TABLE of CONTENTS

CLOWN OF DOOM
COPPERHEAD KILLER
THE D. A. DIES
GONE with the LOOT
LINED WITH DEATH

CLOWN OF DOOM

By JOHN L. BENTON

Ed Rice Masquerades as a Corpse to Nab a Killer!

I'M TRAVELING with the Slocum-Lansing Carnival when murder breaks loose on the lot. Ed Rice is my name, and if I do say it myself with unbecoming modesty, I've got the gift of gab. I do the ballyhoo for one of the shows on the Midway, and my spiel sure drags in the cash customers.

I've worked carnies since before I was old enough to know better. But don't get me wrong. I am just kidding by that crack. I've known lots of swell folks in the carnival game, and been with some grand outfits, but the Slocum-Lansing set-up is something else again.

'There's one thing I want understood from the start, Mr. Rice,' says Colonel Rumsey Slocum, who owns the show'except when there is trouble with the Law, and then John Lansing becomes the boss. 'We are not in business for our health, so any ideas that might occur to you that will bring in an honest dollar will be most cordially welcomed.'

'I get you, Colonel,' I say. 'I'll tell you if I get any bright ideas.'

It isn't until I'd been with the show for a week or so that I get the irony of that crack about an honest dollar. There is no such thing on the lot. If there ever was a carny rigged to trim the suckers it is the Slocum-Lansing outfit. Every concession from the games to the Ten-in-One show is crooked. There's a gaff on everything.

The carnival is small and mostly plays the tank towns. When we set up on the lot there is the Ten-in-One, which is the freak show, two girl-shows, a pit-show, which consists of a few small animals, and a 'walkthrough' which don't mean much.

I am the spieler for the freak show. In it we have Madame Zonga, who does a mind-reading act, Queen Tillie, the fat lady, Semba, the strong man, a thin man, an alligator-skin boy, a midget, the half-man-and-half-woman, a snake charmer, a giant and a sword-swallower. Ten different acts, which is why it is called the Ten-in-One.

From the day I start on the job, Semba, the strong man, seems to take a dislike to me. Just why, I don't know then. It can't be because I get in his hair, for he is as bald as an Easter egg. He is supposed to be the strongest man in the world'a savage found in the wilds of Borneo before the war.

'You're supposed to play me up big,' he tells me when I meet him for the first time. 'I'm the star act in this show. The last man who had your job as 'opener' didn't agree on that'so he got fired.'

'Don't let him kid you, Ed,' says the fat lady, who is listening as are the others in the show. 'Semba just thinks he's important around here. If you ask me, he's the weakest strong man I ever worked with in any show.'

'Be quiet, Queen.' Semba glares at her. 'You talk too much.'

RIGHT then I decide that Semba, whose real name is Joe Carson, would make a dangerous and vicious enemy. He is big, with bulging muscles, and he wears tan make-up all over his body, and a leopard skin when he is doing his act. He sure features the wild, strong man from Borneo.

From the way they act, I can see the rest of the performers in the Ten-in-One don't like Semba, and I gradually find out why. The strong man has a cruel sense of humor. He thinks it is fun to get Zolinda's snakes excited just before a show so that she has a hard time handling them. He is always picking on Tiny Tad, the midget.

All in all I find Semba isn't a gorilla I could learn to like. I'm too fond of animals. But he don't bother me much the first few weeks I am with the show. And I find that when you work for the colonel you labor, and I don't mean maybe.

There is a girl in the Posing Show that I think is really something. Her name is Sue Deming, and she is a slender brunette with all the curves in the right places. A pretty kid, not more than twenty' and if you ask me, she don't belong with that carny crowd.

Old Jed Weston, who does a clown bicycle act with the show, is always watching Sue, and protecting her when there is any trouble. I wonder about this until I learn that Jed is the girl's uncle. Semba is always trying to make dates with Sue and getting turned down. He don't like that at all.

About the third week I am on the job I have a run-in with Colonel Slocum about my salary. Every week when my pay is due he gives me the sob story about the show having had a bad week, expenses are high, and so he can pay me only half of my wages. After the third week of that routine it gets monotonous.

'Quit stalling and hand over what's due me, Colonel,' I tell him one Saturday night. 'You owe me forty bucks and I can use that dough.'

'Now, now, Ed,' says Slocum in a fatherly tone, as he tugs at his white goatee. 'Be reasonable. I like you, my boy, and want to do all I can for you, and I'll prove it.'

He reaches into his left hand trouser pocket and pulls out a thin roll of bills, peels off a sawbuck and hands it to me. He makes it look like a grand gesture. It might impress me if I didn't happen to know he carries enough money in a roll in his right-hand pocket to choke a horse.

'You still owe me thirty,' I say, as I take the ten-spot. 'Come on'give.' Then I get smart and make the crack that nearly costs me my life. 'I mean it, Colonel. You see, I happen to know where the body is buried.'

For a moment Slocum just sits there glaring at me. Up to then I'm thinking he is just a crooked old bluff, but it dawns on me that the colonel might be really dangerous.

'I wonder if you do know something, Ed,' he says, half-talking to himself. 'Or are you just babbling.'

'Babbling, my eye,' I say, hoping to bluff him into handing over the rest of my pay. 'I know plenty.' Then I think of something that has been worrying me ever since I'd started working for the carny. 'Where's John Lansing?'

I have never seen Lansing around, and when I ask any of the rest of the carnival bunch about him, they either change the subject in a hurry or just shut up. Sue and I have become good friends, but every time I ask her about Lansing she just looks scared and won't talk.

A week ago we had played a town where some of the local citizens hadn't liked the way no one but our shills won on the games. Unfortunately the colonel had picked a town where everybody knows everyone else, so they spot the shills and raise a howl. Slocum blames it all on Lansing when the local Law comes around. According to the colonel, Lansing is the sole owner of the show, but he is away.

We get out of there fast'before they close us up.

Now I find that with my crack about knowing where the body is buried I have stepped into something.

'Lansing is around,' the colonel says slowly. 'But perhaps you had better forget the whole thing, Ed.' He counts the thin roll of bills he is still holding in his hand. 'Here's the rest of your salary money'thirty dollars still due, wasn't it?'

'That's right.' I count the money, then stick it in my pocket. There is something about the way the colonel is watching me that makes me feel creepy. 'Thanks, colonel.'

'You're welcome.' His tone is dry.

I leave him then and head for the trailer where I sleep. It belongs to a couple of other spielers on the lot'Fred Lester and Bill McKee. But when I reach the trailer Bill and Fred are not there. Then I remember they said they were going into town after we closed for the night. We are playing the week in the outskirts of a fair-sized city.

FOR a time I sit outside the trailer smoking. It is' a' hot' night'sticky,' and' with' not' the slightest hint of a breeze stirring. I haven't been there long when Sue appears. She lives in another trailer with a couple of the other girls in the Posing Show.

'All alone, Ed?' she asks as she seats herself beside me. 'It sure is hot tonight.'

She is wearing a thin summer dress, and she sure looks lovely in the moonlight. Funny, I have been seeing her every day in the scanty, one -piece bathing suit she wears in the show, but she never has looked as pretty as she does now.

We talk for a while, just casual chatter that don't mean much. The door of the trailer is open, and we are sitting on the doorstep. I put my arm around her and she don't try to draw away.

'I made a mistake tonight,' I say casually, and she leans her head against my shoulder. 'I told the Colonel I knew where the body is buried.' Sue sighs. 'You're smart, Ed,' she says. 'We've all been sure that John Lansing was murdered'but no one can prove it.' 'Murdered!' I exclaim. 'So that's it! Have

you any idea why he might have been killed?' 'No,' Sue says slowly. 'We've all been afraid to talk. Anyone on the lot might be the murderer. None of us want to be the next victim. Just tonight Uncle Jed told me that he has proof that Lansing was murdered'but he is not going to say anything until he has a chance to talk to the police in town tomorrow.'

Just then I hear a slight sound on the other side of the trailer. It sounds like a twig breaking as someone steps on it. Sue draws away from me, a look of fear on her face. Her blue eyes gleam in the pale light.

'I heard someone,' she whispers.

We listen. There is the sound of footsteps' someone moving away swiftly. I get to my feet and go around the trailer. I catch a glimpse of a big shadow form disappearing in some trees at the edge of the lot.

'See anyone?' Sue asks, as she joins me. 'Somebody ducked in among those trees,' I say. 'Couldn't be sure who it was though.' 'Semba?' she asks. 'He's always following me.'

'Might have been. A big man anyway. It could have been Harry the giant. I''

From the trees there comes the cry of someone in pain. I stop speaking abruptly as I heard it. Sue catches me by the arm, her fingers digging into the flesh through my shirt sleeve.

'I'm going to see what's happened,' I say. 'You'd better stay here, Sue.'

'All right, if you say so, Ed.' She releases my arm. 'But be careful.'

I run toward the trees, and when I get near them I slow down to a walk. I don't know what might be waiting back there in the shadows, for the thick branches cut off the light from the moon. I step forward, moving into the shadows.

At any moment I expect somebody to pounce on me, but nothing moves. I step into a clearing beyond the trees. There I see a still form lying on the grass, the white face staring up at the sky. There is no one else around.

I go closer to that motionless figure'there's something familiar about it. When I get a good look at the face I see it is Jed Weston. He is wearing ordinary clothes'not the usual clown suit and make-up he wears while the show is going on.

For a moment I stand there, listening, trying to assure myself the murderer is not lurking close by. I hear nothing, so I lean down and examine the old man. Jed is dead all right. Somebody has broken his neck.

