Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: A mixed assortment: a dip into Arthurian legend by Quiller-Couch, a peep into the future (as seen during WW2) by Bedford-Jones, hard-boiled by Roger Torrey, irish sentiment from Waif Wander, plus Edgar Wallace, Edna St Vincent Millay, and some more from Edgar Wallace, our old friend Anonymous, et al. 1: At The Shrine of Sekhmet / Valentine Williams 2: In This Corner― Death / Emil C Tepperman 3: The Tiger Woman / William J. Makin 4: The Cross of Kilbawn / Waif Wander 5: The Murder in the "Fishing Cat" / Edna St Vincent Millay 6: The Disappearance of Lady Mary Bretley / Edgar Wallace 7: The Lege

PAST MASTERS 139

Produced and Edited by Terry Walker from short stories in magazines, newspapers and other sources, and all in the Life + 70 years public domain.

26  September 2023

Contents

1: At The Shrine of Sekhmet / Valentine Williams

2: In This Corner― Death / Emil C Tepperman

3: The Tiger Woman / William J. Makin

4: The Cross of Kilbawn / Waif Wander

5: The Murder in the "Fishing Cat" / Edna St Vincent Millay

6: The Disappearance of Lady Mary Bretley / Edgar Wallace

7: The Legend of Sir Dinar / A. T. Quiller-Couch

8: The Stuffed Cat / Anonymous

9: The Hunting of Chilton Sahib / Dolph Wyllarde

10: A Matter of Routine / H.  Bedford-Jones

11: An Extra Man / Jackson Gee

12: The Treasure Hunt / Radcliffe Martin

13: Murder's Never Easy / Roger Torrey

14: "Pegged" / Roy W. Hinds

15: A Case Without a Clew / Joseph Gollomb

16: The Missing Passenger's Trunk / Arthur J. Rees

_________________

1: At The Shrine of Sekhmet

Valentine Williams

1883-1946

The London Magazine, June 1924

In: The Knife Behind the Curtain, Herbert Jenkins, 1930

Roy Glashan's Library, 2023

Valentine Williams

"THE power of the gods of old Egypt?" said my friend Finucane, his dreamy blue eyes puckered up beneath his sun-helmet against the fierce glare of the Theban valley. "I wouldn't be sneezin' at it meself!"

Squatting back on my hunkers on the precipitate slope overlooking the terraced temple of Queen Hatshepsut, I laughed in his face.

"Man alive," I scoffed, "you aren't going to tell me that, with twenty years of Egyptian excavation behind you, you believe in the power of hawk-headed Horus and cow-headed Hathor and jackal-headed Anubis and all the mumbo-jumbo menagerie of ancient Egyptian pantheism?"

"Kindly gods," said he, "who derived their image from the familiar beasts of the thousands of years of the isolated civilization of the Nile valley. And why wouldn't these simple-minded children of the sun worship the cow that gave them milk or the beautiful little sparrow-hawk— there was one over us but a minute since, did ye see him?— because they knew and loved them, or the alligator or the lioness because they feared them. Ya, Abdul Hussein!" he roared, and suddenly struggled to his legs, six feet of burly, bronzed, and grizzled humanity in a khaki shirt and riding-breeches.

Below us on the hillside hung a dense whirling cloud of dust. In and out of it, to a chant intoned in the high quavering falsetto that is Arabic singing and taken up with a crashing choir of voices in unison, a never-ending chain of little white-clad figures passed. In the foreground, up to their waists in the broken limestone rubble, three brawny men, the sweat glistening on their swarthy faces, scrabbled furiously with short-handled hoes in the ground, one digging, the remaining two filling the little wicker baskets which the chain of natives dumped empty at their feet and whisked away as soon as they were filled.

A burly, mustachioed figure, barefoot like the rest, stood over against the diggers watching with hawklike eye the debris that rattled into the baskets. Now and then he would stoop and pick out a fragment of coloured plaster, a scrap of crumbling timber, or maybe a mummified hand or foot, and lay it on one side. In his hairy fist he grasped a piece of wood to which a leather flap was nailed, and from time to time he would bring this improvised scourge down with a resounding whack upon the fluttering garments of the basket boys. Then would the endless chain move faster and the dust-cloud whirl higher, its edges gilded by the burning Egyptian sun, and all the way down the slope the childish voices rang in accord.

"In the heat of the day I grieve"— the nasal tremolo of the cantor rose clear above the perpetual shuffle of naked feet upon the stones. "My sweetheart has left me!" the chain volleyed back, their voices echoing far and wide across the broad brown valley swimming in the haze at the foot of the beetling, round-topped cliffs. "With heavy heart I toil at the water-hoist," whined the soloist. "My sweetheart has left me!" the chain replied.

At Finucane's hail the man with the scourge swung round.

"Nam? (What is your pleasure?)," he cried.

"Make 'em dig in, not down," shouted Finucane in guttural Arabic, with an imperious gesture of the hand.

"Every five minutes, Lord, I do so command them," the headman replied, "but, behold, they dig as though their fathers were buried below!"

"Oh, children of the house-dog, whose mothers were shamed in the market-place..."

From my friend's lips poured a stream of invective, one of those objurgations in Arabic in which every word is a burning insult, coined and tested and put into circulation through centuries of blood-feuds and brawling, phrases that drive the blood to the temples and a man's hand to his cudgel or knife. Beneath their white flowing robes I saw the diggers' shoulders move uneasily as the torrent of abuse struck them, half-growled, half-barked with those coughing aspirates that in Arabic come from the chest. At last, with a flash of white teeth, they turned and grinned their slow admiration at Finucane, delight in his rich and rare vocabulary, pride in a master who could talk down any effendi from Luxor to Al Masr. "Etta! (Get on with it!") Finucane concluded, and dropped once more to the ground at my side.

"But you haven't answered my question," I said, leaning back lazily and surveying the kites that hung almost motionless in the azure sky high above the rugged valley. "What makes you believe in the power of Egypt's ancient gods?"

From a huge doeskin pouch Finucane began to stuff his blackened pipe.

"WHEN first I came out to Egypt," he began, "— 'twould be a matter of nineteen years ago now— to dig with Professor Vandeleur over at the tombs of the Nobles, there was a fellow I met at th' hotel at Luxor— his name is neither here nor there but, if ye like, I'll call him Donald Stewart. My old Professor caught the diphtheria journeyin' out through Italy the way I was left kickin' my heels down at Luxor for the best part of a month. I made friends with this same Stewart, d'ye see? and 'twas he gave me the story I'm tellin' ye now.

He was a chap no better than the rest of us, a big fellow and in good trim, with a bit of a way with the women, I should say, and burnt as brown as a berry with the sun. Stayin' in th' hotel— in those days there was no Winter Palace with terraces and lifts and the Lord knows what else, but we were all mighty happy in th' old Karnak Hotel— stayin' in th' hotel, I'm sayin', there was a little lady, the sweetest, prettiest little woman ever. If I tell you I've forgotten her name, it's God's own truth, but we'll call her Mary Barton an' no harm done.

She was married; but her husband was back home— a stockbroker he was, I think she told us, a wealthy man he would have been, for she dressed exquisitely, and of an evenin' she'd be wearin' the matter of four thousand pounds' worth of pearls round her white neck. She was not what ye'd call a woman of fashion, ye understand me? for ye'd never hardly notice what she'd got on. But everything she wore suited her, an' sweet as a bride she always looked.

Nineteen years is a good slice out of a man's life, my friend, but now as I sit here I can see Mary Barton as clearly as I see you. She was one of the quiet sort, not flirtatious, very content to be alone, happy with the sunshine and the flowers and all the life of the Nile spread out in front of the pergola where she liked to sit under the orange trees in th' hotel garden. She had beautiful soft thick brown hair which she wore braided very simply close to her head— the women hadn't yet thought of clippin' their hair to their scalps to look like boys— and there was a kind of gentle restfulness in her eyes that would always put me in mind of the sun risin' over Killarney. She would sit with me sometimes of an afternoon and tell me of her life back home. She'd had pneumonia, it seemed, and, her lungs bein' left weak, the doctors had sent her away to spend the winter out of England.

Everybody in th' hotel liked her; but Donald Stewart most of all. She had got a whole collection of books on Egyptology, and every day Stewart— he was a student of Egyptology, did I tell ye? the same as meself— would take her across the river in th' hotel felucca and away they'd hack on donkeys to the Ramesseum or Medinet Habu or the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings. He was a knowledgeable chap was Stewart, and what woman wouldn't rather have as a guide a fine upstandin' young fellow who knows his subject than one of your damned dragomans with half a dozen words of broken English and a permanent itch in the palm?

'Twas old Lazenby, him that published the Papyrus of the High Priest Senubbeb— ye don't know him? well, he was out copyin' inscriptions in the rock-tombs of Qurna at the time— 'twas old Jack Lazenby, I say, that first drew my attention to what was goin' on. We were sittin' out in th' hotel garden at sundown one evenin', Mrs. Barton and Jack and I, talkin' about the very subject that brought down this yarn of mine upon you— the power of the old gods of Egypt.

'They must have been a very religious people, the ancient Egyptians,' says little Mrs. Barton, 'with these magnificent temples to Amon-Ra and Hathor and all the rest of their gods.'

'Religious be damned!' old Jack tells her. 'They were the lads for satisfyin' the outward form all right. But the gods they feared were not the big official fellows but the evil ones like Sekhmet, the lioness-headed goddess of war and violence, or the tortoise god, or one of those deities of the underworld. You may believe it or not, but to this very day the women of the fellahin take their troubles to the goddess Sekhmet. Back there at Karnak, in the recesses of the temple of Ptah, who, ye may know, was husband to this same Sekhmet, there's a little small shrine with a grim grey image of the goddess in granite, a black an' ghostly place with ne'er a ray of light save only when the moon is full and its rays fall through one of the four narrow funnels cut in the roof. To this same shrine the peasant women of Egypt still come in pilgrimage to pray the goddess to give them a son or to ask for a love-spell to win back their husband's heart. Faith,' says Jack, 'there's something eerie about the place. I went there one night with a woman friend o' mine when I was a good piece younger than I am to-day, and what with the moonlight and the face of that cruel image peerin' at us out of the dark, bedam! the girl got quite hysterical!'

That set little Mrs. Barton off at once. Ye know the way women are, always plumb crazy for a fresh sensation.

'Oh, but how thrilling!' she says. An' she would have nothin' but that old Jack should take her out to Karnak to the shrine of Sekhmet. 'In two days 'tis the full moon,' says she. ''Twill be so romantic! Promise you'll take me, Mr. Lazenby!'

'I'll do nothin' of the kind,' growled old Jack. 'For all I know you'd pray the goddess to put a charm on me and I'd be fallin' in love with you the same as iv'ry other man in th' hotel!'

While he was speakin' I was watchin' Mary Barton, and suddenly her face changed. It was as though her features were flooded with light. Her lips parted, her eyes brightened and the very breath in her body seemed to quicken. I looked up and saw Stewart standin' behind my chair.

'Mrs. Barton,' says he, I've found what I think is a genuine scarab of Queen Hatshepsut. Old Mohasseb is keepin' it for you. Will you come along to the shop an' see it?'

The light was fallin' fast, but in the after-glow of the settin' sun I saw the look she gave him and so did Jack. They went away together, her with her white frock flashin' in and out the palms, and before they were fairly out of our sight she had her arm in his.

'That's Egypt!'— and old Jack, who'd known the country for the best part of thirty years, gave his white poll a shake. 'There's witchery in the air. That nice woman's in love. He's a friend of yours, Finucane. Best tell him to go easy!'

As things turned out I had no need to tell him, for that night, as we walked out along the river-bank in front of the Luxor temple, Stewart gave me his confidence. I had just said I would turn in, for midnight was long past, and I asked Stewart was he comin' along?

'And what use is my bed to me?' he bursts out as though the words were chokin' him, 'when I hardly close my eyes all night. Finucane,' he says, 'I've not known you long but I like you and I've got to give somebody my confidence. Tell me, what is a man to do that falls in love with a married woman?'

Bedad, if he'd asked me that twenty years later I could have told him. But I was young then and raw.

'I should think it depended on the woman,' I answered.

'She's happily married,' says he. 'For ever she's tellin' me about her husband and her babies. She likes me as a friend, she's said so, but my God! what good is that to me? Night and day,' says he, 'I get no rest for the love that is in me for her. Her face haunts me; but it's her sweetness won't let me be. There's about her a fragrance that fills me with delight like the freshness of the forest after the rain,' says he. 'And to think that every day, every minute that we stand here and talk, is bringin' us nearer to the day that we must part, to the day that she must go back to the arms of her husband, while I...'

He broke off short and stared out across the river and the hills beyond all black under the stars.

'Have you told her any of this?' I asked, thinkin' of that look I had seen her give him.

He shook his head.

'I have not!'

'Then cut and run!' says I.

'I think I will,' says he; and with that we went back to th' hotel.

But you know how 'tis with good advice, my friend, and two evenin's later I was not in the least surprised to see Stewart and the little lady pass me in a carriage goin' down the Karnak road."

A GUST of hot wind came swooping across the valley, driving before it a tall pillar of dust. The hanging cloud enveloping the diggers swelled and grew denser; but out of the greyness the voices still resounded.

"Heartsick and weary am I at the plough.

My sweetheart has left me!"

"And then?" I asked, for Finucane had grown silent, staring out of his blue eyes at the narrow blue riband of river winding its way through the verdant belt at our feet.

"Ya, Rais! (Oh, foreman!)" he bellowed suddenly, angrily.

"Nam?" came back full-throatedly out of the fog.

"Keep 'em up in this direction, do you understand?"

"Hadr! (It is well!)" the answer floated back.!

My friend turned to me again.

"STEWART meant to follow my advice," he resumed. "He told me so. But look what tricks that old devil Fate plays us poor mortals! The next day Mrs. Barton came to him and begged him to take her out to Karnak by moonlight to visit the shrine of Sekhmet. He told her he couldn't, that he had to go to Cairo; but she said he must postpone his departure for twenty-four hours, for she'd rather visit Karnak by moonlight with him than with anybody else.

Stewart stood firm and for a whole day they didn't meet. But he didn't go away. And then the next evenin' she came to him in the garden before dinner as he was smokin' his pipe alone under the stars and asked him what had she done that he was avoidin' her. And Stewart forgot everything but that he wanted to make her happy, and he caught her hands and told her that, if she wanted, he would take her to Karnak that very night. And she left her hands just long enough in his to show him that he was forgiven, and with that he was away to the maître d'hôtel orderin' a cold supper and a bottle of bubbley in an ice-pail to be put into a carriage at once.

Off they went with the risin' of the moon to sup together atop of the Great Pylon with the moon castin' great black shadows athwart the columns of the Hippostyle Hall below and in the distance the jackals howlin' on the banks of the Sacred Lake. She was tender and kind to him that night. She never talked about her husband or her babies, but made him tell her about himself and the women he had loved; and they discussed life and love and where real happiness lies and— and all the damned nonsense that a couple of young fools whose world is not thirty years old find to tell one another under a great yellow lamp of a moon hangin' in a night as soft and warm as a June day at home.

They had a snug little supper together there on the Pylon, Stewart said, chattin' away like old friends; for he had made up his mind, d'ye see? to hide his heart from her. When their meal was done he took her arm to lead her down the broken stair, for it was dark in the shadow of the great gate. The moon was so bright and the columns loomed so huge that they felt quite awed, and made their way in silence through the pillared hall with the sky like a spangled canopy above their heads.

Maybe that was why she left her arm in his as they walked slowly through the Temple of Amon, and him with the blood poundin' at his temples and his heart burstin' with his love for her. He could not speak and he dared not look at her; for the warmness of her arm in her thin muslin dress against his sleeve sent the nerves tinglin' up and down the body of him, and for nothin' at all he'd have taken her in his arms and crushed her to his heart.

And so they came to the shrine of Sekhmet. Ye know it perhaps? across a little court it lies next to the sanctuary of Ptah. One of the temple watchmen with a lantern appeared as they came up, but Stewart gave him a five-piastre piece and ordered him to stay back. The fellow was swallowed up in the black shadows cast by the columns, and alone the pair of them entered the shrine.

Jack Lazenby was right; 'tis an awful eerie place, a small little room as black as be damned, very plain, with walls of stone blocks and a high roof. There against the end wall, facin' you as you come in, is the statue of the goddess. Four funnels there are, set in a square in the roof, as it might be so many traps to catch the moonbeams, and on this night, bedad, a single shaft of brilliant white light fell full on the face of the goddess. There she was standin' with her lioness's head crowned with the sun-disc and the royal cobra rearin' its head between the pointed ears, with her small relentless eyes and blunt broad nose and whiskered mouth fleshin' her cruel teeth. Taller than Stewart she stood, and he six foot three in his socks, with the ends of her royal head-dress restin' on the points of her small tight breasts, long-limbed beneath her close-fittin' tunic, the left foot advanced, her left hand graspin' the lotus-headed sceptre, her right the key of life. She was all grey with the greyness of granite, grey and— and threatenin' with the moon-rays wakin' the wicked stony eyes of her into life.

As she caught sight of the image across the room Mary Barton gasped once. Then she dropped Donald Stewart's arm and walked up to the image and laid her hand on the cold grey hand that held the sceptre. She bent forward until the shaft of light that poured through the openin' in the roof fell upon her face.

Stewart, who stood just behind her, saw her eyes glitter in the moon-ray. She shivered a little and drew back, then turnin', she looked at Stewart and their eyes met.

'I'm...I'm frightened...' she began, and stretched out her hand. Roughly he grasped it, and the next moment she was in his arms.

'Mary, my love,' he cried, and 'Donald, my dear, my dear,' she gave him back, and there in the shadow, just clear of the moonbeam that bathed the face of the goddess with its radiance, they kissed.

But as she lay in his arms suddenly she felt his grasp go limp. Brusquely he whipped one hand away, and as in hurt surprise she gazed up into his face she saw pain and— and terror deepen in his eyes. He was starin' fixedly at the face of the goddess behind her, pointin' with the hand that he had torn away. She swung round in time to see a long black form writhin' back into the shadows behind the image.

'Donald,' she cried, 'my dear, what is that?'

'A cobra,' he said, and extended his left hand. There on the edge of the palm just below the little finger two ruby drops of blood stood out. 'One would say,' he added drowsily, 'that Sekhmet had sent him along to save you, Mary.' With that he would have collapsed but she ran him out into the air, screamin', screamin', while th' inscrutable eyes of Sekhmet gazed after them across the darkness of the shrine."

FINUCANE stopped. His pipe had gone out, so he tapped it against a stone and thrust it into the pocket of his dusty jacket.

"I've heard that there were snakes in the temple," I remarked, "but I never knew of one attacking a man before. And Stewart, did he die?" for I knew something of the swift and deadly effect of cobra-bite.

"He did not," my friend replied. "Suppin' in the ruins not far away was a party of Americans with a bottle of whisky. They made Stewart drink the three-quarters of it, then rushed him back to th' hotel, where the doctor operated at once. 'Twas a closeish call; but he was a healthy young fellow and he got over it."

"And the woman?"

Finucane pursed up his lips.

"Bedad, she did what I advised Stewart to do— she up and ran for it. As soon as Stewart was out of danger, and that was the next day— ye know, it's quick kill or cure in these cases— she left th' hotel without seein' him and, as far as I know, he never set eyes on her again."

He sighed and shook his head.

"Poor devil!" he remarked musingly, in his gentle Irish sing-song. "He took it damned hard!"

He fell into a reminiscent silence. From the slope below the chant of the diggers rose to our ears.

"My heart, it is dead within me: never more shall I gaze into the burning eyes of my beloved!"— high-pitched and nasal, dwelling vibratingly on each note, the canticle of the coryphaeus floated up to us on the hillside.

"My sweetheart has left me!" the scurrying chain sent its eternal answer back.

"Come on to lunch!" said Finucane abruptly. "They'll be knockin' off directly."

Wearily he passed his hand across his eyes.

"Damn it!" he cried irascibly, "how this dust makes the eyes smart!" He put down his big brown hand beside me to raise himself up. On the edge of the palm, just below the little finger, I saw two violet punctures with a long white cicatrice running between.

____________________

2: In This Corner― Death

Emil C Tepperman

1899-1951

Ten Detective Aces April 1943

DRIVING down Central Park West on Monday morning, Tom Atherton suddenly realized why he had been feeling restless and discontented for the last few weeks. By rights, he should have been supremely satisfied with himself. He was a young and successful real estate lawyer. His income, after three years of practice, was now large enough so that he and Sally Blaine had been able to set their wedding date for the early part of May. He was a respected member of the Bar, and they were even talking of running him for the Assembly in the 1943 elections. But Tom Atherton wasn't happy. As he automatically tooled the coupe down Central Park West, his big hands tightened on the wheel, and he found his thoughts dipping fondly back to the years preceding his admission to the Bar. In those days he had worked his way through Law School by boxing every Friday night in semi-pro bouts all around New York. Tom's manager, old Jerry Flynn, had almost cried when Tom quit boxing to take his bar exams.

"Tommy, my boy, it's breaking my old heart you are. You're throwin' away the makings of the heavyweight champion of the world. And for what? For a dusty law office! Stick with me, Tommy, and I'll make you champ in three years!" But Tom Atherton, with high resolve, had put all that behind him, and become a respected attorney. Now he pushed his foot down savagely on the gas and sent the coupe spurting through traffic, wishing he'd taken Jerry Flynn's advice. He was bored— fed up with humdrum existence.

And abruptly— as if the gods had favored his wish— Tom Atherton's humdrum existence came to an end.

There was a pigeon-blue sedan ahead of him proceeding very slowly and straddling the white line in the middle of the street so that it was impossible to pass. Tom scowled with impatience, and put a finger on the horn button to honk it out of the way. But just as he was about to press the button, he noticed something very queer about that pigeon-blue sedan.

There were four men in it, two in front and two in back. All of them, including the driver, were visible to Tom through their rear window. He could see that they were peering very tensely to the right, in the direction of a large and expensive apartment house. A stocky man in a dark suit and a panama hat was coming out of that house, lighting a cigar.

The thing that made Tom Atherton catch his breath was the fact that one of the men in the rear seat had the window open, and was pushing a queer-looking instrument out. Tom had never seen a real sub-machine gun, except in the movies. But he recognized this. It was pointing directly at the stocky man in the panama hat.

The machine gunner in the pigeon-blue sedan was twisting around sideways and sighting along the gun, with his finger on the trip.

Trained to quick instinctive responses to danger by his ring experience, Tom was already reacting without thought of his personal safety. He stepped down hard on the gas, sending his coupe forward like a shot. He swung to the right, bringing him alongside the pigeon-blue sedan. Then he twisted the wheel violently to the left.

The left end of his bumper tore into the running-board of the sedan at the very moment when the gunner let loose the first burst from the sub-machine gun, filling the air with its rapid, staccato drumbeat of murder.

But Tom's swift maneuver achieved its purpose. The crash of his coupe jotted the sedan hard, The muzzle of the machine gun was thrown violently upward, so that the hail of lead spattered into the air instead of cutting the stocky man in two as had been intended.

Tom didn't see what the stocky man was doing, for his own hands were suddenly full. The four in the pigeon-blue sedan turned their attention to him. The gunner swung the muzzle of the weapon around to bear on Tom, and his finger pulled the trip again.

Tom Atherton's blood was racing with jubilant excitement. His bumper was locked with the sedan's running board, so that his window was in line with the rear window of the sedan through which the gun muzzle was pointing. He twisted his door handle and flung the door open violently at the same instant that the gunner pulled the trip of the machine gun.

Lead blasted from the muzzle, but it was sharply deflected by the opening door. Instead of riddling Tom, the scorching lead spattered into the framework of the coupe.

At the same time, Tom Atherton leaped out from behind the wheel and put his whole body behind a straight-arm jab into the gunner's face. He hit the man in the mouth and the fellow's head slammed backward. He let go of the machine gun, and it toppled out the window to the running— board at Tom's feet.

The gunmen yelled and scrambled out of the car on the opposite side. Tom jumped out from between the two cars, coming around after them.

Then a police radio car siren uttered a shrill scream and came tearing into Central Park West from a side street two blocks south.

The gunman swung around in sudden alarm. One of them yelled something in a foreign language.

The four of them turned and ran across the street to the park. They vaulted the stone wall and disappeared into the shrubbery on the other side.

The police car pulled up with screaming tires, and two bluecoats emerged with drawn guns. There were several spectators around, and they pointed in the direction taken by the fugitives. The cops went over the wall after them and the crowd thronged to the fence to watch the chase.

For the moment, Tom Atherton was forgotten. Not a soul was looking at him. In the distance, there were other radio car sirens, but all traffic on Central Park West was halted and everybody was absorbed in the chase that was going on in the park.

Tom threw a quick glance over toward the apartment house, but the stocky man in the panama hat was gone. Tom frowned. He knew who that stocky man was. He had seen the man's pictures in the papers many times. Gustave Bennetz had been tried for sedition more than a year ago, and had been acquitted by a fluke, together with five or six other defendants.

His picture had cropped up in the papers only this week again, in connection with the current trial of one of his friends in the state court, on a charge of having stolen weapons from a State Guard Armory.

Ruefully, Tom Atherton realized that he had risked his life to save a most unsavory character. There had been ugly rumors of vicious murders and reprisals being carried out by secret branches of foreign organizations. And the papers had printed a long statement by Gustave Bennetz, to the effect that a certain secret society, was really responsible for the crime for which his friend was being tried.

Tom told himself that he certainly shouldn't have stepped into this feud. He didn't want any publicity like this, because he knew how it would affect the few clients he now had. He threw a quick look around and saw that he was unobserved.

He dropped the machine gun and slid into his coupe. He stepped on the starter and backed up, ripping it out of the fender lock with the pigeon-blue sedan. Then he threw the car in first and shot forward. In a moment he rounded the corner.

He sped west for two blocks, then turned north on Amsterdam Avenue. He breathed a sigh of relief to think that he was well out of the mess. He turned on his dashboard radio, tuned it in on police signals, thinking that he would enjoy listening to the reports on the fray. He drove for ten minutes, and then his equanimity was rudely shattered as a police announcer's voice blasted from the radio:

"Signal thirty-three! Black coupe, license number 8V 282! Attention, all cars! Cars 21, 22 and 26 converge on Amsterdam between 72nd and 86th. Apprehend driver of this coupe, believed to be dangerous killer. This man just escaped after gunfight on Central Park West. Use caution. He may be armed and dangerous. Coupe has bullet marks from machine gun..."

Tom Atherton felt a queer sensation up and down his spine.

That alarm was for him. He— Tom Atherton— was being called a dangerous killer. And the machine-gun bullets. He had forgotten them. Any policeman he passed would notice them.

He pulled over to the curb to give himself a chance to think. He had been a fool to run away. Better to have adverse publicity than to be hunted as a killer. The thing to do was to go back and explain.

He reached the decision and immediately started to carry it out. He shifted to first and prepared to turn around and drive back. He started to pull away from the curb. There was a long low hiss of escaping air. The car settled down on the left side, With a frown, Tom got out and went around in front. Sure enough, the left front tire was flat. The crushed fender had cut into it as he drove.

There was no sense in stopping to change the tire now. There was a drug store diagonally across the street. Tom started across, deciding to phone headquarters at once to tell them the truth about the fracas on Central Park West.

But just as he got started across the street, a cruising police car came racing around the far corner. Abruptly it swerved into the curb as the policeman alongside the driver pointed toward Tom's coupe.

The police ear screeched to a stop. A cop leaped out with a service revolver in his hand. He ran up to the coupe and looked inside, then turned disgustedly and called to his partner:

"It's the car, all right, Mac. But the guy's gone. Ditched it!"

Tom's first instinct was to go over and tell the policemen who he was. In fact, he had already started toward them, when Mac shouted from the police car, "We better get that guy before those Greeks get him. If they lay their hands on him, there won't be enough left of him to question!"

Tom Atherton's jaw hardened. So he wouldn't be through even after he explained to the cops! The rumors had been founded upon truth then! If there was some sort of secret Greek society bent on exterminating suspected pro-Nazis, they'd surely believe he was in league with Bennetz. Tom Atherton would never have peace!

Automatically he kept going across the street and entered the drug store. An idea was beginning to shape itself in his mind. He went into the phone booth and dialed Spring 7-3100.

"Police Headquarters?" he said when he got his connection. "This is Thomas Atherton, an attorney. I want to report my car was stolen this morning!"

"You'll have to go to your precinct station and report it in person," he was told.

"All right," Tom said, "I just wanted you to make a record of it."

He hung up, feeling clever. He had known that they would tell him to go to the precinct house. He wouldn't go there till the evening, but meantime the supposed theft was on the record. Now they'd keep on looking for an unidentified gunman whom they would never find.

Very much satisfied with himself, Tom went out of the store and almost collided with the bluecoat, who was hurrying in to report finding the coupe.

Tom walked across to Broadway and took the subway down to his office on Worth Street. His mind, as the train rumbled on, was upon the fight in Central Park West. It was several minutes before he realized that he was being observed.

Two men were sitting at the end of the car, watching him. He had not seen them when he entered the car, so they must have come in behind him. They were big fellows with swarthy complexions. One of them wore a black derby, while the other had a gray slouch hat. The one with the derby had a nick in his right ear, as if a bullet or a knife had taken a piece off it. The one in the slouch hat was chewing a toothpick.

They both had their hands in the pockets of their topcoats. When they saw that Tom Atherton had noticed them, they both got up, crossed the aisle and sat down on either side of Tom. There were four or five other passengers in the car, but no one seemed to pay any attention to them.

They both pressed up close against Tom. He could feel the pressure of the guns in their pockets.

"Good morning, my very good friend," said the one in the derby. "Packy wants to see you."

Tom frowned. "Who's Packy?" he asked.

The one in the derby started to laugh very heartily. He leaned across Tom and shouted to his partner above the rumble of the subway train. "He wants to know who's Packy! What you think of that, Achilles?"

The one who had been addressed as Achilles did not laugh. He gave Tom a sour look and said to the other, "I theenk we geete heem those works right here, hah, Julius? W'at's the use breenging heem to Packy? We geeve heem one-two shoots right now. Weeth the loud noise een thees subway, no one hears. Wat you say, Julius, hah?"

Julius shook his head. "Packy wouldn't like it. It would be better to let Packy question him. Then we might find out more about Bennetz."

"Oh," said Achilles. "I have not theenk of thees. You are vairy smart, Julius."

"Listen, you two," Tom said desperately. "What the devil are you talking about?"

Julius gave him a nasty grin. "We saw you, my very good friend. Only for you, our men would have finished off Bennetz. You must be in the pay of those Nazi dogs. For a whole week we have planned the death of that rat. And then you stepped in and ruined it all. You must come with us till we find out more about you."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" Tom exclaimed.

Julius frowned. "Did you hear that, Achilles? He won't come!"

"Bah!" said Achilles,

"You see, my very good friend," Julius said in a reasonable manner, "Achilles and his family were in Athens when it was bombed. They all died there. He escaped. He would rather kill Nazis than eat or drink. He already get fifteen of them in the old country. You've read in the paper about these pro-Nazis escaping trial recently. We intend to bring justice to them anyway."

A light broke on Tom. "You mean to say that you fellows have been planning all that?"

Julius shrugged. "I leave it to your imagination. Achilles wants to finish you off right here. So maybe you'll change your mind about coming along?"

The guns of the two men nudged into Tom's ribs.

The train rumbled into the station. They got to their feet.

"Well?" said Julius.

Tom looked up at Achilles, and saw that the big fellow was just itching to pull the trigger of the gun in his pocket. He shrugged. "All right," he said. He got up, and they ranged themselves on either side of him. The train came to a stop and the three of them marched out on to the platform.

Just outside the door, Tom came to a stop. "Wait a minute," he said.

The two killers stopped, keeping close on either side of him. The door of the train started to slide shut.

Tom took a quick step back. His left fist flicked upward, and caught Achilles just behind the right ear in a beautiful rabbit punch.

Julius cursed, yanked the gun out of his pocket.

Tom Atherton shoved Achilles into Julius, then leaped backward through the quickly narrowing aperture of the sliding door. He got into the vestibule of the car. The door slid all the way shut behind him.

Julius jumped clear of the falling Achilles. He raised his gun and fired three times quickly through the glass at Tom.

Tom dropped to the floor and the shots crashed over his head to the accompaniment of smashing glass. But it all blended with the roar of the train. Several passengers from inside the car looked over toward the vestibule. Two or three of them came out to help Tom to his feet. They saw the broken glass, but did not know it had been caused by gun-fire.

"You want to sue the subway, mister," one of them said. "I'll give you my name in case you want me for a witness!"

"No, thanks," Tom said. "I guess I'm all right."

He breathed a sigh of relief as the train pulled out of the station. That had been Fourteenth Street, and the next stop was Chambers Street, where he got out. As he ascended the stairs into the street, he glanced around quickly to see if the two gunmen had gotten there by taxi to intercept him, but there was no sign of them.

Tom hurried toward City Hall Square to his office on the twelfth floor of the Bridge Building.

Sally Blaine was already at her desk when he came in. Sally was five-feet-two of trim loveliness, with richly tinted auburn hair and merry blue eyes. She had just gotten her own degree of Bachelor of Laws, and was clerking in Tom's office for her year of apprenticeship before being admitted to the Bar.

Tom leaned over the typewriter and kissed her. She made a wry face, wrinkling up her nose.

"Not in business hours, Tommy," she said.

He grinned down at her. "When we're married, I'll kiss you before breakfast every day. Now I have to be satisfied with kissing you before lunch!"

The telephone rang and she answered it. A look of puzzlement came into Sally's pretty face.

"It's for you, Tom. It's the Police Department. They say they found your stolen car. I didn't know it had been stolen—"

"It just happened, Sally!" Tom said hastily, snatching the phone from her.

"This is Sergeant Griffin talking," the officer at the other end said to him. "We just picked up your car. It was used in a shooting. Want to come down and look at it?"

"I can't get down right away," Tom said. "I— I have to take care of a case in court this morning. I'll be over in the afternoon."

When he hung up, Sally Blaine frowned at him. "Tom Atherton, what's this all about? When was your car stolen? And why did you lie to that policeman on the phone? You know perfectly well that you have no case in court this morning—"

"Yes, he has, lady!" a heavy voice said from the doorway.

Sally's glance sprang to the door and she uttered a little gasp. Tom swiveled around.

The man who had just come in was the man in the panama hat whose life Tom had saved— Gustave Bennetz.

ii

BENNETZ was not alone. Four men filed into the office behind him— silent, tense men, heavy and sour of expression. Their eyes never left Tom Atherton. The last one in kicked the door shut and locked it.

Tom's face flushed a dull, brick red. "What do you want?" he demanded harshly.

For a moment, Bennetz did not answer. Then he nodded.

"Yes, Joseph," he said to one of the men behind him. "This is the one who saved me. It is good that you got his license number."

Tom took a quick step forward. "What are you doing here—"

Bennetz raised a mollifying hand. There was a faint hint of a twisted smile on his heavy face. "I have only come to thank you, Mr. Atherton, for saving my life. These are my friends—" he indicated the one he had addressed as Joseph— "Joseph Cleve"— then, nodding toward a second— "and Nikolas Tresca—"

"I'm not interested in you or your friends," Tom said firmly. "I've read all about you in the papers—"

"But, my dear Mr. Atherton! You must remember that I was acquitted—"

"Only because the witnesses had relatives in Europe!" Tom broke in. "And now, please go."

Bennetz frowned heavily. "You are not very judicious. I have come to repay you in some small way, for saving my life. Suppose we go into your private office. I would like to discuss some business with you. Surely you will not refuse me a few minutes of your time?"

Tom glanced sideways at Sally. She was white-faced and tense, puzzled by the whole thing. "What do you want to talk about?" he asked.

Bennetz spread his hands. "It is not something we should discuss in the presence of your secretary."

"You may talk in her presence. She's my fiancée."

The moment he said it, he regretted it. He saw a swift and cunning look come into Bennetz's eyes.

"Ah!" said Bennetz. "Your fiancée!" He jerked his head at his men. "Cleve! Tresca! You know what to do!"

The two men moved forward swiftly, their guns coming into their hands. At the same time, the other two men stepped around the desk and seized Sally by either arm.

Tom felt the hot blood rush to his head. He went straight in at Cleve and Tresca, disregarding their guns. His left fist smashed through past Tresca's gun hand and landed with a wicked thud squarely in the gunman's face. That left of Tom's was what had put him in the top running for the heavyweight championship. He used it now as he had never used it in the ring.

Tresca went backward, almost in a somersault. Tom sidestepped Cleve's swishing gun barrel, which was coming down toward his head. He caught the blow on his shoulder, smashed out again with his left. He felt his fist land, but at the same time something came down on the back of his head like a trip hammer.

He fell forward, hanging on to Cleve, clinching as he had often done in the ring to conserve his strength. He wasn't out by a long shot, but at the moment he couldn't coordinate his muscles effectively.

He heard Gus Bennetz say, "All right, don't hit him again. Take the girl away— down the service elevator!"

Tom made a supreme effort to pull himself together. The back of his head felt as if it had been ripped open, but he managed to sway away from Cleve.

His blurred eyes made out the shapes of the remaining two thugs, one with a hand over Sally's mouth, the other twisting her arms behind her. They were going out through the door.

Tom uttered a hoarse yell, lurched after them. Someone tripped him, and he fell flat on his face.

He pushed up on hands and knees, just as the door slammed shut. He thrust forward toward the door and found Bennetz standing in front of him with a small blackjack in his hand.

"Please do not make me hit you again," Bennetz said. "I would not like to do it to a man who has saved my life."

"Damn you!" Tom growled. "Get out of my way!"

He came in weaving, and Bennetz, with a regretful look, raised the blackjack to strike once more. Tom wove around to the right, blocking with his left, and took the weight of the blow on his left forearm. He started to bring up his right, but something hit him hard just over the muscles of his right biceps, numbing his arm. It was Cleve, who had smashed down with the butt of his reversed gun.

Bennetz clucked sympathetically, "Believe me," he said. "I regret to do this!" He stepped in and hit Tom two short sharp blows on the side of the head with the blackjack.

Tom's knees started to buckle, but he gritted his teeth and remained on his feet, all but out.

Cleve grunted. "Sit down!" He put a hand on his chest and shoved him backward into a chair.

Bennetz came and stood in front of him, hefting the blackjack. "You are very foolish to act this way, Atherton. Your fiancée will not be hurt— if you will listen to reason."

Tom closed his eyes. The pain was dancing around in the top of his skull.

"Where did those rats take Sally?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Sally will be all right. Now listen to me. I am only trying to make you a proposition. But you make it very difficult. If you hadn't saved my life, I would have lost patience with you by this time."

"Forget that I saved your life!" Tom groaned. "Just bring Sally back, and get to hell out of here!"

"No, no, Mr. Atherton. If you are foolish, I must set you straight. I am doing this for your own good. Here—" he took a bulging wallet from an inside pocket and removed ten bills from it, all hundreds—"this is your retainer. You are a lawyer. You have done me a great favor. Therefore, I shall give you a case."

"What case?" Tom asked, trying to drive the fog out of his brain,

"The case is all ready and waiting for you. It comes up in General Sessions this morning. The people of the State of New York against Nathaniel Cleve. He is the brother of my friend here, Joseph Cleve." He leaned over Tom, and shoved the money in his breast pocket. "When you win the case, you get another thousand— and your girl comes back!"

"That case stinks!" Tom exclaimed. "Nathaniel Cleve is accused of receiving explosives stolen from the State Armory. There are two witnesses. How can I beat it?"

"Please do not worry. You will go into court and appear. You will be surprised how easy it is to win some cases!"

They went down in the elevator together, and got into a car which was waiting at the curb. As they drove across town to the court, Cleve turned on the radio, caught a news broadcast:

"The police are still seeking the unknown killer who engaged in a bloody battle on Central Park West this morning..."

Tom shuddered. He— Tom Atherton— was the unknown killer whom the police were seeking! He glanced sideways, saw that Bennetz was watching him keenly.

"You must realize, Atherton, that your only chance is to play my game. Suppose you went to the police and told them that Gustave Bennetz has kidnaped your girl. Alone, that information might help you; but coupled with the fact that it was your car which was found..."

He let his voice trail off suggestively. "You see what I mean? It would look extremely suspicious. And think also what might be happening to your dear Sally while you were doing this talking to the police!"

"All right!" Tom snapped. "You win. I'll go in and stand up for this Nathaniel Cleve. But I won't try to win the case. I'll just appear as his counsel."

"That is all I want you to do."

"And if Sally doesn't show up safe and sound within one hour after the case is over, I'll track you down, Bennetz, wherever you are!"

When they reached the courthouse, Tom looked around nervously as they mounted the steps. He hated to have any lawyer friends of his see him in the company of these men. But there was nothing he could do about it.

They got upstairs to Part One of General Sessions just as the clerk was calling the case of Nathaniel Cleve.

The jury had already been chosen and the district attorney was rising to address them. Bennetz pointed to a ruddy-faced lawyer at the defense counsel table, who was sitting next to the defendant.

"That is Kurt Allsberg, the lawyer who has been handling the case." He led Tom Atherton down the aisle to the railing, and reached over and tapped Allsberg on the shoulder. "You may go," he said curtly. "You are finished. I have a new attorney."

Allsberg became pale. "But what is the trouble, Gus? Have I done anything—"

"Go, I said! Inform the judge that we are substituting Thomas Atherton for you!"

The judge was watching them with a frown and District Attorney Harvey Grant was scowling.

Allsberg got up and addressed the bench,

"Your Honor, I— I have just been informed that another attorney is being substituted in my place. Mr. Thomas Atherton. I— I assure Your Honor that I knew nothing of this—"

District Attorney Harvey Grant came striding to the bench from where he had been standing at the jury box, "If the Court please, this is an outrage. We refuse to allow any further delay. The new attorney will naturally want time to familiarize himself with the case. It's a trick on the part of the defense to gain more time!"

Bennetz leaned over and whispered in Tom's ear, "Go in there and tell him you don't need any more time. You're ready to go on with the case right now."

"But I don't know any of the facts," Tom protested. "How can I—"

"You do as I say!" Bennetz insisted, giving him a little shove toward the railing, "If you want to see your Sally alive again..."

Tom went through the small gate in the railing and stepped up to the bench. "If Your Honor please, I will not require any time. I am ready to proceed at once."

The judge peered over at the district attorney with a puzzled glint in his eyes.

"The defendant is entitled to a thorough defense. How can you hope to defend him properly without preparation?"

Tom shrugged, "If the defendant is satisfied—"

The judge looked over to where Nathaniel Cleve sat at the defense table. "Mr. Defendant, are you satisfied to have this attorney step into this case now at the eleventh hour, without preparation? You must realize that you stand a better chance with a better-prepared lawyer—"

Nathaniel Cleve looked a lot like his brother, Joseph. His eyes were hard, his face heavy, his lower lip pendulous.

"I am satisfied," he said stolidly,

The judge frowned as if he had a bitter taste in his mouth. He instructed the court stenographer to make a note of the substitution of attorneys.

Tom flushed. He ached to tell both Grant and the judge just why he was here now. But he glanced over his shoulder at Bennettz's hard and ruthless face. He thought of Sally Blaine, helpless somewhere in the city. And he kept silent. He swallowed hard, and turned abruptly away, and went over to the defense table where Nathaniel Cleve was sitting.

District Attorney Grant began his speech to the jury. It was a short speech, but it was full of vitriol and fire. At the end he pointed his finger dramatically at Cleve.

"It is to rid the city of men such as this that you are here today, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. When the State produces the two witnesses who actually saw this defendant accept delivery of the stolen explosives, you will have no choice but to bring in a verdict of guilty!"

The judge looked over at Tom, and said, "If counsel for the defense does not wish to address the jury, we will proceed." Tom shook his head, and the judge motioned to Grant, who arose again.

"My two witnesses should be here now," he said. He turned dramatically and called out, "Miss Irene Field!"

There was utter silence in the courtroom. No one answered.

Grant frowned. "Mr. John Turner!" he called.

Again there was no answer.

Tom Atherton, watching Grant's face, saw it turn red with anger. Tom himself began to feel a little uneasy. Somehow he seized that the courtroom was suddenly imbued with a strange sort of electric tension.

Suddenly the door at the rear of the courtroom opened.

Grant's face brightened. "Ah!" he said to the jury, "These must be my witnesses. We have had them under guard at a hotel all night."

Every eye turned toward the door. But only one man came in. It was one of the young assistant district attorneys. He seemed to be laboring under a tremendous strain of excitement and consternation. He came through the railing and whispered to District Attorney Grant.

Grant's bony frame stiffened as he heard the assistant's report. He turned and looked at Tom Atherton with a terrible concentrated glare of hatred.

Tom felt himself grow cold all over.

Grant swung around and addressed the judge. "Your Honor, I have just been informed of a terrible tragedy. A time bomb exploded a few minutes ago on the fourteenth floor of the hotel where our two witnesses were kept under guard. They were both killed, together with two bailiffs!"

A great gasp went up from everybody in the courtroom.

The judge turned an ominous eye toward Tom. "Mr. Atherton," he rumbled, "as attorney for the defendant, what do you know about this?"

Tom arose shakily. "I assure Your Honor that I know nothing at all about it."

Grant's lips twisted sardonically. "No wonder you were so willing to come in and take a case without preparing it. You knew there would be no witnesses!"

"You have no right to say that!" Tom Atherton gasped. He pushed up from the table and started over toward Grant, but a bailiff seized him by the arm. He saw the judge watching him expectantly, and he suddenly understood that His Honor was just waiting for some pretext to hold him for contempt of court.

His shoulders sagged. There was no way he could prove his innocence, without endangering the life of Sally Blaine. After hearing what had happened to those two witnesses he had no illusions about Sally's safety.

As if in a dream he heard the district attorney saying, "In view of the lack of evidence...compelled to agree to nolle prosse..."

And then he heard the judge saying, "As for you, Mr. Atherton, please come to my chambers at once..."

He raised his head and saw that the courtroom had emptied out. Gus Bennetz was no longer there. Neither was Nathaniel Cleve. But a man came up to Tom and whispered, "Mr. Bennetz says to be at the Midnight Club tonight. You'll find your girl there— if you don't talk to the police!"

The man turned and hurried away. Tom was about to follow him when a bailiff took hold of his arm.

"The judge ordered me to escort you to his chambers," the bailiff said.

Tom nodded dumbly and went with him.

iii

HARVEY GRANT was already in the judge's room, together with another man whom Tom recognized as Inspector Lansing, Chief of Homicide.

"Mr. Atherton," said Judge Simmons, who was seated at his desk, "I asked you to come here because the developments in court just now have been highly suspicious so far as you are concerned. Inspector Lansing wishes to ask you some questions."

Lansing was standing near the window, with his uncompromising stare fixed implacably upon Tom.

"Mr. Atherton," he rambled, "two state witnesses were bombed this morning. With them, two bailiffs were killed. As an attorney, you must surely realize your position. It's a murder case now. I want you to tell us everything you know."

"I'm sorry," Tom said wearily. "There's nothing I can tell you at this moment."

Lansing glanced sideways at Harvey Grant, who stepped forward eagerly. "You mean— it might incriminate you? Do you refuse to answer on the ground that it may incriminate you?"

"No," said Tom. "I have done nothing criminal."

"Then you must answer!" Grant exclaimed triumphantly.

"I can't tell you anything now," Tom said carefully. "There is a very important reason why I can't. If you'll give me two or three hours, I hope to be free to answer any of your questions."

"Two or three hours!" said Grant. "Are you thinking of leaving town?"

"What about your car?" Inspector Lansing thundered at him from the other side. "It was used in the shooting this morning. From the descriptions given by bystanders, you were the gunman. You reported your car stolen to throw us off the track!"

"That's true," Tom admitted wearily. "But I wasn't any gunman. I just happened to be passing at the moment—"

He stopped, seeing that both Lansing and Grant were looking at him with disgust.

"Isn't it kind of late to spring a story like that?" Grant demanded.

"I tell you it's true. And the girl I'm going to marry is a prisoner of Gus Bennetz. He forced me to appear for Cleve—"

"Stow it!" Lansing barked. "Your story gets worse and worse. Now look here"— he seized Tom by the lapels of his coat and went on, blusteringly—"you'll tell us what you know—"

Tom shook him off angrily, and swung toward Judge Simmons.

"Your Honor," he pleaded, "will you let me explain—"

And he stopped right there, with a queer, sinking sensation in his stomach. He saw that the eyes of all three men were on something that had been pushed up out of his breast pocket in the short tussle with Lansing. Those ten one-hundred-dollar-bills were just on the verge of falling out of his pocket. Their denomination was clearly visible.

Tom caught them just as they were about to drop and stuffed them back in his pocket. But the damage was done. He saw the revulsion in the judge's eyes, And dimly to his ears came Grant's voice:

"So Bennetz forced you to appear for Cleve— with a wad of hundred-dollar bills!"

The district attorney swung toward Judge Simmons. "Your Honor, I submit that there is enough evidence to hold this man as a material witness in connection with the murder of the witnesses in the Cleve case!"

Judge Simmons nodded gravely. "I so order!"

Inspector Lansing put a hand on his arm.

"Thomas Atherton, you are under arrest. In accordance with the law, I now warn you that anything further you say may be used against you!"

Suddenly a desperate haze of fury swept over Tom Atherton. He sent his body into a powerful lunge that tore him free of the inspector's grip.

"Hey!" yelled Lansing and dove for his gun.

TOM swung with his left. The smack of his fist connecting with the inspector's chin was like the pop of a soda bottle. Lansing went backward, out on his feet, and the gun dropped from his nerveless fingers.

Tom swung to the door, ripped it open, and sped out into the corridor.

Behind him he heard a shout and turned in time to see Harvey Grant picking up the gun which Lansing had dropped. Grant dropped to one knee and rested the revolver carefully on his elbow, taking aim at Tom.

Tom kept on running down the corridor toward the exit. A shot boomed out, resounding from the raftered ceiling of the court house, and the bullet whined so close to Tom's ear that he thought for a moment he was hit. The thunderous echoes of the shot cascaded back from every wall as a uniformed guard burst out of one of the courtrooms and, seeing Tom running, attempted to intercept him.

Tom straight-armed the guard, sent him crashing to one side. He threw another hasty glance behind him and saw Grant, in the doorway of the judge's room, taking careful aim for a second shot. He threw himself flat to the floor, head first, just as Grant fired.

Tom landed on his face and hands, and slid for perhaps five feet, carried along by his momentum. Grant's gun thundered. The slug whined over Tom's head, smashing the glass in the front doer.

As Tom slid along the floor he saw that there was a right turn in the corridor a few feet ahead, When he landed, he rolled over swiftly and ducked around the bend just as Grant pulled the trigger for the third time.

Tom stumbled to his feet and ran blindly along the side hall in which he found himself. There was a doorway at his left and he pushed through it so fast that he could not stop when he saw it opened on a flight of stairs. He went careening down the steps head over heels. Somehow, by dint of the good fortune which watches over drunks and fools, he did not sustain any broken bones. He felt bruised and limp, but he forced himself to his feet, and staggered out into an alley.

Everywhere he heard the shouts of men, as they took up the alarm; from behind him, inside the building; from the street in front of the court house, and from the upper floors of the building.

Suddenly he knew the poignant terror of a hunted man. He turned and stumbled blindly down toward the rear of the alley. He saw another door in the side of the court house trailing, and pushed through it, for he knew that he would surely be caught in the alley. He knew the layout of the court fairly well, and he recognized the portion which he had entered as the corridor to the detention pen. There would be another door down this hall, opening into the back street.

He fairly ran down the corridor to the back door. He slipped out once more into daylight, and suddenly found himself in a crowd of milling men, some in uniform. They had converged from the street, attracted by the shouts. One of them was an under-sheriff, who knew Tom.

He said, "What's happening, Mr. Atherton? I was just coming in when I heard the shots—"

"It's an escaped killer!" Tom shouted, "Everybody better take cover. He's armed!"

The crowd dispersed quickly, and Tom sprinted across the street, turned a corner, and hailed a passing cab. He climbed in breathlessly.

"Take me to the Midnight Club!" he gasped.

The Midnight Club was in the upper Eighties, near Third Avenue. Tom walked past it, looking it over. It was too much to expect, of course, that this was where they had taken Sally. The club was not open for business, anyway, for it was still early in the day. However, the front door was ajar, and he could see that there were several waiters and busboys inside, cleaning up and preparing for the day's business.

Tom walked past it once, and stopped near the corner, lighting a cigarette. There was a cab rank at the corner, and the cabby had his radio going. From where he stood, Tom heard the news announcer:

"...All police and law-enforcing agencies are combing the city for Atherton. Any citizen seeing the fugitive is requested to report immediately by phone to police headquarters. When last seen he was wearing a brown suit, brown-and-red tie, and a gray felt hat. He is about six feet tall, blue eyes and fair hair, very well built, as he was formerly a prizefighter..."

Tom grunted, and threw his cigarette away. He thought he saw the cabby glancing over at him, but he couldn't be sure. He moved away nonchalantly from the corner, and hurried into the open doorway of the Midnight Club.

Inside, he stood for a moment, accustoming his eyes to the blurred light. The waiters and busboys were busy and paid him no attention. He saw a door at the left marked "Manager's Office," and he went over and pushed it open and stepped inside.

Tom came and stood in front of the desk.

"Where's Gus Bennetz?" he demanded.

The manager frowned up at him, "Bennetz? He'll be here tonight—"

"Can't wait till tonight," said Tom. "Got to see him right away. Where can I find him?"

The fellow shrugged. "Who are you?"

Tom grinned. He saw a letter opener on the desk. He picked it up by the handle, and walked around the desk. The manager started to get up, but Tom pushed him back in the chair. He touched the point of the letter opener to the fellow's red neck.

"In case you don't know it," he said, "I'm Tom Atherton. If you've listened to your radio, you'll know all about me. I'm wanted for so many damned things I don't mind being wanted for killing you, too. Is that clear?"

"W-what— what do you want?" the fellow stammered, squirming away from the cold point of the steel.

"I want to get in touch with Gus Bennetz."

"Well, wait, I'll phone him."

"Go ahead. But don't try any tricks."

The manager very carefully picked up a telephone index from the desk, and flipped it over to the N's. He ran his finger down till he hit a number alongside a name. The name was "Nine Star Boxing Club." The number was Sutter 21674.

"That," said Tom Atherton, "is all I wanted to know!" He threw away the letter opener, grasped the fellow's coat by the lapels, and lifted him out of the chair with his left hand. At the same time, he brought his right around in a terrific blow to the fellow's chin. The man's head snapped back, and when Tom let go of the lapels, the fellow just subsided into the chair, slumped down, and did not move.

Tom snatched up the phone, called the District Attorney's office. In a moment he had Harvey Grant. "Grant," he said, "this is Atherton."

He heard a gasp at the other end, and than there was a moment's silence.

"Grant! Are you there? I said, this is Atherton!"

I heard you," came Grant's voice, very slowly and mildly. "I'm glad you phoned. There are a lot of things I want to talk over with you." He was talking in a slow, easy drawl, and Tom's lips tightened as he realized that the District Attorney was having the call traced.

"Listen to me, Grant. I have information for you that will help you get Bennetz and his whole filthy crowd."

"So you're ready to talk!" the District Attorney said. "Well, I'm glad to hear that, Atherton. Suppose we arrange a meeting."

"Look here, Grant. I just got a line on a place that may hold dynamite. Now if I give you the location, will you promise not to stage a raid?"

"Well, that's a fairly reasonable request," Grant said, still in that infuriatingly slow drawl. "Just why don't you want us to stage a raid?"

"Because Bennetz is holding my girl. Now if Sally is being held at this address your raid might save her. But if those rats are holding her somewhere else, and the raid doesn't turn anything up then I'm sure they'll kill her."

"Now wait, Atherton," said the District Attorney. "Do you still think you can make me believe that fish story about your girl having been kidnaped by Bennetz? Why don't you come in and give yourself up—"

Tom was standing near the window with the telephone, and it was only by chance that he glanced out and saw the police car which pulled up silently across the street. They had traced the call while Grant had held him in conversation.

"Damn you Grant!" Tom exclaimed into the phone. He hung up, and dashed out into the corridor. He made for the rear, and passed through the kitchen door. Just as the door swung to, he caught a glimpse of the policemen coming in the front. He did not wait to see more, but made tracks out the back way.

iv

HE walked the streets for ten minutes, ducking every time he saw a policeman, trying to think as hard as he could. He knew where to find Gus Bennetz now.

