Ellery Queen’s Anthology. Volume 12, 1967

COPYRIGHT NOTICES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Grateful acknowledgment is hereby made for permission to reprint the following:

Murder Is a Public Matter by Ross Macdonald; copyright 1948 by Kenneth Millar; reprinted by permission of Harold Ober Associates Inc.

Hurry, Hurry, Hurry! by Paul Gallico; copyright 1956 by Paul Gallico; reprinted by permission of Harold Ober Associates Inc.

The Man Who Sang in Church by Edgar Wallace; copyright 1927 by Edgar Wallace; copyright renewed 1955 by Patricia Marion Caldecott Frere; reprinted by permission of Brandt & Brandt.

The Earring by Cornell Woolrich; copyright 1943 by Cornell Woolrich; reprinted by permission of the author.

Dark Journey by Francis Iles; copyright 1934 by Anthony Berkeley Cox, renewed; reprinted by permission of the author.

The Patron Saint of the Impossible by Rufus King; © 1958 by Davis Publications, Inc.; reprinted by permission of Paul R. Reynolds, Inc.

Miss Phipps Goes to School by Phyllis Bentley; © 1957 by Mercury Publications, Inc.; reprinted by permission of A. D. Peters Sc Co.

The Greatest Monster of Them All by Bryce Walton; © 1959 by Bryce Walton; reprinted by permission of Theron Raines.

Mithridates the King by Morley Roberts; reprinted by permission of Helena Ward and A. P. Watt & Son.

The Bluebeard Murderer by Quentin Reynolds; © 1936 by Crowell-Collier Publishing Co., renewed; reprinted by permission of Littauer Sc Wilkinson.

Eva? Caroline? by Allan Vaughan Elston; © 1949 by Crowell-Collier Publishing Co.; reprinted by permission of Paul R. Reynolds, Inc.

Midnight Adventure by Michael Arlen; copyright 1938 by Michael Arlen, renewed; reprinted by permission of A. Watkins, Inc.

Dinner for Two by Roy Vickers; copyright 1948 by The American Mercury, Inc.; reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.

Adventure of the Martian Crown Jewels by Poul Anderson; © 1958 by Mercury Publications, Inc.; reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

Open File by Richard Deming; copyright 1953 by Mercury Publications, Inc.; reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

Soho Night’s Entertainment by Frank Swinnerton; © 1957 by Frank Swinnerton; reprinted by permission of Hope Leresche & Steele.

Miser’s Gold by Ellery Queen; copyright 1950, 1954 by Ellery Queen; reprinted by permission of the author.

Immune to Murder by Rex Stout; copyright 1955 by Rex Stout; reprinted by permission of the author.

Editors’ Note

Dear Reader:

This is the 12th in EQMM’s series of original paperback anthologies, now published twice a year...

The Editors’ Note intended for this anthology was ready to be set in type when we read a review in the February 13, 1966 issue of “Book Week,” the Sunday literary supplement of the New York “Herald Tribune.” After “counting to ten” (slowly) we decided to write a new introduction for this anthology.

The review that so upset us was written by Kenneth Lamott on Helen MacInnes’ novel titled The Double Image. The first paragraph of the review read: “On occasion, being bed-bound for a day or trapped in the cabin of a transcontinental airliner, I have read a suspense novel. Except under such desperate circumstances, I haven’t found much entertainment in these books, for, with the exceptions of A Coffin for Demetrios [sic] and The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, I can’t remember any that didn’t seem to be all machinery and travelogue, without any of the saving graces that can make novel-reading a positive pleasure rather than an anesthetic.”

The paragraph is, to say the least, distressing. Surely no one would quarrel with Mr. Lamott’s right to his own opinion — indeed, fans and aficionados the world over would fight for Mr. Lamott’s right to express his opinion. But valid questions do arise: Why should “Book Week” assign a suspense novel to a critic like Mr. Lamott who obviously has a deep antipathy and/or repugnance and/or aversion to the mystery story, who apparently has little (very little!) knowledge and/or appreciation of the origins and development of the genre, who is so far from the mainstream of the genre that he is literally “up the crick”? And why should Mr. Lamott, fully aware of his lack of sympathy for the form and his inadequate exposure to the best examples of the form, undertake to review such a book? Why didn’t he simply disqualify himself?

Mr. Lamott finished his review with this sentence: “In the end it struck me that Edmund Wilson’s cranky question, ‘Who cares who killed Roger Ackroyd?’ is still very much to the point.” Yes, we agree that Edmund Wilson’s “cranky question” should be asked — again and again and again — indeed, it cannot be asked too often. But we think it’s high time for the question to be answered. Who cares who killed Roger Ackroyd? Millions of intelligent people throughout the world care. But Mr. Lamott (and, unfortunately, too many other critics who think they “go slumming” when they condescend to read and review the detective-mystery story) just don’t care about millions of intelligent people. Dear Reader, be kind to Mr. Lamott and his partners-in-crime — for they know not what they say.

As in the 11 preceding anthologies, we bring you another ’tec triangle of stories. The first angle is that perennial and universal favorite — adventures and memoirs of such world-famous series-detectives as

Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe

Ross Macdonald’s Lew Archer

Roy Vickers’ Department of Dead Ends

Edgar Wallace’s The Three Just Men

Ellery Queen’s E.Q.

The second angle also consists of detective and crime stories — not about series-characters, but written by such celebrated mystery mathematicians as

Cornell Woolrich

Francis Iles

Rufus King

The third angle contains tales of detection, murder, and suspense by non-mystery authors who did not feel that “they stooped to conquer” — such literary figures as

Phyllis Bentley

Frank Swinnerton

Quentin Reynolds

Michael Arlen

Paul Gallico

And now, for the 12th time in this series, we give you Ellery Queen’s ’Tec Theorem, the EQ equation:

EQA = 2eq

or, Ellery Queen’s Anthology is always equal to 2 editorial qualifications: (1) every story must meet the twin standards of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine so conscientiously upheld these past 26 years — high quality or high professionalism of writing, and superior craftsmanship or superior originality in plotting; (2) not a single story in this book has ever appeared in any of the 43 anthologies previously edited by

Ellery Queen

Ross Macdonald

Murder Is a Public Matter

Lew Archer, private eye, merely dropped in to see his old war buddy, Hugh Western, a talented artist and a demon with the ladies. But first Lew met a bearded nude (resist that opening if you can!).

A hard, tough (in the best senses of both words) short novel by the man who — as virtually all critics agree — has inherited the mantles of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, and whose work represents the best in its field being written today...

* * *

The unlatched door swung inward when I knocked. I walked into the studio, which was as high and dim as a hayloft. The big north window in the opposite wall was hung with monk’s-cloth drapes that shut out the morning light. I found the switch next to the door and snapped it on. Several fluorescent tubes suspended from the naked rafters flickered and burned blue-white.

A strange woman faced me under the cruel light. She was only a charcoal sketch on an easel, but she gave me a chill. Her nude body, posed casually on a chair, was slim and round and pleasant to look at. But her face wasn’t pleasant at all. Bushy black eyebrows almost hid her eyes. A walrus mustache bracketed her mouth, and a thick beard fanned down over her torso.

The door creaked behind me. The girl who appeared in the doorway wore a starched white uniform. Her face had a little starch in it, too, though not enough to spoil her good looks. Her black hair was drawn back severely.

“May I ask what you’re doing here?” she said brusquely.

“You may ask. I’m looking for Mr. Western.”

“Really? Have you tried looking behind the pictures?”

“Does he spend much of his time there?”

“No, and another thing he doesn’t do — he doesn’t receive visitors in his studio when he isn’t here himself.”

“Sorry. The door was open, so I walked in.”

“You can now reverse the process.”

“Just a minute. Hugh isn’t sick?”

She glanced down at her white uniform, then shook her head.

“Are you a friend of his?” I said.

“I try to be.” She smiled slightly.

“It isn’t always easy, with a sib. I’m his sister.”

“Not the one he was always talking about?”

“I’m the only one he has.”

I reached back into my mental grab bag of war souvenirs. “Mary. The name was Mary.”

“It still is Mary. Are you a friend Of Hugh’s?”

“I guess I qualify. I used to be.”

“When?” The question was sharp. I got the impression she didn’t approve of Hugh’s friends.

“In the Philippines. He was attached to my group as a combat artist. My name is Archer, by the way — Lew Archer.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Her disapproval didn’t extend to me — at least, not yet. She gave me her hand. It was cool and firm, and went with her steady gaze.

“Hugh gave me the wrong impression of you,” I said, “I thought you were still a kid in school.”

“That was four years ago, remember. People grow up in four years. Anyway, some of them do.”

She was a very serious girl for her age. I changed the subject. “I saw the announcement of his one-man show in the L.A. papers. I’m driving through to San Francisco, and I thought I’d look him up.”

“I know he’ll be glad to see you. I’ll go and wake him. He keeps the most dreadful hours. Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Archer?”

I had been standing with my back to the bearded nude, more or less consciously shielding her from it. When I moved aside and she saw it, she didn’t turn a hair.

“What next?” was all she said.

But I couldn’t help wondering what had happened to Hugh Western’s sense of humor. I looked around the room for something that might explain the ugly sketch.

It was a typical working-artist’s studio. The tables and benches were cluttered with things that are used to make pictures: palettes and daubed sheets of glass, sketch pads, scratchboards, bleeding tubes of paint. Pictures in half a dozen mediums and half a dozen stages of completion hung on or leaned against the burlap-covered walk Some of them looked wild and queer to me, but none so wild and queer as the sketch on the easel.

There was one puzzling thing in the room, besides the pictures. The wooden door frame was scarred with a row of deep round indentations, four of them. They were new, and about on a level with my eyes. They looked as if an incredible fist had struck the wood a superhuman blow.

“He isn’t in his room,” the girl said from the doorway. Her voice was very carefully controlled.

“Maybe he got up early.”

“His bed hasn’t been slept in. He’s been out all night.”

“I wouldn’t worry. After all, he’s an adult.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t always act like one.” A deep feeling buzzed under her calm tone. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or anger. “He’s twelve years older than I am, and still a boy at heart. A middle-aging boy.”

“I know what you mean. I was his unofficial keeper for a while. I guess he’s a genius, or pretty close to it, but he needs somebody to tell him to come in out of the rain.”

“Thank you for informing me. I didn’t know.”

“Now don’t get peeved at me.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose I’m a little upset.”

“Has he been giving you a bad time?”

“Not really. Not lately, that is. He’s come down to earth since he got engaged to Alice. But he still makes the weirdest friends. He can tell a fake Van Gogh with his eyes shut, literally, but he has no discrimination about people at all.”

“You wouldn’t be talking about me?”

“No.” She smiled again. I liked her smile. “I guess I acted terribly suspicious when I walked in on you. Some pretty dubious characters come to see him.”

“Anyone in particular?” I said it lightly. Just above her head I could see the giant fist-mark on the door frame.

Before she could answer, a siren bayed in the distance. She tilted her head. “Ten to one it’s for me.”

“Police?”

“Ambulance. The police sirens have a different tone. I am an x-ray technician at the hospital, so I’ve learned to listen for the ambulance. And I’m on call this morning.”

I followed her into the hall. “Hugh’s show opens tonight. He’s bound to come back for that.”

She turned at the opposite door, her face brightening. “You know, he may have spent the night working in the gallery. He’s awfully fussy about how his pictures are hung.”

“Why don’t I phone the gallery?”

“There’s never anybody in the office till nine.” She looked at her unfeminine steel wrist watch. “It’s twenty to.”

“When did you last see him?”

“At dinner last night. We ate early. He went back to the gallery after dinner. He said he was only going to work a couple of hours.”

“And you stayed here?”

“Until about eight, when I was called to the hospital. I didn’t get home until quite late, and I thought he was in bed.” She looked at me uncertainly, with a little wrinkle of doubt between her straight eyebrows. “Could you be cross-questioning me?”

“Sorry. It’s my occupational disease.”

“What do you do in real life?”

“Isn’t this real?”

“I mean now you’re out of the Army. Are you a lawyer?”

“A private detective.”

“Oh. I see.” The wrinkle between her eyebrows deepened.

“But I’m on vacation,” I said hopefully.

A phone burred behind her apartment door. She went to answer it, and came back wearing a coat. “It was for me. Somebody fell out of a loquat tree and broke a leg. You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Archer.”

“Wait a second. If you’ll tell me where the art gallery is, I’ll see if Hugh’s there now.”

“Of course, you don’t know San Marcos.”

She led me to the French windows at the rear end of the hall. They opened on a blacktop parking space which was overshadowed on the far side by a large stucco building, the shape of a flattened cube. Outside the windows was a balcony from which a concrete staircase slanted down to the parking lot. She stepped outside and pointed to the stucco cube.

“That’s the gallery. You can take a shortcut down the alley to the front.”

A tall young man in a black leotard was polishing a red convertible in the parking lot. He struck a pose, in the fifth position, and waved his hand: “Bon jour, Marie.”

“Bon jour, my phony Frenchman.” There was an edge of contempt in her good humor. “Have you seen Hugh this morning?”

“Not I. Is the prodigal missing again?”

“I wouldn’t say missing—”

“I was wondering where your car was. It’s not in the garage.” His voice was much too musical.

“Who’s he?” I asked in an undertone.

“Hilary Todd. He runs the art shop downstairs. If the car’s gone, Hugh can’t be at the gallery. I’ll have to take a taxi to the hospital.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. There’s a cabstand across the street.” She added over her shoulder, “Call me at the hospital if you find Hugh.”

I went down the stairs to the parking lot. Hilary Todd was still polishing the hood of his convertible, though it shone like a mirror. His shoulders were broad and packed with shifting muscle. Some of the ballet boys were strong and could be dangerous. Not that he was a boy, exactly. He had a little round bald spot that gleamed like a silver dollar on the top of his head.

“Bon jour,” I said to his back.

“Yes?”

My French appeared to offend his ears. He turned and straightened. I saw how tall he was — tall enough to make me feel squat, though I was over six feet. He had compensated for the bald spot by growing sideburns. In combination with his liquid eyes they gave him a sort of Latin look.

“Do you know Hugh Western pretty well?”

“If it’s any concern of yours.”

“It is.”

“Now why would that be?”

“I asked the question, sonny. Answer it.”

He blushed and lowered his eyes, as if I had been reading his evil thoughts. He stuttered a little. “I... well, I’ve lived below him for a couple of years. I’ve sold a few of his pictures. Why?”

“I thought you might know where he is, even if his sister doesn’t.”

“How should I know where he is? Are you a policeman?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not at all, you mean?” He regained his poise. “Then you have no right to take this overbearing attitude. I know absolutely nothing about Hugh. And I’m very busy.”

He turned abruptly and continued his polishing job, his fine useless muscles writhing under the leotard.

I walked down the narrow alley which led to the street. Through the cypress hedge on the left I caught a glimpse of umbrella-tables growing like giant multicolored mushrooms in a restaurant patio. In the other side was the wall of the gallery, its white blankness broken by a single iron-barred window above the level of my head.

The front of the gallery was Greek-masked by a high-pillared porch. A broad flight of concrete steps rose to it from the street. A girl was standing at the head of the steps, half leaning on one of the pillars.

She turned toward me, and the slanting sunlight aureoled her bare head. She had a startling kind of beauty: yellow hair, light hazel eyes, brown skin. She filled her tailored suit like sand in a sack — solidly.

“Good morning,” I said.

She pretended not to hear. Her right foot was tapping the pavement impatiently. I crossed the porch to the high bronze door and pushed. It didn’t give.

“There’s nobody here yet,” she said. “The gallery doesn’t open until ten.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I happen to work here.”

“Why don’t you open up?”

“I have no key. In any case,” she added primly, “we don’t allow visitors before ten.”

“I’m not a tourist — at least, not at the moment. I came to see Mr. Western.”

“Hugh?” She looked at me directly for the first time. “Hugh’s not here. He lives around the corner on Rubio Street.”

“I just came from there.”

“Well, he isn’t here.” She gave the word a curious emphasis. “There’s nobody here but me. And I won’t be here much longer if Dr. Silliman doesn’t come.”

“Silliman?”

“Dr. Silliman is our curator.” She made it sound as if she owned the gallery. After a while she said in a softer voice, “Why are you looking for Hugh? Do you have some business with him?”

“Western’s an old friend of mine.”

“Really?”

She suddenly lost interest in the conversation. We stood together in silence for several minutes. I watched the Saturday-morning crowd on the street: women in slacks, women in shorts and dirndls, a few men in ten-gallon hats, a few in berets. Nearly half the cars in the road carried out-of-state licenses. San Marcos was a unique blend of western border town, ocean resort, and artist’s colony.

A small man in a purple corduroy jacket detached himself from the crowd and bounded up the steps. His movements were quick as a monkey’s. His lined face had a simian look, too. A brush of frizzled gray hair added about three inches to his height.

“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting, Alice.”

She made a nada gesture. “It’s perfectly all right. This gentleman is a friend of Hugh’s.”

He turned to me. His smile went on and off. “Good morning, sir. What was the name?”

I told him. He shook my hand. His fingers were like thin steel hooks.

“Western ought to be here at any minute. Have you tried his flat?”

“Yes. His sister thought he might have spent the night in the gallery.”

“Oh, but that’s impossible. You mean he didn’t come home last night?”

“Apparently not.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” the blonde girl said.

“I didn’t know you were interested.”

“Alice has every right to be interested.” Silliman’s eyes glowed with a gossip’s second-hand pleasure. “She and Hugh are going to be married. Next month, isn’t it, Alice? Do you know Miss Turner, by the way, Mr. Archer?”

“Hello, Mr. Archer.” Her voice was shallow and hostile. I gathered that Silliman had somehow embarrassed her.

“I’m sure he’ll be along shortly,” he said reassuringly. “We still have some work to do on the program for the private showing tonight. Will you come in and wait?”

I said I would.

He took a heavy key ring out of his jacket pocket and unlocked the bronze door, relocking it behind us. Alice Turner touched a switch which lit up the high-ceilinged lobby and the Greek statues standing like frozen sentinels along the walls. There were several nymphs and Venuses in marble, but I was more interested in Alice. She had everything the Venuses had, and the added advantage of being alive. She also had Hugh Western, it seemed, and that surprised me. He was a little old for her, and a little used. She didn’t look like one of those girls who’d have to settle for an aging bachelor. But then Hugh Western had talent.

She removed a bundle of letters from the mailbox and took them into the office which opened off the lobby. Silliman turned to me with another monkey grin.

“She’s quite a girl, isn’t she? And she comes from a very good family, an excellent family. Her father, the Admiral, is one of our trustees, you know, and Alice has inherited his interests in the arts. Of course she has a more personal interest now. Had you known of their engagement?”

“I haven’t seen Hugh for years — not since the war.”

“Then I should have held my tongue and let him tell you himself.”

As we were talking he led me through the central gallery, which ran the length of the building like the nave of a church. To the left and right, in what would have been the aisles, the walls of smaller exhibition rooms rose halfway to the ceiling. Above them was a mezzanine reached by an open staircase.

He started up it, still talking. “If you haven’t seen Hugh since the war, you’ll be interested in the work he’s been doing lately.”

I was interested though not for artistic reasons. The wall of the mezzanine was hung with twenty-odd paintings: landscapes, portraits, groups of semi-abstract figures, and more abstract still lifes. I recognized some of the scenes he had sketched in the Philippine jungle, transposed into the permanence of oil. In the central position there was a portrait of a bearded man whom I’d hardly have known without the label, Self-Portrait.

Hugh had changed. He had put on weight and lost his youth entirely. There were vertical lines in his forehead, gray flecks in his hair and beard. The light-colored eyes seemed to be smiling sardonically. But when I looked at them from another angle, they were bleak and somber. It was a face a man might see in his bathroom mirror on a cold gray hangover morning.

I turned to the curator hovering at my elbow. “When did he raise the beard?”

“A couple of years ago, I believe, shortly after he joined us as resident painter.”

“Is he obsessed with beards?”

“I don’t quite know what you mean.”

“Neither do I. But I came across a funny thing in his studio this morning. A sketch of a woman, a nude, with a heavy black beard. Does that make any sense to you?”

The old man smiled. “I’ve long since given up trying to make sense out of Hugh. He has his own esthetic logic, I suppose. But I’d have to see this sketch before I could form an opinion. He may have simply been doodling.”

“I doubt it. It was big, and carefully done.” I brought out the question that had been nagging at the back of my mind. “Is there something the matter with him — I mean, emotionally?”

His answer was positive. “Certainly not! He’s simply wrapped up in his work, and he lives by impulse. He’s never on time for appointments.” He looked at his watch. “He promised last night to meet me here this morning at nine and it’s almost nine thirty.”

“When did you see him last night?”

“I left the key of the gallery with him when I went home for dinner. He wanted to change some of the paintings. About eight or a little later he walked over to my house to return the key. We have only the one key, since we can’t afford a watchman.”

“Did he say where he was going after that?”

“He had an appointment, but he didn’t say with whom. It seemed to be urgent, since he wouldn’t stop for a drink. Well,” He glanced at his watch again. “I suppose I’d better be getting down to work, Hugh Western or no Hugh Western.”

Alice was waiting for us at the foot of the stairs. Both her hands gripped the wrought-iron bannister as if she needed it to hold her up. Her voice was no more than a whisper, but it seemed to fill the great room with leaden echoes.

“Dr. Silliman. The Chardin’s gone.”

He stopped so suddenly I nearly ran him down. “That’s impossible.”

“I know. But it’s gone, frame and all.”

He bounded down the remaining steps and disappeared into one of the smaller rooms under the mezzanine. Alice followed him more slowly. I caught up with her.

“There’s a picture missing?”

“Father’s best picture, one of the best Chardins in the country. He lent it to the gallery for a month.”

“Is it worth a lot of money?”

“Yes, it’s very valuable. But it means a lot more to father than the money—” She turned in the doorway and gave me a closed look, as if she’d realized she was telling her family secrets to a stranger.

Silliman was standing with his back to us, staring at a blank space on the opposite wall. He looked badly shaken when he turned around.

“I told the Board that we should install a burglar alarm — the insurance people recommended it. But Admiral Turner was the only one who supported me. Now of course they’ll be blaming me.” His nervous eyes roved around and paused on Alice. “And what is your father going to say?”

“He’ll be sick.” She looked sick herself.

They were getting nowhere, so I cut in, “When did you see it last?”

Silliman answered. “Yesterday afternoon, about five thirty. I showed it to a visitor just before we closed. We check the visitors very carefully from the office, since we have no guards.”

“Who was the visitor?”

“A lady — an elderly lady from Pasadena. She’s above suspicion, of course. I escorted her out myself, and she was the last one in. I know that for a fact.”

“Aren’t you forgetting Hugh?”

“By George, I was. He was here until eight last night. But you surely don’t suggest that Western took it? He’s our resident painter, he’s devoted to the gallery.”

“He might have been careless. If he was working on the mezzanine and left the door unlocked—”

“He always kept it locked,” Alice said coldly. “Hugh isn’t careless about the things that matter.”

“Is there another entrance?”

“No,” Silliman said. “The building was planned for security. There’s only the one window in my office, and it’s heavily barred. We do have an air-conditioning system, but the inlets are much too small for anyone to get through.”

“Let’s have a look at the window.”

The old man was too upset to question my authority. He led me through a storeroom stacked with old gilt-framed pictures whose painters deserved to be “hung,” if the pictures didn’t. The single casement in the office was shut and bolted behind a Venetian blind. I pulled the cord and peered out through the dusty glass. The vertical bars outside the window were no more than three inches apart. None of them looked as if it had been tampered with. Across the alley I could see a few tourists eating breakfast behind the restaurant hedge.

Silliman was leaning on the desk, one hand on the cradle of the phone. Indecision was twisting his face. “I do hate to call the police in a matter like this. I suppose I must, though, mustn’t I?”

Alice covered his hand with hers, the line of her back a taut curve across the desk. “Hadn’t you better talk to father first? He was here with Hugh last night — I should have remembered before. It’s barely possible he took the Chardin home with him.”

“Really? You really think so?” Silliman let go of the telephone and clasped his hands under his chin.

“It wouldn’t be like father to do that without letting you know. But die month is nearly up, isn’t it?”

“Three more days.” His hand returned to the phone. “Is the Admiral at home?”

“He’ll be down at the club by now. Do you have your car?”

“Not this morning.”

I made one of my famous quick decisions, the kind you wake up in the middle of the night regretting five years later. San Francisco could wait. My curiosity was touched, and something deeper than curiosity. Something of the responsibility I’d felt for Hugh in the Philippines, when I was the practical one and he was the evergreen adolescent who thought the jungle was as safe as a scene by Le Douanier Rousseau. Though we were nearly the same age, I’d felt like his elder brother. I still did.

“My car’s around the corner,” I said. “I’ll be glad to drive you.”

The San Marcos Beach Club was a long low building painted an unobtrusive green and standing well back from the road. Everything about it was unobtrusive, including the private policeman who stood inside the plate-glass doors and watched us come up the walk.

“Looking for the Admiral, Miss Turner? I think he’s up on the north deck.”

We crossed a tiled lanai shaded with potted palms, climbed a flight of stairs to a sun deck lined with cabanas. I could see the mountains that walled the city off from the desert in the northeast, and the sea below with its waves glinting like blue fish-scales. The swimming pool on the lee side of the deck was still and clear.

Admiral Turner was taking the sun in a canvas chair. He stood up when he saw us, a big old man in shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Sun and wind had reddened his face and crinkled the flesh around his eyes. Age had slackened his body, but there was nothing aged or infirm about his voice. It still held the brazen echo of command.

“What’s this, Alice? I thought you were at work.”

“We came to ask you a question, Admiral.” Silliman hesitated, coughing behind his hand. He looked at Alice.

“Speak out, man. Why is everybody looking so green around the gills?”

Silliman forced the words out. “Did you take the Chardin home with you last night?”

“I did not. Is it gone?”

“It’s missing from the gallery,” Alice said. She held herself uncertainly, as though the old man frightened her a little. “We thought you might have taken it.”

“Me take it? That’s absurd! Absolutely absurd and preposterous!” The short white hair bristled on his head. “When was it taken?”

“We don’t know exactly. It was gone when we opened the gallery.”

“Damn it, what’s going on?” He glared at her, then he glared at me from eyes like round blue gun muzzles. “And who the hell are you?”

He was only a retired admiral, and I’d been out of uniform for years; still he gave me a qualm.

Alice explained: “A friend of Hugh’s, Father. Mr. Archer.”

He didn’t offer his hand. I looked away. A woman in a white bathing suit was poised on the ten-foot board at the end of the pool. She took three quick steps and a bounce. Her body hung jackknifed in the air, straightened and dropped, then cut the water with hardly a splash.

“Where is Hugh?” the Admiral said petulantly. “If this is some of his carelessness, I’ll ream that son-of-a—”

“Father!”

“Don’t father me. Where is he, Allie? You ought to know if anyone does.”

“But I don’t.” She added in a small voice, “He’s been gone all night.”

“He has, has he?” The old man sat down suddenly, as if his legs were too weak to bear the weight of his emotions. “He didn’t say anything to me about going away.”

The woman in the white bathing suit came up the steps behind him. “Who’s gone?” she said.

The Admiral craned his wattled neck to look at her. She was worth the effort from anyone, though she wouldn’t see thirty again. Her dripping body was tanned and disciplined, full in the right places and narrow in the others. I didn’t remember her face, but her shape seemed familiar. Silliman introduced her as Admiral Turner’s wife. When she pulled off her rubber cap, her red hair flared like a minor conflagration.

“You won’t believe what they’ve been telling me, Sara. My Chardin’s been stolen.”

“Which one?”

“I only have one. The Apple on a Table.”

She turned on Silliman like a pouncing cat. “Is it insured?”

“For twenty-five thousand dollars. But I’m afraid it’s irreplaceable.”

“And who’s gone?”

“Hugh,” Alice said. “Of course it’s nothing to do with the picture.”

“You’re sure?” She turned to her husband with an intensity that made her almost ungainly. “Hugh was at the gallery when you dropped in there last night. You told me so yourself. And hasn’t he been trying to buy the Chardin?”

“I don’t believe it,” Alice said flatly. “He didn’t have the money.”

“I know that perfectly well,” Sara said. “He was acting as agent for someone. Wasn’t he, Johnston?”

“Yes,” the old man admitted. “He wouldn’t tell me who his principal was, which is one of the reasons I wouldn’t listen to the offer. Still, it’s foolish to jump to conclusions about Hugh. I was with him when he left the gallery, and I know for a fact he didn’t have the Chardin then. It was the last thing I looked at before we left.”

“What time did he leave you?”

“Some time around eight — I don’t remember exactly.” He seemed to be growing older and smaller under her questioning. “He walked with me as far as my car.”

“There was nothing to prevent him from walking right back, was there?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove,” Alice said.

The older woman smiled poisonously. “I’m simply trying to bring out the facts, so we’ll know what to do. I notice that no one has suggested calling the police.” She looked at each of the others in turn. “Well? Do we call them? Or do we assume as a working hypothesis that dear Hugh took the picture?”

Nobody answered her for a while. The Admiral finally broke the ugly silence. “We can’t bring in the authorities if Hugh’s involved. He’s virtually a member of the family.”

Alice put a grateful hand on his shoulder, but Silliman said uneasily, “We’ll have to take some steps. If we don’t make an effort to recover it, we may not be able to collect the insurance.”

“I realize that,” the Admiral said. “But we’ll have to take that chance.”

Sara Turner smiled with tight-lipped complacency. She’d won her point, though I still wasn’t sure what her point was. During the family argument I’d moved a few feet away, leaning on the railing at the head of the stairs.

She moved toward me now, her narrow eyes appraising me as if maleness was a commodity she prized.

“And who are you?” she said, her sharp smile widening.

I identified myself, but I didn’t smile back, She came up very close to me. I could smell the chlorine on her, and under it the not so very subtle odor of sex.

“You look uncomfortable,” she said. “Why don’t you come swimming with me?”

“My hydrophobia won’t let me. Sorry.”

“What a pity. I hate to do things alone.”

Silliman nudged me gently. He said in an undertone, “I really must be getting back to the gallery. I can call a cab if you prefer.”

“No, I’ll drive you.” I wanted a chance to talk to him in private.

There were quick footsteps in the patio below. I looked down and saw the partly naked crown of Hilary Todd’s head. At almost the same instant he glanced up at us, turned abruptly, and started to walk away; then he changed his mind when Silliman called down:

“Hello there. Are you looking for the Turners?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

From the corner of my eye I noticed Sara Turner’s reaction to the sound of his voice. She stiffened, and her hand went up to her flaming hair.

“They’re up here,” Silliman said.

Todd climbed the stairs with obvious reluctance. We passed him going down. In a pastel shirt and matching tie under a bright tweed jacket he looked very elegant, and very self-conscious and tense. Sara Turner met him at the head of the stairs. I wanted to linger a bit, but Silliman hustled me out.

“Mrs. Turner seems very much aware of Todd,” I said to him in the car. “Do they have things in common?”

He answered tartly, “I’ve never considered the question. They’re no more than casual acquaintances, so far as I know.”

“What about Hugh? Is he just a casual acquaintance of hers, too?”

He studied me for a minute as the convertible picked up speed. “You notice things, don’t you?”

“Noticing things is my business.”

“Just what is your business? You’re not an artist?”

“Hardly. I’m a private detective.”

“A detective?” He jumped in the seat, as if I had threatened to bite him. “You’re not a friend of Western’s then? Are you from the insurance company?”

“Not me. I’m a friend of Hugh’s, and that’s my only interest in this case. I more or less stumbled into it.”

“I see.” But he sounded a little dubious.

“Getting back to Mrs. Turner, she didn’t make that scene with her husband for fun. She must have had reason. Love or hate?”

Silliman held his tongue for a minute, but he couldn’t resist the chance to gossip. “I expect it’s a mixture of love and hate. She’s been interested in Hugh ever since the Admiral brought her here. She’s not a San Marcos girl, you know.” He seemed to take comfort from that. “She was a Wave officer in Washington during the war. The Admiral noticed her — Sara knows how to make herself conspicuous — and added her to his personal staff. When he retired he married her and came here to live in his family home. Alice’s mother has been dead for many years. Well, Sara hadn’t been here two months before she was making eyes at Hugh.” He pressed his lips together in spinsterly disapproval. “The rest is local history.”

“They had an affair?”

“A rather one-sided affair, so far as I could judge. She was quite insane about him. I don’t believe he responded, except in the physical sense. Your friend is quite a demon with the ladies.” There was a whisper of envy in Silliman’s disapproval

“But I understood he was going to marry Alice.”

“Oh, he is, he is. At least he certainly was until this dreadful business came up. His... ah... involvement with Sara occurred before he knew Alice. She was away at art school until a few months ago.”

“Does Alice know about his affair with her stepmother?”

“I suppose she does. I hear the two women don’t get along at all well, though there may be other reasons for that. Alice refuses to live in the same house — she’s moved into the gardener’s cottage behind the Turner house. I think her trouble with Sara is one reason why she came to work for me. Of course, there’s the money consideration, too. The Turners aren’t well off.”

“I thought they were rolling in it,” I said, “from the way he brushed off the matter of the insurance. Twenty-five thousand dollars, did you say?”

“Yes. He’s quite fond of Hugh.”

“If he’s not well heeled, how does he happen to have such a valuable painting?”

“It was a gift, when he married his first wife. Her father was in the French Embassy in Washington, and he gave them the Chardin as a wedding present. You can understand the Admiral’s attachment to it.”

“Better than I can his decision not to call in the police. How do you feel about that, Doctor?”

He didn’t answer for a while. We were nearing the center of the city and I had to watch the traffic. I couldn’t keep track of what went on in his face.

“After all it is his picture,” he said carefully. “And his prospective son-in-law.”

“You don’t think Hugh’s responsible, though?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m thoroughly confused. And I won’t know what to think until I have a chance to talk to Western.” He gave me a sharp look. “Are you going to make a search for him?”

“Somebody has to. I seem to be elected.”

When I let him out in front of the gallery, I asked him where Mary Western worked.

“The City Hospital.” He told me how to find it. “But you will be discreet, Mr. Archer? You won’t do or say anything rash? I’m in a very delicate position.”

“I’ll be very suave and bland.” But I slammed the door hard in his face.

There were several patients in the x-ray waiting room, in various stages of dilapidation and disrepair. The plump blonde at the reception desk told me Miss Western was in the dark room. Would I wait? I sat down and admired the way her sunburned shoulders glowed through her nylon uniform. In a few minutes Mary came into the room, starched and controlled and efficient-looking. She blinked in the strong light from the window. I got a quick impression that there was a lost child hidden within her.

“Have you seen Hugh?” she asked.

“No. Come out for a minute.” I took her elbow and drew her into the corridor.

“What is it?” Her voice was quiet but it had risen in pitch. “Has something happened to him?”

“Not to him. Admiral Turner’s picture’s been stolen from the gallery. The one they all call the Chardin.”

“But how does Hugh come into this?”

“Somebody seems to think he took it.”

“Somebody?”

“Mrs. Turner, to be specific.”

“Sara! She’d say anything to get back at him for ditching her.”

I filed that one away. “Maybe so. The fact is, the Admiral seems to suspect him, too. So much so that he’s keeping the police out of it.”

“Admiral Turner is a senile fool. If Hugh were here to defend himself—”

“But that’s the point. He isn’t.”

“I’ve got to find him.” She turned toward the door.

“It may not be so easy.”

She looked back in quick anger, her round chin prominent. “You suspect him too.”

“I do not. But a crime’s been committed, remember. Crimes often come in pairs.”

She turned, her eyes large and very dark. “You do think something has happened to my brother.”

“I don’t think anything. But if I was certain that he’s all right, I’d be on my way to San Francisco now.”

“You believe it’s as bad as that,” she said in a whisper. “I’ve got to go to the police.”

“It’s up to you. You’ll want to keep them out of it, though, if there’s the slightest chance—” I left the sentence unfinished.

She finished it: “That Hugh is a thief? There isn’t. But I’ll tell you what we’ll do. He may be up at his shack in the mountains. He’s gone off there before without telling anyone. Will you drive up with me?” She laid a light hand on my arm. “I can go myself if you have to get away.”

“I’m sticking around,” I said. “Can you get time off?”

“I’m taking it. All they can do is fire me, and there aren’t enough good technicians to go around. Anyway, I put in three hours overtime last night. Be with you in two minutes.”

I put the top of the convertible down. As we drove out of the city the wind blew away her smooth glaze of efficiency, colored her cheeks, and loosened her sleek hair.

“You should do this oftener,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Get out in the country and relax.”

“I’m not exactly relaxed, with my brother accused of theft — and missing.”

“Anyway, you’re not working. Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you work too hard?”

“Has it ever-occurred to you that somebody has to work or nothing will get done? You and Hugh are more alike than I thought.”

“In some ways that’s a compliment. But you make it sound like an insult.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. But Hugh and I are so different. I admit he works hard at his painting, but he’s never tried to make a steady living. Since I left school, I’ve had to look after the bread and butter for both of us. His salary as resident painter keeps him in artist’s supplies, and that’s about all.”

“I thought he was doing well. His show’s had a big advance buildup in the L.A. papers.”

“Critics don’t buy pictures,” she said bluntly. “He’s having the show to try and sell some paintings, so he can afford to get married. Hugh has suddenly realized that money is one of the essentials.” She added with some bitterness, “The realization came a little late.”

“He’s been doing some outside work, though, hasn’t he? Isn’t he a part-time agent or something?”

“For Hendryx, yes.” She made the name sound like a dirty word. “I’d just as soon he didn’t take any of that man’s money.”

“Who’s Hendryx?”

“A man.”

“I gathered that. What’s the matter with his money?”

“I really don’t know. I have no idea where it comes from. But he has it — plenty of it.”

“You don’t like him?”

“No. I don’t like him and I don’t like the men who work for him. They look like a gang of thugs to me. But Hugh wouldn’t notice that. He’s horribly dense where people are concerned. I don’t mean that Hugh’s done anything wrong,” she added quickly. “He’s bought a few paintings for Hendryx on commission.”

“I see.” But I didn’t like what I saw. “The Admiral said something about Hugh trying to buy the Chardin for an unnamed purchaser. Would that be Hendryx?”

“It could be,” she said.

“Tell me more about Hendryx.”

“I don’t know any more. I only met him once. That was enough. I know that he’s an evil old man, and he has a bodyguard who carries him upstairs.”

“Carries him upstairs?”

“Yes. He’s crippled. As a matter of fact, he offered me a job.”

“Carrying him upstairs?”

“He didn’t specify my duties. He didn’t get that far.” Her voice was so chilly it quick-froze the conversation. “Now could we drop the subject, Mr. Archer?”

The road had begun to rise toward the mountains. Yellow and black Slide Area signs sprung up along the shoulders. By holding the gas pedal nearly to the floor, I kept our speed around fifty.

“You’ve had quite a busy morning,” Mary said after a while, “meeting the Turners and all.”

“Social mobility is my stock in trade.”

“Did you meet Alice, too?”

I nodded.

“And what did you think of her?”

“I shouldn’t say it to another girl, but she’s a lovely one.”

“Vanity isn’t one of my vices,” Mary said. “She’s beautiful. And she’s really devoted to Hugh.”

“I gathered that.”

“I don’t think Alice has ever been in love before. And painting means almost as much to her as it does to him.”

“He’s a lucky man.” I remembered the disillusioned eyes in Hugh’s self-portrait, and hoped his luck was holding.

The road twisted and climbed through red clay cut banks and fields of dry chaparral.

“How long does this go on?” I asked.

“Another two miles.”

We zigzagged up the mountainside for ten or twelve minutes more. Finally the road began to level out. I was watching its edge so closely that I didn’t see the cabin until we were almost on top of it. It was a one-story frame building standing in a little hollow at the edge of the high mesa. Attached to one side was an open tarpaulin shelter from which the rear end of a gray coupe protruded. I looked at Mary.

She nodded. “It’s our car.” Her voice was bright with relief.

I stopped the convertible in the lane in front of the cabin. As soon as the engine died, the silence began. A single hawk high over our heads swung round and round on his invisible wire. Apart from that, the entire world seemed empty. As we walked down the ill-kept gravel drive, I was startled by the sound of my own footsteps.

The door was unlocked. The cabin had only one room. It was a bachelor hodgepodge, untouched by the human hand for months at a time. Cooking utensils, paint-stained dungarees, painter’s tools, and soiled bedding were scattered on the floor and furniture. There was an open bottle of whiskey, half — empty, on the kitchen table in the center of the room. It would have been just another mountain shack if it hadn’t been for the watercolors on the walls, like brilliant little windows, and the one big window which opened on the sky.

Mary had crossed to the window and was looking out. I moved up to her shoulder. Blue space fell away in front of us all the way down to the sea, and beyond to the curved horizon. San Marcos and its suburbs were spread out like an air-map between the sea and the mountains.

“I wonder where he can be,” she said. “Perhaps he’s gone for a walk. After all, he doesn’t know we’re looking for him.”

I looked down the mountainside, which fell almost sheer from the window.

“No,” I said. “He doesn’t.”

The red clay slope was sown with boulders. Nothing grew there except a few dust-colored mountain bushes... and a foot, wearing a man’s shoe, which projected from a cleft between two rocks.

I went out without a word. A path led round the cabin to the edge of the slope. Hugh Western was there, attached to the solitary foot. He was lying, or hanging, head down, with his face in the clay, about twenty feet below the edge. One of his legs was doubled under him. The other was caught between the boulders. I climbed around the rocks and bent down to look at his head.

The right temple was smashed. The face was smashed — I raised the rigid body to look at it. He had been dead for hours, but the sharp strong odor of whiskey still hung around him.

A tiny gravel avalanche rattled past me. Mary was at the top of the slope.

“Don’t come down here.”

She paid no attention to the warning. I stayed where I was, crouched over the body, trying to hide the ruined head from her. She leaned over the boulder and looked down, her eyes bright-black in her drained face. I moved to one side. She took her brother’s head in her hands.

“If you pass out,” I said, “I don’t know whether I can carry you up.”

“I won’t pass out.”

She lifted the body by the shoulders to look at the face. It was a little unsettling to see how strong she was. Her fingers moved gently over the wounded temple. “This is what killed him. It looks like a blow from a fist.”

I kneeled down beside her and saw the row of rounded indentations in the skull.

“He must have fallen,” she said, “and struck his head on the rocks. Nobody could have hit him that hard.”

“I’m afraid somebody did, though.” Somebody whose fist was hard enough to leave its mark in wood.

Two long hours later I parked my car in front of the art shop on Rubio Street. Its windows were jammed with Impressionist and Post-Impressionist reproductions, and one very bad original oil of surf as stiff and static as whipped cream. The sign above the windows was lettered in flowing script: Chez Hilary. The cardboard sign on the door was simpler and to the point. It said: Closed.

The stairs and hallway seemed dark, but it was good to get out of the sun. The sun reminded me of what I had found at high noon on the high mesa. It wasn’t the middle of the afternoon yet, but my nerves felt stretched and scratchy, as though it were late at night. And my eyes were aching.

Mary unlocked the door of her apartment, stepped aside to let me pass. She paused at the door of her room to tell me there was whiskey on the sideboard. I offered to make her a drink. No, thanks, she never drank. The door shut behind her. mixed a whiskey and water and tried to relax in an easy chair. But I couldn’t relax. My mind kept playing back the questions and the answers — and the questions that had no answers.

We had called the sheriff from the nearest fire warden’s post, led him and his deputies back up the mountain to the body. Photographs were taken, the cabin and its surroundings searched, and many questions were asked. Mary didn’t mention the Chardin. Neither did I.

Some of the questions were answered after the county coroner arrived. Hugh Western had been dead since eight or ten o’clock the previous night; the coroner couldn’t place the time more definitely before analyzing the stomach contents. The blow on the temple had killed him. The injuries to his face, which had failed to bleed, had probably been inflicted after death. Which meant that he was dead when his body fell — or was thrown — down the mountainside.

His clothes had been soaked with whiskey to make it look like a drunken accident. But the murderer had gone too far in covering, and had outwitted himself. The whiskey bottle in the cabin showed no fingerprints, not even Western’s. And there were no fingerprints on the steering wheel of his coupe. Bottle and wheel had been wiped clean.

I stood up when Mary came back into the room. She had brushed her black hair gleaming, and changed to a dress of soft black jersey which fitted her like skin. A thought raced through my mind like a nasty little rodent. I wondered what she would look like with a beard.

“Can I have another peek at the studio? I’m interested in that sketch.”

She stared at me for a moment, frowning a little dazedly. “Sketch?”

“The one of the lady with the beard.”

She crossed the hall ahead of me, walking slowly and carefully as if the floor was unsafe. The door of the studio was still unlocked. She held it open for me and pressed the light switch.

When the fluorescent lights blinked on, I saw that the picture of the bearded nude was gone. There was nothing left of her but four torn corners of drawing paper thumbtacked to the easel.

I turned to Mary. “Did you take it down?”

“No. I haven’t been in the studio since this morning.”

“Somebody’s stolen it then. Is there anything else missing?”

“I can’t be sure, it’s such a mess in here.” She moved around the room looking at the pictures on the walls and pausing finally by a table in the corner. “There was a bronze cast on this table. It isn’t here now.”

“What sort of cast?”

“The cast of a fist. Hugh made it from the fist of that man — that dreadful man I told you about.”

“What dreadful man?”

“I think his name is Devlin. He’s Hendryx’ bodyguard. Hugh’s always been interested in hands, and the man has enormous hands.”

Her eyes unfocused suddenly. I guessed she was thinking of the same thing I was: the marks on the side of Hugh’s head, which might have been made by a giant fist.

“Look.” I pointed to the scars on the door frame. “Could the cast of Devlin’s fist have made these marks?”

She felt the indentations with trembling fingers. “I think so.” She turned to me with a dark question in her eyes.

“If that’s what they are,” I said, “it probably means that he was killed in this studio. You should tell the police about it. And I think it’s time they knew about the Chardin.”

She gave me a look of passive resistance. Then she gave in. “Yes, I’ll have to tell them. They’ll find out soon enough, anyway. But I’m surer now than ever that Hugh didn’t take it.”

“What does the picture look like? If we could find it, we might find the killer attached to it.”

“You think so? Well, it’s a picture of a little boy looking at an apple. Wait a minute — Hilary has a copy. It was painted by one of the students at the college, and it isn’t very expert. It’ll give you an idea, though, if you want to go down to his shop and look at it.”

“The shop is closed.”

“He may be there anyway. He has a little apartment at the back.”

I started for the hall, but turned before I got there. “Just who is Hilary Todd?”

“I don’t know where he’s from originally. He was stationed here during the war, and simply stayed on. His parents had money at one time, and he studied painting and ballet in Paris, or so he claims.”

“Art seems to be the main industry in San Marcos.”

“You’ve just been meeting the wrong people.”

I went down the outside stairs to the parking lot. Todd’s convertible stood near the mouth of the alley. I knocked on the back door of the art shop. There was no answer, but behind the venetian-blinded door I heard a murmur of voices — a growling and a twittering. Todd had a woman with him. I knocked again.

After more delay the door was partly opened. Todd looked out through the crack. He was wiping his mouth with a red-stained handkerchief. The stains were too bright to be blood. Above the handkerchief his eyes were bright and narrow, like slivers of polished agate.

“Good afternoon.”

I moved forward as though I fully expected to be let in. He opened the door reluctantly under the nudging pressure of my shoulder, backed into a narrow passage between two wall board partitions.

“What can I do for you, Mr. — ? I don’t believe I know your name.”

Before I could answer, a woman’s voice said clearly, “It’s Mr. Archer, isn’t it?”

Sara Turner appeared in the doorway behind him, carrying a highball glass and looking freshly groomed. Her red hair was unruffled, her red mouth gleaming as if she had just finished painting it.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Archer.” She leaned in the doorway, almost too much at ease. “Do you know Hilary, Mr. Archer? You should. Everybody should. Hilary’s simply loaded and dripping with charm, aren’t you, dear?” Her mouth curled in a thin smile.

Todd looked at her with open hatred, then turned to me without changing his look. “Did you wish to speak to me?”

“I did. You have a copy of Admiral Turner’s Chardin?”

“A copy, yes.”

“Can I have a look at it?”

“What on earth for?”

“I want to be able to identify the original. It’s probably connected with the murder.”

I watched them both as I said the word. Neither showed surprise.

“We heard about it on the radio,” the woman said. “It must have been dreadful for you.”

“Dreadful,” Todd echoed her, injecting synthetic sympathy into his dark eyes.

“Worse for Western,” I said, “and for whoever did it. Do you still think he stole the picture, Mrs. Turner?”

Todd glanced at her sharply. She was embarrassed, as I’d intended her to be. She dunked her embarrassment in her highball glass, swallowing deeply from it and leaving a red half moon on its rim.

“I never thought he stole it,” her wet mouth lied. “I merely suggested the possibility.”

“I see. Didn’t you say something about Western trying to buy the picture from your husband? That he was acting as agent for somebody else?”

“I wasn’t the one who said that. I didn’t know it.”

“The Admiral said it then. It would be interesting to know who the other man was. He wanted the Chardin, and it looks to me as if Hugh Western died because somebody wanted the Chardin.”

Todd had been listening hard and saying nothing. “I don’t see any connection,” he said. “But if you’ll come in and sit down I’ll show you my copy.”

“You wouldn’t know who it was that Western was acting for?”

He spread his palms outward in a Continental gesture. “How would I know?”

“You’re in the picture business.”

“I was in the picture business.” He turned abruptly and left the room.

Sara Turner had crossed to a portable bar in the corner. She was-splintering ice with a silver-handled ice pick. “May I make you one, Mr. Archer?”,

“No, thanks.” I sat down in a cubistic chair designed for people with square corners, and watched her take half of her fresh highball in a single gulp. “What did Todd mean when he said he was in the picture business? Doesn’t he run this place?”

“He has to give it up. The boutique’s gone broke, and he’s going around testing shoulders to cry on.”

“Yours?” A queer kind of hostile intimacy had risen between us, and I tried to make the most of it.

“Where did you get that notion?”

“I thought he was a friend of yours.”

“Did you?” Her laugh was too loud to be pleasant. “You ask a great many questions, Mr. Archer.”

“They seem to be indicated. The cops in a town like this are pretty backward about stepping on people’s toes.”

“You’re not.”

“No. I’m just passing through. I can follow my hunches.”

“What do you hope to gain?”

“Nothing for myself. I’d like to see justice done.”

She sat down facing me, her knees almost touching mine. They were pretty knees, and uncovered. I felt crowded. Her voice, full of facile emotion, crowded me more.

“Were you terribly fond of Hugh?” she asked.

“I liked him.” My answer was automatic. I was thinking of something else: the way she sat in her chair with her knees together, her body sloping backward, sure of its firm lines. I’d seen the same pose in charcoal that morning.

“I liked him too,” she was saying. “Very much. And I’ve been thinking — I’ve remembered something. Something that Hilary mentioned a couple of weeks ago — about Walter Hendryx wanting to buy the Chardin. It seems Hugh and Walter Hendryx were talking in the shop—”

She broke off suddenly. She had looked up and seen Todd leaning through the doorway, his face alive with anger. His shoulders moved slightly in her direction. She recoiled, clutching her glass. If I hadn’t been there, he would have hit her. As it was, he said in monotone, “How cozy. Haven’t you had quite a bit to drink, Sara darling?”

She was afraid of him, but unwilling to admit it. “I have to do something to make present company bearable.”

“You should be thoroughly anesthetized by now.”

“If you say so, darling.”

She hurled her half-empty glass at the wall beside the door. It shattered, denting the wallboard and splashing a photograph of Nijinsky as the Faun. Some of the liquid splattered on Todd’s blue suede shoes.

“Very nice,” he said. “I love your girlish antics, Sara. I also love the way you run at the mouth.” He turned to me. “This is the copy, Mr. Archer. Don’t mind her, she’s just a weensy bit drunky.”

He held it up for me to see, an oil painting about a yard square showing a small boy in a blue waistcoat sitting at a table. In the center of the linen tablecloth there was a blue dish containing a red apple. The boy was looking at the apple as if he intended to eat it. The copyist had included the signature and date: Chardin, 1774.

“It’s not very good,” Todd said, “if you’ve ever seen the original. But of course you haven’t?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad. You probably never will now, and it’s really perfect. Perfect. It’s the finest Chardin west of Chicago.”

“I haven’t given up hope of seeing it.”

“You might as well, old boy. It’ll be well on its way by now, to Europe or South America. Picture thieves move fast, before the news of the theft catches up with them and spoils the market. They’ll sell the Chardin to a private buyer in Paris or Buenos Aires, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Why ‘they’?”

“Oh, they operate in gangs. One man can’t handle the theft and disposal of a picture by himself. Division of labor is necessary, and specialization.”

“You sound like a specialist yourself.”

“I am in a way.” He smiled obliquely. “Not in the way you mean. I was in museum work before the war.”

He stopped and propped the picture against the wall. I glanced at Sara Turner. She was hunched forward in her chair, still and silent, her hands spread over her face.

“And now,” he said to me, “I suppose you’d better go. I’ve done what I can for you. And I’ll give you a tip if you like. Picture thieves don’t commit murder — they’re simply not the type. So I’m afraid your precious hypothesis is based on bad information.”

“Thanks very much,” I said. “I certainly appreciate that. Also your hospitality.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He raised an ironic brow, and turned to the door. I followed him out through the deserted shop. Most of the stock seemed to be in the window. Its atmosphere was sad and broken-down — the atmosphere of an empty-hearted, unprosperous, second-rate Bohemia. Todd didn’t look around like a proprietor. He had already abandoned the place in his mind, it seemed.

He unlocked the front door. The last thing he said before he shut it behind me was:

“I wouldn’t go bothering Walter Hendryx about the story of Sara’s. She’s not a very trustworthy reporter, and Hendryx isn’t as tolerant of intruders as I am.”

So it was true.

I left my car where it was and crossed to a taxi stand on the opposite corner. There was a yellow cab at the stand, with a brown-faced driver reading a comic book behind the wheel. The comic book had dead women on the cover. The driver detached his hot eyes from its interior, leaned wearily over the back of the seat, and opened the door for me. “Where to?”

“A man called Walter Hendryx — know where he lives?”

“Off of Foothill Drive. I been up there before. It’s a two-fifty run — outside the city limits.” His New Jersey accent didn’t quite go with his Sicilian features.

“Newark?”

“Trenton.” He showed bad teeth in a good smile. “Want to make something out of it?”

“Nope. Let’s go.”

He spoke to me over his shoulder when we were out of the heavy downtown traffic. “You got your passport?”

“What kind of place are you taking me to?”

“They don’t like visitors. You got to have a visa to get in, and a writ of habeas corpus to get out. The old man’s scared of burglars or something.”

“Why?”

“He’s got about ten million reasons, the way I hear it. Ten million bucks.” He smacked his lips. “Where did he get it?”

“You tell me. I’ll drop everything and take off for the same place.”

“You and me both.”

“I heard he’s a big contractor in L.A.,” the driver said. “I drove a reporter up here a couple of months ago, from one of the L.A. papers. He was after an interview with the old guy — about a tax case.”

“A corporate tax?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s way over my head, friend, all that tax business. I have enough trouble with my own forms.”

“What happened to the reporter?”

“I drove him right back down. The old man wouldn’t see him. He likes his privacy.”

“I’m beginning to get the idea.”

“You a reporter, too, by any chance?”

“No.”

We left the city limits. The mountains rose ahead, violet and unshadowed in the sun’s lengthening rays. Foothill Drive wound through a canyon, across a high-level bridge, up the side of a hill from which the sea was visible like a low blue cloud on the horizon. We turned off the road through an open gate on which a sign was posted: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.

A second gate closed the road at the top of the hill. It was a double gate of wrought iron hung between a stone gatepost and a stone gatehouse. A heavy wire fence stretched out from it on both sides, following the contours of the hills as far as I could see. The Hendryx estate was about the size of a small European principality.

The driver honked his horn. A thick-waisted man in a Panama hat came out of the stone cottage. He waddled up to the cab and snapped, “Well?”

“I came to see Mr. Hendryx about a picture.”

He opened the cab door and looked me over, from eyes that were heavily shuttered with old scar tissue. “You ain’t the one that was here this morning.”

I had my first good idea of the day. “You mean the tall fellow with the sideburns?”

“Yeah.”

“I just came from him.”

He rubbed his heavy chin with his knuckles, making a rasping noise. The knuckles were jammed.

“I guess it’s all right,” he said finally. “Give me your name and I’ll phone it down to the house. You can drive down.”

He opened the gate and let us through into a shallow valley. Below, in a maze of shrubbery, a long low house was flanked by tennis courts and stables. Sunk in the terraced lawn behind the house was an oval pool like a wide green eye staring at the sky. A short man in bathing trunks was sitting in a Thinker pose on the diving board at one end.

He and the pool dropped out of sight as the cab slid down the eucalyptus-lined road. It stopped under a portico at the side of the house. A uniformed maid was waiting at the door.

“This is farther than that reporter got,” the driver said in an undertone. “You got connections?”

“The best people in town.”

“Mr. Archer?” the maid said. “Mr. Hendryx is having his swim. I’ll show you the way.”

I told the driver to wait, and followed her through the house. I saw when I stepped outside that the man on the diving board wasn’t short at all. He only seemed to be short because he was so wide. Muscle bulged out his neck, clustered on his shoulders and chest, encased his arms and legs. He looked like a graduate of Muscle Beach, a subman trying hard to be a superman.

There was another man floating in the water, the blotched brown swell of his stomach breaking the surface like the shellback of a Galapagos tortoise. Thinker stood up, accompanied by his muscles, and called to him, “Mr. Hendryx!”

The man in the water rolled over lazily and paddled to the side of the pool. Even his head was tortoiselike, seamed and bald and impervious-looking. He stood up in the waist-deep water and raised his thin brown arms. The other man bent over him. He drew him out of the water and steadied him on his feet, rubbing him with a towel.

“Thank you, Devlin.”

“Yessir.”

Leaning far forward with his arms dangling like a withered hairless ape, Hendryx shuffled toward me. The joints of his knees and ankles were knobbed and stiffened by what looked like arthritis. He peered up at me from his permanent crouch.

“You want to see me?” The voice that came out of his crippled body was surprisingly rich and deep. He wasn’t as old as he looked. “What is it?”

“A painting was stolen last night from the San Marcos gallery — Chardin’s Apple on a Table. I’ve heard that you were interested in it.”

“You’ve been misinformed. Good afternoon.” His face closed like a fist.

“You haven’t heard all of it.”

Disregarding me, he called to the maid who was waiting at a distance. “Show this man out.”

Devlin came up beside me, strutting like a wrestler, his great curved hands conspicuous.

“The rest of it,” I said, “is that Hugh Western was murdered at the same time. I think you knew him?”

“I knew him, yes. His death is unfortunate. Regrettable. But so far as I know, it has nothing to do with the Chardin and nothing to do with me. Will you go now, or do I have to have you removed?”

He raised his cold eyes to mine. I stared him down, but there wasn’t much satisfaction in that.

“You take murder pretty lightly, Hendryx.”

“Mr. Hendryx to you,” Devlin said in my ear. “Come on now, bud. You heard what Mr. Hendryx said.”

“I don’t take orders from him.”

“I do,” he said with a lopsided grin like a heat-split in a melon. His small eyes shifted to Hendryx. “You want for me to throw him out?”

Hendryx nodded, backing away. His eyes were heating up, as if the prospect of violence excited him. Devlin’s hand took my wrist. His fingers closed around it and overlapped.

“What is this, Devlin?” I said. “I thought Hugh Western was a pal of yours.”

“Sure thing.”

“I’m trying to find who killed him. Aren’t you interested? Or did you slap him down yourself?”

Devlin blinked stupidly, trying to hold two questions in his mind at the same time.

Hendryx said from a safe distance, “Don’t talk. Just give him a going-over and toss him out.”

Devlin looked at Hendryx. His grip was like a thick handcuff on my wrist. I jerked his arm up and ducked under it, breaking the hold, and chopped at his nape. The bulging back of his neck was hard as a redwood bole.

He wheeled, then reached for me again. The muscles in his arms moved like drugged serpents. He was slow. My right fist found his chin and snapped it back on his neck. He recovered, and swung at me. I stepped inside his roundhouse and hammered his ridged stomach, twice, four times. It was like knocking my fists against the side of a corrugated iron building. His great arms closed on me. I slipped down and away.

When he came after me, I shifted my attack to his head, jabbing with the left until he was off-balance on his heels. Then I pivoted and threw a long right hook which changed to an uppercut. An electric shock surged up my arm. Devlin lay down on the green tiles, chilled like a side of beef.

I looked across him at Hendryx. There was no fear in his eyes, only calculation. He backed into a canvas chair and sat down clumsily.

“You’re fairly tough, it seems. Perhaps you used to be a fighter? I’ve owned a few fighters in my time. You might have a future at it, if you were younger.”

“It’s a sucker’s game. So is larceny.”

“Larceny-farceny,” he said surprisingly. “What did you say you do?”

“I’m a private detective.”

“Private, eh?” His mouth curved in a lipless tortoise grin. “You interest me, Mr. Archer. I could find a use for you — a place in my organization.”

“What kind of organization?”

“I’m a builder, a mass-producer of houses. Like most successful entrepreneurs, I make enemies: cranks and bleeding hearts and psychopathic veterans who think the world owes them something. Devlin here isn’t quite the man I thought he was. But you—”

“Forget it. I’m pretty choosey about the people I work for.”

“An idealist, eh? A cleancut young American idealist.” The smile was still on his mouth; it was saturnine. “Well, Mr. Idealist, you’re wasting your time. I know nothing about this picture or anything connected with it. You’re also wasting my time.”

“It seems to be expendable. I think you’re lying, incidentally.”

Hendryx didn’t answer me directly. He called to the maid, “Telephone the gate. Tell Shaw we’re having a little trouble with a guest. Then you can come back and look after this.” He jerked a thumb at muscle-boy, who was showing signs of life.

I said to the maid, “Don’t bother telephoning. I’m leaving.”

She shrugged and looked at Hendryx. He nodded. I followed her out.

“You didn’t stay long,” the cab driver said.

“No. Do you know where Admiral Turner lives?”

“Curiously enough, I do. I should charge extra for the information.”

“Take me there.”

He let me out in a street of big old houses set far back from the sidewalk behind sandstone walls and high eugenia hedges. I paid him off and climbed the sloping walk to the Turner house. It was a weathered frame building, gabled and turreted in the style of the nineties. A gray-haired housekeeper who had survived from the same period answered my knocks.

“The Admiral’s in the garden,” she said. “Will you come out?”

The garden was massed with many-colored begonia, surrounded by a vine-covered wall. The Admiral, in stained and faded khakis, was chopping weeds in a flowerbed with furious concentration. When he saw me he leaned on his hoe and wiped his wet forehead with the back of his hand.

“You should come in out of the sun,” the housekeeper said in a nagging way. “A man of your age—”

“Nonsense. Go away, Mrs. Harris.” She went. “What can I do for you, Mr. — ?”

“Archer. I guess you’ve heard that we found Hugh Western’s body.”

“Sara came home and told me half an hour ago. It’s a foul thing, and completely mystifying. He was to have married—”

His voice broke off. He glanced toward the stone cottage at the rear of the garden. Alice Turner was there at an open window. She wasn’t looking in our direction. She had a tiny paint brush in her hand, and she was working at an easel.

“It’s not as mystifying as it was. I’m starting to put the pieces together, Admiral.”

He turned back to me quickly. His eyes became hard and empty and again they reminded me of gun muzzles.

“Just who are you? What’s your interest in this case?”

“I’m a friend of Hugh Western’s. I stopped off here to see him, and found him dead. I hardly think my interest is out of place.”

“No, of course not,” he growled. “On the other hand, I don’t believe in amateur detectives running around like chickens with their heads cut off, fouling up the authorities.”

“I’m not exactly an amateur. I used to be a cop. And any fouling up there’s been has been done by other people.”

“Are you accusing me?”

“If the shoe fits.”

He met my eyes for a time, trying to master me and the situation. But he was old and bewildered. Slowly the aggressive ego faded from his gaze. He became almost querulous.

“You’ll excuse me. I don’t know what it’s all about. I’ve been rather upset by everything that’s happened.”

“What about your daughter?” Alice was still at the window, working at her picture and paying no attention to our voices. “Doesn’t she know Hugh is dead?”

“Yes. She knows. You mustn’t misunderstand what Alice is doing. There are many ways of enduring grief, and we have a custom in the Turner family of working it out of our system. Hard work is the cure for a great many evils.” He changed the subject, and his tone, abruptly. “And what is your idea of what’s happened?”

“It’s no more than a suspicion right now. I’m not sure who stole your picture, but I think I know where it is.”

“Well?”

“There’s a man named Walter Hendryx who lives in the foothills outside the city. You know him?”

“Slightly.”

“He probably has the Chardin. I’m morally certain he has it, as a matter of fact, though I don’t know how he got it.”

The Admiral tried to smile, and made a dismal failure of it. “You’re not suggesting that Hendryx took it? He’s not exactly mobile, you know.”

“Hilary Todd is very mobile,” I said. “Todd visited Hendryx this morning. I’d be willing to bet even money he had the Chardin.”

“You didn’t see it, however?”

“I didn’t have to. I’ve seen Todd.”

A woman’s voice said from the shadow of the back porch, “The man is right, Johnston.”

Sara Turner came down the path toward us, her high heels spiking the flagstones angrily.

“Hilary did it!” she cried. “He stole the picture and murdered Hugh. I saw him last night at midnight. He had red mountain clay on his clothes.”

“It’s strange you didn’t mention it before,” the Admiral said dryly.

I looked into her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the eyelids were swollen with weeping. Her mouth was swollen, too. When she opened it to reply, I could see that the lower lip was split.

“I just remembered.”

I wondered if the blow that split her lip had reminded her.

“And where did you see Hilary Todd last night at midnight?”

“Where?”

In the instant of silence that followed, I heard footsteps behind me. Alice had come out of her cottage. She walked like a sleepwalker dreaming a bad dream, and stopped beside her father without a word to any of us.

Sara’s face had been twisting in search of an answer, and finally found it. “I met him at the Presidio. I dropped in there for a cup of coffee after the show.”

“You are a liar, Sara,” the Admiral said. “The Presidio closes at ten o’clock.”

“It wasn’t the Presidio,” she said rapidly. “It was the bar across the street, the Club Fourteen. I had dinner at the Presidio, and I confused them—”

The Admiral brushed past her without waiting to hear more, and started for the house. Alice went with him. The old man walked unsteadily, leaning on her arm.

“Did you really see Hilary last night?” I asked her.

She stood there for a minute, looking at me. Her face was disorganized, raddled with passion. “Yes, I saw him. I had a date with him at ten o’clock. I waited in his flat for over two hours. He didn’t show up until after midnight. I couldn’t tell him that.” She jerked one shoulder contemptuously toward the house.

“And he had red clay on his clothes?”

“Yes. It took me a while to connect it with Hugh.”

“Are you going to tell the police?”

She smiled a secret and unpleasant smile. “How can I? I’ve got a marriage to go on with, such as it is.”

“You told me.”

“I like you.” Without moving, she gave the impression of leaning toward me. “I’m fed up with all the little stinkers that populate this town!”

I kept it cool and clean, but very nasty. “Were you fed up with Hugh Western, Mrs. Turner?”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard that he dropped you hard a couple of months ago. Somebody dropped him hard last night in his studio.”

“I haven’t been near his studio for weeks.”

“Never did any posing for him?”

Her face seemed to grow smaller and sharper. She laid one narrow taloned hand on my arm. “Can I trust you, Mr. Archer?”

“Not if you murdered Hugh.”

“I didn’t — I swear I didn’t! Hilary did!”

“But you were there last night.”

“No.”

“I think you were. There was a charcoal sketch on the easel, and you posed for it, didn’t you?”

Her nerves were badly strained, but she tried to be coquettish. “How would you know?”

“The way you carry your body. It reminds me of the picture.”

“Do you approve?”

“Listen, Mrs. Turner. You don’t seem to realize that that sketch is evidence, and destroying it is a crime.”

“I didn’t destroy it.”

“Then where did you put it?”

“I haven’t said I took it.”

“But you did.”

“Yes, I did,” she admitted finally. “But it isn’t evidence in this case. I posed for it six months ago, and Hugh had it in his studio. When I heard he was dead this afternoon, I went to get it, just to be sure it wouldn’t turn up in the newspapers. He had it on the easel for some reason, and had ruined it with a beard. I don’t know why.”

“The beard would make sense if your story was changed a little. If you quarreled while Hugh was sketching you last night, and you hit him over the head with a metal fist. You might have drawn the beard yourself, to cover up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I had anything to cover up I would have destroyed the sketch. Anyway, I can’t draw.”

“Hilary can.”

“Go to hell,” she said between her teeth. “You’re just another stinker like the rest of them.”

She walked emphatically to the house. I followed her into the long, dim hallway. Halfway up the stairs to the second floor she turned and flung down to me, “I hadn’t destroyed it, but I’m going to now.”

There was nothing I could do about that, and I started out. When I passed the door of the living-room, the Admiral called out, “Is that you, Archer? Come here a minute, eh?”

He was sitting with Alice on a semicircular leather lounge, set into a huge bay window at the front of the room. He got up and moved toward me ponderously, his head down like a charging bull’s. His face was a jaundiced yellow, bloodless under the tan.

“You’re entirely wrong about the Chardin,” he said. “Hilary Todd had nothing to do with stealing it. In fact, it wasn’t stolen. I removed it from the gallery myself.”

“You denied that this morning.”

“I do as I please with my own possessions. I’m accountable to no one, certainly not to you.”

“Dr. Silliman might like to know,” I said with irony.

“I’ll tell him in my own good time.”

“Will you tell him why you took it?”

“Certainly. Now, if you’ve made yourself sufficiently obnoxious, I’ll ask you to leave my house.”

“Father.” Alice came up to him and placed a hand on his arm. “Mr. Archer has only been trying to help.”

“And getting nowhere,” I said. “I made the mistake of assuming that some of Hugh’s friends were honest.”

“That’s enough!” he roared. “Get out!”

Alice caught up with me on the veranda. “Don’t go away angry. Father can be terribly childish, but he means well.”

“I don’t get it. He lied this morning, or else he’s lying now.”

“He isn’t lying,” she said earnestly. “He was simply playing a trick on Dr. Silliman and the trustees. It’s what happened to Hugh afterwards that made it seem important.”

“Did you know that he took the picture himself?”

“He told me just now, before you came into the house. I made him tell you.”

“You’d better let Silliman in on the joke,” I said unpleasantly. “He’s probably going crazy.”

“He is,” she said. “I saw him at the gallery this afternoon, and he was tearing his hair. Do you have your car?”

“I came up here in a taxi.”

“I’ll drive you down.”

“Are you sure you feel up to it?”

“It’s better when I’m doing something,” she said.

An old black sedan was standing in the drive beside the house. We got in, and she backed it into the street, then turned downhill toward the center of town.

Watching her face I said, “Of course you realize I don’t believe his story.”

“Father’s, you mean?” She didn’t seem surprised. “I don’t know what to believe, myself.”

“When did he say he took the Chardin?”

“Last night. Hugh was working on the mezzanine. Father slipped away and took the picture out to the car.”

“Didn’t Hugh keep the door locked?”

“Apparently not. Father said not.”

“But what possible reason could he have for stealing his own picture?”

“To prove a point. Father’s been arguing for a long time that it would be easy to steal a picture from the gallery. He’s been trying to get the board of trustees to install a burglar alarm. He’s really hipped on the subject. He wouldn’t lend his Chardin to the gallery until they agreed to insure it.”

“For twenty-five thousand dollars,” I said, half to myself. Twenty-five thousand dollars was motive enough for a man to steal his own picture. And if Hugh Western witnessed the theft, there was motive for murder. “Your father’s made a pretty good story out of it. But where’s the picture now?”

“He didn’t tell me. It’s probably hidden in the house somewhere.”

“I doubt it. It’s more likely somewhere in Walter Hendryx’ house.”

She let out a little gasp. “What makes you say that? Do you know Walter Hendryx?”

“I’ve met him. Do you know him?”

“He’s a horrible man,” she said. “I can’t imagine why you think he has it.”

“It’s pure hunch.”

“Where would he get it? Father wouldn’t dream of selling it to him.”

“Hilary Todd would.”

“Hilary? You think Hilary stole it?”

“I’m going to ask him. Let me off at his shop, will you? I’ll see you at the gallery later.”

The Closed sign was still hanging inside the plate glass, and the front door was locked. I went around to the back of the shop by the alley. The door under the stairs was standing partly open. I went in without knocking.

The living-room was empty. The smell of alcohol rose from the stain on the wall where Sara had smashed her glass. I crossed the passage to the door on the other side. It, too, was partly open. I pushed it wider and went in.

Hilary Todd was sprawled face down on the bed, with an open suitcase crushed under the weight of his body. The silver handle of his ice pick stood up between his shoulder blades in the center of a wet, dark stain. The silver glinted coldly in a ray of light which came through the half-closed Venetian blinds.

I felt for his pulse and couldn’t find it. His head was twisted sideways, and his empty dark eyes stared unblinking at the wall. A slight breeze from the open window at the foot of the bed ruffled the hair along the side of his head.

I burrowed under the heavy body and went through the pockets. In the inside breast pocket of the coat I found what I was looking for: a plain white business envelope, unsealed, containing $15,000 in large bills.

I was standing over the bed with the money in my hand when I heard someone in the hallway. A moment later Mary appeared at the door.

“I saw you come in,” she said. “I thought—” Then she saw the body.

“Someone killed Hilary,” I said quietly.

“Killed Hilary?” She looked at the body on the bed and then at me. I realized that I was holding the money in plain view.

“What are you doing with that?”

I folded the bills and tucked them into my inside pocket. “I’m going to try an experiment. Be a good girl and call the police for me.”

“Where did you get that money?”

“From someone it didn’t belong to. Don’t tell the sheriff about it. Just say that I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“They’ll want to know where you went.”

“And if you don’t know, you won’t be able to tell them. Now do as I say.”

She looked into my face, wondering if she could trust me. Her voice was uncertain. “If you’re sure you’re doing the right thing.”

“Nobody ever is.”

I went out to my car and drove to Foothill Drive. The sun had dipped low over the sea, and the air was turning colder. By the time I reached the iron gates that cut off Walter Hendryx from ordinary mortals, the valley beyond them was in shadow.

The burly man came out of the gatehouse as if I had pressed a button. He recognized me, then pushed his face up to the window of the car. “Beat it, chum. I got orders to keep you away from here.”

I restrained an impulse to push the face away, and tried diplomacy. “I came here to do your boss a favor.”

“That’s not the way he feels. Now blow.”

“Look here.” I brought the wad of bills out of my pocket, and passed them back and forth under his nose. “There’s big money involved.”

His eyes followed the moving bills as if they were hypnotized. “I don’t take bribes,” he said in a hoarse and passionate whisper.

“I’m not offering you one. But you should phone down to Hendryx, before you do anything rash, and tell him there’s money in it.”

“Money for him?” There was a wistful note in his voice. “How much?”

“Fifteen thousand, tell him.”

“Some bonus.” He whistled. “What kind of a house is he building for you, bud, that you should give him an extra fifteen grand?”

I didn’t answer. His question gave me too much to think about. He went back into the gatehouse.

Two minutes later he came out and opened the gates. “Mr. Hendryx’ll see you. But don’t try any funny stuff or you won’t come out on your own power.”

The same maid was waiting at the door. She took me into a big rectangular room with French windows on one side, opening on the terrace. The rest of the walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling — the kind of books that are bought by the set and never read. In front of the fireplace, at the far end, Hendryx was sitting half submerged in an overstuffed armchair, with a blanket over his knees.

He looked up when I entered the room. The firelight danced on his scalp and lit his face with an angry glow. “What’s this? Come here and sit down.”

The maid left silently. I walked the length of the room and sat down in an armchair facing him. “I always bring bad news, Mr. Hendryx. Murder and such things. This time it’s Hilary Todd.”

The turtle-face didn’t change, but his head made a movement of withdrawal into the shawl collar of his robe. “I’m exceedingly sorry to hear it. But my gatekeeper mentioned a matter of money. That interests me more.”

“Good.” I produced the bills and spread them fanwise on my knee. “Do you recognize these?”

“Should I?”

“For a man who’s interested in money, you’re acting very coy.”

“I’m interested in its source.”

“I had an idea that you were the source of this particular money. I have some other ideas. For instance, that Hilary Todd stole the Chardin and sold it to you. One thing I have no idea about is why you would buy a stolen picture and pay for it in cash.”

His false teeth glistened coldly in the firelight. Like the man at the gate, he kept his eyes on the money. “The picture wasn’t stolen. I bought it legally from its rightful owner.”

“I might believe you if you hadn’t denied any knowledge of it this afternoon. I think you knew it was stolen.”

His voice took on a cutting edge. “It was not.” He slipped his blue-veined hand inside his robe and brought out a folded sjieet of paper, which he handed me.

It was a bill of sale for the picture, informal but legal, written in longhand on the stationery of the San Marcos Beach Club, signed by Admiral Johnston Turner, and dated that day.

“Now may I ask you where you got hold of that money?”

“I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Hendryx. I took it from the body of Hilary Todd, when he had no further use for it.”

“That’s a criminal act, I believe.”

My brain was racing, trying to organize a mass of contradictory facts. “I have a notion that you’re not going to talk to anyone about it.”

He shrugged. “You seem to be full of notions.”

“I have another. Whether or not you’re grateful to me for bringing you this money, I think you should be.”

“Have you any reason-for saying that?” He had shifted his eyes from the money on my knee to my face.

“You’re in the building business, Mr. Hendryx?”

“Yes.” His voice was flat.

“I don’t know exactly how you got this money. My guess is that you gouged it out of home buyers, by demanding a cash bonus in addition to the appraised value of the houses you’ve been selling to veterans.”

“That’s a pretty comprehensive piece of guesswork, isn’t it?”

“I don’t expect you to admit it. On the other hand, you probably wouldn’t want this money traced to you. The fact that you haven’t banked it is an indication of that. That’s why Todd could count on you to keep this picture deal quiet. And that’s why you should be grateful to me.”

The turtle-eyes stared into mine, and admitted nothing. “If I were grateful, what form do you suggest my gratitude should take?”

“I want the picture. I’ve sort of set my heart on it.”

“Keep the money instead.”

“This money is no good to me. Dirty money never is.”

He threw the blanket off and levered himself out of the chair. “You’re somewhat more honest than I’d supposed. You’re offering, then, to buy the picture back from me with that money?”

“Exactly.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“The money goes to the Intelligence Unit of the Internal Revenue Bureau.”

There was silence for a while, broken by the fire hissing and sputtering in an irritable undertone.

“Very well,” he said at length. “Give me the money.”

“Give me the picture.”

He waded across the heavy rug, moving his feet a few inches at a time, and pressed a corner of one of the bookcases. It swung open like a door. Behind it was the face of a large wall safe. I waited uncomfortably while he twirled the double dials.

A minute later he shuffled back to me with the picture in his hands. The boy in the blue waistcoat was there in the frame, still watching the apple, which looked good enough to eat after more than two hundred years.

Hendryx’ withered face had settled into a kind of malevolent resignation. “You realize that this is no better than blackmail.”

“On the contrary, I’m saving you from the consequences of your own poor judgment. You shouldn’t do business with thieves and murderers.”

“You still insist the picture was stolen?”

“I think it was. You probably know it was. Will you answer one question?”

“Perhaps.”

“When Hilary Todd approached you about buying this picture, did he claim to represent Admiral Turner?”

“Of course. You have the bill of sale in your hand. It’s signed by the Admiral.”

“I see that, but I don’t know his signature.”

“I do. Now, if you have no further questions, may I have my money?”

“Just one more: who killed Hugh Western?”

“I don’t know,” he said heavily.

He held out his brown hand with the palm upward. I gave him the sheaf of bills.

“And the bill of sale, if you please.”

“It wasn’t part of the bargain.”

“It has to be.”

“I suppose you’re right.” I handed it to him.

“Please don’t come back a third time,” he said as he rang for the maid. “I find your visits tiring and annoying.”

“I won’t come back,” I said. I didn’t need to.

In the early evening traffic lull I made good time back to the center of town. I drove automatically, thinking of other things: the dead man on the mountain, the other dead man in the bedroom, the twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of canvas and pigment on the seat beside me. Hendryx had answered one question, but he had raised ten more. The questions and the facts that failed to answer them swarmed in my head like bees.

I parked in the alley beside the art gallery and got out of the car with the Chardin under my arm. There was talk and laughter and the tiny din of cutlery in the restaurant patio beyond the hedge. On the other side of the alley a light was shining behind the barred window of Silliman’s office. I reached up between the bars and tapped on the window. I couldn’t see beyond the closed Venetian blinds.

Someone opened the casement. It was Alice, her blonde head aureoled against the light. “Who is it?” she said in a frightened whisper.

“Archer.” I had a sudden, rather theatrical impulse. I held up the Chardin and passed it to her edgewise between the bars. She took it from my hands and let out a little yelp of surprise.

“It was where I thought it would be,” I said.