'Semba?' I mutter. 'I wonder?'

I am sure the killer is gone, but I'm dreading the task I have now. It won't be easy to tell Sue her uncle is dead'murdered.

I whirl as I hear a noise behind me. Sue is standing there. She moves forward slowly.

'It'it's Uncle Jed,' she says, her voice trembling. 'And they killed him!'

'That's right, Sue. I'm sorry. But there is something your uncle would want you to do for him'and that's help me find the murderer.'

'Of course.' Sue nods. 'But how, Ed?' 'We've got to make the killer think your

uncle isn't dead,' I say. 'And then perhaps the murderer will come out into the open and try again.'

She turns away, so she can no longer see the corpse. I talk fast and finally she nods again.

'I guess it is the only way,' she says, when I finish. 'I hope it works.'

'You go back to your trailer, honey,' I say. 'I'll take care of everything. But remember the clown costume.'

I wait until she is gone, then go back to the trailer and get a blanket. I wrap the dead man in this and carry the body to a sort of gully where I hide it. I'm going to leave it there only until sometime tomorrow, but I try to arrange things so Jed Weston's body won't be found easily. Then I go back to the trailer.

AT NOON the next day I have apparently disappeared. The colonel gives Bill McKee the job of spieler for the Ten-in-One. I am hiding on the lot, and now I am dressed in the clown outfit that Jed Weston had worn. My face is painted white, and I wear a bald wig which is also covered with clown-white. I have a painted, red putty nose and must look exactly like the dead man in costume.

I wait until the afternoon show starts. McKee is out in front of the tent giving the spiel. Some of the freaks are standing on the platform in front of the tent for the ballyhoo. I see that Semba is up there.

Sue and some of the other girls in the Posing Show are standing out front of their tent, dressed in bathing suits. I notice that the 'Sampson' is close to the tent. That is the thing where you hit a trigger with a big wooden mallet, and a sort of thermometer registers your strength. If you're good, a bell rings and you get a cigar. But it is phony-rigged like everything else and only the shills ever ring the bell. They know the gaff on the joint.

I step out near the front of the Ten-in-One. Semba sees me and goes wild. He grabs a knife out of the sword-swallower's hand, leaps down off the platform, and comes running toward me with the weapon in his hand.

'I'll kill you!' Semba shouts.

I aim a right at his jaw, but I might just as well be trying to break a cement wall with my fist. He grabs me by the throat with his left hand and thrusts me backward, raising the knife to plunge it into my heart.

But Sue has leaped down off the platform of the other tent, and she grabs up the wooden mallet that belongs to the Sampson as she races toward us. She raises the mallet with both hands and brings it down on Semba's head just as the point of the knife cuts the flesh of my chest. Semba drops'knocked cold by the blow.

'What's going on here?' demands Colonel Slocum as he comes rushing up, his familiar heavy cane in his right hand. 'Why did Semba try to kill you, Ed?'

'Ed?' I say. 'So you know that I'm not Weston, do you, Colonel? Then you must have been sure you murdered Jed last night. Broke his neck by hitting him in just the right spot with that cane of yours. I guess he must have discovered that you did murder John Lansing, and get rid of the body somewhere.'

'He lied to me!' says Semba, as he opens his eyes and staggers to his feet. He sure is hard-headed. 'Told me you had killed Jed, and were going to blame me for the crime. That you were going to pretend you were Weston in the clown outfit. So when I saw you I tried to kill you.'

'I misjudged you last night, Colonel,' I say. 'You did stick around and must have heard everything Sue and I said. So you talked Semba into making an attempt to kill me today.'

'Nonsense, my boy,' says the colonel, trying to assume his fatherly air. 'You imagined the whole thing. Why should I murder my partner?'

'Because Lansing had all his money in the show!' shouts Semba. 'And you wanted that dough! I've kept quiet long enough. I saw you kill Lansing'and I'm willing to talk to the police.' He smiles at me. 'That's why I didn't like you when you joined the show, Ed. I thought you might be a detective.'

'He was, in a way,' says Sue, looking at me proudly. 'At least he found the real killer.' She raises the mallet in her hands, 'Keep still, Colonel, or I'll win a cigar by hitting you over the head with this.'

'My gal,' I say, with a grin, as the local police who are on the lot come toward us. 'Ain't she something!'

Popular Detective, June, 1939

Detective Dan Wade Breaks a Tough Case in a House of Hate!

By JOHN L. BENTON

Author of “Murder in Pictures,” “Death Calls,” etc.

THE flickering flames burning in the huge open fireplace cast a weird glow upon the man who sat in the big chair. In the shifting light of the fire his old face was like wrinkled parchment. Withered, talonlike fingers raked the chair arms, flabby lips parted in a toothless grin, and eyes that were black and bright like those of a crow stared at the white skull that was the solitary decoration of the mantel-piece above the hearth.

“It’s not that I fear death,” said the old man, his voice like the rustling of old paper that might crumble if handled too roughly. “I just don’t like the idea of being murdered.” There was no excitement in his voice, no more emotion than if he had announced he did not like rain.

Dan Wade sat watching and listening—a big man who was as strong and tough as he looked. He had thought this visit to old Craig Harper would be just a routine check-up. Harper was known throughout the small middle-western city as an eccentric old man. He often phoned the police department to complain childishly of various intrusions upon his privacy. A stray dog wandering about on his lawn, boys climbing trees not far from his house.

But this evening Craig Harper had insisted that a detective be sent out to his place at once. The old man had claimed that his life was in danger. Wade was the detective who had been sent to hear the old man’s story and he did not like the job.

“Who is it you suspect?” asked Wade, as he sat watching Harper.

For a few moments the old man hesitated. Wade grew conscious of the stillness of the old house, the quiet that was never quite absolute silence in the cold winter night. Faint rustling noises, the creaking of old boards and timbers. The house was like an ancient ship on a calm sea—never entirely still, and yet the little sounds creating the illusion of motion.

“I don’t know,” said Harper finally. “That is what I want you to find out. That is why I asked for police protection.”

“Who else is there in the house beside you?” asked Wade.

“My nephew, Burt Lee, and my secretary, Susan Jeffery,” said the old man.

“Any other servants beside the butler who admitted me?” demanded Wade.

“Oh, yes. I forgot Martin, the butler,” said Harper. “He is the only servant here now. There was a cook and a maid, but they left this morning. Said they did not like this house.”

WADE had seen the butler when he had arrived, as he told Harper. The servant was a middle-aged man whose resemblance to the frog footman in “Alice in Wonderland” was striking. Harper’s nephew and secretary were as yet unknown to the detective.

“You think one of these three might want to kill you?” asked Wade, and then as the old man nodded: “Why?”

“They are tired of waiting for me to die,” said Craig Harper. “I’m ninety years old and they have been hoping I’d be gone long before this.”

“But have you any proof?” demanded Wade impatiently. So far the whole thing sounded like the product of the old man’s imagination. “Have there been any attempts to murder you?”

“No,” said Harper, with a shake of his head, “but I demand police protection.”

“I’ll see that you get it.” Wade got to his feet. “I’ll have all officers on this beat be on constant watch for trouble, Mr. Harper.”

“That won’t do,” said the old man. “I sent for a detective because I wanted someone in the house all of the time to protect me.”

“Afraid you’ll have to hire a private bodyguard in that case, Mr. Harper,” said Wade. “Nothing you’ve told me shows any sign of an actual attempt on your life. This is not a job for the police.”

“All right, all right!” the old man ran his claw-like fingers through his thick, white hair that he wore unusually long. “Might have known I couldn’t get any help from the police. Bunch of numbskulls—can’t even protect private property so a man can have peace and quiet.”

“Sorry, Mr. Harper.” Wade reached for his hat and overcoat. “We’ll give you all the police protection—”

From the semi-darkness near the door came a flash of flame and the roar of a gun. Wade ducked instinctively and heard the hum of a bullet whistling by his head. He dropped his hat and overcoat and snatched out the .45 automatic he preferred to carry instead of the regulation police revolver.

A soft thud came from somewhere near the door. Wade could not quite decide what made the sound. It had not been the door closing. He glanced at Harper. The old man sat in his chair, long fingers marching crab-like up and down the chair arms.

“Foolish!” said Harper. “Very foolish—should have waited until you were gone before firing that shot.” He shook his head. “Afraid the murderer is not very clever. More chance of killing me if I had been alone.”

Wade switched on an electric lamp on a table. The light only deepened the shadows in the corners of the big living room. The open door leading out into the hall was a yawning blotch of black; casement windows were gray squares facing the snow-covered night.

Automatic in hand, Wade leaped to the door and peered out into the hall. A dim light burned just above the front door. Stairs leading to the second floor of the house were half hidden in the shadows. There was no one in sight.

Wade stood there in the doorway. To his right the smell of gunpowder was strong. The gun had been fired from this spot. His eyes swept to the dark walnut wainscoting of the room, stared at it intently for an instant.

From the second floor of the house came a wild scream. Wade raced along the hall, pounded up the stairs, gun in hand. He stopped when he reached the floor above. A girl was standing beside a closed door. Frightened blue eyes gazed at Wade, blond hair was bright gold in the light.

“Miss Jeffery?” he asked. “I’m the detective Mr. Harper sent for tonight.” He looked at her intently. “What happened? Who fired that shot?”

“It’s Carlo, Mr. Harper’s pet snake,” said the girl. “It’s loose in there. Crawling around on the floor.”

