood Kobs hartebeeste, bush buck, oribi and other antelope, and looming larger were a pair of giant elands. On the top of the raphia palm nearest was perched two marabou storks, hideous heads tucked down into hunched-up shoulders.

Over all other tones came an insistent, seething gnawing. A mimosa limb, which shook and trembled like a live thing with the ague, had lost its actual outlines. Ants by the million were everywhere. Near them they saw a group of scorpions impotently jabbing and striking with their fanged tails, but the ants swarmed over them. A big hairy spider met the same fate, that of being eaten alive!

Where the light still fell, the ground crawled with insects. Cane rats, hedgehogs and smaller things of all kinds ran hither and thither, covered by the biting plague. Once a hyena moaned. Jackals yapped and howled, furtive shapes snapped at the insects all over them....

The antelopes had begun milling. The buffaloes still stood in circular formation, heads and horns forming a barrier. Now and then they bellowed, stamping to shake off the ants; their protests held a leathery, creaky note.

The two in the palm tops gasped as they breathed; there was something frightful in this scene of destruction, something fascinating, too. Below them a warthog barked, screamed and ran amuck. They saw a mamba, its hood spread flat, sway before the warthog's muzzle and strike. They heard the squeals, almost articulate.

All about the crocodile had begun bellowing, long gong-like sounds that had a quality of brainless cruelty. They were triumphant; it was their hour; they would feed well. Above all in a spiraling funnel soared kites and vultures. Then with a spectacular suddenness it was dark. The two tied up in the borassus palm could see nothing, yet they knew the Terror crept up, eating at their safety. The clamor from below became louder, edged with ferocity and all but articulate with the Terror. Pungent, acrid scents permeated the air about them. The odor of crushed insects, the fragrance of mimosa and acacia, the mud and musky reek of crocodiles, civets, and servals all added to the mingled stench. From the trees about came the agonized chatter and squeak of monkeys; the barking of baboons; the occasional whistling trumpet of elephants; the snarling of cats, and filling in the clamor the crepitating, crawling insect horde... killing and being killed, but seeking safety.

The moon rose out of a bed of thin ghastly mist.... It was immense and crimson in color. All about them was water. Water that glimmered black with silver lacquer. Mist floated about them. From below through a pall of mist arose terrific sounds of combat. Here and there a treetop emerged into the brilliant light of the moon. Their refuge, thought Lloyd, must be awash. Sharp staccato shrieks. Bubbling, gurgling moans, loud splashes, told the end of many creatures. How much longer would their palm stand? Occasionally it shook at the impact of some animal's body. The clamor grew louder; sometimes there was individuality of note as when the lions roared, not low and satisfied as after a kill, but high, snarling, shrieking roars. Or when a leopard coughed and spat from the limb of the fig tree near them. Below them was lust... unthinkable slaughter. Once the girl went limp. Lloyd's face was mask-like. Fear gripped him, for he knew the Terror was creeping up!

Beyond them, monkeys danced and chattered; blood dripping from them. Ants were everywhere, hiding in the leaves. A python, lashing and twisting, crashed down, ants raining from its body. Cobras clung to the constrictor like ribbons. The reek of musk and mud grew stronger. Again the mist parted. On limbs of a gambach tree danced and hopped a group of lean baboons. Their white teeth gleamed as they grimaced. Below them in the water were crocodiles that snapped at them with an audible click. It was to avoid the gaping, saw-like jaws that the apes leaped in their dance of death.

Now the clamor had grown into a tortured babel, made up of squeals; the crack of breaking bones; bellowing, hissing, panting breaths; dull, thudding splashes; snapping, tearing limbs; grunting, coughing, roaring, shrieking and monotonously reiterated splashings. Lloyd shuddered and groped protectively for the girl.

Each splash meant another death. Again he caught sight of the scene below.

Almost all of the land was underwater. All the smaller living things had disappeared. Many antelopes were missing, the remainder fought in a frenzy of berserker rage, full to the last with their wish to survive. Always ready, always waiting lay the great lizards, fang-studded, jaws agape at the creeping Terror's edge, their rough bodies lapped by the silver-lacquered flood.

Still the river rose. Tight-packed and jammed the animals fought. Eyes that gleamed red in the moonlight; lolling scarlet tongues; horns wet with blood; teeth that gleamed from foam-flecked lips, drawn back. The herd of buffaloes slowly pushed their way forward as the water drove them back. Their blue-black, hairless hulks gleamed wet. A bull charged at a palm tree, catapulting its monkey refugee out into the water together with the reddish palm fruit. It was terrible to see them sink, for none rose. The elephants, too, had moved nearer to the great fig tree whose denizens, tortured to madness by the ants, were dropping off already half-eaten by the savage insatiable insects. Now the smell of blood rose sickeningly sweet. The mist had thinned. Through its gauzelike veil crocodile eyes ringed the doomed land. Crocodile tails flayed the rising river into yellow foam.

Only an oryx and three elands remained from all the antelopes. These were soon dragged into the flood in spite of their utmost resistance. The buffaloes stood knee-deep in water. Lloyd peered from between two fronds; below there was nothing of their boma left. Not once had he fired his gun. From the water a small shape crawled. Slowly it climbed, tediously and pausing often. The water was not more than forty feet below. The borassus palm vibrated now continually. Lloyd looked down again; the little thing was close, it raised a terrified little face. It was only a small black monkey!

"Save it, oh, the mite," the girl breathed. Lloyd had not seen that she had noticed.

He reached down and grasped the little furry thing. It made no attempt to bite. Myrtle Tabor took the baby simian with a gulping sob and held it close; it cuddled, trembling in the girl's arm.

A splash followed by a roar made Lloyd look down. A porcupine, bristly black and white, had tumbled out of the fig tree; pierced by his quills was a long black mamba. The porcupine had fallen on a lion's haunches. The big cat had been hunched on a fast crumbling anthill near to the fig tree. Rolling off the lion the porcupine spun bobbing in the current; all about it, like a shower of sawdust, floated ants. The lion, maddened by the long, sharp quills, leaped into the midst of the buffalo herd. Here he clawed and bit his way over the blue backs, his tawny body and black-manged head gored by heavy horns till it jetted blood.

The crocodiles, taking advantage of the fight, crawled in and took a heavy toll. The second lion ran amuck, then the third, at the same time joined by the leopard, who sprang clawing at a crocodile, ripping the saurian wide open. Still the reptile turned and crunched the leopard's head. The two sank beneath the water, bubbles and smothered screams arose as a fighting muddy mass reappeared to sink again.