Silliman appeared at her shoulder, squeaking, “What is it? What is it?”

My brain was doing a double take on the action I’d just performed. I had returned the Chardin to the gallery without using the door! It could have been stolen the same way, by Hilary Todd or anyone else who had access to the building. No human being could pass through the bars — but a picture could!

Silliman’s head came out the window like a gray mop being shaken. “Where on earth did you find it?”

I had no story ready, so I said nothing.

A gentle hand touched my arm and stayed, like a bird alighting. It was Mary.

“I’ve been watching for you,” she said. “The sheriff’s in Hilary’s shop, and he’s raving mad. He said he’s going to put you in jail, as a material witness.”

“You didn’t tell him about the money?” I said in an undertone.

“No. Did you really get the picture?”

“Come inside and see.”

As we turned the corner of the building, a car left the curb in front of it, and started up the street with a roar. It was Admiral Turner’s black sedan.

“It looks like Alice driving,” Mary said.

“She’s gone to tell her father, probably.”

I made a sudden decision, and headed back to my car.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to see the Admiral’s reaction to the news.”

She followed me to the car. “Take me.”

“You’d better stay here. There’s no telling what might happen.”

I tried to shut the door, but she held on to it. “You’re always running off and leaving me to make your explanations.”

“All right, get in. I don’t have time to argue.”

I drove straight up the alley and across the parking lot to Rubio Street. There was a uniformed policeman standing at the back door of Hilary’s shop, but he didn’t try to stop us.

“What did the police have to say about Hilary?” I asked her.

“Not much. The ice pick had been wiped clean of fingerprints, and they had no idea who did it.”

I went through a yellow light and left a chorus of indignant honkings at the intersection behind me.

“You said you didn’t know what would happen when you got there. Do you think the Admiral—?” She left the sentence unfinished.

“I don’t know. I have a feeling we soon will, though.”

Finally I asked, “Is this the street?”

“Yes.”

My tires shrieked on the corner, and again in front of the house. She was out of the car before I was.

“Stay back,” I told her. “This may be dangerous.”

She let me go up the walk ahead of her. The black sedan was in the drive with the headlights burning and the left front door hanging open. The front door of the house was closed but there was a light behind it. I went in without knocking.

Sara came out of the living-room. All day her face had been going to pieces, and now it was old and slack and ugly. Her bright hair was ragged at the edges, and her voice was ragged. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I want to see the Admiral. Where is he?”

“How should I know? I can’t keep track of any of my men.” She took a step toward me, staggered, and almost fell.

Mary took hold of her and eased her into a chair. Her head leaned limply against the wall, and her mouth hung open. The lipstick on her mouth was like a rim of cracked dry blood.

“They must be here.”

The single shot that we heard then was an exclamation point at the end of my sentence. It came from somewhere back of the house, muffled by walls and distance.

I went through and into the garden. There were lights in the gardener’s cottage, and a man’s shadow moved across the window. I ran up the path to the cottage’s open door, and froze there.

Admiral Turner was facing me with a gun in his hand. It was a heavy-caliber automatic, the kind the Navy issued. From its round, questioning mouth a wisp of blue smoke trailed. Alice lay face down on the carpeted floor between us.

I looked into the mouth of the gun, then into Turner’s granite face. “You killed her.”

But Alice was the one who answered. “Go away,” she said. The words came out in a rush of sobbing that racked her prostrate body.

“This is a private matter, Archer.” The gun stirred slightly in the Admiral’s hand. I could feel its pressure across the width of the room. “Do as she says.”

“I heard a shot. Murder is a public matter.”

“There has been no murder, as you can see.”

“You don’t remember well.”

“I have nothing to do with that,” he said. “I was cleaning my gun, and forgot that it was loaded.”

“So Alice lay down and cried? You’ll have to do better than that, Admiral.”

“Her nerves are shaken. But I assure you that mine are not.” He took three slow steps toward me, and paused by the girl on the floor. The gun was very steady in his hand. “Now go, or I’ll have to use this.”

The pressure of the gun was increasing. I put my hands on the door frame and held myself still. “You seem to be sure it’s loaded now,” I said.

Between my words I heard the faint, harsh whispering of shifting gravel on the garden path behind me. I spoke up loudly, to drown out the sound.

“Admiral, you say that you had nothing to do with the murder. Then why did Todd come to the beach club this morning? Why did you change your story about the Chardin?”

He looked down at his daughter as if she could answer the questions. She made no sound, but her shoulders were shaking with internal sobbing.

As I watched the two of them, father and daughter, the pattern of the day finally came into focus. At its center was the muzzle of the Admiral’s gun, the round blue mouth of death.

I said, very carefully, to gain time, “I can guess what Todd said to you this morning. Do you want me to dub in the dialogue?”

He glanced up sharply, and the gun glanced up. There were no more sounds in the garden. If Mary was as quick as I thought, she’d be at the telephone.

“He told you he’d stolen your picture and had a buyer for it. But Hendryx was cautious. Todd needed proof that he had a right to sell it. You gave him the proof. And when Todd completed the transaction, you let him keep the money.”

“Nonsense! Bloody nonsense.” But he was a poor actor, and a worse liar.

“I’ve seen the bill of sale, Admiral. The only question left is why you gave it to Todd.”

His lips moved as if he was going to speak. No words came out.

“And I’ll answer that one, too. Todd knew who killed Hugh Western. So did you. You had to keep him quiet, even if it meant conniving at the theft of your own picture.”

“I connived at nothing.” His voice was losing its strength, but his gun was as potent as ever.

“Alice did,” I said. “She helped Todd steal it this morning. She passed it out the window to him when Silliman and I were on the mezzanine. Which is one of the things he told you at the beach club, isn’t it?”

“Todd has been feeding you lies. Unless you give me your word that you won’t repeat those lies, not to anyone, I’m going to have to shoot you.”

His hand contracted, squeezing off the automatic’s safety. The tiny noise it made seemed very significant in the silence. It echoed from the walls.

“Todd will soon be feeding worms,” I said. “He’s dead, Admiral.”

“Dead?” His voice had sunk to an old man’s quaver, rustling in his throat.

“Stabbed with an ice pick in his apartment.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. Do you still see any point in trying to shoot me?”

“You’re lying, Archer.”

“No. There’s been a second murder — Todd’s.”

He looked down at the girl at his feet. His eyes were bewildered. There was danger in his pain and confusion. I was the source of his pain, and he might strike out blindly at me. I watched the gun in his hand, waiting for a chance to move in on it. My arms were rigid, braced against the door frame.

Mary Western ducked under my left arm and stepped into the room in front of me. She had no weapon, except her courage.

“He’s telling the truth,” she said. “Hilary Todd was stabbed to death today.”

“Put down the gun,” I said. “There’s nothing left to save. You thought you were protecting an unfortunate girl. She’s turned out to be a double murderess.”

He was watching the girl on the floor. “If this is true, Alice, I wash my hands of you.”

No sound came from her. Her face was hidden by her yellow sheaf of hair. The old man groaned. The gun sagged in his hand. I moved, pushing Mary to one side, and snatched it away from him. He didn’t resist, but my forehead was suddenly streaming with sweat.

“You were probably next on her list,” I said.

“No.”

The muffled word came from his daughter. She began to get up, rising laboriously from her hands and knees like a hurt fighter. She flung her hair back. Her face had hardly changed. It was as lovely as ever, on the surface, but empty of meaning — like a doll’s plastic face.

“I was next on my list,” she said dully. “I tried to shoot myself when I realized you knew about me. Father stopped me.”

“I didn’t know about you until now.”

“You did. You must have. When you were talking to father in the garden, you meant me to hear it all — everything you said about Hilary.”

“Did I?”

The Admiral said with a kind of awe, “You killed him, Alice. Why did you want his blood on your hands? Why?” His own hand paused in mid-air. He looked at her as if he had fathered a strange and evil thing.

She bowed her head in silence. I answered for her. “She’d stolen the Chardin for Todd and met his conditions. But then she saw that he couldn’t get away, or if he did he’d be brought back, and questioned. She couldn’t be sure he’d keep quiet about Hugh. This afternoon she made sure. The second murder always comes easier.”

“No!” She shook her blonde head violently. “I didn’t murder Hugh. I hit him with something, but I didn’t intend to kill him. He struck me first — he struck me, and then I hit him back.”

“With a deadly weapon, a metal fist. You hit at him twice with it. The second blow didn’t miss.”

“But I didn’t mean to kill him. Hilary knew I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“How would he know? Was he there?”

“He was downstairs in his flat. When he heard Hugh fall, he came up. Hugh was still alive. He died in Hilary’s car, when we were starting for the hospital. Hilary said he’d help me cover up. He took that horrible fist and threw it into the sea.

“I hardly knew what I was doing by that time. Hilary did it all. He put the body in Hugh’s car and drove it up the mountain. I followed in his car and brought him back. On the way back he told me why he was helping me. He needed money. He knew we had no money, but he had a chance to sell the Chardin. I took it for him this morning. I had to! Everything I did, I did because I had to.”

She looked from me to her father. He averted his face from her.

“You didn’t have to smash Hugh’s skull,” I said. “Why did you do that?”

Her doll’s eyes rolled in her head, then came back to me, glinting with a cold and deathly coquetry. “If I tell you, will you do one thing for me? One favor? Give me father’s gun for just a second?”

“And let you kill us all?”

“Only myself,” she said. “Just leave one shell in it.”

“Don’t give it to her,” the Admiral said. “She’s done enough to disgrace us.”

“I have no intention of giving it to her. And I don’t have to be told why she killed Hugh. While she was waiting in his studio last night, she found a sketch of his. It was an old sketch, but she didn’t know that. She’d never seen it before, for obvious reasons.”

“What kind of sketch?”

“A portrait of a nude woman. She tacked it up on the easel and decorated it with a beard. When Hugh came home he saw what she’d done. He didn’t like to have his pictures spoiled, and he probably slapped her face.”

“He hit me with his fist,” Alice said. “I killed him in self-defense.”

“That may be the way you’ve rationalized it. Actually, you killed him out of jealousy.”

She laughed. It was a cruel sound, like vital tissue being ruptured. “Jealousy of her?”

“The same jealousy that made you ruin the sketch.”

Her eyes widened, but they were blind, looking into herself. “Jealousy? I don’t know. I felt so lonely, so all alone in the world. I had nobody to love me — not since my mother died.”

“It isn’t true, Alice. You had me.” The Admiral’s tentative hand came out and paused again in the air, as though there was an invisible wall between them.

“I never had you. I hardly saw you. Then Sara took you. I had no one — no one until Hugh. I thought at last that I had someone to love me, someone I could count on, someone—”

Her voice broke off. The Admiral looked everywhere but at his daughter. The room was like a cubicle in hell where lost souls suffered under the silent treatment. The silence was finally broken by the sound of a distant siren. It rose and expanded until its lamentation filled the night.

Alice was crying, with her face uncovered. Mary Western came forward and put her arm around her. “Don’t cry.” Her voice was warm. Her face had a grave beauty.

“You hate me, too.”

“No. I’m sorry for you, Alice. Sorrier than I am for Hugh.”

The Admiral touched my arm. “Who was the woman in the sketch?” he said in a trembling voice.

I looked into his tired old face and decided that he had suffered enough.

“I don’t know,” I said.

But I could see the knowledge in his eyes.

Paul Gallico

Hurry, Hurry, Hurry!

Paul Gallico, sports writer, short-story writer, novelist, and scenario writer, and one of the most popular authors of our time, gives us a carnival tale about a cynical, dissolute scalawag of a fortuneteller and of a shy, dewy-eyed innocent of a girl who put her faith in the old faker... But faker or not, Swami Mirza Baba was a natural-born crimebuster...

* * *

One late-summer day around the turn of the century, a cheap carnival came to a small town in Kansas for the county fair, in time to relieve some of the tensions built up by the brutal murder of an innocent widow on a lonely farm and the forthcoming hanging of the farmhand who had been found guilty of the crime.

The morning of the day the fair was to open in Thackerville, the carnival boss, Bowers, strode the busy midway where the concessions were being knocked together — the Ferris wheel and giant swing, the freak and girly shows, the hoopla games and wheels of fortune — and bawled, “Hoi! Gather ’round all hands. The Sheriff wants everybody.”

At that moment the curtains parted at the booth over which hung a garish poster showing a turbaned Indian gazing into a crystal ball and advertising: SWAMI MIRZA BABA TELLS THE PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE — 25¢, and Nick Jackson strolled out of the booth, spitting a stream of tobacco juice.

He was an unkempt, friendless, lonely man, past 60 but looking older, with a gray, seamed face and small, red-rimmed eyes. Hard-boiled, irreverent, he had the cynicism of a man whose lifetime had been spent in the city slums doing the best he could, and around cheap burlesque shows, traveling circuses, dime museums, and carnivals. He had been shill, barker, shell-game operator, short-change artist, front worker, and con man, but age and drink had made him unreliable in a tight pinch and he had ended up “dukkerin,” as the Romany gypsies called fortunetelling.

“All right now, you rats, listen to me,” the Sheriff began his address. He was a big man with a good forehead and hard, clear eyes. He wore a snakeskin belt and ten-gallon hat, and his neck rose from his flannel shirt like the column of a cottonwood tree. “This is a hardworking community of decent God-fearing people. We’re a-goin’ to let you operate here long as you behave. I know you for what you are, a pack o’ thieves, rascals, and scalawags. But you ain’t goin’ to get away with anything here. I got my eye on all of you and I been around some too.”

Nobody in the group of carny men stirred or said anything with the exception of the old fortuneteller who spat again.

“You wheel-of-fortune men, keep your bellies away from them brakes and lever boards. You skin anybody and you’ll spend the next six months in jail. That goes for you hoopla and ring-the-cane fellers too.”

The grifters exchanged looks but said nothing. They were wondering just how much they would have to shave to stay on the right side. The Sheriff was pleased with the effect of his speech on everybody except the fortuneteller. The hot impudence and contempt in the man’s eyes irritated him. He said:

“You Swami there, or whatever your name is. I don’t know that I’m a-gonna let you work.”

The old man regarded him unblinkingly and said out of the side of his tobacco-stained mouth, “Why? What’s the matter with me?”

“You’re a faker. You can’t read no minds and you can’t predict no future. Let’s see you predict mine, if you can.”

Nick said, “Cough up first, you the same as anybody else.” The Sheriff reached into his jeans and flung a two-bit piece to the fortuneteller, who pocketed it and snarled, “You want a prediction, eh? Couple a months from now you won’t be Sheriff any more.”

There was a roar of laughter from the assembled carnival men.

The Sheriff’s eyes hardened. “Is that right? What makes you think so?”

With an election coming off in November, it was a good fifty-fifty chance and maybe better, Nick knew. He had spent the previous day in Thackerville lounging around the barber shop, the bars, and the general store listening to gossip and picking up stray bits of information which might come in handy. Now he replied, “You got a hangin’ comin’ off next week. How do you know you’re stririgin’ the right feller?”

The Sheriff flushed red and stood silent for a moment on the bandstand. “You watch yourselves,” was all he said finally. He climbed down and strode away, shouldering roughly through the carnival men. Nick merely spat again.

The whole town, Nick had found out, was still on edge over the murder a month ago of the widow Booth, discovered in the kitchen of her farm with her head beaten in with a poker, and over the scheduled execution of Erd Wayne, her hired man, who had been found wandering half dazed about the kitchen with the murder weapon in his hand and blood on his clothes.

Wayne had been tried and found guilty when banker Samuel Chinter had supplied evidence for the motive, testifying that he had refused Wayne the loan of $1,500 to buy the Coulter farm that was up for sale. There had long been rumors that the widow kept that amount, her late husband’s insurance, in the house in cash. But, testified banker Chinter, the widow actually kept her money in the bank and so the murderer would have got no more than a few dollars for his crime. Wayne’s defense had been lame. He had been about to enter the kitchen for supper, he had said, when he was struck from behind and remembered nothing more.

It was, as the Sheriff had said, an open-and-shut case, and it had been conducted vigorously by the county prosecutor who hoped to reach the state legislature via the conviction, in spite of the fact that a lot of people had liked Erd Wayne. Some said he wanted the farm so that he could ask June Purvey to marry him but was not the kind to stoop to murder to get it. Still, the evidence seemed conclusive and sometimes fellows in love lost their heads. One never knew...

“Hayseeds,” muttered Nick Jack-son, eyeing the teeming midway from the entrance to his booth. He wore a soiled wrapper now, with stars and moons sewn onto it, and a turban with shaving-brush bristles and a ten-cent-store diamond stuck in the front of it.

He gave readings automatically. “A dark man is coming into your life... You have been worried lately, but things will get better... Beware of a blonde woman... You are a sensitive type misunderstood by your family.”

The curtains to the booth parted admitting the next customer, a young girl in a white cotton frock tied with a blue sash. Her dark hair, worn long, was gathered together in the back by a ribbon of the same color. She was 18, shy, nervous, frightened. But what startled the fortuneteller the most as his shrewd eyes analyzed her, missing nothing, was her innocence.

“Are you Mirza Baba?” she asked.

“Yup!”

“Can I have a reading?”

“Two bits.”

She opened her purse. He always made them pay first. A glance into pocketbooks yielded valuable clues. He saw the snapshot of the young man in an open-neck shirt. She handed him a quarter.

“You are worried about someone near and dear to you.” A safe opening — her nervousness, the snapshot...

Her dark eyes opened wide and she stared at him amazed. Tears formed in them. “I’m June Purvey,” she said.

“I knew that,” the old man lied. He scrutinized her with renewed interest. Hers was a simple, dewy beauty the contemplation of which unaccountably made his heart ache. Unaccustomed to emotion and pain, he suddenly turned savage and said harshly. “They’re a-goin’ to hang your man...”

The girl gave a low cry of despair, put her head down on the table, and sobbed uncontrollably. Nick was used to clients dissolving into tears when he sometimes prodded them on the raw or guessed their secrets. Yet the grief of this child touched him.

He hedged, “...unless something happens to prevent it.”

The girl lifted her tear-lined face and clutched miserably at the straw. “Oh please, Mr. Baba, help me. Please. He didn’t do it. Look here — you can see he didn’t do it.” She opened her purse and presented the photograph.

The odd thing was that at that moment, with the snapshot in his grimy fingers, Nick would have bet that Erd Wayne was innocent. His profession had trained him to read faces instantly. Life in a sordid world more black than white had taught him all the telltale marks left by greed, viciousness, hatred, and malice. The face of the man in the picture was frank, open, and honest.

“That’s right,” he agreed, “he didn’t do it. I can see that.”

“Then won’t you help him, please, Mr. Baba? I’ll pay you. I’ve brought money...” She opened her purse again and produced a roll of bills that made the old man’s eyes light up with cupidity.

“It’s eighty-five dollars that I’ve saved. But I would pay you more — anything you wanted. I could send you some every week. I work at Pete’s dry goods store.”

“You Erd’s girl?” Nick asked.

June shook her head. “No...” And then added, “He ain’t spoken yet.”

“What you doin’ this for then?”

“Because I love him.”

Nick was unable to understand the depth or simplicity of her reply. To him love was desire. He said, “Supposing he was to get off and go sparkin’ someone else, hey?”

June regarded him miserably for a moment, then replied fiercely, “I wouldn’t care, long as he was alive!” She pushed the money toward him. “You could find out the truth,” she said. “You can read their minds. Nobody can hide anything from you. If the murderer came here you’d know.”

“Yup, I’d know.”

“Then take it.” She indicated the bills.

Nick said, “Gimme half. You can pay the rest when I find something out.” He counted out 40 dollars and then added the odd five-dollar bill. He had no compunction at taking her money. This was how he earned his living, separating the gullible from their cash. It surprised him, though, that he had not taken it all. He said, “I’ll keep my inner eye peeled. Don’t say nothing to nobody. You can come back tomorrow.”

She got up to go. Her eyes were filled with trust and relief. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Baba. God bless you!”

He watched her go, suddenly filled with a strange, angry desire to free hired man Wayne.

Nick Jackson was what was known as a cold reader. With no props such as cards or crystal ball, he sat at a table and dissected his clients, probed them for their weakness and hidden troubles. He employed a combination of ready patter, shrewed observation, knowledge of human nature and evil, and the natural desire of his victims to talk.

“Some men cannot resist the impulse to have just one more drink,” he would say to some unhappy housewife with bitter lines about her mouth, watching her face for clues. If the lips tightened, the eyes widened with a hint of tears, he had the secret of her visit. If the expression remained blank he continued smoothly, “But that, fortunately, is not the case with your husband.” Then he would fish in other waters — blondes, cards, the ponies... Soon they would be spilling everything to him, convinced that he had read their innermost thoughts and secrets.

The afternoon of the next day a young girl came in. But she was not innocent. Nick could tell when they had had experience.

His knowing eyes estimated her. Straw-colored hair, small greedy mouth, high-school senior ring, good clothes. When she opened her purse to pay him he glimpsed a rouge compact and a diamond ring, the stub of a railroad ticket to Kansas City, and a scrap of paper with the address, in masculine handwriting, of one of that city’s shadier hotels. It was as though she had presented her immediate history to him written down in a copybook.

He said, “Sit down, dear.” He thought of the Sheriff and his hardworking community of decent God-fearing people and laughed inwardly. “You are the affectionate type; your warm generous nature gives you away. I see someone who loves you. But wait. I see another woman at his side. The man is married, is he not?”

The girl’s eyes filled with fear. “How do you know?”

“Nothing is veiled from Mirza Baba. Shall I tell you more?” From outside sounded the cries of the barkers, “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” and the groaning of the carousel organ and the snap-snapping of the cheap rifles in the shooting gallery. The girl nodded silently.

“I see a train ride. You are alone and nervous. You are walking along a street in a big city. You come to a hotel. There you meet your lover. The two of you go inside...”

The girl’s moan interrupted him and she appeared on the point of collapse. “Oh, God, you’ve found out. My father will kill me if he finds out.”

Her story came pouring from her. Her name was Clyde Vroom. A much older married man in the town had fallen in love with her. She had wanted pretty things. He had given her a diamond ring, which she had never dared wear, and other gifts. He had painted a glowing picture of the wonderful time they would have together in the big city, and she couldn’t resist his invitation to spend a week-end there with him. She had told her father she was going to visit a girl friend in a neighboring town.

Nick was doing arithmetic. The ring must have cost nearly a thousand dollars, the other gifts several hundred. Where would a man in a small town lay his hands on that kind of money without his wife or someone finding out? He asked, “What was his name, dear?” It was a mistake. If he had kept quiet or prodded her some more it would have slipped out.

She was on her feet, her little mouth twisted with fear, her eyes wide with terror. “Oh, God! You’ll find out if I stay here any more. You’ll read it in my mind...” She snatched her purse and fled from the booth.

Nick went to the entrance and watched her panicky passage down the midway. He gazed at the mingling of farmers and villagers out for a holiday. He wondered what other secrets were to be dredged out from behind those bland, smooth faces, what other guilts smoldered beneath denim, seersucker, dimity, or poplin.

He saw June Purvey standing near the frozen custard stand, her dark unhappy eyes trying to catch his. She probably had been waiting there all day, watching.

Nick signaled to June Purvey with a jerk of his head and went back inside. A moment later she came in. She plucked at his soiled wrapper, crying, “Oh, Mr. Baba... Have you found out who did it?” Her voice shook with strain and anguish.

He replied, “Nope,” and then quickly corrected himself, “Mebbe. The psychical aura is kinda confused. I gotta git more impressions. I see a figure but there is a veil in front of it.” Then abruptly changing his tone, “You know a. girl named Clytie Vroom?”

June nodded, puzzled. “Yes. I went to school with her.”

“Know who her feller is?”

June thought... “I don’t think she has one, a steady I mean.” She blushed suddenly. “I think maybe the Sheriff is sweet on her. I’ve seen him walking her home from the bank several times. Clytie works at the bank, you know.” Then June drew in her breath sharply crying, “Oh... but...”

“The Sheriff’s married,” concluded Nick. “Never mind; it probably don’t mean nothing. You run along. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

The next day was Sunday and unbearably hot. Although the fairgrounds were crowded, Nick gave only a few desultory readings and mostly sat waiting in the stifling booth rolling Bull Durham cigarettes, thinking of the man in the county jail waiting to be hanged by the neck until dead and wondering if it could really be pinned on the Sheriff. He daydreamed with vicious satisfaction of unmasking the man who had called them all rats and scoundrels, and singled him out for abuse.

Toward late afternoon Nick heard voices outside the curtain closing the entrance and pricked up his ears. Many workable clues could be mined listening to the snatches of talk between two people before one of them came in, from, “Aw, I dare you. I will if you will,” to such admissions as, “Jim would be furious if he knew I had gone to a fortuneteller,” exposing the timid wife and the domineering husband.

A woman’s voice said, “Vulgar fraud. It oughtn’t to be allowed.”

The man’s: “Oh, I suppose it is amusing. I’d like to see just how far these fakers go.”

The woman’s (with a snort): “Really, Mr. C. If you can’t find something better to spend hard-earned money on...”

The man’s: “Maybe he’ll tell me how to invest and make a fortune.”

The woman’s: “Samuel Chinter! That I should five to see the day when you patronized a fortuneteller.”

And the man’s, finally: “My dear Essie. I see that you are still far from plumbing the more tortuous depths of my character. If you are embarrassed, wait for me at the Ladies Aid Booth.”

Nick indexed mentally: Businessman, but his wife holds one end of the purse strings. Would probably enjoy a fling if he could get it. And he was trying to remember where he had heard the name before. Then it came to him as the curtain parted. Samuel Chinter, president of the Farmer’s Bank, came in.

He sat down opposite the seedy-looking little man in the gown and ridiculous turban. His thin mouth parted in an amiable enough smile as he asked, “Can you make money out of this sort of thing, my friend?”

Nick replied. “Yup. Or I wouldn’t be doing it.” He was studying the tight, too-smooth face. The banker’s skin looked as if it were made of elastic and had been stretched over wood. He noted the lines at each corner of the bloodless mouth and the gleam in the small, butternut-shaped eyes.

“Well, then, my friend, Mirza Baba, if that is your name, supposing you tell me something about myself.”

Nick said, “Two bits,” and waited, watching while the banker took a leather purse from his left hip pocket. This surprised the cold reader since most men kept their wallets on the right. Chinter laid the coin on the table saying, “Always the best course in any business. Trust no one.”

Nick decided he wanted to be rid of him quickly. He said perfunctorily, “I see an office of marble and glass. There is a large mahogany desk. A brass sign on it says, ‘President.’ ”

“Excellent, my friend. Of course you know who I am. Everyone in Thackerville does. Go on.”

Nick felt pushed off base. His mind was not working as coldly and analytically as it should. “You are worried about investments,” he suggested, picking up the clue.

Chinter’s lips parted again, but this time the smile was not amiable. “Every banker worries about investments,” he said. “But if I wanted financial information I wouldn’t come to you. Is that the best you can do?”

The anger he always seemed to feel against these bland, self-satisfied, well-to-do people possessed Nick. “There is an account at the bank that is causing you concern,” he fished, but in safe enough waters. Every bank had at least one account like that. “You do not know how to get out of your difficulty at the moment. Also in this affair you are hindered by a woman.” It was also true that in most tangled accounts where there was an overdraft there was usually a woman involved.

Chinter’s smooth face remained expressionless. But in the hairless space between nostril and lip line Nick saw a bead of sweat which had not been there before. He switched to flattery.

“You are the sophisticated worldly type, too big for a small community. You belong where your talents would be more appreciated. You have a fatal attraction for women — young women. You are held back by people who do not understand you.”

He was watching the banker closely through half-closed eyes as he reeled off the rote spiel he had given a half dozen others. Imperceptibly, almost, he saw Chinter’s head nodding in agreement with each point. “Your heart rules your mind. You are generous to a fault. You...” He paused, suddenly remembering something that June Purvey had said — “Clyde works at the bank, you know” — a hunch! If he could make this sneering man squirm a little...

Nick pinioned the banker hypnotically with his red-rimmed eyes and continued, “I see a ring. A diamond ring in the hands of a blonde woman, a young girl...” Had there been no reaction to this he would have said, “but this does not concern you.”

But there were now three beads of sweat on the mouth and one coursing down the chin. Nick gambled. “The diamond ring is a present. Yet she dare not wear it. I see her again on a railroad train. She is nervous. There is an address in her bag. I cannot read it clearly but it is the name of a hotel in Kansas City.”

He stopped. Chinter did not move. “Go on,” he said hoarsely, “what else do you know?”

Bull’s-eye! Clytie Vroom, then, had gone to her married lover in panic and told him the mind reader had learned her secret. But why had he come there when Clytie had not named him? What further did he fear? With what other guilt was he burdened?

Nick remembered June Purvey saying, “If the murderer came here, you’d know it.” But banker Chinter was the one man who could not have committed the murder for which Erd Wayne was to hang, since he knew that the widow Booth kept her money in his bank and not in her house. Therefore...

Nick’s sordid, cynical mind was now spinning like the drive wheel of a locomotive, weighing, testing, remembering. Figures bashed through his head — the sum of $1,500, the widow’s fortune — enough to buy a diamond ring and other gifts. Who would have easier access to it than banker Chinter? He had only to take it. But if the widow had found out...

The atmosphere in the booth was suddenly thick and heavy with animal fear as Nick droned, “I see the woman who hindered you with the account that was giving you difficulty. She will hinder you no longer. She is dead.”

“Aaaaaah!” A long sigh came from the man on the other side of the table. His right hand dropped casually to his side.

“I see the widow Booth in her kitchen. Outside there lurks a man who must silence her at all costs. The hired man, Wayne, enters, disturbing his plans. But the man outside sees in him the chance to kill and let another hang for it. And l know why the murderer had to silence the widow...”

The explosion of the gun burst shockingly over the noises of the midway and filled the narrow booth with black smoke and powder stink. But the bullet passed harmlessly through the roof, for Nick had seen the glint of metal creeping from the hip pocket where a right-handed man’s wallet ought to be, and had kicked viciously under the table, spoiling his aim.

Then he kicked him twice more in the same spot, disabling him into a groveling wreck on the floor as men, carnies and passers-by, led by the ubiquitous Sheriff, rushed in.

The latter shouted, “I warned you to keep out of trouble. By God, it’s Mr. Chinter. You’ll swing for this, Baba...”

The old man stared at him. “You’re mighty quick with that rope, Sheriff. He’s got the gun, not me.”

Bowers, the carnival boss, had arrived. He took in the situation. “Yeah, Sheriff, take it easy. This bozo, whoever he is, tried to murder one of my men.”

Nick began to laugh, a horrid, high-pitched cackle. “Rats, are we?” he gasped, “Thieves, rascals, scalawags, eh? You’ll keep an eye on us! What about that sweet-smelling hypocrite there? There’s your real murderer of the widow Booth. Are you or aren’t you, banker Chinter?” — and Nick raised his foot again.

The wreck moaned, “Yes. Oh, God, don’t kick me again.”

The fortuneteller croaked on, “He embezzled the widow’s funds to buy his doxy a diamond and other things. Go ask Clytie Vroom to show you the ring. When the widow discovered her money was gone he had to kill her to keep her quiet.”

And he added, “You’re through, Sheriff. You hang too fast in this county.”

He touched the prone man with his foot as though he were filth and said, “Go on. Get that trash out of here.”

The crowd withdrew with the Sheriff and his prisoner, following them silently. Nick Jackson began to set his booth to rights again. He bit off a large chew of tobacco, picked up the overturned table and chair, and fixed the curtain. He fingered the hole in the clapboard roof made by the .38 caliber bullet, and then he grinned. Lack of courage was not one of his failings. He readjusted his turban which had fallen awry in the brief melee and sat down looking moodily before him.

The curtain stirred and parted, admitting June Purvey. She was white, but her eyes were shining with joy. She said, “I heard what happened — what you did. They told me they’re a-going to set Erd free tomorrow.”

Nick nodded. In the excitement of the shooting he had forgotten all about the girl and the man she loved. Then he made a strange admission. “You helped,” he said. “Erd owes you a lot. It was you told me Clytie worked in the bank.”

She said swiftly, “I’d never let him know.”

Nick said, “Mirza Baba reads the future. Erd’s your man.”

Tears fell from the lovely eyes again. She opened her purse and took out the 40 dollars. “It’s all I’ve got,” she said, “but I could mail you a dollar a week for as long as you say.”

Nick looked at the money and at the girl. “All right,” he said, “gimme it.” He took it from her. “You don’t need to pay any more. We’re square.”

June cried, “Oh thank you, thank you, dear Mr. Baba!” Then, going to him, she put her arms around him and kissed him on the side of his bitter, tobacco-stained mouth, and quickly ran out.

The old faker remained sitting there, the wad of bills in one hand. With the fingers of the other he touched the spot that she had kissed, rubbing at it as though the imprint of such goodness, purity, and innocence were something searing and unbearable. He felt older and more in need of a drink than he ever had before and, for the first time in his life, strangely desolate and forlorn.

Edgar Wallace

The Man Who Sang in Church

Edgar Wallace created many different detectives, crooks, and secret service agents — Mr. J. G. Reeder, Anthony Newton (The Brigand), Heine, Anthony Smith (The Mixer), Oliver O. Rater (The Orator), Four Square Jane, The Ringer, and quite a few others. But perhaps the most popular Wallace characters are The Four Just Men — later, because of the death of one, The Three Just Men — who, as self-appointed avengers (and therefore both detectives and criminals) “unearthed villainy that the law does not punish.”

“The Man Who Sang in Church” was one of the favorite detective short stories of the late James Hilton, author of GOODBYE, MR. CHIPS and LOST HORIZON...

* * *

To Leon Gonsalez went most of the cases of blackmail which came the way of the Three Just Men.

And yet, from the views he had so consistently expressed, he was the last man in the world to whom such problems should have gone, for in that famous article of his entitled Justification, which put up the sales of a quarterly magazine by some thousand per cent, he offered the following opinion:

“...as to blackmail, I see no adequate punishment but death in the case of habitual offenders. You cannot parley with the type of criminal who specializes in this loathsome form of livelihood. Obviously, there can be no side of him to which appeal can be made: no system of reformation can affect him. He is dehumanized, and may be classified with the secret poisoner, the baby-farmer, and...”

He mentioned a trade as unwholesome.

Leon found less drastic means of dealing with these pests; yet we may suppose that the more violent means which distinguished the case of Miss Brown and the man who sang in church had his heartiest approval.

There are so many types of beauty that even Leon Gonsalez, who had a passion for classification, gave up at the eighteenth subdivision of the thirty-third category of brunettes. By which time he had filled two large notebooks.

If he had not wearied of his task before he met Miss Brown, he would assuredly have recognized its hopelessness, for she fell into no category, nor had he her peculiar attractions catalogued in any of his subsections. She was dark and slim and elegant. Leon hated the word, but he was compelled to admit this characteristic. The impression she left was one of delicate fragrance. Leon called her the Lavender Girl. She called herself Brown, which was obviously not her name; also, in the matter of simulations, she wore one of those closely fitting hats that came down over a woman’s eyes and might make subsequent identification extremely difficult.

She timed her visit for the half-light of dusk — the cigarette hour that follows a good dinner, when men are inclined rather to think than to talk, and to doze than either.

Others had come at this hour to the little house in Curzon Street, where the silver triangle on the door marked the habitation of the Three Just Men, and when the bell rang George Manfred looked up at the clock.

“It is too early for the post — see who it is, Raymond: and before you go, I will tell you. It is a young lady in black, rather graceful of carriage, very nervous, and in bad trouble.”

Leon grinned as Poiccart rose heavily from his chair and went out.

“Clairvoyance rather than deduction,” he said, “and observation rather than either: from where you sit you can see the street. Why mystify our dear friend?”

George Manfred sent a ring of smoke to the ceiling.

“He is not mystified,” he said lazily. “He has seen her also. If you hadn’t been so absorbed in your newspaper you would have seen her, too. She has passed up and down the street three times on the other side. And on each occasion she has glanced toward this door. She is rather typical, and I have been wondering exactly what variety of blackmail has been practised on her.”

Here Raymond Poiccart came back.

“She wishes to see one of you,” he said. “Her name is Miss Brown — but she doesn’t look like a Miss Brown!”

Manfred nodded to Leon.

“It had better be you,” he said.

Gonsalez went to the little front drawing-room and found the girl standing with her back to the window, her face in shadow.

“I would rather you did not put on the light, please,” she said, in a calm, steady voice. “I do not wish to be recognized if you meet me again.”

Leon smiled.

“I had no intention of touching the switch,” he said. “You see, Miss—” he waited expectantly.

“Brown,” she replied, so definitely that he would have known she desired anonymity even if she had not made her request in regard to the light. “I told your friend my name.”

“You see, Miss Brown,” he went on, “we have quite a number of callers who are particularly anxious not to be recognized when we meet them again. Will you sit down? I know that you have not much time, and that you are anxious to catch a train out of town.”

She was puzzled.

“How did you know that?” she asked.

Leon made one of his superb gestures.

“Otherwise you would have waited until it was quite dark before you made your appointment. You have, in point of fact, left it just as late as you could.”

She pulled a chair to the table and sat down slowly, turning her back to the window.

“Of course that is so,” she nodded — “Yes, I have to cut it fine. Are you Mr. Manfred?”

“Gonsalez,” he corrected her.

“I want your advice,” she said.

She spoke in an even, unemotional voice, her hands lightly clasped before her on the table. Even in the dark, and unfavorably placed as she was for observation, he could see that she was beautiful. He guessed from her voice that she was about twenty-four.

“I am being blackmailed. I suppose you will tell me I should go to the police, but I am afraid the police would be of no assistance, even if I were willing to risk an appearance in court, which I am not. My father—” she hesitated — “is a government official. It would break his heart if he knew. What a fool I have been!”

“Letters?” asked Leon, sympathetically.

“Letters and other things,” she said. “About six years ago I was a medical student at St. John’s Hospital. I did not take my final exam, for reasons which you will understand. My surgical knowledge has not been of very much use to me, except... well, I once saved a man’s life, though I doubt if it was worth saving. He seems to think it was, but that has nothing to do with the case. When I was at St. John’s I got to know a fellow-student, a man whose name will not interest you, and, as girls of my age sometimes do, I fell desperately in love with him. I did not know that he was married, although he told me this before our friendship reached a climax.

“For all that followed I was to blame. There were the usual letters—”

“And these are the basis of the blackmail?” asked Leon.

She nodded.

“I was worried ill about the... affair. I gave up my work and returned home; but that doesn’t interest you, either.”

“Who is blackmailing you?” asked Leon.

She hesitated.

“The man. It is horrible, isn’t it? But he has gone down and down. I have money of my own — my mother left me £2,000 a year — and of course I have paid.”

“When did you see this man last?”

She was thinking of something else, and she did not answer him. As he repeated the question, she looked up quickly.

“Last Christmas Day — only for a moment. He was not staying with us — I mean it was at the end of...” She had become suddenly panic-stricken, confused, and was almost breathless as she went on: “I saw him by accident. Of course he did not see me, but it was a great shock... It was his voice. He always had a wonderful tenor voice.”

“He was singing?” suggested Leon, when she paused, as he guessed, in an effort to recover her self-possession.

“Yes, in church,” she said, desperately. “That is where I saw him.”

She went on speaking with great rapidity, as though she were anxious not only to dismiss from her mind that chance encounter, but to make Leon also forget.

“It was two months after this that he wrote to me — he wrote to our old address in town. He said he was in desperate need of money, and wanted £500. I had already given him more than £1,000, but I was sane enough to write and tell him I intended to do no more. It was then that he horrified me by sending a photograph of the letter — of one of the letters — I had sent him. Mr. Gonsalez, I have met another man, and... well, John had read the news of my engagement.”

“Your fiancé knows nothing about this earlier affair?”

She shook her head.

“No, nothing, and he mustn’t know. Otherwise everything would be simple. Do you imagine I would allow myself to be blackmailed any further but for that?”

Leon took a slip of paper from one pocket and a pencil from another.

“Will you tell me the name of this man? John—”

“John Letheritt, 27 Lion Row, Whitechurch Street. It is a little room that he has rented, as an office and a sleeping place. I have already had inquiries made.”

Leon waited.

“What is the crisis? Why have you come now?” he asked.

She took from her bag a letter, and he noted that it was in a clean envelope; evidently she had no intention that her real name and address should be known.

He read it and found it a typical communication. The letter demanded £3,000 by the third of the month, failing which the writer intended putting “papers” in “certain hands.” There was just that little touch of melodrama which for some curious reason the average blackmailer adopts in his communiques.

“I will see what I can do. How am I to get in touch with you?” asked Leon. “I presume that you do not wish that either your real name or your address should be known even to me.”

She did not answer until she had taken from her bag a number of banknotes.

Leon smiled.

“I think we will discuss the question of payment when we have succeeded. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to get the letters, and, if it is possible, I want you so to frighten this man that he will not trouble me again. As to the money, I shall feel so much happier if you will let me pay you now.”

“It is against the rules of the firm,” said Leon cheerfully.

She gave him a street and a number which he guessed was an accommodation address.

“Please don’t see me to the door,” she said, with a half-glance at the watch on her wrist.

He waited till the door closed behind her, and then went upstairs to his companions.

“I know so much about this lady that I could write a monograph on the subject,” he said.

“Tell us a little,” suggested Manfred. But Leon shook his head.

That evening he called at White-church Street. Lion Row was a tiny, miserable thoroughfare, more like an alley than anything, and hardly deserved its grand designation. In one of those ancient houses which must have seen the decline of Alsatia, at the top of three rickety flights of stairs, he found a door on which had been recently painted:

J. Letheritt, Exporter

His knock produced no response.

He knocked again more heavily, and heard the creaking of a bed, and a harsh voice asking on the other side who was there. It took some time before he could persuade the man to open the door, and then Leon found himself in a very long, narrow room, lighted by a shadeless electric table-lamp. The furniture consisted of a bed, an old washstand, and a dingy desk piled high with unopened circulars.

He guessed the man who confronted him, dressed in a soiled shirt and trousers, to be about thirty-five; he certainly looked older. His face was unshaven and there was in the room an acrid stink of opium.

“What do you want?” growled John Letheritt, glaring suspiciously at the visitor.

With one glance Leon had taken in the man — a weakling, he guessed — one who had found and would always take the easiest way. The little pipe on the table by the bed was a direction post not to be mistaken.

Before he could answer, Letheritt went on:

“If you have come for letters you won’t find them here, my friend.” He shook a trembling hand in Leon’s face. “You can go back to dear Gwenda and tell her that you are no more successful than the last gentleman she sent.”

“A blackmailer, eh? You are the dirtiest little blackmailer I ever met,” mused Leon. “I suppose you know the young lady intends to prosecute you?”

“Let her prosecute! Let her get a warrant and have me pinched! It won’t be the first time I’ve been inside. Maybe she can get a search warrant, then she will be able to have her letters read in court. I’m saving you a lot of trouble. I’ll save Gwenda trouble, too! Engaged, eh? You’re not the prospective bridegroom?” he sneered.

“If I were, I should be wringing your neck,” said Leon calmly. “If you are a wise man—”

“I am not wise,” snarled the other. “Do not think I would be living in this pigsty if I were? I... a man with a medical degree?”

Then, with a sudden rage, he pushed his visitor towards the door.

“Get out and stay out!”

Leon was so surprised by this onslaught that he was listening to the door being locked and bolted against him before he realized what had happened.

From the man’s manner he was certain that the letters were in that room — there were a dozen places where they might be hidden: he could have overcome Letheritt with the greatest ease, bound him to the bed, and searched the room, but in these days the Three Just Men were very law-abiding people.

Instead he came back to his friends late that night with the story of his partial failure.

“If he left the house occasionally, it would be easy — but he never goes out. I even think that Raymond and I could, without the slightest trouble, make a very thorough search of the place. Letheritt has a bottle of milk left every morning, and it should not be difficult to put him to sleep if we reached the house a little after the milkman.”

Manfred shook his head.

“You’ll have to find another way; it’s hardly worthwhile antagonizing the police,” he said.

“Which is putting it mildly,” murmured Poiccart. “Who’s the lady?”

Leon repeated almost word for word the conversation he had had with Miss Brown.

“There are certain remarkable facts in her statement, and I am pretty sure they were facts, and that she was not trying to deceive me,” he said. “Curious Item No. 1 is the lady heard this man singing in church last Christmas Day. Is Mr. Letheritt the kind of person one would expect to hear exercising his vocal organs on Christmas carols? My brief acquaintance with him leads me to suppose that he isn’t. Curious Item No. 2 was the words: ‘He was not staying with us,’ or something of that sort; and he was ‘nearing the end’ — of what? Those three items are really remarkable!”

“Not particularly remarkable to me,” growled Poiccart. “He was obviously a member of a house party somewhere, and she did not know he was staying in the neighborhood, until she saw him in church. It was near the end of his visit.”

Leon shook his head.

“Letheritt has been falling for years. He has not reached his present state since last Christmas; therefore he must have been as bad — or nearly as bad — nine months ago. I really have taken a violent dislike to him, and I must get those letters.”

Manfred looked at him thoughtfully.

“They would hardly be at his banker’s, because he wouldn’t have a banker; or at his lawyer’s, because I should imagine that he is the kind of person whose acquaintance with law begins and ends in the criminal courts. I think you are right, Leon; the papers are in his room.”

Leon lost no time. Early the next morning he was in Whitechurch Street, and watched the milkman ascend to the garret where Letheritt had his foul habitation. He waited till the milkman had come out and disappeared, but, sharp as he was, he was not quick enough. By the time he had reached the top floor, the milk had been taken in, and the little phial of colorless fluid which might have acted as a preservative to the milk was unused.

The next morning he tried again, and again he failed.

On the fourth night, between the hours of one and two, he managed to gain an entry into the house, and crept noiselessly up the stairs. The door was locked from the inside, but he could reach the end of the key with a pair of narrow pliers he carried.

There was no sound from within when he snapped back the lock and turned the handle softly. But he had no way to deal with the bolts.

The next day he came again, and surveyed the house from the outside. It was possible to reach the window of the room, but he would need a very long ladder, and after a brief consultation with Manfred he decided against this method.

Manfred made a suggestion.

“Why not send him a wire, asking him to meet your Miss Brown at Liverpool Street Station? You know her Christian name?”

Leon sighed wearily.

“I tried that on the second day, my dear chap, and had little Lew Leveson on hand to ‘whizz’ him the moment he came into the street in case he was carrying the letters.”

“By ‘whizz’ you mean to pick his pocket? I can’t keep track of modern thief slang,” said Manfred. “In the days when I was actively interested, we used to call it ‘dip’.”

“You are démodé, George; ‘whizz’ is the word. But of course the beggar didn’t come out. If he owed rent I could get the brokers put in; but he does not owe rent. He is breaking no laws, and is living a fairly blameless life — except, of course, one could catch him for being in possession of opium. But that would not be much use, because the police are rather chary of allowing us to work with them.”

He shook his head.

“I am afraid I shall have to give Miss Brown a very bad report.”

It was not until a few days later that he actually wrote to the agreed address, having first discovered that it was, as he suspected, a small stationer’s shop where letters could be called for.

A week later Superintendent Meadows, who was friendly with the Three, came down to consult Manfred on a matter of a forged Spanish passport, and since Manfred was an authority on passport forgeries and had a fund of stories about Spanish criminals, it was long after midnight when the conference broke up.

Leon, who needed exercise, walked to Regent Street with Meadows, and the conversation turned to Mr. John Letheritt.

“Oh, yes, I know him well. I took him two years ago on a false pretense charge, and got him eighteen months at the London Assizes. A real bad egg, that fellow, and a bit of a ‘squeaker,’ too. He’s the man who put away Joe Lenthall, the cleverest cat burglar we’ve had for a generation. Joe got ten years, and I shouldn’t like to be this fellow when Joe comes out!”

Suddenly Leon asked a question, and when the other had answered, his companion stood stock-still in the middle of the deserted Hanover Square and doubled up with silent laughter.

“I don’t see the joke.”

“But I do,” chuckled Leon. “What a fool I’ve been! And I thought I understood the case!”

“Do you want Letheritt for anything? I know where he lives,” said Meadows.

Leon shook his head.

“No, I don’t want him: but I should very much like to have ten minutes in his room!”

Meadows looked serious.

“He’s blackmailing, eh? I wondered where he was getting his money from.”

But Leon did not enlighten him. He went back to Curzon Street and began searching certain works of reference, and followed this by an inspection of a large-scale map of the Home Counties. He was the last to go to bed, and the first to waken, for he slept in the front of the house and heard the knocking at the door.

It was raining heavily as he pulled up the window and looked out; and in the dim light of dawn he thought he recognized Superintendent Meadows. A second later he was sure of his visitor’s identity.

“Will you come down? I want to see you.”

Gonsalez slipped into his dressing gown, ran downstairs, and opened the door to the superintendent.

“You remember we were talking about Letheritt last night?” said Meadows, as Leon ushered him into the little waiting room.

The superintendent’s voice was distinctly unfriendly, and he was eyeing Leon keenly.

“Yes, I remember.”

“You didn’t by any chance go out again last night?”

“No. Why?”

Again that look of suspicion.

“Letheritt was murdered at half-past one this morning, and his room ransacked.”

Leon stared at him.

“Murdered? Have you got the murderer?” he asked at last.

“No, but we shall get him all right. He was seen coming down the rainpipe by a City policeman. Evidently he had got into Letheritt’s room through the window, and it was this discovery by the constable which led to a search of the house. The City police had to break in the door, and they found Letheritt dead on the bed. He had evidently been hit on the head with a jimmy, and ordinarily that injury would not have killed him, according to the police doctor; but in his state of health it was quite enough to put him out. A policeman went around the house to intercept the burglar, but somehow he must have escaped into one of the little alleys that abound in this part of the city, and he was next seen by a constable in Fleet Street, driving a small car, the number plate of which had been covered with mud.”

“Was the man recognized?”

“He hasn’t been — yet. What he did was to leave three fingerprints on the window, and as he was obviously an old hand at the game, that is as good as a direct identification. The City detective force called us in, but we have not been able to help them except to give them particulars of Letheritt’s past life. Incidentally, I supplied them with a copy of your fingerprints. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Delighted!” Leon said.

After the officer had left, Leon went upstairs to give the news to his two friends.

But the most startling intelligence was to come when they were sitting at breakfast. Meadows arrived. They saw his car draw up at the door, which Poiccart went out to open to him. He strode into the little room, his eyes bulging with excitement.

“Here’s a mystery which even you fellows will never be able to solve,” he said. “Do you know that this is a day of great tragedy for Scotland Yard and for the identification system? It means the destruction of a method that has been laboriously built up—”

“What are you talking about?” asked Manfred quickly.

“The fingerprint system,” said Meadows, and Poiccart, to whom the fingerprint method was something God-like, gaped at him.

“We’ve found a duplicate,” said Meadows. “The prints on the glass were undoubtedly the prints of Joe Lenthall — and Joe Lenthall is in Wilford County Prison serving the first part of twelve years’ penal servitude!”

Something made Manfred turn his head toward his friend. Leon’s eyes were blazing, his thin face wreathed in one joyous smile.

“This is the prettiest case that I have ever dealt with,” he said softly. “Now, sit down, my dear Meadows, and eat! No, no: sit down. I want to hear about Lenthall — is it possible for me to see him?”

Meadows stared at him.

“What use would that be? I tell you this is the biggest blow we have ever had! And what is more, when we showed the City policeman a photograph of Lenthall, he recognized him as the man he had seen coming down the rainpipe! I thought Lenthall had escaped, and phoned the prison. But he’s there all right.”

“Can I see Lenthall?”

Meadows hesitated.

“Yes — I think it could be managed. The Home Office is rather friendly with you, isn’t it?”

Friendly enough, apparently. By noon Leon Gonsalez was on his way to Wilford Prison, and, to his satisfaction, he went alone.

Wilford Prison is one of the smaller convict establishments, and was brought into use to house longtime convicts of good character and who were acquainted with the bookbinding and printing trade. There are several “trade” prisons in England — Maidstone is the “printing” prison, Shepton Mallet the “dyeing” prison — where prisoners may exercise their trades.

The chief warder whom Leon interviewed told him that Wilford was to be closed soon, and its inmates transferred to Maidstone. He spoke regretfully of this change.

“We’ve got a good lot of men here — they give us no trouble, and they have an easy time. We’ve had no cases of indiscipline for years. We only have one officer on night duty — that will give you an idea how quiet we are.”

“Who was the officer last night?” asked Leon, and the unexpectedness of the question took the chief warder by surprise.

“Mr. Bennett,” he said. “He’s sick today, by the way — a bilious attack. Curious thing you should ask the question: I’ve just been to see him. We had an inquiry about the man you’ve come to visit. Poor old Bennett is in bed with a terrible headache.”

“May I see the governor?” asked Leon.

The chief warder shook his head.

“He has gone to Dover with Miss Folian — his daughter. She’s gone off to the Continent.”

“Miss Gwenda Folian?” and when the chief warder nodded, Leon continued, “Is she the lady who was training to be a doctor?”

“She is a doctor,” said the other, emphatically. “Why, when Lenthall nearly died from a heart attack, she saved his life — he works in the governor’s house, and I believe he’d cut off his right hand to serve the young lady. There’s a lot of good in some of these fellows!”

They were standing in the main prison hall. Leon gazed along the grim vista of steel balconies and little doors.

“This is where the night warder sits, I suppose?” he asked, as he laid his hand on the high desk near where they were standing: “and that door leads—”

“To the governor’s quarters.”

“And Miss Gwenda often slips through there with a cup of coffee and a sandwich for the night man, I suppose?” he added, carelessly.

The chief warder was evasive.

“It would be against regulations if she did,” he said. “Now you want to see Lenthall?”

Leon shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said quietly.

“Where could a blackguard like Letheritt be singing in church on Christmas Day?” asked Leon when he was giving the intimate history of the case to his companions. “In only one place — a prison. Obviously, our Miss Brown was in that prison: the governor and his family invariably attend church. Letheritt was ‘not staying with us’ — naturally. ‘It was at the end of’ — his sentence. He had been sent to Wilford for discharge. Poor Meadows! With all his faith in fingerprints gone astray because a released convict was true to his word and went out to get the letters that I missed, while the doped Mr. Bennett slept at his desk and Miss Gwenda Folian took his place!”

Cornell Woolrich (William Irish)

The Earring

This novelet is an almost perfect example of the work of Cornell Woolrich and William Irish at his combined best — powerful in its atmosphere of terror and suspense and with a final whiplash of surprise that will remind you (if you needed reminding) of the subtle craftsmanship that Woolrich builds into his best Irish stories, and vice versa.

And we are reminded of a small anecdote that illustrates the narrative grip that Woolrich-Irish can exert on his readers: quite a few years ago we attended a literary luncheon (we forget for whom, or what the particular occasion was), and sat next to the charming Mildred C. Smith, at present Editor-in-Chief of “Publishers’ Weekly.” Mildred Smith, a reader of EQMM since its inception, told us that “The Earring” was one of two stories in EQMM that had made the most lasting impression on her memory — for reasons she could never figure out, the story simply haunted her.

Maybe the clue can be found in something one of the characters in “The Earring” says: “I was just thinking how funny life is. Whatever this play is about that we’re going to see tonight, it can’t match real life for its thrills, its ups and downs, its crazy, unbelievable quirks”...

* * *

The latchkey jammed, and I had to stand there shaking as if I had St. Vitus dance before I could get it to work right. My wrists shook, my arms shook, my shoulders shook, trying to force it around. And above all else, my heart shook with the terror.

I was shaking so, it even made the empty milk-bottle standing outside the door sing out. I’d accidentally touched it with the tip of my shoe, I guess. The day maid had a note for the milkman curled up in the neck of it, in the shape of a little paper funnel.

I took the key out, drew a deep breath, and tried again. This time the door opened like pie. There hadn’t been anything the matter with the key; I’d been holding it upside down, that was all. I sidled in, eased the door silently closed again behind me — and Mrs. James Shaw was home.

The hall clock chimed four times. They say you can only die once, but I died four times, once for each chime-strike. Not that I wasn’t supposed to be out. I could have even rung the doorbell, and saved myself all that wrestling with the key. But I couldn’t face anyone, not even Jimmy, just then. Even if he’d just said, “Have a good time at the night club with the Perrys?”, even if he’d just looked at me, I would have busted down and tried to crawl into his lapel. I needed to be alone, I needed time to pull myself together.

He’d left the light on for me in the hall. He was still up, working away in the library on his income-tax report. He had the door dosed, but I could tell by the light shining out under the sill of it. He always waited until the last minute, like most taxpayers do, and then he had to sit up all night to beat the deadline on it. That was why he’d had to miss the party, send me out with the Perrys alone.

It was just a coincidence, but I could thank my lucky stars he’d had to finish it tonight.

That was just about the only thing in the whole mess there was to be thankful for. That at least there wouldn’t be any trouble between Jimmy and me.

I tiptoed down the hall toward our bedroom, slipped in, closed the door behind me. I gave it the lights and took a couple of deep body-sobs that had been ganged up in me for the past three-quarters of an hour or more.

The glass showed me a golden wreck staggering across the room toward it. All glittery on the outside: gold-sheath dress, diamonds everywhere there was room to hang them, around my neck, around my wrists, swinging from my ears. Not so glittery on the inside: plenty scared.

I sat down in front of the glass, held my head with both hands for a minute.

When I got my second wind, the first thing I did was open my gold evening pouch and take out — what I had in it. The style ran to big evening bags this season, and that was a good thing for me. I’d needed a lot of room tonight. The letters made a bulky packet. And the little gun I’d taken along, just to be on the safe side, that took up room, too. The ten thousand dollars in cash didn’t take up any room, because I hadn’t brought that back with me, I’d swapped that for the letters.

That gives you the whole story. Well, maybe not quite, so in fairness to myself I’d better run over it just once. His name was Carpenter. The letters had been written to him five years ago, three years before I even knew there was a Jimmy Shaw in the world. I should have been safe enough. But he’d made use of a trick to bring them up to date. It was a clever trick. I granted him that.

Here’s what he’d done. At the time I’d originally written them, we’d both been at the same seaside resort hotel, only on different floors. I’d had them delivered to him personally by bellboys and what not, not sent through the mail. In other words he’d received the envelopes sealed and addressed to him in my handwriting, but unstamped and undated by any postoffice cancellation.

He must have been a careful letter-opener, the kind that just makes a neat slit down the side instead of tearing them ragged. He’d pasted over the slits with strips of thin wax paper, put a brand new stamp on each one, added his present street and city address beneath the name, and then sent them back through the mail a second time — to himself. One at a time, over a period of weeks, careful to match the mailing date with the original date inside at the top of the note paper. Get the idea?

Each one had come back to him with this year’s date postmarked on the outside, to match the five-year-old date on the inside. I hadn’t bothered inserting the year, just the day of the week and the month. He’d had the devil’s own luck with those cancellations, too. Not one of them had blurred or smudged; the “1941” stood out clear as a diamond. Then when he’d gotten them back, he’d peeled off the wax paper.

In other words, he’d turned a lot of gushy but harmless mash notes written to him by a young girl into a batch of deadly dangerous, incriminating letters written to him by a respectable and socially prominent young married woman with a wealthy husband. And he’d done it by simply sticking stamps on them. What an investment! At an expenditure of two cents a head, he’d gotten back one thousand dollars on each one. There had been ten that were usable; the others either had been signed with my full family name or had things in them that dated them as from that summer.

You’d think a corny set-up like that, which they don’t even use in the movies any more, wouldn’t go over. I should have refused to pay off, gone straight to Jimmy about it. But it’s so easy to be brave until you’re face to face with something like that. He’d had me over a barrel. His technique had been beautifully simple and direct. He’d first called me three or four days ago. He’d said, “Remember me? Well, I need ten thousand dollars.”

I’d hung up.

He’d called right back again before I could even move away from the phone. “You didn’t let me finish what I was saying. I have some letters that you wrote to me. I thought maybe that you’d prefer to have them back than to have them lying around loose.”

I’d hung up again.

He’d called back late that same night, after midnight. Luckily, I answered, and not Jimmy. “I’m giving you one more chance. One of them’s in the mail already, enclosed in an envelope addressed to your husband. He’ll get one every morning, until they’re all used up. And the price for the rest’ll go up a thousand, each time I send one out. I’m sending the first one to your house and tipping you off ahead of time, so you’ll still have a chance to sidetrack it before he sees it. After that, they’ll go to his club, where you can’t get your hands on them. Think it over. Call me tomorrow at eleven, and let me know what you’ve decided.” And he gave me his number.

I sneaked the letter off the mail tray before Jimmy saw it. I read it over. It should have been written on asbestos. “All night I lie awake and dream of you... I’d follow you to the ends of the earth...” No one would realize that I had hoped he would marry me.

I saw what he’d done. How could I prove I’d written them in 1936 and not 1941? My handwriting hadn’t changed. Note paper doesn’t show any particular age, especially the deckled gray kind I’d used then and was still using now, with just a crest instead of a monogram. The tables turned. I could hardly wait for eleven to come. I hung around the phone all morning.

When he answered, all I said, breathlessly, was: “That’ll be all right. Just tell me where and when.”

Tonight had been when, and the flat I’d just come from had been where. And ten thousand dollars out of my own private checking account had been how much.

At least I’d gotten them all back and it was over. Or is blackmail ever over with? Is it a game that you can ever beat?

There was a fireplace in our bedroom, and I burned the letters in there, one by one; contents and envelopes and spiked cancellations. When the last of them was gone in smoke, I felt a lot better. For about three and a half minutes.

I started to strip off the sparkle, and I opened the little embossed leather case I kept it all in. It was divided into compartments for each variety. The bracelets went into one, the rings into another, and so on. I came to the one for the earrings last. I took the right one off first and pitched it in. Then I reached for the left, and just got air and the bare lobe of my ear. No left earring.

For a minute I sat there without moving, and my face got white and my heart got chilly. Then I jumped up, and shook out my dress, and looked all around on the floor. I was just stalling. I knew where I must have dropped it, but I didn’t want to let on to myself.

I knew it hadn’t been at the club with the Perrys, and I knew it hadn’t been in the first taxi, going over to the Other Place. I’d given a sort of shudder just before he opened the door for me, and happened to touch both earrings with my hands. And I knew it hadn’t been in the second taxi, from there home, either.

There was only one time I’d moved violently or agitatedly all evening long, and that was over there, when he’d tried to chuck me under the chin after he’d counted over the money, and I’d reared my head back. It must have been right then that it had come off. The catch had been defective anyway.

I had to have it back. Jimmy was taking them down with him tomorrow, to have them repaired. I could tell him I’d lost one of them, but that would uncover my movements. And there was an even more important reason why I had to get it back. If I left it with him, the whole thing would start over again as soon as he’d run through the ten thousand I’d just given him. He’d simply use it to bleed me some more. It was an easily recognizable piece of jewelry, made specially for me.

I went over to the door and listened first, to make sure Jimmy was still safely in the library. Not a sound, so it looked as if he was. Then I picked up the extension phone we had in the bedroom and dialed the number of Carpenter’s place that he’d given me last night, along with his final ultimatum.

Suppose he denied having found it? Suppose he was far-seeing enough to already figure on it coming in handy as a future pledge? I couldn’t add anything to the ten thousand, not until next month. My account was down to bedrock. He had to give it back to me!

I kept signaling, and he didn’t answer. I knew he must be there. I’d just come from there myself. He might light out the first thing in the morning, but there was no need for him to leave at this ungodly hour of the night. If I was going to sic the police on him, I would have done it before the transaction was concluded, not after. Even if he was asleep, it surely ought to wake him up, the way it was buzzing away at his end.

I hung up, tried it over. No more luck than the first time. It was the right number. I’d used it to notify him of my capitulation. I shook the thing, I squeezed it, I prayed to it. I had to give up finally. I couldn’t just sit there listening to it all night. I was good and scared now.

I had to have that earring, even if it meant — going all the way back there in person, at this hour. And there was no place under the sun or the moon I wouldn’t have rather returned to than there.

I took the gun with me once more. I didn’t think Carpenter could really be cowed by such a midget, but it made me feel a little less defenseless. I unlocked the door and sidled down the hall. If I could only get out without bumping into Jimmy, then when I came back the second time, he could think it was the first time. That I’d stayed late with the Perrys at the club or something.

The light was gone from under the library door! He must have finished and gone out for a walk to clear his head, after battling with those taxblanks all night. That was all to the good, provided I didn’t run into him outside just as I was leaving. The milk-bottle with its paper funnel was still on lonesome duty.

I made it. I was dying to ask the night liftman, when he brought me down, “Did Mr. Shaw go out just a little while ago?” I forced myself not to. It sounded too underhanded.

I gave the cabdriver the address, and slumped back on the seat with a sigh of relief.

When I got out in front of the sinister-looking place I told the driver to wait for me. I looked up the front of it, and I saw just the one lighted window — his. He was up there, and he was still awake. Maybe he’d stepped out for just a minute at the time I’d rung.

I said to the driver, “Have you got a watch on you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I want you to do something for me. Time me. If I haven’t come out in ten minutes, step over and ring the bell. The one that says ‘Carpenter’ on it.” I smiled insincerely. “Just to remind me. I don’t want to stay too long, and I have a bad habit of losing track of the time.”

“Yes ma’am. Ten minutes.”

I went in. The entrance door was supposed to work on a spring lock, but somebody had forgotten to close it, so I passed right through without waiting and started the long climb that I’d already made once before. The place was a walk-up!

I knocked muffedly, when I finally got up to the top. It was the only flat on that floor; an extra story must have been added when the building had been converted to multiple tenancy.

He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. I’d expected that. Live dangerously, and a knock on the door can make you freeze. I could visualize him standing at bay somewhere in there, holding his breath.

I knocked again. I inclined my head to the seam, said in a guarded voice: “Let me in. It’s me again.” I couldn’t bring myself to use his name. As far as I was concerned he didn’t deserve one, only a number. I had sense enough not to use my own.

He still didn’t stir. I wrangled the knob in growing impatience, and the door fell inertly back before me.

I ventured in after it, expecting to find him sighting a gun at me. That was the usual trick they pulled, wasn’t it? He wasn’t in the main room, he must be in the little darkened bed-alcove. Had lain down in there and forgotten to put the light out in here.

I didn’t go in there. There was just a slim chance — a very slim one — that he hadn’t found the earring himself yet, that it was still lying around out here unnoticed, and that I might be able to pick it up on my own hook and slip out again without having to accost him. I doubted it very much; it would have been too good to be true. But I started to look just the same.

First I looked all over the sofa where I’d sat riffling through the letters. Then I got down on all fours, gold dress and all, and started to explore the floor, around and under and alongside it. It was a decrepit, top-heavy thing and threw a big shadow behind it from the ceiling light.

My groping hand crept around the corner of it, and nestled into somebody else’s, in a macabre gesture of a handclasp. I whipped it back with a bleat of abysmal terror and sprang away, and at the same time I heard a sharp intake of breath.

I stepped around and looked down, and he was lying there. The position of the bulky sofa had hid him from me until now. Did I say just now he deserved a number? He’d gotten one. And it was up.

One arm was flung out along the floor — the one that I’d just touched. He was lying on his back, and his jacket had fallen open. You could see where he’d been shot; it showed on the white of his shirt. It must have gone into his heart; the hole in the fabric and the bloodied encrustation that surrounded it were around that region. The gun he hadn’t had time to use had fallen uselessly over to one side.

My first impulse, of course, was to turn and race out. I fought it down. “Find that earring first,” I reasoned with myself. “You’ve got to get it back!” It was more vital to recover it than ever. It wasn’t just a case of keeping my presence here from Jimmy’s knowledge now, it was a case of keeping it from the police! What was blackmail compared to being dragged into a murder case?

I found myself doing something I wouldn’t have believed I had the nerve to do: bending down over him and going through all his pockets. He didn’t have it on him. He didn’t have the ten thousand cash any more either, but I didn’t care about that; it wasn’t identifiable.

I crouched there, suddenly motionless. My hand had just then accidentally, as might have been expected, fleetingly contacted his in the course of my search. The brief touch was repellent, yes, but that wasn’t what made me freeze rigid like that, stare unseeingly along the floor before me. It was this: the touch of his clammy skin was already cool, far cooler than my own. My sketchy knowledge of such matters was sufficient to tell me that meant he’d been dead some little time, at least half an hour or an hour. The point was, he’d certainly been dead by the time I’d come into the room just now.

And belatedly, like a sort of long-delayed and not at all funny mental double take, I was just remembering that I’d heard a sharp intake of breath at the moment I’d jolted back and given my own strangled little cry of discovery just now.

If he was dead, he hadn’t made the sound. And you can’t cry out, and still draw in your breath, so I hadn’t either.

Not a muscle moved. Just my optic nerves. My eyes traveled over the floor to the arched, doorless entrance to the dark sleeping-alcove, and the musty green hanging, bunched together, that hung down on one side of it. It hung perfectly motionless, just as everything else in the place was perfectly motionless — including myself and the dead man on the floor. But it hung just short of the floor — oh, not more than a couple of inches. And I could see the hub of a single shoe standing there; in the gap. Perfectly motionless, deceptively motionless.

It could have been a discarded shoe of Carpenter’s, dropped to the floor in there and happening to land upright. Even though it was pointing straight toward me, as if to match an unseen pair of eyes somewhere high over it, looking out through an unsuspected rent in the drape. It could have been, but then it wouldn’t have moved.

As if the direction of my eyes had power to lend it motion. It shifted stealthily back and was gone.

There was only one coherent thought in the fireworks display of panic going off inside my head: “Don’t scream. Don’t move. Someone in there has been watching you ever since you came in. He may let you go, if you don’t let on you’ve spotted him. Work yourself over toward the door, and then break Out fast.”

I straightened up. The earring was forgotten, everything else was forgotten. I just wanted out. My feet took a surreptitious step under the cover of the gold dress. Then another. Then a third. Like in that kid’s game, where they’re not supposed to catch you moving. I was halfway over to it now. But even if the maneuvering of my feet couldn’t be detected, the position of my body in the room kept changing. That was enough to give me away.

About one more step now. I was just starting to raise my hand unnoticeably in front of me, to tear at the knob and fling myself out, when I heard a click behind me. The sort of a click that a triphammer makes when it goes back. My eyes went around in spite of myself. The drape was out of the way and a man had taken its place now. He was holding a gun at about belt-buckle level.

Even if I hadn’t met him across a gun — and across a man he’d already killed — the mere sight of him would have thrown a jolt into me. His expression was the epitome of viciousness. You didn’t have to wonder if he’d shoot, you only had to wonder when he would. His face was a mirror: it showed me my own imminent death about to take place. He hadn’t had to step out and show himself, he could have let me get away without seeing who he was. The mere fact that he had stepped out, showed I wasn’t going to be let get away alive.

Suddenly he made a move and I thought for a minute the bullet had found me. But he’d only hitched his head at me, ordering me to come closer.

I couldn’t; my feet wouldn’t have done it even if I’d wanted them to. “No, don’t,” I moaned sickly.

“You’re not getting out of here to pin this on me,” he slurred. His lips parted and white showed through. But it wasn’t a grin, it was just a baring of teeth. “I want the dough he was coming into tonight, see? I got a line on that, never mind how. Now come on, where is it?”

“I have—” I panted. I couldn’t go ahead. I pointed to the still form lying between us on the floor.

Did you ever hear a hungry hyena howl against the moon? That was the inflection of his voice. “Come a-a-a-ahn, what’d you do with it?” Then his jaws snapped shut — still like a hyena’s on a hunk of food. “All right, I don’t have to ask for it. I can just reach for it!” But he didn’t mean with his fingers, he meant with a bullet. “You’ve seen me up here now. That’s your tough luck.” And he said again what he had in the beginning: “You’re not pinning this on me.”

The gun twitched warningly, getting ready to recoil against the flat hollow of his indrawn stomach, and this was my last minute.

Then instead of going bam! it went gra-a-aack! Like those little flat paddles on sticks that kids swing around to make noise with. And instead of coming from in front of him, it came from behind him, up on the wall of the bed-alcove somewhere. My knees dipped to let me down, and then stiffened and went on holding me up some more.

It startled the two of us alike. But I was able to recover quicker, because I knew instantly what it was, and he didn’t. It threw him for a complete loss. It was one of those sounds that are so indefinite as to cause, and yet it was so close by, so harshly menacing. It was simply that taxidriver downstairs reminding me my ten minutes were up.

He swung first to one side, then to the other, then all the way around, half-crouched, and the gun went off me completely. I pulled at the doorknob, whisked out, and went down the stairs like a gold streak.

He came out after me just as I reached the first turn. There was a window there and it was open a little both at the top and bottom, in order to ventilate the stairs and halls during the night. He shot down the stairs at me, on a descending line of fire, just as I flashed around the turn and got out of it. It didn’t hit me, but it should have hit the window and shattered it or it should have hit the plaster of the wall and ploughed into it. It didn’t hit anywhere.

Later, long afterwards, it came back to me that it must have, through some freak of downward slanting, neatly gone out through that slender inches-wide lower opening without hitting anything. I didn’t think of that then. I didn’t think of anything then except getting down the rest of those stairs and out to the street.

He didn’t fire after me a second time. He couldn’t aim at me from where he was any more. The underside of the stairs over me protected me now. His only chance of hitting me would have been to run down after me and overtake me on the same section of stairs. He still could have done that if he’d tried. Any man is quicker than any woman, particularly a woman in rumba-clogs. But he was afraid of whoever it was that he imagined to be coming up from below, and he was afraid of rousing the house.

I heard his feet go scuffling up the other way, higher still, toward the roof.

The entryway was empty when I got down to it. The hackman must have gone right back to his machine after dutifully giving me the summons I’d asked for. He’d even missed hearing the shot. I could tell that by the cheerful matter-of-factness of his opening remark when I streaked out and burrowed into the back of his machine. “Well, I sure brought you down fast, didn’t I, lady?” he asked.

“T-take me back uptown,” I said.

The guardian milk-bottle was still standing there by our door when I got out my latchkey for the second time that night.

I let myself in and crept down the hall toward the bedroom. I opened the door and stopped short with my hand on the light-switch. Jimmy had come back, and was in there ahead of me, asleep already. I could hear the soft purr of his snoring in the darkness. He evidently hadn’t been surprised by my continued absence. He must have thought I was still at the night club with the Perrys. His breathing was so rhythmic, so regular, it almost sounded studied.

I crawled into my own bed in the dark and just lay there. I hadn’t got the earring back. That was almost a minor matter by now. I kept seeing that face before me, viciously contorted, mirroring death to come. As sure as anything he was going to track me down, find me, and kill me. My life was forfeit to a murderer’s self-preservation. I was the only one who knew he had been up there. I was the only one who knew who had killed Carpenter. He had to get rid of me; his own safety demanded that.

Somewhere, sometime, when I least expected it, death was going to strike out at me. I was on borrowed time.

He would surely get me, unless — I got him first.

The lieutenant’s name was Weill, I think. I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure of anything, only that I was striking first, protecting my own life in the only way I knew how.

“I am asking that this interview be treated in strictest confidence.”

He looked at me patronizingly; I suppose he thought I was going to accuse someone of poisoning someone else’s pet pekingese. “You can rely on us.”

“I am here to offer you a proposition. I am in a position to give you information which I think you will find not only timely but exceedingly helpful. In return for this, you must not use my name in any shape, form or manner. It means the destruction of my happiness if you do, and I won’t risk it. Who I am, who told you this, must not appear on any of your documents or reports or files.”

He was still very condescending. “That’s a tall order. Are you sure it’s something we’d be interested in?”

“You’re a lieutenant of the Homicide Squad? I’m very sure, lieutenant.”

He gave me a more alert look. “Very well, I accept your terms.”

“You do. Yes, but how do I know it won’t pass beyond your control? It’s a matter that you will have to take others into your confidence about.”

“Nothing passes beyond my control in this division, if I don’t care to have it do so. If, as you say, others have to be taken into my confidence, I can either pledge them, as you are pledging me, or keep you altogether anonymous, as ‘Mrs. X.’ or ‘an unknown woman.’ Does that satisfy you? I give you my word as a police officer.”

I wasn’t altogether sure of that, I didn’t know enough about them. “I also want your word of honor as a man.”

He eyed me with increased respect. “That,” he admitted, “is a whole lot more dependable. I give you both.”

I didn’t hold back anything, didn’t try to cover myself in any way. I told him about the letters, about Carpenter’s contacting me, about my first visit there and the payment of the ten thousand cash. “...I also took a gun, to make sure the situation wouldn’t pass beyond my control. Here it is here. You can examine it if you want to make sure it wasn’t I who did it.” I passed it to him.

He weighed it in his hand, smiled a little. “I don’t think it’ll be necessary to do that. The slug of a forty-five was taken out of Carpenter’s body. This would be the grandson of a forty-five.”

I went into the second part of my story, the really pertinent part. If I hadn’t known it was that already, the change in his attitude would have told me. He forgot his rôle of putting a feather-brained society woman at ease, became a police-lieutenant with just an important witness before him. “You’d know this man if you saw him again?” he said sharply.

“All night I saw his face before me.”

“You say he held a gun trained on you, before this interruption saved your life. Did you get a good look at it?”

“Quite good.” I shuddered.

“Have you a good eye for proportions, for taking in measurements at a glance?”

“Fairly.”

He opened a desk-drawer, took out a revolver. “This weapon is empty, so don’t be nervous. Of course, you were frightened, so maybe it’s not fair, but— This is a forty-five here. I am going to hold it just about as you say he held it. Now. Is it the same size as the one he held?”

“No, his seemed heavier, larger.”

“But this is a forty-five. Look at it again. Now what do you say?”

I cocked my head. “No. I may be mistaken, but somehow the one he held seemed to be a larger, heavier gun.”

He replaced it, looked around in the drawer, finally took out another. “How about this one, then? This is far bigger than a forty-five. This is as big as they come.”

I nodded my head affirmatively without a moment’s hesitation. “Yes. That’s the same size as the one he held.”

He put it back in the drawer. “You’re a reliable witness. The first gun was a thirty-eight. The second was the forty-five.” He got up. “I am going to ask you to try and pick him out for us.”

They were all so villainous looking. And yet none of them could approach him in viciousness. Maybe that was because I’d seen him in the flesh, in full dimension, and not just flat on paper, in black and white. There were two photos of each one, in profile and fullface. I ignored the profiles, concentrated on the fullfaces. That was the way he’d been turned toward me during those few awful moments up there.

Suddenly I got up from the chair. I put my forefinger on the photograph, but not for his benefit yet, simply for my own, to hang onto it. I closed my eyes and held them that way for a moment. Then when I had his face good and clear, burning clear, I opened them. I let them travel down the line of my arm, all the way down to the end of my finger, and the face on the police photograph blended into the one glowing in my mind, without any changes of outline.

Then I turned to Weill. “This is the face of the man I saw up there,” I said.

He said again what he’d said before, up in his office. “You’re a good, dependable witness. I liked the way you did that just then.” He bent forward above my shoulder and read from the data accompanying the photos. “That’s ‘Sonny-Boy’ Nelson. He’s already wanted for murder, three times over. We’ve wanted him for a long time.”

Back in his office, he finally noticed the change that had come, over me since that last remark of his. “What is it, Mrs. Shaw? You seem troubled.”

I gestured shakily. “Well, after all, lieutenant, why did I come here? To assure my own safety, to protect my life. This man saw me up there, just as I saw him. He knows I’m the only one who knows he was there. He’s going to try to kill me. He’s surely going to try, so that I won’t be able to tell that to anyone.

“Now if he’s already been wanted for three murders, and you haven’t gotten him so far, my identification makes no difference; you’ll simply want him for four murders now, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get him any quicker than before. And meanwhile, what’s to become of me? I’ll be living in danger from one minute to the next.”

“I’ll detail someone to—”

I quickly warded that off with a gesture.

“No, you can’t. How could such a thing escape Jim — my husband’s notice? He’s bound to ask questions, wonder what it’s all about. The whole thing would be bound to come out in the end. And that’s the very thing I tried to avoid by coming here to you unasked, entirely of my own accord.”

He stared at me incredulously. “You mean, given a choice between risking your life in a very real sense, and having your husband learn of your innocent involvement in this whole affair, you’d rather take chances on your life?”

“Much rather,” I told him very decisively.

I had been afraid not to pay the ten thousand. Now, because I had paid it, I was afraid to have it come out I had. I was afraid he would think there must have been something to cover up after all, if I had been so anxious and willing to pay it.

“You’re an unusual person,” Weill let me know.

“No, I’m not. Happiness is a soap-bubble. Once it’s been pricked, just try and get it back together again! This Sonny-Boy Nelson’s bullets can miss me. But my bubble can never be repaired again, once it’s burst. Even if it means just a stray thought passing through my husband’s mind five years from now — ‘Where there’s smoke there’s fire’ — I won’t take that chance, I won’t risk it. Nothing else in life matters to me.” I got up and went toward the door.

Then I saw that he had more to say, so I stopped and looked back

“Well, if you’re willing to take the risk that you are, spread out thin, over days and weeks, how about taking an even greater risk, but all at one time? Getting it over with then and there?”

I answered that by coming away from the door, returning to his desk, and reseating myself acquiescently.