The Nine Star Boxing Club was not an unfamiliar name to him. He had boxed there two or three times, in the old days. But the club had long been abandoned. Therefore, it seemed reasonable to believe that Bennetz might be using it as a hideaway. It would be a good place to conceal a captive. So Tom was almost sure Sally was being held there. But the knowledge did him little good.

He didn't kid himself that he could go in there with his bare fists, and take Bennetz's experienced gunners. For himself he didn't care. But Sally's life might be forfeit. No, he must have help. An appeal to the law was closed to him. Grant wouldn't listen.

He racked his brains for some inspiration. And suddenly, he snapped his fingers. He flagged a cab and got in.

"Take us over to the Greek quarter!" he ordered.

"Which one do you mean?" the driver asked. "Downtown? Or uptown?"

For a moment Tom was stuck. Then he shrugged. "Uptown," he said.

Five minutes later he left the cab in the uptown Greek section, and strolled down the street. He saw a restaurant with Greek letters on the window, and he went in. At the desk he said, "Where will I find Packy?"

There was a girl cashier at the counter, but she looked blank. She called over the manager, then two waiters came over too, and they all debated the question of which Packy Tom wanted. Finally the manager shrugged and said, "Iss many Packys. W'ich one you wanting?"

"I want the one who has a friend named Achilles, and another named Julius—"

"Aha!" exclaimed the manager. He took Tom by the arm, led him to the door, and pointed down the street. "You going over d'ere— number t'irtyt'ree, D'ere you finding Packy!"

Tom thanked him and walked down the street. Number thirty-three was a three-story brick building, with a store occupying the entire street level. The plate-glass window of the store was painted an opaque green, so that passersby couldn't look inside. There was white lettering on the green background. The top line was in Greek, which Tom couldn't read. The second line said:

GREEK-AMERICAN BROTHERHOOD

Antoninos Pakidopulos, Pres.

There was a hard and determined glint in Tom's eyes as he stepped up to the store and pushed the door open.

Inside there were some fifteen or twenty tables, covered with red-and-white checkered tablecloths. Several of the tables were occupied by men who were playing checkers, chess, or casino. The room was filled with smoke and the stale odor of tobacco. At one side there was a bar and a sandwich counter.

The noise of conversation ceased as Tom closed the door behind him. Every eye in the room was turned on him. He saw a lot of hands slip down into pockets, or up toward shoulder bulges.

From one table in a corner, two men arose. Tom tautened, watching them come toward him. They were Achilles and Julius— the two whom he had eluded in the subway.

Julius was grinning like a cat who has cornered a mouse, but Achilles' thick features assumed a murderous scowl. They came up close to Tom.

"How do you do, my very good friend!" said Julius. "That was a dirty trick you played on us in the subway."

"Hah!" said Achilles. "Thees ees those guy w'ich smack me be-ind thee ear. I theenk I gonna break hees nack!"

"My very good friend," Julius said commiseratingly, "you should not have hit Achilles. Achilles does not like to be hit."

"I want to see Packy," said Tom.

Julius snickered. "Haw!" He nudged Achilles in the ribs. "Did you hear that? He wants to see Packy!"

"Sure," growled Achilles. "Sure he see Packy. But he not be seeing so good. Because w'y? Because I gonna geev heem dose works first!"

He spread out both his huge, ham-like arms to encircle Tom's waist. Tom could see the muscles bulging under the Greek's coat, and he knew that once he was caught in that gorilla grip he'd have little chance of keeping his ribs intact He tried to step back, but the door was behind him.

A look of supreme happiness came upon Achilles' face as he smothered Tom with his huge bulk. His arms started to wrap themselves around his intended victim's body.

Tom kept his elbows close at his sides, and pistoned has fists in-and-out, in-and-out, like the twin cylinders of an engine. His hard, bunched fists landed four times each, square in the midsection of the big man, burying themselves almost to the wrist in his stomach.

Achilles was forced back by the very power of those blows, and he expelled a great gust of onion-and-garlic breath. He bellowed with rage, and charged in again. This time he wasn't going for a bear hug. He had his two hands held high in the wrestler's stance, for a headlock.

Tom caught a swift glimpse of the rest of the men in the room, all watching with professional interest. They were all sure, apparently, that their champion would soon crack a majority of Tom's bones.

Tom was no wrestler. He knew he couldn't compete for holds with this huge and powerful gorilla of a man. He sidestepped away from the door, flicked out his left to make the Greek keep his distance, and danced away. His flicking left cut his antagonist's lip open, and Achilles' voice thundered through the room in a terrifying murderous roar. He came lumbering forward in a half crouch.

Tom slid over to one side, feinted with his left and then crashed a right across to Achilles' head. It caught him on the side of the temple with a terrible squashing sound, but the Greek only shook his head to clear it, and kept coming in.

Julius was watching intently, with his head cocked on one side, like a referee.

"T'chk, t'chk," he said. "Your chances, my good friend, are very slim!"

Tom was too busy to answer, because the Greek was into him now, clawing at his legs, his neck, his torso, in a wild and vengeful effort to get a punishing hold. Tom kept dancing away and flicking his left, but all he could do was make the giant slow up a bit. He couldn't stop him. He landed two more blows square on the button, but he didn't even get a flicker out of Achilles.

The men all over the room were now buzzing excitedly. They were making wagers on the outcome. The odds on Achilles were eight to one.

A fine sweat was beginning to cover Tom's forehead. Never before in his life had he given ground in the ring, and this was a new experience for him. His most powerful blows were worse than useless. Achilles had an iron jaw.

Tom backed away into a table, and before he could move, the Greek was upon him. He caught Tom's left wrist in both of his hairy hands, and whirled around with the evident intention of sending his victim hurtling over his shoulder.

But even as he started to twist around, Tom smashed a right home just over the heart. Achilles grunted again, and his grip relaxed the faintest bit.

Tom yanked his wrist out of the grip, and with a sudden gleam of understanding he came in at Achilles, disregarding all danger of getting caught in another grip.

He had discovered the Greek's weak spot!

He came in, wide open, smashing rights and lefts to the big man's heart. And suddenly he found he was moving forward, and Achilles was retreating.

He stopped short, straightened the Greek up with a left jab over the eye, and then tried once more for the knockout.

His right smashed in so fast that hardly a man in the room saw the blow. But they all heard the thwack.

The Greek was done. Those body blows had softened him for the kill. When Tom's fist landed on his jaw, he just let his arms drop, and he slowly fell forward on his face. He lay still, with his arms out flung.

An excited jabber of voices arose in the room as jubilant takers of the eight-to-one odds rushed to collect.

Tom felt of his hand to see if any bones were broken. Then he wiped sweat from his face. He looked at Julius, who was clucking with unbelief.

"T'chk, t'chk. Nobody has ever done that to Achilles before. It deesn't seem possible!"

"Well," Tom asked, "do I get to see Packy now? Or do I have to fight someone else?"

Julius grinned. "Come, my very good friend!"

He led the way up two flights of musty stairs, and stopped before a door at the rear. He knocked at the door, and then went inside, motioning for Tom to follow him. As soon as they were inside, he took a gun from his pocket and covered Tom.

"Just to be on the safe side," he grinned. Then he waved toward the stocky man with the close-cropped black hair setting at a small desk.

"Packy, what do you think? This is the man we invited over this morning, but he wouldn't come. Imagine— he walked in just now of his own free will!"

Packy raised his eyebrows. "What did you come here for?" he demanded.

Tom said, "I want to make a deal with you."

Packy's eyes hardened. "I make no deals with the tools of the Nazis!"

"Listen to me!" Tom said, suddenly earnest. "I'm no tool of Bennetz. I never talked with him before this morning. It was just by accident that I horned in on your men. It was a cold-blooded attempt at murder, and anyone would have done what I did!"

"Murder?" Packy repeated. There was abruptly a terrible opaque look in his black eyes. "Murder? Do you know what the Nazis do to our people in Greece? Is that not murder?"

"But you have no right to commit murder here, because of what those beasts do over there. Besides, Bennetz is an American citizen—"

"Sure, sure he is. And that is what protects him from the law." Packy's fist crashed down on the desk. "But not from us!" He controlled himself with an effort.

"Go on," he said,

"After I saved Bennetz's life," Tom hurried on, "he came down to my office, and kidnaped my fiancée— Sally Blaine. And I had to go into court and represent Nathaniel Cleve, to save her life. Now Bennetz is holding Sally—"

"Where?" Packy was suddenly interested.

Tom shook his head. "Not so fast, Packy. I've come to you, because I can't go near the police. District Attorney Grant has practically forced me to make an alliance with you. But I'm not going to let you go after Bennetz with guns."

"Why not?" Packy demanded. "If Bennetz has your girl, don't you want to see him killed? What kind of blood have you in your veins?"

"This has got to be done my way or not at all," Tom said firmly. "I want to get Sally out of Bennetz's hands. I need your help. All right. In exchange for your help, I'll undertake that Bennetz will stand trial on enough charges to send him to the electric chair. But I won't be a party to murder."

"What do you want us to do?" Packy asked suspiciously.

"I'll need some supplies, and about twenty of your men."

"What kind of supplies?"

"White helmets, like the air-raid wardens wear—"

"Hah!" said Packy. "You don't have to worry about that. We're all air-raid wardens. I run this whole sector!"

Tom grinned happily. "Can you get some stretchers, some stirrup pumps, and some of those smoke bombs that the wardens use in their practice drills?"

"Sure," said Packy. "I can get you all that. But listen, you can't fight Bennetz with smoke bombs and stirrup pumps—"

"They're better than guns sometimes," Tom told him.

Packy shook his head. "It sounds crazy to me." He looked at Julius. "What about it?"

Julius grinned. "You ought to let him try it, Packy. The way he laid Achilles out, I'm all in his favor!"

Suddenly Packy the Greek smiled. He pushed back his chair and got up. He came around and thrust out his hand to Tom. "Okay, Atherton. We'll give you a chance!"

v

TWO hours and twenty minutes later, Tom Atherton got out of a car in front of a building on Old Broadway, close to the river. He presented a strange figure as he stood there, surveying the building. An air-raid warden's armband adorned his sleeve. A white helmet covered his head. And a gas mask hid his entire face.

The building before which he stood was ramshackle and dilapidated, with the paint almost entirely gone. The windows were all boarded up, and there was a sign nailed across one of the lower windows which read:

FOR SALE OR RENT

Inquire Of Your Own Broker

The building was only two stories high. On the strip of front wall between the first and second floor windows there was what remained of an old wooden sign which had once sported gilt letters.

The gilt was all gone, but the imprint of the lettering was still legible:

NINE-STAR BOXING CLUB

Five years ago, Tom Atherton had boxed for a living on Friday nights in this very building. Now it was abandoned apparently. But Tom knew otherwise.

He examined the building for a moment, then he made a signal with his hand. Immediately three more cars sped up from the corner and came to a stop across the street. Men in air-raid wardens' uniforms piled out, some carrying stretchers, others carrying picks and shovels, all wearing helmets and gas masks.

Achilles and Julius were in the first of those cars, and Tom recognized Achilles by his build. The giant came over and spoke to Tom through his gas mask.

"You know," he said, "I t'ink you is one guy w'ich is a good fighter, You an' me is friends, no?"

"Yes," said Tom.

The air-raid wardens gathered around, and Tom started issuing orders in a loud voice. He got a piece of chalk and marked out a square section of sidewalk about ten feet by ten, and motioned to them to get to work. They fell to with a will, using the pickaxes.

There was a cop down near the ferry building, and he strolled over. "Air-raid drill?" he asked.

Tom nodded. "We're working on an incident. A bomb is supposed to have fallen on this building. Ten people are trapped inside. We're supposed to see how fast we can dig 'em out."

The cop hung around for a few minutes, then left. Tom went on supervising the work. All the time, he kept an eye on the Nine Star building. Twice he caught the movement of one of the boards in an upper window. Somebody was watching from inside.

Soon the hole was deep enough for a man to climb down into. One of the men signaled to Tom and he got down and scrambled into it. He saw that they had opened up the exposed section of the building wall, making a hole through which a man could climb into the cellar.

Tom switched on a flashlight and sent its ray probing into the interior. It illuminated the basement with which he was familiar. The fighters' dressing rooms had been located down here, and many a time Tom had waited in one of those cubicles for the signal to go up into the ring.

Julius climbed down alongside him carrying a sack of smoke bombs, "You all ready?" he asked, "Yes," said Tom. "I'm going in."

"Here's a gun," said Julius, offering him an automatic.

Tom shook his head. "I never shot one of those things in my life. I wouldn't trust myself to shoot straight with it."

"Well, put it in your pocket, anyway. You never can tell when you'll need it. See, this is the safety. You must push it down with your thumb to shoot."

"Thanks," said Tom. He put the gun in his pocket. "Stay here with your watch. Julius," he ordered. "Remember, give me fifteen minutes before you start."

"Good luck," said Julius.

Tom bent down and climbed through the hole in the wall into the basement.

He flicked the flashlight only once, to get his bearings, and then proceeded in the dark. He mounted the staircase leading to the main floor, and gently inched open the door at the top of the stairs.

There were lights there. He could see that the seats had been removed from the auditorium floor, leaving a cleared space. In that space there was now a row of cots and several tables and chairs.

Almost a dozen men were in there. They got their light from a low candle-power storage battery lamp on the floor.

An electric cooker had been set up on the platform where the ring had formerly been, and one of the men was grilling a steak.

The men were talking in low voices watching one of their number who was peering through a crack in the boarded front window. The man turned around. Tom got a glimpse of a bandage across his nose. It was Tresca.

"Those damned wardens are still out there!" Tresca growled.

"Well," said one of the others, "we'll have to go out the back way and use the boat. We can't stay cooped up in here all night."

"You can't use the boat yet," Tresca told him, "Gus has a job for it."

Another of the men snickered. "Looks like that girl will get a bath tonight. Too bad she has to die. She's a good looker."

Tom felt the hot blood rushing in his veins. He inched his way along the edge of the floor where the light did not reach, heading toward a door at the far side which he knew led to the upper story. There the executive offices of the club had been located. The process of getting across noiselessly was slow and laborious. Once he had to stop and drop flat on the floor in the shadows, for a man came in from the rear, where there was an exit to the old rotting dock.

This man did not come all the way into the room. He merely called out, "Hey, Tresca! Tell Gus the boat's ready."

"Okay," said Tresca, and left the crack in the window. He crossed over to the door for which Tom was aiming, and disappeared through it.

Tom took chances now. He crawled on all fours, moving as fast as he could. He reached the door without attracting any attention and slipped through it. He mounted the stairs quickly, reached the top landing without making a sound.

Light streamed out on the landing through an open door at the head of the stairs. Tom edged along the wall, keeping out of the path of the stream of light, and peered inside.

His questing anxious eyes passed over the five men in that room, and focused on what at first appeared to be a bundle of old clothes on the floor. The bundle was moving violently and Tom drew in his breath sharply.

It was Sally. She was tied hand and foot and there was tape across her mouth.

Tom took out the automatic. Now he was glad he had taken it from Julius.

The five men in the room were talking in subdued voices, but their words carried clearly out to the landing.

Tom knew four of them. There was one, sitting in a corner and putting a machine gun together, whom he did not know. Bennetz was pacing up and down, nervously smoking a cigar. Tresca, who had just come up, was bending over Sally. Joseph Cleve was lighting a cigarette.

But it was the sight of the fifth man that caused Tom's eyes to narrow. That fifth man was Kurt Allsberg— the lawyer whom Bennetz had fired in the middle of the Cleve trial in order to put Tom Atherton into the case!

It was Allsberg who was talking at the moment. He was rubbing his chin, smiling with satisfaction.

"So far everything has gone off like clockwork. It was smart of you, Gus, to pick that Atherton fool to hold the bag. It would have been bad for me to be on the case when they got word that those witnesses were killed."

Gus Bennetz grinned. "And he made it worse for himself by escaping. Now they'll surely shoot him on sight!"

"Suppose," Allsberg said, "that they don't shoot him? If they catch him alive, he can talk and make trouble for you."

Bennetz shook his head, grinning. He nodded toward the skinny little man who was working on the machine gun in the corner. "If Atherton isn't caught, he's sure to try and get in touch with me. I'll make a date with him and Buzza will keep it, with the machine gun.

"So!" said Allsberg. "Not bad. That will close up every hole. All right. I think I'll be going. Damn those wardens. I'll have to leave on the boat. You can take the girl, too. Land me further down, and then take her out in the river."

"The boat's ready," said Tresca.

"Okay," Bennetz ordered. "You and Cleve carry her down—"

Tom had been waiting, watch in one hand, gun in the other. It was exactly fifteen minutes since he had left Julius.

He backed away from the door, watching the interior of the room and at the same time sniffing the air. His eyes brightened as he caught the fumes of smoke, as yet very light. But the men downstairs had already smelled the smoke, for it was reaching them first, Julius had set off six smoke bombs in the cellar, and the fumes were working slowly upward.

There was a sudden excited jabber of voices from the main floor. Someone yelled, "Fire!"

Someone else down there took up the shout, and at once there was the sound of rushing, panicky feet. The men downstairs were running toward the rear of the building, to escape out on the dock. They all knew what an old fire-trap the building was, and they didn't want to be burned alive.

Tresca and Cleve had just begun to lift Sally Blaine between them when the shout of fire was raised.

Tresca said, "Fire!" and let go of Sally. She dropped to the floor with a thump.

Bennetz swore viciously. The smoke was coming up faster now, and they could all smell it.

"The whole building is going!" he yelled. "We have to get out of here. Leave the girl. Let her burn!"

He led the rush to the door, and Tom, with a grim hard smile on his lips, stepped in to meet him.

Bennetz almost collided with him, but he had no chance to jump backward, because Tom hit him hard on the temple with the barrel of the automatic.

Bennetz sagged in the doorway, and the others in the room scrambled around him in their mad anxiety to get out. Tresca was first. He pulled up short at sight of the automatic in Tom's hand.

Tresca streaked for his shoulder holster. Tom stepped in and smashed a left square into his broken nose. Tresca screamed with pain, and went backward into Cleve and Allsberg, who were pushing wildly out.

Tom came in after them like a whirlwind, scattering them out of the doorway. He burst through and met the little man, Buzza, who came bounding out of the chair with the still unassembled machine gun in his hands. Tom hit Buzza a backhanded blow that sent him slamming into the wall. Then he jumped to where Sally lay, and turned around to face the gunmen.

Tresca was down on the floor, moaning with pain, but Cleve was just dragging a gun from his holster. Tom set his jaw, snicked the safety catch off the automatic as Julius had shown him, and pulled the trigger.

The gun roared in the room, and Tom was jarred backward by the recoil. His foot moved back, and he tripped over Sally's limp form.

His own shot had missed Cleve by almost a foot, but had buried itself in the stomach of Kurt Allsberg. Cleve fired, the thunder of the shot drowning Allsberg's scream.

The thing that saved Tom was the fact that he tripped. It carried him out of line of Cleve's shot, and the slug slammed through the boarded window behind him.

The room was full of smoke now and Cleve didn't shoot again. He turned with a gasp of panic and ran blindly out into the hall, hoping to escape before the building was engulfed by fire.

Tom scrambled to his feet and peered around the room. Buzza was getting up and pawing at his back pocket for a gun.

Tom's lips tightened. He stepped in, brought his fist up in a short arc to Buzza's chin, and the skinny, murderous little machine-gunner went down.

Tom swung away from him and knelt beside Sally. He ripped the tape off her lips and cut the cords that were tied around her body.

"Tom," she said, "I think you're wonderful!"

He grinned and kissed her, and turned around to face a small army of police who were crowding into the room.

"Boys," he said, "I'm Tom Atherton. But I don't think you'll be wanting me any more. There's the whole Bennetz crowd, including the brains of the outfit— Kurt Allsberg. These are the boys that blew up the two witnesses and the bailiffs this morning. And I think you'll find that machine gun on the floor one of the things stolen from the armories."

He held Sally close in his arms and smiled down into her eyes, entirely disregarding the bewildered stares of the police.

"Anyway," he told her, "I got a thousand dollar retainer out of this. A thousand dollars will buy us a lot of furniture, Sally. We could get married now instead of in May."

"And," she added, "you can start kissing me before breakfast from now on!"

____________________

3: The Tiger Woman

William J. Makin

1894-1944

Blue Book, Sep 1933

William J Makin

"LET us spend ten minutes among the tigers," said Jonathan Lowe, as I was accompanying that extraordinary character— known to natives in India and Africa as the "Father of the Jungle"— on a little tour of the Zoo. As a crime-reporter on a daily newspaper I felt a little humiliated. Jonathan Lowe was treating me almost as a schoolboy. If only we had been perambulating the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud's, I might have felt superior.

"Ten minutes among the tigers," repeated Jonathan Lowe, opening the door of the animal-house and plunging into that hot, indefinable atmosphere of sawdust and beast-smells. I observed that the uniformed attendant saluted this long lanky figure in the ill-fitting snuff-colored clothes, and whose disreputable hat was pulled over his white hair. Jonathan Lowe was well-known at the Zoo.

"Splendid beasts," went on Lowe, nosing his way to a cage where the yellow-and-black-striped tiger yawned obligingly at him. The cruel sharp teeth, curling tongue and fierce whiskers engendered a feeling of hatred in me.

"Cruel beasts," I countered. "They're the best example of that overworked proverb— 'Nature red in tooth and claw'."

Jonathan Lowe gave me a quick glance and laughed.

"Hate 'em, don't you, eh?"

I nodded.

"Well, it's a natural human instinct," he observed. "The tiger and man have been enemies from the very beginning of Creation. The Hindus believe that men and tigers have struggled for supremacy for centuries, and that even today neither admit defeat. They're implacable enemies; they snarl at each other when face to face. The hatred is almost as intense as that which exists at moments between man and woman."

There was a cynical gleam in his blue eyes as he spoke.

"Tigers are merely beautiful murderers," I said shortly, gazing into the yellow eyes of the beast divided from me only by bars. "There seems no reason for their existence."

"No more reason than there is for a murderer in our midst," agreed Lowe.

"Well, let the big-game hunters go on killing them," I said, turning my back on the beast. "I suppose you've slaughtered some yourself?"

I looked into his mahogany features, burned by tropic suns. A thoughtful look was in his eyes.

He nodded. "I believe my bag is nearly thirty," he said. "It would have been more, perhaps, but I was always regarded as an unorthodox tiger-hunter."

"Why?"

Jonathan Lowe swiveled on his heel and faced the beast again.

"Because I always refused to sit in a tree or on the back of an elephant to shoot a tiger," he said. "To kill a tiger in that fashion is almost as easy as killing a man if you are a professional executioner. The odds are overwhelmingly in your favor. The beast,— tiger or condemned man,— hasn't a chance."

"But they're murderers," I argued.

"Nevertheless, I prefer to meet them face to face, on their own ground. It's the most deadly test of a man's nerve, facing a tiger on foot as the beast comes swishing and coughing out of the jungle grass! Once my nerve nearly went, and the beast clawed my arm." His hand instinctively crept up the sleeve of the snuff-colored coat. "But in the end I killed him."

And with a grim smile he turned away from the striped beast behind the bars.

We moved on. Jonathan Lowe lounged near another cage. But I had suddenly forgotten the jungle beasts, for I was gazing with admiration on something supremely civilized— a beautiful, expensively gowned woman. Even in that heavy odor of sawdust and animals, I caught the scent of perfume that clung to her lissom figure.

"Talking of tigers—" went on the prosy voice of my companion.

"Why talk of beasts," I murmured, "when beauty comes to visit them?"

JONATHAN LOWE looked up in astonishment. His blue eyes followed my admiring gaze.

I was hoping that the woman would look in our direction, but her eyes seemed fixed on that yawning tiger behind the bars. She stood in an attitude of rapt fascination.

"Isn't she beautiful?" I asked, in a whisper.

"As beautiful as— a tiger," said Lowe quietly. "Who is she?"

"I can tell you her name, and all about her,"— I smiled,— "even though I've never met her. You see, she's one of those women whom art-editors of newspapers go down on their knees and thank heaven for, when news-pictures are scarce. She married a millionaire six weeks ago; her name is Mrs. Anthony Strahane. She and her husband must have just returned from their honeymoon. It was spent at Lugano, in Switzerland."

"I understood you were a crime-reporter, not a social gossip-writer, young man," was the only comment of Jonathan Lowe.

His gaze had never left the woman. It piqued me that she ignored us. But she similarly ignored everyone in the tigerhouse—the keeper in his uniform, a few pasty-faced children regarding the beasts in awe, a blowsy woman who clung to an enormous bag of monkey-nuts as well as to a baby, and a youth with a cigarette drooping from his lips. She ignored all, except the tiger.

She glided rather than walked, near the cage. Her yellow eyes, draped with one of those tantalizing half-veils, stared into the yellow eyes of the beast. And there was something so rapt and ecstatic in her posture that I could almost swear she purred.

"Look at the tiger!" Lowe commanded me quietly.

The beast had risen. It stretched its tawny black-striped body to full length. Its head raised slowly and the fierce whiskers brushed the steel bars. A nose pushed forward and a long red tongue licked forth. At the same time the brute raised a paw, the claws hidden in the pads; it was trying to caress the woman.

The expensively scented creature flung back her head and laughed. I saw the tawny yellow of her hair beneath the little hat. But the laugh had something tigerish in it. It made me shiver; it was not the laugh of a sane woman.

The caged beast bared its fangs at that laugh. A gurgling sound came from its throat, as though it laughed also; then the tiger rolled over on its back, its paws in the air, while the yellow eyes gazed fondly into those of the woman.

"Horrible— horrible!" whispered Jonathan Lowe. "Let us go."

I was not sorry to emerge from that hothouse atmosphere. Those ten minutes among the tigers had torn more than the half-veil from the face of Mrs. Anthony Strahane. I stood in the grounds It must have been half an hour later when we clicked our way through the turnstiles into Regent's Park. At that same moment a lissom figure also hurried through, and walked to where a beautiful limousine waited. A handsome chauffeur opened the door. I caught a glimpse of yellow eyes as she said: "Home, Albert!" Then the door closed and the chauffeur took his place at the wheel.

"Decidedly an interesting woman— that Mrs. Anthony Strahane," murmured Jonathan Lowe as the limousine glided away....

"You wanted on the telephone, baas," growled the negro servant Milestone, having wakened me at nine o'clock in the morning. After a late night at the office I had only been in bed five hours.

I groaned, slipped on a dressing-room, and hurried to the telephone. As I guessed, it was the news editor of the Daily Courier.

"Take the first train you can find to Foldcross, in Sussex," cackled the voice. "There's a story to be dug up in the country-house of Sir John Wrox."

"What is it—murder?" I asked wearily.

"Nothing so good," cackled the voice. "It might be suicide, but in all probability it's just an overdose of veronal. Still, make the best story you can out of it. After all, the poor devil was a millionaire. There's a sob-story behind it — married six weeks and just home from his honeymoon. Find his wife, and try and get her to talk."

"Who's the victim— Sir John Wrox?"

"No, you fool," was the reply. "It's Anthony Strahane, the millionaire. He was staying with Sir John Wrox. We've just had a message, saying that Strahane was found dead in bed with an empty hypodermic syringe by his side."

"Good heavens!" I cried. "Did you say Anthony Strahane?"

"I did," cackled the sarcastic voice.

"Why, I saw his wife only yesterday at the Zoo."

"A damned queer place for a modern woman to frequent. But then, probably the bright young people have started going to the Zoo. Anyhow, get hold of her, Hayton; she may tellastory. She stayed the night in town, and has gone off by car already. And now, go to it."

As I hung up the receiver I caught a glimpse of a grinning white face peering at me round the corner. A startling sight— but then, the house in St. John's Wood was full of surprises. The grinning white face proved to be that of Blanco, Lowe's pet white monkey. A moment later, Jonathan Lowe himself stood there. He was fully dressed, and his strong sunburned hands held a basket of fruit.

"I've been feeding my beasts at the end of the garden," he apologized. "Hope I haven't disturbed you."

I shook my head; the shock of hearing of Anthony Strahane's death was still upon me,

"Tell me, sir," I asked, "what did you really think of that woman, Mrs. Anthony Strahane, whom we saw among the tigers yesterday afternoon?"

His blue eyes twinkled at me.

"The tigers were much less dangerous," he said. "But why do you ask?"

"Because I've just heard," I said slowly, "that her husband was found dead in his bed this morning. Apparently he had pumped himself full of a drug, for a hypodermic was found at his side."

There was silence for a moment. The white monkey jumped to Lowe's shoulder and he gently stroked it.

"And Mts. Strahane?" he asked then.

"She stayed the night in town. Now she's gone off to Foldcross, in Sussex, where her husband was staying at a country-house. That's where I must go, too."

Jonathan Lowe nodded.

"I'm interested," he admitted. "Would you like me to come along?"

"It looks a vety ordinary case," I pointed out. "Probably just a case of suicide."

"True," agreed Lowe. "But at least the woman wasn't ordinary. And I would rather like to meet that woman in the heart of Sussex, after seeing her in the tiger-house of the Zoo."

"Well, I'll be glad of your company," I said, and hurried away to dress.

AN hour later as we sat in the train, I tried to get Lowe to discuss that elusive lissom woman who had laughed at the tigers. But he was irritatingly evasive. He asked only two questions: "How old was Anthony Strahane?"

"Fifty-nine," I replied.

"And his wife?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Who can tell? For newspaper purposes she is twenty-five. I should say that she is really about thirty. Young and beautiful. I won't question her about her age. The news editor will see that she is only twenty-five, and that her photograph makes her look about seventeen."

Jonathan Lowe nodded, and lighting a vile cheroot, became engrossed in a gray covered pamphlet. I caught a glimpse of the title: Observations on Lycanthropy as Practised in Malaya.

I groaned, and at the next stop bought a copy of the Daily Courier, and pretended to read it.

IT took us three hours and two changes to reach the village of Foldcross, situated on the last ridge of the Sussex downs, before they fell away to the sea. As we stepped out on the platform a tall grizzled man in plus-fours gazed anxiously at the four people descending from the train. Apparently the person he had come to meet was not there, for he turned away disappointed.

But for the second time his gaze rested upon the figure in snuff-colored clothes, whose cheroot smoldered in the keen Sussex air. Then he strode forward.

"Surely it can't be Jonathan Lowe?" he began hesitatingly.

Lowe chuckled.

"I'm afraid it is, Sir John," he replied. "Wasn't our last meeting on a houseboat on Lake Srinagar, in Kashmir?"

"By Jove, your memory is as keen as your shooting!" cried Sir John. "I'm mighty glad to see you again. But what brings you to the Sussex downs?"

Jonathan Lowe shook his head sadly.

"I'm afraid I've become something of a vulture in my old age," he said quietly. "A carrion-bird. Beastly, isn't it?"

"Good heavens, you don't mean to say that this horrible tragedy that happened in my house last night has brought you here?"

Jonathan Lowe nodded.

The tall man in plus-fours looked uneasy.

"Well, my dear fellow," he said, "you had better come along to the house with me, though I'm afraid it's poor hospitality I can offer under the circumstances."

Jonathan Lowe pushed me forward.

"This is a young friend of mine, Sir John," he explained. "Ill warn you at once that he's a newspaper reporter. But T will answer for him. I think you'll agree there'll be less scandal and silly rumor if we take the young man into the house. What d'you say?"

"You always wete a queer devil, Lowe," admitted Sir John Wrox. "By all means bring your young friend along. What did you say his name was—Peter Hayton?" He shook me warmly by the hand, and nodded his head in the direction of the man with the cheroot between his teeth. "Anyone who is a friend of the old 'Father of the Jungle' ought to be proud of it. I hope you are!"

A servant took our baggage and led us toward a car that waited outside the station.

"I was hoping that Malcolm Letts, the Harley Street fellow, would be on the train," explained Sir John. "Probably he'll come by the later train. He's needed for the inquest. You see, he was Strahane's medical man."

"What were the circumstances ?" asked Jonathan Lowe, as the car glided along the lane.

Sir John's face was grim.

"I sat up until two o'clock this morning with Strahane," he said. "The poor devil asked me to. For over two years he's been suffering from insomnia. Can't sleep. His doctor, the Harley Street fellow for whom I was waiting, supplied him with some sleeping-tablets. Strahane used to dissolve the tablets and inject the stuff into his arm by means of a hypodermic."

"Rather an unusual course," Lowe suggested.

Sir John nodded.

"Strahane had once been a morphia addict," he explained. "But he'd cured himself. He couldn't do without the prick of the needle, however. It was the physician's idea to give him a sleepingdraught by means of the hypodermic."

"I see," murmured Jonathan Lowe. "Then you were the last to see Strahane alive?"

"Yes." Sir John sighed wearily. "He left me just before two o'clock. The fellow seemed quite normal. 'I'll take my sleeping-draught,' he said, 'and get to bed.' We'd even arranged to go and see the beagling today. I'm sure there wasn't the slightest intention of suicide."

HIS voice broke for a moment. Then he continued :

"At seven o'clock this morning, Parkes went with a cup of tea to the bedroom. Strahane used to take tea at that time, then sleep for perhaps an hour afterward. But this time he had entered upon his last sleep. Poor Strahane was dead, and the hypodermic lay on the table by the bedside. Our local Doctor said he had been dead at least four hours."

"Then he must have died within an hour of your parting," said Jonathan Lowe.

"Yes," Sir John nodded.

"And— Mrs. Strahane?" asked Jonathan Lowe quietly.

"She was in London all yesterday," said Sir John. "She left in her car after breakfast, and it was understood that she would stay the night in town. I telephoned her myself this morning with the dreadful news. She answered the phone, and motored back at once; she's in the house now."

"I see." Lowe stared indifferently at the countryside that flashed past. "And how's she taking it?"

I was watching Sir John. He winced.

"She's taking it with extraordinary calm," he replied. At that same moment the car entered a wrought-iron gateway. "Here we are," said Sir John.

FOR the next few hours I confess my patience was sorely tried.

As a newspaper-man I ought to have congratulated myself on this easy entrance to the house where the tragedy had occurred; Jonathan Lowe's statement that I was his friend had sufficed. There were no restrictions placed upon me; I wandered freely about the fine Georgian house wherein Sir John Wrox had ensconced himself after long official service in India.

I had even been permitted to enter the bedroom where the body of Anthony Strahane was still lying. I had gazed upon his well-known features, now rigid in death. I had listened to Jonathan Lowe's futile questions to the Doctor, and also heard the curt replies of the local police inspector.

"No sir. He must have used a big dose on himself—an overdose, I expect. The box that contains the sleeping-tablets was empty."

But for a startling newspaper story I had nothing. A few bare details— obvious suicide. And not even an interview with Mrs. Strahane. I hadn't glimpsed her during my tour of the house; I was told that she preferred to remain in her room until dinner-time.

"But please don't talk to her when you meet her at dinner," said Jonathan Lowe sternly.

"Why ?" I protested.

"Because J want to talk to the pretty lady," he replied provokingly.

And so, from the country-house of Sir John Wrox I telephoned my story to the Daily Courier.

"That doesn't sound particularly exciting," growled the news editor at the other end of the line, "Nothing exciting is happening," I growled back.

"Well, you'd better stay on for the inquest, and then get back at once," snapped the news editor; his tone implied that a junior reporter could have collected a better news-story.

DINNER that evening promised to be a mournful affair. Sir John Wrox was feeling the tragedy keenly ; Jonathan Lowe seemed to have stupefied himself with a succession of cheroots during the afternoon, and Malcolm Letts, who had at last arrived, was merely testy at being brought away from urgent affairs in London to this tragedy that had occurred in Sussex.

The only live person at the table was Mrs. Anthony Strahane. She faced me at dinner, and I was almost tongue-tied at her beauty. The full glory of her tawny hair was revealed by the electric light, and her yellow eyes glowed. A black evening frock draped her perfect body. Although the man she had married but six weeks previously now lay dead in a room upstairs, she seemed as much at her ease as if the door would shortly open and he would appear before us.

What is more she talked about him— about their honeymoon! I could see the stern features of Sir John wincing as she prattled on. He hated her. Only Jonathan Lowe seemed mildly interested.

"Yes, I once spent a holiday in Lugano myself," he drawled. "Picturesque little town. Ideal for a honeymoon."

Sir John frowned openly at him. This conversation was in the worst of taste.

"There was the sunshine on the lake," Mrs. Strahane prattled, "and the mountains changing color in the sunset. And the lake water lapping at the beach—"

"And the narrow streets of the village," went on Jonathan Lowe. "They climb the hillside. There was one, I remember, that went from the main square, twisted and turned, and finally led to a little Italian church at the top of the slope. Now what's the name of that?"

"I know," said Mrs. Strahane. "They call it the Rue Corniche."

"That's right," said Lowe. '"You've a marvelous memory, Mrs. Strahane. But I think I can beat you."

"Try," she smiled.

"Well, halfway up that crooked street is a shop that sells cheap necklaces, picture postcards, and Italian trinkets. Am I right?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"And next door to that is a wine-shop, and ristorante. They call it Bellanza's."

"Right again," she smiled.

"And the shop after that is— a chemist's," he said quietly. "There is no name over the window, but when you open the door a bell tinkles in a silly sort of fashion and—"

He stopped. Her face had blanched; her hand which had been toying with a wine-glass trembled, and she quickly withdrew it from the table.

"I'm sorry if I've said something I ought not to have said,' murmured Jonathan Lowe.

Her carmined lips were pressed tightly together, though the next moment they twisted into a smile.

"It's nothing," she said easily. "You were talking about what?"

"I mentioned a chemist's shop," went on Jonathan Lowe relentlessly.

She shook her head. "No, I'm afraid I don't remember a chemist's shop."

"Oh, but I'm sure there is one there," said Jonathan Lowe. "I was suffering dreadfully from toothache, and I remember opening that door where the bell tinkles, and—"

"Damn the chemist's shop!" exploded Sir John, who could no longer contain himself. "You amaze me, Lowe. There was a time when your stories were worth listening to, but you're becoming prosy in your old age! I would rather hear you talking of tigers, than of chemist's shops."

"Tigers!" The yellow eyes of Mrs. Strahane blazed. "What do you know of tigers?"

Her lips were parted almost in a snarl, T had a sudden vision again of that beast behind the bars at the Zoo.

"Well, he's shot more than most men," said Sir John, happy that the conversation had now changed. "He's stalked many a murderous beast in the jungle— and on foot, too!"

The woman's gaze was fixed on Jonathan Lowe.

"It must be a big moment," she said, "when you gaze into the eyes of a tiger."

"Yes," replied Lowe. "It is."

"And are you afraid?"

"Very often."

"Has a tiger ever mauled you?"

"Once."

"You will have to be careful."

She put a cigarette between her lips. Lowe gallantly offered her a lighted match.

"I'm afraid my tiger-hunting days are over," he laughed, and blew out the flame. "But I can, at least, give advice to others," he added. "Perhaps I ought to explain that it happens to be the reason I am here."

Her yellow eyes opened wide.

"There is some one here who wants advice on tiger-hunting?" she asked.

"There was," he corrected.

"Who?"

"Your husband."

There was a tense silence. But it was broken by Jonathan Lowe himself.

"Yes," he went on easily, "Anthony Strahane wrote a most astonishing letter to me a few days ago— a most astonishing letter. He seemed to have developed a terrible fear of tigers, or rather, one tiger; and he asked me if it were possible for a human being to take on the spirit of a tiger, if not the body. Of course, that is a subject well known to people of the jungle. Psychologists call it lycanthropy. But this letter written by Strahane suggests that he expected to be killed by a tiger at any moment. It was for this reason I decided to come here and hand in the letter at the inquest."

"Have you done so?" asked Sir John, astonished.

Jonathan Lowe shook his head

"Not yet. I'm going to sleep upon it. I shall have to think about it."

At that moment Mrs. Strahane rose from the table.

"Gentlemen, I hope you'll excuse me," she said. "I'm very tired and I know that tomorrow will be a most difficult day."

There was a murmur of sympathy.

We rose, and watched that slim, blackfrocked figure glide out of the room. Malcolm Letts was the first to speak.

"Jove! It's amazing to think what that woman has gone through— and yet she can control herself sufficiently to sit at this table and talk to us of her honeymoon! She's magnificent."

"Magnificent," agreed Jonathan Lowe.

"Well, I think I'll get along to my room," growled Malcolm Letts. "I suppose this inquest will be over within a couple of hours?"

"I hope so," said Sir John.

WHEN Letts had left the room, Sir John turned to Jonathan Lowe.

"And now, you queer devil, what are you going to do?" he ask.

Jonathan Lowe selected one of his vile cheroots.

"D'you remember, Sir John, the excitement of waiting all night for your first tiger?" he said. "The moon coming up out of the jungle— the silence suddenly torn by the shriek of a beast in pain, and then the cough in the grass that tells you the tiger is on the prowl? And you sit in the machan, gripping the cold steel of your rifle, in a desire to make the nightmare less real. Yet it is real, gloriously real."

"Yes, that waiting in the jungle darkness makes you live ten times the intensity of the ordinary man," said Sir John.

Jonathan Lowe lit his cheroot and puffed at it noisily.

"Tonight," he said quietly, "I'm going to wait for a tiger once again."

"You're mad," cried Sir John. "You're in Sussex, in my house, and sleeping in one of my bedrooms!"

Jonathan Lowe nodded.

"In Sussex, in your house, and in one of your bedrooms I hope to bag my tiger."

Sir John stared at him. "And the bait ?" he asked.

"Myself," replied Lowe simply. And with a cunning crook of his finger he gathered us together, and began to talk in whispers.

AT two o'clock in the morning, sitting in a chair in the quiet darkness of a bedroom overlooking a Sussex garden, the whole affair seemed to me absurdly fantastic.

Jonathan Lowe lay stretched on the bed. I could glimpse his vague outline against the white sheets. He was asleep, I was certain of that; but he slept as does a hunter in the jungle— the slightest sound would wake him.

In another corner of the room, wrapped in a dressing-gown, was the tall figure of Sir John Wrox. It was with many misgivings that he had entered upon this tiger-hunt in a country-house. He disbelieved in the whole mad theory expounded by Jonathan Lowe.

"As a hunter of beasts," he had said, to the gray-haired naturalist, "you are unequaled, my dear fellow. But when it comes to the psychology of human beings, and particularly women, you are sadly mistaken."

"Let the night prove me wrong," Jonathan Lowe had urged.

Sir John nodded. "Very well— and to satisfy my own conscience, I'll sit in the machan with you."

I yawned in the darkness. My eyes were heavy for want of sleep. I wished dearily that I had never agreed to Jonathan Lowe's accompanying me on this job. As a newspaper reporter I would have done better from the outside. And I was so tired, so very tired!

I lurched into sleep. Except for the soughing of the wind in the trees, there was nothing but a lullaby of silence. I dropped heavily into a darkness of oblivion, but was jerked back again like a puppet at the end of astring. The creak of a floorboard had sounded in the night.

I stirred in my chair. A slight hiss from the bed told me that Lowe was awake, and warning me to silence. I sat with my heart thumping heavily, my ears strained for another sound. At last it came— a soft, slithering noise. I tried desperately to analyze it.

It was the padding of a beast along the corridor beyond the door.... Pad— pad— pad!

A tiger roaming in the night! Was Jonathan Lowe right? I gripped the arms of the chair tensely. In that moment I realized what Lowe meant when he said a man waiting for a tiger gripped the steel of his rifle to make the nightmare seem less real. For this was a nightmare of darkness and soft sounds. But there was no rifle in my hands.

Another creak— then a silence of seconds. The pads had stopped by the door. Then came a tinkle; I realized that the brass knob of the door was being turned, ever so slowly. The door began to swing open; but only the darkness beyond was revealed.

For a few seconds the door remained open. The beast waited, and listened. Jonathan Lowe was breathing with quiet regularity. I had clenched my nails into my palms in a desperate endeavor to control myself. The next moment the beast was in the room. Pad— pad— pad! It approached the bed, and bent over the prone form of Jonathan Lowe.

I could stand it no longer. I rose in my chair. At that same moment the hands of Lowe shot out in the darkness and grabbed the beast.

"No, you don't!" he said quietly.

I blundered to the electric switch. Even as my fingers were on it, a horrible scream rent the darkness, the scream of a tiger! I plunged the room into light and swung round to face the beast.

Dazed by the light, I saw only a tawny black-striped body twisting and snarling in the grip of Jonathan Lowe. A white paw was in the air, and seemingly a claw gleamed—but it was a hand holding a hypodermic syringe, and struggling to plunge it into the arm of Jonathan Lowe!

The tiger was Mrs. Anthony Strahane, in a striking yellow dressing-gown with black stripes. Her tawny hair straggled over her maniacal face. With a swiftness that was surprising, she suddenly buried her teeth in Lowe's hand gripping her arm. With a grunt of pain he released her.

"Stop her, for heaven's sake!" he cried, and Sir John Wrox leaped forward.

But he was too late. The woman had plunged the needle of the syringe into her own bare arm, and stood swaying in the light before us.

The yellow eyes gleamed fiendishly. I knew then how a trapped beast looks.

"So you got me!... Tiger-hunter, eh?" she gabbled. 'Well, you won't put me behind bars. I won't go to that human Zoo that you call a prison... I've beaten you!"

She noticed the trickle of blood that came from the hand of Jonathan Lowe where she had bitten him. At that she flung back her head and laughed, that same dreadful laugh that we had heard as she stood before the tiger in its cage. But the laugh choked in a sob and she dropped to the floor.

"I'LL get the Doctor," said Sir John, his grizzled face alarmed.

"No use," murmured Jonathan Lowe, shaking his head. "She's dying of the same poison that she gave her husband— hyoscine. It'll be all over in five minutes."

"But how could she poison him ?" cried Sir John. "She was in London when it happened!"

"Exactly," nodded Lowe, on his knees at the side of the woman. "But she knew that every night he dissolved a tablet of veronal in water, and injected the stuff by means of a hypodermic."

"Well?"

"There was only one tablet left last night. And before the woman went to London, she saw that the tablet of hysocine was substituted for a tablet of veronal. You see, she had planned this murder from the very beginning, and she was clever enough to buy the poison abroad. On her honeymoon, in fact. That little chemist in Lugano, whose door tinkles when it is opened, supplies hyoscine in this tablet form. Anthony Strahane knew that his wife hated him and sought to kill him. But he did not realize that she very cleverly arranged that he should kill himself— which, unsuspectingly, he did. He thought he was taking his usual sleeping-draught. Instead, he was injecting into himself a deadly poison."

The dying woman on the floor raised her head. Her yellow eyes were glazing.

"You cunning devil," she whispered, and a tigerish look crossed her face. Then she raised herself with an effort. "Forgive me, Albert, I loved you."

Then she dropped back, dead... .

I HAD finished writing my story for the Daily Courier. A good story, I flattered myself. I was about to take u the telephone and ask for the news editor. But: I hesitated a moment.

"Tell me," I said to Lowe, sprawled n a comfortable chair in the library, "what made you suspect that Anthony Strahane had been poisoned? Was it the Harley Street man who told you?"

Jonathan Lowe shook his head.

"The Harley Street man gave one perfunctory look at the body and decided that Strahane had died from an overdose of veronal. No, it was the little village doctor whom Sir John first brought in, who made me suspect it. He was worried. He had never had a case like this in the course of his village practice, and naturally he concentrated on it. He remarked that it was almost as though a swift poison had killed Strahane."

"And that, combined with the letter you had received from Strahane about tigers, made you suspect the woman, eh?"

"There was no letter," said Jonathan Lowe. "I never had a letter from Strahane in my life. I'm afraid, my dear young man, that I was lying horribly when I talked to Mrs. Strahane at the dinner-table. But I wanted a bait. That letter was the bait. Mrs. Strahane realized that the sort of letter I had concocted would be dangerous if read at the inquest. She felt she must get it, and destroy it. Well, as a crime-reporter, you ought to know that a murderer always repeats the same form of murder. Joseph Smith and the bath is a striking example. Mrs. Strahane used her claw— the hypodermic."

"So most of your deductions were pure instinct?" I asked.

"Jungle instinct," replied Lowe, with asmile. "Study the beasts, young man!"

I turned to the telephone.

_______________

4: The Cross of Kilbawn

A Christmas Story

Waif Wander

Mary Helena Fortune, 1833-1911

Advocate (Vic) 23 Dec 1876

IN dear far away old Ireland, close to the old ruin of Kilbawn Chapel and within sight of the placid river Slaney, a small, low cabin stood under the shelter of some old yews. It was surrounded by as lovely a country as ever lay under a summer moon, but in its age and desolation was more in keeping with the rain near it. The old thatch was decayed and sunken between the bending rafters, and spreading patches of houseleek blossomed goldenly among its tufts; its mud walls were decayed and broken, and from the desolateness of its appearance in the beautifying light of a pale moon one could judge how miserable it must look in the broad light of day.

A strange place, too, had been chosen in which to erect this miserable home. Around the holy chapel of old Kilbawn had, centuries ago, been interred the dead of many a circling mile. The grass of many generations had laid the quaint stone crosses and old headstones low, and covered up the sacred deposits with a rich verdure, unrivalled in the whole country side. Every vestige of the enclosing wall had disappeared, but the boundary of the burial ground was still plainly traceable by the higher elevation of the place of graves, and the almost unnaturally rich grasses that grew long in Kilbawn and waved like grain in the passing breeze of summer.

Who among my readers does not remember the old chapel ruins of Ireland— the broken gable, smoothed and rounded into softness of outline with such a wealth of ivy as no other spots of earth can boast of; the low arched doorway, seeming like the entrance to eome subterraneous passage in the great thickness of the rudely strong stone wall; the little arched window high up in the gable, through which you caught a glimpse of trembling ivy leaves outlined against a pale sky beyond? Who I say, does not recall such a ruin to picture to his mind Kilbawn Chapel?

It was against the mound that formed the outer circle of Kilbawn burial ground that the cabin of Widow Brien had been built; the back of the tenement leaned against the bank and the trees overshadowed its low roof gloomily. Few would have willingly chosen such a dwelling-place, and of those few Widow Brien was certainly not one.

It is of a Christmas Eve, a couple of years ago, that my story tells, and the following scene was being enacted in the cabin I have described.

Widow Brien, an old querulous looking woman, in a white cap and old shawl, was huddled together in one of those straw arm-chairs for which the old homes are remembered; the chair was pushed close into the corner of the low, wide chimney, on the broken hearth of which a pretty good fire of turf was burning. At the other side of the hearth a stool, glossy with constant and long use, was standing, but the late occupier had risen and was standing leaning on a little rickety, wooden table propped up against the wall under the little cabin window. It was a good-looking and well-clad young man, who was looking sorrowfully at the third person in the cabin on that Christmas Eve. Mary Brien was sitting on a low stool close to the big woollen wheel, at which she had evidently been working a pair of "cards," and a heap of the soft white "rolls" ready for spinning lay at her feet, but the half spun roll of wool had fallen from her hand as, apparently overwhelmed with misery, she had fallen to the nearest seat.

A tall, queenly girl, with a fine, well-developed figure, a fair soft skin, and a wealth of strongly waved, yet glossy black hair, was Mary Brien— the hair drawn back into a careless knot behind, and the long dark lashes now drooping over her eyes as she bowed her head heavy with grief. She was even so a pretty picture, that fair and sad Irish maiden. Her dress was the usual short skirt of coarse "lintsey," and a small shawl crossed on her bosom, the fringe of which fell over the bare round arms that, at the moment, rested heavily on her lap.

"Yis," the old woman said, in evident continuation of an angry complaint, "'tis holy Christmas Eve this blessed night, an' a purty home it is for the last of the ould Briens to spind it in. I wish to the Lord I was dead an' in glory this night, that I do."

"Mother!" cried Mary, looking up wildly.

"Mother! iyah! A purty daughter you are to call me mother. I wonther you're not ashamed to do it. A hard, hard-hearted girl to sit there an' see me like this! Whin your own bones are ould, an' your own blood is could an' thin, I pray God this night that you may not be left in a damp flare and forenint an impty chimley to die in your ould age widout wan comfort around yon."

"Would you have me perjure meself, mother?" the girl wailed out. "If I had no feelin's an' no heart, an' no memory at all, would you have me break my sacred oath at the foot of the cross?"

"A purty thing you tuk an oath for, Mary Brien, when you med it for Steve Fitzpatrick! But if you tuk a hunder oaths, they're out this night. You tould me wid your own lips that you promised him two years last Christmas twelve months, and so your word is up this night. Ah, then, Mary Brien, I don't think wid all of it that you have much time to lose if you don't mane to die an ould maid. You're twenty-six years ould, and plinty of the nabours' girls at your age were mothers and wives long years agone. Av it was some ould wicked ditil I was wanting you to marry for the sake of puttin' a roof over me cfald bones, you might hãve rason to talk; but where in the parish of Slaney, I'd like to kndw, will you bring me a young man to aiqual Bartle Connolly. I ax you that, Mary Brien!"

"I'm sayin' nothin' agen Bartle, and he knows that, mother. I'm only axin' to be let alone for a while. Bartle knows that I have no love to give him; though his kindness to you, mother, I'd pay for wid my heart's blood, if 'twas necessary. You are very hard on me, mother, to begrudge your poor daughter a few weeks or months of hope and comfort." And the girl's tears began to fall silently, drop by drop, to her lap.

"I'm very hard on me poor daughter," mimicked the angry old woman, nodding her head and setting the remains of her long yellow teeth together. "An' I won't let you have a couple of weeks of pace an' comfort an hope, inyagh! An' what are you, Mary Brien ? A hard-hearted, selfish, onnatral girl, widout one feelin' in ye but for that scamp of a half sir— Steve Fitzpatrick.  You'll go on till I lave me curse on you, thats' what you'll do, you shtrap!"

"Go aisy Mrs. Brien," the young farmer said, softly, interfering at last. "You're too hard on Mary, after all. If I thought there was one chance of Steve comin' back I'd never ax her to marry me— but I don't think there is; the two years she promised him are nearly up; they're up after to-day, Mary, ashtore, an' not wan word has ever come home from him."

"You'd better biggin to take her part, too, Bartle," Widow Brien squeaked at him. "That's all I want now, is for you to throw her up, though God knows it's well she deserves it. Here I take me inside to the room, carry me poor ould bones off the damp flure an' away from the could wind that's coming through the cracks; put me to bed, an' maybe the saints'll pray for me to be taken out of it a corpse, for it's in the grave only I'll have rest in this world!"

Mary Brien lifted up her apron and wiped her eyes as she stood up and faced her mother with decision in her tones and air.

"Maybe I'm wrong, mother," she said firmly, "for you are my mother, after all. Bartle, may God bless you— there's my hand, an' afther this night is over you may come an' claim it. If Steve doesn't come back before mornin' I give you my promise to be your wife. Are you aisy now, mother?"

"No, I'm not aisy! If Steve Fitzpatrick kem back forty times he don't get you widout he's plinty of money! There now. Here, child, give me a lift, an' mind you be here bright an airly in the mornin', Bartle. 'Divil a fear of a bad ha'penny like that fellow comin' back again," and the old thing cackled a laugh as wrinkled as her face. Considering how she lamented over the lamentable state of her "ould bones," it was really wonderful to see with what agility Widow Brien got into "the room;" but, also, considering her utter selfishness, not at all wonderful to observe how little sympathy she felt with her unhappy daughter as she assisted her patiently to undress.

"How bad we are!" she exclaimed, as a smothered sigh from Mary reached her ear. "Wan would think 'twas goin' to be hung we wor, instead of bein' the lucky wife av a good, warm, young farmer. Bad cess to that young schamp, Steve Fitzpatrick, this blessed night. Amin."

"Oh, mother, don't curse him; what harm did he ever do you? I hope to God he's not cursed enough already wid misforthen an' poverty."

"What harm did he iver do me, is it, Mary Brien! I wonther you have the face to ax me sich a question here fomint me face! Harm enough, I think, turnin' the heart of me own child agin me, an havin' me here in this rotten hole losin' me life, whin I might have the warm corner an' see me daughter a lady in Bartle Connelly's fine stone house. That's no harm at all, I suppose ? Here ! draw the cloak round me back and go down on your knees and ax the Lord to turn the heart round in you."

The girl made no reply, knowing by sad experience how useless it would have been. She took up the rushlight and went ont to the other end of the cabin to "rake" the fire and otherwise dispose things for the night. It was with a sigh of relief she found that Bartle had gone, so she carefully drew the sods together and covered them with ashes, and then finding there was no water in the place, took up the bucket and went out to obtain some at the well.