Only the six elephants were left. These huge creatures moved restlessly about, stamping at the enemies who evidently did their best to attack them from beneath the water. With ears cocked out straight and small tails vertical, the little herd trumpeted again and again. Their trunks waved and curled with increasing menace; their wrinkled, gray bodies smeared with debris and blood. Two cows from the herd began butting and pushing the remaining three, as if by this deed they might protect themselves. One palm after another was uprooted in this way, all their unhappy occupants falling into five feet of water which now covered what had been the highest elevation.

Lloyd loaded and sighted his double-barrel crocodile rifle.

"I've got to shoot those two elephants or they will get us."

Myrtle looked at him with wide, almost unseeing eyes.... He took careful aim, shot and killed the first cow immediately; she sank to be tugged off by the water fiends. Still the river rose, but now more slowly. Again the booming thunder of the rifle spoke. The recoil jerked his shoulder back. The cow fell at the smashing impact of the heavy bullet, got up again, bright, arterial blood welling out of the wound. She screamed a terrible note. Lloyd reloaded. He had eighteen cartridges left.... If the remaining four elephants charged their palm it meant certain death. Trumpeting shrilly, mouth open, the mortally wounded cow had fallen, recovering, got slowly and ponderously to her knees, fumbled with her trunk under water, grasped something, lifted it out of the water. A twelve-foot crocodile! She swung at the reptile— it clawed futilely at her trunk— Lloyd saw the crocodile's jaws open and close, heard the wet snapping click; saw the crocodile hurled into the fig tree; the shower of insects that fell like hail into the water; heard the cow splash as she slowly toppled; saw the crocodile fall, a broken-headed, lashing cripple, saw them both dragged under water, the four other elephants, one huge bull with curling tusks, charge the fig tree; saw them bellydeep attack its branches, heard the branches snap and tear; saw the tree topple, for the river had undermined its roots; it swayed and began to fall. It made a mighty crash....

The moon had nearly set.... Its glancing rays gilded the insect snow that followed the great tree as it bobbed and gyrated slowly down the river.

Now there were the three elephants. All about them floated in a ring, the crocodiles, their eyes growing green by the moon's last light. Lloyd waited with cocked rifle. The girl, with bent head low, talked in whispers to the little monkey that whimpered and clung with arms about her neck. Only three palms besides their own topped the current; all swayed alarmingly. The end must be near!

The elephants made no more hostile moves. They stood trumpeting shrilly and stamping at the unseen attackers as they swayed.

Now it was dark again. Centuries of awful suspense seemed to pass. Lloyd waited. Once there was a great splashing, gurgling scream and a terrific pounding thumping, a something that rained water on them as it hurtled over. Again, silence.

Lloyd thought the Terror no longer crept, the current slackened. Dawn broke gray over the ghastly, yellow flood, mist-shrouded. Only one palm was left standing besides their own, only one elephant; the great bull stood swaying and lashing a bloody trunk, now not belly-deep. Suddenly the sun appeared a blazing, scarlet, fiery flower. There were not so many crocodiles, yet the big bull elephant was being attacked. Lloyd admired the lone survivor. What courage! What strength! The elephant stood bathed in ruddy sunrise glory; his trunk felt about and probed where something pulled and tugged at the hind leg. With a jerk the bull grappled and tore his tormentor from the water. It was the largest crocodile that Lloyd had ever seen. The monster was over twenty feet in length, his belly was yellow and scabrous with moss. The creature's jaws were wide, its mouth looked white inside. The bull elephant lifted it, inspected it long, then— pushed it under the water.

With slow, deliberate hate it stabbed with its tusks again and again. Once more it lifted the saurian— its wounds were hideous— this time he lowered it, and putting his ponderous front foot down, pushed. He saw the elephant straining with its tusks. Even at that distance he could see its wild little eyes were lit with the killing hunger. Slowly, with a ripping, hideous note, the big lizard broke and tore. Its great jaws in their death agony had set and cut the big bull's trunk. The bull stood slowly swaying, then with a bubbling trumpet-note of mingled torture and triumph, he turned, trunk curled over his head, ears wide, back deluged by his own blood, and began to walk into the deep water. Over him flew a wailing escort of kites, beside him swam the crocodiles. Now only his back and head showed, soon only the head, finally alone the blood-spurting stump of the trunk rose above the crimson surface of the falling flood. Then it was gone....

SLOWLY the water fell. Hours of agony passed. Thirst and heat sickened the two in the palm tree. It seemed to them the sun's rays were javelins of fire that quivered bolt-like from the burnished, brassy sky or danced, gauze-like, over the river. Lloyd grew delirious. Far off he distinguished something black that moved.

"Delusions. More carnage," he muttered.

The girl stirred and moaned....

For a moment his mind grew clearer. Long, long he looked. It was a launch! He fired his gun. The monkey trembled and the girl shrieked. Again and again until the eighteen cartridges were gone, he fired.

From over the water the approaching launch-engine puffed. To Lloyd's fevered senses it was like the drums. He sprang up, gesticulating and shouting curses.

"My God! It's Garry Lloyd! He's raving!" said the D.C., "and if I ain't blind there's a woman and a monkey with him."

LATER, as the journey upriver was resumed, the men listened in awed silence to Myrtle Tabor's story. Her face still wore the look of terror, yet her eyes were very tender as they fell on Lloyd who lay on a mat breathing hard.

Sitting up suddenly and staring, he said in a hard, cracked voice: "A monkey... a girl... a man and a couple of palms... survival of the fittest. Island, trees, Noah's Ark... all gone... crocs and creeping terror got 'em.... It's Africa's way...."

________________

18: The Cruise of the Cadis

Raymond S. Spears

1876-1950

Munsey's Magazine, February, 1906

ALVIN EATON walked with a lonely and dejected air along that wide thoroughfare of New Orleans where one meets so large a proportion of beautiful young ladies and handsome old men. Suddenly his face brightened. It was not the smile of a friend that banished the ache from his heart, nor was it a congenial "howdy." It was a shrill cry from a side street toward the levee, a voice with a strident note in it, such as might proceed from a throat of brass. Mr. Eaton's face lighted up as he listened; his step quickened; and he eagerly traced the sound to its source— a parrot of dull-gray plumage and one solemn eye; for a drooping lid veiled the cavity which had been designed for the companion orb.

As Mr. Eaton approached, the parrot, having scanned him critically from between two bars of the battered brass cage, called at him in a low, derisive voice:

"Old maid! Old maid! Always been an old maid! Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! Scat!"

Mr. Eaton grinned ecstatically. Without more ado, he entered the doorway under the cage, passed on between tiers of cages full of evil-smelling, shrieking creatures with worn pelts and bedraggled plumage, till, far in the rear, before a dusty window, he found a lean little man trying to pull a monkey's tooth. The monkey was tied to the back of a chair, hand and foot, waist, neck, and even jaws. Nevertheless, it could wiggle and protest, and it did.