“You said, a little while ago, that your coming here had done no good; that we’d only want him for one additional murder now but still without knowing where to find him. But you’re mistaken. If you’re willing to cooperate, run the risk that I just spoke of, we will know where to find him. Which is more than we ever knew before.”

I saw what he meant. I shook a little, but I lit a cigarette. The cigarette of cooperation.

“Tell me,” he said, “are there any out-of-the-way places you’re in the habit of going to by yourself, entirely unaccompanied by your husband or friends or anyone else? I mean, without departing from your normal routine or habits of life?”

I thought for a moment. “Yes,” I said, “there are.”

Jimmy didn’t mind my doing private charity work, going around to a few handicapped cases I happened to know of and doing what I could for them, but he didn’t like the parts of town it took me into at times. Above all, he didn’t like the idea of my going alone into some of those places. He’d warned me again and again to take someone with me.

I made the rounds only about once a month, anyway. I wasn’t a professional welfare worker. I never had more than half a dozen at a time on my list, and they were all people that for one reason or another fell outside the scope of the regular relief agencies. Borderline cases that would have been left in the lurch if it weren’t for me.

Like this old Mrs. Scalento, living alone and too proud to apply to the city for help. She wouldn’t have been eligible anyway; she could make enough to support herself when she was well. But right now she was laid up with arthritis or something, and needed tiding over. That was where I came in.

I got out of the cab outside the tunnel-like black entrance of the rookery she lived in. They never had any lights on the stairs there, but I’d brought a little pocket-flash along in my bag for just that purpose. This was the very sort of place Jimmy had specifically warned me not to venture into alone, particularly at night, but I’d got newer instructions since — from somebody else.

I groped my way down the long Stygian bore that led back to where I knew the stairs to be — from my memory of past visits alone. When I’d found the bottom one with my foot, and the dim light coming in from the street behind me would have failed to penetrate any deeper, I stopped for a moment. I reached into my bag for the pocket-flash, to light me the rest of the way up.

Did you ever have a feeling of someone being near you, without seeing anything, without hearing anything move? Animals have that faculty of detection, I know, but that’s through their sense of scent. Scent wasn’t involved in this. Just some sort of a pulsing that told of another presence, reached me. To one side of the battered staircase, or perhaps around behind it.

I got the flash out and it shot a little white pill of light up the stairs in front of me before I’d even realized I’d nudged the little control-lever on. It must have been obvious which direction I was going to turn it in next, by the way it shook and slopped around in my hand.

The voice was so quiet. So reassuringly quiet. It seemed to come from right beside me, my very elbow almost. “Don’t turn the light this way, Mrs. Shaw.”

Mrs. Shaw. So then I knew what it was.

“Weill’s man. Don’t be frightened, Mrs. Shaw. We’re covering every one of these places you’ve showed up at tonight. Just act as you would at any other time.”

I went on up the stairs, after I’d gotten my breath back and my heartbeat had slowed a little, thinking resentfully: “The fool! The Other One himself couldn’t have frightened me any worse!”

That was what I thought.

I knocked when I got up to her door, and then let myself in without further ado. I had to; the old lady didn’t have the use of her legs.

She was sitting there propped up in bed, the way I usually found her. She didn’t seem glad to see me. Her face always lit up as though I were a visiting angel when I came in, and she’d start to bless me in Italian. Tonight she just stared at me with an intentness that almost seemed to have hostility in it. She didn’t utter a word of greeting, held my gaze steadily.

She had just this one large barren room, and then a black hole of a kitchen without any window at all, leading off from it. I closed the door after me. “Well, how are we tonight?” I greeted her.

She gave an impatient swerve of her head away from me, almost as though she resented my coming in on her, as though I were unwelcome. I pretended not to notice the unmistakable surliness — not to mention ingratitude — of the reception I was getting.

The air of the room was stagnant, murky; none of these people were great believers in ventilation. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to let a little fresh air in here?” I suggested. I crossed to the window and raised it slightly from the bottom. She glared at me.

“How’s your plant getting along?” I asked her, crouching slightly to peer out at it. I’d sent her over a potted geranium, to cheer her up. She kept it out there on the window-ledge.

A look of almost ferocious vindictiveness passed over her face, as I straightened up and turned away. “You no got to worry about it; iss all ri’,” she let me know in husky defiance. It was the first remark she’d uttered since I came in. She was kneading her fingers palsiedly. Or maybe she was trying to convey something with them, I don’t know.

I drew out my usual bedside chair and sat down by her. She wouldn’t turn to look at me, kept Staring stubbornly straight ahead, as though I were not there at all.

I tried to win her over. “Have you been using that electric heater? Does it take any of the stiffness out, make you feel any better?”

She said gruffly, “Lotsa bett’.”

She had folded her arms across her chest now in a sort of stubborn sulkiness, and she kept jabbing one hand surreptitiously out from underneath the opposite arm. Not toward me, more — toward the door.

I said finally, in a low confidential voice: “What’re you trying to tell me?”

Her face flashed around toward me. She bared her almost toothless mouth in a grin that held frightened supplication in it. “I no tella you noth’. What you hear me say? Do I tella you anything?”

“I’ll do my own telling,” the new voice said.

Someone had come out of the kitchen and was standing right behind my chair. Its back had been turned that way.

I rocketed to my feet, chest going up and down like a bellows. A hand slipped around from behind me and riveted itself to my wrist, steely and implacable. The chair slashed over, discarded.

“Remember me?” was all he said.

The old lady, as if released from a spell, began to jabber now that it was too late: “Signora! This man he come here early tonight, he say he know you make visit every time on firsta month, he’ssa going to wait for you. I not can make him go ’way, I no can get up from bed and call policeman. He say if I tella you he’ss in there he shoot me. All time he have gun point at me, I no can’t spik—”

He chopped the gun-butt around horizontally at her forehead, without letting go of me, and she flopped back stunned on the pillow. I never saw anything more brutal in my life.

He gave it a little dextrous flip, then, that brought his grip back to the heft. “Now let’s take up where we left off the other night, you and me.”

I saw he was going to let me have the bullet then and there. He swung me around toward him by my arm, and brought the gun up, to contact-point against my side. He wasn’t taking any chances this time.

He’d maneuvered me out away from the bed — I suppose so there’d be room enough for me to fall. But that had unnoticeably changed our respective positions now. He was between me and the door. His back was to it, and I was toward it. But I couldn’t see it, or anything else, just then. I never even heard it open. I only heard the terminal thud it made at the other end of its arc, when it brought up flat against the wall. And I heard the harsh order that topped the thud.

“Drop that gun, Nelson, you’re covered three ways!”

There was an awful moment of suspended motion, when nothing seemed to happen. Then the gun loosened, skidded down my side and hit the floor.

A man’s head and shoulders showed up, one at each side of him, and there was a third one overlapping a little behind him. His two sleeves tightened up, as if drawn from behind, and so did the neck of his coat-collar. The front buttons pulled tight, to nearly up under his chin.

He’d even forgotten to let go of my wrist, he was still holding it until after they clicked the handcuff on his own.

They said to me, “You must have seen him the minute you got in, to tip us off so quickly—”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t see him until just a minute ago, right before you broke in.”

“Then how did you manage to—?”

“I knew he was here the minute I stepped through the door. I could tell by the frozen expression of her face and eyes she was under some kind of restraint or compulsion. And the air was close with stale cigarette-smoke. He’d smoked one or two too many, back there, while he was waiting for me to show up. I knew she never used them herself. But it was too late to back out through the door again, once I’d shown myself; he would have shot me down from where he was. So I stepped over to the window under the excuse of getting some air into the room, and gave that potted plant she kept on it a soundless little nudge off into space.”

The man in charge said, “Hold him up here for a couple of minutes, give Mrs. X. a chance to make her getaway from the neighborhood first, before anyone spots her. You see that she gets home safely, Dillon.”

“Will she be all right?” I asked.

“She’ll be all right, we’ll look after her.”

“Poor Mrs. Scalento,” I said, going down the stairs with the man delegated to accompany me, “I’ll have to buy her another plant.”

The formal identification was brief, and, as far as I was concerned, of about the same degree of comfort as the extraction of a live tooth without anesthesia. Why they had to have it I don’t know, since, according to my bargain with Weill, my own identity was to remain unrevealed. It took place in Weill’s office, with a heavy guard at the door, to keep pryers — even interdepartmental pryers — at a distance.

“Bring him in.”

I didn’t raise my eyes from the floor until the scuff of unwilling shoe-leather dragged against its will had stopped short.

“Mrs. X. Is this the man you saw in the living-quarters of one John Carpenter, — East — th, at about four-thirty A.M. on the fifteenth day of April?”

My voice rang out like a bell. “That is the same man.”

“Did he have a weapon in his hand?”

“He had a weapon in his hand.”

“Stand up, please, and repeat that under oath.”

I stood up. They thrust a Bible toward me and I played my right hand on it as if we had been in a courtroom. I repeated after the man swearing me in: “...the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” Then I said: “I solemnly swear that I saw this man, with a weapon in his hand, in the living-quarters of John Carpenter, — East — th Street, at about four-thirty A.M., April 15th.”

Nelson’s fatigue-cracked voice shattered the brief silence. “You can’t pin this on me! I didn’t do it, d’ya hear, I didn’t do it!”

“No, and you didn’t kill Little Patsy O’Connor either, did you? Or Schindel? Or Duke Biddermen, in a car right outside his own front door? Take him out!”

“She’s framing me! She done it herself, and then she made a deal with you, to switch it to me!”

They dragged him out, still mouthing imprecations. The closing of the door toned them down, but you could still hear them dying away along the corridor outside.

Weill turned back to me and let his fingertips touch my gloved hand reassuringly for a moment, maybe because he saw that it was vibrating slightly, as an after-effect of the scene of violence that had just taken place. “That’s all. That finishes your participation in the affair. You just go home and forget about it.”

I could carry out the first part of the injunction all right; I had my doubts about the second.

“But you had a stenographic transcription made of my identification of him just now, I noticed,” I faltered uneasily.

“Yes, and I’m also having depositions made out to be signed by those two witnesses I had in the room, regarding what took place here. In other words I’m preparing affidavits of your affidavit, so that it doesn’t have to hang suspended in midair. But that needn’t alarm you. I have the okay of the D.A.’s office on getting around it in this way in your case.”

“But in the courtroom, won’t he — won’t his lawyer, demand that you produce me, for cross-examination?”

“Let him. The D.A.’s office is taking that into account, in preparing its procedure. I’m prepared to take the stand in your place, as your proxy, if necessary. And police-lieutenant or not, I don’t think I’d make the kind of a witness whose testimony is to be lightly disregarded.”

He seemed to have taken care of every contingency; I felt a whole lot better.

He shook my hand. “I keep my bargains. You’re out of it to stay. All knowledge of you ends with us.”

He said to the detective standing outside the door, “Take this lady to the special departmental car you’ll find waiting for her outside. Go along in it with her and keep everyone at a distance. Take her to the — th Street side-entrance of the Kay Department Store.”

That was the biggest one in the city. I went in, walked through it on the bias without stopping to buy anything, got into a taxi a moment later at the main entrance, and had myself driven home.

The whole town had been talking about it for several weeks past, so I wasn’t surprised when it finally penetrated even to Jimmy’s insulated consciousness. I was only surprised that it hadn’t long before then. But the news of the world, for Jimmy, was only the quotations on a tickertape.

Carpenter’s metier of preying on respectable and socially-prominent women, which had been uncovered during the course of it, and which the defense was as willing (but for different reasons) to play up as the prosecution, was what gave it the fillip of being above just another underworld killing, I suppose. Anyway, half of the men around town kept whispering that it was the next guy’s wife, and the other half looked kind of thoughtful, as though they were doing some mental checking-up.

He’d been reading about it one night — that was toward the end, after it had been going on for several weeks — and he started discussing it with me.

I twiddled my thimble-sized coffee-cup around disinterestedly, looked down at it. “Do you think there really is such a woman?” I asked idly. “Or are he and his lawyer just making it up, howling for her to try to distract attention from his own guilt?”

He grimaced undecidedly, didn’t answer right away. But Jimmy is not likely to be without opinions for long; that’s why he is as successful as he is. It came on slowly; I could almost see it forming before my very eyes. First he just chewed his lip in cogitation. Then he nodded abstractedly. Then he gave it words. “Yes. I dunno why, but — I have a feeling they’re telling the truth, as mealy-mouthed as they are. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some woman up there that same night. The prosecution doesn’t deny it, I notice; they just clam up each time. That’s what makes me half-inclined to believe—”

They hadn’t made use of any of the back-stops Weill had prepared, up to this point, so there was still room for legitimate doubt: the affidavits on my affidavit; nor had Weill taken the stand to pinch-hit for me. Maybe they were saving them for a bang-up finish, or maybe they weren’t going to ring them in at all, had found they didn’t really need them. My chief contribution had been to point out Sonny-Boy Nelson to them, and help them trap him, and that could be safely left out of it without damaging their case any. Otherwise what could I add? Only circumstantial strengthening to what was already an overwhelmingly strong circumstantial case. They’d even found someone who had seen him — Nelson — run out of the house next door, gun still unsheathed, and the door of Carpenter’s apartment and the two roof-doors had been found yawning wide open.

But there was one thing I couldn’t get straight in my own mind. I mentioned it aloud to him — although very carefully. “But why do they — Nelson and his lawyer — keep harping on this woman? What do they expect to get out of that? I should think it would be the other way around, that it would harm them rather than help them to have her—”

He shrugged. “Evidently they’ve figured out some way in which they think she can help them. They must have something up their sleeves. I wouldn’t know. I can’t figure out what goes on in the crooked minds of shady lawyers and their clients.” He pitched the paper disgustedly aside, as though the subject didn’t interest him any more. He delivered himself of a concluding postscript.

“Anyway, if there is such a woman — and most likely there is — she’s a fool. She should have gone to her own husband, whoever she is, and taken him into her confidence, before she got in that deep.”

How easy to say, I thought poignantly. “Maybe she was afraid to,” I mentioned. “Afraid he wouldn’t believe her or would misunderstand—”

He gave me a scornful look, as he got up, as though he thought I were a fool myself, to make a remark like that. “The right kind of a husband,” he said, sauntering out to the next room, “understands everything, forgives everything. He takes care of things for her. And above all, he doesn’t speak of it.”

Ah yes, I thought, in theory, on paper, how well that works out. But in real fife, just try it and see what cain it would raise!

He only spoke of it once again, after that. “I see he got the Chair.”

“Who?” I asked. I’d known since nine that morning, when the first paper came into the house.

“That fellow, what’s his name, Baby-Face — No, Sonny-Boy, Nelson.”

“He did?” I said, in polite echo.

He pretended to snap the light-switch of my room, to hurry me up.

It put me in mind, somehow, of a switch being thrown in a death-chamber.

The maid came in and said, “There’s a man at the door to see you, madam.”

Something about it frightened me even before I knew of anything to be frightened about. I started up from the chair. “Who is he? What does he want?”

I saw her staring at me curiously, as if wondering what made me so jittery about such a trivial announcement. I tried to cover it up with a pass of my hand.

“Send him in here.”

I knew him by sight, right away. I couldn’t help wondering, though, how I’d known it was going to be something like this ahead of time. I went over and closed the door. He had sense enough to wait until I had.

“I’m from Weill’s office—”

I didn’t let him get any further. “He shouldn’t have sent you over here like this! I thought he said I was through! What does he want now?”

“Sonny-Boy Nelson is being taken up to the Death House on the three o’clock train. He’s pleading for a last chance to talk to you before he goes—”

“Then even he knows who I am! Is that how Weill keeps his bargains?”

“No, he doesn’t know your name or anything like that. He just knows that you saw him up there, and it was through you we captured him.”

“Can I reach Weill at his office? Get him for me.”

“Yes ma’am. The only reason he sent me over instead of calling you himself is he thought somebody else might intercept or overhear the call — here he is, now.”

“Weill? What about this?” I said crisply.

“No, don’t go near him, Mrs. X. There’s nothing to be gained by it. You’re not under any obligation to him.”

“Well, then why did you send someone over here to let me know about it?”

“Simply to give you your choice in the matter, to let you know he’s been asking for you. But you’re free to do as you please about it. If you want my opinion, there’s no need for you to see him any further. He’s been tried and sentenced. There’s nothing you can do for him.”

“But he evidently thinks there is, or he wouldn’t be asking for me. And if I refuse, I suppose he’ll go up there cursing me—”

“Well, let him. They all curse someone, and never the right one — themselves. Put him out of your mind. No use being sensitive about these matters.”

But he was used to dealing in them; I wasn’t.

“Would there be any risk?”

“Of identification? No, none whatever. I’ll see to that personally. But as I said before, if you want my honest opinion, I don’t see any necessity—”

I went anyway. Maybe because I’m a woman. Curiosity, you know. I mean, I wanted to hear what he wanted. I had to, for my own satisfaction and peace of mind. Remember, I wasn’t thirsting for his blood. My purpose in going to the police in the first place hadn’t been to secure his death. It had been to secure my own life. That had been accomplished from the moment he had been apprehended; he didn’t have to be executed to advance my safety any further than it was already.

I didn’t think there was anything I could do for him. Weill didn’t. But he did. Why shouldn’t I at least hear what he thought it was?

I wore such a heavy veil I could hardly see through it myself. Not for Nelson’s own sake, he’d already seen my face as plainly as anyone could that night up at Carpenter’s, but in order to avoid all risk going and coming from the place. Weill’s man went with me as far as the prison building; Weill took over there himself and escorted me into the cell. They didn’t keep me outside at the mesh-barrier through which prisoners usually communicate with friends and relatives. They took me right into the cell itself, so my presence would be less likely to attract attention.

He reared up hopefully. He looked — shadowed already, by what was to come. I guess they do. I’d never seen one before.

He said, “How do I know if she’s the right one?”

I raised the veil and left it up.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding grimly. “Yeah.” He turned to Weill. “Why can’t Scalenza be here? He can put it better than I can.”

Weill reached to take me by the arm. “No, no lawyers or anybody else. Say what you want and be quick about it, or she leaves with me right now.”

He looked at me, this time. “I want to see you alone.”

“He thinks I’ve got you intimidated,” Weill said to me caustically. He looked at me for the answer.

“All right,” I said quietly.

“I’ll be right outside here,” he promised, “so don’t be worried.” He stepped out.

It’s hard, I suppose, to make a plea, when your whole life has to go into it. “Look,” he began awkwardly, “I dunno who you are, but you can save me. You’re the only one.”

“I can? Why do you call on me? I never said you killed Carpenter. I only said I’d seen you up there.”

“I know, I know. But listen to me, only listen to me, will you? Carpenter was killed with a slug from a .45, remember they brought that out at my trail?” He called it that, “trail,” the poor God-forsaken devil.

“I wasn’t at your trial.”

He rushed on without stopping to listen. “I got a .45, yes. They caught me with one on me. But they never proved that the slug they dug out of him was fired from my gun!”

“The papers said they couldn’t, from what I recall. That it had gone through, or at least into, a thin cigarette-case in Carpenter’s pocket. That it wasn’t the bullet that had pierced his heart, actually, but a fragment of the case, driven into it by the bullet. That the bullet itself had been flattened out, the markings had been destroyed by the case, so that they couldn’t check it by — whatever they call that scientific method of theirs, ballistics or something. Again, why do you call on me? I didn’t say you fired at him—”

“No, but you didn’t say I fired at you. And that’s what can save me, that’s my only chance!”

“I don’t under—”

He didn’t actually reach out and shake me, but he made the motions with his hands. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see? I didn’t have a chance to use my gun at all when they caught up with me; they got me without firing a shot. It was still packed the way it was that night up at Carpenter’s when they took it from me. Only one bullet out of it, five still in it. That proves I only fired one shot that night. That shot at you on the stairs. I only thought of that now, after it was too late. If you’ll only tell them that I fired after you out on the stairs, with only one bullet gone that’ll prove it couldn’t have been my shot that went into Carpenter! If you’ll only tell them!”

“Whether she does or doesn’t, that’s not worth a tinker’s dam!” Weill’s voice suddenly grated in at us from outside the cell-opening. He must have been standing there a little to one side taking in the whole conversation. He came in again, motioned curtly to me. “Go home, Mrs. X. Go home and forget the whole business! He could have reloaded that gun sixty times over between the time Carpenter was killed and the time we got him!”

“But the people in the building only heard the one shot!” Nelson shrilled. “They said so, all of them—”

“Because only one was fired on the outside, where they could hear it; the other one was fired inside Carpenter’s flat, where they couldn’t. That’s no good to you at all!” He took me by the arm, politely but authoritatively. “Come on, Mrs. X. Don’t waste any more of your time in here. What a nerve this bird has! He tried to kill you with that very shot he’s speaking of; now he’s trying to turn that very shot around and use it to his advantage with your help!”

Back in his office he said to me, “So he got under your skin with that, didn’t he? I can tell that by looking at you. That’s what he wanted to do.”

“But he did fire at me on the stairs,” I murmured.

“Then why didn’t we come across the bullet imbedded somewhere along them?”

“It may have gone out through the slit of an open window. I passed one, I remem—”

He fanned a hand at me, as if the whole suggestion were ridiculous. “Did you ever deny that he fired at you?”

“No.”

“Were you ever even given a chance to say whether or not he had?”

“No.”

“Then go home and forget about it. I wouldn’t let you destroy your home for that rat if I could. His dirty hide’s been quadruply forfeited to the State. The whole thing’s splitting hairs, in a way, isn’t it? They can’t excuse him, up there where he’s going, more than once for one murder. We already had him down on the books for three others.

“If he’d happened to be acquitted of this particular one he was tried for just now, d’you suppose that would have meant he would have been let go? Not on your life! He would have simply been tried over again for one of the others, and sentenced to death anyway.”

The execution-notice was tiny, and tucked away so far back within the paper you would have missed it a dozen times over unless you happened to be specifically looking for it.

Well, he was gone now. What was the good of wondering could I have saved him? Weill had said he wouldn’t have let me even if I could. And he hadn’t been thinking entirely of my own personal welfare, either. The police want their victories, too. They work hard for them; they’re only human. Justice is not an exact science, it’s only relative. It’s more than just a matter of subtracting the total number of bullets found left in a gun, and then calling that innocence if there’s one over. It’s: Was there murder in the heart of the man who held that gun? Had he murdered before? Did he try to murder once more, even when his bullet missed me and went out through an open window?

And I couldn’t have saved him, I saw that now. My evidence wouldn’t have been enough to get him off. On the contrary, it might have had quite the reverse effect: even added strength to the case against him. For if he had been willing to shoot me down to keep it from being known that he had been there, didn’t that argue that he had far more than just trespassing to cover up? That he had a just-previous murder to cover up, in fact?

I would only have blackened my whole future, and he still would have been electrocuted tonight.

I moved my arm, resting on the dresser-top, and his death went where his life had gone: into the waste-basket.

I went ahead dressing for the evening.

No, no earrings. I didn’t have to be told that there was only one earring left. My heart knew that by heart. I picked it up, and there was something the matter with my eyes. There was still another one lying in the box!

It brought on an attack of vertigo, or something very close to it. I had to stiff-arm myself against the edge of the dresser and just hang on, until it had passed.

Jimmy was dressed, waiting for me outside in the other room. I came out to him, box and all; very white. Like a statue.

“Who put this left earring back? I thought I’d lost it.”

He looked at it puzzledly himself for a moment. Then I saw his face clear. “Oh, I remember now. Why, I put it back myself. You were out at the time.”

I swallowed. “I haven’t opened the case since that night I was out with the Perrys.”

I could see him trying to think back. “Well, that must have been the time. Whatever night it was, I remember I’d stayed up all night doing my income-tax. Then I went out to stretch my legs, get a little fresh air, and just as I got back I ran into the milkman, he was standing there by our door, all excited about something. He came running to me.

“ ‘Mr. Shaw, look what I just found inside the empty bottle at your door. There was a note curled up in the neck of it, funnel-shaped, you know, and that caught it and held it.’

“Then when I went to our room with it, I saw that you hadn’t come back yet, you were still out. So I put it back in the box and went to sleep. You must have lost it right on your way out, as you left the door.”

He stopped and glanced at me. “You’ve got the funniest look on your face. What’re you thinking about?”

“Oh, nothing.” I turned and went to get my wrap. “I was just thinking,” I added over my shoulder, “how funny life is. Whatever this play is about that we’re going to see tonight, it can’t match real life for its thrills, its ups and downs, its crazy, unbelievable quirks.”

I was lying awake later thinking about it; living the whole thing through all over again. I remembered now how I’d had to shake my key, trying to get it in the door, the first time I’d come back. That was what had loosened it, made it drop off. And I remembered now, I’d even heard the funny little plink of glass it had made going in the bottle-mouth. Only at the time I thought it was the tip of my shoe that had grazed it. If I’d only taken the trouble to bend down and look!

All that agony, all that suspense, all that fear, for nothing. I hadn’t needed to go back to Carpenter’s a second time!

Well, that milkman was an honest man, that was about the only consolation I could derive from the whole thing. Even if Jimmy had given him something at the time he found the earring, he deserved a little extra bonus.

I looked across the room and I saw by the radium clock-dial that the night was nearly gone, and it was about his usual time for covering his route and making a delivery at the door. On an impulse I got up, put something over me, took two ten-dollar bills out of the bureau, and went out to our front door.

I was just in time.

“Bill, here’s something for you, for finding that earring of mine, that time.” I tried to tuck it into his hand. He wouldn’t open it.

“What earring, Mrs. Shaw?”

“You know, the one that had dropped into the empty milk-bottle out here at the door. My diamond earring, with an emerald in the middle.”

He was an honest man, all right. “No ma’am, I never found any diamond earring of yours. I never found any diamond earring of anybody’s. I’d sure remember it if I had.”

I managed to utter, “Good night, Bill,” and I closed the door rather quickly.

The distance from there to our bedroom wasn’t so great. It took me a long time to cover it, though.

I stood looking at Jimmy. His hand was sticking out over the edge of the mattress, the way a person’s sometimes does when he is asleep. I reached down and put my own over it and gently clasped it, in a sort of wordless pact, but not strongly enough to disturb him.

Something that he’d once said came back to me. “The right kind of a husband understands everything, forgives everything. He takes care of things for her. And above all, he doesn’t speak of it.”

Francis Iles (Anthony Berkeley)

Dark Journey

One of the most widely acclaimed psychological mystery novels of our time was before the fact (1932) by Francis Iles. Howard Haycraft called it the author’s masterpiece (although John Dickson Carr, no small expert himself preferred TRIAL AND ERROR, 1937, as by Anthony Berkeley) and described it as “an internally terrifying portrait of a murderer.” Alfred Hitchcock directed the now-famous movie version, titled “Suspense,” starring Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine.

The Frances Iles story we now give you is also “an internally terrifying portrait of a murderer” — a superb psychological study of crime and punishment...

* * *

Cayley was going to commit murder.

He had worked it all out very carefully. For weeks now his plan had been maturing. He had pondered over it, examined it, tested it in the light of every possibility; and he was satisfied that it was impregnable. Now he was going to put it into practice.

Cayley did not really want to kill Rose Fenton.

Indeed, the idea made him shudder, even when he had been drinking. But what else could he do? He was desperate. Rose would not leave him alone. She thought, too, now that she had a claim on him; and she was plainly determined to exercise it. And Cayley very much did not want to marry Rose Fenton.

He never had thought of marrying her. A solicitor’s clerk, with a position to make in the world — a solicitor’s clerk with every chance of an ultimate partnership in his firm — cannot afford to marry a girl like Rose Fenton. Respectability is the bread of a solicitor’s life. Besides, now there was Miriam. Miriam Seale, the only daughter of old Seale himself, the senior partner in Cayley’s own firm...

Cayley knew now that he had been risking his whole future by taking up with Rose at all. It had not seemed like that at first. Other men have adventures, why not he? But adventures in any case are not safe for solicitors, and now Rose had decided not to be an adventure at all, but a job. As Cayley knew only too well, Rose was a determined girl. Rose knew nothing of Miriam.

It seemed curious to Cayley now to remember that once he had been quite fond of Rose. Now, of course, he detested her. He would sit for hours in his cottage over a bottle of whisky, thinking how much he hated Rose. Before Rose became impossible, Cayley had never drunk whisky alone. Now he was depending on it more and more, and one cannot go on like that. One must make an end somehow.

Rose had brought it on herself. She would not leave him alone. She would not see when an affair was — finished. Cayley did not at all want to kill Rose, but he gloated over the idea of Rose dead. And he would never be his own man again till Rose was dead. He knew that. No; Cayley did not at all want to kill Rose, but what else could he do?

And now he was waiting for Rose to come; waiting on the side of the road, in the dark, with his stomach full of whisky and a revolver in his pocket.

As he waited, Cayley felt as if he were made of lead. The night was warm, but he felt neither warm nor cold, afraid nor brave, despairing nor exultant. He felt nothing at all. Both body and mind seemed to have gone inert, so that he just waited and hardly noticed whether the time went fast or slowly.

The noise of the bus roused him from his torpor. He followed its progress along the main road: loud when the line between it and himself was clear, with curious mufflings and dim silences when hedges or a fold in the ground intervened. Rose was in the bus, but Cayley did not feel any excitement at the thought. Everything had become in some strange way inevitable.

Cayley was waiting a couple of hundred yards down a side turning. It was a convenient little lane which Cayley had marked weeks and weeks ago, when he first thought of killing Rose. He and Rose had picnicked there one Sunday, on Rose’s afternoon off. They had sat on the wide grassy margin which bordered one side, and Cayley had thought then how he would be able to wheel his motor-bicycle on to it and put out the lights while he waited for Rose. In such a deserted spot, in the dark, with his headlights out, it would be impossible that their meeting could be seen.

Rose had not been able to understand at first why Cayley should want to meet her in such an out-of-the-way place and so far from both the cottage and from Merchester; but Cayley had been able to make her see reason.

Both the plan in his heart and the plan on his lips depended on his meeting with Rose remaining secret, and that had been very convenient for the former. That explained why Rose was coming to meet him in the last bus from Stanford to Merchester and not in that from Merchester to Stanford, although it was in Merchester that Rose was in service and Cayley worked.

Stanford and Merchester, both towns of some size, were eighteen miles apart, and while it was unlikely that Rose, not indigenous to the district, should be recognized leaving Merchester, it was almost impossible that she could be recognized leaving Stanford. Cayley had been taking no chances at all.

The bus had grumbled to a halt just beyond the turning and roared on again. Cayley heard footsteps coming towards him, scraping in the dark on the gritty surface of the lane. He waited where he stood until they were almost abreast of him, disregarding the calls of his name, rather louder than he liked, which Rose sent out before her in waves of sound through the still night like a swimmer urging the water in front of her.

“Rose,” he said quietly.

Rose uttered a little scream. “Coo! You didn’t half make me jump. Why didn’t you answer when I called?”

“Have you put your trunk and things in the cloakroom?” It was essential to Cayley’s plan that Rose should have left her luggage that afternoon at Liverpool Street Station, in London.

“Course I have... Well,” added Rose archly, “aren’t you going to give us a kiss?”

“What else do you think I’ve been waiting for?” Cayley’s heart was beating a little faster as he kissed Rose for the last time. He thought of Judas. It made him feel uncomfortable, and he cut the kiss as short as he decently could.

Rose sniffed at him. “Been drinking, haven’t you?”

“Nothing, really,” Cayley returned easily, feeling for his bicycle in the darkness. “Just a drop.”

“It’s been too many drops with you lately, my lad. I’m going to put a stop to it. Not going to have a drunkard for a husband, I’m not.”

Cayley writhed. Rose’s voice was full of possession; full of complacent assurance that in future he would have no life but what she chose to allow him. Had any qualms remained in him, that tone of Rose’s would have dispelled them.

“Come on,” he said sharply. “Let’s get off.”

“All right, all right. In a great hurry, aren’t you? Where’s the bike? Coo, I never saw it. It’s that dark.”

Cayley had wheeled the bicycle into the lane and switched on the headlight. He helped Rose into the side-car, and jumped into his saddle.

“All serene. So off we go, on our honeymoon,” giggled Rose. “Fancy you and me on our honeymoon, Norm.”

“Yes,” said Cayley. It was odd that, though this was the last time they would ever be together, Rose’s hideous shortening of his Christian name grated on him as much as ever.

He drove slowly down the lane. “See anyone you know in Stanford?” he asked as casually as possible.

“So likely, isn’t it? A fat lot of people I know.”

“But did you?”

“No, Mr. Inquisitive, I did not. Any more questions?”

They turned into the main road, and Cayley increased his speed.

The whisky he had drunk did not affect his driving. His hands held the machine quite steady, though he was now pushing it along as fast as it would go, anxious to arrive and get the business finished. He did not glance at Rose in the side-car beside him. Although it was the last time that Rose would ever ride in that side-car alive, yet her presence exasperated him as much as ever, and the way she would cock her feet up under her so that her knees stuck up in the air. In a dim way Cayley recognized the fact, and was surprised by it. He had expected to feel tolerant now towards Rose’s irritating ways. It was a relief to find that, in fact, he had not softened.

Nor had his resolution weakened.

Now that it had come to the point, Cayley was quite calm.

He knew that, normally, he was not always calm, and he had feared lest he might lose his head and somehow bungle things: be queer in his manner, tremble, let Rose see that something dreadful was afoot. But there was no longer any danger of that. Rose could not guess what was going to happen to her; and as for Cayley himself, he felt almost indifferent, as if the matter had all been taken somehow out of his hands. The whole affair was pre-ordained; events were moving forward of their own volition; nothing that he, or Rose, or anyone else, might do now could alter them.

Cayley drove on in a fatalistic trance. He realized vaguely that Rose was protesting against the speed, but disregarded her. It was no use Rose protesting against anything now.

Cayley’s lonely little cottage was not on the main road. It, too, was down a side turning, and a good half-mile from the village. The village itself, with its couple of dozen cottages and two little shops, was tiny enough, but Cayley had always been glad that he was half a mile from it. He liked solitude. Since he had determined to kill Rose, he had realized how his liking for solitude had played into his hands. Even so small a thing as that was going to help to destroy Rose.

As he turned off the main road his love of solitude rose up in him in a passionate wave. Had Rose really imagined that he was going to let her into that little corner of the world that he had made for himself — Rose, with her inevitable vulgarity of speech and mind?

A tremor of hatred shook him as he saw her sturdy form trampling about the house which, a fire-blackened ruin when he bought it out of his small savings, he had rebuilt with his own hands; Rose, marching like a grenadier through the garden he had created; Rose, so assured in her ownership of it all that he would be made to feel an interloper in his own tiny domain. Miriam would never be like that. Besides, Miriam was...

Cayley thought fiercely how peaceful everything would be again once Rose was dead: how peaceful, and how hopeful.

A hundred yards away from the cottage he shut off his engine. Late though the time was, it was just possible that old Mrs. Wace, who “did” for him, might not yet have gone. She liked to potter and potter in the evenings, and Cayley had not been foolish as to try to hustle her off the premises early. And slightly deaf though she was, Cayley had already been careful to find out that she could hear his motor-cycle drive up to the little shed at the bottom of the garden where he kept it.

Rose, of course, expostulated when his engine stopped, but Cayley was ready for that.

“Run out of juice,” he explained glibly. “Lucky we got nearly home. Give me a hand to push her, Rose.”

“Well, that’s a nice thing to ask a girl, I must say,” objected Rose for form’s sake.

Between them they pushed the bicycle past the cottage.

Before they reached the shed, Rose evidently considered it due to herself to protest further.

“Here, this is a bit too much like hard work for me. You didn’t ought to ask me to do a thing like that, Norm, and that’s a fact.”

“All right,” Cayley said mildly. “I can manage alone now.” There were indeed only a few more yards to cover.

“Well, it’s your own fault, isn’t it?”

Cayley did not answer. The bicycle was heavy, and he needed all his breath. Rose walked behind him.

“Here, half a mo’. I’ll get my suit-case out before you put the bike away, if you don’t mind.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cayley threw back over his shoulder. “I’ll get it out in a minute.”

He brought the bicycle to a standstill outside the shed and opened the door.

Rose, a dim figure in the velvety August night, was peering up at the stars.

“Coo, it’s black enough for you tonight, I should think. Never known it so dark, I haven’t.”

“The moon doesn’t rise till after midnight,” Cayley answered absently, busy turning the bicycle round in the lane. It was better to turn it now, then it would be ready.

“Proper night to elope, and no mistake,” Rose’s voice came rallyingly. “Is that why you chose it, eh? Getting quite sloppy in your old age, Norm, aren’t you? Well, that’ll be a nice change, I must say.”

Cayley straightened up from the bicycle and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing. I just thought you’d been a bit standoffish lately.” There was a sentimental, almost a yearning note in Rose’s voice.

“Nonsense, darling. Of course I haven’t.”

“In fact, I don’t mind telling you, I thought at one time you didn’t mean to treat me right.”

“I’m going to treat you right, Rose,” said Cayley.

“Still love us, Norm?”

“Of course I do.”

“Where are you, then?”

Cayley’s fingers closed round the small revolver in his pocket. “Here.”

“Well, can’t you come a bit closer?” Rose giggled.

Cayley took her arm. “Come inside the shed for a minute, Rose.”

“What ever for?”

“I want you to.”

Rose giggled again. “Coo, Norm, you are a one, aren’t you?”

Cayley’s mouth and throat were dry as he drew Rose across the threshold and closed the door. But he was not really afraid. The dreamlike state was on him again. Things were not real. All this had happened somewhere before. Rose was dead already. The two of them were only enacting, like ghosts, a deed that had been performed ages and ages ago, in some other existence; every movement and word had been already laid down, and there could be neither deviation nor will to deviate.

Once more Rose uttered her silly, throaty giggle.

“What do you want to shut the door for? I should have thought it was dark enough already.”

Cayley had already proved, by repeated experiment, that with the door of the shed closed Mrs. Wace, even if she were in the cottage, could not hear a revolver-shot; but of course, he could not tell Rose that.

He drew the revolver from his pocket. He was still quite calm.

Hot hands were clutching for him in the darkness and he held the revolver out of their reach.

“Honest, I’m ever so fond of you, Norm,” whispered Rose.

“So am I of you, Rose. Where are you?”

“Well, that’s a nice question. Where do you think I am? Can’t you feel me?”

“Yes.” Cayley found her shoulder and gripped it gently while he edged behind her. Methodically he felt for the back of her neck and placed the muzzle of the revolver against it.

“Here, mind my hat, if you please. Here... what’s the game, Norm?”

Cayley fired.

The shot sounded so deafeningly loud in the little shed that it seemed to Cayley as if anyone not only at the cottage but in the village, too, must have heard it. A spasm of terror shook him. How could anyone in the whole of England not have heard it? He stood rigid, listening for the alarm that must inevitably follow.

Everything was quiet.

Cayley pulled himself together. Of course, the shot had been no louder than his experiments in the daytime. There was no time now to give way to fantastic panic of that sort. He realized that he was still holding Rose’s body in his arms. He had been so close to her when he fired that she had slumped down against him, and he had caught her mechanically. He laid her now on the floor of the shed. Then he lighted a stub of candle which he had brought here days ago for just that purpose. There was no window in the shed, and the door was still closed.

Cayley could not believe that Rose was dead.

It had been too easy, too quick. She could not have died in that tiny instant. Not Rose. She was too vigorous, too vital, to have the life blown out of her like that in a tiny fraction of a second.

He looked at her lying there, in her best frock of saxe-blue silk, her black straw hat, brown shoes, and pink silk stockings. People bled, didn’t they, when they were shot? But there was no blood. Rose was not bleeding at all.

Cayley’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat. Rose was not really dead, after all! He had missed her, somehow, in the darkness. The gun had not been touching her head at all, it had been touching something else. Rose was only stunned. Perhaps not even stunned: just pretending to be stunned: shamming.

Cayley dropped on his knees beside her and felt frantically for her heart. He knew Rose was dead, but he could not believe it. Her heart gave no movement.

“Rose!” he said, in a shaky voice. “Rose — can’t you speak to me? Rose!” He could not believe Rose was dead.

Rose lay on her back staring up at the, roof of the little shed, her eyelids just drooping over her eyes. Cayley did not know why he had spoken to her aloud. Of course Rose could not answer. She was dead.

The tears came into Cayley’s own eyes. He understood now that it was too late, that there had never been any need to kill Rose at all. He could have managed everything by being firm. Just by being firm. Rose would have understood. Rose had always been sensible. And now, for the want of a little firmness, Rose was dead and he was a murderer.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, “I wish I hadn’t done it. Oh, God, I wish I hadn’t done it.”

But he had done it, and Rose was dead. Cayley got up slowly from his knees.

It was dreadful to see Rose lying there, with her head on the floor. There was an old pillion cushion on the shelf. Cayley took it down and put it under Rose’s head. Somehow that made her look better.

Besides — Rose might not be dead. If she came to it would be nicer for her to have a cushion under her head.

Cayley stiffened. Had that been a noise outside? He stood stock-still, hardly daring to breathe. Was someone prowling about? He listened desperately. It was not easy to listen very well, because the blood was pounding so in his ears. It made a kind of muffled drumming, like waves on a distant shingle beach. Beyond the drumming he could detect no sound.

Very slowly he lifted the latch of the door. It was stiff, and for all his caution rose with a final jerk. Cayley started violently. The latch had made only a tiny click, but in his ears it sounded like the crack of doom.

He edged the door open, got outside, and closed it behind him. Then he stood still, listening again. There was no sound. He began to walk softly towards the cottage, fifty yards away.

He walked more and more slowly. A horrible feeling had suddenly taken possession of him: that someone was following, just as softly, in his tracks. The back of his head tingled and pricked as the hair lifted itself on his scalp; for something was telling him that the door of the shed had opened and Rose had come noiselessly out. Now she was following him.

He could feel her presence, just behind him. Cold beads chased each other down his back. He tried to turn his head to make sure that Rose was not really there, but could not. It was physically impossible for him to look back towards the door of the shed. All he could do was to stand still and listen, between the pounding of the waves in his ears. The flesh of his back quivered and crept. Every second he expected Rose to come up and touch him on it. He could almost feel her touch already. It was all he could do to stop himself from shrieking.

At last, with a little sob, he forced himself to turn round.

There was nothing but inky darkness behind him.

But somewhere in that inky darkness, between himself and the shed, Cayley could not get rid of the feeling that someone, or something, stood. He dragged the revolver out of his pocket again and levelled it at the shed. At any moment a shape might loom towards him out of the blackness, and he must be ready. He stood rigid, waiting, his tongue parched and his throat dry. Then, with a sudden effort, he walked rapidly back to the shed.

The door was still closed.

Cayley put the revolver back into his pocket and walked quickly over to the cottage.

Outside it he halted for a few moments, working his jaws to obtain some saliva in order to moisten his tongue and throat. The kitchen was at the back of the cottage. As he peered round the angle, Cayley could see the light streaming out of the window. Mrs. Wace had not gone.

Cayley’s knees shook together. Mrs. Wace had not gone, and she must have heard the shot. It was impossible that she could not have heard it, deaf as she was. He had miscalculated in his experiments. They had been made in the daytime, and sound travels further in the silence of the night. He had not allowed for that. Mrs. Wace had heard the shot, and now she was waiting to find out what it meant. Cayley stood for a minute in the grip of a panic so violent that his limbs shook and his teeth chattered, and he could not control them. It was all he could do at last to drag himself round the corner of the house and, unseen, stare through the uncurtained kitchen window.

Mrs. Wace was doing something by the larder door. She had her hat and coat on. Cayley watched her take up three onions, look at them, drop one into a string-bag and put the other two back into the larder. He searched her face. There seemed to be nothing on it but preoccupation with what she was doing. Was it possible that she had not heard the shot after all?

He walked quickly round to the front of the house and went into his living-room.

From a cupboard on the wall he took a whisky-bottle and a glass. Then, putting back the glass, he pulled the cork out of the bottle and put the mouth of it to his lips, gulping down the neat spirit in thirsty haste. Not until half its remaining contents had gone did he put the bottle back on the shelf.

Almost immediately the stuff did him good. He waited a moment while the heartening glow steadied his limbs. Then he walked firmly into the kitchen.

Mrs. Wace was just going out through the back door. She stopped when she saw him, and it seemed to Cayley that she looked at him queerly.

Cayley’s fingers tightened round the revolver in his pocket as he searched her face.

“Ah, back, are you?” said Mrs. Wace comfortably.

Cayley breathed with relief. His fingers relaxed on the revolver. The next instant they tightened again.

“Back? I haven’t been away. I’ve been sitting in the garden, smoking.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for tastes,” observed Mrs. Wace indifferently. “Good night, Mr. Cayley.”

“Good night, Mrs. Wace.”

Cayley went back to his living-room, his knees weak with relief. If Mrs. Wace had heard anything, or voiced any suspicion, he would have shot her dead. He knew he would. It would have been madness, but he would have done it. He took the whisky-bottle and tumbler from the shelf and poured himself out a stiff dose. He realized now that he was trembling.

Instantly the same feeling came to him as in the shed. Rose was not dead at all. She had only been stunned. She would come to if he gave her some whisky. He caught up the bottle and hurried with it down the garden through the dark.

Outside the door of the shed he stopped. He could not go in: he just could not go inside. Suppose after all that...

“Rose!” he called shakily. “Rose!”

It took a full minute, and another swig at the bottle, before he could get a grip on himself again.

Rose was lying just as he had left her. She was quite dead.

Cayley took another, smaller mouthful of whisky and set the bottle down on the shelf with a hand that no longer shook. What a fool he had been! Everything had gone splendidly. All he had to do now was to proceed with his plan.

It was a good plan.

To her mistress in Merchester and to her only living relative, an elderly aunt, living in Streatham, Rose had written, on Cayley’s instructions, that she was going out to Canada to be married. Canada somehow sounded more convincing than America. Rose really had believed that Cayley was going out to Canada, to open a branch there for his firm.

Over her luggage Cayley had been equally clever. Rose was to have left Merchester that afternoon for London, and deposited her trunk at Liverpool-street Station. In a busy place like Liverpool-street Rose would never be noticed or remembered. Equally unnoticed, Cayley would be able to claim the trunk later with her check that would be in Rose’s handbag, and dispose of it at his leisure. There would be nothing at all to connect him with Rose’s disappearance.

Rose had made objections, of course. When, in Merchester, she was only half-a-dozen miles from Cayley’s cottage, why travel all the way up to London and come back to Stanford? But Cayley had been able to convince her. He was not leaving for Canada till the next day.

It was essential that Rose should not be seen coming to the cottage. If she were, her good name would be lost, even though they were getting married in London the next morning before sailing. The argument had gone home, for Rose was always very careful about “what people would say.”

So though she had demurred at the expense, for she had a parsimonious mind, Rose had in the end consented. If she had not consented, Cayley would never have dared to kill her. Rose had agreed to her own death when she agreed to take her trunk up to Liverpool-street Station.

Cayley stood now, looking down at her.

He was no longer afraid of Rose’s dead body. The whisky he had drunk was making him sentimental. Two tears oozed out of his eyes and ran absurdly down his cheeks. Poor old Rose. She had not been such a bad sort, really. It was a shame that he had had to kill her. A rotten shame. Cayley wished very much that he had not had to kill Rose.

In a flash, sentiment fled before a sudden jab of terror.

Suppose Rose had not brought the check for the trunk with her after all! Suppose she had left it somewhere, or given it to someone else to claim for her! Cayley saw now that he had left this weak spot in the armour of his plan.

He had taken no steps to ensure that Rose should have the check with her: he had simply taken it for granted that she would. And if she had not, and he were unable to claim the trunk, everything would miscarry. In that case the trunk would sooner or later be opened, and then it would be known that Rose had disappeared, and then...

Cayley shivered with fear.

In vain he tried to point out to himself that even if it did become known that Rose had disappeared, there would still be nothing to connect her disappearance with himself. In Merchester he had always kept very quiet about his relations with Rose. But his mind, numb with panic, refused to accept the reasoning. Everything hung for him on the vital question: had Rose brought the check with her?

Rose’s handbag lay on the floor, half underneath her. Cayley pushed her body roughly aside to snatch it up. His fingers shook so much that he could hardly open it.

The next moment he uttered a sob of relief. The check was there. “One trunk...” The words danced before his eyes. He was safe.

He took another pull at the whisky-bottle.

He was safe: and now he must proceed, quite calmly, with the rest of his plan.

Cayley would never have believed that Rose was so heavy.

It had seemed simple, in advance, to put her into the side-car, prop her there to look natural, and drive with her to the disused quarry, where her grave was already prepared, and the spade waiting to fill it in. But now that it had come to the point, it was dreadful to have to pick her up and stagger with her through the darkness, like a sack of potatoes in his arms. Cayley was gasping for breath by the time he reached the side-car.

But the physical effort had helped him. He was no longer nervous. He was exultant. It takes courage and brains to commit a successful murder. Cayley, doubtful at times before, knew now that he had both. And there were people who thought him — Cayley knew they did! — a weakling, a little rat. Now he could smile at them. Rats can bite.

Before he set out for the quarry, Cayley went back to the shed. The candle had to be put out, and he wanted to have a good look round to make sure that no traces were left. The risk was infinitesimal, but Cayley was not taking even infinitesimal risks; and there are always tramps.

There were no traces. Only a few spots of blood on the leather of the cushion, which Cayley wiped off with a wisp of cotton-waste, burning the waste at once in the flame of the candle. No one could possibly tell that a newly-dead body had been lying in that shed.

Before he blew out the candle Cayley pulled the precious check for the trunk out of his trouser-pocket, where he had stuffed it, in order to stow it away more carefully in his wallet. It was funny how he had nearly lost his head just now over a little thing like that. He glanced through it gloatingly before tucking it away. The wording, which before had shimmered in a blurred way before his panic-stricken eyes, was now soberly legible.

The next instant his heart seemed to stop beating. Then it began to race faster than the engine of his own motor-cycle. For the check was not on Liverpool-street at all: not even on Stanford. It was on the station quite close to Cayley’s cottage. Rose had not been up to London. She had kept the money Cayley had given her, and travelled only to the local station. Cayley had committed the fatal mistake of under rating Rose’s parsimony. And by her parsimony Rose had ensured that her last appearance alive should be inevitably connected with her lover.

With a sick horror Cayley sat down in the doorway of the shed and nursed his head in his hands. Then he moaned aloud. What was he to do now? What, in Heaven’s name, could he do now?

Cayley never knew how long he had sat like that, in a lethargy of self-pity and despair, nor how long it was before coherent thought returned to him. The first shock, which galvanized his mind into activity once more, was the realization that all this time Rose was waiting for him — waiting, in the side-car. Cayley choked down the hysterical laugh which leapt in his throat. Rose never had liked waiting.

He jumped up.

Instantly, as if it had only needed the reflex action of his muscles to stimulate his brain, he saw that the position was not, after all, so desperate. The trunk would remain in the cloakroom for days, perhaps for weeks, before anything was done about it. By that time Cayley could, if the worst came to the worst, be in South America.

But perhaps the best thing to do would be to claim it boldly, in a day or two’s time. It was quite unlikely that the porter-cum-clerk would remember who had left it. Rose was not known there. It was not as if suspicion would ever be roused. Suspicion is only roused when a person is reported missing. Rose never would be so reported. No, the position was not desperate at all. Cayley’s spirits began to rise. The position was not even bad. Except for a small adjustment or two, his plan still held perfectly good.

He began to whistle as he wrapped a rug carefully over Rose, and drove her off. It was only a couple of miles to the quarry. In a quarter of an hour the whole business would be done.

Yes, the boldest course usually paid. He would claim the trunk himself. And he could arrange some slight disguise, just in case of accidents. A disguise, yes. Why...

Cayley’s thoughts broke off with a jerk. He cursed. His engine had stopped.

He came to a standstill by the side of the road. The trouble was simple: he had run out of petrol. Cayley felt terribly frightened. He had filled the tank before first setting out to meet Rose; how could it have emptied so soon? It almost looked as though Providence...

It was not Providence, but a leaking feed-pipe. Feverishly Cayley screwed up the loose nut and delved into the side-car for the spare tin of petrol, pushing Rose to one side without a thought. He blessed his foresight in having put the tin there. Really, every possibility had been foreseen.

As he got back into the saddle once more, a sound struck his whole body into frozen immobility. Someone was approaching along the lonely country road. Someone with large, heavy feet. Someone who flashed a lamp. It was the millionth chance, and it had come off.

Cayley kicked in agony at his starter, but the carburetor had emptied. He kicked and kicked, but not even a splutter came from the engine. Then, as the footsteps drew abreast of him, he stopped kicking and waited, petrified.

“Hullo,” said the constable. “Breakdown?”

Cayley’s dry tongue rustled over his drier lips. “No,” he managed to mutter. “Just... just filling up... petrol.”

“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Cayley. Ah! Fine night.”

“Yes. Well, I must be getting on.” Cayley prayed that his voice did not sound such a croak as he feared. The light of the constable’s lamp flickered over him, and he winced. Before he could stop himself, the words had jumped out. “Switch that light of yours off, man.”

“Sorry, Mr. Cayley, I’m sure.” The constable sounded hurt.

“It was blinding me,” Cayley muttered.

“Ah, new battery. Well, good night, Mr. Cayley. Nothing I can do?”

“Nothing, thanks.” Cayley kicked at his starter. Nothing happened.

The constable lingered. “Quite a treat to see someone, on a lonely beat like this.”

“Yes, it must be.” Cayley was still kicking. He wanted to scream at the man to go. He would scream in a minute. No, he must not scream. He must hold the edges of his nerves together like flesh over a wound, to keep the panic within from welling out. “Good night,” he said clearly.

“Well, good night, Mr. Cayley. Got a load, I see?”

“Yes,” Cayley’s head was bent. He spoke through almost closed teeth. “Some potatoes I...”

“Potatoes?”

“Yes, a sack. Look here, man, I said switch that light out.”

“Now, now, Mr. Cayley, I don’t take orders from you. I know my duty, and it’s my belief—”

“Leave that rug alone!” screamed Cayley.

The constable paused, startled. Then he spoke weightily, the corner of the rug in his great hand.

“Mr. Cayley, I must ask you to show me what you’ve got in this here side-car. It don’t look like potatoes to me, and that’s a fact. Besides—”

“All right then, damn you!” Cayley’s voice was pitched hysterically. “All right!”

The sound of the shot mingled with the sudden roar of the engine. As he twisted to fire Cayley’s foot had trodden on the starter. This time it worked. The bicycle leapt forward.

Cayley drove on, as fast as his machine would carry him. His face was stiff with terror. He knew he had not killed the policeman, for he had seen him jump aside as the bicycle plunged forward.

What had possessed him to fire like that? And what, ten times more fatal, had possessed him to fire and not to kill? Now he was done for. Cayley knew that his only chance was to go back and find the policeman: to hunt him down and kill him where he stood. That was his only chance now — and he could not do it. No, he could not. Too late Cayley realized that he was not the man for murder.

What was he going to do?

Already the constable would be giving the alarm. Policemen everywhere would be on the look-out for him soon. He must not stop. His only hope was to get as far away as possible, in the quickest time.

He sped on madly, not knowing where he was going, turning now right, now left, as the road forked, intent only on putting as long and as confused a trail as possible between himself and the constable.

He drove till his eyes were almost blind and his arms were numb with pain, and Rose drove with him.

Rose!

He could not dispossess himself of her, he dared not leave her anywhere. He dared not even stop. If he stopped, they might pounce on him. And then they would find her. And if he did not stop — just stop to bury her somewhere — then they would find her just the same in the end. But he dared not stop. His one hope was to keep flying along. So long as he was moving he was safe.

He drove on: insanely, anywhere, everywhere, so long as he was still driving. His eyes never shifted from the road ahead of him; but after a time his lips began to move. He was talking to Rose, in the side-car.

“I got it for you, Rose. You would have it, instead of riding pillion. Well, now you’ve got it. This is our last drive together, Rose, so I hope you’re enjoying it.”

What was to happen when his petrol gave out he dared not think. He could not think. His brain was numb. All he knew was that he must keep on driving: away, away, from that policeman and the alarm he had given. Where he might be he had no idea or the names of the villages and little towns through which he tore.

It did not matter so long as he kept on. One word only fixed itself in his sliding mind: Scotland. For some reason he had the idea that if he could but reach Scotland he would have a chance.

At breakneck speed he thrust on, with Rose, to Scotland.

But Cayley was not to reach Scotland that night. Whether it is that, in panic, the human animal really does move in circles, whether it was that in his numbed brain there still glowed an unconscious spark of his great plan, the fact is left that, while Cayley still thought himself headed for Scotland, he instinctively took a rough track which presented itself on the right of the road when he came to it, and that track led to the top of the same quarry in which he had meant to bury Rose.

But Cayley never knew that, any more than he recognized the wooden rails bordering the edge when they seemed to leap towards him in the beam of his headlight. Then it was too late to recognize anything, in this world.

There were other things, too, which Cayley never knew. He never knew that the constable, a motorcyclist himself, had seen his inadvertent treading on the self-starter. He did not know that the constable, highly amused, had thought that Cayley’s motor-cycle had run away with him. Above all, he did not know that the constable never had the remotest idea that a shot was ever fired at him.

Rufus King

The Patron Saint of the Impossible

It seemed, a hopeless case. All the evidence pointed to Candice’s sweetheart — he had motive, opportunity, and the hot blood of a Latin lover. So, once again, Monsignor Lavigny put his faith in Saint Jude...

* * *

The murder backdrop was the Florida room of the Hoffmann home in Halcyon, which is a small town inhabited by the modestly retired, graced by seasonal tourists and native crackers, and enlivened by a thin lunatic fringe of horse-happy railbirds, amiable bookies, and glazed divorcees. It rests, this gentle haven, on the Atlantic seaboard between the gilt splendors of Miami Beach and the ormolu patina of Fort Lauderdale.

The Hoffmann house is one of the older and more pretentious of Halcyon’s estates, being surrounded with lush masses of semi-tropical shrubbery and flowering trees that afford a screening of privacy from all neighboring houses.

The hour when Monsignor Lavigny became involved in the crime (he lived directly to the east of the Hoffmanns) was eight o’clock on a Tuesday morning in April — during a tranquil moment in which the Monsignor was annoying several aphids on his Bella Romana camellias with a nicotine spray. Sunshine slanted gently onto his silver-crested head and distinguished appearance, which bore a nostalgic resemblance to Walter Hampden in the actor’s turn-of-the-century portrayal of Cardinal Richelieu.

The people involved in the tragedy he knew very well. They were Candice Hoffmann, the murdered man’s teenage niece-and-ward, and a black-browed athletic young ox with the romantic name of Raul Eusebio Fuentes, who was the Hoffmanns’ neighbor to the west.

The youngsters were, of course, in love. It was the first and therefore the fiercest sort of blind emotion on Candice’s part, but hardly the first on Raul’s whose reservoir of sentiment had begun operations in his birthplace in the Oriente province of Cuba at the tender age of twelve. This in no way diluted the young man’s intensity, nor the passionate resentment he felt toward Hoffmann (now a corpse) over Hoffmann’s refusal to consent to his ward’s marriage while she remained a minor and legally under his skeletal thumb.

Perhaps skeletal was a tough extreme, as Monsignor Lavigny believed that Hoffmann’s air of fleshlessness, both physically and in the amenities, was basically due to the man’s several ailments, among which was a rickety heart, and all of which combined to make him a decidedly acid character.

It was a character to be deplored, even for its lesser sins of pride, conceit, and a miserly grip on possessions both human and material. So convinced was Hoffmann of his control over his body and mind that he even refused to acknowledge the existence of physical pain. As for the parading of any bodily deficiency, that was out of the question. And yet, in spite of it all, Monsignor Lavigny had always looked upon Hoffmann as a soul to be enticed into the fold. Difficult, and now (thanks to a bashed skull) beyond further attempt.

The fourth member of the blood-tinged masque was Hoffmann’s wife, Elise. She seemed a brave and handsome asset, much younger than her husband, and a woman whom Monsignor Lavigny considered to have been a bride of circumstance. Just what the circumstances were that had induced her into a marriage with Hoffmann he did not know, but he imagined they had lain within the periphery of economics, perhaps of loneliness, perhaps of some fortuitous avenue of escape. Gratitude too was a possible explanation — but never love.

The curtain rose at eight in the morning on the tooting of an automobile horn.

Monsignor Lavigny left the outraged aphids in a state of suspended peace, and responded with a wave to the gloved hand of Elise Hoffmann as she drove past in her foreign convertible, heading for home. The glimpse of her cotton-crisp freshness and gaily insolent excuse-for-a-hat blended pleasingly with the tone of the morning.

As he later told his young friend Chuck Day of the sheriff’s CBI division, not many minutes seemed to have passed before the Monsignor heard the scream. Even across the distance that separated the two houses, the scream came clearly through the masking flora as one of shock mingled with horror.

The prelate cast dignity to the winds and broke into a lope that halted at the open jalousies of the Hoffmann Florida room, where the scene was appallingly similar to the final curtain of a Greek tragedy.

Elise Hoffmann, still hatted and gloved, stood stage-center and had been turned, apparently, into a pillar of stone. At her feet, with his acid face flecked with blood, lay Hoffmann, flat as only the dead can lie flat. Then to complete the ghastly tableau, under an archway leading into a central hall, young Candice was stretched out on terrazzo tiling in a state of collapse.

The pillar of stone swayed as shock began to recede from Elise. Her clouded eyes seemed to clear as she focused them upon Monsignor Lavigny.

“He ran out,” she said. “He struck Candice brutally — senselessly—”

“Who did, Elise?”

There was a flicker of irritation in her voice, as though the answer should be obvious.

“Why, Raul, of course.”

“The thought is beyond belief,” Monsignor Lavigny said to Chuck Day as they sat in the Lavigny patio eating cashew nuts and drinking a cooled chablis.

“The evidence proves otherwise, Father.” (The prelate preferred the usage of that title by his friends rather than that of Monsignor, with the latter’s stiltedness and variety of mispronunciations.) “I am sorry about it, too, because I know you like the bum.”

“Bum? No, never that. Patriot, if you wish. Raul is a youngster who is deeply, devotedly in love and hence unpredictable; but he is neither a killer nor a bum.”

Chuck, whose mind and experience inclined him to the dogma that a fact was ruler-straight, could never accustom himself to Monsignor Lavigny’s proved ability to throw a few curves across the plate. There had been that child-kidnaping case last year, the beach robbery of the Terressi diamonds the year before...

“What has patriotism got to do with it?” he asked skeptically, nevertheless filing the thought for further consideration. “Raul Fuentes has been naturalized and living here for years.”

“Perhaps it has everything to do with it. Or nothing. There is a parable—”

Chuck interrupted with a certain firmness, but still within the limits of respect. Monsignor Lavigny’s parables were notoriously of interminable length. “Father, let me give you the picture as we are turning it over to the county prosecutor, I think you’ll agree that the job was one of passion? Balked love, then murderous hate?”

“Yes — with some reservations.”

“But what’s left? Money? Profit? Neither motive figures. Whatever else he is, Fuentes is a rich kid, and Candice is a wealthy girl. Just happens she’s under age. They could elope and get hitched by some J.P. up in Georgia but they’re both sincerely religious, and surely such a marriage would not be acceptable in the eyes of the church. Especially with her guardian forbidding it.”

Monsignor Lavigny absently inclined his head.

“Actually,” Chuck went on, “they had no alternative but to persuade Hoffmann to change his decision. Do you know his reasons for objecting to the match?”

“I did talk with him, and it is possible to understand his point of view.”

“It makes good sense to me too. Elise Hoffmann discussed it while you were staying over at the Sacred Heart with Candice.” (This was the hospital where the. young girl had been taken.) “Consider Raul’s actions. He’s, in his early twenties and rich, but where does the dough come from?”

“Why, from his paternal estate down in Cuba, as I understand it.”

“So he says. Then why within the past year did he set up a phony ranch in the boondocks west of Davie? Why does he keep a plane there which he pilots himself, and a camouflage stable of mixed-up plugs strictly out of old milk routes?”

Monsignor Lavigny smiled blandly. “Hope springs eternal, especially on the race track.”

“Now, that’s nonsense, Father, and you know it. If one of those antique platers even caught sight of a starting gate he’d collapse from fright. And what about Raul’s habit of disappearing for a day, or a week, and then side-stepping questions as to where he was or why? According to Mrs. Hoffmann, even Candice can’t dig it out of him.”

“There are certain things that cannot be discussed except,” Monsignor murmured, “in the confessional. If I may refer to certain of the martyrs—”

“Fuentes? A martyr? In my book the guy’s up to his neck in some sort of racket.”

“My reference was oblique.”

“Well, there was nothing oblique about the three-cornered row Elise Hoffmann overheard yesterday morning before she drove over to Pompano. She got a load of it while she was packing a bag in her bedroom. Hoffmann, Candice, and Fuentes were in the patio just outside her windows. Fuentes gave them both the works, the gist being that either Hoffmann changed his mind, or Candice agreed to forego the church and elope — and then he tacked on the threadbare old cliché of ‘or else.’ ”

“The boy was overwrought. In his heart he did not mean it.”

“Father, Father!” Chuck’s tone was kindly with pity. “The evidence proves that Raul was sitting right at the table this morning while Hoffmann ate breakfast, and where he was killed.”

“Did any of the servants — but they couldn’t have. I remember that they are gone.”

“Yes, the staff left yesterday to open up the Hoffmann summer place on Sea Island. The family were to drive up there today, which is why Elise Hoffmann made her early start back from Pompano.” Chuck studied Monsignor Lavigny with a slight frown. “You have something on your mind, Father?”

“There is a definite contradiction. Please explain your conviction that Raul was seated at the breakfast table with Hoffmann.”

“For one thing, you yourself were told by Mrs. Hoffmann that the man she saw escaping was Fuentes.”

“The poor woman was in a state of shock.”

“We’ll have further confirmation when Candice recovers consciousness. But even if Candice didn’t see who struck her, there is the circumstantial evidence of the drinking glass, and you can’t get around it.”

“What glass?”

“First, let’s follow Elise Hoffmann’s story. She waves hello to you as she drives by and you wave back. She puts the car in the garage, then carries her overnight bag into the house. She passes Candice’s room and knows the girl is in it because through the closed door she hears Candice’s portable TV set turned on. She leaves her overnight bag in Hoffmann’s and her suite, figures he’s breakfasting in the Florida room, and goes there. You know what she found.”

“A shocking, hideous thing!”

“She is stunned almost senseless. I will admit — in fact, she admits it herself — that her vision may have become blurred by the shock. She sees this figure who she thinks is Fuentes — and the drinking glass proves he was Fuentes — doing a quicksilver exit towards the archway where he bumps into Candice, bashes her with some sort of metal bar, and beats it as Mrs. Hoffmann gets back her vocal powers and starts to screech.”

Monsignor Lavigny said patiently, “The glass?”

“Yes, the all-important glass. Now, get this, Father. The breakfast table was laid for one — for Hoffmann. Candice had her own tray in her bedroom. Apart from other things like coffee and toast, there were a pitcher of orange juice and two glasses on the table. Both glasses had been used and each still contained some juice. One glass was beside Hoffmann’s plate. The other was across the table where someone else has been sitting.”

“Surely it was Candice, joining her uncle in a glass of orange juice after having prepared his breakfast?”

“No, Father — no on a, couple of counts. Besides the fact that she was probably still in a huff over yesterday’s row and therefore steering clear of Hoffmann, Elise Hoffmann tells me that Candice dislikes any citrus fruit or juice. All of which is purely academic, because of the fingerprints.”

“On the second glass?”

“Yes. There are those of Fuentes where he held it. They have been identified by comparison with ones found on objects in his bathroom and on silver toilet articles on his dresser. Now, this is the clincher, Father. There are also — on that second glass, mind you — prints of the thumb and three fingers of Hoffmann’s left hand, left there when he poured the orange juice into the glass and handed it to Fuentes.”

Monsignor Lavigny shook his head sadly.

“We think,” Chuck continued, “that Fuentes stepped over to renew his demands of yesterday, or possibly to apologize and make peace with Candice. We think what happened is that somehow Hoffmann had learned the nature of Fuentes’s racket, the reason for his disappearances, and threatened exposure if the kid didn’t give Candice up. Well, you know Fuentes. You can imagine how his hot Spanish blood took over.” Chuck felt sudden contrition at the expression on Monsignor Lavigny’s kindly face. “Do not take it so hard. Father. Isn’t it possible even for you to be mistaken in a man’s character?”

“I am not mistaken, but I am a bewildered and deeply disturbed old man.”

“There’s nothing to be bewildered about, Father.”

Monsignor Lavigny disagreed, speaking with difficulty, as though he were trying to establish for himself a sounder belief in what he was saying. “At the Sacred Heart, after several hours at Candice’s bedside, there was one moment, brief but perfectly sane and clear, when consciousness returned.”

“She spoke? She recognized you?”

“She did. She had heard a crash as if someone had fallen — obviously her uncle, when he was killed. It took a moment or two for the sound to register, then she ran out of her bedroom and got as far as the archway to the Florida room when she was struck on the head and knew nothing further.”

“She didn’t see who it was?”

Monsignor Lavigny spoke more hesitantly. He was reluctant to go on, but he managed it. “I must tell you that at this point her voice weakened in answer to my question as to whether her attacker might have been Raul. She said that was impossible, that Raul was in New York City this morning, that she had seen him. Then her voice faltered even more and she relapsed into coma. She has been so ever since.”

“Obviously it was delirium speaking. Just an hallucination.”

“Perhaps, and yet you have not found him in his house, nor out at the ranch, and his plane is gone.”

“Of course it is. When he fled from the Hoffmanns’ he would have driven directly out to the ranch and used the plane for escape.”

Monsignor Lavigny said with what, for him, held a quality of fierceness, “If it only were not for Elise Hoffmann’s identification and the two sets of fingerprints on the glass!”

“An unsurmountable if, Father.”

“Yes, perhaps. I can conceive that under certain provocation Raul might kill — but as for his striking Candice, never!”

“He may not have known who it was — just heard a person running towards the archway and struck blindly.”

“I cannot bring myself to accept that. I have had a sudden thought — it may be fantasy, yet might lead us to the truth. I shall be gone from here until tomorrow evening. And you... you will not be offended, not think me officious, if I make a few suggestions?”

“Why do you suppose I’m here? What are they, Father?”

“I would continue the search for the murder weapon or — what may even be more important — try to establish its absence from the place where it might normally be.”

“I take it you have an idea what it was?”

“Forgive me if I seem evasive, but to be more specific at this moment might bring grievous injustice upon the innocent. I would suggest that you look for a glove that is perhaps stained with dark grease. Also it might be advisable to consider the types of glasses that contained the orange juice.”

“You’re confusing me badly, Father.”

“Have patience, and a reliance upon your own excellent deductive powers. Your department has a plane at its disposal, has it not?”

“Yes.”

“Then a flight to Sea Island might also be indicated, and a questioning of the Hoffmann staff.”

Chuck looked at the prelate sharply. “Along any particular line?”

“Perhaps as to any unusual visitor who may have called on the Hoffmanns during the past few weeks.”

“Unusual in what way?”

“Let us say in the sense of being a stranger to the servants.” Monsignor Lavigny grew deadly serious. “And this is the most important suggestion of all.”

“Yes?”

“You might arrange with Mother Superior at the Sacred Heart to permit two women from your staff, dressed in nursing habits, to alternate watches in keeping a constant guard over Candice.”

“There’s a man posted there now, but we’ll do as you say. Both Can-dice and Mrs. Hoffmann are under protection. Until Fuentes is caught.”

“Until,” Monsignor Lavigny murmured in polite correction, “the murderer is trapped.”

“And you, Father? Where will you be while we’re doing all this?”

Monsignor Lavigny’s smile was both enigmatic and strangely affectionate. His eyes held what Chuck Day later described to his wife as a beyond-the-horizon look.

“I am considering a pilgrimage accompanied by Saint Jude. He has helped me in the past, and I shall ask him to help me now. Saint Jude, you know, is the patron saint of the impossible, of the seeming impasse. He is of inestimable assistance at a time when there seems no hope left.”

The following evening, again in the patio with its velvet chiaroscuro of moonlight and the night-released scent of jasmine, Monsignor Lavigny sat in troubled contemplation, absently sipping, his after-dinner brandy and awaiting the arrival of the CBI man.

The prelate had paused at the Sacred Heart on his way home from the airport and had satisfied himself that Candice was under watchful observation by women from the sheriff’s department in their borrowed nursing habits.

He had learned that the girl’s condition remained unchanged, that the coma continued unbroken. Elise Hoffmann had come to the hospital and had also telephoned anxious inquiries numerous times, as had many of Candice’s young friends. There had been (perhaps understandably) no message or inquiry from Raul Fuentes — this, even though the Hoffmann case continued to be front page news.

Chuck came. He slumped into a chair, accepted brandy, and went directly to the point.

“Father, your suggestions have opened up a new slant. We believe now that Elise Hoffmann did the job, but the evidence is slim, circumstantial, and a topflight trial counsel might easily get her off.”

“My thoughts lay that way, too. I suspected, and I still suspect, a frame-up. The nature of it is almost clear, but not quite. We will find it to have been exceedingly clever, the work of a truly devious mind. Is Mrs. Hoffmann under arrest?”

“No. She is under surveillance. We won’t haul her in until we’ve got Fuentes. The case against that young buzzard is still too strong. Unless,” Chuck added with a friendly grin, “your pilgrimage with Saint Jude cleared his slate?”

“To a certain extent it did — at least to my own satisfaction. I am infinitely grateful. When I flew to New York I carried with me a good photograph of Raul. You will remember Elise Hoffmann saying that when she passed the closed door of Candice’s bedroom she heard a TV program going on inside?”

“Yes?”

“Well, it occurred to me that the broadcast might have offered a solution to Candice’s apparent hallucination when she told me that she, with herself being here in Halcyon, had seen Raul in New York City yesterday morning.”

“It was the right hour for the Dave Garroway program ‘Today’ — people in the street before the exhibition hall window. Haven’t I read or seen—”

“Yes, there was nothing especially original in my thought, nor in the fact itself. I, too, have read of similar incidents — one in which a spectator in a ringside seat at a televised prizefight was recognized by his wife, who was watching the program at home. She later divorced him, I believe, naming his rather notorious lady companion at the bout as co-respondent. No, the thought was nothing new, but it served as a possible lead to casting doubt on Elise Hoffmann’s story.”

“What’s the result?”

“Mr. Garroway was most courteous, most kind — as were Mr. Lescoulie and Mr. Blair. They studied Raul’s picture, and did remember a man who might have been he. They had noticed the man because of his gestures.”

“But why on earth would Fuentes risk showing himself on a nationwide hookup if he wanted to keep his ‘mysterious’ absences secret? It doesn’t make sense.”

“A man in love often makes no sense. He was asking forgiveness.”

“Of Candice?”

“Yes, for his tantrum with its hotheaded ‘or else.’ He knew Candice’s habit of watching that broadcast, and took a chance on her doing so yesterday morning. Raul’s gestures were quite compelling in, Mr. Garroway informed me, an operatic fashion. A Latinesque pantomiming of forgive-me-and-I-love-you, done with bravura.”

“Would they make the identification under oath in court, or by sworn affidavit?”

“No. I asked. They would hesitate to do so. There would be too strong an element of doubt.”

“At least the kid’s got one strike in his favor. There’s the hotel he stayed at, or friends. He should be able to prove an alibi.”

“He might not be willing to.”

“Why not?”

“He may refuse flatly to talk about his business in New York or his contacts there.”

“If he doesn’t, the two sets of fingerprints on that second glass will knock our case against Elise Hoffmann into the nearest ashcan.”

“Just how strong has it become?”

Chuck gave the prelate a concise account. The murder weapon had been found. Its place of concealment was in a large clump of star jasmine. It was a jack bar, looked for specifically because of its absence from where it should have been (as Father had suggested), along with the jack in the trunk compartment of Elise Hoffmann’s car.

There was more. The two glasses were of different types. No gloves were found. They could have been disposed of later, and more carefully, than the jack bar.

The Sea Island questioning of the Hoffmann staff revealed that there had been a stranger. Ten days ago. He had been closeted with Hoffmann for over half an hour. No name, but the Hoffmann maid who had let him in offered a general description which included a noticeable cast in the man’s left eye. Identification had proved simple — a local private investigator, well-known to the department and to Chuck. Up to the time of Hoffmann’s death the private investigator had been in Hoffmann’s employ — his assignment, to obtain evidence for a divorce. A Miami Beach character, a young muscle-operator of the Hercules type, came into the picture as the “other man.” This handsome hulk and a legal separation from the Hoffmann assets by divorce offered plenty of motive for the elimination of Hoffmann...

A house boy interrupted. Mister Chuck was urgently wanted on the telephone.

Monsignor Lavigny, while Chuck went into the house, mused on all human frailty, deploring, yet understanding it very well. It was not for him to judge, certainly not for him to punish. That was within the province of the law, while the ultimate appeal lay in the discretion of God. What malignant germ was it that festered in the brain of murder? Never had it been isolated since the days of Cain. What flaw...

“Word from the office,” Chuck said, rejoining him. “They caught Fuentes. His plane just landed at the ranch. He clammed up. A ‘no comment’ to end all ‘no comments.’ They put him in a car, started for headquarters, and he jumped. Now the boondocks have him, not us.” Chuck smashed an angry fist into the palm of his hand. “One other report. The guard we’ve kept on Elise Hoffmann called in that she left the house and drove off in her convertible. Caught him without warning, too late to check on where she’s heading. Father, we’re doing just fine!”

Monsignor Lavigny stood up. “It would be wise for us to go to the Sacred Heart. On the way we can discuss the advisability of certain arrangements. I believe I can persuade Mother Superior to give her consent. Mrs. Hoffmann will take time to drive around while considering her next move. Before,” he added softly, “she strikes again.”

Owing to a regional wave of the Asian flu with its subsequent complications, and that vague bite noir elastically labeled virus, even some of the corridors of the Sacred Heart held beds, and a suppressed air of tension pervaded the hospital. With it existed a certain laxity of the less imperative regulations, while a greater than usual ebb and flow of traffic — nurses, sisters, interns, orderlies, visiting relatives, an occasional doctor — gave the place a slight semblance of Grand Central Station during this normally quiet evening hour.

Candice Hoffmann had been fortunate in having been placed in a private room, one vacated through a fatal case of pneumonia. It was a pleasant, impersonal room, its main furnishings being a hospital bed, a dresser, a locker, and some chairs. There were two doors, one to the corridor, one to a private bathroom. There was about the room an aseptic openness that made concealment impossible.

Two windows, open to the trade wind with its odors of the flowering night, were frames for pale moonlight, while a shaded night lamp washed faint amber across the bed’s white pillow and the white-bandaged head with its contusion-marked face resting motionlessly upon it.

Chuck and Monsignor Lavigny stood in the bathroom, in tense expectancy. The bathroom door was opened a crack, sufficiently for them to have a view that included the bed and the corridor door. The two men were continuing an argument in whispers.

“Father, it is still a crime against the Federal government.”

“Technically, yes. But isn’t it the intention that truly constitutes a crime? More so, even, than the crime itself? Remember that Raul has been running guns and ammunition to the rebels at his own expense, paying for them out of his own pocket. There has never been any question of illicit gain. Granted he is a naturalized citizen, yet his roots go back to Cuba. He feels that his family and many of his friends have suffered intolerable injustices from the present regime.”

“A case of patriotism once-removed.”

“Precisely. And precisely the reason why he would rather suffer death than betray his rebel contacts by revealing the truth about his ‘mysterious’ disappearances. So far there exists no proof of his activities and he will never speak. Just as I, except for your confidential ear, shall never speak.”

A sudden pressure of Chuck’s fingers on Monsignor Lavigny’s arm brought immobility and silence. The corridor door, observed through the crack, was opening.

Elise Hoffmann looked in, satisfying herself that the room, with the exception of the patient, was empty. She had been keeping the door under observation for the past five minutes from an inconspicuous post in the traffic-filled corridor, after having noted the departure from the room of a nurse who presumably had arranged her patient for the night.

She came inside and closed the door. A few hurried footsteps carried her to the bed where in fumbling haste her hands pulled the pillow from under the bandage-swathed head, while her dark, abandoned eyes flickered in apprehensive observation between pale windows and the closed corridor door.

She pressed the pillow firmly down on the bruise-marked face.

There was no movement, no struggle. A sound made Mrs. Hoffmann look toward the bathroom door which, remarkably, now stood open with, more remarkable still, that CBI man Mr. Day framed there with a Leica camera held against one eye. Then he was saying, almost casually, “All right, Miss Brown. I have it. You can get up now.”

The strong arms of Miss Brown (sheriff’s dept., physical ed. grad., adept at judo) gave a practiced shove, knocking Elise Hoffmann backward and into a fortuitously located chair.

Extraordinary, the mind, the nerves of a murderer, with that fierce egomaniac clinging to avoid punishment, to save his neck until the last ditch failed! Those were Monsignor Lavigny’s thoughts as he watched Elise Hoffmann stiffen into an icy rage on the chair while, assisted by Chuck, Miss Brown was unswathed from bandages and cleaned of the grease-paint bruise marks that had camouflaged her face.

