Author: John Wallace
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: A novelette by John Winton Heming, (1900-1953) whose considerable output seems to have vanished almost without trace. Heming was a compulsive writer of plays, short stories, novels and non-fiction, and managed to make a rather sparse living at it in depression era Australia. During WW2, imports of all non-essentials ceased, and that included magazines and books. Heming, like a number of other Australian writers, filled this yawning gap by churning out hundreds of Western, Romance, Science Fiction, Crime, and other genre stories and novels under numerous pseudonyms. Westerns, for example, were

FIND THE MAN

John Winton Heming

1942

Serial, Queanbeyan Age

Commencing 13 Jan 1942; 15,500 words

Chapter 1

The Corpse

IT was just on midnight and a dark, cloudless night. A man stepped out of the "Sydney Morning Record" office and proceeded along past the glare coming from the cart docks where the early editions of the paper were being loaded. He turned into the narrow cross-street. His car was standing there and he unlocked and opened the door and slid thankfully into the driving seat, relaxing for a moment before he drove home. A dark figure which had been hiding in the rear of the car rose silently, pressed a gun to the man's back— and pulled the trigger. There was a muffled explosion ....

An hour later the same car drove to a deserted punt decline. The punt was tied up across the water and its drivers were asleep in their beds. The car stopped and the driver cast an anxious glance all round. There was no one in sight. The driver of the car opened the door near by, set the car going at full speed— the wheel was already fixed straight ahead— slipped from the car as it gathered momentum and watched it run down the punt decline and shoot over the edge into deep water and sink from view. The car was empty...

Two hours later two reporters from the "Record" climbed into a car.

"I'm not too sure what all this is about," Pat Clark, news reporter remarked to Jim Patterson of the Film Page, as the car began to move.

"It's a stunt of Douglas Reeve's," said Jim.

"Douglas Reeve? Isn't he something to do with publicity on one of the picture-theatre circuits?"

"That's the fellow. Nice chap, too. I've known him for years. He's hot stuff as a publicity man and would do anything to put a film over. As a publicity stunt for a new mystery superfilm called 'Find the Man' he has conceived the idea of vanishing himself and—"

"Vanishing himself" asked Pat. "There has been a lot about it on the film page— My film page," remarked Jim dryly, "but maybe you don't read that?"

"I don't!" replied Pat, with a chuckle. "I meet enough real life dramas without worrying about the fictitious kind."

"Well, Reeve's idea was that at midnight last night he would vanish from his flat, leaving a photo and maybe a clue. I am to pick this up and publish it and then the amateur detectives can get to work. Whoever finds Reeve gets fifty quid."

"Not a bad idea," nodded Pat, "but what has this to do with my section—the news section? Since the second World War ended in 1943 I know news has been a little scarce and newspapers larger, but a publicity stunt for a film is hardly front-page news."

"Old Ratcliff thinks it should be written by a news man," Jim said rather bitterly. "And as he is the managing director his word goes, though I don't see why I couldn't have done it. You can depend on it that the film distributors are paying well for the privilege of making the news pages— but there is another reason why this is going to be put over big— not only the film, but the publicity for Reeve."

"What is the reason?"

"Well, you see, Douglas Reeve and Ratcliff's daughter Clio are supposed to be in love— I think that's authentic— and therefore he has a friend at court and some pull with the old man."

"Umm— and so he crashes the news pages with a cheap stunt. What does our esteemed Editor, Bill Martin, think of this?"

"He doesn't like it— for two reasons. He wanted to keep off the news pages and further, he's in love with Clio Ratcliff himself ."

"Oh-ho! You know all the scandal, don't you? That's the best of sitting round the office half the day instead of going out for work. There's likely to be complications in this. I can see any story I write being cut to ribbons and pushed in a corner of the page. Then Ratcliff will pick on Martin and there'll be a barney. Well that's their affair— I'm only a wage plug and must do what I'm told. Maybe that's why Martin is late, into the office this morning."

"Well, here's Reeve's flat," Jim said, as the car pulled up. "It's on the bottom and I have a key."

"Umm!" said Pat admiringly. Nice block of bricks and mortar. Maybe I made a mistake— I should have taken on publicity instead of hounding news. There seems to be more money in it."

"This key arrived at the office by post this morning," Jim remarked as he fitted it in the lock of Flat Number One. "I hope he didn't make a mistake and send, the wrong one. No, it works."

They stepped into the flat' and closed the door.. They were in a small hall. The flat was nicely furnished and fairly large. They walked through a door into the sitting room— then stopped short!

Lying in the centre of the floor, near the table, was the body of a man!

For a moment the two men stared.

"Is this part of the publicity stunt?" Pat asked at last. Jim did not answer. He stepped closer and looked down at the body. It was lying sprawled out on its face, but the head was turned so that the face could be seen. Between the shoulders was a scorched mark and a stained hole.

"My God!" gasped Jim. "It's Editor Martin and he's been shot through the back!"

Pat bent down and touched one of the outflung hands. It was stone cold.

"Don't touch anything," he said as he rose and felt for copy-paper and pencil. "This is a police job. Reeve will make the front page all right, but I don't think he'll appreciated. This is a case of 'Find the Man' in earnest!"

Jim rose and went to the table. "You don't think he did it, surely?"

"Why not? Martin didn't like the stunt and they were rivals in love."

"But Doug would not be capable of anything like this. You don't know him— I do. He's a cheerful sort of cuss—"

"What's his description?" Pat asked in a businesslike manner.

"Small and dark— there's his photograph."

It showed a man with laughing brown eyes short black moustache and curly black hair.

The "clue" was a sheet of paper on which was scrawled: "In the Orient you'll never find a man."

Chapter 2

The Shadow

DOUGLAS REEVE opened the next day's "Record" with satisfaction and turned to the film pages and those containing lesser news. Somewhere here there should be a photograph himself, a boost for the film and maybe a photograph of the clue he had left.

His smile died as he found nothing in the back pages. Maybe Martin had used his influence and had the whole scheme squashed. But that could hardly be— after all his trouble and the money the film people had laid out. Perhaps Ratcliff had improved on his promises and put the stuff on the main news pages.

No— there was nothing on page four— or page three— or page two.

He threw the paper down in disgust— and so his eyes lighted on the front page. He stared— and then snatched up the paper.

Page One! Yes, there was his photograph— there was a block of his clue. But why the screamer heads— and what was this?

MURDER IN CITY FLAT.

FILM STUNT BECOMES REALITY.

FIND THE MAN.

Quickly he ran through the account of the finding of Martin's body in his flat and

"Martin left this office at midnight. He was not seen afterwards until his body was found in Reeve's flat. His car has vanished and it is suspected that he went directly to Reeve's home. There was alleged to be bad feeling between the men. It is thought he may have been killed in the flat, his murderer taking the car to make a getaway. The description of the car is as follows—"

Reeve placed the paper down. His first thought was to give himself up, but he decided to think it out. He was well hidden. He rose and looked in the wardrobe mirror. Staring back at him was a tall blonde girl, rather pretty, even if her mouth and nose were masculine.

Reeve had spent some of his life on the stage and when he had thought of this vanishing stunt he had immediately seen how it could be done in a baffling way. Without telling anyone his intentions or even his scheme, he had taken an apartment in the Pekin Flats in a suburb close to the city. In this flat he had kept female clothes, buying them carefully and in bits where he was unknown, a blonde wig and make-up.

He had then broached the scheme, occasionally going to the flat— which was a ground floor one allowing him to enter and leave unseen by others— to dress up and get used to his role. He had not been able to go out because he kept his moustache to the last moment, it had seemed a glorious lark— but it did not seem so now.

He was supposed to vanish at midnight, but, to avoid being followed by film fans and any amateur detectives in search of an easy fifty pounds, he had left his own flat in the afternoon and come here to the Pekin, shaved his moustache and assumed his disguise.

That clue! If they could grasp it they might begin looking for a woman in some place with an oriental name.

Getting away himself he wondered about the murder. If it had been done in the flat then what was Martin doing there? If the body had, been planted, then the murder must have been committed by someone who was an enemy of both himself and Martin, and who had taken advantage of the publicity stunt. The only person in the world with whom he even disagreed had been Martin himself.

Would he throw himself on the mercy of the law or would he wait for further news or the finding of the real murderer? Perhaps Clio Ratcliff could help him. He had not even told her of his plans and she would be. as much in the dark as the searchers— but she would be more worried.

He had had the 'phone installed in the flat under an assumed name and now went to it and dialled her number. Would he tell her where he was? Surely he could trust her? Yes, but she. might let out the address by accident. Luckily he caught her at home and when she heard his voice she gasped.