The owner of the shop burst into a series of maledictions in a mixture of French, Cuban, Spanish and English as the visitor, unnoticed, approached him from behind. Prancing up and down, the old fellow shook his hand violently. The monkey had nipped his thumb. The wild-eyed little beast looked appealingly past its tormentor to Mr. Eaton. Noticing the animal's gaze, the man turned, and cut short his objurgations.

"Ah, mossieu!" he cried apologetically, "ze little pet of me, et ees so confus' mit les dents. I fix um! Mon dieu! Le monk, he ver' savage. Have me ze honor— eh, what?"

Mr. Eaton had moved his hand impatiently. He could not bear monkeys, much less the sleepy guinea-pigs and white mice with which the rear of the store was chiefly populated. He drew his coat close around him, and hastily retreated toward the door. Among the birds there he was more comfortable.

"You have parrots?" he asked casually, as one who knew animal-dealers to the bottom of their hearts, and how best to deal with them.

"Yeh! Yeh, mossieu! Parrots galoriously! See! A lit' Brazilian parrot. He talk like— like"— he hesitated a moment as he scanned Mr. Eaton— "he talk like a lit' angel. He converse ver' lady-like."

Seeing that Mr. Baton's eyes wandered among the other birds, the dealer enlarged on the charms and attainments of the various members of his stock. Some sang, some were beautiful, some did stunts on ladders, and some played ball with wads of paper. But not one word did he say about the gray bird with one eye that hung in front of the store. At last, apparently slightly disgusted, Mr. Eaton nodded toward One-Eye— for so he had already dubbed the bird.

"Where'd you get that thing?" he asked. The dealer shrugged his shoulders. "One darn sailor-man. A year, two year now, I feed dat bird. He don't talk. I tell de trut', he jes' holler. My golly! I put him in here— parbleu! He scare de canary, he screech. De monk', dey can't sleep. I sell him ver' quick— cheap—twenty-fife dollar, eh? I let him go fo' feefteen dollar, yeh?"

"Done!" said Mr. Eaton. The money was passed over quickly. The large brass cage came down. A small one was opened, and the gray parrot walked into it with an alacrity that should have told the dealer much. Mr. Eaton was going out of the door, and the dealer was bowing low, to conceal his joy over the transaction, when the parrot said very distinctly:

"Blamed liar! Blamed liar! Fool! Fool!"

"Eh, what?" screamed the dealer. "You talk? Fifteen dollars for a parrot talk like dat? Mister! Mister!"

But Mr. Eaton seemed not to hear, and the dealer danced grimacing in the doorway of the shop.

"He swear! Mon dieu! He talk like a pirate— he wort' a hundert toller— two hundert!"

The little man turned back among his pets, and soon the pained shrieks of the unfortunate monkey told of vengeance being wreaked.

The purchaser of One-Eye, on leaving the shop, hastened to the river front. He went over the levee, and, just below the big Morgan liner, he boarded a somewhat smaller but far more sumptuous boat— to wit, his yacht, a long, broad, deep craft, shining white, and bright with varnish and polished brass.

Here and there along the deck of the yacht were cages and stands for birds, and all the birds were parrots. Nor were these the only creatures in evidence. Numbers of cats were prowling, ambling, or galloping about the deck, or reposing in broad low chairs and cozy corners. Far astern a cat fight was going on in the after cabin, toward which the steward made haste when the sounds of conflict reached his ears.

The parrots, on seeing Mr. Eaton, began to walk sideways toward him, to fluff up their feathers, and to hail him with strangely incongruous greetings.

"Come 'ere! Come 'ere! Come'ere!" shrieked a score of voices, and then from the cabins came other calls till the yacht echoed with a babel of shrill salutations.

A moment after the steward entered the cabin whence issued the sounds of cats in anger, a large Tom leaped through an open port and landed on the deck with a thump of four paws. After waiting a moment to regain his equanimity, he trotted forward to meet Mr. Eaton. One of the animal's ears was split, and the left side of his face was bleeding, but Tom's step was jaunty and his tail pointed straight up, save for a fern-like curl at the tip.

"You naughty Tom!" exclaimed Mr. Eaton as the cat walked around, rubbing the top of his head on the lace-hooks of the man's shoes. "Is Jack hurt?"

"Nosseh!" replied the steward. "A bit scratched is all, seh."

"All right, but you'd better rub a little carbolized vaseline—"

"All right, seh!" Soon afterward, as Mr. Eaton was admiring his new parrot, Jack entered the forward cabin, or bird pen, with his mouth wide open and his nose crinkling. Time was when people greased cats with tallow, which was good to a cat's taste; but carbolized vaseline!

"P-s-s-s!" said Jack disgustedly.

"Scat, you horrid things!" screamed the one-eyed parrot, as the cats, following Mr. Eaton, approached. "Bow-wow-wow! Yep-yep-waugh!"

Eleven cats, Jack and Tom foremost, leaped for the open ports, and climbed for the rigging. As their distended tails disappeared, One-Eye imitated a dog fight.

"Oh, you treasure!" exclaimed Mr. Eaton, stepping forward as if to embrace his pet.

"You're an old maid. Scat!" exclaimed the bird soberly. Mr. Eaton frowned through his smiles, and then, responding to the notice that lunch was ready, started to put the bird in the cage.

"Go to Halifax!" the bird yelled, flying to a perch already occupied by a yellow Brazilian parrot.

"Kek! Kek! Kek!" Saffron snapped, ruffling up, whereupon One-Eye whacked him on the head with his wing, and Saffron subsided with a shriek.

"Watch that pair—  don't let them fight," directed Mr. Eaton as he started for the dining saloon.

"Old maid! Scat!" retorted the stranger parrot, and the steward was glad he had a face of wax.

Mr. Eaton did not linger long over his lunch. He ate rapidly of his salad, tea, light biscuit, and fruit, thinking the while of the treasure he had found in his new pet.

ii

THE owner of One-Eye had two hobbies— parrots and cats. He himself could not tell which he loved best.

"I can come within one of it, anyhow," he would say to himself whimsically, as he tried to decide which he preferred. To reach at least a partial decision was necessary frequently, for cats are liveliest north of the parallel of New Orleans, while parrots are liveliest south of it. This accounted for Mr. Baton's presence at New Orleans. He was undecided whether to go north to St. Louis on the Mississippi, so favoring the felines, or to go southward into the blue Gulf, along the coasts, and among the islands, a course more conducive to the health and happiness of his parrots.