“I was rearranging the pillow more comfortably,” Elise Hoffmann said in a clear and frigid tone. “Seeing you quite naturally gave me a shock. Unconsciously I put the pillow down. That photograph you have just taken, Mr. Day, shall be the basis of a suit I shall bring against your office.”

No, there was not even a quiver, much less a break. Elise Hoffmann’s control was superb and it was perfectly obvious that she intended to fight. Collapse had been expected, and certainly not this collected defiance.

Chuck took over.

Dispassionately, courteously, he outlined the case against her, tracing the probable moves, both physical and mental, she had gone through.

Her years of oppression under Hoffmann’s domination, with a fretful hatred inevitably building up. The threat of imminent divorce proceedings, ruining her share under the community property law between husband and wife.

(Elise Hoffmann did not even start to break. She sat as a figure of chiseled stone, waiting for an idiot to finish with his maunderings. And Monsignor Lavigny again had that over-the-horizon look.)

Chuck continued. Opportunity presented itself with the morning of the servant-free house, when the staff would be gone at Sea Island, when Candice would, as was her habit, be breakfasting while watching TV in her bedroom, when Hoffmann would be breakfasting alone in the Florida room.

Opportunity aligned itself with the fortuitous clash overheard among Fuentes and Candice and Hoffmann. Fuentes stepped immediately into the role of being groomed as Suspect Number One for the proposed crime.

Then the actual, and this time the true steps. After passing Monsignor Lavigny with a toot of her horn and a good-morning hand wave, the car was garaged. The jack bar was removed from the trunk compartment.

(Elise Hoffmann’s face remained a remotely interested, fashionable mask. Monsignor Lavigny had begun to mutter quietly in his Richelieu beard.)

Candice was, as expected, in her bedroom. Hoffmann was, as expected, breakfasting alone in the Florida room. Not much of a blow on the head was required to cause death — his rickety heart contributed to the result. He toppled sideways off the chair and crashed down on the floor. The sound of running footsteps — Candice. A hasty flattening against the wall beside the archway and a blow with the jack bar as Candice ran through — a blow to silence her as an eyewitness to the immediate picture of the crime.

(Elise Hoffmann smiled. Monfignor Lavigny’s muttering grew faintly severish.)

Chuck steadfastly went on. Not yet the screams. First, the run outdoors to conceal the jack bar among the jasmines. Then the hurried return to the Florida room with the assuming of a horror-stricken pose. Then the screams.

Chuck’s recapitulation was a dud.

He felt swamped with weariness, a bitter wash of failure. The woman would never break.

In the hush of the room, as Chuck’s voice died out, Elise Hoffmann laughed. A cold, amused, diamond-hard laugh.

“Isn’t there a rather important piece of evidence omitted, Mr. Day? Even the newspaper accounts played it up quite strongly. I refer, of course, to the second glass?”

Yes, Chuck realized, her bastions of defense still held. She would never yield while the contradiction offered by the fingerprints remained unresolved. Disheartedly he noticed that Monsignor Lavigny’s mutterings were approaching the decipherable. They seemed to be a murmured supplication to Saint Jude. Then the prelate’s voice exploded with the effect of a minor bomb.

“I have it! The solution to the second glass. The glass was,” he said, “a different type from the one beside your husband’s plate, because it came from no set of glassware in your house.”

“Merely an odd one, Monsignor,” Elise Hoffmann said indifferently. “A leftover from a former set.”

Monsignor Lavigny wrapped himself in the full dignity of his high office. His voice might remotely be said to have thundered.

“Madame, we are through with lies! You had determined to make Raul Fuentes the scapegoat. You could not place him physically upon the scene, so you placed an object he had handled upon the scene.

“I am convinced that you stopped at Raul’s house as you started off for Pompano to pick up such an object. You had the excuse of mediating the quarrel that had shortly occurred. But you did not need the excuse. You found him gone. You were able unobserved to find and take a glass, probably from his bathroom shelf.

“You were wearing driving gloves of chamois, the ones you wore when you waved to me, the ones you have since destroyed. You carried that glass with you to Pompano, guarding and preserving Raul’s fingerprints with some protective covering such as a scarf.

“After you had killed your husband and struck Candice down, you concealed the jack bar, got the glass, poured orange juice into it and set it on the table — after, I am convinced, you had pressed your dead husband’s fingerprints upon it to indicate that he had filled and handed the glass to Raul.”

“You are convinced,” Elise Hoffmann said. “But will a jury be?”

“They will be because you made one fatal error. When you pressed your husband’s fingerprints upon the glass, two of those prints were superimposed upon those of Raul. Proving that Raul’s were there first — and that your husband’s were put on it after his death. You look ill, Madame — and well you may!”

She broke completely.

Raul had been intercepted, and released, in the hospital grounds on his way to Candice. He was with her now in the room to which she had been transferred when the sheriff’s Miss Brown had taken her place.

Scotch and soda rested on the patio table.

“Father, was it Saint Jude?”

Monsignor Lavigny’s voice mellowed with a modest note. “I am gratefully certain that it was. My own poor wits could never have accomplished it of themselves.”

“And I suppose,” said Chuck drily, “that it was Saint Jude who cracked Elise Hoffmann’s nerve? That it was not you, Father, who made the flat statement that two of Hoffmann’s prints were superimposed on those of Fuentes?”

Monsignor Lavigny’s eyes were the essence of pious innocence as he said, “Well, weren’t they?”

“No, Father — as you very well know.”

Phyllis Bentley

Miss Phipps Goes to School

Carious little incidents were happening at Star Isle College, a boys’ boarding school in England — as if a noisy and obstreperous ghost were mischievously or maliciously at work. Was it a supernatural manifestation? Or were they merely boyish pranks? Or was there really a more sinister force at large? Seesaw of suspense, criminological crossruff, ’tec teeter-totter...

“Miss Phipps Goes to School” is a fascinating novelet by Phyllis Bentley, the noted regional novelist who, we are proud to say, never lets a year pass without sending a new Miss Phipps story to “Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine” — Miss Phipps, the spinster-sleuth and detective-story-writer-detective who seldom loses her aplomb and never loses her charm...

* * *

“Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John,” sang Mary Tarrant happily, “went to bed with one shoe on.”

Young Master John Tarrant, agreeably clad in his own charming birthday suit and held firmly round the waist by his mother’s loving hands, laughed and crowed and stamped gleefully about her knee. Miss Phipps watched smiling from a nearby chair.

“My darling,” whispered Mary fondly, kissing him. “Well, I guess I’d better go and make that coffee. Mrs. Brooke did say she’d call for you at eleven, didn’t she, Miss Phipps?” She laid her son down on her lap and began what appeared to the detective novelist the impossible task of inserting his waving arms and legs into various small garments.

“Yes, at eleven,” agreed Miss Phipps, looking at her watch. “Let’s hope she’ll be late. I don’t want to tear myself away from your offspring’s antics.”

“Yes, isn’t he precious? Such a piece of luck, your being invited to lecture at Star Isle College, Miss Phipps,” said Mary. “I was so anxious for you to see the baby as he is now. He changes almost every week, you know.”

“My dear, I only accepted the engagement because it gave me the chance of visiting you in Brittlesea en route,” said Miss Phipps truthfully. “Boys’ boarding schools, however well-known and reputable, are not really in my line.”

“But Star Isle is really a very fine school,” said Mary, clasping a safety pin. “John says so. The buildings have all been modernized, and they have a beautiful beach. The new Headmaster, Dr. Brooke, is very progressive and energetic, and his wife is young and intelligent, and she coaches the boys in drama. And the Brookes have a baby about the same age as Johnny,” concluded Mary triumphantly, offering this last fact as a supreme token of the Brookes’s desirability.

It occurred to Miss Phipps to wonder whether Detective-Inspector Tarrant had ever been over to Star Isle College in his professional capacity, and if so, why; but knowing his discretion on all matters connected with his work, she fore-bore to put the question, and just then the doorbell rang. Mary placed the baby on the settee, wedging him in with cushions, then went to answer it. Miss Phipps, shy but determined, crossed over to the settee and did a little baby worship on her own, and was rewarded by having one finger tightly clasped in a delicious miniature fist. She was thus in a good position to observe the look which young Mrs. Brooke turned on the baby when she entered the room. This look startled, even shocked Miss Phipps, for it was of fear and anguish.

Introductions were performed. Mrs. Brooke’s hand trembled in Miss Phipps’s clasp.

“I’ll just slip out and fetch the coffee,” said Mary.

“No! No, thank you,” said Mrs. Brooke hastily. “It’s most kind of you, Mrs. Tarrant, but I’m afraid I really can’t stay. The ferry across to the island, you know, has only limited service on Saturday mornings. We shall just have time to catch the 11:50 boat if we leave now.”

“But couldn’t you stay and catch the next boat?” urged Mary.

“I’m afraid it’s impossible,” said Mrs. Brooke.

She spoke with so much authority and decision that there was nothing to do but obey, although Mary was upset by the rejection of her hospitality and Miss Phipps was grieved on Mary’s account. Miss Phipps’s overnight bag was hastily thrown into the back of Mrs. Brooke’s car, Miss Phipps herself was hustled into the front seat, farewells were curtailed, Mrs. Brooke took the wheel, and they were off for Star Isle.

During the next twenty minutes Miss Phipps, observing her companion with the shrewd eye of a novelist and listening with a novelist’s ear, discovered that Mrs. Brooke was tall, slender, dark, neat, dressed in good tweeds, intelligent, a University graduate, and a skillful driver. But she wore an angry frown down the center of her forehead, and snatched every advantage on the road which offered itself. Her story about the ferry was clearly not a mere snobbish excuse to refuse Mary’s hospitality; she was obviously motivated by some painful urgency.

The ferryboat — no doubt a landing-craft from wartime days, reflected Miss Phipps — was at the pier with its blunt bows open and lowered when they arrived. Mrs. Brooke jumped the queue of waiting cars and drove up to the boat, at which the attendant seaman and policeman gaped in astonishment. She made no comment on her action to the sailor who collected her ticket, although he gazed at her reproachfully. As the ferry waddled slowly along the winding course marked out by numerous posts and buoys, she tapped her foot impatiently.

“A sandy coast?” said Miss Phipps politely, merely making conversation.

“Yes — with quicksands here and there. Very treacherous.”

“Is it like that all around the island?”

“Oh, no! To the south, by the College, we have cliffs and bays.”

“Is it far from the harbor to the College?”

“About four miles,” said Mrs. Brooke. Her foot kept tapping, and her hands clenched themselves about the wheel of the car.

Miss Phipps was so affected by this impatience that whereas ordinarily she would have much enjoyed the process of disembarkation — the throwing and securing of lines, the dignified lowering of the stern, the parade of foot passengers along a gangway surrendering tickets, the laying of planks for the car’s wheels, and the bumpy ticklish drive from ship to shore, solemnly superintended by an elderly policeman — today she found it almost unbearably slow and tedious. Once they were on land, however, they flew along the russet autumn lanes, rushed through the old stone gateway of the College, and drew up sharply with a squeal of brakes in the gravel circle in front of the Headmaster’s residence. Mrs. Brooke leaped out and ran up the shallow steps to a handsome cream perambulator with a fringed awning, which stood on the terrace beside the door. Bending over this she lifted out a sleeping infant, then returned to Miss Phipps with the baby in her arms and the frown quite gone from her face, which now looked very young and yearning.

“Will you come in? They’ll fetch your bag later,” she said, and led her guest into a large, pleasant sitting room with French windows on two sides, one set overlooking the terrace with the baby carriage, the other, on the opposite wall, having an agreeable view of beach, cliff, and sea to the right, with the long row of gray College buildings on the left.

Miss Phipps sat down, feeling a trifle ruffled. A middle-aged woman with bluish hair, a rather superior expression, and dressed in white, was arranging a large tray of glasses and sherry on a table nearby; it appeared that a rush of masters, invited to meet the great lecturer, was imminent. The older woman was introduced to Miss Phipps as Miss Bellivant, the College housekeeper.

“I’ve read one or two of your books, Miss Phipps,” said Miss Bellivant in a condescending tone. “Just as light reading, at night.”

“I hope you enjoyed them,” said Miss Phipps, commending herself for keeping her temper.

“Oh, yes, quite. Other people enjoy them too — I can’t seem to keep them on my shelves,” said the housekeeper in a rather puzzled fashion. “They keep disappearing.”

“I do beg your pardon, Miss Phipps,” said Mrs. Brooke when Miss Bellivant had gone, and still rocking her sleeping child gently in her arms, “for rushing you along like this. It was unforgivable. And that sweet Mrs. Tarrant. I’m afraid I was rude to her — I am most truly sorry. But you see — I was so anxious about Tommy.”

“Why?” said Miss Phipps bluntly.

“Leaving him alone,” said Mrs. Brooke, hanging her head.

“But surely you have plenty of staff here,” objected Miss Phipps, “to keep an eye on him?”

“Yes, in a way. But... oh, well, a young mother, you know,” said Mrs. Brooke, laughing falsely. “One gets these fancies.”

“What fancies?” said Miss Phipps. Mrs. Brooke was silent. “What kind of fancies?” pressed Miss Phipps. “You’re too intelligent, too well-educated, to indulge in groundless fancies, I’m sure,” she continued. “You feared some danger for the child?”

“It was so strange,” began Mrs. Brooke hesitantly. “Such a mysterious little incident.” She stopped. “I’m ashamed to trouble you with it.”

“What did your husband say when you told him of the incident?” inquired Miss Phipps.

“Henry? He laughed. But I think he was worried. He’s rather worried about a good many things just now,” said Mrs. Brooke.

There were occasions when Miss Phipps, usually the mildest and most modest of women, found it useful to play the celebrated novelist. She did so now.

“My dear,” she said in the commanding resonant tone which she used to impress fans at literary cocktail parties, “you had better tell me all about it. I have had a good deal of experience in solving these small mysteries, both as a detective novelist and as an occasional assistant to the police. Confide in me. You may trust in my discretion absolutely.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Brooke, still hesitating; then she plunged: “It was like this. It sounds so silly, but really it was strange. Last Sunday morning I’d just put the baby in his pram on the terrace. I was upstairs in our bedroom, putting on my hat and coat, meaning to slip late into Chapel. I heard the baby begin to cry. I looked out and saw that he had thrown his rattle out of his pram.”

“They often do that,” said Miss Phipps, nodding her head wisely. “Throw things away and then want the discarded objects back again. Just like adults.”

“So I ran downstairs and out to the terrace,” Mrs. Brooke went on, “and the rattle was in his pram.”

“In his pram?” exclaimed Miss Phipps stupidly.

Mrs. Brooke nodded. “Lying on the coverlet.”

“But somebody must have put it there!”

“Agreed. But who? All the boys, the teaching staff, the secretarial staff, Miss Bellivant, and several of the masters’ wives — everybody, in fact — were in Chapel. We have our own College chapel, you know. We had the Bishop of Southshire over here that morning, as a matter of fact, and he’s a very good preacher, so everybody was there.”

“One of the domestic staff?”

“We have no domestic staff of our own; nowadays all that work is done by the College domestic staff.”

“Then one of them?”

“Miss Phipps,” said Mrs. Brooke very earnestly, “believe me, it was nobody. I’ve asked everybody. After all, it was kind action; nobody need be ashamed to own up to it, need they? But nobody admits to having put the rattle back in the pram.”

“My dear,” said Miss Phipps in her most soothing tone, “don’t be vexed with me when I tell you I really think you are making a mountain out of a molehill. The postman passed by, perhaps — oh, no, not on a Sunday. The milkman — no, not by your private front-entrance. Well, somebody,” concluded Miss Phipps pettishly. “It’s a very small matter, after all.”

“Not when taken in conjunction with other small matters which have been happening here,” said Mrs. Brooke. “There seems a jinx on the school this term. And Henry cares so much, you know. Everything was going so well — till now.”

“What other small matters?” demanded Miss Phipps.

“Here we are, my dear,” said Henry Brooke, entering the room with a flock of masters behind him.

He was one of the new type of Headmasters, Miss Phipps observed with interest — short, slight, fair, utterly unpompous, but with a dynamic energy informing his whole personality. His gray eyes were shrewd and bright.

“Ah, Miss Phipps,” said he, shaking hands.

His tone was courteous but noncommittal; it was clear to Miss Phipps that his judgment on his visiting lecturer was as yet suspended.

“And why not?” thought Miss Phipps honestly. “He knows nothing of me as yet.”

She exerted herself to make intelligent conversation.

“My dear boy,” said old Mr. Pryce in mild, sad, mellifluous tones. “My dear Deighton, if you would only understand that I am not reproaching you in the least for upsetting the pile of reports. It’s the easiest thing in the world to do, especially as my desk stands under the common-room window. I entirely acquit you of any desire to wound or annoy me.”

“But, Mr. Pryce,” began young Mr. Deighton, who was short and gingery, wore a pullover stained with chemicals, and spoke with a decidedly less well modulated accent, “I give you my word—”

“I am well aware,” Mr. Pryce flowed on, his long gray mustaches quivering with wounded feeling, “that to young scientific men like yourself, classics masters are mere useless survivals, a sort of dinosaur. I have no quarrel with that attitude. I understand well how it can be so. I do not complain. Also, I appreciate your desire for fresh air. Young people like open windows; they do not suffer from draughts as we old fogeys are apt to do. In opening the common-room window, you dislodged the pile of my half-term house reports, which, no doubt in complete conformity with some law of dynamics familiar to you, fell to the ground in hideous confusion. They had been carefully, alphabeticized in order of the boys’ names; this order was destroyed by the fall and some forty minutes were required to restore it. But what of that? Such an accident might happen to anyone,” said Mr. Pryce with noble acceptance. “I do not claim exemption from misfortune. But—”

“Another glass of sherry, Pryce?” put in Henry Brooke, proffering the decanter.

“Thank you, Headmaster. I am aware that you are trying to divert me from a painful subject,” said Mr. Pryce. “But your sherry is good and your thought a kind one, tee-hee!” He laughed gently and held out his glass, his innocent old eyes beaming. “So I accept with gratitude.”

“He’s rather a pet, after all,” thought Miss Phipps, who from her place beside Mrs. Brooke on the settee was watching the uncomfortable little scene.

“But, Mr. Pryce, I assure you I did not upset your pile of reports,” said young Deighton in a tone of greatly suppressed exasperation. “I never went near your desk. And I didn’t open the window.”

“It was open when I entered the common-room,” said Mr. Pryce with a mild, meditative air. “It is your lack of trust in my good fellowship which grieves me, Deighton. Have I proved myself so harsh a colleague that you cannot confess to me a small peccadillo, an accidental injury? That wounds me, my dear boy, wounds me deeply. I had not thought that my younger colleagues held me in such dread.”

“Mr. Pryce, I don’t hold you in any dread. I feel for you only respect and affection!” shouted young Deighton. “But I didn’t knock over your reports!”

“Well — let us dismiss the matter. Let us forget it,” said Mr. Pryce sadly. His sadness was genuine, Miss Phipps noted; the gleam in his old eyes faded, his mustaches drooped. “I raise my glass to you, Deighton. I drink to you and Science.”

“Mr. Pryce,” began Deighton in a high shrill voice, which reminded Miss Phipps of steam escaping from an overcharged boiler, “I—”

Henry Brooke laid a hand on his arm, and the young man turned away, crimson with rage.

“But wouldn’t it be better not to forget the incident? To probe it to the core?” said Miss Phipps boldly, rising and going toward the group.

On all their faces, as they turned to her, she read that male expression of distaste which means “Women!” Nevertheless, she persevered. She liked kind old Pryce, able Brooke, and struggling young Deighton; she wished them all well, and in her opinion the truth is the best gift one can wish for anyone.

“Such little mysteries, at first sight inexplicable, are my stock in trade as a detective story writer,” she went on blandly. “Could I have the details of this one, please?”

“My dear madam,” said old Mr. Pryce, bowing courteously, “I shall of course be most happy to serve you in any way. Without troubling you with the details of our routine, let me give you the essential facts. Yesterday morning during a free period just after break, I was working on a pile of reports in the common-room. I was alone in the room. The window was shut. I left the room, for a few moments only, to go out to ring a certain bell. As I went out, I encountered Mr. Deighton coming in. As I returned, I met Mr. Deighton coming along the passage from the common-room, which is, so to say, situated in a cul-de-sac. I entered the common-room and found my reports scattered over the floor, and the window slightly open.”

“Perhaps the draught from the window scattered the reports?” suggested Miss Phipps.

“A substantial paperweight rested on them,” said Mr. Pryce with his air of serious musing.

“And now you, Mr. Deighton,” said Miss Phipps in a friendly tone.

“Well — I don’t know anything about his reports, though I don’t suppose you’ll believe it,” snapped Deighton in his brash, aggressive manner. “I went into the common-room to fetch a dictionary from the shelves. It took me a minute or two to find it. I found it and left with it in my hand. I met Mr. Pryce in the corridor. That’s all.”

“Were the reports on the floor when you left the room?”

“No. Emphatically, no.”

“Was the window open?”

“I don’t know. I think not, but I couldn’t swear to it. At any rate, I never went near the window.”

“Perhaps you banged the door, and the vibration upset the reports?”

“I don’t bang doors, even if I didn’t go to Oxford or Cambridge,” cried Deighton angrily. “And on my word of honor I never touched Mr. Pryce’s reports.”

“An interesting little problem,” said Miss Phipps in her blandest tone. Apart from the possibility that one of the two men was mistaken, she had not the faintest idea of any solution, but she did not intend to let the staff of Star Isle College know this. “It is these everyday minutiae which offer the greatest scope for keen ratiocination,” she continued.

The Headmaster gave her a shrewd look.

“And what would you suggest,” he began in a quizzical tone, when suddenly to Miss Phipps’s relief the sound of an immense bell clanged long and loud through the air. “Ah, lunch. On Saturdays we lunch in hall with the boys,” said the Headmaster. “Are you coming, Ella?”

His wife shook her head. “I’ll stay with the baby,” she said nervously.

The Headmaster was not pleased, but accepted her refusal with an urbane little bow, then ushered Miss Phipps out of the seaview windows. He took her at a smart pace along a path, under an archway, up some steps, across a huge kitchen — where Miss Bellivant amid rows of steel cookers and enameled refrigerators directed a scurrying crowd of white-coated girls — and through a pair of swing doors.

“Short cut,” he said briskly as they emerged on a dais by a long refectory table.

Miss Phipps nodded, too breathless to speak. The other masters streamed in their wake. Evidently punctuality was de rigueur at Star Isle College.

In the large dining hall, however, there was a long pause. Something, thought Miss Phipps, glancing down from the dais to the long rows of boys standing silent and attentive by the tables on which dishes already steamed, seemed to have gone wrong. The other masters did not look in the direction of Dr. Brooke, who stood silent and motionless, his face carefully blank. Then suddenly in the gallery at the far end of the hall appeared an older lad with a silver badge in his buttonhole. He was crimson and breathless, but managed to utter a Latin grace without stumbling. At its conclusion the school sat down and fell to, and several silver-badged lads sitting on the opposite side of the high table from Miss Phipps passed her meat, vegetables, and gravy with great politeness. Dr. Brooke’s brow remained frowning, however, and he did not speak.

The lad from the balcony now appeared at the Headmaster’s elbow.

“Well, Crawford,” said Dr. Brooke in a chilling headmasterly tone.

“I must apologize, sir, for being so late,” said Crawford, who was still somewhat breathless. “I was working in the library, and my watch disappeared.”

“Disappeared, Crawford?” said the Headmaster with a tinge of irony.

“Yes, sir. I was taking notes at the table at the far end, and I’d laid my watch in front of me so as not to be late. Then I went up the iron stairs into the gallery, sir, to look for an old issue of Nature, and when I came down, my watch was gone. I was still busy hunting for it when the luncheon bell rang. I ran all the way, sir.”

“Very well, very well,” said the Headmaster in a forgiving tone. “Sit down and eat your lunch. Miss Phipps, this is F. X. Crawford, our head prefect,” he went on as the lad went round the table and seated himself opposite Miss Phipps. “Scholarship boy. Native of the island. Captain of football. Mathematician. Going up to Cambridge when he’s done his national service — just won a place.”

Miss Phipps bent her writer’s eye on the lad. He was strongly built, with broad shoulders, a pleasantly plain face, straight dark hair, and highly intelligent brown eyes. Not wishing to keep him from his meal she contented herself with a smile at the introduction, and did not speak until after the first course.

“It must be agreeable to have such a fine swimming beach so near the school,” she said then.

“Yes. It’s actually part of the school grounds,” said Crawford in a friendly tone. “The beach and the cliff on the left, that is. But the cliff is out of bounds except with a master. There’s a cave there which is rather dangerous — it has an inner chamber with a very low entrance; you can get cut off in there at high water.”

“And how is the swimming arranged?” pursued Miss Phipps. “By house or class?”

“By class.”

“I suppose you prefects,” said Miss Phipps, smiling at the row of silver badges opposite her, “are allowed to swim whenever you’re free.”

“Oh, no!” said Crawford. “The rules are very strict—”

“Never less than three boys are allowed to be in the water together,” boomed the Headmaster in her ear. “And to become a three-swimmer, as we call them, a boy has to pass very severe swimming tests. We have a swimming pool as well, you know. He has to do two lengths of the pool, two breadths underwater, and a lifesaving test.”

“And are you a three-swimmer?” inquired Miss Phipps of Crawford.

“Only this term — I’ve never had time before to work up for the tests,” said the lad without embarrassment.

“Life is real, life is earnest, for those who want to reach scholarship standard in mathematics,” said the Headmaster. “Isn’t that so, Crawford?”

“It is indeed, sir,” said Crawford, laughing.

“However, there are compensations. Football match this afternoon,” continued the Headmaster.

“Yes. It’s strange about my watch, sir, isn’t it?” said the boy.

“We’ll have a word about that this evening, Crawford,” said the Headmaster, dismissing the subject.

“Yes sir,” agreed Crawford readily.

“Star Isle! Star Isle!” shouted Miss Phipps encouragingly. “Well passed, sir! Good heavens, what a fumble! Look out, Star Isle! Oh—” her voice changed to satisfaction — “Crawford’s got it. A very reliable player, Crawford,” she added in her normal tone, turning to the Headmaster.

Muffled to the eyebrows, she sat between the Headmaster and his wife, watching the football match. The Brooke baby lay asleep in his pram behind the white-painted seat. The College buildings provided shelter on the sea side of the field, but the other sides were open to the briskly blowing breeze.

“Crawford,” said the Headmaster with emphasis, “is very reliable in any activity he undertakes. A strong, steady character. Humble circumstances at home, you know. Excellent head prefect. Very much respected. Good bowler, too. Ah!” he exclaimed.

“He’s hurt!” cried Miss Phipps in a tone of anguish.

Indeed, in tackling an opposing forward, Crawford seemed to have suffered an injury, for a group had gathered round him as he lay on the ground. He got to his knees and tried to rise, but bent double again in evident pain.

“Oh, dear!” wailed Miss Phipps.

“Probably just winded,” said the Headmaster.

A group of boys wearing First Aid armbands now ran up bearing a stretcher. Crawford waved them impatiently aside and again tried to rise, but again fell to his knees. The First Aid detachment, obviously eager to show their skill, stood no more nonsense from him, but rolled him onto the stretcher and carried him off. The Headmaster laughed.

“Poor Crawford!” he said. “He’ll be furious.”

“But isn’t he hurt?” cried Miss Phipps. “Look, there’s an ambulance!”

“Yes. They’ll take him off to the Sanatorium for a check-up,” said Dr. Brooke. “Being winded can be a trying and painful experience, you know — I’ve been winded myself in the days when I played scrum-half. But it isn’t serious. He’ll be all right tomorrow. He’ll be the first case in the San this term, won’t he, Ella?”

“Yes. So far we’ve been lucky in that respect,” said Mrs. Brooke.

“Where is the San?” enquired Miss Phipps.

“Up there toward the cliff,” said Dr. Brooke, pointing.

“Odd about Crawford’s watch, wasn’t it?” said Miss Phipps.

“Very,” said the Headmaster shortly.

The whistle sounded. Star Isle had won handsomely. Miss Phipps walked off the field with Mrs. Brooke, assisting her occasionally with the pram. The Headmaster, accosted by several friends, parents, and well-wishers, fell behind.

At the entrance to the College, Mrs. Brooke and Miss Phipps were met by Miss Bellivant. The housekeeper was in such a state of agitation that for a moment Miss Phipps feared that Crawford was seriously hurt after all, and Mrs. Brooke obviously thought the same, for she quickly spoke his name.

“No, no, he’s just winded — he’ll be all right tomorrow, they say,” said the housekeeper. “It’s the ice cream, Mrs. Brooke. I’m sure I’m most terribly sorry — I know how much the boys look forward to it. I’d made it striped with the College colors as a special treat — just for the two competing teams, you know — we do so like to give our visitors a really good tea, Miss Phipps. It’s all so disappointing, I could cry!” Her face quivered, tears actually came to her eyes, and her usual superior, martyred expression had quite vanished. She looked genuinely distressed.

“I don’t quite understand, Miss Bellivant,” said Mrs. Brooke soothingly. “Has something gone wrong with the ice cream?”

“Ruined!” exclaimed Miss Bellivant dramatically. “The door of the small refrigerator has been left open, and the ice cream is all melted.”

“Who left the door open? Surely it was very careless,” said Mrs. Brooke, frowning.

“That’s just it, Mrs. Brooke! I can’t find out who left it open,” wailed Miss Bellivant. “It was closed at half-past two when I put the ice cream in — I closed it myself. And all the girls are off duty this afternoon until four. I put the ice cream in, I made sure the door was closed, and I set the freezer,” she detailed, performing the movements with her empty hands. “Then I went out to watch some of the match. I left a few minutes before the end and went straight to the fridge. The door wasn’t latched and I pulled it open wide and there was all the ice cream completely melted. All the stripes run into each other,” she wept, “they look really horrid. I hardly think we shall be able to use the ice cream even after it’s frozen again, it looks so horrid! So wasteful, Mrs. Brooke! It seems like carelessness on my part, but really the door was closed when I left it—”

Her lamentations continued.

“Miss Bellivant,” interrupted Miss Phipps, “have you missed any food from the College kitchens lately?”

Miss Bellivant, tear-stained and disheveled, gazed at her.

“Well, Miss Phipps, when you cater for three hundred boys three meals a day, it’s not easy to say whether any food’s missing or not,” she said. “I mean, what’s a bun or two among three hundred? But once or twice I have thought — but I couldn’t say for certain. But the ice cream! I’d made it striped in the College colors as a special treat—”

It was some minutes before Miss Phipps could detach herself. She went up to the room that had been assigned to her thoughtfully.

That evening Miss Phipps lectured to the boys on The History of the Modem Detective Novel. The lecture proved a huge success, and as Dr. and Mrs. Brooke and Miss Phipps sat together round the fire afterward, sipping coffee, the Headmaster’s manner was a good deal more cordial than it had been earlier in the day.

“You know Detective-Inspector Tarrant pretty well, I believe?” he said, passing Miss Phipps the sugar.

“Yes.”

“Did he happen to tell you that we recently consulted him at the College?”

“No, he did not,” said Miss Phipps.

“But you have helped him on some of his cases, haven’t you?”

“When he has asked me, I have offered one or two suggestions,” said Miss Phipps in her primmest tone.

“I perceive you are a woman of intelligence and discretion, Miss Phipps,” said the Headmaster, smiling.

Miss Phipps bowed her head in acknowledgment, curious to know what the Headmaster wished to confide to her.

“I should be very grateful for your advice,” Dr. Brooke went on. “We have had here lately — we have suffered — really if one could credit such nonsense, one might imagine a poltergeist has been at work here.”

“I had a case once, in your cathedral city of Starminster, in which an alleged poltergeist figured,” said Miss Phipps. “But of course the agency proved to be human — very human. But please go on.”

“We have had in Star Isle College during the last few weeks a series of curious happenings,” said Dr. Brooke, speaking in a quiet, precise way, as though teaching a class constitutional history. “To begin with, there were several thefts.”

“Of what?”

“Small sums of money. An odd feature of the thefts was this: the whole of the sum available was never taken. If it was money from the pocket of a boy’s coat, only one or two coins would be missing; if it was notes from a master’s wallet, again, some notes would always be left.”

“As if the thief hoped the theft might not be noticed,” said Miss Phipps thoughtfully.

“The same sort of thing happened with sweets and biscuits in the boys’ tuck-boxes and lockers,” continued the Headmaster. “It was then that I asked Inspector Tarrant’s advice. But he couldn’t attempt to find the thief, he said, unless I would give him freedom to tackle the boys openly. I was considering this, when the thefts ceased. Then odd things began to happen.”

“The replaced baby’s rattle, the upset reports, Crawford’s missing watch, the ruined ice cream, for example,” said Miss Phipps.

“Yes — and all the contents of our drama wardrobe wicker baskets tumbled about and creased,” added Mrs. Brooke.

“It is certainly difficult to reduce such varied incidents to any orderly motivation,” said Miss Phipps thoughtfully. “They appear to lack coherence.”

“There is no sense whatever in the incidents,” said the Headmaster warmly. “Stealing money and sweets is detestable, but at least it is understandable. But why upset poor old Pryce’s reports? Why ruin the ice cream? Why steal a watch you’d never dare to wear? Even supposing some items of the theatrical wardrobe have been removed, what could a boy do with period clothes?”

“And why pick up, then put back the baby’s rattle?” said Mrs. Brooke with a shiver.

“I own that perplexes me particularly,” said the Headmaster. “All the other incidents might be attributed to some form of malice — but to do any hanky-panky with a baby’s rattle seems — well, I confess I’m disturbed.”

“Yes, it is queer,” said Miss Phipps slowly. “To get to the truth in this affair, we must distinguish, I believe, between actions which accomplish their object, actions which failed or were left uncompleted, and actions which were merely incidental. Sometimes one can discover the motive for an action quite simply by considering its effect.”

“But what effect had the replacement of the rattle, in heaven’s name?” said the Headmaster impatiently.

“Ah, I think it didn’t have the desired effect,” mused Miss Phipps. “It was done too late — it was one of the failures.”

The Brookes gazed at her open-mouthed.

“Miss Phipps,” said the Headmaster at length, “you alarm me even more.”

“I think you have every right to be alarmed,” said Miss Phipps gravely. “I believe it would be well to summon Inspector Tarrant at once.”

“I’ll ring him up immediately,” said the Headmaster, starting toward the telephone.

The Brittlesea police station said that Inspector Tarrant was engaged in conference with the Governor of the County Gaol and could not be disturbed, but he would come out to Star Isle first thing next morning.

Miss Phipps wondered if that would not be too late...

First thing next morning, Miss Phipps was wakened by Mrs. Brooke, bearing a cup of tea in her hand and a look of disaster on her young face.

“The baby?” queried Miss Phipps in alarm, shooting upright. “Your husband?”

“No. Crawford.”

“You don’t mean his... er... being winded has taken a serious turn?”

“No. He was perfectly all right when Henry went over to see him late last night. No, it’s not that. He’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared? This is very serious indeed,” said Miss Phipps, throwing back the bedclothes. “What clothes has he disappeared in? He had pajamas and bedroom slippers and a dressing gown in the sanatorium, I suppose?”

“Yes. They’re all gone. But, oh, Miss Phipps,” said young Mrs. Brooke, weeping, “we’ve found them all on the beach just above high-water mark.”

“We must get Inspector Tarrant here at once,” said Miss Phipps. “I will dress instantly. How does your husband explain the matter?”

“He thinks Crawford must be responsible for all the strange things which have been happening this term—”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Miss Phipps with vigor.

“—the poor boy must have had a breakdown from overwork.”

“Do you mean you think he has drowned himself?”

“That seems most likely. Or, of course, he may just have decided to take a swim in the middle of the night, being nervously unbalanced.”

“Preposterous! A boy who is head prefect, to break one of the strictest rules of the school! I don’t believe it,” said Miss Phipps. “Besides, my dear, consider. Crawford was in Chapel when the baby’s rattle was replaced. He was on the football field when the refrigerator door was opened.”

“He could have done the other things,” said Mrs. Brooke doubtfully.

“Yes. But not the rattle or the fridge. A problem is not solved unless the solution fits all the conditions.”

Mrs. Brooke’s face cleared a little. “I do so hope you’re right,” she said. “It would be terrible to have to tell his parents he was a thief. They were so proud of him.”

“Let us hope they will continue to be,” said Miss Phipps, energetically donning her dressing gown. “The tide is pretty high, I see, but on the ebb.”

By the time she was dressed and ready to go downstairs, Inspector Tarrant had arrived from Brittlesea. The large police car, she noticed from the staircase window, was standing in the gravel circle by the Headmaster’s terrace, with a plainclothes constable at the wheel. She entered the sitting room and found Dr. and Mrs. Brooke and Inspector Tarrant in grave consultation, with a sergeant taking notes.

“Dr. Brooke,” rapped out Miss Phipps sharply. “Is there a room available which does not look onto your terrace? Your study? Then please let us go there.”

The Headmaster colored a little at being thus ordered about in his own school, but said politely, “This way,” and led the party along a corridor.

“Meanwhile, John,” said Miss Phipps to Inspector Tarrant, “oblige me by summoning your constable indoors on some pretext.”

Inspector Tarrant raised his eyebrows.

“Have you some idea about this troubling affair?” he said.

“Yes. It may be wrong, but if it’s right, it will be much better for your constable to come in here for a few moments,” said Miss Phipps firmly.

Tarrant sent the sergeant on the errand.

“Now,” said Miss Phipps when they were all assembled, “as I said just now, my solution to this problem may be completely wrong. But it is worth trying. I write detective stories. One of my methods is to invent a series of strange incidents — at first sight, inexplicable — and then try to think out a set of circumstances which will explain them. That is what I have done here. I set myself to invent something or somebody that will explain every strange incident that has happened at Star Isle College.”

“And you have succeeded?” inquired the Headmaster, obvious irony in his tone.

“Yes,” said Miss Phipps with quiet confidence. “Here is the solution I have deduced. The thefts of food and money are easily explained by the presence of somebody on the College premises who is without resources. He is hiding here. He needs food. He needs money for later on — after he has escaped from the island. He needs a watch, so as to know when he may expect the various classrooms to be empty. He is a man, I think, belonging to a lower income bracket, for he is unaccustomed to refrigerators, he cannot drive a car or manage a boat. He likes the lighter forms of literature to read. He climbs in and out of the masters’ common-room, opening the window and upsetting poor old Mr. Pryce’s reports, on the chance that the masters have left some coffee over from their elevenses — something to drink during the day,” said Miss Phipps thoughtfully, “and even something to drink from, may well have been one of his most serious problems.”

“Why did he pick up the baby’s rattle?” said his wife.

“And why does he stay here?” said the Headmaster.

“How do you know he can’t drive a car?” said Tarrant.

“He is a small man,” continued Miss Phipps, “and Star Isle is an island.”

“For heavens’ sake, Miss Phipps!” exclaimed the Headmaster. “Please explain yourself.”

“The channel of water between Star Isle and the mainland,” said Miss Phipps, “is too deep to wade and too wide for any ordinary man to swim. Moreover, it has dangerous currents, and quicksands near the mainland shore. As I said, it must be postulated that this man cannot manage a boat. So how is he to get off the island?”

“How did he get on it in the first place?” asked Tarrant grimly.

“My dear John,” said Miss Phipps, delighted. “From the tone of your question I gather that my deductions are not totally wide of the mark. Am I not right?”

“Possibly,” said Tarrant. “But please answer my question. How did this man get on the island in the first place?”

“In the luggage compartment of a car, of course,” said Miss Phipps triumphantly. “He was a criminal, you see — a prisoner escaping from the County Gaol — and being hard-pressed by his pursuers he climbed into the trunk compartment of a temporarily unoccupied car. The car then moved off and came to this island. Imagine the poor little man’s horror when he cautiously peeped out, perhaps, and found himself on the ferry! The car brings him to the College. So here he is, with plenty of food in the kitchens, and money to steal for his needs to come — but in moderation, for he doesn’t want to excite suspicion while he’s here by taking too obviously or too much. Clothes from a heap of old wicker baskets would seem to him unlikely to be missed. He has a handy cave to hide in when it’s low tide, and the extensive College buildings to roam in at night. When the tide is high in the daytime, life isn’t quite so easy for him; it’s dark and damp and eerie in that inner cave, so he has to risk coming ashore in daylight. Naturally he’s anxious to get off the island and rejoin his friends. But how is he to get off the island? If he tries the ferryboat, there will be the ticket collectors to face, perhaps even the police. His best chance is to get off the same way he came on. So he is continually on the lookout for cars.”

“But all this doesn’t explain the baby’s rattle!” cried Mrs. Brooke.

“Yes, it does, my dear. The Bishop of Southshire preached here that morning, you said.”

“Yes, yes.”

“He came over in a car — a large car?”

“Yes!”

“He drove himself?”

“No — his young chaplain drove him.”

“Same thing from our point of view,” said Miss Phipps. “The chaplain attended the service in your Chapel, of course. The car stood unattended in the circle of gravel by your front door. The criminal approached. And then your baby dropped his rattle and began to cry. Now what happens when a baby cries?”

“One goes to the baby, of course,” said Mrs. Brooke.

“Exactly. So the criminal puts the rattle back in the pram to stop the baby crying — for crying is bound to bring someone to the pram, and he will be seen. But unfortunately — from his point of view — he is too late! You are already running down the stairs to your baby. The criminal quickly hides himself — it is touch and go, a matter of split seconds — so he has no time to open the trunk compartment.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Brooke with another shudder. “To think of that odious little man being so near to the baby!”

“My dear,” said the Headmaster, “remember, this is all mere supposition. And how,” he added, turning to Miss Phipps, “does your theory explain the disappearance of poor Crawford?”

Miss Phipps shook her head gravely. “I’m afraid poor Crawford saw the criminal. You see, the Sanatorium has been empty save for the staff, hasn’t it? There have been no previous cases this term, you said, Headmaster. The criminal has been accustomed to regard the Sanatoium sickrooms as safe. Crawford saw him there.”

“The criminal ran off to the cave,” suggested the Headmaster, interested now in spite of himself.

“And young Mr. Crawford followed him,” put in Tarrant. “The tide would be at halfway.”

“The criminal knocked Crawford out and tied him up there.”

“But he knows he has to make a getaway before the next low tide, when Crawford, having recovered consciousness meanwhile, will come back and reveal the criminal’s presence.”

“So the escaped prisoner may make an attempt in your car, now that it’s unobserved,” warned Miss Phipps.

“Surely not in a police car,” objected Tarrant.

“None of you is in uniform,” said Miss Phipps. “He may not notice the small blue police sign. And besides, he is now desperately anxious to get off the island.”

“So all we have to do,” said Tarrant, smiling, “is to arrest Simthwaite in the trunk compartment of my own car—”

“Simthwaite!” exclaimed the Headmaster. “Who’s Simthwaite?”

“He’s a petty thief, a kind of cat burglar — he escaped from the Southshire County Gaol a few weeks ago,” began Tarrant.

“What!” cried the Headmaster. “Do you really mean there is such a man as Miss Phipps describes loose on the premises?”

The men were glaring at each other when suddenly all four of them hurled themselves from the room. Shouts and a high yell in an unfamiliar Cockney voice seemed to indicate that something exciting was taking place outside. The two women ran to the front door.

The trunk compartment of the police car stood open; half in, half out, a chubby, balding little man with the beginning of a fluffy beard, clad in a pair of tight black Victorian trousers and a frogged velvet smoking jacket, was just having handcuffs clasped on him by the sergeant, who had removed a watch from the thief s wrist to facilitate the operation.

“But what about poor Crawford?” cried Mrs. Brooke. “Has that little brute hurt him?”

“No, no, lady,” said the little man earnestly. “I ain’t ’urt ’im. Never no violence from Slippery Sim. Just knocked ’im out and left ’im in that inner cave — ’e’ll be as right as ram when the tide goes down. Shouldn’t wonder if ’e ain’t hollerin’ out there right now. I didn’t do no ’arm to your baby neither — just give ’im back ’is rattle. I didn’t wanter stay in your highfalutin’ College, I can tell you. I’ll be glad to see the back of it, and that’s the truth, lady.”

“Allow me to congratulate you, Miss Phipps,” said the Headmaster, shaking her hand warmly, “on an admirable piece of ratiocination.”

“Elementary, my dear Doctor,” said Miss Phipps, smiling brightly.

Bryce Walton

The Greatest Monster of Them All

A bloodcurdling background, as old as silent movies and as new as the latest double feature on Broadway or Hollywood Boulevard — but much more important, a memorable character study...

* * *

Hal Ballew produced a movie for the growing teenage audience for less than fifty grand and it made a profit of over a million. It was called I Was a High School Ghoul.

I had just finished the second script for Ballew, tentatively entitled I Was a Juvenile Delinquent Vampire, and was celebrating by also finishing off a fifth of bourbon when Ballew called me into his private office.

He had rented an old abandoned studio off Sunset, near Gower, and set up some offices in what had once served in a silent movie as a cathedral. The offices consisted of beaverboard partitions that, from above, resembled a maze built for the confusion of rats. Ballew was raising hell over the phone with his bookie. He resembled a Walt Disney version of a snarling, pseudohuman chipmunk. He eyed me suspiciously because he had heard rumors that I once scripted a serious movie that had nearly copped an Oscar.

“Get over to the graveyard set. Morty wants some dialogue for a new ending we put on that lousy script of yours.”

I opened the door to leave. He snarled at me. I turned. “Yes, sir,” I said.

He eyed my bourbon bottle. “You a rummy?”

“No.”

“You been lushed up ever since I hired you, Logan. Just wondered if it was a habit.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I don’t like rummies,” he said flatly.

I left and wandered about through the ruins of an old French chateau, and a wrecked World War I airplane with Jean Harlow written on it. I stumbled around among walls eaten out by termites and ancient props that crumbled to powdery puffballs at a touch. A king-size black widow spider crawled up the side of a stagecoach. Piles of assorted, half-formed rubble lay everywhere, as if a bomb had fallen on a miniature of the world and mixed everything up.

I found the set where the graveyard sequence was being shot. It was crawling with sleazy horrors. A dim stream of charcoal gray filtered down through a broken skylight; dry ice sent writhing vapors curling away among cardboard tombstones; moldy coffins were ripped open, and there were piles of freshly-turned graveyard dirt. In the background was a gibbet with a dummy dangling by its neck.

Lunchtime had stopped production. A prize assortment of teenage ghouls and vampires lounged around cracking jokes, drinking cokes, eating hamburgers, and listening to rock and roll on portable radios. Starlets were resting languidly after having been horrified by teenage monsters; their flimsy garments hung in shreds and their young bodies were still splattered with gore.

Morty Lenton, the director, was sitting on a rotten coffin taking notes from a racing sheet. He was surrounded by bleached bones, and at his feet lay a decapitated body that was so obviously false it was embarrassing.

“Hal sent me over to do some dialogue,” I said.

Morty, about fifty-five, a little bald man with pale skin, and dressed in tight jeans and a dirty T-shirt, said, “Yeah,” without looking up. “Write it then.”

“What about,” I asked.

He seemed irritated. “Ballew wants to use some old geezer he saw wandering around the set this morning. Some extra. In the last scene we use him. If it works out, then you’re to write a plant scene for the beginning. It’ll change the story a little, but the middle can stay as is.”

I got out my notebook. “Shoot,” I said.

“It’s the climactic scene in the graveyard when all these teenagers who have been made into vampires are coming out of their coffins en masse to bleed every adult in town. Now the girl — Logan, do you remember your own script?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Lara Lee’s the girl, and she’s being chased through the graveyard by these teenage vampires. She falls near the moldy coffin by the gibbet where her boy friend has just been hanged for not becoming a vampire along with the gang. Something comes up out of the coffin. It’s an old, a very old, vampire. A real horror. And though she can hardly recognize him, it turns out to be the high school principal. Now, get this story change, Logan. He’s the big-wheel vampire, imported from Transylvania or some place. He’s the fiend who changed all the kids into vampires. We want a good scene, a close-up, with this old roué vampire worrying the girl’s throat while the other teenager vampires howl, bay, and scream and try to get at her. They turn into bats, wolves, rats, and like that.”

“Then what happens?” I said.

“Hell, you’re the writer!”

“All right,” I said. “When do you shoot it?”

“Right after lunch,” he said.

Right after lunch I gave him the scene.

He yelled. “Okay, Lara Lee. You, Count Dracula of Central High, over here you two.”

There were too many Lara Lees around for any one of them to stand out. But Dracula gave me quite a start as he shuffled forward with the caution of an old man on unfamiliar terrain. He had the gaunt, bone-ridged face of a dead-white mummy, slick hair coming down to a point in the middle of his forehead, upshooting brows, pointed ears, and evil lips that curled a bright red, as if they were just colored by fresh young blood.

“Go over this fast,” Morty said, handing them their scripts.

Dracula nodded, glanced over the script once, then handed it back. I watched the dignified flourish of his musty cape, fascinated as vapors writhed up around him.

“Don’t you approve of it?” Morty asked solemnly, winking at me.

“It is quite satisfactory, my dear Lenton,” Dracula said — his thick accent sounded Hungarian.

“Well, then, learn it.”

“I have already done so,” Dracula said. “I can still memorize an entire script in one reading. As you perhaps know, I have had quite a few years of experience.”

Morty shrugged and rolled his eyes at the skylight. “Okay, grandpa, okay.”

Dracula strode with fluttering cape to his coffin beneath the gibbet and assumed a realistically dignified pose. Lara Lee was sprawled out by a portable radio and a blond teenage ghoul with a crewcut and holding a snaky wig in his hand began to cue her lines.

Then I realized why Dracula was so impressive. He was genuine. Everything else was phony, cheap, artificial. But Dracula actually looked like a vampire. It wasn’t merely the skilled and highly artistic make-up — it was his bearing, his confidence, his dignity. It was, in a word, his sincerity. He was a real actor of the old school. And then I remembered who he was. Although I had been around Smogville for some time, he had been here long before me.

“Why,” I said, “that’s Ernst Von Kroft!”

“Yup,” Morty said. I poured another slug of bourbon into his Dixie cup. “That’s Von Kroft, all right.” He chuckled. “The greatest Monster of them all.”

“He was top box office in horror stuff once,” I said. “Where’s he been?”

Morty laughed, loudly. “That’s obvious. He’s been dead. Now he’s back from the grave.”

Von Kroft glanced our way and I was sure he had heard Morty’s comment. Again I was embarrassed. I had been embarrassed a great deal lately, usually whenever I sobered up long enough to realize the kind of stuff I was writing.

Morty jumped up. “All right,” he yelled. “Into your sacred earth, Dracula. Lara Lee, strip down to the barest shred of decency.”

“Don’t rush me,” Lara Lee giggled, and she started ripping her clothes down to the desired shred of barest decency. That was the trouble with all of it: she should have looked ravished, but she only looked bored.

Von Kroft did not look bored. He lowered himself into his coffin with such eerie conviction that it chilled me through and through. A white hand slithered over the coffin’s rim and writhed like a hungry crab...

Two hours later the scene was finished, and it was the worst yet — too nauseating even to be amusing. Perhaps the worst thing about it was the utter blasé contempt — no, not even contempt — the utter glibness of what had been put on film.

Except Von Kroft. He was superb. He played his scene with a skill and feeling I had forgotten existed in the theater. He was completely involved in the part. When Lara Lee forgot important lines, Von Kroft filled in with an extemporaneous monologue that topped anything I could have dreamed up — even when I was really trying.

Then everyone made for the exits and their sports cars — the teenagers with their ghoulish masks. Morty with his racing form, and the bored technicians. Only Von Kroft and I were left in the graveyard.

He didn’t know I was there. He sat on a papier-maché rock for some time, then got up stiffly and shuffled toward the exit. Suddenly he bent over, caught his breath, and put his hand over his heart. A dusty prop teetered and almost fell as he leaned on it.

He looked up as I touched his shoulder and asked if he was all right. All I could see of the person under all that make-up were his eyes and they were moist with a sort of controlled gratitude.

“The truth is that I haven’t donned make-up for some time and it has been somewhat of a strain.”

I poured what remained of my bourbon into a Dixie cup and he downed it gratefully. “Thank you, friend—”

“Fred Logan,” I said.

“Ah, you were the writer.”

I didn’t say anything more about that, and he never mentioned it again.

“You feel like driving home?” I asked.

“I have nothing to drive home at the moment. I’ll walk. I live a few blocks away — over on North Gower.”

“I’ll give you a lift,” I said. “You got anything to drink at your place?”

His hand trembled and his voice choked with emotion. “I believe I can scare up something, Mr. Logan, I do not often have guests these days.”

“I’ll pick up something on the way,” I said. “Hell, we ought to celebrate. That was a great performance you gave today, Mr. Von Kroft. Ballew intends doing a series of these things and he’ll have plenty of work for you.”

“Yes,” he said as we drove through the poisonous smog and turned off Sunset and down Gower between rows of ratty palm trees. “A celebration certainly is in order. It’s coming back now.”

“What’s coming back?”

“The cycle of horror movies,” Von Kroft said softly. “It’s coming back, and I’ve been waiting a long time.”

His thin lips were tight.

He lived in an ancient rooming house that the Hollywood Freeway had passed by. It was an odd, suspended sort of neighborhood, preserved in dusty timelessness. Above it were the Hollywood Hills rich with pastel houses and odd-shaped swimming pools; below it was Hollywood Boulevard. And Von Kroft’s rooming house just sat there, and no one seemed to care any more. It was really very old, with cupolas and a bell tower, and surrounded by untended masses of rosebushes, wisteria, and untrimmed palm trees whose branches hung dry and brown, like dead grass skirts.

Von Kroft had a closet-sized room on the second floor. As the chintz curtain blew to the side I saw the smoggy dust of the vacant lot next door. I’m not usually bothered by heat, but coming up the stairs had given me a stifled feeling and now I sat on the unmade bed conscious of my energy oozing out through every pore.

Von Kroft had, with some difficulty, got out of his make-up, and the remains of it now lay scattered in tatters and tufts about the room. He was somewhere down the hall washing. I kept seeing the face and body exposed as his make-up and costume came away. Physically, he was in poor condition. He was quite an old man, and I knew his heart was bad. His face had been a dead-gray, and a line of blue rimmed his fleshless lips.

I had to admit to myself that I had become interested in Von Kroft. I had to admit also that I didn’t want to go to my own apartment and sit there alone, faced with the bourbon bottle and the necessity of starting a third phony horror pic for Ballew. Another day or so and I Was a Juvenile Delinquent Vampire would be finished, and soon it would be playing all over the country — my great contribution to cinematic history. Meanwhile, I was expected to be working on another masterpiece of the silver screen.

Von Kroft returned. Scrawny in his tattered bathrobe of faded silk, he still possessed an unbelievable dignity. From somewhere he had got a tray of ice cubes and a lime. He prepared highballs and we sat sipping cool drinks while I watched some of the dangerous tension ebb out of him.

He was one of those who make handsome old men. He had a sharp angular profile. And even before he showed me his albums, and collections of old showbills, pictures, newspaper notices, and programs, I knew that he must have been a very handsome fellow.

“Yes,” he told me later, “I was quite the matinee idol in Hungary when I was young. Here, I wasn’t the type somehow. I had to do character work, but then I always preferred character work.”

Later he dragged an old trunk from under the bed. It was decorated with faded labels. I began to forget where I was. That room seemed to be at the edge — on the boundary between night and day...

I learned that he was from the Caucasus, a poor but experienced actor with a Continental flavor. He had foreseen a great artistic future for films, so he had come to Hollywood where he hung around for years doing minor character bits and appearing in little theaters along Sunset and Santa Monica Boulevards. It was one of those unexplainable things — a fine talent that simply didn’t get the right combination of breaks.

And then, invisible but electric under a hundred pounds of makeup, Von Kroft played his first Monster role. He insisted on doing all his own make-up work, and had literally spent weeks in preparation. He made a probing study of the Monster — did a real character breakdown of a shattered soul hiding in a Monster’s body. The resulting fame astonished everyone. It wasn’t the make-up, although that was hideously effective. His impact derived from the depth of character, from the genuine pathos he had given to a grotesque which had not been intended originally as anything but a prop to show off the virginal white body of a posturing starlet.

Well, the starlet was soon forgotten. But Von Kroft became world-famous as a Monster. He helped launch and he played the outstanding part in a cycle of Gothic horror movies. Anthologies of horror tales appeared, edited by Von Kroft. Masks of his horrendous faces appeared in drug store windows, and on millions of kids at Halloween. There was no sort of dark demonic force of the human soul that was not startlingly brought to life by Von Kroft’s genius — mummies, ape-men, ghouls, ghosts, vampires, science-fiction nightmares, hunchbacks, werewolves...

Others have since attempted such personifications of horror, but never with Von Kroft’s success. He gave personality, reality of character, conviction, to what are usually considered merely symbols to inspire false gibbering.

But inevitably the cycle died away. Von Kroft’s option was dropped years ago. He became destitute, subsisted for long periods almost entirely on dried fruit and crackers. He would sit by the telephone day and night, waiting for that call from Central Casting. His agent went out of business. His acquaintances died or retired into limbo. But not Von Kroft. He was sustained by the positive conviction that horror movies some day would return.

So he waited. And he waited a long time.

He knew in his heart that he was a fine actor — an actor first, and a Monster second. That he should have been discarded because of a temporary lack of desire for Monsters seemed to him a cruel injustice. But slowly he began to realize that his fame, his identity, had rested on his having been a Monster, not a human being, not an actor — and that he could hope to make a comeback only as a Monster. So he continued to wait, faithful to his cause, patient in his faith.

He watched Variety. When he saw that Ballew was scheduling a series of horror films, he immediately applied for work, but I realized now how difficult it had been for him to get a job. Ballew wanted teenagers, but somehow Von Kroft had slipped through. Perhaps on some unconscious level that would have been incomprehensible to Ballew, that worthy had been impressed by the genuineness of Von Kroft’s being...

Once he took me walking into the Hollywood Hills where he showed me the castle for which he had once paid a hundred thousand dollars. It had a dreamlike look in the moonlight. At the height of his fame that castle had been a show-place for tourists. Pure Gothic with all the props — burning incense, somber velvet drapes, black cats, two Negro servants in the regalia of sorcerers’ apprentices, a priceless collection of authentic horror stuff, including a library stocked with rare books on black magic, witchcraft, and dark legends.

We sat up there on a wall looking at the lights of Hollywood.

“What caused the cycle to end,” I asked.

“What started it,” he asked me. “Who can really say? The need for horror, it comes and goes. But it stopped with the last World War. Perhaps it was impossible to play at horror when the world itself became one flaming Walpurgis Eve. But now people begin to forget. Now it’s coming back. The real horror has been forgotten, and the myth returns.”

We walked along the wide wall, and he showed me dungeon doors imported from the Balkans, drawbridges with rusted chains, and he told me that inside there had once been genuine torture implements from the Spanish inquisition.

“I didn’t do it for publicity, or for show,” he said. “Although my publicity agent used it for that purpose. I considered it part of my artistic responsibility.”

I had talked to Ballew about Von Kroft.

“Write him in then. Go see I Was a Juvenile Delinquent Vampire, and set up a part for him. He was sensational enough, but anybody could do it. You see the movie yet?”

The picture had been released the previous week.

“I haven’t got around to it yet,” I said.

“Well, get around to it tonight, Logan! Take notes. Everything that sets the teenagers stomping and howling, do a scene just like it in this one, and in all the rest of them. Get it, Logan?”

I nodded. But when I went to tell Von Kroft the good news he wasn’t home. The landlady eyed me distrustfully and said Von Kroft hadn’t been home for two days. She was worried about him. So was I. Ballew was working late at nights on the third opus for which I had written a few scenes. He would shoot the scenes as I wrote them and he was going to produce this one in twelve days. I had to get Von Kroft over there. He needed the money — until I Was a Juvenile Delinquent Vampire, he had been starving.

I left a message for him that I would be back around nine thirty or ten, and went to the movies.

I had a few shots at the corner bar before I went in. When I came out I needed quite a few more. If the picture was phony, the audience made up almost entirely of bored, frustrated teenagers looking for any kind of kick, was even more so. The girls screamed dutifully and clutched at responding boy friends, but they weren’t any more scared of all that cheap pretense than I was, sitting there bathed in hot embarrassment and crawling self-contempt.

They laughed themselves into a frenzy. They really had a ball. No one could blame them because certainly the picture had never been designed to arouse the deeper esthetic feelings. But I began to realize the cleverness of Ballew who knew precisely what he was doing. He had given the movie the appearance — at least, to the grossly indiscriminating — of having been seriously intended. This presented the teenagers with a chance to ridicule it, to laugh even louder at the more horrifying scenes. Ballew had produced a movie that allowed the teenagers to have their blood and drink it too.

The climax of the movie turned the audience into a bedlam of histerical laughter. Von Kroft’s closeup scene as he worried Lara Lee’s throat was the funniest, as well as the most hideous, sequence in the picture. It brought the house down.

You would have to be sensitively aware of Von Kroft’s genius even to notice it amid all those melodramatic histrionics. Lighting, direction, sets — everything had been deliberately designed to make Von Kroft a grotesque comic.

“Oh you bloody gramp...”

“You old sucker, you!”

“Hey, old stuff, where’d you lose your choppers?”

“Man oh man, what awful teeth you ain’t got no more, grandpa.”

“What’s he need with teeth? He gums chicks to death.”

It was devastating...

The landlady looked at me suspiciously through the moonlight.

“He’s back. What’d you do to Mr. Von Kroft?”

“Something the matter?”

“He was all right until he met up with you, mister.”

“Is he sick?”

“He just came in. He always has tea with me of an evening, but tonight he ran up the stairs without even speaking to me. With his heart, he can’t run up stairs. He looked bad, but when I went up to his room he wouldn’t say anything or even open the door.”

I ran up the stairs and rapped on his door. The upstairs hall was musty and dimly lighted. I could hear the paper flowers rattling in a slight breeze. But Von Kroft didn’t respond to my knock. At the thought that he might be dead a lonely fear came over me. I realized that, until I met Von Kroft, I had been falling into a pit of defeat and despair, and that from this indomitable old man I had drawn new hope.

“Ernst,” I called out. “It’s me, Logan. Let me in.”

I heard movement, then heavy breathing. The door finally opened and I went in. There was no light in the room except that of the full moon through the open window. At first I didn’t see Von Kroft.

Suddenly he sprang with a chuckling snarl from the shadows of the corner and crouched in front of me. Then he straightened up and his hideously made-up face turned down like that of a tragic clown.

“Did you see the movie, Ernst?”

He nodded, then sat on the bed. “I saw it yesterday.” He bent over, his hairy fists were clenched and I heard a terrible suppressed sobbing in him. At last he lay down on the bed, his eyes closed, and gradually his breathing became quieter.

I poured him a drink and held him up in a sitting position.

“Try to forget it,” I said lamely.

“They laughed,” he said. “They did it deliberately, didn’t they?”

I nodded.

“But why? Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess they just don’t care any more.”

“That close-up, Fred. It was deliberately done that way. The lighting. They deliberately highlighted my mouth so that — my teeth—”

“I know,” I said.

“They could have hidden it. I didn’t have the money to get new teeth. I covered it up with acting — if they hadn’t deliberately made me a clown.”

“I know, I saw it.”

“Count Dracula — with no teeth,” He tried to laugh. He pushed me away and stood up. “Even an acting genius could not sustain the illusion of the walking dead — without teeth.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got to forget Ballew and his picture, Ernst. Listen, I’ve still got some connections in this damned town if I want to use them. I can get you a decent part—”

He turned and looked at me. “I waited for the cycle to come back. I waited a long time. I almost couldn’t wait that long.” He sighed.

He went over to the bureau and switched on a small bulb over the mirror. His shadow suddenly lunged up the wall and across the ceiling.

“But I’m too old to last very much longer, Fred. And now this thing Ballew did to me, it’s all over the country. Ernst Von Kroft, the greatest monster of them all—”

He slammed his hand on top of the bureau. “Could you forget it, Fred?”

I poured myself a shot of bourbon.

Not so long ago I would have said, what the hell difference did it make? But I couldn’t say that now. Ballew had canceled out Von Kroft’s entire lifetime as an artist, buried him as a grotesque buffoon.

He walked over to me and now I could see that his face had changed. His jaws were filled out. Then he snapped his teeth together.

“Cheap set of dentures,” he said, turning back to the mirror. “I bought them with what Ballew paid me. I do not believe I appear to be quite so amusing now.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think you’re amusing at all.”

“You think I’m indulging in self-pity?”

“No.”

He poured a glass half full of bourbon and drank it down, then poured again.

“Take it easy,” I said.

“An excellent vascillator,” he said. “Good for old blood vessels and constricting passageways of life.”

He bent toward the mirror and snapped his new dentures together.

I was pretty loaded by the time he dragged the theatrical trunk from under the bed and opened it. It smelled oddly of moth balls, dust, greasepaint, and powder. A display of jars, boxes, wax, wigs, whiskers, fangs, claws, clubfeet, hairy hands, eyeballs, appeared, until the room resembled a disordered window in a waxworks.

He was almost enthusiastic as he worked without benefit of mirror. The make-up kit was on the chair and he squatted on his heels in the moonlight by the open trunk and started first on his face. Wax, wigs, whiskers, fangs, claws, clubfeet followed, hairy hands, a gnarled hunch to strap on his back, a patch over his eye, another glass eye set in the plastiflesh high up on his head. He didn’t appear to confine himself to one role, but plucked many out of his memory, combining bits and pieces with fantastic skill.

When he finally stood up I could hear his quick breaths.

“What’s the idea?” I asked.

“I used to live the part,” he said. He went to the window. The full moon rose slowly behind the silhouettes of blue-black palms and turned the dryness of the vacant lot into a pool of glass.

“I can feel the moonlight burning coldly in my skin and it strangely warms the blood.”

He turned and looked at me. “Only a silver bullet can kill them, Fred, and they stay young forever.”

Then with amazing swiftness for an old man he jerked the door open and was out in the hall.

“Ernst,” I yelled. I went down the hall and down the stairs after him. Once he looked back up at me as he ran, one red-veined eyeball seeming to weep and laugh. Then he was moving in the gait of a loping half-beast as his hairy knuckles brushed the floor.

From the porch I called to him again, but he didn’t stop. I heard him howl. I staggered after him across the vacant lot. Once he halted and peered down the street, while his head shifted from side to side and his arms hung loosely. Then he ran on and I lost sight of him half a block from the studio where Ballew was shooting the third picture.

Ballew wasn’t in his office. A night watchman just going on duty said everybody had knocked off until morning, but that Ballew was out on the set somewhere with Morty.

Yes, he’d just let Von Kroft in. He was over there somewhere, the guard said, pointing toward the shadowy pile of props and rotting sets. “He said he’d left something on the set and come back to get it.”

Then we heard a scream from somewhere among the shadowy sound stages. The guard stared and swallowed. “That sounded kinda real, didn’t it?”

“It did,” I said. “You’d better call the cops.”

This time I was lost even longer than before. I was loaded, and it was dark. I crawled around in what turned out to be the remains of an old windjammer, and the deck was so rotten I fell through it. The hold was swarming with rats. I kicked my way out through the side, and ended up wandering around through papier-mache caverns.

I finally came to the graveyard set, the same one we had used for I Was a Juvenile Delinquent Vampire. I found Morty in the bottom of a grave — he was moaning with a broken jaw. His skin looked blue under the floodlight and his T-shirt was ripped open. He tried to say something but no words dribbled out — just sounds. Then he pointed feebly toward the gibbet.

Sirens screamed as I went over there. The dummy was swaying a little, turning slowly, but there was no wind.

I found Von Kroft under the gibbet. His whiskers and false eyes were gone. The strap had torn loose and his hump had fallen through his torn shirt. A false foot and a hairy, six-fingered glove lay a few feet away. He sat there, staring up into the glaring floodlight as if it were a full moon, and his dentures shone in a frozen smile. I was glad that he was dead.

I’ve often wondered if he knew what really happened, or if he thought this was his last horror movie — a real one, with no laughs.

The cops arrived and I pointed up to where Ballew was hanging as a replacement for the dummy. They cut him down. They asked me questions, and I told them all I knew.

“What a horrible damned thing,” one of the cops said as a flashbulb went off, then another.

“I don’t think so,” I said, or that’s what I recall saying, though I don’t know if I really did say it. “Von Kroft believed the cycle was coming back, but I don’t think it ever will.”

I guess I was thinking about what someone had said once — about the final horror being the realization that there is no horror. The real thing isn’t funny — it isn’t funny at all — and I guess everybody needs a laugh these days.

Morley Roberts

Mithridates the King

How can a truly “classic” short story remain “unknown,” sink into biblivion? We haven’t the slightest notion; it seems impossible. And yet, when you’ve read “Mithridates the King,” you will agree, we think, that it is a classic story. Nevertheless, we cannot recall an anthology in which the story was included, or an anthologist or critic who has ever referred to it. Bringing the story to you now makes us feel like a “detective Frank Buck” — as if we too were a great hunter who believed in “bringing back alive” the unusual and the unique.

Here, then, for your pleasure, is a “lost” story written by a man whose very name is also undeservedly “lost” these forgetful days. Morley Roberts died in 1942 at the age of 85, and in his 54 years of sustained creativity he averaged one book per year. He used, often brilliantly, nearly every form of literary expression — nonfiction as well as fiction — and yet, who remembers the title of a single one of his more-than-50 books? The personal friend of many of the celebrated writers of his time, including Joseph Conrad, W. H. Hudson, and Arthur Conan Doyle, Motley Roberts was — to quote John Keats’s epitaph for himself — “one whose name was writ in water”...

* * *

The War Office is on the left side of Pall Mall as you go West, and it is a compound, complex, intricate, protoplasmic mass of amorphous rooms, passages, and cells, in which it is easy for a man, or an improvement, or a project to get so thoroughly lost that he or it is never heard of again. There are rooms in it with bookcases of fine old books, well worth any man’s stealing; there are others with human fossils, admirably adapted for exhibition, though no one would think of stealing them; there are a good many clever men there spoiled for life; there are some not quite spoiled; there are a few absolutely worth any man’s money as workers, for even the Civil Service cannot always destroy natural energy. And of these Hetherwick Coutts, of A.G. 15, was one. In the eyes of his superiors he was invaluable. To his inferiors he was a beast and they hated him unanimously, and said so without the slightest reserve — when he was on leave or out of the room.

To reach the Department known technically as A. G. 15, you go in the first door you come to next to the Reform Club, and then turn to the right. After going a few hundred yards or so, past a few score doors, taking care not to tumble over boxes of papers which are humorously described as “on transit,” because no one knows where they are, there is a stone staircase. Here it is best to call a messenger and fee him. After a long and weary journey the traveler reaches a black passage like the entrance to a catacomb, and probably ruins his hat against an unlighted gas-jet. Opening a door, he stumbles into A.G. 15, and almost on the occupants thereof, who are usually six in number.

Hetherwick Coutts sat in the second room with a subordinate, whom a long course of previous military service in a low grade had rendered proof to any superior’s bad temper, unless that superior took to kicking him. And it is only just to Coutts to say he never did that, nor even constructively threw things at his subordinates. A constructive shying is to throw papers on the floor and request the harmless gentleman who has brought them to pick them up again. It is an unpleasant way of making objections, and in any but Her Majesty’s employ might give rise to actions for assault and battery. However, Hetherwick Coutts was not so gross as all that. He dressed well, and tried to live up to his tailor at any rate. His forte was sarcasm, and a kind of military insolence he had picked up from one or two Staff officers, who had been relegated to the purlieus of the W. O. as Deputy-Assistant-something-or-others because they were a deal too smart to live with their regiments.

For it is very easy to learn to sneer in a big office. There is sure to be one fool at least in the room, and if he is too irascible, or too much of a fighting man to go for verbally, there are times when he retires upstairs to have a smoke. Then the others can stand before the fire and say what they think without any danger of a row, which may end in the real slinging of ink or of the sacred Bible of the W. O., which is bound in pinkish paper. In some departments of the Foreign Office they fight with illuminated addresses to Her Majesty, in which our noble Queen is congratulated on her birthday or some other event, for very few ever reach Windsor, in spite of the lying letters which acknowledge them. But in Pall Mall most larking or rowing is done with Army Lists, or candles, or both. But this is a digression, though not without its uses, because Hetherwick Coutts was brought up in the office from his early youth.

How he was hated! — for he was not a fool, and had a prodigious memory.

“There was a paper on this subject about ten years ago,” he would remark easily, and the whole dusty Registry cursed him when that paper was called for.

“You made exactly the same mistake before, Mr. Smith, so you are not even original.”

And he would recall Mr. Smith’s folly with exact persistence into ancient detail very sickening to a man who was always careful.

Then he descended to absurd particulars. A wretched writer at ten-pence an hour was not to cross his t’s in such a way unless he wished to look for another office. He was mean too, and more than once made a mistake on purpose to catch a clerk for not detecting it. Sometimes he had to sign a number of papers and put “No remarks” on them.

“If I were called upon to report on the intelligence of those who help me,” he remarked brightly, “I should require a new supply of minute paper.”

He always cut his subordinates if he met them in the street, which of course greatly endeared him to them. If they had only known that the D. A. A. G. had cut him in the Row, it would have poured balsam into their wounds, and made them work cheerfully for a whole week. Sometimes when a man asked him a question he snorted; he snorted some clean out of the room. The messengers loathed him. The orderlies wanted to catch him in the dark and cut his entrails out with their belts. The waiter who brought him his dinner, or rather his lunch, thought of poisoning him.

There were others besides the waiter who had notions it would be the best thing that could happen if Hetherwick Coutts would take up his abode in the next world and run A.G. 15 in Dante’s nethermost Inferno, with Satan for the Field Marshal Commanding-in-chief; for a man’s subordinates usually hate him if there is any chance of their obtaining an increase in their monthly checks when he deceases; and the higher men get, the more their greedy ambition is roused. This is the curse of the Civil Service. Hidden in the backroom of a dingy building, their doings are nothing to the world. Their only ambition centers on a petty power and a fuller purse. And if you would hate the man next above you at any time and in any place, how much more — O poor Obscurity — will you abhor him when he bars the way to you, and is neither old, nor an idiot, and has robust and indecent health. The only hope the men below had was that he would die of apoplexy. He had a red, healthy face, and they tried to think it a good sign — for them; for there were two of them who both hoped to be made chief when Hetherwick Coutts went below. They hated each other, but their hate for him was a crescent disease: though it seemed to reach the full, it still encroached.

F. W. Palmer, or Frederick Wentworth Palmer, was the man with the best chance according to official routine, for he was slightly the senior in service of Lyall Burke. But Burke was the cleverer man of the two, and had the neater knack of nice obsequiousness. Coutts was rather better disposed towards Burke than to most of the men about him. He had been distinctly civil to him several times, and Burke wondered why, expecting the deluge some day.

The rank obscurity of the paths that foiled ambition and baffled desire will lead men into, has had many a detective’s bull’s-eye thrust into it, but for all that, one can’t survey jungle or mallee scrub by the fiercest storm of thunder and lightning. Given severity of purpose, a man must act some way or another. He may wait and wait, but at last he grows tired of sharpening his razor in vain. He must shave someone. According to his disposition his thoughts grow; from them bud the flower of design and the fruit of deed. In a wider life, we may dissipate our civil energies; but in a narrow groove, anger, hatred, and all uncharitableness do more than blossom. If a man harms us without knowing it, we may grin and endure, and hold our peace, and sharpen no knives; but when he hates us, and we him, the devil is in the imbroglio, and all the hideous contents of the witches’ pot will strengthen the incantation we mutter.

For this man set thorns in his subordinates’ path; he grew inhuman, bestial. They loathed their own forced civility; under their smooth tongues lurked malice. Their own jealousy and distrust were nothing when they thought of him. Warm feelings simulating comradeship thrilled them when they spoke subtly against him. They estimated his life-forces: how long should he live? They canvassed every change he showed: the marks of a later night than most sent up their hopes. When he was really unwell, his slackened pulses set theirs galloping; as he failed, they grew stronger; when he went on leave, they turned on each other. And then the beast came back so strong, so hearty, so healthy that they, almost sickened. They congratulated him palely, like two curs; and, more cur-like still, they made two homes like hell that night.

Who put it in their hearts, who instructed them, who gave them the unnatural courage to even think of his death otherwise than they had done? The seeds of all crimes are in all hearts, as the seeds of all high virtues, all noble desires. Crush a man, he may not turn; he lacks sufficient courage; but at last he will. These two men, independently of each other, determined to rid themselves of Hetherwick Coutts. They would kill him. And naturally enough they turned to poison. They studied in secret.

Meanwhile, Hetherwick Coutts behaved like a rampant housekeeper who, after keeping her bed, gets up to discover flue and dirt in every hole and corner in the house. This was wrong, and that was wrong; and why was it that when his back was turned everything went wrong? He licked the skin off everyone, and rubbed caustic into their wounds with great delight in seeing them squirm: he used one hemisphere of his big brain to do his work with, the other he employed to invent sarcasms. For two weeks he thoroughly enjoyed himself, and he was getting into his usual routine when he had worked up both Burke and Palmer to be as good as their bad resolutions.

The next best thing to making up your mind to do a good deed without any slackness, or slowness, or want of utter completion, is to do exactly the reverse, and get on the side of Ahriman without reserve. Not five minutes before I began this particular paragraph I read a letter which accused me of letting my imagination run away with my perceptive faculties. If that is true, I may be wrong in thinking that it must be far beyond any art, or the practice thereof, to have no conscience and no remorse and a passion for poisoning. So I think that the best moment Coutts’ two subordinates had in their life of miserable service was when they rose to the occasion and began to act on their real impulses. But the passion that leads to crime is usually like the dawn of a wet day. There is blood, and fire, and strange immortal-looking color in the east, but it dies in gray as the sea turns cold and wind and rain come together to blot out its evil glory. They were cowards, after all, these men, though they once dared to act: for they did dare.

They poisoned him both on the same day, at the same hour, for some strange sympathy linked them together. The rising heat of one’s blood, in the lower plane of man where crimes flourish redly, urged on the other; and when Hetherwick Coutts insulted them together in a tone that was like the hissing of hot metal and ice, with his Celtic and Saxon temperaments laid close in one bitter intention, they retorted vulgarly and in silence, with mixed poisons in his beer. They sat apart at the other end of the room and saw him empty his pint jug. Their blood ran cold, they shook, and whined excuses to their own souls. How sick they felt when he announced at half-past two that he did not feel well and would go home. Their throats were as dry as the fountains of the pit, and they repented for fear, and sweated ice. Before a man commits crimes he should test his courage, and not rush blindly into hell before he knows his endurance of torment.

With the same passion of fear came the same expression to their ghastly faces. They looked at each other stealthily, and ended by fearing each other. “Why did Burke look so?” said Palmer, and Palmer questioned himself equivalently. They went on paltry excuses to each other’s desks; they stared at each other out of the corners of their eyes. The avoidance that each felt in the other was confirmation. As the long hours went on, they were confirmed in their mutual suspicions. As the clock struck five, the others went like beasts of burden, glad at unyoking time. They remained and washed their hands as they would have washed their stained memories. Burke communed with himself; he would say he felt uninclined to go home; he would ask Palmer to dine with him. The same thought was in the slower brain of his colleague.

“If you will,” said Burke, “come and dine with me tonight at some restaurant. I don’t feel inclined to go home.”

“Very well,” replied Palmer, hoarsely. And Burke felt a little easier. “Would this man dine with him if he thought him what he was; if he had seen?”

So they went out together, and they walked down Pall Mall to Charing Cross.

“Let’s go into Gatti’s,” said Burke, and they sat at the best end of the long restaurant. Both maneuvered to get their faces most in shadow. But there was little for either, and Palmer got what there was.

Burke ordered a good dinner — soup and a vol-au-vent and a bird — and suggested champagne. Though he was meaner than Meanness itself, standing a shame to relative things in the realm of Noumena, Palmer was not surprised. And it made his entertainer’s heart sink that he was not.

They ate as if they were eating dry crusts in a prison, and looked at each other furtively. They drank as though they wanted to swamp hot fires within, and grew a little braver. But for all that, they looked strange, white-livered hounds, and not to be liked. The foolish young men and girls, and the foolish old men with girls by no means foolish in their generation, looked wise and great beside them. As there are different infinities, there are different degradations. To be greatly afraid after a deliberate act is to wallow in the sink of the nethermost pit. They drank on.

Palmer insisted on ordering more wine, for which he was to pay. What would have sent them both into the gutter a week ago was nothing to them now. They were strangely conscious that each drank enormously without getting affected They turned to liqueur brandy, and their sad and extraordinary sobriety made the waiter respect them. Such dry sticks of men, yet how they could drink! He reported their deeds to the manager, who inspected them to estimate their solvency. At last they went out together and the chill air affected them. They went down the Strand and turned into a wine shop to take a farewell. They affected friendship. Burke grew bold.

“To the devil with old Hetherwick Coutts!” said he.

“Yes,” said Palmer, pallid to the gums. His tongue clove to his mouth. Burke looked at him suddenly, and Palmer turned away; his boon companion followed him. They walked up towards Picadilly in silence.