“A pet snake.” Wade frowned. “What kind?”

“A copperhead,” answered Susan Jeffery. “It’s dangerous—deadly poisonous. All of us are afraid of it except Mr. Harper. It never bites him. Usually it is kept in a basket in there in Mr. Harper’s den—but now it is loose.”

“I’ll have to take a look at it,” said Wade. He wasn’t afraid of snakes. A friend of his who had been a herpetologist had taught him quite a bit about reptiles.

He dropped his gun into the side pocket of his coat, stepped to the door and opened it. “Wait here, please, Miss Jeffery.”

He closed the door from the inside. A mottled snake writhed across the floor toward him. Wade’s hand flashed out as he leaned down. He caught the snake in a firm grip just back of its flat head. Its tail curled around his arm, but he paid no attention. The copperhead hissed and lanced its fangs at empty air.

Wade smiled and found the snake’s basket. He placed the copperhead inside without difficulty and closed and fastened the lid of the basket. Then he stepped out into the hall. As he did so the girl appeared from another room. She now had on a hat and coat, and there was a traveling bag in her hand.

“I’m leaving,” she said. “I can’t stand any more of this.”

“Then we had better go down and see Mr. Harper about it,” said Wade quietly. “What’s wrong with him? Sounds a little crazy to me.”

“In some ways,” said Susan Jeffery. “He hasn’t been right mentally since his right side became paralyzed six months ago.”

“Paralyzed?” demanded Wade. “You mean he can’t move?”

“No, he can still move around if someone helps him, but his right side from the waist down isn’t of any use to him.”

THEY reached the foot of the stairs and walked back along the hall to the living room.

The old man was still hunched down in his chair. He frowned when he saw the girl was wearing her hat and coat.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, square fingers motionless on the chair arms. “Are you leaving, Miss Jeffery?”

“I am.” Susan nodded. “I can’t stand it any longer. That horrible snake was loose again.”

“Carlo loose?” There was a note of alarm in Harper’s voice. “Where is he now? Not roaming around the house, I hope.”

“So do I,” said a voice from the doorway.

Wade swung around. A thin, sandy-haired man stood there, hard eyes gazing at the detective.

“Don’t you like snakes, Mr. Lee?” asked Wade calmly. He was sure the thin man was Harper’s nephew, Burt Lee.

“Hate them,” said Lee, as he looked at the old man. “This the detective you sent for, Uncle?”

“He is,” said Harper. There was a white gleam as he smiled. “I feel much safer now that Mr. Wade is here.”

“I’m going,” said Susan, turning toward the door. “I’m leaving, Mr. Harper. Sorry, but I have made up my mind.”

“May I have a word with you, Miss Jeffery,” said Wade.

The girl nodded, and followed him out into the hall. Wade spoke when they were out of earshot of the others.

“You’d be safer if you went back upstairs and locked yourself in your room,” he said. “I can’t be responsible for what might happen to you if you go outside now.” His tone was grim. “Harper is right—there is a murderer loose in this house tonight.”

She gazed at him for an instant, blue eyes frightened. Finally she nodded mutely and went quickly up the stairs. He waited until he heard a door slam and then breathed a sigh of relief.

“Miss Jeffery leave?” asked Lee as he strolled out into the hall.

“Yes,” said Wade quickly. “She’s gone.”

“Too bad that she forgot her bag,” said the thin man.

WADE frowned as he saw that Susan had left her traveling bag in the hall. Lee’s grin was cold.

“I’m not a fool, Wade,” he said. “Where is she?”

“Thought she would be safer if she locked herself in her room,” answered Wade. “You’re not really afraid of snakes, are you?”

“No.” Lee shook his head. “Not afraid of them. I just don’t like Carlo.”

“Or your uncle,” said Wade.

“Why should I like him? My parents died when I was a boy. Craig Harper let me be placed in an orphanage until I grew up. Then I came here to live at his request. He has treated me worse than he would a servant ever since.”

“Then why have you stayed?” asked Wade.

“I inherit fifty thousand as next of kin when the old man dies, provided that I am still living with him at the time, and have no occupation of my own,” Burt Lee scowled. “He enjoys having a poor relation at his beck and call.”

“Not a very nice old man,” said Wade. “I can’t blame anyone for wanting to murder him.”

Lee turned and started up the stairs. Wade stood in the hall watching the thin man ascend.

“Hope the girl has sense enough to keep her door locked,” said Wade softly.

He went to the front door, opened it and gazed out into the night. A cold wind blew against his face, the snow-covered ground was an eerie white blanket in the moonlight.

Again the girl screamed. Wade slammed the door shut as he heard her. He ran swiftly up the stairs. Burt Lee was standing in front of a closed door, the snake’s basket in his hand.

“What’s wrong, Susan?” he demanded loudly. “Let me in!”

Wade reached him. The gun in his pocket covered the thin man.

“Leave her alone,” snapped Wade. “Maybe she doesn’t like you.”

“And you’re Sir Galahad, I suppose,” said Lee. “I thought my dear uncle might enjoy playing with Carlo.”

The sandy-haired man walked along the hall and on down the stairs carrying the snake’s basket. Wade let him go.

When Lee had disappeared Wade knocked on the door.

“It’s Wade, the detective,” he said. “What frightened you this time?”

A key rasped in a lock and the door opened. Susan peered out at him.

“Someone knocked and then tried the door,” she said. “When I asked who it was they didn’t answer. It frightened me and I screamed.”

“Probably just as well you did,” stated Wade. “Keep your door locked—and don’t let anyone in. If they pretend to be me, be sure not to take any chances.”

“But suppose it really is you—how will I know?”

“I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking ever since I first saw you.” Wade grinned. “You’ve got the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh!” Susan laughed and then slammed the door and locked it.

Wade was still grinning as he started back down the stairs.

From below there suddenly came a wild cry of terror. Wade pulled out the automatic as he leaped down the stairs. He reached the lower floor, and then paused with a curse as he saw a figure sprawled out on the hall carpet.

He went closer and looked at the still form. It was Burt Lee. The thin man was dead, a knife wound in his heart, and a bloody dagger lying in the palm of his outstretched hand.

“Help, help!” It was Craig Harper calling from the living room. “He is going to kill me!”

Wade dashed back along the hall. From the living room there came the roar of a gun. The big detective rushed into the room. Smoke was pouring out of the big fireplace, filling the room.

“He went through the window,” said Harper, coughing from the smoke and pointing. “Something wrong with the fire—help me out of here.”

Wade caught up a pitcher of ice water that stood on a table. He dashed it over the flames in the hearth, putting out the fire. The room cleared as the smoke drifted out through the open casement window.

“It’s all right now,” said Wade. “Who fired that shot?”

“Martin, the butler,” answered Harper sinking back into his chair. “I told you I suspected him.”

“You acted like you suspected everybody,” snapped Wade curtly.

“It was Martin,” said Harper. “He killed Lee.”

“Martin,” said Wade slowly. “Tell me more about him, Harper. I only got a glimpse of him. Give me a description of him.”

“He’s five feet seven and a quarter inches tall,” said the old man. “Weighs one hundred and forty-seven pounds. He used to be a character actor, but left the stage five years ago and came to work here.”

“Why should he want to murder you?” demanded Wade.

“I left him twenty thousand dollars in my will,” said the old man.

“And Burt Lee was to get fifty thousand,” said Wade. “How much did you leave your secretary?”

“Ten thousand,” said the old man. “Suppose your nephew and the girl died before you did?” asked Wade. “Who gets the money then?”

“Why, Martin would,” said Harper. “Or Miss Jeffery, or Lee if they were the ones who still remained alive.”

“With a will like that you certainly asked for somebody to murder you,” said Wade.

“I—I realize that now,” said the old man.

Wade glanced at the snake’s basket that was sitting on the floor behind the old man’s chair.

“I guess I had better talk to Miss Jeffery,” he said. “I left her locked in her room.”

“Yes, do,” said Harper. “I’m worried about her.”

Wade nodded. He reached out quickly, unfastened the cover of the snake’s basket, then hurried out into the hall. He went halfway up the stairs, paused, stood waiting. Moments passed and there was no sound save the constant groaning and creaking of the old house. A feeling of disappointment swept over Dan Wade. It was not what he had expected.

He descended the few remaining steps and went back along the hall. Just as he reached the door there came a howl from the living room.

CRAIG HARPER was dancing around in terror, his horrified gaze fixed on the copperhead that was crawling around on the floor.

“That damn snake!” he shouted. “It bit me—and it’s deadly poison!”

“You’re right,” said Wade grimly. “A man who has been bitten by a copperhead doesn’t live long—and you won’t either, Martin!”

He reached out and grabbed the long white hair. He gave a tug and a wig appeared in his hand.

“Then you knew!” gasped the butler, sinking weakly back into the old man’s chair. “My disguise was perfect.”

“Not quite,” said Wade. “When I first talked to Harper I noticed that he was very nervous. He kept running his long thin fingers along the arms of the chair. Your fingers are square and blunt-ended. He grinned at me and I saw he didn’t have any teeth. You forgot to black out your teeth so they wouldn’t be noticed, Martin. I saw them later when I came back with the girl and you talked to us.”

“But you said nothing,” protested Martin.

“I know,” Wade frowned. “I couldn’t tell whether Burt Lee was working with you or not. He acted like he might have been. That’s why I let him do what he pleased. Oh, you made a lot of slips, Martin. Telling me your exact height and weight when you gave me your description. Other people seldom remember anything like that to the last pound and inch.