Recently a jewel of a cat had wandered aboard the yacht. Mr. Eaton had recognized it as a rare animal, in spite of soft-coal smudge. It was a Manx, and such a Manx! No soft and downy, purring kitten was this, but a creature broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, wide-faced, and heavy-clawed. Mr. Eaton could appreciate a purring, velvety kitten, but his love was for cats that could fight and parrots that swore. Hence his joy in the Manx that swaggered up the middle of the deck one day, scaring less obtrusive cats into a state of slit-eyed fear.

"A genuine, scrappy Manx!" Mr. Eaton thought; and for three days he cherished the happy illusion. But at the end of that time he learned that the cat was a Manx by accident, having lost its tail in kittenhood, and not through the right of heredity. Hence the melancholy mood in which Mr. Eaton had paced the streets of New Orleans until the strident cry of One-Eye dispelled his gloom. Unquestionably, at the time of the acquisition of One-Eye, parrots were first in his affections. The bobtailed cat wandered at will over the yacht, bully of all the cats he met, but ignored by Mr. Eaton. The crew, less fastidious as to the animal's ancestry, loved Bob as a friend and a playmate, and as a fighter capable of routing half a dozen aristocratic felines whose pedigrees alone might have daunted him. While the steward and the doctor cared for the cats, the owner of the yacht devoted himself to his birds, feeding them from his own hands with tidbits suitable for parrot crops. At meal times Mr. Eaton was always cheered vociferously by his feathered dependents, the while they crawled over him from head to foot, clinging right-side-up and upside-down to the resplendent dressing-gown of flowered design which that gentleman affected.

But the yacht was not to remain long at New Orleans. The attention Mr. Eaton and his pets received from steamer roustabouts and longshoremen who lined the levee was annoying rather than flattering. The word to sail was soon given. The steward laid in a huge supply of crackers and cold storage meats, and the captain cleared the yacht for foreign ports.

On a splendid golden morning, the yacht Cadis swung out into the great Mississippi torrent, the bow caught in the current, and the craft, turning gracefully southward, sped away for the tropics, come what might to the tribes of furry creatures born in cooler climes.

Bob, the Manx, showed signs of anxiety as soon as the tremble of the screw passed through the yacht. He licked his chops uneasily, and when, seven hours later, the Cadis ran down Ead's Pass and dipped to the great Gulf swell, he looked pained. At the sixth dip, Bob sprawled down on the deck, his fore claws reaching to right and left, his hind legs drawn up, and his left ear to the varnished wood.

"Steward! Oh, George!" called Mr. Eaton. "Come take this cat to the hospital— he's sick!"

One-Eye gazed down on the cat.

"Yah-h-yah-h-h!" he shrieked maliciously. "Scat!"

Bob, hanging limply over the steward's arm, wriggled feebly as he looked at the bird, and then turned toward the leaping, white-capped sea with jaws yawning. The steward carried him below.

Meanwhile Mr. Eaton devoted himself to cultivating the talents of his bird-friends. As an incentive to conversation, biscuits were fed to the talkative. Under this stimulus, volubility increased rapidly, and even creatures of shy and retiring dispositions developed unexpected conversational powers. Their teacher was delighted with his successes.

A lady-like little green bird was receiving special attention from Mr. Eaton. It had learned to say, "Please, sir, a cracker," and was now being taught a new phrase. "Thank you, sir; thank you, sir; thank you, sir"— these words Mr. Eaton was repeating to his promising pupil, when an ear-splitting, raucous voice broke forth profanely:

"Darn your eyes, Biddy wants a cracker!"

The sound was sudden, and Mr. Eaton leaped a foot in the air. It was the voice of One-Eye, and his master was not displeased. Indeed, he rewarded the brazen-throated bird with a whole sea-biscuit— and so, in an instant, undid all the lessons he had taught the lady-like parrot, who, looking on with understanding, forthwith renounced polite speeches, and took forevermore to profanity, which, in the case of One-Eye, she had seen so bountifully rewarded.

Not only on this occasion, but in general, One-Eye showed himself a disturbing spirit.

"Yah— scat!" became the war-whoop and the cry of distress on the Cadis. Even the sailors took it up. But the bird's rough tongue, loud voice, and rude, masterful ways seemed only to endear him to the heart of his owner.

After two weeks' sailing, the yacht was in the west mouth of the Orinoco River. Here Mr. Eaton cast anchor until he could enlist the services of certain netters— Señor Carlos San Sinbo, Señor Juan de Caribona, and Señor Antone Jiculan— whose skill was well known to the bird-fanciers of the world.

Having found these gentlemen, he addressed them to this effect, in the purest Spanish:

"I desire you to make me the honorable favor of capturing young parrots."

The bird-catchers bowed very low and made motions as though they would ensnare the whole wilderness for so entirely gracious a señor magnificente, at whose service they placed their forever humble selves.

So the Cadis sailed up the delta to the main stream, and up the main Orinoco to the muggiest, densest, gloomiest wilderness, where Mr. Baton's bid for a "really large collection of parrots" was in a fair way to being satisfied.

In the quiet waters of the river, the Cadis was a gentle boat. Bob, the seasick cat, came up from below, at first timorously, and then with increasing confidence as he saw, on all sides, the thick vegetation— a sure sign of land. The other cats, though panting with the heat, viewed the scene with similar approbation, even while they were not without their doubts at night, when certain large animals of their kind raised voices of melodious despair by way of scaring timid deer from the thickets across the grassy savannas.

Mr. Eaton's parrots, however, were in a state of hilarious joy. They approved the heat and the mocking cries of their kin in the forest.

One-Eye, alone, remained silent. He disliked the long, bright chain by which he was compelled to remain on a shiny wooden perch instead of ambling around at will, as on the days when at sea.

The other birds, too, accustomed to the freedom of the ship, but now chained fast or caged, voiced their protests with shrieks. One-Eye was simply sullen. Unlike his companions, he did not forget his woes in observing the loads of parrots, disheveled and screaming, that were brought aboard by the netters. He disdained the common flock, standing glum all day long, turning his back on the preoccupied Mr. Eaton at every opportunity, and refusing to be cajoled by sweet crackers, chopped cocoanut, or ripe, creamy bananas.

"Good land!" exclaimed the steward at last. "Them dagoes has a hunder' critters this trip!"

Sure enough, the bird-catchers had their cages full, and the yacht was alive with parrots. The cats were in a helpless, scandalized minority by this time. Occasionally Bob came blinking from the lower decks with a tiny feather flying suspiciously from his lower lip. The crew, evidently, had not forsworn its allegiance to the cats. A parrot more or less would never be missed from that "bloomin' chicken ship," the sailors thought. But they were mistaken— in one case at least— as will appear.