“I wonder whether he is going home,” they said to themselves. “When he gets rid of me he will inform the police,” they murmured. They walked into Piccadilly, it was twelve o’clock, half-past twelve, and Walpurgis night. Palmer reeled at the next turning and stumbled a little up the narrow street. It leads to Vine Street; the police station is there at the back of St. James’s Hall, that home of music and morals. Burke had a sudden blind access of rage, he struck at Palmer fiercely and smote him on the jaw; the other retorted, and they rolled over, locked together. There was a rush of men and women, and oaths and yells and laughter roared over them as they fought on the pavement.

“Two swells fighting,” said one girl, and a policeman pushed her aside. In half a minute they were inside the station, for that policeman had refrained three times in one night from arresting anybody. Even a policeman’s temper is not everlasting.

They almost fought again trying to get the first word, and were plucked roughly apart by another constable.

“Well, what’s this?” said the night inspector.

“Two drunks fighting, sir,” said the policeman.

“He’s poisoned a man at the War Office!” screamed Palmer, who in his rage of fear thought to accuse the other of his own crime.

“It is he that did it!” said Burke readily. “I saw him.”

“Did what?” said the inspector. “Hold your tongue, sir!”

This was to Burke, and as he was fast recovering his cunning and self-control, he bowed.

“Now then, sir, what is this you say?”

“I say that man poisoned Mr. Hetherwick Coutts of the War Office this afternoon. I saw him,” said Palmer, reeling, for he was full to the lips.

“And you say that he did it?”

“Yes,” said Burke; “I saw him.”

The inspector shrugged his shoulders and looked at them curiously. He turned to a sergeant, for he had only just come on duty.

“There is no talk of anything at the War Office?” he said.

“Not that I know of,” said the sergeant stiffly.

“Then I think that we had better accommodate these two gentlemen for the night; for if they have poisoned no one else, they have been poisoning themselves,” said the inspector.

They were marched off and put in the cells.

“This is a rather queer thing, is it not, Bowes?” remarked the inspector, leaving his seat and warming himself at the fire.

“Yes, sir,” said the laconic sergeant.

“Do you think there is anything in it?” The inspector could not refrain from asking the question, for it certainly seemed very curious.

“Drink, sir!” replied Bowes.

“Early tomorrow send down to the War Office and inquire about this man, this Mr. Hetherwick Coutts.”

And in the morning they did so. At eleven o’clock Mr. Hetherwick Coutts was in his usual place, and in answer to the inquiries as to his health, he replied that he was well enough, though he had felt very ill during the previous afternoon and evening. At the inquiry Palmer and Burke held their peace, and knew nothing.

“Yet I gave him enough atropine to have killed two men,” said Palmer to himself.

“Yet I gave him enough muscarine to have killed a donkey,” said Burke.

But these two poisons are antidotes.

Quentin Reynolds

The Bluebeard Murderer

The Bluebeard Murderer, “a fiend in human form,” had strangled to death seven young women in the past month. They seemed such senseless murders — without rhyme or reason.

The late Quentin Reynolds, one of the last great trenchermen in an age when dieting is the fashion, was a many-faceted man and personality — heavyweight boxing champion in college, newspaperman, lawyer, sportswriter, foreign correspondent, renowned war correspondent, writer of best-sellers, highly publicized adversary of Westbrook Pegler, much-sought-after after-dinner speaker, radio and motion picture commentator, biographer, writer of juveniles (including a book on the F.B.I.), friend of most of the famous men and women of his time — and did you know that his first book, PARLOR, BEDLAM AND BATH, was written with S. J. Perelman?

But at heart Quentin Reynolds remained a reporter, and his instinct and integrity for the truth, for accuracy and realism, shined throughout all his fiction...

* * *

As we sat down to dinner some-one jokingly remarked, “But there are thirteen of us. How awful!”

“Baron von Genthner phoned to say he’ll be a bit late,” I told them. “But he’ll be here soon and that will make fourteen.”

“I hope,” Sefton Doames sighed, “that he has some news of that Bluebeard Murderer — as I have so aptly named him.”

“You mean ’fiend in human form’ who is ravaging Bavaria,” I said. “You wouldn’t laugh if your paper were playing the story up as mine is,” Doames grumbled. “It was my own fault, I suppose, for calling him the Bluebeard Murderer. It develops that there have been some eighty or so other Bluebeard Murderers in the last hundred years and my paper has been running a series on them. That’s why they are so interested in his capture.”

“How can you look at this beautiful table and even mention anything about murderers?” The Nightingale sighed.

So we sat down, thirteen of us, and when I looked around I couldn’t help but feel proud. It was, for Berlin, a rather notable gathering, but of course, most notable of all was The Nightingale. Her first full-length starring picture was to open in Berlin the following night and this dinner was in the nature of an anticipatory congratulation.

Franz Woolwerth, director of the picture, was present, looking like a chubby and very amiable bear cub. You’d never know that he was probably the greatest film director living. There was Walter Duran, the brilliant Moscow correspondent, just out of Russia, and of course Hubert Nicholas, who traveled all over Europe for an American newspaper syndicate. There was Margaret Cane, the beautiful and gifted English girl who wrote novels with one hand and newspaper features with the other. There was the exuberant Ernst Hanfstaengl.

There were others, too, but first and foremost there was The Nightingale. It was her night and she sat there at the head of my table and, young as she was, she dominated that table as the sun dominates the early dawn. Brilliant, beautiful, mysterious — none of us really knew The Nightingale. She spoke perfect German and beautiful French and her Spanish was good and she spoke very cute English. She had emerged from nowhere a few months before, a discovery of Woolwerth’s, and who she was or what her nationality was apparently only Woolwerth knew; and he wouldn’t tell.

“She is a voice,” he would say, “not a person.”

I knew The Nightingale as well as anyone did but she had told me no more. It was hard to take one’s eyes away from her. I caught hers and saw a reproach in them. At the moment it puzzled me.

Our first course was Aalsuppe, which is eel soup, and laced with claret it was delicious. With it I served Vodka which Duran had brought in from Moscow — vodka in small individual carafes which were imbedded in ice. After that we had baked rolled salmon in which oysters cut finely and spiced with pepper, salt, nutmeg, and parsley were hidden. Margaret Cane raised her eyebrows at this dish. It was strictly an English way of preparing salmon. Once after a particularly dull meal at my place she had reproachfully sent me a cookbook called, aptly enough, Good Things in England. From that I had taught my cook how to prepare the rolled salmon. With the salmon, need I add, we drank Rudesheimer, 1923.

“Whatever made von Genthner take that job?” Doames asked. “I can think of no man who seems less like a detective than von Genthner. Yet here he is heading an organization which is a great deal like our own Scotland Yard.”

“It is a strictly nonpolitical organization,” I told Doames. “It isn’t connected with either the secret police or the Berlin police force. It is entirely independent of them. When a crime or a series of crimes is committed outside of Berlin and the local police are making no headway, they may ask for von Genthner’s help. He took the job because he has always been more or less interested in the study of criminology.”

“If anyone can solve those murders he can,” The Nightingale spoke unexpectedly. “He is so brilliant.”

“Why, I never realized you knew von Genthner,” I said in surprise.

“Well, I... I have met him,” she faltered, “and of course everyone has heard of von Genthner.”

That wasn’t true. Not fifty people in Berlin knew that von Genthner was in charge of a special squad of detectives. I gazed a bit coldly at The Nightingale. Always one ran up against a wall of mystery when one tried to get close to her. And yet... there were times...

The capon livers en brochette were being served when von Genthner made his appearance. Urbane in his white tie and with his monocle seeming as permanent a part of his face as the dueling scar he carried on his cheek, the baron made suave apologies for his lateness.

“You know everyone, von Genthner?” I asked.

“Except the lovely lady of the films.” He smiled.

The Nightingale looked up for a moment in sudden panic. Then she dropped her eyes. There was an embarrassed silence around the table for a moment. Knowing von Genthner, I had sense enough to say nothing.

“I mean, of course,” he went on as though unconscious of either her frightened look or the silence, “that no one could really know such beauty. The nightingale is a bird you bear about but never really know. I have met The Nightingale many times but each time I feel as though I know her a little bit less... But my friend,” he turned to me, “I am hungry and thirsty, and I hope that your excellent Martha has saved some soup for me. She had better, or I’ll tell your guests that it was I who taught her how to cook it.”

He sat down and now it was he who dominated the table. The Nightingale kept looking at him and I sensed an undercurrent beneath their banter. She had never looked so lovely. Most brunettes are highly colored. Her hair was dark, and it was brushed back from a very white face. Her eyes were large and they seemed made for laughter, but she seldom laughed. She may have been twenty-two or thirty-two. She was wearing a very simple black silk dress and she was the only woman present who was wearing not a single jewel. In her hair she wore a gardenia.

I was aroused from my contemplation of her by the voice of Doames: “...then you captured him this afternoon?” Doames asked eagerly. “Tell me all the gory details, von Genthner. My paper is hungry for that story.”

“There isn’t much to tell. Just that he is captured and that he confessed fully.”

“Please,” Doames pleaded, “give me the story.”

Doames worked for the London Express and I knew that he had been playing up the murders which had been occurring lately in Bavaria. They seemed such senseless, useless murders. Seven fairly young girls had been strangled to death by a man. The murders had come at irregular intervals. Without rhyme or reason this madman would appear, sometimes in the midst of a crowd, and grab the throat of some girl and strangle her. Only a miracle had kept him from being captured until now.

For some reason or other von Genthner didn’t seem anxious to give any information. But when Doames asked him again, he said “All right.” Then he put down his glass and gazed for a moment surprisingly enough at Woolwerth, the director. A curious look passed between them and I thought I saw Woolwerth shake his head almost imperceptibly. But perhaps I imagined it.

“Here’s the story, Doames, and then let’s forget it,” von Genthner began. “As you know, during the past month seven girls have been strangled to death in the region located roughly between Schwanburg and Ansbach. One girl managed to escape from the murderer. This afternoon she happened to be attending a moving picture in Schwanburg when she recognized the man who had tried to murder her. She screamed. He was seized. He was absolutely mad. We could... the police could,” he corrected himself, “get no clear story from him at all. Evidently he was a lunatic of a particularly peculiar kind. Now and then an impulse seized him and he had to strangle someone.

“The fact that all his victims happened to be girls is apparently a mere coincidence. Further investigation revealed that the poor fellow was a badly shell-shocked war veteran who had lately escaped from the veterans’ hospital in Nurnberg. His name was never known even to the hospital authorities. He was put in a cell in the Schwanburg police station and a few moments later the police heard a shot. The man was so obviously insane that the police had neglected to search him. Evidently he had a gun concealed on him. With it he killed himself.

“And that,” von Genthner said firmly, “is the last word on what you so quaintly called the Bluebeard Murderer.”

“That is rather an anti-climactic story,” Doames grumbled. “I’d built this fellow up as a supermurderer of all time and he proves to be nothing but a poor scared devil, a hangover from the war. Without even a name.”

As a newspaperman my sympathies were all with Doames. I felt somehow that von Genthner was holding out a bit.

“Doames, if he won’t give you more details we’ll have to supply them ourselves,” I suggested. “Now here’s an angle. Whatever made that poor madman go to that moving picture house in broad daylight? What brought him there? Could it have been the picture that was showing? What was the picture, von Genthner?”

I saw von Genthner stiffen. Once more I saw him look toward Woolwerth and I noticed an almost imperceptible frown on the director’s face.

“I have no idea of the picture that was showing,” von Genthner said coldly.

“I have a brilliant idea, Doames,” I cried. “Why not say that the theater was having a preview of The Nightingale’s picture, Der Traum? It opens here tomorrow anyhow and in London next week. It will be a magnificent send-off for her in London. Say that the madman had seen The Nightingale before and had conceived such a passion for her that when he saw in the papers that her picture was to appear he risked his very life to see it. It will be gorgeous publicity for her.”

Doames arose and his eyes were shining. “My friend, you are too, too wonderful. That makes the story. Nightingale, tomorrow your picture with that story will be on the first page of the Express and one million nine hundred and eighty-six readers will see it. They will become Nightingale-conscious...”

He rushed from the room to phone. London correspondents in Berlin always phone their stories to London. It costs less than cabling and it is much easier to evade the censor.

The Nightingale was laughing now and her laugh was just a little less sweet than celestial music and her smile was only a trifle less than a glimpse of heaven.

“How thrilling!” she said.

“What I like about English newspapermen is that they never fake stories,” Nicholas said.

Everyone was laughing at the supreme impudence of Doames in thus “faking” this story. Well, there’s no harm in faking a story if it doesn’t hurt anyone and even Nick, Duran, and I, brought up in the sterner American school which considers “faking” to be very reprehensible, were amused by the exuberant Doames. He soon returned with a broad smile on his face.

“My office is crazy about the story. It is absolutely exclusive, I told them. Beautiful lady, you’ll be famous in four hours.”

“You darling,” she said, but she said it to me. “It was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“It was indeed,” I told her blithely, “and in return I expect you to love me madly from now on.”

“But I always have,” she said simply.

“May I have some more wine?” von Genthner broke in, and I was startled to see how stern he looked. “And for heaven’s sake let’s forget this silly Bluebeard business.”

So we had more wine.

Then someone asked The Nightingale to sing. She seemed reluctant. “After that lovely dinner,” she protested, “how could anyone sing?” But we all insisted and she said she’d sing one song.

She sat down and they were quiet. Then she began to play and in a moment I got up and walked out on the balcony. I had a large balcony overlooking the Tiergarten and it was a lovely night, with a moon that was the biggest moon that ever I saw. Her voice drifted across the room inside and filtered through to my balcony.

“Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking.

The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill...”

A soft breeze was coming from across the street, a breeze which had been dallying with the tulips and the young spring flowers which were just beginning to appear. It was the scent of those flowers, I guess, that made me homesick for a moment.

“The lark from her light wing, the gray dawn is shaking

Kathleen Mavourneen, what, slumbering still?...”

The moon is mysterious, I told myself, until we realize that it is a dead, lifeless thing. It is glamorous until we know that it borrows its light from the sun... Music is like that too... Music is a craft, not an art... That girl who is singing that beautiful song. Her voice is merely a trained voice and the feeling I imagine in it is mere technique.

“Oh why art thou so silent, thou voice of my heart,

It may be for years and it may be forever...”

Her voice trailed away and I walked back into the room.

“Whatever made you sing that song?” Woolwerth asked, puzzled.

“Why,” she said softly, “I like Irish songs... A good friend of mine taught me that song. He sang it to me one night.”

“Now, how about a little Liszt for a nightcap?” I broke in harshly. “What do you say, Putsey?”

Hanfstaengl was nominally the Press Chief and as such was useful to foreign correspondents. He was always a valuable adjunct to any dinner party too, because he was willing at all times to play or sing in practically any language. He was probably at his best when playing American college songs. I don’t think there was one he didn’t know. He himself had written a Harvard song when he was an undergraduate there. Yes, he was amusing all right — but not when he played Liszt.

He sat down and put his elephantine hands on the keys. I tell you that Hanfstaengl could play Liszt. He played the Piano Concertos in E Flat, and in A. It left us all breathless.

Then suddenly my party was over. They were filing out and saying “Wiedersehn.”

The Nightingale said, “Aren’t you taking me home?”

“Jerry Young has begged for the privilege,” I smiled. “You are lucky. You shall be taken home by the future British Ambassador to Berlin.”

So they went — all but von Genthner, and I knew that he wasn’t going just yet. I knew that there was something — something important — he wanted to tell me.

“Let’s have one brandy on the balcony,” I suggested, and then I called Martha.

She brought the bottle and two glasses and we sat on the balcony.

“Now tell me, von Genthner,” I turned to him, “what’s on your mind?” He looked up, startled.

“Come now, friend,” I told him laughingly. “What were those curious looks that passed between you and Woolwerth? Why were you so reluctant to give Doames the details of the capture of that madman in Schwanburg? Why were you so dismayed when I suggested that Doames fake the story and say that the madman was enticed by a showing of her new picture? There were undercurrents passing between you and Woolwerth and The Nightingale. I don’t like mysteries, von Genthner. Tell me about it.”

“Are you in love with The Nightingale?” he asked suddenly.

I yawned. “Love is a big word for a little guy like me to use. It’s too big a word to play with and that’s my business — playing with words.”

“There are men who will do almost anything for love,” he said savagely.

“Sure; some will even marry for it.”

“And,” he said unexpectedly, “they go mad because of it and they’ll murder for it. You’re right, of course, I do want to tell you a story.”

“I’m listening,” I said — and waited.

“You knew, I suppose,” he began, “that I originally came from Bavaria. I was born just a few miles outside of Schwanburg on the Danube. After the war I was a bit sick of living and of watching men die, so I went back to my old home and I stayed there studying my music and playing with my science. My two nearest neighbors, old friends of mine, were Anton Leiber and Peter Schultz. Leiber died some fifteen years ago leaving a brilliant young son, a man of twenty-five then, whose name too was Anton Leiber. Peter Schultz, a widower, had a daughter, a daughter named Bertha, who was then about eight.

“Eight years ago Anton Leiber was the most brilliant young scientist in Germany — perhaps in the world. He took degrees in medicine and chemistry at Heidelberg and at Goettingen and then, being well off, decided to spend the rest of his life in research work.

“Now perhaps you don’t know how closely chemistry and medicine are aligned. Life itself is of course a chemical function. Each cell in the body is a separate little chemical factory which is supported by the salts, the water, the nourishment, and the oxygen which the arterial blood brings to it. When the supply of nourishment is cut off or when such a cell is bruised the result is — pain.

“Leiber had imposed this task upon himself. He would eliminate pain. Such a job, of course, is within the province of a biochemist. People outside of surgery, medicine, and chemistry think that pain has been eliminated. Sir Humphry Davy, Faraday, and the American, John D. Goodman, were the first to introduce the medical world to anesthetics, and later Dr. Crawford Long performed an operation with the help of ether. Ethyl chloride, nitrous oxide, scopolamine, cocaine, and eucaine all followed, but they were mere pain soporifics. You tossed one of these drugs to pain and you said, ‘Chew on that a while, my friend,’ and while the pain was doing that the cells of the body were free from its ravages. But once pain lost interest in the drug, it returned.

“Practically all drugs take their toll, too; cocaine, for instance, is a powerful cardiac depressant. All drugs merely compromise with pain — they do not kill it. Leiber intended to go beyond all this. He would find a chemical that would absolutely kill pain.

“ ‘Pain is a useful servant — but a harsh master,’ he once told me. ‘Pain as a warning signal that something is wrong is excellent — but the trouble with it is that once it has warned us, it insists upon taking possession of us. There is no need for this. I will kill pain — physical and mental pain.’

“Leiber was the most gentle soul I ever met — except when on the subject of his specialty. Then his deep-set eyes blazed and his hands clenched. He talked of pain as though it were an, enemy.

“One night he came to see me. This was about eight years ago. His eyes were shining and he was trembling.

“ ‘I’ve got it!’ he cried. ‘I’m on the right track. I’ll have the whole answer within a year. My theory holds good for mental pain, too. I’ve gone beyond Fourneau and his stovaine, beyond the others with their tropacocaine and alypin. They and their drugs merely compromise with pain. I will kill it entirely. If a cell is paining I will kill that cell — and, von Genthner, I will replace it with a new cell, a complete, live, healthy new cell. I have done it in animals already. If we can replace one cell, we can replace a thousand or ten thousand cells.’

“ ‘How,’ I asked, ‘can you segregate such cells and have them ready at all times? How can you keep them alive?’

“ ‘Alexis Carrel kept a chicken heart alive for twenty years,’ he rasped. ‘He put me on the track. We will kill pain not with temporary stop-gaps, such as drugs, but by surgery, by chemical surgery.’

“He walked up and down my study, his hands clenching and unclenching. His eyes were flashing and his dark hair fell over his forehead.

“ ‘And mental pain?’ ” I asked.

“ ‘The same theory holds no matter what Krafft-Ebing and Freud say,’ he shouted. ‘Look here, von Genthner. I walk in my garden. I see a snail on the ground. The sight of a snail sickens me, causes me acute mental distress. Should I go to Krafft-Ebing or Freud and let them dig into my mind for months and months to find out why it is that the sight of a snail causes me mental pain? Nonsense,’ he snorted. ‘Instead I kill the snail. My mental pain dies at the same time.’

“ ‘In short, to eliminate mental pain, or as you say to “kill” mental pain,’ I asked, ‘you would eliminate or kill that which is the cause of it.’

“ ‘Yes,’ he said calmly.

“ ‘I am glad, my friend, that I do not cause you any mental anguish,’ I laughed. ‘Or to be consistent you would have to eliminate me.’

“ ‘Exactly,’ he said softly. ‘That of course is where my theory will ultimately lead.’

“I felt a bit uneasy. ‘Stick to your biochemistry, Leiber. Your theory there sounds interesting, sounds more than interesting. But leave the mind alone. Leave mental pyrotechnics to the men who specialize in such things. A surgeon’s scalpel cannot cut away memory or kill remorse or fear — without killing the mind; and the duty of a medical man, even a biochemist, is to build and cure, not to kill... Leiber,’ I looked at him closely, ‘you’ve been working too hard. Take a rest. Go on a walking tour. Climb a mountain. The Danube is a hundred feet away. Get into a boat and paddle for a week. But rest a while.’

“ ‘I have no time for rest,’ he said sharply. ‘And there is another thing I wanted to ask you — about Bertha Schultz.’

“ ‘What has she to do with biochemistry?’ I laughed.

“ ‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Von Genthner, I am in love with her. I want to marry her. I want you to talk to her father — he is a good friend of yours, I know. Convince him that I am not a lovesick fool, von Genthner. Convince him that I love his daughter tenderly, devotedly.’

“I got up and I am sure my face must have expressed my utter amazement. ‘Little Bertha? My Lord, Leiber, she is a child. She is only sixteen,’ I gasped.

“ ‘But older than her years,’ he said. ‘Have you ever heard her sing? Of course you have. Yes, it was you who taught her to love music. A month ago I was passing her home and I heard her singing. Until then she had been merely a child to me, too, a neighbor’s child. But that voice, von Genthner, entered my heart and my soul and my brain. That voice possessed me; it was as though a thousand skylarks had made their nests in my brain. I can hear nothing else. And I love her, von Genthner.’

“ ‘You are what? Thirty-five? She is sixteen. To her you must seem a middle-aged man. Wait, Leiber. Wait two years.’

“ ‘I cannot wait,’ he interrupted, ‘I need her.’

“ ‘You, one of the world’s great scientists, need that sixteen-year-old girl? Come now, Leiber, just because she sings prettily, you think you’re in love with her. You’re in love with her voice—’

“ ‘That voice has come between me and my work,’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you understand? For a thousand years the world has been waiting for my discovery. Now I am on the verge of revealing it and at the critical point the voice of this girl has taken possession of me. When she is not around I find myself listening for her voice. My work is suffering — and my work must not suffer.’

“He left. I sat up half the night thinking. Then I made up my mind.

“I hurried to see Peter Schultz the next morning. Frankly, I was frightened. Why, I don’t know. I told Peter the whole story. Of late years he had been feeble and had leaned on me much, especially in the upbringing of the child.

“ ‘Leiber,’ I told him, ‘is brilliant. He may well be the world’s most brilliant man. But, friend, I do not think that he is for our Bertha.’

“ ‘Nor do I,’ Peter said.

“ ‘The man is close to a nervous breakdown — or worse,’ I said.

“I nodded and he knew what I meant. ‘I suggest that we send Bertha to Berlin. She shall stay with my sister there; and, Peter, it is time that we really recognized her talent. She has a remarkable voice. Let me have it trained by the masters in Berlin. Let us send her to Berlin tomorrow.’

“He nodded and we called in Bertha. She was a lovely child, slim and, through the heritage of an English mother, dark, and her eyes were very large and very dark too. They lit up when she saw me. Always I had enjoyed the status of a favorite uncle with the child. I had introduced her to music, had myself taught her French and English. She was overjoyed at the prospect of going to Berlin. And so we sent her.

“A week after she had gone Leiber stormed in to see me. He was in a dreadful state. He looked as though he hadn’t slept for weeks and his eyes were the eyes of a hunted wolf.

“ ‘They have taken Bertha away,’ he cried. ‘Where is she? You know where she is. I will find her, von Genthner, if I have to go to the ends of the earth. Can’t you see how I love that girl? Am I leprous that you forbid me to see her? Am I immoral? Am I tainted? You have told me that I will one day take my place in the first ranks of science. Why am I unworthy of that girl?’

“ ‘Steady, steady, Leiber,’ I soothed. ‘Wait, wait another year or so. We have no objection to you. But she is a child. She will be a woman soon enough. Then she can listen to your pleading.’

“ ‘I cannot wait,’ he said. ‘Her voice haunts me. It hurts me except when I can hear it. Her voice is in my consciousness. I must get it out of my brain. It causes me mental pain...’

“Suddenly his eyes opened wide but he looked ahead blankly, not seeing me at all and he whispered, ‘All pain must be killed. To kill pain you must eliminate the cause of the pain. Pain must be killed... her voice causes me pain... I must—’

“ ‘Leiber, Leiber!’ I said. ‘Steady!’

“ ‘Pain must be killed,’ he repeated in the tone of a man walking in his sleep. Without another word he rose and walked out into the night. And I knew now that what I had suspected was true. He was mad, quite mad.

“The next day his servants called and asked if I had seen him. He hadn’t reached home and they were worried. We made a thorough search of the surrounding countryside but could find no trace of him. Three weeks later he turned up. He was walking along a street in Ingolstadt when, without warning, he seized a young girl by the throat, crying, ‘Pain must be killed. I will kill your voice. I will kill your voice...’

“Luckily there were strong men in the crowd and they grabbed him. He was hopelessly insane now and was immediately confined to an asylum.

“Meanwhile what of Bertha? Her teachers in Berlin were delighted at her progress. ‘She can be a great actress,’ they told me. ‘She can be a superb singer. Send her to Rheinhardt. Send her to Bellini in Milan. We have taught her all that we know.’

“Bertha in three years had grown up. Now she was tall and slim and her eyes were even larger, but to me she was still a child. Her father had died and had made me her guardian. And day and night I was tortured by one thought, one fear. What if Leiber should escape? In one of his rational moments he would be clever enough to escape from any asylum.

“I came to a sudden resolution. Leiber would never destroy Bertha. I myself would. I would kill Bertha and replace her with a totally different personality. Bertha should die and a glamorous, mysterious being take her place, with no resemblance to the child Leiber knew.

“I told Bertha my plans. ‘I want you to study abroad for two years. You say you would rather sing and act in films than study either opera or concert work. Very well. For two years I want you to disappear completely from Germany. For two years you are not even to speak German or think it. You are to drop the name of Bertha Schultz now. Never are you to tell anyone who you are or from where you came.’

“ ‘It seems so silly,’ she laughed. ‘But of course I will do what you say.’

“ ‘Child, it isn’t silly,’ and she now realized how much in earnest I was. ‘I have a definite reason for this. It is an important reason. I ask you to do this — the first favor I have ever asked you.’

“She was worried now. ‘Of course,’ she said slowly. ‘Bertha Schultz dies tonight. Until you give me permission I shall never reveal to anyone who I am or from where I came.’

“ ‘You shall be mysterious,’ I told her. ‘For two years you shall not even see me or write to me. You shall have all the money you want. Your whole time shall be spent in study. But you are to form an entirely new personality. You are to take a new name. My child, I want you to be a voice, not a person. You shall be like a bird in the forest, heard but not seen... A rare bird with a beautiful voice... a bird so rare that none may know it.’

“ ‘Like... like a nightingale,’ she laughed. ‘It is such a pretty word, too. In French and even in English it is a pretty word. I shall be...’ ”

“Von Genthner, von Genthner,” I cried, leaping up and grasping his arm, “then The Nightingale and Bertha Schultz are one and the same. That is why she is so mysterious, why she has built a wall around herself. That is why—”

“Of course,” von Genthner said, “have you only guessed it now?”

“Does she know... about Leiber?” I asked.

“If you mention Anton Leiber to her he would be a mere name out of her childhood. No, she doesn’t know why I have made her create a new personality. Knowing me, she trusted me. She knew that I had some good reason for it. Now let me finish the story, though the rest of it must be obvious to you.

“Bertha, or The Nightingale as I shall call her from now on, studied faithfully during the two years she was away. Seven months ago I brought her back and turned her over to Woolwerth — in my opinion the only real genius the talking pictures have yet produced. I told him the whole story and his sense of the dramatic made him fall in with my idea of making a mysterious creature of our Nightingale.

“ ‘Just a voice,’ he said. ‘Not even a name. Not even a person. Merely a voice.’

“He gave her comparatively small bits in two pictures and, as you know, she was sensational. She remained virtually a recluse. She attended but one social function — a dinner Woolwerth gave. I wasn’t there. You were. In fact,” von Genthner added dryly, “I made up the guest list and had you included.

“It was a month ago that the first of the so-called Bluebeard Murders occurred. When this murderer’s victims had reached the number of five, I was asked to take charge. The first thing I did, just as a matter of routine, was to ask for pictures of the dead girls.

“I took one look at them and my heart turned to ice. Each girl was slim and dark and each bore a faint but nonetheless, unmistakable resemblance to The Nightingale. I phoned the insane asylum and my worst fears were justified. Leiber had escaped three weeks previously!

“This threw me into action. Unknown to The Nightingale I put a heavy police guard around her. Twice more the madman struck and each time he got away; a third whom he had attacked miraculously recovered. All the murders occurred in the region of Schwanburg. We tried everything but no trap worked. Then I conceived a desperate plan.

“I received Woolwerth’s cooperation. There is one large picture theater in Schwanburg, the Ufa Palazt. I planned for a showing of The Nightingale’s new picture for that theater. During the past week we advertised in every newspaper in the region. Each day we ran a large picture of, not The Nightingale, but of Bertha Schultz as she was eight years ago, on the first page.

“Thousands and thousands of these papers and additional posters were printed and distributed everywhere. They were posted on trees and on barns and on fences. You couldn’t walk fifty yards in the vicinity of Schwanburg without seeing a picture of Bertha Schultz with the announcement that she would appear in person at the preview of her new picture which would be shown for just one performance at the Ufa Palazt. If Anton Leiber was in the vicinity he must see that picture. Would it draw him to the theater? I had staked everything on that. I had even revealed The Nightingale’s true name. If this plan failed she would be in double danger henceforth.

“I stood outside the theater with the one girl who had escaped from him. Of course it was a fifty-to-one chance that he would appear, but I had to take that chance. He did appear and even before the girl with me gave a frightened cry I recognized him.

“We closed in on him. He came quietly enough, not recognizing me at all. At the police station he gave only vague, disconnected replies to our questions. Then suddenly, as though a film had been removed from his eyes, he stared at me and cried, ‘von Genthner, what are you doing here? What am I doing here?’

“ ‘You are here because you have murdered seven girls trying to drown out the sound of a voice which rings in your mind,’ I said.

“ ‘Yes, yes,’ he answered, ‘a voice rings in my mind. Sometimes it gets very, very loud; and then... then things are confused. I hear it now... I feel that it is going to get louder...’

“ ‘You can’t still the sound of that voice. Only death can do that,’ I told him. ‘While you live you shall hear it and be tortured by it and, worse still, inflict pain on others. As long as you live you shall try to kill that voice by killing those who remind you of it.’

“ ‘No... no...’ he cried. ‘It is better that I die.’

“ ‘Only then will the pain leave you,’ I said sternly.

“He looked at me quietly and in his eyes I could see the beginning of a struggle. His lucid moment would soon be over, though now he was trying desperately and consciously to prolong it. ‘Quickly,’ he pleaded, ‘let me be alone and give me something to make me sleep.’

“I looked into his eyes and for the moment they were clear and there was a message in them that I was able to read.

“ ‘Put him into a cell,’ I told the police.

“We walked to a cell. I went in first. Then he followed. I told the police not to enter. Then I walked out.

“ ‘Leave him alone,’ I told the police. ‘I have given him something which will make him sleep.’

“A moment later we heard a shot and we ran back. Leiber had sent a bullet into his poor, mad brain.

“ ‘But,’ the police chief protested, ‘I searched him thoroughly. I found no weapon on him.’

“I looked at the police chief. ‘No, it was I who searched him. I myself. And I found no gun on him. So the responsibility is entirely mine.’

“The police chief saluted. ‘As you say, Herr Baron.’ ”

I stood up and reached for von Genthner’s hand. “Then he is dead and she will never again be in danger?”

“That is true. So you see why it was I didn’t care to discuss the murders at dinner. You see why I felt dismayed when you all unwittingly stumbled on part of the truth. It is a story that we had all better forget. It has caused enough torture, especially to The Nightingale.”

“But she knows nothing of it. Why should it have tortured her?”

Von Genthner rose. He looked very angry. “You fool,” he rasped. “Don’t you realize the torture she had been through? You yourself have been full of suspicions of all kinds. Who was she? Where did she come from? You asked her these questions — you of little faith. She couldn’t answer because of her promise to me. And she knew how you felt and, being a woman now and not a child, your pain was her pain—”

“Has she told you this? How do you know, von Genthner?” I grabbed his arm impatiently.

“What a beautiful dawn,” he said softly. “Look at the sun rise over those poplars. I tell you our Tiergarten is the most beautiful park in the world. And do you know that flowers smell more fragrant in the dawn? I have a theory—”

“Von Genthner,” I cried. “Tell me. How do you know she cared whether I was in agony with my suspicions?”

“Because I am not a fool,” he said. “I have eyes that see and ears that hear. And tonight I heard her sing an Irish song. And as she sang it there were tears in her eyes. Now she has never been to Ireland and so it must have been an Irishman who taught her that song. I have not spent a hundred nights in your company without hearing you sing or hum Kathleen Mavourneen dozens of times. So I knew it was you who taught it to her...”

“And so...?” I asked softly.

“And so, my friend,” he yawned, “it is time that an old man went to bed. But you are young... and she is young, too, and I think that if you phoned her now she would not mind it. I am sure that she is still awake. For I told her to remain awake until she heard from me.”

But I wasn’t listening. I was giving her number into the phone to a very sleepy telephone operator.

Allan Vaughan Elston

Eva? Caroline?

Allan Vaughan Elston grew up on his father’s ranch near the Colorado-New Mexico line, where antelope were plentiful and the rincon of a timbered mesa was full of deer and bear and wild turkey, where men of the sage and mesquite habitually wore six-guns and where The Three R’s stood for riding, roping, and roaring. From these deep-rooted beginnings how was it possible for Mr. Elston ultimately to write a novelet like “Eva? Caroline?”

Well, Mr. Elston left the ranch of his father, went to college, became an engineer, gave up surveying railroads for a career of writing, and now he plots stories from {in his own words) the logical, mathematical viewpoint of his later professional, rather than his earlier environmental, background.

But plots are neither cold logic nor precise mathematics: they are about people, and surely that characteristic stems, however transmuted, from Mr. Elston s boyhood and young manhood on the old ranch, where the sea of bunch grass heaved in the sun and the lordly herds lowed down in the wind...

* * *

“That,” roger marsh asserted with a strained effort to speak calmly, “is absurd and impossible. My wife died almost four years ago.”

Inspector Whipple, who had just arrived in Baltimore to interview Roger Marsh, gave the photograph a puzzled stare. It was the picture of a woman, one which he had taken himself only day before yesterday in Seattle. “Then this,” he said, “can’t be your wife.”

Roger tried hard to control himself. “Of course not,” he said stiffly.

“You admit it looks like her?”

“I admit it does. If you’d shown it to me four years ago I might have sworn it was Caroline. But since you took it only this week, it has to be someone else.”

They were in the drawing room of the old Marsh house. Five generations of Marshes had lived here amid high-ceilinged elegance, the gentlest and richest of the old Maryland culture.

And Roger Marsh, severely handsome at thirty-three, looked part of it. A portrait of his great-grandfather over the mantel had the same narrow granite face, the uncompromising gaze of a man who doesn’t believe in change. Apparent too was a long-bred restraint which would be instantly revolted by anything sensational.

Inspector Whipple studied the man sitting opposite him; then he said, “Who, Mr. Marsh, was with your wife when she died?”

Roger reminded himself that this police officer was his guest for the moment and must be treated as such. When he spoke, it was with a carefully disciplined patience. “I was. So was our family doctor. So was a nurse at a local hospital.”

“Tell me the how, when and where of it, Mr. Marsh. You’d been married how long?”

“I was married eight years ago,” Roger told him. “Seven years ago I went into the army. Judge Advocate’s department, foreign service. In London, three years later, I received a cablegram from Dr. Cawfield, our family physician, saying my wife had pneumonia. So I got an emergency leave and flew home.”

“Was she still living when you arrived?”

“Yes, but failing fast. She lingered on for six more days.”

“Did she have a twin sister? An identical twin?”

“She did not,” Roger said. “What are you suggesting, Inspector?”

“You’re quite certain the woman who died was your wife?”

With a stern effort Roger controlled his irritation. “Are you implying I didn’t know my own wife? I tell you I was there at her bedside. So was Dr. Cawfield. During those last six days she was occasionally able to talk and receive visitors. Many of her closest friends called to see her.”

“Was her casket open at the funeral? Did lots of people who knew her well see her then?”

“Scores of them,” Roger said, his face flushed.

“The woman in Seattle,” Whipple explained, “is known to the police as Eva Lang. She’s a confidence woman and five years ago she killed a man in Detroit. The crime was witnessed. Police had a good description of her but no fingerprints. A week ago we raided a farm near Walla Walla, Washington, where four wanted men were hiding out. Three of them were killed in the fight; the fourth escaped. But we picked up a woman living with them who was identified as Eva Lang. Her defense is: ‘I’m not Eva Lang; I’m Mrs. Roger Marsh.’ ”

Roger reclaimed the photograph and gave it a long bitter stare. “This woman just happens to look like Caroline. So now she’s using that fact to save her life.”

“She gave us a list of twenty-eight people in Baltimore who, she claims, will verify that she’s Caroline Marsh,” Inspector Whipple said. He handed Roger a list of names.

Roger saw that his own name headed it. Next came Dr. Cawfield; Effie Foster, who had been Caroline’s most intimate friend, was third. Others on the list were neighbors, clubwomen, friends.

“This is the most ridiculous hoax I ever heard of,” Roger said. “These same people were at her funeral.”

Whipple nodded in sympathy. “No doubt you’re right. But it’s something we have to straighten out. Did your wife have any distinguishing scars?”

Roger concentrated. “Only one,” he said. “Just after we were married, she burned the third knuckle of her right hand with a hot iron. It left a small star-shaped white scar.”

The statement startled Whipple. “Our prisoner in Seattle,” he said, “also has a burn scar on the third knuckle of her right hand.”

Roger closed his eyes for a moment. This can’t be happening, he thought. His mind clung stubbornly to the one certain fact: Caroline’s death four years ago. “If Caroline had had a twin sister,” he snapped, “she would have told me. I don’t want to be brusque, Inspector, but I have no desire to be dragged into this.”

“The trouble is, you’re already in,” Whipple argued amiably. “It’s like this: the Detroit police want to try Eva Lang for that murder she committed five years ago. But when she claimed she’s your wife and named twenty-eight witnesses to prove it, Detroit got worried. If she really is the wife of a wealthy Maryland lawyer, extraditing her as Eva Lang might get them in hot water. So they tell us to disprove the Marsh angle first, then they’ll take her to Detroit for trial. That’s why I came here to Baltimore. I want to take the top three persons named on the list back with me to Seattle. They can look at her, talk to her and say whether she’s your wife.”

“You want to take me, Dr. Caw-field and Effie Foster clear across the continent just to say a living impostor isn’t a woman who died four years ago? I won’t do it. Talk to Dr. Cawfield while you’re here and with nurses at the hospital and the mortician if you want to; then go back to Seattle and tell Eva Lang to retract her ridiculous statement.”

Whipple smiled tolerantly. “I don’t blame you for wanting to avoid publicity. But you’re heading right into it. Because ultimately she’ll go on trial for murder and her defense will be that she’s your wife. You yourself will be subpoenaed as a witness to identify her. It’ll be a field day for the papers. So why not silence her at once, in the privacy of the Seattle jail? Think it over, Mr. Marsh.”

Reluctantly Roger realized the inspector was right. “Very well,” he agreed. “I’ll go. She may look like Caroline, but she isn’t. I can trip her up with questions. Small details that no one but Caroline could know.”

Whipple gave a shrewd nod. “That’s the idea. And now about taking along Dr. Cawfield and some close woman friend. We want to keep this hush-hush if we can. So why not call them up and ask them to come over?”

An hour later Inspector Whipple sat facing an audience of three. Dr. Elias Cawfield, gray, oldish, testy, was taking Whipple’s questions as an insult to his professional integrity. “I issued that death certificate myself,” he blazed at Whipple. “I’ll have you know, sir, that—”

Effie Foster, a plump blonde of Roger’s age, put a hand over the doctor’s lips. “Now let’s not get excited,” she soothed. “That woman’s just trying to put one over and of course we won’t let her get away with it.”

“Does she presume to give any details as to how she’s been spending the last four years?” Roger asked the inspector.

“Plenty of them,” Whipple said. “Personally, I don’t believe her, not for a minute. I think she’s Eva Lang, a career adventuress guilty of murder and trying to avoid the penalty by claiming another identity.”

“If she gave details,” Roger said, “let’s hear them.”

“She claims that you, her husband, went off to war seven years ago, leaving her in this house with a couple of servants. But as the war went on and the housing and manpower shortages grew, she turned over the lower floor to a society of ladies who made bandages for veterans, laid off the servants and occupied the second floor alone.”

Roger, Effie and Dr. Cawfield exchanged glances. “That’s exactly what Caroline did!” Effie exclaimed.

Roger nodded. “Yes, she wrote me about it. For the last year of her life she lived upstairs alone. Everybody knows that. So what?”

Whipple resumed: “She says that one night she answered a knock at the door and her own image walked in. The image said, ‘You’re Caroline, I suppose. I’m Evelyn Blythe.’ ”

Again Roger nodded. “My wife’s maiden name was Blythe. But she never mentioned an Evelyn.”

“What members of the Blythe family did you know?” Whipple asked.

“None but Caroline herself. She was twenty-three when I met her, and a salesgirl in a New York department store. When I got to know her better she told me her mother had died when she was fourteen, that she’d been making her own living ever since and that she couldn’t remember her father at all. She said her mother would never talk about her father. She knew of no living relatives.”

“Bear in mind, what I’m telling you is Eva Lang’s story, not mine,” Whipple cautioned. “It goes on like this: Evelyn told Caroline that they were identical twins; that their father and mother had separated when they were small children, each taking a twin. The father took Evelyn, the mother Caroline. But the father had a photograph of his wife. At his death Evelyn acquired it. She showed it to Caroline and Caroline definitely recognized her own mother. That, plus the testimony of a mirror, convinced Caroline that they were twin sisters. Eva Lang says now, ‘I’d always hungered for a blood relative; so I, Caroline Blythe Marsh, took Evelyn to my heart.’ ”

Roger listened, tense and incredulous. Dr. Cawfield snorted: “It’s preposterous!”

“I can accept the fact of twins,” Whipple asserted, “because you all admit that this photograph looks like Caroline. But I don’t believe that Eva Lang is Caroline. For my money, she’s Evelyn.”

Roger protested, “It won’t stand up, Inspector. Even if we concede that Caroline could have had a twin sister without knowing it, it still won’t stand up. Because my wife would have presented this sister to her friends. She would have written me all about it.”

“According to Eva Lang,” Whipple countered, “that was her first and natural impulse. But Evelyn begged her not to. She said she was in trouble. Some men were looking for her and she mustn’t let them find her. If Evelyn could just hide here till the men hunting for her gave up and left town—”

The pain on Roger’s face stopped Whipple. Cawfield and Effie Foster were hardly less shocked. Again Whipple reminded them, “It’s Eva Lang’s story, not mine.”

“Go on,” Roger said.

“It took a lot of pleading by Evelyn. But Caroline, naturally sympathetic and warmhearted, finally agreed to let her stay in hiding. Evelyn said a few weeks would be long enough; then everything would be safe and she would go away. Actually Evelyn stayed at least two months. She wore Caroline’s clothes and fixed her hair like Caroline’s. That’s why you, Mrs. Foster, were fooled when you popped in unannounced on a day Caroline was out shopping and you chatted ten minutes with Evelyn, thinking she was Caroline.”

“I?” Effie exclaimed. “Of course I didn’t. I’d have known she wasn’t Caroline.”

“You were rounding up some old clothes,” Whipple suggested, “for a rummage sale. Eva Lang says Evelyn told her about it when she got home. Evelyn was afraid to turn you down. So she took a few outmoded things from Caroline’s closet and gave them to you. You remember the incident, Mrs. Foster?”

“I did come here,” Effie admitted, “and Caroline gave me a bundle of clothes. But it was Caroline herself.”

“Take a look at this.” Whipple produced a latchkey from his pocket. “We found it in Eva Lang’s purse. See if it fits the front door.”

Roger took the key to the door and tried it in the lock. The key was a perfect fit.

“If you showed me a hundred keys,” he muttered, “you still couldn’t convince me.”

“I’m not trying to convince you, Mr. Marsh. I’m just showing you what you’re up against with this Lang woman. It’s pretty clear the real story is this: After two or three months here, Evelyn made good on her promise and slipped away. No doubt she’d just been hiding put so the police wouldn’t grab her for the Detroit murder. When things cooled off she drifted back to the underworld she came from. Then she read in the papers about Caroline’s death and got an idea for defense if she was ever picked up. She’d swear she was Caroline and that it was Evelyn who had died in Baltimore. Preparing for it, she took a hot iron and burned the third knuckle of her right hand. But that, of course, isn’t the way Eva Lang tells it.”

“How does Eva Lang tell it?” Roger asked.

“She claims that she, Caroline, was wakened one night by coughing. Evelyn had caught a bad cold. So Caroline walked two blocks to a drugstore to get a cough remedy for Evelyn. On the way home two toughies stopped her. ‘So it’s little Eva,’ they said. ‘We been lookin’ all over for you, Eva. We can’t risk lettin’ cops pick you up. They’d put on the heat and you might talk. So we’re takin’ you home.’ The next thing she knew she was riding in a closed car.”

“And she didn’t call out to the first passer-by?” Dr. Cawfield scoffed.

“She says she was taped up, hands, feet and mouth. The men drove only by night. A week of nights took them to an isolated farm in the State of Washington. Two other men were there, one of them a forger named Duke Smedley. He’d been Evelyn’s sweetheart. He walked up to her and took her in his arms. ‘Hello, Eva,’ he said and kissed her. She slapped him, crying, ‘I’m not Eva.’ He looked more closely at her. ‘Damn it, you’re not Eva,’ he said. He turned in fury on the two men. ‘You stupid fools got the wrong girl.’

“Three of them still thought she was Eva; only Duke Smedley was sure she wasn’t. But they had her. They didn’t set her free. It meant their necks if they did. So they held her.”

“For four years?” Cawfield said derisively.

“The woman says they didn’t mean to. Three of them wanted to kill her right away. But Duke Smedley wouldn’t let ’em because she looked so much like Eva. Pretty soon they saw the notice of Mrs. Marsh’s death in the Baltimore papers. Smedley got the Baltimore papers to see if Caroline’s disappearance would be discovered. His argument then was: ‘We don’t need to do away with her; she’s dead already. Nobody’s looking for her.’ Too, there was the idea of holding her as a hostage, an ace in the hole if it ever came to a showdown with the police. So the stalemate dragged on, month after month.”

“I don’t believe it,” Roger said.

“Nor I. The police theory is that Eva Lang went there of her own free will and was part of the mob.”

Roger rose and crossed the room to stand before the portrait of his great-grandfather. His face, more than ever like pale granite, was brooding and bitter. Nothing like this had ever before happened to the Marshes.

“She ought to know that she hasn’t a chance in the world to put this over.”

“I think she does know it,” Whipple agreed. “I don’t think she has the least idea of being accepted and taken back into your home. But she can get an acquittal if just one juror out of twelve feels a reasonable doubt. Eleven can be as sure as you are that she’s an impostor. But if only one juror thinks, well, maybe she is Mrs. Marsh, that would be enough. And that, I figure, is all she wants.”

“The devil it is!” Dr. Cawfield growled. “She’ll be after money too, once she’s free. She’ll pester Roger, parading as his poor disowned wife, till he makes a settlement.”

“Cheer up,” Effie Foster urged breezily. “It’s a headache, of course, but it mustn’t get us down. We’ll go to Seattle and ask her questions. ‘If you’re Caroline, what did I give you for your birthday five years ago?’ ”

Dr. Cawfield turned to Roger. “Hadn’t we better take along your aunt and uncle?”

Roger considered for a moment; then shook his head. His Uncle Carey was a fire-eater; he’d want to sue the Seattle police. Aunt Harriet was just the opposite. She was a gullible sentimentalist. Show her an underdog, like Eva Lang, and she’d want to start petting it right away. “No, Doctor. Just the three of us. I’ll charter a plane. We’ll meet at the airport in the morning.”

By the time the plane was flying westward Roger Marsh had made a concession. Although the Marsh in him erected an iron Wall against any part of Eva Lang’s claim, the lawyer in him couldn’t deny certain glaring bits of evidence. Evelyn Blythe, alias Eva Lang, was not his wife but she was his sister-in-law. His unspeakably criminal sister-in-law. And she had spent two months visiting his wife.

Yes, he thought, reviewing Eva Lang’s story once more as he looked out the window of the plane, that much he would concede, but no more. Then he remembered something and beckoned to Inspector Whipple.

“I’ve just thought of something,” Roger said when the inspector sat down beside him. “Caroline kept a diary. She made entries every night — all sorts of personal details.”

“Well, what about it?”

“After the funeral four years ago, I happened to think of the diary. It was something too intimate to be left lying around loose in the house. But I couldn’t find it. I looked everywhere — it was gone. So I con-eluded that Caroline had destroyed it herself.”

Whipple nodded. “I see. And now you’re afraid Evelyn took it?”

“It’s possible,” Roger brooded.

“If Eva Lang took it,” Whipple admitted, “she’s had four years to memorize everything in it. She can answer questions like a fox.”

“You said four men were at the farm with her. Three were killed in the raid and one escaped. Which one?”

“Duke Smedley. Smoothest confidence man in the business. The police are after him, coast to coast, on a dozen counts.”

“He was Eva Lang’s sweetheart?”

“So our prisoner says. But when he knew she wasn’t Eva he gave her a break because she was Eva’s sister. It’s more logical to assume she was and is Duke Smedley’s girl, and that she went back of her own free will to join him at the farm.”

Roger stoked a pipe nervously. “The point is, Inspector, he’s alive. He may be picked up. And he knows the truth about Eva Lang.”

“He’ll be picked up, all right. He has a police record. Here’s his picture.”

Whipple opened his suitcase and brought out a photograph. It showed a man of exceptional good looks, well dressed and with an air of sophistication.

“He’s the tops in his racket,” Whipple said. “One time he — but what’s the matter, Mr. Marsh?” Roger was staring with a strange intensity at the photograph.

“I’ve a feeling,” Roger murmured, “that I’ve seen this man before. I can’t remember when or where. But I’m sure I’ve seen him.”

“Then maybe this goes deeper than we think, Mr. Marsh. Maybe he’s back of the whole thing.”

“It’s hardly possible,” Roger said. “I’ve a feeling it was years ago when I saw him. Perhaps while I was in the army. He couldn’t have schemed this far ahead.”

“Well, keep the picture,” Whipple insisted. “We have other copies. Look at it every once in a while. Maybe you’ll remember where you saw him.”

A morning later Inspector Whipple led Effie Foster, Dr. Cawfield and Roger Marsh into a reception room at the Seattle jail. Roger stood stiffly, preparing himself for the ordeal of disowning this woman.

A police matron came in. Quietly she reported, “I’ve just brought her to the inspection room. Are these the identifiers?”

Whipple nodded. Then he saw the dread on Roger’s face and suggested, “Would you rather see her first without her seeing you, Mr. Marsh? You may if you like. Later, of course, you’ll have to talk with her for a voice test.”

“We’d like to see her first,” Roger said.

“Then step this way.” Whipple led him to a far wall of the room and stood him in front of a closed panel. When he opened the panel a circular glass pane was exposed. It was about the size of a porthole in a ship’s cabin. Through it Roger could see clearly into the room beyond.

Seated in the center of that room, under a bright light, was the prisoner Eva Lang. She was in half profile to Roger. Instantly he felt a surge of relief. For the seated woman didn’t look nearly so much like Caroline as he had expected. She seemed much older. There were streaks of gray in her hair. Roger remembered the velvety smoothness of Caroline’s skin. The face of this woman was hard. Nothing of Caroline’s sweet gentle character was etched there. Instead of Caroline’s calm complacent gaze, Roger saw a tense bitter defiance. The eyes were brown, like Caroline’s, and the hair was center-parted and fluffed at the sides, like Caroline’s. Evidently a hairdresser had worked on Eva Lang in her cell, doing everything possible to make her resemble Caroline. The contours of her face were indeed quite like Caroline’s and Roger could understand instantly why a photograph would be more convincing than the woman herself. The photograph didn’t show color; it showed only shape and lines.

Roger stared long and intently through the glass. Then he closed the panel and stepped back to Inspector Whipple. “Before God,” he said, “I never saw that woman before.”

“Your turn, Dr. Cawfield.”

The doctor went to the panel, opened, peered through it. In a moment he turned back with a snort. “Just as I thought! A masquerade!”

“Your turn, Mrs. Foster.”

Effie Foster took more time than had either of the men. When she closed the panel her face had a clouded disturbed look. “She’s not Caroline, of course. But she does look like her in a sort of jaded way.”

The police matron surprised them by speaking up. “Wouldn’t you look rather jaded yourself, Mrs. Foster, if you’d been slave and prisoner for four years to a gang of crooks?”

Effie flushed. Inspector Whipple cut in quickly. “Well, we’ll talk to her, Mrs. Kelly. Right now. That will be more conclusive.”

Whipple led them through a door into the presence of the woman known as Eva Lang.

Roger Marsh breathed deeply in an attempt to slow his pounding heart. This was the moment he’d been dreading.

She stood up as they entered, stared for a moment at Roger, her lips parted and her face lighting up. Then she came toward him, eager, confident, her hands outstretched. “Roger! I thought you’d never come!”

The uncompromising granite of Roger’s face stopped her. “You’re not at all convincing, Miss Lang,” he said stiffly.

The shock on her face was as though he’d struck her. “You don’t know me, Roger?”

“No,” he said. “I do not. You’d know me, of course, if you were Caroline’s guest for two months, because there were pictures of me all over the house.”

Her dazed eyes stared at him a moment longer, then turned to Effie Foster. Then to Dr. Cawfield.

Effie didn’t speak. Dr. Cawfield’s stony face was answer enough.

Her eyes went back to Roger. “You mean you’re disowning me, Roger?”

“Hasn’t this gone far enough, Miss Lang?” he parried.

For a moment he thought she’d burst into tears. Instead the hardness and defiance came back to her face. “What a fool I’ve been!” she said bitterly. “To think you’d come and take me home! I might have known you wouldn’t! You and your stiff Maryland pride!” She laughed hysterically. “It’s so much easier to say you never knew me. Will you take me back to my cell, Inspector? They’ve seen the rogues’ gallery. They’ve said, yes, she’s the rogue, not the wife.”

Inspector Whipple said crisply, “First, Miss Lang, I’ve a few questions. Please sit down.”

She sat down stiffly, facing Whipple, ignoring the others.

It had been agreed that Whipple would ask the questions because, as a police officer, he could do so with more authority. Effie had given him a list.

“What,” Whipple asked, “did Effie Foster give Caroline Marsh for a birthday present five years ago?”

“I don’t remember.”

Effie smiled. “You see?” she challenged.

“Effie,” the accused woman retorted, “won a bridge prize at my house six years ago. What was it?”

Effie gaped. “I’ve forgotten,” she admitted.

“You see?” The woman’s smile mocked her. “That, I suppose, proves she isn’t Effie Foster. Go on, Inspector.”

Whipple read from his list: “Roger Marsh has an aunt and uncle. What are their names, where do they live and what is their telephone number?”

“Uncle Carey and Aunt Harriet,” the prisoner answered promptly, “live in Edgeton. I’ve forgotten their phone number.”

“Roger and Caroline Marsh were in an amateur play one time. What was the play and what parts did they take?”

“It was William Tell. Roger was William Tell and I was his son, with an apple on my head. Ask me something hard, Inspector.”

“Who was the chairman of the Community Chest committee Caroline Marsh once served on?”

“I can’t remember.”

Her voice, Roger thought, was a little like Caroline’s but definitely bolder. Caroline had been a timid quiet girl. This woman was a fighter.

“When Dr. Cawfield was on vacation, who was the doctor who substituted for him?”

“The name slips my mind, Inspector. Perhaps if I think awhile, I’ll remember.”

Caroline, Roger was sure, would remember instantly. Young and good looking Dr. Joyce had in fact treated that burn on the third knuckle of Caroline’s hand. This woman, he saw, had a burn scar in the same place. She might have inflicted it deliberately.

“Caroline and Roger Marsh had one serious quarrel during the first year of their married life. What caused it?”

“As if I could forget!” The woman smiled bitterly. “Roger had a too beautiful secretary named Lucile Dutton. I thought he admired her more than he should. One day he went to Annapolis for a trial. He forgot his briefcase. Lucile carried it to him and he took her to lunch. People saw them and told me. I shouldn’t have been jealous but I was. And one word led to another.”

Whipple looked at Roger and Roger, with a grimace, nodded. “I suppose it was all in Caroline’s diary,” he murmured.

“Did Roger ever take Caroline to Honolulu?”

“Yes.”

“What hotel did they stop at?”

“I can’t remember. It’s been eight years.”

“What was the occasion?”

“Our honeymoon.”

“How long had Roger been married when he went into the army?”

“About a year.”

“That was seven years ago. How many times did Caroline see him after that?”

“Not once — until now. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t know me.”

“Who introduced Roger to Caroline?”

“No one. He went into a New York store to buy a bottle of perfume. I was the clerk who sold it to him. That’s how we met.”

All that, Roger kept assuring himself, could have been in Caroline’s diary. Or Caroline could have confided it during Evelyn’s visit. Undoubtedly this was Evelyn Blythe.

There were many more questions. To about half of them the woman answered frankly, “I can’t remember.” But certainly she had briefed herself on Caroline’s past with a studied thoroughness. The romantic incidents in it were the ones she knew best. The very ones which Caroline, always a romanticist, would have been most likely to confide.

In the end Whipple turned to Roger. “You still say this woman isn’t your wife?”

“I do,” Roger said.

Dr. Cawfield echoed him emphatically. “Caroline Marsh died four years ago.”

Whipple pressed a button and the police matron came in. “We’re finished,” he said.

The prisoner followed Matron Kelly to an exit. Then she turned defiantly to Roger Marsh. “You’ve asked me a great many questions, Roger. Now let me ask you one. Did you ever read Matthew 19:5?”

Without waiting for a response she disappeared with the matron.

“The devil,” Dr. Cawfield derided, “can cite Scripture for his purpose. Let’s get out of here.”

As they went out Whipple said, “Pretty sharp, wasn’t she? Well, now that that’s over, the Detroit police will extradite her for trial in Michigan. I’ll be glad to get rid of her. Where to now, Mr. Marsh?”

“To a hotel,” Roger said, “for a night’s sleep. Then to Baltimore.”

With Effie Foster and the doctor he taxied to a hotel. In his room there Roger saw a Gideon Bible on the dresser. He picked it up and turned to Matthew 19:5.

The verse read: “For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife: and they twain shall be one flesh.”

When Roger’s chartered plane glided to a landing at the Baltimore airport, he saw that the gateway was swarming with reporters.

“And look, Roger,” Effie exclaimed, “isn’t that your Uncle Carey and Aunt Harriet?”

“It’s the whole town,” Roger groaned. “Blast them! Why can’t they leave us alone?”

Roger fought fiercely through people who waylaid them in the gateway, refusing to answer the questions hurled at him by newsmen. He let Effie and Dr. Cawfield deal with them. He himself broke away, flanked by his uncle and aunt. Reporters, Uncle Carey was complaining, had awakened him at five o’clock this morning.

“And what,” he demanded furiously, “are you going to do about it?” He was short and bald. His wife, Harriet, was tall and gray.

“Nothing,” Roger said.

“You mean you’ll let them drag the name of Marsh through—”

“Oh, fiddlesticks!” Aunt Harriet broke in. “That’s all I’ve heard for forty years. The proud unsullied name of Marsh! For a century you’ve kept it out of headlines. And now you’re in them up to your necks.” Her eyes glittered.

“Harriet,” Uncle Carey rebuked bleakly, “must you be flippant at a time like this? Don’t you realize what it means? We’re disgraced, all of us. Now look, Roger, I’ve thought it over. We’ll all make a tour of South America till this horrible mess is over. That way they can’t drag us in at the trial.”

“You can run if you want to,” Roger said. “I shan’t.”

Just as they reached Uncle Carey’s car, Leslie Paxton, Roger’s law partner, caught up with them. “Roger,” he demanded, “why didn’t you tell me about this? Think of the firm! Have you seen the latest editions?” He had a packet of them under his arm.

Uncle Carey herded them into his sedan and took the wheel himself.

“No,” Roger said. “What about them?”

As the car sped away, Uncle Carey trying desperately to elude reporters, Leslie Paxton gave Roger the latest journalistic flashes.

“They’ve traced the background of Jake Lang, alias Jake Blythe. He was a cardsharp who died at Joliet. He came originally from Arizona. A record in an old mine hospital proves that twin girls were born to Jake’s wife about thirty years ago. The twins were named Evelyn and Caroline. So that much of it can’t be denied.”

“I’ve already conceded that much,” Roger told him. “Eva Lang is my sister-in-law. We have to start from there.”

“They’ve taken her to Detroit,” Paxton said, “for trial. Don’t you see what you’re up against? You can’t ignore it.”

“I don’t intend to ignore it, Leslie. That’s why I want you to go to Detroit.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you’re a lawyer and my partner. Please tell Eva Lang that you represent me. Tell her that as her brother-in-law, I offer to employ the most competent counsel in Detroit for her defense. Make it clear that I do this not as her husband, but as her brother-in-law.”

“If she’s a criminal,” Paxton protested, “why back her at all?”

“Criminal or not, she’s Caroline’s sister. Caroline would want me to do it.”

Uncle Carey protested loudly. But Aunt Harriet applauded. “That’s the most human thing I ever heard a Marsh say. Bravo, Roger.”

Leslie Paxton reluctantly agreed. He promised to catch a night train for Detroit.

The car was passing a pair of tall granite pillars with a grilled gate between them. Roger asked Uncle Carey to stop.

“Let me out here, please. I’ll take a taxi home.”

They knew what he wanted. Uncle Carey let him out and the car drove on. Roger passed through the gateway and took a gravel path through a grove of stately, elms. This was St. Cecelia Cemetery. He went directly to the Marsh family plot.

Hat in hand, Roger stood beside the newest grave. On its headstone was inscribed:

Caroline Blythe Marsh, 1917-1944

Here was a fact, Roger thought. Something to cling to. Here was the one and final answer to Eva Lang. It brought back, vividly, all the incontestable realities. Caroline’s last illness, the six days he had sat by her bedside. He remembered her last whispered word, “Good-by, Roger,” With her small hand in his, her eyes had closed in death.

No fantastic masquerade could possibly gainsay that fact — Caroline’s death four years ago. It steadied him now, as he stood by her grave. Confusion, and sometimes whispers of doubt, had taken their toll. There’d been moments when he’d wondered if he was mistaken; brief torturing suspicions that he might be denying his own wife.

All that was brushed away now as he stood by Caroline’s grave. Dozens of people had seen her lowered here. They’d mourned by her open casket. Every one of them was an unbreachable defense against Eva Lang.

For two days Roger dodged reporters and waited morosely for Leslie Paxton’s return from Detroit. Paxton dropped in on him late the second evening. “I’ve seen Eva Lang, Roger. She turned down your offer. What an actress that woman is! She’s a scuffed-up imitation of Caroline, but she’s not Caroline.”

“Just what did she say?”

“If you want her exact words, she said, ‘Tell Roger I’ll accept from him the loyalty of a husband; nothing more; nothing less.’ ”

Paxton left a few minutes later. Roger saw him to the door, then went up to his bedroom. As he took off his tie and loosened his collar, he studied the picture of Caroline on his chifforobe. Innocence and pride shone in the loving gaze of her eyes. He thought of Eva Lang’s response to Leslie. It was a response that didn’t fit Eva Lang. It seemed more the attitude of innocence and hurt pride.

Lucile Dutton, Roger’s secretary, was alone in the office when Roger appeared the next morning. With her “Good morning, Mr. Marsh,” she flashed him a quick look of sympathy.

“Good morning, Lucile.” Roger considered her troubled eyes for a moment, then consulted her about the problem that had kept him from sleep the night before. She warmly reassured him. “Don’t let her fool you, Mr. Marsh. Turning down your offer just shows she’s smart. She knew you’d react just that way.”

“But she hasn’t a cent. And good attorneys come high.”

“It’ll be worth more, she thinks, to soften you up. And to win public sympathy. The deserted-wife act is her best bet.”

Roger sat down at his desk and took from his pocket the photograph of Duke Smedley given him by Whipple. He showed it to Lucile Dutton. “Was this man ever in the office? Did we ever have any contact with him?”

“I don’t recognize him,” the girl said. “Who is he?”

“He’s Eva Lang’s boy friend. I’ve a vague feeling I saw him one time. Keep an eye open for him, Lucile.”

Later in the day a deputy from the district attorney’s office of Detroit called on Roger. He served a summons which required Roger Marsh to testify in the case of the People Against Eva Lang. Roger had been expecting it.

“I’m serving a similar summons,” the deputy said, “on a dozen or more persons who knew your wife well.”

“How will you select them?”

“We’re interviewing all the twenty-eight people named by the accused and will select ten or more who are positive she isn’t your wife.”

“What tests have you made on Eva Lang?” Roger asked.

“A blood test and a handwriting test. Her blood type is the same as your wife’s, but that would be expected with twin sisters. Her handwriting very closely resembles your wife’s. But Eva Lang had four years to practice her sister’s handwriting under the coaching of an expert forger, Duke Smedley.”

“You think he’s in on this with her?”

“It fits him like a glove. We think their first objective is an acquittal on the murder charge. Probably their second is a raid on your fortune after she’s free. She might file suit, for instance, for desertion and humiliating renunciation.”

“Who’ll her lawyer be?”

“Young chap assigned by the court. Name of Sprague. He’s already put his cards on the table.”

“What are they?”

“That the defense concedes the murder of one Rufus Fox by one Eva Lang in Detroit on a certain day five years ago. But the accused is not, the defense will insist, Eva Lang. She’s Caroline Blythe Marsh. That’s their case and they’ll stick to it.”

During the weeks that followed, reporters and feature writers dogged Roger. Often, on the way to his office, he heard a camera click at his elbow. Almost hourly the jangle of the telephone brought some friend offering support and sympathy, or perhaps some gossip columnist with an impertinent question. Crank letters, most of them anonymous, cluttered his mail.

It seemed to Roger he couldn’t pick up a paper without seeing news of the Eva Lang affair. In a metropolitan rotogravure section, on the Sunday before Eva Lang’s trial, a full page displayed twenty-nine photographs. The central one was Eva Lang. Surrounding it, each pictured individually, were all of the twenty-eight prominent Marylanders on the list she’d given for identification and vindication.

Roger himself was among them; Uncle Carey and Aunt Harriet were there; so were Effie Foster and Leslie Paxton and Dr. Cawfield. The élite of Baltimore were there. The page, in bold letters at the bottom, was titled: “The People Against Eva Lang.”

When The People Against Eva Lang opened at Superior Court in Detroit, Roger Marsh sullenly absented himself from the preliminary sessions. He barricaded himself in a hotel room near the courthouse all during the selection of a jury. His radio kept him informed and he received all the newspapers. Only when called to testify would he appear in court.

It was a week before he was called. By then Eva Lang’s murder guilt was clearly established and had not even been disputed by the defense. A hotel clerk had identified the accused as the woman he had seen shoot to death a man named Rufus Fox. It seemed conclusive. But in cross-examination the defense counsel had pointed to a pair of twin girls he had planted in the audience.

“Do you remember that one of those young ladies asked you the time on the street this morning?”

“Yes,” the clerk said.

“Which of them was it?”

And the witness had been unable to say. Thus the entire case was resolved into an identification of Eva Lang.

Roger was called to the stand.

“Are you a widower?” inquired the prosecutor.

“I am.”

“When did your wife die?”

“Four years ago.”

“State the circumstances of her illness, death and funeral.”

Roger complied in a precise voice.

“Look at the accused. Did you ever see her before?”

The defendant returned Roger’s stare. Her eyes challenged him, bitter and defiant.

“Yes,” Roger said. “I saw her once.”

“Only once?”

“Yes.”

“When and where?”

“At the Seattle jail two months ago.”

“That is all. Thank you, Mr. Marsh.”

In cross-examination the defense counsel asked, “Do you now concede that your wife had a twin sister named Evelyn?”

“Recently,” Roger answered stiffly, “I’ve come to that conclusion.”

“That is all.”

Roger tried not to hurry as he left the courtroom. He had expected it to be worse. He’d thought the defense counsel would nag him for hours.

At his hotel room he picked up the rest of the trial by radio and printed word. Ten other Marylanders were called by the prosecution and all of them, with varying degrees of emphasis, denied that the defendant could be Caroline Marsh. All ten of them had seen Caroline buried. When the state rested, Eva Lang’s position seemed untenable.

Then the defense opened and the defendant herself took the stand. She told precisely the story she’d told Inspector Whipple from the beginning. Her lawyer produced ten Baltimore witnesses himself, people he’d hand-picked after a series of interviews there. People who were uncertain enough to answer, “I don’t know.” One was a boy who, during the war, had delivered groceries to the Marsh home. He remembered peering into the kitchen once and seeing two women who looked just alike.

“Was the accused one of them?”

“I think so.”

“Is she Mrs. Marsh or the other one?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know,” or, “I can’t be certain,” was a response given by nine others.

A former maid at the Marsh house was asked, “Is there a faint doubt in your mind as to whether the defendant is Mrs. Marsh?”

“I’m afraid there is. I don’t see how she could be Mrs. Marsh because they say Mrs. Marsh passed away. But she looks like her. I can’t be sure.”

Then came a bombshell. The defense called Mrs. Carey Marsh of Edgeton, Maryland.

“Are you Caroline Marsh’s Aunt Harriet?”

“I am.”

“You knew your niece quite well?”

“Of course.”

“Can you look at the accused and swear she isn’t your niece?”

“No,” Aunt Harriet said coolly, “because I’m not at all sure she isn’t.”

Later Aunt Harriet herself, marching straight to Roger’s room, explained the stand she had taken.

“How could you?” he demanded.

“How could I say anything else? How can I swear away her life? I’m not sure she’s Caroline. But I’m not sure she isn’t.”

He sat on the bed and stared at her balefully. “You’re not sure she isn’t?”

“And deep down in your heart, neither are you, Roger.”

“Are you crazy? Of course I’m sure.”

“Your pride’s sure,” she corrected. “Your stiff-necked Marsh pride made up its mind even before you went to Seattle. You went there to say no. And you said it.”

Dr. Cawfield and Leslie Paxton came storming in. “And that goes for the rest of you,” Aunt Harriet blazed. “You’re just like Carey. You don’t like scandals. Sensations make you sick. You’ll trust a cold gravestone, every time, before you’ll trust flesh and blood. Stop glaring at me, Leslie. Has the jury gone out yet?”

“It has,” Leslie said. He added with a grimace. “And you should have heard the judge charge them! ‘If a reasonable doubt exists in your minds,’ he said, ‘that the defendant is Eva Lang, you will not be justified in a verdict of guilty.’ ”

“Doubt!” snorted Dr. Cawfield. “It’s in their minds like a maggot. And you planted it, Harriet Marsh.”

“Don’t you bully me, Elias. They asked my opinion and I gave it. And maybe I’ll sleep better than the rest of you.” Aunt Harriet flounced out.

Roger packed his bags and taxied to the airport. He was in a fever to get out of town before reporters made a mass assault. From now on he didn’t want any part of the case. And whatever the verdict, to him Eva Lang would still be Eva Lang.

All through the flight to Baltimore the plane’s stewardess kept a radio on. A concert, then a newscast. No decision yet in the Detroit case. Passengers whispered, nudged each other, looked covertly at Roger Marsh. He sat there staring frigidly into space.

Half an hour before they reached Baltimore the flash came. The jury had reported. The verdict was “not guilty.”

It wasn’t over yet. Roger was dismally sure of it. Eva Lang was free and could never be tried again on this charge. But by trade she was a swindler. So was Duke Smedley. They’d already raided his good name; and now, given time, they’d try to raid his purse.

For a month Roger waited, dreading every ring of his phone. Would Eva contact him herself? Or would Duke Smedley do it? Probably not Smedley; being wanted on many old counts, he’d hardly dare come into the open.

Eva, Roger learned from the papers, was boldly in the open. She was still a celebrity and every move she made was publicized. The papers said she’d gone to a Florida hotel for a month’s rest.

But how could she finance a trip like that? A month at a Florida resort would be expensive. Eva Lang, the prisoner, had had no money. The courts had even had to appoint a public defender.

Roger saw only one answer. Duke Smedley. While she was in custody he couldn’t reach her. Now that she was free, he could and had.

This conclusion comforted Roger considerably. No doubt the police were watching Eva in hopes of picking up Smedley. And once Smedley was caught, the truth about Eva Lang would be known. For Smedley knew everything about her. He’d bridged the gap of those four years with her and so he knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, which of the twins she was.

A short time later came a report that the woman once known as Eva Lang was now in New York. She had taken an apartment as Caroline Blythe Marsh and had found herself a job. It was at the perfumery counter of a Fifth Avenue department store, exactly the job held by Caroline Blythe eight years ago when she met Roger Marsh of Baltimore.

Roger was alarmed and confused because it seemed out of character. A confidence woman doesn’t usually go to work. But Caroline Marsh, thrown on her own resources, would do exactly that. She’d try to get her last job back.

Night after night he lay awake, reviewing every step of what had happened, trying to refute the vague uncertainties that had crept into his mind. What if he’d been wrong? What if this woman he had denied were really Caroline, whose love had been the most wonderful thing in his life? He kept telling himself it couldn’t be.

But he had to know. Suddenly he realized that the entire scheme used in identifying Eva Lang had been faulty. They’d taken witnesses from Baltimore to look at her — to say whether she was or wasn’t Caroline Marsh. No such scheme could be conclusive, because it was based upon opinion rather than upon incontestible fact.

A proper scheme would be the reverse. Instead of people identifying Eva Lang, Eva Lang should be made to identify people. People who’d known Caroline well, and whom Evelyn had never seen, should be paraded before Eva Lang. Recognition should then be demanded, not by the witnesses, but by Eva Lang herself.

For instance, Eva Lang had never in her life seen Lucile Dutton. During the war Lucile had left Roger’s company to become a Wave. There’d never been a picture of her at the Marsh house. From a diary Evelyn could know about Lucile but definitely she had never seen her. Therefore Evelyn couldn’t possibly recognize Lucile.

But Caroline, if living, could. And would. No married woman ever forgets a girl of whom she’s been jealous — a lovely secretary who’d caused the first marital quarrel.

So a test, using Lucile as a pawn, should be both simple and conclusive. Roger worked out the details and then rang up a New York client. He made an appointment for eleven the next morning.

“It’s rather important,” he told Lucile. “I’d like you to run up with me and make a transcript of the conference.”

They caught an early train and were in New York by ten. The conference engaged them till noon, when they had lunch in a restaurant on Fifth Avenue, close to the department store where Eva Lang was working. Roger ordered generously, tried to be gay and they lingered there until almost two.

He made it sound casual when, walking to the next corner for a cab, he remarked: “I have a bit of shopping to do, Lucile. I need a new hat. Mind if we stop in here a minute?”

They turned into the store. As they threaded through the crowded aisles Roger seemed to have an afterthought. “That reminds me — I’d better pick up something for Ruth Paxton’s birthday next week. How would a bottle of perfume do?”

Lucile gave him a searching look. “They can always use it,” she said.

“I tell you: While I get the hat you pick up the perfume. Make any selection you like. Here.” He handed her a bill. “Meet me at the Fifth Avenue exit in fifteen minutes.”

Roger disappeared in the crowd. Circling, he maneuvered to an aisle about ten yards to the right of the-perfume counter. He saw Eva Lang, but she, busy with customers, didn’t see him.

A strange feeling of nostalgia ran through Roger. It was here that he’d first seen Caroline, eight and a half years ago. The woman back of the perfume counter today had gray-streaked hair and looked forty-five. But the hardness was gone from her face. She was gracious, charming. She looked startlingly like Caroline.

But she wasn’t. Because she was now waiting on Lucile and her smile was entirely impersonal. Not the faintest flicker of recognition came to her eyes. “May I help you? Something for yourself?... Oh, a gift—”

Unseen himself, Roger missed no detail of it. He saw Lucile master her surprise at seeing Eva Lang. He watched her deliberately take time making her selection. The vital thing, however, was that Eva Lang didn’t know her.

Roger melted into the crowd, relieved to know that this woman was not Caroline. But mingled with the relief was the unreasonable wish that she might have been.

All the uncertainties dissolved, Roger’s mind was at ease. It stayed that way till late in May.

Then, in the lobby of the Lord Baltimore Hotel one morning, a rough hand clapped his shoulder. A hearty voice boomed, “Roger Marsh! How the devil are you, Roger?”

Roger turned to see a big rubicund man in a loose tweed suit. At Roger’s blank stare the man’s smile broadened. “Don’t you know me, Roger? Hell’s bells. And I thought I’d made an impression. I must have been too easy on you.”

With chagrin, Roger finally remembered. “Colonel Cox! How stupid of me! How are you, Colonel?”

Cox chuckled. “Imagine a guy not knowing his own commanding officer just because he’s out of uniform!”

“What about lunch, Colonel?”

“Not today. My wife’s waiting for me right now. We’re stopping here. Give me a ring sometime. See you later, Roger.”

Roger was thoughtful as he went on to his office. I’ve shared quarters with Cox in London, he reminded himself. And now, after only three years, I didn’t recognize him out of uniform.

It was more than seven years since Caroline had seen Lucile. The test at the perfume counter didn’t seem conclusive after all.

At his office Roger was surprised to find Uncle Carey, who was just back after wintering in California.

“Hello, Uncle Carey. How’s Aunt Harriet?”

“As hard-headed as ever,” Carey growled. “You know, Roger, I can’t pound any sense into her about that Eva Lang. Just like a woman. They’ll never admit when they’re wrong.”

Roger’s face clouded. “You mean she still isn’t sure about her?”

“Less sure than ever,” Carey said. “Felt sorry for her, she said, right after the trial. That’s why she offered to finance her for a month in Florida.”

Roger stared. “You mean Aunt Harriet paid for that trip?”

“Offered to. But Eva Lang wouldn’t take it except as a loan. She said she’d pay it back ten dollars a week when she got a job. And blast it, she has. Ten dollars came in the mail every week all winter. Says she has her old job back. So Harriet—”

But Roger didn’t hear any more. All the certainty of the past month came tumbling down.

On the morning of May twenty-fourth, Roger awakened with anticipation. For it was Caroline’s birthday and each year he remembered it with flowers for her grave. Today this act would dispel all his doubts, bringing him back to the invincible fact of Caroline’s death.

At a florist’s shop he purchased a wreath and drove with it to the cemetery, parking his car just inside the gate. Elms were in leaf and the grass was green. A clean gravel path took him fifty yards to the Marsh family plot.

And there was her headstone. Upright and solid it stood there, a bulwark to his faith. It was his last and final witness. Standing by it steadied him now, as always.

Caroline Blythe Marsh

1917–1944

He placed the wreath against the headstone. Then he stood by quietly, his head uncovered. And as the minutes passed, all the nagging doubts left him. Here in this grave, where he had reverently buried her with all his world standing by, lay his wife Caroline.

Sustained and reassured, he walked fifty yards back to his car. A sound of footsteps crunching on gravel made him turn. A man, he saw, was approaching the Marsh plot from the opposite direction. The man had a florist’s box under his arm.

Some old friend of the family, Roger presumed, had remembered the day and Caroline.

Getting into his car, Roger waited idly to see who it could be. At fifty yards, through the elms, he saw the man open the box and lay a dozen red roses on Caroline’s grave.

Then the man removed his hat and stood there with his head bowed.

He was well dressed, a personable man with brownish wavy hair. His face — with a start, Roger knew it. It was the face in a photograph Inspector Whipple had given him. Duke Smedley!

It was the face Roger had vaguely remembered having seen before.

He knew now where he’d seen it. The stranger at the funeral, four and a half years ago. The unobtrusive mourner none of them had known. He’d stood apart from the others and yet had followed them to the grave, this same grave to which he now returned.

A tribute for Caroline? It was Evelyn’s birthday too. Evelyn was the woman he’d loved, not Caroline.

Duke Smedley, all along, had known the truth.

And now, with a shock of conviction, Roger Marsh knew too.

Roger swerved his car through the gate. It was not yet noon. Driving fast, he could reach New York before the store closed. There, long ago, he had found Caroline.