"Doug!" she said. "Have you read the papers?"

"Yes — nasty business! Do you think I killed Martin?"

"Of course not. Where are you and what are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure what I am going to do yet— and for your sake I'm not going to tell you where I am. I will tell you my 'phone number, though. It is XR seven two oh four — got that?"

"Yes."

"Well, if at any time you think it necessary and you can do it in secret you can ring me here. Do you think I should get in touch with the police?"

"No. They are building up a case against you. They have discovered that Bill Martin had a record, under another name, in Western Australia. He was convicted in Perth in 1935 of forgery and blackmail and served three years. He must have come to Sydney then and, presumably we are more gullible than the Westralians, for he talked his way into Society and the editor's job, in those eight years. He was a very charming man, but I always felt there was something strange about him. Have you a record?"

"Only a few which I play on the gramophone. Why?"

"They are trying to find one. They think . you might have been connected with his past in some way because you also came from the West."

"Gee!"

"And that as you are doing very well, he may have been blackmailing you. He is in bad financial straits with gambling. So they think he might have gone to your flat—"

"I get it. And I bumped him off and hit for the open. By the way, where did you get all this information?"

"From Dad. The police have been interviewing him all the morning and they've asked me if I knew where you were. I told them it was ridiculous thinking you did it, knowing the body would be found in the morning. I said it was more likely the body was dumped there."

"Very true."

"I was afraid you might have been killed, too, and the relief of hearing your voice was tremendous. There is one thing in your favour. The police say there is no blood in the flat so the body might have been carried there and the murder committed somewhere else— or the blood might have been cleaned up."

"If Martin was a blackmailer there might be lots of people after his blood and my absence might seem a good opportunity to dispose of the body and shelve the crime on me."

"Yes— so I thought. One of the nasty things against you is that all the doors and windows were locked on the inside. I—"

The 'phone clicked off abruptly. He did not try to get the number again. Evidently some one had entered the room and she had hung up.

He sat there thinking. All the windows and doors locked! He furrowed his brow in thought. Had he left a window open by which the murderer could enter, latching it after him and going out the front door after planting the body? He was notoriously careless about such things.

The evening papers gave more details of the murder and the lives of Martin and Reeve. Doug thought grimly that here was publicity, with a vengeance.

He had not moved out of the flat all day. He seemed to be safe here. He would not have thought so had he seen the shadow darkening the kitchen window, and slowly raising it, inch by inch!

Chapter 3

A Knife In The Dark

THE sideway of the Pekin Flats was narrow on this side of the block and the figure at the kitchen window was hidden in the dark shadows. The window was unfastened and it moved upwards. It was a wide window and the shadowy figure slipped across the sill and the sink and dropped to the floor.

Reeve could be heard rustling paper in another room. A light shone dimly down the passage and gave a slight illumination of the small kitchen. The masked figure's eyes gleamed around the place until they lighted on a knife drawer. No, knife drawers are difficult things to open silently.

On a shelf above the stove was a rack in which hung such things as an egg-slicer, an eggbeater, a vegetable slicer— a carving knife! The figure drew the knife carefully from the rack. It made a formidable weapon— long and sharp!

Douglas Reeve pushed the papers away from him with disgust. He had bought them through the front window from a boy, putting on a husky voice as feminine as he could make it. It seemed to pass unnoticed by the boy. The papers had told him nothing new. He had decided that he would not give himself up to the police. Locked up he would be in no position to find the real murderer and if he gave himself up later that would be time enough. He had a milkman, baker, grocer and vegetable man calling or he could 'phone for any supplies he needed to be brought.

He did not fancy himself much as a cook, but he could manage, he supposed. Which was an idea. It was getting late— he would get himself a bit of supper and go to bed to sleep on his problem.

He rose wearily, crushed out his cigarette, tripped over his kimono, grinned and proceeded towards the kitchen.

Behind the door stood a figure— waiting in the darkness with upraised carving-knife!

Suspecting nothing, Reeve walked through the open door of the kitchen and switched on the light. He walked across to the sink, picking up the kettle en route to fill it. He noticed the window was wide open! He remembered distinctly that it had been closed. A chill ran down his spine and he turned swiftly, kettle in hand.

For a moment all was a blur before his eyes. A figure was right before him, springing with upraised knife which gleamed in the light. Instinctively he raised the kettle in front of him and the down rushing knife ripped into its bottom, knocking off the lid.

Reeve twisted his wrist smartly and struck out with his left hand. It encountered cloth, but the figure fell back a pace. The knife, twisted free, fell to the floor with the kettle and then the masked, long-coated figure, with felt hat pulled low, sprang in again, fingers reaching for Reeve's throat.

Doug ducked and struck upwards, knocking the hands over his head. The figure was off-balance and he struck out sharply for the solar plexus. The figure grunted, fell back again, then leapt across the room and slapped at the switch. The room was plunged into darkness, except for the dim light coming up the passage.

The door closed and then they were in complete darkness!

Reeve dropped beside the sink. Was the man still in the room? If so, where? Was creeping towards him? He held his breath and listened for the other's breathing. Was it a man? Events had happened so quickly that he could not be sure.

He crawled along the front of the sink, trying to be silent, but hampered by his unaccustomed garments. If his antagonist had meant to murder him it might easily be the same person who murdered Martin and his capture would . clear Reeve. It might also mean that he was armed, as Martin had been shot.

Reeve moved very carefully, working his way towards the door, stopping every second to listen. The darkness of the room affected his peering eyes so that lights seemed to dance in them. He decided that if he waited awhile the darkness would become less intense and he might be able to make out the shadow which was his enemy.

He crouched down to wait, his eyes ready for the first movement, his nerves acute for the first stirring of the air, his ears alert for any sound. One came, but it was not in the room. It was a slight click and it seemed to come from another part of the flat. For a moment he had difficulty in recognising it—then it came to him.

It was the lock of the front door slipping into place!

Had someone entered? Was he up against a gang? Or had his late antagonist gone out?

He wished he had a weapon of some sort. He decided to take the bold course sprang up and dashed for the switch.

The light came on and he swung round, his eyes roving the room swiftly. It was empty. On the floor lay the damaged kettle and the carving knife. Reeve went to the knife and picked it up. It might be some protection. He went, back to the door and opened it carefully. There was no sound and the light in the sitting room still shone. Halfway up this short passage was the open door of the bedroom. He eyed its black opening suspiciously.

He slipped out the door and along to the bedroom, ready any moment to spring aside, and put in his hand and switched on the light. The room was empty. He peered under the bed and in the corners and behind the door.

He left the light on and went along to the sitting room. These rooms made up the whole of the flat. He entered the sitting room cautiously in case his enemy was waiting to shoot him. A glance showed him that the room was empty. The door leading directly to the hall of the flats was in this room and it was closed. His enemy had gone.

He made a more thorough inspection of the place, but there was no sign of his attacker.

He dropped on a chair in the sitting room and relaxed. Then he stiffened. How had his enemy discovered his whereabouts? Only one person beside himself knew even his 'phone number— Clio. Surely she would not give him away. One fact stood out— his enemy knew where he was to be found. This was no chance attack of a burglar. Burglars do not break into houses with the express intention of murdering the occupant.

His enemy having failed in this way, had only to inform the police of his address and he would be arrested. He must change his address— at once— tonight.

He did not stop to, think. He began to write notes to leave for the tradespeople; thanking heaven that the rent was paid for a month. He packed a bag of feminine clothes, made up (applying this heavily to cover the outline of beard beneath the skin), shaving materials and everything he was likely to need. To save him going to the bank during his stunt disappearance he had drawn fifty pounds, but that sum seemed inadequate now. He placed it in his handbag, locked up the flat, put out the lights, picked up his suitcase and went out into the hall, closing the front door behind him. A taxi was his best means to get to the railway station, for he would have to leave Sydney.

A car was standing by the kerb but it was a private car. Maybe it belonged to one of the tenants of the block of flats. Would he steal it and leave it at the station? No, that might give a clue to his escape. He came slowly down the steps, his eyes thoughtfully on the car.

Then he threw himself flat.

He had seen a movement in the car and the next moment a bullet whistled over his head and flattened on the wall behind him!

Chapter 4

Flight From Death

THE next instant Reeve was up again, holding his suitcase as a shield, and leaping back into the shelter of the hallway. Another shot roared and a bullet smashed one of the glass doors. But Reeve reached safety behind one of the pillars which supported the double entrance. The engine sprang to life and the car moved swiftly away.

Reeve ran on to the steps, trying to see the number. The rear light was out, however, and he was unsuccessful.