Finally Mr. Eaton was satisfied, and as the lines were cast off one morning he bade the steward bring One-Eye. The steward found the bird, grim and desolate, on his perch.

"Hello!" said that functionary genially.

The parrot sidled toward him, snapping its bill dangerously.

"Hold on now!" remarked the steward. "You bite me and I'll wring your neck!"

The anklet and chain that kept the bird on the perch were unclasped, and One-Eye walked up the steward's arm to his shoulder and thence to the top of his head. Mr. Eaton hailed the bird as he flapped his wings and flew toward him.

At that moment, from a tree on the edge of the wilderness, came a cry: "Kee-e-e! Kee-e-e!"

"Kee-e-e!" answered One-Eye ecstatically, and, veering his course, he winged his way over the rail and up toward the tree-top from which the call proceeded. As he neared it a bird like himself came from the cover, and together the two flew into the forest singing in unison one glad song of "Kee-e-e! Kee-e-e!"

It was a clear case of love at first sight. One-Eye had found a mate whose society he preferred to that of the yacht where he had been subjected to the indignity of chains.

"Stop 'em!" cried Mr. Eaton as they soared away. "A hundred, a thousand dollars to the man who gets that bird!" The men with the nets rushed ashore; the yacht was remoored; but there were no signs of One-Eye. Nor was a distant search more successful.

Day after day the men hunted birds. The rainy season came on. Over the marshes rose thick miasmic vapors. The cats languished; the parrots began to moult. For a time, Mr. Eaton urged his netters to pursue his beloved pet.

At last he retired, heart-sick, and yellow with malaria, to the seclusion of his own cabin.

iii

THE captain made haste down the river. The pride of his flock was gone, and Mr. Eaton lost interest alike in his new captives and in his old pets. He did not feed them, nor smooth their ruffled feathers, nor wrap them up in linen for burial when they died. The flock rapidly diminished. Many cats went overboard, too, indecently thrown to the sharks.

Mr. Eaton had friends ashore, most of whom liked parrots, or felines, or both. Among them he distributed such of his birds and cats as survived. Before long his yacht became a normal yacht; the animal pets gave place to human guests. In the endeavor to forget his lost favorite, he began to entertain lavishly. He went to the Mediterranean, taking friends with him, and there ensued much talk and music, and much visiting of grand castles and great people, to say nothing of picture-gazing and sightseeing. But all to no purpose.

Mr. Eaton laughed with every one. He seemed the gayest of the gay, after the manner of some lofty, heart-torn souls; but in the silence of his cabin, while the moon shone silvery from the low east, he gazed sadly upon the teetering waves, gnawed by his secret sorrow.

Thus two years passed. Of all his parrots not one remained. Mr. Eaton ceased to entertain. He roved the seas from Newfoundland to the Nile, from the Baltic to Havana Harbor. At Havana he gave the word, and away the patient captain headed for the Orinoco.

There were no bird-catchers on board, nor any birds, when the Cadis steamed up the delta to the parrot forest. The yacht came to anchor a few yards from the bank long after dark. Mr. Eaton insisted on seeing by moonlight first the fateful place where he had suffered his grievous loss.

He saw it. The air was thick with tropic mist, warm, honeyed, soporific. The moon was huge, gray, encircled. The forest was dark; the tree-tops tossed and moaned. Now and then a lone cry was heard in the distance; near-by, the leaves rustled and insects hummed.

Mr. Eaton, watching the scene and listening to the myriad tropic sounds, sighed for the bird he had lost. After a time, as he reclined in a hammock on the forward deck, sleep overcame him. In his dreams voices seemed calling to him from afar.

He woke with a start. The voices were drawing near, and soon familiar phrases sounded in his ears:

"Old maid! Scat! Old maid! Scat!"

Mr. Eaton sat up. It was dawn— the rapid, flaming tropic dawn. Sunlight flashed across the sky like a wave of white fire. There was no mistake. Real voices were calling from the surrounding wilderness, following the vast light-wave westward.

"Old maid! Old maid! Scat!" one voice shrieked.

With a gasp, Mr. Eaton sprang to his feet.

"Here, One-Eye!" he cried, his voice full of hope.

"Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! Always been an old maid!" voices screamed.

"Gracious!" exclaimed Mr. Eaton, looking about him in astonishment. "A thousand One-Eyes!"

"Hit 'em! Hit 'em!" said a voice in a tree-top.

The crew, awakened by what they took for a babel of "dago voices," rushed up on deck with belaying-pins and chunks of coal in their hands, to repel a attack. Looking about them, they saw all the trees on the banks alive with parrots of all kinds and sizes— large ones, small ones, green, yellow, crimson, and blue ones. Some walked on top of the branches; some hung from them; still others flew hither and thither.

Apparently all were talking.

"Gracious!" exclaimed Mr. Eaton. "I never saw the equal of this!"

"Blamed liar! Blamed liar!" shrieked a voice in the rigging of the yacht. Mr. Eaton, startled, looked eagerly aloft. There he saw a gray bird coming down a stay like a measuring-worm going backward. When the journey down was nearly ended, the bird took a firm hold of the rope with his claws, raised himself to his full height, and relieved his mind in a burst of profanity.

"One-Eye!" shouted Mr. Eaton, with hands outstretched to welcome his long-lost favorite. The parrot observed his former owner, and fixed him with a stare of his single yellow-and-black orb.

"Be it ever so humble," began the bird, breaking off to go further down the rope.

Mr. Eaton met his pet half-way. "Gracious!" he exclaimed. "It does not seem possible!"

"There's no place like Halifax!" the bird said, ignoring the interruption.

"You're a liar!" Mr. Eaton cried joyfully.

Then from the trees on all sides came cries of "Scat!" "Old maid!" "Heigh-ho!"

"Stand back. Let me look at you!" Mr. Eaton exclaimed, setting the bird on the back of a chair and retreating a few feet. Just then there came a cry from a nearby tree:

"Kee-e-e! Kee-e-e!"

Mr. Eaton, remembering how One-Eye had once before fled from the ship at that call, now stood paralyzed at the thought of losing him again. The bird, however, seemingly terror-stricken, did not move, but only looked wildly from side to side.

An instant later, as Mr. Eaton jumped to seize it, it leaped from its perch. At the same moment, the voice in the tree was heard again, still louder and more commanding: "Kee-e! Kee-e!"

Mr. Eaton gazed despairingly at One-Eye, expecting to see him fly off to the tree-tops again. But to its master's surprise and delight, the bird turned and fled from the sound, making for a fly-netted port, through which it crashed, and plumped down upon the floor of the former bird-pen.