“What you did was murder the old man with the dagger while I was upstairs finding out why Miss Jeffery had screamed the first time. You had to work fast so you stuffed Harper’s body up the chimney of this fireplace. It gradually cut off the draft and filled the room with smoke, even though you opened a window to let it out.”

“But the gun—someone did fire at me,” cried Martin.

“No, they didn’t,” said Wade. “That was a crazy idea of Craig Harper’s. He realized that the police might refuse to guard him unless he could convince them that somebody was trying to take his life. So he—”

WADE dropped to the floor as he saw the butler press a hidden button built in the arm of the chair. For the third time a gun roared from a spot near the door. He saw the panel that had opened revealing a guntrap that had been built into the wall.

His own automatic was in his hand covering Martin as he scrambled to his feet. He glared at the butler.

“Tried to get me,” he snapped. “That’s another attempt at murder—but you’ll die in the electric chair for those other two killings.”

“Never get me there,” Martin laughed wildly. “I’ll die from the snake bite long before the rest of the police even get here.” “No you won’t,” said Wade. “There’s nothing poisonous about that copperhead. If there had been, Harper would never have kept it around as a pet. Its poison sacs have been removed. I made sure of that when I looked it over upstairs.”

“What—what happened?” demanded Susan Jeffery as she appeared in the doorway. “I heard the shooting and just couldn’t stay up in my room any longer.” Her eyes widened as she saw Martin. “Is he—?”

“He’s the murderer,” said Wade as he handed her his gun. “Keep him covered while I phone for the police.” He picked up the phone in one corner of the room, dialed a number and spoke swiftly. “Wade speaking. I’m at Craig Harper’s house. That routine investigation turned out to be a double murder. Send some of the boys around. I’m holding the killer until they get here. Right.”

He put down the phone, and his eyes rested on the grinning skull on the mantelpiece. The death head grinned back at him, as though it knew that it had been Harper’s pet snake who had finally brought the old man’s murderer out into the open.

Susan shuddered and drew closer to Wade as the copperhead wiggled out into the hall.

“About those eyes,” said Wade, still keeping Martin covered with his gun as the girl handed him back the automatic. “I still think they’re swell.”

“Maybe,” said Susan. “But from the way you have seen what’s been happening around here tonight—you’ve got pretty good eyesight yourself.”

THE D. A. DIES

By JOHN L. BENTON

Popular Detective, August, 1945

The Killer Had a Slick Murder Scheme—but He Missed a Bet When He Failed to Take a Girl’s Keen Eyesight into Account!

DETECTIVE-SERGEANT BOB Heath, looking more like a prosperous young business executive than a detective, stood in the doorway of District Attorney Keene Adams’ private office, staring at the slumped figure in the chair behind the ornate desk. Over the place was the hush of death. It was broken by the strained, shocked voice of the pale but pretty blond girl who stood behind Heath—Mary Doyle, the D.A’s secretary.

“Oh, poor Mr. Adams!” Mary said quaveringly. “And he must have been there like that all night! Even the cleaning woman had gone when I left, because we worked late, Bob. Mr. Adams was still talking to someone—a Mr. Madison—when he told me I could go.”

Heath walked over to the desk and looked closely at the body of stout, middle-aged Keene Adams. But there was no doubt about it. The best district attorney the little city of Bankford had ever had was dead from a bullet in his heart.

“He was murdered all right!” Heath commented. “I’ll have Headquarters send out an order to have Madison picked up and brought in for questioning.”

“That might not be so simple.” Mary tried to speak courageously, but the horror that had been etched on her face when she had found the body, and somehow had managed to phone Heath, was still there. “Even I haven’t the faintest notion who the man is, or where he can be found. He was a stranger to me—never saw him before last night.”

“What did he look like?” Sergeant Heath s demanded. “Tell me all you can remember about him, Mary.”

“Well,” the girl told him, “all I noticed was that he was a gray-haired man in a dark suit, dark necktie and white shirt. He insisted on seeing Mr. Adams, as late as it was when he got here—said it was most important. Mr. Adams told me to show him in. They talked for a while with the door closed, then Mr. Adams opened it and told me I could go home.”

Bob Heath nodded. He realized that it was natural for Mary to have phoned him at once when she had received such a shock as opening a door and finding her boss murdered. She would do that—of course—instead of calling the police. That would be the first thought of a girl engaged to a detective-sergeant, at a time like that.

“You’re sure there was nothing special about this Madison, Mary?” Heath insisted. “No scars or disfigurement, or eccentricities in speech or actions?”

“Not that I remember.” Mary shook her head. “Maybe I’ll think of something—later. All I can think of now is why did he kill Mr. Adams!”

“I don’t know.” Heath shook his own head. “But I do know I’ve got to report this. You wait in the outer office, Mary.”

AS MARY backed away, Heath picked up the phone on the desk and called Headquarters. His attention was caught by the memo pad the District Attorney had been using. Adams had jotted down his appointments for the day he would not live to see, and at the bottom of the pad was scrawled:

Slick Weldon trial at 10 A.M.

Heath reported the murder to Chief John Parker who barked excitedly over the wire that he would be at the District Attorney’s office himself with some of his men as fast as he could get there. He ordered Heath to wait.

The detective-sergeant again glanced at the memo pad as he cradled the phone. The “Slick” Weldon who was to come to trial was believed to be the town’s head racketeer, and it was pretty certain that he and his men recently had been working the old protection game on Bankford store owners.

Then Joe Small, a tailor, had been found beaten to death in his shop, three days ago—which was Slick Weldon’s hard luck. For he had been seen coming out of the shop shortly after Small had been killed. He had been picked up promptly, charged with the murder, and the trial rushed.

The racketeer didn’t deny he had been to see Small, but insisted that he had found the tailor dead when he had entered the shop. Weldon had declared he certainly had not wanted to be mixed up with a crime like that, so he had wasted no time in departing. But unfortunately he had been seen.

Weldon’s trial was to have been started this morning, with Keene Adams prosecuting. Probably it would be delayed now, by the death of Adams. In a small city like Bankford the District Attorney had no assistants, which meant a new man would have to be appointed to the office.

“Maybe that’s it,” muttered Heath. “That mysterious Madison man must be in with Slick Weldon in some way, and killed the D.A. to delay the trial. But what good that will do Slick or his gang— remains to be seen.”

When Heath stepped into the outer office, Mary Doyle was at her desk. She tried to smile at him, but it was a wan effort.

“The Chief is on his way here,” Heath told her, and sighed. “Maybe it’s just as well, Mary, that the D.A. was a widower without any living relatives. This would be a bad shock to anyone close to him.”

“It’s been shock enough to me,” Mary said tremulously. “He was so nice, Bob!”

The office door was opened abruptly, and Heath spun around, with the idea that Chief Parker had been speedier than usual. But it was not the Chief who barged in. It was a slender, dark-haired young man wearing light-colored shell-rimmed glasses, a light blue business suit, white shirt and red tie.

“I’d like to see Mr. Adams,” he said briskly. “I’m Fred Langford, attorney for the defense in the Weldon case.”

“You could see him”—Heath’s tone was dry—“but you wouldn’t like it. Mr. Adams is dead—murdered.”

“Murdered!” exclaimed Langford, horrified. “Who did it?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Heath said calmly. “I’m investigating.” Detective-sergeant Heath studied the slender young fellow. “I don’t believe I’ve ever run across you before, Mr. Langford. You’re new in town, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Langford said impatiently. “I’ve been here only a few weeks . . . .

How was Mr. Adams killed?” “Shot,” Heath said laconically.

“But murder!” repeated the attorney. “It doesn’t seem possible! You’re sure it wasn’t suicide?”

“No gun, no motive,” Heath said shortly. He was not impressed with Attorney Fred Langford. The man was too curt and aggressive.

Chief Parker arrived at that moment, with two detectives and four uniformed officers. They made quite a parade into the office. The Chief looked pompous in his uniform. Heath had never seen him without it. He suspected that Parker slept in it, ready for emergencies. But the sergeant had to admit that though the gray-haired Chief had a face like a hound dog, he knew his business.

Parker stalked over and looked at the D. A.’s body.

“All right, Sergeant,” he said then. “What happened? The coroner’s on his way here.”

Heath told the Chief what he had learned from Mary. He had reached the point of telling how Attorney Langford had just showed up to discuss the Weldon trial with the District Attorney, when he saw that Langford had quietly departed. It was of no consequence, however, and Chief Parker passed up Langford because the coroner had arrived. The medical officer examined the corpse, and reported death by means of a lethal weapon. He placed the time of murder as between six to eight hours before.

MARY DOYLE was questioned, and told to go home, but she was so nervous and upset that Heath asked the Chief’s permission to drive her. The sergeant was sympathetic and gentle with the girl, but neither of them said much during their drive across town, and that little was casual and impersonal.

“I’m expecting you for dinner tonight, you know, Bob,” Mary said when they reached her home. “You’ll be here, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Heath smiled at her, then sobered. “Unless something about your boss’ murder detains me. If it does, I’ll phone you, darling.”

He drove away, but he hadn’t gone more than two blocks before he discovered he was being followed by another car—a gray coupe with two men in it. Just to make sure, Heath swung his sedan into a side street. The coupe followed.

Up ahead a truck pulled out from the curb and blocked Heath’s car. And for that moment the coupe speeded up until it was alongside Heath’s sedan, forcing him to swing in to the curb. The truck turned a cornet and disappeared.