A voice called out above him. Someone had been disturbed by the shots and the crash of breaking glass. He did not look up but hurried down the steps and along the street with his case. Where was he to go— where turn? He remembered just in time to walk in imitation of a woman while he hurried. He turned the first corner he came to and then sprang aside as a hand reached out and grasped his dress!

"That was close, miss," said a squeaky voice. "There ain't no need to be afraid o' me."

Reeve stood back and regarded the speaker. He was a boy about ten years of age, dressed in ragged pants and shirt, without shoes or socks on his sturdy, dirty legs, and with a rather angelic, though grimy, face.

"I see that joker take a shot at yer fr'm the car, miss," the boy went on. "Gee, it was just like a talkie. I was just comin' round the corner an' I waited. I'd 'ave 'elped yer, yer know. I wasn't scared— but what could I do?"

Reeve grinned. "Not much," he said in his soft, husky, "feminine" voice. "Where can I get a taxi?"

"Runnin' away, are yer? I don't blame yer after that lot. My name's Johnny, but they calls me Soapy. Where was yer intendin' ter go, miss?"

Reeve was thinking quickly. This boy would talk after he left him. He would tell his pals and others with gusto that he had seen a "shooting." This would lead to enquiries. He would have to bind the lad to silence— also, if he took the boy into his confidence, the lad might be able to find him a hiding-place.

"I don't know," he said. "I have to hide. I'll tell you all about it later. Can you tell me where I can hide? Look out— here comes a policeman. Carry this case and walk along with me."

The boy seized the case and they set off together. The policeman had come round the far corner, so they crossed the road and set off in another direction down a side street. They made an oddly-assorted couple, but as the boy was carrying the case his rags did not look so out of place with those of the fashionably attired "girl."

The boy prattled away as they walked, about nothing in particular, until they were well out of hearing of the policeman. . He dropped his voice. "Are the police after yer ?" he asked.

"Well, yes— and no. Do you read the papers?"

"No.  Sell 'em but I don't often read 'em. I was just walkin' inter town ter pick up my morning issue when I spots you."

"Have you heard of 'Find The Man'?"

"Oh, yes. That joker wot killed a guy in 'is flat and then did a bunk."

"Well," said Reeve slowly and in his customary deep voice, "I am that 'joker' and I did not kill the guy."

"Gee!" said Soapy. "You ain't a dame at all!"

"No, but I'm all alone with the police searching for me and someone trying to kill me. I need help desperately and I need somewhere to hide. Will you be my pal— will you help me?"

The boy set down the suitcase and stared at him under a street lamp.

"I s'pose so," he said at last. "You seem all right an' it oughta be fun."

"Good!" said Reeve. "Now listen, and I'll tell you all about it."

"Foller me, then," said the boy. "I'll take yer somewhere they'll never find yer."

He turned and led the way towards the waterfront and as they went Reeve told him the story so far as he knew it. Soapy was intensely interested and boy-like seemed to take him at his word and believed what he narrated.

Reeve noticed that they were going a long way— they left the more fashionable quarters and had come to narrow streets over which hung terraces of tenements.

Twisting and winding they went through the slums and Reeve began to experience agony from his tight shoes. They had low heels— so-called, but not so low as a man wears— but they were woman's shoes which being made for a narrower foot, had been irking him for some time.

It was about three o'clock in the morning when Soapy suggested caution and they stopped before a house much in need of repair. It was narrow and had three storeys and a basement. Reeve wondered how many families called it home. They had seen few people. There was no one about now and, walking quietly, they turned in the gate and went down the steep stairs to the basement. This was many feet below the ground and Reeve wondered how anyone could live in such a place of darkness and damp. It must surely be a matter of direst necessity.

The boy opened a door in the darkness and they stepped into a passage. Along creating boards they crept until the boy opened another door and pulled him into a room.

He struck a match and lit a candle. Reeve looked around his "hide-out." It was very poorly furnished, though scrupulously clean. There was a single-bed on one side, near a partition, and on the other a broken couch which also, served as a bed. A table, a chair, several boxes, a small cupboard and a primus stove seemed to comprise the rest of the furniture. The floor boards were uncovered.

"Who lives here?" Reeve asked.

"Sssh," said the boy. "Whisper. Yer can 'ear through the partitions. Me mum lives 'ere, but she's gone ter work— she's an office-cleaner."

Suddenly a sharp knock sounded on the door!

Chapter 5

£200 Reward

FOR a moment Reeve stood stock still, shocked into paralysis. Then he dived under the single-bed and lay without movement, as close to the partition wall as he could. The boy opened the door, holding the candle in his hand.

"Is yer mother in, Soapy" a man's voice asked thickly.

"No," the boy replied. "She ain't. Wotyer want?"

"I jest wanted to borry a bitta sugar— fer me tea. When I 'eard yer talkin' I thought she must be in. Who yer talkin' ter?"

"I was talkin' ter myself," the boy said shortly. '"An' we ain't got no sugar, 'cept a bit fer ourselves."

Peering through the battered counterpane Reeve saw the man push the boy aside and step into the room. He was a large and loathsome creature with red hair which he wore low on his forehead. He had old, ragged and dirty clothes and a stubble of red beard on his grimy face. He seemed a trifle drunk.

"Jest a bitta sugar," he said, peering round the room. The boy, very wise for his years, held the candle so that no light from it fell near the bed.

"All right, Methy," he said reluctantly. "Though I know you got far more money than we 'as and it's only ter put in yer metho. 'Ow do yer 'appen ter be up at this time?"

"I been out but it ain't no bis'ness of a kid's. Why ain't you out on yer paper run?"

"Just goin'," said the boy, measuring out some sugar on a piece of newspaper. " 'Ere y'are. Good-bye."

Methy seized the sugar and departed.

Reeve heard the door close and the boy shoot a bolt, the man's retreating footsteps go a little way along the passage, a door open and then the man walking across the floor in the next room. From his position beside the partition he could hear clear-A bed creaked and a sleepy voice enquired as a match was struck:

"That you, Methy? 'Ow didya go?"

"Ssssh!" growled Methy. "The kid's in next door."

The boy lifted the counterpane and peeped under.

"You can come out now," he whispered. "That was ol' Methy, after some sugar ter put in 'is methylated spirits— he likes drinkin' it that way."

"I've seen him somewhere before," Reeve remarked as cradled forth.

"More'n likely," the boy replied. " 'E's a beggar and stands on street corners. Kids 'e's blind. In the night I think 'e's a buster."

"Buster?"

"Burgular. Listen ter 'im swillin' that stuff."

They could plainly hear Methy drinking, the walls were so thin. When the man spoke he spoke loudly, as though for the boy's benefit to cover his real nocturnal wanderings. He and his companion talked on general subjects and Reeve was not listening until he tensed with interest.

" 'Ave they caught that feller wot killed the editor yet?" Methy's companion asked him.

"Not yet," replied Methy, "though the latest rumor is that the cops is offerin' two 'undred quid fer 'im. I wish I knew where I could lay me 'ands on 'im!"

Reeve's blood chilled. He looked at the boy. He, too, had heard. Two hundred pounds must seem a fortune to him.

"I s'pose 'e's gone back 'ome — 'e'd be 'alf way ter West Ostralia be this," said the other man.

"They thought that an' they's watchin' the trains 'an boats. 'E won't git far."

Reeve drew the boy to the other side of the room.

"You heard what he said," he whispered. "If you give information about me you can get two hundred pounds. Also, by harboring me you run a risk of going to gaol. In a few minutes you will be going out to deliver your papers. You can tell the police. What are you going to do?"

The boy looked him in the eyes frankly.

"The money don't mean a thing," he whispered. "Money ain't everything. I told yer I'd 'elp yer— an' I will. If you was a bad'-un you'd choke me now— but you ain't— I can see that.

"Well, I'll be goin' now. You wait 'ere. Mum'll be 'ome first, but I'll call in where she works an' tell 'er all about it. She'll see yer through. Bolt the door after I goes.. If mum or me comes we'll knock four times, sharp like."

Reeve gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze.

"How old are you?" he asked. "You certainly have a head on you."

"Twelve," replied the boy, "though I only looks about ten, bein' small-like. Well, so long, mister."

"So long, pal. Oh, by the way, I'll have to eat. On your way back buy something. Here is a pound."

The boy nodded, took the money, opened the door carefully and looked out.

"Better put the candle out," he whispered.

Reeve nodded and then the boy was gone and door closed. He had taken off his shoes, to ease his feet, and he stepped silently to the door and pushed the rather frail bolt across it. Then he went to the candle and blew it out.

It certainly was a wise precaution for the door was full of cracks and so was the partition as they gleamed from the candlelight on the other side. He found the bed in the dark and lowered himself carefully upon, it, wondering how many fleas he would acquire in doing so.