When Mr. Eaton ran down the hatchway, he found his pet in a far corner, under a table, all a-tremble, and muttering: "Old maid! Old maid! What a mess! Scat!"

The whiskered sailmaker, who had witnessed the whole scene, poked the steward in the ribs, and pointed with a grin to the tree from which the call "Kee-e!" was proceeding.

On a bare limb of that tree sat a gray parrot. She was a large, imposing bird, and, as she whetted her bill on the dry wood, she called irately and repeatedly "Kee-e-e! Kee-e-e!"

There was wrath in that call, and a note of stern command, but One-Eye did not reappear. Once more the old sailmaker poked the steward in the ribs. Then he jerked his thumb again toward the bird in the tree-top.

"Eh, matey," he remarked, "One-Eye's tried freedom an' a wife, an' he thinks he'll take a sea v'yage fer his health. Knowin' bird, that One-Eye!"

____________

19: Mistress of the Undead

Lazar Levi

Mystery Novels and short stories, July 1940

A horror writer who published a small number of stories 1939-41. Nothing else is known.

"DEATH!"

Tim Blake whispered the single word as he gazed in horror at the cuckoo clock on the mantel shelf. Fear contorted his rugged brown face when he turned to John Turner.

"God, man, did you hear that?" he asked.

John Turner had heard nothing except striking of the clock, but he felt strangely queer. An eerie silence followed as vibrations of the cuckoo's mournful croaks died away slowly.

"What was it?" He managed to get words out of a dry throat.

"Hit struck seven," Tim replied, in nervous agitation, "and it's only six o'clock. Death's a[1]comin' to this here very house, and it's only a hour away."

He was trembling and beads of perspiration popped out on his weather-beaten face.

From the next room there came a pitiful moan, hollow and weird. John Turner thought it whining of the cold January wind— a wind that had caused him to stop and warm at Tim Blake's shack on the edge of the marsh before plodding on to the lodge, where he and three other duck hunters were quartered for a week's shoot.

"Hit's the ole woman!" Tim Blake barely whispered the words. They seemed to lodge, chokingly, in his throat.

"Is she ill?" Turner asked.

"Sick for nigh onto a month," Tim whispered. "An' she ain't got but a hour to live by the clock."

The old man's face twitched, revealing the inward agony tearing at his gaunt body. He wrung his hands pathetically.

"You don't believe that clock striking the wrong hour means anything, do you?" Turner asked the backwoodsman.

"Hit ain't never done it but onct afore in all the fifty years me and Nancy has been married," Tim Blake moaned. "Hit was the night the Little City airyplane crashed and kilt all them people right out thar in the swamp."

Warning of foreboding danger seemed to Turner to permeate the Blake shack now, as Tim paced the floor.

Turner stood up uneasily, ready to make his escape from the room, which had become strangely cold and bleak despite the red hot stove glowing in the semi-darkness.

"Yuh can do it!" Tim swung around and shouted at him. Turner stepped back as the old man took long strides in his direction. Blake caught the lapels of Turner's coat and shook him violently.

"Fetch a doctor from Lake Worth for Nancy," he shouted, excitedly. "If yuh hurry, yuh can git 'im back here 'fore the hour is up, and it won't be too late. Fer God's sake, hurry!"

John Turner wanted to refuse. It was a long way to Lake Worth by foot. He had no way to ride. He wore rubber boots and was not accustomed to walking. Most likely he couldn't get the doctor back in time.

"Yuh can't go back on me and Nancy," the old man pleaded, as Turner hesitated. Tears were streaming down Tim Blake's face. "Death'll be here in a hour. The clock's done said so. Hit done it a year ago, come this very night, and thet thar airy[1]plane crashed right on the hour, with nary a soul left alive to tell 'bout it."

"Sure, I'll go," Turner heard himself say, his own voice sounding queer to him. John Turner and Tim Blake had been good friends ever since Turner started coming to the marsh duck hunting, but there was no reason why he should go stumbling through the bitter cold to get a doctor for Nancy Blake when it was impossible to get the physician back within an hour. He had not wanted to make this promise, but the words slipped off his tongue against his will. Tim Blake shoved him toward the door and out into the open. It was dark, with low clouds hanging ominously overhead. The wind, cutting like sharp blades of ice, licked at Turner's hands and face as they reached the gate.

"Hurry, man," Tim pleaded. "Hit's ten miles 'round the marsh, but yuh can make it."

"I'll cut across the swamp and save time," Turner assured him as he started walking away.

TIM caught him by the arm and jerked him around. His voice was pleading and queer, as he begged.

"You can't make it that way, son. There ain't nary a man bin through thar since them airyplane passengers was kilt in the swamp."

"I'm not afraid," Turner laughed, scornfully, but his voice was shrill and uncontrollable.

"'Tain't that," Tim moaned. "Hit's the ghosts! They won't let a body past. Fer God's sake, go 'round so's yuh'll be sartin to git thar 'fore too late."

"All right," Turner answered, impatiently. He set out for the rutty road around the edge of the marsh. He lowered his head against the raging wind, and rammed his hands deep in his pockets to keep them warm. It was bitter cold.

At the edge of the marsh it was quieter, and it felt warmer to Turner. Suddenly his feet seemed drawn toward the swamp by some mysterious power. He tried to turn back into the narrow, open roadway, but his lower limbs refused to coordinate with his thoughts.

Once in the swamp, undergrowth seemed to part in front of him as he advanced. He looked down at the soggy ground. His feet made no tracks. Sawgrass was knee-high. None of it swashed against his legs like it usually did when he was working his way toward a blind to shoot ducks. Above him limbs of trees were so closely knitted they blotted out the sky with an inky blackness.

He soon lost all sense of direction, but his feet kept carrying him forward, splitting through the middle of the marsh toward Lake Worth, without any mental effort on his part.

All at once something struck him violently on the head. He felt himself pitch forward on the mushy ground, yet he seemed to be standing still. He drew out his watch and struck a match.

It was 6:30 o'clock. He had only a half-hour to get the doctor back to Nancy Blake— and she was dying at seven o'clock.

Frantically he tried to fling his body forward, but he was without power to move. There was a roar in the distance. He listened intently. The howling wind started again, singing a mournful dirge through the tall trees in rhythm with the approaching noise.

A glaring beam moved toward him, throwing a narrow shaft of light through the opaqueness above him. On each side of the staring yellow eye he saw green and red pilot lights.

The Little City plane! Sister ship to the one crashing here a year ago, he thought. He'd let it guide him. It would pass directly over Lake Worth. He wasn't lost now. He'd follow its tail light. He laughed at his sudden relief from fright— but a delirious sound came from his throat, and his own laughter was terrorizing to him.

