Great American Detective Stories

for FRED DANNAY

chela to guru

Acknowledgments

Thanks are due the following authors, publishers, and agents for permission to use the stories indicated:

“I Won’t Take A Minute” by Cornell Woolrich. Copyright, 1940, by Cornell Woolrich. Originally published as “Finger of Doom,” in Detective Fiction Weekly, June 22, 1940. “Too Many Enemies” by William MacHarg. From The Affairs of O’Malley, published by The Dial Press. Copyright, 1933, by William MacHarg. “No Crime in the Mountains” by Raymond Chandler. Copyright, 1945, by Raymond Chandler. “Too Many Have Lived” by Dashiell Hammett. Reprinted by permission of Leland Hayward, Inc. “The Second Rullet” by Anna Katharine Green. From The Golden Slipper & Other Problems For Violet Strange, copyright, 1915, by G. P. Putnam’s Sons. “His Heart Could Break” by Craig Rice. Reprinted by permission of the author. Copyright, 1943, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. “The Hidden Law” by Melville Davisson Post. From Uncle Abner: Master of Mysteries. Copyright, 1918, D. Appleton-Century Company. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. “Black Murder” by Anthony Boucher. Reprinted by permission of the author. Copyright, 1943, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. “The Adventure of the African Traveler” by Ellery Queen. From The Adventures of Ellery Queen, copyright, 1934. Reprinted by permission of the author. “The Stolen Rubens” by Jacques Futrelle. Reprinted from Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Spring, 1942. Copyright, 1907, by Associated Sunday Magazine, Inc., and 1934, by May Futrelle. “The Riddle of the Yellow Canary” by Stuart Palmer. Permission to reprint granted by Paul R. Reynolds & Son, 599 Fifth Avenue, New York 17. “Ask Me Another” by Frank Gruber. From Black Mask, June, 1937. Reprinted by permission of the author. “A Passage to Benares” by T. S. Stribling. From Clues of the Caribbees, by T. S. Stribling, copyright, 1929, by Doubleday, Doran and Company, Inc. “The Stickpin” by Antonio Helú. From Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, November, 1944. Reprinted by permission of the author. “The Roman Kid” by Paul Gallico. Copyright, 1944, by Paul Gallico. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Notice: No anthology is a single-handed job, and every editor must happily acknowledge the assistance of a host of collaborators. In this case, I am particularly glad to thank those splendid scholars of the whodunit, James Sandoe, Vincent Starrett, William Targ, and Lee Wright, for invaluable suggestions, and various of the authors represented, especially Antonio Helú, Stuart Palmer, T. S. Stribling, Cornell Woolrich, and above all Ellery Queen, for their helpful kindness.

If the reader is indignant with me for the omission of his own favorite, I offer him the following excuses:

one, it is too easily available elsewhere;

two, I couldn’t clear the rights to it;

three, and most probably true, the explanation which Dr. Johnson offered to a critic of his dictionary: “Ignorance, Madam; pure ignorance.”

A.B.

Introduction

The object of this anthology is to give you some good reading.

It isn’t a definitive historical survey of the American detective story; I think you’re more interested in how a story reads today than in its place in the development of the form. It isn’t even a selection of the absolute masterpieces; people who read one anthology are apt to have read one or two others, and such pure gems as “The purloined letter,” “A man called Spade,” “The Doomdorf mystery,” “Man bites dog,” and “The problem of Cell 13” are getting just a little bit over-familiar. So what’s aimed at here is this: a collection of topnotch stories by the best American detective story writers, chosen in the hope that you’ve read very few of them elsewhere. (Most of these stories appear here for the first time in any anthology and half of them for the first time in book form.)

Now you know what you’re getting into.

The detective short story belongs to us. It started in America and it started off magnificently. In five stories, Edgar Allan Poe created the form and almost all its possible variants. But then the English took the play away from us. The detective short never quite died out in America; even in our period of being overshadowed we were producing the exploits of EBENEZER GRYCE and THE THINKING MACHINE and LUTHER TRANT and RANDOLPH MASON — to say nothing of NICK CARTER. But how could even these compete with DR. THORNDYKE and FATHER BROWN and SHERLOCK HOLMES?

The detective short belonged to England up till about the middle ’20’s, when such pulps as Flynn’s and Black Mask began to flourish. Gradually it has become apparent, even to the most doubtful critics, that the best of the detective pulps offer a rich field of stories, in which Dashiell Hammett stands like Shakespeare among the Elizabethan dramatists — not a giant among pygmies, but simply the tallest of a titanic tribe. The pulps brought pace and vigor and physical and emotional impact to the detective story; they made it approach the crude realities of American police work and the daily routine of the private operative.

But these pulps, the English might object, represent only one school of the detective story (although in fact they have influenced all schools save possibly the ultra-slick and the ultra-sedate); and where is the American market for detective shorts of other types? For years it seemed almost as though there were none; magazines aimed at the literate reader of less-than-hardboiled mystery novels were not successful. Ellery Queen’s Mystery League folded after four issues; and Tower’s Mystery Magazine, too, succumbed in time.

Then in 1941 there appeared on the newstands an attractive magazine of 12mo format, well printed on good book paper, with a distinguished Stefan Salter cover. It was the first issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, and at last the possible English objections were answered. Queen’s editorial work in this magazine and in his anthologies and the public reception of both have at last established the detective short story, in all its ramifications, as a proud American possession.

There are as many kinds of detective short stories as there are of detective novels — perhaps more, since it’s hard to find a novelistic equivalent of such tight-packed capsules as the O’MALLEY stories — and you’ll find most of them here from the ethical poetry of Melville Davisson Post to the brash foolery of Frank Gruber. One omission, I confess, is what its admirers call character-and-atmosphere and its detractors the Had-I-But-known school; and that is because to me at least, such sterling practitioners as Mary Roberts Rinehart and Mignon G. Eberhart show off their wares far more attractively in novels than in short stories.

Another omission is inevitably the detailed police-routine school (more English than American anyway) which needs a full novel to function properly. That’s why you’ll find so few professional police detectives starring in the stories that follow. The short story comes off better with the private eye, who works by short cuts and angles; better yet with the unofficial consultant, who is unhampered by the formalities binding the officials who consult him; and best of all, perhaps, with the amateur whose ingenuity or special knowledge can pierce through the secrets of a crime without pages upon pages of routine.

So here are the American detectives. Among them you’ll find a detective with five degrees after his name and a detective with no name at all, a detective who is in the Social Register and a detective who swills sherry on Skid Row, a detective who was born 2000 years after his case and a detective who died six weeks before his solution. They’re all part of the American detective story — and the American detective story today is something to make the most devout internationalist feel a certain stirring of chauvinistic satisfaction.

ANTHONY BOUCHER

I Won’t Take a Minute

by Cornell Woolrich

This is the only DICK GILMAN story. But GILMAN is blood brother to BURGESS in Phantom Lady and DENNY in “Cocaine” and all the other hardheaded professionals who have enough humanity to believe the impossible. The terror of the impossible is Woolrich’s special field; and he’s played as many variations on the Lady-Vanishes situation as Ellery Queen has on the dying message or John Dickson Carr on the locked room. You’ll find this variation one of the most terrible, with that enormous impact of the everyday-gone-wrong that is peculiarly Woolrich: the story of a man who simply watched his girl go to deliver a parcel (she wouldn’t take a minute), and then — all at once, no Steffie.

* * *

She was always the last one out, even on the nights I came around to pick her up — that was another thing burned me up. Not with her of course, but with her job there. Well, she was on the last leg of it now, it would be over with pretty soon. We weren’t going to be one of those couples where the wife kept on working after the marriage. She’d already told them she was leaving anyway, so it was all settled. I didn’t blame her for hanging on up to the very end. The couple of extra weeks pay would come in handy for a lot of little this-ems and that-ems that a girl about to settle down always likes to buy herself (knowing she’s going to have a tough time getting them afterwards). But what got me was, why did she always have to be the last one out?

I picketed the doorway, while the cave-dwellers streamed out all around me. Everyone but her. Back and forth and back and forth; all I needed was a “Don’t Patronize” sign and a spiel. Finally I even saw the slave-driver she worked for come out, but still no her. He passed by without knowing me, but even if he had he wouldn’t have given me any sunny smiles.

And then finally she came — and the whole world faded out around us and we were just alone on the crowded sidewalk. I’ve heard it called love.

She was very good to look at, which was why I’d waited until I was twenty-five and met her. Here’s how she went: first a lot of gold all beaten up into a froth and poured over her head and allowed to set there in crinkly little curls. Then a pair of eyes that — I don’t know how to say it. You were in danger of drowning if you looked into them too deep, but, boy, was drowning a pleasure. Yes, blue. And then a mouth with real lines. Not one of those things all smeared over with red jam.

She had about everything just right, and believe me I was going to throw away the sales-slip and not return the merchandise once it got up to my house.

For trimmings, a dark-blue skirt and a short little jacket that flared out from her shoulders, and a kind of cockeyed tam o’shanter. And a package. I didn’t like the looks of that package.

I told her so the minute I stepped up and took off my hat, while she was still looking down the other way for me. “What’s that?”

She said: “Oh, Kenny, been waiting long? I hurried up all I could. This? Oh, just a package. I promised His Nibs I’d leave it at a flat on Martine Street on my way home.”

“But you’re not going home. I’ve got two ducats for ‘Heavens-abustin’ and I was gonna take you to Rafft’s for dinner first; I even brought a clean collar to work with me this morning. Now this is going to cut down our time for eating to a shadow—”

She tucked her free hand under my arm to pacify me. “It won’t take any time at all, it’s right on our way. And we can cut out the fruit-cup or something.”

“Aw, but you always look so classy eating fruit-cup,” I mourned.

But she went right ahead; evidently the matter had already been all settled between us without my knowing about it. “Wait a minute, let me see if I’ve got the address straight. Apartment 4F, 415 Martine Street. That’s it.”

I was still grouching about it, but she already had me under control. “What are you supposed to do, double as an errand-girl, too?” But by that time we were halfway there, so what was the use of kicking any more about it.

“Let’s talk about us,” she said. “Have you been counting the days?”

“All day. Thirteen left.”

“And a half. Don’t forget the half, if it’s to be a noon-wedding.” She tipped her shoulders together. “I don’t like that thirteen by itself. I’ll be glad when it’s tomorrow, and only twelve left.”

“Gee you’re cute,” I beamed admiringly. “The more I know you, the cuter you get.”

“I bet you won’t say that a year from now. I bet you’ll be calling me your old lady then.”

“This is it,” I said.

“That’s right, 415.” She backed up, and me with her. “I was sailing right on past it. See what an effect you have on me?”

It was the kind of building that still was a notch above a tenement, but it had stopped being up-to-date about 1918. We went in the outer vestibule together, which had three steps going up and then a pair of inner glass doors, to hold you up until you said who you were.

“All right, turn it over to the hallman or whoever it is and let’s be on our way.”

She got on that conscientious look that anything connected with her job always seemed to bring on. “Oh no, I’m supposed to take it right up personally and get a receipt. Besides, there doesn’t seem to be any hallman...”

She was going to do it her way anyway, I could see that, so there was no use arguing. She was bent over scanning the name-plates in the brass letter-boxes set into the marble trim. “What’d I say that name was again?”

“I dunno, Muller or something,” I said sulkily.

“That’s it. What would I do without you?” She flashed me a smile for a bribe to stay in good humor, then went ahead scanning. “Here it is. 4F. The name-card’s fallen out of the slit and gotten lost, no wonder I couldn’t find it.” She poked the button next to it. “You wait downstairs here for me,” she said. “I won’t take a minute.”

“Make it as fast as you can, will you? We’re losing all this good time out of being together.”

She took a quick step back toward me. “Here,” she said, “let this hold you until I come down again.” And that mouth I told you about, went right up smack against mine — where it belonged. “And if you’re very good, you may get a chaser to that when I come down again.”

Meanwhile the inner vestibule-door catch was being sprung for her with a sound like crickets with sore throats. She pushed it open, went inside. It swung shut again, cutting us off from one another. But I could still see her through it for a moment longer, standing in there by the elevator-bank waiting to go up. She looked good even from the back. When the car came down for her, she didn’t forget to turn around and flash me another heartbreaker across her shoulder, before she stepped in and set the control-button for the floor she wanted. It was self-service, nobody else in it.

The door closed after her, and I couldn’t see her any more. I could see the little red light that told the car was in use, gleaming for a few minutes after that, and then that went out too. And there wasn’t anything left of her.

I lit a cigarette and leaned against the right-hand wall waiting. Then my shoulder got tired and I leaned against the left-hand wall. Then my both shoulders got tired and I just stood up by myself in the middle.

I’ve never timed a cigarette. I suppose they take around five minutes. This one seemed to take longer, but then look who I was waiting for. I punched it out with my foot without bothering to throw it out through the door; I didn’t live there after all.

I thought: “Nice and fast. I mighta known it.” I thought: “What’s she doing, staying to tea up there?”

I counted my change, just to give myself something to do. I took off my hat and looked it over, like I’d never seen it before.

Things happened. Nothing much, little things that were to last so long. The postman came into the vestibule, shoved letters in here and there. 4F didn’t get any. He shifted his girth straps and went out again. A stout lady in a not-very-genuine fur coat came in, one arm full of bundles, and hauling a yowling little kid by the other. She looked to see if there was any mail first. Then she looked for her key, and it took a lot of juggling. Then she looked at me, kind of supercilious. If a look can he translated into a single word, hers said: “Loafer!” Meanwhile the kid was beefing away. He had adenoids or something, and you couldn’t tell if he was talking English or choking to death. She seemed to be able to tell the difference though. She said: “Now Dwight, I don’t want to hear another word! If pot cheese is good enough for your father, pot cheese is good enough for you! If you don’t hush up, I’ll give you to this man here!”

I thought: “Oh no you won’t, not with a set of dishes thrown in!”

After they’d gone in, more waiting started in. I started to trace patterns with my feet, circles, diagonals, Maltese crosses. After I’d covered about a block-and-a-half that way, I stopped to rest again. I started to talk to myself, under my breath. “Must be out of pencils up there, to sign the receipt with, and she’s waiting while they whittle out a new one! We’ll be in time for the intermission at the show—”

I lit another cigarette. That act, slight as it was, put the finishing-touch to my self-control. I no sooner finished doing it than I hit the opposite wall with it. “What the hell is this anyway?” It wasn’t under my breath any more, it was a full-toned yap. I stepped over, picked out 4F, and nearly sent the button through to the other side of the wall.

I didn’t want to go in, of course. I just wanted to tip her off I was still alive down here. Aging fast, but still in fairly usable shape. She’d know who it was when she heard that blast. So when they released the catch on the door, I intended staying right outside where I was.

But they didn’t. They were either ignoring the ring or they hadn’t heard it. I gave it a second flattening. Again the catch on the door remained undisturbed. I knew the bell wasn’t out of order, because I’d seen her give just a peck at it and the door-catch had been released for her. This time I gave it a triple-header. Two short ones and a long one, that went on for weeks. So long that my thumb joint got all white down to my wrist before I let go.

No acknowledgment. Dead to the world up there.

I did the instinctive thing, even though it was quite useless in the present case. Backed out into the street, as far as the outer rim of the sidewalk, and scanned the face of the building. There was just a checkerboard pattern of lighted squares and black ones. I couldn’t tell which windows belonged to 4F, and even if I could have it wouldn’t have done me any good unless I intended yelling her name up from the open sidewalk — and I didn’t yet.

But being all the way out there cost me a chance to get in free, and lost me some more valuable time in the bargain. A man came out, the first person who had emerged from inside since I’d been waiting around, but before I could get in there and push through in his wake, the door had clicked shut again.

He was a scrawny-looking little runt, reminded you of an old-clothes-man on his night off. He went on out without even looking at me, and I tackled the 4F bell some more, gave it practically the whole Morse Code.

I wasn’t frightened yet, just sizzling and completely baffled. The only thing I could figure, far-fetched as it was, was that the bell-apparatus had been on its last gasp when she rang it, and had given up the ghost immediately afterwards. Otherwise why didn’t they hear it, the kind of punishment I was giving it?

Then the first little trickle of fright-did creep in, like a dribble of Cold water down your back when you’re perspiring. I thought: “Maybe there’s some guy up there trying to get funny with her, that’s why the bell isn’t answered. After all, things like that do happen in a big city all the time. I better get up there fast and find out what this is!”

I punched a neighboring bell at random, just to get past the door, and when the catch had been released for me, I streaked into the elevator, which the last guy had left down, and gave it the 4-button.

It seemed to me to set a new record for slowness in getting up there, but maybe that was just the state of mind I was in. When it finally did and I barged out, I made a false turn down the hall first, then when I came up against 4B and C and so on, turned and went back the other way.

It was at the far end of the hall, at the back. The bell I’d rung was evidently on some other floor, for none of the doors on this one opened to see who it was. I went close against it and listened. There were no sounds of a scuffle and I couldn’t hear her saying “Unhand me, you brute!” so I calmed down by that much. But not all the way.

I couldn’t hear anything at all. It was stone-silent in there. And yet these flat-doors weren’t soundproof, because I could hear somebody’s radio filtering through one at the other end of the hall clear as day.

I rang the bell and waited. I could hear it ring inside, from where I was. I’d say: “Will you ask that young lady that brought a package up here whether she’s coming down tonight or tomorrow?” No, that sounded too dictatorial. I’d say: “Is the young lady ready to leave now?” I knew I’d feel slightly foolish, like you always do when you make a mountain out of a molehill.

Meanwhile, it hadn’t opened. I pushed the bell again, and again I could hear the battery sing out on the inside. I rapped with my knuckles. Then I rang a third time. Then I rattled the knob (as though that would attract their attention, if ringing the bell hadn’t!) Then I pounded with the heel of my hand. Then I alternated all three, the whole thing became a maelstrom of frenzied action. I think I even kicked. Without getting the results I was after — admittance.

Other doors began to open cautiously down the line, attracted by the noise I was making. But by that time I had turned and bolted down the stairs, without waiting for the paralytic elevator, to find the janitor. Fright wasn’t just a cold trickle any more, it was an icy torrent gushing through me full-force.

I got down into the basement and found him without too much trouble. He was eating his meal or something on a red-checkered tablecloth, but I had no time to assimilate details. A glimpse of a napkin tucked in collarwise was about all that registered. “Come up with me quick, will you?” I panted, pulling him by the arm. “Bring your passkey, I want you to open one of those flats!”

“What’s matter, something wrong?”

“I don’t like the looks of it. My girl took a package up — I’ve been waiting for her over twenty minutes and she never came down again. They won’t answer the bell—”

He seemed to take forever. First he stood up, then he finished swallowing, then he wiped his mouth, then he got a big ring of keys, then finally he followed me. As an afterthought he peeled off the napkin and threw it behind him at the table, but missed it. He even wanted to wait for the elevator. “No, no, no,” I groaned, steering him to the stairs.

“Which one is it?”

“It’s on the fourth floor, I’ll show you!” Then when we got up there, “Here — right here.”

When he saw which door I was pushing him to, he suddenly stopped. “That one? No, now wait a minute, young fellow, it couldn’t be. Not that one.”

“Don’t try to tell me!” I heaved exasperatedly. “I say it is!”

“And don’t you try to tell me! I say it couldn’t be!”

“Why?”

“I’ll show you why,” he said heatedly. He went ahead up to it, put his passkey in, threw the door open, and flattened himself to let me get a good look past him.

I needed more than just one. It was one of those things that register on the eye but don’t make sense to the brain. The light from the hall filtered in to make a threadbare half-moon, but to make sure I wasn’t missing any of it, he snapped a switch inside the door and a dim, leftover bulb somewhere further back went on flickeringly. You could see why it had been left in — it wasn’t worth taking out. It threw a watery light around, not much better than a candle. But enough to see by.

“Now! You see why?”

The place was empty as a barn. Unfurnished, uninhabited, whatever you want to call it. Just bare walls, ceiling, and floor-boards. You could see where the carpet used to go: they were lighter in a big square patch in the middle than around the outside. You could see where a picture used to go, many moons ago; there was a patch of gray wool-dust adhering like fiber to the wall. You could even see where the telephone used to go; the wiring still led in along the baseboard, then reared up to waist-level like a pothook and ended in nothing.

The air alibied for its emptiness. It was stale, as though the windows hadn’t been opened for months. Stale and dusty and sluggish.

“So you see? Mister, this place ain’t been rented for six months.” He was getting ready to close the door, as though that ended it; pulling it around behind his back, I could see it coming toward me, the “4F” stencilled on it in tarnished gold-paint seemed to swell up, got bigger and bigger until it loomed before me a yard high.

“No!” I croaked, and planted the flat of my hand against it and swept it back, out of his backhand grasp. “She came in here, I tell you!”

I went in a step or two, called her name into the emptiness. “Steffie! Steffie!”

He stayed pat on the rational, everyday plane of things as they ought to be, while I rapidly sank down below him onto a plane of shadows and terror. Like two loading platforms going in opposite directions, we were already miles apart, cut off from each other. “Now, what’re you doing that for? Use your head. How can she be in here, when the place is empty?”

“I saw her ring the bell and I saw the door open for her.”

“You saw this door?” He was obdurately incredulous.

“The downstairs door. I saw the catch released for her, after she rang this bell.”

“Oh, that’s different. You must have seen her ring some other bell, and you thought it was this one; then somebody else opened the building-door for her. How could anyone answer from here? Six months the people’ve been out of here.”

I didn’t hear a word. “Lemme look! Bring more lights!”