Methy was still talking and drinking, his speech was getting thicker. '"There goes the kid," said his companion. "How didya go?" Sssh!" said Methy in a low voice. "Not so fast. I gotta idea the kid 'ad someone in that room an' they might be still there."

"Git outta it! Yer drinkin' too much metho an' beginnin' ter imagine things. Who'd be there?"

"A copper, mebbe," said Methy.

"Copper?"

"Yeh, that kid an' 'is ma is honest, see, an' they think as they's a bit above us, just because she's a widder and works fer 'er livin'. That kid musta 'eard somethin' and if the cops was ter git at 'im 'e mighta told 'em things. They wouldn't take a kid's word and would git 'im ter 'ide 'em in there. Wait a minute."

Reeve heard Methy cross to the partition and put his ear to it. He held his breath. For a few moments there was no sound except the man's heavy breathing. Then Methy stumbled back to the table and grabbed the dwindling bottle.

"P'raps I bin 'earin' things," he said. "Well, ternight I did a good job— a job anyone'd be proud of. That 'Find the Man' feller give me the idea. I reads in the news where the managing director of the paper is named Ratcliff and one paper shows a picture of his joint an' all. It looked easy pickings. I looks up the address in the paper an' ternight I goes out there an' watches the joint. About 'alf past one all the lights go out an' the servants goes ter bed. The thing which 'ad struck me about the place first was that it was covered with ivy. Well, they closes all the ground-floor winders but leaves all the first floor ones open, it bein' a hot night, see. And there's one, just nice an' invitin'— just over the front porch arrangement!"

Reeve tensed. That was Clio's room! What was he about to hear? He raised himself on his elbow— and the bed gave a loud creak!

Chapter 6

A Close Shave

"DIDYA 'EAR THAT?" Methy asked in a hoarse whisper.

"I 'eard a rat in the next room," said the other man impatiently. "Go on tellin' me."

"Mebbe it was a rat," said Methy. "A two-legged rat! I'm gonna see."

After the creak Reeve had shot off the bed and, as Methy said he was going to see, Reeve was already at the door sliding back the bolt. If the door was bolted on the inside it would verify Methy's suspicions and he might never hear the rest of the story. It would be better if he hid outside until Methy had searched.

He opened the door swiftly and slipped out into the dark passage. Then, on his stockinged feet, he ran down the passage in the darkness. There was a staircase leading up and he twisted round and crouched down on the steps. It was hardly likely that anyone would be using the passage or staircase at this moment, but one could never tell in this strange house.

Peeping through the banisters he saw Methy stagger into the passage carrying a candle. He went along to the boy's room and stood listening at the door. He drew a torch from his pocket and with the hand that held it turned the handle and threw open the door. He flashed on the torch and shone it into every corner of the place.

At last, grumbling to himself, he closed the door and shambled back to his room. Luckily, he missed or ignored Reeve's suitcase. Reeve slipped cautiously back to the room, closed the door and bolted it.

He gave the bed a miss this time and lay down on the floor. Not only was the bed likely to creak, but there was also the chance that he might fall asleep and toss about on it. He might even snore though never having been awake to hear himself, he could be no more sure of that than anyone else. In snoring we can only go on hearsay and as Reeve had always slept alone, except in the past war, he had no way of knowing.

Methy had gone on talking. He had evidently passed his description of his climb.

"So I comes ter this open winder, see, an' I slips inside, shieldin' me torch. There's a dame asleep in the bed there and I 'elps meself ter some of 'er glitters fr'm the dressin' table or wotever they calls it. See— I've got 'em 'ere. But that wasn't all I got. I goes along the passage an' inter another room. There's a joker asleep there an' I gits a few quid fr'm 'is pockets. I goes downstairs and finds a room with a safe in it, but it was locked an' I couldn't do nothin' about that. So I looks in the desk. It was one o' them old-fashioned sort wot always 'as a secret drawer."

He chuckled "That drawer is always in the same place an' I soon 'ad it out. But there was nothin' in it but papers. I stuffs 'em .in me pockets, thinkin' they might be bonds or somethink an' when I gits outside I 'as a look at 'em under a street lamp. They was nothin' but a lotta old bills and letters an' such. So I shoves 'em inter a 'edge and goes on me way. Nice lotta stuff this, but you'd better not try and push it fer a few days."

"Oo was the joker in bed— the dame's father?"

"Dunno," said Methy. "I never woke 'im up to ask 'im. Wait a bit— 'ere's  his wallet with the few flimsies in it. Um— Ah, 'ere's his card. Phew! It says 'ere 'Geoffrey Wraven, Bart.' Bart, that means baronet, don't it? Quite a nob! Oh, well, I'm goin' ter bed. Wake me when yer goin' out at eight."

Reeve heard a bed creak. If Methy did such an "unnecessary" thing as undressing he must have done it while he was talking. The candlelight vanished from the cracks and in a very short time the snores of the two men were coming clearly with monotonous regularity.

"There's no rest for the wicked," did not apply in their case.

Reeve pondered over the latest bit of information. So Ratcliff had Lord Wraven as a guest! What was the idea of that? Reeve knew that Wraven was due to arrive in Sydney the previous day, but he had not known he was to be the guest of Ratcliff, although that would be just what Ratcliff would do, being "title-minded." He had never looked too kindly on Reeve's courting of his daughter, and Reeve suspected the reason to be that he possessed no title and Ratcliff thought his daughter too good for him. Not that it had mattered a great deal and was only a trifle. But it made Reeve feel a pang of jealousy.

Wraven was only a young man. What if the glamor of his title should influence Clio, thrown so closely into his company? What if—

Nature had asserted itself; Douglas Reeve was asleep.

When Reeve awoke, he stared up at the stained ceiling for a moment, gathering his wits. A knocking came to him. He counted the knocks in a hazy fashion— one, two, three, four. It was always dark in that room.

Then he realised!

He sprang up from the floor and almost groaned from the stiffness of his limbs. He had been asleep!

But evidently he had been quiet for there was no sound from the next room. Or was it Methy knocking? He lit the candle and walked quietly to the door. The knocks had begun again. Four sharp knocks the boy had said—and these were four sharp knocks. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter-past-nine. He had slept about five hours!

He eased back the bolt and opened the door a crack. A woman stood there. She was about thirty-five, shabbily and neatly dressed, and quite handsome, even though tired lines showed beneath her eyes. Her face had the same angelic quality as the boy's and there was a distinct likeness.

He opened the door wider and she stepped into the room smiled at him, closed the door and bolted it. Then she put her shopping basket down and smiled again.

"You make a good girl," she said as she sat down.

"Sssh," said Reeve, waving his hand towards the partition.

"Methy and Rats have gone out," she said. "I looked in their room before I knocked. They will both be on their stands now, begging. When I get my breath back I will get some breakfast. Were you asleep?"

"Yes. I don't know how to thank you, Mrs—?" She smiled again.

"It's just like Johnny not to tell you our name." she said. "It is Tracey. Your name is Mr. Reeve, isn't it?"

"I suppose Johnny told you the full story?"

She nodded.

"Yes, Reeve is my name. He is a very smart boy, is Johnny, and if ever I get out of this I'll see that he— and you— have a far easier time."

"We don't care about that," she said. "Though Johnny has never had a fair go and he is still only a child, even if he does do a man's work. The main point is— how are you going to get but of it? Have you any idea who the murderer might be?"

"Not the slightest. I haven't a clue to go on— nothing. I have one, idea— to search the records in W.A. of all the criminals who went to gaol about Martin's time, and see if any of them fit any one who might have been in contact with Martin recently and whom he might have been blackmailing. It is a frail chance, but it might lead to something."

Mrs. Tracey shook her head.

"You'd never get to Perth without being caught," she said. "In any case, don't you think the police have already thought of that and are on the job?"

Reeve nodded and was about to speak when he paused and looked at the door. On it had sounded four sharp raps.

"That'll be Johnny," the woman said, going to the door and letting him in. "You're a little late— you'll be late for school, my man."

Johnny wrinkled his nose with disgust.

"School!" he said. "That's all you think about." He looked at Reeve and he seemed excited. "You bin 'ere ever since I left yer?

Reeve nodded. "Yes," he said. "Why?"

" 'Cos I been doin' a bit of detective work. I went nosin' round the 'Record' office ter find out the latest news. O' course they know me there. An' I finds out that the latest thing is—"

He paused for effect.

"They've caught the murderer?" asked Reeve eagerly.

"No, but 'e seems ter 'ave been busy again. At five o'clock this mornin' one of the servants finds your old boss, Ratcliff, dead in his study, with a bullet in 'is 'eart!"