It was a cold, clear night of beautiful moonlight, and everything lay so peaceful and sweet around the old chapel that Mary's heart was drawn to it; not through her eyes, though, but through her memory of the past. As she gazed sadly toward the ruined chapel, its rounded gables looking black against the moonlighted sky beyond, and its waving grass gleaming like silver in the moonbeams, her eyes filled up with tears that obliterated it all for a moment.

"I'll go!" she murmured; "maybe 'tis for the last time— may God help me!" And leaving the water at the door she climbed up the bank behind the cabin, emerged from the shadow of the trees into the broad light, and crept up the almost overgrown path tbat led to the ruin.

There were not many girls of Mary's age and bringing up that would have ventured into "ould" Kilbawn Chapel in the night— her own mother would not have done it, good as she claimed to be, for a hundred pounds of the money she valued so much. Perhaps, that was the reason that it had become so familiar to poor Mary— the reason that she had spent most of the few happy moments of her life there. It had been the meeting place of the lovers before a desperate attempt to better himself for Mary's sake had sent young Stephen Fitzpatrick over the seas to the " Gold Land." It was the last place in which the poor girl should have sought forgetfulness, but she did not want to forget just yet— she would give just a little space that last night to the memory of the youth she loved, and to prayers for his happiness whether he was dead or alive.

She did not pause outside the old ivy-covered walls but passed through the deep portal, so low that she had to stoop her handsome head to escape the ivy overhead; and whan she had penetrated the thickness f the wall she stood still, not with fear, though most people must have been awed by the solemn beauty of the scene and hour, but almost overcome with the memories recalled by every corner of the ruined walls.

At the farther end of the chapel and under the narrow small window, a solid uncarved cross of unhewn stone stood solemnly and alone on what had once been the floor of the sacred edifice. The long rank grasses stood silently, or rustled slightly as an errant breeze through the deep doorway, disturbed their blades; but around the old cross a mall space was clear exposing the heavy slab on which the cross rested with a strength untouched by the lapse of centuries. It was the hands of Mary Brien that kept the obtrusive grass away from the holy spot, and there now, at the foot of the sacred emblem of her eligion, she prostrated herself in an agony of grief and prayer.

Of course there was no roof on the old building, and clear above the pale starry vault of heaven overhung the weeping worshipper. The moon, just risen high enough to overlook the low ivied gable, threw wavering rays at the cross, as wandering sprays of the parasite waved hither and thither in the breeze. A long, straggling stem that had strayed from the old walls and twined greenly around the upright of the holy emblem fell down between Mary's bowed head and the light, casting, as it swayed gently above her, a restless shadow on her pale forehead. It was a lovely and beautiful picture formed by the figure of Mary humbly bent before the cross in the old time-honoured spot where the dead of ages ago had worshipped and wept.

There was an old story about the spot on which the girl knelt, so old as to be almost a legend; yet there lived yet in the neighbourhood an old woman who remembered "Martin the miser." He had lived the life of an anchorite, and although supposed to be possessed of considerable wealth stowed somewhere about his wretched cabin, he permitted himself to almost perish of want. At last the parish authorities talked of taking his case in hand, but on the morning of the very day his cabin was to have been visited and searched, he got up from his sick bed and somehow crawled to the cross of Kilbawn, at the foot of which he was found lying dead. This was the legend of Martin the miser, whose treasure bad never been discovered.

Many surmises as to his object in gaining that holy spot were not made, for one alone was supposeable to the minds of his neighbours. A tardily-awakened conscience had driven him to the cross in an agony of prayer in which the agony of death had overtaken him, and to this very day few who find themselves in old Kilbawn Chapel forget to add a prayer for the repose of the penitent miser's soul to their more personal petitions. But Mary Brien forgot all about the dead miser in her own bitter trouble until she rose from her knees and turned her white face to the moon. She was standing on the stone slab, on the very spot where his dead body had been discovered.

Good God! was that his spirit that stood so shadow-like in the doorway and gazed silently upon her? Her heart grew cold with fear, and the very terror of helplessness fell upon her as the figure moved slowly out of the shadow and stood in the moonlight. One moment, and Mary held out her arms and then tottered as, with a wild cry, she fell back against the cross almost senseless. No, it was not the spirit of Martin the miser that stood before her— if it was a spirit at all it was the spirit of Steve Fitzpatrick!

In another moment she would have fainted, but in another moment arms were clasped around her that were assuredly not those of a spirit, and the well-known voice of her lover was in her ears.

"At last, Mary, at last! Oh, heaven be praised that I have lived to see this moment!"

For a few moments the lovers forgot everything but the supreme happiness of meeting again, but when, after a warm embrace, the girl drew baok from his arms to gaze into the beloved face, she saw something §ven in the moonlight tbat frightened her.

"Good God, Steve, what's the matter with you? Oh, you are ill! You look so bad and— and—"

Her words failed as her tear-laden eyes fell to his coat, his shirt, his very boots. She guessed all in an instant, and it scarcely needed the words of Steve to tell her that he had returned poorer than he went.

"Yes, darling, far poorer, for when I went I had plenty of good clothes, and now I am literally in rags. Ay, and worse, far worse than any poverty, Mary, dear— it is a man broken in health as well as in hopes that speaks to you. I knew it was but to say good-bye to you for ever that I came back to the old place, but I had tried with every effort that a man could make, and Fate was against me. Well, I can at least die within sight of the roof that covers you!"

Mary leaned on his shoulder and wept bitterly.

"It's little I'd care, Steve, if you hadn't a penny, an you know that; it would be enough for me that your warm heart beat near me while I knew it was my own you know that well, Steve, ashtore; but me mother! Oh, Steve, only this night promised to marry Bartle Connolly, an' if I don't, I'll have the mother's curse on me body and soul! If I could only die here— here onther the ould cross, an' near you the saints would be good to me!"

Steve could not speak. He had reached the very depths of a mighty despair, and words died on his lips. He had come thousands of miles to look upon the face of the girl he loved once again, knowing well as he thought, that the first look would be the last; but now, with the dear voice sounding in his ears, and her tears for him wet upon his shoulder, how could he give her up— how could he?

"In the name of the Holy Mother Mary don't give me up yet!" he cried, when he was able to speak. "God is good; who knows what might turn up! Don't say the words that will lay me dead herre at the old cross darlin'! I thought I could give you up, but oh!  I can't!  I can't!  I haven't this night the price of to-morrow's meal, and my father's roof is over a stranger, but for all that there's a strange hope come over me, Mary, darlin'. Promise me that you will put them off a little longer unless you want to kill me.  The day I hear you are married to another man I'll come here an' die where your feet are standing this moment; I promise you I will!"

Poor fellow! Tall and handsome and of evident good breeding, and of a rank in life superior to that of devoted Mary Brien it would have been impossible for any girl not to pity him at that moment. He looked so worn and wan— so hopeless and broken down in spite of his words, that Mary suffered more for him than for herself.

"I'll do all I can, Steve; I'll work me fingers to the bone but what I'll earn enough to keep mother comfortable; if I can save her from cursin' me I won't marry anyone see now I promise you, Steve. An' so yon haven't a penny to get a male! God help you, darlin', afther your long, weary travel and work to come home like that. Wait here for me, Steve, till I go inside. I have a few shillin's l was ped for the spinnin'yesterday."

And before he could put out his emaciated hand to stop her, the generous girl had left the ruin.

It was longeir than she had expected before she returned, for she was obliged to pretend to be occupied in household affairs to pacify the drowsy Widow Brien, who wanted her to go instantly to bed; so before Mary returned to Kilbawn the senses of Steve had nearly escaped him in an attempt to realise the extent of his astonishment and happiness at what had happened him at the foot of the old cross; and this is what did happen.

In an agony of mind, even greater than that which poor Mary had shortly before experieneed in the same spot, the almost heart-broken young man dropped on his knees before the cross, and prayed almost desperately. It seemed to him that without some safeguard from above be could not trust himself to meet the loss of the girl he loved as a Christian man should meet unavoidable trouble. He knew the depth of his warm heart, and the strength of his own strong passions, and he prayed to be shielded from sin by the protecting power of his chosen intercessor. He prayed desperately, as I have said, and in an agony of mind that extended to his body and wrung drops of sweat from his brow, and groans from the lips that would have uttered words.

All at once, as he bent his forehead, it touched the cold ivy branch to which I have alluded, and which hung pendant from the upper arm of the old cross. The touch aroused him to material things, and he tried to rise to his feet, but he was weak, and his knees trembled so that he seized the ivy to raise himself. The wrench was a strong one, and instead of being an assistance in regaining his feet, the branch broke at the cross and came in his hand, bringing with it a cloud of dust, and some heavy object, that fell to the slab on which he kneeled with a rattle like iron.

Steve was confounded, and, at first, not a little frightened. He feared that the old cross might be about to fall on him, and would have hastily arisen, but for something that held his eyes spellbound, and made his heart beat with a hundred hopes and fears that would have defied expression. Was he dreaming or the subject of some fiend's mocking? Surely not— not in that holy place, and under the very shadow of the emblem of our faith!

Lying upon the slab near his knees, and glittering temptingly in the bright moonrays that rested on them, were several round pieces of gleaming gold coin. A rusty iron box which the fall had partially burst open, lay before him, evidently but waiting a moment to disgorge its golden contents, that seemed crushed to the opening as though trying to escape.

Steve put out a trembling hand and lifted one of the coins— it was tangible at all events. Growing bolder he lifted it to the pressure of his teeth and then ashed it to the stone slab as a final test. Ah! did you ever hear sweeter music, Stephen Fitzpatrick! ay, and music with Mary in every note! Don't be afraid, an pick it up and gather the box to you! You are not going to die— though you hear the strokes of your own heart louder than you ever heard the hammer on the anvil— but don't be afraid, Steve, you are not made of the stuff that joy kills!

At that supreme moment Mary softly returned, and my words now fail me to tell you of the surprise, the doubts, the tears, and the final certainties that by turns overwhelmed the jubilant lovers.

Careless now of her mother's talk, the girl ran back to the cabin and brought a rushlight, which Steve found a match to light, and by the light of which they examined their find— the box— which they discovered to have really belonged to Martin the miser!

Steve forced it entirely open, and it was easily done, for hinges and lock were rusted almost to bits. On the top was a bit of folded parchment on which was written in crabbed characters the following words:—

"Let them that finds keep, and pray for the soul of Martin the Miser."

"An' that was what he was doing, the oor unfortunate, £ 1 when death overtook im, hidin' his money an not prayin' at the cross as 'twas thought."

"Maybe he was doing both, Mary, darling; don't let us judge him, especially as he has given us to each other for ever."

"True for you, Steve, an' God rest his soul. I'll not forget to pray for it, nor you aither, Steve, I know."

Steve and Mary decided on keeping the secret of the miser's treasure. The young man had not been seen by anyone yet, and when they parted he went straight back to the neighbouring town, where he had no difficulty in depositing his gold and exchanging some of it for rustling bank notes; and at no late hour on the morning of Christmas Day there was a laughable scene at the cabin of Widow Brien.

The widow herself was seated in her chair, arrayed in her best cap and with a face radiant with pride. Over her arms and partly resting on her knees was a gorgeous shawl, on which her admiring eyes were bent when they were, not engaged in admiring some gold guineas she held tightly in one palm.

Mary, in holiday costume and beaming with love and happiness, was standing by the side of Steve Fitzpatrick, who, in a "brain new shute," as Widow Brien called it, looked every inch the picture of a handsome and happy lover. Mary had her cloak over her arm and both were standing near the door. At that instant the chapel bell of Slaney began to ring softly, floating over the river with a sweetness suggestive indeed of the day when "Christ was born."

"There's the chapel bell, mother. Steve and me must be goin' or we'll be late. You won't be lonesome till we come back?"

"Lonesome! Divil a fear av me bein' lonesome. I wonther what Bartle'll say to the shawl. Fair, ye always had good taste, Steve, asthore. I knew 'twas in ye— I knew well 'twas; an' I always sed it when Mary herself a'most gev ye up. 'He'll be here', ees I— 'he'll be here wid his pockits full of goold wan o' these days', an' isn't here me words good? Well, well, Steve, ye wor ever an' always a favourite of mine, an' the Lord be praised I lived to see ye back wance more!"

And the old worshipper of Mammon and of herself opened her palm and smiled at the yellow gold within it.

Mary and Steve went away too proud and happy in each other to do more than smile at poor Widow Brien's illustration of the way of the world, and had the pleasure of living to see the old woman grow better under the influence of peace and plenty.

Steve bought and stocked a good farm with the miser's gold, and old Granny Brien nursed, and kindly nursed, too, many a scion from the old stock of Fitzpatrick.

______________

5: The Murder in the "Fishing Cat"

Edna St Vincent Millays

1892-195,

The Century Magazine March 1923

Edna St Vincednt Millay

Chat qui Peche translates as "Fishing Cat"

NOBODY came any more to the Restaurant du Chat qui Pêche. It was difficult to say just why.

The popularity of a restaurant does not depend on the excellence of its cuisine or the cobwebs on the bottles in cellar. And you might have in the window ten glass tanks instead of one in which moved obscurely shadowy eels and shrimps, yet you could be no surer of success. Jean-Pietrre knew this, and he did not reproach himself for his failure is something that may happen to the best of us.

For fourteen years he had served as good lapin sauté as was to be found in Paris; and if the petits pois were rather big and hard, and the Vouvray rather like thin cider, and you got no more than a teaspoonful of sugar with your strawberries, well, what could you expect for seven francs, all told? Not the world, surely. As for the rest, where else might you, while sitting comfortably at your table under red-and-white awning, choose your eel, and see it captured for you deftly in a napkin, and borne off, writhing muscularly, to the kitchen, to be delivered to you five minutes later on a platter, fried? That was more than you could do at Ciro's.

It might be, of course, because Margot had scolded him much too audibly. But where was the man among his clients whose wife had not at some time or other addressed him as saliguad, or espèce de soup au lait? Let him stand forth.

And, anyway, she had gone now. After fourteen years at his side, stamping the butter, whacking the long loaves of bread, sitting down with a sigh to a bowl of onion soup after nine o'clock, she had gone. She had run off with a taxi-driver who had red moustaches that curled naturally. And the place was very still.

Jean-Pierre stood in the doorway with a damp cloth in his hand, and watched the people go by. They all went by. Once he had been sure that all were coming in, but now he knew better. They were going to the Rendezvous des Cochers et Camionneurs, next door.

"J'ai pas la veine," said Jean-Pierre. He stepped out upon the pavement and busily passed the damp cloth over a table which was not yet dry.

A man and a girl went by. Two men went by. A woman went past, selling papers: "L'Intran'! L'Intransigeant! La Liberte— troisieme edition! L'Lntran'! L'Intransigeant."  Two young men went by; one was wearing a smock, the other had a painted picture under his arm. A man and a girl went past with their arms about each other. The man was saying, "Si, si, c'est vrai." A very little girl came along, carrying a basket of small fringe-petalled pinks and fading roses. She had a serious face. She held out the flowers earnestly to a woman, with a coat over her arm, pushing a baby-carriage; to an old man reading a newspaper as he walked; to two young women, dressed precisely alike, who were hurrying somewhere, chattering.

A priest went by, taking long steps, his black gown flapping about his large shoes, his stiff shallow hat on the back of his head. He was trying to catch a bus. He began to run. The little girl watched him go by, seriously. Still watching him, she held out her flowers to a soldier in a uniform of horizon-blue. Then she went to the restaurant next door, and moved among the tables.

"Sentez, madame," she said without emotion, and impassively thrust a bunch of pinks under the nose of a young woman, with a very red mouth, whose fork dangled languidly from her hand as she conversed with the man across from her.

"Merci, merci," said the woman, and motioned her away without looking at her.

An American boy was dining alone, reading from a yellow book. He looked up from his book, and followed the little girl with his eyes as she moved about the terrace. As she approached him he spoke to her.

"C'est combien, ça ma petite?" he asked.

She came up to him, and pressed her small stomach against the table.

"Dix sous," she answered lispingly, staring at his forehead.

He put an arm about her while he selected a nosegay from the basket, stood it up in his empty wineglass, and poured Vichy for it. Then he gave her a franc and told her to keep the change.

She stared at him, and went off up the street, holding out her basket to the passers-by.

Jean-Pierre came to himself with a start: the proprietor of a flourishing cafe does not stand all the afternoon gaping at the goings-on in the cafe next door. No wonder people did not come to the Restaurant du Chat: it had an absent-minded patron. He hurriedly passed the damp cloth over two of the iron-legged tables, plucked a brown leaf from the IaureI which hedged the terrace from the pavement proper, and went back into the restaurant.

"Ça va, Phillippe?" he questioned jovially of the large eel which was now the sole occupant of the tank.

Not for the life of him could Jean-Pierre have told you why he had addressed the eel as Philippe; but having done so, he was glad. For from the moment he had given the creature a name, it possessed an identity, it was a person, something he could talk to. He went to the kitchen, and returned with a morsel of lobster from a salad of the night before and tossed it into the pool.

Two men and two women, finding the Rendezvous des Cochers crowded, turned in at the Restaurant du Chat qui Pêche and seated themselves. They heard Jean-Pierre singing:

"Oh madame, voilà du bon fromage!

Oh madame, voilà du bon fromage!

Voilà du bon fromage au lait!"

One of the men rapped on the table with his stick. Jean-Pierre stopped short in his song, caught up the carte du jour, smoothed down his black beard, and hurried out.

"Very good, the rabbit," he suggested. And, "What will you have, sirs, in the way of wine?"

FOR HALF a year there had been only three of them to do the work— he, his wife, and Maurice, the waiter. Maurice had come to them when he was sixteen; but very soon he was nineteen, and the War Department, which knows about everything, had found out about that also, and had taken him away to put him into the army.

Then for two months there had been only two of them, but it was quite enough. Now Margot was gone, and he was alone. But business was worse and worse; and very rarely was he hurried with all the cooking and the serving and the cleaning-up.

Jean-Pierre had made few friends in Paris in these fourteen years. He had dealt pleasantly with his clients, his neighbours, and the tradespeople with whom he had to do; but he had been content with his wife. She was a pretty woman from the frontier of Spain and more Spanish than French. He had met her for the first time right over there, in the Luxembourg Gardens. He could almost see from his doorway the very tree under which she had been sitting. She was wearing a hat of pink straw sloping down over her forehead, with many little roses piled high under the back of it; and she was very small about the waist. She was embroidering something white.

Several times he passed the chair in which she was sitting, and every time she looked up, and then looked down again. When she arose to go, he fell into step beside her. "Mademoiselle, may I accompany you?" he asked.

"No, please," she answered hurriedly, without looking a him, and quickened her step.

He kept pace with her, however, and bent over her and spoke again more softly.

"It is wrong for one so beautiful to be so cruel."

"Veux-tu we laisser!" she scolded, tossing her head, and hastened out of sight.

But the next afternoon she was there again.

"You remember my wife, Philippe?" said Jean-Pierre. "Margot of the naughty eyes and the pretty ankles?"

Philippe said nothing.

"You do, all the same," Jean-Pierre averred. "She used to stir the water to make you mad." After a moment he said again, "Philippe, you remember Margot, don't you?"

Philippe said nothing.

"Well, anyhow," said Jean-Pierre, "she's gone." For three months now Philippe had been alone in the tank. Nobody ate eels any more. The few customers that came ordered rabbit, mutton, or beefsteak and potatoes. It would be foolish to have more eels sent in from the basin in the country. Jean-Pierre had explained that he would need for a time no more eels or shrimps, that he was making some changes.

Every morning when the proprietor of the Chat qui Pêche came down to open the door and put the tables and chairs out upon the pavement, Philippe lay sluggishly on the green bottom of his tank, the sunshine bringing out colours on his back that one had not known were there.

It was an oblong glass tank with brass edges. Fresh water came up through a little spout in the middle of it, and the stale water was sucked away through a pipe in one corner, which was covered with a bubble-shaped piece of netting. Looking into the tank one day, Jean-Pierre wondered why the netting was shaped like that; then he reflected that if the wire had been flat over the mouth of the pipe, it would have been clogged always with bits of dirt and food, which would float up to settle on it. He felt very proud when he had come to this conclusion.

Philippe had been at one time grey-green in colour, and thin and very active. Now he was green-black, with a valance standing up along his spine of transparent purple, and with two Iittle pale-green fins behind his head. He was big now, but as lithe as ever.

Jean-Pierre had heard queer tales about eels; he did not know how much truth there was in them. He had heard that their mothers came ashore to give birth to them; that they were born, like little animals, not laid, like eggs. And when they were small they were called 'elvers'. And he had been told that after they were born, their mothers left them, and went away. And in a little while the elvers started out for themselves in search of pools to live in. And if it so happened that the pools nearby had dried up with the heat, they went farther. And it was said that they have gone as far as twenty miles, across land, in search of water, thousands of them, an army of little eels. And no human eye had witnessed their sinuous migration. Only from time to time there was found a dead elver in the grass, and people knew the eels had passed that way.

"Dis-moi un peu, Philippe," said Jean-Pierre. "You are a droll one, aren't you?"

THE DAYS went by, and nothing happened in them. Every day a few people came to eat there. Once there had been ten at a time, and Jean-Pierre had said to himself that if this kept on, he would have to get a waiter. But it did not keep on.

Every day he missed his wife more keenly. One day he went across the rue de Medicis into the Luxembourg Gardens, and walked up and down past the place where he had first seen her. A young woman was sitting under the trees, embroidering, but she was not Margot. She had two children with her, two little girls, dressed just alike, in very short dresses made all of pale blue silk ruffles. They were chasing one another up and down the walk and calling in shrill voices. One of them lost her hair-ribbon, a pale blue silk bow, and ran sidewise up to her mother, holding in one hand the ribbon and lifting with the other a lock of straight blonde hair at the top of her head; but all the time calling to her sister, and pawing the earth with brown impatient legs.

Jean-Pierre wished very much that his only child, his and Margot's, had not died of diphtheria. She would have been much prettier than either of these little girls; she had looked like her mother. And she would be a companion for now. If she were here this afternoon, he would take her to the Jardin des Plantes and show her all the different-coloured birds. And after that they would go to the Cafe des Deaux Magots and sit outside, and he would have a half-blonde beer, and she would have a grenadine. And he would buy her one of those small white-and-brown rabbits made all real fur that hop when you press a bulb, such as old men are always peddling along the pavement from trays suspended in front of their stomachs by a cord about their necks.

The days went by and went by. May passed, and June passed. One day there came a postcard from Maurice, picture bearing the title: Panorama de Metz. On it written carefully in pencil, Bon souvenir d'un nouveau poilu aviateur. Jean-Pierre was very excited about the postcard. Four times that day he drew it from his pocket and read aloud, then turned it over and read, with happiness his name on the front of it. Late in the afternoon it occurre to him with pleasure that he had not yet read it to Philippe and he hastened to do so. But from his wife there had come no word.

It seemed to Jean-Pierre that he would give everything he had in the world if he might once again hear Margot wail from the terrace, "Un-e sou-u-u-upe!" And, oh, to be called once more a dirty camel, a robber, or a species of dog!

He went to the tank and leaned over the quivering water.

"You are my wife, Philippe. You know?" said Jean-Pierre. "You are a salope!"

Having delivered himself of which genial insult, he felt happier, and stood for some moments in his doorway with his arms folded, looking boldly out upon the world.

"Ça va, mon vieux?" he accosted the eel one morning, and stirred the top of the water with a lobster-claw. But Philippe scarcely moved. Jean-Pierre reached down with the lobster-claw and tickled his back. The flat tail flapped slightly, but that was all. Jean-pierre straightened up and pulled at his beard in astonishment. Then he leaned far over so that his head made a shadow in which the eel was clearly visible, and shouted down to him: "Philippe, Philippe, my friend, you are not sick, are you?"

He waited eagerly, but there was no responsive motion. The eel lay still.

"Oh, my God!" cried the patron of the Chat qui Pêche, and clutched his hair in his hands. Then for the first time he noticed that the surface of the water was unusually quiet. No fresh water bubbled up from the tap in the middle.

"Oh, my God!" cried Jean-Pierre again, and rushed to the kitchen. There was nothing there with which to clean a clogged water-pipe. Everything that was long enough was much too thick. One tine of a fork would go in, but was probably not long enough. Nevertheless, he would try.

He ran back to the window and prodded the tube with a tine of the fork. Then he straightened up and waited, breathless. The water did not come. He rushed again to the kitchen, and scratched about among the cooking utensils. Was there no piece of wire anywhere in the world? A pipe-cleaner! That was it! He searched feverishly through all his pockets, but he knew all the time that he had none. It occurred to him that if Margot were there, she would have a hairpin, which could be straightened out, and he cursed her savagely that she had gone. Suddenly his eye fell on the broom, which was standing in a corner. He went over to it and tore a handful of splints, with which he rushed back to the tank.

"Wait, wait, Philippe!" he called as he approached. "Don't die! Wait just a very little minute!" And he thrust a splint down into the tube. It broke, and he had difficulty in extracting it. Sweat came out on his forehead. He put two splints together, and inserted them with care.

"Don"t die! Don"t die!" he moaned, but softly, lest the splints should break.

Suddenly, incredibly, the water came, and dust and particles of food began to travel slowly towards the outlet. Jean-Pierre thrust his hands in up to the wrists, and shooed the stale water down the tank.

The next morning Philippe was quite himself again. Fearfully, Jean-Pierre crept into the room and approached the window.

"Comment ça va ce matin?" he questioned in a timid voice, and put a finger into the pool.

The eel aroused, and wriggled sullenly to the other end of the glass. Jean-Pierre giggled sharply with delight, and all that morning he, went about with a grin on his face, singing, "Madame, voilà du bon fromage!"

JEAN-PIERRE hated the room in which he slept. It seemed to have become, since Margot left, every day dirtier and more untidy. For one thing, of course, he never made the bed. When he crawled into it at night it was just as he had crawled out of it in the morning. The thin blanket dragged always to the floor on one side, the counterpane on the other. The sheets grew greyer and greyer, and the bolster flatter. And he seemed always to have fallen asleep on the button side of the square pillow.

Infrequently he drew off the soiled sheets and put on clean ones. But at such times he became more than usually unhappy; he missed Margot more. She had been used to exclaim always over the fresh bed that it smelled sweet, and to pass her hand with pleasure over the smooth old linen. Often she would say with pride: "I tell you frankly, my little cabbage, in many of the big hotels today, rich hotels, full of Americans, they make up the beds with cotton. I don't see how the clients sleep. I could not."

Every morning on awaking, Jean-Pierre groaned once and turned heavily. Then he rubbed the back of his wrist across his eyes, and stared out at the daylight. He saw on the shelf above the narrow fireplace a pale photograph of himself and his brother when they were children, They were seated in an imitation rowboat. lnto his hand had been thrust an imitation oar, which it supported without interest; from the hand of his brother dangled listlessly a handsome string of imitation fish.

He saw also the swathed and ghostly bulk of what he knew to be a clock― a clock so elegant and fine, so ornamented with whorls of shiny brass, that his wife had kept it lovingly wrapped in a towel. To be sure, the face of the clock could not be seen; but what will you? One cannot have everything. Between the clock and the photograph was a marvellous object― a large melon growing serenely in a small-necked bottle. A great trick, that. But Jean-Pierre was very tired of the meIon.

He was tired of everything in the room, everything in his life, but particularly of the things on the mantelpiece. And most of all was he tired of the candlestick that stood between the clock and the wreath of wax gardenias― a candlestick which had never known a candle, a flat lily-pad with a green frog squatting on it. Jean-Pierre did not know that it was a green frog squatting on a lily-pad. It had been there so long that when he looked at it he no longer saw it. It was only one of the things on the mantelpiece.

One morning, however, as he awoke and groaned and turned and looked out with dull eyes on still another yesterday, it so happened that he stared for some moments at the candlestick. And presently he said, "Tiens! tiens!" and laid his forefinger alongside his nose.

_____________

6: The Disappearance of Lady Mary Bretley

Edgar Wallace

1875-1932

Thomson's Weekly News, July 20, 1918

Edgar Wallace

LADY MARY BRETLEY, the daughter of His Majesty's Secretary of State for Crown Colonies, left her home at ten o'clock on the morning of May 29 with the intention of attending a meeting of the St Anne's Red Cross Comforts Committee, of which she was a member.

One of the prettiest and most popular girls in London society, a fearless rider to hounds, and an amateur tennis champion, she had that mens sana which proverbially accompanies the corpore sano. In other words, she was a singularly intelligent, clear-headed girl without a fad, and because of her work on the Committee of the Charity Organisation Society, without many illusions.

She left her father's house in Downing Street, and was seen by the police sergeant on point duty at two minutes after the hour. She turned up Whitehall and walked to Trafalgar Square Underground Station, apparently with the intention of travelling by "tube" to Regent's Park, the committee holding its meeting at Lady Grimboro's house in Portland Place.

She was seen by the elevator attendant, who recognised her, and was seen also by a conductor, a youth named Bodden, who saw her in conversation with two men who sat one on each side of her. The three were talking very earnestly, and Bodden heard Lady Mary say— "I can get the money if you can—"

The three left the station at Paddington, which was four stations beyond where Lady Mary had arranged to alight, for the attendant on the escalator remembered one of the men pay excess fare for three.

From that moment all trace was lost of her. That she did not return home for lunch did not alarm her father, for it was usual for the girl to lunch out. She was due at four o'clock to accompany her father to the opening of an exhibition of war pictures, and though he was naturally troubled by her non-appearance he was not seriously alarmed.

When she did not return for dinner he communicated with another member of St Annes Committee, and then learnt for the first time that his daughter had not attended the meeting. Seriously perturbed by now, he communicated with the police, the hospitals were questioned, and three of Scotland Yard's best sleuths got on the track of the missing girl, and traced her to Paddington.

The descriptions of the two men circulated to all police stations were:—

1. Man of 35, dark brown beard, clipped short; fair complexion, tall (about 6 ft.); wore a fawn dustcoat and grey Stetson hat.

2. Man of 25. Dark, small black moustache, good complexion; dressed in grey tweed suit, Derby hat, enamelled leather button boots.

Both men looked as though they were recovering from a long illness— all the witnesses agreed as to this. Lord Bretley, the Minister, was distracted with anxiety. The war had hit him hard enough already. One of his sons had been killed on the Somme, one had been taken prisoner at Loos, and, according to the accounts which were reaching England through code messages and from repatriated prisoners, he had had a particularly bad time.

To add to his misfortune, his youngest and favourite son— favourite in the same manner and for the same reason that most younger sons are favoured— had been reported missing since the third battle of Passchendale. On top of these calamities came what seemed the greatest of all.

Throughout the night search continued, and in the morning came a further item of news. The girl had been seen at Paddington at 10.35. At two o'clock that afternoon she had been seen by the branch manager of the London Guarantee Trust Banking Corporation. She had walked into the Clunie Street office of the bank, and had drawn out £600 from her private account.

The manager who saw her jokingly said that he hoped she would not be robbed, and she had made no reply except to ask whether he could tell her the rates of exchange on the principal neutral cities.

He saw her join two men who were waiting in a cab outside and drive away. The taxi driver, who was traced, stated that whilst the lady was in the bank the men talked together in a foreign tongue, which he believed was German because of the "ja's" and "neins," and other words he recognised because he had at one time been in private service with a German family.

The distracted father sought his colleague, the Minister for Internal Affairs.

"The best thing you can do is to call in Haynes," said that official. "This may be a political rather than a criminal job."

So they brought Haynes from his pleasant club and put all the facts before him.

Lord Bretley was a man of sixty, tall, straight, and austere. His severity of countenance and a certain coldness in his manner did not make for popularity, but his peculiar views on international law, his known objection to reprisals, and his undisguised contempt for "the criticisms of demagogues" had not exactly endeared him to the people.

When Haynes arrived he was pacing his study, pausing to throw a word to his fellow Minister, who rose to greet Haynes as he was announced.

"Here is Major Haynes, Lord Bretley," said the Minister of the Interior, and his Lordship swung round and favoured the newcomer with a cold stare.

"I don't know that this is a matter for your department," he said grudgingly.

His antipathy to anything associated with the military was known to Haynes, and he smiled.

"My department isn't frantically anxious to touch the case," he said calmly, "if the case in question is the disappearance of Lady Mary, as I presume it is."

Bretley glowered at him. Opposition he hated, and he recognised opposition here.

"I don't like your tone, Major Haynes," he began, but Haynes interrupted him.

"Before we go any farther, Lord Bretley, let us understand one another," he said. "If you want me to take up these investigations you must disabuse your mind of the illusion that you are superior clay because you are a Minister or a Peer of the realm, or what-not. I just don't care tuppence whether you are a Marquis, a Duke, or a dustman, Prime Minister of England, or Bill Jones. I have just come from the execution of a gentleman whose ancestral records go back to the Ice Age in B.C. six million."

Lord Bretley's stare this time held somewhat reluctant amusement.

"Go ahead then," he said gruffly. "Carstairs will tell you all that has happened."

"Mr Carstairs has told me the main story," said Haynes. "Has anything fresh happened?"

Lord Bretley walked to his desk, and picking up a sheet of paper handed it to Haynes.

It was a note written in pencil on the back of a handbill announcing changes of time in the running of certain trains.

Dear Daddy  (it began),  please, please don't worry about me. I shall be away for a fortnight.

— Mary.

"Is that all?"

"No. Something else has happened. My daughter was in this house last night."

"Here?"

"Here. She must have come in between two and three after I was in bed. She was accompanied by one or both of the men. My safe was opened, and three passport blanks were extracted."

"Ordinary passports?"

"No. The yellow passport which is used in case of emergency when we wish to send someone abroad in a hurry and there is no time to photograph him. One was filled in in my daughter's name, one in the name of Henry Smith, and another in the name of Walter or William Jones."

Haynes nodded.

"I see— they left the impressions on the blotting pad— anything else?"

"The passports were sealed with my official seal and signed by my daughter, whose writing is so like mine that I myself find it difficult to distinguish between the two hands."

Haynes stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"What is the police theory?"

"That she has acted under compulsion. Two Germans, who for some reason or other wish to leave the country, have by threat or by the exercise of some other influence induced my daughter to assist them."

"Have you received any news from the ports?"

"Yes. Three people answering to the description of the two men and my daughter left Folkestone for Boulogne early this morning and landed in France. They must have motored through the night. We are now trying to secure some trace of them beyond Boulogne."

Haynes asked a few more questions and then left.

The wires were busy all that day and night. London spoke to Paris and Paris to Marseilles, Pontarlier and Andemasse and Hendage— for all who leave France must go through one or the other of these places.

There were clues enough but none which placed Lady Mary into the hands of her friends, and for ten days the trackers of two secret services pursued their vain inquiries. To add to Lord Bretley's distress, on the following day when he called up Haynes on the 'phone he discovered that that gentleman had vanished too.

HAYNES WAS back in London after a week's absence, but if he saw anything of Mary Bretley he did not speak of her until Doctor Gwinner forced his hand.

Haynes has been criticised for his silence. It has been urged against him that the very thought of a heartbroken father fretting himself to death over the mysterious disappearance of his daughter should have induced him at any rate to put his suspicions into words, but Haynes was a law unto himself, and he had a grievance against his lordship. How far he would have allowed his grievance to carry him it is impossible to say. After Doctor Gwinner's arrival there was no longer any need for mystery.

On that momentous day a man came out through the booking hall of Charing Cross station and passed on to the pavement, looking about him as though he were in search of an expected friend. He was a tall man, with a fair, trim beard, and he was dressed well though unobtrusively.

He put down the valise he was carrying, and drew a cigar from his waistcoat pocket. He was in the act of lighting this when a hand fell upon his arm, and he turned to see the smiling face of a stranger.

"I'm afraid you've made a mistake," he said pleasantly.

"Not at all," said the stranger. "I am Inspector Burbery, of the Counter-Intelligence Service, and I must ask you to accompany me to the chief of my department."

The fair man shrugged his shoulders and yielded.

"C'est la guerre," he said indifferently. "Will you call a cab or shall I?"

"The cab is here," said the inspector as a taxi moved out of the rank and drew to the kerb. "Let me take your bag."

Five minutes later he was ushered into a very plain office, where a keen-faced officer sat behind a table reading a newspaper.

"Put a chair for Herr Gwinner, Inspector," said Major Haynes cheerfully, "and then I think you can leave us— no, stay."

He beckoned the Inspector back.

"To save all sorts of unpleasantness, will you take Herr Gwinner's pistol from him?"

"My dear sir," protested the visitor, "I assure you—"

"Strapped under his left armpit, but protruding through the arm hole."

"Hold up your arms, please," said the Inspector, and slid his hand under the other's arm, withdrawing it holding a serviceable-looking Browning.

"You need not have been afraid," smiled the imperturbable visitor. "I should not have used it."

"That I know," said Haynes, "and I wasn't afraid for myself. I should have shot you dead before you could have touched it, but the War Office do not like us to kill spies on the premises. It gets the place a bad name. Thank you. You needn't wait, Inspector."

When the door had shut the man laughed again.

"You evidently mistake me for somebody else. My name is Vanderberg, and I am Dutch. I have arrived in London to conduct—"

"Negotiations with the River Plate Export Company," finished Haynes.

"I have letters from—"

"The British Consul at Rotterdam— yes, yes, I know all about that, my dear Herr Gwinner," said Haynes, yawning. "Don't be silly. Your name is Gwinner. You arrived in Holland from Germany on the 17th by the train which reaches the Maas Station, Rotterdam, via Utrecht and Amsterdam. You stayed at the Hotel Leygraaff, where one of my men saw you arrange your little gun for quick and dirty work. You dined on the night of your arrival at the Cafe Restaurant du Passage on Koorte Hoogstraat, where you met a man from the German Embassy who gave you forged letters of introduction and instructions to get into touch with the chief agent on this side."

Gwinner was no longer smiling. His cigar had gone cold, and though he did not change colour two deep lines showed beneath his eyes.

"Suppose all this is true," he said quietly, "you at least cannot charge me with any specific act of espionage. I am a lawyer, sir, and I know that it is no crime to penetrate into an enemy country."

"Up to a point you're right," nodded Haynes. "Light your cigar— I'm going to be pleasant."

The hand that took the match which Haynes extended trembled ever so slightly, despite all the owner's self-control.

"You see, Herr Doctor— I'm sorry I omitted your title before— I happen to know a great deal about you. You are a Doctor of Law in the University of Bonn. You have got into very serious trouble over money affairs, so that although you were exempted from active service you volunteered to get away from Bonn. You were taken into the Intelligence Bureau at Headquarters because of your knowledge of English, and for that reason were sent to the United Kingdom on a most difficult and dangerous errand."

He paused, but his prisoner made no reply. Haynes had a trick of inviting a reply and at the same time, by the very choice of the moment of pause, catching his vis-à-vis unprepared for an answer.

"The nature of that 'difficult and dangerous' errand I have yet to discover," Haynes went on. "You see I am being frank with you. My representative who shadowed you through Holland knows only this, that the words employed by the Embassy official who gave you your documents were, 'You will remember, Herr Doctor, that your mission is difficult and dangerous.'"

"I see," said the Herr Doctor. He looked at and through Haynes.

"Suppose I tell you that I do not know the nature of my mission— suppose I admit that I am an agent of the German Government, and tell you that I am here in England to discover a German who disappeared from Ingolstadt a little over a week ago, and who is now in England."

He leant back in his chair and laughed softly. He was a Saxon, and a Saxon is the only kind of German that has a sense of humour.

"Believe it or not as you wish, this is the story— The man I am seeking is Reserve Captain Geissler, a very unimportant person until a few days ago. He might have passed through the war the pride of his family but unknown in the larger army circles. Frankly, he was or is not what you would call a gentleman, certainly not— well, you know the German officer of reserve. Until ten days ago he was commandant of Camp 86 at Ingolstadt— a strafe camp to which officer prisoners of war are sent who cause the authorities trouble. They are mainly British officers, and the discipline is strict. I have reason to know that Geissler treated the British badly, and that he had even struck a British officer. He would have been tried by Court-Martial but for the fact that the only witness against him, the victim of his blow, escaped from captivity. Last Friday week Geissler went on leave to visit his parents, who live in a little town on Lake Constance. On the Saturday morning he went out on to the lake in a rowing boat. The lake, as you know, is very carefully patrolled by motor boats, because the opposite shore is Swiss and we have had numerous desertions by this route.

"Geissler was seen by the guard boats paddling aimlessly about near the border 'line'— that is to say, the imaginary line across the lake which represents the German frontier. The morning was misty but not foggy, though the mist was thick enough to hide the Swiss shore. Outside the German line was a motor boat of a powerful make and flying no flag or burgee. The German patrol watching Geissler saw his boat suddenly jerk forward and dart without propulsion toward the frontier line. At the same time the strange motor boat began moving swiftly toward the Swiss shore. What had happened was that somebody had swum from the motor craft to Geissler's boat, fastened a light line to the bow, and Geissler was being towed away— the patrol saw the swimmer clinging to the stern of Geissler's canoe. They fired at both boats, but they disappeared.

"Five days later a certain Legation in London which is not unfriendly to Germany received a telephone call. One of the secretaries answered the 'phone and a voice said hurriedly, speaking in German. 'Inform Berlin that Captain Geissler—' Then something was said which the secretary could not understand, except one word— 'Bretley.'"

Haynes touched a bell.

"I am sending you to close arrest until I verify as much of your story as it is possible to confirm. Technically you are a spy, of course, and you may or you may not be brought to trial on that charge."

He drove straight away to Lord Bretley's house, and found the Minister at home.

"I have just sent a messenger for you, sir," said the servant who opened the door. "His Lordship is in the library."

Lord Bretley turned sharply as Haynes entered the room, and came toward him with a beaming face.

"Splendid news, Major," he said, offering both his hands impulsively. "My daughter is in England and safe. And even better than that— you'll never guess!"

"I think I can," said Haynes quietly. "You have two sons, one of whom was a prisoner, the other reported missing. Both, in point of fact, were prisoners, and both have escaped."

Lord Bretley stared at him.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"I guess," said Haynes. "Tell me this. Have you ever had a German in your employ named Geissler?"

"Why, yes," replied the Minister. "A young music master, he taught my daughter, and was soundly thrashed by one of my boys for— well, the infernal rascal made violent love to my daughter."

Haynes smiled and sighed.

"So that was it! By the way, your children are not in London now, of course?"

Again Lord Bretley stared.

"But two of them are coming to see you," Haynes went on, "and the third will come a week later after one of the two have gone away."

"My dear fellow!" exploded Lord Bretley, with a show of his old irritation, "please don't mystify me. What do you know? All you say is true; here is the letter I had from my daughter this morning."

He took up a note from the table and road:—

Dear Daddy,—

Bobby and Jack have escaped from Germany. We are at Moor Keep—

"Moor Keep?" repeated Haynes, "where is that?"

"It is an old estate of mine in Devonshire— a wild bit of moorland and patched up manor house which I've never used. Why they should go there, Heaven knows."

"Go on, sir," said Haynes.

I shall bring Bobby to town in two or three days, and Jack will come up next week to report to the War Office. They won't be able to be in town at the same time, for reasons which we will explain later.

He looked at Haynes, and Haynes was laughing.

"Just tell me where I can find Moor Keep, sir," he said, "and I promise you that your family shall all come to London together."

MOOR KEEP lies on the desolate side of Princetown, due west to the Tavistock road. It sits in a fold of the ragged hills, and is half encircled by a foaming tributary of the Dart. A grim house of undressed stone, half hidden by a clump of trees, it presented a particularly uninviting appearance in the light of a waning moon.

So Haynes thought as he scaled the high wall which surrounds this hunting box of the Bretleys— the last Bretley to follow the Devonshire stag-hounds had been dead for thirty years.

The house was dark and lifeless, and Haynes made his way to the weather-stained front door and knocked.

There was no answer, and he knocked again. He waited a while, and his stick was raised for the third time when the door was opened suddenly.

He looked into the dark hall and guessed rather than saw the tall shadowy figure.

"Who is that?" demanded a voice.

Haynes' sense of fun overcame his discretion, and he replied in German—

"Is the well-born Professor Geissler within?"

"Come in," said the man in the same language.

Haynes stepped across the threshold and found himself gripped by two pairs of arms. A sack was thrown over his head, and he was thrown to the ground. He struggled for a moment, but, realising the futility of resistance, he became passive in the hands of his captors.

"Is the well-born Professor Geissler here?" mocked a voice.

"Yes, he is here, you blighter! I told you, Bobby, they'd send one of their agents looking for the devil."

"What shall we do with him?" asked another voice; but before the answer could come a third voice spoke, evidently from the upper part of the house, and the voice was that of a woman.

"It's all right, Mary," said the man addressed as Bobby. "It's only another Hun— we'll put him in with Geissler."

Haynes was pushed violently down a long passage and through a door which opened on to a flight of stone steps evidently leading to the cellars.

Another door was opened, Haynes was jerked through, and the door clanged behind him. He was in an underground kitchen illuminated by a hanging lamp, and he was not alone.

Sitting at the table, a disconsolate figure, was a German officer, who glared up at the new arrival.

"Untie this rope," said Haynes in German. "I want a little chat with you."

AN HOUR LATER the tall, bearded young man who was called Bobby brought him food.

"Put it on the table, Captain Bretley," said Haynes in English, and closed the note-book in which he had been writing. "I have all the information I want, and now I think we had better talk this matter over in private."

"Who are you?" asked the astonished young man.

Haynes handed him a badge.

"Intelligence—  good Lor'!" gasped the gaoler. "I say, there'll be an awful row about this, won't there?"

"That depends," said Haynes.

LATER HE SAT in the cosy library of Moor Keep in company with two chastened young soldiers and a laughing bright-eyed girl.

"You seem to know most of the story," said Captain Bobby Bretley; "but you don't know it all. Geissler had been a secret service agent in England, and he had a big pull. When Jack was taken prisoner it was Geissler who suppressed his name from the list of prisoners taken— he was in the record office at Berlin at the time. It was Geissler who transferred us to Ingolstadt after getting command of the camp. He gave us a hell of a time. He kept me in cells for three months, he destroyed the letters I wrote home and the letters that came to me. Jack was treated even worse, for Jack had thrashed him. Once or twice he gave us chances to escape, but we knew that he had a platoon waiting to shoot us down if we ever attempted to get away.

"Then one day our chance came. Some of the fellows had dug a tunnel, and they asked us to go with them. Jack and I got away, and made for the Swiss border. I won't describe the perfectly awful time we had— but we got clear. Of course, we should have reported straight away to the nearest British Consul, but Jack and I had laid our plans. I won't tell you how we wangled our way to England— but we did. We told Mary what our scheme was, and she got the money and the passports.

"What was the scheme? To kidnap Geissler, get him to England, and give him some of the medicine he gave to us. Major Haynes, that man is a devil! It wasn't what he did to Jack and me— it was the villainy he practised on the other helpless prisoners of war. He could do it with impunity, because Camp 86 was reserved for the worst characters, chaps like myself who had tried to escape or cheeked German officials. We came to England and laid wait for Mary. We knew that if father got wind of our plan he'd stop it. That's why we come, so to speak, incognito.

"Mary fell in with our scheme like a brick. And we carried out the plan as we arranged it— but we did not think you would be on our track so soon."

___________________

7: The Legend of Sir Dinar

A. T. Quiller-Couch

1863-1944

The Speaker,19 Dec 1891

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

A PUFF of northeast wind shot over the hill, detaching the last December leaf from the sycamore on its summit, and swooped like a wave upon the roofs and chimney-stacks below. The smoke ascending through the chimneys was caught midway and driven back with showers of soot and wood-ash, discomfiting the townsmen who lingered by their hearths to read the morning paper. The blast, its strength thus broken, fell flat upon the macadam of the main street, scattering its fine dust into fan-shaped figures; then died away westward in eddies. Among these eddies the sycamore leaf danced and twirled, now shooting along the ground upon its edge, like a tin disk, now whisked up to the level of the first-story windows. A nurse, holding up a three-year-old child behind the pane, called out, pointing after the leaf:

"Look— there goes Sir Dinar!"

Now the legend of Sir Dinar is as old as the Round Table, though later touches, easily detected, have been added to it. And this is how they tell it:

SIR DINAR was the first son and comeliest of King Geraint, who had left Arthur's Court for his own castle above Portscathoin-Roseland, and was buried, when his time came, over the Nare, in his golden boat with his silver oars beside him. To fill his seat at the Round Table he sent, in the lad's sixteenth year, this Dinar; who in two years was made knight by King Arthur and in the third was turned an old man before he had achieved a single deed of note: as is to be shown.

For on the fifth day after he was dubbed knight, upon the Feast of Pentecost, there began the great quest of the Sancgrael, which took Sir Lancelot from the Court, Sir Perceval, Sir Bors, Sir Gawaine, Sir Galahad, and the flower of Arthur's knights. And because, after their going, it was all sad cheer at Camelot, and heavy, empty days, Sir Dinar took two of his best friends aside, both young knights. Sir Galhaltin and Sir Ozanna le Coeur Hardi, and spoke to them of riding from the Court by stealth: "for," he said, "we have many days before us, and no villainy upon our conscience, and besides are eager. Who knows, then, but we noay achieve this adventure of the Sancgrael?" So they listened and imparted it to another, Sir Sentrail; and the four rode forth privily, one morning before the dawn, and set their faces northward.

Now the day of their setting-out was that next after Christmas, and is the Feast of Stephen the Martyr. And as they rode through a thick wood, it came into Sir Dinar's mind that upon this day it was right to kill any bird that flew, in remembrance that when Saint Stephen had all but escaped from the soldiers who guarded him, a small bird had sung in their ears and awakened them. By this, the sky was growing white with the morning, but nothing yet clear to the sight: and while they pressed forward under the naked boughs, their, horses' hoofs crackhng the frozen undergrowth beneath them, Sir Dinar was aware of a bird's wing ruffling ahead, and let fly a bolt without warning his companions why he did this: who had forgotten what morning it was, and drew rein in their astonishment.

But pressing forward in a minute, they came upon a gerfalcon lying, with long lunes hanging about his feet and through his breast the hole that Sir Dinar's bolt had made. While they stooped over this bird the sun got up, and lifting their heads they saw a green glade before them, and in the midst of the glade three pavilions set, each of red sendal, that shone at the first touch of the morning. In the first pavilion slept seven knights, and in the second a score of damsels, but by the door of the third stood a lady, fair and tall, in a robe of samite, who, as they drew near to accost her, inquired of them —

"Which of you four has slain my gerfalcon?"

And when Sir Dinar confessed and began to make his excuse, "Silly knight!" said she, "who couldst not guess that my falcon, too, was abroad to avenge the blessed Stephen. Or dost think that it was a hawk, of all birds, that sang a sweet melody in the ears of his guards?"

With that she laughed, as if pacified, and asked of their affairs; and being told that they rode in search of the Sancgrael, she laughed again, saying—

"Silly knights all, that seek it before you be bearded! For three of you must faint and die on the quest, and you, sir," turning to Sir Dinar, "must many times long to die, yet never reach nearer by a foot."

"Let it be as God will," answered Sir Dinar. "But hast thou any tidings, to guide us?"

"I have heard," said she, "that it was seen latest in the land of Gore, beyond Trent water." And with her white finger she pointed down a narrow glade that led to the northwest. So they thanked her and pricked on, none guessing that she herself was King Urience' wife, of Gore, and none other than Queen Morgan le Fay, the famous enchantress, who for loss of her gerfalcon was lightly sending Sir Dinar to his ruin.

So all that day they rode, two and two, in the strait alley that she had pointed out; and by her enchantments she made the winter trees to move with them, serried close on either hand, so that, though the four knights wist nothing of it, they advanced not a furlong for all their haste. But towards nightfall there appeared close ahead a blaze of windows lit and then a tall castle with dim towers soaring up and shaking to the din of minstrelsy. And finding a great company about the doors, they lit down from their horses and stepped into the great hall. Sir Dinar leading them. For a while their eyes were dazed, seeing that sconces flared in every window and the place was full of knights and damsels brightly clad, and the floor shone. But while they were yet blinking, a band of maidens came and unbuckled their arms and cast a shining cloak upon each; which was hardly done when a lady came towards them out of the throng, and though she was truly the Queen Morgan le Fay, they knew her not at all, for by her necromancy she had altered her countenance.

"Come, dance," said she, "for in an instant the musicians will begin."

Now the other three knights tarried awhile, being weary, but Sir Dinar stepped forward and caught the hand of a damsel, and she, as she gave it, laughed in his eyes. She was dressed all in scarlet, with scarlet shoes, and the hair lay on her shoulders like burnished gold. As Sir Dinar set his arm around her, with a crash the merry band began; and, floating out with him into the dance, her red shoes twinkling and her tossed hair shaking spices under his nostrils, she leant back a little in his arms and laughed again.

It happened that Sir Galhaltin, leaning by the doorway, heard the laugh and saw her feet twinkle like blood-red moths, and he called to Sir Dinar. But Sir Dinar heard nothing, nor did any of the dancers turn their heads, though he called again more loudly. Then Sir Sentrail and Sir Ozanna also began to call, fearing, they knew not what, for their comrade. But tiie guests still drifted by as they were ghosts, and Sir Dinar, with the red blood showing beneath the down on his cheeks, smiled and whirled with the woman upon his arm.

By and by his breath came shortly and he would have rested; but she denied him.

"For a moment," he said, "because I have ridden far to-day."

But she hung the more heavily upon his arm, and still the music went on. And now, gazing upon her, he was frightened; for it seemed she was growing older under his eyes, with deep lines sinking into her face, and the flesh of her neck and bosom shriveling up, so that the skin hung loose and gathered in wrinkles. And now he heard the voices of his companions calling about the door, and would have cast off the sorceress and run to them. But when he tried, his arm was welded around her waist, nor could he stay his feet.

The three knights now, seeing the sweat upon his face and the looks he cast towards them, would have broken in and freed him; but they, too, were by enchantment held there in the doorway. So, with their eyes starting, they must needs stay there and watch it all; and while they stood the boards became as molten brass under Sir Dinar's feet, and the hag slowly withered in his embrace: and still the music played, and the other dancers cast him never a look as he whirled round and round again. But at length, with never a stay in the music, his partner's feet trailed heavily, and, bending forward, she shook her white locks clear of her gaunt eyes, and laughed a third time, bringing her lips close to his. And the poison of death was in her lips as she kissed him upon the mouth. With that kiss there was a crash, the lights went out, and the music died away in a wail: and the three knights by the door were caught away suddenly and stunned by a great wind.

AWAKING, they found themselves lying in the glade where they had come upon the three.red pavilions. Their horses were cropping at the turt, beside them, and Sir Dinar's horse stood in sight, a little way off. But Sir Dinar himself was deep in the forest,  twirling and spinning among the rotten leaves, and on his arm hong a corrupting corpse. For a whole day they sought him and found him not (for he heard nothing of their shouts), and towards evening mounted and rode forward after the Sancgrael; on which quest they died, all three, each in his turn.

But Sir Dinar remained, and twirled and skipped till the body he held was a skeleton; and still he twirled, till it dropped away piece-meal; and yet again, till it was but a stain of dust on his ragged sleeve. But before this his hair was white and his face wizened with age.

But on a day a knight in white armor came riding through the forest, leaning somewhat heavily on his saddle-bow as he rode: and was aware of an old decrepit man that ran towards him, jigging and capering as if for gladness, yet caught him by the stirrup and looked up with rheumy tears in his eyes.

"In God's name, who art thou?" asked the knight. He, too, was past his youth; but his face shone with a marvelous, strange glory.

"I am young Sir Dinar, that was made a knight of the Round Table but five days before Pentecost. And I know thee. Thou art Sir Galahad, who shouldst win the Sancgrael: therefore by Christ's power rid me of this enchantment."

"I have not won it yet," Sir Galahad answered, sighing. "Yet, poor comrade, I may do something for thee, though I cannot stay thy dancing."

So he stretched out his hand and touched Sir Dinar: and by his touch Sir Dinar became a withered leaf of the wood. And when mothers see him dancing before the wind they tell this story of him to their children.

_______________

8: The Stuffed Cat

Anonymous

Translated from the Italian by Elizabeth Cavazza, 1849-1926

Short Stories, Vol XIII, 1893

I WAS all alone one evening in my study.

Do you not know this study? That is natural because I never have introduced you to it. Perhaps you would not like it; I like it very much, first of all, because it is mine,, and then because I have arranged it according to my own tastes.