“Sergeant Heath?” demanded the hard-faced man who was driving. The detective recognized that driver—“Beef” Logan, one of Slick Weldon’s gang. “We got a message for you!”

“What?” Heath demanded shortly. He was frowning heavily at a scraped fender the coupe had damaged. “Let’s have it, Beef.”

Logan blinked. Apparently he hadn’t expected Heath to know him. But Heath knew both men, though he didn’t bother to say so. He knew the other man’s name was Bill Burke. And in Heath’s estimation both Logan and Burke were a couple of cheap gunmen in the class.

“So you know us, hey?” said Logan. “Okay. So maybe you know somethin’ else we’ve been hearin’ you know— somethin’ that’ll clear Slick Weldon of killin’ that tailor when the case comes up in court this morning. We’re just warnin’ you—Slick better get off if you want to stay healthy.”

“Okay.” Heath shrugged. “Run along now, or you’ll be blocking traffic.”

The two men drove away without looking back. Heath grinned wryly. Bad boys, eh, with their threats. He rather wondered what it was they thought he knew. But their threats didn’t interest him. Another thing he had just heard did. It looked as if Weldon’s men didn’t even know the District Attorney had been murdered.

Detective-sergeant Heath returned to the police station. He had not been there long when he received a phone call from Fred Langford. The attorney seemed excited.

“Sergeant Heath,” he said hastily, “I’ve just learned something of tremendous importance—about that D.A. affair. I’ve got to see you at once—Miss Doyle, too. I can’t have you come to my office, so can you meet me—” He hesitated as if thinking rapidly. “Say, the courtroom will be empty. Be sure to bring Miss Doyle!”

“We’ll be there,” said Heath.

He could not imagine what Mary could have to do with anything the lawyer had found out, but he supposed he might as well play along. He might find out something to work on anyway. Fred Langford represented Slick Weldon, and the Weldon gang was in the murder mess somehow.

So he had a little talk with the Chief, and half an hour later he and Mary Doyle arrived at the courthouse. With the Weldon trial postponed, as Heath had thought it would be, and no other courts in session, the courthouse was deserted.

Langford met them at the courthouse door. He wore no hat or topcoat, but was carrying a big law book under one arm.

“What’s on your mind, Langford?” Heath asked.

“Come into the courtroom,” Langford said mysteriously. “We can talk better there.” He was absent-mindedly tugging at an ear as he led the way.

Inside, he closed and locked the doors. Then he walked over to a table, placed the book on it near some others, and sat down.

“I didn’t have time to explain on the phone, Sergeant,” he said, “but before I tell you what I have learned, I want to try a little experiment that should prove its worth . . . Will you sit in the witness chair, Miss Doyle? It’s more comfortable than the hard benches.”

Heath’s face was expressionless as Mary seated herself. Langford glanced at her and smiled.

“This may all seem ridiculous to you—perhaps melodramatic,” he remarked. “But I know who killed Keene Adams—and I am anxious to see if you agree with me. It is possible that Miss Doyle will know, before I’m through.”

“Who was it?” Mary asked breathlessly.

“A man named John Madison,” Langford said flatly, again tugging at his ear—an unconscious gesture. “I can’t go into details now, about how I know, but I do! And the man was blackmailing the District Attorney—knew something in Adams’ past. Adams got tired of it. Last night he threatened to expose Madison, so—”

“So Madison killed him.” Heath’s tone was dry. “And I suppose you know because Madison told you.”

SUDDENLY Mary was on her feet. “No!” she cried. “Oh, Bob, don’t you see? This Langford himself is Madison! He can’t fool me any more. I know him now! He was disguised when he came to the office last night, with that gray wig and all—but I remember how the man who called himself Madison kept constantly tugging at his ear!” She pointed an accusing finger at Langford. “Just like you do!”

“I was afraid of that,” Langford sighed. “That’s why I thought I’d better talk to you alone. My experiment, you know.”

“How much did Weldon give you for killing Adams and delaying that trial?” demanded Heath, leaping forward. “Or did you kill that tailor, and when the D.A. found it out you had to kill him?”

“Adams did know too much,” Langford said coolly, opening the law book before him.

But both Mary Doyle and Heath saw the reason for that book on the instant. The pages had been cut out, and in the hole left an automatic rested! In one swift move Langford grabbed it and threw it up at Mary.

“Bob!” she screamed and sank back. But Heath had answered her cry.

Before Langford could shoot, the sergeant had snatched his .38 out and fired. The bullet got the lawyer in the shoulder. The automatic clattered to the floor.

Then out from the corridor leading to the Judge’s chambers stepped two men who could hardly have been expected to be there—Beef Logan and Bill Burke. They stopped short, glowering at Langford.

“The boss didn’t hire this lug to bump off the D.A.!” Logan growled. “None of us even knew he was dead till we seen it in the afternoon paper.”

“I found that out when you stopped me in my car,” snapped Heath. “You expected the trial to start this morning.”

Then there were more visitors. The courtroom doors were burst open and a crowd poured in. Chief Parker was at the head of the throng. Heath grinned at him.

“Glad to see you, Chief,” he said. “You’re just in time for the show-down. Remember I told you I had a hunch Langford might have murdered the D.A.? After he phoned me to meet him here? Well, he did—even if he did try to make Mary believe she had never seen him before when he barged into the D.A.’s office this morning. There wasn’t any other reason for him showing up there. The prosecutor and the lawyer for the defense don’t usually consult with each other on the morning a trial is to start. But Mr. Madison-Langford didn’t fool Mary— not any. She’s got good eyesight, Miss Doyle has.”

“Gosh!” said Beef Logan. “Why, you did clear the boss at that, Sergeant! Good thing we trailed you and the dame here, wantin’ to get an earful. We did—plenty!” “Stop this chatter!” wailed Langford. “I’ll admit everything! Just get me to a hospital. Can’t you see I’m dying?” “We’ll take you all right,” Heath growled. “After you tell why you killed Joe Small, that tailor.”

“That’s a personal matter,” snapped Langford. “You don’t think I wanted a former cell-mate hanging around, do you?”

The courtroom was cleared, and Heath was left alone with Mary. It was his first chance in a long time to kiss her. He did.

“Dinner tonight will be fine, darling,” he whispered. “Case all cleared up and nothing to worry about.”

GONE with the LOOT

By JOHN L. BENTON

Popular Detective, April, 1944

A famous emerald vanishes in a cloud of mystery!

NANCY GARLAND woke with a littlesecret' thrill' of' happiness' running through her, like a kid on Christmas morning. She stretched her long limbs and was so happy that she even forgot her great sorrow that instead of being a blonde, her hair was just plain red.

For two things had happened to her yesterday. She had met THE man, and he had invited her to the swank party being tossed by Mrs. Van Alstine, whose blood was bluer than fountain pen ink.

Entree at Mrs. Van Alstine's meant that John Clark was somebody in Who's Who himself. And while Nancy was not celebrity crazy, it was nice to meet the man of your dreams and then find out he was more than just a conductor on the Third Avenue car line.

He was handsome and big and brawny, with the kind of square chin and steady eyes that made goose-pimples run all over Nancy's photogenic body as she thought of him. Best of all, he had seemed as smitten as she. He had given her the kind of rush every girl likes'from the right man'and had wound up by inviting her to go to the society brawl.

'Only I've got to be there early,' he told her. 'Something about the arrangements to protect Mrs. Van Alstine's jewels. You know, she insists on wearing that rock'the emerald of Khaipur, or whatever they call it, and the thing is a constant temptation to certain unmoral citizens.'

'Yes, of course,' Nancy breathed. She'd read about the emerald of Khaipur until it was like the Taj Mahal or some other purely mythical wonder. And now she was to see it!

'So, you just come along by yourself' you'll be expected and admitted, and I'll look you up as soon as I can. Okay?'

It was decidedly okay, Nancy thought, as she taxied to the pile of stone and marble on Riverside Drive that was the Van Alstine mansion. At Clark's request, she had worn a simple red frock which matched the gleaming highlights in her hair and touched her eyes with blue fire.

'Just simple, Clark had admonished her. Nothing fancy about these afternoon parties. The butler seemed to recognize her name. Ah, yes,' Miss Garland. Go right in. You'll find Mr. Clark about somewhere. And you'll uh keep your eyes open, won't you?'

'My what?' Nancy murmured, dazed. But the butler had already passed her on and was greeting new arrivals, who were coming in a swarm. Baffled, she passed into a huge hall, ablaze with lights from crystal chandeliers and cluttered to the roof with statuary, objets d'art and other gimcracks. All of it made a sightly, if somewhat crowded array.

NANCY looked for Clark. She wandered through' the' vast' hall,' following' the crowd. She was amused to see a flunkey of some sort in the next doorway, dressed in a steel breastplate, with a helmet of ancient design on his head, holding a huge pike and a shield.

'Nothing fancy about Mrs. Van Alstine,' she muttered to herself. 'Just dresses up her footmen like medieval soldiers. I'll bet the waiters will come out disguised as Alice in Wonderland.'

Then Nancy got the shock of her life. For the next footman, or soldier, whatever he was, winked at her!

She had to look three times before she recognized John Clark.

Nancy's lovely lips made around O and stayed that way.

'Close it,' Clark said, out of the corner of his mouth. 'Somebody'll build an airfield in it.'

Nancy could only sputter. 'What'what''

'I'm a halberdier,' Clark said. 'Guarding the castle, like of old.' He lifted his halberd slightly'the huge pikelike weapon'and let it fall with a thump on the floor.

Several guests turned to look. Nancy felt her cheeks flame scarlet as he grinned at her and more guests began looking.