He shrugged, sighed, decided to humor me. “Wait, I get a bulb from the hall.” He brought one in, screwed it into an empty socket in the room beyond the first. That did for practically the whole place. It was just two rooms, with the usual appendages: bath and kitchenette.

“How is it the current’s still on, if it’s vacant?”

“It’s on the house-meter, included in the rent. It stays on when they leave.”

There was a fire-escape outside one pair of windows, but they were latched on the inside and you couldn’t see the seams of the two halves any more through the coating of dust that had formed over them. I looked for and located the battery that gave juice to the downstairs doorbell. It had a big pouch of a cobweb hanging from it, like a thin-skinned hornet’s nest. I opened a closet and peered into it. A wire coat-hanger that had been teetering off-balance for heaven knows how long swung off the rod and fell down with a clash.

He kept saying: “Now listen, be sensible. What are you a child?”

I didn’t care how it looked, I only knew how it felt. “Steffie,” I said. I didn’t call it any more, just said it. I went up close to him. He was something human, at least. I said, “What’ll I do?” I speared my fingers through my hair, and lost my new hat, and let it lie.

He wasn’t much help. He was still on that other, logical plane, and I had left it long ago. He tried to suggest we’d had a quarrel and she’d given me the slip; he tried to suggest I go to her home, I might find her there waiting for me.

“She didn’t come out again, damn you!” I flared tormentedly. “If I’d been down at the corner— But I was right at the front door! What about the back way — is there a back way out?”

“Not a back way, a delivery-entrance, but that goes through the basement, right past my quarters. No one came down there, I was sitting there eating my supper the whole time.”

And another good reason was, the stairs from the upper floors came down on one side of the elevator, in the front hall. Then they continued on down to the basement on the other side of it. To get down to there anyone would have to pass in front of the elevator, for its entire width. I’d been right out there on the other side of the glass vestibule-door, and no one had. So I didn’t have to take his word for it. I had my own senses.

“Is there a Muller in the house anywhere at all?”

“No, no one by that name. We never had anyone by that name in the whole twelve years I been working here.”

“Someone may have gotten in here and been lurking in the place when she came up—”

“It was locked, how could anyone? You saw me open it with the passkey.”

“Come on, we’re going to ask the rest of the tenants on this floor if they heard anything, saw her at all.”

We made the rounds of the entire five flats. 4E came to the door in the person of a hatchet-faced elderly woman, who looked like she had a good nose — or ear — for the neighbors’ activities. It was the adjoining flat to 4F, and it was our best bet. I knew if this one failed us, there wasn’t much to hope for from the others.

“Did you hear anything next-door to you within the past half hour?” I asked her.

“How could I, it’s empty,” she said tartly.

“I know, but did you hear anything — like anyone walking around in there, the door opening or closing, voices, or—” I couldn’t finish it. I was afraid to say “a scream.” Afraid she’d say yes.

“Didn’t hear a pin drop,” she said, and slammed the door. Then she opened it again. “Yes I did, too. Heard the doorbell, the downstairs one, ringing away in there like fifty. With the place empty like it is, it sounded worse than a fire-alarm.”

“That was me,” I said, turning away disheartenedly.

As I’d expected after that, none of the others were any good either. No one had seen her, no one had heard anything out of the way.

I felt like someone up to his neck in a quicksand, and going down deeper every minute. “The one underneath,” I said, yanking him toward the stairs. “3F! If there was anything to be heard, they’d get it quicker through their ceiling than these others would through their walls. Ceilings are thinner than walls.”

He went down to the floor below with me and we rang. They didn’t open. “Must be out, I guess,” he muttered. He took his passkey, opened the door, called their name. They were out all right, no one answered. We’d drawn another blank.

He decided he’d strung along with me just about far enough — on what after all must have seemed to him to be a wild goose chase. “Well,” he said, slapping his sides and turning up his palms expressively. Meaning, “Now why don’t you go home like a good guy and leave me alone?”

I wasn’t having any. It was like asking you to leave your right arm behind you, chopped off at the shoulder. “You go up and stick there by that empty flat. I’m going out and get a cop.” It sounds firm enough on paper, it came out plenty shaky and sick. I bounded down the stairs. In the vestibule I stopped short, punched that same 4F bell. His voice sounded hollowly through the interviewer after a minute-“Yuss?”

“It’s me. The bell works all right up there, does it?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, stay there. I’ll be right back.” I didn’t know what good that had done. I went on out, bareheaded.

The one I brought back with me wasn’t anything to rave about on the score of native intelligence. It was no time to be choosy. All he kept saying all the way back to the house was “All right, take it easy.” He was on the janitor’s plane, and immediately I had two of them against me instead of one.

“You saw her go in, did ye?”

I controlled myself with an effort. “Yes.”

“But you don’t know for sure which floor she got off at?”

“She rang 4F, so I know she got off at the fourth—”

“Wait a minute, you didn’t see her, did ye?”

“No, I didn’t see her.”

“That’s all I wanted to know. You can’t say for sure she went into this flat, and the man here says it’s been locked up for months.”

He rang every bell in every flat of the building and questioned the occupants. No one had seen such a girl. The pot-cheese lady with the little boy remembered having seen me, that was the closest he got to anything. And one other flat, on the fifth, reported a ring at their bell with no follow-up.

I quickly explained I’d done that, to gain admittance to the building.

Three out of the twenty-four occupancies in the building were out; IB, 3C and 3F. He didn’t pass them by either. Had the janitor passkey their doors and examined the premises. Not a trace of her anywhere.

That about ended his contribution. According to his lights he’d done a thorough job, I suppose. “All right,” he said, “I’ll phone it in for you, that’s the most I can do.”

God knows how he expressed it over the wire. A single plain-clothasman was dropped off at the door a few minutes later, came in to where the three of us were grouped waiting in the inner lobby. He looked me over like he was measuring me for a new suit of clothes. He didn’t say anything.

“Hello, Gilman,” the cop said. “This young fellow says he brought a girl here, and she disappeared in there.” Putting the burden of the proof on me, I noticed. “I ain’t been able to find anyone that saw her with him,” he added helpfully.

“Let’s see the place,” the dick said.

We all went up there again. He looked around. Better than I had, maybe, but just as unproductively. He paid particular attention to the windows. Every one of the six, two regular-size apiece for the two main rooms, one small one each for the bath and kitchenette, was latched on the inside. There was a thick veneer of dust all around the frames and in the finger-grips. You couldn’t have grabbed them any place to hoist them without it showing. And it didn’t. He studied the keyhole.

He finally turned to me and gave me the axe. “There’s nothing to show that she — or anyone else — ever came in here, bud.”

“She rang the bell of this flat, and someone released the doorcatch for her from up here.” I was about as steady as jello in a high wind about it. I was even beginning to think I could see a ghost in the corner.

“We’re going to check on that right now,” he said crisply. “There’s already one false ring accounted for, attributable to you. What we want is to find out if there was a second one registered, anywhere in the building.”

We made the rounds again, all twenty-four flats. Again the fifth-floor flat reported my spiked ring — and that was all. No one else had experienced any, for the past twenty-four hours or more. And the fifth-floor party had only gotten the one, not two.

That should have been a point in my favor: she hadn’t rung any of the other flats and been admitted from them, therefore she must have rung 4F and been admitted from there — as I claimed. Instead he seemed to twist it around to my discredit: she hadn’t rung any of the other flats and been admitted from them, and since there could have been no one in 4F to hear her ring and admit her from there, she hadn’t rung any bell at all, she hadn’t been admitted at all, she hadn’t been with me at all. I was a wack. Which gave me a good push in the direction of being one, in itself.

I was in bad shape by now. I started to speak staccato. “Say listen, don’t do this to me, will you? You all make it sound like she didn’t come here with me at all.”

He gave me more of the axe. “That’s what it does sound like to us.”

I turned northeast, east, east-by-south, like a compass on a binge. Then I turned back to him again. “Look.” I took the show-tickets out of my pocket, held them toward him with a shaky wrist. “I was going to take her to a show tonight—”

He waved them aside. “We’re going to build this thing from the ground up first and see what we’ve got. You say her name is Stephanie Riska.” I didn’t like that “you say.”

“Address?”

“120 Farragut.”

“What’d she look like?”

I should have known better than to start in on that. It brought her before me too plainly. I got as far as “She comes up to here next to me—” Then I stopped again.

The cop and janitor looked at me curiously, like they’d never seen a guy cry before. I tried to turn my head the other way, but they’d already seen the leak.

The dick seemed to be jotting down notes, but he squeezed out a grudging “Don’t let it get you,” between his eye-tooth and second molar while he went ahead doing it.

I said: “I’m not scared because she’s gone. I’m scared because she’s gone in such a fairy-tale way. I can’t get a grip on it. Like when they sprinkle a pinch of magic powder and make them disappear in thin air. It’s got me all loose in the joints, and my guts are rattling against my backbone, and I believe in ghosts all over again.”

My spiritual symptoms didn’t cut any ice with him. He went right ahead with the business at hand. “And you met her at 6:15 outside the Bailey-Goodwin Building, you say, with a package to be delivered here. Who’d she work for?”

“A press-clipping service called the Green Star; it’s a one-man organization, operated by a guy named Hessen. He just rented one dinky little rear room, on the ground floor of the Bailey-Goodwin Building.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know myself. She tried to explain it to me once. They keep a list of clients’ names, and then they sift through the papers, follow them up. Any time one of the names appears, in connection with any social activity or any kind of mention at all, they clip the item out, and when they’ve got enough of them to make a little batch, they send them to the client, ready for mounting in a scrap-book. The price for the service is about five bucks a hundred, or something like that.”

“How is there any coin in that?” he wanted to know.

“I don’t know myself, but she was getting twenty-two a week.”

“All right. Now let’s do a little checking.” He took me back with him to where she worked, first of all. The building was dead, of course, except one or two offices, doing night-work on the upper floors. He got the night-watchman, showed his credentials, and had him open up the little one-room office and let us in.

I’d never been in the place myself until now. I’d always waited for her outside at the street-entrance at closing time. I don’t think it was even intended for an office in the first place; it was more like a chunk of left-over storage-space. It didn’t even have a window at all, just an elongated vent up near the ceiling, with a blank shaft-wall about two feet away from it.

There was a flat-topped desk taking up one side, his I guess, with a phone on it and a wire paper-basket and nothing else. And a smaller-size “desk,” this time a real table and not a desk at all, with nothing on it at all. The rest was just filing cabinets. Oh yeah, and a coat-rack. He must have been getting it for a song.

“What a telephone-booth,” remarked the dick.

He looked in the filing-cabinets; they were just alphabetized names, with a scattering of newspaper-clippings distributed among them. Some of the names they didn’t have any clippings for, and some of the letters they didn’t even have any clients for — and I don’t mean only X.

“There’s about a hundred bucks’ worth of clippings in the whole kitty,” Gilman said, “at your own estimate of what the charge was.” He didn’t follow up with what he meant by that, and I was too worried about her to pay any attention to his off-side remarks. The only thing that meant anything to me was, there was nothing around the place to show him that she had ever worked here or even been here in her life. Nothing personalized, I mean. The single drawer of the little table just had a pair of shears for clipping and a pot of paste for mounting, and a stack of little salmon-colored paper mounts.

The night-watchman couldn’t corroborate me, because the place was always locked up by the time he came on-shift. And the elevator-runners that worked the building in the daytime wouldn’t have been able to either, I knew, even if they’d been on hand, because this hole-in-the-wall was on a branch-off of the main entrance-corridor, she didn’t have to pass the cars on her way in from or out to the street, so they’d probably never seen her the whole time she’d worked here.

The last thing he did, after he’d gotten Hessen’s name and address, which was readily available in the place itself, was to open a penknife and cut a notch from the under-side of the small table. At least, it looked like he was doing that from what I could see, and he kept his back to me and didn’t offer any explanation. He thumbed me at the door and said, “Now we’ll go out there and hear what he has to say.” His tone held more of an eventual threat in it toward me than toward her employer though, I couldn’t help noticing.

It was a bungalow-type place on the outskirts, and without being exactly a mansion, it wasn’t low-cost housing. You walked up flat stones to get to the door, and it had dwarf Japanese fir-trees dotted all around it.

“Know him?” he said while we were waiting.

“By sight,” I swallowed. I had a feeling of that quicksand I’d been bogging into ever since she’d left me in the lobby at Martine Street, being up to my eyes now and getting ready to close over the top of my head. This dick mayn’t have taken sides yet, but that was the most you could say; he certainly wasn’t on my side.

A guy with a thin fuzz on his head, who looked like he belonged to some unhealthy nationality nobody ever heard of before, opened the door, stepped in to announce us, came back and showed us in, all in fast time.

A typewriter was clicking away busily somewhere near at hand, and I thought it was him first, her boss, but it wasn’t. He was smoking a porcelain-bowled pipe and reading a book under a lamp. Instead of closing the book, he just put his finger down on the last word he’d read to keep his place, so he could go right ahead as soon as this was over with. He was tall and lean, with good features, and dark hair cut so short it just about came out of his scalp and then stopped.

Gilman said; “Did you ever see this young fellow before?”

He eyed me. He had a crease under one eye; it wasn’t a scar so much as an indentation from digging in some kind of a rimless glass. “No-o,” he said with a slow benevolence. A ghost of a smile pulled at his mouth. “What’s he done?”

“Know anyone named Muller, at 415 Martine Street?” There hadn’t been any Muller in the filing-cabinets at the office.

“No-o, I don’t know anyone by that name there or anywhere else. I think we have a Miller, a Mrs. Elsie Miller on our list, who all the time divorces and marries. Will that do?” He sighed tolerantly. “She owes us twenty-nine dollars.”

“Then you didn’t send a package over to Muller, Apartment 4F, 415 Martine Street, at 6:15 this evening?”

“No,” he said again, as evenly as the other two times. I started forward spasmodically. Gilman braked me with a cut of his hand. “I’m sure I didn’t. But wait, it is easy enough to confirm that.” He raised his voice slightly, without being boorish about it. And right there in front of me, right there in the room with me, he called — “Stephanie. Stephanie Riska, would you mind coming in here a moment?”

The clicking of the typewriter broke off short and a chair scraped in the next room. “Steffie,” I said huskily, and swallowed past agony, and the sun came up around me and it wasn’t night any more, and the bad dream was over.

“My assistant happens to be right here at the house tonight; I had some dictation to give her and she is transcribing it. We usually mail out clippings however, only when there is an urgent request do I send them around by personal messen—”

“Yes sir?” a velvety contralto said from the doorway.

I missed some of the rest of it. The lights took a half-turn to the right, streaking tracks across the ceiling after them like comet-tails, before they came to a stop and stood still again. Gilman reached over and pulled me up short by the coatsleeve, as though I’d been flopping around loose in my shoes or something.

She was saying, “No, I don’t believe I do,” in answer to something he had asked her, and looking straight over at me. She was a brunette of an exotic foreign type, and she came up as high as me, and the sun had gone out again and it was night all over again.

“That isn’t Steffie!” I bayed. “He’s calling somebody else by her name!”

The pupils of Hessen’s eyes never even deflected toward me. He arched his brows at Gilman. “That is the only young lady I have working for me.”

Gilman was holding me back with sort of a half-nelson. Or half a half-nelson. The brunette appeared slightly agitated by my outburst, no more. She hovered there uncertainly in the doorway, as though not knowing whether to come in or go out.

“How long have you been working for Mr. Hessen?” Gilman asked her.

“Since October of last year. About eight months now.”

“And your name is Stephanie Riska?”

She smiled rebukingly, as if at the gratuitousness of such a question. “Yes, of course.” She decided to come a little further forward into the room. But she evidently felt she needed some moral support to do so. She’d brought a small black handbag with her, tucked under her arm, when she left the typewriter. She opened it, so that the flap stood up toward Gilman and me, and plumbed in it for something. The two big gold-metal initials were so easy to read, even upside-down; they were thick, bold Roman capitals, S. R. The bag looked worn, as though she’d had it a long time. I could sense, rather than see, Gilman’s mind’s eye turned accusingly toward me: “What about it now?” though his physical ones were fastened on the bag.

She got what she was looking for out of it, and she got more than she was looking for. She brought up a common ordinary stick of chewing-gum in tin-foil, but she also accidentally brought up an envelope with it, which slipped through her fingers to the floor. She was very adroitly awkward, to coin a phrase.

Gilman didn’t exactly dive for it, but he managed to get his fingers on it a half-inch ahead of hers. “Mind?” he said. I read the address on it with glazed eyes, over his shoulder. It had been postmarked and sent through the mail. “Miss Stephanie Riska, 120 Farragut Street.” He stripped the contents out of it and read the single sheet of note-paper. Then he gravely handed it back. Again I could feel his mind’s eye on me.

She had broken the stick of chewing-gum in half, put part between her lips, and the rest she was preparing to wrap up in tin-foil again for some other time. She evidently didn’t like to chew too much at a time.

Gilman absently thumbed a vest-pocket as though he would have liked some too. She noticed that. “May I offer you some?” she said gravely.

“I wish you would, my mouth’s kind of dry.” He put the second half-piece in his own trap. “And you didn’t deliver a package for Mr. Hessen at 415 Martine Street this evening?” he said around it.

“No, sir, I did not. I’m afraid I don’t even know where Martine Street is.”

That about concluded the formalities. And we were suddenly outside again, him and me, alone. In the dark. It was dark for me, anyway. All he said when we got back in the car was: “This ‘girl’ of yours, what kind of gum did she habitually chew, wintergreen or licorice or what have you?”

What could I tell him but the truth? “She didn’t use gum, she detested the habit.”

He just looked at me. Then he took the nugget he’d mooched from the brunette out of his mouth, and he took a little piece of paper out of his pocket that held another dab in it, and he compared them — by scent. “I scraped this off that desk in the office, and it’s the same as what she gave me just now. Tutti-frutti. Not a very common flavor in chewing-gum. She belongs in that office, she parked her gum there. She had a letter addressed to herself in her handbag, and the initials on the outside checked. What’s your racket, kid? Are you a pushover for mental observation? Or are you working off a grudge against this guy? Or did you do something to some little blonde blue-eyed number and are you trying to pass the buck in this way before we even found out about it?”

It was like a ton of bricks had landed all over my dome. I held my head with both hands to keep it in one piece and leaned way over toward the floor and said, “My God!”

He got me by the slack of the collar and snapped me back so viciously it’s a wonder my neck didn’t break.

“Things like this don’t happen,” I groaned. “They can’t. One minute all mine, the next she isn’t anywhere. And no one’ll believe me.”

“You haven’t produced a single person all evening long that actually laid eyes on this ‘blonde girl’ of yours,” he said hard as flint. “Nowhere, d’you understand?”

“Where’d I get the name from then, the address?”

He looked at me when I said that. “I’ll give you one more spin for your money. You stand or fall by the place she lived.” He leaned forward and he said “120 Farragut” to the driver. Then he kept eyeing me like he was waiting for me to break down and admit it was a hoax or I’d done something to her myself, whoever she was.

Once he said, “Remember, this girl at his place had a letter, three days old, addressed to her, giving this same address were heading for now. If you still want to go through with it...”

“I took her home there,” I said.

“Parents?”

“No, it’s a rooming-house. She was from Harrisburg. But the landlady— He—” Then I went, “O-oh,” and let my head loll limply back against the back of the seat. I’d just remembered he’d recommended the place to her.

He was merciless, noticed everything. “D’ye still want to make it there — or d’ye want to make it Headquarters? And the tougher you are with me, the tougher I’m going to be with you, buddy.” And his fist knotted up and his eyes iced over.

It was a case of self-preservation now. We were only minutes away. “Listen. Y’gotta listen to me. She took me up one night, just for a minute, to lend me a magazine she had in the room. Y’gotta listen to this, for heaven’s sake. Sticking in the mirror of the dresser she’s got a litho of the Holy Mother. On the radiator she’s got a rag doll that I won for her at Coney Island.” I split open my collar in front trying to bring it all back. “On a little shelf against the wall she’s got a gas-ring, with a tube running up to the jet. From the light-fixture to that jet there runs a string, and she’ll have stockings hanging from it to dry. Are you listening? Will you remember these things? Don’t you see I couldn’t make all these things up? Don’t you see she’s real?”

“You almost persuade me,” he said half under his breath. Which was a funny thing coming from a detective. And then we got there.

We stepped down and went in. “Now if you open your mouth,” he said to me, teeth interlocked, “and say one word the whole time we’re in here, I’ll split your lip so wide open you’ll be able to spit without opening your mouth.” He sent for the landlady. I’d never seen her before. “Y’got a girl named Stephanie Riska living in your house?”

“Yep. Fourth-floor front.” That was right.

“How long?”

“Riska?” She took a tuck in her cheek. “She’s been rooming with me now six months.” That was right too.

“I want to know what she looks like.” He took a wicked half-turn in my arm that dammed up the blood.

“Dark hair, sort of dark skin. About as tall as this young fellow you got with you. She talks kind of husky.”

“I want to see her room. I’m the police.” He had to practically support me all the way up the four flights of stairs.

She threw open a door, gave it the switch. I came back to life enough to open my eyes. On the mirror, no picture. On the radiator, no rag doll. On the shelf no gas-ring, but a row of books. The jet had no tube plugged-in, was soldered-over with lead. No string led from it to the light. No nothing.

“Has she always had it fixed this way?” Gilman asked.

“Always since the first day she’s here. She’s a real clean roomer, only one thing I got to complain about— There it is again.” She went over to the washstand and removed a little nugget of grayish substance that had been plastered to the underside of it. But she smiled indulgently, as though one such peccadillo were permissible.