He turned to watch the oncoming plane. Noise of the whirring motors grew louder and louder. The light was shimmering through the tree tops overhead. Then he wondered why the plane had a headlight. Blind flying was customary.

He stood waiting for the huge liner to pass over, so he could swing along behind it.

Level of the light dropped lower and lower on the bodies of the tall trees, as the plane came closer to him. Noise from the motors merged with the wind into one long, weird moan. Above it he heard the shrill shouting of excited voices— voices of frightened people.

Damn! The ship was dropping low. Too low to clear the swamp trees, unless the pilot nosed it up!

John Turner stood frozen in his tracks, straining like a wild animal at a leash. He couldn't move. He tried to wave a warning to the pilot. His arms hung limp by his sides. Frantically, he began shouting, but roar of the motors and screaming voices of the passengers drowned out his voice until he couldn't hear himself.

Wheels of the plane struck the treetops and shaved them off like straws. The airliner dropped lower. Tree limbs failed to retard its speed. Debris of plane and trees was falling all around Turner.

Lower and lower the ship dropped, battering itself against timber and shattering off wings. The pilot apparently made no effort to raise it. The craft headed toward Turner. All the passengers seemed crowded down front. They stared wild-eyed at him there in the path of the onrushing plane.

Between pilot and co-pilot sat a queer looking little man. They were laughing at John Turner as the wingless plane plummeted toward his head. They were aiming the damned thing at him!

He dropped to the ground and the liner shot over him, barely head high. It was a narrow escape!

THE giant liner hit tree trunks, and bounded from one to the other like a rubber ball.

Arms and legs from human bodies hurtled through the air. Headless bodies splashed in swamp waters, turning them blood red.

Scream after scream rent the air, loud and terrifying. Trees finally battered the plane to earth, and all was quiet again. Moans of the dying ceased.

Turner's head ached. He felt of his hair. Blood was matted there. It was cold. The injury had occurred too long ago to have been caused by the plane. Something had struck him before it came crashing through the trees.

Part of the plane wreckage burst into flames, casting an eerie glow over the marshland, and making dancing, fantastic figures out of tree shadows.

John Turner stood up. The plane had cut a clean path through the saplings and undergrowth. Parts of human bodies were scattered along in the narrow opening. Sawgrass was splotched with blood.

He found it possible to move now, but his feet sank ankle deep in the mire. Tree limbs slashed at his face and shrubs tugged at his legs and knees as he ran from one body to another to see if he could detect life in any of them.

They were battered, torn and bleeding. Flesh and brains were scattered over the ground and hanging from stiff blades of swamp grass. A woman, apparently the mother of a child, had her arms twined about its neck, a curly head on her breast. Rest of the body was gone. John Turner threw his arms across his face to blot out the gruesome picture.

When he opened his eyes again, the victims had regained normal shape, and they appeared to be resting in sleep on the ground. It was terribly quiet in the marsh now, except for crackling of the burning plane.

Turner hurried toward the ship. Perhaps there was someone in it he could save.

FIERCE heat stopped him. From the flames stepped a young woman. One arm had been severed at the shoulder. Blood had stained the white knitted frock. She glided toward Turner. He was afraid to move.

Her pale face was framed in a halo of blond hair, shimmering in the firelight. Turner would have thought her dead, were it not for the red lips. She saw him staring at her mouth, as she stood close, and answered the question in his eyes.

"Indelible lipstick," she smiled. "It's been there for a year. It never seems to come off."

"A— a year," he stammered.

"Yes, I put it on the night of the crash," she replied. "My perfume has lasted, too." She seemed pleased with the facts.

"What made the plane come down like that? Didn't the pilot see the trees?" he asked her.

"Yes," she sighed. "I'm sure he did it on purpose."

"On purpose!" he almost shouted.

"It all began late this afternoon," she said. "Something happened to one of the passengers. I think he must have gone insane suddenly."

She swayed slightly in the breeze, and Turner caught her in his arms. Gently he eased her to the ground beside a tree.

"The hostess humored him every way possible," she continued. "He decided he wanted to sit between the pilot and co-pilot. It amused him to ride there, just like a toy would delight a child.

"He had become pacified before we reached the last port, or they might have put him off. How lucky that would have been for all of us," she said, regretfully.

"When we took off again, he went back to his seat between the pilots, where he was perfectly calm.

"The ship had been in the air all day and the pilots were tired. I was tired. Motors of the plane were droning in perfect accord, singing a sort of lullaby. Then this insane man began to talk in a low, soothing voice. I could hear him. He would say, 'You are tired, very tired. Relax now and rest. Rest comfortably. Don't be afraid. I will tell you what to do. Trust me. Relax. Rest.' His voice trailed off into the distance, quiet and intoxicating. His words seemed to rest mind and body.

"Suddenly he said to the pilots, 'You are resting now. I am in command. Listen to me. Do as I say. You can't refuse— you can't refuse.'

"I knew then that he was a hypnotist. I tried to scream out, but I was speechless! I tried to move. My whole body was asleep.

"The plane began to fly in circles. I was afraid we wouldn't get to Little City on time. At last the little man said to the pilot, 'Fly straight west. We are all going west!' I was elated. I thought the fiendish design was complete.

" 'You are up too high!' the insane man shouted.' I felt the plane drop instantly several hundred feet, the pilot responding to his every whim. The insane man chuckled gleefully.

" 'Lower,' he shouted to the pilot. 'Lower, lower. Faster. Faster, man.'

"Passengers became panicky. They knew something was wrong. They all rushed to the front of the plane, and that made it drop more rapidly.

" 'Faster, faster, faster,' shouted the insane man, and the pilot sent the plane, like a shooting comet, head on into the trees. It might have been better, had we nosed straight on down, but the ship hit those huge trees, flying parallel to the ground.

"All the time the two pilots and the insane hypnotist were laughing fanatically, like they were hilariously drunk.

"I was the only one out of eighteen not instantly killed. I lived thirty minutes after the crash. No one knows that," she moaned. "I couldn't find anyone when I stumbled out of the wreckage. I've looked here in the marsh every night for a year, since the wreck happened. People seem afraid to come through here at night. You are the first one I've found. Please, please get me a doctor," she pleaded, and then fainted in his arms.

HORRIFIED, John Turner tried to revive her. Cupping his hand, he dipped up swamp water and dashed drops on the beautiful face, as pale as death.

Soon her eyes opened. They were a beautiful blue, deep as shadowy pools against the white of her face. She smiled wanly, seemingly refreshed, and pressed her soft body tightly against his. Her warm breath was on his face, as she looked at him and inquired, "What time is it?"