'You'you'' No words came and afraid she would make a fool of herself in earnest, she all but ran from him. And as she went, came the cracking and rumbling of her world falling about her ears.

She had been ready, primed and willing to fall in love with him! He was so big and romantic and he-man looking! And he turned out to be a waiter or servant at Van Alstine's! With all his big talk about society!

'Let me out of here,' she said determinedly to herself and started to search for an exit.

But at that moment came a dramatic interruption. It came in the form of a scream like the five o'clock whistle on the factory near Nancy's subway station. Everyone of the scores of guests in that huge room whirled.

A pouter pigeon of a woman was being supported by two halberdiers. Neither of them John Clark. The men had dropped their shields and halberds to support her not inconsiderable weight.

'My jewel!' Mrs. Van Alstine screamed in a refined sort of way. 'The emerald of Khaipur!'

Nancy's first reaction was one of disappointment as she watched the plump Van Alstine hand clutch at a neck bereft of its pendant. Now she never would get to see the fabulous emerald.

Instinctively she glanced aside at the doorway where her ex-love, John Clark, had been posted. She saw him, with a tense, eager look in his eye, inching out from the doorway, behind the crowding throng of excited guests.

And suddenly, inexplicably, suspicion was born in Nancy Garland's soul. There was something about that halberdier she definitely mistrusted.

It all fitted in so perfectly! He wormed his way into the Van Alstine household, took a job as a flunkey, got into this outrageous disguise, all so he could engineer the theft of the emerald! Engineer, she thought, because encased in his bulky armor, carrying a shield and halberd, he could hardly have snitched the bauble from Mrs. Van's neck himself.

That meant he had a confederate in the house. Nancy began surreptitiously craning her neck to see where he was heading. Then there was a second interruption.

A tall man in a brown suit, wearing a snap-brim felt, leaped onto a table and called for silence.

'Detective Marshall from Police Headquarters,' he announced himself, holding out a bright gold badge in his palm. 'The house is closed and covered. Please, no one will try to leave. I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but you will have to be searched, individually, until the emerald is found. Please stay where you are until sent for.'

He leaped down from the table and vanished in the crowd. The two halberdiers tenderly supported Mrs. Van Alstine to a brocaded love seat which she overflowed like a feather pillow, uttering low, genteel groans.

Nancy lost interest in both the hostess and the brisk detective. She had her eye on John Clark, halberdier again. Slipping through the crowd, she followed him as he edged his way out of the room.

Through a dimmer lighted hall she tiptoed, having no difficulty in hearing the louder clumping of his steps. Into a vast kitchen with a frightening expanse of white enamel, glass-doored cupboards, electric ranges and shining copper pots the trail led. There the halberdier disappeared.

PANICKY, Nancy scurried about the big room. The servants were nowhere in sight, evidently' having' been' herded' away' for questioning. Then she saw a door slightly ajar. She pulled it open and from below, heard the muffled clump of the halberdier's steps.

Aha, she thought. The rat is run to earth. He had made a fatal mistake when he forgot himself long enough to invite Nancy Garland to this party. Love was the doom of Samson, wasn't it?

'Go on down,' she told herself. 'Scared? Bet your life I am! Well, this is as good a time as any for telling off that big lug. Go on!'

With her heart pounding in her throat, she tiptoed through the door and down the cellar steps. At the bottom she found herself in a huge vaulted chamber, like the dungeon of a medieval castle. The walls were stone, the doorways narrow arches. Dim lights burned eerily.

In this half- lighted gloom, she saw the bright armor of the halberdier. He had set aside his shield and halberd and was bending over a big wooden chest in one corner.

Nancy's foot scuffed on the stones. The halberdier whirled like a cat and his gauntleted hand snatched up his weapon. On the end of that seven-foot pole was a glittering axe and a spear point above that. The murderous steel was flashing through the air even as Clark whirled and the spear point stopped inches from Nancy's face.

'Nancy!' Clark exclaimed, startled. The girl swallowed her heart.

'Yes, you crook,' she said bitterly. 'You invited me here, remember? Who'd you expect, the police?'

'Hardly,' Clark said, shaking his head. 'You're a thief,' Nancy cried. 'I'm going up and call that detective, Marshall.'

'I wouldn't do that,' Clark said, ominously. He put his hand on her arm.

'Let go of me,' she cried, shaking him off. 'I will'you fake halberdier, you.'

'You don't have to, Miss,' the detective said, stepping out of the archway behind her. 'I followed you down.'

An automatic in his hand was leveled at Clark's chest.

'A thirty- eight slug will go through that sardine box you're wearing, Langton,' Marshall said. 'Better get your hands up.'

'Langton!' Nancy moaned. 'He even lied about his n-name!'

Clark raised his hands promptly. In doing so he let go of the seven-foot halberd. It started to fall and the bright blade of the axe swept down directly for Marshall's head. The detective yelped in alarm and dodged. He tripped over the shield and went down, the gun flying from his hand.

With amazing quickness for so big a man, Clark pounced. He scooped up the gun and as Marshall struggled to rise, calmly brought the flat side of it against the detective's head. The snap-brim felt came off. Marshall slumped quietly to the floor.

'You murderous beast,' Nancy breathed.

Her red-headed temper snapped. At Clark's side hung a wicked-looking poniard in a metal and leather sheath.

Before he could guess her intentions she had darted in and snatched the dagger from its scabbard. The bright triangular blade flashed like a thing alive.

Clark saw his danger. He jumped in, caught her wrist with his left hand. She struggled like a wildcat and kicked him in the shins. Though he made a grimace of pain he did not let go, but caught her other wrist and crushed her against him. She felt the cold hard shell of the armor bruising her ribs.

'You little wildcat,' he panted. 'Drop that knife before you cut yourself.'

A creaking sound made them both stop as though on signal. The lid of the big chest was rising upward. And in the opening was framed a man who might have been Detective Marshall's brother. The same lean, sharp-featured face, the same double-breasted suit and snap-brim felt. And an equally lethal-looking automatic in his hand. It was pointed directly at Clark.

'Oh, there you are,' Clark said foolishly. He let go the girl and stepped back. She stood with the dagger clutched in her hand, eyes going from one to the other.

'Yeah, here I am,' the man said flatly. Still holding the gun on Clark, he put one leg over the edge of the chest. Behind him the lid tipped over and came swiftly down.

Nancy opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late. The lid caught the leg that was still inside just above the knee. The man was thrown off balance. He started to fall and put out his hands instinctively to save himself. Clark neatly scooped the gun out of his hand. 'All right, Langton,' he said. 'Stand over near your brother.'

'Langton!' Nancy gasped. 'Now which one of you is which?'

'Let me introduce the Langton brothers,' Clark said, nodding. 'Two of the best jewel thieves in the business. The one who posed as Detective Marshall is Fred. The one who was in the chest is Harry. Harry has the emerald, I presume, or he wouldn't be hiding while his brother held the crowd upstairs so he could escape.'

'And who are you?'

'I am Detective John Clark,' the halberdier said modestly. 'As you might have known, Red, if there was any gray matter under that thatch.'

HE RAN a hand expertly over HarryLangton and brought it away with a chain dangling from his fingers. At the end of the' chain' hung' the' famous' emerald' of Khaipur. The stone pulsed and throbbed in that dim vault with a blazing green fire. 'Oooh,' Nancy breathed, forgetting how scared she was. 'Let me touch?'

'I'll do more than that,' Clark promised. 'I'll let you take it upstairs your own precious self and hand it back to Mrs. Van Alstine if—'

'If what?' Nancy said, feasting her eyes on the incredible jewel.

'If you'll carry my halberd and shield and take good care of them, while I herd these mugs after you. Halberdiers are mighty scarce these days.'

'You're crazy,' Nancy said with conviction.

'Still crazy about you, Red,' Clark said with a grin. 'How about a date after the party?'

Nancy's wink was answer enough.

LINED WITH DEATH

By JOHN L. BENTON

Thrilling Detective, August 1944

Detective Nelson runs into a slick scheme for loot and mixes it with a crew of greed-maddened killers!

STANDING just inside the door of the living room of the big old Darlton town house, Detective Nelson Carter, of Police Headquarters, stared down at the motionless figure on the floor. So this was the end for one man who had lived by the rules of chance'for Joe Hill, one of the last of the big-time gamblers.

A quiet end, too, here where thick walls muffled the sounds of the city for this old brownstone house that seemed to hold itself aloof from the modern world. Light snow drifted down outside the windows, white flakes against the black of night.

'You found him like that?Carter asked, in the unconsciously hushed tones of a man speaking in the presence of death.You didn't touch the corpse?'

He looked at the white -faced, wide-eyed girl'Nan Darlton'who had summoned him here to her home.

'I'I didn't touch anything,she said tremulously.He was lying there like that when I came home not more than twenty minutes ago.'

Her blond hair gleamed in the light from a discreetly shaded table lamp. Slender hands moved restlessly in her lap. She seemed tiny in the big old-fashioned chair where she had dropped, sitting tensely, and yet Carter knew that she was fairly tall.

She shuddered as she stared, horrorstricken, at the corpse. Joe Hill looked like a giant black crow as he sprawled there on the worn but expensive Oriental rug. The handle of the knife in his back was a dull gray against the black cloth of his dinner jacket. He had not bled much.

'They called him a walking bank,Carter said musingly.He always carried at least ten thousand dollars in cash on himsometimes more than that. Yes, one of the last of the big-time gamblers.'