Gilman took it from her on a scrap of paper, shifted it from left to right across his face. “Tutti-frutti,” he said.

“Look out, you better hold your friend!” she exclaimed in sharp alarm.

He swung me so that instead of going down flat, I landed against him and stayed up. “Let him fold,” he said to her. “That isn’t anything to the falls he’s going to be taking five or ten minutes from now.” And we started down the stairs again, with two pairs of workable feet between the three of us.

“What’d he do, murder her?” she breathed avidly on the way down.

“Not her, but I got a good hunch he murdered someone — and picked the wrong name out of a hat.”

She went: “Tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk. He don’t look like—”

I saw some rheumatic lodger’s knotty walking-stick up-ended out of a brass umbrella-stand at the foot of the stairs. As he marched me by, I was on that side, luckily. I let my right arm fall behind us instead of in front of us where it had been — he didn’t have me handcuffed yet, remember — and the curved handle of the stick caught in my hand, and it came up out of the holder after me.

Then I swung it and beaned him like no dick was ever beaned before. He didn’t go down, he just staggered sidewise against the wall and went, “Uff!”

She was bringing up in the rear. She went, “Oh!” and jumped back. I cleared the front steps at a bound. I went “Steffie! Steffie!” and I beat it away in the dark. I didn’t know where I was going and I didn’t care, I only knew I had to find her. I came out so fast the driver of the headquarters-car we’d left at the door wasn’t expecting me. I’d already flashed around the corner below before his belated “Hey, you!” came winging after me.

I made for the Martine Street flat. That was instinctive: the place I’d last seen her, calling me back. Either the car didn’t start right up after me or I shook it off in my erratic zigzag course through the streets. Anyway I got there still unhindered.

I ganged up on the janitor’s bell, my windpipe making noises like a stuffed drainpipe. I choked, “Steffie!” a couple of times to the mute well-remembered vestibule around me. I was more demented than sane by now. Gilman was slowly driving me into the condition he’d already picked for me ahead of time.

The janitor came up with a sweater over his nightshirt. He said, “You again? What is it — didn’t you find her yet? What happened to the other fellow that was with you?”

“He sent me back to take another look,” I said craftily. “You don’t have to come up, just gimme the passkey.”

He fell for it, but killed a couple of valuable minutes going down to get it again. But I figured I was safe for the night; that it was my own place, across town, Gilman would make a beeline for.

I let myself in and fit it up and started looking blindly all around — for what I didn’t know, where a professional detective had been over this ground once already and gotten nothing. The story-book ending, I kept looking for the story-book ending, some magic clue that would pop up and give her back to me. I went around on my hands and knees, casing the cracks between the floorboards; I tested the walls for secret panels (in a $50-a-month flat!); I dug out plaster with my bare nails where there was a hole, thinking I’d find a bullet, but it was only a mouse-hole.

I’d been in there about ten minutes when I heard a subtle noise coming up the hall-stairs outside. I straightened to my feet, darted through the door, ran down the hall to the stairs. Gilman was coming up, like thunder ’cross the China Bay, with a cop and the janitor at his heels. It was the fool janitor’s carpet-slippers, which had no heel-grip, that were making more noise than the other two’s shoes put together. Gilman had tape on the back of his skull and a gun in his hand. “He’s up there now,” the janitor was whispering. “I let him in about ten minutes ago; he said you sent him.”

I sped up the stairs for the roof, the only way that was open to me now. That gave me away to them, and Gilman spurted forward with a roar. “Come down here you, I’ll break every bone in your body! You won’t live to get to Headquarters!” The roof-stairs ended in a skylight-door that I just pushed through, although it should have been latched on the inside. There was about a yard-high partition-wall dividing the roof from the next one over. I tried to clear it too fast, miscalculated, and went down in a mess, tearing a hole in my trouser-knee and skinning my own knee beneath. That leg wouldn’t work right for a minute or two after that, numb, and before I could get upright again on it and stumble away, they were out on me. A big splatter of white shot ahead of me on the gravelled roof from one of their torches, and Gilman gave what can only be described as an Iroquois war-whoop and launched himself through space in a flying tackle. He landed crushingly across my back, flattening me a second time.

And then suddenly the rain of blows that I’d expected was held in check, and he just lay inert on top of me, doing nothing. We both saw it at the same time, lying on the roof there a few yards ahead of us, momentarily played up by the cop’s switching torch, then lost again. I could recognize it because I’d seen it before. The package that she’d brought over here tonight.

“Hold that light steady!” Gilman bellowed, and got off of me. We both got over to it at the same time, enmity forgotten. He picked it up, tore open the brown paper around it, and a sheaf of old newspapers slowly flattened themselves out. With squares and oblongs scissored out of them here and there. She hadn’t been sent over with clippings, but with the valueless remnants of papers after the clippings had already been taken out. It was a dummy package, a decoy, used to send her to her — disappearance.

The rest of it went double-quick — or seemed to. It had built up slow; it unraveled fast.

“Someone did bring a package here tonight, kid,” was the way he put it. “And if I give you that much, I’ll give you the whole thing on credit alone, no matter what the odds still outstanding against it are. Blonde, really named Stephanie Riska, works for Hessen, lives at 120 Farragut, never chews gum, and all the rest of it. Come on. My theory in a pinch would be she was jumped from behind outside the door of that vacant flat before she had a chance to cry out, spirited up over this roof, down through the next house and into a waiting car-while you hugged the vestibule below. Calhoun, call in and have someone get out there fast to Hessen’s house, Myrtle Drive, and keep it spotted until we can get out there. I want to take another crack at that office first.”

On the way over I gasped, “D’you think they—?”

“Naw, not yet,” he reassured me. “Or they would have done it right in the empty flat and let you take the rap.” Whether he meant it or not I couldn’t tell, so it didn’t relieve me much.

The second knot came out in the office. I went over the little table she’d used, while he turned the filing-cabinets inside-out. Again our two discoveries came almost simultaneously. “Look!” I breathed. It was stuck in a crack in the floor, hidden by the shadow of the table. A gilt hairpin she must have dropped one time at her work. Such as no brunette like the one Hessen had showed us at his house would have ever used in her life. “Blonde, all right,” he grunted, and tipped me to his own find. “I muffed this before, in my hurry: about every third name in this card-index of ‘clients’ has a foreign mailing-address. Neutral countries, like Switzerland and Holland. Why should they be interested in social items appearing in papers over here? The mere fact that they’re not living here shows the items couldn’t possibly refer to them personally. If you ask me, the guy’s an espionage-agent of some kind, and these ‘clippings’ are some kind of a code. With a scattering of on-the-level ones interspersed, to cover up. But that’s a job for the FBI. I’m only interested in this girl of yours. My lieutenant can notify their local office about the rest of it, if he sees fit.

“The second leg of my theory,” he went on, as we beat it out of there fast, “is she found out something, and they figured she was too dangerous to them. Did she say anything to you like that?”

“Not a word. But she had told him she was quitting end of next week to get married.”

“Well, then she didn’t find out anything, but he thought she did, so it amounted to the same thing. He could not afford to let her quit. And did he cover up beautifully, erase her existence! They only slipped up on that package. Maybe some tenant came up on the roof to take down her wash, before they could come back and pick it up, so they had to leave it there, rather than risk being identified later. Come on, we’ll stop off at that rooming-house on the way, I want that landlady picked up. She’s obviously one of them, since he recommended the girl there as a lodger in the beginning. Changed the whole room around, even to sticking a wad of tutti-frutti gum on the washstand.”

“Let’s go,” I cried.

A second knot came out at the rooming-house, but it was simply a duplicate of the one at her office: confirmation of the color of her hair. “A girl shampoos her hair once in a while,” he said to me, and stuck a matchstick down the drain of the washbasin. He spread something on a piece of paper, showed it to me: two unmistakably blond hairs. “Now why didn’t I think of that the first time?” He turned the steel-plated landlady over to a cop to be sent in, and we were on our way again — this time out to the Myrtle Drive house, fast.

There was no sign of the guy he’d sent out ahead of us to keep it cased, and he swore under his breath, while my heart deflated. The place was dark and lifeless, but neither of us was foolish enough to believe they’d gone to bed yet. He took the front door and I took the back, with a gun he furnished me — he was on my side now, don’t forget. We blew the locks simultaneously and met in the middle of the hall that ran through the place. In three minutes we were downstairs again. Nothing was disturbed, but the birds had flown; suave Hessen, and the butler, and the pinch-hitting brunette. No incriminating papers, but a very incriminating short-wave set. Incriminating because of the place it was located. It was built into the overhead water-tank of a dummy toilet, not meant to hold water or be used. Gilman made the discovery in the most natural way possible.

“Spy-ring, all right,” he grunted, and phoned in then and there from the place itself.

That wasn’t getting me back Steffie. I was in such a blue funk that I didn’t notice it as soon as I should have; I mean, something had seemed to tickle my nostrils unpleasantly the whole time we were in there. It only registered after I came out into the open again with him, and we stood there crestfallen in front of it. Before I could call his attention to it, headlights slashed through the dark and a car drew up in front.

We crouched back, but it was only the spotter that was supposed to have been hung up there before. Gilman rushed him with a roar. “What the hell’s the idea? You were supposed to—”

“I tailed ’em!” the guy insisted. “They piled into a car, locked up the house, and lit. I tailed ’em the whole way, those were the only orders I got!”

“Where’d they go?”

“Pier 07, North river. They boarded some kind of a fuzzy tramp-steamer, and it shoved off in less than a quarter of an hour later. I tried to reach you at Head—”

“Was there a blonde girl with them?” Gilman rapped out.

“No, just the three that were in the house here when I first made contact; the two men and a dark-haired girl. There was no one else smuggled aboard ahead of them either; I pumped one of the crew—”

“Oh no they’re not,” Gilman promised viciously. “They may have cleared the pier; a police-launch can pull them off again at Quarantine.” He spilled in the house again, to phone in the alarm.

I went after him; that was when I again noticed that unpleasant tickling. I called his attention to it when he got through on the wire. “Don’t it smell as though they’ve had this place fumigated or some—”

He twitched the end of his nose. Then his face got drab. “That’s gasoline!” he snapped. “And when you smell it that heavy — indoors like this — it’s not a good sign!” I could tell he was plenty scared all at once — which made me twice as scared as he was. “Bill!” he hollered to the other guy. “Come in here fast and give us a hand! That girl they didn’t take with them must be still around these premises someplace, and I only hope she isn’t—”

He didn’t finish it; he didn’t have to. He only hoped she wasn’t dead yet. I wasn’t much good to them, in the sudden mad surge of ferreting they blew into. I saw them dimly, rustling around, through a sick haze.

He and I had been over the house once already — the upper part of it — so they found the right place almost at once. The basement. A hoarse cry from Gilman brought myself and the other guy down there after him. I couldn’t go all the way, went into a paralysis halfway down the stairs. She was wedged down out of sight between two trunks, she’d been loosely covered over with sacking. I saw them lifting her up between them, and she carried awfully inert.

“Tell me now,” I said, “don’t wait until you get her—” I waited for the axe to fall.

“She’s alive, kid,” Gilman said. “Her chest’s straining against the ropes they’ve got around—” Then he broke off, said to the other guy, “Don’t stop to look at her now, hurry up out of here with her! Don’t you hear that ticking down around here someplace, don’t you know what that gasoline-reek means—?”

I was alive again; I jumped in to help them, and we got her up and out of the cursed place fast. So fast we were almost running with her.

We untied her out by the car. She was half-dead with fright, but they hadn’t done anything to her, just muffled her up. The other guy wanted to go back in again and see if they could locate the bomb, but Gilman stopped him. “You’ll never make it, it’ll blow before you—”

He was right. In the middle of what he was saying, the whole house seemed to lift a half-foot above its foundations, it lit up all lurid inside, there was a roar, and in a matter of minutes flame was mushrooming out of all the lower-story windows.

“An incendiary-bomb,” Gilman said. “Turn in a fire-alarm, Bill, that’s about all we can do now.” He went off someplace to use a phone, and when he came back some time later, he had a mean face. A face I wouldn’t have wanted to run up against on a dark night. I thought he’d heard bad news. He had — but not for us. “They got ’em,” he said. “Yanked ’em off it just as the tub was clearing the Narrows. They’re earmarked for the FBI, but before we turn them over, I wouldn’t be surprised if they show wear and tear— She is pretty at that, kid.”

She was sitting there in the car by now, talking to me and crying a little. I was standing on the outside of it. I was standing up, that was my mistake.

“Well, I gotta go,” I heard him say. And then something hit me. It felt like a cement-mixer.

Our roles changed. When my head cleared, she was the one bending over me, crooning sympathetically, “—and he said to tell you, No hard feelings, but when anyone socks Dick Gilman on the head with a walking-stick, they get socked back even if they’re the best of friends. And he said he’d see us both down at Headquarters later in the night, to be sure and get there on time if we don’t want to miss the fun.”

I was still seeing stars, but I didn’t care, I was seeing her too. And now it was only twelve days off, we’d licked the thirteenth.

Too Many Enemies

by William Mac Harg

Tough, succinct and memorable — those are the words for the O’MALLEY stories which William MacHarg has been contributing for years to Collier’s. MacHarg shared in the creation of the scientific and intellectual LUTHER TRANT, then went on alone to portray the opposite and equally essential pole of police work, the shrewd solid hardworking copper DAN O’MALLEY. (For OFFICER O’MALLEY’S rarely used first name, see the story “The key man,” in which he tells a child witness to call him “Uncle Dan”) O’MALLEY’S best qualities have rarely come through more clearly than in this story of the man who had “Too many enemies.”

* * *

“This is one of them vengeance murders,” said O’Malley, “and in this kind of case plenty people know who done it but they all go blind and dumb. I’ll have no luck with it. This dead guy was named Vanelli, and he was only twenty-three years old but already he had so many enemies it was only a question who would get him first. They got plenty cops working on this case.”

“How was he killed?” I asked.

“He got beat up and then stabbed.”

“Where?”

“Right in his own home. This Vanelli got himself suspected of passing info to the cops about some guys he knew that done a little counterfeiting; and, besides that, a guy that he had went with for a long time but had had trouble with got knocked off and the guy’s family thought Vanelli had a hand in it; and when he already had two outfits trying to shove him over, Vanelli goes to Boston and runs off with a girl that was going to marry somebody else.”

“He sounds like a desperate character,” I said.

“The guy got himself so he couldn’t be nothing but desperate. We’ll go and look at him.”

We went. Vanelli seemed to have been an ordinary-looking young man, but it was not easy to tell much about that now. As O’Malley had said, he had been badly beaten up. His nose was broken and his face battered and he had been stabbed five times and the letter Z had been cut on both his cheeks.

“What was the name of the man whose girl he ran away with?” I inquired.

“Zeglio.”

“Well!” I exclaimed triumphantly. “What more do you want?”

“You’re smart.”

They had Vanelli’s clothes there and we examined them carefully. He had been stabbed twice in the back and three times in front, but his clothes were stabbed twice in front and three times in back.

“I suppose,” I hazarded, “that after the first stabbing there was a struggle and his clothes got twisted around his body so that the holes don’t correspond.”

“You can account for everything, can’t you!” O’Malley commented. “We’ll see what Zeglio says about it.”

They had already arrested Zeglio and had him at the station house, so we went there. The station house looked as though they were holding a convention. Vanelli’s parents were there and had identified the body and now wanted to claim it. Besides Zeglio, they had the girl there, and several members of the family who believed that Vanelli had put their relative on the spot, and a number of the men who were suspected of counterfeiting. They all talked at once and I had never seen such excitable people, and most of them seemed to be congratulating one another that Vanelli was dead.

They had Zeglio and the girl kept separate and we talked with her first. She was a beautiful girl, about seventeen years old, with hair black as night and dark limpid eyes, and she couldn’t make the simplest statement without putting emotion into it. Her name was Josephina.

“For why am I kept here?” she demanded passionately before we had a chance to question her.

“They got to have you for a witness, lady.”

“But I know nothing. I have told all. For how long will I be kept?”

“It might be quite a while, girlie. You tell us over again what it was you told them.”

“I told nothing because I know nothing. I was making dinner and wondering when Peter would come home.” Peter was Vanelli. “Then I heard something — like quarreling. Two people. I look out but see no one. Then I heard something like fighting, but I can see nobody. Again a third time I look out, wondering when Peter will come, and Peter is in front of the door.”

“Was he dead?” O’Malley asked.

“Certainly he was dead.”

“Was one of the voices you heard Peter’s?”

“If I had thought that I would have gone to look.”

“Was one of them Zeglio’s?”

“I don’t know. Now I have told everything, so why do you keep me here?”

I was sorry for her.

“That’s a wonderful girl, O’Malley,” I said, after we had left her, “and I don’t wonder there was trouble over her; it’s a shame to keep her locked up.”

“Yeah, I saw you thought she was a knock-out. You keep on thinking that and you might get a knife pushed into you yourself.”

We questioned Zeglio. He was a small man, dark, quick and muscular.

“You knock Vanelli off?” O’Malley asked him.

“Not me.” Zeglio grinned at us delightedly.

“How long ago did you come from Boston?”

“This time, ten days.”

“You’d been here before, then. When was that?”

“Two months.”

“I see. That was when Vanelli run off with your girl. You came here and looked for them, intending to kill him, but you couldn’t find them. So you went back and ten days ago you came again.”

“Thata right, I keela heem if I geta the chance.”

“And last night you got the chance and stuck a knife in him and left him outside of Josephina’s door.”

“Not me. Some other guy. I looka ten days but I don’t find heem.”

“And this other guy cut your initials in his cheeks?”

Zeglio shrugged. “What a kind guy,” he answered. “He beata me to it.”

We talked with the other people there and they all made the same answer as Zeglio. They admitted that they had intended to kill Vanelli and had been looking for him, but he and the girl had hidden themselves and they had been unable to find him. Now someone else, they said, had killed him, but they didn’t know who. We went to look at the place where it had happened.

It was a rather nice apartment building on the West Side. Vanelli and the girl had had an apartment in the rear. A long hall led through the building and a shorter hall branched off to the door of Vanelli’s apartment. There was blood on the floor of the long hall and more blood in front of Vanelli’s door, and a uniformed cop was on post in the hall and another one in the apartment.

We looked everything over carefully. There were two rooms with a bathroom between them, and someone had spilled a bottle of ink on the floor in front of the bathroom door. Otherwise the place was spotlessly clean. Vanelli’s clothes and the girl’s clothes were hanging in closets, and there was a table set with two places, and the dinner Josephina had been cooking was still on the stove. Some of Josephina’s things had been put into a suitcase. I thought she had been getting them ready to take with her to the police station, and I was indignant that they had hurried her away without them.

“What do you make of it, O’Malley?” I asked.

“I don’t make nothing of it. This case is like I said; everybody we talked to has been lying, and you can’t solve a case where nobody tells the truth.”

“At least one of them is lying,” I agreed, “because one of them killed Vanelli. But the others, in that case, would be telling the truth, and I am quite sure that Josephina told it.”

“Yeah? How do you figure that?”

“The quarreling she heard was in the long hall where she couldn’t see the speakers. Vanelli was killed there. Afterward the murderer carried or dragged him into the short hall and put him in front of the door, and when Josephina looked out she found him.”

“You make it sound pretty good.”

I was pleased at his commendation, so I went on: “I have come to the conclusion, O’Malley, that it was done by Zeglio.”

“All right; let’s hear it.”

“At first I thought the Z’s on Vanelli’s cheeks meant that someone was trying to throw suspicion on Zeglio and meant he really hadn’t done it; but this was a murder of revenge. A man seeking revenge is willing to take a risk if there is someone whom he wants to have know he did it. Zeglio wanted Josephina to know. What do you think of that?”

“I guess it deserves consideration... Who spilled the ink on the floor?” O’Malley asked the officer.

“Search me,” the officer replied. “It was that way when we come here.”

O’Malley scraped up some of the ink and put it in an envelope.

“Anything been taken away from here?” he asked the officer.

“Not a thing except the dead guy. We was told to keep it like it was.”

“What are you looking for?” I asked O’Malley.

“People like this Vanelli and Josephina always have pictures of their folks around, and the first thing a guy like him does if he runs away with a girl is get his picture taken with her. Well, where’s the pictures?”

I myself was surprised a little, now that he spoke of it. There was not a picture in the apartment. There were several photographers in the neighborhood, and after we came out of the apartment we went around to them and O’Malley asked them if any of them had taken a picture of Vanelli and Josephina. None of them had. As we were leaving the last place he noticed several different-sized small pictures of a darkhaired girl and asked the photographer about them.

“You sell any of these?” he questioned.

The photographer said he could not sell them, until O’Malley showed him his badge; then he agreed, and O’Malley picked out two of different sizes and we took them back to the apartment and gave them to the cop in the hall, but I couldn’t hear what O’Malley said to him.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“There wasn’t no pictures in the place, so I told the cop to put some there.”

“That sounds like a silly performance to me.”

“That’s right; it might turn out to be silly.”

“What I like least in this case,” I said, “is your keeping Josephina locked up.”

“You’ll get that knife in you yet if you keep on thinking about her.”

“She hasn’t done anything,” I said, “and it is clear now that she told the truth. I admit that she eloped with Vanelli and was living with him without being married to him, but that was to get away from Zeglio. She and Vanelli undoubtedly meant to get married, and I don’t blame her for what she did under the circumstances. But now you have her locked up, and the way you are going about it there seems no chance of Vanelli’s murder being solved, so there is no telling how long she’ll have to stay there, or what people are going to think about her. You’re putting a stigma on the girl which she doesn’t deserve.”