Chapter 7

The Lion's Den

"MY God!" said Reeve, "Ratcliff murdered!"

Johnny nodded, pleased with the excitement his news had created. "They think you did that, too," he grinned. " 'Is joint 'ad been burgled, too, and 'is daughter's jewels stolen as well as some money from a baronet joker wot was stayin' in the 'ouse "

"Methy!" said Reeve, remembering.

"Wot about 'im?"

"He robbed the place," said Reeve. "I heard him tell all about it last night. He may have done the murder, too, though he made no mention of that— though that's nothing to go on, as that is hardly something you'd boast about even to a bosom pal. Poor Clio!"

"Who's Clio?"

"His daughter. She and I were to be married!"

Johnny whistled.

"Oh, well," he said, "we might be able ter git the jewels back fr'm old Methy."

"The jewels don't matter," said Reeve. "They would be insured. But she's alone in her trouble. I'll have to go to her."

"Wot!" gasped Johnny. "Oh, you can't go there— the joint'll be overflowin' with ' coppers. That baronet joker'll look after 'er."

That was what Reeve was fearing. He might look after her too well. She could not get in touch with him by 'phone now. either. He would have to venture out and trust to his disguise, even if it were only to 'phone her. But 'phoning her would be useless— she would not speak and 'phones would be kept away from her in her grief. Someone else would answer it and he could hardly give his name.

On thinking the matter out carefully he decided that it would be better to wait for nightfall. That would also give him a chance to read the afternoon papers, check Soapy's story and gather any fresh news.

Coming on top of his own disappearance and accusation of murder, her father's death must be a great shock to Clio. He must see her, even if he had to use Methy's method and climb the creeper.

As they sat down to breakfast Soapy was still saying it would be foolish for him to venture out.

"What do you think, Mrs. Tracey?" Reeve asked.

"I think just the same as Johnny," she said slowly. "You see, those shots may have been reported, the glass door would be found smashed and maybe the spent bullets discovered. The woman supposedly living in your flat would be missing— they may put two and two together, connect it with that clue you left, get your description from the agents and now they will be searching for a blonde woman. You might run right into trouble."

Reeve showed his admiration in his eyes. "That's real clever reasoning," he said.

"One gets the habit when one is constantly fighting for one's life, of reasoning out every little step beforehand," Mrs. Tracey said with a sigh.

"But I must go out," Reeve. "How can I do it?"

Why not become an old woman? Johnny can go out and buy a grey wig   and I have plenty of old clothes; they're all old. Dressed like that you could make your voice squeaky if you have been on the stage, and old women asking questions are not taken much notice of."

Reeve grinned.

"Thank heaven for throwing me in path of such friends," he said fervently.

Just after lunch Johnny brought in the first editions of the evening papers, also a big crepe wig he had hired from a theatrical supplies house. Reeve laid out his make-up materials, but before he began to again change his identity he ran through the papers.

They told how one of the early-rising servants had entered the library and found Ratcliff seated at his desk with a bullet-hole in his heart. The revolver had been pressed to his body before being fired, for the cloth was singed, and for this reason the police suspected that the murderer must have been someone known to Ratcliff to get so close. Suicide was discounted as the revolver with which the crime was committed was in the fireplace, several feet away— too far for a man with a bullet in his heart to throw it. It had no fingerprints upon it.

On the desk before Ratcliff was a large cigarette box, making it appear that he had been about to offer a cigarette to his visitor. He must, however have suspected something, as on the far side of his flat-topped desk was a heavy flat ruler which he may have picked up as a weapon, to have it torn from his hand. His right hand was resting in his lap. In it was a handkerchief, as though he had tried to staunch the wound, but had died before his hand could reach it.

There was no mention in the papers about the shooting at the Pekin Flats and this Reeve regarded as highly suspicious. The affair must have been reported, but the police were suppressing the issue of the news and that could only mean one thing— they had connected the mysterious blonde with Reeve!

As soon as it was dark Reeve left the slum. He was dressed in old clothes and old slippers, his grey head bent under an old-fashioned "bucket" type hat that effectively hid his face, on which he had painted many wrinkles and lines and dirty patches. He had not forgotten his training in repertory societies in Perth and so had made up his neck and hands to suit his face. He had always been a "thorough" trouper.

Avoiding trams and buses as being too risky he took a taxi to an adjacent corner to Clio's home, Johnny being with him; to be useful and also to better round-out the part of the "old lady."

He sent Johnny on ahead to see if all was clear and soon the boy was back.

"There don't seem to be a. soul round the joint," the boy said. "An' all the blinds is down."

Reeve nodded and went forward.

It was a moonless night, which suited Reeve's purpose, though the stars shed a dim effulgence. They came to the big open gates leading to the long drive up to the large and sombre house, mourning the death of its owner.

They stood there a moment looking out for possible police guards and then both jumped. A figure stepped out from behind one of the stone gateposts—stepped out stealthily.

"Hello, Johnny," it said. "Wot you doin' 'ere?"

It was Methy!

Chapter 8

The House of Death

JOHNNY stared at Methy moment, getting his wits in order.

"Wot you doin' 'ere?" asked at last.

"Just takin' a look at the place where the poor feller was snuffed out," Methy said unctuously. "Wot you doin'?"

"Just takin' a walk with me granny," said the boy, just as glibly. "Is this the joint where the joker was murdered?"

Methy looked at him suspiciously and his little pig eyes peered at Reeve, bent and doddering.

"Yeah, this is it," he said slowly. "Nice big place, ain't it. Never knoo yer 'ad a granny."

"Everyone's gotta granny," said Johnny. "Ain't you got one?"

Methy did not grin, though Reeve did. The idea of Methy having a nice kind old grandmother seemed comically incongruous.

But Methy was thinking differently. He was wondering whether it had been rats he had heard in the early hours. Maybe it had been a spy and here was the boy still spying on him— had, perhaps, followed him here. He was trying to decide whether to take direct action against the lad or the more cunning one of watching him. He decided for the latter— it was safer. Old Granny looked genuine enough but she had not spoken and— you never knew.

"Well, 'ave a nice walk," he said. "But don't go too far— you'll make Granny tired— an' yer come a very long way already."

He turned and walked down the street. The boy looked after him. His life had bred suspicion in him— and he fancied Methy was "up to something."

"Thank heaven he's gone," said Reeve. "Let us go round the back— I know a way in there."

They went on along the tall iron-railed fence. Reeve kept his eyes sharp for either of his enemies— the police or the mysterious person who seemed determined to murder him.

The house was on a corner and they turned down the side of it until they came to a wide shadowy lane. Soapy kept on glancing back to see if Methy was following, but he could see no sign of him.

The lane ran on into the darkness to the next cross street, but it was loo dark to see that far. They went along a high, flat fence until they came to a gate— locked with a chain and padlock. A clock nearby chimed eight. The back of the house was in darkness except for one light on the ground floor.

Reeve, who knew the place fairly well, placed it as the kitchen or scullery.

"Any dogs?" Soapy whispered, and Reeve could feel him trembling.

"No dogs," he replied, wishing now he had not let the boy, who was really only child although one forgot it, in for such an ordeal as this.

"Up you go."

He heard Johnny take a deep breath and then lifted him on the top of the fence and he dropped down on the other side. In a moment Reeve followed him.

TWO small eyes watched this manoeuvre from the darkness of the lane. Methy had gone around the corner to the top end of the lane and there crouched down in the dark. Now he saw the two figures show for a second against the stars.

He was puzzled. The way Johnny's Granny had picked up her skirts and climbed that fence showed that she was a fake— yet, if she was a copper then this was funny behaviour for a minion of the law. Methy had no time for the police. The point was— what could he get out of this? He crept closer.

In the meantime Reeve had posted Johnny near an outhouse and had gone up towards the house. Johnny, who had crouched down in the open doorway of the woodshed, and watched him vanish into the darkness. This was all deliciously thrilling— though a little too much so at times. This was one of those times. He was scared, though he would never have admitted it even to himself. Dreadful possibilities intruded themselves into his childish mind. What if Reeve were caught and hanged for murder— innocent or otherwise? And he, Johnny were caught too, would they hang him for being mixed up in it? Perhaps he had better go now while he had the chance!

But these were very disloyal thoughts— and Reeve had called him "pal." On such small things great decisions rest!

Pal! and Reeve was a "big shot."

He leaned back against the great pile of logs. He would stay.

Reeve approached the house cautiously, walking on the drying lawn and dodging clothes-lines. He carefully avoided the lighted window and went to a dark one, though he did not know into what room it might open. His one objective was to reach Clio's room and he must think of nothing else.