'I know,said Nan Darlton.He was my uncle.'

There was faint surprise in Carter's quick glance at her.

'I didn't know that. He lived here then?'Sometimes.Nan nodded.He had a room of his own here, and was always welcome to stay as long and as often as he wished. He hadn't been here lately, though.Carter walked over and knelt beside the corpse. He searched through Hill's pockets. Keys, change, address book, a gold pen and pencil set, handkerchief'but no wallet, and no money save the change.

'If whoever did this had left the wallet on him,Carter said, as he put everything back in the dead man's pockets,it might have been believed he wasn't carrying any money tonight.'

Nelson Carter stood up, a tall, thin man who gave no outward evidence of the strength in his wiry muscles. That, it was said down at Police Headquarters, was one of his greatest assets'that neither physically nor sartorially did he look like a detective. Nor did he act like one.

Always well-dressed, he appeared more the smartly groomed business man now than detective, in his well-tailored gray suit. His Chesterfield and snap-brim hat he had left in the hall.

FOR a silent moment he stood over the dead' man,lookingsteadilyatthe tremblinggirl.Somehow,tohim,Nan Darlton looked out of place here, though this was her home. She fitted much better in the setting in which he had several times seen her before, standing in front of a mike in a Village night club, singing the daring little songs that were making her name known in New York's night life. She must have only returned from the club because she was still wearing an evening gown, and her gray fur coat had been flung carelessly on a chair. Little things puzzled Carter. Why had Nan phoned him to come the minute she had discovered that Joe Hill had been murdered? Of course, though, he did happen to live just across the street, and he had met her at the Willow Club where she sang. He liked the place, liked to drop in there when he was off duty.

'I know you're wondering why I called you instead of phoning for the police,' Nan said impulsively, as though reading his mind.But I'I didn't know just what to do. Then I remembered you living so near, that you are a detective, and thought you might be able to help me.'

Carter nodded.I did wonder. But I'll have to call Homicide anyway. You understand that, of course.'

He had started toward the phone on a table at the far side of the room when the ringing of the door-bell somewhere far back in the house was a startling sound with its insistence.

'It's my maid's day off,Nan said quickly.Would you mind seeing who is at the door, please?'

Nelson Carter nodded, stepped into the hall, and opened the front door. A little old man stood there, his hat and overcoat powdered with snow. He peered at Carter worriedly.

'I've lost my cat,he explained, blinking in the light.He's a long -haired Chinchilla named Sandy. I thought maybe he might have come here and if you'd seen him you'd have let him in because of the cold and all.'

'Sorry,said Carter.I don't believe your cat came here.'

'Oh, dear, that's too bad!The little old man sighed.Now I'll have to go asking everybody up and down the street if they saw him. John Quinn is my name. I live across the street at seven -twenty-eight. If you see Sandy will you please let me know?'

'I'll let you know. Good night.'

Carter shut the door and went back to the living room. The house was so quiet that the rustling noise of the snow against the windows could be plainly heard. As he stepped into the living room he saw that Nan had not stirred from her chair, and that she was more white-faced than beforefrightened, too.

'Stand still!a gruff voice commanded. The voice of one of two hard-looking men standing on either side of the doorway. They were covering him with automatics. He stopped short, and stood motionless.

'Who are you?Carter demanded, as his glance shot from one man to the other. Been hiding somewhere in the house. I suppose?'

'Yeah,said the big man on his right.The dame came home too quick. When we heard her open the front door we ducked without frisking Hill and getting the dough. We heard her talking to somebody, so we stayed hid.'

'Then you two killed Joe Hill,said Carter.For the money he was carrying.He smiled at the man.Carter is my name. What's yours?'

'Hap Reed,the fellow who not only was big, but apparently brainless, said promptly. Then he scowled, as realization flickered. Hey!he burst out.You ain't gonna know my name without knowing his too!He raised a thumb at the man on the other side of the door.He's Tony Small.'

'And am I dumb to team up with a guy like you!Small muttered disgustedly. Quit jawin', Hap. Let's get the dough and get out of here. The girl hasn't got it, so this Carter guy must have the wallet.'

'Wrong,Carter said coolly.I haven't the faintest idea where the money is, or what happened to Hill's wallet.'

'That's what you say,snapped Tony Small, and moved in on Carter. So did Hap.

Carter moved then, with lightning speed. His hard right caught Small squarely on the chin and sent the man reeling back. Reed aimed a blow at Carter's head with his gun, but missed as the detective ducked. Tony Small leaped forward.

'Let him have it, Hap!he shouted as he caught Carter by the arms and held him tightly.

Reed's arm flashed up and he brought the barrel of his gun down hard on Carter's head. Carter heard Nan scream, but it faded out as he dropped to the floor unconscious. .

NELSON CARTER'S first sensation when he opened his eyes was one of freezing cold. He sat up and a small furry animal that had been huddled close to him uttered a plaintive cry. It was a long haired cat. Carter reached out and patted it.

'Must be the cat old man Quinn lost,Carter thought.

He struggled to his feet and saw then that he had been lying in the snow in a vacant lot at the far end of the street on which he lived. Without his hat and overcoat he was half frozen. He dusted the snow off as best he could, picked up the cold, damp cat and walked to his own house.

Glancing across the street he saw that lights were still burning behind the drawn blinds on the lower floor of the Darlton house. But he had no intention of going back there until he had phoned for the Homicide Squad.

He had just stuck the key into the latch of his front door when a little old man came running down the street, and hurried up the steps.

'You've found him!John Quinn exclaimed delightedly.You've found Sandy!'

'Come in,Carter said, as he opened the door.Your cat is nearly frozen, Quinn.He added ruefully,And so am I.'

John Quinn followed him into the house and Carter closed and locked the door. He handed the cat to the little old man who gently brushed the snow off the fur of the long-haired Chinchilla, crooning to it. Carter led the way into the living room.

Carter was proud of this remodeled old brownstone house he had bought and fixed over just two years ago. It was a comfortable place, though at times it seemed large for a man who lived alone.

The fire in the grate had died down, but was still burning, and as he poked it up he wondered what had happened to the girl in the house across the street. Evidently those two killers who had naively admitted their names were Reed and Small must have decided he didn't have dead Joe Hill's money or they would never have left him lying out there in the snow.

Carter quickly picked up the phone and dialed Police Headquarters. Old Quinn, seated in a chair with the cat on his lap, listened as Carter asked for Homicide, told about the murder of Joe Hill and gave the address of Nan Darlton's house. He also gave good descriptions of Hap Reed and Tony Small so that the two men could be picked up promptly.

'A murder!Quinn said awedly as Carter cradled the phone.And to think I didn't even suspect anything was wrong when I rang Miss Darlton's doorbell and asked you about my cat!'

'You know Miss Darlton?Carter asked.Just casually'by sight,said Quinn.

'The way an old fellow like me without much of anything else to do always notices neighbors without actually knowing them. I have seen you coming in and out of this house often, Mr. Carter. Charming girl, Miss Darlton. I had never spoken to her, though before early this evening. I was flattered when she stopped me on the street and asked me if I knew a tailor who could fix the lining of her fur coat. She had torn it.'

'You told her of a tailor?Carter demanded.

Quinn nodded.Dan Grover is his name. He has a shop over on Third Avenue.He mentioned the address.

Carter went to a window and peered out. He saw a woman wearing a fur coat come hurriedly out of the house across the street alone. It was Nan Darlton'he recognized her blond hair as she passed under a street lamp. Carter wondered how she had managed to get away from the two killers.

'I've got to go.Carter swung around from the window.Stay here until I come back, will you, Quinn? I want to talk to you. Make yourself at home. Give Sandy a chance to get warm before you take him out again.'

'All right.Quinn placed the cat down in front of the fire and took off his overcoat.I'll stay.'

Carter got another hat from the hall closet and clapped it on as he rushed for the front door. He had no time to look for an overcoat upstairs.

Police cars were drawing up in front of the Darlton house as he hurried across the street. The Homicide Squad had arrived.

'Where's your murder, Carter?asked Lieutenant Brady, in charge of the Squad, as he recognized the detective.It better be good to get us out on a cold night like this.'

'Inside,' said Carter.It's Joe Hill, the gambler.'

The front door was unlocked, and he barged into the hall with the Homicide men following him as he headed straight for the library. But the body of Joe Hill was no longer lying on the Oriental rug there. It had disappeared!

'Hill's body was lying right here!Carter said, pointing to the spot.Dead as a door-nail, I tell you!'

'Search the house, men,Lieutenant Brady ordered.If Carter says there was a body here it was all right.As his men scattered to search, he said,What's the story, Nelson?'

CARTER told him everything that had happened from the time he had received the phone call from Nan Darlton asking him to come over to her house to investigate a murder.

'Looks plain enough, doesn't it?Lieutenant Brady said, when Carter had finished. Those two guys Reed and Smallif that is their names'followed Hill here, killed him for the dough he was carrying. The Darlton girl came home unexpectedly. The killers got scared, not seeing at first that she was alone, and hid without searching the corpse and getting the money.'

'Looks that way to me,Carter nodded.But that business about them not getting the wallet sounds fishy to me. It would only take a second to lift a wallet out of a man's pocket unless'He smiled.Why didn't I think of that before?'

'Think of what?Brady looked puzzled.PutyourselfinHill'splace,'said Carter.Suppose he discovered he was being followed just as he got to the house. He would be sure those men were after his money. The first thing he would think of doing would be to get rid of the money so it wouldn't be found if he was held up, or if he thought there was any chance of anybody breaking into the house.His eyes narrowed as he heard Brady's men moving about searching the house.Now where would Hill put it? Not outside, of course.'