“I was thinking maybe we’d ought to let her go.”

“If you’re afraid of losing track of her you can have her watched.”

We went back to the police station and O’Malley went into the captain’s office but I stayed outside. I knew he was arranging to have Josephina released, and I would have been glad to have her know that I had had a hand in it, but I didn’t get the chance to tell her.

When he came out we went back to the apartment, but we didn’t go in. Instead we went into a shoe-repair place across the street. The proprietor asked what we wanted done to our shoes, but O’Malley told him “nothing,” and we just sat and waited.

“Are you having her watched?” I asked.

“I guess we know where she’ll go.”

Presently I saw Josephina come along the street and go into the building opposite, and a plainclothesman who had been following her came in and sat down with us.

“Will the cops in there interfere with her?” I asked.

“There ain’t no cops in there. I had ’em taken off.”

In about an hour Josephina came out of the building very hurriedly. She had her suitcase with her and she seemed much excited. She got into a cab, and after she had driven away we got into another cab and followed her. She went to the Bronx. The cab stopped in front of a rooming-house and the cabman carried in her bag for her, and after he had gone away we went in after her.

We could hear Josephina in one of the rooms talking loudly, and we listened for a moment. Then O’Malley and the other plainclothes-man kicked down the door, and a handsome, reckless-looking young man to whom Josephina had been speaking violently jumped up at sight of us. Pieces of the photographs which O’Malley had bought were scattered on the floor.

“Okay, Vanelli,” O’Malley said to the young man. “We want you for murder.”

“This is all a mystery to me, O’Malley,” I said about an hour later. “I can’t see through it.”

“What can’t you see?” he asked. “This Vanelli was on the spot and he knew it. Him and the girl hid out, but he had too many people after him, and he knew wherever he went one of ’em would find him, and they were getting closer to him all the time. He figured if they thought he was dead they’d quit looking. We don’t know yet who the dead guy was and we might never find out. There’s plenty guys right now around the streets that got no jobs and their folks don’t know where they are, and there’s nobody to ask questions if one of ’em disappears. I guess Vanelli picked out one of ’em that looked something like himself and made some excuse to get him to go home with him — it might be he offered him a meal. When they got to the apartment Vanelli knocked him off. Then him and Josephina dressed the guy in Vanelli’s clothes and Vanelli lit out, taking the guy’s clothes with him, and Josephina give the alarm.”

“So Josephina was in it with him?” I asked, depressed.

“I wouldn’t wonder if Vanelli planned it all himself and she didn’t know nothing about it till it had been done; but then she backed him up the same as his parents did. Vanelli’s parents seen it wasn’t their son, but they identified him anyway so that Vanelli could get away, and whatever other people saw him didn’t know him very well and didn’t question it being him because his parents said so. I told you this was a case where you had to figure that everybody was lying. I figure the murder happened inside the apartment in front of the bathroom door. Vanelli stabbed the guy and pushed him into the bathroom where it was all tile and the blood could be washed up. I guess they undressed and dressed him in the bathtub. Some blood got on the floor outside the bathroom door where he was stabbed, and it couldn’t be washed up clean and so they poured ink on it. I got some of the ink off the floor being analyzed now to see if they find blood in it and I’m sure they will.”

“But,” I said, “you seem to have realized from the first that the dead man wasn’t Vanelli. How was that?”

“Why, the guy was wearing his own clothes when he got stabbed, and then they dressed him in Vanelli’s clothes and they had to poke holes in them; but it was a hard job to get the holes exactly where the wounds was, and they didn’t get it right. If he wasn’t wearing Vanelli’s clothes when he got killed, he wasn’t Vanelli. They put blood off the guy’s clothes in two place in the hall to make it look as if the murder happened outside the apartment, and Vanelli cut the Z’s in the guy’s cheeks so we’d think it was done by Zeglio.

“I guess Vanelli and the girl had it planned to meet later in some other city and start over where they wasn’t known. She was altogether too anxious to get released by the police so she could join him; but we couldn’t let her go for fear she’d disappear. Then I and you went to the apartment. They had to leave Vanelli’s clothes there so as not to excite suspicions, and her things were there too. If she was released, she’d have to go there to get her things and when she did that she’d go through Vanelli’s clothes to be sure there wasn’t nothing being left in ’em.

“I didn’t know whether she knew where Vanelli was or not; but I figured she was the kind of girl that, if she found some other girl’s picture in Vanelli’s clothes, would forget about everything else until she had found out about it. So I got a couple of pictures of another girl and had one of the cops put ’em in Vanelli’s pockets. She found ’em, all right; and she went straight to Vanelli to get an explanation about ’em.”

“It was a remarkable case,” I said, “and I’m surprised that you got the answer to it so quickly.”

“Sure. It’s a swell case, but too many other cops was working on it. You watch and see who they say figured this all out. It won’t be me.”

No Crime in the Mountains

by Raymond Chandler

There’s a growing school of thought that Raymond Chandler is a capital-W Writer, of significance and importance. I hope, selfishly, that nothing comes of this. Things happen (naming no names) to mystery novelists who are adjudged Writers; for one thing, they stop writing mystery novels, and a cessation of the PHILIP MARLOWE stories is an unbearable thought. But the ugly fact remains that Chandler can write like nobody else in the business, and is one of the great exponents to date of the poetry of violence and justice. You may never have heard of JOHN EVANS; but call him MARLOWE and you won’t know the difference. “No crime in the mountains” is authentic Chandler — a full meaty novelet never before printed in book form.

* * *

The letter came just before noon, special delivery, a dime-store envelope with the return address F. S. Lacey, Puma Point, California. Inside was a check for a hundred dollars, made out to cash and signed Frederick S. Lacey, and a sheet of plain white bond paper typed with a number of strikeovers. It said:

Mr. John Evans,

Dear Sir:

I have your name from Len Esterwald. My business is urgent and extremely confidential. I inclose a retainer. Please come to Puma Point Thursday afternoon or evening, if at all possible, register at the Indian Head Hotel, and call me at 2306.

Yours,

Fred Lacey.

There hadn’t been any business in a week, but this made it a nice day. The bank on which the check was drawn was about six blocks away. I went over and cashed it, ate lunch, and got the car out and started off.

It was hot in the valley, hotter still in San Bernardino, and it was still hot at five thousand feet, fifteen miles up the high-gear road to Puma Lake. I had done forty of the fifty miles of curving, twisting highway before it started to cool off, but it didn’t get really cool until I reached the dam and started along the south shore of the lake past the piled-up granite boulders and the sprawled camps in the flats beyond. It was early evening when I reached Puma Point and I was as empty as a gutted fish.

The Indian Head Hotel was a brown building on a corner, opposite a dance hall. I registered, carried my suitcase upstairs and dropped it in a bleak, hard-looking room with an oval rug on the floor, a double bed in the corner, and nothing on the bare pine wall but a hardware-store calendar all curled up from the dry mountain summer. I washed my face and hands and went downstairs to eat.

The dining-drinking parlor that adjoined the lobby was full to overflowing with males in sport clothes and liquor breaths and females in slacks and shorts with blood-red fingernails and dirty knuckles. A fellow with eyebrows like John L. Lewis was prowling around with a cigar screwed info his face. A lean, pale-eyed cashier in shirt sleeves was fighting to get the race results from Hollywood Park on a small radio that was as full of static as the mashed potato was full of water. In the deep, black corner of the room a hillbilly symphony of five defeatists in white coats and purple shirts was trying to make itself heard above the brawl at the bar.

I gobbled what they called the regular dinner, drank a brandy to sit on it, and went out onto the main stem. It was still broad daylight, but the neon lights were turned on and the evening was full of the noise of auto horns, shrill voices, the rattle of bowls, the snap of .22s at the shooting gallery, juke-box music, and behind all this the hoarse, hard mutter of speedboats on the lake. At a corner opposite the post office a blue-and-white arrow said telephone. I went down a dusty side road that suddenly became quiet and cool and piny. A tame doe deer with a leather collar on its neck wandered across the road in front of me. The phone office was a log cabin, and there was a booth in the corner with a coin-in-the-slot telephone. I shut myself inside and dropped my nickel and dialed 2306. A woman’s voice answered.

I said: “Is Mr. Fred Lacey there?”

“Who is calling, please?”

“Evans is the name.”

“Mr. Lacey is not here right now, Mr. Evans. Is he expecting you?”

That gave her two questions to my one. I didn’t like it. I said: “Are you Mrs. Lacey?”

“Yes. I am Mrs. Lacey.” I thought her voice was taut and overstrung, but some voices are like that all the time.

“It’s a business matter,” I said. “When will he be back?”

“I don’t know exactly. Sometime this evening, I suppose. What did you—”

“Where is your cabin, Mrs. Lacey?”

“It’s... it’s on Ball Sage Point, about two miles west of the village. Are you calling from the village? Did you—”

“I’ll call back in an hour, Mrs. Lacey,” I said, and hung up. I stepped out of the booth. In the other corner of the room a dark girl in slacks was writing in some kind of account book at a little desk. She looked up and smiled and said: “How do you like the mountains?”

I said: “Fine.”

“It’s very quiet up here,” she said. “Very restful.”

“Yeah. Do you know anybody named Fred Lacey?”

“Lacey? Oh, yes, they just had a phone put in. They bought the Baldwin cabin. It was vacant for two years, and they just bought it. It’s out at the end of Ball Sage Point, a big cabin on high ground, looking out over the lake. It has a marvelous view. Do you know Mr. Lacey?”

“No,” I said, and went out of there.

The tame doe was in the gap of the fence at the end of the walk. I tried to push her out of the way. She wouldn’t move, so I stepped over the fence and walked back to the Indian Head and got into my car.

There was a gas station at the east end of the village. I pulled up for some gas and asked the leathery man who poured it where Ball Sage Point was.

“Well,” he said. “That’s easy. That ain’t hard at all. You won’t have no trouble finding Ball Sage Point. You go down here about a mile and a half past the Catholic church and Kincaid’s Camp, and at the bakery you turn right and then you keep on the road to Willerton Boys’ Camp, and it’s the first road to the left after you pass on by. It’s a dirt road, kind of rough. They don’t sweep the snow off in winter, but it ain’t winter now. You know somebody out there?”

“No.” I gave him money. He went for the change and came back.

“It’s quiet out there,” he said. “Restful. What was the name?”

“Murphy,” I said.

“Glad to know you, Mr. Murphy,” he said, and reached for my hand. “Drop in any time. Glad to have the pleasure of serving you. Now, for Ball Sage Point you just keep straight on down this road—”

“Yeah,” I said, and left his mouth flapping.

I figured I knew how to find Ball Sage Point now, so I turned around and drove the other way. It was just possible Fred Lacey would not want me to go to his cabin.

Half a block beyond the hotel the paved road turned down toward a boat landing, then east again along the shore of the lake. The water was low. Cattle were grazing in the sour-looking grass that had been under water in the spring. A few patient visitors were fishing for bass or bluegill from boats with outboard motors. About a mile or so beyond the meadows a dirt road wound out toward a long point covered with junipers. Close inshore there was a lighted dance pavilion. The music was going already, although it still looked like late afternoon at that altitude. The band sounded as if it was in my pocket. I could hear a girl with a throaty voice singing “The Woodpecker’s Song.” I drove on past and the music faded and the road got rough and stony. A cabin on the shore slid past me, and there was nothing beyond it but pines and junipers and the shine of the water. I stopped the car out near the tip of the point and walked over to a huge tree fallen with its roots twelve feet in the air. I sat down against it on the bone-dry ground and lit a pipe. It was peaceful and quiet and far from everything. On the far side of the lake a couple of speedboats played tag, but on my side there was nothing but silent water, very slowly getting dark in the mountain dusk. I wondered who the hell Fred Lacey was and what he wanted and why he didn’t stay home or leave a message if his business was so urgent. I didn’t wonder about it very long. The evening was too peaceful. I smoked and looked at the lake and the sky, and at a robin waiting on the bare spike at the top of a tall pine for it to get dark enough so he could sing his good-night song.

At the end of half an hour I got up and dug a hole in the soft ground with my heel and knocked my pipe out and stamped down the dirt over the ashes. For no reason at all, I walked a few steps toward the lake, and that brought me to the end of the tree. So I saw the foot.

It was in a white duck shoe, about size nine. I walked around the roots of the tree.

There was another foot in another white duck shoe. There were pin-stripped white pants with legs in them, and there was a torso in a pale-green sport shirt of the kind that hangs outside and has pockets like a sweater. It had a buttonless V neck and chest hair showed through the V. The man was middle-aged, half bald, had a good coat of tan and a line mustache shaved up from the lip. His lips were thick, and his mouth, a little open as they usually are, showed big strong teeth. He had the kind of face that goes with plenty of food and not too much worry. His eyes were looking at the sky. I couldn’t seem to meet them.

The left side of the green sport shirt was sodden with blood in a patch as big as a dinner plate. In the middle of the patch there might have been a scorched hole. I couldn’t be sure. The light was getting a little tricky.

I bent down and felt matches and cigarettes in the pockets of the shirt, a couple of rough lumps like keys and silver in his pants pockets at the sides. I rolled him a little to get at his hip. He was still limp and only a little cooled off. A wallet of rough leather made a tight fit in his right hip pocket. I dragged it out, bracing my knee against his back.

There was twelve dollars in the wallet and some cards, but what interested me was the name on his photostat driver’s license. I lit a match to make sure I read it right in the fading daylight.

The name on the license was Frederick Shield Lacey.

I put the wallet back and stood up and made a full circle, staring hard. Nobody was in sight, on land or on the water. In that light, nobody could have seen what I was doing unless he was close.

I walked a few steps and looked down to see if I was making tracks. No. The ground was half pine needles of many years past, and the other half pulverized rotten wood.

The gun was about four feet away, almost under the fallen tree. I didn’t touch it. I bent down and looked at it. It was a .22 automatic, a Colt with a bone grip. It was half buried in a small pile of the powdery, brown, rotted wood. There were large black ants on the pile, and one of them was crawling along the barrel of the gun.

I straightened up and took another quick look around. A boat idled off shore out of sight around the point. I could hear an uneven stutter from the throttled-down motor, but I couldn’t see it. I started back toward the car. I was almost up to it. A small figure rose silently behind a heavy manzanita bush. The light winked on glasses and on something else, lower down in a hand.

A voice said hissingly: “Placing the hands up, please.”

It was a nice spot for a very fast draw. I didn’t think mine would be fast enough. I placed the hands up.

The small figure came around the manzanita bush. The shining thing below the glasses was a gun. The gun was large enough. It came toward me.

A gold tooth winked out of a small mouth below a black mustache.

“Turning around, please,” the nice little voice said soothingly. “You seeing man lie on ground?”

“Look,” I said, “I’m a stranger here. I—”

“Turning around very soon,” the man said coldly.

I turned around.

The end of the gun made a nest against my spine. A light, deft hand prodded me here and there, rested on the gun under my arm. The voice cooed. The hand went to my hip. The pressure of my wallet went away. A very neat pickpocket. I could hardly feel him touch me.

“I look at wallet now. You very still,” the voice said. The gun went away.

A good man had a chance now. He would fall quickly to the ground, do a back flip from a kneeling position, and come up with his gun blazing in his hand. It would happen very fast. The good man would take the little man with glasses the way a dowager takes her teeth out, in one smooth motion. I somehow didn’t think I was that good.

The wallet went back on my hip, the gun barrel back into my back.

“So,” the voice said softly. “You coming here you making mistake.”

“Brother, you said it,” I told him.

“Not matter,” the voice said. “Go away now, go home. Five hundred dollars. Nothing being said five hundred dollars arriving one week from today.”

“Fine,” I said. “You having my address?”

“Very funny,” the voice cooed. “Ha, ha.”

Something hit the back of my right knee, and the leg folded suddenly the way it will when hit at that point. My head began to ache from where it was going to get a crack from the gun, but he fooled me. It was the old rabbit punch, and it was a honey of its type. Done with the heel of a very hard little hand. My head came off and went halfway across the lake and did a boomerang turn and came back and slammed on top of my spine with a sickening jar. Somehow on the way it got a mouthful of pine needles.

There was an interval of midnight in a small room with the windows shut and no air. My chest labored against the ground. They put a ton of coal on my back. One of the hard lumps pressed into the middle of my back. I made some noises, but they must have been unimportant. Nobody bothered about them. I heard the sound of a boat motor get louder, and a soft thud of feet walking on the pine needles, making a dry, slithering sound. Then a couple of heavy grunts and steps going away. Then steps coming back and a burry voice, with a sort of accent.

“What did you get there, Charlie?”

“Oh, nothing,” Charlie said cooingly. “Smoking pipe, not doing anything. Summer visitor, ha, ha.”

“Did he see the stiff?”

“Not seeing,” Charlie said. I wondered why.

“O.K., let’s go.”

“Ah, too bad,” Charlie said. “Too bad.” The weight got off my back and the lumps of hard coal went away from my spine. “Too bad,” Charlie said again. “But must do.”

He didn’t fool this time. He hit me with the gun. Come around and I’ll let you feel the lump under my scalp. I’ve got several of them.

Time passed and I was up on my knees, whining. I put a foot on the ground and hoisted myself on it and wiped my face off with the back of my hand and put the other foot on the ground and climbed out of the hole it felt like I was in.

The shine of water, dark now from the sun but silvered by the moon, was directly in front of me. To the right was the big fallen tree. That brought it back. I moved cautiously toward it, rubbing my head with careful fingertips. It was swollen and soft, but not bleeding. I stopped and looked back for my hat, and then remembered I had left it in the car.

I went around the tree. The moon was bright as it can only be in the mountains or on the desert. You could almost have read the paper by its light. It was very easy to see that there was no body on the ground now and no gun lying against the tree with ants crawling on it. The ground had a sort of moothed-out, raked look.

I stood there and listened, and all I heard was the blood pounding in my head, and all I felt was my head aching. Then my hand jumped for the gun and the gun was there. And the hand jumped again for my wallet and the wallet was there. I hauled it out and looked at my money. That seemed to be there, too.

I turned around and plowed back to the car. I wanted to go back to the hotel and get a couple of drinks and lie down. I wanted to meet Charlie after a while, but not right away. First I wanted to lie down for a while. I was a growing boy and I needed rest.

I got into the car and started it and tooled it around on the soft ground and back onto the dirt road and back along that to the highway. I didn’t meet any cars. The music was still going well in the dancing pavilion off to the side, and the throaty-voiced singer was giving out “I’ll Never Smile Again.”

When I reached the highway I put the lights on and drove back to the village. The local law hung out in a one-room pine-board shack halfway up the block from the boat landing, across the street from the firehouse. There was a naked light burning inside, behind a glass-paneled door.

I stopped the car on the other side of the street and sat there for a minute looking into the shack. There was a man inside, sitting bareheaded in a swivel chair at an old roll-top desk. I opened the car door and moved to get out, then stopped and shut the door again and started the motor and drove on.

I had a hundred dollars to earn, after all.

I drove two miles past the village and came to the bakery and turned on a newly oiled road toward the lake. I passed a couple of camps and then saw the brownish tents of the boys’ camp with lights strung between them and a clatter coming from a big tent where they were washing dishes. A little beyond that the road curved around an inlet and a dirt road branched off. It was deeply rutted and full of stones half embedded in the dirt, and the trees barely gave it room to pass. I went by a couple of lighted cabins, old ones built of pine with the bark left on. Then the road climbed and the place got emptier, and after a while a big cabin hung over the edge of the bluff looking down on the lake at its feet. The cabin had two chimneys and a rustic fence, and a double garage outside the fence. There was a long porch on the lake side, and steps going down to the water. Light came from the windows. My headlamps tilted up enough to catch the name Baldwin painted on a wooden board nailed to a tree. This was the cabin, all right.

The garage was open and a sedan was parked in it. I stopped a little beyond and went far enough into the garage to feel the exhaust pipe of the car. It was cold. I went through a rustic gate up a path outlined in stones to the porch. The door opened as I got there. A tall woman stood there, framed against the light. A little silky dog rushed out past her, tumbled down the steps and hit me in the stomach with two front paws, then dropped to the ground and ran in circles, making noises of approval.

“Down, Shiny!” the woman called. “Down! Isn’t she a funny little dog? Funny itty doggie. She’s half coyote.”

The dog ran back into the house. I said: “Are you Mrs. Lacey? I’m Evans. I called you up about an hour ago.”

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Lacey,” she said. “My husband hasn’t come in yet. I... well, come in, won’t you?” Her voice had a remote sound, like a voice in the mist.

She closed the door behind me after I went in and stood there looking at me, then shrugged a little and sat down in a wicker chair. I sat down in another just like it. The dog appeared from nowhere, jumped in my lap, swiped a neat tongue across the end of my nose and jumped down again. It was a small grayish dog with a sharp nose and a long, feathery tail.

It was a long room with a lot of windows and not very fresh curtains at them. There was a big fireplace, Indian rugs, two davenports with faded cretonne slips over them, more wicker furniture, not too comfortable. There were some antlers on the wall, one pair with six points.

“Fred isn’t home yet,” Mrs. Lacey said again. “I don’t know what’s keeping him.”

I nodded. She had a pale face, rather taut, dark hair that was a little wild. She was wearing a double-breasted scarlet coat with brass buttons, gray flannel slacks, pigskin clog sandals, and no stockings. There was a necklace of cloudy amber around her throat and a bandeau of old-rose material in her hair. She was in her middle thirties, so it was too late for her to learn how to dress herself.

“You wanted to see my husband on business?”

“Yes. He wrote me to come up and stay at the Indian Head and phone him.”