There is a little of everything in it; a colossal writing-desk with an infinity of drawers and pigeon-holes; a book-case, some shelves for books, two tables— one large and one small— a divan, an arm chair; on the floor, rugs and cushions thrown down anywhere; pictures on the walls, a gas lamp in the centre. In one corner, on top of a column of black wood, is a stuffed cat, a magnificent tiger-striped cat, with sparkling green eyes, that seems ready to spring down from its pillar, tired probably of acting Simeon Stylites.

In this den or study, as you please to call it, I pass beautiful hours, day or evening, writing, reading, meditating, smoking and doing nothing.

It is here that I retire in hours of the blues, in those hours of unconscious, instinctive ill-humor which one cannot explain or justify, and which, exactly on that account, one translates into an extraordinary nervous irritation.

This den is the despair of my wife and the rest of the household, because they are positively forbidden to touch, to even move a book or a paper, under that pretext of putting into order, which resolves itself into real disorder. I will wager that if my wife, my sister-in-law, my nieces, could arrange my den according to their tastes, turning it upside-down, they would be happy. But they do not venture for fear of me. Only when I speak of my study, all those feminine lips curl with smiles, disdainful, ironical or compassionate.

It is especially the stuffed cat that jars upon their nerves. My wife absolutely wished to throw him away, give him away, destroy him. I was obliged to declare to her that such an outrage would immediately provoke, on my part, a demand for legal separation— pending the approval of divorce by vote of the Italian Chamber of Deputies.

Now that I have presented, so to say, the surroundings, I will go on to relate the fact, the terrible, frightful fact that has taken place in my delicious den, and to which I am indebted for the gray hairs that embellish my thirty-six- year-old locks.

One evening, in the Autumn, all my family was in the country. I only had stayed in town to attend to some urgent work.

I was all alone in the house. A woman came every morning to clean, to sweep and air the rooms, and went away after noon. I dined at a restaurant.

Now, for some days, I thought that I noticed in my study something strange, odd, unaccustomed. It had the same effect upon me as if something were not in its place. I would have taken my oath that certain books had been moved, certain papers had been rummaged.

I questioned the domestic, who swore and perjured herself to the effect that, faithful to her trust, she had touched nothing, but had limited herself to sweeping the floor and dusting the furniture. And no one else ever entered the room.

One morning it seemed to me that the stuffed cat, my good cat with the green eyes, that I called Tic when he was alive, had been touched ; certainly his attitude was not the same, or I was dreaming. Yes, yes, his head was turned another way, and the expression of his face, that of an honest feline, was different from that which I was accustomed to have before my eyes. How in the world had such a strange phenomenon happened?

But this was nothing. For two or three evenings, shut up in my study, writing— alone in the large apartment, I thought I heard singular noises here and there. I arose from the desk, went out of the study and all through the house, carefully examining every room, stopping now in this one and now in that, to listen. Nothing. The rooms were deserted; the silence was complete, profound.

Then I returned to my study and set to work again. But the noises persisted and became more decided and frequent. I would have sworn that some mysterious and invisible being was scratching in the walls, or forcing some lock. One evening, indeed, it seemed to me that the noise was just behind me, and I turned mechanically.

Well, I would have taken my oath that I saw the cat Tic move almost imperceptibly and his eyes gleam brighter, and his back arch, and his bold majestic tail stretch itself in an act of defiance.

But surely it was a hallucination, because the cat was still in his place, impassable, and gave no sign of moving from his column.

All these small things, insignificant and extraordinary at the same time, had impressed and disturbed me. By instinct, by nature, I don't fancy what I cannot explain; I am a foe to the supernatural, the marvellous, the mysterious; I like to see clearly within and around myself.

I, you see, am of a well-balanced and sound temperament; nervousness, morbidness and such nonsense, annoy me and are repugnant to me.

And as I think I know myself pretty well, I was surprised and bored by a state of mind so contrary to my habits and nature. Evidently my physio-psychological system was in a moment of crisis.

How could I get out of it, be cured ? Must I too, take the first train and go into the country? Perhaps that would be the best way. But unfortunately I could not; I had an important engagement to supply some work, and I could not run away and leave it for whims of a dreamer, fit for a hysterical woman.

"Per bacco!" I told myself, "Pay no attention to the thing! Let us be a man, what, the deuce!"

And I returned home that evening as usual, after having dined and visited the Caffé.

I had planned to work hard that evening, in order lo make haste to finish.

Having entered the house, I made, as usual, an inspection of the apartment, and found everything as before; not even a chair out of place. Then I went into my study and lighted the gas, to begin work.

But as soon as I seated myself at the desk and cast a glance upon the manuscript where I had left off writing, a marvellous, amazing surprise awaited me.

You must know that I was writing a novel— Oh, what a novel!— Something fine, exceptionally fine! A romance like that surely no one ever wrote. The real and the fanciful, the romantic, the classic, the naturalistic, were skilfully mingled in it.

Now that day, when I went out, I had interrupted the story at a very interesting point, and the period ended thus:

"He burst into a sonorous laugh of scorn; he was very sure that the time of phantoms and spectres was long past! That apparition then gave him no fear. It must be a trick."

I had left it there.

Taking up the pen in order to continue, with my good cigar lighted in my mouth, I cast my eyes on the paper, and what did I see?

Just heavens? What indeed!

Directly below the last line written by me had been written one word only; Fool! There it was, ironical and menacing, in Gothic letters, which showed the handwriting of a former age.

Who had traced this scornful and mocking word ? You can imagine whether I remained amazed ! I will say even more: I felt an impression of terror. My servant did not know how to read or write ; no one had come into the house during the day ; then by whom had the words been written ?

I grew livid and felt myself shudder.

I sprang to my feet. I felt the hair stand on end upon my head, and a cold perspiration trickle down my forehead!

Tic, the accursed stuffed cat, looked fixedly at me, and his green eyes seemed to dilate and become variegated with a thousand colors. But was that cat really stuffed? Or was he not rather alive by virtue of some witchcraft !

All at once I roused myself; I had a feeling of shame and rage; and furious, striking with a heavy fist on the writing desk, I exclaimed:

"But who is the demon that has written this word? I would like to know him, to twist his neck?"

If I were to live a thousand years, I shall never forget what happened then.

I had hardly finished speaking those words when the study resounded with mocking laughter, dry, strident, infernal.

Then the wall opened suddenly, and there came forth a woman wrapped in a great, black mantle. And Tic, the accursed cat, made a leap from his pillar and, mewing as he had never mewed in his lifetime, went to rub himself against that mysterious being.

I drew back, more dead than alive. Still, I had enough presence of mind to stretch a hand behind me, open a drawer of the desk and take out a loaded revolver. As soon as I had seized the weapon I felt safer.

I raised my arm and pointed the revolver at that being, with the exclamation:

"Now, we will see who you are!"

Alas! Once, twice, thrice, I touched the trigger; but the revolver was no longer obedient.

The mysterious figure made two steps toward me; the black mantle that enfolded her, fell to the floor.

What a fearful sight! It was not a man nor a woman. It was a skeleton, a skeleton with two lights flaming in its empty, cavernous eye-sockets. A skeleton that laughed satanically, while the cat Tic made fantastic and wild leaps.

It was— it was death!

IN THE morning they found me insensible in my den. The servant ran to call a physician, who found me in a high fever. My family hastened from the country; I was taken care of, treated and cured. But the fact remains, my hair had turned gray.

When I was able to return to my den, the cat Tic was no longer there; my wife had made a coup d'état and sent it to be thrown into the river. The column had also disappeared; it had been given away, I do not know to whom.

My manuscript was, however, still in its place. Only the word: Fool! was no longer there.

Then it had not been written?

Still, I was very sure of having read it.

Who knows? If the cat Tic had still been there, perhaps he could have told me. But poor Tic was there no more.

Then, what am I to think?

What shall I believe?

______________

9: The Hunting of Chilton Sahib

Dolph Wyllarde

Dorothy Margarette Selby Lowndes, 1871-1950

Short Stories, August 1903

Dorothy Margaret Selby Lowndes

THE Brahmin had crossed the Dekkan afoot in his pilgrimage, and reached the little Indian village where the Shrine was, in the blazing noonday. His father, and his father's father, had vowed a vow to Vishnu that one of their race shotdd make this journey, but it fell to Rung Dow to carry out that promise, and youth was far behind him before he made the attempt. Vishnu had appeared to Nana Dow and had promised him his favor if the neglected Shrine at Kali were jealously guarded and served by one of his race; and because he hoped for Heaven, Nana Dow, a Brahmin himself, had undertaken the charge for his descendants. The Shrine was but poorly served; hardly an offering was laid, or a prayer made, before the peculiarly hideous presentation of Vishnu which stood there, and which the villagers neglected. But when Rung Dow had crossed the Dekkan on foot— as the God had stipulated— all that was to be changed. The people of Kali would recognize him as a holy man, and would return to Vishnu, and all the land would flourish thereby.

Rung Dow had accomplished his pilgrimage. His feet were burnt and blistered with the hot plains and the rocky hills; for he might take no advantage of other travelers' pity, and accept their offers of assistance over certain stages of his journey. Once he fell in with a hunters' encampment, and the Sahibs, who could speak his tongue, would have taken him forward with their party; but he might not accept, for Vishnu had said, "Go afoot, and fear not." Jungle and scrub, bare hillside and ctdtivated land, all baked by the pitiless sun, had drifted slowly by him, until in the hush of the Indian noon the mud walls of the village with the shrine rose before his longing eyes; and he prostrated himself to thank the God who had brought him safely over the weary miles — the God who had promised that neither beast nor man should harm his pilgrim. Mecca to the Mohammedan was not more sacred than the village of the Shrine to the Brahmin priest.

But he was almost at the end of his strength. From village to village scattered across the Dekkan he had been fed by the god-fearing folk, who had given him a handful of grain, or a cake baked among the ashes; but he was an old man, and the journey would have worn out anyone less upheld by religious enthusiasm. The fanatic can endure longer than ordinary men, but Rung Dow was nearly exhausted. He stumbled as he approached the outlying mud huts, and sank down on the baked earth, gazing with filmy eyes at the object of his hopes— the tall pagoda of the Shrine which rose above the rest of the village. To die of exhaustion now, when the pilgrimage was accompilished! The gods could not be so cruel! Had Vishnu failed him?

A woman came nmning from the nearest hut, for she had seen the failing figure, and recognized its caste. She laid before him both clear water from the river which had of old time been blessed by Vishnu, and some rice in a metal pan. She was of a Brahmin household, and it was not forbidden him to eat what she brought. He drank a little water and revived, blessing her children, and promising her house prosperity. Then, seated on the ground, he proceeded to make a cooking-stove of mud and to cook the grain. Beyond himself and his culinary arrangements he drew a broad line of demarcation— the sacred circle which keeps the Brahmin and his food holy. Once during the process he almost swooned again from the heat and exhaustion, while the woman and her neighbors stood at a little distance, watching with strained anxiety, but powerless to help him farther.

The food was all but ready, and the famished man about to bless it and eat, when the crowd of villagers parted to allow someone to pass. It was Chilton Sahib, head of the district, and a great man among his people, not only because he was a white man and English, but because he talked to the wild things of the Dekkan through a fire-stick and then they fell down and died. Chilton had only had his district some six months, and thought he was beginning to understand his people; which was an error of judgment. They liked him, he knew, and he was pleased at that, and at the quantity of game he found to destroy— the sambur, and an occasional antelope, even a man-eating tiger which he had slain to the everlasting gratitude of the village, and, above all, the great gray boar which frequents the ravines and the hillsides, and which will fight to the death. On the whole Chilton was inclined to congratulate himself on his district. He was comfortably satisfied, certainly thinking of no ill-luck, and his head running more upon crops than Brahmins as he strode along, watched by the villagers. He did not notice the sitting figure on the ground — he knew something of native habits— or observe its caste; he did not notice the ring drawn on the sandy soil as he passed by it— and his shadow fell straight across it and on the cooked rice which Rung Dow was just about to bless.

The Brahmin took the contents of the metal pan and tossed it outside the circle without a second's hesitation. It was his last effort. As Chilton passed on in the sunlight the pilgrim fell quietly on his side, and lay there as if smitten. There was a murmur that rose to a wail among the villagers, and those of his own caste hurried forward to the rescue. The old man was still alive, but it was too late; perhaps, would have been too late in any case though the superstition of the villagers laid the disaster directly at the Englishman's door. That night there was weeping and lamentation before the Shrine, because a priest had died on the outskirts of the village, and the pilgrimage of Rung Dow had come to naught. His mission was not known in Kali; but his caste, and his obvious desire towards holy things in journeying a long way to the Shrine, were sufficient to make him the equivalent of a patron saint. Brahmins do not arrive at outlying villages dying of fatigue, and with the signs of their travel upon them, without a religious object. The village of the Shrine wailed to Vishnu.

A week later the Shikaree of the village brought Chilton Sahib news of a sounder of hog, led by a great boar. The sounder was located in a ravine among the barren stony hills. Would Chilton Sahib go out and slay him? Without doubt it was a big boar — a boar that had never been equalled in size and ferocity, and worthy the spear of the renowed slayer of wild beasts. Chilton Sahib would indeed go out, and his heart waxed warm within him, and his English blood sang. to the tune of slaughter. Nor did he notice anything unusual in the Shikaree's earnestness over the pectdiarities of the great boar, or his almost awed description of its unearthly fighting powers. That such a wild idea as the soul of the dead Brahmin (dishonored by the Englishman's shadow, and some failure of his object in pilgrimaging to the Shrine) having entered this huge boar, had taken hold of the villagers' minds, never occurred to the head of the district. But the villagers talked of it beneath their breath. Why otherwise should a boar, quite unrivalled for ferocity and size, have suddenly appeared to tempt the hunting instincts of the Sahib to a deadly combat? Without doubt the Brahmin, sanctioned by Vishnu, had temporarily discarded his caste, and his spirit had entered the body of an unclean animal that he might slay Chilton Sahib. When the feud was wiped out by blood the priest would, by favor of the gods, regain his caste and attain to paradise.

Now, to hunt hog you must rise early, and Chilton was up before sunrise, unwitting of the interest that centred round his person as one foredoomed to death. There is, to the Indian hunter, no game like the big Sus aper, which can at times outpace the swiftest horse and which will turn to bay and make such a fight of it at the end as may easily give him victory over the sportsman. Chilton grieved that he had no time to get a hunting party together; for to draw first blood and win the spur of honor was denied him in the absence of any opponent. He intended, as a matter of course, to take the Shikaree with him, as well as the beaters; but after all it came to a fight between him and the boar. There was some consolation in that; but there was no exciting race against another man as eager as himself to be the first to dim the spear-head with the smallest drop of blood, no matter who finished the work, and he regretted the lack of competition.

The gray morning was hanging mysteriously over the village, and over Chilton's queer little bungalow, as he came out on to the verandah. The scouts were back already with news of the sounder's trail, and Chilton's Arab was waiting for him, chafing at the bit and tossing his light head because the shadows of the dawn were full of bogies to his mind. The native groom was talking to him as a mother to a child, and grim and silent the Shikaree sat in the little mud yard before the bungalow. Chilton spoke to him cheerily as he swung himself into the saddle; but the man only answered briefly, and with more than the usual stolidity of the Oriental; he had little to say to a man whom he considered to be foredoomed. But Chilton had not time to notice his silence; he mounted at once, and rode out a little ahead of the native, his horsekeeper and the beaters following in the rear, away over the broken plain to the nullah into which the sounder had been marked down at break of day. Like much of the hunting country of the Dekkan, it was about as difficult a spot as the wily beasts could have chosen; a narrow ravine between two steep hillsides, where the dry bed of an empty watercourse presented an awkward jump, however well the hunter might be motmted. Chilton, like all his kind, was proportionately pleased.

"Jove: the brute knows his ground, eh, Junga?" he said, cheerily, as he halted in some loose scrub at the mouth of the narrow gorge, and the beaters began to skirt round the hill. "Any idea where the sounder is?"

"There, Sahib I" The Shikaree pointed to some low scrub on the hillside, where it was thought that the pigs were concealed. But with a trace more animation than he had yet showed, he added, "Will the Sahib follow the sounder, or wait only for the great boar?"

"Oh, I will take the game the gods provide!" said Chilton, easily. "But if my luck holds I shall have the boar yet. There they go!"

For down the hillside came a grunting, heaving mass of black backs, and behind them came the beaters, making a noise unearthly enough to have driven the scriptural herd of swine into the sea without any possession by devils. With a grunt and a scramble two large boars came down one side of the hill, crossed the watercourse as only a boar can cross such impediments, and ascending the opposite bank, made for the plain. Chilton wheeled his horse round and dashed after them; but, as luck would have it, some misgiving of an outlet seemed to disturb their minds, for they suddenly stopped and turned hillwards again. Seeing this, Chilton crossed the dry bed of the watercourse in turn, and urging his horse up the broken ascent, he was soon on terms with the foremost boar, who instantly turned to bay. The bright steel head of the bamboo flashed like lightning ahead of the game little Arab who was laboring up the rough ground, and then the sharp spear buried itself in the boar's side fair through the heart. As the animal stumbled the spear snapped, and the horse, checking himself as best he could, scrambled along for some paces, the broken spear remaining in Chilton's hand.

"That," said Chilton, turning to meet the Shirakee, "reminded me of polo. I got the ball, and couldn't see whether I had succeeded in making a goal. Good sport, Junga!"

"The Sahib is a great chief, and his spear invincible!" said the man, with unmoved flattery. "See, already one boar has been killed; but does the Sahib not desire the tusks of that great one who is still unharmed?"

"My good fellow, the sun is not at his full height yet, and my horse is not blown!" said Chilton, coolly. "I will hunt till nightfall, Junga, if you will show me the game."

"Choose another spear then. Sahib, and breathe your horse. The great hog has not stolen away, and he may yet be afoot. The beaters are again ready."

Chilton swung himself out of the saddle, backing the Arab into some scrub on the hillside. There was a silence as of perfect peace over the ravine, and the increasing power of the sun was drawing strong scents from the vegetation. Overhead a great kite hung in the vault of blue, in ominous anticipation. Nothing broke the rich silence of the hillside to Chilton's ear save the jingle of his own horse's bridle as the Arab tossed his fine head impatiently. He was a true specimen of an Arab hunter— lightly built, yet in perfect proportion, and with that length and strength in his quarters that proclaimed speed and endurance; but the legs, more especially the forelegs, were marked and scarred with many an old fight, the unintentional tribute of his adversary the boar, at whose death he had frequently assisted. Chilton quietly remounted after a brief rest and sat on his horse, wondering if it would not be better to have tiffin now instead of waiting for another beat.

"He comes, Sahib!"

Junga's repressed excitement escaped Chilton, whose five senses and a few extra were concentrated on the patch of scrub from which the hog might be expected to break cover, and the Shirakee's curious manner did not impress him either. He sat his Arab with every nerve tense, the spear ready for use on the chance of the animal charging. The boar, however, had no intention of thus running into the enemy's jaws. He broke cover, the beaters yelling above him, trotted sullenly down to the watercourse, and turning short to the right made for the head of the narrow gorge which looked like a cul-de-sac to Chilton. But it was possible there might be an outlet, and in the hope of this the Englishman urged his horse down the hillside in pursuit as fast as he dared, with the result that the Arab suddenly stumbled, and horse and rider finished the descent ignominiously by rolling over into the empty river bed. Chilton was up in an instant, and had recovered his spear before the horse was fairly on his feet. He was not hurt, but he had no time to remount before he saw that the boar had turned. A wild boar, one of the great gray hog of India, moves at first breaking cover at a pace peculiarly his own— he does not gallop exactly, though his speed is soon such that it needs a fast horse to ride him down. But in his charge he appears to jump off the ground and be literally hurling himself through the air, all four feet stretched out like a horse's as he rises at a big jump. The effect is ludicrous to the onlooker, who is not taking part in the game. To the man who faces the charge it is by no means amusing, and Chilton was on foot! To spear a boar rightly one should be on horseback and so meet the charge at a gallop, otherwise the horse will probably get ripped open by those mighty tusks.

Chilton stood his ground. There was just one chance for him, that by springing aside the force of the boar's pace might carry him past, if the man did not succeed in planting his spear. Even in the stress of the moment a wonder flashed through his brain that the Shikaree did not come to the rescue, or at least attempt it. He had heard his own Arab turn short round and gallop off panic-stricken without the guiding will of a rider. If he could have looked behind him he would have seen that the Shirakee was sitting motionless on a steep rock a few yards up the hillside, watching, with something that was almost awe in his face, for what he considered the struggle ordained by the gods between the soul of the dead Brahmin in the boar's body and the unconscious murderer. The beaters had stopped also, and formed the same silent group of spectators on the further hillside; while Chilton's horsekeeper, behind Junga but further up the hill, was in the same attitude of arrested motion. Between the spectators was Chilton in the dry bed of the watercourse, and the great boar charging down on them. Overhead the kite had dropped a few feet lower, and waited also.

The man saw the foam flying from the beast's mouth, and heard the savage grunt as he stood steadily facing the direction from which the boar was coming— facing death, as it well might be. How wicked the little gray eyes looked! How those long tusks would gore and tear! He had seen many a horse ripped open because of an unskilful rider, and once a horsekeeper had been killed before his very eyes— trampled and gored to death, and then flung over the boar's head, as easily as a child tosses a ball. The charge was upon him — ^the shaggy gray thing looming as large as a donkey— and with a last supreme effort springing aside, he felt the enormous brute almost brush him as he bltmdered past, and lunged out awkwardly with the spear. It entered the tough side behind the shoulder, and passed straight through the heart; but the weapon was dragged from his hand, and he himself was swung staggering towards the boar.

With a dizzy feeling he turned to look at his handiwork. Had the boar attempted more mischief it would have gone hard with Chilton, left without a spear as he had been. But the lump of blood-stained gray lay inert before him, the nine-inch tusks still grimly flecked with blood and foam, for the resolute lunge of the spear had done its work in a final manner that seemed little short of miraculous. Not until he was sure that the brute was really dead did Chilton discover that his followers had at last joined him, and demanded the reason of their delay from Junga.

"What the deuce did you mean by keeping away?" he said, hotly, "You saw I was dismounted— where were you?"

The Shikaree's face darkened a little, as if his pride were touched; but he answered patiently:

"The Sahib knows I have no fear. Did I not attend him when he tracked the wounded tiger, and have I not been present at the death of many boars? But this boar was different. It was decreed that the Sahib must fight with him alone, and the gods have given their favor to the victor! "

He salaamed as reverently as if Chilton were himself a god, causing the young man to stare at him blankly.

"It was decreed!" he repeated. "What was decreed, and why? What on earth do you mean, Junga?"

"The Sahib is the god's favorite— what he does has sanction. But, indeed, not many days since he slew a holy man— a priest who, without doubt, was a pilgrim to the Shrine.

"The Sahib forgets," he added, soothingly. "What are such things to one whom Vishnu favors above the lives of priests? But, indeed, his shadow fell upon the food which would have saved the fainting life of one who sat by the wayside, and— and— it was a Brahmin, Sahib! He threw away the food, and before we could succor him he died! "

Chilton grew paler than the boar's charge had made him, as some meaning of the situation flashed into his mind. He had been long enough in India to realize what he had done— in all innocence— and that his Shikaree would have calmly stood by and seen him killed before he would have interfered with what he thought was the will of the gods. Chilton ordered the submissive natives— submissive enough now!— to rest, and said shortly that he would have tiffin, leaving Junga to arrange about the dead boar. Not until he was sitting under a date tree clump eating his lunch did he gather the full meaning of the situation from the Shikaree's explanation. And he thought of the shaggy gray hide, the little fierce eyes, the white tusks speckled with foam as the boar charged, and his blood ran colder than at the actual moment of peril.

"So you would all have left me to my death!" he said slowly as he lit his cigar and looked down the baked ravine where the shadows of the rocks were cut sharp and black by the blinding sunshine.

"Truly, Sahib, if the gods decreed it! For our aid would have been as nothing. The Sahib had to prove his right to kill the Brahmin!"

"And now that I have killed the boar?"

"The Sahib is great in favor with the gods! Who shall stand against him?"

"I suppose," said Chilton, thoughtfully, "that the beaters won't think it necessary to avenge the boar, will they, Junga? I should like to know what to expect. And possibly they might regard themselves as chosen instruments of Vishnu, eh?"

But the man smiled as at a jest. "The Sahib knows that that could not be so. We are all thy slaves, Heavenborn!"

"I did think I knew; but it strikes me that I know very little. So I have cleared myself from further suspicion by to-day's slaughter, have I? Still, I should not care to repeat that five minutes. Junga, it is in my mind that the day has become too hot for more hunting. I will rest, and go home."

"The Sahib is wise," said Junga, submissively; "and, indeed, he has had a great hunt, and has killed much game. Will you ride? For the beaters will rejoice to make a palanquin of boughs and palms, and carry you on their shoulders in triumph do you so please! "

Chilton stared. He thought of the callous indifference of these same men in his extreme peril, and that not from being unarmed, but because they deliberately stood aside to see if he were Vishnu's favorite. Now they would have made a smaller deity of him, and carried him home rejoicing; for had he not killed the boar, afoot, with all the odds against him, and proved that he was great in favor with the gods in spite of slaying the Brahmin priest? Great was Chilton Sahib, and greatly to be honored!

"Truly, you are a strange people!" said Chilton.

_____________________

10: A Matter of Routine

H.  Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Short Stories 25 March 1944

Henry James O'Brien Bedford-Jones

During WW2 if you were a pulp writer depending on prolific output, you had trouble writing international adventure stories unless you looked back— or forward. Bedford-Jones wrote a number of stories looking forward from 1944 to the post-war era, involving the international Airline Stratolines.

ROGHAN looked up from his desk, a laugh in his hard, gray-eyed face. He did not like Dick Burton, though they frequently worked together. Privately, he thought Burton a snob and an utterly selfish individual.

"Yes, I'm catching the North African express in an hour," he answered the query.  "A routine job in Algiers, arranging a clearance for the new airport we're building near the city. Weren't you there during the war?"

"Yes." A flush climbed into Burton's blond features. "If I give you a letter, will you drop it into a mailbox there? It'll save a deuce of a lot of time."

"Sure thing. If you'd like the trip, I can get the job transferred to you—"

"God forbid!'' exclaimed Burton with needless vehemence. "I never want to see that damned hole again!"

This was queer, thought Croghan. Only one thing would explain such vehemence: fear. But Burton was no man to fear anything, or he would not have been a stratoshooter. Croghan knew from experience how intrepid Burton was. However, there are various kinds of fear. He thought nothing more of the conversation, for the moment.

To Croghan the trip had no appeal. An interview with the governor-general, a little exertion of diplomacy or perhaps graft, and nothing more; a routine job entirely. He knew Algiers well, had lived there and rather liked it in his cynical way. Croghan was a hard man, bitter hard. He believed in efficiency and he got results. That was why he stood at the head of the corps of trouble-shooters serving Stratolines, Incorporated.

Stratolines had developed, after the war, into one of the biggest things on earth. The terrific world-wide competition of airlines that took place even before the peace treaties were signed, did not involve Stratolines; it was one jump ahead of them all. It wanted no passenger or local business. It was out for freight alone—freight carried on nonstop distance runs, the longer the better, at stratosphere levels.

Its giant six-engined Planetoids, with the Brem auxiliary helicopter on which it held a world monopoly, laughed at competition, even in this booming air age. Its network of bases extended everywhere. Its influence was tremendous. Yet with Stratolines— as with the solar system— things might still go wrong, difficulties crop up, well-laid plans go agley. Hence the corps of picked men known as strato-shooters; men equal to any emergency. Some of the problems they encountered were queer ones. Some were insuperable. Some were merely human }equations gone wrong. But, in all cases, they were Overcome.

Bert Croghan lived for efficiency. He was devoid of sympathy; he had, they said, no soft spot, no human feeling. He was hard as nails and looked it. Though he could laugh readily enough, his gray eyes were points of flint in a bony, jutting face. He was disliked and feared and admired. After the time he had been so nearly "framed" for accepting a million-dollar bribe from the Persian oil people, he was always on guard and suspected everyone.

Burton handed over the promised letter; Croghan noted that it was superscribed in Arebic and tucked it away without a second glance. Burton knew Arabic well. Croghan knew it less well, but enough to get along with at a pinch. Anyone can speak it, but writing it is another matter. To ask why Burton wrote in Arabic to someone in Algiers, never occurred to Croghan. Already he was in that loftily detached frame of mind with which he approached the problems of Stratolines, Incorporated. He was not a man but a machine.

A helicopter bus flew him from the Stratolines building to the airport. Everything was arranged; his reservation at the Oasis in the Boulevard Carnot, his passport and customs formalities, even his interview with the governor-general next afternoon. He went aboard the express and settled down with his evening edition, oblivious to all around. He gave not a thought to the thrilling spectacle which the great New York airport and the heavens above it presented, in this period of the air age. That was all mere routine, like his errand itself.

Later, he turned into his berth and read himself to sleep, having first fixed firmly in mind his job at Algiers. Stratolines was constructing there, on the uplands behind the city, a huge terminal field with shops; for here the freight-lines crossed from north to south and from west to east; the advent of air transport had proved a colossal boom to all Africa, whose development was going ahead on a stupefying scale.

Stratolines, however, had run up against a snag. In the precise center of their tertain lay a deep gully or wash. Its sides constituted an Arab cemetery on the one hand, a prosperous vineyard on the other; cemetery and vineyard and farm down below, and farmhouse above, were owned by an Arab named Mustapha, who refused to sell at any price.

Naturally, Stratolines had done everything, even invoking diplomatic procedure, but to no avail. Mustapha had refused to discuss the matter with their agents, the French could effect nothing. Croghan's job was to break the jam, no matter how or at what cost. Stratolines was 'desperate to get that airport at work. There was no other terrain dor failed around that would provide the runways necessary for the giant transports.

Refusing to worry about it till he faced it, Croghan slept and did not waken till the sun was up and the map-indicator above his berth showed they were over Portugal.

He dressed, breakfasted, and watched the televis news on the cabin screen until the African coast was sighted.

Algiers, developed to fantastic proportions by air traffic, rose like a gigantic white blotch against the green hills; the ship settled to rest at the new passenger airport behind the botanical gardens. Croghan stepped out, and was met by the Stratolines agent, who drove him uptown and plied him with questions and offers of service.

"All I want is to know why the governorgeneral has refused to take any action."

"We could get only evasion," said the agent. "The president of the line cabled him and General Perrault was still polite but evasive. He will be so with you."

"I have am appointment with him for four o'clock. The Residency is still on the hill over the town? Then leave it to me," said Croghan, "Isn't he the same General Perrault who marched his brigade from Toulon to Paris during the war?"

"The same, yes; but he is older now," was the reply. Croghan grinned and said no more.

ALGIERS was unchanged; the same undusted French city, the same squalid, narrow Arab streets, the same golden glory over everything, the same persistent bootblacks, the same Arabs clad in old burlap or in magnificently tailored splendor. Croghan sniffed it all in, good and bad, and felt his heart warm to it. Here, more than any other place, he could relax.

That afternoon a taxi took him up the hill, in past the guards, and along the curving road to the Residence. A secretary received him and led him to the governorgeneral, a gray, erect, precise man. Everything was most polite and careful and restrained; it was evident to Croghan that only vague evasion awaited him. He grinned.

"Do you remember, General," he said abruptly, "when you were a mere colonel during the war— it was in the Tunisian campaign— and your men were caught by a battery of Nazi guns on the way to Bizerta? An American attack plane strafed hell out of the Nazis at roof level and was shot down. When you had occupied the Nazi positions you found the pilot of the plane, slightly wounded—"

General Perrault woke up. "Ah, name of a name of a name!" he exclaimed. "Do I recall that day, that man? It was magnificent! But how do you know about it? Let me look at you again, mon ami. There is something about you—"

"Sure. I was that pilot," said Croghan. "Remember me now, do you?"

The general came to life with a glad cry. He embraced Croghan, he ordered wine, he sat down with him and talked like mad; he presented the visitor to his aides, and in short loosened up altogether.

"Now, let's talk business," said Croghan. "I gather you're not going to help Stratolines in this pinch. Well, I shan't urge you. All I ask is to know why."

The general sighed, but he had been broken down and all evasion was past.

"My friend, I am helpless, quite helpless," he said frankly. "Your firm needs a piece of ground. First, it contains an Arab cemetery. Second, it is owned by Sidi Mustapha ben Yusuf. He is a descendant of the Prophet, like a million others; but in Arab eyes he is a holy man. If he refuses to sell or even to discuss the matter with you, I cannot force him. It is a matter of religion, nd in matters of religion we dare not interfere. There, in a nutshell, is the whole difficulty.""

"Okay, general," said Croghan cheerfully. "But you can do one thing for an old friend, and I'll ask no more. Persuade this guy to talk things over with me."

"He hates Christians, I warn you! He speaks no French.

"Well, I'll talk Arabic with him. Tell him I'm not a Christian but an Arizona Muhammedan, a Jersey Dervish, anything you like! Surely he doesn't hate Americans?"

"Worse than any others, I regret to say. But I shall do what I can. PIL see him this afternoon and telephone you. Will you not come here as my guest? I am desolated. At Feast, I shall. lend you one of my official cars, with a driver; it will give you prestige locally. And to reach Si' Mustapha you must have a car."

"Doesn't he live on the property back of town?"

"No; on his ancestral farm among the hills, twenty miles away. He's a lordly rascal, and has vast influence among the natives."

THERE the matter rested, When Croghan departed, he refused a car; he wanted to walk, and did, down the hill and through the French city. As he came to the square fronted by the handsome but garish postoffice, he remembered Burton's letter. He dropped in at the Bureau, bought some stamps, and mailed the letter. He caught a glimpse of the inscription and smiled; it was addressed to Ya Lella somebody— a woman. He was sorry now he had not taken a look at her address. Burton must have had some affair of the heart here in wartimes.

Late in the afternoon General Perrault phoned that Sidi Mustapha had agreed to see the visitor next morning, and the offcial car would call for Croghan at ten o'clock.

Croghan sat until sunset on sidewalk terraces, sipping Nosi Be coffee, watching the Arabs and soldiers and civilians, listening to wild music from Sudanese troop bands, and being thoroughly bored. He was to dine next evening at the Residence; tonight he was free.

So, presently, he sauntered over to Rue Michelet and along beneath the arched colonnades that overlooked the wide harbor below, and turned in at the old restaurant he had used to frequent. It was a little dingier, but otherwise unchanged. He settled down at a table, ordered his meal and a bottle of wine, and reflected how much better off he was than if dining at some luxurious tourist hotel.

And right there his lazy routine ended with a bang, and he quit being a machine.

She came walking in from the entrance with a slow swinging stride. She was not at all overdressed; her grace, her perfectly appointed ensemble, her air of calm assurance, caught his attention. Such a woman, here unescorted, could have but one meaning, yet he doubted. She knew how to do her hair; and more important, what not to do with her hands. And she was not wandering. She was making straight to some goal. And it was Croghan's table.

He rose as she paused, showing only surface politeness in his manner.

"Surely you'll welcome company, Mr. Croghan?" she said in English, smiling a little.

"This is something new," he observed. "One should appreciate the artistic touch, by all means! I am enchanted."

He drew out a chair for her. She was quite at ease.

"They were right when they warned me you had a bitter tongue," she said cheerfully.

"They?" at the word, his brows lifted slightly, but he refused to be baited into asking questions. For the first time, it struck him that this meeting might not be accidental. "Oh, that's the risk you ran, madame, in choosing such an approach. I might know that you're not what you seem, but—"

"No, I'm not a street-walker," she said with disconcerting bluntness. "But if you pretend to think me one, it might save us both considerable trouble. You see, it's no secret that I've been pretty hard up lately; your arrival was unexpected, they had to work fast, and I was the best available person, so they picked me to attract you."

"Well, they couldn't have made a better choice," said Croghan. He realized that she was deliberately putting him on guard. He beckoned the waiter. "Madame is dining with me. Take away that Chateau du Roc and bring a bottle of good Beaune instead."

His swift appraisal had rewarded him. She wore no wedding-ring but bore the mark of one. Her golden-brown hair was natural; her features were daintily feminine, piquante, alluring; her eyes carried an impish sparkle in their brown depths. She studied him, smilingly.

"You're resolved not to ask questions, ch? Wise man. Then let's check on your conclusions regarding the brazen hussy. Go ahead; I'll tell you if you're right or wrong. Or aren't you sufficiently interested?"

"Oh, definitely!' rejoined Croghan. "I'd say you're either American, or partly so; age, twenty-three; married at eighteen and separated soon after. The rest is mystery."

"You do very well." She nodded approvingly. "My mother was a Russian refugee— they flooded North Africa after the first World War, you know. My father was an American a vice-consular agent here. He died here, my mother stayed. Married at eighteen? No, nineteen; in the last year of the war, and separated the next year when my husband went home. He had a very important family who would have been disgraced by an Arab woman, as they called me. So I let him get a divorce."

"Good riddance, if he was that sort," said Croghan heartily. "Alimony?"

She shook her head. "I am not— was not— a professional, my friend. I inherited my mother's house here, a farm that produced well, and was content with small means. It was enough for me and my son, until the bad times came last year."

"A son, eh? Does this husband of yours know there is a child?"

"Oh, yes! This is not a movie story." She laughed softly, deliciously. "And you? No, you are not married. You have worked for Stratolines ever since the war. You were here in the Tunisian campaign, an air pilot; you have many medals."

"Where'd you get all that?" snapped Croghan. She regarded him archly, enjoying his astonishment.

"This is not a night club; we cannot dance here," she said. "You see, only when we are dancing can you hope to get questions answered. My house is a nice one up high, a villa op the road to the Observatory. We can dance there to the radio. Yes?"

Croghan met the impish eyes, and a smile curved his lips. A cynical smile.

"Your child is there. You'd take me there— and you'd expect me to believe, or even pretend to believe, that you're anything but the finest sort of a girl? Sure, I'll go along. Or we can go somewhere else and dance, if you like."

A quick smiling warmth lit her eyes. She reached out across the table and patted his hand quickly. She was quite serious, now, and remained so.

"I like you; honestly, I do. My name's Angelique—" She broke off, then continued very hastily. "Now you must pretend. You must, you must! Be fascinated. Be a fool like me. This is a microphone— they will listen—"

THE waiter appeared, bringing a handsome floral piece lit by electric bulbs; when attached to a wall socket, it brightened their table nobly. He was full of compliments. One gathered that from his devotion to so charming a couple he had been moved to thus decorate the table fittingly. Croghan's lip curved cynically; he played the game; he understood. For the moment he must accept everything— later, he would learn the reason.

She became a different person, full of blandishments and honeyed words. As for Croghan, he proceeded to lose his head about her quite openly. He enjoyed himself, pressed more wine upon her, vowed his eternal devotion.

"But you must tell me more about yousself, your work, what you do here!" she exclaimed.

"Anything. I've no secrets from so charming a woman!" he cried. "But not here, my dear. We must go somewhere and dance; I must see more of you."

It was well played on both sides. The meal was excellent. Anyone listening to what came from that hidden mike would have sworn that she had him hooked— bait, line and sinker. All the while, he was wondering who "they" could be and what was in the wind."

He was wondering about Angelique, too, in a practical sort of way. He believed her story about fifty percent. She was no chance pickup "they" had located. There was something more behind her activity, some  definite reason for it. Croghan was far too cynical to credit superficial indications about anyone.

"When it comes to that," he reflected at the back of his mind, "General Perrault no doubt lied like hell, also. He was just a bit too smooth for any use, to my notion. There's no religious problem in Algiers like there is in Morocco, not a bit of it! They even show tourists around the mosques here. Nope, I'm up against a tight corporation of some kind, and the quicker we bust it loose and see inside, the better."

But if Perrault had lied to him— why? Politics, perhaps; these Frenchmen were ever entangled in a maze of devious political affairs.

She had a car parked on the square, a little old rattling pre-war car hanging together by a thread. They piled into it and she drove up the winding hill roads through El Biar and Bouzarea to the road that came to abrupt end at the Observatory. A needless roundabout way, as Croghan noted; they might-have come more directly. Why? He asked her, and she uttered a low, delightful laugh.

"Why? Because I'm enjoying myself, and the cool night, and you! It is nice that you do not make love to me. Really, I mean; that pretense back there was very well done and will fool them."

Croghan was not falling in love with anyone, and said so; but he was interested in her. Evidently she was in a pretty bad jam of some kind. He could divine in her a quiet courage, a deft efficiency that stirred his admiration. Probably she had told the truth about herself and her situation here.

"Any microphones at your villa?" he asked.

She laughed again. "No, I promise you! The little Richard will be asleep. My Arab woman, Fatima, goes home at night. It will be safe; the only safe place we could find. There's the place ahead, just off the road."

The old car wheezed to a halt, before one of those charming little villas that dot the hills behind Algiers. A tiny place overhung with flowers. Croghan followed her in, as she switched on the lights, and looked about happily.

It was an exquisite little interior, with arches and gay tiles, a few good pictures, a glorious old ikon in a silver frame. She went to look at the child, and returned. He sprawled comfortably on a divan and lit a cigarette. She settled herself in a deep chair, sighed, and looked at him.

"The radio?" he said. She smiled.

"That was just talk for the microphone."

"You spoke of a farm. This can't be it, on a sharp hillside?"

"Oh, no! Sidi Mustapha owns it now."

"Eh? The same chap I'm to see tomorrow, Sidi Mustapha ben Yusuf?"

"The same. It is not a coincidence."

HER eyes warned him. Clear eyes, filled with an odd certainty of knowledge, touching upon him lightly, almost sadly. Why, dammit, she seemed sorry for him! He stirred.

"Well, lets have it. What am I up against"

"A spider-web." She leaned forward, took a cigarette from the table, and spoke softly and quietly. "There is a group of men in the background of politics and finance here, very powerful men, mostly French. They are accustomed to having their own way, my friend. Even the governor-general must do as they say."

"So that's it!" he observed. "Poor Perrault had to lie. Just how much do you know about my job here?"

She waved her cigarette. "Oh, all of it! You visit Si' Mustapha tomorrow. He will be polite, evasive; he will give you a fine dinner and many compliments, with several of his sons looking on. You will get promises, and nothing will come of them. You are caught in a spider-web, my friend."

"I am, like hell!" said Croghan, but he knew her words were true. "A web can be torn away."

She shook her head, letting smoke trickle from her nostrils.

"Not this one. You must have a certain piece of land. Well, I owned it; that was my farm. I promised a Stratolines agent to sell to him and gave an option. Stratolines went ahead, buying and building. Then, suddenly, Mustapha claimed the land; the old deeds were declared illegal. I was helpless and made it over to him; oh, they paid me full value! But your great company had gone too far to back out."

"So that's it! I thought it was funny that Stratolines had been hooked."

"Not funny, but clever," she said. "Your coming was expected, They mean to milk your company for an enormous amount of money, and they can do it. My task tonight is to find out from you what your authority is, how badly Stratolines must have this property, how far they are committed by contracts here, and so forth. I am to be wellpaid for finding out. You can tell me whatever will best shit your purpose and I shall repeat it."

"When?"

"In the morning. Before you see Mustapha. He is acting for them, you see."

"He actually owns the land in question, eh?"

She nodded. "Yes. He is one of them. He hates Americans,"

So there it was. Having learned the worst, Croghan looked at it calmly and could reach just one conclusion; this spider-web must be ripped apart. How? He had no idea. So, characteristically, he abandoned that train of procedure and slanted off on another.

"I owe you a great deal, Angelique. By the way, what's your name?"

"I use my own, Madame Sainton. My story is well known— and my divorce." A slight bitterness lay in her words.

"You've helped me when it was not to your interest; why?"

She studied him for a slow moment. "In order to get a reward. I could, perhaps, help you even more, if you dared the risk; provided I were properly compensated."

"Oh!" said Croghan. He was vaguely disappointed; he might have known she had some axe to grind. "What reward do you want?"

"Two things. First, plain speech from you, the truth, Connected with your firm is a man named Burton. Has he been here in Algiers?"

Croghan was puzzled. "Dick Burton? No, he hasn't."

"Then how did I receive this evening a letter from him posted today, posted here?"

"The devil! Was that letter to you?" Croghan laughed, but she did not. "He asked me to mail a letter for him when I got here. It was addressed in Arabic."

"Yes, to me. Well; that's cleared up!" Her sombre air vanished; she even smiled. "Now for the second part of my reward—" She checked herself as, from another room, came a faint wail in a child's voice. She rose. "Would you like to see him? Come along."

Croghan rose and followed her into a bedroom where a dim light burned. A child lay on his bed; a pretty boy with golden hair, His mother sank beside him, hushing him, and glanced up at Croghan. The child was asleep again almost at once. For a moment Croghan watched them, then he nodded, smiled, and went back to the front room. He took another cigarette and went to the table, seeking matches. A framed photograph lay there, face down, as though it had fallen. He picked it up— and saw Burton's face, younger, in uniform.

"The devil! Little Richard— Dick Burton— well, something else is cleared up," he reflected. "What a damned fool Burton was, and is!"

She came back into the room, glanced at the portrait, and spoke.

"I see there's no longer any secret. You know him?"

"Yes, of course. A fine fellow; a terrible fool."

"Oh, we're all fools at times, she said lightly. "He's getting married again, he said in that letter. He sent money for little Richard. Money!" Her voice hardened on the word. Scorn and contempt leaped into her face.

"The second part of your reward?" said Croghan. "What is it?"

"To get to America, with him." She nodded back at the room they had left. "Not for me; nothing matters, for me. But his future. He belongs there, and I'm helpless. Can you do it? Remember— there is still a way in which I may help you!"

"What is it?"

"No. Stick to the subject. Answer me, first."

Her implorant eyes, her tense air, told him that this meant everything to her.

Regretfully, Croghan went into the immigration laws of the United States with her, for they offered no hope. Following the war, they had been tightened rigidly.

"If you were not divorced, it would be simple," he went on. "Owing to the great number of our soldiers who married in Europe and elsewhere, the old rule of the first World War was restored, giving a woman the nationality of her husband. But you are French by nationality, having been born here; the same with your son. You'd have to marry an American and have him adopt the boy, if you want to enter."

"For his sake, I would do that," she said crisply. "Can you find the man?"

Croghan broke into laughter, and this angered her, but he could not help it, till he wakened to the tragedy in her heart. Then he lost all mirth.

"Im sorry; we don't look at things the French way," he said. "To do it, a man would have to love you—not a hard job, either. He'd hardly do it just to serve your purpose."

"What about yours?" she demanded. "I can show you how, with risk, you may gain what you desire."

"Do that," said Croghan promptly, "and I'll guarantee you the man will be found!"

"Agreed. On your honor?"

"On my honor, it'll be done— somehow."

She jumped up, obtained and unfolded a map of Algeria, and brought it over beside him, pointing with her finger.

"You're going to see Mustapha in the morning. Here's his farm, just off Highway No. 1, near Beni-Mered. Now look; going on toward Blida, there's a fork in the highway outside Beni-Mered. Taking the left fork, after only five kilometres one comes to Oued Djer."

"I see. What about it?"

"At Oued Djer lives Ali el Attaf. He's a mortal. enemy of Mustapha; a feud has existed between their families for generations. During the war, when your army was here and things were in confusion, Ali killed two of Mustapha's sons and was himself wounded by Mustapha. It is a deadly fued. Well! Put Mustapha in the hands of Ali, or threaten it, and Mustapha will do as you say. l Croghan laughed at her ideas of a business deal as practised in Algeria.

"I wouldn't know how to do that, Angelique. Besides, it wouldn't work. Any sale extorted under duress would not be legal."

"Oh!" Her face fell. "And it is true, he has sworn on the Koran not to sell that land to your firm. He could not break such an oath; he is a good Moslem."

"Well, let it wait," he said. "Your idea may strike some spark in my brain; we'll see. I must be getting back to town—"

"But you can't! They'll have someone watching this place." She stared at him wide-eyed. "Don't you see? They think I'm a bad woman; they must go on thinking so! They must be certain you have stayed here. You can stay; take this couch and I'll sleep with Richard. It will convince them. Otherwise they will not believe me at all!"

He saw her point. "The devil! Are you in their power? Have you no freedom?"

"Life is not easy here for people who are poor," she said quietly,

Croghan repressed a hot oath; then, since in Rome one must do as the Romans do, he acquiesced to what she desired. He sat down and carefully instructed her in what she was to report; it was certain that the fantastic figures involved would not please the Algerian rascals who expected to blackmail Stratolines.

Angelique 'pans wine and cakes, and they chatted. Again she urged upon him her hairbrained scheme, and he shook his head.

"Don't you see, the things would have to be done legally, not in some far village?"

"No," she pouted. "Ali el Attaf rules that village of Oued Djer. He has native and French lawyers there; he deals much in land and cattle. Ali is blind in one eye and crafty; he is very greedy and would do anything for money. He likes Americans; he would help you."

"No; forget it," said Croghan. "It's impossible. By the way, I'm going in General Perrault's car— how would you like a ride to Mustapha's place in the official bus?"

"I'd love it!" she cried, starry-eyed.

"Good. I leave the city at ten. We'll stop here and pick you up."

LATER,  the lights out, he made himself comfortable on the divan, only to lie awake staring into the darkness, his brain busy. Gad, what a live woman she was— what a blithering idiot Dick Burton was! This wild-cat scheme of hers was totally impossible, for a dozen reasons.

Now, Croghan was one of those who held that nothing, in the service of Stratolines, was impossible. Further, he operated on a well-founded belief which had often served him well; namely, that when a man was up against a hopeless situation, he only made it more hopeless by doing the expected thing, and the only way to win was to do the unexpected.

"She's right; this is a spider-web," he thought as he lay there. "Therefore, it must be torn apart! And it must be done fast, damned fast, and hard."

He fell asleep at last, upon a smile.

IN THE early hours before dawn, Angelique waked him and drove him back to the city in her old rattletrap. She was enthusiastic at the prospect of riding about the country in the governor-general's car, as 'well she might be. She dropped him at his hotel, promising to be ready when he showed up.

Croghan slept till a decent hour, breakfasted, sought the hotel manager and obtained twenty-five thousand francs in cash. A Stratolines agent never had money troubles. At ten o'clock to the minute arrived the governor-general's car, with a merry, efficient Arab Spahi at the wheel; it was a mammoth car of golden plastic and flew the flag of France.

That Spahi kissed the thousand-franc note Croghan handed him, showed white teeth in a gay laugh, and headed where he was told; apparently he was under no strict orders, except to put himself at Croghan's service. So, with the promise of another banknote of equal size at parting, Croghan gave him very explicit instructions. The Arab assented without demur, and tooled the big car up the winding slopes to the Observatory road,

Angelique was waiting, and they were off without delay.

"Did you make your report?" asked Croghan.

She nodded, smiling. "It was well received, and my reputation is lost forever!"

"Cheer up; it may soon be regained. You look charming this morning! And morning is the test," said he, glancing at her unadorned gown of simple white, such as few women would dare to wear. "What? Not even a jewel to give a touch of color?"

She laughed at him. "Would you gild perfection?"

"Truth lies, as ever, in a jest," he said. But she scarcely heard the compliment, for she was watching the driver and the flying countryside.

"Why are we going so fast?"

"Business, Angelique! You'll see."

The kilometres, indeed, flew past like magic. The staring road-signs told of Birkadem and Birtouta behind them; suddenly she turned to Croghan, startled.

"We've left the road to Mustapha's place behind— where are we going?"

"To Oued Dijer," he said. She caught her breath, staring at him. He smiled. "Trust me. All will go well."

The village ruled by Ali el Attaf was a miserable little place of mud hovels; Ali himself was a scrawny ruffian with an empty eye-socket and a well-merited air of villainy, but he could laugh, and he did laugh, while the naked progeny and burlap-clad elders of the village clustered to stare at the governor-general's car.

Croghan talked with him alone, in mingled Arabic and French.

"Allah, and Allah!" said Ali. "For twenty thousand francs I would kill him gladly!"

"No; you'd do that for nothing," said Croghan. "The twenty thousand is to insure your honesty and self-denial in not killing him."

Ali laughed even more heartily. "Very well; of lawyers and notaries there is no lack, so give me the money."

"When you have earned it," said Croghan, and hopped back into the car,

LIKE the magic carpet of old, the glittering car whisked them back to BeniMered and on to the farm headquarters of Mustapha, a far more prosperous place at the edge of the vast fertile agricultural plain. It was a collection of building rather than a farm, guarded by a mud wall. A number of cars stood about the main building, and a large assemblage of Arabs had gathered for the occasion.

"Hop in front with the driver," said Croghan to Angelique, as he alighted.

Through the crowd of staring Arabs advanced Mustapha to greet his guest. He was clad in robes of snowy white; a blackbearded, stalwart figure of undeniable force. Croghan summoned up his scanty Arabic and made the plunge. It was lose or win all at one cast.

"His Excellency, the governor-general, desires to be present at our talk, Sidi Mustapha, but was forced to stop in Beni Mered," he said, after giving his name. "However, he sent his car to bring you, and will himself return here with you. If you'll get in, we'll go to him at once."

The car and flag and chauffeur spelled authority of the highest, Mustapha had not the least reason to doubt; in fact, it was a distinct honor to be tooled about in such a bus, and Mustapha's flattered vanity jumped at the chance. He flung a few words at the crowd, then went to the car. The Spahi held open the rear door and saluted. Mustapha gathered up his snowy robes and climbed in. Croghan followed. The door was slammed, the Spahi darted around to his own seat, and next instant the big car was in motion.

A violent oath escaped Mustapha. Angelique, who had kept out of sight, rose up and turned, smiling. The Arab knew her, of course, but expressed himself in no uncertain terms at being tricked into riding with a woman, an unveiled woman, a woman of the Franks; it was an affront and he resented it. Angelique chattered gaily in Arabic, and his anger subsided. Meantime, the car was streaking for Beni-Mered, scattering busses and anything else on the road with its powerful siren.

They went into the little town with siren blasting, and straight on through the town, and then swung out of the highway at the fork. Sidi Mustapha turned to Croghan in perplexity and new anger— and found la fondling a pistol and smiling at him.

"By Allah, are you mad?" cried Mustapha. "Where is General Perrault?"

"In Algiers," said Croghan. "He has changed his mind about the arrangement with you and your friends, Mustapha, about that land; he is an old friend of Americans, and consequently you are the one to suffer. Ali el Attaf is also a friend of Americans, and is going to take you on a nice long journey into the mountains. You may not be very comfortable, but that can't be helped.

At the name of his deadly enemy, to whose village they were obviously speeding, Sidi Mustapha changed countenance. He sat staring in vivid alarm from Croghan and the pistol to the laughing countenance of Angelique; he became rigid, tense.

"Keep your hands outside those robes and in sight," said Croghan, jerking up the pistol. "I don't want to shoot you; Ali el Attaf wants to do that. After you are dead, your eldest son will be willing to talk business with Stratolines about that land."

Mustapha's thoughts were almost written in his bearded countenance; a deep breath, and hé resigned himself to the inevitable. He was quite helpless. That Croghan spoke the truth, that the governor-general had double-crossed him and his associates, was only too evident by the use of this official cat to bait the trap. His eyes flashed up. They were approaching the mud huts of Ali el Attaf.

"By Allah!" he murmured, fingering his heard. "What is man, to avert his destiny? Mektub! It is written."

A goodly crowd was gathered in front of the huts. The lean one-eyed Ali came forth when the car stopped, and with malicious mockery greeted his distinguished guest Mustapha. Mustapha was loath to leave the protection of the car, but finally did so, accepting his fate with a certain dignity. Croghan, at his side, accompanied them to the huts, calling on Angelique to follow. She obeyed.

"It is given man to alter his own destiny at times," said he, when they were in the hut to which Ali led them. Outside, the crowd gathered with shrill yells of jubilation. "You have sworn not to sell that land, Sidi Mustapha; but you can lease it for ninety years without breaking your oath. I'm sure, in such case, that I can prevail upon Ali to let you depart home in peace."

Sidi Mustapha grunted, listened to the vengeful yells outside, and sweat dripped on his beard.

Fast is a fast car, but the telephone is faster, and Algeria is a network of telephones. When the official car of the governor-general after depositing Angelique, brought Croghan to his Algiers hotel at three-thirty that afternoon, it was met by two officers who brusquely prevented Croghan from alighting.