He reached the window and tried it. It was locked. A low murmur of voices came from the house. He moved along to the corner. Here was the narrow sideway with a lattice further along. He stepped over a gas-meter and moved into the darkness. He was no burglar and in any case he could not hope to force a window with the household awake— the noise would surely be heard. He must find one open.

The ivy brushed his face and gave him an idea. He would take a leaf out of Methy's book— an ivy leaf.

He looked upwards. The next house was a long distance away and the starlight shone on the Ratcliff home higher up past the fence. A window yawned blackly in the wall.

He moved carefully along until he was beneath it. He was running a huge risk, he knew, but even if he were caught what did it matter? He would surely be captured some time or other. He would avoid capture to the last moment if he could help it.

He tested the ivy. It was old and strong, the vines thick. He pulled himself up and felt for a foothold.

Reeve was not very tall as men go, about five feet seven, and he was slim and small-boned, but he was wiry and strong, having lived an athletic life. The distance was between fifteen and twenty feet and he soon was able to cautiously raise his head over the sill of the window.

The room was pitch dark. He pulled himself slightly higher. This was likely to be a servant's bedroom. He got one leg over the sill, then an other, moving very slowly because his clothes hampered him.

Then he stood on the floor and listened.  It came to him—breathing! Someone was in the room!

BACK in the woodshed Soapy was having his troubles. He had been electrified with shock at the sound of a footstep in the lane. Then he heard a scraping on the fence— then a knock of a boot striking the hardwood as someone hauled himself up.

The next instant a head appeared cautiously over the top!

Chapter 9

Swift Action

SOAPY acted almost instinctively. He reached behind him and grasped a stout log of wood. It was the branch of a tree. Holding it in both hands he glanced at its length. It was about three feet.

He recognised the head now. It was Methy. He was peering in all directions, having become impatient. After a moment he felt the strain on his arms and lowered himself from view. Soapy stepped swiftly forward till he was beside the fence and there waited. He could hear the man's heavy breathing on the other side. Then came the tap of toes on the wood again and once more Methy's head appeared— then he hoisted over a leg. He was climbing the fence and would drop almost on Soapy.

The boy did not hesitate. He swung the log of wood. It caught Methy on the top of the head and he grunted and relaxed, balancing on the top of the fence a moment before he fell with a thud into the lane. Soapy fell against the fence, trembling in every limb.

Up in the house Reeve was balanced on the soles of his feet listening to the breathing. He wished he had a torch or some sort of arms; though his disguise was in some slight fashion a protection. He moved slowly towards the door. The breathing was regular as though the person were asleep. As the sleeper could not have been asleep long the slumber would be light, and the slightest sound might wake he or she. If it be a girl, with nerves already frayed by events in the house, she might wake and send piercing scream after scream echoing through the place.

Holding his breath and listening to the breathing for any change in its tempo, he went slowly through the darkness— feeling with feet, hands and knees for the smallest obstruction. He reached the opposite wall and began to work along, it in quest of the door. The strain was terrific. His knee touched a chair and it scraped slightly.

He poised, waiting. The breathing went on. He hoped that the sleeper was the servant who had found the body, because then she would have been up since very early morning and would be wearied from her interviews with the police and her nervous strain through the day. He moved round the chair, keeping his fingers on the wall. Then a voice spoke— quite close to him!

Reeve's tensed nerves seemed to shriek with the agony of the shock and his knees bent; his stomach rolled in a tight nervous ball. It was several moments before he realised that it was the person on the bed who had spoken— in her sleep!

He stood there for many seconds recovering his poise, and then he gathered all his faculties together and went on. His hand touched the door. was closed.

Here was a nervy task; to open the door without the slightest sound. He found the handle and began to turn it. It was seconds before the turn was brought to a stop and it had made no sound.

Hoping the door would not be locked he pulled it towards him. Would it squeak? The door opened noiselessly and he slipped through, leaving it open. He was in a passage with a dim light at one end. He knew his way now. He began to walk softly along towards the front of the house and then sprang into the air with shock.

Behind him came a bang as the door he had left open was blown shut by the draught from the window!

The sleeper must surely wake now! He cursed himself for not foreseeing the eventuality and closing the door.

But he was no hardened crook! He must move quickly now. On his toes he sped up the passage to the door of Clio's room, breathing a prayer that it would not be locked and that she would not scream at such a precipitate entrance of a strange old woman. He grabbed the door-handle as he heard the girl in the room he had left call out "Who's there?"

He turned the handle and pushed the door. It was now or never. If the servant came to the door and Clio's was locked he was trapped. The door opened to his pressure and he sprang inside and closed it swiftly behind him.

The room was in darkness.

He had noticed that from the street. Clio might have gone to bed with her grief. He switched on the light, his face turned to the room. The bed was made and uncreased. Clio was not there!

He had made so certain that she would be there that he was shocked. Still, what could be more likely than her absence? It was only a little after eight o'clock and she might be anywhere about the house. He would have to wait until she came to bed.

A frown came to his brow. There were two points in this he did not like. In the first place if he waited here it meant leaving Soapy on that nerve-racking watch near the lane. The boy was already scared and there was nothing so racking as watching without the anodyne of action. The second matter was one he should have considered before: Clio may not be by herself.

It was highly probable that in her grief-stricken state she would not be alone. Some female relative or friend would be constantly with her for a few days.

Well, he could not leave the light on— it might draw attention. He switched it off and then dropped on a chair, thinking of this new problem. If Clio did come in with a friend he would have to hide himself until the friend left. The girl's companion would hardly stop with her all night. He was beginning to consider this journey, with all its hazards, as very foolhardy. He should have made sure of his ground first. Also, he should not have exposed Soapy to the risk and strain.

That brought Methy to his mind. Had Methy done the murder of Ratcliff ? That was hardly likely because he had been so satisfied with his night's work.

One of the newspaper accounts of the murder had mentioned that in the room where Ratcliff was murdered was a small safe which had not been tampered with, though they were examining it for fingerprints. Methy had mentioned a safe. That meant he had been in the same room. If, say, that was about one-thirty, then the murder must have been committed between his visit and five o'clock.

Ratcliff was fully dressed. Perhaps the murderer had been hidden in the library all the time awaiting Ratcliff's return and had seen Methy prowling around— and leaving his fingerprints!

Fingerprints! Methy would surely have a record and he would be traced. He would very likely be arrested.

He tensed suddenly, then slipped from his chair and rolled under the bed. There was someone outside the door! He heard the handle turn and then cautious whispering. Why whispering— and there was more than one person!

The light flashed on. For a moment there was silence. Then a man spoke.

"There's no one here. Your nerves are upset— you're imagining things, girl!"

"I tell you I saw a light," said a girl's shaky voice. "A noise woke me and I went to my door and looked out into the passage. There was a light shining under Miss Clio's door and you know she's gone away. There must be someone here!"

Chapter 10

The Net Closes

ONE thing struck Reeve more than his own danger. Clio had gone away; all his efforts had been in vain! She had left this house of death and publicity and gone off to some secret place. How could he find her? First, he must get out of this and that—

"Very well, my girl," said the man. "Maybe you imagined the light— and I think you did— or there is someone here. To satisfy you we will search. Look under the bed!"

Reeve bunched himself for instant action. The bed was high and gave him a little freedom, but not much.

"Not me," said the girl shakily. "There might be a murdrous monster there waitin' to spring on me. You look."

"This comes of reading cheap novelettes," the man said, but his voice was a trifle unsteady as though the girl's words had affected him. Reeve could see the girl's feet some distance in from the door and now the man came to the bed and Reeve knew he was bending to look as he lifted the counterpane.

He shot out his two hands, grasped the man's ankles and pulled hard, sending the man sprawling. He released the ankles and slid himself swiftly from under the bed. The girl screamed madly, then collapsed in a faint and he leapt up, hurdled her body as the man shouted, and ran through the open door, slamming it behind him.

Down the hall he sped, fear lending him wings. He heard a voice shout from the backstairs, so he flew down the carpet of the front stairs to the turn, then paused a second. There was a light in the hall below, shaded heavily and dim— and there were footsteps and voices coming from the back of the house. He could not go that way. How was he to rescue Soapy?

He ran down the rest of the stairs, holding his skirts high, and along the hall. A woman screamed from the rear and a man shouted. The man above was running along to the stairs and yelling for help.

Reeve reached the large front door, grabbed the spring and the old time lock and tugged it open. Then he was through and had slammed the door just in time as the man dashed up to it. He slipped across the marble porch and then jumped down the steps and ran along the drive. He branched from this and cut across the garden to the left.