“Oh — at the Indian Head,” she said, as if that meant something. She crossed her legs, didn’t like them that way, and uncrossed them again. She leaned forward and cupped a long chin in her hand. “What kind of business are you in, Mr. Evans?”

“I’m a private detective.”

“It’s... it’s about the money?” she asked quickly.

I nodded. That seemed safe. It was usually about money. It was about a hundred dollars that I had in my pocket, anyhow.

“Of course,” she said. “Naturally. Would you care for a drink?”

“Very much.”

She went over to a little wooden bar and came back with two glasses. We drank. We looked at each other over the rims of our glasses.

“The Indian Head,” she said. “We stayed there two nights when we came up. While the cabin was being cleaned up. It had been empty for two years before we bought it. They get so dirty.”

“I guess so,” I said.

“You say my husband wrote to you?” She was looking down into her glass now. “I suppose he told you the story.”

I offered her a cigarette. She started to reach, then shook her head and put her hand on her kneecap and twisted it. She gave me the careful up-from-under look.

“He was a little vague,” I said. “In spots.”

She looked at me steadily and I looked at her steadily. I breathed gently into my glass until it misted.

“Well, I don’t think we need be mysterious about it,” she said. “Although as a matter of fact I know more about it than Fred thinks I do. He doesn’t know, for example, that I saw that letter.”

“The letter he sent me?”

“No. The letter he got from Los Angeles with the report on the ten-dollar bill.”

“How did you get to see it?” I asked.

She laughed without much amusement. “Fred’s too secretive. It’s a mistake to be too secretive with a woman. I sneaked a look at it while he was in the bathroom. I got it out of his pocket.”

I nodded and drank some more of my drink. I said: “Uh-huh.” That didn’t commit me very far, which was a good idea as long as I didn’t know what we were talking about. “But how did you know it was in his pocket?” I asked.

“He’d just got it at the post office. I was with him.” She laughed, with a little more amusement this time. “I saw that there was a bill in it and that came from Los Angeles. I knew he had sent one of the bills to a friend there who is an expert on such things. So of course I knew this letter was a report. It was.”

“Seems like Fred doesn’t cover up very well,” I said. “What did the letter say?”

She flushed slightly. “I don’t know that I should tell you. I don’t really know that you are a detective or that your name is Evans.”

“Well, that’s something that can be settled without violence,” I said. I got up and showed her enough to prove it. When I sat down again the little dog came over and sniffed at the cuffs on my trousers. I bent down to pat her head and got a handful of spit.

“It said that the bill was beautiful work. The paper, in particular, was just about perfect. But under a comparison microscope there were very small differences of registration. What does that mean?”

“It means that the bill he sent hadn’t been made from a government plate. Anything else wrong?”

“Yes. Under black light — whatever that is — there appeared to be slight differences in the composition of the inks. But the letter added that to the naked eye the counterfeit was practically perfect. It would fool any bank teller.”

I nodded. This was something I hadn’t expected. “Who wrote the letter, Mrs. Lacey?”

“He signed himself Bill. It was on a plain sheet of paper. I don’t know who wrote it. Oh, there was something else. Bill said that Fred ought to turn it in to the Federal people right away, because the money was good enough to make a lot of trouble if much of it got into circulation. But, of course, Fred wouldn’t want to do that if he could help it. That would be why he sent for you.”

“Well, no, of course not,” I said. This was a shot in the dark, but it wasn’t likely to hit anything. Not with the amount of dark I had to shoot into.

She nodded, as if I had said something.

“What is Fred doing now, mostly?” I asked.

“Bridge and poker, like he’s done for years. He plays bridge almost every afternoon at the athletic club and poker at night a good deal. You can see that he couldn’t afford to be connected with counterfeit money, even in the most innocent way. There would always be someone who wouldn’t believe it was innocent. He plays the races, too, but that’s just fun. That’s how he got the five hundred dollars he put in my shoe for a present for me. At the Indian Head.”

I wanted to go out in the yard and do a little yelling and breast beating, just to let off steam. But all I could do was sit there and look wise and guzzle my drink. I guzzled it empty and made a lonely noise with the ice cubes and she went and got me another one. I took a slug of that and breathed deeply and said:

“If the bill was so good, how did he know it was bad, if you get what I mean?”

Her eyes widened a little. “Oh — I see. He didn’t, of course. Not that one. But there were fifty of them, all ten-dollar bills, all new. And the money hadn’t been that way when he put it in the shoe.”

I wondered if tearing my hair would do me any good. I didn’t think — my head was too sore. Charlie. Good old Charlie! O.K., Charlie, after a while I’ll be around with my gang.

“Look,” I said. “Look, Mrs. Lacey. He didn’t tell me about the shoe. Does he always keep his money in a shoe, or was this something special on account of he won it at the races and horses wear shoes?”

“I told you it was a surprise present for me. When I put the shoe on I would find it, of course.”

“Oh.” I gnawed about half an inch off my upper lip. “But you didn’t find it?”

“How could I when I sent the maid to take the shoes to the shoemaker in the village to have lifts put on them? I didn’t look inside. I didn’t know Fred had put anything in the shoe.”

A little light was coming. It was very far off and coming very slowly. It was a very little light, about half a firefly’s worth.

I said: “And Fred didn’t know that. And this maid took the shoes to the shoemaker. What then?”

“Well, Gertrude — that’s the maid’s name — said she hadn’t noticed the money, either. So when Fred found out about it and had asked her, he went over to the shoemaker’s place, and he hadn’t worked on the shoes and the roll of money was still stuffed down into the toe of the shoe. So Fred laughed and took the money out and put it in his pocket and gave the shoemaker five dollars because he was lucky.”

I finished my second drink and leaned back. “I get it now. Then Fred took the roll out and looked it over and he saw it wasn’t the same money. It was all new ten-dollar bills, and before it had probably been various sizes of bills and not new or not all new.”

She looked surprised that I had to reason it out. I wondered how long a letter she thought Fred had written me. I said: “Then Fred would have to assume that there was some reason for changing the money. He thought of one and sent a bill to a friend of his to be tested. And the report came back that it was very good counterfeit, but still counterfeit. Who did he ask about it at the hotel?”

“Nobody except Gertrude, I guess. He didn’t want to start anything. I guess he just sent for you.”

I snubbed my cigarette out and looked out of the open front windows at the moonlit lake. A speedboat with a hard white headlight slid muttering along in the water, far off over the water, and disappeared behind a wooded point.

I looked back at Mrs. Lacey. She was still sitting with her chin propped in a thin hand. Her eyes seemed far away.

“I wish Fred would come home,” she said.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He went out with a man named Frank Luders, who is staying at the Woodland Club, down at the far end of the lake. Fred said he owned an interest in it. But I called Mr. Luders up a while ago and he said Fred had just ridden uptown with him and got off at the post office. I’ve been expecting Fred to phone and ask me to pick him up somewhere. He left hours ago.”

“They probably have some card games down at the Woodland Club. Maybe he went there.”

She nodded. “He usually calls me, though.”

I stared at the floor for a while and tried not to feel like a heel. Then I stood up. “I guess I’ll go on back to the hotel. I’ll be there if you want to phone me. I think I’ve met Mr. Lacey somewhere. Isn’t he a thickset man about forty-five, going a little bald, with a small mustache?”

She went to the door with me. “Yes,” she said. “That’s Fred, all right.”

She had shut the dog in the house and was standing outside herself as I turned the car and drove away. God, she looked lonely.

I was lying on my back on the bed, wobbling a cigarette around and trying to make up my mind just why I had to play cute with this affair, when the knock came at the door. I called out. A girl in a working uniform came in with some towels. She had dark, reddish hair and a pert, nicely made-up face and long legs. She excused herself and hung some towels on the rack and started back to the door and gave me a sidelong look with a good deal of fluttering eyelash in it.

I said, “Hello, Gertrude,” just for the hell of it.

She stopped, and the dark-red head came around and the mouth was ready to smile.

“How’d you know my name?”

“I didn’t. But one of the maids is Gertrude. I wanted to talk to her.”

She leaned against the door frame, towels over her arm. Her eyes were lazy. “Yeah?”

“Live up here, or just up here for the summer?” I asked.

Her lip curled. “I should say I don’t live up here. With these mountain screwballs? I should say not.”

“You doing all right?”

She nodded. “And I don’t need any company, mister.” She sounded as if she could be talked out of that.

I looked at her for a minute and said: “Tell me about that money somebody hid in a shoe.”

“Who are you?” she asked coolly.

“The name is Evans. I’m a Los Angeles detective.” I grinned at her, very wise.

Her face stiffened a little. The hand holding the towels clutched and her nails made a scratching sound on the cloth. She moved back from the door and sat down in a straight chair against the wall. Trouble dwelt in her eyes.

“A dick,” she breathed. “What goes on?”

“Don’t you know?”

“All I heard was Mrs. Lacey left some money in a shoe she wanted a lift put on the heel, and I took it over to the shoemaker and he didn’t steal the money. And I didn’t, either. She got the money back, didn’t she?”

“Don’t like cops, do you? Seems to me I know your face,” I said.

The face hardened. “Look, copper, I got a job and I work at it. I don’t need any help from any copper. I don’t owe anybody a nickel.”

“Sure,” I said. “When you took those shoes from the room did you go right over to the shoemaker with them?”

She nodded shortly.

“Didn’t stop on the way at all?”

“Why would I?”

“I wasn’t around then. I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, I didn’t. Except to tell Weber I was going out for a guest.”

“Who’s Mr. Weber?”

“He’s the assistant manager. He’s down in the dining room a lot.”

“Tall, pale guy that writes down all the race results?”

She nodded. “That would be him.”

“I see,” I said. I struck a match and lit my cigarette. I stared at her through smoke. “Thanks very much,” I said.

She stood up and opened the door. “I don’t think I remember you,” she said, looking back at me.

“There must be a few of us you didn’t meet,” I said.

She flushed and stood there glaring at me.

“They always change the towels this late in your hotel?” I asked her, just to be saying something.

“Smart guy, ain’t you?”

“Well, I try to give that impression,” I said with a modest smirk.

“You don’t put it over,” she said, with a sudden trace of thick accent.

“Anybody handle those shoes except you — after you took them?”

“No. I told you I just stopped to tell Mr. Weber—” She stopped dead and thought a minute. “I went to get him a cup of coffee,” she said. “I left them on his desk by the cash register. How the hell would I know if anybody handled them? And what difference does it make if they got their dough back all right?”

“Well, I see you’re anxious to make me feel good about it. Tell me about this guy, Weber. He been here long?”

“Too long,” she said nastily. “A girl don’t want to walk too close to him, if you get what I mean. What am I talking about?”

“About Mr. Weber.”

“Well, to hell with Mr. Weber — if you get what I mean.”

“You been having any trouble getting it across?”

She flushed again. “And strictly off the record,” she said, “to hell with you.”

“If I get what you mean,” I said.

She opened the door and gave me a quick, half-angry smile and went out.

Her steps made a tapping sound going along the hall. I didn’t hear her stop at any other doors. I looked at my watch. It was after half past nine.

Somebody came along the hall with heavy feet, went into the room next to me and banged the door. The man started hawking and throwing shoes around. A weight flopped on the bed springs and started bounding around. Five minutes of this and he got up again. Two big, unshod feet thudded on the floor, a bottle tinkled against a glass. The man had himself a drink, lay down on the bed again, and began to snore almost at once.

Except for that and the confused racket from downstairs in the dining room and the bar there was the nearest thing you get to silence in a mountain resort. Speedboats stuttered out on the lake, dance music murmured here and there, cars went by blowing horns, the .22s snapped in the shooting gallery, and kids yelled at each other across the main drag.

It was so quiet that I didn’t hear my door open. It was half open before I noticed it. A man came in quietly, half closed the door, moved a couple of steps farther into the room and stood looking at me. He was tall, thin, pale, quiet, and his eyes had a flat look of menace.

“O.K., sport,” he said. “Let’s see it.”

I rolled around and sat up. I yawned. “See what?”

“The buzzer.”

“What buzzer?”

“Shake it up, half-smart. Let’s see the buzzer that gives you the right to ask questions of the help.”

“Oh, that,” I said, smiling weakly. “I don’t have any buzzer, Mr. Weber.”

“Well, that is very lovely,” Mr. Weber said. He came across the room, his long arms swinging. When he was about three feet from me he leaned forward a little and made a very sudden movement. An open palm slapped the side of my face hard. It rocked my head and made the back of it shoot pain in all directions.

“Just for that,” I said, “you don’t go to the movies tonight.”

He twisted his face into a sneer and cocked his right fist. He telegraphed his punch well ahead. I would almost have had time to run out and buy a catcher’s mask. I came up under the fist and stuck a gun in his stomach. He grunted unpleasantly. I said:

“Putting the hands up, please.”

He grunted again and his eyes went out of focus, but he didn’t move his hands. I went around him and backed toward the far side of the room. He turned slowly, eyeing me. I said:

“Just a moment until I close the door. Then we will go into the case of the money in the shoe, otherwise known as the Clue of the Substituted Lettuce.”

“Go to hell,” he said.

“A right snappy comeback,” I said. “And full of originality.”

I reached back for the knob of the door, keeping my eyes on him. A board creaked behind me. I swung around, adding a little power to the large, heavy, hard and businesslike hunk of concrete which landed on the side of my jaw. I spun off into the distance, trailing flashes of lightning, and did a nose dive out into space. A couple of thousand years passed. Then I stopped a planet with my back, opened my eyes fuzzily and looked at a pair of feet.

They were sprawled out at a loose angle, and legs came toward me from them. The legs were splayed out on the floor of the room. A hand hung down limp, and a gun lay just out of its reach. I moved one of the feet and was surprised to find it belonged to me. The lax hand twitched and reached automatically for the gun, missed it, reached again and grabbed the smooth grip. I lifted it. Somebody had tied a fifty-pound weight to it, but I lifted it anyway. There was nothing in the room but silence. I looked across and was staring straight at the closed door. I shifted a little and ached all over. My head ached. My jaw ached. I lifted the gun some more and then put it down again. The hell with it. I should be lifting guns around for what. The room was empty. All visitors departed. The droplight from the ceiling burned with an empty glare. I rolled a little and ached some more and got a leg bent and a knee under me. I came up grunting hard, grabbed the gun again and climbed the rest of the way. There was a taste of ashes in my mouth.

“Ah, too bad,” I said out loud. “Too bad. Must do. O.K., Charlie. I’ll be seeing you.”

I swayed a little, still groggy as a three-day drunk, swiveled slowly and prowled the room with my eyes.

A man was kneeling in prayer against the side of the bed. He wore a gray suit and his hair was a dusty blond color. His legs were spread out, and his body was bent forward on the bed and his arms were flung out. His head rested sideways on his left arm.

He looked quite comfortable. The rough deer-horn grip of the hunting knife under his left shoulder blade didn’t seem to bother him at all.

I went over to bend down and look at his face. It was the face of Mr. Weber. Poor Mr. Weber! From under the handle of the hunting knife, down the back of his jacket, a dark streak extended.

It was not mercurochrome.

I found my hat somewhere and put it on carefully, and put the gun under my arm and waded over to the door. I reversed the key, switched the light off, went out and locked the door after me and dropped the key into my pocket.

I went along the silent hallway and down the stairs to the office. An old wasted-looking night clerk was reading the paper behind the desk. He didn’t even look at me. I glanced through the archway into the dining room. The same noisy crowd was brawling at the bar. The same hillbilly symphony was fighting for life in the corner. The guy with the cigar and the John L. Lewis eyebrows was minding the cash register. Business seemed good. A couple of summer visitors were dancing in the middle of the floor, holding glasses over each other’s shoulders.

I went out of the lobby door and turned left along the street to where my car was parked, but I didn’t go very far before I stopped and turned back into the lobby of the hotel. I leaned on the counter and asked the clerk:

“May I speak to the maid called Gertrude?”

He blinked at me thoughtfully over his glasses.

“She’s off at nine thirty. She’s gone home.”

“Where does she live?”

He stared at me without blinking this time.

“I think maybe you’ve got the wrong idea,” he said.

“If I have, it’s not the idea you have.”

He rubbed the end of his chin and washed my face with his stare. “Something wrong?”

“I’m a detective from L.A. I work very quietly when people let me work quietly.”

“You’d better see Mr. Holmes,” he said. “The manager.”

“Look, pardner, this is a very small place. I wouldn’t have to do more than wander down the row and ask in the bars and eating places for Gertrude. I could think up a reason. I could find out. You would save me a little time and maybe save somebody from getting hurt. Very badly hurt.”

He shrugged. “Let me see your credentials, Mr.—”

“Evans.” I showed him my credentials. He stared at them a long time after he had read them, then handed the wallet back and stared at the ends of his fingers.

“I believe she’s stopping at the Whitewater Cabins,” he said.

“What’s her last name?”

“Smith,” he said, and smiled a faint, old, and very weary smile, the smile of a man who has seen too much of one world. “Or possibly Schmidt.”

I thanked him and went back out on the sidewalk. I walked half a block, then turned into a noisy little bar for a drink. A three-piece orchestra was swinging it on a tiny stage at the back. In front of the stage there was a small dance floor, and a few fuzzy-eyed couples were shagging around flat-footed with their mouths open and their faces full of nothing.

I drank a jigger of rye and asked the barman where the Whitewater Cabins were. He said at the east end of the town, half a block back, on a road that started at the gas station.

I went back for my car and drove through the village and found the road. A pale-blue neon sign with an arrow on it pointed the way. The Whitewater Cabins were a cluster of shacks on the side of the hill with an office down front. I stopped in front of the office. People were sitting out on their tiny front porches with portable radios. The night seemed peaceful and homey. There was a bell in the office.

I rang it and a girl in slacks came in and told me Miss Smith and Miss Hoffman had a cabin kind of off by itself because the girls slept late and wanted quiet. Of course, it was always kind of noisy in the season, but the cabin where they were — it was called Tuck-Me-Inn — was quiet and it was at the back, way off to the left, and I wouldn’t have any trouble finding it. Was I a friend of theirs?

I said I was Miss Smith’s grandfather, thanked her and went out and up the slope between the clustered cabins to the edge of the pines at the back. There was a long woodpile at the back, and at each end of the cleared space there was a small cabin. In front of the one to the left there was a coupe standing with its lights dim. A tall blond girl was putting a suitcase into the boot. Her hair was tied in a blue handkerchief, and she wore a blue sweater and blue pants. Or dark enough to be blue, anyhow. The cabin behind her was lighted, and the little sign hanging from the roof said “Tuck-Me-Inn.”

The blond girl went back into the cabin, leaving the boot of the car open. Dim light oozed out through the open door. I went very softly up on the steps and walked inside.

Gertrude was snapping down the top of a suitcase on a bed. The blond girl was out of sight, but I could hear her out in the kitchen of the little cabin.

I couldn’t have made very much noise. Gertrude snapped down the lid of the suitcase, hefted it and started to carry it out. It was only then that she saw me. Her face went very white, and she stopped dead, holding the suitcase at her side. Her mouth opened, and she spoke quickly back over her shoulder: “Anna — achtung!”

The noise stopped in the kitchen. Gertrude and I stared at each other.

“Leaving?” I asked.

She moistened her lips. “Going to stop me, copper?”

“I don’t guess. What you leaving for?”

“I don’t like it up here. The altitude is bad for my nerves.”

“Made up your mind rather suddenly, didn’t you?”

“Any law against it?”

“I don’t guess. You’re not afraid of Weber, are you?”

She didn’t answer me. She looked past my shoulder. It was an old gag, and I didn’t pay any attention to it. Behind me, the cabin door closed. I turned, then. The blond girl was behind me. She had a gun in her hand. She looked at me thoughtfully, without any expression much. She was a big girl, and looked very strong.

“What is it?” she asked, speaking a little heavily, in a voice almost like a man’s voice.

“A Los Angeles dick,” replied Gertrude.

“So,” Anna said. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know,” Gertrude said. “I don’t think he’s a real dick. He don’t seem to throw his weight enough.”

“So,” Anna said. She moved to the side and away from the door. She kept the gun pointed at me. She held it as if guns didn’t make her nervous — not the least bit nervous. “What do you want?” she asked throatily.

“Practically everything,” I said. “Why are you taking a powder?”

“That has been explained,” the blond girl said calmly. “It is the altitude. It is making Gertrude sick.”

“You both work at the Indian Head?”

The blond girl said: “Of no consequence.”

“What the hell,” Gertrude said. “Yeah, we both worked at the hotel until tonight. Now we’re leaving. Any objection?”

“We waste time,” the blond girl said. “See if he has a gun.”

Gertrude put her suitcase down and felt me over. She found the gun and I let her take it, big-hearted. She stood there looking at it with a pale, worried expression. The blond girl said:

“Put the gun down outside and put the suitcase in the car. Start the engine of the car and wait for me.”

Gertrude picked her suitcase up again and started around me to the door.

“That won’t get you anywhere,” I said. “They’ll telephone ahead and block you on the road. There are only two roads out of here, both easy to block.”

The blond girl raised her fine, tawny eyebrows a little. “Why should anyone wish to stop us?”

“Yeah, why are you holding that gun?”

“I did not know who you were,” the blond girl said. “I do not know even now. Go on, Gertrude.”

Gertrude opened the door, then looked back at me and moved her lips one over the other. “Take a tip, shamus, and beat it out of this place while you’re able,” she said quietly.

“Which of you saw the hunting knife?”

They glanced at each other quickly, then back at me. Gertrude had a fixed stare, but it didn’t look like a guilty kind of stare. “I pass,” she said. “You’re over my head.”