"Monsieur Croghan? You are under arrest," said one, and they climbed in. "To the Palais du Gouvernement, at speed!"

TEN minutes later Croghan walked into the presence of the governor-general. Far from embracing him, General Perrault was in a towering rage and made the fact clear. He dressed Croghan down handsomely for his abuse of confidence and friendship, for kidnapping an influential native, for blackmail and extortion. He poured forth a torrent of furious invective and prospective punishment which would have made any French subject shiver in his boots.

Croghan listened respectfully, and when the general paused for breath, spoke calmly.

"My dear general, you've been imposed upon."

"Yes, by you, whom I trusted!" stormed the governor-general.

"No; by somebody who has lied to you," said Croghan. He produced a number of papers written in French and Arabic. "Look at these, if you please. Here is a lease of the disputed property, from Sidi Mustapha to Ali el Attaf; here is another, from Ali to me, in behalf of Stratolines, Incorporated— a ninety-year lease. These are copies; the originals have been deposited at the Consulate of the United States, and the Consul will very shortly take up with you the question of my unwarranted arrest."

General Perrault swore a blue streak. "Illegal! The whole thing is illegal!"

"Indeed? Here is a statement signed by Sidi Mustapha, showing that the deal was voluntary on his part and uninfluenced by anyone."

"It was extorted from him!"

"You can't prove it, and I can prove the contrary by these signatures— witnesses, as you ll perceive."

"Monsieur, this is a farce," exploded the governor-general. "You shall suffer. So shall the woman who aided you in this imposition, this criminal conspiracy! She is a subject of France—"

"No, no; my dear general, caim yourself!" Croghan spread out the other papers. "Look at these. She is my wife; her son has been adopted by me— all both by French and Arab law, as is plainly set forth. Besides, she is now at the American Consulate with the boy, and you'd better not try any arresting of American citizens there!"

General Perrault was dumbfounded. Before he could find words, Croghan went on.

"My dear Perrault, it would pain me inexpressibly if you took any action which you might regret— you, my old comrade in arms! You know how the newspapers would play it up; you know how charges would fly, how it would be said that you were allied with a ring of scoundrels here in Algiers, whom my wife could probably name— why, it would be terrible scandal! You see, the whole thing is a trumped-up piece of nonsense. There cannot possibly be any charges made against me, or against her."  General Perrault swallowed hard. He twisted his gray mustache. His eyes dwelt upon the papers before him, then lifted to the face of Croghan. What he read in that hard, gray-eyed face brought a sigh to his lips. He leaned back, and slowly nodded.

"My friend, my comrade— you are right," he said, "Yes. I was sadly mistaken. The whole affair, as you say, is utter nonsense. I cannot possible permit any charges to arise out of such absurdity." He swallowed hard again. "You will honor me by joining me in a glass of wine?"

"With pleasure," said Croghan.

"And your visit here— you have accomplished your business?"

"Mere routine," said Croghan. "Just a matter of routine, I assure you."

That was a bald, unvarnished lie, and Croghan was well aware of it. For he knew, even then, that life would no longer be mere routine for him— so long, at least, as he was married to Angelique. And, since they are still married and fabulously happy, the lie still holds good.

__________________

11: An Extra Man

Jackson Gee

Astounding Stories of Super-Science,  Oct 1930

This is the only known story by this author. Nothing else is known.

RAYS of the August mid-day sun pouring through the museum's glass roof beat upon the eight soldiers surrounding the central exhibit, which for thirty years has been under constant guard. Even the present sweltering heat failed to lessen the men's careful observation of the visitors who, from time to time, strolled listlessly about the room. The object of all this solicitude scarcely seemed to require it. A great up-ended rectangle of polished steel some six feet square by ten or a dozen feet in height, standing in the center of Machinery Hall, it suggested nothing sinister or priceless. Two peculiarities, however, marked it as unusual— the concealment of its mechanism and the brevity of its title. For while the remainder of the exhibits located around it varied in the simplicity or complexity of their design, they were alike in the openness of their construction and detailed explanation of plan and purpose. The great steel box, however, bore merely two words and a date: "Drayle's Invention, 1932."

It was, nevertheless, toward this exhibit that a pleasant appearing whitehaired old gentleman and a small boy were slowly walking when a change of guard occurred. The new men took their posts without words while the relieved detail turned down a long corridor that for a moment echoed with the clatter of hobnailed boots on stone. Then all was surprisingly still. Even the boy was impressed into reluctant silence as he viewed the uniformed men, though not for long.

"WHATS that, whats that, whats that?" he demanded presently with shrill imperiousness. "Grandfather, what's that?" An excited arm indicated the exhibit with its soldier guard.

"If you can keep still long enough," replied the old gentleman patiently, "I'll tell you."

And with due regard for rheumatic limbs he slowly settled himself on a bench and folded his hands over the top of an ebony cane preparatory to answering the youngster's question. His inquisitor, however, was, at the moment, being hauled from beneath a brass railing by the sergeant of the watch.

"You'll have to keep an eye on him, sir," said the man reproachfully. "He was going to try his knife on the woodwork when I caught him."

"Thank you, Sergeant, I'll do my best— but the younger generation, you know."

"Sit still, if possible!" he directed the squirming boy. "If not, we'll start home now."

The non-com took a new post within easy reaching distance of the disturber and attempted to glare impressively.

"Go on, grandfather, tell me. What's D-r-a-y-l-e? What's in the box? Can't they open it? What are the soldiers for? Must they stay here? Why?"

"Drayle," said the old man, breaking through the barrage of questions, "was a close friend of mine a good many years ago."

"How many, grandfather? Fifty? As much as fifty? Did father know him? Is father fifty?"

"Forty; no; yes; no," said the harrassed relative; and then with amazing ignorance inquired: "Do you really care to hear or do you just ask questions to exercise your tongue?"

"I want to hear the story, grandpa. Tell me the story. Is it a nice story? Has it got bears in it? Polar bears? I saw a polar bear yesterday. He was white. Are polar bears always white? Tell me the story, grandpa."

THE old man turned appealing eyes toward the sergeant. Tacitly a sympathetic understanding was established. The warrior also was a father, and off the field of battle he had known defeat.

"Leave me handle him, sir," he suggested. "I've the like of him at home."

"I'd be very much indebted to you if you would."

Thus encouraged, the soldier produced from an inner pocket and offered one of those childhood sweets known as an "all day sucker."

"See if you can choke yourself on that," he challenged.

The clamor ceased immediately.

"It always works, sir," explained the man of resource. "The missus says as how it'll ruin their indigestions, but I'm all for peace even if I am in the army."

Now that his vocal organs were temporarily plugged, the child waved a demanding arm in the direction of the main exhibit to indicate a desire— for the resumption of the narrative. But the ancient was not anxious to disturb so soon the benign and acceptable silence. In fact it was not until he observed the sergeant's look of inquiry that he began once more.

"That box," he said slowly, "is both a monument and a milestone on the road to mankind's progress in mechanical invention. It marks the point beyond which Drayle's contemporaries believed it was unsafe to go; for they  felt that inventions such as his would add' to the complexities of life, and that if a halt were not made our own machines would ultimately destroy us. "I did not, still do not, believe it. And I know Drayle's spirit broke when the authorities sealed his last work in that box and released him upon parole to abandon his experiments." As the speaker sighed in regretful reminiscence, the sergeant glanced at his men. Apparently all was well; the only visible menace lolled within easy arm's reach, swinging his short legs and sucking noisily on his candy. Nevertheless the non-com shifted to a slightly better tactical position as he awaited the continuance of the tale.

"CHRISTOPHER DRAYLE," said the elderly gentleman, "was the greatest man I have ever known, as well as the finest. Forty years or more ago we were close friends. Our homes on Long Island adjoined and I handled most of his legal affairs. He was about forty-five or six then, but already famous.

"His rediscovery of the ancient process of tempering copper had made him one of the wealthiest men in the land and enabled him to devote his time to scientific research. Electricity and chemistry were his specialties, and at the period of which I speak he was deeply engrossed in problems of radio transmission.

"But he had many interests and not infrequently visited our local country club for an afternoon of golf. Sometimes I played around the course with him, and afterward, over a drink, we would talk. His favorite topic was the contribution of science to human welfare. And even though I could not always follow him when he grew enthusiastic about some new theory I was always puzzled.

"It was at such a time, when we had been discussing the new and first successful attempt to send moving pictures by radio, that I mentioned the prophecy of Jackson Gee. Gee was the writer of fantastic, pseudo-scientific tales who had said: 'We shall soon be able to resolve human beings into their constituent elements, transmit them by radio to any desired point and reassemble them at the other end. We shall do this by means of vibrations. We are just beginning to learn that vibrations are the key to the fundamental process of all life.'

"I LAUGHED as I quoted this to Drayle, for it seemed to me the ravings of a lunatic. But Drayle did not smile. 'Jackson Gee,' he said, 'is nearer to the truth than he imagines. We already know the elements that make the human body, and we can put them together in their proper proportions and arrangements; but we have not been able to introduce the vitalizing spark, the key vibrations to start it going. We can reproduce the human machine, but we can not make it move. We can destroy life in the laboratory, and we can prolong it, but so far we have not been able to create it. Yet I tell you in all seriousness that that time will come; that time will come.'

"I was surprised at his earnestness and would have questioned him further. But a boy appeared just then with a message that Drayle was wanted at the telephone.

" 'Something important, sir,' he said. Drayle went off to answer the summons and later he sent word that he had been called away and would not be able to return.

"It was the last I heard from Drayle for months. He shut himself in his laboratory and saw no one but his assistants, Ward of Boston, and Buchannon of Washington. He even slept in the workshop and had his food sent in.

"Ordinarily I would not have been excluded, for I had his confidence to an unusual degree and I had often watched him work. I admired the deft movements of his hands. He had the certain touch and style of a master. But during that period he admitted only his aides.

"CONSEQUENTLY I felt little hope of reaching him one morning when it was necessary to have his signature to some legal documents. Yet the urgency of the case led me to go to his home on the chance that I might be able to get him long enough for the business that concerned us. Luck was with me, for he sent out word that he would see me in a few minutes. I remember seating myself in the office that opened off his laboratory and wondering what was beyond the door that separated us. I had witnessed some incredible performances in the adjoining room. :

"At last Drayle came in. He looked worried and careworn. There were new lines in his face and blue half-circles of fatigue beneath his eyes. It was evident that it was long since he had slept. He apologized for having kept me waiting and then, without examining the papers I offered, he signed his name nervously in the proper spaces. When I gathered the sheets together he turned abruptly toward the laboratory, but at the door he paused and smiled.

" 'Give my respects to Jackson Gee,' he said."

"WHO'S Jackson Gee? Does father know him? Has he any polar bears? Aren't you going to tell me about that?"

The tidal wave of questions almost overwhelmed the historian and his auditor. But the military, fortunately, was equal to the emergency. With a tactical turn of his hand he thrust the remnant of the lollypop between the chattering jaws and spoke with sharp rapidity.

"Listen," he commanded, "that there, what you got, is a magic candy, and if you go on exposing it to the air after it is once in your mouth it's likely to disappear, just like that." And the speed of the translation was illustrated by a smart snapping of the fingers.

Doubt shone in the juvenile terror's eyes and the earlier generations waited fearfully while skepticism and greed waged their recurrent conflict. For a time it seemed as if the veteran had blundered; but finally greed' triumphed and a temporary peace ensued.

"Where was I?" inquired the interrupted narrator when the issue of battle was settled.

"You was talking about Jackson Gee," answered the guardsman in a cautiously low tone.

"So I was, so I was," the old gentleman agreed somewhat vaguely, nodding his head. He gazed at the sergeant with mingled awe and admiration. "I suppose it's quite useless to mention it," he said rather wistfully, "but if you ever get out of the army and should want a job... You could name your own salary, you know?"  The question ended on an appealing note.

Evidently the soldier understood the digression, for he replied in a tone that would brook no dispute. "No, sir, I couldn't consider it."

"I was afraid so," said the other regretfully, and added, with apparent irrelevance, "I have to live with him, you see."

"Tough luck," commiserated the listener.

Reluctantly summoning his thoughts from the pleasant contemplation of what had seemed to offer a new era of peace, the bard turned to his story.

"A FEW hours later," he continued, "I had a telephone call from Drayle's wife, and I realized from the fright in her voice that something dreadful had happened. She asked me to come to the house at once. Chris hadďd' been hurt. But she disconnected before I could ask for details. I started immediately and I wondered as I drove what disaster had overtaken him. Anything, it seemed to me, might have befallen in that room of miracles. But I was not prepared to find that Drayle had been shot and wounded. "The police were before me and already questioning the assailant, Mrs. Farrel, a fiery tempered young Irishwoman. When I entered the room she was repeating half-hysterically her explanation that Drayle had killed her husband in the laboratory that morning.

" 'Right before my eyes, I seen it,' she shouted. 'Harry was standing on a sort of platform looking at a big machine like, and so help me he didn't have a stitch of clothes on, and I started to say something, but all at once there came a terrible sort of screech and a flash like lightnin' kinda, in front of him. Then Harry turns into a sort of thick smoke and I can see right through him like he was a ghost; and then the smoke gets sucked into a big hole in the machine and I know Harry's dead. And here's this man what done it, just a standin' there, grinnin' horrid. So something comes over me all at once and I points Harry's gun at him and pulls the trigger!'

"Even before the woman had finished I recalled what I seen one afternoon in Drayle's laboratory many months before. I had been there for some time watching him when he placed a small tumbler on a work table and asked me if I had ever seen glass shattered by the vibrations of a violin. I told him that I had, but he went through the demonstration as if to satisfy himself. Of course when he drew a bow across the instrument's strings and produced the proper pitch the goblet cracked into pieces exactly as might have been expected. And I wondered why Drayle concerned himself with so childish an experiment before I noticed that he appeared to have forgotten me completely.

"I ENDEAVORED then not to disturb him, and I remember trying to draw myself out of his way and feeling that something momentous was about to take place. Yet actually I believe it would have required a considerable commotion to have distracted his attention, for his ability to concentrate was one of the characteristics of his genius. "I saw him place another glass on the table and I noticed then that it stood directly in front of a complicated mechanism. At first this gave out a low humming sound, but it soon rose to an unearthly whining shriek. I shrank from it involuntarily and a second later I was amazed at the sight of the glass, seemingly reduced to a thin vapor, being drawn into a funnel-like opening near the top of the device. I was too startled to speak and could only watch as Drayle started the contrivance again. Once more its noise cut through me with physical pain. I cried out. But my voice was overwhelmed by the terrific din of the mysterious machine.

"Then Drayle strode down the long room to another intricate mass of wire coils and plates and lamps. And I saw a dim glow appear in two of the bulbs and heard a noise like the crackling of paper. Drayle made some adjustments, and presently I observed a peculiar shimmering of the air above a horizontal metal grid. It reminded me of heat waves rising from a summer street, until I saw the vibrations were taking a definite pattern; and that the pattern was that of the glass I had seen dissolved into air. At first the image made me think of a picture formed by a series of horizontal lines close together but broken at various points in such fashion as to create the appearance of a line by the very continuity of the fractures. But as I watched, the phasma became substance. The air ceased to quiver and I was appalled to see Drayle pick up the tumbler and carry it to a scale on which he weighed it with infinite exactness. If he had approached me with it at that moment I would have fied in terror.

"NEXT, Drayle filled the goblet with some liquid which immediately afterward he measured in a beaker. The result seemed to please him, for he smiled happily. At the same instant he became aware of my presence. He looked surprised and then a trifle disconcerted. I could see that he was embarrassed by the knowledge that I had witnessed so much, and after a second or two he asked my silence. I agreed at once, not only because he requested it but because I couldn't believe the evidence myself. He let me out then and locked the door.

"It was this recollection that made me credit the woman's story. But I was sick with dread, for in spite of my faith in Drayle's genius I feared he had gone mad.

"Mrs. Drayle had listened to Mrs. Farrel's account calmly enough, but I could see the fear in her eyes when she signaled a wish to speak to me alone. I followed her into an adjoining room, leaving Mrs. Farrel with the two policemen and the doctor, who was trying to quiet her.

"As soon as the door closed after us Mrs. Drayle seized my hands.

" 'Tim,' she whispered, 'I'm horribly afraid that what the woman says is true. Chris has told me of some wonderful things he was planning to do, but I never expected he would experiment on human beings. Can they send him to prison?'

"Of course I said what I could to comfort her and tried to make my voice sound convincing. At the time the legal aspect of the matter did not worry me so much as the fear that the attack on Drayle might prove fatal. For even if it should develop that he was not dangerously hurt, I imagined that the interruption of the experiment at a critical moment might easily have ruined whatever slim chance there had been of success. For us the nervewracking part was that we could do nothing until the surgeon who was attending Drayle could tell us how badly he was injured.

AT last word came that the bullet had only grazed Drayle's head and stunned him, but that he might remain unconscious for some time. Mrs. Drayle went in and sat at her husband's side, while I returned to the laboratory and found the police greatly bewildered as to whether they ought to arrest Drayle.

"They had discovered in a closet an outfit of men's clothing that Mrs. Farrel identified as her husband's, and, although they saw no other trace of the missing man, they had a desire to lock up somebody as an evidence of their activity. It took considerable persuasion to prevail upon them to withhold their hands. There was no such difficulty about restraining them in the laboratory. They were afraid to touch any apparatus, and they gave the invention a ludicrously wide berth.

"I never knew exactly how long it was that I paced about the lower floor of Drayle's home before the doctor summoned me and announced that the patient wanted me, but that I must be careful not to excite him. I have often wondered how many physicians would have to abandon their profession if they were deprived of that phrase. "You must not excite the patient.'

"Drayle was already excited when I entered. In fact, he was furious at the doctor's efforts to restrain him. But I realized that my fear for his reason was groundless. His remarks were lucid and forceful as he raged at the interference with his work. As soon as he saw me he appealed for assistance.

" 'Make them let me alone, Tim,' he begged, as his wife and the doctor, partly by force and partly by persuasion, endeavored to hold him in bed. 'I must get back to the laboratory. That woman believes that I've killed her husband, and my assistant will think that we've failed.'

"I WAS about to argue with him when suddenly he managed to thrust the doctor aside and start toward the door. His seriousness impressed me so that I gave him a supporting arm and together we headed down the hall, with Mrs. Drayle and the doctor following anxiously in the rear. The laboratory was deserted and locked when we arrived. The police evidently felt it was too uncanny an atmosphere for a prolonged wait. Drayle opened the door, went directly to his machine and examined it minutely.

" 'Thank the Lord that woman hit only me!' he said, and sank into a chair. Then he asked for some brandy. Mrs. Drayle rushed off and reappeared in a minute with a decanter and glass.

Drayle helped himself to a swallow: that brought color to his cheeks and new strength to his limbs. Immediately after he turned again to the machine. I dragged up a chair, assisted him into it, and seated myself close by.

"I knew little enough about mechanics, but I was fascinated by the numerous gauges that faced me on the gleaming instrument board. There were dials with needlelike hands that registered various numbers; spots of color appeared in narrow slots close to a solar spectrum; a stream of graph-paper tape flowed slowly beneath a tracing-pen point and carried away a jiggly thin line of purple ink. In a moment Drayle was. oblivious of everything but his records. I watched him copy the indicated figures, surround them with formulas, and solve mysterious problems with a slide-rule.

"His calculations covered a large sheet before he had finished. At last he underscored three intricate combinations of letters and figures and carried the answers to his private radio apparatus. This operated on a wave length far outside the range of all others and insured him against interference. With it he was able to speak at any time with his assistants in Washington or Boston or with both at once. He threw the switch that sent his call into the air. An answer came instantly, and Drayle began to talk to his distant lieutenants.

"WE'VE been interrupted, gentlemen, he said, 'but I think we may continue now. We'll reassemble in the Boston laboratory. Have you arranged the elements? The coefficients are....' And he gave a succession of decimals.

"A voice replied that all was ready. Drayle said 'Excellent,' went back to his invention and twisted a black knob on the board before him.

"With this trifling movement all hell seemed to crash about us. The ghastly cacophony that I had experienced in the same room some months previously was as nothing. These stupendous waves of sound pounded us until it seemed as if we must disintegrate beneath them. Wails and screams engulfed us. Mrs. Drayle dropped to her knees beside her husband. The doctor seized my arm and I saw the knuckles of his hand turn white with the pressure of his grip, yet I felt nothing but the awful vibrations that drummed like riveting machines upon and through my nerves and body. It was not an attack upon the ears alone; it crashed upon the heart, beat upon the chest so that breathing seemed impossible. My brain throbbed under the terrific pulsations. For a while I imagined the human system could not endure the ordeal and that all of us must be annihilated.

"Except for his slow turning of the dials Drayle was motionless before the machine. Below the bandage about his forehead I could see his features drawn with anxiety. He had wagered a human life to test his theory and I think the enormity of it had not struck him until that moment.

"What I knew and hoped enabled me to imagine what was taking place in the Boston laboratory. I seemed to see man's elementary dust and vapors whirled from great containers upward into a stratum of shimmering air and gradually assume the outlines of a human form that became first opaque, then solid, and then a sentient being. At the same instant I was conscious that the appalling pandemonium had ceased and that the voice of Drayle's Boston assistant was on the radio.

"CONGRATULATIONS, Chief! His reassemblage is perfect, There's not a flaw anywhere.'

" 'Splendid, Drayle answered. 'Bring him here by plane right away; his wife is worried about him.'

"Then Drayle turned to me.

"You see,' he said, 'Jackson Gee was right. We have resolved man into his constituent elements, transmitted his key vibrations by radio, and reassembled him from a supply of identical elements at the other end. And now, if you will assure that woman that her husband is safe, I will get some sleep. You will have the proof before you in less than three hours.'

"I can't vouch for the doctor's feelings, but as Drayle left us I was satisfied that everything was as it should be, and that I had just witnessed the greatest scientific achievement of all time. I did not foresee, nor did Drayle, the results of an error or deliberate disobedience on the part of one of his assistants.

"We waited, the doctor and I, for the arrival of the man who, we were convinced, had been transported some three hundred miles in a manner that defied belief. The evidence would come, Drayle had said, in a few hours. Long before they had elapsed we were starting at the sound of every passing motor, for we knew that a plane must land some distance from the house and that the travelers would make the last mile or so by car.

"Mrs. Drayle endeavored to convince the imagined widow that her husband was safe and was returning speedily. Later she rejoined us, full of questions that we answered in a comforting blind faith. The time limit was drawing to a close when the sound of an automobile horn was quickly followed by a sharp knock on the laboratory door. At a sign from Mrs. Drayle one of the policemen opened it and we saw two men before us. One, a scholarly appearing, bespectacled youth, I recognized as Drayle's Boston assistant, Ward; the other, a rather burly individual, was a stranger to me. But there was no doubt he was the man we awaited so eagerly, for Mrs. Farrel screamed 'Harry! Harry!' and sped across the room towards him.

AT first she ran her fingers rather timidly over his face, and then pinched his huge shoulders, as if to assure herself of his reality. The sense of touch must have satisfied her, for abruptly she kissed him, flung her arms about him, clung to him, and crooned little endearments. The big man, in turn, patted her cheeks awkwardly and mumbled in a convincingly 'natural voice, ' 'Sall right, Mary, old kid! There ain't nothin' to it. Yeah! Sure it's me!'

"Then I was conscious of Drayle's presence. A brown silk dressing gown fell shapelessly about his spare frame and smoke from his cigarette rose in a quivering blue-white stream. Ward spied him at the same moment and stepped forward with quick outstretched hands. I remember the flame of adoring zeal in the youngster's eyes as he tried to speak. At length he managed to stammer some congratulatory phrases while Drayle clapped him affectionately on the back.

"Then Drayle turned to Farrel to ask him how he enjoyed the trip. Farrel grinned and said, 'Fine! It was like a dream, sir! First I'm in one place and then I'm in another and I don't know nothing about how I got there. But I could do with a drink, sir. I ain't used to them airyplanes much.'

"Drayle accepted the hint and suggested that we all celebrate. He gave instructions over a desk telephone and almost immediately a man entered with a small service wagon containing a wide assortment of liquors and glasses. When we had all been served, Ward asked somewhat hesitantly if he might propose a toast, 'To Dr. Drayle, the greatest scientist of ail time!'

WE were of course, already somewhat drunk with excitement as we lifted our glasses. But Drayle would not have it.

" 'Let me amend that,' he said. 'Let us drink to the future of science.' "Sure! said Farrel, very promptly. I think he was somewhat uncertain about 'toast,' but he clung hopefully to the word 'drink.'

"We had raised our glasses again when Drayle, who was facing the door, dropped his. It struck the floor with a little crash and the liquor spattered my ankles. Drayle whispered 'Great God! I saw in the doorway another Farrel. He was grimy, disheveled, his clothing was torn, and his expression ugly; but his identity with 'Harry' was unescapable. For an instant I suspected Drayle of trickery, of perpetrating some fiendishly elaborate hoax. And then I heard Mrs. Farrel scream, heard the newcomer cry, 'Mary, and saw two men staring at each other in bewilderment.

"The explanation burst upon me with a horrible suddenness. Farrel had been reconstructed in each of Drayle's distant laboratories, and there stood before us two identities each equally authentic, each the legal husband of the woman who, a few hours previously, had imagined herself a widow. The situation was fantastic, nightmarish, unbelievable and undeniable. My head reeled with the fearful possibilities.

"Drayle was the first to recover his poise. He opened a door leading into an adjoining room and motioned for us all to enter. That is, all but the police. He left them wisely with their liquor. 'Finish it, he advised them. 'You see no one has been killed.'

THEY were not quite satisfied, but neither were they certain what they ought to do, and for once displayed common sense by doing nothing. When the door closed after us I saw that Buchannon, the Washington laboratory assistant, was with us. He must have arrived with the second Farrel, although I had not observed him during the confusion attending the former's unexpected appearance. But Drayle had noted him and now seized his shoulders. 'Explain! he demanded.

"Buchannon's face went white and he shrank under the clutch of Drayle's fingers. Beyond them I saw the two twinlike men standing beside Mrs. Farrel, surveying each other with incredulous recognition and distaste.

"'Explain! roared Drayle, and tightened his grasp.

"ʻI thought you said Washington, Chief.' His voice was not convincing. I didn't believe him, nor did Drayle.

" 'You lie!' he raged, and floored the man with his fist.

"In a way I couldn't help feeling sorry for the chap. It must have been a frightful temptation to participate in the experiment and I suppose he had not forseen the consequences. But I began to have a glimmering of the magnificent possibilities of the invention for purposes far beyond Drayle's intent. For, I asked myself, why, if such a machine could produce two human identities, why not a score, a hundred, a thousand? The best of the race could be multiplied indefinitely and man could make man at last, literally out of the dust of the earth. The virtue of instantaneous transmission which had been Drayle's aim sank into insignificance beside it. I fancied a race of supermen thus created. And I still believe, Sergeant, that the chance for the world's greatest happiness is sealed within that box you guard. But its first fruits were tragic."

The historian shifted his position on the bench so as to escape the sun that was now reflected dazzlingly by the polished steel casket.

"DRAYLE did not glance again at his disobedient lieutenant. He was concerned with the problem of the extra man, or, I should say, an extra man, for both were equal. Never before in the history of the world had two men been absolutely identical. They were, of course, one in thought, possessions and rights, physical attributes and appearance. Mrs. Farrel, as they were beginning to realize, was the wife of both. And I have an unworthy suspicion that the red-headed young woman, after she recovered from the shock, was not entirely displeased. The two men, however, finding that each had an arm about her waist, were regarding each other in a way that foretold trouble. Both spoke at the same time and in the same words.

" 'Take your hands off my wife!'

"And I think they would have attacked each other then if Drayle hadn't intervened. He said, 'Sit down! All of you!' in so peremptory a voice that we obeyed him.

" 'Now, he went on, 'pay attention to me. I think you realize the situation. The question is, what we shall do about it? He pointed an accusing finger at the Farrel from Washington. 'You were not authorized to exist; properly we should retransmit you, and without reassembling you would simply cease to be.'

"The man addressed looked terrified. 'It would be murder!' he protested.

"Would it? Drayle inquired of me.

"I told him that it could not be proved inasmuch as there would be no corpus delicti and hence nothing on which to base a charge.

"But the Washington Farrel seemed to have more than an academic interest in the question and grew obstinate.

" 'Nothing doing!' he announced emphatically. 'Here I am and here I stay. I started from this place this morning and now I'm back, and as for that big ape over there I don't know nothing about him— except he'll be dead damn soon if he don't keep away from my wife.'

THE other Drayle-made man leaped up at this, and again I expected violence. But Buchannon flung himself between, and they subsided, muttering.

" 'Very well, then,' Drayle continued, when the room was quiet, 'here is another solution. We can, as you realize, duplicate Mrs. Farrel, and I will double your present possessions.'

"This time it was Mrs. Farrel who was dissatisfied. 'You ain't talking to me,' she informed Drayle. 'Me stand naked in front of all them lamps and get turned into smoke? Not me!' A smile spread over her face and her eyes twinkled with deviltry. 'I didn't never think I'd be in one of them triangles like in the movies, and with my own husbands, but seein' I am, I'm all for keeping them both. Then I might know where one of them was some of the time.'

"But neither of the men took to this idea and the problem appeared increasingly complex. I proposed that the survivor be determined by lot, but this suggestion won no support from anyone. Again the two men spoke at the same instant and in the same words. It was like a carefully rehearsed chorus. 'I know my rights, and I ain't going to be gypped out of them!'

"It was at this point that Drayle attempted bribery. He offered fifty thousand dollars to the man who would abandon Mrs. Farrel. But this scheme fell through because both men sought the opportunity and Mrs. Farrel objected volubly.

"So in the end Drayle promised each of them the same amount as a price for silence and left the matter of their relationships to their own settlement.

"I WAS skeptical of the success of the plan but could offer nothing better. So I drew up a release as legally binding as I knew how to make it in a case without precedent. I remember thinking that if the matter ever came into court the judge would be as much at a loss as I was.

"Our troubles, though, didn't spring from that source. Each of the three parties accepted the arrangement eagerly and Drayle dismissed them with a hand-shake, a wish for luck and a check for fifty thousand dollars each. It's very nice to be wealthy, you know.

"Afterward, we went out and paid off the police. Perhaps that's stating it too bluntly. I mean that Drayle thanked them for their zealous attention to his interests, regretted that they had been unnecessarily inconvenienced and trusted that they would not take amiss a small token of his appreciation of their devotion to duty. Then he shook hands with them both and I believe I saw a yellow bill transferred on each occasion, At any rate the officers saluted smartly and left.

"Of course I was impatient to question Drayle, but I could see that he was desperately fatigued. So I departed.

"Next morning I found my worst fears exceeded by the events of the night. The three Farrels who had left us in apparently amiable spirits had proceeded to the home of Mrs. and the original Mr. Farrel. There the argument of who was to leave had been resumed. Both men were, of course, of the same mind. Whether both desired to stay or flee I would not presume to say. But an acrimonious dispute led to physical hostilities, and while Mrs. Farrel, according to accounts, cheered them on, they literally fought to the death. Being equally capable, there was naturally, barring interruption, no other possible outcome. I can well believe they employed the same tactics, swung the same blows, and died at the same instant.

"Mrs. Farrel, after carefully retrieving both of her husbands' checks, told a great deal of the story. As might be expected, nobody believed the yarn except our profound federal law makers. They welcomed an opportunity to investigate an outsider for a change and had all of us before a committee.

"Finally the Congress of these United States of America, plus the sagacious Supreme Court, decided that my client wasn't guilty of anything, but that he mustn't do it again. At least that was the gist of it. I recollect that I offered a defense of psycopathic neuroticism.

"As a result of the obiter dictum and a resolution by both Houses Assembled Drayle's invention was sealed, dated and placed under guard. That's its history, Sergeant."

THE white-haired old gentleman picked up the high siik hat that added a final touch of distinction to his tall figure, and looked about him as if trying to recall something. At last the idea came.

"By the way," he inquired suddenly, "didn't I have an extraordinarily obnoxious grandson with me when I came?"

The attentive auditor was vastly startled, He surveyed the great hall rapidly, but reflected before he answered,

"No, sir— I mean he ain't no more'n average! But I reckon we'd better find him, anyhow."

His glance had satisfied the sergeant that at least the object of his charge was safe and his men still vigilant. "I'll be back in a minute," he informed them. "Don't let nothin' happen."

"Bring us something more'n a breath," pleaded the corporal, disrespectfully.

The sergeant had already set off ata brisk pace with the story teller. For several minutes as they rushed from room to room the hunt was unrewarded.

"I think, sir," said the sergeant, "we'd better look in the natural history division. There is stuffed animals in there that the kids is fond of."

"You're probably right," the patriarch gasped as he struggled to maintain the gait set by the younger man. "I might have known he didn't really want to hear the story."

"They never do," answered the other over his shoulder. "I'll bet that's him down there on the next floor."

THE two searchers had emerged upon a wide gallery that commanded a clear view of the main entrance, where various specimens of American fauna were mounted in intriguing replicas of their native habitat. The guard pointed an accusing finger at one of these groups and sprang toward the stairs.

The old gentleman's breath and strength were gone. He could only gaze in the direction that had been indicated by the madly running guard; but he had no doubts. A small boy was certainly digging vigorously at the head of a specimen of Ursus Polaris that the curator had represented in the dramatic pose of killing a seal. A protesting wail arose from below as the young naturalist was withdrawn from his field by a capable hand on the slack of his trousers. And presently, chagrined with failure, the culprit was before his grandsire.

"Gee!" he complained, "I was only looking at the polar bear. Are polar bears always white? Are—"

"You'd better take him away, sir," interrupted the sergeant. "He was trying to pry out one of the bear's eyes with the stick of the lollypop I give him. Take him."

The old gentleman extended both hands. His left found a grip in his  grandson's coat collar; his right, partly concealing a government engraving, met the guard's with a clasp of gratitude.

"Sergeant," he remarked in a voice tense with feeling, "a half-hour ago I expressed some ridiculous regrets that Drayle's invention had been kept from the world. Now I realize its horrid menace. I shudder to think it might have been responsible for two like him!"

The object of disapproval was shaken indicatively.

"Guard the secret well, Sergeant! Guard it well! The world's peace depends upon you!" The old gentleman's words trembled with conviction.

Then alternately shaking his head and his grandson he marched down the hallway, ebony cane tapping angrily upon the stone.

As the exhausted but happy warrior retraced his steps a high-pitched voice floated after him.

"Grandpa, are polar bears always white?"

_______________

12: The Treasure Hunt

Radcliffe Martin

1873-1947

Sea Stories Magazine June 1922

SHIPS' captains should never be married. When a man's married, he can't do his duty by his ship. That's how my trouble began. Old Smith was a good sort for a Britisher. When I'd made the old Cyprian cut her record two days between London and Sydney he was as pleased as pie, made a little speech to me, and gave me a box of cigars. I make no account of cigars— specially his cigars— but it showed a proper feeling toward a chief engineer.

So when, a week before we left Sydney for the trip back to London, there came a message for me to go to the captain's cabin to see the company's Australian manager, I felt that the company was going to thank me for my record trip, and I stepped across pretty lively. I saw the captain's eye as I entered, and it told me something was wrong. The manager was a haw-haw kind of Johnny, wko wore kid gloves and gold eyeglasses. He was looking through the ship's papers, and pretended not to see me.

"This is Mr. Sellers, my chief engineer," said the old man politely.

The thing looked slowly up from the papers and stared at me as if it was wondering what sort of a hobo had blown into the cabin.

"Aw, Sellers," he says, "I have been acquainting Captain Smith, with the company's decision. The time of the return trip to London will be cut four days. You understand?"

The thing riled me. "Can't be done." I snapped quick.

"That's the company's decision," repeats the object. ;

"See," I said, "with luck and good weather I cut the record two days coming out. There ain't another engineer 'cept Cyrus Hoskin, and he's dead, who could have done it. Now, with the cyclone season due and Australian coal in the bunkers, you want me to cut the time to London double. It ain't possible."

"If you can't do it, my man, the company must get a man who can. The Cyprian is already advertised to cut the time by four days, and the company keeps faith with the public."

"Don't you call me your man. I'm not in your vest pocket. I run to advertised time, and I'll lay ten thousand dollars it can't be done."

"If you can't hustle, my man—" began the thing.

That was too much for me. Hadn't I hustled on the passage out! Hadn't I done everything stort of manslaughter, for to my mind it ain't reasonable quite to kill a stoker, to get every blessed ounce of power out of his rotten old engines? I just reached across the table and gave him the left fair on his gold eyeglasses. He dropped plumb on the floor, and appeared as if he reckoned to stay there.

"Come out of it," says the old man, gripping me by the arm and rushing me out of the cabin.

"You," I said, "calling yourself a ship's captain, and letting a thing like that wipe its boots on you."

"Sellers," said the old man to me, "there's four good reasons for my putting up with that high and mighty beast— a wife and three kids. Why didn't you agree with him? We could have had engine trouble that delayed us."

"Cap," I said, "I'll have you understand this: My engines don't have trouble. I run to advertised time. And when a skunk like that wants me to lie to the public I put him in his place."

"Under the table," said the old man, with a chuckle. "Hes there yet, I judge. Well, my boy, we've got along well together, and now we'll have to part. But mind, if I'd not been married you'd have kad no chance of putting that beast under the table, because I'd have done it myself first. But being married—"

"There's excuses for you, cap," I says straightforwardly.

"Well, I must go back and help him to mop up the blood. And he'll want yours, too. I hope he won't want mine just because I saw it done. Now, you take your chest out of this ship. I shall have to go back to him and tell him that I discharged you instantly. Meet me at Cooney's Bar to-night, and I'll bring your money."

"Go on, cap," I said. "I'm the sacrificed victim. You're the right stuff, if it wasn't for your domestic misfortunes, Tell it that you drove me out with blasphemings and cursings."

Old Captain Smith skook me by the hand. "Best chief I ever had," he said. "We never had a word, Sellers, principally because I knew you'd never stand one. But I'll give you a bit of advice: Next time you go for an owner or his agent don't stop at one on the nose. Knock the stuffing out of the beast. This'd be a happy day for me if I hadn't to order you off the ship for gross insubordination. And the best chief I ever had, at that."

I liked the old man, because he could appreciate a good chief when he got him, and I made allowance for his domestic difficulties. So I decided to go, quiet, without going down and improving the thing's countenance some more.

I went off with my chest to a boarding house, near the harbor, and I met the captain in Cooney's Bar that night. He was very happy in one way and very sad in another. He paid me three months' wages, and I'm ready to lay a dollar that he'd planked down one month's of it himself.

"That beast is going to prosecute you, Sellers," he began, "and I've got to go and give evidence against you. So I've got to ask a favor of you."

"Out with it, cap!"

"You'll let me pay that fine. I've got to give evidence against you. If I wasn't married, I'd swear you'd ntver touched him. But being married—"

"That's the reason you'll pay no fine of mine. Keep your dollars. You'll need them."

Well, he stuck out and I stuck out, and we mixed the drinks so, arguing the points, that I had to take the cap aboard at two in the morning, and he mistook me then for the company's manager, and tried hard to lay me out.

Next day a sort of policeman serves me with a summons charging me with causing grievous bodily harm, which was a blamed lie, for I hit him straight on the nose. Anyhow, I went to the court. The magistrate, or judge, or whatever they call him, wasn't a bad sort. He let me tell my tale right out, and I saw the reporter boys were busy. It made me happy to think that next day the city'd know that the Cyprian couldn't make her advertised time. The old captain gave evidence very solemn and severe against me. Well, when Pd got out my yarn about being an honest man and not a dishonest steamship owner trying to get passengers by promising things no engines could ever do— not even if I was running them—the judge looks at me and says: "Your professional enthusiasm is highly creditable to you, Mr. Sellers, but that is no excuse for assault. However, as it is not an aggravated assault, and the manners of the prosecutor were decidedly provocative, I think that the justice of the case would be met by a fine of twenty shillings."

"Five dollars!" I says. "It's cheap. I'll have another five dollars' worth."

"Silence," says the judge; "and let me tell you, Mr. Sellers, that any further pursuit of this professional vendetta will be severely punished."

Still, the old boy's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles as he said it, and, on the whole, he'd given me a square deal. I've paid twenty dollars for less in Frisco. . Well, when I went to pay my fine I found that old Captain Smith had already done it, and bolted. There was the makings of a good man about the old cap, if he hadn't been matrimonially involved.

Anyhow, the report in the papers made me popular. There was precious few captains and no chief engineers who didn't want to put up tke drinks for me. They'd come and walk round me in the bar sorter admiring the man who'd laid out a company's agent. Some of 'em when drunk blamed me for not killing the thing; still, in a general way, I was popular. Only the worst of all this was that it didn't help me to a ship. The thing I'd laid out was a big bug among the underwriters, and when you're up against underwriters it's a bad job. Captain after captain made me tell them precise how I caught the thing on the nose, and then they'd almost cry because they daren't ship me. They all advised me to go to some other port where I wasn't so conspicuous for my valiant deeds. But I said to them all: "I'm a sticker, from Stickersville. Ship from Sydney I will in spite of all the gold eyeglasses and spats in creation."

There was one American captain who wanted to ship me bad. He said that there'd been no one like me since George Washington, and that T. Roosevelt, of Oyster Bay, warn't fit to shine my boots, but he, too, poor critter, was married. And his chief engineer was his own brotherin-law. There he was, struggling between his love for his countryman who'd laid out the haughty and eyeglassed British lion, and his fear of some one called Sadie, way back in Maine. Sadie won.

Well, after a month my money was getting low. If I hadn't announced so public that I proposed to stick it out in Sydney, I'd have skipped. Still, unlimited free drinks won't pay board bills, and my residence was No. 1, the shady side of Queer Street.

At last, one night, when I was in Cooney's Bar, Cooney beckoned me across. I liked Cooney. If he was from Tipperary, he was a true American citizen, and if the Frisco cops hadn't wanted him badly he'd never have left his adopted native land.

"Ye'll be wanthing a ship?" said Cooney to me.

"For once in your life, Cooney," I said, "you're speaking the copper-bottomed, A1 at Lloyd's truth."

He bends forward and whispers to me: "Mr. Manners is upstairs."

"Who's he?"

"He might give ye a ship, but don't thry any games wid him. He's not the ordinary owner."

"Take me to him, Cooney," I says.

We went upstairs to a little private room. I saw sitting in the best chair a great, stout, fine-looking man. He seemed to be about sixty, and, judging by the way he was playing poker, it seemed to me as if he'd been practicing that noble game about fifty-eight years. I felt sorry for the ships' captains he was playing with. There never was such a poker face. He'd one big, kindly smile all the time, whether he'd a fool hand or a royal flush. We sat watching them half an hour, till the captains retired to repair damages.

Then Cooney said very respectful: "This is Chief. Engineer Sellers, Mr. Manners. Ye mentioned that ye wanthed a chief engineer."

Mr. Manners turned round to me with his big, amiable smile.

"Delighted to see you, Mr. Sellers. You can send some drinks up, Cooney."

Cooney crept out of the room, seeing that he wasn't wanted.

"I've heard of your little exploit, Mr. Sellers," says the stout man, smiling. "I compliment you on it, even though I own a small steamer myself. You see that I have no fear that you will knock me down."

He looked at me pleasantly enough, but I had a sort of feeling that he was a man to be left alone.

"So you're up against the underwriters, Cooney tells me?"

I began to tell him my particular troubles.

"Right, right, Mr. Sellers! Now, I am also up against the underwriters. I have a little business to suggest to you, but before doing so I may remark that I expect my observations to be treated as confidential. Unless you are prepared to do that, I wish you good evening."

"I'm with you," I said.

"Let me caution you that I'm an awkward person to quarrel with. Now, I wish to put five thousand pounds in your way."

"If it's scuttling—" I began.

"My dear sir, I would not ask you to do anything so unprofessional. Let me explain to you: The news. came this morning that the Levita's piled up on the Barrier Reef, and that the crew and passengers are all saved. I've talked with one of the officers. Tke wreck lies in six fathoms of water, and there's forty thousand pounds in bullion aboard."

"The underwriters-will be after it to-morrow," I said.

"No, not to-morrow. The Sydney Salvage Company has two steamers available. One is occupied with a wreck off Newcastle. The machinery of the other will break down in two days when it's well on its way to the wreck."

"How do you know that?" I said.

"I'm no engineer, Mr. Sellers, but I understand that the presence of gold in the engine room will cause any engines to break down."

"He's a low skunk, that engineer!" I said. "My engines would break down for no man's dollars."

"Exactly so. Now, I have a small steamer in the harbor. The captain and a Chinese crew are already aboard. The two best divers in Sydney are locked in a cabin, drunk. I need an engineer who'll take entire charge and be content with Chinese help. It will be almost day-and-night work for three weeks. You will kave no white assistance. And your share will be oneeighth of the gold recovered from the wreck. If we are fortunate, you will get twenty-five thousand dollars for a three weeks' trip."

"But there'll be the hell of a jimbaroo when the salvage steamer gets there."

"Oh, no; the wreck lies on the very edge of the reef. A few dynamite cartridges, and she'll drop off into fifty fathoms. Who is to tell, then, that your friends, the underwriters, had been forestalled?"

"You've got me," I said. "When shall I come aboard?"

He lifted himself slowly from his chair and took my arm. "Now, Mr. Sellers," he remarked quietly. "I don't wish you to be telling your friends in the bars that you have got a ship. This little trip of ours needs no advertising. You'll come with me now."

"But my chest?"

"That can stay. We can easily fix you up on board. Come, it is not often you have the chance of earning twenty-five thousand dollars for three weeks' work."

That settled it. To take twenty-five thousand dollars from the underwriter sharks I'd have gone a far longer voyage than to the Barrier Reef.

So we walked down to the harbor together without a word to anybody. We found a boat waiting and two chinks in it. Mr. Manners stepped in and seated himself in the stern sheets. He never gave an order, and the chinks seemingly did not need one. They rowed us straight away to a small steamer lying about a mile from the wharf. Mr. Manners sprang up the steamer side with a nimbleness that surprised me, considering he must have weighed two hundred pounds. A dark-looking man stood on the deck.

"Ah, Captain Lawrence," said Mr. Manners, "this is Mr. Sellers, our engineer. Those men all right in their cabin?"

"They was fighting drunk a bit since, but they're sleeping it off now," said the captain.

"Then I can't introduce you to the balance of the ship's company," said Mr. Manners, "seeing that our friends, McNab and Higgins, are asleep. The rest are all Chinamen."

"I never make much account of chinks," I said.

"Mine are devoted to me," said Mr. Manners. "You will have no fault to find with your stokers and greasers except perhaps that they are ignorant. Show them what to do, and they'll do it. A Chinaman understands obedience. Now, I'll show you the cabin you'll share with the captain."

"I'Il see the engines first," I said.

"The professional instinct, of course. By all means, go down to the engine room."

It was a small place enough for me who'd been used to ten-thousand-ton steamers, but in five minutes I saw that, small as the engines were, they were all right. If anything, the little steamer was a bit overengined. Given luck, I saw that I could make twelve knots, and thas not bad for a coasting steamer not much bigger than a tug.

I went on deck for a smoke before turning in, and found the captain leaning on the rail. He looked at me sadlike, and went on smoking. I judged the old man thought himself too much up a tree to associate with chief engineers, especially when they was only engineers. But, after a minute, he took his pipe out of his mouth and made as if to speak, but the words didn't seem to be able to come at first.

Then he whispered: "Can he hang you?" pointing to Manners' cabin.

"No; I'm here on shares of the dollars," I said.

The captain spat in the water, and whispers: "He can hang me!"

With that, he seemed to have finished his conversation, so, after waiting a few minutes, I turns in, thinking that in tke interests of sociability old Manners would have done well to hang the cap.

I WAS roused in the morning by a yellow-faced, smiling chink looking in and saying: "Blekfast, sar." I turned out, and found Mr. Manners and the captain waiting for me in the cabin. The food was all right, and Mr. Manners sort of presided over things like a duke. He could put on an awful lot of style, or I guess I should say he had an awful lot of style. It came natural to him.

He talked very pleasant to me, all about ports and steamers, and took about as much notice of the captain as he would have done of a dog. I liked his conversation. He seemed to have been everywhere and seen everything.

"If it's a fair question,' I asked him, "are you an American or a British citizen, Mr. Manners?"

He smiled his big smile. "I am a citizen of the world, Mr. Sellers," he says, with a polite bow.

I saw that he wanted no questions.

Soon he started on about the engines, and asked me if they were satisfactory.

"Yes," I said; "they looks like watch insides after what I've been used to, but for what they are I allow they're all tight. With a bit of booting, I can get fourteen knots out of them, and that's more'n any other living man can do."

He smiled again. "No booting, Mr. Sellers, if you please. This ship will be run on humane lines. If any of the Chinese shirk or are insubordinate, report them to me."

"But how am I to get fourteen knots with chink stokers and no booting?"

"How am I to get along if my valued engineer has a knife in his back or poison in his food? That's my problem. Leave the Chinamen to me, Mr. Sellers, if you please."

I didn't like the idea, for Pd always stuck out for discipline in my engine room, but old Manners had the way with him. I'd have stood up to any ship's captain I ever met, but this quiet old gentleman was too much for me.

"When are we off?" I asked.

"The salvage company's steamer is getting steam up. She'll be off this morning. She'll break down to-morrow night. If we leave to-morrow it wili be time enough. Perhaps people. might smell a rat if we left before her. I'm known here, I'm afraid, as a man of enterprise."

Well, that morning I went and overhauled my engines. It took me two or, three hours, for when you're in sole charge you don't want breakdowns. at sea. After that, I came on deck ready for a smoke or a yarn. Old Manners was sitting in a deck chair reading a novel by a man called France. Curious enough, it was in the French language, too.

"Well," he said, "have you oiled the last bearing?"

"They're as fit as I can make 'em," I answers, "and that's fitter than any man 'cept Buck Macfarlane could make 'em."

"Then perhaps you will favor me with a game of dominoes?" he said.

"I'd sooner play dominoes with you than poker," I said, smiling,

"Ah, you watched that little game. Well, a man who had lived intelligently ought always to play poker well. After all, success in life comes to the man who can make a big bluff."

I thought that I could play dominoes, but old Manners was past grand master.

He'd look at his bones at the start, and tell me, offhand, how many pips hed win by, or how many I ought to win by if I'd a good lot.

Soon I said: "You're way up, Mr. Manners. You play too deep a game for me."

"Well, shall we go and see those drunken divers? Perhaps they may have slept off their debauch by now."

We went below and stirred them up. They looked sick. Seemed to me they might have dived in what they'd drunk.

"Mr. McNab and Mr. Higgins," said Mr. Manners, introducing them as if they were princes instead of two very sick men, "two more shareholders in our little gold kunt."

Higgins was a lanky Londoner, who hadn't a thought outside the inside of a whisky bottle, but I liked little McNab, though he talked such broad Scotch that he nearly wanted a translator. He took to me, too, and we yarned all the day about wrecks, and engines, and the perils of strong drink— McNab was great on that. Then ke explained to me careful just how he was going to spend his share of the dollars. There was to be so much for his old parents, and so much for a crippled sister, and with the rest he was going to buy a sheep farm in Scotland a hundred miles from the sea.

"I've been sic a wanderer, Mr. Sellers," he says, "that I judge it best tae avoid the proxeemity of the ocean."

And then I told him precise how I was going to start spending mine in painting Frisco a bit redder. Little McNab bursts out all of a sudden: "Stap, stap, Mr. Sellers! It hurts me tae think o' sae mickle siller being wasted. Mon, I fear ye're a prodigal."

"I'II lay a dollar some of yours goes in whisky, Mac," I says.

"Just a bottle for hospitality," he answers. "No more."

The next morning I set the Chinese stokers to work to get up steam, and in the afternoon the steamer Bonadventure left Sydney in ballast for Newcastle. But when we were once clear from sight of the lighthouse on the Heads our course was altered, and we steered south. The engines ran like a dream, and I saw that when she'd settled to her work she'd easily do fourteen knots. The chinks. worked well enough, though my fists ached to put a bit of grit into them. Still, I had not a hard time. McNab had been third engineer on a Clyde steamer before he took to the diving, so he could take charge temporary when I wanted to turn in or to feed.

He came down just before dusk on the second day we were out.

"Up on deck wi' ye, mon. There's a sight o' considerable interest."

I left him in charge, and skipped up the ladder.

Mr. Manners was standing on deck, glass in hand. He handed me the glass, with a polite bow.

"A steamer making distress signals," he said. "Are we to be inhuman enough to leave her?"

I got the glass on the ship and made her out to be the salvage company's steamer.

"I guess we've got to be inhuman," I said.

"She'll be lucky if she gets some one to tow her to-night. Then it'll be two days' tow to Sydney, perhaps three. Then they'll kave to charter another steamer. That's not done in ten minutes. Say another couple of days. And now we are most of two days on our way. I make out that we shall have at the least a week to explore the Levita. That ought to give us ample time. But drive ker—drive her, Mr. Sellers. We don't want to run things fine."

I went down below and did my best to get another knot out of her. Then I found one chink who was inclined to shirk. I could have settled him with a shovel in half a minute, but I judged it best not to cross Mr, Manners. So I stepped up on deck and reported matters.

"Send him here," says Mr. Manners, scarcely looking up from his novel.

I called down for Ah Lee, and he comes up looking more green than yellow.

Mr. Manners looks up casual from his book, slips a revolver out of his pocket, and shoots him down like a dog.

"You might be good enough to ask one of the crew to throw that overboard and swab the deck, Mr. Sellers," said Mr. Manners, already deep in his book. "I think you'll have no more trouble with your stokers."

Now, I make no account of chinks live or dead, but Manners' quick way with them gave me tke shakes for a minute.

Little McNab steals up to me and whispers: "Mon, he's nae regard whatever for human life."

"Well, don't cross him, Mac," I said, "or he'll have nae regard for yours."

But after that the chink stokers worked like tigers. Pd no need to drive them. They drove themselves. Many a time I wished I'd had such stokers on the Cyprian, I'd have cut that record another day.

Well, after ten days we were pretty near the point we wanted, and the Bonadventure had to run along the line of the reef hunting for the wreck. Lucky for us, there was no wind and not much swell, else that salvage steamer would have found two wrecks in place of one. We were lucky enough to locate the wreck of the Levita pretty quick, and we managed to anchor the Bonadventure quite close, yet without fouling the wreck.

Then little McNab showed what he was made of. He worked like a little demon fixing spars projecting over the ship's side and getting a windlass rigged up. All I had to do was to see that a full head of steam was kept up, so that in case any interfering steamer poked her nose in, the Bonadventure could show her a clean pair of heels.

"The gold is in a specially constructed chamber under the captain's cabin," said Mr. Manners. "Now, gentlemen, the rest is with you."

He settled down in his chair, reading, as if it was no concern of his at all. Captain Lawrence stood supervising the chinks who worked the windlass and the air pumps. I was anxious lest we should be interrupted, so I spent my time between looking at the pressure gauge and keeping an eye on the horizon. It seemed a. deadly long day. Every now and then one of the divers was hauled up for rest or to get some special tools. It wasn't till four in the afternoon that there came the signal to haul up. I sprang to the windlass, and even the chinks looked interested when an iron-clamped case came up.

"There should be three or more of them," said Mr. Manners, looking up from his book. 'Fifty thousand dollars' worth of bullion in each case. Treasure hunting looks like proving lucrative, Mr. Sellers."

It wasn't till all the treasure was safe on deck that he seemed interested. Tken came the point of blowing up the ship and he roused at once.

"We must make sure that the wreck shifts into deep water,' he said. "She seems almost balanced on the edge of the reef. Now, Mr. McNab, we don't want any awkward inquiries after you have bought your sheep farm. Can you guarantee to move the wreck?"

"Ye may trust me to distribute the dynamite," said McNab.

There was a battery fixed on deck to fire the detonators. Mr. Manners took charge of this. Down went the divers, and I leaned over the ship's side watching them.

"Just see that your engines are right, Mr. Sellers," said Manners. "We must be well away from this reef before night falls."

I went down below to the engine room. Everything seemed straightforward. I judged that we should be making twelve knots a quarter of an hour after the anchor was up. I was just looking at the pressure gauge, when the steamer heeled almost over. A great wave swept over the ship, and tons of water poured down the hatchway.

"What in hell's the matter?" I cried, springing up the ladder. "Here's half my fires put out."

"The charges exploded prematurely," said Mr. Manners. "Those poor fellows have gone."