As Carter spoke, he and Lieutenant Brady had moved into the hall. Suddenly Carter stopped and stood looking at a tall vaselike affair standing near the door'an old-fashioned umbrella stand. There was a man's big black umbrella in the stand. Carter felt of it. It was still slightly damp.

'This must be Hill's umbrella,he said.He put it in the umbrella stand and dropped his wallet containing the money down in beside it.He felt around inside the stand.It's not here now though. I didn't think it would be.'

'Why not? asked Brady.

'Because Nan Darlton must have that money now,said Carter.Evidently the two men tried to force her to tell them where the money was hidden, but she couldn't because she didn't know. Likely those killers gave her up when they must have decided they had better get rid of Hill's body fast. The old business'produce the corpse before you can prove a murder. If Hill's body disappeared they would feel safer.'

'You mean they just left the house with the body, leaving the girl here?' demanded Brady.All she would have had to do was phone the police or yell for help.'

'The police are here now,said Carter grimly.And if your boys didn't believe me, not one of us could prove there had been a murder in this house tonight. Suppose Nan Darlton told you what had happened. What would you think, Lieutenant?'

'That the dame was crazy,Brady said frankly.But if she found the money, where is she? And how did she happen to look in the umbrella stand?'

'I'd say her first impulse was to get out of the house before those killers came back after getting rid of the body,said Carter.So when she started to leave, knowing it's still snowing, she grabbed up the first umbrella she saw. Hill's. Maybe the wallet was caught in the umbrella. She found the money, then decided not to take the umbrella when she left.'

'Sounds possible,' said Brady.Any idea where she might have gone?'

'I think so.Carter nodded.She would want to hide the money where it wouldn't be easily found, and she asked Quinn about Dan Grover, a tailor. Yes, that's it.'

Carter opened the front door. Brady gaped at him in amazement.

'Where are you going?demanded the Lieutenant.

'To find the girl,said Carter.And I'd better go alone.'

Carter hurried to the tailor shop on Third Avenue, three blocks away, about which old Quinn had told him. It was nearly midnight and most of the shops were dark but he found a faint light still gleaming through the crack of a drawn blind at the front of a store which had a sign reading:

DAVE GROVER, TAILOR
FURS REMODELED
PRESSING AND REPAIRING

The door was closed but unlocked. Carter pushed it open and stepped silently inside. There was a counter across the front room of the shop and clothes hung from hangers on a long rack at one side. He heard voices coming from a rear room behind the counter.

'You'll do as I say,came the voice of Nan Darlton, and she sounded hysterical.Sew that money into the lining of my coat'and hurry!'

'But I can't do this,protested a man's voice.You must have stolen the money or you would not be hiding it. This is against the law.'

THE detective moved silently around the counter to where he could peer into the back room without being seen. He saw a heavy-faced, thin-haired man with a black mustache seated at a sewing machine. Dan Grover was in his shirt sleeves and he was sewing paper money into the lining of a gray fur coat.

Nan stood behind him, tall and slender in her low -cut red evening gown, and she was holding an automatic in one hand and more paper money in the other.

'Drop that gun, Miss Darlton!Carter said sharply, as he stepped into the room, his right hand in the side pocket of his coat.I've got you covered.'

Nan gasped and lowered the automatic. The tailor stopped the sewing machine and looked up, startled.

'Mr. Carter!There was relief in Nan's tone as she recognized him.I thought you were dead. Those awful men said they were going to kill you when they got you away from the house.'

'They intended to let me freeze to death,said Carter.But I regained consciousness sooner than they expected.He glanced at the money and smiled.So you did find your uncle's wallet in the umbrella stand.'

'How did you know? Nan looked at him in amazement.

'I just guessed,said Carter.

'And weren't we dumb!said a hard voice behind him.

He shot a glance over his shoulder. Tony Small and Hap Reed stood there with guns in their hands. Both looked mean and dangerous.

'Good thing we kept out of sight when we saw the cops at the house when we went back there,Small growled.And trailing you here was a blame fine idea, Carter.'

'Get the money, Tony, ordered Reed.And don't talk so much.'

'Quite a haul you're making,commented Carter.There must be ten grand there, and with the other ten thousand your pal Reed lifted off the corpse when you weren't looking, Tony, you boys should be quite rich.'

He was deliberately trying to stir up trouble between the two killers by claiming that Reed had taken ten thousand dollars from the dead man's body. Evidently Small did not trust his partner, for he glared at the big man.

'What's this about you holding out some of the dough?he demanded.You sent me out of the room after you stabbed Hill. Maybe Carter knows what he is talking about.'

'He's lying!Hap Reed said impatiently.Get the money and don't argue.'

Small stepped forward, ripped the half-sewed lining of the coat and got the money. Nan still held a bundle of bills in her left hand. The gun in her right hand was hidden by her skirt as she held the automatic down beside her. Carter moved closer to her. Reed glanced at the money in her hand.

'Give me that dough!he ordered curtly. Nan flung the money into his face. At the same instant Carter grabbed the gun out of her hand. He fired and Small uttered a howl as a bullet nicked his ear. He turned and ran back into a hallway beyond the back room, but held on to most of the money in his hand. Reed brushed the money that Nan had thrown at him aside. It slid off his body like greensnow.Theycouldhearfootsteps pounding up a flight of stairs.

'Small probably will duck out with the money he's got,Carter said.I'm afraid he doesn't trust you, Hap.'

Reed cursed as though he believed the same thing about his partner. He had lowered his gun, for Carter had him covered. The detective stepped forward, and as he moved he slipped on some of the paper money scattered on the floor. He went down hard, jarring his elbow so that it knocked the gun out of his hand.

'Got you!snarled Reed, raising his gun and aiming it at Carter.I'm going to put a bullet in you right now!'

Nan had moved back, and now was close to a light switch that controlled the single green-shaded drop-light burning in the back room. She pushed the switch, plunging the room into darkness just a moment before Reed fired. Carter rolled over, heard the gun roar and a bullet thud into the wall as it missed him by inches.

He heard Reed moving back into the rear hall of the five-story building. Evidently the killer wasn't taking any chances of Carter grabbing up his gun and firing at him in the dark. Again there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs leading to the apartments above the shops on the street floor of the building.

'All right, Nan!Carter called, as he got to his feet.Switch on the light.'

NAN pushed the button.The green-shaded drop-light cast a white glow over the room. Hap Reed was gone. The money was still scattered about on the floor. The tailor got up from the machine and began to gather up the bills.

Carter examined the automatic he had taken from the girl and decided it was a good thing that Nan had turned out the light. For he saw at once that the automatic was empty.

'I haven't got a gun!muttered Carter.And there are no more cartridges in this.'

'I've got one!Grover exclaimed. He leaped to a drawer and drew out a long-barreled revolver.This is loaded.'

'Thanks.Carter put down the automatic and took the revolver.I'm going after those two now.'

He made sure the gun he now held was loaded, then went back and started up the stairs.

He went up as quietly as possible, and reached the second floor hall. Evidently most of the apartments were vacant or no one had heard the two shots that had come from the tailor shop. For there were no doors open and no curious faces were peering out.

Carter moved along the hall. He paused in front of a door that was open just a crack. Angry voices came from inside. Small and Reed were in there arguing.

'What did you do with the rest of the dough?Small snarled.Tell me'or I'll plug you!'

'There wasn't any more dough,whined Reed.That detective was lying about that, Tony.'

'Says you!Small cursed to emphasize his disbelief.This is it, Hap!'

A gun roared, and there was the thud as someone hit the floor hard. Carter flung the door open. He stood there covering Tony Small with the revolver in his hand. Reed was on the floor, clutching a wounded shoulder with one hand.

'Drop that gun, Small!commanded Carter.

Small foolishly tried to raise his automatic and fire. Carter shot the weapon out of his hand. There were voices downstairs, and then Lieutenant Brady and the men of the Homicide Squad appeared. John Quinn was with them.

'The police came over to your place,the little old man said to Carter.They were questioning the people in the neighborhood. I didn't know where you had gone, of course, but I did remember you wanting to know this tailor's address. I thought you might have come here to question Dan Grover about something.'

'And you were right.Carter smiled.There are your killers, Brady. They'll tell you what they did with Joe Hill's body. I'm sure of that.'

'So am I,Lieutenant Brady said grimly.Take them away, boys.'

Carter and Quinn went back down into the tailor shop. Nan was there, talking to Grover. She had what money had been dropped there in her hand. Carter had gathered up the rest before the prisoners had been taken away.

'I'm sorry I forced you to sew that money into the lining of my coat, Mr. Grover,Nan said, smiling at the tailor.But I thought those men would never look for it there.'

'The lining is still ripped,said Grover, as he started the machine and began sewing.This will only take a few minutes.'

He finished the job quickly. Nan handed Carter the money.

'Please keep this for me,she said. I was Uncle Joe's only living relation.' I guess the money goes to me eventually, but you might need it for evidence against those men.'

'Probably.' Carter took the money and placed it in his pockets.Would you all care to drop into my place for a drink now?He felt young and more interested in life than he had been for a long time as he gazed at Nan.That means you, too, Grover.'

'Why, yes,Nan said as though he had spoken to her alone.I'd love it.'

Quinn and the tailor nodded. The little old man smiled.

'Besides I must go back and get Sandy,he said.He'll be so interested when I tell him about all this. Murder is so exciting!'