“O.K.,” I said. “I know you didn’t put it where it was. One more question: How long were you getting that cup of coffee for Mr. Weber the morning you took the shoes out?”

“You are wasting time, Gertrude,” the blond girl said impatiently, or as impatiently as she would ever say anything. She didn’t seem an impatient type.

Gertrude didn’t pay any attention to her. Her eyes held a tight speculation. “Long enough to get him a cup of coffee.”

“They have that right in the dining room.”

“It was stale in the dining room. I went out to the kitchen for it. I got him some toast, also.”

“Five minutes?”

She nodded. “About that.”

“Who else was in the dining room besides Weber?”

She stared at me very steadily. “At that time I don’t think anybody. I’m not sure. Maybe someone was having a late breakfast.”

“Thanks very much,” I said. “Put the gun down carefully on the porch and don t drop it. You can empty it if you like. I don’t plan to shoot anyone.”

She smiled a very small smile and opened the door with the hand holding the gun and went out. I heard her go down the steps and then heard the boot of the car slammed shut. I heard the starter, then the motor caught and purred quietly.

The blond girl moved around to the door and took the key from the inside and put it on the outside. “I would not care to shoot anybody,” she said. “But I could do it if I had to. Please do not make me.”

She shut the door and the key turned in the lock. Her steps went down off the porch. The car door slammed and the motor took hold. The tires made a soft whisper going down between the cabins. Then the noise of the portable radios swallowed that sound.

I stood there looking around the cabin, then walked through it. There was nothing in it that didn’t belong there. There was some garbage in a can, coffee cups not washed, a saucepan full of grounds. There were no papers, and nobody had left the story of his life written on a paper match.

The back door was locked, too. This was on the side away from the camp, against the dark wilderness of the trees. I shook the door and bent down to look at the lock. A straight bolt lock. I opened a window. Screen was nailed over it against the wall outside. I went back to the door and gave it the shoulder. It held without any trouble at all. It also started my head blazing again. I felt in my pockets and was disgusted. I didn’t even have a five-cent skeleton key.

I got the can opener out of the kitchen drawer and worked a corner of the screen loose and bent it back. Then I got up on the sink and reached down to the outside knob of the door and groped around. The key was in the lock. I turned it and drew my hand in again and went out of the door. Then I went back and put the lights out. My gun was lying on the front porch behind a post of the little railing. I tucked it under my arm and walked downhill to the place where I had left my car.

There was a wooden counter leading back from beside the door and a potbellied stove in the corner, and a large blueprint map of the district and some curled-up calendars on the wall. On the counter were piles of dusty-looking folders, a rusty pen, a bottle of ink, and somebody’s sweat-darkened Stetson.

Behind the counter there was an old golden-oak roll-top desk, and at the desk sat a man, with a tall corroded brass spittoon leaning against his leg. He was a heavy, calm man, and he sat tilted back in his chair with large, hairless hands clasped on his stomach. He wore scuffed brown army shoes, white socks, brown wash pants held up by faded suspenders, a khaki shirt buttoned to the neck. His hair was mousy brown except at the temples, where it was the color of dirty snow. On his left breast there was a star. He sat a little more on his left hip than on his right, because there was a brown leather hip holster inside his right hip pocket, and about a foot of .45 gun in the holster.

He had large ears and friendly eyes, and he looked about as dangerous as a squirrel, but much less nervous. I leaned on the counter and looked at him, and he nodded at me and loosed a half pint of brown juice into the spittoon. I lit a cigarette and looked around for some place to throw the match.

“Try the floor,” he said. “What can I do for you, son?”

I dropped the match on the floor and pointed with my chin at the map on the wall. “I was looking for a map of the district. Sometimes chambers of commerce have them to give away. But I guess you wouldn’t be the chamber of commerce.”

“We ain’t got no maps,” the man said. “We had a mess of them a couple of years back, but we run out. I was hearing that Sid Young had some down at the camera store by the post office. He’s the justice of the peace here, besides running the camera store, and he gives them out to show them whereat they can smoke and where not. We got a bad fire hazard up here. Got a good map of the district up there on the wall. Be glad to direct you any place you’d care to go. We aim to make the summer visitors to home.”

He took a slow breath and dropped another load of juice.

“What was the name?” he asked.

“Evans. Are you the law around here?”

“Yep. I’m Puma Point constable and San Berdoo deppity sheriff. What law we gotta have, me and Sid Young is it. Barron is the name. I come from L.A. Eighteen years in the fire department. I come up here quite a while back. Nice and quiet up here. You up on business?”

I didn’t think he could do it again so soon, but he did. That spittoon took an awful beating.

“Business?” I asked.

The big man took one hand off his stomach and hooked a finger inside his collar and tried to loosen it. “Business,” he said calmly. “Meaning, you got a permit for that gun, I guess?”

“Hell, does it stick out that much?”

“Depends what a man’s lookin’ for,” he said, and put his feet on the floor. “Maybe you ’n’ me better get straightened out.”

He got to his feet and came over to the counter and I put my wallet on it, opened out so that he could see the photostat of the license behind the celluloid window. I drew out the L.A. sheriff’s gun permit and laid it beside the license.

He looked them over. “I better kind of check the number,” he said.

I pulled the gun out and laid it on the counter beside his hand. He picked it up and compared the numbers. “I see you got three of them. Don’t wear them all to onst, I hope. Nice gun, son. Can’t shoot like mine, though.” He pulled his cannon off his hip and laid it on the counter. A Frontier Colt that would weigh as much as a suitcase. He balanced it, tossed it into the air and caught it spinning, then put it back on his hip. He pushed my .38 back across the counter.

“Up here on business, Mr. Evans?”

“I’m not sure. I got a call, but I haven’t made a contact yet. A confidential matter.”

He nodded. His eyes were thoughtful. They were deeper, colder, darker than they had been.

“I’m stopping at the Indian Head,” I said.

“I don’t aim to pry into your affairs, son,” he said. “We don’t have no crime up here. Onst in a while a fight or a drunk driver in summertime. Or maybe a couple hard-boiled kids on a motorcycle will break into a cabin just to sleep and steal food. No real crime, though. Mighty little inducement to crime in the mountains. Mountain folks are mighty peaceable.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And again, no.”

He leaned forward a little and looked into my eyes.

“Right now,” I said, “you’ve got a murder.”

Nothing much changed in his face. He looked me over feature by feature. He reached for his hat and put it on the back of his head.

“What was that, son?” he asked calmly.

“On the point east of the village out past the dancing pavilion. A man shot, lying behind a big fallen tree. Shot through the heart. I was down there smoking for half an hour before I noticed him.”

“Is that so?” he drawled. “Out Speaker Point, eh? Past Speaker’s Tavern. That the place?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“You taken a longish while to get around to telling me, didn’t you?” The eyes were not friendly.

“I got a shock,” I said. “It took me a while to get myself straightened out.”

He nodded. “You and me will now drive out that way. In your car.”

“That won’t do any good,” I said. “The body has been moved. After I found the body I was going back to my car and a Japanese gunman popped up from behind a bush and knocked me down. A couple of men carried the body away and they went off in a boat. There’s no sign of it there at all now.”

The sheriff went over and spit in his gobboon. Then he made a small spit on the stove and waited as if for it to sizzle, but it was summer and the stove was out. He turned around and cleared his throat and said:

“You’d kind of better go on home and lie down a little while, maybe.” He clenched a fist at his side. “We aim for the summer visitors to enjoy theirselves up here.” He clenched both his hands, then pushed them hard down into the shallow pockets in the front of his pants.

“O.K.,” I said.

“We don’t have no Japanese gunmen up here,” the sheriff said thickly. “We are plumb out of Japanese gunmen.”

“I can see you don’t like that one,” I said. “How about this one? A man named Weber was knifed in the back at the Indian Head a while back. In my room. Somebody I didn’t see knocked me out with a brick, and while I was out this Weber was knifed. He and I had been talking together. Weber worked at the hotel. As cashier.”

“You said this happened in your room?”

“Yeah.”

“Seems like,” Barron said thoughtfully, “you could turn out to be a bad influence in this town.”

“You don’t like that one, either?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Don’t like this one, neither. Unless, of course, you got a body to go with it.”

“I don’t have it with me,” I said, “but I can run over and get it for you.”

He reached and took hold of my arm with some of the hardest fingers I ever felt. “I’d hate for you to be in your right mind, son,” he said. “But I’ll kind of go over with you. It’s a nice night.”

“Sure,” I said, not moving. “The man I came up here to work for is called Fred Lacey. He just bought a cabin out on Ball Sage Point. The Baldwin cabin. The man I found dead on Speaker Point was named Frederick Lacey, according to the driver’s license in his pocket. There’s a lot more to it, but you wouldn’t want to be bothered with the details, would you?”

“You and me,” the sheriff said, “will now run over to the hotel. You got a car?”

I said I had.

“That’s fine,” the sheriff said. “We won’t use it, but give me the keys.”

The man with the heavy, furled eyebrows and the screwed-in cigar leaned against the closed door of the room and didn’t say anything or look as if he wanted to say anything. Sheriff Barron sat straddling a straight chair and watching the doctor, whose name was Menzies, examine the body. I stood in the corner where I belonged. The doctor was an angular, bug-eyed man with a yellow face relieved by bright-red patches on his cheeks. His fingers were brown with nicotine stains, and he didn’t look very clean.

He puffed cigarette smoke into the dead man’s hair and rolled him around on the bed and felt him here and there. He looked as if he was trying to act as if he knew what he was doing. The knife had been pulled out of Weber’s back. It lay on the bed beside him. It was a short, wide-bladed knife of the kind that is worn in a leather scabbard attached to the belt. It had a heavy guard which would seal the wound as the blow was struck and keep blood from getting back on the handle. There was plenty of blood on the blade.

“Sears Sawbuck Hunter’s Special No. 2438,” the sheriff said, looking at it. “There’s a thousand of them around the lake. They ain’t bad and they ain’t good. What you say, doc?”

The doctor straightened up and took a handkerchief out. He coughed hackingly into the handkerchief, looked at it, shook his head sadly and lit another cigarette.

“About what?” he asked.

“Cause and time of death.”

“Dead very recently,” the doctor said. “Not more than two hours. There’s no beginning of rigor yet.”

“Would you say the knife killed him?”

“Don’t be a damn fool, Jim Barron.”

“There’s been cases,” the sheriff said, “where a man would be poisoned or something and they would stick a knife into him to make it look different.”

“That would be very clever,” the doctor said nastily. “You had many like that up here?”

“Only murder I had up here,” the sheriff said peacefully, “was old Dad Meacham over to the other side. Had a shack in Sheedy Canyon. Folks didn’t see him around for a while, but it was kinda cold weather and they figured he was in there with his oil stove resting up. Then when he didn’t show up they knocked and found the cabin was locked up, so they figured he had gone down for the winter. Then come a heavy snow and the roof caved in. We was over there a-trying to prop her up so he wouldn’t lose all his stuff, and by gum, there was Dad in bed with a ax in the back of his head. Had a little gold he’d panned in summer — I guess that was what he was killed for. We never did find out who done it.”

“You want to send him down in my ambulance?” the doctor asked, pointing at the bed with his cigarette.

The sheriff shook his head. “Nope. This is a poor country, doc. I figure he could ride cheaper than that.”

The doctor put his hat on and went to the door. The man with the eyebrows moved out of the way. The doctor opened the door. “Let me know if you want me to pay for the funeral,” he said, and went out.

“That ain’t no way to talk,” the sheriff said.

The man with the eyebrows said: “Let’s get this over with and get him out of here so I can go back to work. I got a movie outfit coming up Monday and I’ll be busy. I got to find me a new cashier, too, and that ain’t so easy.”

“Where did you find Weber?” the sheriff asked. “Did he have any enemies?”

“I’d say he had at least one,” the man with the eyebrows said. “I got him through Frank Luders over at the Woodland Club. All I know about him is he knew his job and he was able to make a ten-thousand-dollar bond without no trouble. That’s all I needed to know.”

“Frank Luders,” the sheriff said. “That would be the man that’s bought in over there. I don’t think I met him. What does he do?”

“Ha, ha,” the man with the eyebrows said.

The sheriff looked at him peacefully. “Well, that ain’t the only place where they run a nice poker game, Mr. Holmes.”

Mr. Holmes looked blank. “Well, I got to go back to work,” he said. “You need any help to move him?”

“Nope. Ain’t going to move him right now. Move him before daylight. But not right now. That will be all for now, Mr. Holmes.”

The man with the eyebrows looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then reached for the doorknob.

I said: “You have a couple of German girls working here, Mr. Holmes. Who hired them?”

The man with the eyebrows dragged his cigar out of his mouth, looked at it, put it back and screwed it firmly in place. He said: “Would that be your business?”

“Their names are Anna Hoffman and Gertrude Smith, or maybe Schmidt,” I said. “They had a cabin together over at the Whitewater Cabins. They packed up and went down the hill tonight. Gertrude is the girl that took Mrs. Lacey’s shoes to the shoemaker.”

The man with the eyebrows looked at me very steadily.

I said: “When Gertrude was taking the shoes, she left them on Weber’s desk for a short time. There was five hundred dollars in one of the shoes. Mr. Lacey had put it in there for a joke, so his wife would find it.”

“First I heard of it,” the man with the eyebrows said. The sheriff didn’t say anything at all.

“The money wasn’t stolen,” I said. “The Laceys found it still in the shoe over at the shoemaker s place.”

The man with the eyebrows said: “I’m certainly glad that got straightened out all right.” He pulled the door open and went out and shut it behind him. The sheriff didn’t say anything to stop him.

He went over into the corner of the room and spit in the wastebasket. Then he got a large khaki-colored handkerchief out and wrapped the blood-stained knife in it and slipped it down inside his belt, at the side. He went over and stood looking down at the dead man on the bed. He straightened his hat and started toward the door. He opened the door and looked back at me. “This is a little tricky,” he said. “But it probably ain’t as tricky as you would like for it to be. Let’s go over to Lacey’s place.”

I went out and he locked the door and put the key in his pocket. We went downstairs and out through the lobby and crossed the street to where a small, dusty, tan-colored sedan was parked against the fireplug. A leathery young man was at the wheel. He looked underfed and a little dirty, like most of the natives. The sheriff and I got in the back of the car. The sheriff said:

“You know the Baldwin place out to the end of Ball Sage, Andy?”

“Yup.”

“We’ll go out there,” the sheriff said. “Stop a little to this side.” He looked up at the sky. “Full moon all night, tonight,” he said. “And it’s sure a dandy.”

The cabin on the point looked the same as when I had seen it last. The same windows were lighted, the same car stood in the open double garage, and the same wild, screaming bark burst on the night.

“What in heck’s that?” the sheriff asked as the car slowed. “Sounds like a coyote.”

“It’s half coyote,” I said.

The leathery lad in front said over his shoulder, “You want to stop in front, Jim?”

“Drive her down a piece. Under them old pines.”

The car stopped softly in black shadow at the roadside. The sheriff and I got out. “You stay here, Andy, and don’t let nobody see you,” the sheriff said. “I got my reasons.”

We went back along the road and through the rustic gate. The barking started again. The front door opened. The sheriff went up on the steps and took his hat off.

“Mrs. Lacey? I’m Jim Barron, constable at Puma Point. This here is Mr. Evans, from Los Angeles. I guess you know him. Could we come in a minute?”

The woman looked at him with a face so completely shadowed that no expression showed on it. She turned her head a little and looked at me. She said, “Yes, come in,” in a lifeless voice.

We went in. The woman shut the door behind us. A big gray-haired man sitting in an easy-chair let go of the dog he was holding on the floor and straightened up. The dog tore across the room, did a flying tackle on the sheriff’s stomach, turned in the air and was already running in circles when she hit the floor.

“Well, that’s a right nice little dog,” the sheriff said, tucking his shirt in.

The gray-haired man was smiling pleasantly. He said: “Good evening.” His white, strong teeth gleamed with friendliness.

Mrs. Lacey was still wearing the scarlet double-breasted coat and the gray slacks. Her face looked older and more drawn. She looked at the floor and said: “This is Mr. Frank Luders from the Woodland Club. Mr. Bannon and” — she stopped and raised her eyes to look at a point over my left shoulder — “I didn’t catch the other gentleman’s name,” she said.

“Evans,” the sheriff said, and didn’t look at me at all. “And mine is Barron, not Bannon.” He nodded at Luders. I nodded at Luders. Luders smiled at both of us. He was big, meaty, powerful-looking, well-kept and cheerful. He didn’t have a care in the world. Big, breezy Frank Luders, everybody’s pal.

He said: “I’ve known Fred Lacey for a long time. I just dropped by to say hello. He’s not home, so I am waiting a little while until a friend comes by in a car to pick me up.”

“Pleased to know you, Mr. Luders,” the sheriff said. “I heard you had bought in at the club. Didn’t have the pleasure of meeting you yet.”

The woman sat down very slowly on the edge of a chair. I sat down. The little dog, Shiny, jumped in my lap, washed my right ear for me, squirmed down again and went under my chair. She lay there breathing out loud and thumping the floor with her feathery tail.

The room was still for a moment. Outside the windows on the lake side there was a very faint throbbing sound. The sheriff heard it. He cocked his head slightly, but nothing changed in his face.

He said: “Mr. Evans here come to me and told me a queer story. I guess it ain’t no harm to mention it here, seeing Mr. Luders is a friend of the family.”

He looked at Mrs. Lacey and waited. She lifted her eyes slowly, but not enough to meet his. She swallowed a couple of times and nodded her head. One of her hands began to slide slowly up and down the arm of her chair, back and forth, back and forth. Luders smiled.

“I’d ’a’ liked to have Mr. Lacey here,” the sheriff said. “You think he’ll be in pretty soon?”

The woman nodded again. “I suppose so,” she said in a drained voice. “He’s been gone since mid-afternoon. I don’t know where he is. I hardly think he would go down the hill without telling me, but he has had time to do that. Something might have come up.”

“Seems like something did,” the sheriff said. “Seems like Mr. Lacey wrote a letter to Mr. Evans, asking him to come up here quickly. Mr. Evans is a detective from L.A.”

The woman moved restlessly. “A detective?” she breathed.

Luders said brightly: “Now why in the world would Fred do that?”

“On account of some money that was hid in a shoe,” the sheriff said.

Luders raised his eyebrows and looked at Mrs. Lacey. Mrs. Lacey moved her lips together and then said very softly: “But we got that back, Mr. Bannon. Fred was having a joke. He won a little money at the races and hid it in one of my shoes. He meant it for a surprise. I sent the shoe out to be repaired with the money still in it, but the money was still in it when we went over to the shoemaker’s place.”

“Barron is the name, not Bannon,” the sheriff said. “So you got your money back all intact, Mrs. Lacey?”

“Why — of course. Of course, we thought at first, it being a hotel and one of the maids having taken the shoe... well, I don’t know just what we thought, but it was a silly place to hide money — but we got it back, every cent of it.”

“And it was the same money?” I said, beginning to get the idea and not liking it.

She didn’t quite look at me. “Why, of course. Why not?”

“That ain’t the way I heard it from Mr. Evans,” the sheriff said peacefully, and folded his hands across his stomach. “They was a slight difference, seems like, in the way you told it to Evans.”

Luders leaned forward suddenly in his chair, but his smile stayed put. It didn’t even get tight. The woman made a vague gesture and her hand kept moving on the chair arm. “I... told it... told what to Mr. Evans?”

The sheriff turned his head very slowly and gave me a straight, hard stare. He turned his head back. One hand patted the other on his stomach.

“I understand Mr. Evans was over here earlier in the evening and you told him about it, Mrs. Lacey. About the money being changed?”

“Changed?” Her voice had a curiously hollow sound. “Mr. Evans told you he was here earlier in the evening? I... I never saw Mr. Evans before in my life.”

I didn’t even bother to look at her. Luders was my man. I looked at Luders. It got me what the nickel gets you from the slot machine. He chuckled and put a fresh match to his cigar.

The sheriff closed his eyes. His face had a sort of sad expression. The dog came out from under my chair and stood in the middle of the room looking at Luders. Then she went over in the corner and slid under the fringe of a daybed cover. A snuffling sound came from her a moment, then silence.

“Hum, hum, dummy,” the sheriff said, talking to himself. “I ain’t really equipped to handle this sort of a deal. I don’t have the experience. We don’t have no fast work like that up here. No crime at all in the mountains. Hardly.” He made a wry face.

He opened his eyes. “How much money was that in the shoe, Mrs. Lacey?”

“Five hundred dollars.” Her voice was hushed.

“Where at is this money, Mrs. Lacey?”

“I suppose Fred has it.”

“I thought he was goin’ to give it to you, Mrs. Lacey.”

“He was,” she said sharply. “He is. But I don’t need it at the moment. Not up here. He’ll probably give me a check later on.”

“Would he have it in his pocket or would it be in the cabin here, Mrs. Lacey?”

She shook her head. “In his pocket, probably. I don’t know. Do you want to search the cabin?”

The sheriff shrugged his fat shoulders. “Why, no, I guess not, Mrs. Lacey. It wouldn’t do me no good if I found it. Especially if it wasn’t changed.”

Luders said: “Just how do you mean changed, Mr. Barron?”

“Changed for counterfeit money,” the sheriff said.

Luders laughed quietly. “That s really amusing, don’t you think? Counterfeit money at Puma Point? There’s no opportunity for that sort of thing up here, is there?”

The sheriff nodded at him sadly. “Don’t sound reasonable, does it?”

Luders leaned forward a little more. “Have you any knowledge Mr. Evans here — who claims to be a detective? A private detective, no doubt?”