And there, in humble contrition, he must find her again.

Michael Arlen

Midnight Adventure

This is the story of Prince Rudolf, son of the Duke of Suiza, and of an Englishman who was a bull of a man; and of the duel of wits between them, and how both proved they could take it as well as dish it out; and of that strange familiarity you will feel about Prince Rudolf, as if you had met him before on older pages, and more than once. And indeed you have, for Prince Rudolf comes of a royal literary line.

The Prince, we would hazard, is a direct descendant of that adventurous old caliph, Haroun-al-Raschid of bygone Baghdad, and surely he is kin of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Prince Florizel of Bohemia, that accomplished nobleman who also liked (in O. Henry’s phrase) “to go bumming” and night-prowling.

Yes, you will find this story by Michael Arlen a tale of high romance and dark crime and glittering detection — a story of enchantment and charm that “even in this world never die”...

* * *

Now it is told in London how on one winter’s night not long ago a gentleman who was walking from Grosvenor Square down Carlos Place was accosted by a lady in a peculiar manner and with curious results.

Earlier that same evening two gentlemen of correct appearance might have been observed dining together at a quiet corner table in the restaurant of a London hotel which is famous for the distinction of its guests. Our two friends, one lined and gray-haired, the other younger and lean and uncommonly handsome in a saturnine way, appeared to be absorbed in conversation.

The younger gentleman talked the least and, as was only proper, listened attentively to his gray-haired companion. This was not surprising, since the father was telling his son in the most urgent terms that only a rich marriage could appease the ferocity of their overdraft at the bank.

In days gone by, when the last King of Navarre strode into history as Henri IV, first and finest of the Bourbon Kings of France, the mountainous half of Navarre became, owing to reasons we cannot go into now, the Duchy of Suiza. The Dukes of Suiza were royal in that pathetically half-starved way which is disparagingly known as “minor.” For several centuries the Duchy of Suiza was respected, or perhaps overlooked, as an independent kingdom, and eventually forgotten.

The two gentlemen at dinner were Carlos XXVII, Duke of Suiza, and his only son, Prince Rudolf. But, as the worldly father pointed out to his worldly son, high titles like Duke and Prince without the cash to support them added up to so much spinach put before a starving man.

“In short,” said Duke Carlos, who liked to speak the English he had picked up from the American visitors who had thronged the Casinos of his duchy before his exile, “we are bust wide open, boy — unless you shake the Christmas tree to some effect.”

Rudolf sipped his champagne with an air of saturnine fatality. “Our reputation,” said he, “is enough to wither even the stoutest Christmas tree as we approach.”

“You must find some sweet young innocent, Rudolf. Or haven’t I already heard something about you and the American heiress, Baba Carstairs? I can only hope, my friend, that you are impressing the girl as being a romantic person — for you can look extremely romantic, particularly when you are telling lies.”

Prince Rudolf finished the champagne in his glass. “Dear father,” said he at last, “have you ever been in love?”

Duke Carlos looked at his son with pity.

“Frequently,” said he. “Why, did you think you had invented love?”

“Perhaps,” said the young man moodily, “I could suggest some badly-needed improvements on it.”

“So you are going to tell me that you are still crazy about that Follies girl you met last year in Paris?”

“No, not last year, but ten years ago, and not a Follies girl, but a girl. But perhaps it would be better for men like us not even to think about her.”

“You look so romantic when you speak of her, Rudolf, that I feel sure you told her many lies. Forget her, boy. Remember our traditions. Remember our name. Remember our overdraft. In short, remember Miss Carstairs.”

Now, it is of this Prince Rudolf it is told that, as later that night he walked moodily to his modest lodgings in the sulky shadows behind the clubs of Piccadilly, he was accosted by a lady in a peculiar manner.

He saw a car, long and dark, of sober elegance. It passed close by him, as such cars do, with no more sound than a flick of a cat’s whiskers. A few yards ahead, it stopped.

As Rudolf walked past, his moody gaze ahead, he was thinking how much better it would be for that pretty, nice, empty-headed little millionairess Baba Carstairs if a selfish brute like himself left her alone. He liked her very well, of course. But it would not have occurred to him to marry her if she had been poor.

It was at that moment that a corner of his eye was caught by something strange and bright in the cold night. It was a hand and arm alight with jewelry against the black background of the car.

“Can I drop you?” said a low voice.

Rudolf, who had been very well brought up, as regards superficial manners anyway, took off his hat to the brilliant arm, observing at the same time that the hand was slender and young and cool, like the voice.

“You are very kind,” said he. “But I have only a short way to go.”

“There is nothing to fear,” said the cool voice.

The correct and incurious profile of the elderly chauffeur at the wheel betrayed nothing but the propriety of his employer. Rudolf, stepping closer to the open window, caught a glimpse of the lady’s face within the shadows — and was lightly touched by a faint perfume that reminded him so poignantly of a past enchantment that for an instant he walked again in a garden with a slight fair girl.

Telling himself that he was a fool, he swiftly opened the door and climbed within.

“Thank you,” said the lady, “for being both brave and polite.”

Prince Rudolf smiled. “I fancy it is neither courage nor politeness that inspires men to do what beautiful women ask them.”

He found the lady examining him with the utmost gravity.

“Height, five-eleven,” he said, “hair, black; eyes, brown; one small mole on left cheek; self-confident manner; no distinctive peculiarities...”

Her faint smile did not touch the gravity of her eyes, of which he had already formed a very favorable opinion. They were direct and blue, of a brilliant darkness, like the blue sea whipped by wind. The lady’s hair, too, was maybe-as you like it, fair and curly, but without frivolity. Rudolf, experienced in petty encounters, saw at once that only some great urgency had forced this lady to address a stranger, for she could not be corrupted by small desires.

“And I?” she said.

He noticed, but without surprise, that the car was moving. It was agreeable to find that he was not so tired of the world as he had fancied he was.

“And I, sir?” she said. “How would you describe the stranger who has kidnaped you?”

“I like you,” Said Prince Rudolf.

“Dear me,” said the lady, “you are quick.”

“That’s me all over,” said Rudolf. “The minute I set eyes on you, I said to myself, there’s a woman I like a lot.”

“I hadn’t an idea,” said the lady, “that conversation with a stranger could be made so easy as you make it.”

“You are not a stranger. I recognized you right away.”

“Me? You recognized me?”

“Of course. You have never heard the old chestnut about the woman whom a man always meets too late?”

“Too late? Dear me, for what?”

“For his peace of mind, since she is usually already married.”

“Since I am single, sir, your peace of mind is safe. But thank you for saying nice things about my appearance.”

“Not only your appearance, madam. I have also taken a big liking to your character.”

“Then you are a clairvoyant?”

“A connoisseur — a student of dreams.”

“Were we talking of dreams?”

“No, but we are going to. When men dream,” said Prince Rudolf, “of that kind of happiness which is too often forbidden them owing to having married in haste, or some other silly reason, their dreams are inspired by thoughts of the perfect companion. It is not necessary to shut my eyes to describe her. She must be exquisite, of course, but without the trivial emphasis that merely smart women lay on the small fashions of the moment. Her beauty should wear a certain gravity, for does she not understand much and forgive everything, particularly the greed and the follies of men? She must be wise, naturally, but not too wise never to make a mistake, never to take a risk, never to sigh for romance, never to hurt herself. She will always do her utmost not to hurt anybody else, and at all difficult times she will take refuge in laughing at herself, for above everything she is gifted with the good manners of the heart.”

“Dear me,” she said, “I never knew that the dreams of men were so informed by kindness. Your reputation, Prince Rudolf, scarcely prepares a listener for such sentiments.”

“Madam, in your company I had permitted myself for one moment to forget all but the little that is best in me. But now that you have reminded me of my ordinary self I must admit that I should like nothing so much as to kiss you and damn the consequences.”

“That rebuke,” she said, “was well deserved. For no one could have been more polite than you. You have not yet asked me how I knew you, where we are going, or who I am. I recognized you from your photographs. I followed you from the restaurant where you dined. We are going to my house, which is here in Belgrave Square. My name is no matter. And I am going to ask you, sir, to do me a service. You see, I make no excuses. My behavior is too outrageous for excuses to have any value. If you wish, you may say good night now, my car will take you home, and I shall be the richer for having enjoyed an instructive conversation with a man of the world.”

Undeterred by her gravity, Rudolf laughed outright. For many months he had not felt so lighthearted.

“Miss X,” said he, “it was you who spoke of my reputation. So, if you think you can get rid of me so easily, you’re crazy.”

Her level eyes searched his face. He was sobered by the profound contempt that seemed to add a dark light to their dark brilliance. He would have noticed this contempt before had he not been so engaged, as was his way, in trying to make an impression on a beautiful woman.

“You are afraid of nothing, Prince Rudolf?”

They were on the pavement now, before the house, and he glanced at the dark imposing building.

“Of a great many things,” he said, “but of no possible hurt that could come to me from you.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “you are wrong there.”

An elderly manservant let them in. Rudolf, divesting himself of his overcoat in the large hall, had time to realize the substantial wealth of his surroundings. From above the great fireplace, in which the ashes of a log fire glowed dimly, one of Van Dyck’s cavaliers thoughtfully measured the world, while on another wall was the dark and sour visage of a Rembrandt.

Then he was shown into a long paneled library. It was dimly lit, and in front of the fireplace at the far end stood the strange lady and a tall, fair, red-complexioned bull of a man of about his own age.

“This is my brother,” said the lady, “Mr. Geraldine. I am Iris Geraldine.”

Mr. Geraldine’s brick-red complexion sharpened by contrast the paleness of his cold blue eyes. He made no attempt to conceal the hostility with which he measured the faintly smiling face of his guest.

“So now you realize,” he said, “why I told my sister not to give you her name, for had you known it you certainly would not have come.”

“You misjudge me, Mr. Geraldine. For the sake of a woman like your sister I should willingly risk much more than a disagreeable encounter with a man like her brother. Now what is it you want with me?”

“Surely, Prince Rudolf, you can easily guess what I—”

“Wait,” said Rudolf sharply. “Before we go any further you will be so good as to ask me to sit down. I thank you. Then you will invite me to have a drink. Thank you. I prefer brandy.”

Mr. Geraldine’s handsome brick-red face broke into a fighting grin. You could see at once that he had good hands with a horse, that dogs would come to his whistle, and that he would both give and take a kick in the pants.

“Iris,” he turned to his sister, “perhaps you had better leave Prince Rudolf and me together.”

Miss Geraldine had not yet glanced at her kidnaped guest. She sat, somewhat stiffly, in a high Queen Anne chair, her eyes lost in the leaping colors of the bright fire.

“I am here,” said Prince Rudolf, “at Miss Geraldine’s express invitation, and I am enjoying her company very much. I hope you will stay with us, Miss Geraldine. No doubt your brother is a splendid fellow, but he is net half so pretty to look at as you are.”

She held her small head very still and erect, and he was conscious that she would much prefer to ignore his presence. She spoke to the fire, in her low cool voice, as though she was thinking out loud.

“I do not like,” she said, “to see any man humiliated, no matter how much he may deserve it.”

“I’ll risk that,” said Rudolf. “Go ahead, Mr. Geraldine. As you said, I know you are the chairman of the great and famous private bank of Geraldine Brothers, and that you are the trustee of the estate of Miss Carstairs.”

“Not only her trustee, Prince, but also her late father’s most intimate friend. She told me no later than this afternoon that she had made up her mind to marry you.”

“She ought to have told me first,” said Prince Rudolf, “but her decision makes me so happy that I must forgive her. Thank you for your congratulations, Mr. Geraldine.”

“Hers is a great fortune,” said Mr. Geraldine dryly.

“So my father has told me every day for weeks. He will be very pleased about this, as he has been so hard up lately. How agreeable it is to meet nice young girls like Miss Carstairs who think nothing of bringing a little sunshine into the lives of tired old men like my father. When I tell him tomorrow, he will be very touched.”

“He won’t,” Mr. Geraldine said, “because you won’t.”

Prince Rudolf’s attention appeared at that moment to be engaged in an exhaustive study of Iris Geraldine’s profile, and that he thought very highly of it was obvious from his expression.

“I won’t... what?” he said absently.

“You won’t tell your father you are going to marry Miss Carstairs, Prince, because you are not going to.”

“All complaints on that head,” said Rudolf, “should be addressed to Miss Carstairs in person. It is her life. It is her money. It is to be her marriage. And I am her choice.”

“A girl so young,” said Mr. Geraldine, “does not always know what is best for her. I cannot forbid Baba to marry you, because she is of age. I can’t persuade her not to by telling her that you, in spite of your great name, are a well-known waster and adventurer, that you are notorious both for your affairs with women and for your dexterity in getting your bills paid, because she dismisses all such facts as reflections on a misunderstood, handsome, and romantic prince.”

“And quite right too. That ought to teach you, Mr. Geraldine, not to go about putting nasty thoughts into young girls’ heads. Just because nobody has ever thought you romantic since you were a little boy in velvet pants, why be jealous of me?”

“I am never jealous,” said Mr. Geraldine, “of a crook.”

“Am I to understand, Mr. Geraldine, that you have just called me a crook?”

“You are. I have.”

“In that case,” said Prince Rudolf, rising from his chair, “I must have another brandy. You have interested me greatly, Mr. Geraldine. Won’t you please develop your theory?”

“It is not a theory, Prince, but a fact. But I had much rather not elaborate it — and I won’t, if you promise not to see Miss Carstairs again.”

“But that would never do, Mr. Geraldine. The poor girl would be very upset. My poor father would be very disappointed. And my poor creditors would be very angry.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Geraldine grimly. “On the formal announcement of your engagement to Miss Carstairs I shall notify the proper authorities that I have in my possession a check drawn in your favor by a Mr. John Anderson and cashed by you, which I have every reason to suspect is a forgery.”

“But why suspect?” said Prince Rudolf. “You know it’s a forgery.”

“So you admit forging Anderson’s signature to a check for £1,000?”

Prince Rudolf glanced aside at Iris Geraldine — and instantly found, to his surprise and consternation, that something inside him was beating painfully. He could not immediately put this curious phenomenon down to a disturbance of his heart-action, since he had for some years regarded his heart as a leathery veteran, dingily and immovably fixed within a dark cloud of cigarette smoke. But he was a reasonable man and had to face the fact that here the old veteran was, thumping like a boy’s just because a fair young woman with level eyes was regarding him gravely and impersonally, as a scientist might regard a maggot.

“Mr. Geraldine,” he said at last, and his voice for the first time was without any mockery at all, “when John Anderson died last week, did you not, as his executor, find any note among his papers referring to me?”

“I did not.”

“I think you did. I think you have that note in your possession. John Anderson was a gambler, and like nearly all gamblers he was a very honest man. Do you still say that he left no letter in his handwriting with reference to me?”

“I have already said so, Prince Rudolf.”

“Then I should like to put it on record, Mr. Geraldine, that you are a liar. This may be due to the fact that you were badly brought up, but the fact remains that you are a liar. A year ago John Anderson bet me a hundred pounds that I could not forge his signature and get away with it without suspicion. It was to be for a check of a thousand pounds merely so that the signature should be scrutinized carefully at the bank. I succeeded, returned the thousand pounds in cash to Anderson, who gave me the bet I had won and also a receipt for the sum of the forged check. I have that receipt. Among his papers you have already found a letter signed by him telling the circumstances of the forged check.”

“Prince Rudolf,” said Mr. Geraldine, “of course I am very glad that you have John Anderson’s receipt. When you come to be examined by the police on the matter of Anderson’s forged signature that receipt will no doubt form the pivot of your defense. It might even win you acquittal, and probably will, but in the absence of any letter from John Anderson among his effects exonerating you of all blame, I am afraid that a great deal of doubt will exist in the public mind as to whether you are, or are not, a common swindler. I have not yet found that letter among Anderson’s effects. If and when I do, I shall of course be delighted to let you know.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Geraldine. In return I can only say that if I was a cannibal I should simply have to drown you in Worcester sauce before being able to eat you. So I am to understand that unless I give up Miss Carstairs you will make it very unpleasant indeed for me?”

“I prefer to say, Prince, that unless you agree to give up this misguided girl, I shall have to do my best to show her what sort of a man you really are. As you know, by her father’s will she comes into her estate on the day she marries. And she told me today that it was her fixed intention, as she is very rich and you are poor, to settle on you a very considerable sum of money which would ensure you a comfortable income for life.”

“I wish,” sighed Rudolf, “that my father could hear you say that. His enthusiasm would be quite touching.”

“I fear he will be disappointed, Prince. But not to depress you both too much, and since after all you are being forced to give up a considerable fortune, I am prepared here and now to write you a check for £4,000. I shall send it to you on the day that Miss Carstairs tells me that she has decided not to marry you.”

“Dear me,” said Rudolf, “I see that I must have another brandy. Thank you, Mr. Geraldine. Your brandy is superb. Did you say four thousand pounds?”

“I did — merely, you understand, as a small consolation—”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow — it’s a big consolation. After all, are there many men whose charms could be valued at four thousand pounds? I fear you are a flatterer, Mr. Geraldine.”

The banker’s handsome red face was, for a man making a contemptuous offer, curiously eager, and Rudolf regarded him thoughtfully.

“Then you accept, Prince? You will agree to leave Miss Carstairs alone?”

But Rudolf’s attention appeared now to be engaged in yet another careful examination of Miss Geraldine’s cold profile.

“I note with regret,” he said, “that Miss Geraldine’s disapproval of me has increased to such an extent that, were she not a lady, she would express it in such old-fashioned terms as swindler, gigolo, and cad.”

“Cad,” said Iris Geraldine, “is an unpleasant word. But very descriptive. I should prefer you, Prince, to address yourself only to my brother. I am here merely as a witness to a business arrangement.”

“Not at all,” said Rudolf, with sudden sharpness. “It is a romantic arrangement.”

Astonished, they stared at him. He was smiling in his saturnine way. Mr. Geraldine glanced at his sister, and laughed. It was the kind of laugh for which a small chap would have been knocked down, but he was a bull of a man.

“These fellows,” said he, “can make anything seem romantic.”

“What fellows, Mr. Geraldine?”

“Romantic fellow, Prince — romantic wasters.”

“Well, I can promise you that your sister will find what I am going to say a good deal more romantic than you will. I am going to tell you a story.”

“Not to me,” said Miss Geraldine with spirit. “I am going to bed.”

“This story, Miss Geraldine,” said Rudolf slowly, “is about your sister.”

They stared at him across an appalled silence. But his dark eyes saw only Iris Geraldine’s still white face, at last turned full to his.

“You knew her?” she sighed.

“But for her,” said Prince Rudolf, “I should not be here tonight.”

“Fantastic nonsense!” said Geraldine harshly. “Diana died more than ten years ago.”

“Ten years, three months and five days ago, my friend. I came into your car, Miss Geraldine, only because I recognized the faint scent you are wearing. It is made by an obscure perfumer in Paris, and I gave her first bottle to Diana. Then for sentimental reasons I paid my friend Louvois, the perfumer, enough money to buy the rights of the scent outright — that is, so that no one but Diana Geraldine should ever use it. I was a rich man then, you understand. Louvois, for as long as he was in business, was to send her one bottle every six months at this address.

“A year or so after she was killed in that motor accident near Fontainbleau, Louvois wrote to me enclosing a letter that he had received from England. The letter was from a girls’ school near Ascot, and was written by a schoolgirl to the effect that the duty-paid scent from Paris which had been delivered to Miss Geraldine was obviously for her elder sister, who was dead, but could it please go on being sent to the address in Belgrave Square so that she could use it when she was grown up in memory of her dead sister, and it was signed ‘Iris Geraldine.’

“So you will see why I so willingly came with you when you invited me. I told you, didn’t I, that you weren’t a stranger?”

“Diana,” said Iris Geraldine, so dimly that she was scarcely audible, “was the loveliest elder sister a little girl could have. I was fourteen when she died, and as our father and mother had died so long before, she was everything in the world — all heroines in one — to me. And so I clung to the sweet dry perfume which, so she once told her little sister, a fairytale prince had given her to use forever and ever.”

“Well,” said Mr. Geraldine bitterly, “there’s damn little of the fairy-tale about the Prince now.”

Rudolf smiled. “That’s true enough, dear me. But you must remember I was only twenty-three then — and Diana was twenty. Young people, Mr. Geraldine, arc sometimes very serious indeed about such trivialities as being in love.”

“Now that you have hurt Iris,” said her brother harshly, “by bringing up memories of her sister, may I ask what was your point in doing so?”

“He has not hurt me,” said Iris. Her eyes were hidden. Her voice came from behind an invisible curtain. “You didn’t intend to, did you, Prince?”

“Indirectly, my dear, I fear I must — that is, through this brother of yours. Mr. Geraldine, I told you about Diana because she used to speak of you, her elder brother and the head of the family. You will no doubt already have remarked that I don’t like you. This is not due wholly to your manner, which would make an unfavorable impression even on a drunken sailor. It is because Diana did not like you, as you of course know.

“That you are a bully goes without saying. But being a bully is not a crime — indeed it is sometimes an asset. One moment, Mr. Geraldine. I know also that in spite of your very respectable front as a great banker, you are an unscrupulous speculator. Diana — aged twenty to your twenty-five — guessed your true character.

“Now I am going to make the deduction that as Miss Carstairs’s trustee you have gambled with part of her funds and that in the recent Wall Street crash you have lost heavily. Wait. On her marriage you will have to show her accounts to her lawyers, with the result that you will find yourself in the dock. That is why you do not want her to marry until you can regain your losses.

“This is all guesswork, you will say, and no doubt you will tell me I am wrong. But on one point I can ease your mind. I am not going to marry Miss Carstairs.

“That is not because I wish to save you, but because I have fallen in love tonight for the second time in my life, though I fear the lady does not approve of me at all. I can only hope to win her approval in time.

“But that is another story. Tomorrow I shall advise Miss Carstairs to ask her lawyers to look into—”

Mr. Geraldine chewed his cigar. His cold eyes were thoughtful, but there was a grin on his handsome red face. This grin had no doubt been put there by an ancestor who had been caught red-handed while committing robbery under arms and had known that the game was over.

“Iris,” he said, “somebody ought to have warned me about the intelligence of princes. I begin to see now how even the shrewdest bankers have been persuaded to lend them money.”

“My father, Mr. Geraldine, who has had more than sixty years’ experience of owing money to the shrewedst bankers in London and New York, says that times are not what they were.”

Mr. Geraldine smiled across at him. His eyes were cold and watchful. “Prince Rudolf, I shall not like standing in the dock charged with having misappropriated my client’s funds.”

Rudolf nodded sympathetically. “Nor should I. Taking other people’s money is nice work, if you can get away with it. Given a bad character — like yours and my father’s — it’s all a matter of luck.”

“Then I am sorry that you are not your father, Prince. If you were, I should offer you £10,000 at the end of six months merely for keeping your mouth shut during that time. But as you are not, I fear I shall have to do something drastic, like shooting myself. But I don’t like the idea at all.”

Rudolf nodded sympathetically. “Yes, there is a degree of emphasis about suicide which is always disagreeable to a thoughtful mind. I shouldn’t commit suicide, Mr. Geraldine. It will probably embarrass more people than it will please.”

“But, my dear Prince, what else can I do? Miss Carstairs has never liked me, anyway. And when tomorrow you tell her of your suspicions, she will be only too eager to consult her lawyers.”

Rudolf turned to Miss Geraldine. “What do you think of all this, Iris?”

“I think,” she said very gravely, “that my brother has been playing with fire for a long time and that he has at last burned his hands. I think that tonight will mark a change for the better in him.”

“Then you don’t think he will shoot himself?”

She smiled unsteadily. “You are a pair of cruel babies, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Geraldine,” said Rudolf, “did you hear that? You are a cruel baby.”

“You too,” said Mr. Geraldine. “Have another brandy.”

“Thank you. Then, Iris, you think I ought not to tell Miss Carstairs?”

“I can promise you,” said Geraldine, “that her capital will be intact within six months. Also many innocent people will suffer loss if this comes to a head now. Later on, they won’t.”

“But I am lunching with the girl tomorrow,” said Prince Rudolf, “and I might possibly blurt out something.”

“You can put off the lunch,” said Iris coldly.

“But I hate lunching alone, Iris. Here is an idea. Will you lunch with me?”

“I am already engaged.”

Rudolf turned to Geraldine. “There you are, my friend. I’ve done my best. She doesn’t like me. She won’t lunch with me. I fear you will have to commit suicide, after all.”

“Nonsense, Iris,” said her brother. “Of course you can lunch with him.”

“But I don’t want to,” said Iris.

“She doesn’t like me,” said Rudolf helplessly. “Give it up, Geraldine.”

“I do like you,” said Iris stormily. “It’s only that you talk such nonsense so plausibly that I daren’t trust myself alone with you.”

“That’s splendid,” said Rudolf. “Unfortunately, we shall be lunching in a public place, and I shan’t be able to do very much.”

“But you can always talk.”

“I shall. I shall propose marriage.”

“I shall refuse.”

“Naturally. Then I shall point out that you lack foresight. For if you had foresight you would know that it is sheer waste of time to go on refusing a man whom you are going to accept in the end.”

“Very well,” said Iris, “I lack foresight.”

“Mr. Geraldine,” said Prince Rudolf, “we have been forgetting my father. Some time ago you called me a crook—”

“That was politics, Prince. Anderson had told me the real story.”

“Politics cost money, Mr. Geraldine. In payment for your politics you will be so good as to earn my father’s undying gratitude by sending him tomorrow the sum of £4,000 in notes from an Anonymous Admirer. This gift will give him great pleasure both financially and morally, since he has never had any admirers, anonymous or otherwise. Good night, Mr. Geraldine. Your servant, Iris. I shall call for you at one tomorrow.”

The two men shook hands. This was a quiet and thoughtful ceremony, which they appeared to enjoy.

Iris, with a sudden high color, walked to the door and out into the hall. Prince Rudolf found her there, and she walked with him towards the front hall. Very lightly she touched his arm.

“Thank you for not ruining my brother. That was because of Diana?”

“Because of Diana and Iris,” he said. “Because of enchantment and gentleness. Because I am a lucky man to have found out tonight that, even in this world, they never die.”

He stooped to kiss her hand, and as he did so a flutter of lips just touched his forehead.

“Dear me,” she whispered, “who would have thought you were such a darling!”

Roy Vickers

Dinner for Two

Another irresistible true-to-life {almost frighteningly so) case from the records of the elephant-memoried, never-give-up Department of Dead Ends, an imperishable semi-procedural series in the history of the modem detective story...

* * *

Today, if you were to mention the Ennings mystery, you would be assured that “everyone knows” that Dennis Yawle murdered Charles Ennings. In this case, “everyone” happens to be right, though for the wrong reasons. The public of the day decided that he was guilty because he denounced an attractive young woman of pleasing manners and assumed respectability. And “everyone knows” that nice young women don’t commit murder, whatever their walk in life, and that self-centered, solitary, aggressive little men sometimes do.

Charles Ennings was a patent agent. He lived in a flat on the third floor at Barslade Mansions, Westminster, the kind of flats that are occupied by moderately successful professional men and junior directors. A bachelor, with a promiscuous impulse freely indulged, he nevertheless managed to avoid scandalizing his neighbors.

His dead body was found in his sitting-room by the daily help at eight-thirty. Death, which had occurred upwards of ten hours previously, had been caused by a knife — thrust in the throat — an ordinary pocket knife such as could then be bought in any cutler’s for a few shillings. The news, of course, did not appear before the lunchtime editions.

Dennis Yawle, the murderer, was a prematurely embittered man of thirty-two. He had taken a science degree in chemistry and had been employed by a well-known firm of soap manufacturers for the last nine years at a modest salary. His personality, rather than his science, had precluded him from promotion. The firm had given him a chance as manager of their depot in the Balkans; but he disappointed them in everything except his routine work. Incidentally, it was in the Balkans that he had learned how to use a knife for purposes other than the cutting of string.

In chemistry alone he was enterprising. He had worked out some useful little compounds, unconnected with soap, and had patented them through Ennings. His income had been substantially increased, but not to the point where he could prudently resign his job.

He believed that Ennings had tricked him over his patents, which was true. He believed that he had lost Aileen Daines because he had insufficient money — which may have been true. Hysteria was added to grievance by the further belief that Ennings himself had enjoyed the lady’s favors for a brief period before discarding her for another, which was probably an exaggeration. By that particular exaggeration many a man has been flicked from hatred to murderous intent.

Daily at lunchtime he would emerge from the laboratory in North London with his colleague, Holldon. Holldon had his daily bet on the races, and always bought a paper from a stand outside the restaurant. He would prop it up during lunch, while Yawle generally read a book. But on January 18th, 1933, he brought no book, because he had to stage a little pantomime with Holldon’s paper.

First, he must eat his lunch, which was not too easy. When the coffee arrived he delivered his line, which began with a yawn:

“Any news in that thing?”

“No. They’ve had to plug a murder to fill space.”

Holldon was doing everything right, even to pushing the paper across the table. Yawle’s stage business with the paper was easy enough.

“Good — lord!” He shot it out, and Holldon was sufficiently startled to attend. “I know this chap who’s been murdered. I say, Holldon, this is pretty ghastly for me! I was with him last evening — I must ring the police.”

“I’d keep out of it, if I were you. You have to turn up at court day after day in case they want you to give evidence.”

“But they’ve called in Scotland Yard, which means that the local police can’t produce a suspect.” Yawle kept it up until the other professed himself convinced.

Five minutes later he was speaking on the telephone to Chief Inspector Karslake, giving particulars of himself.

“I was at that flat last night between seven and half-past. I don’t suppose I can tell you anything you don’t know but I thought I’d better give you a ring.”

Karslake thanked him with some warmth, and said he would send a man to Mr. Yawle’s office.

“Well-l, I have rather a crowded afternoon in front of me. I could make Scotland Yard in about twenty minutes. If you could see me then, we could get my little bit tidied up right away.”

In his pocket was a crystal of cyanide to complete the tidying-up process if necessary.

To walk up to the tiger and stroke it was a desperate improvisation, necessitated by the blunders of an ill-designed murder. Indeed, it is doubtful whether his plans had ever emerged from the fantasy stage, until he struck the blow — if we except the solitary precaution of observing the porter’s movements.

For three nights previously he had strolled past the flats on the opposite side of the road, noting that between seven and eight the porter was extremely busy — with three entrances and forty-five flats, most of whose tenants were arriving or departing by taxi or car. It would be child’s play to slip in — and out again — without being seen.

In the fantasy, he eluded the porter, passed through an empty hall, ascended an empty staircase.

In actuality, he did elude the porter. But the hall was not empty. In the miniature lounge, consisting of one palm, a radiator, and three chairs, stood a girl who, as he fancied, bore some resemblance to Aileen Daines. That is, she was neither tall nor short; she was slim and dark, with regular features and liberal eyebrows. She glanced at the electric clock, sat down and began to sort her shopping parcels. Yawle looked straight into her eyes, but she took no notice of him, which, irrationally, inflamed his sense of the loss of Aileen.

The staircase, too, contributed its quota of trouble. Most people used the automatic elevator — that was why he had chosen the staircase. On the first turn, between floors, he all but crashed into an elderly lady from behind: it was such a near thing that she dropped a parcel.

He was himself startled and at a loss. The woman, small but imposing, fiftyish, glared at him with an indignation that had a quality of voraciousness — to his nerve-racked fancy, she looked as if she wanted to pounce upon him, spiderwise, and eat him.

“I’m most awfully sorry, madam! Very careless of me! I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

The voracious, spiderlike quality vanished from a face which was ordinary enough and even pleasing. She accepted the parcel with a graceful, old-fashioned bow and the kind of smile that used to go with the bow.

He hurried on to the first floor — up the next flight, to the second.

“I say! Do you know you really lose time when you do two stairs at once?”

The thin, piping treble had come from a boy of about ten.

“Do I? Pr’aps you’re right. I’ll take your advice.”

This was a nightmare journey. The murder, still in part a fantasy, receded. Funny how that girl had reminded him of Aileen! Must have been like her, in a way. But that girl was sure of herself and happy. If only he could tell what had happened to Aileen!

The device of writing to her parents to inquire had not occurred to him. By the time he reached the third floor, Aileen’s present condition was deplorable and even unmentionable — as a result of the general behavior of Charles Ennings.

When Ennings opened the door he was wearing a dinner jacket, which somehow made everything worse. He seemed younger than his fifty years: the heavy lips had become masterful: he had pulled himself in, probably with corsets. He looked successful, confident, insolent.

“I want to talk to you, Ennings.”

“By all means!” Ennings was un-enthusiastic, if not positively damp. “Between ourselves, I don’t do business at home, but — come in, won’t you?”

The hall was but a bulge in the corridor of the flat. Opposite were two doors some ten feet apart. Ennings opened one and Yawle entered the kind of near-luscious sitting-room he had expected, littered with cabinet photographs of the current inamorata — not even attractive, in Yawle’s eyes.

The telephone rang, as if to emphasize that Yawle’s presence was an intrusion.

“No, it was a washout,” said Ennings into the receiver. “I got home at the usual time after all, and I’m taking an evening off. Can’t talk now, I have a client who’s in a hurry.”

Ennings cut off. He pointed to an armchair, but Yawle remained standing. Ennings sat in the other armchair.

“Gronston’s,” said Yawle, “have put my Cleanser in every grocer’s, and every oil shop and every hardware store in the country. And it’s selling.”

“Of course it’s selling! It’s a damn fine fluid, old man. Who’s saying it isn’t!”

“Why do I get such measly royalties? Why is the contract signed by Lanberry’s instead of by Gronston’s?”

“So that’s what’s biting you!” Ennings had had this conversation, in one form or another, with a good many inventors. “Between ourselves, Lanberry’s is a holding company, if you know what that means—”

“I know that Lanberry’s holds one desk in one room in a back street off Holborn. And I know that the Chairman is a clerk employed by you. I’ve been there.”

“You’ve been there!” snorted Ennings. “So it only remains for the bloodsucking financier to burst into tears and disgorge the loot! My good young man, you’re poking your nose into things you don’t understand — and you’re making an infernal fool of yourself.”

The main purpose, of course, was to talk about Aileen. Yawle had given no detailed thought to the matter of the royalties. Ennings and his dinner jacket — successful, confident, insolent — was riding him.

“I shall take it up with Gronston’s! There’s another thing—”

“Good! I hope you’ll be fool enough to do just that. In the meantime you can take yourself and your business to the devil. Your business! Your invention! Between ourselves, there are a good few others who’ve rediscovered that old formula, or copied it out of a back number—”

So, in the end, Aileen’s name hadn’t even been mentioned.

The skill of the Balkan bandits with their short knives — very like our pocket knives — is based on a knowledge of how to hold the knife. If you hold it properly, as Yawle did, in the palm of the hand, you leave no fingerprints on the haft. Your index finger lies along the back of the blade, slides down it as the blade impacts with an upward sweep: so there’s no detectable fingerprint there, either. If your aim is accurate, as Yawle’s was, there is neither bother nor noise in the killing.

Ennings remained sitting in his armchair as he had sat in life.

If all the movements were performed correctly, there should be no stains. Yawle studied himself in the mirror. There were no stains. The brainstorm, the movement of hysteria, had passed, leaving him cool, tingling with a sense of achievement and well-being. He felt successful, confident, insolent.

He noted that Enning’s electric clock registered seven twenty-three. He had been in that flat for less than six minutes, all told.

He shut the door of the sitting-room. He was halfway to the front door when he heard footsteps on the landing. He backed away from the front door, found himself opposite the room next to that of the sitting-room. The dining-room. He opened the door.

The footsteps died away. The light from the corridor of the flat had fallen on a white tablecloth. Using his sleeve, he switched on the room light.

The table was laid for two, and the food was on the table. Cold food. Smoked salmon; chicken; trifle in fairy glasses, with a peach on top — canned peach! So Ennings had been expecting a girl! Who might turn up at any minute!

Yawle was in the act of opening the front door, was reaching forward for the latch, when he again heard footsteps approaching. This time he did not panic. He merely stood back, so that his shadow should not fall on the glass panel.

This time the footsteps stopped outside the door. The knocker was lifted and discreetly applied. Yawle kept still. In due course, people go away when there is no response to a knock.

But this caller did not go away. There came the unmistakable sound of a latchkey being inserted.

There was no time to rush back to the dining-room. He slipped into the sitting-room, locked himself in with the dead man, turning the key with his handkerchief.

He did not hear the outer door of the flat being shut. For a moment he was ready to believe that his over-taut nerves had tricked him — that there had been no footsteps and no latchkey.

Some ten seconds later there came a light knock on the door of the sitting-room. Then the handle was turned. Yawle held his breath.

“Char-lie! It’s me-e!”

A full throated, middle-contralto. Aileen had a middle contralto voice, too. But that voice was not — could not be — Aileen’s voice. If it were Aileen, would she hand him over to the police?

As, by hypothesis, it was not Aileen, there was a danger amounting to certainty that the owner of the voice would hand him over to the police.

Seconds passed without any sound to give him a clue as to what was happening.

Then the sound of the front door being shut.

Within a minute or so he had evolved a feasible theory of his predicament. The girl has been given a latchkey, so she’s one of Ennings’s harem. She thinks he’s cut a date with her, so she’s gone off in a huff. If she’s waiting for him on the landing — but she won’t be! She’s on latchkey terms and would curl herself up in the flat. Give her a couple of minutes to get clear.

When the two minutes had passed he slipped out of the flat, pausing only to shut the outer door as silently as possible. The main thing was to avoid being seen or heard leaving the flat.

No footsteps. No one on the staircase. By the time he reached the second floor, his confidence returned.

That table spread with a meal for two was nothing less than a first-class alibi, provided the body were not discovered in the next ten minutes or so. No man, he could point out, would be such a fool as to murder another in a flat when he knew that a guest was momentarily expected.

He had merely to pretend that he had seen the table when he entered the flat, and he could add that Ennings had explained that he was expecting a girl friend. He need not even bother to dodge the porter.

When Yawle reached the ground floor, the porter was not there to be dodged or not dodged, being occupied with a tenant who had arrived with luggage at another entrance. Yawle strode on.

In the miniature lounge the girl who resembled Aileen Daines was adjusting her make-up. Unaware of his presence, she snapped her bag, gathered up her shopping parcels and went out of the building.

Might be Ennings’s girl friend, he reflected — but without deep interest, for his ego was fully inflated. He had done what he had done — he had turned deadly peril to positive advantage. He would top it off by making use of the porter.

Luckily, he had a pen on him. He began to write a noncommittal message for Ennings, but found to his surprise that his hand was shaking. Never mind! His resourcefulness was equal to any emergency.

He found the porter at the third entrance.

“I’ve just left Mr. Ennings and I find that I’ve absent-mindedly pocketed his fountain pen.” It was a standard model, unidentifiable. He gave it to the porter, with a florin. “If I were you, I wouldn’t return it until the morning. The fact is, porter, he is entertaining — well, let’s say a friend!”

By bedtime, Yawle’s confidence had ebbed. Again and again he reviewed his movements, with increasing alarm. He had got clean away, but could he be dragged back? He ticked off the items.

The first person to see him enter the block had been the girl, but she obviously had not noticed him and could be ignored. Then the old lady who had looked at him like a spider. She might or might not remember him enough to give a description.

Then there was that wretched boy — almost certainly a Boy Scout obsessed with stairs and footsteps, who would love telling the police everything.

With that sterling alibi of the dinner table it would be safe to come forward, unsafe to hang back.

“There’s the boy, the middle-aged woman, and the girl — all three saw you entering the building at about seven-ten, Mr. Yawle?” Chief Inspector Karslake was making notes as he spoke. “Can you remember what they looked like?”

“The boy I didn’t notice — an ordinary boy of about ten or so. The woman, smallish, about fifty, old-fashioned, but not exactly old, round sort of face. The girl — middle twenties, about my height, dark, good looking, well-marked eyebrows, slim, quietly dressed. But I’m sure she didn’t know I was there — if you’re thinking of asking these people whether they saw me.”

“It’s only for checking up with others,” Karslake assured him. “Please go on, Mr. Yawle.”

“I went to the flat. Ennings opened the door. He was in a dinner jacket and told me he was expecting a friend to dinner. The way he said it, I guessed it was a girl. He showed me the dining-room — I suppose so that I shouldn’t think he was stalling me — cold supper set for two. I said I would only keep him a few minutes. As soon as we got into his sitting-room the phone rang. He answered briefly and cut off.”

Yawle waited while Karslake wrote. He had not anticipated that everything he said would be noted.

“And then you both sat down and discussed your business?”

“If we are to be literal, I didn’t sit down — wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t going to stick around.”

The next bit was tricky. In the night he had worked out that the porter might have noticed when Ennings’ guest went upstairs — that it must have been while he was in the flat.

“We were about halfway through our business when his girl turned up.”

“And he got up to let her in?”

Confound the man with his passion for footling little details! Be careful to tell no unnecessary lies.

“She let herself in with a latchkey. I said I’d just write out a note and then—”

“Half a minute. Don’t think I’m niggling, Mr. Yawle. The fact is, we use everything an honest witness tells us to check on the people who are not public spirited and may be hiding something. How did you know someone had come in with a latchkey if you were shut up in a room talking business?”

“Ennings had one ear listening for that latchkey.” Yawle managed a realistic snigger. “He got up, spoke to her, said he would be with her in a few minutes.”

Karslake passed him a chart of Ennings’s sitting-room.

“Will you show me on that chart where you were standing when he went to speak to the girl?”

There was only one spot where one could stand to talk to a man sitting as Ennings had sat.

“On the hearth rug — here.”

“Could you identify the girl, Mr. Yawle?”

“Oh, no — no! Certainly not!”

“But you must have seen her if you were standing there!” It was a statement rather than a question, and Yawle shrank from contradicting.

“Well — yes — but — in these circumstances, Inspector, I simply can’t make a statement involving someone else unless I’m sure of what I say.”

“You couldn’t put it better, Mr. Yawle. All I want you to tell me now is what you saw. To begin with, you saw it was a girl and not a man. Tall or short? Fair or dark?”

“I don’t think we need winkle it out that way. I can go as far as this — she was of the same physical type as the girl I noticed in the hall when I was coming in. But I cannot state that she was the same girl.”

It would be better, he had decided, not to add that he had also seen the girl when he was leaving the building.

“From your description of the girl in the hall the thing a man would notice first would be those eyebrows,” persisted Karslake.

“Y-yes. But—”

“Was she in evening dress?”

“No.”

“Same sort of clothes as the girl in the hall, eh?” As Yawle did not deny it, “Very natural that you won’t state it’s the same girl, because you aren’t quite positive. Very proper attitude, if I may say so. Where did Ennings park the girl in the flat?”

“I don’t know. He came back to me. I wanted to make that note. I’d forgotten my pen and he lent me his. I went on talking a minute or so and absent-mindedly pocketed his pen. When I got downstairs — which I suppose was about half-past seven — I looked for the porter and asked him to return the fountain pen—” Yawle repeated the snigger “—in the morning.”

Karslake had the air of an inspector who is not only satisfied but even grateful.

“I think that’s about all, Mr. Yawle. We shall round up the boy and the woman on the stairs so that you can identify each other. The local police will probably want you for the inquest. Otherwise, I don’t suppose we shall trouble you—” he pressed a bell push “—if you’ll be good enough to give us your fingerprints before you go.”

A junior entered with a frame and Yawle obliged.

“As far as I know,” he said when the process had been completed, “I didn’t leave any fingerprints in the flat. Don’t think I touched anything except that fountain pen.”

“But look at it from our point of view, Mr. Yawle.” Karslake was urbane and even confidential. “Until we’ve taken your prints we can’t prove that it wasn’t you who had dinner with Ennings.”

“Dinner with Ennings?” echoed Yawle, genuinely puzzled.

“Well, supper if you like, as it was cold stuff. There were prints other than those of the deceased on the cutlery, the plates, the glasses, some of the dishes — someone who doesn’t take salt or pepper but fairly shovels the sugar on a sweet.”

“D’you mean that meal was eaten?” gasped Yawle.

“You bet it was! Look here, I’m not suppose to show this, but you’ll see it at the inquest tomorrow.”

Karslake displayed photographs of the dining-room and of the table, of the debris of a meal consumed by two persons. Yawle observed particularly the fairy glasses that had held the trifle. The glasses in the photograph were opaque, with nothing showing above the rims. Before consumption the trifle had topped the rim and the canned peach had topped the trifle.

Yawle left Scotland Yard, dazed to the point of being but barely aware of his surroundings. That dinner had been untouched when he left the flat. As Ennings was dead, he could not possibly have had dinner with the girl. Therefore, somebody else had dinner with the girl — which was absurd.

Alternatively, the flat had been burgled after the girl had gone. The burglars, notwithstanding the presence of a corpse in the flat, had sat down to a meal — which was even more absurd.

Which all proved that the dinner had not been eaten when, in point of fact, it had been eaten.

That it removed all danger from himself was scarcely heeded. That photograph gave him a creeping doubt of his own sanity. He had read of eye-witnesses making wholly false statements in wholly good faith. In some amazing way he must have seen an untouched meal when he was really looking at the debris of a meal.

That meal cropped up again at the inquest. One of the jurymen, unsupported by the others, challenged Yawle’s evidence in a question to the Coroner.

“How do we know that this meal was eaten after Mr. Yawle had left the flat? It might have been eaten before — I mean, it might have been lunch, or anything. I’m not suggesting it was, but as it’s important evidence I think we ought to have that point cleared up.”

“I think I can help there, sir,” said Yawle. “When the deceased took me into his dining-room I happened to notice particularly two fairy glasses containing trifle, with a canned peach on the top. If the police can confirm that statement I think it must prove that I saw the meal laid out before it was consumed.”

The police could confirm that statement. The jury returned a verdict of murder against a person unknown, with a rider indicating the young woman who had entered the flat with a latchkey at approximately seven-twenty.

The boy was found some six weeks later. He had spent a couple of nights with an uncle, one of the tenants, who suddenly remembered that fact and reported it with profuse apologies. The boy had gone back to boarding school at Brighton: the incident had utterly passed from his mind, and he failed to identify Yawle.

The elderly lady with the parcel was another unexpected stumbling block. When appeals through press and radio failed to solicit response, the Yard was ready to believe that she was an invention of Yawle’s, prompted by a desire to tie the time of his presence at the flat at both ends. Innocent people often did that kind of thing.

The porter was interviewed again and again. His story remained sufficiently consistent. It was his busy time, dodging from one of the three entrances to another. There had never been any trouble with the police — they weren’t that kind of tenant, and he was not given to observing their actions. He had not seen Mr. Yawle until he made his request concerning the fountain pen — which was close to seven-thirty.

He had certainly noticed a young woman sitting in the hall-lounge round about ten past seven. That was nothing unusual. He had only noticed her because, as he passed, she was fiddling with her bag and dropped something, but picked it up before he could do it for her. He mentioned her eyebrows and her dress, which was not the expensive kind.

The dragnet went out through the West End, though from the description of the porter and of Yawle, she was not likely to be found in any of the bars or night clubs. The search became intensive, was carried to the theatres, including the dress circles and stalls, with the result that, some six weeks after the inquest, Yawle was asked to accompany a plainclothes man and wait outside a City office about lunch time.

Out of the office came Aileen Daines.

“Hullo, Dennis!” She shook hands with frank friendliness. “I’m so glad to see you — I was going to write. You see, Leonard and I — yes, at Easter.”

When she had gone, Yawle rejoined the plainclothes man.

“You saw her speak to me. She is not the one we want. I know her very well indeed.”

The porter, at the same time on the next day, was not so positive. By a majority vote, as it were, of his muddled recollections, he decided that he did not think this young lady was that young lady.

“All the same, there’s the bare possibility that this young lady is that young lady,” said Karslake when he was discussing the report with his staff. “Used to be Yawle’s girl, eh? There might be some tangled sex stuff there. We haven’t enough to sail in with a request for her dabs. Now, if one of you boys could manage to watch her eating — when she isn’t with her young man — we might get a line.”

None of them did see her eating, but one of them obtained her fingerprints without her knowledge. And that dropped her out of the case — and dropped the case itself into the Department of Dead Ends.

As weeks lengthened into months, Yawle ceased to worry about his sanity in the matter of the dinner which could not possibly have been — but had been — eaten. He still carried the crystal of cyanide in a dummy petrol lighter, but it had become a talisman rather than a menace.

Learning that Ennings’s estate had been proved at £60,000 he went to see Gronston’s, who gladly gave him details of the royalties paid to Lanberry’s. Yawle brought an action against the estate for balance of royalties withheld by a fraudulent device.

The action was heard in the following Spring. Detective Inspector Rason was present, not because he expected to find in the public gallery the girl who had murdered Ennings, but because it was a routine duty to keep contact with the principals in an unsolved crime.

The hearing was very brief, for there was in effect no defense. Yawle obtained judgment for some four thousand pounds and his costs. The judge remarked that the deceased had behaved as an unscrupulous scoundrel and that Hendricks, his shabby little clerk who survived him, would do well to examine his own conscience.

Rason decided to do a little examining of the clerk’s conscience himself, for he had the glimmer of an idea. Over a pint of beer and a sandwich Hendricks was willing to talk.

“I knew there was going to be a rumpus when Mr. Yawle turned up at my room,” said Hendricks. “I gave the guv’nor the wire, but he only laughed at me.”

“When did Mr. Yawle turn up at your room?” asked Rason.

“I dunno — not the date anyhow. Must’ve been about a week before the guv’nor copped out.”

That was the sort of thing Rason was hoping for. What business had Yawle transacted with Ennings when he knew that Ennings had been cheating him? No business. He had gone to demand restitution. And had borrowed Ennings’s fountain pen to make a note of it? Rats!

Barking up the wrong tree, mused Rason. Proving that Yawle quarreled with Ennings and killed him, whereas the job is to find the girl and prove she did.

Back in the office he was reluctant to admit that he had wasted his morning. He tried hard to squeeze a girl into the discovery that Yawle had known that Ennings was swindling him. No link-up.

Start with the girl, now! She comes in with a latchkey, has her dinner, and then knifes him. Why? She must’ve expected him to get fresh. Can’t pull the dewy innocent with that latchkey in her bag. Suppose she was an inventor, too? In the sitting-room she finds something, proving that Ennings has been buying her the stockings out of her own money?

The next morning he paddled back to Hendricks.

“Have you got on your books a girl, middle twenties, height about five-six, thickish eyebrows—”

“I’ve never seen any of ’em except Mr. Yawle. And we got no girls. Only a couple o’ widows, legatees of course.”

“Let’s have the widows!”

Mrs. Siegman lived in Hampstead, was middle-aged and had virtually no eyebrows. Mrs. Deaker lived in Surbiton, which was an hour’s drive out of London, allowing for traffic. With some difficulty Rason found a small house with a brick wall surrounding the garden on the outskirts of the suburb.

The door was opened by a good-looking girl in the middle twenties, height about five-six, dark, with well-defined eyebrows.

“Are you Mrs. Deaker?”

“No. Mrs. Deaker is in town. I’m her companion and at the moment her domestic staff too. Do you want to leave a message?”

Rason presented his official card.

“Oh!” said the girl, and Rason decided to spring it on her.

“What were you doing in Barslade Mansions, Westminster, the night Charles Ennings was killed?”

“Oh!” said the girl again. “I’m not going to tell you anything until I have a lawyer.”

“In that case I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me to Scotland Yard,” said Rason.

He was with her while she packed a suitcase and left a note for her employer, kept her within arm’s reach while he telephoned the Yard. On the journey the only admission she made was that her name was Margaret Hailing. On arrival at the Yard she made no objection to having her fingerprints taken.

Some three hours later Dennis Yawle turned up at Scotland Yard in response to a request by telephone. Some five minutes previously Margaret Halling’s employer had arrived with a lawyer. All three, with some half a dozen others, were enduring time in a waiting-room.

Detective Inspector Rason thanked Yawle profusely, took him along a corridor behind the waiting-room.

“I want you to look through this little panel, Mr. Yawle — they can’t see you — and tell me if there’s anybody in the room you recognize.”

Yawle looked through the panel. A smile broadened.

“Yes,” he said. “I shall never forget that face! That is the elderly lady whose parcel I picked up on the stairs.”

“Well, I’m—” Rason was more astonished than he had been for a long time. “Excuse me, Mr. Yawle.” In his agitation he pushed Yawle back to the panel, put his hand on the crown of Yawle’s head, and gently twisted until Yawle could be presumed to have a view of the seat in the window.

This time there was no broad smile. Rason had the impression that he saved Yawle from subsiding to the floor.

“That’s the girl with the eyebrows — the girl I saw in the hall.”

“And she’s the girl you saw when she let herself in with the latchkey?”

“I don’t know. I said at the time I couldn’t be sure the girls were the same.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Yawle — we never lead a witness,” said Rason unblushingly. He was now in extremely high spirits, for he had had another glimmer. “Your statement in my file says they were of similar type. That passes the buck to us.”

They went to Chief Inspector Karslake’s room. The chair at the roll-top desk was placed at Rason’s disposal, with Karslake on his left, for this was Rason’s case, and his own room was too much of a museum for interviews.

“Well, I suppose the first thing to do,” hinted Karslake, when he had heard the news, “is to have the girl in for a formal identification.”

“No, it isn’t, sir,” said Rason, picking up Karslake’s house telephone.

“Mrs. Deaker, in the waiting-room — ask her if she would like to see me. If so, bring her in.”

“Mr. Yawle,” said Rason. “This old girl has given Mr. Karslake a good deal of trouble, one way and another.” Karslake’s surprise changed to profound disapproval, as Rason went on: “If she hands us anything you know to be phoney, I’d be grateful if you’d chip in and flatten her out.”

Yawle assented politely. The “old woman” presented no problem. She could do nothing but confirm his statement.

Mrs. Deaker chose to brave the detective without the support of the lawyer, who was earmarked for Margaret Hailing.

“I think you have seen this gentleman before, Mrs. Deaker?” Rason indicated Yawle.

“Not to my recollection,” answered Mrs. Deaker. “Perhaps if you were to tell me his name—?”

“At Barslade Mansions, Westminster, on the evening of January 17th, 1933, this gentleman retrieved a parcel you had dropped on the staircase.”

“Did he! Then it was very kind of him, and it is ungracious of me to forget.”

“We advertised in the press and on the radio, asking you to come forward, Mrs. Deaker,” said Rason severely.

“I remember those advertisements. I didn’t realize you meant me!” She glared at Yawle. “Did you describe me as an elderly woman? That’s what the advertisement said!” Before Yawle could excuse himself, she went on: “I suppose I do seem elderly to a man of your age. However, if we may consider the incident of the parcel as closed I would like to tell the police about Margaret Hailing, my companion. She was there solely because my taxi brought her there. I was dining with a friend. Her train home from Waterloo was not until eight-ten. It was a cold night and I told her to sit in the lounge by the radiator until it was time to leave.”

“Who was the friend with whom you were dining, Mrs. Deaker?”

“The man who was murdered. Mr. Ennings. But of course, you must know all about him, as you’re still looking for the murderer. Now that we have mentioned the subject, you may wish me to account for my own movements, though they are of no significance, or I would have reported them.

“Mr. Ennings was a friend — a very intimate friend — before I married, somewhat injudiciously, the man who invented the Deaker commutator. He handled my husband’s affairs. In recent years, after his death, Mr. Ennings and I — Mr. Ennings and I resumed our friendship, which was cemented by the fact that my husband had made him trustee.

“Mr. Ennings telephoned me in the morning that he might be detained at some special meeting or other. As I was doing a day’s shopping, I was to come — he would have a cold meal prepared — and I was not to wait dinner for him after seven-thirty.

“As to the parcel incident, I never enter an elevator unless there is a responsible-looking man in charge. I used the staircase — which took a long time — no doubt because I am elderly! I duly waited until seven-thirty, and then I sat down to dinner by myself. I waited in the flat until a little after nine-thirty and then caught the ten-five home.”

Rason had taken from the dossier the photographs of the debris of the meal.

“When did you see Mr. Ennings?”

“Obviously, I didn’t see him at all.”

“How did you obtain entry to the flat?”

“I lifted the knocker, as there was a light in the hall.” Her words were labored as she went on: “I thought I had sufficiently emphasized the fact of our friendship. I have a latchkey. Here it is.” She took it from her bag and gave it to Rason. “I went to the sitting-room, but the door was locked. I knocked, then called his name. Then I looked about the flat, shut the front door and went into the dining-room to wait for him. Once, I thought I heard the front door being closed, but it was a false alarm, so I sat down and had my dinner.”

Yawle had reached forward and snatched from Rason’s desk the photograph of the debris of the meal.

“I don’t think so, Mrs. Deaker!” cried Yawle. “Look at this photograph. Two persons ate that dinner!”

They were glaring at each other.

“Half a minute, Mr. Yawle!” interposed Rason. “I thought Mr. Karslake had told you everything! Did he forget to tell you that there was only one set of fingerprints on those dishes?”

“Then they must be mine!” sighed Mrs. Deaker. “I had hoped to escape this public humiliation. The degrading truth is that I can eat — and I often do — as much as two men! By nine, I concluded that Mr. Ennings must have had his dinner. So I... I... I really did—”

Rason left Mrs. Deaker floundering in a whirlpool of social shame.

“Well, Yawle, let’s get back to that young girl you saw in the flat, whom you can’t quite identify with the young girl you saw in the hall. Eyebrows an’ all, too! Or would you rather ask Mrs. Deaker some questions about that sitting-room door that was locked on the inside? At about twenty past seven, as near as makes no matter to you, Yawle!”

But Yawle possessed a talisman in a dummy petrol lighter that warded off all further assaults on his dignity.

Poul Anderson

Adventure of the Martian Crown Jewels

A fascinating fusion of the classic detective story and science fiction plus a pastiche of Sherlock Holmes plus a locked-room puzzle that could occur only in the interplanetary future, yet is perfectly fair to the informed reader — altogether, a clever Martian Nights Entertainment...

* * *

The signal was picked up when the ship was still a quarter million miles away, and recorded voices summoned the technicians. There was no haste, for the ZX28749, otherwise called the Jane Brackney, was right on schedule; but landing an unmanned spaceship is always a delicate operation. Men and machines prepared to receive her as she came down, but the control crew had the first order of business.

Yamagata, Steinmann, and Ramanowitz were in the GCA tower, with Hollyday standing by for an emergency. If the circuits should fail — they never had, but a thousand tons of cargo and nuclear-powered vessel, crashing into the port, could empty Phobos of human life. So Hollyday watched over a set of spare assemblies, ready to plug in whatever might be required.

Yamagata’s thin fingers danced over the radar dials. His eyes were intent on the screen. “Got her,” he said. Steinmann made a distance reading and Ramanowitz took the velocity off the Dopplerscope. A brief session with a computer showed the figures to be almost as predicted.

“Might as well relax,” said Yamagata, taking out a cigarette. “She won’t be in control range for a while yet.”

His eyes roved over the crowded room and out its window. From the tower he had a view of the spaceport: unimpressive, most of its shops and sheds and living quarters being underground. The smooth concrete field was chopped off by the curvature of the tiny satellite. It always faced Mars, and the station was on the far side, but he could remember how the planet hung enormous over the opposite hemisphere, soft ruddy disc blurred with thin air, hazy greenish-brown mottlings of heath and farmland. Though Phobos was clothed in vacuum, you couldn’t see the hard stars of space: the sun and the floodlamps were too bright.

There was a knock on the door. Hollyday went over, almost drifting in the ghostly gravity, and opened it. “Nobody allowed in here during a landing,” he said. Hollyday was a stocky blond man with a pleasant, open countenance, and his tone was less peremptory than his words.

“Police.” The newcomer, muscular, round-faced, and earnest, was in plain clothes, tunic and pajama pants, which was expected; everyone in the tiny settlement knew Inspector Gregg. But he was packing a gun, which was not usual, and looked harried.

Yamagata peered out again and saw the port’s four constables down on the field in official spacesuits, watching the ground crew. They carried weapons. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing... I hope.” Gregg came in and tried to smile. “But the Jane has a very unusual cargo this trip.”

“Hm?” Ramanowitz’s eyes lit up in his broad plump visage. “Why weren’t we told?”

“That was deliberate. Secrecy. The Martian crown jewels are aboard.” Gregg fumbled a cigarette from his tunic.

Hollyday and Steinmann nodded at each other. Yamagata whistled. “On a robot ship?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. A robot ship is the one form of transportation from which they could not be stolen. There were three attempts made when they went to Earth on a regular liner, and I hate to think how many while they were at the British Museum. One guard lost his life. Now my boys are going to remove them before anyone else touches that ship and scoot ’em right down to Sabaeus.”

“How much are they worth?” wondered Ramanowitz.

“Oh... they could be fenced on Earth for maybe half a billion UN dollars,” said Gregg. “But the thief would do better to make the Martians pay to get them back... no, Earth would have to, I suppose, since it’s our responsibility.” He blew nervous clouds. “The jewels were secretly put on the Jane, last thing before she left on her regular run. I wasn’t even told till a special messenger on this week’s liner gave me the word. Not a chance for any thief to know they’re here, till they’re safely back on Mars. And that’ll be safe!”

Ramanowitz shuddered. All the planets knew what guarded the vaults at Sabaeus.

“Some people did know, all along,” said Yamagata thoughtfully. “I mean the loading crew back at Earth.”

“Uh-huh, there is that.” Gregg smiled. “Several of them have quit since then, the messenger said, but of course, there’s always a big turnover among spacejacks — they’re a restless bunch.” His gaze drifted across Steinmann and Hollyday, both of whom had last worked at Earth Station and come to Mars a few ships back. The liners went on a hyperbolic path and arrived in a couple of weeks; the robot ships followed the more leisurely and economical Hohmann A orbit and needed 258 days. A man who knew what ship was carrying the jewels could leave Earth, get to Mars well ahead of the cargo, and snap up a job here — Phobos was always short-handed.

“Don’t look at me!” said Steinmann, laughing. “Chuck and I knew about this — of course — but we were under security restrictions. Haven’t told a soul.”

“Yeah. I’d have known it if you had,” nodded Gregg. “Gossip travels fast here. Don’t resent this, please, but I’m here to see that none of you boys leaves this tower till the jewels are aboard our own boat.”

“Oh, well. It’ll mean overtime pay.”

“If I want to get rich fast, I’ll stick to prospecting,” added Hollyday.

“When are you going to quit running around with that Geiger in your free time?” asked Yamagata. “Phobos is nothing but iron and granite.”

“I have my own ideas about that,” said Hollyday stoutly.

“Hell, everybody needs a hobby on this God-forsaken clod,” declared Ramanowitz. “I might try for those sparklers myself, just for the excitement—” He stopped abruptly, aware of Gregg’s eyes.

“All right,” snapped Yamagata. “Here we go. Inspector, please stand back out of the way, and for your life’s sake don’t interrupt us.”

The Jane was drifting in, her velocity on the carefully precalculated orbit almost identical with that of Phobos. Almost, but not quite — there had been the inevitable small disturbing factors, which the remote-controlled jets had to compensate, and then there was the business of landing her. The team got a fix and were frantically busy.

In free fall, the Jane approached within a thousand miles of Phobos — a spheroid 500 feet in radius, big and massive, but lost against the incredible bulk of the satellite. And yet Phobos is an insignificant airless pill, negligible even beside its seventh-rate planet. Astronomical magnitudes are simply and literally incomprehensible.

When the ship was close enough, the radio directed her gyros to rotate her, very, very gently, until her pickup antenna was pointing directly at the field. Then her jets were cut in, a mere whisper of thrust. She was nearly above the spaceport, her path tangential to the moon’s curvature. After a moment Yamagata slapped the keys hard, and the rockets blasted furiously, a visible red streak up in the sky. He cut them again, checked his data, and gave a milder blast.

“Okay,” he grunted. “Let’s bring her in.”

Her velocity relative to Phobos’s orbit and rotation was now zero, and she was falling. Yamagata slewed her around till the jets were pointing vertically down. Then he sat back and mopped his face while Ramanowitz took over; the job was too nerve-stretching for one man to perform in its entirety. Ramanowitz sweated the awkward mass to within a few yards of the cradle. Steinmann finished the task, easing her into the berth like an egg into a cup. He cut the jets and there was silence.

“Whew! Chuck, how about a drink?” Yamagata held out unsteady fingers and regarded them with an impersonal stare.

Hollyday smiled and fetched a bottle. It went happily around. Gregg declined. His eyes were locked to the field, where a technician was checking for radioactivity. The verdict was clean, and he saw his constables come soaring over the concrete, to surround the great ship with guns. One of them went up, opened the manhatch, and slipped inside.

It seemed a very long while before he emerged. Then he came running. Gregg cursed and thumbed the tower’s radio board. “Hey, there! Ybarra! What’s the matter?”

The helmet set shuddered a reply: “Señor... Señor Inspector... the crown jewels are gone.”

Sabaeus is, of course, a purely human name for the old city nestled in the Martian tropics, at the juncture of the “canals” Phison and Euphrates. Terrestrial mouths simply cannot form the syllables of High Chlannach, though rough approximations are possible. Nor did humans ever build a town exclusively of towers broader at the top than the base, or inhabit one for twenty thousand years. If they had, though, they would have encouraged an eager tourist influx; but Martians prefer more dignified ways of making a dollar, even if their parsimonious fame has long replaced that of Scotchmen. The result is that though interplanetary trade is brisk and Phobos a treaty port, a human is still a rare sight in Sabaeus.

Hurrying down the avenues between the stone mushrooms, Gregg felt conspicuous. He was glad the airsuit muffled him. Not that the grave Martians stared; they varkled, which is worse.

The Street of Those Who Prepare Nourishment in Ovens is a quiet one, given over to handicrafters, philosophers, and residential apartments. You won’t see a courtship dance or a parade of the Lesser Halberdiers on it: nothing more exciting than a continuous four-day argument on the relativistic nature of the null class or an occasional gun-fight. The latter are due to the planet’s most renowned private detective, who nests here.

Gregg always found it eerie to be on Mars, under the cold deep-blue sky and the shrunken sun, among noises muffled by the thin oxygen-deficient air. But for Syaloch he had a good deal of affection, and when he had gone up the ladder and shaken the rattle outside the second-floor apartment and had been admitted, it was like escaping from nightmare.

“Ah, Krech!” The investigator laid down the stringed instrument on which he had been playing and towered gauntly over his visitor. “An unexbectet bleassure to see hyou. Come in, my tear chab, to come in.” He was proud of his English — but simple misspellings will not convey the whistling, clicking Martian accent. Gregg had long ago fallen into the habit of translating it into a human pronunciation as he listened.

The Inspector felt a cautious way into the high, narrow room. The glowsnakes which illuminated it after dark were coiled asleep on the stone floor, in a litter of papers, specimens, and weapons; rusty sand covered the sills of the Gothic windows. Syaloch was not neat except in his own person. In one corner was a small chemical laboratory. The rest of the walls were taken up with shelves, the criminological literature of three planets — Martian books, Terrestrial micros, Venusian talking stones. At one place, patriotically, the glyphs representing the reigning Nestmother had been punched out with bullets. An Earthling could not sit on the trapezelike native furniture, but Syaloch had courteously provided chairs and tubs as well; his clientele was also triplanetary. Gregg found a scarred Duncan Phyfe and lowered himself, breathing heavily into his oxygen tubes.

“I take it you are here on official but confidential business.” Syaloch got out a big-bowled pipe. Martians have happily adopted tobacco, though in their atmosphere it must include potassium permanganate. Gregg was thankful he didn’t have to breathe the blue fog.

He started. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Elementary, my dear fellow. Your manner is most agitated, and I know nothing but a crisis in your profession would cause that in a good stolid bachelor. Yet you come to me rather than the Homeostatic Corps... so it must be a delicate affair.”

Gregg laughed wryly. He himself could not read any Martian’s expression — what corresponds to a smile or a snarl on a totally nonhuman face? But this overgrown stork—

No. To compare the species of different planets is merely to betray the limitations of language. Syaloch was a seven-foot biped of vaguely storklike appearance. But the lean, crested, red-beaked head at the end of the sinuous neck was too large, the yellow eyes too deep; the white feathers were more like a penguin’s than a flying bird’s, save at the blue-plumed tail; instead of wings there were skinny red arms ending in four-fingered hands. And the overall posture was too erect for a bird.

Gregg jerked back to awareness. God in Heaven! The city lay gray and quiet; the sun was slipping westward over the farmlands of Sinus Sabaeus and the desert of the Aeria; he could just make out the rumble of a treadmill cart passing beneath the windows — and he sat here with a story which could blow the Solar System apart!

His hands, gloved against the chill, twisted together. “Yes, it’s confidential, all right. If you can solve this case, you can just about name your own fee.” The gleam in Syaloch’s eyes made him regret that, but he stumbled on: “One thing, though. Just how do you feel about us Earthlings?”

“I have no prejudices. It is the brain that counts, not whether it is covered by feathers or hair or bony plates.”

“No, I realize that. But some Martians resent us. We do disrupt an old way of life — we can’t help it, if we’re to trade with you—”

“K’teh. The trade is on the whole beneficial. Your fuel and machinery — and tobacco, yesss — for our kantz and snull. Also, we were getting too... stale. And of course space travel has added a whole new dimension to criminology. Yes, I favor Earth.”

“Then you’ll help us? And keep quiet about something which could provoke your planetary federation into kicking us off Phobos?”

The third eyelids closed, making the long-beaked face a mask. “I give no promises yet, Gregg.”

“Well... damn it, all right, I’ll have to take the chance.” The policeman swallowed hard. “You know about your crown jewels, of course.”

“They were lent to Earth for exhibit and scientific study.”

“After years of negotiation. There’s no more priceless relic on all Mars — and you were an old civilization when we were hunting mammoths. All right. They’ve been stolen.”

Syaloch opened his eyes, but his only other movement was to nod.

“They were put on a robot ship at Earth Station. They were gone when the ship reached Phobos. We’ve damn near ripped the boat apart trying to find them — we did take the other cargo to pieces, bit by bit — and they aren’t there!”

Syaloch rekindled his pipe, an elaborate flint-and-steel process on a world where matches won’t burn. Only when it was drawing well did he suggest: “Is it possible the ship was boarded en route?”

“No. It isn’t possible. Every spacecraft in the System is registered, and its whereabouts are known at any time. Furthermore, imagine trying to find a speck in hundreds of millions of cubic miles, and match velocities with it... no vessel ever built could carry that much fuel. And mind you, it was never announced that the jewels were going back this way. Only the UN police and the Earth Station crew could know till the ship had actually left — by which time it’d be too late to catch her.”

“Most interesting.” Syaloch puffed hard.

“If word of this gets out,” said Gregg miserably, “you can guess the results. I suppose we’d still have a few friends left in your Parliament—”

“In the House of Actives, yesss... a few. Not in the House of Philosophers, which is of course the upper chamber.”

“It could mean a twenty-year hiatus in Earth-Mars traffic — maybe a permanent breaking off of relations. Damn it, Syaloch, you’ve got to find those stones!”

“Hm-m-m. I pray your pardon. This requires thought.” The Martian picked up his crooked instrument and plucked a few tentative chords. Gregg sighed and attempted to relax. He knew the Chlannach temperament; he’d have to listen to an hour of minor-key caterwauling.

The colorless sunset was past, night had fallen with the unnerving Martian swiftness, and the glow-snakes were emitting blue radiance when Syaloch put down the demifiddle.

“I fear I shall have to visit Phobos in person,” he said. “There are too many unknowns for analysis, and it is never well to theorize before all the data have been gathered.” A bony hand clapped Gregg’s shoulder. “Come, come, old chap. I am really most grateful to you. Life was becoming infernally dull. Now, as my famous Terrestrial predecessor would say, the game’s afoot... and a very big game indeed!”

A Martian in an Earthlike atmosphere is not much hampered, needing only an hour in a compression chamber and a filter on his beak to eliminate excess oxygen and moisture. Syaloch walked freely about the port clad in filter, pipe, and tirstokr cap, grumbling to himself at the heat and humidity. He noticed that all the humans but Gregg were reserved, almost fearful, as they watched him — they were sitting on a secret which could unleash red murder.

He donned a spacesuit and went out to inspect the Jane Brackney. The vessel had been shunted aside to make room for later arrivals, and stood by a raw crag at the edge of the field, glimmering in the hard spatial sunlight. Gregg and Yamagata were with him.

“I say, you have been thorough,” remarked the detective. “The outer skin is quite stripped off.”

The spheroid resembled an egg which had tangled with a waffle iron: an intersecting grid of girders and braces above a thin aluminum hide. The jets, hatches, and radio mast were the only breaks in the checkerboard pattern, whose depth was about a foot and whose squares were a yard across at the “equator.”

Yamagata laughed in a strained fashion. “No. the cops fluoroscoped every inch of her, but that’s the way these cargo ships always look. They never land on Earth, you know, or any place where there’s air, so streamlining would be unnecessary. And since nobody is aboard in transit, we don’t have to worry about insulation or air-tightness. Perishables are stowed in sealed compartments.”

“I see. Now where were the crown jewels kept?”

“They were supposed to be in a cupboard near the gyros,” said Gregg. “They were in a locked box, about six inches high, six inches wide, and a foot long.” He shook his head, finding it hard to believe that so small a box could contain so much potential death.

“Ah... but were they placed there?”

“I radioed Earth and got a full account,” said Gregg. “The ship was loaded as usual at the satellite station, then shoved a quarter mile away till it was time for her to leave — to get her out of the way, you understand. She was still in the same free-fall orbit, attached by a light cable — perfectly standard practice. At the last minute, without anyone being told beforehand, the crown jewels were brought up from Earth and stashed aboard.”

“By a special policeman, I presume?”

“No. Only licensed technicians are allowed to board a ship in orbit, unless there’s a life-and-death emergency. One of the regular station crew — fellow named Carter — was told where to put them. He was watched by the cops as he pulled himself along the cable and in through the manhatch.” Gregg pointed to a small door near the radio mast. “He came out, closed it, and returned on the cable. The police immediately searched him and his spacesuit, just in case, and he positively did not have the jewels. There was no reason to suspect him of anything — good steady worker — though I’ll admit he’s disappeared since then. The Jane blasted a few minutes late and her jets were watched till they cut off and she went into free fall. And that’s the last anyone saw of her till she got here — without the jewels.”

“And right on orbit,” added Yamagata. “If by some freak she had been boarded, it would have thrown her off enough for us to notice as she came in. Transference of momentum between her and the other ship.”

“I see.” Behind his faceplate, Syaloch’s beak cut a sharp black curve across heaven. “Now then, Gregg, were the jewels actually in the box when it was delivered?”

“At Earth Station, you mean? Oh, yes. There are four UN Chief Inspectors involved, and HQ says they’re absolutely above suspicion. When I sent back word of the theft, they insisted on having their own quarters and so on searched, and went under scop voluntarily.”

“And your own constables on Phobos?”

“Same thing,” said the policeman grimly. “I’ve slapped on an embargo — nobody but me has left this settlement since the loss was discovered. I’ve had every room and tunnel and warehouse searched.” He tried to scratch his head, a frustrating attempt when one is in a spacesuit. “I can’t maintain those restrictions much longer. Ships are coming in and the consignees want their freight.”

“Hnachla. That puts us under a time limit, then.” Syaloch nodded to himself. “Do you know, this is a fascinating variation of the old locked room problem. A robot ship in transit is a locked room in the most classic sense.” He drifted off into a reverie.

Gregg stared bleakly across the savage horizon, naked rock tumbling away under his feet, and then back over the field. Odd how tricky your vision became in airlessness, even when you had bright lights. That fellow crossing the field there, under the full glare of sun and flood-lamps, was merely a stipple of shadow and luminance... what the devil was he doing, tying a shoe of all things? No, he was walking quite normally—

“I’d like to put everyone on Phobos under scop,” said Gregg with a violent note, “but the law won’t allow it unless the suspect volunteers — and only my own men have volunteered.”

“Quite rightly, my dear fellow,” said Syaloch. “One should at least have the privilege of privacy in his own skull. And it would make the investigation unbearably crude.”

“I don’t give a fertilizing damn how crude it is,” snapped Gregg. “I just want that box with the crown jewels safe inside.”

“Tut-tut! Impatience has been the ruin of many a promising young police officer, as I seem to recall my spiritual ancestor of Earth pointing out to a Scotland Yard man who... hm... may even have been a physical ancestor of yours, Gregg. It seems we must try another approach. Are there any people on Phobos who might have known the jewels were aboard this ship?”

“Yes. Two men only. I’ve pretty well established that they never broke security and told anyone else till the secret was out.”

“And who are they?”

“Technicians, Hollyday and Steinmann. They were working at Earth Station when the Jane was loaded. They quit soon after — not at the same time — and came here by liner and got jobs. You can bet that their quarters have been searched!”

“Perhaps,” murmured Syaloch, “it would be worthwhile to interview the gentlemen in question.”

Steinmann, a thin redhead, wore truculence like a mantle; Hollyday merely looked worried. It was no evidence of guilt — everyone had been rubbed raw of late. They sat in the police office, with Gregg behind the desk and Syaloch leaning against the wall, smoking and regarding them with unreadable yellow eyes.

“Damn it, I’ve told this over and over till I’m sick of it!” Steinmann knotted his fists and gave the Martian a bloodshot stare. “I never touched the things and I don’t know who did. Hasn’t any man a right to change jobs?”

“Please,” said the detective mildly. “The better you help the sooner we can finish this work. I take it you were acquainted with the man who actually put the box aboard the ship?”

“Sure. Everybody knew John Carter. Everybody knows everybody else on a satellite station.” The Earthman stuck out his jaw. “That’s why none of us’ll take scop. We won’t blab out all our thoughts to guys we see fifty times a day. We’d go nuts!”

“I never made such a request,” said Syaloch.

“Carter was quite a good friend of mine,” volunteered Hollyday.

“Uh-huh,” grunted Gregg. “And he quit too, about the same time you fellows did, and went Earthside and hasn’t been seen since. HQ told me you and he were thick. What’d you talk about?”

“The usual.” Hollyday shrugged. “Wine, women, and song. I haven’t heard from him since I left Earth.”

“Who says Carter stole the box?” demanded Steinmann. “He just got tired of living in space and quit his job. He couldn’t have stolen the jewels — he was searched, remember?”

“Could he have hidden it somewhere for a friend to get at this end?” inquired Syaloch.

“Hidden it? Where? Those ships don’t have secret compartments.” Steinmann spoke wearily. “And he was only aboard the Jane a few minutes, just long enough to put the box where he was supposed to.” His eyes smoldered at Gregg. “Let’s face it: the only people anywhere along the line who ever had a chance to lift it were our own dear cops.”

The Inspector reddened and half rose. “Look here, you—”

“We’ve got your word that you’re innocent,” growled Steinmann. “Why should it be any better than mine?”

Syaloch waved both men back. “If you please. Brawls are unphilosophic.” His beak opened and clattered, the Martian equivalent of a smile. “Has either of you, perhaps, a theory? I am open to all ideas.”

There was a stillness. Then Hollyday mumbled: “Yes. I have one.”

Syaloch hooded his eyes and puffed quietly, waiting.

Hollyday’s grin was shaky. “Only if I’m right, you’ll never see those jewels again.”

Gregg sputtered.

“I’ve been around the Solar System a lot,” said Hollyday. “It gets lonesome out in space. You never know how big and lonesome it is till you’ve been there, all by yourself. And I’ve done just that — I’m an amateur uranium prospector, not a lucky one so far. I can’t believe we know everything about the universe, or that there’s only vacuum between the planets.”

“Are you talking about the cobblies?” snorted Gregg.

“Go ahead and call it superstition. But if you’re in space long enough... well, somehow, you know. There are beings out there — gas beings, radiation beings, whatever you want to imagine, there’s something living in space.”

“And what use would a box of jewels be to a cobbly?”

Hollyday spread his hands. “How can I tell? Maybe we bother them, scooting through their own dark kingdom with our little rockets. Stealing the crown jewels would be a good way to disrupt the Mars trade, wouldn’t it?”

Only Syaloch’s pipe broke the inward-pressing silence. But its burbling seemed quite irreverent.

“Well—” Gregg fumbled helplessly with a meteoric paperweight. “Well, Mr. Syaloch, do you want to ask any more questions?”

“Only one.” The third lids rolled back, and coldness looked out at Steinmann. “If you please, my good man, what is your hobby?”

“Huh? Chess. I play chess. What’s it to you?” Steinmann lowered his head and glared sullenly.

“Nothing else?”

“What else is there?”

Syaloch glanced at the Inspector, who nodded confirmation, and then replied gently:

“I see. Thank you. Perhaps we can have a game sometime. I have some small skill of my own. That is all for now, gentlemen.”

They left, moving like things of dream through the low gravity.

“Well?” Gregg’s eyes pleaded with Syaloch. “What next?”

“Very little. I think... yesss, while I am here I should like to watch the technicians at work. In my profession, one needs a broad knowledge of all occupations.”

Gregg sighed.

Ramanowitz showed the guest around. The Kim Brackney was in and being unloaded. They threaded through a hive of space-suited men.

“The cops are going to have to raise that embargo soon,” said Ramanowitz. “Either that or admit why they’ve clamped it on. Our warehouses are busting.”

“It would be politic to do so,” nodded Syaloch. “Ah, tell me... is this equipment standard for all stations?”