He heard the front door clang back and someone shout, "He's making for the fence on the side street," and he changed his direction and sped down the car-drive towards the garages and the back of the house. He was all in black and he had a chance of losing them in the darkness, though the noise they were making were enough to wake up the whole district; difficulty in keep expected a challenge from the back door, but all the servants must have rushed through to the front, for no one appeared when he ran down the yard towards the woodshed.

A small form materialised there.

"Wot's— wot's up?" asked Soapy breathlessly and somewhat unnecessarily. Reeve did not answer. He swept him up in his arms and almost threw him over the fence. Then he grabbed the top and vaulted over— a high vault, but a matter of desperation.

As he came flying down on the other side he landed square on the back of the neck of Methy, who was just recovering his senses and trying dizzily to rise. He crashed on to his face again and lay still.

Soapy was bravely waiting. Reeve grabbed his hand and they sped up the lane in the opposite direction from which they had entered it. As they reached the cross street they heard their pursuers— who had gone into the other street— come pounding into the other end.

Reeve pulled Soapy up short at the corner and peered out from the shadow of a large tree growing near the back fence. The pursuers also pulled up noisily. They had found Methy!

Reeve dropped back into his old woman pose. The street was empty. Holding Soapy's violently shaking hand, he stepped out and they turned right and walked quietly, but as fast as was politic, away from that spot of blind terror.

They had gone a block before a Police Department car passed them, travelling fast, and it was not before they had walked three blocks that Reeve breathed a sigh of relief and looked round for a taxi.

They managed to catch a cruising cab and soon were back in the slum tenement where Mrs. Tracey opened the door to them with anxious eyes. She had been passing the time wondering what might have happened to her only child.

She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of them and led the way inside. When the door was bolted and, while Mrs. Tracey was prepared the cup of tea from hot kettle on the primus, Reeve told them what had happened to him.

"And you don't know where your young lady is now," the woman said, "and you are no nearer the murderer?"

"Regarding the murderer," said Reeve, "I seem to have thrown him off the track. Is Rats out."

"Yes— and from what you tell me Methy will not be back— which, is no loss. How are you going to find the young lady now?"

"I will have to go out again." said Reeve, "but I won't take Johnny again— it is too hard on the poor kid."

"Kid!" snorted Soapy. "Yer shoulda seen me clout Methy. Kid!"

"You can't go out again in those clothes," Mrs. Tracey said. "Those servants must have seen you were dressed as an old woman. That is who they'll be searching for now; an old woman in black! And when you go out you will have to take Johnny to do your talking for you."

"That is very brave of you, Mrs. Tracey," Reeve said. "I know how you must have suffered while we've been away— and I couldn't let either of you go through it again for me."

"Oh, I've had enough of that waiting business as I can well stand," she said. "I'm coming, too, this time!"

He chuckled.

"I'm the luckiest man in the world to have such friends," he said. "Well, after a rest you can get ready and we'll set off."

By the time Mrs. Tracey was dressed and they had rested, and Reeve changed and repaired the ravages of perspiration had made on his make-up, half an hour had passed. They slipped out of the room, locked the door and went along the passage to the steps. At the foot of them he paused and looked up at the rectangle of light on a level with the street,

"Listen!" he breathed. They listened. It could be plainly heard— the wail of a police siren, coming rapidly closer. The car pulled up before the house!

Chapter 11

Arrested

REEVE stepped back within the lower door.

"Is there a back way?" he hissed.

"There always is in these dumps," Soapy said and ran back along the passage, his mother at his heels and Reeve bringing up the rear. Soapy led them to the stairs and began to climb them with his mother. Reeve went halfway up and, near the ceiling paused to watch the policemen come marching in the door.

"The second door along, sergeant," one of them said. "Nice sort of a joint, isn't it?"

They stopped before Methy's door and tried it.

"It's locked," said the sergeant. "If you are sure this is his room we'll force it. Better find out first. Ask the people in the next room."

Reeve crept on up the stairs.

How lucky was he that they had left just when they did! The police must have arrested Methy and were now about to search his abode. Maybe they would find Clio's jewellery and, confronted with these, Methy might throw up the sponge and make a statement— mentioning Soapy and himself as being the two in Ratcliff's house. Quite likely he would do so to throw off suspicion for the killing. A burglary sentence was far less than that for murder.

The trio turned at the top of the stairs and went towards the back of the house. They were now on the ground floor. If the police had come simply to search Methy's room they would not have posted a guard at the back. He sincerely hoped they had not. The tiny back yard was empty and they went out. into the odorous back lane, in a few moments they had covered this and were walking along a street.

Soapy led Reeve to a public telephone booth and Reeve stepped inside and dial led the "Record" office. To the switchgirl he asked for Jim Patterson of the Film Page. As he expected, he was told that he had left and gone home. He put another twopence in the slot and dialled Jim's home number. He was lucky. Jim came to the 'phone himself. "Is that you, Jim?" Reeve asked in a disguised voice.

"Yes. Who is speaking?" Jim replied, puzzled. It Was plainly Jim's voice so Reeve Went on.

"Douglas Reeve here." He heard a whistle of astonishment. "I haven't much time. I want some information urgently. Clio Ratcliff has gone away from home. Can you tell me where she has gone?"

Jim was still gasping. "Doug, you son-of-a-gun, what is all this hide and seek business ? Where—"

Reeve cut him short.

"Be a pal, Jim, and answer my question."

"I don't know where she's gone, but Marie might."

Marie was his sister and social editress of the "Globe," the evening paper.

For a moment, as the 'phone was set down, Reeve wondered whether he was safe in waiting. Jim could get in touch with the police, who might trace the call. But, on consideration, he decided Jim was not that kind.

It was several moments before Jim spoke again and Reeve had found his suspicions returning.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, old chap," Jim said, "but that sister of mine is a cautious soul. At first she refused to tell me, asking if you wanted to kill Clio off next. But I got it out of her. She is staying with the Evans. Do you know where they live?"

"Yes," said Reeve. "Thanks a million: I'll tell you all about everything when I see you. Good-bye!"

He hung up and stepped out of the booth.

"When I see you," he thought, should have been "'If I ever see you."

"Did you find 'er?" asked Soapy. "Did yer ring 'er up?"

"I found her," Reeve said, "but I can't ring her— they wouldn't let her speak. We'll have to go there. We'll get a taxi— it's not far."

He was still dressed as an old woman, but he had changed the black dress for Mrs. Tracey's best— a long, plainly home-made, blue and white linen.

They hailed a taxi, climbed in and gave the address. In a few minutes they drew up before a large, ornate house in the Spanish style. Reeve paid off the driver and they climbed out.

" 'Ow yer gonna git in 'ere?" Soapy asked, looking the place over.

"Through the front door," said Reeve. "No more climbing walls for me. As a cat burglar I'm a good publicity man. Come on."

They went through the low gate and up the path to the door.

On the verandah he paused, drew a piece of paper and a pencil from his handbag, and scribbled, "It is me, Pumpkins," folded it then handed it Soapy.

"Give that to the maid that her to give it to Miss Ratcliff."

He rang the bell and in a few moments a maid appeared. She stared at them and was about to say something when Soapy stepped forward.

"Please give that note to Miss Ratcliff," he said. "I'll wait for an answer."

The maid drew herself up.

"Miss Ratcliff is not—" she began.

"Don't argue," Soapy said. "Give it to her, Toots— it's urgent."

The girl gulped, closed the door carefully and they heard her going along the carpeted hall. In a minute she was back, asking them to come in.

They were led into a sitting room where Clio stood. She stared hard at the two "women" and the boy.

"Have— you some message for me?" she asked.

Reeve lifted his head. "Yes," he said.

She stared a moment— then she was in his arms, sobbing with relief. They all sat down and, after she had recovered somewhat, she said: "I have been so worried— over you over Daddy and over something else. You see, the morning he died he had left a note saying some very important papers had been stolen from his desk. I found the note beside my bed when I woke and he told me to get the papers and destroy them without reading them. For his sake and my own. But how can I find them?"

"I might be able to," said Reeve slowly. "A fellow named Methy, now in the hands of the police, stole the papers, looked at them under a street light and hid them in a hedge. Is there a hedge near a street light close to your house?"

"Yes— there is a hedge to the next door house."

"Can you get a car and we will go there right away?"

Clio borrowed the Evans' car and in a few minutes they were speeding in the direction of her home. The street was deserted a parked car here and there and they pulled up before the hedge.

Soapy jumped out and began to, search, looking for the tell-tale white of paper. Suddenly a hand whipped over the hedge and grasped his collar!

At the same instant a car drew smoothly beside theirs and a voice said:

"This is the police. You are under arrest!"