"My God!" I said, jumping to the rail. The wreck had vanished. It had slid from the reef into fifty fathoms of water.

"How did it happen? Poor little McNab!" I cried.

"My hand must have slipped. Most unfortunate business. They had just given the signal to be hauled up. Dear me, dear me, you don't happen to know if they've any families?"

"McNab had," I answered. "He came from somewhere near Peebles, in Scotland. He had old parents, and a crippled' sister. Well hunt them up and see that they get the dollars."

"That will be a consolation to me and to them, but how can I forgive myself for that fatal mistake? Still, it's no use staying here. The concussion must have killed them before they were drowned. Captain Lawrence, will you please get the anchor up at once?"

I went below, feeling sick and queer. It wasn't that I minded about Higgins, who had never got quite sober, in my knowledge of him, but I had liked little McNab. Somehow, it seemed to me that this was to be an unlucky voyage. Still, there was twenty-five thousand dollars for McNab's folk— that was a comfort.

It wasn't till late that night that I went on deck for a breath of air.

Captain Lawrence was there, and for once he was smiling.

"I'm coming in with you now," he said. "I'm going to be a shareholder."

"Weren't you before?" I asked.

"Not me. He knew enough to hang me, and now I know enough to hang him."

"They'd never hang any one for a chink. Mind it startled me, but, after all, it was maintaining discipline. Suppose Id laid him out with a shovel, you'd never have thought of hanging me for it."

"What's a chink got to do with it? I meant McNab. He fired that charge deliberately. I saw him signal the chink to cut the windlass ropes. I'll talk to him now. You and me'll stand in together. It'll be a third each, or I'I split. Anyhow, I only killed one, and a third officer, at that."

I felt sick. This voyage was too much for me.

"We'll stick together, and bleed him," said the captain. ''He's worth millions of dollars, they say. A third each! We'll have the lot between us before we've done with him. Looks as if there's a bit of sea getting up. Were running right into it, I fancy. Don't talk now. Those chinks tell him everything."

I saw the engines were right, and turned in for an hour. Then I felt that a sea was getting up, and I'd no chance of leaving the engine room till daylight. With the day, the wind seemed to drop, and I went on deck for a look at the weather. I saw Mr. Manners walking up and down looking very upset.

"A most unfortunate voyage," he said, when he saw me. "Poor Captain Lawrence!"

"What?" I cried.

"Swept overboard an hour since. A terrible loss. It's a good thing that Pm a fair amateur navigator."

"Swept overboard!" I exclaimed.

"Yes; I'd just come on deck to see if I could relieve him a bit, when the ship broached to. I caught a rail, but when the deck was clear the captain had gone."

He spoke so straightforwardly that I hardly doubted him.

"It'll be a tough job to get her back to Sydney," I said.

"Oh, no; I'm, as I told you, a fair navigator. The Chinese are excellent seamen, and we have, I am glad to say, an expert engineer."

I leaned over the rail and thought of the bad luck that had attended this voyage. I wondered whether Lawrence had made up lis story about the premature explosion in order to induce me to join him in blackmailing Mr, Manners. And. then I saw a little patch of color on the rail. I touched it, and found it was still damp. It was a thumb mark in blood, and I guessed that the end of Captain Lawrence was a sight more picturesque than Mr. Manners said.

"Two shareholders gone," I thought. "The man who wanted to be a shareholder gone. It's a gaudy lookout for Samuel B. Sellers, the only surviving shareholder."

I went down to my cabin and felt in my bunk for my revolver. It was gone, and I knew that kindly Mr. Manners meant having no mistakes.

From that moment I fancied that I was watched all the time. There seemed to be a chink about wherever I went. Mr. Manners could gabble to them in what tke chinks presumed to be their language, and for all I knew the orders he was giving them might have reference to me. However, he was as polite and high bred as ever. He called me up from the engine room specially to show me the salvage company's steamer making for the wreck. I looked at him often, speculating whether it would be well to grip kim by the neck and throttle him, but when he turned that big, calm smile of his on me, my heart fell into my boots. I'm not reckoned to be a coward, but Manners was too big a proposition for me to tackle.

As we neared Sydney, the chinks grew more and more polite and smiling. A chink can be real polished when he's calculating between which of your ribs he'll stick his knife in. And tke more polite they got the lower sank my spirits. I guessed if they got rid of me there'd be no inquiries. No one except Cooney knew that I had any idea of shipping on the Bonadventure, and Cooney would be in Manners' pocket. But I could do nothing. My revolver had gone and a knife was no good against twenty yellow devils and a big white devil who could knock the pips off cards with revolver shots at twenty paces.

At last one night we sighted the light on Sydney Heads. Mr. Manners pointed it out to me, and says pleasant-like: "Our successful voyage is nearly over, Mr. Sellers. I compliment you on the speed you have got out of your engines. I never wish to know a better engineer."

Even as he spoke to me I saw him look at the head man of his Chinese crew. He didn't say anything, but I guessed the Chinese understood. It seemed to me that I shouldn't see another sunrise, and that's a sad reflection for a chief engineer who's broken more records than any one, bar Cyrus Hoskin. I went down to my engines for an hour. I judged that I wanted a bit of company, and they were running as sweet as rye whisky down a pilot's throat. Then I thought I'd go on deck and face it out. The chinks looked at me curious, but it seemed to me as if they'd no orders to begin the trouble yet. I guessed the artful old devil wanted the Bonadventure inside the Heads before the trouble began. I walked up and down the deck twice, wondering whether I should jump for it, but a six-mile swim's a big proposition for a man who's good for a quarter mile, and no more, and ain't desirous of sharks' company.

Just then I saw the lights of a big steamer, and I saw a chance. I judged her to be a big Frisco liner, and she was making all of sixteen knots, and would pass near us, but well to starboard. I edged nearer and nearer to the man at the wheel as the steamer came near to us. Then, at the right second, I jumps at him like a wild cat, gives him the left under the chin, and spins the wheel round.

The Bonadventure sheered right across the big steamer's bows. One of the chinks screamed for Manners, and I heard him leap on deck. The ship was towering over the Bonadventure like a wall. I jumped for the rail and dived deep, knowing what propellers were. Something cracked as I went overboard, and then I heard the crash as the big ship cut the Bonadventure down.

It seemed a month before I came up to the surface again. In a minute I saw that the steamer was lowering a boat. I gave one yell, and swam toward it. They pulled me in just as I was sinking.

"Any more saved?" I gasped.

"None," says the sailor who'd pulled me in; "her boilers blew up when we ran her down."

Luckily for me, it was an American steamer, bound for Frisco. They acted very straight to me. The old man explained elaborate to me that you couldn't expect decent seamanship from an Australian steamer, and wrote up in his log:

Ran down Bonadventure steamer in ballast from Newcastle to Sydney. One survivor.  Sellers, engineer.

That ended his duty. The doctor patched up a queer place on my head where the hair had been cut away, and said that if he hadn't known it to be done by striking a bit of wreckage he'd have sworn it was the graze of a revolver bullet. He knew something, did that doc. But he didn't know that old Manners' last shot was a great one. It wasn't my business to talk about the Bonadventure. Not being desirous of more trouble from underwriters, I didn't think it necessary to explain that she was ballasted with two hundred thousand dollars' worth of bullion. It's lying there, two hundred fathoms deep, off Sydney Heads, and whenever I think how useful them dollars would be to me, I've one consolation: At any rate, old man Manners keeps them company.

_______________

13: Murder's Never Easy

Roger Torrey

1901-1946

Private Detective Stories March 1942

As is not unusal in these magazines, the start of this 10-chapter novelette didn't have a chapter number or heading at the start. I have added one.

1: Where is Zoa?

MISS CASWELL was waiting for us when we rowed in to the dock. It was the first time I'd seen her and she made me think of something the Indians carve on their totem poles, and she had a voice that went with her gargoyle looks.

"I'm Miss Caswell," she said.

"Charmed, I'm sure," said Wallie, in his best manner.

I knew by that he was as drunk as when we'd started fishing or he'd never have bothered to have been polite to anybody that looked like Miss Caswell.

"Where is Zoa?" she next said.

Wallie rose and bowed and almost fell out of the boat. I grabbed at the rods with one hand and the side of the dock with the other and managed to save us from going over.

"Sit down," I said.

He said: "But, Sam! Not while the lady is standing!"

Miss Caswell sniffed and said: "I will not tolerate such penaa Where is Zoa?"

Wallie said: "Now I'll ask you one. What is a Zoa?"

"Zoa Barnes! I am looking for Miss Zoa Barnes."

Wallie Ieered at her and said: "Look in the tent, lady. Look under my bed. I always keep my girls right there, handy. You know! So I can reach out at night and feel of 'em."

Miss Caswell got red in the face and turned and stalked away.

I said: "Look, Wallie, you damn' fool. She was serious. She was really looking for that girl."

"Then she's looking in the wrong place," Wallie told me. "If I had a girl hid out around here, you don't think I'd be fool enough to go fishing, do you, Sam?"

I said he'd better lay off the liquor for a while, at least... or that he'd be seeing the old lady with the veil stepping out of blank walls at him.

OUR next caller was official. This one was a burly red-faced, farmer-looking bird, who puffed and wheezed as if walking from his car to our tent had him practically on his last legs.

"I'm Sheriff Connor," he introduced himself.

"I'm Sam Drake," I said, "this is Wallie Dayton."

Wallie said: "Glad to meet you, sir. Will you join me?"

He tipped the bottle of Scotch into the paper cup he was holding, and the sheriff looked as though he had a breaking heart.

"Never touch it when I'm on duty," he said. "What you guys up here for?"

"Fishing," I said. "We heard there was bass in the lake, but we couldn't prove it this afternoon. We're going to try it early in the morning, and see if we can catch 'em before they wake up."

"I mean what are you really up here for?"

"I told you. For the fishing."

With that the sheriff looked sly. He nodded down the lake shore and said: "Now just because there's a girls' camp, down a piece, that wouldn't mean a thing, now would it?"

"Not to me," I said.

"It means a hell of a lot to me," said Wallie. "How old are the girls?"

"Why...ugh... eight to twenty-one."

Wallie said: "Sixteen and up isn't bad, the way I figure it. I can leave the younger ones alone. How far's this camp?"

"Why… uh... about a mile I guess."

Wallie picked up the bottle and stood up. He was so drunk he had to take a couple of steps to catch his balance, but he did it and took the steps in the direction the sheriff had pointed.

"Goodby, Sam," he said to me. "I'll save you one of the older ones."

I got the bottle away from him and got him into the tent, and there I whispered: "Sober up, you dope! This guy ain't making a friendly call... he's here on business."

"We're on a vacation," said Wallie. "And with a girl's camp just a mile away, I can see how it's going to be a glorious one."

He settled down on his blankets and I went back to the fire and the sheriff.

"What's it all about," I asked.

HE SAID: "I'm looking for Miss Zoa Barnes. And I don't want no foolishness, young fella. Miss Caswell told me what you said to her this afternoon, and I don't want you to make any talk to me like you done to her. I want that girl."

I said, "Sheriff, we never heard of the girl before in our lives. Who is she and why did she skip out? And why should this Miss Caswell suspect us of knowing anything about it?"

"Well ...uh... I take it the girl is sort of man-crazy. Miss Caswell, she thought that the girl'd be around some man."

I said nothing but waited for him to go on.

"So I want to know what you fellas are doing up here. Now don't give me no fancy story, young fella. I got ways of finding out the truth."

I figured I might as well save him some bother, so I dug out my private card and started telling him things.

2: A Strong-minded Woman

THE sherif tugged his mustache lop-sided and gave me what was supposed to be a shrewd look. It didn't make him appear one bit brighter, unfortunately.

"I'm to take it, then," he said, "that you claim to be a private investigator named Sam Drake and that this fella with you is another one of the same, and that he's supposed to be named Wallace Dayton."

"Not supposed to be, sheriff. That's who we are."

"And you're supposed to be up here fishing."

"Not supposed to be... we are up here fishing."

"And I'm supposed to believe that."

"Well, that's up to you. I've shown you our credentials."

"Them things can be faked, young fella. And even if you are what you say you are, how'm I to know you ain't up here working for old man Barnes ?"

"You don't. I don't know old man Barnes, though, if that means anything."

"What you tell me don't mean nothing, young fella. How do I know you ain't up here chasing one of these girls, if you ain't up here chasing the Barnes girl?"

"You don't."

"I'm going to keep an eye on you fellas, you can believe me on that."

I said, "You fat stiff! I sat here and answered your questions politely, and you give me that. Now get the hell out of here! We've got a right to camp here and we've got a right to choose our company."

"Now young fella, I'm the sheriff."

"Get the hell out of my camp before I throw you out."

"Now you don't need to get huffy. After all, you ain't got no legal right to get sore at the sheriff."

I stood up and so did he. I moved toward him and he scuttled away toward his car. But at that he had the last word, and he took it just before he drove away. He leaned out of his car to shout at me.

"You fellas keep away from that camp, d'ya hear me?"

I shouted back, "They probably hear you at the camp, if it's only a mile away."

"You mess around there and I'll put charges against you."

I pretended to start for his car and he drove off in a cloud of dust. And then I went back in the tent and woke up Wallie.

"Look, Dayton," I said. "I'm going down to that camp."

"I'm going with you," he mumbled. "I'm lonesome, too."

You stay here, you dope. I'm going down there on business."

"I like that kind of business, too," he said, struggling to get out of his blankets. "I like that kind of business— morning, noon, and nights."

"You stay here. I'm going down and talk to that Miss Caswell."

He must have remembered how that old battle-ax looked, because he gave a groan and dug back under cover.

MISS CASWELL had her office in an over-sized tent set in a cluster of smaller ones, and the little girl that was guiding me pointed it out with awe.

"That's it," she said. "That's the office."

I said: "Thank you, little girl," and handed her a dime, without thinking. She handed it back to me very gravely and said: "I'm Barbara Smedgley, sir. I'm sure you've made a mistake."

That was a name I knew... the Smedgley family had dollar bills from the first printing press, and they'd been saving them carefully ever since.

I said: "Pardon me."

She said: "Oh, that's quite all right."

So I went in to see Miss Caswell with my face already red.

MISS CASWELL looked me up and down as if I smelled, then said: "What is it, please? I am a busy woman... please state your business promptly."

"I want to apologize for this afternoon," I said. "My friend, well, the real reason I'm up here is to get him off a drunk. He didn't understand."

"He didn't understand what?"

"That you were serious about Miss Barnes being missing."

"And how does that concern you, young man?"

"Well, you came over and asked about her."

"You will forget the matter. You… you are not connected with a newspaper, by any chance?"

"I am not."

She looked relieved.

"But I'm a private cop, Miss Caswell, and I have a notion I can help you."

"I need no assistance."

I shrugged and said: "Well, in that case, I might as well telephone a friend of mine that works on one of the papers. I can tell him about you being over and I can tell him about the sheriff being over, and how you both told me Miss Zoa Barnes was missing. I'll say good evening, then."

She didn't waste any words. She just said: "What are your charges?"

HE GOT the set-up the next morning, after I had a strenuous time with Wallie. After he'd taken two glasses of tomato juice and three cups of black coffee, I let him have one little pick-up drink. Then I made him go down to the lake and swim out to an island that was'at least a quarter of a mile offshore, and, by the time he got over that and was dressed, he looked halfway human and talked fairly intelligently, At least as much as he ordinarily does. I didn't even bother to tell him what was doing until that was over.

And then I said: "We've got a job. This girl that's missing is one of the Chicago Barnes, if that means anything. All it means to me is that her family's got a lot of dough and that we're hired to find her. Boiled down from what that horse-faced Caswell told me it comes to this. She's a man-crazy little wench and the Caswell woman is afraid she's run off with some guy. She don't want any scandal, because the girl is prominent. There's only the father and another sister... the mother is dead. So were hired to see if everything's all right... whether the girl is just out having a time for herself or whether there's something really wrong."

"There's no harm in a girl having fun," argued Wallie. "It stands to reason she couldn't have any real fun unless she had a man along to have fun with. I should have got here before.... I could maybe have helped her out some."

And then the sheriff drove up and came out of his car, but not alone. He had a big raw-boned duck with him wearing a deputy's badge, and he introduced him with ostentation.

"This is Deputy Warner," he said.

Both Wallie and I said we were glad to meet Deputy Warner.

"Thought I'd better have Warner along with me, long's this is an official call," he said. "Where was you fellas yesterday morning?"

"Driving up," I said. "We got here about noon, and as soon as camp was set we went fishing."

"Can you prove it?"

"Prove we were fishing?"

"Prove you was driving up?"

"We got gas a couple places down the road, and I used a Standard Oil credit card. That ought to do it, sheriff."

He looked disappointed.

I said: "Not that we have to prove it. I'm just telling you that to show you we're trying to get along."

He said: "I guess maybe you got to prove it at that. The undertaker says the Barnes girl has been dead since yesterday morning."

Wallie said: "And there goes our job."

Miss Caswell proved Willie wrong, and in short order. She came trudging up the road past the sheriff's car and to us, and she started giving orders while she was yet ten feet away.

"I want you, sheriff," she said, "to start at once and question the local people. I don't want you to be satisfied with any vague stories.... I want to know exactly where every single one of them was and what they were doing yesterday morning when Zoa was murdered. And you, Mr. Drake, I wish you would come back to the camp with me. You and your friend, providing he is in decent shape instead of in the condition | found him yesterday. I have other plans for you."

"See here," said the sheriff. "I guess maybe you don't understand, Miss Caswell. This here thing is a murder and the sheriff's office is in charge and I can't have no interference in my duty."

"Don't say that. Don't say you 'can't have no interference.' Say, rather, 'can't have any interference.' It is as easy to be grammatical, sheriff. You will please do as I have instructed.... I have decided the proper course to follow."

"What's that, ma'am?" asked he.

"We will keep the finding of Zoa's body a secret. I have already notified her father by telephone of her death, and he is flying here now. We will have no notoriety at present. You will do as I have told you to do."

"I got to tell the State cops," he objected.

She said: "Very well. Instruct them, however, that the matter is secret. Mr. Drake, you and Mr. Dayton will please come with me."

"You guys stay right here. I got some more questions to ask you."

"Please follow me, Mr. Drake."

"I said: "Sheriff, you lose, This is the lady I work for. When you get a warrant, or any reason to apply for one, then came and talk to us. Or wait until we get through and we'll talk to you then."

"What you got to do?"

Miss Caswell said: "I will tell them what I want... it does not concern you, sheriff."

She turned and started back toward her camp and Wallie and I started after her. And as we left, we heard the sheriff speak to his deputy, and he sounded very bitter.

"That's what comes," he said, "of mixing a woman in a simple little murder case."

3: Another Dead One!

WE MET the employees first because Miss Caswell insisted on it. Three men and half a dozen women, and they ranged from the riding master to a colored wench who helped around the kitchen. Miss Caswell questioned them while Wallie and I listened in... which was also her idea. Outside of the cook... an Irish biddy named Mary, and the colored woman, none of them had more than a vague alibi for the morning before, when the Barnes girl had been killed. This was proper. If they all had been doing what they were hired to do, they naturally would have been back and forth around the place and couldn't be exact about it. She finally told them they could go and, when they'd left, turned to us.

"Now that is my first step," she said. "I will explain the theory I am developing. I intend to have the guilty person believe he, or she, is under suspicion. You will note I questioned these people and gave that impression. I acted as if I believed each and every one of them was guilty of the crime."

"That'll get you what?" I asked.

"That will naturally make the guilty person tremendously upset. He, or she, will believe he overlooked some essential clue. The guilty person will betray himself through nervousness."

I started to say something but Wallie was ahead of me. I was afraid of it; afraid he'd lose his temper. He was bearing up under a stunning hang-over anyway, and his nerves were none too good at best.

"Look, you," he said. "You may be a big shot among the girl school mucky-mucks, but you don't rate in a thing like this. You started out by telling the sheriff off, and he's got the law back of him. He's a dope, and all that, but that was a mistake. He's still the law. Then you sent orders by him to the State Police, and they won't take 'em from you. You treat us like Sam was feebleminded Joe and I was his little brother, and you won't get any results from us that way, either. And then, to cap it off, you put these employees in such a state we'll play hell learning a thing from 'em. After this, sister, you just sit back and let somebody handle this that knows how."

I thought the old girl was going to have apoplexy. She tried to talk but all she could do was stutter, and her face went into a light shade of purple. But she did as well, saving her breath, because Wallie wasn't through.

"The trouble with a gal like you," he said, conversationally, "is that you never been around a man. That's what's soured you... that's what's given you this notion that you know such a much. You don't know anything about the things that count. You can't know it because you never had a man to teach you. If you want Sam and me to handle this business, you keep out from under foot from now on. Come on, Sam, get at it."

WITH that he got up and strolled out of the tent... and I went with him. I had to... if I'd stayed I'd have had to bear the brunt of Miss Caswell's kick-back, and I didn't have the heart for it. I admired Wallie for the way he'd talked but I also figured he'd talked us right out of a job along with it... and that might have been true if the next break didn't happen right then and there.

A little girl of about ten met us and stood still, looking at us gravely. She seemed undecided whether to speak or not, so Wallie broke the ice. He'd probably have done a better job of getting acquainted if she'd been a few years older, but he did all right at that.

"Hello, little girl," he said.

"Are you a detective?" she asked.

"What makes you think I'm that?"

"Well, because of Zoa Barnes being murdered and all."

"You're right. I'm a detective."

I said: "That's open to argument, Wallie."

The little girl said: "I wouldn't want to tell you anything if you weren't. But a good citizen is supposed to help the law officers, and that is the reason why I asked if you were one."

Wallie said: "Don't mind Mr. Drake... he's just trying to be funny. I'm a law officer, or I'll do until one comes along. What's happened?"

"It's Barbara Smedgley. I think she's dead. I think she's been murdered, too."

Miss Caswell came out of the tent in time to hear this. She snapped out: "What's that?"

"Well, Miss Caswell, she's on her cot and her head is all bloody and I couldn't feel any pulse or see any sign of breathing. So I think she's dead."

Miss Caswell said: "My God!"

I said: "Look, honey, suppose you show us."

Miss Caswell said, faintly: "Please don't speak to my girls like that, Mr. Drake. I will not permit any familiarity in the way you address them."

Wallie said: "Oh, shut up, sister. Come on, hon, show us."

"Certainly," said the little girl.

Miss Caswell tagged along.

THE little Smedgley girl had been murdered all right. Her head had been smashed in with the well-known blunt instrument and that's a nasty way of dying and it's ten times worse when the victim is a child. Her little head was in a pool of blood that was just starting to film over and she was still warm. There was just the cot she was on and another in the tent, along with some hanging shelves and two wardrobe trunks that did for closet space.

We had the little girl stay outside while we looked at this, and then I went out and asked: "Is that your tent, too, honey?"

"Oh, yes. Barbara and I were tentmates. There's just two of us in each tent, you see, if we pay the extra money."

"I see."

"I was walking with Miss Hodges… it's bird study time now, you know... but I didn't feel well and Miss Hodges said I might go back to the tent and lie down. That's when I found Barbara."

"I see."

"I think that Barbara was killed because of the secret she knew. Because she was telling us she had a secret that she was going to tell the detectives."

"That seems likely. What was the secret?"

"It was a secret, so I wouldn't know it. Barbara wouldn't tell anybody. But it was something she saw the other evening, and it was something about Zoa Barnes, because when we heard that Zoa was murdered is when Barbara spoke of having the secret. So that makes me think it had something to do with Zoa."

"Very likely."

"Will I have to stay in this same tent, now?"

"Certainly not."

"Because I'd be afraid."

"I can understand that, too. Now who is Miss Hodges?"

"She's my mentor."

"Your what?"

Miss Caswell said from behind me: "I will answer your questions, Mr. Drake. You need not ask a little child. Miss Hodges is one of the young ladies who assist me."

"A teacher?"

"More a companion."

"I see."

Then the old girl proved human. Her face started to work and she put her hands up in front of it to cover her crying and blurted out: "Oh, the poor little baby! Poor little Barbara! I simply can't think of it."

Eight or eighty, it was all the same to Wallie, apparently. He put his arm around her shoulders and said: "There, there! Cry on Wallie's shoulder... you'll feel better. Come on, show me where your tent is and I'll help you there. You'd better lie down and cry it out. Come on, now!"

She muttered: "Over there," and gave a vague wave, and away they went with Wallie helping her along like she was young and pretty and something he'd always wanted. He didn't even have the grace to wink at me as he left.

It would have been funny if it hadn't been pathetic. She was fifty if she was a day, and I'm willing to bet that was the first time in her life she ever was anywhere near that close to a man.

4: Ghoul's Work

WE PASSED the sheriff about two miles in from camp and that was what we wanted. We didn't think he'd feel much like cooperating, and we didn't want to listen to his foolish questions. And on the way, Wallie gave me his ideas about Miss Caswell,

"She ain't as bad as she looks," said he. "Like I told her, the trouble with her is that she never really knew a man. I'll bet that if the right man took hold, even now, he could make something of that old dame."

"He'd have to be a hound for punishment," I said. 'She'd have been hard to take if she was twenty years younger."

"Thats where you're wrong," said Wallie. "I know. Those homely ones are grateful for a little attention. They love you to death if you give 'ema kind word. You wait and see.

I looked at him and couldn't believe it. I didn't think Wallie, who was capable of almost anything to my certain knowledge, could contemplate what he certainly was. I knew a lot of things he was guilty of and suspected a lot more but this was a new low.

I said: "You mean you're going to give that old dame a play?"

"She's the boss, ain't she?"

"Well, yes."

"We want the job, don't we?"

"Well, sure."

He grinned evilly and said: "Then all I'll be doing is insuring it. I'm a Boy Scout and I'm doing a good deed for all concerned."

I told him what he really was and that was something that used language and took up the time the drive into Severn rated. It's one of the towns that are four blocks long and four blocks wide and where everybody calls everybody else by his first name, so it didn't take us long to find the undertaker and coroner, Who did business under the name of William B. Smith ... Mortician.

WILLIAM B. looked like something out of Pickwick Papers and Wallie started right out referring to him as Mysterious Billy Smith. The original Mysterious Billy was a pretty good prizefighter, but our Severn character wasn't the bruiser type. He was a little fat redfaced smiling man, who rubbed his hands together as though he liked the feel of himself. He drew one through the other lingeringly, while he talked to us, and he kept chuckling to himself as if the very thought of young girl corpses was a merry thing. "Ah, yes, ah, yes," he said. "The young Miss Barnes! A beautiful body, gentlemen, a beautiful body."

"A which?" asked Wallie.

"A body, you dope," I said.

"She is beautiful even now, gentlemen. I take it you are members of the immediate family."

"Wrong," said Wallie.

I was watching a white State Police car make the turn that put it on the road that led to camp.

"Representing the family, then?" said William B., persisting.

"Wrong again," said Wallie.

William B. took another wring at his hands. "But who, gentlemen, or should I say what? I mean, you see, I really can't let everyone look at the body. It isn't done."

"Were cops," said Wallie, not bothering to explain we were cops but private ones.

William B. looked doubtful.

"Enough of this," I said, showing Mr. Smith a flash of a police courtesy card. "We want to see her. So suppose you show us. We've got to get back to the scene of the last murder, Mr. Smith, so you'll pardon our haste."

"Another murder?"

"That's right."

"Another... another young lady?"

"Right again."

"Ah...uh...a young lady?"

"Still right."

THE ghoulish little heel looked like he was just entering the Kingdom of Heaven, so I spoiled it for him.

"A very young lady," I added. "Not over ten years old."

"A child?" he said, acting as if the wind was going out of him. I see... only a child."

And with that he took us in to see Zoa Barnes... and he had to shoo the crowd away.

I think he'd charged admission, because it looked as if half the young men of Severn were gathered agound the body. I took one look and got the idea, and then I spoke and made it sound official.

"You guys get the hell out of here," I said, "and stop, one at a time at the door and leave your names with my partner. Dayton, take their names and addresses. I'll show you men something about the laws of this land. You've come in here and looked at a girl with no clothes on, and you'll find it's the most expensive look you ever took in your life. There's a law against this sort of thing, you know."

One of them who owned a particularly unpleasant whiny voice said: "I never heard of no law about such a thing."

"Take this man's name first, Dayton," I said. "You've heard now, mister. It comes under the decency laws, if you know what they are. This is going to cost you a pretty penny."

Then I stood back and looked stern, while they filed past Wallie and left their names. They all looked scared to death. The undertaker went out with the last of them, apparently telling them he'd see what he could do to straighten things up, and then Wallie sidled over to me.

"Are you nuts, Sam?" he asked. "I never heard of any law like that."

I said: "Neither did I."

"You said there was one."

"Well, maybe there is. I can throw a scare into 'em anyway, can't I?"

William B. came back and waved his hand and said: "Well, gentlemen, there she is. I hope you won't be too hard on the boys... in a way their being here was official. I wanted to be sure the girl was properly identified, you see.'

"How could that crowd help?"

"Why, the young lady was around our city a good deal," he said. "A lot of our local boys knew her, naturally. I dare say that she had been friendly with practically all you saw here."

"She got around," said Wallie. "That it?"

William B. said simply: "She did indeed. I knew her, myself."

I figured that was the height of something or other, too.

SHE'D been stabbed, twice. Once over the heart and once in the throat. I figured the last was meant as a finisher. Of course William B. had washed the blood away while fixing her up, and the stab wounds showed only as little purple lines. He explained this last.

"You see how I fixed them?" he asked us. "You see how I drew the lips of the gashes together, thus preparing the way for the flesh paint I will use to cover the actual entrance point? A beautiful example of our work, gentlemen. A lovely little body to work with."

"And a lovely big bank account in the family," Wallie said. "D'ya charge like a doctor does... what you think the traffic'll bear?"

"My rates are very reasonable."

"You should give Miss Caswell's camp wholesale rates. They're giving business to you in bunches."

Then a State Police sergeant walked in and gave us a hard look and spoke to William B.

"What are these men doing here?"

"Why they're police officers."

He turned to us, and Wallie said hurriedly: "Well, yes, in a way. We're retained by Miss Caswell, sergeant."

"Get the hell out."

"Sure," said Wallie.

I said: "There's just one thing I'd like to know. Was the girl attacked?"

The sergeant looked at William B., who blushed and said: "There was no evidence of anything like that."

"Why'd you ask that?" the sergeant said to me. He was one of the hard-boiled young ones who make police work a career, and I could see he didn't care for us any more than we cared for him.

"There's a home for the criminally insane not over five miles from here," I said. "I was thinking of that. They let the boys out and around, of course with guards and all that, but I figured there might be a chance of one of them getting away."

"I've thought of that," the sergeant said, which was a mark against him in Saint Peter's book. I could tell from the look he had that this was the first time the idea had entered his mind. "I've thought of that... I intend to call them at once and make the proper inquiries."

I said: "Let's go, Wallie."

William B. said to the sergeant, in that lush voice of his: "A wild young girl but a beautiful one, ofhcer. A beautiful body. Much like her: sister; her sister was a wild young thing, too."

"You know her, too?"

"But, yes. Very well." With that he let a reminiscent smile loose all over his fat face. "Much as I knew this young girl. Two wild young things, gentlemen. Knowing never a repression... true children of nature, they both were."

"How long ago did you know this sister ?"

"Why, last year. When she was at camp."

"She got around like this one did, that it?"

"Why, yes."

"Another pants-chaser," Wallie said Wallie always believed in calling a spade a spade.

5: A Few Pointed Questions

AT FIRST sight our camp looked like we'd left it, but when we went in the tent we found out different. Our two bags had been overturned with the contents dumped out on the floor-cloth, and nothing had been replaced. The case of whiskey that Wallie had under his camp cot had been pulled out and Wallie claimed the bottle he'd been working on last was down two inches or more. Some loose papers I'd had in my bag had been gone through, and this was true with Wallie, too. Some of the pockets in the clothes I had hanging on stretchers were turned out, and I knew I hadn't left them that way. All in all, somebody had gone through our stuff, searching for the Lord knew what.

Wallie was shoving the whiskey case back under the cot and muttering about people who were low enough to steal a man's whiskey.

I said: "Sneak thieves, only they didn't steal anything. Just a checkup, l'd say."

Wallie took his half full bottle out of the tent and to the water pail, where a chaser would be handy, and I thought it over a minute and joined him. A drink would be in order, I figured, because we were going to have to do a little planning on future action... and we were standing there with Wallie holding the bottle by the neck when the shooting started.

The bottle shivered into fragments and the gun shot came in behind it like an echo, Wallie stood there looking down at the neck of the bottle as if he'd lost a rare jewel, and said: "Geeze!"

I said: "What the hell!"

The next slug smashed into our coffee pot which was sitting on the Coleman stove, and coffee grounds sprayed over us when the pot went up into the air.

"Wallie said: "We'd better duck."

"We'd better stand still," I told him. "If we move, the guy might get us on the wing. He's not serious yet."

I wasn't so sure, but that was what I was hoping, at least. We were out in the open and the tent would have been no protection at.all . . . the rifleman could have riddled it and he'd have been bound to have connected with one of us, at least.

Wallie yanked out his gun and glared at the woods, and I said: "Put it away, you dope! You can't match a rifle with that. Put it away!"

The next slug went through the water pail and Wallie dropped his gun like it was hot.

AND then I saw the sign.

It was written on a paper bag that had held a loaf of bread, and it was short and simple. Get out and stay out. You are not wanted here. Get out and save trouble for all.

It was unsigned, naturally, and it was printed out crudely in block letters that a child could have drawn, and it was stuck onto a dead limb on a little tree right in front of us, where we should have seen it when we first walked in.

We read it and the shooting stopped and Wallie pointed out the obvious.

"He wanted us to read his little letter," he said.

"So now we've read it."

"So now what do we do?"

"We give it to the State cops. I doubt if the sheriff can read or write  and he certainly wouldn't know what to do about a thing like this."

"I think you're wrong," Wallie objected. "I think we ought to show it to Miss Caswell and ask her for more money, on the grounds that we're in danger."

I said: "It's an idea, all right."

Wallie had been drifting over to the side, where there was a clump of trees and shelter. He dropped to the ground here, where he was shaded by a little swell, and pulled his gun and let go all six of the shells it held at the thicket that had held the hidden rifleman. It caught me flat-footed and I dived for shelter and got there just as Wallie loosed the last of the six.

"You damn' fool!" I said. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to pull a caper like that? I was out in the open and caught short."

"I was safe," he said, grinning. "I didn't expect to hit him, but at least it'll go to show him we're fighting back."

He hadn't got a return and we figured the ambush was over, so we went over there and looked around for empty shells that had held the slugs fired at us, and we found them behind a windfall... where the hidden gunman had crouched to do his shooting. Slim, vicious-looking brass cases, 25-35 in calibre. It's not a big gun but it's deadly at a distance like that in the hands of anyone who knew how to shoot like that shooter did.

I said to Wallie: "He could have drilled us neat and clean at that range. He just wanted to give us a scare."

"Did he?" asked Wallie.

I told the truth. "He did," I said.

"Me, too."

"So we quit, eh?"

Wallie looked startled and said: "Hell, no! That old gal needs help. And that means in more ways than one."

I told him he had a dirty mind... and he was honest enough to admit it.

THE three men at the camp were the riding master, the guy that drove the camp bus and looked after the Delco plant and the other machinery, and a half-witted monkey named Gould, who was supposed to be a swimming instructor. He was built like a million and looked like a picture in swimming trunks, but he had adenoids or something and they made his teeth stick out in front, and this interfered with his speech. At least it was either the teeth that bothered him or the way he kept trying to grin at me while I was talking to him.

"Yeah, I was friendly with the Barnes girl," he told me, with that silly grin. "I'm friendly with all the girls. Like a big brother to 'em, I am."

"That right?"

"I...uh... might as well tell you. It's something you'd maybe find out, anyway."

"We'd find it out for sure," I said. "Whatever it is we'd find it out. That's our business. What is it?"

"I... uh... tried to make a date with her once."

"S-o-o-o?"

"She said no."

"Was that all?"

"Well, no. She said she could do better than me, and that if she thought she couldn't, she'd cut her own throat. She was sort of mad, I guess."

"Sounds it. Were you?"

"Was I what?"

"Mad."

"Oh, no. If one of them don't go out, there's others that will."

"What about these mentors? Aren't they supposed to keep the girls from going out like that?"

"They go out themselves, mister. All of 'em. And besides that, how can they watch the girls, with the girls living in tents like this? All a girl has to do is pull up the back of the tent and roll out under it, and there she is with ten thousand acres in front of her. If they want to get out, they get out."

"They do much of that sort of thing?"

He grinned, which made him look a lot homelier but at least a little brighter.

"You'd be surprised, Mr. Drake. They go out plenty."

"With who? That is, besides yourself?"

"You can't get a room in Severn, so help me, while the camp is running here. Didn't you notice there aint no FOR RENT signs up there? The guys that run around with the girls at home follow 'em up here to camp and get rooms in the village."

"You're nuts."

"Some of 'em do, anyway."

That seemed reasonable and I said so. I asked: "What about this Barnes girl? Was she playing around with some guy?"

"With a lot of 'em, Mr. Drake. Her sister was, too. But her sister was nuts about Billy Thompson before she left last year... she gave all the other guys the go-by for him. You know Billy?"

"The guy that teaches riding?"

"Sure. He's playing around this year with one of the mentors... a gal named Hodges. Marian Hodges, and she's a nice looking dish in her own right, if you ask me. I don't see why he'd cheat on her, but he does, all right."

I WASN'T particularly interested in the riding master's love life, but I had this big lout talking and I wanted to keep him at it.

"One of those wolves, eh, this Billy?"

"He gets around, Mister Drake, just plenty. It was the Barnes girl last year and this year it's the field, though he gives Marian Hodges the best play."

"Were both Barnes girls here last year?"

"Sure. Zoa and Fay, both. Fay's the oldest... she's too old to go this year, I guess. She's about twenty.... Zoa was only nineteen."

"Did this Billy give Zoa any play?"

"Maybe ...I don't know. She asked for it.... I wouldn't have propositioned her for a date myself, except she just the same as asked for it. Then she turned me down."

"And you didn't get sore?"

The big clown grinned and said: "Mister, with two hundred girls in this here camp, besides about twenty more that look after the two hundred, would I get sore because one of them said no. Look at all of 'em who say yes."

I said the thought was staggering... and started to leave with it. And then I remembered something else and stopped.

"You got a gun?" I asked.

"Sure. Two of 'em."

"What kind?"

"Well, I got a .22 pump and I got a 25-35 Winchester carbine. It's a dandy little deer gun, if you can shoot and don't try it too far. You want to borrow it?"

"D'ya lend it?"

"Sure."

"Have you lately?"

"Well, no. But it's in my tent and anybody can borrow it that wants to. I loaned it to Billy and I loaned it to Zed, too. They shoot it at targets."

I said I might want to borrow it myself, later on, and left it at that. At least it spotted the gun that had probably been used to scare us with at our camp... but I didn't think this swimming wonder was the one who'd used it. I didn't give him credit for brains enough to shoot that close to us and miss us, the way the shooter had.

6: Wallie Makes Time!

ON THE way up from the lake I saw Wallie with a blond wench that was about the nicest looking girl I'd seen that far. He had his head down, talking fast and apparently to the point, because they passed within thirty feet of me and neither of them saw me. The gal was wearing one of those sweater and skirt arrangements like the Hollywood baby stars get photographed in, and she didn't have a thing to be ashamed about as far as filling the rig out... though she wasn't one bit too fat. Just pleasingly plump.

Wallie had that well-known look on his face and I could see he was getting along fine... and then I saw the cars lined up in front of the office tent and forgot all about him.

IT WAS Zoa Barnes' father and sister Fay, along with three cars full of State cops, our undertaker, William B. Smith, and a dozen reporters from the city papers. I met one of them just as he dashed out and into the car he'd chartered, and it happened to be a man I knew.

"In a rush, eh, James?" I said.

He was Jimmy Eldridge of the News, and he looked like a little boy turned loose in a candy store.

"My God, Sam!" he said. "It's a natural, and it comes when there's nothing to talk about except what Roosevelt is going to do next. It's a honey."

"Yeah!"

"Its a darb, no less. Here's the Barnes girl goes first, and then goes the little Smedgley girl. And here's two maniacs loose from the asylum, only five miles away in an air line."

"I didn't know that."

"The State cops let it out. I should get a bonus on the yarn I'm sending in."

"Do the cops place these two crazy men around here?"

"Not yet, but they don't have to. Can't my readers dream? Have they no imagination? Are they clods, to be held down to facts, when no less a man than Eldridge is giving them the story?"

"You're drunk."

"Well, yes. But it's your pal Dayton that got me that way. While I was waiting, I went over to your fishing camp and we had a few. Wallie gave me some stuff I can use, too... only he wants me to put it so it advertises you guys."

"What did he tell you?"

Eldridge grinned and said: "Plenty, just plenty... and plenty that I don't quite get. For one thing he said he had a gold mine here that had never been worked. D'ya know what he meant?"

I thought of Miss Caswell and her maiden heart and undoubted bank balance and said I understood it full well.

"And he said he had an idea about who killed the two girls and that he had a way of working it out all planned."

"That's news to me."

"He said he was going to bore from within."

I THOUGHT of Wallie being out with the sweetheart of a blond gal and grinned. I had an idea of what he meant by that, too, but I didn't see where it had any connection with the case.

"And he said the local undertaker, who's also the coroner, I take it, would bear watching. He called him a mysterious character."

"You are drunk," I said. "Wallie's got him mixed up with Mysterious Billy Smith, the prizefighter. They got the same name.'

"Maybe I got that balled up. Any way, I took it Wallie didn't like him."

"Wallie thinks Mysterious Billy has a dirty mind, that's all."

"Honest?"

"That's the only reason,"

"My God!" said Eldridge. "That from Wallie Dayton, one of the lowest leechers in this wide, wide world. And you know he is."

"No argument there."

Eldridge said coaxingly: "Come on, Sam, tell me things. Have you got a lead? Do you think either of these escaped guys from the asylum are responsible? Have you got any idea about who is, if they're not? Come on, give it. I'll give you a break in the sheet."

"No ideas yet," I said, "except that Wallie had better keep that big mouth of his buttoned up. He talks too much."

"He told me about some guy shooting at you, too."

"Going to publish it?"

Eldridge said: "Hell, no! He didn't hit you, did he? You guys aren't news... you haven't got a million dollars back of you like the two girls have. You guys are just nothing."

I looked up and saw the same State Police sergeant we'd seen in the undertaking parlor bearing down on us, and I agreed with Eldridge.

I said: "Here comes a gentleman who thinks the same thing, only worse. Be seeing you, Jimmy."

Jimmy drove off just as the sergeant came up.

The sergeant was wrathy, and for the first time I noticed how big and tough the State picked its cops. From the way he looked and sounded I might have personal knowledge of it at any moment, I thought.

"I'm getting tired of you guys," he said.

"Why?"

"You impersonated an offcer, when you told the coroner you were police. You've been questioning the help around here, and you've got 'em in such a state I can't learn a thing. And you got the newspapers on the thing."

"Not me."

"Ain't your name Dayton?"

"It is not."

"Then you're the other one. One of the newspaper boys told me that Dayton called in and gave his editor the tip-off on this thing. For twenty-five bucks.... Dayton's to collect it when he goes back to town."

"Thanks, sergeant. That was news to me."

"Why thank me?"

"Now I'll know enough to get my cut."

"You keep out from under foot. I'm telling you, not asking you."

"We haven't bothered."

"You're not going to."

We had a right to be around, as long as we were hired by Miss Caswell, but a right like that isn't a thing to argue with a State policeman. So I let it go, and went up to the office tent. About half of the little girls were grouped around it, and then out came Mr, Barnes and sister Fay, along with Miss Caswell and William B. Smith.

There was no mistaking Barnes. He looked like a caricature of the successful business man. He was heavy but not fat. Just solid. He wasn't gray but his blond head was streaked with it. He had a gray mustache that looked like a worn section of scrub brush, and his face had a well-massaged look, though it was shot through with tiny veins.

Sister Fay was a dreamy looking wench who looked as though she might be addicted to Shelley and Keats. You could just tell that she doted on Chopin. A definite neurotic.

But a good-looking wench, if you care for the vague emotional type.

I moved in close and Miss Caswell beckoned me and said: "And where is Mr. Dayton?"

"Boring from within," I said.

"What does that mean?"

"I can't very well tell you what I think it means. Probably Mr. Dayton would have a different explanation."

She sighed, and I knew by that that Wallie had already started something fluttering in the old gal's breast. She said: "I wish He were here... . I want him to meet Mr. Barnes. Mr. Barnes, this is Mr. Drake. The gentleman I spoke of, you remember."

Barnes held out a hand and said: "A pleasure, Mr. Drake, in spite of the circumstances."

AND then I heard a solid thwack and he went back on his heels so hard he almost jerked me off balance from still having hold of my hand. I heard the flat spanging noise of a rifle at least three hundred yards away . . . and I got my hand loose in a hurry and let the beefy State sergeant get in between me and the direction from which the rifle bullet had come. Barnes had a startled, wondering expression on his face, and one hand up to his left shoulder. Daughter Fay was standing there with her mouth open and looking more like a fallen angel by the second, and Miss Caswell didn't even know what had happened.

But the sergeant did. He bawled out: "Get over there, men. It came from in back of camp."

Barnes said: "I do believe I've been shot."

"I heard it hit," said the sergeant. "Look at him, Smith! Don't stand there like a dummy. You must know something about patching people up... you're an undertaker, ain't you?"

Smith said primly: "It's another matter, working on a corpse."

Then Miss Caswell got the thought and took over, although not with her usual domineering form. "I understand first aid," she said. "Please tell me where you're wounded, Mr. Barnes. Come into the office... I have a kit there in readiness."

That was all... until they took Barnes away in the ambulance. He had a neat little hole drilled through his shoulder. The rifleman had been using full metal patched slugs, too, because it was no bigger where the bullet emerged than where it entered. By the time he'd been taken away, Wallie was back, with the cat-plus-canary expression... and I saw him talking to Miss Caswell just before I got him away and started toward our camp with me.

And on the way he told me: "I got a date with the old witch tonight. At ten... I told her the moon would be simply beautiful from that time on."

"You mean to tell me she went for that chestnut?"

"And how," said Wallic. "She aided and abetted it. She told me that the girls went to bed at halfpast nine, and that we'd have the moon all to ourselves. She even said that the Indians called the moon, the way it is now, the lovers' moon."

"I don't believe it."

Wallie said: "They're all the same. A few years don't make a bit of difference."

It looked like he was right.

7: The Escaped Lunatics

WILLY THOMPSON, the riding master, was waiting for us at our camp. He was young, not over twenty-five and he had that look that people get when they've been around horses most of their lives. Lean and quiet-acting, and with a slow way of talking. He was sitting by Wallie's whiskey bottle, with a glass in his hand, and he didn't put it down when we walked up, but waved it in salute.

"Here's how, Sherlocks," he said.

"You got a nerve," Wallie snapped.

"Why? You'd have offered it to me if you'd have been here."

Wallie admitted: "I guess that's right."

"So I just took it. I came over for a little talk."

"Talk ahead," I said.

"Which one of you is the boss?"

"Both of us."

"Then I got something to say to both of you. And I got something to say to you personally, mister."

This last was to Wallie, who grinned and said: "Say it."

"Its keep away from my girl."

"Which one is she?"

"Marian Hodges. I saw you with her."

"Where?"

"Going down toward the lake."

"You didn't see us when we were walking along the shore?"

"No."

Wallie said, in a satisfied voice: "Then, buddy, you didn't see anything."

Thompson got to his feet and Wallie slid his left foot ahead and turned a little bit to the side, in case it came to trouble. It looked that way for a moment, too, because Thompson was mad enough to go ahead. And then I spoiled the chance of a fracas, by putting in my say.

"What else was it you wanted?" I asked.

"It's this. I hear you've been around asking questions about me behind my back. I won't have that... if you want to know anything, you come to me."

"Who told you all this?"

"Gould, the swimming instructor."

I said mildly: "Listen, little man. We've been asking questions about everybody. That's our business. I'd just as soon ask you as anybody else, if that means something."

"Then ask me... don't sneak around behind my back."

BY THAT time I'd decided I didn't like him. A private cop takes a lot of blame because of asking questions but that snooping around is the way he makes a living and he expects it. But this bird was too cocky, and I didn't like his type. He was too good-looking and you could see he knew it. He was the romantic type that would pick a job in a girl's school because of gals and not the job... and that's a type I don't like.

I said: "Then I'll ask you. Did you ever have anything to do with Zoa Barnes?"

"Of course not. I was the only one that didn't."

"Why was that?"

He acted as if the question didn't make sense. "Look, mister," he said wearily. "You've asked enough questions to know that I played around last year with Fay Barnes. Now Zoa and Fay were sisters... does it seem likely I'd go for the sister, too?"

"Why not?" said Wallie, with interest.

"You can't do it. The sisters would compare notes. They'd cross you up. You could never possibly get across."

Wallie, said, in an arguing way: "Now on that I don't agree. Not at all. I remember one time I was running around with two sisters and at the same time. I'd take Rosa out on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and I'd take her sister Maria out on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. That's before I got in this racket and I had my nights free. I alternated, and all it did was keep the girls jealous of each other. Each of them was trying to out-do the other one, and between 'em I had one hell of a time."

I said: "What did you do on Sunday nights? Rest?"

Wallie looked pained and said: "Not at all, Sam, not at all. That was during the time I was married to Sadie, and a man never rested with that woman in the house. I had to stay home on Sundays to keep her contented."

I said: "Let it go. Then you never played around with Zoa Barnes, Thompson?"

"No."

"How well did you know Fay?"

"What's Fay got to do with Zoa being killed? She wasn't anywhere near here."

"That wasn't the question."

HE SAID sullenly: "Its none of your business and it's got nothing to do with the case, but I... I knew Fay pretty well."

"As well as you know Marian Hodges?" asked Wallie, brightly.

Thompson gave him a dirty look and said: "The same, if that's the answer you want."

"That's it," said Wallie. "A swell kid, if you ask me."

"Shoot a rifle much?" I asked.

"Sure."

"Where were you when Barnes was shot this afternoon?"

"At the stables. The State cops asked me that."

"You prove it to'em?"

He said nastily: "Mister, I was there alone, doing my work. Gould was down at the bathhouses, also alone and also doing his work, Grogan was in the garage washing the station wagon. He was also alone and doing his work. If any of us had thought we would need an alibi, we'd have fixed one."

Wallie said: "The cops think it's the two guys that got loose from the Home for the Criminally Insane that did it. Both the guys were there for getting mixed up with young girls, and the cops think they broke into some farmhouse since they got loose and picked up the rifle they used to shoot Barnes."

I said: "Wallie, you talk too much."

"Its what they think," he said "And they think the shot got Barnes by mistake... it was meant for you, Sam, but the guy missed and got Barnes instead. He was just at your right, and the guy probably pulled the shot a little. And that's what Eldridge thinks, too, Sam."

"Eldridge left before it happened."

Wallie grinned and said: "The phone still works. As soon as I heard about it I phoned... we got some more money to split, baby. From his paper and from the others, too."

Thompson said he'd be going but he left without further remark from anybody.

I WAS too busy raising hell with Wallie about the phoning he'd done. It was making us a little money, all right, but it was blacking our eye with the State cops, and I didn't want that. And it was while we were bickering that Wallie found the second note.  This was on the side of a pasteboard carton and it had been printed in a smudgy charcoally way. I missed but I won't miss the next. Barnes got in the way but your turn is coming. Get out.

It was unsigned, like the one before.

We read it and I said: "This changes things again. I've got to go back to the camp."

"So do I," said Wallie. "And if you want to talk to the old dame, why, you make it before ten o'clock. Don't forget my date."

"I won't. And what did you mean by telling Eldridge that you were 'boring from within'? Was that a gag?"

"Maybe in part. But at that, Sam, I've got an idea."

"What?"

"Its nothing definite. But you can bet one thing. These two poor crazy guys from the State home haven't got anything to do with this mess."

"I don't think that either."

"The State cops do."

"I know it," I said. "But it's too pat. Things don't happen like that. It makes it too easy."

"It's never easy for murder," said Wallie.

We left then for the camp... and to hear something that made our idea of the two escaped men from the home being innocent not look so sound.

THE cops had caught one of them and had a line on the other. A bloody line, too. The one they'd caught was turned in by a farmer who'd seen him burrowing into a haystack as he drove by, and that one had given no trouble.

Not so with the second.

This one, a lad named Dombrowski, had broken into a farmhouse not over a mile from the camp, and he'd killed the owner and assaulted his wife. She'd been taken to the hospital in a bad way... a fractured skull and internal injuries... and no one would have known who'd done it except that one of the men at our girl's camp had been driving by and had seen someone running into the woods from the farm lot and had stopped to investigate. Hed found the dead farmer just inside the kitchen door and his wife inside the bedroom, and he'd called in for the cops.

It was the tough State sergeant who was telling us all this.

I said: "How d'ya know it was this escaped lunatic?"

"This man that works here described him."

"What man?  was it Billy Thompson ?"

"Oh, no... Gould, the swimming teacher."

That was my moron friend, who'd given me the lowdown on Thompson.

"Why would you think it was Thompson?"

"No reason."

"And here's something for you to think about, Drake. You were telling about some guy taking shots at you and your partner, weren't you? And Mr. Barnes was shot with a rifle, wasn't he?"

"sure."

"It would be the same gun, wouldn't it?"

"Likely."

"A 25-35?"

"That's the size shell we found out back."

"Well, this farmer was shot with a 25-35. We found the empty case just outside the kitchen door. Apparently the farmer opened the door and Dombrowski let him have it from where he was standing in the yard. And then he went in and went to work on the woman."

"Bad!"

"D'ya know anybody named Dombrowski?"

"Never even heard the name until now?"

"Does Dayton?"

"Not that I know of. You can ask him."

The sergeant gave me a meaning look and said: "I wouldn't think of bothering him now. I just saw him heading toward the lake, with some girl."

I WONDERED how anybody, even in all kindness, could call Miss Caswell a girl, and then looked at my watch. It was only half-past eight, an hour and more before his date with Miss Caswell, and I got the thought. Wallie was making a little hay while waiting for the lover's moon to come on in full power… sort of practising up for the heavy work to come later.

I said: "The——! The girl would be blond and pretty, wouldn't she?"

"Thats right. A girl named Hodges... Marian Hodges. Why?"

"He's boring from within," I said. "You any idea where this Dombrowski got a 25-35 rifle?"

The sergeant gave me his best manhunting look and said: "And that's the thing that definitely ties him up to the killings here at this camp. That's the thing that definitely puts him here, on the scene of the crime. That gun was taken from right here, Drake. Right here is where Dombrowski picked it up."

"The hell you say."

"That's right. It's a gun that belongs to this fellow Gould... the one that found the farmer and his wife. It's been stolen from him... he told us about it after he heard the farmer had been killed with that calibre gun. He hadn't thought about this gun of his, but when he heard that, he looked to see if it was where it belonged and it was missing. Now what do you think of that?"

I thought plenty, but none of it meant a thing. Somehow, I couldn't imagine Gould as a killer, and certainly not a killer who'd go so far afield. The two girls, Zoa Barnes and the little Smedgley one, could have been killed by some lunatic who'd been frightened away before any attack. That was possible. But I couldn't make killings like that jibe with the ones happening at a lonely farmhouse. And none of it explained why anybody should be shooting at Wallie and me.

That must have been bothering the sergeant, too, because he said: "I think maybe we'll find that Dombrowski is a nut who likes to shoot to see people jump. Something like that. He probably thinks you and Dayton are keepers, looking for him. You both look like cops, you know."

I said: "Tell Dayton that, will you?"

"Why?"

"He thinks he looks like a Greek God," I said, "And there never was a cop in the world that didn't look like a half-wit."

"Hey! I'm a cop."

I said: "You sure call your shots, brother."

I wouldn't have ribbed him but I was upset. I had ideas, and this escaped maniac Dombrowski, was making 'em look like they didn't amount to much. At that, I wouldn't give 'em up.

8: Competition for Wallie

I FOUND Wallie on the shore of the lake and making violent love to the blond Miss Hodges. She broke loose from him as I came up and stood there blushing furiously, though Wallie was unabashed.

"Hi, Sam!" he said. "I want you to know Miss Hodges, the sweetest thing this side of that institution popular with the other angels. I mean Heaven. Marian, this is Sam Drake."