“Oh, you mean what the boys are wearing and carrying around? Sure. Same issue everywhere.”

“May I inspect it more closely?”

“Hm?” Lord, deliver me from visiting firemen! thought Ramanowitz. He waved a mechanic over to him. “Mr. Syaloch would like you to explain your outfit,” he said with ponderous sarcasm.

“Sure. Regular spacesuit here, reinforced at the seams.” The gauntleted hands moved about, pointing. “Heating coils powered from this capacitance battery. Ten-hour air supply in the tanks. These buckles, you snap your tools into them, so they won’t drift around in free fall. This little can at my belt holds paint that I spray out through this nozzle.”

“Why must spaceships be painted?” asked Syaloch. “There is nothing to corrode the metal.”

“Well, sir, we just call it paint. It’s really gunk, to seal any leaks in the hull till we can install a new plate, or to mark any other kind of damage. Meteor punctures and so on.” The mechanic pressed a trigger and a thin, almost invisible stream jetted out, solidifying as it hit the ground.

“But it cannot readily be seen, can it?” objected the Martian. “I, at least, find it difficult to see clearly in airlessness.”

“That’s right, Light doesn’t diffuse, so... well, anyhow, the stuff is radioactive — not enough to be dangerous, just enough so that the repair crew can spot the place with a Geiger counter.”

“I understand. What is the half-life?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. Six months, maybe? It’s supposed to remain detectable for a year.”

“Thank you.” Syaloch stalked off. Ramanowitz had to jump to keep up with those long legs.

“Do you think Carter may have hid the box in his paint can?” suggested the human.

“No, hardly. The can is too small, and I assume he was searched thoroughly.” Syaloch stopped and bowed. “You have been very kind and patient, Mr. Ramanowitz. I am finished now, and can find the Inspector myself.”

“What for?”

“To tell him he can lift the embargo, of course.” Syaloch made a harsh sibilance. “And then I must get the next boat to Mars. If I hurry, I can attend the concert in Sabaeus tonight.” His voice grew dreamy. “They will be premiering Hanyech’s Variations on a Theme by Mendelssohn, transcribed to the Royal Chlannach scale. It should he most unusual.”

It was three days afterward that the letter came. Syaloch excused himself and kept an illustrious client squatting while he read it. Then he nodded to the other Martian. “You will be interested to know, sir, that the Estimable Diadems have arrived at Phobos and are being returned at this moment.”

The client, a Cabinet Minister from the House of Actives, blinked. “Pardon, Freehatched Syaloch, but what have you to do with that?”

“Oh... I am a friend of the Featherless police chief. He thought I might like to know.”

“Hraa. Were you not on Phobos recently?”

“A minor case.” The detective folded the letter carefully, sprinkled it with salt, and ate it. Martians are fond of paper, especially official Earth stationery with high rag content. “Now, sir, you were saying—?”

The parliamentarian responded absently. He would not dream of violating privacy — no, never — but if he had X-ray vision he would have read:

“Dear Syaloch,

“You were absolutely right. Your locked room problem is solved. We’ve got the jewels back, everything is in fine shape, and the same boat which brings you this letter will deliver them to the vaults. It’s too bad the public can never know the facts — two planets ought to be grateful to you — but I’ll supply that much thanks all by myself, and insist that any bill you care to send be paid in full. Even if the Assembly had to make a special appropriation, which I’m afraid it will.

“I admit your idea of lifting the embargo at once looked pretty wild to me, but it worked. I had our boys out, of course, scouring Phobos with Geigers, but Hollyday found the box before we did. Which saved us a lot of trouble, to be sure. I arrested him as he came back into the settlement, and he had the box among his ore samples. He has confessed, and you were right all along the line.

“What was that thing you quoted at me, the saying of that Earthman you admire so much? ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.’ Something like that. It certainly applies to this case.

“As you decided, the box must have been taken to the ship at Earth Station and left there — no other possibility existed. Carter figured it out in half a minute when he was ordered to take the thing out and put it aboard the Jane. He went inside, all right, but still had the box when he emerged. In that uncertain light nobody saw him put it ‘down’ between four girders right next to the hatch. Or as you remarked, if the jewels are not in the ship, and yet not away from the ship, they must be on the ship. Gravitation would hold them in place. When the Jane blasted off, acceleration pressure slid the box back, but of course the waffle-iron pattern kept it from being lost; it fetched up against the after rib and stayed there. All the way to Mars! But the ship’s gravity held it securely enough even in free fall, since both were on the same orbit.

“Hollyday says that Carter told him all about it. Carter couldn’t go to Mars himself without being suspected and watched every minute once the jewels were discovered missing. He needed a confederate. Hollyday went to Phobos and took up prospecting as a cover for the search he’d later be making for the jewels.

“As you showed me, when the ship was within a thousand miles of this dock, Phobos gravity would be stronger than her own. Every space-jack knows that the robot ships don’t start decelerating till they’re quite close; that they are then almost straight above the surface; and that the side with the radio mast and manhatch — the side on which Carter had placed the box — is rotated around to face the station. The centrifugal force of rotation threw the box away from the ship, and was in a direction toward Phobos rather than away from it. Carter knew that this rotation is slow and easy, so the force wasn’t enough to accelerate the box to escape velocity and lose it in space. It would have to fall down toward the satellite. Phobos Station being on the side opposite Mars, there was no danger that the loot would keep going till it hit the planet.

“So the crown jewels tumbled onto Phobos, just as you deduced. Of course Carter had given the box a quick radioactive spray as he laid it in place, and Hollyday used that to track it down among all those rocks and crevices. In point of fact, its path curved clear around this moon, so it landed about five miles from the station.

“Steinmann has been after me to know why you quizzed him about his hobby. You forgot to tell me that, but I figured it out for myself and told him. He or Hollyday had to be involved, since nobody else knew about the cargo, and the guilty person had to have some excuse to go out and look for the box. Chess playing doesn’t furnish that kind of alibi. Am I right? At least, my deduction proves I’ve been studying the same canon you go by. Incidentally, Steinmann asks if you’d care to take him on the next time he has planet leave.

“Hollyday knows where Carter is hiding, and we’ve radioed the information back to Earth. Trouble is, we can’t prosecute either of them without admitting the facts. Oh, well, there are such things as blacklists.

“Will have to close this now to make the boat. I’ll be seeing you soon — not professionally, I hope!

Admiring regards,

Inspector Gregg”

But as it happened, the Cabinet minister did not possess X-ray eyes. He dismissed unprofitable speculation and outlined his problem. Somebody, somewhere in Sabaeus, was farniking the krats, and there was an alarming zaksnautry among the hyukus. It sounded to Syaloch like an interesting case.

Richard Deming

Open File

Richard Deming once spent two weeks in St. Louis soaking in background on local police and court procedures for a novel he was then writing. Among those he spoke to for information and local color was the chief of the Homicide Squad, who had some interesting things to say on one of his favorite subjects — the vast difference between real-life murder investigations and the Hollywood versions thereof.

Many real-life homicides, the chief pointed out, contain no mystery whatever. For example: during a domestic quarrel a husband kills his wife with the blunt instrument nearest at hand. For two hours the neighbors have had ringside seats to the battle of the sexes, and when the police arrive, the husband is still in a daze, and still clutching the murder weapon. And, of course, there are witnesses galore.

Or, say, a wife shoots her husband, immediately phones the police, and announces what she has done — just as simple and conclusive as that.

In neither instance are the police required to solve anything: their job is merely to round up and question the witnesses, and gather the plentiful evidence that the circuit attorney will use in court to prove what everybody already knows.

On the other hand, when a “mysterious” homicide did occur in real life, it usually contained an impossible amount of mystery — far more than any fiction writer would dare put on paper. To illustrate: during a store holdup the bandit loses his head and kills a customer who walked in unexpectedly. The bandit is masked, of average height, and has no unusual characteristics — no limp or odd manner of talking or readily identifiable clothes. He never before saw the person he killed, so that a check of the victim’s background is obviously useless. The only clue is the bullet, and as so often happens in real life, the slug struck a bone and is too battered to provide comparison tests — even if the murder gun does eventually turn up. The case is all mystery from start to finish — and no lead goes anywhere except to a dead end.

The chief of the Homicide Squad believed that no fictional or movie sleuth, however brilliant, could solve this type of crime — and by extension, no TV ’tec could perform such a miracle. Unless the bandit is caught for another crime and in the course of interrogation reveals his guilt of earlier crimes (a rather common occurrence in real life, yet paradoxically seldom used in fiction because it is too “unrealistic”), the case would simply languish in the Open File, which in every big city is likely to be a file cabinet full of folders labeled Unsolved Cases. But the chief of the Homicide Squad assured Mr. Deming that in his honest opinion the generally accepted belief that “murder will out” is mostly a fictional conceit, a popular myth.

It was this research that led Richard Deming to write “Open File,” a novelet that gives an utterly accurate picture of a routine homicide — a run-of-the-mill case told deliberately in a matter-of-fact style. No sensationalism. No pandering to morbid tastes. No thrills merely for the sake of thrills. Just a straight documentary showing how a real-life detective acts in a realistic murder investigation — and with a perfectly realistic ending...

It was a run-of-the-mill case. Check the files of any homicide squad and you will find a hundred like it. Maybe a thousand in the big cities. In St. Louis we stick them in what we call our Open File. I don’t know where they keep them other places, but no matter where they keep them or what they call them, they are run-of-the-mill.

The lieutenant himself took the call when it came in about 11 Wednesday morning, and I drew the case because I happened to return from a hit-and-run just as he hung up.

“Harris!” the lieutenant bawled when he saw me. “Get your butt down to 1046 Eichelberger and see what the hell they got. Some wet-eared rookie from Carondolet Precinct is so excited over the first corpse he ever saw, I can’t make out whether it’s homicide or a natural death.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Want I should type up this hit-and-run first?”

“Anybody dead?”

“Not yet. One woman to City Hospital for observation. Maybe internal injuries.”

“Then save it. Dictate it to a stenographer when you get back.”

He howled at his own joke. He howls every time he makes it, which is frequently. The only stenographers we see in Homicide are either dead or have just made somebody dead.

1046 Eichelberger was the lower left flat of a four-family building which had, instead of the usual inside foyer, a box-like open porch with separate entrances to each flat. I didn’t have any trouble spotting it, for besides a squad car with a cop in the driver’s seat half the residents of the South Side were milling around on the lawn trying to peer through the windows.

The door was opened by the rookie who had phoned in, a cop about twenty-two years old who was built like a rhinoceros. He was still agog with excitement, but beneath it I detected a poorly suppressed air of self-importance. Officious, I thought the moment I glimpsed him, an eager beaver with rosy dreams of working his way up to commissioner. Just like me, twenty years ago.

“Lieutenant?” he asked.

“The lieutenant was otherwise engaged,” I said. “He sent his regrets. I’m Corporal Sod Harris.”

“Oh,” he said, let down. He wasn’t only a rookie, but a brand-new rookie. Who but a brand-new rookie would expect the head of the homicide squad himself?

I said, “You can trust me. I been doing this work some years now. Spill it.”

He blinked at me, then moved his oversized body aside to let me in. “I’m Patrolman Fritz Kaltwasser,” he said, then repeated it to make sure I got the name. Who knows? — even a corporal’s report might be seen by some division head on the lookout for sharp young men. “It’s a girl named Eleanor Vogel, Corporal. She’s in the bedroom.” He added with a touch of pride, “I sent her folks upstairs by the neighbors, so they wouldn’t mess up any evidence.”

By the neighbors, I thought. A South Side Dutchman. South St. Louis idiom is wonderful. “Let’s go by the show, ain’t it?” they say, meaning, “Let’s go to the show, shall we?”

Fritz Kaltwasser is German for Frederick Coldwater.

I succumbed to an impulse to heckle him. “The parents under guard?”

“Huh?” He looked at me blankly, then blushed a furious red. “But they couldn’t have... I mean, their own daughter.”

“I was kidding,” I said, relenting. “Let’s see the stiff.”

He winced. He didn’t like the thought of a South Side girl being called a stiff, even after she was one. Maybe I should have said “remains.”

The girl in the flat’s only bedroom had been about nineteen. She was black-haired, passably pretty, possibly even exceedingly pretty in life, if her face had possessed any animation. It didn’t possess any now.

She was over in the far corner in a half-sprawled, half-seated position, her back against the wall, one leg straight out and one bent under her. She was dressed only in a slip and stockings, and between a rather prominent pair of breasts a lot of blood had coagulated. She looked straight at us from sightless eyes.

In her lap lay an Army .45 automatic, and in the wall behind her were three holes which looked as though they might have been made by shots from the gun.

Although he must have looked at her before, Patrolman Fritz Kaltwasser was staring at the corpse from bulging eyes and his face was a light shade of green. I took his elbow and piloted him back to the front room before he threw up.

“Give me the story,” I said.

Gradually his color returned to its usual ruddiness. He pulled a flat notebook from his hip pocket.

“At 10:56 A.M.,” he said, reading, “Patrolman John Lieber and I were cruising west on Bates between Thirty-seventh and Dewey when we got a radio report...”

“Not that,” I interrupted. “Just what happened here.”

Reluctantly he closed the book. “Well, from what I could gather, she must have been shot about 10. She was alone in the house. Her mother and father were shopping over by Grand Avenue, and there was nobody but the girl here when they left at 9. A half dozen neighbors heard the shots. Four or five of them — shots, I mean. A lot of people stuck their heads out back to ask each other what it was, but nobody seemed to knew. The lady upstairs thought it sounded from down here, but she thought nobody was home. She saw the parents go out, see, and she thought the girl was at work. She would have been ordinarily, but her folks tell me she lost her job yesterday. The father and mother found her when they came back at 10:30.”

I asked, “Anybody have guesses about who did it?”

He shook his head. “None of the neighbors anyway. I didn’t ask the parents much, because they’re all to pieces. Could it be suicide? I mean, the gun in her lap...”

“Don’t rush me,” I said. “A doctor seen her?”

“Dr. Koenig, the family physician. He’s upstairs with the parents now. I told him not to disturb the body beyond what was necessary to make sure she was dead until after the medical examiner saw her.”

I stared at him. He expected a medical examiner to rush to the scene of the crime, like they do in the movies. Our coroner’s physician has two assistants, and they do their examining without ever leaving the morgue. Why the movies do it differently, I don’t know. What our coroner’s physician could find out at the scene of a crime that he couldn’t find out quicker in his modern autopsy room, I do know. Nothing.

I said, “Go get that doctor.”

As he started to leave, I walked over in the corner to pick up the phone.

“Hey!” he said. “Fingerprints.”

On the phone, he meant. In the movies you pick up a phone with a handkerchief. Of course, a handkerchief would smear fingerprints as much as your hand, but the movies don’t know that.

“Yeah, fingerprints,” I snarled at him. “And footprints. How come you let that mob of people out front trample possible footprints?”

He looked as though I had kicked him in the stomach. Then, as he started determinedly toward the front door, I said, “Don’t chase them away. Just ask those who know anything about this to stick around. Get their names and addresses while you’re asking them.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. Sir to a corporal.

I lifted the phone by its mouthpiece so as not to disturb the possibly precious prints on the place you would normally hold it. I once heard of a case cracked by fingerprints. It was an extortion case, not a homicide, but still you never know.

Wiggans answered at Homicide. “The lieutenant is out on the street,” he said. The lieutenant is never out on a case, or looking at bodies in the morgue next door, or over in court. He’s always “out on the street.”

“I got a probable,” I said. “1046 Eichelberger. Left-hand flat downstairs. I’ll need pictures, lab stuff, an ambulance.”

“Check,” Wiggans said. “You phone the circuit attorney’s office?”

“You phone it,” I said. “You’re closer.”

Fritz Kaltwasser came back trailed by a tall elderly man. Dr. Herman Koenig his name was, and he said he had known Eleanor Vogel all her life. Delivered her, as a matter of fact, in the same bedroom where she died.

“There isn’t much I can tell you, Corporal,” he said. “Mr. Vogel called me, and after I looked at the girl, I called the police. The only pertinent information I have is she is dead.”

“Ten o’clock jibe as the time of death?” I asked.

“I saw her about a quarter of 11,” the doctor said. “There’s a bullet through her heart, so she must have died instantly, and she hadn’t been dead long. I understand shots were heard about 10. There’s no way of telling any closer than that when she died.”

“Only one bullet in her?”

“I only noted one wound.”

I asked, “Move her any when you examined her?”

He shook his head. “I merely felt her pulse and listened for her heart before I called the police. After they arrived I didn’t touch her again because Fritz told me not to disturb her position.”

Fritz. He knew the young cop too. Probably delivered him. Everybody on the South Side knows everybody else.

I asked him if he had any ideas about the girl’s death, but he didn’t. I also asked him if he knew anything about her personally, whether she ran around, had boy friends, and so on. He didn’t know that either. She was just a kid he had delivered, doctored through measles and other childhood diseases, but whom in recent years he saw only when she was sick.

I said, “Thanks, Doctor. Guess you won’t have to hang around any longer.” I wrote his name and address in my notebook.

Papa Vogel was a retired railroad man, a short stout individual with a tobacco-stained mustache and a curved pipe he never took out of his mouth. Ordinarily he probably was a pretty stolid person, but now he was in a crushed daze. Mama Vogel was a female version of Papa, without the mustache and pipe. She had been hysterical, but by the time I got to her she had settled down to a kind of hopeless grief.

Papa kept ineffectually trying to comfort her by patting her shoulder every once in a while and saying, “Now, Mama,” but it didn’t accomplish anything. She kept repeating, “Oh, Papa,” every time he patted, until the repetitious dialogue began to get on my nerves. But you can’t tell a couple of parents who have just lost their only daughter to shut up, so I worked in my questions between pats.

Neither parent had any idea as to who could have killed the girl. The possibility of suicide had not even occurred to them in spite of the automatic being found in her lap, and in spite of their having a vague idea it was a gun she had possessed for some time. They cleared this up by explaining she had borrowed either this gun or one similar to it from a boy friend some months back to use as a prop in Cleveland High School’s annual alumni play, in which she had a part. They assumed the gun had been returned, but possibly she had never gotten around to it.

They had little to tell me about the killing which I didn’t already know from Fritz Kaltwasser. From 9 until 10:30 they had been shopping at a group of small stores along Grand Avenue just north of Bates. I had them list the stores and the order in which they visited them.

At 10:30 they returned home and let themselves in by key. They explained that when they left, Eleanor was still in bed, the back door was locked, and they left the front on night lock. It was still on night lock when they returned and the back door was still locked too. Probably they would not have discovered the body immediately had the door to the bedroom not been open, but they had to pass it as they carried their various packages to the kitchen. Consequently they found the girl at once.

Aside from that, all I got from Papa and Mama Vogel was background. Eleanor Vogel had been nineteen, a graduate of Cleveland High School, and had worked as a stenographer for the Sanford Shoe Company until the day before, when she had been let out.

Losing her job had been entirely unexpected, the parents said. Five minutes before quitting time the girl had been called to the main office, handed a check for three days work plus accumulated vacation leave, and told not to come back in the morning. Why she had been so abruptly discharged, she refused to tell her parents, but she had seemed exceedingly bitter about it. They said she had come straight home from work and after briefly informing her parents of what had happened, locked herself in her room and refused to come out.

Ordinarily when she didn’t go out in the evening, Eleanor spent a good deal of time on the phone, her parents said. But last night she had not stirred from her room long enough to call a single friend. At 11 P.M. Mama Vogel had looked in to find her in bed asleep, and when the parents left at 9 A.M. she was still asleep.

The parents knew little about her personal life beyond the fact that her main boy friend until a week ago, when they had parted after a spat of some kind, had been a lad named Arthur Blake, the same one who loaned her the gun. Probably the spat had been because of jealousy on Arthur’s part, they guessed, as Eleanor had been quite popular with other men. With rather pitiful pride Mama Vogel said her daughter had a date nearly every night, but when I asked for a list of names, she reluctantly admitted the only one she had ever met was Arthur Blake. When Eleanor went out with the others she customarily left the house alone and met them at some predesignated spot.

In spite of the apparently clandestine nature of these assignations, both Papa and Mama Vogel insisted with blind parental faith their daughter had been a “good girl.”

I got a further hint of the dead girl’s character when I learned the sole bedroom in the four-room apartment had been hers, the parents using a folding divan in the front room.

“A young girl, she needs her own room,” Mama Vogel said between tears. “We try to do as good by her as we can, even though it ain’t much.”

The neighbors’ opinions, though cautiously expressed, were not as kind to Eleanor as her parents’. The consensus was that the girl was inclined to be wild, as more than once she had been observed being dropped from cars a quarter block from her house by strange men at hours as late as 2 in the morning. One woman — there is at least one such self-righteous and omniscient person in every neighborhood — declared she had always known the girl would come to a bad end. If Eleanor had confined herself to “that nice Arthur Blake,” who at least came to the house like a gentleman, she would still be alive, the woman told me, adding with grim satisfaction that the girl obviously had been murdered by one of the bad lot she went with, who were too sneaky to show their faces.

None of the other neighbors had any theories as to who had shot the girl, or why.

No one had seen anyone enter or leave the Vogel flat while the parents were gone. As leaning out of back windows was the normal method of conversing with neighbors in that neighborhood, everyone had rushed to the rear when the shots sounded, and a dozen people could have walked out the front door without being observed. No witnesses were available from the other side of the street because that was a vacant lot.

Though no one had happened to check a clock at the time, there was general agreement the shots had sounded approximately at 10. On the number of shots I found two schools of thought, one faction insisting there had been four and the other holding out for five. One deaf old lady who lived nearly a block up the street swore there had been more than a dozen, but since she was barely able to hear me when I shouted at her, I discounted her as a reliable witness.

I had finished preliminary questioning when Joe Saltzer arrived with a camera and laboratory kit, and Assistant Circuit Attorney Cass Humphrey showed up right behind him.

I brought Cass up to date before we went into the bedroom. So far I had entered the room only deep enough to get a good look, there being a rule about having a representative of the circuit attorney’s office present before you begin messing with evidence. The Assistant C.A. is supposed to instruct you in the preservation of evidence, which is smart in theory, as the circuit attorney’s office is responsible for presenting the evidence in court. However, when a cop has been ten years on Homicide, like me, and an Assistant C.A. has been out of law school only four months, like Cass Humphrey, it becomes a little ridiculous. Not that I think I’m smarter than Cass. He’s nearly as smart as his father, Senator Jim Humphrey, who always drew straight Es compared to my straight Ms when we attended Soldan High School together. But even a dumb cop is likely to learn more in ten years than a smart lawyer can pick up in four months.

Cass merely watched while I went to work.

First I had Joe Saltzer take pictures from various angles to get a permanent record of everything in the room. Then I had him dust the gun in the girl’s lap for fingerprints.

Contrary to popular belief, you do not leave nice clear fingerprints on every smooth surface you touch. Unless your fingers hit the surface with just the right pressure, and without sliding, you leave only useless smudges. On the corrugated grip of an Army automatic you couldn’t leave a fingerprint even if you tried, but there is always the chance of finding fingerprints where the slide is pulled back to throw a shell in the chamber.

On the slide Joe brought out several beautiful smudges.

This routine time-waster being out of the way, I checked the clip and found four shells missing. A hands and knees search resulted in locating two of the ejected casings under the bed and the other two under the dresser. We found half a thumbprint on one, hopelessly smeared.

Then, for the first time, I gave my attention to the body. Under the slip she wore nothing but a garter belt, and apparently she had been caught in the act of dressing, for only one stocking was snapped. Her fingernails, clipped short in stenographer style, were bright red. I was gratified to note she had used them for scratching, for beneath them she had managed to collect tiny flakes of blood-speckled skin. Carefully I scraped them clean, dropped the scrapings in an envelope, and gave it to Joe.

The girl’s hair was singed in one spot which roughly lined up with one of the holes in the wall behind her, indicating that a bullet had caused the singe. I had another close-up made to show this, as it completely canceled the already unlikely possibility that Eleanor had herself pumped three bullets into the wall, then sat down and put the fourth into herself.

On both upper arms the girl had light bruises, which looked as though someone had gripped her hard by the biceps. On the back of her left shoulder was another slight bruise and her left elbow was skinned from contact with the wall.

The total picture added up to someone having grasped her by the arms, hurled her into the corner, and having pumped four bullets at her while she sprawled there. He had been a lousy shot, for only one had connected.

An ambulance had arrived from City Hospital by then, and I let them take the body away to the morgue.

Then I went over that bedroom inch by inch. Aside from the marks on the girl and the skin flakes beneath her nails, there was no sign of a struggle. Near the door I found two six-inch black hairs on the rug and preserved them in an envelope. To my naked eye they looked like the girl’s, but the lab could decide definitely.

The top drawer of the dresser had been pulled open about a foot. In its right front corner was a folded silk scarf with an indentation in its center the size of the gun, indicating the automatic probably had lain there a long time. Farther back in the drawer I found an empty spare clip.

The next two drawers yielded nothing but clothing, but the bottom one contained her personal mementoes and keepsakes. Here were old invitations to high school dances and parties, her grade school and high school diplomas, a dried corsage — all the trivia a nineteen-year-old girl might save. But not a single letter. The absence struck me as so odd that I made a note of it in my book. A girl who had dates every night certainly would have a few love letters. And a girl who would save an old dried-up corsage just as certainly would not throw love letters away.

When I asked Mama and Papa Vogel, they had no idea whether their daughter had saved letters or not, but seemed certain she would have kept them nowhere but in her dresser if she had.

At the rear of the bottom drawer, beneath the newspaper lining, I found a little black address book. Riffling through it, I discovered it contained the phone numbers of 26 men, all identified merely by first names plus the first initial of the last name. But through the phone numbers it would be a simple matter to track them down.

I started to drop the book in my pocket, then thought of something and riffled through it again. No one named Arthur was listed, yet until a week ago Arthur Blake had been her “main” boy friend.

Maybe it meant nothing except that Arthur had no phone.

While I was combing the room, Joe Saltzer dug three bullets out of the wall and sealed them in a marked envelope.

When I finished with the bedroom, I had Joe dust the entire flat for fingerprints, including the telephone Fritz Kaltwasser had been so concerned over. He found three prints good enough to photograph, all in the kitchen. But when two proved to be Mama Vogel’s and the third Papa’s, we neglected photographing them. Fingerprints are lovely for identification purposes when a guy who knows how to take them inks a person’s fingers and gently rolls them across a white card. But they aren’t often helpful as clues.

Rookie Fritz Kaltwasser was still hanging around. Observing us packing up shop, he asked, “Aren’t you going to make paraffin tests?”

Joe Saltzer looked at me. I looked at Joe. Then I looked back at the kid.

“Aren’t you and your partner supposed to be riding around in that squad car, son?”

“My partner’s in the car with the radio on,” he said. “There haven’t been any calls.” He stood looking at me inquiringly, waiting for an answer to his question.

“You got any paraffin with you?” I asked Joe.

“Sure,” he said. “It’s part of the kit.”

“Let’s take some paraffin impressions.”

“What the hell for?” he wanted to know.

“Education,” I said. “Nobody educated me when I was a rookie. They made me learn by myself, which is why I’m a corporal instead of commissioner. I want this kid to know about paraffin tests so he can grow up to be commissioner.”

So we took some paraffin impressions. First we tried Papa Vogel, who docilely submitted without having the vaguest idea what we were doing. We lifted a whole flock of carbon particles from his right palm.

Fritz had faith in the paraffin test. He had seen it in the movies, where it conclusively proves whether or not a suspect has fired a gun. The flashback of the gun is supposed to imbed carbon particles in your hand. He looked at Papa Vogel with his eyes round.

“He smokes a pipe,” I disillusioned him. “He uses kitchen matches.”

Mama Vogel gave a positive test too. I didn’t try to explain that one. It could be that she had fired a gun recently. It also could be she forgot to wash her hands after going to the bathroom. Urine is full of carbon particles. Most likely she had used a match to light the kitchen oven.

“Want us to take your impression?” I asked Fritz.

He looked embarrassed. He muttered that he had fired on the range that morning.

I took the impression anyway. It was negative. Apparently he had a nice tight gun which didn’t allow flashbacks.

“The courts don’t accept paraffin tests as evidence any more,” I explained to him. “So we don’t bother to take them. Any other phase of this investigation you think we might have overlooked?”

He mumbled he hadn’t intended to tell us our job. He was only trying to help.

Outside Joe Saltzer said to me, “Hope I never develop into as sour an old man as you. You have to take the kid down quite so hard?”

“Me?” I asked. “I did him a favor. Next homicide he’ll know what he’s doing. Think I wasted all that time educating him just to put a smart kid in his place?”

“Yes,” he said unkindly.

Cass Humphrey, who had not opened his mouth during the investigation, trailed us outside. “What do you think, Sod?” he asked.

“You can rule out any possibility of suicide,” I told him. “I think you can also rule out the killer being a prowler. A day-time prowler in a residential neighborhood like this is unlikely in the first place, and he would have had to pick a night lock to get in. Any prowler smart enough to pick that lock would be too smart to pull a job at 10 in the morning. Besides, I checked the lock and it shows no signs of being tampered with.

“I think the girl knew the killer and let him in the front door. I say the front because she wouldn’t have been likely to relock the back door if she had opened it, but the front would automatically lock itself. I imagine he got her out of bed, as she was still there when the parents left at 9, and she went to the door wearing the pajamas and dressing gown which are now hanging from a hook on the door of her closet. Either she knew the killer intimately enough to dress in front of him, or she left him in another part of the house while she dressed, and he suddenly walked in on her.

“I think the gun came out of her top bureau drawer, and since even her parents didn’t know it was there, it’s hardly likely the killer did. I think she pulled the gun out, probably in self-defense, the killer took it away from her and killed her with it. There was some kind of struggle, because there are marks on her and she scratched him with her nails.”

“Attempted rape, maybe?” Cass asked.

I shrugged. “Possibly. Also possibly a lover’s tiff. Or the girl might have been doing a little blackmail.” I told him my thoughts about finding no letters among the girl’s mementoes.

“You mean there probably were letters and the killer lifted them?”

I shrugged again. “Perhaps she just never saved letters. From the other stuff she kept I have an idea she would, though, all tied up in pink ribbon. Her folks didn’t know of any, but then they didn’t know much of anything about her private affairs.”

“At any rate, we’ve got enough definitely to establish it as homicide, haven’t we?”

I told him if the coroner’s jury managed to return any other verdict in the face of the evidence, we could arrest the foreman, for obviously no one but the murderer would cast a vote for anything but homicide.

Unfortunately the solution of the case was not that simple, for when the coroner’s jury met on Friday as usual, it rendered a verdict of homicide.

In the meantime I began the staggering amount of routine checking you always have to do in a run-of-the-mill case. Much of it was valuable only from the negative point of view that it eliminated remote possibilities, but it all had to be done. A door to door canvas of people in the Vogels’ neighborhood, for instance, on the off-chance some neighbor who had not come forward had glimpsed someone entering or leaving the flat. And checking the stores where the Vogels claimed they were shopping. Though I hadn’t the remotest suspicion that either parent had killed the girl, I couldn’t simply accept their statements they had been gone from the house from 9 to 10:30. All the stores in that particular shopping area are relatively small businesses, and the Vogels were known by sight in all of them. They were remembered every place they had been.

A general pick-up order had been issued for a white man between 30 and 45 with a ruddy complexion, dark brown hair, good general health, and blood type O, who had scratches on his face. This description emanated from the lab, but since I don’t work in the lab, I have no idea how they deduced all that from a couple of flakes of skin.

The order brought in several scratched-up underworld characters, most of whom I didn’t have to bother with because they were eliminated by blood typing. But I wasted half a day on two who came within the proper blood type before discarding both because of unshakable alibis.

I wasted half a day on Arthur Blake too. He was twenty, good-looking in a skinny sort of way, and worked in the shipping department of the Ralston Purina Company.

Factors pointing to his possible guilt were his fight with Eleanor a week before her death and his ownership of the gun found in her lap, which ballistic tests had definitely established as the weapon which killed the girl and fired three other bullets into the wall.

Factors pointing to his innocence were that he had got himself a new girl two days after his fight with Eleanor, indicating the fight had not completely shattered him; that he was too young to fit the lab’s description of the killer, and at the time the girl was shot he was at work in the shipping department alongside a couple of dozen other people.

The gun he had loaned to the girl was a World War II souvenir given him by an older brother, he said. No, it wasn’t registered. Was it supposed to be? No, it had not been loaded when he gave it to her, but he gave her an extra clip with it, and that had been loaded. Why? He didn’t know. The extra clip had been in his drawer with the gun, and he just gave it to her. Why hadn’t he asked for the gun back, particularly when they were breaking up? He didn’t think of it. He hadn’t forgotten it, and meant to get it back eventually, but he just didn’t think of it at the time.

The break-up battle, as Eleanor’s folks guessed, had been over her going out with other men.

“She seemed to get crazier and crazier,” he told me. “In high school she never went out with anybody but me, but this past year — year and a half maybe — she started going out with everybody. All of a sudden she seemed to get the idea no man could resist her, and thought she had to prove it by dating a different man every night.”

“It happens to young girls sometimes,” I said. “Psychologists call it a ‘phase.’ You ever have physical relations with her?”

He looked at me with indignation. “Of course not. She was my girl.”

Fine standard of morality. You don’t violate your girl. Probably he went to prostitutes.

“Think maybe she was being a little loose with these other men? The ones who never came to the house.”

He flushed, started to shake his head, thought better of it and said with an embarrassed air, “How would I know?”

Obviously it was a thought he had deliberately skirted, something he refused to consider possible about his former “girl,” even after she ceased to rate that classification. It occurred to me his suspicion she was being promiscuous with other men while he continued to treat her as chaste might have a lot to do with his quick recovery after the final split. Some guys have to respect a woman in order to love her.

Apparently he had done a little spying on Eleanor before the blow-off, for he knew her dates customarily picked her up a block from her home at the corner of Eichelberger and Grand. He had never managed to glimpse any of them except as vague figures behind the wheels of cars, and knew none of them except one. During their last fight Eleanor defiantly bragged she was going out with her boss, a 40-year-old man with a wife and two children.

I had already discovered the girl’s former boss was one of the 26 men listed in the little black book, for with the cooperation of the telephone company we had attached last names and addresses to the listing. By then I also had the post mortem report.

It showed that Eleanor Vogel had been pregnant.

The addition of even hearsay evidence that she had been dating her boss gave me pretty good ammunition with which to call on the man.

Warren Phillips was a minor executive for the Sanford Shoe Company. He was a slim, ungrayed man of natty appearance with a nice smile and a cheerful manner. He had his own office, but it was merely a partitioned recess in a row of a dozen similar offices, fronted with glass so that there was no visual privacy from the main office immediately outside of it.

He greeted me with wary friendliness, waved me to a seat, and said with a show of frankness tempered by just the proper amount of impersonal sadness you exhibit over the death of people you don’t know very well, “I suppose you’ve called about that unfortunate girl whom we let go the day she was killed, Sergeant?”

“Corporal,” I said. “Yeah, Eleanor Vogel. Tell me about her, Mr. Phillips.”

He lifted his hands deprecatingly. “There really isn’t much I can tell, Serg... Corporal. She was assigned as my stenographer about six months ago. I believe she worked here a few months before that in the stenographers’ pool, but I’m not certain. I saw her every day, five days a week, for six months, but I really didn’t know her. She was just someone I gave dictation to.”

“You never saw her outside of office hours?”

“Of course not.”

I tabled that for the moment. “Why was she fired?”

He smiled embarrassedly. “She wasn’t exactly fired, Corporal. She was laid off. And I’m afraid that was my fault. Her work slipped and I asked to be assigned a different girl.”

“You didn’t have her canned because you had made her pregnant and she was raising a fuss, huh?” I asked idly.

His eyes grew big and round. “What... what was that?”

I pulled out Eleanor’s little black book, thumbed it open. “She lists you as ‘Warren P., parenthesis, the boss, two exclamation points, close parentheses. Garfield 8-1942. Call Sunday mornings only.’ When your wife was at church, I presume.”

“That... that’s preposterous!” he said in a strangled voice.

I stretched the truth a little. “Her ex-boyfriend, Arthur Blake, knows of at least one occasion you were out together until after midnight. He’s willing to testify in court.”

“In court?” he squeaked.

I settled back in my chair. “Tell me about it, Mr. Phillips,” I suggested.

So he told me about it. First I had to listen to a plea I have heard many times in my twenty years as a cop — the one about being a married man with children, that a scandal would kill his family and probably lose him his job, that he didn’t care about himself, but couldn’t stand the thought of his family suffering. In twenty years I’ve never run across a selfish pleader — not a single one who ever cares for himself. Back him in a corner and he throws his wife and children at you. Or his mother, if he’s single.

When I grew bored, I told him to shut it off and get to the point.

It had started shortly after Eleanor began working for him, he said. He tried to explain that she had something sensual about her which made men constantly aware of her body. He wasn’t the only one to notice it. She was regarded throughout the office as a “hot number,” and he had taken a little good-natured joshing from the other executives at the time she was assigned to him. He insisted she had made all the advances, throwing out stronger and stronger hints that he appealed to her.

Eventually the inevitable happened. He worked her overtime one evening, took her to dinner afterward, and they ended up in a tourist cabin. He claimed he had taken her out only six times altogether in as many months.

“I wasn’t the only man,” he said in a depressed voice. “She even used to describe to me what she did with other men, though not by name. Apparently she liked men older than herself, for she was proud of the number of middle-aged men she had chasing her. Obviously she confused promiscuity with popularity, for she seemed to be convinced she was the most popular girl who ever lived. The fact that men always picked her up away from her house and never took her anywhere in public didn’t in the least shake this belief. I don’t think she was a nymphomaniac, or even particularly passionate, but she certainly had some kind of psychological twist in her thinking. Even if she wasn’t a nympho, she was definitely man-crazy.”

He paused to throw me what was supposed to be a man-to-man look, but came out merely as an embarrassed cringe, “Under the circumstances can you blame me for my reaction when she announced she was pregnant and insisted I was to blame? Naturally I refused to take responsibility.”

“So you had her fired for even suggesting it,” I remarked.

He looked sheepish. “I didn’t have her fired. I merely asked that she be transferred back to the stenographers’ pool. It’s not my fault the pool was full and the main office laid her off. What else could I do? She was getting so insistent, the situation was impossible.”

“What else could you do?” I repeated. “You could put a bullet through her heart.”

His face turned gray. “You don’t think...,” he whispered. “You don’t think I...”

“Tell me about 10 o’clock Wednesday morning,” I said.

For a long time he simply looked at me. Then he pressed a buzzer and a pretty girl of about twenty rose from a desk in the outer office and came in. I noted there was nothing sensual whatever about this girl.

Phillips introduced her as his new stenographer and told me to ask her anything I wanted. I did, and learned that the morning Eleanor Vogel was murdered, the new stenographer had sat and taken dictation from Warren Phillips from 8:30 until noon without a break.

That ended that lead.

During the next four days I had hauled in every one of the other 25 men listed in Eleanor Vogel’s little book. Not one of them proved younger than 30 and they ranged upward in age to an old roué of 60 who had grown children older than Eleanor. Only five were unmarried.

I listened to bluster and indignation, to outright defiance (temporary) and to groveling pleas not to bring ruin on the innocent heads of wives and children. I listened patiently, and then in each case I reached in and squeezed out what I wanted to hear.

With the exception of the last three names on the book, which apparently had not had time to ripen into intimacy, it was the same old story each time, with variations only in the manner in which they had originally met the girl. In only two cases had the meetings been through legitimate introductions, both occurring at public dances. The others had been pick-ups. Eleanor had managed to get herself picked up in bars, on park benches, in swimming pools, at Forest Park Highlands, and simply while walking along the street.

Also, with variations in terminology, every one of the men described her as Warren Phillips had. Through their words I constructed a picture of the girl which would have fascinated a psychiatrist. It was a picture her parents would have denied with horror, and even Arthur Blake, despite his half-confessed suspicions, probably would have refused to believe.

Through some twisted psychology Eleanor Vogel seemed to think the attention of men older than herself proved her a femme fatale, and she had not only given herself without discrimination to any man above 30, she had literally thrown herself at him. The little black book was the list of her “conquests.”

Perhaps a psychiatrist could have understood the causes behind such a fixation developing out of what seemed to have been a normal childhood, but I made no attempt to figure her out, or to judge her either psychologically or morally. My job was to catch her murderer.

I thought perhaps I was getting somewhere when seven of the men she had listed in her book admitted she had accused them of making her pregnant, with as little luck as she encountered with her boss.

But because of the hour the shooting had occurred, twenty-two of my suspects were able to prove they were at work. The other three proved they were out of town.

I started over again.

Although neither Warren Phillips nor any of the other 25 listed in the book showed evidence of having been scratched, Warren Phillips and twelve of the others fell within the loose description issued by the laboratory. After blood tests were run, the number was reduced to Warren Phillips and two others.

We took skin samples and eliminated everybody.

I started all over again, this time broadening the field of investigation.

From Mama and Papa Vogel I got a list of friends Eleanor had not included in the little black book. High school friends, people she had known at work, boys and girls both. Patiently I hunted them down and asked questions. Did she ever mention being afraid of anyone? Did they know she had a gun at home? Did they know she went with older men? With anyone at all? Who?

Nothing.

I was just getting ready to start over a third time when the lieutenant snarled something about spending my life on a single case and threw two new ones in my lap. So I contented myself with poring over the case record for a final time.

Every bit of evidence it had been possible to collect by modern scientific methods of criminology was there. The beautifully clear photographs, the lab reports, the post mortem report, the copy of the coroner’s inquest, the pages and pages of questions and answers typed up by my two index fingers. Could it be put together and produce an answer by nothing but the addition of human reason?

I took the case record home with me to try it on my own time.

The fact that the gun had been loaded when Eleanor tried to use it, and had it wrested away from her, started a train of thought. Certainly it had not been loaded when used in the alumni play. Would she have kept it loaded afterward? Hardly likely, unless she felt she might have to use it in self-defense against someone later.

It seemed plausible to infer she had been aware of possible danger.

This deduction brought me no nearer a solution than I had been.

Again I concentrated on the already memorized evidence, and out of it I was able to draw some fine general and alternate theories.

Perhaps there was a man with a scratched face somewhere in town who had been one of Eleanor’s conquests, but for some reason she had failed to enter his name in the book. Perhaps the man simply had no phone.

Perhaps the book had nothing to do with her killing. Perhaps the peculiarly absent letters were the key, and she had been killed for their possession.

Perhaps Arthur Blake, or Warren Phillips, or one of the other 25 men in the little black book had hired a professional killer.

Perhaps, after all, it was simply a prowler with a knack for picking locks in broad daylight.

The trouble with every perhaps was that it pointed nowhere at all.

The next morning I took the case back to Homicide and put it in the Open File. It is still there, along with a hundred other cases in the same file. A run-of-the-mill case. A kind of murder every homicide squad gets oftener than it admits. A kind of killing every homicide cop occasionally slaves over — and finally, reluctantly, closes by sticking it in the Open File.

The unsolved homicide.

* * *

Editors’ Note: “Open File” is simply a realistic portrayal of a common but generally unpublicized type of homicide case. It is not intended to be one of those puzzle stories in which the reader is challenged to figure out the solution; nor is it intended to be an “unfinished” story in “The Lady, or the Tiger?” tradition, in which the reader is kept in a state of “suspended cerebration,” wondering what happened after the. story ends. Yet there is a puzzle in this story, and if you are the kind of reader who enjoys matching wits with the detective (or the author) you may wish to solve the case for yourself.

Corporal Sod Harris was deliberately permitted to miss an important point in the investigation of Eleanor Vogel’s murder. This overlooked point directs suspicion to one person as the instigator of the murder, if not the actual filler. Had Corporal Harris caught the point, the story’s outcome might easily have remained unchanged — the clue might have led to a dead end. But if you think you are a shrewd and observant amateur detective, try to answer these two questions:

What point did Corporal Sod Harris miss?

And to whom did this clue point?

* * *

The point that Corporal Harris missed was simply the significance of the time of the murder. According to the evidence, Eleanor Vogel came straight home after learning she had lost her job and thereafter had no contact with anyone except the murderer. Therefore, the only one of the numerous suspects who would expect the girl to be home at 10 in the morning on a working day was her boss, Warren Phillips.

You will recall that the reason the upstairs neighbor did not investigate the Vogel apartment, even though the neighbor thought the shots came from there, was that she thought no one was at home in the Vogel apartment — the neighbor had seen Eleanor’s parents leave and had every reason to assume that the girl was at work. All of Eleanor Vogel’s lovers — except Warren Phillips — would also have assumed she was at work. None of them — except Warren Phillips — would have picked that particular time to visit the girl or have instructed a professional killer to call at that time.

Yes, the very time of the murder points to the victim’s boss, Warren Phillips, as the possible culprit.

Frank Swinnerton

Soho Night’s Entertainment

The famous British novelist, author of nocturne and friend of Arnold Bennett and H. G. Wells to whose interest and praise he attributes his first literary success, goes sleuthing (not slumming) in Soho. Meet Inspector Calloway, the solid and stolid manhunter, and Rouben, the purveyor of forgetfulness, and the enchanting “princess” — in a New Arabian Nights melodrama...

Rouben’s, I found, was a dark little restaurant. Its rich red walls were obscured by dingy paintings, and only one small crimson-shaded lamp lighted each of the tables. At first glance it seemed the ideal trysting place for secret lovers rather than for such steely-hearted fellows as Calloway and myself. Yet for some reason Calloway had asked me to meet him here.

After passing through the doorway I would have been as blind as a man entering a cave from sunshine if Calloway, standing just within the door, had not touched my arm.

“Hullo,” said I. “Are you a ghost?”

“Your dead conscience,” replied Calloway. “I’ve got a table.” He guided me through the gloom.

An old bent waiter hovered near us, a despairing character who must have been sick of the smell of food and hated the very thought of customers. I pictured him as feeling sure they would demand impossible dishes and ignore all his aged recommendations. Nevertheless, carrying a soiled and battered wine list, he plodded after us toward the back of the restaurant, where everything but the tables seemed even gloomier.

“You drink cocktail?” the antique waiter disgustedly supposed.

“Two Pernods, please.” Calloway’s tone, polite but authoritative, sent the old chap hastening off, flat-footed, at dangerous speed. Dim-witted though he might be, the waiter knew a man of character by his voice.

Calloway must have been in the place before, as he knew its ways; but the waiter had given no sign of recognition. That is because Calloway’s face is just like the face of every third man one does not notice in the street. Since Calloway is an extremely quickwitted Detective-Inspector, this unremarked face has immense advantages. Many a criminal has cursed “the invisible man” who brought him to justice.

I did not ask why we were at Rouben’s. Nor, if I had done so, would Calloway have told me. He is secretive — it is a mark of his calling. All the same, he has a nose for good food, and when off duty he likes to take his ease in Soho; and it might be that we were merely dining well to celebrate a little triumph of his. But is Calloway ever off duty? I have often wondered.

“A discreet place,” I remarked under my breath. “A place for great Civil Servants to bring their mistresses.”

“You must use it again,” answered Calloway, carelessly passing the menu. He smiled.

The menu looked good; but I played safe by choosing smoked trout and a tournedos, which I like. I then hoped to drink a cosy Pichon-Longueville with the tournedos. Calloway, knowing my relish for this grand wine, favored me by suggesting it.

“They have some twenty-six,” he observed, “in excellent condition.”

“Nothing could be better. But do you come here so often,” I asked, “that you know the cellar? If I used the place, should I embarrass you?”

“I can rely on your—” Calloway changed the tenor of his speech, while continuing to use the same smiling tone. I became aware of somebody standing beside us — somebody in black with small white cuffs and a delicately-flowered white apron. She had come to the table soundlessly, and I looked up into the young, serious, very dark face of one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen.

She listened gravely while Calloway ordered our food; and then, with a regal inclination of the head, went quickly away. I breathed deep. The effect she had upon me was astonishing; it was an effect, not of attraction or repulsion, but of awe.

A moment elapsed before I recovered enough to say, “Rouben employs waitresses, I observe. Or are they, as they seem, princesses?”

“One,” replied Calloway. “Waitress, not a princess.”

“A beauty. Is she Rouben’s daughter?”

“No,” said Calloway.

That was all. It made me eager to see the princess again — and, in fact, to observe the effect she had on Calloway. He obviously knew Rouben’s cellar. Did he rate Rouben’s beautiful waitress above the cellar? I did not dare to ask.

Rouben himself — or so I judged — now came from somewhere near the front door straight toward us. He was slightly above middle height, broad, swarthy, black-haired and black-eyed, very genial and very smiling, and he had small white plump hands like those of Queen Victoria in her late photographs. The tips of his fingers, which rested upon our table under the light, were excessively delicate. I saw from the slight movement of Calloway’s eyes that they had attracted his attention.

“You order, gentlemen?” he said in a smooth voice. “You happy, that’s so?”

What a smile! Rouben’s lids dropped; his full lips spread; within his geniality I read insatiable appetite. Was the beautiful waitress thus explained? I looked at Calloway, admiring his mask, which was that of as typically beefy an Englishman as ever appeared in Continental fiction.

“All are happy at Rouben’s,” said Calloway, with the air of a dull man being gallant. “Rouben makes them so.”

It seemed acceptable.

“I like much to think that. Oh, I like to think that!” murmured Rouben, devoutly. He looked toward the ceiling; and one’s heart hardened at the sight of the coarse lips and fleshy under-chin. This was a cruel man. “It is my prayer! You know, gentlemen—” He lowered his head confidentially. Piety was succeeded by gentle unction like the flow of thick oil from a tap. “So much unhappiness in the world; so many lonely, disappointed, frustrated... If I can, you understand...” He made the maître d’hôtel’s small gesture in which thumb and forefinger touched. “If I can bring a little cheer... forgetfulness...”

He struggled for still better words.

Calloway nodded. “Oblivion, yes. You’re a benefactor, Mr. Rouben.”

The man laughed. The chuckle shook his body. How genial! And at the same time how not genial! He ought to have offered us each a small white packet of oblivion.

Instead of doing this, he gave a smiling little bow, looked closely at Calloway from under his heavy lids, and turned to another table by the opposite wall. There he greeted newly-arrived guests, bowing low to the woman, shaking hands lingeringly with the man as if they were intimate friends.

At that moment the princess returned. She placed our dishes before us with lovely hands, and when she withdrew it was as if the restaurant had grown dark; yet I had hardly looked at her face. I had been so much engrossed in her exquisite hands that I had forgotten, after all, to peep at Calloway.

Two minutes later, a woman, dark as Rouben himself, came quickly into the restaurant. She wore a crimson cloak, was tall, and although still smart in appearance, she had lost the first confident freshness of youth. I supposed her just on the wrong side of thirty-five, and troubled because there were so many attractive girls in the world.

She smiled, nevertheless, at the princess, without jealousy, nodded to the bent old waiter, and went past us to a table across the restaurant. Calloway, facing that way, showed interest both in the woman and in her position. Rouben turned his shoulder to her as she passed. A hush fell upon the place.

Presently Rouben went away.

“Is it narcotics?” I murmured to Calloway; but Calloway made no reply. I should have to be more discreet! We settled to our meal.

We had been eating for five minutes, and were ready for the second course, when I saw Rouben returning. He came very slowly and carefully, bearing in steady hands two glasses full of some apertif which he seemed to regard as the elixir of life. His lips were pressed together, his face was set. All geniality had left it during that journey. Then he was past us, and I saw the princess close upon his heels.

She, too, was tragically intent, although she carried nothing more precious than a tray of hors d’oeuvres. She moved behind me, to the table in the corner. I lost sight of her. The ancient waiter, still grimacing with disgust, but showing increased pace which I attributed to Rouben’s intimidating presence, toddled over to serve the people across the room, carrying glasses and a big bottle poised on a colossal white-metal salver. His eyes were fixed on either Rouben or the princess.

“By Jove!” thought I. “If he doesn’t look where he’s going—”

I was right. The salver tipped, slid. The whole thing must have fallen like an avalanche upon Rouben’s back, for the crash was terrific. It was followed by rattling, tinkling cascades like thunder and lightning. You never heard such a row.

I turned in dismay, in time to see Rouben leaping to his feet like a man at whom a bomb has been thrown. He was a dirty gray, terrified, screaming in frenzy at the culprit, who was bent double. Not being a linguist, I could understand only parts of his abuse; but the words I heard were the foulest in the world.

Beyond Rouben was the princess, her pearly face in the shadow, her body rigid as a statue of black marble. Her back was to the wall, as if she were supporting herself by its aid. The other woman sat smiling. A gleam of light from the red-shaded lamp shone only upon her chin and bosom, but I thought her eyes glittered in the semidarkness.

All was over in a moment. The old waiter first cringed, his lips moving in obsequious apology, then backed unsteadily away to fetch a dustpan and swab. The princess might have been his shadow. She passed and disappeared. Rouben recovered himself, sat down again, said something polite to his table companion, raised his glass of the apertif, and with an air of radiant good humor motioned to her to do the same.

Apparently he forgave and forgot. He watched the lady drain her glass, and then he quaffed his own with an air almost of bravado. I saw him nod three or four times, watching the woman as if to be sure the drink had been to her taste.

Then we heard the tinkle of glass as the wretched ancient, upon his knees, with dingy tails draggling over his boots, swept up the debris. He was an abject sight, arousing pity and contempt. We averted our gaze, and I felt my neck aching from its prolonged twist during the post-crash scene. The princess stood at our table, serving the tournedos as if nothing whatever had happened.

Nothing whatever? Her hands, her arms, her whole body trembled violently. Her mouth was closed as if she were forcibly keeping her teeth from chattering. I saw Calloway look deliberately up into her face. I saw that she refused to meet his glance. I saw that as she turned away she shuddered.

Consumed with curiosity, I wondered what was really going on behind the scenes at Rouben’s.

To my surprise, as soon as we had left the place and crossed the street, a man coming from the direction of Shaftesbury Avenue spoke to Calloway. I had not seen the man until that instant, and he may either have stepped from a doorway or turned the corner of a side street; but I did not doubt that he had been waiting, for Calloway said to me with unusual abruptness:

“Sorry, old chap. I’m wanted. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

So I had no chance to tease him about the princess, or give my opinions of Rouben and the dark woman of the aperitif, or ask further about drugs, or demand a translation of Rouben’s address to the dodderer. I was forced to go back to my flat, speculating over a pipe on all that I had seen, thought, and guessed. It was quite a lot for one evening.

More was to follow. I didn’t hear from Calloway, but at the Club the following afternoon I picked up an early edition of The Planet. There, in big capitals, were the words:

FAMOUS RESTAURATEUR FOUND DEAD

The restaurateur was Rouben.

Rouben! That was a shock. When I had absorbed it I found my head buzzing with surmises. How had he died? Sixteen hours ago I had endured his unction, heard his fury, seen his soft hands and his ceremonial toast to the strange woman in crimson. Now all that power for evil — as I had believed — was gone. How? Why? I was only restrained from telephoning Calloway by knowledge that if anything was “on” he would be in it up to his neck.

He was in it up to his neck.

A later edition of the paper bellowed:

POISON IN SOHO

Rouben, the famous restaurateur, died early this morning from a dose of as yet unidentified poison. Was it suicide? There is good reason to believe that it was murder. Rouben’s staff have been closely questioned. All visitors to the restaurant are being traced. Curious crowds have gathered outside the restaurant all morning. Detectives maintain great reticence.

The last words did not surprise me. Detectives always maintain reticence — until they have something to say. The press was forced back upon its own resources; and The Planet and other evening papers did some hasty research into Rouben’s past life.

Their discoveries did not amount to much.

Was Rouben a Drug Trafficker? Strange Story of London Underworld.

Rouben’s Adventures in South America.

Millionaire in the Kitchen. Man of Many Enemies.

These were some of the headlines. One saw wild, knowing references to Bucharest, Hong Kong, Lima, and Chinatown, those godsent gifts for the writer-up of untaped corpses. Then, having decided upon murder, the press was bent upon romanticizing that lecherous creature, the man who wanted to make people happy through forgetfulness — or oblivion, as Calloway had called it.

Had Rouben taken fright at Calloway’s word? The restaurateur was probably a blackmailer, and subject to blackmail. He bullied. He raged. But he was a coward, too. Remembrance of the crash, and the gloomy old waiter — bent, shuffling, crouching abjectly over his dustpan — flew into my mind. He was only one of the people who must have hated Rouben. Murder or suicide: which was it?

I felt considerable relief at the sound of Calloway’s voice on the telephone.

“Care to come round?” he asked. “I’ve got most of it sorted out.”

In the small crowd outside Rouben’s were the cameramen, of course, hungry for something to waste their films on — one or two nondescripts who might have been racing touts — a few genuine sightseers. I recognized two or three familiar policemen; one, named Coxon, was in uniform at the door — he saluted and passed me within.

There sat Calloway at a table in the restaurant. But since last night something had happened to the restaurant. No carpet lay on the bare floor: probably the floor had been sounded and raised in a search for whatever was thought to be stored under it. The tables no longer bore tablecloths and discreet little red-shaded lamps. They were drawn close to one side, piled top to top, half of them with their legs in the air; and from the previously dim ceiling hung a biggish electric light which floodlit the place and drove away all shadows.

“Oh, come in, Frank,” Calloway said in his usual quiet tone. “Sorry not to have called you earlier.”

“I guessed you were busy.”

“Frightfully busy. The news only reached us at 10 o’clock yesterday morning; and there’s been the devil’s own confusion.”

He began to load his pipe, looking like the sort of businessman one sees in a teashop playing dominoes.

“But you’re through with that?” I asked.

“Pretty well.”

“The papers have been full of his lurid history.”

Calloway grimaced. He is not partial to newspaper stories. I think he’d write psychological novels if he were not a policeman with a full-time job.

“They’ve got to fake up something,” he said.

“I guessed narcotics, last night,” I modestly claimed. “That’s the only solid item in the papers. I suppose it was simple as ABC to you.”

“Yes. I’ve wanted an excuse to ransack this place.”

“So you killed him?”

“Somebody did.”

“The old waiter?” I asked. “After that wigging?”

Calloway smiled.

“Poor old Jacques! He’s not the type. Did you see him when he dropped the tray?”

“I guessed it was going to happen. The actual event was behind me. Don’t forget you were facing that way. I suppose you saw everything?”

Calloway’s face darkened. Perhaps it was the horrible light that sharpened his cheekbones.

“Several things,” he said reluctantly, as if he had not relished what he saw.

“Was the princess in the way? A minute before the crash I heard you say, ‘Damn that girl!’ ”

“Did I?” Calloway looked as nearly startled as I have ever seen him. He then became silent. I didn’t interrupt his reverie. It was because I had tact that he liked to have me with him.

At last he said, “I didn’t know I’d said anything. I’m glad — rather, sorry — you reminded me. As to Jacques, he’s the one who found Rouben. Went down into the wine cellar this morning, and there was our friend, looking nasty. The lights were on. It wasn’t only a wine cellar, of course. He’d got the other stuff — the drugs — hidden in casks, even in cobwebbed bottles. All very obvious. He wasn’t a clever man, not really.”

“I thought he looked more sensual than clever.”

“Yes, it was women. Plenty of them.”

“You’d say he was attractive to them?”

“Who knows what attracts them?” he demanded. It sounded as if the fellow had lately suffered a blow.

I thought I’d move him away from that, so I said, “What’s the princess doing here?”

He took me up very sharply, exclaiming, “Don’t be a damned fool!”

“I only wondered why she was here.” Calloway was evidently rattled, for he walked about restlessly. I called after him, “Do you know anything about the woman who dined with him? Just one of them? Past or present?”

The restless pacing stopped. He was normal again.

“Passing, I gather. I’ve had a lot of talk with Jacques. She came into it.”

“If passing, perhaps superseded. Could she have done it?”

Calloway smiled as if he thought me an old stupid. He said, “They all call her Hortense. She’s been about as long as they remember — latterly not so often. They didn’t expect her last night.”

“There you are! She stayed behind and put something in his coffee. How’s that?”

“Rotten. She’s coming in a few minutes. You’ll see her.”

I tried something new.

“What was he doing in the cellar? Had he been taken there?”

“No,” said Calloway, drily. “He went there by himself”

“For dope?”

“He didn’t take the stuff himself. No, he kept everything there. Some rare wines. Cupboard full of cigars. Also, he was a bit of a chemist. We’ve found a lot of interesting things, including letters and a book of addresses. All useful I expect there’ll be a general skedaddle, which won’t come off. The narcotics boys are checking everything. No, from our point of view he’s better dead; but of course I’ve got to find out what happened.”

“I thought you knew?”

“I hope to God I don’t.”

I sat digesting this information...

I was still sitting there with my arms folded and my head down, when I was startled by a whispering or rustling noise. It came from the far end of the restaurant, beyond what I thought of as Rouben’s table; and it was caused by the old waiter’s shuffling footsteps on the bare boards. Quite uncanny. The old chap looked odd in a short blue and white cotton jacket; but in addition to this he was a strange sight, his cheeks like a badly-laundered bath towel, and his chin covered as if with mold by a revolting white stubble. He did not raise his eyes, but plodded on towards us. Behind him was a woman whom I recognized as Rouben’s guest two nights ago.

Jacques squeezed his way to the kitchen. Calloway went forward.

“Good afternoon, Madame Kimel. Won’t you sit down?”

His tone was not unkind; but she stared at him as a doe might stare at a butcher. Sitting at an angle to her, I could see the rise and fall of her breast and the throbbing of her throat. Calloway, as if to ease her fears, sat down again at his table. He glanced at a page of notes.

“You know why I’ve asked you to come, don’t you? I’m questioning everybody who may be able to help me. Now, you dined here two nights ago with Mr. Rouben. Would you mind telling me what time you left him?”

She was in terror. That was clear. All the same, she held herself haughtily erect, as Marie Antoinette did on her way to the guillotine.

“I don’t know. I can’t think. It’s all so horrifying.”

“I quite understand. Take your time and try to remember.”

“I think 10... 11 o’clock. I don’t know.”

“Had everybody else gone?”

She was a beautiful woman, but because she was no longer young the great light was merciless to her. She was revealed as haggard, with dry lips, and cheeks which had begun to grow hollow. Her fingers were tightly intertwined, and she often touched her lips with a pale tongue. At times she looked beseechingly at Calloway, as if entreating him to spare her. You could follow the struggle she was having to remember — or to invent.

“I think... you mean the others who dined here?”

“My friend and I were among them.”

“Oh?” She was quite vague. “I don’t remember you.”

“All gone, the place empty — is that so? Not the staff — Jacques, Emilie the cashier?” Only after a pause did he add, as if he had just thought of her, “Adrienne?”

That name produced its reaction. The lady became even more secretive.

“I think... I am sure... yes, all were gone.”

“Jacques?”

“Oh, I forgot. He’s always here.”

“You didn’t notice him. You saw nobody but Rouben? What happened? Did you quarrel?”

Hortense’s movement exceeded a start; it was almost a leap. She saw the danger in that question and breathed even more quickly. But danger loosened her tongue. It made her almost voluble.

“Yes, yes. We quarreled. He was vindictive. He tortured me — saying I was old, displeasing, that I should not live long—” Her hands were now free of each other. They were clenched. She struck the air with them. “It was hideous!”

“You said you wished he was dead?”

“No! I don’t remember. I was in pain.”

“Did you, in fact, wish he was dead?”

The lady shuddered.

“Perhaps. Perhaps. In anger. I don’t think so. It would have satisfied him too much. Yes, I did wish him dead! But I did not kill him. I don’t know who killed him. I don’t know. I have no idea. It might be — anybody.” Her voice suggested the approach of hysteria.

“Madame Kimel, I ask these questions as a duty. I know you had a bitter quarrel and that it was not the first. It was one of many. Isn’t that so? Over a long period of time?”

“A long time, yes.”

“You hadn’t seen him for several weeks. Why did you come here two nights ago?”

“He telephoned to me. He asked me to come.”

“To dine?”

“Yes.”

“Why to dine? As a friend?” She was consumed by memory of wrong and hatred. Calloway had to speak more loudly in order to obtain an answer. “Nothing more? I said, nothing more?”

I expected her to scream a denial. She did not do so. Indeed, when she spoke it was almost as if she sighed.

“Not only to dine, Mr. Calloway.”

“I see. You were to spend the night with him. You did not spend the night? Or did you? You were his mistress?”

“I was not his mistress.”

“Please!”

“Do not offend me by such a disgraceful suggestion!”

“I don’t understand you, Madame Kimel.”

“I was his wife, Mr. Calloway. I had been his wife for fifteen years.”

Calloway showed no surprise. He merely wrote a word upon one of his sheets of paper, considered his further questions for a moment or two, and then embarked upon a series of them.

Having been married to Rouben for so long, she must know something of his affairs? Nothing, nothing at all. Hadn’t she guessed anything? Nothing! Not about drugs? Nothing! How could she? Was she sure? No drugs; nothing!

She was not to be shaken.

Calloway retreated, and chose another topic.

Did she know anything about other women?

Ah, that was different! Her eyes glittered as I had seen them glitter before. Animation came into her haggard face. Rouben had been unfaithful to her throughout their married life. Again and again and again. Evidently he was incorrigible. She had left him twenty times — and returned as often. He had begged her to do so — entreated — until a little while ago.

That was different, was it? It was different. He had told her something. It had made her jealous? She was past jealousy. It had nothing to do with his death. Nothing.

Six months ago he had fallen in love — with a beautiful girl. His love was driving him mad, he said. He had asked her to divorce him, so that he could marry this girl. She had refused. She had refused — to save a lovely child from the hell she had known. Refused, refused! She had sworn she would always refuse.

She had seen him since then; she had dined with him. On friendly terms — not quarreling — without love or kindness, but on account of their daughter, who was at school, and whose future was in question.

But last night was different? It was different. He had telephoned. It was the anniversary of their wedding day. To celebrate and forgive, he said. But she knew the lovely girl had died three months ago.

“You forgave him? Yet you quarreled.”

Her face grew as dark as a thundery sky. Only under pressure did she reveal that Rouben still wanted a divorce.

“Though the girl was dead?”

“Yes.”

“Could there have been another beautiful girl?”

No answer.

“Do you know the girl’s name?”

It was clear to me, as it must have been clear to Calloway, that Hortense knew the girl’s name. She pretended not to. She pretended never to have heard it. She sobbed. No, she could not remember the name.

At last she thought it had been Josephine.

“Josephine what?”

She did not know. No, she really did not know.

“Josephine what?” Calloway kept repeating.

It took fully ten minutes to extract the name — Josephine Arnould.

I could have sworn that the name meant something to Calloway. He sank back in his chair and his eyes closed as if he were exhausted.

That was all. Long after she had gone, he stood deeply considering the interview, sometimes walking up and down the empty restaurant, sometimes staring at the floor until one thought a pit yawned at his feet.

At last he stopped dead. He was a yard away.

“Blast this trade!” he said. It was almost a moan.

The blazing light overhead showed sweat on his brow.

He had pulled himself together again by the time the princess — or Adrienne, as I now knew she was called — joined us; and he placed the chair for her directly opposite to him with no change of manner that I could detect. As soon as he began his examination, however, I saw that he was suffering from unusual strain; he could hardly frame the questions which duty compelled him to ask. How strange that the two women, Hortense and Adrienne, should produce in the same room, in the same situation, such different emotions in a man whom I thought to be without emotion!

This girl fascinated me. She was exquisitely virginal, distinguished, resolute, again inspiring in me, by her pride, a feeling of adoration rather than masculine interest — as if the very blood of Aphrodite ran in her veins. She was very beautiful. Could one imagine her in love? I could hardly do so; yet I was caught by Calloway’s bewildering manner, in which severity was incomprehensibly mingled with the humblest, most indulgent, simplicity.

“I want you to tell me the truth, Adrienne,” he said, like a judge addressing a little girl in the witness box. She bowed. “The exact truth. You understand? How old are you?”

“I am nineteen,” was the reply. Adrienne sat upright in the chair, as she must have once been taught by a good nurse. She had incredible poise.

“How long have you worked in this restaurant?”

“For a month.”

“Did you know Mr. Rouben before you came to work here?”

She calmly consulted her memory. It was not that she hesitated.

“No. But I had heard of him.”

“Why did you come here?”

She could be as unreadable as a mask; and yet she was not a mask, but a living, breathing, enchanting girl. Her lips met; her expression, which hitherto had been one of lovely candor, faded from her eyes. She was about to lie — I was sure of it.

“I thought it would be... interesting.”

Calloway looked gravely at her.

“A sort of game?” he asked.

She said, no, not a game. She had to earn her own living.

“You don’t give that impression.”

“No?” No explanation, no discomposure — only a polite acceptance of the limits of Calloway’s knowledge of her.

“You remember what happened here two nights ago?”

Adrienne drew herself together, as if she felt suddenly cold. In a very low voice, as if they were alone, she said,

“Yes, I remember. You dined here.”

“I dined here. That wasn’t what happened.”

“It was the third time you had been here.”

I caught my breath. Extraordinary! She — alone among all the human beings who were not his friends — had distinguished Calloway from other men!

“It was the third time,” he said. “Do you know why I came?”

I was on tenterhooks. An instant’s coquetry would destroy my belief in her — and probably Calloway’s belief in her too. But it did not come. She said with the direct sincerity of a child:

“I think you wanted to find out something about Mr. Rouben.”

“Was it something you know?”

A pause for thought.

“I think not.”

She was not afraid of him. She did not tremble. She looked serious, but she was not in dread.

“You remember the lady in red, who also dined? Hortense? You know her?”

“I did not know her. I had seen her before.”

“Did you know she was Mr. Rouben’s wife?”

Ah! She took longer, this time, to answer; and when she did, it was with only one word. “Yes.”

“Did Jacques tell you that? What else did Jacques tell you?”

There was no answer to this at all. Calloway repeated the question three times; still there was no answer. To my surprise he did not press her further. Instead, he said,

“Did you arrange with Jacques to drop the tray and startle everybody in the restaurant?”

“Not everybody. Not you.” She was breathless.

Almost archly, Calloway said, “It did startle me, you know.”

One glance; no more. Then a whisper of apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. It was so — terribly urgent.”

“Why?”

“To frighten Mr. Rouben.”

“So that—?”

No answer.

Again Calloway desisted. He would return to that question. Meanwhile, he asked, “What is your name?”

“Adrienne l’Ouvreuse.”

“It isn’t a real name, is it?”

“Oh, yes, quite real.”

“Is it the name on your passport?”

The astonishing creature blushed.

“No.” One hardly heard the admission.

“Why did you arrange with Jacques to frighten Mr. Rouben?”

She grew white again. Her face might have been ivory as she said, “I can’t tell you why.”

“Your real name is Arnould, isn’t it? You had a sister Josephine?”

A slow red, quite unlike the former blush, crept into her cheeks. A first doubt of Calloway’s good will must have been born in her. She did not otherwise reply to that question.

Calloway, with the only cruelty he had used to her, continued. “She was two years older than you. She fell in love. She came to England six months ago. She died three months ago. Are those things true?”

“Yes.” It was a melancholy sigh. She shrank. You saw that love for her sister had been devotion.

“Was she Mr. Rouben’s mistress?”

“No!” cried Adrienne, springing up, her voice as sharp as a whip. “It is not true! It is not true! Wicked!”

“You say that because she was your sister. Yet you came to this place. Did you think you could fill her shoes?”

She gave him a look of bitter scorn.

“Such a man? I tell you the truth. He shamed her. He was so infamous that she felt she had been made unclean. She took her own life!”

“Did she tell you that? Did she tell you that to avenge her? Did she tell you to kill his wife?”

“She wrote only, ‘Forgive me. I cannot forgive myself.’ I came here to find out the truth.”

“Which did you plan to do?” insisted Calloway. “Your life may depend on the truth.”

“I did not plan to do anything.”

“Come! You can’t expect me to believe that. You took a position as waitress here at Rouben’s. You watched your opportunity. Last night, when they were together, you gave him poison. I saw you do it. Isn’t that so? Isn’t that so?”

Calloway, plying her with these charges, was now shouting. He was beside himself. I could not help it; I rose to my feet. He, quite aware of the movement and its significance, waved me aside as if to say, “This is not your business; it is something terribly personal between Adrienne and me.”

She, for her part, leaned back hard in her chair. I thought she was fainting; but she did not faint. She returned Calloway’s stare with an expression of horror.

That curious whispering noise came again. Jacques, who must have been listening, shuffled forward over the bare boards.

“If you would excuse me, sir,” he muttered.

“Go away, old man!” cried Calloway, in a fury.

“But I can tell you something, sir, which you ought to know before you say another word to Miss Adrienne—”

“Say nothing, Jacques,” said Adrienne. “He is determined to hang me.”

“Hang you?” echoed Calloway. His face worked.

“For God’s sake, Calloway,” I shouted, “listen to him!”

He looked at me as if he awakened from a dream.

“But I saw. I saw her change the glasses!”

“Sir!” entreated Jacques.

He told us everything in the next ten minutes.

He had been down in the wine cellar before dinner. Hidden unintentionally behind some racks, he had seen Rouben mixing what he thought was medicine, and had heard his employer say, “This one with the red stem for Hortense. The red stem. God help me, how I tremble!”

Jacques had been alarmed. He had watched Rouben put two glasses — one with a red stem, the other with a yellow stem — into a cupboard, and then go away. Afterward, with a flush of suspicion, Jacques had imagined the meaning of what he had seen and heard. Because he was grateful to Hortense for many kindnesses when Rouben and she were first married, he had grown so troubled that he did not know what to do.

“I am sure,” he told Adrienne, “that my master intends some mischief to Madame Hortense. It is some medicine to make her ill. If we could only break the red-stemmed glass — or substitute another. But I know him. He is bad. He will watch. He will give us no chance. She will be made ill, deathly ill.”

“By no means,” Adrienne answered. “If you will drop your tray on his head, dear Jacques, I will take that instant of confusion to substitute another glass which you shall mix.”

“It was done, sir,” he told Calloway. “I mixed another glass — also with a red stem. You saw me drop my tray. But the dear child was so excited that she could only exchange the contents of the two glasses which were already on the table. The drink Mr. Rouben meant for Madame fell to his share. Miss Adrienne was quite innocent.”

I looked at Adrienne. She seemed unmoved; but I saw her glance swiftly at Calloway...

It occurs to me to remark that Hortense had had a lucky escape. Had Rouben, finding her adamant, and being determined to transfer his love from Josephine to her sister, taken an extreme course?

How innocent was Adrienne? What had she intended to do when she went to Rouben’s?

I cannot tell you. All I know is that she has now been married to Calloway for three years, and that she shows no sign, as yet, of killing him — unless it is with the kindness of a devoted love.

Calloway and I have never again referred to the case.

Ellery Queen

Miser’s Gold

It is doubtful if the master who created Baghdad-on-the-Subway ever produced a more wonderful entertainment than the tale of Uncle Malachi. The atmosphere is rich and twisted, the subject likewise, and the story full of sentiment and irony. It even has a surprise ending.

Uncle Malachi was born, he lived, and he died under the rusty shadows of the Third Avenue “El.” Because he was a pawnbroker and owned the rickety, peeling old building in which he worked and lived, he was said to be Wealthy. Because he was an old crosspatch who distrusted banks and lived like a mouse, he was said to be a Miser. And since his one notable passion was the collecting of books — not rare books, or first editions, or books in perfect condition, but any books in any condition — he was said to be Queer.

It was all true — he was rich, he was a miser, and he was queer; but there was more to it than that. His riches came from selling real estate — Manhattan real estate — which his great-grandfather had bought; he was a miser, because all pawnbrokers are born accumulators; and his queerness lay not in collecting books but in reading them.

Books swarmed like honey bees over his pawnshop and living quarters upstairs, which consisted of two impossibly cluttered cubbyholes. Here under jackets of dust could be found the collected works of such as Dumas, Scott, Cooper, Dickens, Poe, Stevenson, Kipling, Conrad, Twain, O. Henry, Doyle, Wells, Jack London — wholesale reading in low-cost lots; and Malachi devoted every moment he could spare from his shop to peering through wavering gaslight at the written treasures of the world. As he aged and eyesight withered, the tempo of his reading increased; for old Malachi had set himself the fine labor of reading every famous book ever printed, beginning with the more exciting ones. A magnificent lunacy, which went with his spidery mind and mystifying sense of humor — he was always grinning, chuckling, or laughing, although no one ever knew what the joke was.

Uncle Malachi’s clients were fond of saying that the old miser had no heart, which was a slander. He had a heart — as Dr. Ben Bernard, whose shingle drooped two doors up the street, was prepared to testify — one of the worst hearts, Dr. Ben said, in his experience, a valvular monstrosity and black as the devil’s. But Uncle Malachi only cackled. “You’re a fool, Doctor!” Dr. Ben retorted with a sigh that if he were not a fool he would not be practicing medicine on Third Avenue, and he continued to treat the old pawnbroker as if his monthly bills were honored.

As for Eve Warren, she came into Uncle Malachi’s life the way most people did. Eve was struggling to keep her little greeting-card shop and circulating library across the street from the hot clutch of her creditors, so she became one of Malachi’s clients. When his eyes failed, she felt a stem duty; there were few enough book-lovers in the world. So she began dropping in on him after closing her shop, and she would read to him. At first he was suspicious; but when he saw that she was a fool like Dr. Ben, old Malachi grinned, and after that he would even offer her with antique ceremony a cup of strong hot water which he alleged was tea.

Uncle Malachi’s black heart cut its last caper one evening while Eve was reading Treasure Island to him. She looked up from Black Dog’s wound and Dr. Livesey’s lancet to find the pawnbroker on the floor, his head between two heaps of books, eyes popping and face blue-twisted.

“Lawyer... witnesses... will...”

Frankie Pagluighi, who was serving his first clerkship in a Murray Hill law office, was holding forth on the stoop next door to a group of neighbors on the latest Supreme Court decision; Eve screamed to him what was wanted and raced up the street to Dr. Ben’s. By the time she and the young doctor got back, Uncle Malachi’s head was resting on a red buckram set of Richard Harding Davis and Attorney Pagluighi was kneeling by his side, writing frantically.

“...all my property, real and personal... including my hidden cash... equally between the only human beings... who have ever shown me Christian charity...”

Dr. Ben looked up at Eve and shook his head sadly.

“...Eve Warren and Dr. Ben Bernard.”

“Oh!” said Eve; and then she burst into tears.

Grocer Swendsen, Patrolman Pat Curlihy, and Joe Littman of the dry goods store signed as witnesses, and then Frankie Pagluighi bent over the gasping man and said loudly, “This hidden cash you specify. How much does it amount to?” Old Malachi worked his blue lips, but nothing came out. “Five thousand? Ten thousand?”

“Four million.” He managed a whisper. “In ten-thousand-dollar bills.”

“Million.” The young lawyer swallowed. “Four million? Dollars? Where? Where is it? Where did you hide it? Mr. Malachi!”

Uncle Malachi tried to speak.

“Is it in this building?”

“Yes,” said the old man in a suddenly clear voice. “Yes. It’s in—”

But then he came to attention and looked far beyond them, and after a while Dr. Ben said he was dead.

Ellery came into the case not only because puzzles were his caviar, but also because it was clear as an aspic that his two callers were hopelessly gone on each other. Love and buried treasure — who could resist such a dish?

“You’re sure it’s really $4,000,000 and not 400 figments of the old man’s imagination, Dr. Bernard?”

But Dr. Ben reassured him. In the pawnshop safe had been found a ledger listing the serial numbers of the 10,000-dollar bills, which various banks had confirmed. And Eve said Uncle Malachi had often made slyly mysterious remarks to her about his “cache of cash” — he was fond of puns and tricks, she said — defying anyone to find it, even though he had hidden it “on the premises.” And the fact was she and Dr. Ben had gone over the little building from basement to roof, inside and out, and had found nothing but cobwebs and vermin. It was not a total loss, Eve admitted with a blush, for they had become engaged while digging up the cellar, under the sponsorship of an indignant rat which had sent her howling into Dr. Ben’s arms.

“Well, well, we’ll see about this,” said Ellery delightedly; and he went right back to Third Avenue with them.

Sixteen hours later he sank into Uncle Malachi’s only chair, a betasseled red plush refugee from some Victorian town house, and nibbled his thumb. Eve perched disconsolately on Uncle Malachi’s bed, and Dr. Ben sat on a pile of books, wedged between The Works of Bret Harte and The Complete Novels of Wilkie Collins. And the gas jet flamed and danced.

“It isn’t as if,” said Ellery about an hour later, “it isn’t as if you could hide 400 banknotes in a... unless...”

“Unless he separated them. One here, one there,” said Dr. Ben helpfully. “Four hundred different hiding places.”

Eve shook her head. “No, Ben. From hints he dropped to me, I’m sure he put them in one place, in a roll.”

“Hints,” said Ellery. “Hints, Miss Warren?”

“Oh, I don’t know — cryptic remarks. About clues and things—”

“Clues!”

“Clues,” gasped Eve guiltily. “Oh, dear!”

“He left a clue?”

“Think, Eve!” implored Dr. Ben.

“It was right in this room. I was reading to him—”

“Reading what?” Ellery asked sharply.