“I thought of that,” the sheriff said.

Luders leaned forward a little more. “Have you any knowledge other than Mr. Evans’ statement that Fred Lacey sent for him?”

“He’d have to know something to come up here, wouldn’t he?” the sheriff said in a worried voice. “And he knew about that money in Mrs. Lacey’s slipper.”

“I was just asking a question,” Luders said softly.

The sheriff swung around on me. I was already wearing my frozen smile. Since the incident in the hotel I hadn’t looked for Lacey’s letter. I knew I wouldn’t have to look, now.

“You got a letter from Lacey?” he asked me in a hard voice.

I lifted my hand toward my inside breast pocket. Barron threw his right hand down and up. When it came up it held the Frontier Colt. “I’ll take that gun of yours first,” he said between his teeth. He stood up.

I pulled my coat open and held it open. He leaned down over me and jerked the automatic from the holster. He looked at it sourly a moment and dropped it into his left hip pocket. He sat down again. “Now look,” he said easily.

Luders watched me with bland interest. Mrs. Lacey put her hands together and squeezed them hard and stared at the floor between her shoes.

I took the stuff out of my breast pocket. A couple of letters, some plain cards for casual notes, a packet of pipe cleaners, a spare handkerchief. Neither of the letters was the one. I put the stuff back and got a cigarette out and put it between my lips. I struck the match and held the flame to the tobacco. Nonchalant.

“You win,” I said, smiling. “Both of you.”

There was a slow flush on Barron’s face and his eyes glittered. His lips twitched as he turned away from me.

“Why not,” Luders asked gently, “see also if he really is a detective?”

Barron barely glanced at him. “The small things don’t bother me,” he said. “Right now I’m investigatin’ a murder.”

He didn’t seem to be looking at either Luders or Mrs. Lacey. He seemed to be looking at a corner of the ceiling. Mrs. Lacey shook, and her hands tightened so that the knuckles gleamed hard and shiny and white in the lamplight. Her mouth opened very slowly, and her eyes turned up in her head. A dry sob half died in her throat.

Luders took the cigar out of his mouth and laid it carefully in the brass dip on the smoking stand beside him. He stopped smiling. His mouth was grim. He said nothing.

It was beautifully timed. Barron gave them all they needed for the reaction and not a second for a comeback. He said, in the same almost indifferent voice:

“A man named Weber, cashier in the Indian Head Hotel. He was knifed in Evans’ room. Evans was there, but he was knocked out before it happened, so he is one of them boys we hear so much about and don’t often meet — the boys that get there first.”

“Not me,” I said. “They bring their murders and drop them right at my feet.”

The woman’s head jerked. Then she looked up, and for the first time she looked straight at me. There was a queer light in her eyes, shining far back, remote and miserable.

Barron stood up slowly. “I don’t get it,” he said. “I don’t get it at all. But I guess I ain’t making any mistake in takin’ this feller in.” He turned to me. “Don’t run too fast, not at first, bud. I always give a man forty yards.”

I didn’t say anything. Nobody said anything.

Barron said slowly: “I’ll have to ask you to wait here till I come back, Mr. Luders. If your friend comes for you, you could let him go on. I’d be glad to drive you back to the club later.”

Luders nodded. Barron looked at a clock on the mantel. It was a quarter to twelve. “Kinda late for a old fuddy-duddy like me. You think Mr. Lacey will be home pretty soon, ma’am?”

“I... I hope so,” she said, and made a gesture that meant nothing unless it meant hopelessness.

Barron moved over to open the door. He jerked his chin at me. I went out on the porch. The little dog came halfway out from under the couch and made a whining sound. Barron looked down at her.

“That sure is a nice little dog,” he said. “I heard she was half coyote. What did you say the other half was?”

“We don’t know,” Mrs. Lacey murmured.

“Kind of like this case I’m working on,” Barron said, and came out onto the porch after me.

We walked down the road without speaking and came to the car. Andy was leaning back in the corner, a dead half cigarette between his lips.

We got into the car. “Drive down a piece, about two hundred yards,” Barron said. “Make plenty of noise.”

Andy started the car, raced the motor, clashed the gears, and the car slid down through the moonlight and around a curve of the road and up a moonlit hill sparred with the shadows of tree trunks.

“Turn her at the top and coast back, but not close,” Barron said. “Stay out of sight of that cabin. Turn your lights off before you turn.”

“Yup,” Andy said.

He turned the car just short of the top, going around a tree to do it. He cut the lights off and started back down the little hill, then killed the motor. Just beyond the bottom of the slope there was a heavy clump of manzanita, almost as tall as ironwood. The car stopped there. Andy pulled the brake back very slowly to smooth out the noise of the ratchet.

Barron leaned forward over the back seat. “We’re going across the road and get near the water,” he said. “I don’t want no noise and nobody walkin’ in no moonlight.”

Andy said: “Yup.”

We got out. We walked carefully on the dirt of the road, then on the pine needles. We filtered through the trees, behind fallen logs, until the water was down below where we stood. Barron sat down on the ground and then lay down. Andy and I did the same. Barron put his face close to Andy.

“Hear anything?”

Andy said: “Eight cylinders, kinda rough.”

I listened. I could tell myself I heard it, but I couldn’t be sure. Barron nodded in the dark. “Watch the lights in the cabin,” he whispered.

We watched. Five minutes passed, or enough time to seem like five minutes. The lights in the cabin didn’t change. Then there was a remote, half-imagined sound of a door closing. There were shoes on wooden steps.

“Smart. They left the light on,” Barron said in Andy’s ear.

We waited another short minute. The idling motor burst into a roar of throbbing sound, a stuttering, confused racket, with a sort of hop, skip and jump in it. The sound sank to a heavy purring roar and then quickly began to fade. A dark shape slid out on the moonlit water, curved with a beautiful line of froth and swept past the point out of sight.

Barron got a plug of tobacco out and bit. He chewed comfortably and spat four feet beyond his feet. Then he got up on his feet and dusted off the pine needles. Andy and I got up.

“Man ain’t got good sense chewin’ tobacco these days,” he said. “Things ain’t fixed for him. I near went to sleep back there in the cabin.” He lifted the Colt he was still holding in his left hand, changed hands and packed the gun away on his hip.

“Well?” he said, looking at Andy.

“Ted Rooney’s boat,” Andy said. “She’s got two sticky valves and a big crack in the muffler. You hear it best when you throttle her up, like they did just before they started.”

It was a lot of words for Andy, but the sheriff liked them.

“Couldn’t be wrong, Andy? Lots of boats get sticky valves.”

Andy said: “What the hell you ask me for?” in a nasty voice.

“O.K., Andy, don’t get sore.”

Andy grunted. We crossed the road and got into the car again. Andy started it up, backed and turned and said: “Lights?”

Barron nodded. Andy put the lights on. “Where to now?”

“Ted Rooney’s place,” Barron said peacefully. “And make it fast. We got ten miles to there.”

“Can’t make it in less’n twenty minutes,” Andy said sourly. “Got to go through the Point.”

The car hit the paved lake road and started back past the dark boys’ camp and the other camps, and turned left on the highway. Barron didn’t speak until we were beyond the village and the road out to Speaker Point. The dance band was still going strong in the pavilion.

“I fool you any?” he asked me then.

“Enough.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“The job was perfect,” I said, “but I don’t suppose you fooled Luders.”

“That lady was mighty uncomfortable,” Barron said. “That Luders is a good man. Hard, quiet, full of eyesight. But I fooled him some. He made mistakes.”

“I can think of a couple,” I said. “One was being there at all. Another was telling us a friend was coming to pick him up, to explain why he had no car. It didn’t need explaining. There was a car in the garage, but you didn’t know whose car it was. Another was keeping that boat idling.”

“That wasn’t no mistake,” Andy said from the front seat. “Not if you ever tried to start her up cold.”

Barron said: “You don’t leave your car in the garage when you come callin’ up here. Ain’t no moisture to hurt it. The boat could have been anybody’s boat. A couple of young folks could have been in it getting acquainted. I ain’t got anything on him, anyways, so far as he knows. He just worked too hard tryin’ to head me off.”

He spat out of the car. I heard it smack the rear fender like a wet rag. The car swept through the moonlit night, around curves, up and down hills, through fairly thick pines and along open flats where cattle lay.

I said: “He knew I didn’t have the letter Lacey wrote me. Because he took it away from me himself, up in my room at the hotel. It was Luders that knocked me out and knifed Weber. Luders knows that Lacey is dead, even if he didn’t kill him. That’s what he’s got on Mrs. Lacey. She thinks her husband is alive and that Luders has him.”

“You make this Luders out a pretty bad guy,” Barron said calmly. “Why would Luders knife Weber?”

“Because Weber started all the trouble. This is an organization. Its object is to unload some very good counterfeit ten-dollar bills, a great many of them. You don’t advance the cause by unloading them in five-hundred dollar lots, all brand-new, in circumstances that would make anybody suspicious, would make a much-less-careful man than Fred Lacey suspicious.”

“You’re doing some nice guessin’, son,” the sheriff said, grabbing the door handle as we took a fast turn, “but the neighbors ain’t watchin’ you. I got to be more careful. I’m in my own back yard. Puma Lake don’t strike me as a very good place to go into the counterfeit-money business.”

“O.K.” I said.

“On the other hand, if Luders is the man I want, he might be kind of hard to catch. There’s three roads out of the valley, and there’s half a dozen planes down to the east end of the Woodland Club golf course. Always is in summer.”

“You don’t seem to be doing very much worrying about it,” I said.

“A mountain sheriff don’t have to worry a lot,” Barron said calmly. “Nobody expects him to have any brains. Especially guys like Mr. Luders don’t.”

The boat lay in the water at the end of a short painter, moving as boats move even in the stillest water. A canvas tarpaulin covered most of it and was tied down here and there, but not everywhere it should have been tied. Behind the short, rickety pier a road twisted back through juniper trees to the highway. There was a camp off to one side, with a miniature white lighthouse for its trade-mark. A sound of dance music came from one of the cabins, but most of the camp had gone to bed.

We came down there walking, leaving the car on the shoulder of the highway. Barron had a big flash in his hand and kept throwing it this way and that, snapping it on and off. When we came to the edge of the water and the end of the road down to the pier, he put his flashlight on the road and studied it carefully. There were fresh-looking tire tracks.

“What do you think?” he asked me.

“Looks like tire tracks,” I said.

“What do you think, Andy?” Barron said. “This man is cute, but he don’t give me no ideas.”

Andy bent over and studied the tracks. “New tires and big ones,” he said, and walked toward the pier. He stooped down again and pointed. The sheriff threw the light where he pointed. “Yup, turned around here,” Andy said. “So what? The place is full of new cars right now. Come October and they’d mean something. Folks that live up here buy one tire at a time, and cheap ones, at that. These here are heavy-duty all-weather treads.”

“Might see about the boat,” the sheriff said.

“What about it?”

“Might see if it was used recent,” Barron said.

“Hell,” Andy said, “we know it was used recent, don’t we?”

“Always supposin’ you guessed right,” Barron said mildly.

Andy looked at him in silence for a moment. Then he spit on the ground and started back to where we had left the car. When he had gone a dozen feet he said over his shoulder:

“I wasn’t guessin’.” He turned his head again and went on, plowing through the trees.

“Kind of touchy,” Barron said. “But a good man.” He went down on the boat landing and bent over it, passing his hand along the forward part of the side, below the tarpaulin. He came back slowly and nodded. “Andy’s right. Always is, durn him. What kind of tires would you say those marks were, Mr. Evans? They tell you anything?”

“Cadillac V-12,” I said. “A club coupe with red leather seats and two suitcases in the back. The clock on the dash is twelve and one half minutes slow.”

He stood there, thinking about it. Then he nodded his big head. He sighed. “Well, I hope it makes money for you,” he said, and turned away.

We went back to the car. Andy was in the front seat behind the wheel again. He had a cigarette going. He looked straight ahead of him through the dusty windshield.

“Where’s Rooney live now?” Barron asked.

“Where he always lived,” Andy said.

“Why, that’s just a piece up the Bascomb road.”

“I ain’t said different,” Andy growled.

“Let’s go there,” the sheriff said, getting in. I got in beside him.

Andy turned the car and went back half a mile and then started to turn. The sheriff snapped to him: “Hold it a minute.”

He got out and used his flash on the road surface. He got back into the car. “I think we got something. Them tracks down by the pier don’t mean a lot. But the same tracks up here might turn out to mean more. If they go on into Bascomb, they’re goin’ to mean plenty. Them old gold camps over there is made to order for monkey business.”

The car went into the side road and climbed slowly into a gap. Big boulders crowded the road, and the hillside was studded with them. They glistened pure white in the moonlight. The car growled on for half a mile and then Andy stopped again.

“O.K., Hawkshaw, this is the cabin,” he said. Barron got out again and walked around with his flash. There was no light in the cabin. He came back to the car.

“They come by here,” he said. “Bringing Ted home. When they left they turned toward Bascomb. You figure Ted Rooney would be mixed up in something crooked, Andy?”

“Not unless they paid him for it,” Andy said.

I got out of the car and Barron and I went up toward the cabin. It was small, rough, covered with native pine. It had a wooden porch, a tin chimney guyed with wires, and a sagging privy behind the cabin at the edge of the trees. It was dark. We walked up on the porch and Barron hammered on the door. Nothing happened. He tried the knob. The door was locked. We went down off the porch and around the back, looking at the windows. They were all shut. Barron tried the back door, which was level with the ground. That was locked, too. He pounded. The echoes of the sound wandered off through the trees and echoed high up on the rise among the boulders.

“He’s gone with them,” Barron said. “I guess they wouldn’t dast leave him now. Prob’ly stopped here just to let him get his stuff-some of it. Yep.”

I said: “I don’t think so. All they wanted of Rooney was his boat. That boat picked up Fred Lacey’s body out at the end of Speaker Point early this evening. The body was probably weighted and dropped out in the lake. They waited for dark to do that. Rooney was in on it and he got paid. Tonight they wanted the boat again. But they got to thinking they didn’t need Rooney along. And if they’re over in Bascomb Valley in some quiet little place, making or storing counterfeit money, they wouldn’t at all want Rooney to go over there with them.”

“You’re guessing again, son,” the sheriff said kindly. “Anyways, I don’t have no search warrant. But I can look over Rooney’s dollhouse a minute. Wait for me.”

He walked away toward the privy. I took six feet and hit the door of the cabin. It shivered and split diagonally across the upper panel. Behind me, the sheriff called out, “Hey,” weakly, as if he didn’t mean it.

I took another six feet and hit the door again. I went in with it and landed on my hands and knees on a piece of linoleum that smelled like a fish skillet. I got up to my feet and reached up and turned the key switch of a hanging bulb. Barron was right behind me, making clucking noises of disapproval.

There was a kitchen with a wood stove, some dirty wooden shelves with dishes on them. The stove gave out a faint warmth. Unwashed pots sat on top of it and smelled. I went across the kitchen and into the front room. I turned on another hanging bulb. There was a narrow bed to one side, made up roughly, with a slimy quilt on it. There was a wooden table, some wooden chairs, an old cabinet radio, hooks on the wall, an ashtray with four burned pipes in it, a pile of pulp magazines in the corner on the floor.

The ceiling was low to keep the heat in. In the corner there was a trap to get up to the attic. The trap was open and a stepladder stood under the opening. An old water-stained canvas suitcase lay open on a wooden box, and there were odds and ends of clothing in it.

Barron went over and looked at the suitcase. “Looks like Rooney was getting ready to move out or go for a trip. Then these boys come along and picked him up. He ain’t finished his packing, but he got his suit in. A man like Rooney don’t have but one suit and don’t wear that ’less he goes down the hill.”

“He’s not here,” I said. “He ate dinner here, though. The stove is still warm.”

The sheriff cast a speculative eye at the stepladder. He went over and climbed up it and pushed the trap up with his head. He raised his torch and shone it around overhead. He let the trap close and came down the stepladder again.

“Likely he kept the suitcase up there,” he said. “I see there’s a old steamer trunk up there, too. You ready to leave?”

“I didn’t see a car around,” I said. “He must have had a car.”

“Yep. Had a old Plymouth. Douse the light.”

He walked back into the kitchen and looked around that and then we put both the lights out and went out of the house. I shut what was left of the back door. Barron was examining tire tracks in the soft decomposed granite, trailing them back over to a space under a big oak tree where a couple of large darkened areas showed where a car had stood many times and dripped oil.

He came back swinging his flash, then looked toward the privy and said: “You could go on back to Andy. I still gotta look over that dollhouse.”

I didn’t say anything. I watched him go along the path to the privy and unlatch the door, and open it. I saw his flash go inside and the light leaked out of a dozen cracks and from the ramshackle roof. I walked back along the side of the cabin and got into the car. The sheriff was gone a long time. He came back slowly, stopped beside the car and bit off another chew from his plug. He rolled it around in his mouth and then got to work on it.

“Rooney,” he said, “is in the privy. Shot twice in the head.” He got into the car. “Shot with a big gun, and shot very dead. Judgin’ from the circumstances I would say somebody was in a hell of a hurry.”

The road climbed steeply for a while following the meanderings of a dried mountain stream the bed of which was full of boulders. Then it leveled off about a thousand or fifteen hundred feet above the level of the lake. We crossed a cattle stop of spaced narrow rails that clanked under the car wheels. The road began to go down. A wide undulating flat appeared with a few browsing cattle in it. A lightless farmhouse showed up against the moonlit sky. We reached a wider road that ran at right angles. Andy stopped the car and Barron got out with his big flashlight again and ran the spot slowly over the road surface.

“Turned left,” he said, straightening. “Thanks be there ain’t been another car past since them tracks were made.” He got back into the car.

“Left don’t go to no old mines,” Andy said. “Left goes to Worden’s place and then back down to the lake at the dam.”

Barron sat silent a moment and then got out of the car and used his flash again. He made a surprised sound over to the right of the T intersection. He came back again, snapping the light off.

“Goes right, too,” he said. “But goes left first. They doubled back, but they been somewhere off west of here before they done it. We go like they went”

Andy said: “You sure they went left first and not last? Left would be a way out to the highway.”

“Yep. Right marks overlays left marks,” Barron said.

We turned left. The knolls that dotted the valley were covered with ironwood trees, some of them half dead. Ironwood grows to about eighteen or twenty feet high and then dies. When it dies the limbs strip themselves and get a gray-white color and shine in the moonlight.

We went about a mile and then a narrow road shot off toward the north, a mere track. Andy stopped. Barron got out again and used his flash. He jerked his thumb and Andy swung the car. The sheriff got in.

“Them boys ain’t too careful,” he said. “Nope. I’d say they ain’t careful at all. But they never figured Andy could tell where that boat come from, just by listenin’ to it.”

The road went into a fold of the mountains and the growth got so close to it that the car barely passed without scratching. Then it doubled back at a sharp angle and rose again and went around a spur of hill and a small cabin showed up, pressed back against a slope with trees on all sides of it.

And suddenly, from the house or very close to it, came a long, shrieking yell which ended in a snapping bark. The bark was choked off suddenly.

Barron started to say: “Kill them—” but Andy had already cut the lights and pulled off the road. “Too late, I guess,” he said dryly. “Must’ve seen us, if anybody’s watchin’.”

Barron got out of the car. “That sounded mighty like a coyote, Andy.”

“Yup.”

“Awful close to the house for a coyote, don’t you think, Andy?”

“Nope,” Andy said. “Lights out, a coyote would come right up to the cabin lookin’ for buried garbage.”

“And then again it could be that little dog,” Barron said.

“Or a hen laying a square egg,” I said. “What are we waiting for? And how about giving me back my gun? And are we trying to catch up with anybody, or do we just like to get things all figured out as we go along?”

The sheriff took my gun off his left hip and handed it to me. “I ain’t in no hurry,” he said. “Because Luders ain’t in no hurry. He coulda been long gone, if he was. They was in a hurry to get Rooney, because Rooney knew something about them. But Rooney don’t know nothing about them now because he’s dead and his house locked up and his car driven away. If you hadn’t bust in his back door, he could be there in his privy a couple of weeks before anybody would get curious. Them tire tracks looks kind of obvious, but that’s only because we know where they started. They don’t have any reason to think we could find that out. So where would we start? No, I ain’t in any hurry.”

Andy stooped over and came up with a deer rifle. He opened the left-hand door and got out of the car.

“The little dog’s in there,” Barron said peacefully. “That means Mrs. Lacey is in there, too. And there would be somebody to watch her. Yep, I guess we better go up and look, Andy.”

“I hope you’re scared,” Andy said. “I am.”

We started through the bees. It was about two hundred yards to the cabin. The night was very still. Even at that distance I heard a window open. We walked about fifty feet apart. Andy stayed back long enough to lock the car. Then he started to make a wide circle, far out to the right.

Nothing moved in the cabin as we got close to it, no light showed. The coyote or Shiny, the dog, whichever it was, didn’t bark again.

We got very close to the house, not more than twenty yards. Barron and I were about the same distance apart. It was a small rough cabin, built like Rooney’s place, but larger. There was an open garage at the back, but it was empty. The cabin had a small porch of fieldstone.

Then there was the sound of a short, sharp struggle in the cabin and the beginning of a bark, suddenly choked off. Barron fell down flat on the ground. I did the same. Nothing happened.

Barron stood up slowly and began to move forward a step at a time and a pause between each step. I stayed out. Barron reached the cleared space in front of the house and started to go up the steps to the porch. He stood there, bulky, clearly outlined in the moonlight, the Colt hanging at his side. It looked like a swell way to commit suicide.