I said: "Wallie, I want you. Glad to meet you, Miss Hodges."

Miss Hodges fluttered her hands and said: "Oh, I don't know what you'll think, Mr. Drake, about Wallie and me. And I so wanted to make a good impression on you."

I thought of what I'd seen when I'd walked up. I said: "Honey, you have. You certainly have." She blushed all the redder. "Oh, not that way! I mean... I mean I don't want you to think I'm just awful."

"I don't."

"It means so much to me... what with the camp closing soon for the summer and all."

"I don't get it."

"Why, I mean...."

Wallie broke in fast. "I think you'd better let me pave the way for it, sweetheart," he said. "Better let me fix it up a little, first."

Sweetheart looked puzzled and stammered, finally, that she'd better be getting on back to camp. She left, and Wallie started in on me.

"You big clown," he snarled. "You would have to walk in on me at the critical moment. I ought to smack your face.in."

"Why don't you?"

"You're too damn' big."

"What was she talking about?"

"I was giving her a line," said Wallie. "I was telling her you would be needing an office girl about the time this she-bang closed up, and she was falling for it. Then you got to come along and kick the whole deal over."

"You were giving her a job in my office, that it?"

"Well, sure."

"And you were getting the gratitude?"

He grinned and said: "You came up too soon to find out."

I said: "If I give her a job in my office, dope, you can guess who she'll be thanking. I've got a job for you."

"I've got a date with Miss Caswell."

"You've got work to do that's more important."

HE DID everything but break down and cry but he left for Severn in the car.

And I went back to the camp and to the office tent and Miss Caswell. It took a little time to get her to do it without telling her the reason why, but after a while she sent one of the kitchen help for Gould, the swimming instructor. The old gal was watching the clock like a hawk does a chicken... and I could see that the thought of her ten o'clock date with Wallie was lying heavy on her mind.

I didn't have the heart to tell her he wouldn't keep it... that duty had called him to a more arid field.

IT WAS almost ten before they found that Gould was missing and it was after eleven before they found him down by his bathhouses. Somebody had hit him over the head with one of the oars from the boathouse at the side and not once but many times. His head had been methodically beaten in, and from the warmth of the body and from seeing the blood still oozing out from his fractured skull, I knew it hadn't been done more than a few minutes before.

It had been the colored girl that worked in the kitchen who'd found him... and she was in a state. She'd paled to a dirty gray and her eyes were rolling like they were independent things.

"Yassuh!" she said. "Mista Gould, he was right like this. Yassuh. I pret' near step on him 'fore I see him, an', mista, you hear me yell."

We'd heard her find him, all right. Miss Caswell was in the middle of telling me how mine must be a hardening profession and that it was a shame a gentleman like Mr. Dayton should be obliged to combat it. That a finer type of work should be found for him... that he should be associated with a higher class of people than a detective would meet in his usual work.

I was agreeing with her when we heard the colored wench yowl and we both ran down to the lake. I stood up from looking Gould over, and then the mentor supposed to be taking telephone calls came down to us.

"It's for you, Mr. Drake," she said. "It's Mr. Dayton."

"What's he want?"

"He didn't say... he seemed excited."

I had to go up to the phone to call the State cops and tell 'em about the new murder, or ld have let Wallie and his excitement go. I couldn't see how the killer could be in two places at once... and he'd just been there by the lake. He couldn't well be where Wallie was...or so I thought at the time.

I said: "Yeah, Wallie, it's me, Sam."

"Its Barnes, Sam," he stuttered. "You were right. He almost got him."

"What the hell! He couldn't have."

"He did, though."

"Listen," I said, talking slow and trying to make it sound like sense to myself. "Listen! He just killed Gould, right here by the lake. Not over fifteen minutes ago, He couldn't have been in Severn and after Barnes... he must've been here."

WALLIE sounded apologetic.

"Well, look, Sam, it was like this. It maybe happened an hour ago, or maybe an hour and a half ago. I just stepped out for a minute, and it happened while I was gone."

"Who with?"

"With the daughter, Sam. Fay. It was in the line of business, Sam. You can believe me."

"Like hell!"

"I thought she might give me some of the low down on her sister... that maybe she could give me some reason why the kid was killed. You know."

"I know," I said. "Just like always. You're out chasing some girl, when you're supposed to be on the job."

"I didn't get to first base, either," said Wallie, agreeing with my reason. "She looks like she ought to be hotter than a pistol but I couldn't do a thing. It's one of the heart-belongs-to-daddy things, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask. What I'm trying to do is find out about Barnes."

"He's all right. It's like I said, it happened about two hours ago. He was in bed, with his bad shoulder, and the nurse was out of the room for a minute. She's a horse-faced wench, Sam, and homely as hell, so she wasn't meeting any boy friend or nothing. Out of the room on some nursing business, I guess. Well, the killer came up the fire-escape, it goes right by Barnes' windows, and the first thing Barnes knew he looked up and saw him. He was against the light and all Barnes could see was a shadow, though he claims the guy was wearing a mask. The window was open a little bit and the guy started to shove it up and crawl in, and Barnes saw the knife in his hand. Then he yelled and the nurse and an orderly came running and the guy crawled back out the window and down the fire-escape and ran off. The cops looked for him but they didn't find him."

"He came back here and killed Gould, the swimming teacher," I said.

"The sergeant here claims up and down it was Dombrowski. He says he thinks Dombrowski shot all "the shells that was in the 25-35 he stole, and that he's going to use a knife from now on. He's called in for reinforcements."

"He may need 'em to pick up this lunatic of a Dombrowski, but he don't need 'em to get the man who was after Barnes. Now, Wallie, listen! Stay there with Barnes. Leave the women alone.... stay there with Barnes no matter what you do."

"All right," said Wallie, in a disgusted voice. "But I warn you, Sam, this nurse will drive me crazy, just looking at her. How's my old babe?... is she worrying because I didn't keep the date?"

"She was, but she's got other things on her mind right now." He said cheerfully: "I'll get her back on the right track when I see her. Okay, Sam." "With that he hung up, and I decided that if I ever worked with him on another case, it would be one somewhere where there wasn't a woman in miles.

He certainly wasn't worth a damn to me or anybody else if there was a girl within reaching distance.

I FOUND out while waiting for the cops to come that everybody in the camp had been hunting for Gould. The one Miss Caswell had sent for him had enlisted help in the search... and that meant everyone knew he'd been wanted for questioning and that left the thing as wide open as before. Whoever had been afraid of what Gould might have told had known he was going to have a chance to tell it and had killed him before he had a chance to talk.

And, as usual, nobody had an alibi.

I wandered out of the tent after finding this out and ran fair and square into Marian Hodges. She moved into me so close I had to take a step back to keep from being bumped, and then she rolled her big blue eyes up at me and turned on all the charm.

"Did Wallie... Mr. Dayton. talk to you about poor little me?"

"He did."

"Oh! Then you will give me a job. Oh, Mr. Drake, I thank you and thank you, and honest, Mr. Drake, I really know how to work in an office. And I've just got to have a job in the city, when the camp closes."

"Why?"

"Well, because."

I didn't think the cops would be there for a little while yet and I wanted to get my mind away from murder. First there'd been the Barnes girl and then the little Smedgley kid. That last had hurt, because I'd talked to the little girl and she'd been as nice as she could be. She was only a kid, and somehow that makes a thing like that stand out more, too. Then there'd been the farmer and his wife, only I couldn't help but think that was something not connected with the trouble in the camp. I didn't know... they'd been city people before they'd moved to the farm... and that left a possible tie-up with the killer open, but I couldn't see just why anybody would go as far as murder with them for any logical reason.

But then, murder's never logical and knew that. There was always the chance of that lunatic of a Dombrowski being responsible for that pair of deaths.

Gould being killed and an attempt at Barnes' life put a cap on the thing. Gould, if I was right, had been just a big soft kid who was more than open to suggestion... and he'd been killed when the murderer thought he'd served his part. Trying to kill Barnes tied in with what had gone before... it was the only thing possible under the circumstances, as a wait wasn't indicated.

The murderer couldn't very well wait for another opportunity, not with a natural patsy like this man Dombrowski running around loose to take the blame. It isn't often a killer would have an out like that... a girl dead and an escaped maniac loose on the countryside.

It had meant the killer would take action then, before Dombrowski was recaptured, and I'd been right in figuring it that way.

All in all I welcomed a little relaxation and here it was all ready to hand and asking for favors.

WE STROLLED down toward the lake and stopped in a shadowy patch beyond the boathouse and away from where Gould had died. I said: "Tell me about this. Why do you have to go to the city when the camp closes? Don't tell me it's because you want to be near Wallie; you'd have to fight to him through a crowd, once he gets back where he's already put in some licks. He's got more women back there than you can shake a stick at."

"It isn't Wallie," she said, snuggling up closer. "I like you better es I do him. All he thinks about… well, I don't like to be silly… be all the time he tries to get, well, not exactly fresh, but friendly, if you know what I mean."

If Wallie wasn't fresh, I wondered what this blond wonder's version of fresh would be, but I didn't say anything. If she didn't think Wallie was fresh, she'd think a gale was a gentle breeze.

I said: "I'm not hard to get along with. There's a time and place for all things, is the way I figure it."

She got even closer, if that were possible, and sighed: "That's what I mean. Isn't the moon beautiful tonight, Sam. You don't mind if I call you Sam, do you? I feel like we've known each other for just ages... like we'd been more than just casual acquaintances... like we'd been really important to each other."

I could see where Wallie and his fast tactics and this babe, with hers, had got along like ham and beans. She was working too fast for me and I thought I'd been around.

AND so I said: "You can tell it to me. "Look, honey! It won't make any difference between you and me.... I know I'm not the only man in the world."

"You are right now, to me," she said, with common sense. "I wish Billy was like that. I think a girl's got a right to have fun with other men, too, but he don't."

"Billy?"

"Why, yes, Billy Thompson. We're sort of engaged, but my goodness, that don't mean we're married yet. I wouldn't do anything like this, once I was married, but he don't want me to have any fun at all before, even."

"It's that serious with you, eh? Marriage and the rest of it."

"Why, yes. Of course I know Billy has gone with a lot of girls and I've gone with some men and all that, but once we're married, that all will stop. I don't care what he does before we're married, and I don't see why he should care what I do."

I said: "Look, honey! He's after the Barnes girl. Fay Barnes. He gave her a play last year and he's never stopped. He's serious with her, not with you."

She slapped my face once before I could catch her hands. Then she turned and ran, while trying to straighten her dress as she did, and I turned and went back to the office tent.

I could see the lights of a police  car coming for one thing, and for another I figured I'd started a little fire that might turn into a real blaze.

It was worth a chance, at any rate.

9: The Punch

WILLIAM B.SMITH was with the State Police sergeant but he didn't go into raptures about the beautiful body he had to work with, again. He was the type that thought the body beautiful was definitely a feminine thing, and it was in all his talk and actions. But he did give it the professional slant.

"Going to take a lot of wax and a lot of patching, to get that head looking right," he said, staring down at what was left of Gould. "He's broken up right bad. A messy job, and I don't suppose there'll be money enough to even give him a decent burial."

"An expensive one, you mean," I said, getting sore. "This one ought to be on the house. You've got two jobs from here now— besides the farmer and his wife that might tie in to this."

"You wouldn't understand," he said loftily. "A workman is entitled to the fruits of his labor. An artist is entitled to even more... he puts love and respect into his work."

"Sing small to me, mister," I said. We were away from the sergeant, all by ourselves. "You crack fresh to me, mister, and I'll start making an investigation into your relations with the dead Barnes girl. Thats what, and I'll carry it on farther and see how many other girls you know in this camp. I'm wise to what's been going on."

He said earnestly: "Mister Drake, I wasn't at the Brierhoff's place more than once or twice. Well, let's say half a dozen times at best."

I didn't get it for a moment... I knew I'd heard the name but I couldn't think where. And then I remembered... the State sergeant had told me Brierhoff was the name of the farmer and his wife who'd just been killed.

"Ever see anybody from the camp over there?"

"Well... uh... just the girls, you know. Brierhoff and his wife were very careful... they always kept the parties separate. That's why the girls liked it... it appealed to their sense of the romantic, you see."

I SAID I understood... and I was telling the truth for once. It gave a reason for the Brierhoff killings... and that's what was needed. I left William B. Smith standing there and went up to the office tent and to the phone, and then I got the Severn Hospital and finally Wallie.

"Have you misplaced that Fay?" I asked "Did you let her go, when you found out she wouldn't play?"

"Were sitting in the hall, just outside her old man's room," he said. "It was that or nothing, Sam. I took another look at that horse-faced nurse and I could see I couldn't go for that, even if I turned the hall lights out, so I got Fay again. At least I can try, can't I? And at that I think she's softening up."

"You keep boring from within, there," I said. "Stay close to the old man, but stay close to Fay, too. It's the pay-off, I think, and I don't want her talking to anybody from the camp."

"I understand," he said, and then he laughed. "If she'll soften a little bit more, Sam, I can safely class it as a labor of love."

I asked: "What about Miss Caswell? You forgetting her?"

He laughed again and told me: "That's a loose end, but I can pick that up as I go along. She'll wait… she's been waiting all her life."

I thought he had something there at that... but it was nothing I was interested in.

GROGAN came out before the girl got there and the State sergeant picked him up after he'd gone past earshot of the tent. The sergeant had adopted a I-don't- believe-a- word-of-it attitude and kept insisting his Dombrowski maniac was the one who was guilty, but he was playing along and that's all I wanted.

Grogan looked truculent and said: "Yeah, so I was leaving the tent. What about it?"

"That's what we want to know," the sergeant said in a hard voice.

"Can't a man take a walk for an hour or so?"

"Why walk at an hour like this? You meeting somebody ?"

"That's my business."

The sergeant was inclined to be one of the important acting boys, anyway, and this got under his skin.

"And my business, too, buddy," he snapped. "There's been five people killed around this place, so far, and I want to see there's no more of it. If I ask you questions, you'd better answer me and answer me right. Come out with it... what's the reason for the walk?"

Grogan was young and flip but this show of authority was too much for him. He said, in a sullen way:

"I do it when Billy's got a girl coming to see him and he does the same for me. The girls sneak out of their tents and come to ours, and one of us always gets out and gives the other one a break."

I nodded at the sergeant and said: "See what I told you? It's working aut. I built a fire under that little wench and she's going to try and put it out."

"Thompson's got a girl coming, then? That it?"

"That's it," said Grogan.

"Which one?"

"I don't know. He gives them all a play."

"Would it be Marian Hodges?" I asked.

"It could be. She's been one of them that comes the most."

The sergeant said to Grogan: "You keep on going, buddy. Don't come back for a couple of hours. Keep out of the way. I don't want you under foot."

"Yes, sir," said Grogan.

"Don't run away .. . the State'll want you on the witness stand. Just stay away until this mess is cleared... two hours, I say."

He left, and I said to the sergeant: "It might take longer than that."

He sneered at me and said: "You don't know a thing, mister, about jealous women. I do...  I'm married to one. She'll crack into him about that inside of the first five minutes and they'll be going it hot and heavy in another five. You watch and see."

I said that was what I was hanging around the bushes for.

NEXT was Marian Hodges and she came up the path to the darkened tent with her head high and her little feet just stamping down. Even in that half light we could tell she was boiling mad. She threw the tent flap wide, and the sergeant and I could hear, from where we were hidden in the brush beside the tent, Thompson welcome her.

"Hello, my sweet," said he. "It's been so long since I held you in my arms. It's been like a lifetime."

The sergeant nudged me and whispered: "Believe it or not, I used to talk to my old lady like that. Before we was married, though, it was."

"Its a line that's used," I agreed.

Marian Hodges said clearly: "Don't sweetheart me, you cheap heel! I'm your sweetheart, am I? Then what the hell is the Barnes girl? Tell me that."

"Now, honey."

She started to work on him then.

I knew she had a temper from the way she'd slapped my face when I talked about Thompson to her, but I didn't dream it was anything like that. She called him up and down. She told him everything he'd done that was wrong and there were plenty. She told him everything he hadn't done right and that included a list and no mistake. It seemed he'd lied to her and broken her heart and all that, but what was far worse, he was quitting her fora drab little that wasn't fit to shine her, Marian Hodges', shoes. And her finish was a classic.

"All she's got is a body and money, and she's free with both," she said.

Thompson gave her the only logical answer, which proved she'd got under his skin.

"And all you've got is the body," he said, "and you're free with that, both with me and with everybody else. Who are you to talk to me about cheating? If you'd keep your mouth shut, and keep out of my business, it would work out all right. I'll see you when were both in town."

"Youre planning on marrying that girl."

"Well, maybe," he admitted. "But that won't keep us from seeing each other, will it?"

"You were going to marry me."

"Look, honey," he said. "Trust me, that's all I ask you to do. Just trust me. Just think. Fay will have all that money. If I marry her it doesn't mean I really love her, like I love you. It's just insuring our future. It would be like I was marrying Miss Caswell. Just a way of getting money, that's all."

"So you've been making a play for Miss Caswell, too?"

"Oh, no, sweets! Oh, no! But every time we're alone she hints and hems and haws about how lonesome she is and how life's greatest experience has been denied her, and I've got to pretend I don't know what she means. I could marry her, but Fay Barnes will have more money."

The sergeant nudged me again and whispered: "Can you tie that? That old bat of a Caswell woman, making that kind of a break?"

I said: "Wallie was right. He claims they're never too old."

"She's too old for me to consider," said the sergeant. "Maybe it's like a man eating raw oysters. You get that first one down and the rest come easy. Maybe it'd be like that... make love to her once and after that you wouldn't care what happened."

"Maybe," I said. "Heard enough?"

He nodded and said: "Sure."

And then we started to make the pinch.

10: The Brierhoff Farm

THE sergeant was ahead... he was the arresting officer, of course, and he threw open the tent flap and then laughed. The main quarrel had been over, or at least had died down, and I supposed the blond and Thompson were making up after the quarrel. Then, very much the gentleman, he backed out and called through the canvas to Thompson.

"Get yourself together, mister, and come on out. You too, sister. Get ready in a hurry, too, Thompson... you're under arrest."

"For what?" called Thompson.

"Suspicion of murder," said the sergeant.

Then there was silence for a second and then a frantic whispering from inside. The sergeant gave 'em a moment and then bawled out again.

"Hurry up!"

I thought I heard cloth rustle against canvas and got around past the side of the tent where I could see the back... and I was in time to see a figure fading into the woods.

I had my gun lined on it and a cinch shot, but as I took up the trigger slack I thought of it maybe being the girl.

I shouted: "Stop! Stop, I tell you."

The sergeant went in the tent then, and I heard him bellow: "Where is he? Where'd he go, I say?"

I didn't hear the girl answer, because I was running after Thompson, who had a fifty-foot lead on me. And he kept it until we'd passed the office tent and were running toward where the road turned into the camp from the main highway. He was possibly fifty feet, certainly not much more than that, in front of me, and I was planning on closing the gap and then shooting him through a leg, when another State trooper showed up in front of him.

"Hey," said the trooper.

I shouted something but nobody heard it. The shooting started when the trooper showed in sight.

Thompson got in the first two and I got in the third. Thompson got in another, this time at me instead of the trooper, and then the trooper put in the clincher. He fired and Thompson spun around once and fell with his hands out in front of him.

I said: "You killed him, damn it!"

The trooper said: "I shot him in the ham. I aimed there, anyway."

We went up, taking care that Thompson didn't reach the pistol he'd dropped... and the trooper was right. His heavy police slug had taken Thompson through the thigh and splintered the big bone there, and the shock had knocked him down and out as if he was a goner for sure.

I heard the sergeant running up and I thought I'd find out why the trooper had so providentially been in the right spot at that right time.

"What the hell were you doing out here?" I asked.

He was excited, stopping an escaping murderer the way he had, and he blurted out the truth.

"I was with a girl," he said. "What the hell's a man supposed to be around this camp anyway? A monk?"

I admitted a monk would have a hard time keeping monkish, or whatever monks were supposed to be, in that particular camp.

WE RODE the ambulance in with Thompson and we found Wallie where he was supposed to be, just for a change. A hospital corridor was a handicap, possibly, but nothing he couldn't take in his stride when he was with a girl. He bounced Fay Barnes out of his lap as we got out of the elevator, and came to meet us, letting her stand there alone, "What gives?" he asked.

He had lipstick all over his face and neck and, from that and the silly grin he was wearing, I decided that Fay Barnes had softened up, as he thought she might.

I said: "We got Thompson and he's cracked. It's the way I figured it."

"Good work," said he. "I got the slant, when you told me to keep her handy. He's the guy, all right. They've been secretly engaged since last year. She thinks he made the world... or she did until she got smart to herself."

Thompson went by us, wheeled by on an operating table.

Wallie nodded at him and said: "Hurt bad?"

"Bad leg. I don't get that crack about the Barnes girl getting smart to herself."

Wallie said smugly: "Look, Sam, you know that after they've been out with me, they go home and throw rocks at their sweeties. Need I say more?"

I said he didn't and went on past him to where Fay Barnes was standing just outside her father's door. I said: "Miss Barnes, there's just one thing I'd like to ask. Did you meet Billy Thompson at the Brierhoff farm? Have you been meeting him there?"

She said: "Why, yes! Naturally I couldn't meet him at the camp, where my sister would hear about it and tell dad. Dad made me promise I wouldn't see him, you see."

"You know about us getting him?"

"Wallie told me," she said, her eyes going soft and doe-like. "I don't think it was fair, leaving Wallie here in all that danger. Suppose that Billy had come back here and tried to kill dad, again? Wallie would have been all alone and Billy might have had a gun, or something."

"He did. He tried to kill a trooper and he tried to kill me."

"You see. He might have killed Wallie. There should have been somebody else on guard, with Wallie."

I said: "That Wallie Dayton will get along where a good man would starve."

"He was really in danger tonight, Mr. Drake," said she.

I thought of the ten o'clock date with Miss Caswell I'd saved him from and agreed with her.

THE post-mortem came in Barnes hospital room and we had the small fry out. That, of course, included Fay Barnes and Marian Hodges; both being barred on the grounds that the facts would be too hard a thing for them to face.

It was primer stuff for both of them, though of course Barnes didn't know that.

Barnes moved impatiently on the bed and winced when it bothered his wounded shoulder.

"I knew that young man was no good in the first place," he said. "That's why I ordered Fay to absolutely leave him alone. That's why I didn't allow her to return to camp with Zoa, this year. I thought I had her away from him, but I was in error... she'd take visits and come to Severn here and meet him at that Brierhoff farm."

"That was the Brierhoff's real business," said the State sergeant. "Drake discovered that. They were using it as a meeting place for the girls from the camp and their sweethearts... they'd serve dinner and drinks and the girls fell for it because of the clandestine flair it gave their romance. That's why Thompson killed the Brierhofts... he knew they could tie him up with your daughter Fay, Mr. Barnes. He'd started his killing... your daughter Zoa was already dead and Fay was your sole heir. With you out of the way, all he had to do was marry Fay and have his hands on your money."

"He must have been mad," said Barnes.

"Not so," I said. "He had a patsy... here were two men escaped from the Home for the Criminally Insane only five miles away. Zoa's murder would naturally be blamed on them."

"We got Dombrowski this morning," said the sergeant, with satisfaction. "The guy had got himself a job on a road gang, twenty-five miles from here. He hadn't done a thing... they may turn him loose as cured, pretty soon, I've found."

"Why did Gould, the swimming teacher, report him as being the one he saw running away from the Brierhoff farm?" asked Miss Caswell, who was sitting there and staring at Wallie as though he was the answer to that particular maiden's prayer. "I don't understand that."

I said: "That was easy, when you knew Gould. Gould was damned near simple. All Thompson did was giye him a vague description and Gould thought that was what he saw. When we started to call Gould up for questioning, Miss Caswell, Thompson heard about it and knew that Gould would tell us that. So he killed him before he could talk. That was right after hed returned from town after trying to kill Mr, Barnes again. He'd swiped Gould's gun and used it, when he wrote us a note, trying to get us away. He didn't want us to work on the thing, in the first place. When he shot Mr. Barnes, he realized that if he could make us think he'd been trying to shoot me, instead of Mr. Barnes, it would cloud the issue. He took advantage of it and wrote another note. We just happened to walk in on him while he was writing it, and he stalled us by pretending to be sore about us asking questions about him. It was pretty weak, but it stood up for awhile."

"He told us all about it," said the sergeant. "He didn't seem to care much, anyway... I think he's going to try and take an insanity plea, the way he's going. It's an act, or he'd show more remorse for killing the little Smedgley girl. She just happened to walk in on a meeting he had with your daughter Fay, Mr. Barnes. Of course she knew Fay wasn't supposed to be here... that's common gossip; a love affair like that was in a place like this, and the little girl might have spoken about it to somebody. The little girl was smart... she associated that with Zoa being killed... and called it a secret. Thompson killed her to keep her quiet... he'd killed one girl already... they couldn't hang him any higher for another death."

NOBODY said anything.

Barnes, naturally, was all broken up over his daughter Zoa's death, and the rest of us were bothered even more by the little Smedgley girl having been killed like that. And then Barnes broke it up with the businesslike touch I like.

"I understand, gentlemen," he said, to Wallie and me, "that you were retained in this matter by Miss Caswell. I will pay your bill, if you'll send it to my Chicago office. Miss Caswell can give you the address."

I said that would be fine and he and Miss Caswell argued about who should pay it and why. Barnes lost… it ended with his proposition to pay accepted. Then the nurse bustled in and told us all that Mr. Barnes should have rest, and shooed us out.

And there Miss Caswell made her play.

"We had an engagement last evening," she said. "Do you remember, Mr. Dayton?"

Fay Barnes and Marian Hodges were standing together down at the end of the corridor, and Wallie was looking that way. He tore his glance away, with an effort.

"Uh, yes," said he. "I… uh… I was busy."

And so help me he blushed.

"Possibly tonight then," said Miss Caswell, suggestively.

Wallie said: "Ah, yes, possibly," and I could almost see the thoughts whirling through his mind.

He was really on a spot and didn't know which way to jump. On one hand he had the young Barnes filly. She was young and pretty and full of original devilment... and also the type that might drop him the second she got a bit fed up with him. She had a father with lots of money... but that was something hard to figure too. Daddy might not pay off a son-in-law, and that's what Wallie would have to be to get a dime.

There it was. Youth and beauty and possibly money. And of course, marriage along with it.

On the other hand he had Miss Caswell. Fifty if a day and homely as she could be. But with her own money, even if it wasn't as much as was in the Barnes family coffers. And once he had her, he'd have her solid.

I could see him thinking it over and I could darn near hear his brain click over the angles as he came to them.

And then came his decision.

He turned to Miss Caswell, shrugging away from the two girls at the end of the hall, and he gave Miss Caswell his most beaming smile.

"Tonight. Tonight, at ten," he breathed softly.

And with the silliest grin I ever saw in my life on his face.

I said: "Good-by for now," and headed down the hall. I wanted to talk to Marian Hodges and see if she still wanted a job in my office.

I thought that if she did, I might have a ten o'clock date for my own score.

___________

14: "Pegged"

Roy W. Hinds

1887-1930

Detective Story Magazine 14 Jan 1922

THE Speckled Bantam, so called because of his slight stature and the freckle patch in the vicinity of his impudent nose, loitered within the friendly shade of the best cell house. He sat on the hard-graveled earth with his back against the stone wall which towered overhead Gibraltar-like. Beyond the shadow, flung down by the sinister building, the August sun glared on the white gravel of the prison yard, and heat currents simmered,

Speck, to give him his shorter and more convenient sobriquet, was engaged in the seemingly idle and childish pastime of scratching his under finger tips with the point of a pin. The natural sharpness of his eyes at the moment was lost in the depths of a languid preoccupation, His movements might be likened to those of a man who idly plucks blades of grass while lolling in the shade.

No matter what the appearances, closer inspection would have revealed a cunning and studious application to the task in hand. When a guard passed near by The Bantam folded his fingers over the pin and did not resume his operations until the coast was again clear. It was against the rules for a prisoner to possess a pin.

Speck glanced, now and then, at the few other prisoners lounging at widely scattered points in the yard, to guard against the possibility of a "snitch" perceiving his occupation.

Then there approached a youthful prisoner to whom The Speckled Bantam had taken a liking some few days previously, when the youth came in with a year's sentence to do. The Bantam deftly concealed the pin.

"Ain't they put you to work yet?" Speck asked with a friendly grin.

"Not yet," said the youth. "In the morning I'm going into the shoe shop. The guard down at the-shop gate just told me."

"The shoe shop, eh? Well, that ain't so bad."

"No, I guess it isn't hard work in the shoe shop."

"Except that you'll set hunched on a bench ten hours a day, six days a week, and won't get paid for it."

At that the youth's countenance fell. "I just been figuring my time up in weeks," said he. "It will take me ten months to serve my year, with good time off; and there's about forty-three weeks in ten months. Forty-three weeks! Gee! That's a long time, isn't it?"

The Speckled Bantam chuckled, and his mouth twisted momentarily in a merciless leer.

"Why don't you figure it in days?" he suggested. "It seems longer. If you're good in arithmetic you can stretch it into hours, and minutes, and seconds. Try that once, like the rest of the yaps do."

The youth studied the other man and decided he was joking.

"What's a 'yap'?" he inquired gravely.

"A yap? Well,a yapisa yap. I ain't never been asked to describe one before; but a yap is a chump that— well, a mut tonhead that thanks the judge because he didn't double his sentence and feels much obliged to the warden for feeding him after he gets here."

The younger man turned a level gaze into the mischievous orbs of The Speckled Bantam.

"You think I'm a muttonhead, eh he said quietly. "I never allow anybody to call me a muttonhead, and such names as that."

Speck looked deeply into the narrowed eyes of the youth, and presently he said, as though he had made a pleasant discovery: "I guess you ain't a muttonhead, after all. No, you ain't a muttonhead, and you ain't a yap. Set down."

The youth sat down. That was the real beginning of the strange friendship of The Speckled Bantam and John Gregory.

"I been watching you," The Bantam explained, "ever since you come in the other day. It does me good to see a ' young fellow like you, 'cause I see so many yaps in this place; and the charge you come in here on made me think you was another one of 'em. You had a fight with another young fellow on the outside, and you knocked him out. He come near croaking. Ain't that the way you told it to me. Uh-huh. Well, you didn't mean to jounce that bird so hard. It was a chance blow on the point of the jaw—right on the button ; and it laid him out. His people are the high and mighty folks of your town, and you're just a poor boy. They had you arrested, and the prosecuting attorney, who was mixed up in politics with the other lad's father, got you convicted of felonious assault. Result—one year in the 'big house."

"Well, that's all right, but us fellows that ain't yaps, we don't think much of the birds that come in here for scrapes of that kind. They belong in the same class as arsonists and horse thieves. Any boob can swing his fist, and the job of striking a match or climbing a pasture fence don't call for a brilliant intellect. Them birds is the yaps. They don't belong. We keep shy of 'em.

"They work as hard as they can in here. They take their jobs as serious as if they was getting paid for their work. They never try to dodge a day's work. They're the guys that make prisons a success. They learn to like the warden and the guards, and go to chapel without being drove there. They think that a guard is as good as a convict. They're afraid to fake sick, like I did to-day, and dodge a day's work. They toot horns in the prison band and sing in the choir. 'Them guys are the yaps. They ain't got no business in 'stir.' They ought to be in institutions where they'd be called inmates instead of prisoners. Instead of  figuring the warden and the guards as their enemies, they write letters back home and pieces for the prison paper telling how nice they're being treated.

"Course you're under a handicap. You didn't really break no law, and you're here with a sentence that I'd be ashamed of. You think forty-three weeks is a long time. Why, I laid in jaii waiting trial longer'n that. And when the trial was over the judge wrote down one year, multiplied it by seven, and gave me the result,

"Now you'd be thought more of if you had at least five years, and something behind you to feel proud of, like lifting a bunch of money out of a bank vault, or flipping a purse out of some rich old gentleman's pocket, or raising cash with a few pen-and-ink etchings on a check, or maybe taking up a collection on a train at the point of an automatic—eh ?"

The Bantam searched John Gregory's face for an answer.

"I don't know as that would help me any," the youth said presently.

"Well," Speck predicted after a pause, "some day you'll figure that us boys have the right idea; get all you can. You'll find out that the State ain't your friend when you see just how much they want to collect off'n you for that crack on the jaw. You'll find out you're being cheated, then you'll—"

It turned out that the notorious thief called The Speckled Bantam knew whereof he spoke.

John Gregory strolled away, leaving The Bantam to the delicate task of altering his finger prints, which he could accomplish quite effectively in the nine months he had yet to serve.

Gregory hardly noticed the change in his point of view. The coarse prison fare, the deadly monotony of stitching heavy prison shoes hour after hour, day after day, week after week, gradually soured his disposition and turned him morose and resentful. This condition perhaps would not have been vital, because it couldn't last long in his case, had he been left to himself. But he was not left to himself.

The subtle Speckled Bantam hated the law too intensely to let slip this opportunity to fashion such promising timber into a weapon against the law. He wanted the cool physical courage and apparent native intelligence of John Gregory turned to his beloved cause of crime. It gave his bitter heart much gratification, and in time might prove profitable.

He contrived to meet John Gregory often, at least once each day. On Sundays he clung to him throughout the day. Subtly he sowed his seed. In time John Gregory came to believe that thieves were not the worst fellows in the world, and by— that process of thought came to look upon crime with a softer eye.

Things might have been different if John had had a home. He wouldn't return to the town from which he was sentenced, for he felt that there would be no job for him there now. It was the town in which he had spent his life, the town in which his parents were buried. He had worked there in a mill, at a task which hardly would be of service to him in any other mill. The outside world to him was an unfathomed mystery. He looked ahead to it bravely, but uncertainly. In prison he had acquired a general idea of the trade of shoemaking, but no special skill.

At last the morning of his discharge arrived. Martin Vanhart, civilian superintendent of the prison shoe factory, extended his hand. The outgoing prisoner perfunctorily shook hands.

"I wish you luck, John," said the superintendent. "If I can help you in any way, let me know."

"Thanks," the youth returned without much warmth. He had an idea that this was a stock good-by of the superintendent, given upon the assumption that he wouldn't be called on to make good his promise. However, John had nothing in particular against Martin Vanhart; he wasn't a harsh man, and John understood that the tasks he laid out were previously laid out by his superiors. He had a kindly eye, a pleasant manner of speaking, and sometimes the prisoners got an idea that he sympathized with them.

John Gregory departed. Outside, he gazed scornfully at the lone five-dollar bill with which the State expected him to launch an honorable career. He felt friendless and alone in a distrustful world, but took hope when he meditated upon the invitation extended him by The Speckled Bantam, on The Bantam's discharge a month previously, to meet him in the city. The Bantam promised money and friendship.

In the city John Gregory and The Speckled Bantam met for the first time on the outside.

From that point it was but a step to a life of crime. Five years sped by in a dazzling series of ups and downs. John Gregory learned what it was to handle vast sums of money and to spend them in the reckless manner of his kind. Throughout it all he and The Speckled Bantam clung together. On John's part it was friendship. In the cold, calculating bosom of The Bantam there lay no such creditable emotion. He found in Gregory an apt pupil and an efficient and trustworthy pal. On more than one occasion the younger man risked his life and liberty to save The Bantam from the penalties of their dangerous and precarious adventures.

JOHN GREGORY felt a hand on his shoulder. The sunlit street whirled. The faces of pedestrians became blurred. In a twinkling his senses cleared. He turned around before the man behind was aware that his action had inspired dark fear within the heart of the young crook. There is nothing quite so ominous to a crook as a hand upon his shoulder. His record is weighted with so much unsquared' crime that the sudden touch has within it a signal of doom. Crooks never accost each other in that manner, and John Gregory knew that the man behind was not a friend of the underworld.

"Thought it was you," said a quiet, friendly voice. "How are you?"

For an instant John Gregory's recollection wavered, and then his sharp wits quickly placed the large, gray-haired man with kindly eyes and a pleasant manner of speech. He was Martin Vanhart, civilian superintendent of the shoe factory in the prison that lay a thousand miles eastward.

"I'm fine, Mr. Vanhart. How are you?"

"Well, I can't complain. You live here?"

"No, this isn't my home."

"Traveling, eh? Well, that's my fix. I'm a stranger here. Are you alone, John?"

"Yes, sir. That is, for the time."

The elderly gentleman smiled. "Probably married by this time, eh? Hope you haven't had lunch. Two hours yet before my trains goes back East. Won't you do me a favor, John? This looks like a good restaurant right here."

John Gregory hesitated a moment, and then replied: "I'd enjoy that very much, sir."

During lunch conversation developed the fact that Martin Vanhart was no longer connected with the prison. He had gone into business for himself and owned a shoe factory at Gossport, New Jersey. He casually remarked that he had been successful in the venture launched three years previously and was glad to get away from the prison.

"It isn't a very pleasant place," he said, "even for the civilian employees. It's too depressing; I couldn't stand it."

The reticence of John Gregory was sufficient explanation to Martin Vanhart. When they had lighted cigars he turned his words into specific channels.

"John," said he, "I don't wish to pry into your affairs, but | would consider it a privilege if I could help you, or any of the other boys that worked for me back there. I think I know something of your difficulties and obstacles. You can talk to me as plainly as you wish, without fear ii—if you have cause for fear."

Gregory took the opportunity thus presented, but in the talk that followed he did not mention the name of any of his companions of the last five years. They talked fully and confidentially.

Vanhart glanced at his watch.

"My train leaves in forty minutes," said he. 'Coming with me?"

"With you—where?"

"Back to Gossport. I've a good job for you there."

John Gregory gazed deeply into the older man's eyes. "Yes, I'm going back. with you." He got to his feet quickly. "I'll meet you at the train gate. Got a little business to do here first— at my hotel. I can just about make it."

The Speckled Bantam lounged on the beg in their hotel room when John Gregory dashed in.

"Speck," said John, "I'm going back East. I haven't time for explanations. I've got to quit this— this way we're living. That's final, and I haven't time to argue the point."

The Bantam was on his feet by this time, his mouth twisted into an ugly leer.

"Once I said you weren't a yap, but I've changed my mind," he cried. "You're nutty when you think you're going to shake me like this. I'II—"

"You're not going to do anything, so don't make any threats. I've played absolutely square with you. You've got money, and here"— Gregory tossed two hundred-dollar bills onto the bed— "there's all the money I have except fifty dollars for my expenses back East. I'm not busting up any plans of yours.

We didn't have any plans. We just came out here to look around. I'd like to part as friends." He was flinging things into his traveling bag. "But I haven't time to argue it out."

"Sure you ain't got time to argue! You've hooked up with some other bird for a big clean-up, and—"

"That's a lie. I never double crossed a man in my life. I tell you, I'm through with this business; and I'm through with you as long as you stay in the business. I'm still your friend, but our ways have got to part."

"Where you going?"

"I'm going to keep that to myself."

John Gregory knew the volley of scorn he would draw upon himself if he revealed his association with a former prison official. This was the very worst route he could take to go straight, according to the lights of The Bantam's kind, for a prison official, former or present, is a hated wretch, no matter what sort of a man he is at heart. That would be proof that John Gregory was an incurable yap, and would only heighten the contempt of The Bantam.

The Bantam kept up a flow of sarcastic and disparaging remarks, but did not lose sight of the practical. He tucked John Gregory's two hundred dollars safely away, at the same time showering the donor with sullen derision, John Gregory did not retaliate.

"You're a yap, and you can't get over it; so what's—"

These were the last words that John Gregory heard The Speckled Bantam utter. He hastened out of the room and to a taxicab.

"Well," The Bantam muttered to himself, "I don't never have to worry about that yap squealing, anyway. [I'll give him that; he won't be dirty. He's a yap, but he ain't a full-blooded yap."

The Speckled Bantam immediately took advantage of his wide acquaintance in the underworld to find himself another congenial and capable companion.

NINE MONTHS later John Gregory was made foreman of the cutting room in the Vanhart shoe factory, with bright prospects in a rapidly growing business.

Upon the second morning of his foremanship John Gregory arrived at the factory unusually early. It was his custom to go through the office into the factory. But the office had not yet been opened. He found that out when he tried the door. And at that moment he observed something that awakened extraordinary interest— and alarm.

The front doorway of the Vanhart office was closed by two doors. Thus there was a crack where the two doors came together in the center of the doorway. Into this crack, slightly below the level of his eyes, John Gregory observed that a toothpick had been thrust, and broken off.

He knew precisely what this meant. The office of the Vanhart Shoe Co. was being "pegged."

Burglars planned to rob the office and were now engaged in a preliminary survey of the ground. John Gregory knew what the average man doesn't know. He knew that wise burglars did not spend their time loitering around a contemplated "job." That was dangerous. It requires hours and hours, and sometimes days. Observation necessarily must be from the outside, from streets, alleys, and the shelter of convenient buildings. That is a task for a skulker, and a skulker lingering long in one vifthity is almost sure to attract the attention of the policeman on the beat.

Wise burglars have other devices. They must ascertain the movements of the watchman. It is important to know whether he enters the office through the front door. If so, he must be disposed of before the thieves break into the office. They could not waylay him at the front door. That was too close to the street for a struggle. If he entered through the back door, their problem was quite simple. He could be seized and bound without danger of attracting attention in the street.

Thus the thieves "peg" the front door. After the office is locked for the night, one of their number thrusts a piece of toothpick or match into the crack between the doors. He makes a flying trip into the doorway at midnight. If the peg is still in place, he knows that the watchman does not enter through the front door before midnight. At about six o'clock in the morning he makes another inspection, and if the peg is there, he knows the watchman does not use the front door at all on his rounds. This operation is carried on for about three nights, and an important fact is established without, perhaps, even a glimpse of the watchman.

If the peg is found out of the crack, the observer then has a more delicate and prolonged task. He must time his visits a half hour backward each night, until he has definitely established the exact time the watchman visits the office by way of the front door.

This was only one detail of an elaborate system of long-distance observation— elaborate and still quite simpie. Of course a certain amount of actual spying was necessary, but no long personal vigils were conducted.

John Gregory knew that burglars were about to "swoop" on the Vanhart office, and though his course was quite plain at first thought, his situation grew more embarrassing and disturbing with meditation.

He felt quite sure that the observer had made his morning visit. It was seven-thirty. They hardly waited until so late. He accounted for the observer's not removing the peg by the likelihood of his arriving after daylight, when he did not wish to step into the doorway. After daylight, he had merely to glance into the doorway to ascertain if the peg were still there. And, of course, the thieves had no idea that such a man as John Gregory was connected with the factory. To every other employee, no doubt, the peg meant absolutely nothing.

While he lingered in the doorway an office boy arrived with a key. The boy opened the door, and the peg fell out.

In the factory he encountered the night watchman, who was preparing to depart for the day. The night watchman's name was Winkle. He was a very cheerful old man with a white beard. It required no genius to give him the very appropriate nickname of Rip,

"Mr. Gregory," said "Rip" Winkle, "it's the first I've seen of you since you been made a foreman. It's happy, I am, for you're a fine young man, I know."

"Thanks, Rip."

"And it's Mr. Vanhart that knows you're a fine young man. I've heard him praise you many a time."

"Is that so? Who did he praise me to, Rip?"

"Why, to myself, of course. Mr. Vanhart and me is old friends, though there ain't many that knows it."

The subdued tone in which Rip announced this fact and the prolonged wink which accompanied the announcement gave John Gregory an idea that there was a close attachment between Martin Vanhart and his night watchman, an attachment that perhaps sprang up in the past. If that were the case, where did the two men meet? John Gregory thought of the prison in which Martin Vanhart had been superintendent of the shoe factory, and

He wondered just how much the night watchman knew about himself, John Gregory.

In mid-forenoon he visited the office of Martin Vanhart.

"Just how much," he asked, "does the night watchman know about me, Mr. Vanhart?"

The old gentleman smiled. "You needn't be touchy, John, so far as Rip is concerned."

"No, that isn't the point," Gregory explained with a smile. "But I have an idea that he knows more than I thought he did. If that is the case, I'd like to know it. If you saw fit to tell him, it is perfectly all right with me. I know you wouldn't use poor judgment in a case like that; but don't you see, it will make me feel easier if I know the men in the factory who are aware of my past."

"That's right," Mr. Vanhart admitted solemnly. "Well, Rip and myself are the only persons in this factory who know you ever were in prison. And he doesn't know of the five years that elapsed between that time and the time you came here. I'll tell you about Rip. He's a very inquisitive old man and bulldozes me quite a bit. I met Rip in the same place I met you. We got Rip a pardon about a year before you came in there. He was doing twenty years for burglary. One day he knocked a prisoner down just as that prisoner was about to drive a knife into my back. Naturally, I let him have his own way  around here. He went straight after he got out and wrote me a letter once in a while. When I began work on this factory I sort of took him under my wing, but he fathers me. He doesn't hesitate to tell me how to run the business, and of course I let him talk and order me around as much as he wants. He always does it privately, and I guess the old fellow gets a lot of fun out of it. He saw that I took an exceptional interest in you, and he got an idea of the truth. He pecked and pecked at me until I told him. He didn't ask any more questions, and I know it made him your friend at once, and that he wouldn't mention it to another living soul. You and Rip are the only men in my employ who met me in— up there. You needn't worry about Rip. He'll keep it to himself, and he'll be your friend."

Martin Vanhart didn't know that John Gregory's smile reflected such deep satisfaction as actually lingered within the young man's breast.

"The night watchman is an old-time burglar," chuckled John to himself. "That makes things easier for me."

Early that night John Gregory called on Rip Winkle at the factory. They had the whole place to themselves.

"Rip," said the cutting-room -foreman bluntly, "the office is being 'pegged.' "

Mr. Winkle's face reflected surprise, and he tugged at his beard. Then a grin spread over his countenance.

"I guess me and you understand one 'nother," he remarked.

"Yes, I guess so. You know where I met Mr. Vanhart, and I know where you met him, so we can talk quite plainly. Yes, they're pegging the office, and we've got to do something about it."

A puzzled scowl came to the night watchman's face. He understood quite clearly that he and John Gregory were in an embarrassing situation. For almost any one else, action was plain. But it was different with them. They had a duty to perform 'in protecting the Vanhart Co., and they had a certain sentimental pride to maintain,

"We've got to do something about it," Gregory repeated. "We can't let the thing go on, and we can't take a step which will land these fellows behind the bars."

"Course we can't!'

"We're under no obligations to them, but, still, the thing wouldn't set right with us. You and I know what we'd be sending them to. We know that they'd be on our minds for many a year."

"Indeed we do!"

"So it's up to us to prevent a robbery, and at the same time to let these fellows, whoever they are, get away without a rumble."

"Well," Rip exclaimed, "that's easy!"

"Tt's easy when you first think about it; but it isn't so easy after all. What's your idea?"

"Tell Mr. Vanhart to skin his safe."

"And let him in on it, eh? No, that won't do, Rip. No one must know of this. Mr. Vanhart is a fine fellow, and he's got more charity in him than any man I know; but, Rip, he doesn't understand things as we do. He can't understand it. We know how he feels about men who want to go straight, but we're not sure that he'd be so liberal with men in the act of burglary. He's got a public duty to perform, and he's got a duty to his own business. We can't ask him to protect thieves. Most any man in his position would lead them into a trap, and plant detectives in the office. I'm not sure that Mr. Vanhart would, and I'm not sure that he wouldn't. We can't take a chance, It's up to you and me to—"

"Let's give 'em a quiet tip to lay off."

"That sounds good, too, but it isn't. We don't want these fellows to know we're here. The news would spread.

We don't care about the good fellows, they wouldn't bother us. But the bums would take advantage of us. They'd dog us for money. Maybe some of 'em would want, jobs here, as a frame-up to skin the place. There are several ways for them to make it unpleasant for us."

Rip Winkle tugged at his beard, at a loss now for an idea.

"But I have an idea," John Gregory resumed. "Supposing you and I beat 'em to it."

"You mean rob the safe?"

"Exactly !"

Rip's eyes glistened. "That'd be fine! I'd like that."

"Of course you would, you old rogue!" John grinned. "You want to get your hand in again."

"No such thing! But we'll have to peel the wrapper off'n it, won't we? I don't know the combination, and I don't s'pose you do."

"I don't. But we're not going to destroy any property. Things have changed since your day, Rip. They don't always peel a safe now."

The night watchman stared, amazed. "Are you one of them new-fangled berry pickers? I've heard of them boys. No firecrackers, no juice, no anything. Not even a penknife. I've heard tell of feltows that walk up to a safe, wink at it, tickle it in the ribs, and open she flies!"

"Now, Rip, don't kid me." John begged. "It isn't to be an easy job. But I think I can handle it. It isn't an easy 'can,' though I never examined it closely. But we'll open her somehow. And then," he said smilingly, "we'll skin the insides down to nothing, leave the door swung open a little, so they won't smash it, and hide out in the factory somewhere. They'll think another gang got there first, and go away empty. Then we'll put the money back into the safe, lock her up, and the thing's done; and both sides will be getting off pretty easy."

"And what night d'you think they'll pick?" Rip asked.

"Why, to-morrow night, of course— Friday night. That's the night the payroll will be in the safe. It's there every other Friday night, and it's a sizable stack. The office force makes up the envelopes Friday, so all they have to do Saturday forenoon is hand 'em out. Some time between now and next pay day we'll talk the boss into changing that system. Maybe it will make a little more work in the office Saturday forenoon, but it will pay."

John Gregory crept away, for he had no desire to see any of the thieves or to be seen by them, and there was a likelihood of the "pegger" being in the neighborhood for his work of the night. It was agreed that the night watchman should remain apparently oblivious to the impending robbery, so that things would go off without arousing the least suspicion among the robbers. John Gregory didn't want the thieves to become quizzical and perhaps locate him. He had an embarrassing acquaintance in the circles which he had deserted less than a year previously.

IN A CHEAP hotel on the lower West Side of New York two men lounged in a shabby room. It was late afternoon, and the sun had been hidden throughout the day. A sputtering gas light filled the room with a sickly yellow hue. A draft came in at the window, which the men kept raised a half inch to freshen the sordid atmosphere ; shadows nodded portentously. One of the lodgers peered outside.

"Say, it's snowing!" he announced fiercely.

"Well," rejoined his companion, "there ain't no use to get mad about it. We been expecting it, ain't we? We been expecting everything that'll make it tough for us. So what's a little snow, more or less?'

"It''ll make the ground white, won't it?" the other demanded ill-naturedly. "And that's a fine thing, ain't it? Working with a white ground? It'll be like daylight around that joint."

"We won't be on the ground but a mighty short time. I've pegged that joint to a fine point. I've got my window all picked out, and I'll have it open in a jiffy. Then you'll be inside. The snow won't make any difference inside, and a man like you will make quick work of that safe. Course the snow's bad, makes it tough traveling; and there's a tough wind, too, eh?"

"Everything's tough," the man at the window said growlingly. "Here we are, down to our last chance, and a snowstorm comes up. I ain't had no luck since that yap ducked away from me." He cursed bitterly. "And I don't see why that is. I learned him everything he knows; he don't know no more'n me. But it broke my luck. If he's where I hope he is, he's in worse luck than me!" He cursed the memory of the "yap." "We ain't had no luck at all, have we? Time was when I could pull jobs without the police tumbling as to who done 'em— but no more. They got a bunch of stuff on me in black and white. The only thing they ain't got yet is me. But that won't be a hard job for 'em if I linger around these shores. If we don't get out West, Bill, it's good night and farewell for us!"

"Well, we're starting for the West to-night, ain't we?"

"I hope we are! If this drag goes right, we'll get a train right there at Gossport, and not come back to town at all. I'm afraid to come back. We ain't got but four dollars left; just about enough to get over there and back, if things don't go right. We'll have to come back, if the drag falls down. We can't freight it in this weather. We can hang up in this room for a few days, but that'd be awful, wouldn't it?"

"Certainly would. But we ain't coming back."

"Rather have that money over there to-night than any other money in the world. It's Vanhart's money, and Vanhart used to be a 'screw.' How I hate screws! Once a screw always a screw; same's a yap; and—"

"Yes, yes," the other man grumbled. "Don't chew on that stuff any more. I want to rest."

The Speckled Bantam fell silent and meditated dreamily on the vast sums of money he would steal in the new country for which he yearned.

AT THREE O'CLOCK next morning they returned, bedraggled and empty-handed, to the shabby room on the lower West Side.

"I'll say the guy that beat us to that dough," remarked The Bantam, "is just as slick as me. That safe is no pipe, and he opened it without a scratch. I hope he chokes on the first drink he buys with that money."

The Speckled Bantam often curses the unknown man who beat him to the Vanhart pay roll, but of course he doesn't know that in his eagerness to fashion a weapon against the law, he had taught that unknown man the business of breaking and entering, and made him his Nemesis.

________________

15: A Case Without a Clew

Joseph Gollomb

1881-1950

Flynn’s, April 25 1925

True crime: an impossible murder in 1920s Berlin. "Meldwesen" (or Meldewesen) was the vast information registration system of the German police.

GIVEN a machine that hunts criminals. Set it the task of weaving a rope wherewith to hang a man. But give it not the slightest bit of material wherewith to work, not the slenderest gossamer of a clew, nothing but its vast and complicated self, assisted by squads of mechanical men.

Captain it, however, by a few highly endowed men in charge of the machine, engineers endowed with the deadly machinelike logic of the German mind, and its genius for creation of marvelous machines. Given such a machine and nothing to work with, what could it do? Let us see.

Morenstrasse in Berlin is a residential street of well-to-do apartment homes. One of them, a ponderous seven story affair lorded the block on which it stood with its massive granite front, and housed people who belonged behind such a front— successful merchants, several bank directors, and the like.

The entrance to this house looked like the approach to a combination castle, armory, and safety vault. Two unfriendly looking lions of granite flanked the steps up to the front doors, which were ponderous affairs of carved oak, never by chance negligently open, not even unlocked. To enter the house, if you were a visitor, you had to press a button on the side of the door, a button, by the way, that looked like the knob of a rosette, exactly like the other rosettes that studded the side of the door.

So that if you did not know which of these knobs sounded the bell, you had to go around to the servants’ entrance, where, before you were admitted, you had to pass the scrutiny of the janitor’s family peering out from behind barred windows. It was not fear of the police, you may be sure, that made the house so cautious in admitting the world.

For its tenants were of the ultrarespectable world, whom the police protect from those who prey on the well-to-do. No, this caution and exclusiveness was the expression of the same fear that makes banks put bars on its windows, guards at its entrances and patent locks on its doors.

Even if you knew which rosette knob pressed the bell you had to wait till a ponderous clicking opened the outer door by invisible hands. Then you stepped into a marWe entrance hall and were confronted by a burly man in gray uniform who waited for you to state your errand.

This man, a former regimental blacksmith, or his colleague, who replaced him the other twelve hours of duty, then relayed your errand or name by telephone to the person you came to see. If upstairs sent down word that it was all right to admit you, the former blacksmith escorted you to the glass-walled electric elevator, where the runner of the cage took you up to the floor announced to him by the guard at the door.

Arrived at that floor the elevator runner, following strict instructions, escorted you to the door of your visit and waited till he heard your name taken in to the host of the house and also heard the host consent to receive the caller. Only then did the elevator runner go back to his cage. This was the practice every minute of the twenty-four hours of the day.

Among the tenants in that residential vault was a Dr. Kemstoff, a gem expert for one. of the biggest jewelry houses in Germany. He was a bachelor and lived in a seven-room apartment alone. But a valet and a cook came every morning to attend to him and left only late at night when Dr. Kemstoff himself saw them out of the house. Then he would lock the only door to the apartment, shoot home two bolts on the massive oak door, reenforce this with a chain lock, and go to bed.

One morning the servants came as usual at the accus-tomed hour and rang the bell. There was no answer. The servants rang again and again until there was no doubt that the Herr Doctor was either out or so deep in sleep that even the loud bell they could hear through the oaken door could not wake him. But were he out, both elevator runner and the guard downstairs would have told them so and would have admitted them— for the valet and the cook had reputations for unswerving honesty.

When they had been ringing for a quarter of an hour, the valet went downstairs and called up the apartment on the telephone. That bell rang, as he knew, at the master’s bedside and had an insistent ring that would wake any but the dead. But since the Herr Doctor still did not answer, could he be anything but dead?