"Six-thirty-five," he told her, looking at his watch by light of the plane flames.

"Twenty-five more minutes," she said, pitifully, tears dampening her cheeks.

"For—for what?" he stammered.

"To live," she sobbed. "I die at seven o'clock, unless you get me a doctor here. I've tried every night to find someone to send. I've failed so often. I don't believe I can try again."

"I'll get him," Turner said, determinedly, "but won't it be better for you to come with me?"

She looked at her shoulder. "I'm too weak from loss of blood," she answered. "I'll be all right. Nothing ever bothers me here, with them. But please do hurry! I want to tell just how the accident happened. There have been so many guesses and rumors; none of them right." He looked at her, face drawn from pain, but still beautiful. She looked so pathetic. So alone. He bent and kissed the red lips.

"Thank you so much," she smiled, and clung tightly to him for a moment.

He lifted her in his arms, and gently placed her in a shallow, dry depression that ran back under the roots of a large tree. Her fingers grasped his arm as he started to rise. He bent and kissed her again. She closed her eyes, and smiled faintly, as he smoothed the hair back from her brow.

John Turner rose and plunged off frantically toward Lake Worth for the doctor. His feet sank deeply in the swamp grass. Low limbs switched him fiercely in the face. The cold numbed his arms and legs, but he stumbled on. He was thinking of the injured girl.

He had thought very little about girls. Few of them interested him. Strangely, this one did. He wanted her to live!

How did he know he was going in the right direction? It seemed that someone asked him that question. He stopped. The forest was quiet. He was alone there. Then he forgot from what direction he had come. Something was trying to confuse him. He had to hurry. The girl would die at seven o'clock. He started running, feeling confident that Lake Worth must be in front of him, although he did not actually know in what direction he was moving. A fallen log tripped him. He fell, sprawling in cold water. It was several seconds before he could get to his feet. Time must be flying. She'd die unless he hurried. He wanted her to live.

She was young, and beautiful. She deserved to live. Suddenly the swamp ended. Lights loomed up in the distance.

Lake Worth! He was almost exhausted, but he sped along with every ounce of energy left in his weary body. He found the doctor at home. It was impossible for him to talk coherently, but he thought he made the doctor understand.

His clothes were torn and caked with mud. His hands and face were bleeding from cuts and scratches. The doctor begged him to come in and rest, but he refused. He watched the doctor mount his horse and gallop off down the narrow wagon trail, then John Turner ran back toward the swamp, back toward the scene of the crash and the girl.

Turner had no idea where he was going, but his feet seemed to think for him. He plunged into the marsh and ran, stumbling blindly through water and undergrowth.

There was a dim light in front of him. The burning plane! He flung himself in that direction. Remains of the giant liner had been reduced to embers when he reached it. It was growing dark again. He couldn't see the bodies of those strewn on the ground any longer.

He called the girl. There was no answer. The doctor was not there. He could have ridden faster than that.

Turner tried to find the tree where he had left the injured girl. He was afraid she had crawled away and died.

HIS watch pointed to one minute after seven o'clock when he looked at it. She was dead now. There was a sudden glow at the foot of a tree. He ran toward it. There was the shallow crypt where he had laid her. It was empty. From beneath the roots there rose a wraithlike glow through the fog. He flung himself face downward on the ground and mourned her death, groaning in his agony.

A voice said, "That old piece of the plane's undercarriage must have fallen from the tree and struck him on the head. I saw it hanging up there yesterday and wondered why someone had not climbed up and gotten it."

Turner recognized the speaker as one of his hunting companions. "He must have been lying here for a half hour," another said. "Lucky how the phosphorous glow from the roots of that old dead tree led us right to him."

"What time is it?" he managed to ask.

"Ten minutes after seven," one of the party answered.

"She must have died, then," he sighed.

"At exactly seven o'clock." It was Tim Blake's voice, low but steady.

"I'm awfully sorry," Turner said.

"You did your part, son," the old man replied. "You fetched the doctor, all right. He jist got thar a minute too late."

A minute too late! She would have been saved, if he hadn't been a minute too late. And he had tried so hard for her. Frantically, he tried to remember whether he had sent the doctor to Nancy Blake, or the dying girl. His thoughts were confusing. Then a peaceful sensation fused through his body. He fainted and dropped back to the ground. A voice floated calmly toward him from the direction of the tree, a woman's voice.

"Thank you, so much," it said. "Better luck next time, for us both."

________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-84

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has been uploaded separately at MobileRead

Achmed Abdullah

Grafter and Master Grafter 84

The Fetish of Remorse 83

Framed at the Benefactors' Club 73

Interlude 84

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

A Case of Dual Consciousness 84

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

A Chance Meeting 84

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

A Solicitor's Story (as by "S.S.")  75

The Stamp Thief 71

The Thriller 71

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

Douglas M Dold

A Creeping Terror 84

Laurence Donovan

Death Makes a Man Mad 84

He Gave Him a Gun 84

Whispering Death 84

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

Charlton L. Edholm

Gorilla Girl 84

Red Evidence 84

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

$-Rays 84

Lazar Levi

Mistress of the Undead

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

Thieves Three 84

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

Rafael Sabatini

Intelligence 84

G. Morris Sand

Carnival Killer 84

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

Raymond S. Spears

The Cruise of the Cadis  84

Andrew Soutar

Bluebeard 63

D. H. Souter

Conroy 74

F. St. Mars

Another Pawn of Fate 84

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

Two Little Men 84

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

When Sky Crooks Fall Out 84

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: A Case of Dual Consciousness / W. L. Alden

- 2: Intelligence / Rafael Sabatini

- 3: A Chance Meeting / Anonymous

- 4: Grafter and Master Grafter / Achmed Abdullah

- 5: Interlude / Achmed Abdullah
- 6: Two Little Men / Roger Torrey
- 7: Whispering Death / Laurence Donovan
- 8: Another Pawn of Fate / F. St. Mars
- 9: $-Rays / Henry Leverage
- 10: Thieves Three / C S Montanye
- 11: He Gave Him a Gun / Laurence Donovan
- 12: Gorilla Girl / Charlton L. Edholm

- 13: Death Makes a Man Mad / Laurence Donovan

- 14: Carnival Killer / G. Morris Sand

- 15: When Sky Crooks Fall Out / Raoul Whitfield

- 16: Red Evidence / Charlton L. Edholm

- 17: A Creeping Terror / Douglas M Dold

- 18: The Cruise of the Cadis / Raymond S. Spears

- 19: Mistress of the Undead / Lazar Levi

- Cumulative Index  #61-84