Chapter 12

Charged With Murder

IN SPITE of Clio's protests they were all escorted to the C.I.B. and ushered into a room. They sat on a form along the wall and no one spoke. Two constables lounged on chairs and then a plainclothes man entered.

"What is the meaning of this, Sergeant Iffeld?" Clio began indignantly.

"Sorry, Mss Ratcliff," the detective said. He stood for a moment looking them over and then walked to Reeve, leant forward and ripped off his hat and wig. Then he stepped back.

"Douglas Reeve," he said in an "official" voice, "you have been arrested oh a charge that you. did, on the morning of November 21, between the hours of two and five, murder Charles Ratcliff. I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used against you at your trial."

"I murder Ratcliff!" gasped Reeve. "On what do you base such an absurd charge?"

A constable had drawn out a notebook and rested it on his knee with a pencil hung over it.

"On the morning of the charge," Iffeld said, as though reciting a lesson, "you entering the home of Charles Ratcliff in search of a paper or papers. These had already been stolen, so you waited, thinking Ratcliff ay have them on his person When he came home you demanded them but he refused to give them to you, he not possessing them. So you shot him with his own revolver which you had taken from his desk."

"That is a lot of nonsense," Reeve said, a shiver running down his spine.

"It certainly is," said Clio in a strained voice, "and this will prove it. I found this letter beside my bed when I awoke this morning. It was written by my father and I had not intended the police to see it. But there is no help for it now."

She handed a broken envelope to the sergeant and he took it, drew out the enclosure and read it, standing before them. They all waited in suspense. When Iffeld had finished reading he compared the writing with some papers he took from his pocket. Then he nodded and passed the letter and envelope to Reeve.

"I withdraw the charge," he said, "and I think you are entitled to know 'the reason. This letter will explain. I want to talk to you privately when you have read it."

He walked across the room and Reeve stared at the envelope in his hand. It was addressed "For my daughter, Clio and, no one else."

He opened the letter.

"DARLING CLIO," he read. "When you read this I, your father, will be dead, I know this will be a terrible shock for you but I can see no other way. It is now two-thirty a.m. and have just arrived home— to find my desk rifled and some very valuable papers stolen. Those papers, if they have fallen into the hands I suspect, can mean my utter ruin. If you can find them destroy them without reading them— for your own sake and mine. I charge you with this as a most solemn duty. But I fear the worst and, before I can be destroyed by another person one dear to you— I will destroy myself. To prevent the scandal of suicide and also because one of my insurance polices of £5000, from which you benefit, carries a suicide clause, I will make it appear like murder. I am sitting at my desk. Before me I will put a large cigarette box as a fulcrum and lay across it my long ruler. I will rest a paper weight so that when the lever is released it will drop innocuously on the desk. The other end of the ruler I will place through the trigger guard of my revolver— which I have wiped carefully free of fingerprints. I will hold the revolver with a handkerchief and press it down to my heart. When I press the trigger and my hand slips from it the ruler will flick upwards, throwing the revolver across the room and will fall itself on the other side of the desk. Thus it will appear to be an impossibility for me to have killed myself and thrown the gun away. Forgive me, my dear, and for my sake carry out my one last request. Forget your love for Reeve, who killed Martin, and marry Lord Wraven. Anything I have done was done for you because I loved you so. Your loving, Dad."

Reeve looked up from the letter. All eyes in the room were upon him except Clio's— she was sobbing quietly in Mrs. Tracey's arms.

"Wot's it say?" asked Soapy. Reeve looked at him.

"It says that you will go to the finest college I can find in Sydney and your, mother will have a very cushy job as my housekeeper."

He went across the room to Iffeld and handed him back the letter.

"That lets me out of that," he said, "but what about the Martin affair?"

Iffeld took one paper from him and handed him another.

"That was the paper we here thought you went to Ratcliff's to steal— last night and tonight. Acting on information received" (Reeve knew the source to be Methy) "we found it in a hedge to-night. It explains everything."

The envelope was addressed "To be opened by my daughter, Clio, and by no one else, and then only after my death."

He opened the letter.

"I, CHARLES RATCLIFF," he read, "was born in Sydney in 1900 and was brought up there. I was always a go-getter and speculator and have always been considered a rich man, although at times I have been for from that. I was married in 1922 and you, my dear, were born in 1925 and are, on this day when I write, November 20, 1946, 21 years of age. I have always been ambitious— far more than you or your mother imagined. I managed to weather the Depression, but in 1935, when you were ten, nothing went right. I lost money in all directions, your mother had a long and expensive illness and then died and if my real position had been known, I would have been speedily declared a bankrupt. I decided to run away and start afresh under a different name. I left you with some relatives, telling them and the rest of my friends that I was going on a health trip to the country to recover from your .mother's death. I went to West Australia and never intended to return. I knew that inquiries would not be made for two months least. In Perth, under an assumed name, I met Bill Martin, then known as Parker. Between us we cooked up the bond forgery. It was my idea, but he did most of the work. It netted us £20,000. Leaving him with £100 I left for Sydney the night we got the money; he was to follow in a fortnight. Before the fortnight had passed he was arrested and received four years— he served three, getting the usual twenty-five per cent remission for good conduct.

"Back in Sydney. I paid my debts and no one ever suspected how close they had been to losing their money. I speculated again and now everything went newspaper shares and in three years I had gained the board right. I went in heavily for of directors of the 'Record'. Martin was released and immediately came to Sydney for his share of the £20,000. I gave him ten thousand, but now he demanded a job on the 'Record' staff. As the years went on I rose to managing director and he, with my influence, rose to editor. His salary, a large one, was not enough. He bled me and blackmailed me. I paid cheerfully, though as the years went on and I became more solid, I saw him only as a menace. Then, as the price of his continued silence, he demanded you in marriage. This was the last straw. I think he was honestly in love with you and wanted a still further grip on me— but I would rather see you dead than married to man like that. I decided to kill him. Before you blame me, darling daughter, remember that I always considered you— you were my whole life. My one ambition in the last few years was to see you married to a title and living on the topmost rung of Society. For that reason I invited Lord Wraven to live at my house. But you had fallen in love with a mere publicity man named. Reeve, who, although rising fast and making a good salary, was not nearly good enough for you. It would be useless my telling you not to see him as that sort of thing only intensifies the interest of a girl. He must be removed in some way. I first planned to kill Martin in his car and then drive it, containing his body, into the harbour. I knew a spot with thirty feet of water under the punt runway. Then Reeve approached me with his silly 'Find The Man' scheme and I saw a way to get rid of both of them at once.

"So, some weeks before Reeve's scheme was to operate, I borrowed his keys, using the excuse that I had lost the key to a desk. I knew he had desk keys on his key-book because I had seen them. He was in the house at the time and unhesitatingly lent me the book I took it away and made a wax impression of the key of his flat, then melted all wax which might have adhered to the key, wiped it clean and gave him back the book. I had several old keys and I found one similar to his and filed it to correspond. One day while he was out I tried it on the flat and it worked perfectly. The night came when he was to vanish. I hid in Martin's car just before he left the office, then shot him and drove the car to Reeve's flat. No one was about, and, carrying Martin as though he were drunk, I took him into the flat and posed him nicely. Then I took his car to the punt runway, near which I had left a car earlier in the night, ran it into the water and returned home. I am not an experienced crook, my dear, and I made several mistakes. Of these I learned from my reporters and friends in the police force. The police never believed for an instant that Martin was killed in the flat; there were no stains and there were scratches on the hall parquet floor which were caused by Martin's dragging feet. So Reeve was likely to escape.

"I was desperate now to carry out the full plan— and that meant his death. I did not know where to find him— but you gave me that. I overheard you talking guardedly on the 'phone and you wrote a number on the pad before you. I guessed you were talking to Reeve and when you had gone, taking the number with you, it was a simple matter to make it out from the pencil depressions on the pad. I told you I was going to the office; and indeed I did go there. At that time the reporters' room was empty and I rang up a police friend of one of my key porters, Pat Clark, and speaking huskily and as much like Clark as I could, and pleading a cold, I asked him to find out who owned the 'phone XR7204 and the address. It was a Mrs. Rawson, Pekin Flats, and then I understood Reeve's 'clue.' I returned home, wrote the last few entries of this, and in a moment I will go out with my revolver and try and end Reeve's life. By the time you read this Reeve will have been long dead and you will be married to Lord Wraven. I also will be dead, so I hope you never read this for at least another thirty years. You may never read it, as it may never be found or I may destroy it. But you will be happy and all bitterness will be gone and you will be ready to forgive the errors— so-called, though I don't consider them such— which your father made. It was all for you, dear, and I will always love you.

"Your loving father,

Charles Ratcliff."

End