The servants then telephoned Dr. Kemstoff’s place of business. No, he had not arrived, they were informed, and were sternly asked in turn what was keeping the Herr Doctor? The servants, by now thoroughly alarmed, told the senior partner of the jewelry house, who had taken up the receiver, that without doubt something was the matter. Would the Herr Senior Partner kindly advise them what to do?

The Herr Senior Partner not only told them what to do, but did it himself. He called up a friend of his, one of the engineers of the Berlin police machine, and consulted ’irith him.

"The apartment must be entered!” said the police official when he heard the details. "I'll send some of my men to do it.”

A skilled mechanic from the police department was .sent to open the door without breaking it open, if possible. He managed to unlock everything that skeleton keys could open. But there were the bars and chain locks on the inside to deal with. They were all shot home as usual when the Herr Doctor retired.

There was no other entrance into the apartment— except the windows. But as there was no balcony or fire escapes to the apartment— Berlin apartment houses rarely have them— and as the roof was three stories above the apartmerit and the street four stories below, the only possible way the Herr Doctor could have left would be to lower himself with a rope or to jump out. So after consultation with his chiefs at police headquarters, the mechanic broke down the oak door to the apartment.

One glance into the living room and pandemonium broke loose. Dr. Kemstoff had been murdered! Clad in his nightgown he lay face down on the rug in the living room, and blood was on the rug where his head rested. He had been killed by a blow on his forehead with some blunt instrument that broke flesh and bone with a single stroke. The weapon that caused the death was gone.

And the one who dealt the blow, how had he entered the apartment? More mysterious still, how did he leave it? For the inside bars and chain locks, when the door was broken down, were found still shot home.

Obviously the murderer could not have left the apartment by the door and then slid the bolts and locks home again on the inside of the door. And the windows were closed, though not locked on the latch. For not even the tenants of that closely guarded house bothered locking windows four stories from the street and three below the roof.

Here, then, was a murder; and there was the machine in Alexanderplatz with its vast catalogue of twenty million cards, with its Meldwesen and its Razzia and its squads of mechanical men ready and eager to begin weaving the rope that would hang the murderer.

The machine demanded, “Under what category number does the mode of entry come?” And the answer was, “We don’t know how the entry was made. The bars and locks on the inside of the door were still fastened. The chimney would hardly admit a cat. The windows were not locked, it is true.

“But the dust on their sills had not been disturbed, as we found on examination. One might, of course, have descended from the roof by means of a rope and entered by way of the windows. But the trapdoor leading to the roof is wired for burglar alarms and is still untouched.

“Some one could conceivably have hidden himself in the apartment during the day. But the servants had given the house their bi-weekly thorough cleaning yesterday afternoon late and would have come across any one hiding there. The question remained unanswered, how did the murderer get out?”

“Finger-prints!” clamored the machine.

“Not a one,” was the report from the experts.

“Then give me the names of all servants, house attendants, intimate friends of the doctor, his business associates, employes at his place of business, the names of every one he visited in the last few days, of every one who had visited him, even that of the policeman on beat. I must have something to start working with!” protested the machine.

So they fed it scores and scores of names. The main part of the machine, the Meldwesen, the card catalogue it takes one hundred and eighty rooms to house, ground out a vast deal of information on the scores of names. But when it got through working on the grist, it was found that nothing came of that. Like attracts like and the ultrarespectable Herr Doctor saw no one, had nothing to do with any one on whose record the Meldwesen could find the slightest flaw of irrespectability.

“What motive for the murder?” insisted the machine.

“We don’t know,” replied the experts. “Not a precious stone had been taken from the doctor’s safe. Not a pfennig. Not a document touched. For the doctor, a methodical man, had a complete inventory of everything and everything checks up present. He had not an enemy we can learn of.

“In short, we have not a single clew as to the why or the how of the murder, or of the escape. Suicide is out of the question. The rug where the body was found shows that a violent struggle had taken place. The skull was smashed in by a blunt instrument. There has been found no such instrument. Not a single clew!"

Here is where merely human brains would have said, “Then there is nothing to be done in the case!”

But the man-hunting machine of the Berlin police said:

“Very well, then at least this one thing is clear. There is not a single clew. Then we shall start with this clew— that there is none!”

Whereupon the deadly machine-like German logic went to work on the case. “Since there are no clews it means that whoever killed Dr. Kemstoff was skilled in removing or avoiding clews. Only a skilled criminal, familiar with the technique of removing clews, would have made such a clean job of it. But not even such a man acquires his skill all at once.

“Therefore the man must have committed similar crimes before, or parts of such crimes, such as his amazingly mysterious mode of entry and exit. If so, he must be on record somewhere; or if he has been too skillful for the police to get him his crimes were surely reported. Dr. Schneikert, your Kriminal Archiv clipping collection had better get to work!”

Dr. Hans Schneikert, one of the world’s greatest authorities on handwriting and the man who devised the famous clipping bureau in connection with the Kriminal Archiv of the Berlin police, thereupon touched a button and part of the big machine began to work.

Part of the machine is a collection of newspaper clippings from every part of Germany and even from newspapers abroad. In every one of them some crime is reported and described. Every crime and clipping is catalogued and indexed, so that word is all that is needed to set mechanical men searching in that remarkable record. What Dr. Schneikert looked for came under these headings:

Burglaries committed, with doors found locked on inside.

Burglaries committed, with no clews left behind.

Murders unmotivated.

Murders unmotivated, with blunt weapon on head.

—and several other similar subheads.

A diligent search finally narrowed Dr. Schneikert’s interest to a clipping from a Darmstadt newspaper telling of a burglary committed in a strongly guarded apartment house. Entry had been made by means of a painter’s scaffold, which had been put up that day and had remained overnight on the level of the roof. But the burglars had left no clew otherwise; no finger-prints, no foot-prints, no marks of any kind.

‘‘Nothing, at least, that the police of a small town could discover!” decided the chief of the Berlin detective system. “Therefore, although this was committed three weeks ago, we shall send down our men to see if we can find any clews.”

So a commission of experts went to Darmstadt to look into the three- weeks-old burglary. They found the mystery there was even greater than the Darmstadt police found it. For the Berlin detectives— not the mechanical rank and file detectives, but their expert heads— found that entry was not made by means of the painter’s ladder primarily.

Whoever could have got access to the roof by means of the stairs could just as easily have entered the apartment by a rear balcony. Therefore some one must have got to the roof by some way other than the stairs. But as the roof was isolated from other buildings how did the burglars get up to the roof to use the painter’s scaffold?

An examination of a chimney at the comer of the house and on the street front showed two of the comers frayed as by a rope. The painters had not used that chimney to anchor their scaffold. The only other way to get up on that roof would be to throw a rope up from the street— a prodigious feat to do with a rope heavy enough to support the weight of a man. But could it not be got up there some other way?

Yes, reasoned the Berlin detectives, if first a stone were tied to a long, light string, then so thrown that it would strike the steeply sloping roof behind the chimney and rolling down on the other side would drop over the edge pf the roof and be let down. Then a sufficiently strong rope could be tied to the string and hauled up to the roof, around the chimney and so down again until some one on the ground held the two ends of a strong rope in his hands. To test their theory the Herlin detectives did just that thing, and one of them climbed by means of the rope up to the house.

It was then found that once on the roof with such a rope as aid, there was no need of the painter’s scaffold. Therefore either the theory was wrong and no such rope had been used— or the painter’s scaffold was only a blind. Investigation with this point in view showed that the latter theory was correct. The burglar had climbed the side of the house.

Word was flashed back to Berlin to look on the Kemstoff apartment house roof for such signs as might indicate that a similar device had been used there, too. Yes, the word came back, the chimney at one end of the roof bore such marks of rope.

Whereupon the theory was tested in the same way as in Darmstadt. A string was obtained, long enough to reach from the ground, around the chimney, on the roof, and down to the street again. A small stone was tied to one end. It was thrown up to the roof, landed on the sloping roof behind the chimney, rolled down the slope and around the other side of the chimney and so down to the street. Tying a rope to the string it was drawn up, around the chimney and down again. Then a detective climbed up the side of the house by the rope.

Once on the roof, however, it developed that a man would have a hard job to get to Dr. Kemstoff’s window unless he could literally walk along the face of the house like a fly. So they went to work to And out how a man, hanging by a rope from the roof could yet “walk” along the face of a house.

They concluded finally that it could be done, if the climber, suspended by a rope, wore some such spur arrangement on his feet as workers on telegraph poles use when they climb wooden poles. On further examination, it was found that in the granite face of the house were scars such as might have been made by a sharp steel spur.

Dr. Schneikert then went over his collection of newspaper clippings again for burglaries that would indicate such a technique. He found a few worth looking into. From these, there began to emerge the shadowy theoretical figure of a burglar who had devised a technique of his own; who was used to working high in the air; who probably got his idea from some previous occupation.

“Previous occupation involving work in the air, such as that of a house painter, steeple jack, iron worker and the like,” were now put into the maw of the big Meldwesen machine. Through the Kriminal Archiv, too, burrowed many spectacled, mechanical men, searching and searching in the records of a list of burglars for one who, in a more respectable past, had a previous occupation involving work up in the air, et cetera.

A dozen such were found, men who had been convicted as burglars and who had been house painters or iron workers. One was found who had been a steeple jack. Then began the process of winnowing the list. Two were dead; three in prison; five were at liberty.

On the five centered the hunt. Two were at once located, one in Hamburg, another in Essen. They were rounded up, examined, and found armed with perfect alibis. Three remained to be hunted down.

On the card of every one in the Meldwesen are names of relatives, friends, business associates; on the cards of those convicted of crime are names of accomplices, sweethearts and enemies of the person recorded on the card. Each of these names in turn has a card in the Meldwesen with information reaching out in different directions.

The whole catalogue can be likened to a series of webs, like a spider's, with each web a complete pattern of its own, but with each thread leading to another web, until the whole covers a vast area. The only difference between the Meldwesen and such a system of spiders’ webs is that there is strength in the threads that bind the Meldwesen scheme— strength enough to make a rope wherewith to hang a man.

The Meldwesen was weaving such a strand now with new material that had been given it. It was now piecing together from its card catalogue the record of an individual, which was checking up nicely with the theories of what few findings they had.

“Johann Gutkind,” it was saying, “alias Christopher Mannheim, alias several other names; nicknamed by his accomplices the ‘Horse Fly’; twenty-nine years old; formerly employed as layer of roof tiles; later worked as steeple jack; served two years for burglary committed in Hamburg; mode of entry through window on third story of apartment house. He knocked householder unconscious when latter pursued him into the street; weapon, blackjack; light sentence, due to youth and first offense; but reported since liberation from prison associating with notorious burglars, namely—” Here followed a list of friends.

Johann Gutkind was nominated by the Meldwesen and the Berlin police, therefore, for further investigation. His whereabouts were unknown; for the reprehensible young man had not reported to the police his recent changes of address. He was already subject to arrest and punishment for this omission, irrespective of the Kemstoff murder.

Every name on Johann’s card was taken out for further study and the individuals themselves placed under surveillance. A great deal of this work came to nothing. But on Gutkind’s card appeared the name of a suspected receiver of stolen goods. This fence had an eighteen-yearold son, Fritz, whose name also appeared on the cards of several of Gutkind’s associates.

On Fritz’s own Meldwesen card it appeared that the worst thing in the youth’s record was that he had been used as a sort of innocent errand boy in several burglaries and in the consequent disposition of stolen goods.

It was brought out in each case that the boy, while he may have had a suspicion of the character of some of the men for whom he performed services, he was really gnorant of the exact nature of each errand, and was therefore not liable to punishment as an accomplice. It would appear that the criminals employing him deliberately kept him from actual participation in crime so that he could continue to remain at large and be of service to them.

In investigating this youth it was found that at the time of the Kemstoff murder, he was employed by a large grocer as delivery boy. He had at his isposal a closed wagonette, propelled by himself seated on a tricycle arrangement on which the wagonette was mounted.

In following up the theory of a human fly climbing up the side of the Kemstoff house, the detective came up against this difficulty. A man cannot easily promenade about a city in the small hours of the night with coils of stout rope, without being seen by a policeman and hustled off to the station for examination.

And the policeman on the Kemstoff beat on the night of the murder was a man with a record for keeping his eyes open. He had seen no one carrying coils of rope that night. If he had, he would have stopped him.

But now the wagonette on the tricycle furnished the police machine a new line of inquiry. The policeman on the Kemstoff beat was asked if he had seen such a wagonette. The policeman racked his memory and consulted his memorandum book in which Berlin policemen, according to strict regulations, keep a detailed account of everything on their beat that departs in the least from routine occurrence.

Suddenly memory furnished what had been too insignificant for the policeman to enter in his memorandum. At about three o’clock of the morning of the murder, a tricycle wagonette, propelled by a young fellow, went through that street. The policeman, under general instructions, stopped him and made him identify himself.

The youth produced identification papers in good order and proved that he was a grocer’s clerk. He also told the policeman that a cousin of his had a christening that night; and the grocer’s clerk bad arranged with his employer to be allowed to use the tricycle wagonette wherein to deliver the extra table linens, dishes, and cutlery that had been hired for the occasion.

The youth had stayed till the party broke up, he said, and was now taking these things back to his home to save himself an extra trip next day. From his home he would return the things in the morning to the place whence they had been rented.

The policeman threw open the lid of the wagonette and found a lot of tumbled table linen on top. He did not dig deeper into the contents, but from a police box telephoned the grocer for whom the youth worked. From him he got confirmation of the boy’s story. So the policeman let him go with his wagonette.

The detective machine did not quiz the youth. The possibilities were that he would betray more if he did not know he was being watched. He was discharging his duties as errand boy to the grocer apparently in good faith. But he was living with a degree of comfort rather beyond an errand boy’s wages. Every step the boy made was followed.

It was thus found that he frequented a small wein stuhe or a kind of saloon near the police headquarters in Alexander platz. It had small windows giving on the street and looked not in the least attractive, though, neither did it look forbidding.

Its frequenters were studied and it was found that several pickpockets and strong-arm holdup men came there occasionally. The youth would come there, drink a glass of Rhine wine, chat with one or two men quietly, go into a back room for what looked like a conference with somebody; then come out and go home.

When this had been going on for some time, the detectives sent a stool pigeon, a trusted sneak of the underworld, to pretend drunkenness and blunder into that back room a few moments immediately after the youth had entered it one evening. As the supposed drunk put his hand on the knob, the owner of the wine, house called out:

“Where in hell are you going?”

But the man had already opened the door. To his astonishment he found the room empty. And there was no other door or window there to tell whither the youth had vanished. By then the proprietor had seized the man by the collar and hurled him back.

“You keep out of this place unless you want your neck broken!” he said furiously.

Half an hour later the youth came out again and went home.

That night several of the mechanical men of the Berlin police machine jimmied their way into the wein stube and noiselessly explored the room where the youth had vanished so mysteriously. As the stool pigeon had reported, there was but one door to the room, the one by which the mechanical men now stole in; and no other outlet, not even a window. With pocket flashes lighting their silent search, the detectives explored every inch of the room.

An hour spent thus brought no results. There was but one way left to conduct such a search— to tap and knock at every bit of floor and wall, which would of course alarm every one in the house. But there was no alternative.

One of the mechanical men went outside again and summoned the reserves waiting for word from them. A dozen detectives headed by a superior officer tramped into the wein stube, shouted for the landlord to appear and proceeded to explore the mysterious room, with all the noise in the world.

Pounding on the floor soon yielded for the detectives a hollow sound in the neighborhood of a chest of drawers standing on a bit of carpet. This was moved aside and a trapdoor discovered.

“Who’s down there?” demanded the head of the police squad, of the landlord.

The man refused to speak. The trapdoor was raised by one of the mechanical men, while the others stood with revolvers cocked. No sound came from the dark cave. A ladder must have been the means of descending to it, for there were no stairs; nor was there any ladder visible.

Meanwhile the young grocer’s clerk was brought to the scene.

“Who is down there?” he was asked.

He was beside himself with fear. “He will kill me if I tell. Or any of his friends will do it, if he doesn’t! I’ll go to jail first!”

He refused to say another word. The police finally decided there was nothing left but a frontal attack. A ladder was brought. The officer in charge of the attack shouted an order for his men to descend. He himself led them.

From below there came no sound. But suddenly the leader of the attacking party, a veteran of the great war, yelled to his men:

“Back! Upstairs!”

His men scrambled for the ladder, even before he had shouted. They were yelling, gasping, retching. Out of the well of darkness they tumbled one by one, contorted and choking. Those waiting outside were astounded.

“Gas! Chlorine!” the leader of the party gasped.

Then those who had been through the war fled outdoors. For the familiar, dreaded fumes of chlorine came out of the pit.

In the street was enacted a scene like a tiny comer of a battlefield in the early part of the great war. Several men were writhing with deadly nausea. Others were trying, to administer first aid.

Meanwhile from a patrol box telephone went calls. They brought ambulances and a motor police patrol. From it poured another two squads of mechanical men. But these had gas masks with them. And from the patrol wagon they brought pickaxes and hatchets.

Donning masks, one squad began chopping open the floor above the hiding place. The other squad, also protected with masks, stood ready to shoot.

When half the floor was tom up, powerful electric torches were lowered to the cellar. When this brought no volley of revolver fire, at a motioned signal from the leader of the attacking party, six men, wearing gas masks, leaped down into the cellar ready for the fight of their lives.

But all that met their sight was a huddled figure on the floor, writhing in agony with a gas mask over his head. The man was seized and rushed through the opening in the floor.

In the fresh air, the mask was taken off the man’s head. It was Johann Gutkind, the man the police were hunting in connection with the Kemstoff murder. He had prepared the gas defense; and a defect in the mask he depended upon betrayed him to death. For he died shortly after.

Before his death he confessed that he had used the grocer’s clerk as a partly innocent accomplice in an attempt to rob Dr. Kemstoff. The wagonette held a long rope concealed under the soiled linen the policeman saw in his careless inspection. Gutkind ’s method of entry was exactly what the police had deduced it was— by means of rope and a pair of steel spurs.

He opened Dr. Kemstoff ’s window and stepped across the sill without touching it, so as not to disturb the dust he knew theoretically was there. He was gloved, so he left no finger-prints.

He had barely entered the living room, however, when Dr. Kemstoff leaped upon him. In the struggle Gutkind crashed in the man’s skull with his blackjack. But he was so frightened at having killed a man— Ms first and only murder— that he decided to take no loot with him that might furnish the police with the remotest clew. But in the crime museum in the great police headquarters on Alexanderplatz I saw the rope and spurs he had used— mute trophies of the battle between an original criminal and a German built impersonal, criminal-hunting machine.

________________

16: The Missing Passenger's Trunk

Arthur J. Rees

1872-1942

Hutchinson's Magazine, May 1926

Arthur John Rees was an Australian who moved to Britain in the 1890s, where he became a writer of detective novels and short stories.

DINING APART in the station hotel after a stormy Channel crossing, I glanced down the amusements column of the evening newspaper the waiter had brought. But, in truth, it did little to help me to decide how to spend the first night of my return to my native land. I did not care particularly for any of the plays advertised; for a boxing match at the National Sporting Club I had still less desire. And yet, I shunned the prospects of a solitary evening with my own thoughts for company. What was I to do?

I stared dubiously into the blackness outside. My corner table was by a window, and through a chink in the drawn curtains I could see that the night was both foggy and wet. The street was plunged in gloom except for the foggy electric standards, and the faces of hurrying pedestrians drifted past the blurred window as pallid and phantasmal as a procession of disembodied souls. But, at least, they were bound somewhere, while I, in that cheerless public dining-room, was at a loose end. The other diners had departed, and I was now left there alone. Staring fixedly at the rain-streaked strip of window, I sat on.

It may have been the chill reminder of the weather that turned my thoughts to Colwin Grey. We had not met since the night when that infamous scoundrel, Dr. Penhym, cast himself headlong into a hissing Cornish sea, and Grey afterwards revealed the full measure of his iniquity to me in the dead man's lonely house. That sinister adventure had happened three years before— not a great space of time, even in the span of human life; yet how much, in my own life, had come to pass since! My wife had died within six months of our wedding day, and since her death I had spent a solitary and wandering existence abroad. Only three years! Incredible to think that so much happiness and loneliness and horror could be packed into such a brief period of time.

It was with the singular feeling of re-living in the past that I remembered Cornwall— and Grey. During the last three years Grey had not been much in my mind, but now I was back in England again. I wondered if he yet lived in the ancient legal court near Holbom, where the sparrows twittered in the plane-trees of the old flagged square. How well I recalled it, the peaceful court, the paved walks, the grey houses looking down on trees and lawn; such a place as you may find in London and nowhere else, almost as remote and secluded from the throb of London life as apart of the Essex Downs, and yet in the very heart of things. But of course Colwin Grey was still there! It was difficult to think of him anywhere else. In my mind he was as inseparably associated with that spot as the memory of Doctor Johnson is with Fleet Street.

And, suddenly, there came to me the desire to go and see him. We had been friends in former days, many years before, when I was a law student living in chambers, and he was in the first flush of that wonderful success which brought him the income of a successful K. C. In those days this rather surprised me, but I have learnt wisdom since. For if the orthodox legal path leads to fortune, why should fortune be denied a barrister who devotes his life to the search for truth? So the image of Grey beset me. I seemed to have a vision of him sitting alone over his dinner in the front room which stood behind iron railings and a three-cornered bit of a garden— the quietest room in London, I always thought it— waited on by the admirable Thorpe. And a wish, almost a longing, seized me to see him again.

And why not? To reach my old friend's chambers from Victoria was easy of accomplishment, and I was always sure of a warm welcome if he happened to be at home. It might be that he was out of town on one of his professional investigations, though I could ascertain that by ringing him up on the telephone. But I preferred to take him by surprise. At all events, there was nothing to prevent me going over to Holbom to see.

I ran up to my room for my hat and coat, descended, and left the hotel. The rain had ceased, and the yellow pall of the fog was lifting, so I determined to walk. From Victoria Street I crossed to the Strand by Trafalgar Square, and made my way towards Holborn through familiar side streets. As I walked reminiscences crowded thick around me, and past adventures with Corwin Grey lived before my eyes. It was in this quarter we had chased the notorious Red Vidal through the dingy precincts of Long Acre and Covent Garden, finally running him to earth in an underground passage near the Thames. And here, too, Grey had tracked to his dismal lodgings in Little Earl Street that wretched creature Morby, whose murder of Anthony Winderton, the distinguished Imperialist and statesman. Grey defined as a "pyschological crime."

Absorbed by these memories, I reached Holborn almost unconsciously, and turned down the dimly-lit thoroughfare in the direction of Gray's Inn Road. A light on the opposite side of the way showed me the old wine tavern with the narrow paved alley adjoining. I passed through the alley-way to Gables Court.

It was all silence and darkness within, and from dim doorways brooding shadows seemed to nod at me as I went by. The old buildings huddled behind railings housed a nest of lawyers in daytime, but they were all empty and deserted now, unless the ghosts of dead litigants wandered within. Grey's chambers were in a house around the corner, in a smaller court where the plane-trees grew. As I drew near I saw that the upper portion, occupied in the day as legal offices, was plunged in darkness, but light gleamed from the ground window underneath.

Footsteps sounded in the hall in answer to my bell and the door was opened by Thorpe: a Thorpe unchanged by the passage of time, with the same carefully-trimmed sidewhiskers, the same full eye of unctuousness, mingled with a wary experience of life. By the hall light he recognised me, and his plump bland face testified decorous approval.

"Good evening, Mr. Haldham. A pleasant surprise, sir! Will you come in?"

"Is Mr. Grey at home, Thorpe?"

"Yes, sir. He has just finished dinner. He will be glad to see you, I know."

Thorpe took my hat and coat, and preceded me to the familiar room where I had spent such pleasant nights, and quietly opened the door. "Mr. Richard Haldham, sir," he announced, and turned aw'ay.

Colwin Grey, unchanged, keen-eyed, thin-faced, restless and eager as of yore, sprang up to greet me, his dark eyes alight with a pleased surprise. He gripped my hand, and there was an unspoken sympathy and welcome in his smile which made me feel less lonely at once— the greeting of a man who understood.

"I am glad to see you, Haldham!" he said. "Take your old chair by the fire and tell me: are your wanderings over?"

"For the present, at any rate," I replied. "I returned from the South of France to-day— to London, and a November fog, but I have no immediate plans."

He eyed me attentively.

"You're not looking very fit, Haldham, and an aimless life in a London hotel is hardly likely to do you much good. If you have nothing better in view why not come and stay with me here?"

"Thanks awfully!" I said gratefully. "You are very kind, Grey, but I did not come to London to impose myself on you."

"It won't be imposing, my dear fellow. I shall be glad of your company, and you will be doing me a favour. A little companionship will be good for both of us, and Thorpe will be pleased to take you under his wing."

"I'm glad to hear it," I responded gaily; "and if that's the case I'll be delighted to stay with you."

"Excellent!" he replied. "I'll send Thorpe to the Victoria or your luggage, and then we'll have a game of chess together, just to remind us of the old days."

So it was that I found a homecoming with Colwin Grey and a restful change from the chill loneliness of a strange hotel, sitting at ease in a cosy room with curtains drawn, the fire making a leaping chequer of red and white on the carpet at our feet. The chessmen were set out, but remained disregarded on the board. We were too absorbed in talk to disturb their battle array; many questions to be asked, and experiences to be exchanged. The lights, the fire, the pleasant room, and, above all, the company of Colwin Grey, added zest to the first happy evening I had known for years.

Time passed rapidly as we sat thus, and the thin strokes of a clock chiming eleven in the distance astonished me by the lateness of the hour. Hard upon it came another sound in the stillness of the court outside. Colwin Grey, telling me of a recent tragic and subtle case of his, heard it too, and stopped to listen. It was like footfalls following sharp and fast, as of a man running around the square for a wager. Twice they ceased and recommenced, each time coming nearer. There was something weird and strange to me in that unseen approach, but Colwin Grey only listened intently. Again the footsteps died away, then sounded loudly on the flagged path outside. The next moment the door bell rang. I exchanged glances with Grey.

"Our caller has been striking matches to look at the numbers on the doors as he came along," he said, with a smile. "That accounts for the pauses as he ran."

We heard the voice of Thorpe in parley at the door. Then he entered to us with a troubled face.

"There's a person in the hall who says he must see you, Mr. Grey."

"Who is he, Thorpe?"

"He would not give me his name. He's in a great mental tumult, sir, and acts like a demented being."

"You had better bring him in."

They bowed austerely and withdrew, to return almost immediately with a short and thick-set man of middle age. The appearance of the visitor suggested the sea, and his blue serge suit was well made and smartly cut. His bearing might have been frank and engaging and seamanlike if it had not just then been that of a man in mortal extremity of terror. His bronzed cheeks were blanched, and his blue eyes were widened with the scared look of one who had beheld terrible things. Breathing heavily, he stared at us in silence for a moment, then plumped down on a chair and closed his eyes. I was taken aback at this strange behaviour, but Colwin Grey said, quietly :

"You have come fast and far, my friend."

"Ay; and so would you with the gallows striding at your heels," was the retort. "Is your name Grey— Colwin Grey?"

Grey nodded.

"I've come from Essex in the hope that you may be able to help me. I once read a story about you, and when this terrible thing happened I was in despair until I remembered your name. Then I took train to London, and came to your house. But I don't know that it's any use, after all. No one can save me from— from—" He broke off, the picture of despair.

"From what?" asked Grey.

"The hangman's rope," was the reply. Our visitor fingered his shirt-collar nervously, as if he already felt the vengeance of the law impeding his circulation.

"If you have committed murder no human skill can avail you," said Grey.

"But I haven't. As God is my judge, I'm an innocent man," said the other vehemently. "But the evidence against me is too damning and awful for anyone to believe me, let alone help me."

"You had better tell your story and allow me to judge of that," replied my friend,

"I am almost afraid to speak— to confide in anybody," was the hurried reply. "My story is too strange— too incredible— to be believed."

"If you are innocent you need have no fear, and it is possible that I may be of service to you. Why did you come to me, otherwise?"

Our visitor put his hand to his head, like a man in mental perplexity.

"You are right," he said. "I came here for that purpose. You must excuse me, Mr. Colwin Grey, but I have had a most awful shock. However, I will tell you everything, in the hope that you may be able to help me."

He drew his chair round a little, looking at both of us.

"My name is Masters— Captain Samuel Masters," he commenced. "I don't suppose you've ever heard of me, but I'm fairly well known in my own walk of life, which is the sea. I command the steamer Whiteaway, an intermediate of ten thousand tons, 'Green Star' line, trading between Tilbury and Dominion ports in the wheat-carrying trade."

"What do you mean by an intermediate?" asked Grey.

"A cargo-carrier with accommodation for a few passengers— twenty, thirty, perhaps more. The Whiteaway has thirty passenger cabins, always bespoken in advance. Some people prefer travelling this way to a high-class liner, where they have to dress for dinner and conform to a more conventional etiquette. The intermediate is more free and easy. The Whiteaway has always been a popular boat in this respect, for I do my best to make my passengers comfortable.

"This homeward voyage the Whiteaway carried a full complement of passengers— globe-trotters, two Australian wool kings, some English ladies who had been to Rotorua for the hot springs treatment, a party of English sportsmen back from deer-stalking in the Wairapa, and an Anglo-Indian named Colonel Rackham, who had spent six months hunting sea lions in the Chatham Islands.

"We had a smooth passage across from Fremantle to Africa, and at Durban, where we coaled, another passenger came aboard, for whom a cabin had been reserved by a cable sent to the ship's agents at Wellington. He was Mr. Reginald Maitland, a wealthy collector, returning to England after travelling around the globe in search of curiosities. He had been to China for tourmalin and to the South Seas for pink coral, then across to Auckland after kauri-gum curios. In New Zealand he read in the newspapers of some prehistoric reptile supposed to have been seen in an East African swamp, and he took the next boat to Africa to look for it. These things he told us before he had been aboard an hour, and, of course, he had to stand a lot of joking from the sportsman about the prehistoric reptile he hadn't shot, but he didn't seem to mind that a bit. He was a very pleasant little man, with taking ways, and he soon made friends with every one. I took a liking to him at once, and there sprang up a kind of friendship between us. He'd come on the bridge for a cigar and a talk, and yam of the queer places he'd been in— at Lhassa, the forbidden city, for a silver Bhudda, among the cannibals of Solomon Islands after a witch-doctor's pointing bone, and so on. I know some out-of-the-way corners of the earth myself, but my experiences were nothing to Maitland's, who, according to his own account, seemed to have been everywhere a man might set his foot. He told me that his next expedition was to South America, where be was going to procure one of those small and shrunken human heads mummified by a process known only to the head hunters of the Amazon.

"After we passed Teneriffe, I observed a change in Maitland, and, being pretty friendly with him by this time, I asked him what the matter was. He told me he had had a curious kind of a vision a night or two before, in which a white-clad figure had risen from the surface of the sea to warn him that he was doomed to die before he reached England. I laughed at him for allowing himself to be affected by a dream, but for the rest of the day he was noticeably gloomy^ and depressed. And after dinner that night, when I was leaving the saloon to go on deck, he took me aside to ask me if he might speak to me alone in his cabin.

"I went with him to his state room. When we reached it he bolted the door and told me in a low tone that he was still worried and upset about his dream, and he asked me to promise that if anything happened to him I would take charge of the box of curios in his cabin. He wished me to take them home until I could communicate with his only living relative, a sister living in North Wales, whose address he gave me. I endeavoured to rally him into a better frame of mind, but he seemed to have lost heart; so, in order to lessen his despondency, I promised, if occasion arose, to take his trunk to my house until I had an opportunity to forward it to his sister. He appeared very much happier and relieved at this assurance and thanked me warmly, informing me that I had taken a great load off his mind. We then left the cabin together.

"Perhaps I should tell you— not that it has any bearing on what happened afterwards— that while in the state room he opened his trunk and showed me some of the curios he had been collecting in his travels: a green-stone tiki, some wonderful snakeskins, a carved mother-of-pearl bird with ruby eyes— things like that. But what interested me most was a kauri-gum curio showing a small model of a fully rigged ship within. I had never seen so curious a specimen, and admired it greatly. When Maitland saw that I was taken with it, he insisted upon making me a present of it. I did not want to accept it, but he begged me to keep it as a memento of his pleasant voyage on the Whiteaway, adding that he had intended giving it to me when we arrived at Tilbury, but in view of his sinister dream he preferred me to have it then, I thanked him, and put it in my jacket pocket.

"Now comes the strangest part of my story. The night before we reached England, shortly before eight bells, the cry of 'Man overboard!' was raised. I was in my cabin at the time, and the first mate was on the bridge. It was a dark night with a fairly heavy sea running, and two of the passengers— Colonel Rackham and a Mr. Bingham— smoking a last cigar on the promenade deck, saw a deckchair with what seemed to be a man's figure in it swept overboard, and raised the cry. Mr. Cherry— the mate— threw a lifebelt over and had flares lighted, but in the dark rough sea nothing could be seen, so he did not lower a boat. He altered the steamer's course to circle round the spot at reduced speed, and sent for me. The first thing I did upon coming on deck, was to muster passengers and crew, and take a tally. It was then discovered that Maitland was missing— washed overboard, as was supposed. I cruised around for some time longer, flares out and siren hooting, and then, knowing that nothing further could be done, put the Whiteaway on her course again.

"When we reached Tilbury the following day the Whiteaway was boarded by detectives from Scotland Yard, who held up disembarkation while they looked over the passengers and examined the ship. They told me that a diamond worth nearly £20,000 had been stolen from the offices of the De Veere Diamond Mining Company at Johannesburg, and they were searching every ship touching at African ports on the homeward voyage. A gang of international diamond thieves had brought off the coup, and the thieves— or thief— were believed to be making their way to Amsterdam by way of England to dispose of the gem. When the detectives heard of my missing passenger they pricked up their ears, and insisted upon going to his state room to examine his belongipgs. But they found nothing suspicious there; so, after another look around the ship, they went on shore.

"After the passengers had passed through the Customs and left for London by train, I went ashore myself, with two of the seamen carrying Mr. Maitland's box. It was placed with my own luggage into a cab— not a taxi, but an old-fashioned four-wheeler. I got into the vehicle myself, and directed the cabman to drive me home.

"My house lies five miles from the docks near Grays, close to a lonely stretch of river marshes. As it happened, the place was empty. At Durban I had received a letter from my wife to say that her mother in Scotland was dangerously ill, and she had been compelled to go to her bedside. She did not expect to be back by the time the Whiteaway got in, but she wrote that I would find everything in order, and she had told the girl to run in every morning to look after me until she was able to return.

"We reached The Briars— that's the name of my little place— about seven o'clock, and the driver helped to carry the luggage inside. The passenger's trunk was rather heavy to lift, and the cabman grumbled about its weight. However, we got it into the sitting-room. I paid the man and he drove off.

"As the sound of his departing wheels died away I lit the gas in the dining-room, and found that the maid had laid supper there in anticipation of my return. Before sitting down to it, I went over the house to make sure that everything was safe. Returning downstairs, my eye fell upon the trunk of the missing passenger in the sitting-room, and I wondered what had made the confounded thing so heavy to lift. Maitland, on the strength of his foreboding, had insisted upon giving me one of his trunk keys, and I had slipped it on my own key-ring. As I stood looking down on the trunk the thought came to me to open it. Bringing out my bunch of keys— which I carry in my trousers packet on a chain— I singled out the key, inserted it in the lock, and flung back the lid. My God, what a sight met my eyes! In the trunk lay a doubled-up body— the corpse of its owner, Mr. Maitland."

I uttered a startled exclamation. Colwin Grey did not speak, but the motionless intensity of his eyes revealed how deeply he was interested by our visitor's story. Captain Masters sighed, wiped the perspiration from his pale face with a trembling hand, and continued: —

"The face of the corpse was covered with blood, and the inside of the trunk was spattered with it. So far as I could see, the unfortunate man's throat had been cut savagely before his body was packed away into the box. But I was so horrified at the dreadful spectacle that I slammed down the lid hastily, and rushed from the house, almost distracted with fear. Slamming the door behind me, I wandered about the desolate river flats in the rain, wondering what to do in the horrible predicament in which I was placed. What possible explanation could I give of the murdered corpse of this passenger of my ship, brought home by me in the dead man's trunk to my own house?

Cold terror struck through me at the thought that even then I was carrying the key of that hideous trunk on my chain. Who would believe my story of what had happened? Certainly not an English judge and jury. In a delirium of despair I walked aimlessly for hours trying to plan some course of action, but without avail. Finally that story I had read of you came into my mind, and as a last resource I took train to London and came here, in the hope that you might be able to help me.''

"You have acted wisely," said Grey. "Now I am going to ask you a few questions, and please be explicit in detail in your replies. Did anyone see Maitland oh at Durban?"

"No; he came aboard alone."

"How long was it before you became friendly with him?"

"Shortly after leaving Durban. The odd places we had both been in made a kind of a bond between us, and we passed many a pleasant hour exchanging reminiscences. Poor fellow, I little dreamt then of the terrible fate in store for him." Captain Masters sighed heavily.

"Your feelings do you credit, captain. But, apart from the pleasant chats about little known parts of the world, did you ever talk with your passenger of anything else? Personal matters, for instance?"

"Once or twice. One day Mr. Maitland asked me where I lived ashore, and said he had a lonely man's envy for anyone with wife and home. I laughingly replied that married men were sometimes as badly off as bachelors, adding that this trip I was returning to an empty house. He asked me why, and I told him of the letter my wife had sent to Durban."

"Could any of the other passengers have overheard that conversation?"

"No; we were on the bridge at the time."

Colwin Grey nodded thoughtfully. "On the night Maitland took you to his state room to tell you of his dream, did you take notice of his trunk?"

"Not specially, I glanced casually at it when he opened it, but that was all. I observed that the upper part or tray was full of what I took td be curios, carefully wrapped in tissue paper."

"Did he lift out the tray?"

"No; he took out a few curios to show me, and then put them back again. After he had given me the curio I told you of he locked up the trunk, and we left the cabin."

"Ah! That kauri-gum curio strikes me as an interesting feature of the case. I wish you had brought it with you. I should like to see it."

"By chance I did. Maitland advised me to carry it ashore myself because it was fragile and easily broken. I did so, intending to put it under a glass case when I got home, but in the shock of my discovery I rushed out of the house with it still in my pocket."

"Capital!" said Grey. "Let us see it."

From his pocket our visitor produced a spherical object like a large india-rubber ball wrapped in tissue paper. From this covering he extracted a yellowish-brown spheroid, highly polished and transparent as crystal, with an object resembling the model of a small sailing ship in its interior. Colwin Grey examined the curio closely, then took down a book from the bookcase, and turned over the leaves.

"Kauri," he muttered. "Ah! here it is. 'Kauri or Cowry, or kauri-pine, n. Maori name for the tree Agathis australis, Sal. (formerly Dammara A.) N.O. Coniferae. Variously spelt, and earlier often called Cowdie. Kauri-gum, n. the resin which exudes from the Kauri (q.v.) used in making varnish.' "

"Yes," said Captain Masters, "and it makes the best varnish in the world. There were a colony of gum-diggers— mostly Austrians— in New Zealand before the war. The gum falls into the ground as the trees die, and, not being soluble in water, remains there. The diggers tap likely places with long pointed sticks, and if they find small pieces of gum sticking to the end of the spear they start to dig. And every gum-field yields a few curios formed by the liquid gum fossilizing around some object in the earth, which sometimes takes a strange shape in the lump of gum. The gum-diggers look out for these, and sell them to dealers at a higher price— from £5 to £10 for a good one. I remember seeing one piece in a shop near the Auckland Museum for which the shopkeeper asked £50. It was cut and polished like a diamond, with an angel's figure with outstretched wings inside."

During this explanation Grey had been examining the curio through a lens. He put down the glass and looked at Captain Masters.

"I suppose the Customs officers did not bother to go through your luggage when you landed?" he said.

"They know me too well for that," said Captain Masters. "They know I wouldn't dream of evading the law. Yesterday one of the examineri, who is a friend of mine, jocularly asked me if I had anything to declare. I invited him with a laugh to look through my belongings and see. God knows what I should have done had he taken me at my word and opened Maitland's trunk." Captain Masters shuddered at the thought.

"And yet, according to your story, the body was not there when the detectives examined the trunk in the cabin," said Grey.

"That is the strange part of it. I know it wasn't."

"Why are you so sure?"

"The detectives lifted out the tray to go through the trunk."

"And what was underneath?"

"Merely clothes and personal effects."

"Yet the body must have been in the trunk when it was carried off the ship?"

"There can be no doubt of that."

"Interesting, very ! One more question, Captain Masters. The Whiteaway carries wireless, I suppose?"

"She does."

"Did you receive a wireless message to the effect that the ship was to be searched by detectives at Tilbury?"

Captain Masters hesitated. "I did receive a message by wireless, but it was confidential," he said.

"Quite so, but we can imagine what it contained. Did you speak of this message to anyone aboard— Maitland or anybody else?"

"Certainly not," answered Captain Masters, reddening. "I have already said the wireless was confidential."

"And you say that Maitland's throat was cut?"

"I believe so, though I didn't stop to investigate. The sight of his blood-stained body gave me such a shock that I let fall the lid with a cry, and bolted out of the house."

"An action quite understandable, all things considered," commented Grey suavely. "Altogether, a very strange and unusual case. What do you think, Haldham? Have you any theory to advance— any suggestion to make?"

I hesitated, then said:

"It seems to me that the passenger Maitland must have been murdered aboard the Whiteaway, and the cry of 'Man overboard!' raised by an accomplice to give tlie murderer an opportunity to conceal the body in the trunk."

"But the body wasn't in the trunk when the detectives searched it at Tilbury," Colwin Grey replied. "I'm afraid that theory won't do, though it is fairly certain that the cry of 'Man overboard!' was raised merely as a blind for some deeper purpose. However, theories are rather premature until we know more of the facts, and those facts, unless I am very much mistaken, are to be found in Captain Masters' house in Essex— or, to speak accurately, in the package of grim luggage which the captain conveyed to his home in a four-wheeled cab. I propose to return with him and look into this matter. Will you drive us down in my car, Haldham?"

"Certainly," I replied.

"Then let us start at once. I've the fancy that the less time we lose the better. And with Captain Masters' permission I will take care of his curio for the present."

He wrapped the kauri-gum in its tissue paper, and dropped it in his pocket. We then left the house. Colwin Grey kept his car in a garage off Theobalds Road, and thither we directed our steps. Crossing the road, we encountered a police constable beneath the arc-light, who nodded to my friend. "A wet night, Mr. Grey!" he said  cheerily. Captain Masters shrank closer to my side, but the burly policeman did not even glance at him. Entering the garage, we obtained the car from a sleepy and shock-headed youth, and set out for Essex.

We drove through the empty streets of London in silence. I could see by the set expression of Colwin Grey's face that he was thinking deeply, and in no mood for words. Nevertheless, I would have liked to know what his thoughts were about this strange adventure upon which we were embarked, for I had the feeling that his wonderful faculties had reached some definite conclusion about a mystery which was shrouded in sinister darkness to me. Captain Masters sat huddled in his seat, the picture of misery and despair, though from time to time he aroused himself sufficiently to give me a direction as to the route.

In this fashion we drove through the silent countryside until we reached a small rural town near the river. Captain Masters indicated a lonely dark road with half a dozen houses, and told me in a low tone that The Briars was the last on the left.

"Then we had better leave the car on this open ground," said Grey. "I do not want to take it up to the house."

We left the car and proceeded up the street. The Briars was isolated, with river flats around it and the river beyond. The place looked gloomy, but a chink of light fell from the fanlight upon a large tree with spreading branches which threw a dark shadow between us and the house.

In silence we walked down the garden path, my own nerves unpleasantly tense at the thought of the grim thing which lay awaiting us within. Captain Masters bent down to the door with his key, and I heard the faint click of the lock. Next moment we stood in the dimly lighted hall, and I heard the captain say something about having left on the gas in the sitting-room. Followed the sound of a match scraped across a box, and Captain Masters, cupping the light in his hands, nodded to a door gaping blackly off the passage. "It's in there," he whispered.

We understood, and followed him in. The captain fumbled with the gas jet above him, and a flame of gas flared noisily above our heads. In the light a large travelling trunk confronted us, dark-brown and oblong, plastered with steamer labels. Colwin Grey advanced towards it, and as he did so I saw with amazement that he held a revolver in his hand. Then my eyes went back to the box, waiting in suspense for the horrible contents to be revealed. Grey bent over and flung back the lid. The trunk was empty.

The effect of this discovery upon Captain Masters was stupendous. He uttered one loud cry of deadliest terror, and stared with open mouth at Colwin Grey and myself, as though he suspected us of spiriting the body away. At length he found words.

"The body was there, I'll swear," he stammered. "I saw it— I saw the blood—"

"Oh, the blood is still there," said Grey coolly, then murmured to himself: "Very neat, very ingenious! I don't think I've ever come across a cleverer piece of work."

Captain Masters and myself could only stare at him in bewilderment as he bent over the empty box, examining it carefully. He rose to his feet with an unusual light in his eye.

"Well, Captain Masters," he said, "you have brought us here on a wild-goose chase with your story of a corpse in a box. Next time you come home after a long sea voyage I hope you'll examine your luggage more carefully before disturbing me with such preposterous nonsense!"

He uttered these words in a loud harsh tone, regarding the unhappy captain with angry face. The captain sought to utter a rueful apology, but Colwin Grey cut him short by declaring, in the same emphatic voice, that he was going home. He made for the door as he spoke, with the dismayed captain still murmuring excuses at his heels. I came in their rear, lost in amazement at this inexplicable conclusion of a strange affair. In this fashion we reached the door, but the instant we were in the open air Grey's manner immediately changed.

"Quick! Let us creep back into the house again without a sound. Captain Masters, you go in first, turn off the gas, and keep quiet. Haldham, I want you to stand guard over the front door. Then leave the rest to me. But, mind— not a whisper, not a sound!"

I nodded without understanding in the least, and I saw by Captain Master's amazed face that he was equally in the dark as he crept back into the house to carry out his instructions. As the lights disappeared Colwin Grey and myself followed him in. I crouched down in the hall, near the door, to await events.

Time passed heavily as I waited there, wondering what all this meant. The silence was so intense that somewhere in the house I heard a clock telling off the seconds with hurried tick, and presently it struck the hour of two with a metallic chime. The more I reflected upon Captain Masters' story and its outcome, the more puzzled I became. What could it all mean? What had become of the body he had brought ashore in the trunk, and where had it disappeared? I had visions of the dead flesh moving awfully through the darkness of the empty house, looking into shrouded rooms, listening and peering in the stillness with sightless eyes.

And then I actually did hear the sound of a door creaking overhead. I listened intently, with the feeling that perhaps my imagination was playing tricks. But no! For my ears next caught distinctly, the soft pad of stockinged feet, as if someone was creeping stealthily downstairs. My eyes vainly sought to pierce the darkness as I listened, wondering whether either of my companions had heard. The next moment Colwin Grey's voice broke the silence sharply.

"The door, Haldham! Watch the door!"

A deafening report followed hard on his words, and in the flash which accompanied it I saw a small figure crouching by the foot of the stairs, revolver in hand. The man made a rush as I saw him, but at the same instant the lithe, active form of Grey sprang upon him and bore him down. There was the sound of a scuffle in the darkness, and then Colwin Grey's voice broke the silence again.

"Light the gas, somebody!"

I hastened to comply, and the lighted hall showed a small writhing figure in my friend's grasp. At the sight of the little man with a blotched red face Captain Masters gave a loud cry, like one who saw a ghost.

"Maitland!" he cried; "Mr. Maitland, as I live! Oh, thank God you are not murdered!"

The grotesque figure with the spotted face ceased struggling and gave him an ugly look.

"I'd like to kill you for an old fool!" he snarled.

"Come, Maitland, this is really very ungrateful on your part," said Colwin Grey, "considering the trouble Captain Masters has been put to in helping you to escape. True, it was involuntary on his part, but that does not lessen your debt. I am surprised at you."

Captain Masters looked from one to the other like a man unable to credit his senses.

"I don't understand this," he faltered. "I found Mr. Maitland with his throat cut, in that box." He pointed with a shudder to the empty trunk. "Now I see him "

"You imagined you found him there with his throat cut," interposed Colwin Grey. "What you actually did see was a man simulating death to deceive anyone who might peep into the trunk— though the pose was principally for your benefit."

"But the blood?" said Captain Masters, apparently only half -convinced.

"Colouring matter— a mere trick," returned Grey contemptuously. "You will observe that it is already beginning to wear off, giving your friend Maitland a singiilar spotted appearance not unlike a red leopard."

"Well, thanks to you, Mr. Grey, I'm no longer in danger of being arrested as his murderer," said the captain, in a heart-felt tone. But what did he do this for— that's what I want to know. Was it a joke? If so, it's not my idea of one. In fact, it strikes me as a very ungentlemanly thing for a Whiteaway passenger to do."

"Most ungentlemanly," said Colwin Grey gravely. "But, then, Mr. Maitland can hardly lay claim to the title of a gentleman. No gentleman has aliases, and Mr. Maitland has several: quite a number, in fact. The most notorious is one by which he is now being searched for by the police of three countries— Richard Denton, better known as Dick the Galloper, international diamond thief, wanted for the theft of a blue diamond, worth £20,000, stolen from the De Veere Mining Company's offices in Johannesburg a month ago."

"But where "

The sound of heavy footsteps in the hall broke into the colloquy, and the next moment two uniformed police officers were staring in suspiciously upon us. They entered the room, but at the sight of Grey the face of one of them cleared.

"Why, Mr. Colwin Grey, we didn't expect to find you here," he said. "Someone came to the station just now with a story of revolver shots at The Briars, so we hurried along. What is the trouble, and who is that chap you have hold of?"

"A gentleman from Durban, Stone, who calls himself Maitland— Mr. Reginald Maitland. It is by that name he appears on the passenger list of the steamer Whiteaway, by which he travelled to this country. But I fancy he is better known in police circles as Richard Denton, otherwise Dick the Galloper."

"Dick the Galloper!" exclaimed Sergeant Stone. "Well, this is a stroke of luck. The De Veere Company have offered a reward of £200 for his arrest. I wonder if he has the diamond in his possession?"

"I do not think you will find it on him," said Colwin Grey. "Still, it may not be hidden away so carefully that we need altogether despair of recovering it. If I get on the track of it I'll let you know at once."

"Thank you, Mr. Grey," said Sergeant Stone. "There's a big reward out for its recovery. And I'll search this chap thoroughly as soon as I have him under lock and key. It is possible he may have it hidden about him."

For the first time I caught the gleam of a sneering smile upon the prisoner's face. It passed, leaving him dejected as before. Sergeant Stone stepped closer and slipped handcuffs on him. "I'd like to know how you ran across the Galloper, Mr. Grey," he said.

"It's a strange story, Stone, but I'm afraid I must leave it for the soi-disant Mr. Maitland to relate. We must be getting back to London. Good night ! Come, Haldham."

AN HOUR LATER Grey and I were back in our quiet room, drinking coffee prepared by the excellent Thorpe, who had waited up for our return. And I had no desire for sleep until I had heard from my companion's lips how he had arrived at his conclusions in this remarkable case.

"I reached them while Captain Masters was telling his story," he replied, pouring himself out another cup of coffee. "From the outset it was apparent to me that Maitland— to call him so— had an ulterior motive in making himself agreeable to the captain of the Whiteaway, and he ingratiated himself with a flow of pleasant talk and the gift of the curio, which Captain Masters obviously coveted. It is a curious point that so companionable a man as Maitland left Durban without a friend to see him off; but he had his own reasons for being alone, as he had for insinuating himself into the good graces of the simple commander of the Whiteaway. And although Captain Masters denies it, I fancy Maitland was astute enough to extract something in the course of their intimate talks about that wireless communication from Scotland Yard. Even if he didn't, the diamond thief would have a pretty shrewd notion that the ship was bound to be searched at Tilbury, and he made his plans accordingly. The night before England was reached he carried out the 'Man overboard' trick by means of a deck-chair and an overcoat. He then hid himself away—  probably in one of the boats hanging over the side— until the detectives had boarded the Whiteaway at Tilbury Docks and inspected the passengers. Afterwards it was an easy matter for him, in the bustle of the ship's arrival, to slip down unnoticed into his state room, throw the contents of his trunk through the porthole, and hide away in it. At The Briars I observed that the trunk had several air-holes for breathing bored in it, and locked with an automatic catch which could be manipulated from inside. Even after the detectives had left the ship, Maitland did not dare to take the risk of walking ashore, for several reasons. No one knew better than he that although the Scotland Yard men had gone off, there would be a couple of them waiting at the foot of the gangway to watch the passengers disembark. There was also the risk of some of his fellow-passengers recognizing the resurrected drowned man, and raising an outcry. Another reason was that he did not wish to part company with Captain Masters."

I did not understand the last reason, but my mind turned to another point.

"But the pretended gash in the throat, and the bloodstains," I asked. "What was the idea of that trick?"

"For one thing, Maitland had to reckon with the chance of the trunk being opened or looked into before it reached The Briars."

"I don't see how that applies," I rejoined.

"In this way. The sight of a man crouching in a trunk would arouse suspicion and almost certain capture, but a supposed blood-stained corpse would cause the discoverer to recoil in horror and look for a police constable, thus giving the corpse a chance to make good his escape. But principally Maitland counted upon Masters opening the trunk and rushing away in horror when he saw what was inside. If Captain Masters hadn't done so he would have come out of the trunk himself during the night. Whatever happened did not matter to him, so long as he achieved his end. But I fancy Maitland foresaw that Captain Masters would act exactly as he did, and leave him alone in The Briars."

"Leave him alone for what?"

"To regain the curio he gave him aboard the Whiteaway. He did not foresee that Captain Masters would carry it away with him."

"Why should Maitland want the curio?"

"My dear fellow, is it possible that you do not see?"

I reddened a little at his amused tone. "No, I do not," I rejoined. "I must confess that you go too deep for me."

"Well, perhaps I am wrong," he said with a smile. "However, we still have the curio, so let us look at it again." He drew it forth as he spoke, and after a brief examination of it, handed his glass to me. "Can you see a faint mark on the polished surface of the gum?"

"Yes; an almost invisible crack."

"Call it a crack if you like, but to me it is more like an invisible join, as if the curio had been joined with spirit gum. But, according to Captain Masters, these curios are natural formations— pieces of fossilized kauri-gum which are found in the ground. Let us investigate this one, and see. There is a small hammer in that drawer behind you, Haldham. Will you pass it to me?"

I did so, and he struck the curio a sharp blow, shattering it. Bending eagerly over the fragments, he rose with a small piece of cotton-wool in his hand. Unrolling this carefully, he placed upon the table a glittering stone which sent forth flashing blue rays in the rosy firelight glow.

"A diamond!" I cried.

"The De Veere blue diamond, worth nearly £20,000," said my companion. "Not so large as the famous Hope blue diamond, but a very magnificent stone, nevertheless. Observe how it has been cut in an irregular rosette to show off its wonderful blue fire! An ingenious hiding-place, was it not?— ^as ingenious as that chosen by the thief. If Captain Masters had not forgotten to take the curio from his pocket when he went home we should never have seen the diamond or Maitland again. As I conjectured, he waited in The Briars for Masters to return, and thus we were lucky enough to lay hands upon both. Maitland suffered from a modern fault. He over-reached himself by being just a little too clever. And now, before we go to bed, Haldham, I had better ring up Scotland Yard and tell them to send round for tlie diamond. It is better in their possession than ours, even though Maitland is under lock and key."

End

Table of Contents

- 1: At The Shrine of Sekhmet / Valentine Williams

- 2: In This Corner― Death / Emil C Tepperman
- 3: The Tiger Woman / William J. Makin
- 4: The Cross of Kilbawn / Waif Wander

- 5: The Murder in the "Fishing Cat" / Edna St Vincent Millay

- 6: The Disappearance of Lady Mary Bretley / Edgar Wallace

- 7: The Legend of Sir Dinar / A. T. Quiller-Couch

- 8: The Stuffed Cat / Anonymous

- 9: The Hunting of Chilton Sahib / Dolph Wyllarde

- 10: A Matter of Routine / H.  Bedford-Jones
- 11: An Extra Man / Jackson Gee
- 12: The Treasure Hunt / Radcliffe Martin
- 13: Murder's Never Easy / Roger Torrey
- 14: "Pegged" / Roy W. Hinds
- 15: A Case Without a Clew / Joseph Gollomb

- 16: The Missing Passenger's Trunk / Arthur J. Rees