“Something by Poe... oh, yes, The Purloined Letter. And Uncle Malachi laughed, and he said—”

“His exact words, if you can recall them!”

“He said: ‘Clever rascal, that Dupin. The most obvious place, eh? Very good! Fact is, there’s a clue to my hiding place, Evie, and it’s in this very room — the clue, I mean, not the money.’ And he held his sides laughing. ‘In the most obvious place imaginable!’ He laughed so hard I thought he’d have a heart attack.”

“Clue in the most obvious place in this room... Books. He must have meant in one of these thousands of books. But which one!” Ellery stared at Eve. Then he sprang from the chair. “Puns and tricks, you’d said. Of course...” And he began hunting wildly among the mountains and valleys of books, toppling volumes like a landslide. “But he’s got to be here... Why, Doctor. You’re sitting on him!”

Dr. Ben leaped from the Uniform Edition on which he had been seated as if it had suddenly wiggled.

Ellery dropped to his knees, shuffling through the various books of the set. “Ah!” And he sat down on the floor with one of the volumes, clutching it like a roc’s egg. First he explored the binding with the tip of his nose. Then he went through it page by page. Finally he turned back to one of the front pages and read it to himself, mumbling.

When he looked up, Eve and Dr. Ben cried in one voice: “Well?”

“I’m going to ask some questions. Kindly refrain from hilarity and answer as if your future depended on it — which it does.” Ellery consulted the page. “Is there a potted palm anywhere in or about the premises?”

“Potted palm?” said Dr. Ben feebly.

“No,” said Eve, bewildered.

“No potted palm. How about a room with a skylight?”

“Skylight...”

“No.”

“In that art stuff downstairs — ceramics, statuettes, vases — do you recall any object in the shape of, or illustrated with the picture of, a dog? A yellow dog?”

“Now there’s a blue horse,” began Dr. Ben, “with a chipped—”

“No, Mr. Queen!”

“Bows and arrows? Archery target? Picture or statue of an archer? Or a statue of Cupid? Or a door painted green?”

“Not one of those things, Mr. Queen!”

“Clocks,” murmured Ellery, glancing again at the book.

“Say,” said Dr. Ben. “Dozens of ’em!”

“And I’ve examined them all,” said Ellery, “and none of them conceals the hoard. That being the case,” and Ellery got to his feet, smiling, “and Uncle Malachi having been fond of his little joke, only one possibility remains. So that’s where he stashed his treasure!”

“Swiping a leaf from Malachi’s rule-of-the-obvious,” continued Ellery, “in which of these thousands of books could his clue be hidden? Well, what was the nature of his treasure? Four million dollars. Four million — book. And among these standard sets is the complete works of O. Henry. And one of O. Henry’s most famous books is entitled... The Four Million.” Ellery waved the volume. “I found nothing foreign in the book. Then the clue was in its contents. Obvious development: see Contents Page. And the titles of the various stories? Tobin’s Palm — so I asked about a potted palm. The Skylight Room — but no skylight. Memoirs of a Yellow Dog — no yellow dog. Mammon and the Archer — The Green Door — The Caliph — Cupid and the Clock: all fizzled. Only one other possibility among the stories, so that must be Malachi’s clue to the hiding place of the cash. Between Rounds.”

“Between Rounds,” said Dr. Ben, biting his nails. “How the deuce does that tell you anything? Malachi wasn’t a prizefighter, or a—”

“But he was,” smiled Ellery, “a punster and high priest of the obscurely obvious. Rounds... A round is anything that’s circular or spherical in shape. What in a pawnshop — in any and every pawnshop! — is spherical and large enough to conceal 400 banknotes?” Eve gasped and ran to the front window. From its rusty arm, which pointed accusingly at the Third Avenue “El,” hung the ancient emblem of Uncle Malachi’s profession.

“If you’ll please find me some tools, Doctor, we’ll open those three gilt balls!”

Rex Stout

Immune to Murder

Nero Wolfe agreed to cook trout for the foreign ambassador; but when murder struck at the oil tycoon’s fishing camp, Wolfe had to find the killer — simply had to — because the most likely suspect was Nero Wolfe himself!

One of Rex Stout’s finest short novels about Nero Wolfe, the gargantuan manhunter, a beer-guzzling, orchid-growing crafty curmudgeon, and Archie Goodwin, the lean and hungry womanhunter, a salty and saucy legman...

* * *

I stood with my arms folded, glaring down at Nero Wolfe, who had his 278 pounds planted in a massive armchair which was made of heavy pine slats, with thick striped rugs draped over the back and on the seat for a cushion. It went with the rest of the furniture, including the bed, in that room of River Bend, the sixteen-room mountain lodge belonging to O. V. Bragan, the oil tycoon.

“A fine way to serve your country,” I told him. “Not. I get you here in time to be shown to your room and unpack and wash up for dinner, and now you tell me to go tell your host you want dinner in your room. Nothing doing. I decline.”

He was glaring back. “Confound it, I have lumbago I” he roared.

“You have not got lumbago. Naturally, your back’s tired, since all the way from 35th Street, Manhattan, to the Adirondacks, 328 miles, you kept stiff on the back seat, ready to jump, even with me at the wheel. What you need is exercise, like a good, long walk to the dining room.”

“I say it’s lumbago.”

“No. It’s acute mooditis, which is a medical term for an inflamed whim.” I unfolded my arms to gesture. “Here’s the situation: We were getting nowhere on that insurance case for Lamb and McCullough, which I admit was annoying for the greatest detective alive, and you were plenty annoyed, when a phone call came from the State Department. A new ambassador from a foreign country with which our country wanted to make a deal had been asked if he had any special personal desires, and he had said yes, he wanted to catch an American brook trout, and, what was more, he wanted it cooked fresh from the brook by Nero Wolfe. Pierre Mondor of Paris had told him once that you’re the ninth best cook in the world, and that the best trout he ever ate was cooked by you. Would you be willing to oblige? Arrangements had been made for the ambassador and a small party to spend a week at a lodge in the Adirondacks, with three miles of private trout water on the Crooked River. If a week was too much for you, two days would do, or even one, or even, in a pinch, just long enough to cook some trout.”

I gestured again. “Okay. You asked me what I thought. I said we had to stay on the Lamb and McCullough job. You said our country wanted that ambassador softened up and you must answer our country’s call to duty. I said nuts. I said if you wanted to cook for our country you could enlist in the Army and work your way up to mess sergeant, but I would admit that the Lamb and McCullough thing was probably too tough for you. Days passed. It got tougher. The outcome was that we left the house at 11:14 this morning, and here we are. The setup is marvelous and very democratic. You’re just here as a cook, and look at this room you’ve got.”

I swept a hand around. “Not a hardship in sight. Mine is somewhat smaller, but I’m only cook’s assistant. We were told dinner at 6:30 because they have to get up early to go fishing, and it is now 6:34, and I am instructed to go tell Bragan you’ll eat in your room. If you’ve got lumbago, it’s not in your back; it’s in your psyche. It is called psychic lumbago. The best treatment—”

“Archie. Stop gibbering!” He put his hands on the chair arms.

“Yes, sir.”

“There are degrees of discomfort, and some of them stop short of torment, thank heaven. Very well.” He levered himself upright, making some faces, assorted, on the way. “It is lumbago. And with it I am to sit at a strange table with a jumble of strangers. Are you coming?”

He headed for the door...

There was a hardship after all: The lodge had no dining room. Or maybe there was one; but the assorted heads of deer and bear on the walls, with planked fish here and there, made it also a trophy room; the billiard table at one end made it a game room; the cabinets of weapons and rods made it a gun and tackle room; the chairs and scattered tables made it a living room; and the over-all size made it a barn.

There was nothing wrong with the food, which was served by two male experts in uniform, but I darn’ near roasted. There were nine of us at the big, square table, with three seated at each of three sides, and no one at the side nearest the fireplace. The fireplace was twelve feet wide, and from a distance it was cheerful and sporty, with flame curling around the eight-foot logs, but my seat at a forward corner of the table was not at a distance. I had to twist my legs around to the left to keep my pants from blazing up, and my right cheek was about ready for basting. As the soup was being served I twisted the legs still further, and my foot nicked the ankle of my neighbor to the left.

“Sorry,” I told him. “What’s the name of that animal that can live in fire?”

“Salamander.” He was a gravelly tenor, a wiry little specimen with black hair slicked back, and broad, bulgy shoulders away out of proportion to the rest of him. “What,” he asked, “are you doing here?”

“Frying.” I turned my head square to him to give my cheek a break. “Please remember this, these may be my last words. My name is Archie Goodwin, and I came here by invitation to bring fourteen things: parsley, onions, chives, chervil, tarragon, fresh mushrooms, brandy, bread crumbs, fresh eggs, paprika, tomatoes, cheese, and Nero Wolfe. That’s only thirteen, so I must have left out one. They are ingredients of baked brook trout Montbarry, except the last; Mr. Wolfe is not exactly an ingredient.”

He giggled. “I hope not. It would be a very greasy dish, yes?”

“No. That’s not fat; it’s solid muscle. You should see him lift a pen to sign a letter — absolutely effortless. What are you doing here?”

He tackled his soup and kept at it, but when his cup was empty he turned to me: “I am an expert, a financier, and a man of guile. I am here—”

“The name first, please. I didn’t catch it.”

“Certainly. Forgive me. Nicholas Papps. I am here with my friend, Mr. Theodore Kelefy, the Ambassador, to advise him on technical aspects of his mission. I am also here to catch trout, and in the four days we’ve been here I have caught 38. Eleven this morning — much better than the Ambassador, who got only three. It is claimed that your eastern brook trout is the most savory of all on earth, but I am reserving my opinion until I have tasted one prepared by Mr. Wolfe. Did you say onions?”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “He just waves one at the pan. Do you give advice only to ambassadors, or could I have a little? About these people. The introductions were a little skimpy.”

We were interrupted by a servitor with a platter of roast beef, but after that had been attended to, he briefed me around the table, keeping his tenor down. O. V. Bragan, the host, was at the best side in the center, the one farthest from the fire. He was a burly six-footer with cold and sharp gray eyes and a square, bony chin, somewhere between Wolfe and me in age, and in our brief exchange with him on arrival I had felt no impulse to switch to Hemoco gas, a product of the Hemisphere Oil Co., of which he was it.

Sharing the best side with him, on his right, was Theodore Kelefy, the Ambassador. Short but broad, a little pudgy, with no neck to speak of, he looked as if he had been taking on a deep tan for ten years, but it could have been for ten generations. He thought he spoke English, and maybe he did know the words, but he could have used some advice from Nicholas Papps on how to pronounce them.

On Bragan’s other side, his left, was David M. Leeson. If you had looked him over and had listened to him — his cool, professional smile, his cool, cultivated baritone, his cool, well-kept, and well-handled face — you would have guessed he was a career diplomat — he was an attaché in the State Department — and you would have hit it right on the nose. It was he who had phoned Wolfe to ask him to cook for his country. Leeson had been, Nicholas Papps told me, an embassy secretary for a couple of years in the capital which Ambassador Kelefy came from.

It helps a career diplomat to have a helpful wife, and, according to Papps, Leeson had one. Papps spoke highly of her, keeping his voice down because she was there on the other side of him, between him and the Ambassador. I had no serious objection to her looks, but she had too much forehead for a top rating. Smooth, fair skin, light-brown hair, quick blue eyes — that was all very well — but another trouble was the mouth. It had probably started out all right, but something had pulled the corners down. Either she had got bitter about something or she was working too hard on the career. If she had been a little younger I wouldn’t have minded finding out which it was and suggesting steps.

The other woman at the table didn’t need any suggestions. At the opposite side of the table, kitty-cornered from me, was Adria Kelefy, not the Ambassador’s daughter, as might have been thought, but his wife. Small and dark and dainty, with sleepy dark eyes and silky black hair, she was unquestionably fit to pick up and carry somewhere, if only to a drug store to buy her a soda, though I doubt if that would have been her idea of a treat.

Leeson was on her right and Nero Wolfe on her left, and she was going great with both of them. Once she put her hand on Wolfe’s arm and kept it there ten seconds, and he didn’t pull away. Considering two of his strongest feelings, one about physical contacts and the other about women, I decided it was my duty to get close enough to study her.

But that had to wait Next to Wolfe, across from me, was the ninth and last, a tall, skinny guy with a perpetual squint and a thin, tight mouth that was just a hyphen between his bony jaws. His left cheek was four shades redder than his right one, which I understood and sympathized with. The fireplace, on my right, was on his left. His name, Papps said, was James Arthur Ferris. I said he must be something scrubby, like a valet or a varlet, since he had been stuck in the other baking seat.

Papps giggled. “Not a valet — not at all. A very important man, Mr. Ferris. Mr. Bragan would as soon have invited a cobra, but since he had maneuvered to get the Ambassador and Mr. Leeson here, I thought it only fair that Mr. Ferris should be invited too, and I insisted. Also, I am a man of malice. It entertains me to see a big man like Mr. Bragan displaying bad blood just because he is thwarted. You say you are frying. Why are you frying? Because the table is too close to the fire? So Mr. Bragan could seat Mr. Ferris where he would be highly uncomfortable. No little man is ever as petty as a big man.”

My plate empty, I arranged my knife and fork on it according to Hoyle. “What makes Ferris important?”

“He represents big interests — a syndicate of five great oil companies. That is why Mr. Bragan would like to scorch him. Hundreds of millions are at stake. These four days here, we have fished in the morning, squabbled in the afternoon, and fraternized in the evening. Mr. Ferris has gained some ground with the Ambassador, but not, I fear, with Mr. Leeson. In the end, however, the decision will, in effect, be mine, and I invite a situation that should mean another ten or twenty million for the government that employs me. If you think I am indiscreet you are wrong. If you repeat what I have said to Mr. Wolfe, and it goes from him to any or all of the others, including Mr. Leeson, I would not reproach you as a chatterbox. I am a man of simple candor. In fact, I would go so far as—”

I didn’t get to hear how far a man of guile and malice and simple candor would go, on account of an interruption. James Arthur Ferris suddenly shoved his chair back, marched the length of the room, and took a billiard cue from the rack. All heads turned to him, and probably I wasn’t alone with my notion that he was going to march back and take a swing at our host, but he merely put the cue ball on the head spot and smashed it into the cluster. The heads turned to Bragan, and I grabbed the opportunity. Bragan’s scorching Ferris was nothing to me, but scorching me, too, was uncalled-for, and here was my chance.

I got up and went to the billiard table and asked Ferris politely, “Shall I rack ’em up and we’ll lag for the break?”

He was too mad to speak. He just nodded.

A couple of hours later, going on ten o’clock, Nero Wolfe said to me, “Archie. About your leaving the dinner table. You know what I think of any disturbance at a meal.”

“Yes, sir.”

We were in his room, bound for bed. Mine was down the hall, and I had stopped in at his by request.

“I concede,” he said, “that there may be exceptions, and this was one. Mr. Bragan is either a dunce or a ruffian.”

“Or both. At least, I wasn’t tied to a stake — I must remember to thank him... You going fishing tomorrow?”

“You know I’m not.” Seated, he grunted as he bent over to unlace his shoes. That done, he straightened. “I inspected the kitchen and equipment, and it will serve. They’ll be back at 11:30. I’ll take over the kitchen at ten. The cook is civil and fairly competent. I wish to make an avowal. You were right to oppose this expedition. These people are engaged in bitter and savage combat, with Ambassador Kelefy at the center of it, and in his present humor I doubt if he could distinguish between trout Montbarry and carp fried in lard. As for the others, their mouths would water only at the prospect of long pig. Do you know what that is?”

I nodded. “Cannibal stew. Only, each one would want to pick the pig.”

“No doubt.” He kicked his shoes off. “If we leave after lunch, say 3 o’clock, will we be home by bedtime?”

I said sure, and told him good night. As I opened the door he spoke to my back: “By the way, it is not lumbago.”

The next morning at 9:30 Wolfe and I had breakfast together at a little table in the big room. The five fishermen had gone off before 8 o’clock, each to his assigned stretch of the three miles of private water.

I had my own personal fishing program and had cleared it with our host the evening before. The five anglers were due back at the lodge at 11:30, leaving the whole three miles vacant. Wolfe didn’t intend to join them at the lunch table anyhow, and certainly I wouldn’t be missed. I would have two hours of it, and Bragan told me, though not very cordially, to help myself to tackle and waders from the cabinets and drawers.

After breakfast I offered to go and help in the kitchen, but Wolfe said I would only be in the way; so I went to the cabinets and started poking around. That was quite a collection, considering that five men had already helped themselves, presumably to the best. I finally ended up with a three-piece rod and a reel, tapered leaders, a fly box with two dozen assorted flies, a 14-inch willow creel, an aluminum-frame net, and waders. Assaying at around four hundred bucks on the hoof, I went to the kitchen and got three roast-beef sandwiches and a pair of chocolate bars and stowed them in the creel.

Not bothering to take off the waders, I moseyed outdoors for a look at the sky and a feel of the wind. It was a fine day, maybe too fine for good fishing, with a few white clouds floating high above the pines. The river curved around the lodge in almost a full semicircle, with the lodge’s main veranda facing the big bulge of the curve. I found myself faced with a problem in etiquette. Toward one end of the veranda, ten yards to my left, was seated Adria Kelefy, reading a magazine. Towards the other end, ten yards to my right, was seated Sally Leeson, her chin propped on her fist, gazing across the veranda rail at nature. Neither had paid me any visible or audible attention. The problem was, should I wish them good morning, and, if so, which was first?

I passed. If they wanted a snubbing contest, okay. But I thought they might as well realize the kind of man they were snubbing, so I acted. There were no trees between the veranda and the river — which wasn’t a river at all, merely a creek. From the assortment on the veranda I took an aluminum chair with a canvas seat, carried it down the steps and across the clearing, put it on a level spot ten feet from the creek’s edge, put a Gray Hackle on the leader, sat in the chair, whipped a little line out, and dropped the fly onto the ripples.

If you ask whether I expected a hit in that unlikely piece of riffle, the answer is yes. I figured that a guy who went to that much trouble to put on an act for two women who had snubbed him deserved some cooperation from a mature male trout, and if he deserved it why shouldn’t he get it? I might have, too, if Junior hadn’t come along and spoiled it. About the twentieth cast my eyes caught a tiny flash and my fingers felt the take, and there I was with Junior on. I gave him the air immediately, hoping he would flop off, but he had it good. If it had been Daddy I could have tired him out, swung him in to me, and taken him off the hook with a dry hand, since he would soon be on the menu, but that little cuss had to be put back with a wet hand. So I had to leave the chair, to dip a hand in the creek before I touched him, which ruined the act.

As I put him back where he belonged, having taught him a lesson, the sound of steps came, and a voice:

“I didn’t know you could fish like that from a chair! Where is it?” She said “feesh.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Kelefy. I put it back. Too small.”

“Oh!” She had reached me. “Let me.” She put out a hand. “I’m going to catch one.”

She looked fully as portable in the strong daylight as she had at night, and the dark eyes just as sleepy. When a woman has eyes like that, a man with any scientific instinct at all wants to find out what it takes to light them up. But a glance at my wrist told me I would be shoving off in eighteen minutes, not time enough to start on research, especially with Sally Leeson sitting there on the veranda gazing, apparently now, at us.

I shook my head. “It would be fun to see you catch a fish,” I told her, “but I can’t give you this rod because it isn’t mine. Mr. Bragan lent it to me, and I’m sure he’ll lend you one. I’m sorry. To show you how sorry I am, would you care to know one thing I thought as I looked at you last evening at the dinner table?”

“I want to catch a fish. I never saw a fish caught before.” She actually reached to close her fingers on the rod.

I held on. “Mr. Bragan will be here any minute.”

“If you give it to me I’ll let you tell me what you thought last evening.”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure I remember it, anyhow. Skip it.”

No spark in the eyes. But her hand left the rod and her voice changed a little, person to person: “Of course you remember. What was it?”

“Let’s see — how did it go? Oh, yes. That big, green thing in the ring on your husband’s left hand — is it an emerald?”

“Certainly.”

“I thought it might be. So I was thinking your husband should display his assets more effectively. With those two assets, the emerald and you, he should have combined them. The best way would be an earring on your right ear, with nothing on the left ear. I had a notion to suggest it to him.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t like it. I like pearls.” She reached again for a hold on the rod. “Now I’ll catch a fish.”

It looked as if we were headed for a tussle, but an arrival broke it up. James Arthur Ferris, his lanky length fully accoutered, approached, speaking:

“Good morning, Mrs. Kelefy! A glorious day, glorious!”

“I want to catch a fish,” Mrs. Kelefy told him, “and this man won’t give me his rod. I’ll take yours.”

“Of course,” he gushed. “With great pleasure. I have a Blue Dun on, but if you’d rather try something else—”

I was on my way.

The general run of the creek — all right, river, then — was to the north, but of course it did a lot of twisting and dodging, as shown on a big wall map at the lodge. The three miles of private water were divided into five equal stretches for solo fishing, with the boundaries of the stretches marked by numbered stakes. Two of the stretches were to the south of the lodge, upstream, and the other three to the north, downstream. As arranged the evening before, for that day Nicholas Papps and Ambassador Kelefy had the two to the south, and Ferris, Leeson, and Bragan the three to the north.

I am not a dry-fly man, and am no big thrill with a wet fly, so the idea was to start at the upper end and fish downstream. I headed south on the trail, which, according to the map, more or less ignored the twists of the river and was fairly straight. Less than 50 paces from the lodge I met Nicholas Papps, who greeted me with no apparent malice and lifted the lid of his creel to show me seven beauties averaging well over ten inches. A quarter of a mile farther on, here came Ambassador Kelefy, who was going to be a little late getting back, but nevertheless also had to show me. He had eight, and was pleased to hear that he was one up on Papps.

Starting at the southern boundary of Stretch One, I fished back down to the lodge in forty minutes. I prefer to report that forty minutes in bare statistics: Number of flies tried, three. Slip and fall, getting wet above the waders, one. Snags of hooks on twigs of overhang, four. Caught, one big enough to keep and five put back.

When I reached the lodge it was just 12:30, lunchtime, and I detoured around it to hit Stretch Three a hundred yards down — the stretch Ferris had fished that morning. There my luck picked up, and in twenty minutes I got three fat ones — one over twelve inches and the other two not much under that. Soon after that I came to a stake with a “4” on it, the start of Lee-son’s stretch. It was a nice spot, so I sat down on a rock and got out my sandwiches and chocolate.

But I had told Wolfe I would be back by 2 o’clock, and there was still more than a mile of water to try, so I crammed the grub in and resumed. For the next couple of hundred yards the growth on the banks made it all wading, and the water wasn’t the kind trout like to loaf in. But then came a double bend with a long eddy hugging one shore, and I took a stance in the middle, got 40 feet of line out, dropped the fly — a Black Gnat — at the top of the eddy, and let it float down.

It hadn’t gone two feet when Grandpa hit, and I jerked. I had him on, and here he came, upstream, straight for me. When he was nearly close enough to bite me he suddenly made a U turn and off he went, back into the eddy, right on through it, and around the second bend. Not having a mile of line, I went splashing after him without stopping to test footholds, up to my knees and then to my thighs and then to my knees again, until I could see around the bend. It was a straight piece of rough water, dotted with boulders, and I was heading for one to use as a brace in the current when I saw something that halted me.

Keeping a bent rod on Grandpa, I worked over to a boulder near the bank. It was David M. Leeson. He was lying on his back in the water, lodged among some rocks. The force of the current was gently bobbing him up and down, so that one moment his face was visible and the next moment it wasn’t. I had to choose between Leeson and Grandpa. Leeson won.

Even one brief glimpse of the face was enough to answer the main question, but there is always the chance in a million; so I stooped and gripped the collar of Leeson’s jacket and lifted his head clear of the water, and took a look. That was enough. Even if he wasn’t drowned he wasn’t alive. I backed him up slowly out onto the bank, taking him along, and let him down so that his shoulders touched the ground. I took another look at Leeson’s head, and when I moved him a little farther from the water, I put my handkerchief under it so it wouldn’t be in contact with the ground. Then I took my rod apart and looked at my watch. Twenty past 1.

That was all right; the trout Montbarry would be gone by the time I got there. Wolfe would never let me hear the last of it if I arrived in the middle of that particular meal to announce a corpse. I hit the trail, with the rod in one hand and the creel in the other.

It was a lot quicker to the lodge by the trail than it had been wading down. As I emerged from the trees into the clearing I saw that lunch was over, for they were all out on the veranda having coffee — the four men and two women.

As I mounted the steps, Bragan called to me, “Goodwin! Did you see Mr. Leeson anywhere?”

“No.” I kept going.

“Didn’t you fish his stretch?”

“Only part of it.” I halted long enough to add, “I’ve got to get out of these waders,” and then went on.

I found Wolfe’s door standing open, and entered. He was putting things in his suitcase.

“You’re early,” he grunted. “Satisfactory.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got four trout to take back to Fritz, as promised. How was the lunch?”

“Passable. I cooked twenty trout and they were all eaten. I’m nearly packed, and we can go. Now.”

“Yes, sir. First I have a report: About three-quarters of a mile downstream I found Leeson lying on his back in the water. He had been there some time; his armpits were good and cold.”

“Good heavens!” Wolfe was scowling at me. “You would. Drowned?”

“I don’t know. I—”

“You have told Mr. Bragan?”

“No, sir. I’m reporting to you. I removed him from the water to the bank. His skull was smashed in, back of the right ear and above it, by a blow or blows, I would say with a rock or a heavy club. Not from a fall, not a chance, unless he climbed to the top of a high tree to fall from, and there’s none there high enough. Somebody clobbered him. So I thought you should be present when I announce it, preferably with your eyes open.”

“Pfui. You think he was murdered?”

“Twenty to one, at least.”

The scowl deepened. “Very well. They’ll find him soon. They thought he was being stubborn about filling his creel and decided to go and look for him after lunch. Since he was mostly under water you didn’t have to see him — no, confound it, you took him out. Even so, get those things off and dress. We are leaving. I don’t intend—”

“No, sir.” I was firm. “As you say, I took him out. They know I fished that stretch. We probably would get stopped somewhere around Albany and brought back, and then where would we spend the night? One guess.”

He took in air, a sigh that filled him clear down to his waistline. When it was out again he blurted savagely, “Why did you have to go fishing?” He sighed again. “Go and tell Mr. Bragan.”

“Yes, sir. You’re coming along?”

“No! Why should I? I am not concerned. Go!”

When I got to the veranda three of the men — Bragan, Ferris, and Papps — had left it and were crossing the clearing to the trail, and I sung out: “Bragan! You three come back here, please?”

He called, astonished, “What for? We’re going to find Leeson!”

“I already found him. Come here and I’ll tell you.”

Wolfe may not have cared about seeing their faces as I gave them the news, but I did. All of them. I ignored Bragan’s demands until the three of them had mounted the steps and were facing me in a group that included Ambassador Kelefy and the two women.

“I did see Mr. Leeson,” I told them. “I went to tell Mr. Wolfe first because I thought he might want to tell you, but he leaves it to me. Leeson is dead.” I stopped.

Sally Leeson started to tremble as she stared at me. Adria Kelefy’s mouth fell open. Ferris and Ambassador Kelefy made noises, and Bargan demanded: “Dead? How? Where?”

“I found his body on the river-bank, with most of him in the water, including the back of his head. I lifted him out, but he had been dead sometime.” I focused on Bragan: “You’ll get a doctor, of course, but also you’ll have to get the police, and the body must not be moved again until they come, because—”

Sally Leeson gave a little whimpering cry and made a dash for the steps. I grabbed her and got my arms around her. “Hold on a minute,” I told her, “and I’ll take you there if you have to go. Just hold on.”

“Why the police?” Bragan demanded.

“His skull is smashed. Don’t argue with me; save it for them. I’m going back to the body and stay there till they come. Shall I call them first?”

“No. I will.”

“Good. It’s at the double bend two hundred yards below the Number Four stake.” I loosened my grip on the widow, and she was stiff and straight. “You’d better stay here, Mrs. Leeson.”

“No. I must... take me.”

“Then I’d just as soon have someone along. Ferris?”

“No.”

“Kelefy?”

“I think not.”

“Papps?”

“Certainly,” he said politely, and the three of us went.

Two hours later, at a quarter to 4, it was a convention.

Two state troopers had been the first to arrive, and Bragan had brought them down to us at the double bend. Soon afterward the doctor came. When he asked me why I had put my handkerchief under Leeson’s head, and I said because I thought the water might not have washed away all evidence of what it was that had smashed the skull, he said that was very sensible and it was too bad he didn’t have a good glass with him. But his main contribution was to make it official that Leeson was dead, and to insist that Mrs. Leeson let Papps take her back to the lodge. The body couldn’t be moved until the sheriff came.

When the sheriff arrived he had two county detectives along. Then more troopers, including a lieutenant. Then the district attorney, a bouncy, bald guy named Jasper Colvin. He had two underlings with him. Then a couple of journalists, one with a notebook and one with a camera. They all got around to me, and they all seemed to have the idea that I was leaving something out, but that was nothing new. Any officer of the law would rather be caught dead than admit he believes that you’re telling him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

When a stretcher finally came for the remains, most of the public servants were scattered around looking for the weapon or other relevant items, and my offer to help carry was accepted. It was quite a load and quite a portage. After we had lifted the stretcher into an ambulance that had squeezed into the crowded parking space back of the lodge, I circled around to the veranda and found no one there but a trooper. Inside, in the big room, Ferris and Papps were on chairs by a window having a conversation. Papps called, “Anything new?”

“Not with me,” I told him, and crossed to the inner hall.

Wolfe was in his room, in the big armchair with striped rugs, with a book. He shot me a glance as I entered and then went back to the book.

I stood. “Do you want a report?”

His eyes stayed on the page. “Not unless it bears upon our leaving here.”

“It doesn’t. Any questions or instructions?”

“No.”

“You know very well,” I said pleasantly, “that you approved of my going fishing. Where are my trout?”

“In the kitchen in the large refrigerator. Cleaned.”

“Thank you very much.” I left him and went to my room.

I was there an hour later when a trooper came to tell me I was wanted. I suppose it was for more of the same, but Wolfe was in the hall outside his door, and started off as I approached. He led the way to the big room, with the trooper in the rear.

It looked as if something was stewing. The five guests were in a group, seated, in the middle of the room, and Bragan was standing nearby talking with District Attorney Colvin. The sheriff and two troopers were over near the door, and one of the pair the D.A. had brought with him was seated at a little table with an open notebook before him.

Wolfe stopped and raised his voice. “You sent for me, Mr. Bragan?”

Colvin answered. “I did. I’m Jasper Colvin, District Attorney of this county. You’re Nero Wolfe, a private detective?”

“Yes.”

“You will sit here, please. You, too, Goodwin. I have something to say to all of you.”

I wouldn’t have been surprised if Wolfe had marched out, since he had had three provocations: First, Colvin’s tone of voice; second, his saying “a private detective,” not “the private detective”; and, third, the size of the chair indicated, at the rear of the group of guests. But after a second’s hesitation he went and sat, and I took the other vacant chair next to him.

The D.A. stood facing his audience. He cleared his throat. “I am sure, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t need—”

“Want me to take this?” It was the man at the table with the notebook.

Colvin turned his head to snap, “Yes, everything!” and turned back. He cleared his throat again. “I don’t need to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, how painful I find my duty today. I know you all appreciate that.”

They didn’t say.

He went on: “When I arrived here on this tragic mission, two hours ago, I found that Sheriff Dell and Lieutenant Hopp were already here. We agreed that there was no point in harassing you until certain lines of investigation had been tried, and so you were merely asked a few routine questions and requested to remain on the premises for possible further inquiry. In that connection I wish to convey the sincere thanks of myself personally, and of the People of the State of New York, to Ambassador Kelefy. He and his wife, and Mr. Nicholas Papps of his staff, are protected by diplomatic immunity from arrest or detention, but they have made no objection to our request. I may say that I have phoned the State Department in Washington for advice.”

“That wasn’t necessary,” Kelefy assured him. “Even diplomats are human occasionally.”

Colvin nodded at him and resumed: “But now it is my painful duty to tell you that we will have to go further than routine questions. We have had to reject the idea that Mr. Leeson’s death was accidental. Two doctors agree that the injury to the skull could not have been caused by any conceivable accident at that spot. They also agree that it couldn’t possibly have been self-inflicted. Therefore, it was homicide.”

The only one who moved was James Arthur Ferris. He turned his head for a glance at Sally Leeson.

O. V. Bragan spoke up: “I told you when you got here it might be murder. I reminded you and the troopers that I’ve been bothered with poachers on my water, and I suggested that you immediately start your men investigating the possibility that Leeson came on one at the river and was attacked by him. Did you do that?”

Colvin cleared his throat. “We didn’t overlook that possibility, Mr. Bragan, but permit me to finish. An examination of the skull wound with a magnifying glass disclosed three particles of wood bark that had not been dislodged by the water. That justified the assumption that the blow or blows had been struck with a wooden club. If so, where was it? It wasn’t at or near the spot. It seemed unlikely that the assailant had carried it away. Probably he had thrown it from him, and, most probably, he had thrown it in the river. And it has been found — or I should say, a club has been found. Bring it here, Nate.”

The sheriff walked over to him and held it up. It was three feet long, maybe a little more, as thick as my arm.

“It was found,” Colvin said, “in the river five hundred feet downstream from the bend, wedged between two rocks where the current had carried it. It’s ash. The water was playing over it, but the bark wasn’t soaked through, so it hadn’t been there very long. As you see, it was sawed off at both ends. Near one end the bark is bruised for three inches as if it had hit something hard. It will take a microscope to find out if the water left any evidence in the bruised bark, but we think we are justified in assuming that that club was the weapon. And you must permit me, Mr. Bragan, you must permit me to say that if Mr. Leeson surprised a poacher on your water, I can conceive of no reason why the poacher was carrying such a club. Sheriff Dell and Lieutenant Hopp agree with me.”

“You don’t have to conceive his reason,” Bragan rumbled. “Find him and ask him.”

“That is a possibility,” the D.A. conceded. “Two of the sheriff’s men and two troopers are now exploring it. But one more fact: There are two large stacks of firewood outside on your premises. One of them is eight-foot logs for your big fireplace The other is shorter and smaller logs for the smaller fireplaces in your other rooms, and in it are scores, hundreds, of pieces of ash similar to the one the sheriff has just shown you. There is no stack of wood like that within two miles or more. So, believe me, Mr. Bragan, we have been forced to our conclusion. We don’t like it — we don’t like it at all — but duty is duty no matter how painful it is. Our conclusion is that Mr. Leeson was killed with that club by premeditation, that the club came from your wood-pile, and that it was used by someone here at your place. Is that right, Nate?”

“That’s the way I see it,” the sheriff declared.

Bragan was leaning forward. “You’re actually saying that I or one of my guests murdered Mr. Leeson? And you know who my guests are?”

“I certainly do,” Colvin said. “But there are two of them who may have reason to—” He stopped. “No.” He turned to the man with the notebook. “Strike out that last sentence.”

“Okay.” The man scratched with his pen.

Colvin resumed: “I am keenly aware of the situation, Mr. Bragan, but the inquiry must be proper and, of course, unprejudiced. It may be necessary later to talk with one or more of you privately, but I think it’s better to start this way, with you first, naturally. For the record I ask you, did you strike Leeson with that club or any other weapon?”

“No. Good heavens, man! No!”

“Have you any reason whatever to suspect any person present of having done so?”

“No. None.”

Colvin’s eyes moved. “Those two questions are pro forma for each and all of you. You have heard them and will please answer them... Mrs. Leeson?”

“No.” Her voice was low. “To both.”

“Mrs. Kelefy?”

“One moment,” Ferris put in. “To put such questions to the wife of a distinguished foreign ambassador is highly improper.”

I would have liked to ask if it would be okay to put them to the wife of an undistinguished foreign ambassador, but skipped it. Anyway, the distinguished ambassador was speaking:

“This is no time to seek refuge in propriety. Answer, my dear.”

“But of course,” she said. “Certainly no to both questions.”

“Ambassador Kelefy, if you wish to answer?”

“I do. I answer no”

“Mr. Papps?”

“No and no.”

“Mr. Ferris?”

“No to both.”

“Nero Wolfe?”

“No to both.”

“Goodwin?”

“I’ve been asked before. No again.”

Colvin’s eyes went right and left. “You were asked previously when and where you last saw Mr. Leeson alive, but in the present circumstances I would like to verify it. Ambassador Kelefy and Mr. Papps, whose stretches were south, upstream, last saw him when they parted from him on the veranda shortly before eight o’clock this morning. Mrs. Leeson last saw him when he left their room this morning to go to breakfast. Mrs. Kelefy last saw him last evening when she and her husband left this room to go to bed. Mr. Ferris last saw him on the trail, when Mr. Ferris left the trail to strike the river and start fishing his stretch, Number Three. Mr. Leeson and Mr. Bragan continued on the trail, and Mr. Bragan last saw Mr. Leeson when he left the trail for the river at the beginning of his stretch, Number Four. Mr. Bragan continued on the trail to the boundary of his water, to fish stretch Number Five. Wolfe and Goodwin last saw him last evening in this room.

“That’s the way we have it; that’s what you’ve told us. I now ask each and all of you, is that correct in every particular? Correct not only as regards yourself, but as regards the others? If not, tell me.”

Not a peep.

Colvin took a breath. “Mr. Bragan, it is necessary to ask you this? There was a piece in the paper day before yesterday, a dispatch from Washington, about this fishing party at your lodge. It said that Ambassador Kelefy’s chief purpose in his new post would be to carry on negotiations regarding oil rights in his country, that vast sums were involved, and that he had brought Mr. Nicholas Papps with him for that purpose; that Mr. Leeson was included in the party because he knew Ambassador Kelefy, having formerly been an attaché of our embassy in the Ambassador’s country; and that the negotiations might be brought to a conclusion on the bank of this trout stream, since the two chief bidders for the rights were both here. The article named them: O. V. Bragan of the Hemisphere Oil Company and James Arthur Ferris of the Universal Syndicate.”

“Well, what about it?”

“It said the rivalry between Hemisphere and Universal was intense and bitter — yes, it said ‘bitter.’ You must see that this is going to cause widespread speculation. Do you want to comment on that?”

“I do not,” Bragan replied.

“It might be helpful for you to give me some idea, privately if you prefer, of the state of the negotiations. Of the nature of the relationships of all those concerned. It might help to eliminate that as... uh... as a factor.”

“It’s already eliminated. You’re beyond your depth, Colvin.”

“You certainly are.” Ferris was supporting his bitter rival. “This is preposterous. Go find the poacher.”

“If I may,” Ambassador Kelefy put in diplomatically. “I agree with Mr. Bragan and Mr. Ferris. Americans do not fight, even for millions, with clubs.”

I could have named him an American who had used a blackjack on a fellow citizen to relieve him of $1.38, but of course he wasn’t an oil tycoon.

“You’re not only beyond your depth,” Bragan told the D.A., “but you’re too free with conclusions. Even if that club was the weapon and it came from my woodpile, and therefore it was premeditated, why was it one of us? Anyone could sneak in through the woods and get a stick from the woodpile.”

“True,” Colvin agree. “Quite true. But it must have been premeditated, and Mr. Leeson must have been a chosen target. As I said, four trained men are exploring that possibility. But the laws of probability compel us to center our attention on this place and the people here. By no means exclusively on you and your five guests; there are five others. Wolfe, Goodwin, and your three servants. The three servants have been questioned, and we’re certainly not through with them. I want to ask you about them. The cook’s name is Michael Samek?”

“Yes. This is ridiculous. Mike has been with me for fifteen years, and—”

“Isn’t that a Russian name? Is he a Russian?”

“No. He’s an American. You certainly are seeing things, Colvin. He was born in Buffalo. The other two men are from an agency in New York and I have used them many times. For years. Do you want the name of the agency?”

“We got it from them. Have you any reason whatever to suppose that one of those three might be involved in this?”

“I have not. I have every reason to suppose they aren’t.”

“All right, but you understand they have to be thoroughly checked... Now, about Wolfe and Goodwin. The newspaper article said that Wolfe was coming to cook trout for Ambassador Kelefy. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you arrange that?”

“No. Mr. Leeson did.”

“Why did Goodwin come along?”

“I suppose to drive the car. Ask him.”

“I intend to. But first please tell me — to your knowledge, was there anything behind that arrangement? Some other reason for getting Wolfe and Goodwin here?”

“No. Not to my knowledge.”

Colvin’s eyes went to Wolfe and he raised his chin and his voice: “I ask you, Wolfe. Goodwin says that the arrangement for your coming here was made on the telephone with Mr. Leeson. Have you any record other than your own memory of what was said on the telephone?”

If he had worked at it for a week he couldn’t have thought up a worse approach.

Wolfe, beside me, sat slowly moving his head from side to side, and I thought he was simply going to clam up and let it go at that. But, no. He spoke: “It’s too bad, Mr. Colvin.”

“What’s too bad?”

“That you’re spoiling it. You people have investigated promptly and efficiently, and you have expounded the situation admirably — though I think ‘assumptions’ would be a better word than ‘conclusions’ at this stage. You even show—”

“I asked you a question! Answer it!”

“I shall. You even show commendable spunk in dealing with two billionaires and an ambassador, and I can’t blame you for wanting to impress them by using a sharper tone and a more pugnacious manner for me. However, my one desire is to leave here and go home. I will make a statement. When I’m through you may ask questions, and I may answer them.”

“I’ve asked one. You can answer that.”

Wolfe shook his head patiently. “I’ve offered a statement. Isn’t that accepted procedure?”

The sheriff, who had returned to the group by the door, called over, “Maybe he’d like it better at the courthouse!”

The D.A. ignored the sheriff. “Go ahead and make your statement,” he said to Wolfe.

“Yes, sir.” Wolfe was trying not to be smug. He did want to go home. “Eleven days ago I had a telephone call from Washington and was told that Mr. David M. Leeson of the State Department wished to speak with me. Mr. Leeson, whom I had never met, told me that a fishing party was being arranged for Ambassador Kelefy, newly arrived in this country, and that the Ambassador had expressed a desire to eat fresh trout cooked by Nero Wolfe, and would I oblige him? Mr. Leeson said it would be deeply appreciated. I was engaged on a difficult job and reserved my decision. Mr. Leeson phoned me again two days later, and again three days later, and I agreed to go, and he gave me the necessary information. No other matter was mentioned by either of us in any of the conversations.”

“Did Leeson write you about it?”

“No. It was all arranged on the phone. Yesterday morning Mr. Goodwin and I left my house in New York and drove here in my car, arriving around 6 o’clock. He accompanied me because he always does, and I had so stipulated with Mr. Leeson. He and I dined in this room with the others, and went to our rooms and to bed about 10 o’clock. Neither of us had ever before met any of the people here, and neither of us had any private conversation with any of them, yesterday or during the night. This morning we arose rather late and breakfasted together in this room at half-past 9. We were told that the others, the five men, had all gone fishing before 8 o’clock. After breakfast I went to the kitchen to start preparations for cooking lunch, and Mr. Goodwin got himself outfitted for fishing. From that point the account of Mr. Goodwin’s movements will come from him; no doubt he has already furnished it. I stayed in the kitchen until luncheon had been cooked and served; I ate mine in the kitchen; and a little after 1 o’clock I went to my room and remained there until Mr. Goodwin arrived and told me he had found Mr. Leeson’s body.”

“What time was it—?”

“If you please. A little more. You hinted at the possibility of a connection between the attack on Mr. Lee-son and the contest for the oil rights which Ambassador Kelefy is negotiating. As the investigation gets hotter I suppose you’ll return to that, in private interviews, and sooner or later someone will certainly mention an incident that occurred in this room last evening at the dinner table. Mr. Goodwin might, since he was casually involved. So I mention it now: Mr. Bragan placed the table, and arranged the seating, so that Mr. Ferris and Mr. Goodwin were toasted before our eyes. Their only alternatives were discourtesy or cremation, and they chose the former; they left the table and played billiards. I don’t suggest that this has any bearing on the murder; I report it only because it was a notable incident and I don’t want to be reproached later for leaving it out.”

Wolfe closed his eyes, and opened them again. “That’s all, I think, except to add that I fully realize the pickle you’re in. You are driven to the hypothesis that someone on these premises is a murderer. Eleven of us. The three servants are probably hopeless. Leaving eight. Mrs. Leeson seems highly unlikely. Leaving seven. Ambassador Kelefy, his wife, and Mr. Papps are beyond your reach even for inquisition, let alone indictment. Leaving four. Mr. Bragan and Mr. Ferris are mighty men of great wealth, dangerous to offend without the most conclusive grounds; you will provoke them at your peril. Leaving two, Mr. Goodwin and me. So I understand your eagerness to impeach us, but it’s no good. Don’t waste energy on us.”

“Are you through?”

“Yes. If you wish a statement from Mr. Goodwin also, he—”

“We already have Goodwin’s story. Naturally, it agrees with yours.” The D.A.’s tone indicated no desire for peaceful coexistence. “For the record, I deny your allegation that we are eager to impeach you, as you put it. We are eager for only one thing — the truth about the commission of this crime. You say you went to the kitchen, parting from Goodwin, immediately after breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“And that was around ten o’clock?”

“Almost precisely at ten.”

“When did you see him next?”

“Shortly before 11 o’clock he came to the kitchen and got sandwiches for his lunch, and left. The next time was when he came to my room and told me of finding Mr. Leeson’s body.”

Colvin nodded. “Around 1:30. Goodwin admits he was alone for forty minutes or more after you went to the kitchen. He says he was in this room, looking over the tackle and getting himself equipped, but he had ample time to slip out the side door, make his way to Stretch Four, find Mr. Leeson and deal with him, return, and proceed to the veranda to register his presence with Mrs. Kelefy and Mrs. Leeson. Or, as an alternative, he had reason to suppose that Leeson would stay out beyond the appointed hour, and, after starting south and meeting Mr. Papps and Ambassador Kelefy on the trail, he doubled back through the woods, detouring around the lodge, found Mr. Leeson, even possibly by arrangement, and killed him.”

Wolfe’s brows were up. “Had he gone mad? I grant that Mr. Goodwin sometimes acts impulsively, but that seems rather extreme.”

“Murder is extreme.” Colvin’s voice went up a notch: “You can save your sarcasm, Wolfe. If Goodwin did it he had a motive, sure, and I can’t produce it now, but there are plenty of possibilities. You like money. What if Mr. Leeson was in somebody’s way, and that somebody came and offered you a big sum to help dispose of him? He knew you had been asked to come here, and that would give you and Goodwin a perfect opportunity. So you decided to come, and you did. It doesn’t have to be that Goodwin suddenly went mad, or you either.”

“Pfui!” Wolfe sighed. “You may indulge yourself in fantastic nonsense, but don’t pester me with it. Let’s be explicit: Are you calling me a liar?”

“I am!”

“Then there’s no point in going on.” Wolfe left his chair. “I’ll be in my room, with no interest in any further communication except word that I may leave for home. Since you already have Mr. Goodwin’s story, you won’t need him, either... Come, Archie.” He moved.

“Wait a minute!” Colvin commanded. “I’m not through with you! Is your statement absolutely complete?”

Wolfe, having taken a step, halted and turned his head. “Yes.”

“You included a notable incident. That’s what you called it. Was there any other notable incident that you didn’t mention?”

“No. None that I know about.”

“Then you don’t call it notable that you came here to cook trout for Ambassador Kelefy — that’s what you came for — and when they brought in their creels today and you and the cook cleaned the trout, you did not include the trout in Ambassador Kelefy’s creel — the trout he had caught, himself? You don’t call that notable?”

Wolfe shrugged. “Not especially.”

“Well, I do.” Colvin was bearing down. “The cook, Samek, says that the creels were tagged with the names. You selected the fish from them. Ferris’s had nine, and you used six. Papps’s had seven, and you used five. Ambassador Kelefy’s had eight, all of good size, and you didn’t use one of them. They were still there in the kitchen and Samek showed them to me. Nothing wrong with them as far as I could see. Do you deny this?”

“Oh, no.” I caught a little gleam in Wolfe’s eye. “But will you tell me how it relates to the crime you’re investigating?”

“I don’t know. But I call it a notable incident, and you didn’t mention it.” Colvin’s head moved. “Ambassador Kelefy, did you know that Wolfe didn’t cook any of the fish you caught?”

“No, Mr. Colvin, I didn’t. This is rather a surprise.”

“Do you know of any reason for it?”

“I’m afraid not.” Kelefy swiveled his head for a glance at Wolfe. “No doubt Mr. Wolfe can supply one.”

“He certainly can... What about it, Wolfe? Why?”

Wolfe shook his head. “Relate it to the murder, Mr. Colvin. I shouldn’t withhold evidence, of course, but I’m not; the trout are there; scrutinize them, send them to the nearest laboratory for full analysis. I resent your manners and your methods. Only a witling would call a man with my conceit a liar... Come, Archie.”

I can’t say how it would have developed if there hadn’t been a diversion. As Wolfe made for the door to the hall with me at his heels, the sheriff, the lieutenant, and the other trooper came trotting across to head us off, and they succeeded, since Wolfe had neither the build nor the temperament to make a dash for it. But only two of them blocked the doorway, because, as they came, the phone rang and the lieutenant changed course to go to the table and answer it.

After a word he turned to say to the D.A., “For you, Mr. Colvin. Attorney General Jessel.”

Colvin went to get it, leaving us stuck in tableaux. The conversation wasn’t long, and he had the short end of it.

When he hung up he turned and said, “That was Mr. Herman Jessel, Attorney General of the State of New York. I phoned him just before calling you together here and described the situation. He is leaving Albany immediately to come here, and wants me to postpone further questioning of you ladies and gentlemen until he arrives. That will probably be around 8 o’clock. Meanwhile, you are requested to remain inside the lodge here or on the veranda...”

Wolfe sat in the big armchair in his room, leaning back, his eyes closed, his lips compressed. I stood at a window, looking out. Wolfe’s voice sounded behind me: “What time is it?”

“Twenty after five.” I turned.

“Where would we be if we had left at 2 o’clock?”

“On Route 22, four miles south of Hoosick Falls.”

“Bosh. You can’t know that.”

“That’s what I do know. What I don’t know is why you didn’t let the Ambassador eat his trout.”

“Thirty-four were caught. I cooked twenty. That’s all.”

“Okay, save it. What I don’t know won’t hurt me. I’ll tell you what I think. I think the guy that sent us here to kill Leeson was sending you messages by putting them inside trout and tossing the trout in the river, and some of them were in the ones Kelefy caught, and you had to wait for a chance to get them out when the cook wasn’t looking, and when—”

There was a knock at the door and I went and opened it, and O. V. Bragan, our host, stepped in. No manners. When I shut the door and turned he was already across to Wolfe and talking:

“I want to ask you about something.”

Wolfe opened his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Bragan? Don’t stand on ceremony. Indeed, don’t stand at all. Looking up at people disconcerts me. Archie?”

I moved a chair up for the burly six-footer, expecting no thanks, and getting none. But since Wolfe had taken a crack at him about ceremony I thought I might as well too, and told him not to mention it. He didn’t hear me.

His cold and sharp gray eyes were leveled at Wolfe. “I like the way you handled Colvin,” he stated.

Wolfe grunted. “I didn’t. I want to go home. When I talk with a man who is in a position to give me something I want, and I don’t get it, I have blundered. I should have toadied him. Vanity comes high.”

“He’s a fool.”

“I don’t agree.” Obviously, Wolfe was in no mood to agree with anyone or anything. “I thought he did moderately well. His stand with Mr. Ferris and you was almost intrepid.”

“Bah! He’s a fool. The idea that anyone here would deliberately murder Leeson is so absurd that only a fool would take it seriously.”

“Not as absurd as the idea that a poacher, with a club from your woodpile as a cane, was struck with the fancy of using it as a deadly weapon. Discovered, poachers don’t kill; they run.”

“All right, it wasn’t a poacher.” Bragan was brusque. “And it wasn’t anyone here. But heaven knows what this is going to mean to my plans. If it isn’t cleared up in a hurry, anything can happen. With Leeson murdered here at my lodge, the State Department could decide to freeze me out, and not only that — Ambassador Kelefy could decide he’d rather not deal with me, and that would be worse.”

He hit his chair arm with a fist. “It has got to be cleaned up in a hurry! And it won’t be, the way they’re going at it. I know your reputation, Wolfe, and I want you to find out who killed Leeson.”

“Sitting here?” Wolfe was bored. “Confined to the lodge and veranda? Another absurd idea.”

“You wouldn’t be. Jessel, the attorney general, will be here in a couple of hours. After I talk with him and he reads your statement, and questions you if he wants to, he’ll let you go. I’ve got a plane at a landing field twelve miles from here, and you and Goodwin will fly to Washington and get busy. I’ll give you some names of people there that can help, and I’ll phone them from here. The way it looks to me, somebody that wanted to finish Leeson decided to do it here. You find him and pin it on him, and quick. I’m not telling you how; that’s your job. Well?”

“No,” Wolfe said bluntly.

“Why not?”

“I am responsible for my decisions, Mr. Bragan, but to myself, not to you. However, I am your guest. I would ride in an airplane only in desperation, and I am not desperate. Again, I want to go home, and Washington is not my home. Again, even if your assumption regarding the murder were correct, it might take so long to find him and expose him that your plans would be beyond salvage. There is a fourth reason even more cogent than those, but I’m not prepared to disclose it.”

“What is it?”

“No, sir. I owe you the decent courtesy of a guest, Mr. Bragan, but that’s all, and I decline the job... Archie, someone at the door.”

I was on my way to answer the knock. It was James Arthur Ferris. Bragan was sitting with his back to the door. When Ferris got far enough to see who it was, he stopped and blurted, “You here, Bragan? Good.”

Bragan blurted back, “Why is it good?”

“Because I was coming to ask Wolfe and Goodwin for a little favor. I was going to ask them to come with me to your room and be present while I said something to you. I’ve learned from experience that it’s advisable to have witnesses present when I’m talking with you.”

“Oh, come off it.” Bragan was fed up. First Wolfe turning him down flat, and now this. “A diplomat has been murdered. On every radio and TV network, and tomorrow on the front page of a thousand papers. Pull in your horns!”

Ferris, not listening apparently, was squinting down at Wolfe. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll say it here. There’s no danger that you’ll ever have to testify to it or even furnish an affidavit, because Bragan hasn’t got the guts to lie when he knows it’s three to one. I’ll appreciate the favor.” He turned the squint on Bragan, and you wouldn’t think his thin little hyphen of a mouth was much to show hate with, but he certainly managed it. “I just want to tell you what I’m going to do, so you can’t say afterwards that it hit you without warning.”

“Go ahead.” Bragan’s head was tilted back to face the squint. “Let’s hear it.”

“As you know, the attorney general is on his way here. He’s going to ask about the status of our negotiations with Kelefy and Papps, and where Leeson stood. When he asks me I’m going to tell him the truth — how you had your Paris man working on Kelefy and Papps before they even left home; how you tried to get something on Papps; how you had two men I can name trying to put screws on Leeson, and—”

“Watch it, Ferris. We’re not alone. You’ve got your witnesses.”

“You bet I have. I’ll probably have more when I’m talking to the attorney general. I’m going to tell him how you tried to buy Papps — buy him with cash, your stockholders’ cash. How you finally swung Leeson and had him eating out of your hand. How you got him to arrange this little fishing party, here at your place, so you’d have Kelefy and Papps all to yourself. How Papps didn’t like that and got me invited. And then, after we got here, how I worked you into a corner with the dirty swindle you thought you had all set, and yesterday afternoon Leeson began to see the light. It didn’t need much more to cook you good — one more day would have done it. This is the day, but Leeson’s not here. That’s what I’m going to tell the attorney general, and I didn’t want to spring it on you without warning. Also, I didn’t want you to claim I had, with a big whine, so I wanted witnesses. That’s all.”

Ferris turned and was going. Bragan called to him but he didn’t stop. He went out the door, pulling it shut as he went. Bragan looked at me without seeing me, said, “And he bought Papps, himself!” and opened the door and was gone.

I closed it and asked Wolfe, “Do I go and warn somebody? Or wait a while and then go find the body?”

“Saber-toothed hyenas,” he growled.

“Okay,” I agreed, “but all the same I think you missed a bet. That gook might actually be able to talk us out of here. And, in addition, you could bill Bragan for at least ten grand. You could tell him—”

“Archie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a book on power politics on a shelf in that room. I’d like to have it.”

It had long been understood that at home he got his own books off of shelves, but I had to admit this was different, so I let him tell me what book he wanted. In the big room a trooper sat over by the door. I found the book with no trouble, and handed it to Wolfe.

“It occurs to me,” he said, “that a little later they may undertake to gather at a table for a meal. In the refrigerator are a third of a ham, half of a roast turkey milk, and beer. The bread is inedible, but in a cupboard there are some crackers, and in another cupboard a jar of blackberry jam. If you see anything else you think desirable, bring it.”

He opened the book and settled back in the armchair. I wasn’t through with him on the notion of letting Bragan spring us and commit himself to a fee, but I thought half an hour with a book might make him more receptive to the idea of a plane ride, so I went to the kitchen. The cook, Samek, was there. I said if he didn’t mind I’d cater with a pair of trays for Wolfe and me, and he said go ahead.

As I got out a bottle of milk I said casually, “By the way, I intended to take a look at the trout the Ambassador caught. Where are they?”

“They’re not here. The cops took ’em.”

The loaded trays called for two trips. The second trip, with mine, I met Papps in the hall and exchanged nods with him.

After we finished our meal I returned the trays to the kitchen and headed back for the room, all set to tackle Wolfe on Bragan’s proposition. My chances of selling him were about one in fifty, but I had to do something to pass the time, and why not that? Keeping him stirred up was one thing he paid me for. However, it had to be postponed. As I approached, I saw that the door was standing open, and as I entered I saw that we had more company. Adria Kelefy was sitting in the chair that I had moved up for Bragan, and the Ambassador was getting another for himself.

I got snubbed again. As I stepped around to a chair off to one side, Wolfe and Mrs. Kelefy merely glanced at me, and the Ambassador didn’t even bother to glance.

He pointed to the book in Wolfe’s hand. “I am well acquainted,” he said, “with the theory that in the atomic age we can no longer rely on industrial potential as the dominant factor in another world war, and I think the writer of your book makes his point, but he goes too far. In spite of that, it’s a good book.”

Wolfe placed a slip of paper in it to mark his place — he dog’s-ears his own books — and put it down. “In any event,” he said, “man is a remarkable animal, with a unique distinction. Of all the millions of species rendered extinct by evolution, we are the only one to know in advance what is going to destroy us. Our own insatiable curiosity. We can take pride in that.”

“Yes, indeed.” Evidently Kelefy wasn’t too upset at the prospect. “I had hoped, Mr. Wolfe, to offer you my thanks in happier circumstances. The death of Mr. Leeson has turned this little excursion into a tragedy, but even so, I must not neglect to thank you. It was most gracious of you to grant my request.”

“It was a privilege and an honor,” Wolfe declared. No diplomat was going to beat him at it. “To be chosen as an instrument of my country’s hospitality was my good fortune. I only regret, with you, the catastrophe that spoiled it.”

“Of course,” the Ambassador agreed. “I thought also to tell you how I happened to make the request of Mr. Leeson. There is a man who operates a restaurant in Rome, where I was once stationed, by the name of Pasquale Donofrio. I praised his sauce with grilled kidneys, and he said you originated it. I had a similar experience in Cairo, and one in Madrid. And from my friend Leeson, when he had a post in my own capital, I heard something of your exploits as a private detective. So when, here in your country, I was asked to express a personal desire, I thought of you.”

“I am gratified, sir.”

“And my wife joins me in my thanks.” He smiled at her.

Her dark eyes were as sleepy as ever. Apparently, it would take more than a murder to light them up. She spoke: “I insisted on coming with my husband to thank you, Mr. Wolfe. I, too, had heard much about you, and the trout was delicious. Really, the best I have ever tasted. And, another thing, I wanted to ask you, some more of our insatiable curiosity, why didn’t you cook the ones my husband caught?”

“Oh, yes,” Kelefy agreed. “I wanted to ask that, too.”

“Caprice,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Goodwin will tell you that I am a confirmed eccentric.”

“Then you really cooked none of mine?”

“That seems to be established.”

“But it’s rather fantastic, since it was at my request that you were here. Even a caprice must spring from something.”

“Not necessarily, sir.” Wolfe was patient. “A whim, a fancy, a freakish dart of the mind.”

The Ambassador persisted: “I apologize for dwelling on this, but I would like to avoid any chance of embarrassment. Mr. Colvin made rather a point of it, probably in his eagerness to get at you, and it would be most unfortunate if it got into the public reports. In a cause cétèbre, and this will certainly be one, any unexplained fact gives rise to all kinds of wild rumors, and in this instance they will concern me, only because it was the trout I caught that you didn’t cook! It’s true that that has no conceivable connection with the murder of Mr. Leeson, but the gossips will do their best to invent one, and the position of an ambassador is extremely delicate and sensitive, particularly mine at this moment. You know that, of course.”

Wolfe nodded. “I do.”

“Then you realize the difficulty. If you refuse to furnish any explanation, or if you only call it the caprice of an eccentric, what will be thought?”

“Yes.” Wolfe pursed his lips. “I see your point.” He heaved a sigh. “Very well. It’s not too hard a nut. I can say that my sense of humor is somewhat unorthodox, as indeed it is, and that it amuses me to twist the tails of highly placed persons; that since you had said you wanted to catch a trout and have it cooked by me, and I had traveled here for that express purpose, I thought it would be a nice touch of mockery not to cook any you had caught; and that with me to think is to act. Will that do?”

“Excellently. You will say that?”

“At the moment I see no objection to it. Some unforeseen contingency might of course provide one, so I can’t make it a commitment.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He was unquestionably a diplomat. “And I must thank you again. There was another little matter — but am I imposing on you?”

“Not at all. Like the others, I am merely waiting for the arrival of the attorney general.”

“Then I’ll mention it briefly. Mr. Ferris has told me of his conversation with Mr. Bragan in your presence. He told me of it, he said, because my name came into it and it concerned my mission to this country. I told him that I deeply appreciated his telling me, and I also expressed a hope that he would abandon his intention of repeating it to the attorney general. He finally agreed with me that his intention was ill-advised — that it would be prejudicial to the negotiations in which we are both interested. He regretted the hot impulse that led him to come to you and, finding Mr. Bragan here, to proceed as he did. It is not an exaggeration to say that he is in some despair, because he thinks he has compromised himself by speaking to Mr. Bragan before witnesses, and he thinks it would be futile to come now and ask you and Mr. Goodwin to erase the episode from your memories. I told him it is never futile to ask honorable men to do an honorable thing, and that I would ask you myself. I do so. Believe me, it will serve no useful purpose for Mr. Ferris’s outburst to Mr. Bragan to be repeated to anyone anywhere.”

Wolfe grunted. “I do believe you. On this the commitment can be as firm as you like.” He turned. “Archie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We remember nothing of what Mr. Ferris said to Mr. Bragan this afternoon, and no provocation by anyone will refresh our memory. You agree to that?”

“Yes, sir. On my word of honor.”

He turned. “And mine, sir. Is that adequate?”

“It is, indeed.” Kelefy said it as if he meant it. “Mr. Ferris will be delighted. As for me, I cannot properly express my appreciation, but I hope you will permit me to proffer a slight token of it.” He lifted his left hand and began working at the ring with the emerald. It was a little stubborn, but after some twisting and tugging he got it off.

“I think, my dear,” he said, turning to his wife, “it would be fitting for you to present this to Mr. Wolfe. You wanted to come with me to thank him, and this is the symbol of our gratitude. Please beg him to accept it.”

She seemed to hesitate a second, and I wondered if she had cottoned to my suggestion of an earring and hated to give it up. Then she took it without looking at it and extended her hand to Wolfe. “I do beg you to accept it,” she said, in so low a voice that I barely caught it. “As a symbol of our gratitude.”

Wolfe didn’t hesitate. He took it, looked at it, and closed his fingers over it. I expected him to come out with something really flowery, but he surprised me again. “This is quite unnecessary, madam,” he told her. He turned. “Quite unnecessary, sir.”

Kelefy was on his feet. He smiled. “If it were necessary it wouldn’t be so great a pleasure. I must go and see Mr. Ferris. Thank you again, Mr. Wolfe... Come, my dear.”

I went and opened the door for them. They passed through, with friendly glances for me but no emeralds, and I shut the door and crossed to Wolfe. He was admiring the emerald. I admired it, too. It was the size of a hazel nut.

“My word of honor may not be as good as yours,” I said, “but it has some value. You wear it Monday to Friday, and I’ll wear it Saturday and Sunday.”

He grunted. “You brought your working case in, didn’t you?”

“Yes. My gun’s in it.”

“I want the best glass, please.”

I went to my room, got the glass, and returned. With it he gave the emerald a real look and then handed them to me. That seemed to imply that I had an equity, so, with the glass, I inspected the symbol of gratitude from all sides.

“I’m not an expert,” I said, returning it to him, “and it may be that that little brown speck near the center adds to its rarity; but if I were you I’d give it back to him and ask for a nice, clear one.”

No comment. I went to my room to return the glass to my working case. If I was going to try to sell him on Bragan’s offer I’d have to step on it, for time was closing in. I had my opening gun ready to fire as I re-entered his room, but after a couple of steps toward him I stopped dead. He was leaning back in the chair with his eyes closed, and his lips were working. He pushed them out, pulled them back in... push... pull...

I stood and stared at him. He only did that when his brain was going full tilt, with all the wheels whirling. What now? What about? I couldn’t suspect him of faking, because that was the one phenomenon I had never seen him use for putting on an act. It meant he was working. But on what? No client, no evidence, no itch whatever except to get in the car and start home. However, it was well established that when that fit took him he was not to be interrupted, so I went to a window for another lookout.

Wolfe’s Voice turned me around: “What time is it?”

I glanced at my wrist. “Twenty minutes to 8.”

“I want to make a phone call. Where?”

“There’s one in the big room, as you know. I understand that phone calls are being permitted, but they’re monitored. There’s a cop in the big room, and not only that, you can bet they’ve tapped the line outside.”

“I must phone. It’s essential.” He put his hands on the chair arms and levered himself up. “What is Nathaniel Parker’s home number?”

“Lincoln 3-4616.”

“Come on.” He headed for the door.

I followed him down the hall and into the big room. The trooper was there, going around switching lamps on. He gave us a glance but no words. When Wolfe picked up the phone he moved in our direction, but uttered no protest. Wolfe had taken out his notebook and opened it on the table, and from across the table the trooper focused on it, but all he saw was a blank page.

Wolfe was speaking: “Person-to-person call to a New York City number. This is Whiteface 7808. My name is Nero Wolfe. I wish to speak to Mr. Nathaniel Parker in New York, at Lincoln 3-4616.”

I thought the trooper looked as if he would enjoy a bone, so I told him, “Parker’s our lawyer. A reputable member of the bar and a very fine man. He’s got me out of jail three times.”

He was in no humor for conversation. He stood. I stood. And soon Wolfe was telling the receiver:

“Mr. Parker?... Yes, Nero Wolfe. I’m calling from Mr. Bragan’s lodge in the Adirondacks... Yes, of course you’ve heard... I need some information from you, mats il faut parler francais exclusivement. Vous comprenez?...”

He went on. The trooper was up against it. The phone calls were probably being recorded out at the tap, but no doubt he was supposed to stand by and note the substance, and he couldn’t note meaningless sounds. The changes on his face kept me informed. First, he didn’t know French, that was obvious. Next, he had an impulse to reach and cut the connection — he even started a hand out — but voted it down. Next, he tried looking intelligent and superior, indicating that he understood it perfectly, but gave up when he glanced at me and met my eye. Next, he decided to pretend that he was standing there only to see that Wolfe didn’t twist the phone cord.

Going through all the phases took a lot of time, a quarter of an hour or more, and he was doing pretty well with the last one when Wolfe did him a favor by getting out his pencil and starting to write in the notebook. That gave the cop something to look at, and was a big relief to both of us, though I doubted if he could read Wolfe’s fine, small handwriting upside down at a distance of five feet. I was closer and, stretching my neck, saw that he was writing the same lingo he was speaking. Since I don’t know French, either, I just looked intelligent.

Wolfe filled a page of the notebook and part of another, and then suddenly went back to English: “Thank you very much, Mr. Parker. Satisfactory. I doubt if I’ll need you again. Goodbye, sir.”

He hung up, put the notebook in his pocket, turned to me, and opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get it out. The door to the veranda swung open and people entered — first, District Attorney Colvin, then a medium-sized guy with a round, red face, and last Sheriff Dell. Colvin, seeing us, stopped and turned:

“That’s Nero Wolfe. Wolfe and Goodwin.” He came on: “Wolfe, this is Mr. Herman Jessel, Attorney General of the State of New York. I’ve told him how things stand, and he’ll talk with you first. Now.”

“Excellent,” Wolfe declared. “I’m ready, and it shouldn’t take long. But not privately. If I am to disclose the murderer of Mr. Lee-son, as I now intend, it must be in the presence of everyone concerned. If you’ll please have them gathered here?”

They goggled at him. The sheriff muttered something to Colvin. Jessel was confronting Wolfe: “Will you repeat that, please?”

“It was clear, I thought. I am prepared to identify the murderer. I will do so only in the presence of the others. I will say nothing whatever, answer no questions, except with them present. And when they are here, all of them, and of course you gentlemen, too, I must first speak to the Secretary of State on the telephone. If he is not in Washington he must be located. I assure you, gentlemen, it is useless to start barking at me; I’ll be mute. There is no acceptable way to proceed other than the one I suggest.”

The sheriff and the D.A. looked at each other. Jessel looked at Wolfe. “You say you can identify the murderer. With evidence?”

“To convict, no. To indict, yes. To convince all who hear me, including you, beyond question.”

“What’s this about the Secretary of State?”

“I must begin by speaking to him. The reason will be apparent when you hear me.”

“All right. We can reach him. But I have a must, too. I must first hear from you privately what you’re going to say.”

“No, sir.” Wolfe’s tone was final. “Not a word.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a score to pay, and if I told you first you might somehow interfere with the payment.” Wolfe turned a palm up. “What is so difficult? Get them in here. Get the Secretary of State on the phone. Let me speak to him. You can stop me at any point, at any word. Stand beside me, ready to snatch the phone from me.”

The attorney general looked around. If for suggestions, he got none. He shoved his hands in his pockets, wheeled and walked toward the fireplace. Halfway there he turned abruptly and came back, and spoke to Colvin: “Send for the others, please. I’ll put in the call.”

Attorney General Jessel, standing, was speaking into the phone: “Then you understand the situation, Mr. Secretary... One moment. Here is Mr. Wolfe.”

He handed the instrument to Wolfe, who was seated. Bragan and the Ambassador and Mrs. Kelefy were on a divan that had been turned around. Mrs. Leeson was on a chair at the end of the divan. Nicholas Papps, the man of guile and malice and simple candor, was perched on a cushion in front of Mrs. Leeson. Ferris and the sheriff had chairs a little to one side, with Lieutenant Hopp and two of his colleagues standing back of them. District Attorney Colvin stood by the table, practically at Wolfe’s elbow, and Jessel, after handing Wolfe the phone, stayed there at the other elbow.

I was on my feet too, at Wolfe’s back. I hadn’t a glimmer of an idea where he was headed for, but he had said he was going to identify a murderer, so while they were arranging things I had gone to my room, got my gun, and put it in my side pocket.

Wolfe’s tone was easy: “This is. Nero Wolfe, Mr. Secretary. I should have asked Mr. Jessel to say that this will take some time, ten minutes or more, I’m afraid, so I trust you are comfortably seated... Yes, sir, I know; I won’t prolong it beyond necessity. You already know the details of the situation, so I’ll go straight to my personal predicament. I know who killed Mr. Lee-son. It would be pointless to denounce him to officers of the law. But I want to denounce him; first, because if I don’t I’ll be detained and harassed here interminably; and, second, because he has foolishly wounded my self-esteem... Yes, sir, but if I tell it at all I have to tell it my way, and I think you should hear it first...

“Today I was to cook trout for lunch. Four creels, tagged with the names of the fishermen, were brought to me. The fish in three of the creels were perfectly fresh and sweet, but those in Ambassador Kelefy’s creel were not. They were not stiff or discolored, nothing so obvious; indeed, the cook apparently saw nothing wrong with them; but they had not been caught this morning. It would take too long to explain how an expert tells exactly how long a fish had been dead no matter how carefully it has been handled, but I assure you I can do it infallibly. Of course, I decided not to include them in my dish. The cook asked why, but I didn’t explain, not wishing to embarrass the Ambassador. Naturally, I supposed either his luck or his skill had failed him this morning, and he had somehow procured those dead trout to cover his deficiency.

“I am making this as brief as I can. The news of Mr. Leeson’s death by violence put a different face on the matter. The inescapable presumption was that Ambassador Kelefy had killed him and it was indeed premeditated. He had caught those eight trout yesterday in addition to what he brought in — I haven’t bothered to inquire about that — and had secured them at the edge of a pool in the river, immersed in the water. Probably they were alive when he did that, but I am not sufficiently expert to name the precise hour when they died. Also, he probably secured his weapon from the woodpile yesterday and hid it somewhere. So today, having to spend no time fishing in order to bring in a satisfactory creel, he had four hours for another matter — the murder of Mr. Leeson. Getting through the woods unobserved presented no difficulty.

“That was my presumption, but I would have been a fool to disclose it. It was only a presumption, and I was the only witness of the condition of the trout in his creel. Officers of the law have examined them without seeing what I did — though in fairness it must be considered that when I saw them they were supposed to have just come from freedom in the river, and the officers saw them some four hours later. Even so, when the district attorney asked me why I had not cooked the Ambassador’s trout, I might have told him privately, but for his gratuitous spleen.

“Now, however, it is more than a presumption. The Ambassador has not explicitly confessed to me, but he might as well have. A little more than an hour ago he came to my room with his wife, ostensibly to thank me, and asked why I had not cooked the trout he caught. From my reply, and the sequel, he understood what was on my mind. At his suggestion I concocted a bogus explanation. He asked me to commit myself to it, and I straddled. He then made another request, no matter what, which he knew quite well to be unnecessary, since we understood each other tacitly, or he thought we did, and when I granted it freely, without hesitation he offered me a token of his gratitude by taking an emerald ring from his finger and telling his wife to present it to me. She did so, and it is now in my vest pocket.

“That, Mr. Secretary, was the wound to my self-esteem. The emerald was not a token of gratitude for anything I had done; it was a bribe to keep my mouth shut. Had it measured up to my conceit — had it been the Kohinoor or the Zabara — it might have served its purpose; but it is merely a rather large emerald with a noticeable flaw. So, naturally, I was piqued. When the Ambassador left me I sat and considered the matter. Not only was I piqued, I was menaced, and so were others. Unless the Ambassador were exposed we would suffer prolonged harassment and probably lifelong suspicion, and only I could expose him. I decided I must act, but first I needed to know what was feasible and what was not, so I telephoned my lawyer in New York.

“From books in his library he supplied the information I wanted, and I wrote it in my notebook. To make this report complete I must read it to you:

“From Section 25 of the Penal Code of New York State: ‘Ambassadors and other public ministers from foreign governments, accredited to the President or Government of the United States, and recognized according to the laws of the United States, with their secretaries, messengers, families, and servants, are not liable to punishment in this State, but are to be returned to their own country for trial and punishment.’

“From Section 252 of Title 22 of the United States Code: ‘Whenever any writ or process is sued out or prosecuted by any person in any court of the United States, or of a State, or by any judge or justice, whereby the person of any ambassador or public minister of any foreign prince or state, authorized and received as such by the President, or any domestic or domestic servant of any such minister, is arrested or imprisoned, or his goods or attached, such writ or process shall be deemed void.’

“From Section 253 — I’ll condense this: ‘Anyone who obtains a writ or process in violation of Section 252, and every officer concerned in executing such writ or process, shall be deemed a violator of the law of nations and a disturber of the public repose, and shall be imprisoned for not more than three years and shall be fined at the discretion of the court.’

“That last, Mr. Secretary, explains why I insisted on speaking to you. If I had reported to the officers of the law who are here, and if, in their zeal for justice, they had maltreated the Ambassador, not only would they have been subject to prosecution under federal law, but so would I. I don’t want to be imprisoned for three years, or even to risk any hazard of it, and I chose the expedient of reporting directly to you. I am, of course, leaving one question unanswered: What was his motive? Why did he kill? I haven’t the answer, but I do have a conjecture.

“As I told you, he didn’t give me the emerald himself; he had his wife present it. His exact words were, ‘I think, my dear, it would be fitting for you to present this to Mr. Wolfe,’ and not only were the words suggestive, but so were his tone and manner. He was giving me the emerald as a bribe not to divulge my surmise that he had murdered Mr. Leeson. Then why was it fitting for his wife to present it to me? Because she had, herself, been involved? Because she had supplied either the impulse or the motive? Because, in short, she was responsible for his having resorted to the extremity—?”

So it was Wolfe, not I, who found out what it took to light up Adria Kelefy’s eyes. She came off the couch and through the air like a wildcat, and with a sweep of her hand knocked the phone, the whole works, off the table onto the floor. Colvin and Jessel dived for the phone. I took on the wildcat, grabbing her arms from behind, and she tugged and twisted and kicked my shins. Jessel got the phone and was telling it, “Hello hello hello,” when another voice broke in:

“Yes, she was responsible.” It was Sally Leeson. She had left her chair and circled around Papps to come within arm’s length of Adria Kelefy. I tightened up on Adria’s arms. Sally went on, in an even, dead, flat tone:

“You’re not even a snake, Adria. I don’t know what you are. You seduced my husband in your own home, your husband’s home. I knew about it. He told me he couldn’t tear himself away from you, so I tore him away and got him called back home. I suppose your husband heard about it — I think he would eventually. You have too many enemies to keep a secret like that. Then he was sent over here, and the day you got here you were after my husband again. I knew it and I tried to stop you, and I failed. Your husband hasn’t failed. He has succeeded. He killed Dave. Why didn’t he kill you?” She stiffened, and then started to tremble. “Oh,” she cried, “why didn’t he kill you?”

She stopped trembling, turned to the district attorney, and was stiff again. “I told you a lie,” she said, “when I said I didn’t suspect anyone. Of course I did. But I knew you couldn’t arrest him — and I didn’t want to tell you what a fool my husband had been — and what good would it do? What good will anything do now?”

The Ambassador had left the couch to come to us, and for a second I thought he was actually going to answer her. But he spoke, not to her, but to his wife. He put a hand on Adria’s shoulder, and I stepped back. “Come, my dear,” he said. “This is distressing.” She moved, and he turned his head and called sharply, “Nicholas!”

That was a sight I had never expected to see and I don’t expect to see again. Standing there were an attorney general, a district attorney, a sheriff, and three state troopers in uniform, not to mention a pair of private detectives; and none of them moved a muscle while a murderer calmly walked out of the room, taking with him his wife, who had driven him to murder, and a member of his staff, who had certainly known he was guilty.

But Wolfe moved his jaw muscles. He spoke sharply to their backs: “Mr. Kelefy! If you please. A purely personal point. Was it also a stab at my self-esteem that you arranged for me to be here? For the added fillip of gulling me?”

“No, Mr. Wolfe.” The Ambassador had turned at the door. “When I expressed a desire to eat a trout cooked by you I had not yet contemplated an action that might arouse your professional interest. I had not forgotten the past, but I had accepted it. When events caused me to contemplate such an action it would have been imprudent, I thought, to ask you not to come.”

Turning, he touched his wife’s elbow and they disappeared into the hall, with Nicholas Papps at their heels.

The tableau broke up. Jessel muttered something about the Secretary of State and went to the phone. The sheriff and Colvin exchanged words. The troopers stood looking dazed.

Wolfe, on his feet, took the emerald ring from his pocket and handed it to the D.A. “Dispose of this as you see fit, Mr. Colvin. You were right about the notable incident, of course. Mr. Goodwin and I will be packed and ready to go in five minutes. Come, Archie.”

He headed for the hall and I followed.

Of course, you would like to know if Kelefy paid for it, and so would I. He left for home the next day, taking his wife and Papps along, and a month later they shot him, but whether it was for the murder or for ruining the negotiations I can’t say. Diplomatically speaking, I doubt if he cared much.

Content

Ellery Queen’s Anthology. Volume 12, 1967

Editors’ Note

Ross Macdonald Murder Is a Public Matter

Paul Gallico Hurry, Hurry, Hurry!

Edgar Wallace The Man Who Sang in Church

Cornell Woolrich (William Irish) The Earring

Francis Iles (Anthony Berkeley) Dark Journey

Rufus King The Patron Saint of the Impossible

Phyllis Bentley Miss Phipps Goes to School

Bryce Walton The Greatest Monster of Them All

Morley Roberts Mithridates the King

Quentin Reynolds The Bluebeard Murderer

Allan Vaughan Elston Eva? Caroline?

Michael Arlen Midnight Adventure

Roy Vickers Dinner for Two

Poul Anderson Adventure of the Martian Crown Jewels

Richard Deming Open File

Frank Swinnerton Soho Night’s Entertainment

Ellery Queen Miser’s Gold

Rex Stout Immune to Murder