Nothing happened. Barron reached the top of the steps, moved over tight against the wall. There was a window to his left, the door to his right. He changed his gun in his hand and reached out to bang on the door with the butt, then swiftly reversed it again, and flattened to the wall.

The dog screamed inside the house. A hand holding a gun came out at the bottom of the opened window and turned.

It was a tough shot at the range. I had to make it. I shot. The bark of the automatic was drowned in the duller boom of a rifle. The hand drooped and the gun dropped to the porch. The hand came out a little farther and the fingers twitched, then began to scratch at the sill. Then they went back in through the window and the dog howled. Barron was at the door, jerking at it. And Andy and I were running hard for the cabin, from different angles.

Barron got the door open and light framed him suddenly as someone inside lit a lamp and turned it up.

I made the porch as Barron went in, Andy close behind me. We went into the living room of the cabin.

Mrs. Fred Lacey stood in the middle of the floor beside a table with a lamp on it, holding the little dog in her arms. A thickset blond-ish man lay on his side under the window, breathing heavily, his hand groping around aimlessly for the gun that had fallen outside the window.

Mrs. Lacey opened her arms and let the dog down. It leaped and hit the sheriff in the stomach with its small, sharp nose and pushed inside his coat at his shirt. Then it dropped to the floor again and ran around in circles, silently, weaving its hind end with delight.

Mrs. Lacey stood frozen, her face as empty as death. The man on the floor groaned a little in the middle of his heavy breathing. His eyes opened and shut rapidly. His lips moved and bubbled pink froth.

“That sure is a nice little dog, Mrs. Lacey,” Barron said, tucking his shirt in. “But it don’t seem a right handy time to have him around — not for some people.”

He looked at the blond man on the floor. The blond man’s eyes opened and became fixed on nothing.

“I lied to you,” Mrs. Lacey said quickly. “I had to. My husband’s life depended on it. Luders has him. He has him somewhere over here. I don’t know where, but it isn’t far off, he said. He went to bring him back to me, but he left this man to guard me. I couldn’t do anything about it, sheriff. I’m... I’m sorry.”

“I knew you lied, Mrs. Lacey,” Barron said quietly. He looked down at his Colt and put it back on his hip. “I knew why. But your husband is dead, Mrs. Lacey. He was dead long ago. Mr. Evans here saw him. It’s hard to take, ma’am, but you better know it now.”

She didn’t move or seem to breathe. Then she went very slowly to a chair and sat down and leaned her face in her hands. She sat there without motion, without sound. The little dog whined and crept under her chair.

The man on the floor started to raise the upper part of his body. He raised it very slowly, stiffly. His eyes were blank. Barron moved over to him and bent down.

“You hit bad, son?”

The man pressed his left hand against his chest. Blood oozed between his fingers. He lifted his right hand slowly, until the arm was rigid and pointing to the corner of the ceiling. His lips quivered, stiffened, spoke.

“Heil Hitler!” he said thickly.

He fell back and lay motionless. His throat rattled a little and then that, too, was still, and everything in the room was still, even the dog.

“This man must be one of them Nazis,” the sheriff said. “You hear what he said?”

“Yeah,” I said.

I turned and walked out of the house, down the steps and down through the trees again to the car. I sat on the running board and lit a cigarette, and sat there smoking and thinking hard.

After a little while they all came down through the trees. Barron was carrying the dog. Andy was carrying his rifle in his left hand. His leathery young face looked shocked.

Mrs. Lacey got into the car and Barron handed the dog in to her. He looked at me and said: “It’s against the law to smoke out here, son, more than fifty feet from a cabin.”

I dropped the cigarette and ground it hard into the powdery gray soil. I got into the car, in front beside Andy.

The car started again and we went back to what they probably called the main road over there. Nobody said anything for a long time, then Mrs. Lacey said in a low voice: “Luders mentioned a name that sounded like Sloat. He said it to the man you shot. They called him Kurt. They spoke German. I understand a little German, but they talked too fast. Sloat didn’t sound like German. Does it mean anything to you?”

“It’s the name of an old gold mine not far from here,” Barron said. “Sloat’s Mine. You know where it is, don’t you, Andy?”

“Yup. I guessed I killed that feller, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did, Andy.”

“I never killed nobody before,” Andy said.

“Maybe I got him,” I said. “I fired at him.”

“Nope,” Andy said. “You wasn’t high enough to get him in the chest. I was.”

Barron said: “How many brought you to that cabin, Mrs. Lacey? I hate to be asking you questions at a time like this, ma’am, but I just got to.”

The dead voice said: “Two. Luders and the man you killed. He ran the boat.”

“Did they stop anywhere — on this side of the lake, ma’am?”

“Yes. They stopped at a small cabin near the lake. Luders was driving. The other man, Kurt, got out, and we drove on. After a while Luders stopped and Kurt came up with us in an old car. He drove the car into a gully behind some willows and then came on with us.”

“That’s all we need,” Barron said. “If we get Luders, the job’s all done. Except I can’t figure what it’s all about.”

I didn’t say anything. We drove on to where the T intersection was and the road went back to the lake. We kept on across this for about four miles.

“Better stop here, Andy. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot. You stay here.”

“Nope. I ain’t going to,” Andy said.

“You stay here,” Barron said in a voice suddenly harsh. “You got a lady to look after and you done your killin’ for tonight. All I ask is you keep that little dog quiet.”

The car stopped. Barron and I got out. The little dog whined and then was still. We went off the road and started across country through a grove of young pines and manzanita and ironwood. We walked silently, without speaking. The noise our shoes made couldn’t have been heard thirty feet away except by an Indian.

We reached the far edge of the thicket in a few minutes. Beyond that the ground was level and open. There was a spidery something against the sky, a few low piles of waste dirt, a set of sluice boxes built one on top of the other like a miniature cooling tower, an endless belt going toward it from a cut. Barron put his mouth against my ear.

“Ain’t been worked for a couple of years,” he said. “Ain’t worth it. Day’s hard work for two men might get you a pennyweight of gold. This country was worked to death sixty years ago. That low hut over yonder’s a old refrigerator car. She’s thick and damn near bulletproof. I don’t see no car, but maybe it’s behind. Or hidden. Most like hidden. You ready to go?”

I nodded. We started across the open space. The moon was almost as bright as daylight. I felt swell, like a clay pipe in a shooting gallery. Barron seemed quite at ease. He held the big Colt down at his side, with his thumb over the hammer.

Suddenly light showed in the side of the refrigerator car and we went down on the ground. The light came from a partly opened door, a yellow panel and a yellow spearhead on the ground. There was a movement in the moonlight and the noise of water striking the ground. We waited a little, then got up again and went on.

There wasn’t much use playing Indian. They would come out of the door or they wouldn’t. If they did, they would see us, walking, crawling or lying. The ground was that bare and the moon was that bright. Our shoes scuffed a little, but this was hard dirt, much walked on and tight packed. We reached a pile of sand and stopped beside it. I listened to myself breathing. I wasn’t panting, and Barron wasn’t panting either. But I took a lot of interest in my breathing. It was something I had taken for granted for a long time, but right now I was interested in it. I hoped it would go on for a long time, but I wasn’t sure.

I wasn’t scared. I was a full-sized man and I had a gun in my hand. But the blond man back in the other cabin had been a full-sized man with a gun in his hand, too. And he had a wall to hide behind. I wasn’t scared though. I was just thoughtful about little things. I thought Barron was breathing too loud, but I thought I would make more noise telling him he was breathing too loud than he was making breathing. That’s the way I was, very thoughtful about the little things.

Then the door opened again. This time there was no light behind it. A small man, very small, came out of the doorway carrying what looked like a heavy suitcase. He carried it along the side of the car, grunting hard. Barron held my arm in a vise. His breath hissed faintly.

The small man with the heavy suitcase, or whatever it was, reached the end of the car and went around the corner. Then I thought that although the pile of sand didn’t look very high it was probably high enough so that we didn’t show above it. And if the small man wasn’t expecting visitors, he might not see us. We waited for him to come back. We waited too long.

A clear voice behind us said: “I am holding a machine gun, Mr. Barron. Put your hands up, please. If you move to do anything else, I fire.”

I put my hands up fast. Barron hesitated a little longer. Then he put his hands up. We tinned slowly. Frank Luders stood about four feet away from us, with a Tommy-gun held waist high. Its muzzle looked as big as the Second Street tunnel in L.A.

Luders said quietly: “I prefer that you face the other way. When Charlie comes back from the car, he will light the lamps inside. Then we shall all go in.”

We faced the long, low car again. Luders whistled sharply. The small man came back around the corner of the car, stopped a moment, then went toward the door Luders called out: “Light the lamps, Charlie. We have visitors.”

The small man went quietly into the car and a match scratched and there was light inside.

“Now, gentlemen, you may walk,” Luders said. “Observing, of course, that death walks close behind you and conducting yourselves accordingly.”

We walked.

“Take their guns and see if they have any more of them, Charlie.”

We stood backed against a wall near a long wooden table. There were wooden benches on either side of the table. On it was a tray with a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses, a hurricane lamp and an old-fashioned farmhouse oil lamp of thick glass, both lit, a saucer full of matches and another full of ashes and stubs. In the end of the cabin, away from the table, there was a small stove and two cots, one tumbled, one made up as neat as a pin.

The little Japanese came toward us with the light shining on his glasses.

“Oh having guns,” he purred. “Oh too bad.”

He took the guns and pushed them backward across the table to Luders. His small hands felt us over deftly. Barron winced and his face reddened, but he said nothing. Charlie said:

“No more guns. Pleased to see, gentlemen. Very nice night, I think so. You having picnic in moonlight?”

Barron made an angry sound in his throat. Luders said: “Sit down, please, gentlemen, and tell me what I can do for you.”

We sat down. Luders sat down opposite. The two guns were on the table in front of him and the Tommy-gun rested on it, his left hand holding it steady, his eyes quiet and hard. His was no longer a pleasant face, but it was still an intelligent face. Intelligent as they ever are.

Barron said: “Guess I’ll chew. I think better that way.” He got his plug out and bit into it and put it away. He chewed silently and then spit on the floor.

“Guess I might mess up your floor some,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

The Jap was sitting on the end of the neat bed, his shoes not touching the floor. “Not liking much,” he said hissingly, “very bad smell.”

Barron didn’t look at him. He said quietly: “You aim to shoot us and make your getaway, Mr. Luders?”

Luders shrugged and took his hand off the machine gun and leaned back against the wall.

Barron said: “You left a pretty broad trail here except for one thing. How we would know where to pick it up. You didn’t figure that out because you wouldn’t have acted the way you did. But you was all staked out for us when we got here. I don’t follow that.”

Luders said: “That is because we Germans are fatalists. When things go very easily, as they did tonight — except for that fool, Weber — we become suspicious. I said to myself, ‘I have left no trail, no way they could follow me across the lake quickly enough. They had no boat, and no boat followed me. It would be impossible for them to find me. Quite impossible.’ So I said, ‘They will find me just because to me it appears impossible. Therefore, I shall be waiting for them.’ ”

“While Charlie toted the suitcases full of money out to the car,” I said.

“What money?” Luders asked, and didn’t seem to look at either of us. He seemed to be looking inward, searching.

I said: “Those very fine new ten-dollar bills you have been bringing in from Mexico by plane.”

Luders looked at me then, but indifferently. “My dear friend, you could not possibly be serious?” he suggested.

“Phooey. Easiest thing in the world. The border patrol has no planes now. They had a few coast guard planes awhile back, but nothing came over, so they were taken off. A plane flying high over the border from Mexico lands on the field down by the Woodland Club golf course. It’s Mr. Luders’ plane and Mr. Luders owns an interest in the club and lives there. Why should anybody get curious about that. But Mr. Luders doesn’t want half a million dollars’ worth of queer money in his cabin at the club, so he finds himself an old mine over here and keeps the money in this refrigerator car. It’s almost as strong as a safe and it doesn’t look like a safe.”

“You interest me,” Luders said calmly. “Continue.”

I said: “The money is very good stuff. We’ve had a report on it. That means organization — to get the inks and the right paper and the plates. It means an organization much more complete than any gang of crooks could manage. A government organization. The organization of the Nazi government.”

The little Jap jumped up off the bed and hissed, but Luders didn’t change expression. “I’m still interested,” he said laconically.

“I ain’t,” Barron said. “Sounds to me like you’re tryin’ to talk yourself into a vestful of lead.”

I went on: “A few years ago the Russians tried the same stunt. Planting a lot of queer money over here to raise funds for espionage work and, incidentally, they hoped, to damage our currency. The Nazis are too smart to gamble on that angle. All they want is good American dollars to work with in Central and South America. Nice mixed-up money that’s been used. You can’t go into a bank and deposit a hundred thousand dollars in brand-new ten-dollar bills. What’s bothering the sheriff is why you picked this particular place, a mountain resort full of rather poor people.”

“But that does not bother you with your superior brain, does it?” Luders sneered.

“It don’t bother me a whole lot either,” Barron said. “What bothers me is folks getting killed in my territory. I ain’t used to it.”

I said: “You picked the place primarily because it’s a swell place to bring the money into. It’s probably one of hundreds all over the country, places where there is very little law enforcement to dodge but places where in the summertime a lot of strange people come and go all the time. And places where planes set down and nobody checks them in or out. But that isn’t the only reason. It’s also a swell place to unload some of the money, quite a lot of it, if you’re lucky. But you weren’t lucky. Your man Weber pulled a dumb trick and made you unlucky. Should I tell you just why it’s a good place to spread queer money, if you have enough people working for you?”

“Please do,” Luders said, and patted the side of the machine gun. “Because for three months in the year this district has a floating population of anywhere from twenty to fifty thousand people, depending on the holidays and week-ends. That means a lot of money brought in and a lot of business done. And there’s no bank here. The result of that is that the hotels and bars and merchants have to cash checks all the time. The result of that is that the deposits they send out during the season are almost all checks and the money stays in circulation. Until the end of the season, of course.”

“I think that is very interesting,” Luders said. “But if this operation were under my control, I would not think of passing very much money up here. I would pass a little here and there, but not much. I would test the money out, to see how well it was accepted. And for a reason that you have thought of. Because most of it would change hands rapidly and, if it was discovered to be queer money, as you say, it would be very difficult to trace the source of it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That would be smarter. You’re nice and frank about it.”

“To you,” Luders said, “it naturally does not matter how frank I am.”

Barron leaned forward suddenly. “Look here, Luders, killin’ us ain’t going to help you any. If you come right down to it, we don’t have a thing on you. Likely you killed this man Weber, but the way things are up here, it’s going to be mighty hard to prove it. If you been spreading bad money, they’ll get you for it, sure, but that ain’t a hangin’ matter. Now I’ve got a couple pair of handcuffs in my belt, so happens, and my proposition is you walk out of here with them on, you and your Japanese pal.”

Charlie the Jap said: “Ha, ha. Very funny man. Some boob I guess yes.”

Luders smiled faintly. “You put all the stuff in the car, Charlie?”

“One more suitcase coming right up,” Charlie said.

“Better take it on out, and start the engine, Charlie.”

“Listen, it won’t work, Luders,” Barron said urgently. “I got a man back in the woods with a deer rifle. It’s bright moonlight. You got a fair weapon there, but you got no more chance against a deer rifle than Evans and me got against you. You’ll never get out of here unless we go with you. He seen us come in here and how we come. He’ll give us twenty minutes. Then he’ll send for some boys to dynamite you out. Them were my orders.”

Luders said quietly: “This work is very difficult. Even we Germans find it difficult. I am tired. I made a bad mistake. I used a man who was a fool, who did a foolish thing, and then he killed a man because he had done it and the man knew he had done it. But it was my mistake also. I shall not be forgiven. My life is no longer of great importance. Take the suitcase to the car, Charlie.”

Charlie moved swiftly toward him. “Not liking, no,” he said sharply. “That damn heavy suitcase. Man with rifle shooting. To hell.”

Luders smiled slowly. “That’s all a lot of nonsense, Charlie. If they had men with them, they would have been here long ago. That is why I let these men talk. To see if they were alone. They are alone. Go, Charlie.”

Charlie said hissingly: “I going, but I still not liking.”

He went over to the corner and hefted the suitcase that stood there. He could hardly carry it. He moved slowly to the door and put the suitcase down and sighed. He opened the door a crack and looked out. “Not see anybody,” he said. “Maybe all lies, too.”

Luders said musingly: “I should have killed the dog and the woman, too. I was weak. The man Kurt, what of him?”

“Never heard of him,” I said. “Where was he?”

Luders stared at me. “Get up on your feet, both of you.”

I got up. An icicle was crawling around on my back. Barron got up. His face was gray. The whitening hair at the side of his head glistened with sweat. There was sweat all over his face, but his jaws went on chewing.

He said softly: “How much you get for this job, son?”

I said thickly: “A hundred bucks, but I spent some of it.”

Barron said in the same soft tone: “I been married forty years. They pay me eighty dollars a month, house and firewood. It ain’t enough. By gum, I ought to get a hundred.” He grinned wryly and spat and looked at Luders. “To hell with you, you Nazi bastard,” he said.

Luders lifted the machine gun slowly and his lips drew back over his teeth. His breath made a hissing noise. Then very slowly he laid the gun down and reached inside his coat. He took out a Luger and moved the safety with his thumb. He shifted the gun to his left hand and stood looking at us quietly. Very slowly his face drained of all expression and became a dead gray mask. He lifted the gun, and at the same time he lifted his right arm stiffly above shoulder height. The arm was as rigid as a rod.

“Heil, Hitler!” he said sharply.

He turned the gun quickly, put the muzzle in his mouth and fired.

The Jap screamed and streaked out of the door. Barron and I lunged hard across the table. We got our guns. Blood fell on the back of my hand and then Luders crumpled slowly against the wall.

Barron was already out of the door. When I got out behind him, I saw that the little Jap was running hard down the hill toward a clump of brush.

Barron steadied himself, brought the Colt up, then lowered it again.

“He ain’t far enough,” he said. “I always give a man forty yards.”

He raised the big Colt again and turned his body a little and, as the gun reached firing position, it moved very slowly and Barron’s head went down a little until his arm and shoulder and right eye were all in a line.

He stayed like that, perfectly rigid for a long moment, then the gun roared and jumped back in his hand and a lean thread of smoke showed faint in the moonlight and disappeared.

The Jap kept on running. Barron lowered his Colt and watched him plunge into a clump of brush.

“Hell,” he said. “I missed him.” He looked at me quickly and looked away again. “But he won’t get nowhere. Ain’t got nothing to get with. Them little legs of his ain’t hardly long enough to jump him over a pine cone.”

“He had a gun,” I said. “Under his left arm.”

Barron shook his head. “Nope. I noticed the holster was empty. I figured Luders got it away from him. I figure Luders meant to shoot him before he left.”

Car lights showed in the distance, coming dustily along the road.

“What made Luders go soft?”

“I figure his pride was hurt,” Barron said thoughtfully. “A big organizer like him gettin’ hisself all balled to hell by a couple of little fellows like us.”

We went around the end of the refrigerator car. A big new coupe was parked there. Barron marched over to it and opened the door. The car on the road was near now. It turned off and its headlights raked the big coupe. Barron stared into the car for a moment, then slammed the door viciously and spat on the ground.

“Caddy V-12,” he said. “Red leather cushions and suitcases in the back.” He reached in again and snapped on the dashlight. “What time is it?”

“Twelve minutes to two,” I said.

“This clock ain’t no twelve and a half minutes slow,” Barron said angrily. “You slipped on that.” He turned and faced me, pushing his hat back on his head. “Hell, you seen it parked in front of the Indian Head,” he said.

“Right.”

“I thought you was just a smart guy.”

“Right,” I said.

“Son, next time I got to get almost shot, could you plan to be around?”

The car that was coming stopped a few yards away and a dog whined. Andy called out: “Anybody hurt?”

Barron and I walked over to the car. The door opened and the little silky dog jumped out and rushed at Barron. She took off about four feet away and sailed through the air and planted her front paws hard against Barron’s stomach, then dropped back to the ground and ran in circles.

Barron said: “Luders shot hisself inside there. There’s a little Jap down in the bushes we got to round up. And there’s three, four suitcases full of counterfeit money we got to take care of.”

He looked off into the distance, a solid, heavy man like a rock. “A night like this,” he said, “and it’s got to be full of death.”

Too Many Have Lived

by Dashiell Hammett

A poet in a Dashiell Hammett story seems as unlikely as a mobster in Michael Innes. But some poets have contacts outside the ivory tower, the corner bistro, or the women’s clubs; and these contacts can lead them to SAM SPADE. Hard, devil-faced, tough-minded SPADE can crack a case keenly, as Bogart fans know, even when his private revenge and his love hinge on the solution. Watch him here, where his only interest is a fee... and then pause at the end and wonder whether he collected that fee, and whether he may not be moved by as pure a sense of righteousness as UNCLE ABNER — who might understand SPADE better than you’d think.

* * *

The man’s tie was as orange as a sunset. He was a large man, tall and meaty, without softness. The dark hair parted in the middle, flattened to his scalp, his firm, full cheeks, the clothes that fit him with noticeable snugness, even the small, pink ears flat against the sides of his head — each of these seemed but a differently colored part of one same, smooth surface. His age could have been thirty-five or forty-five.

He sat beside Samuel Spade’s desk, leaning forward a little over his Malacca stick, and said, “No. I want you to find out what happened to him. I hope you never find him.” His protuberant green eyes stared solemnly at Spade.

Spade rocked back in his chair. His face — given a not unpleasantly satanic cast by the v’s of his bony chin, mouth, nostrils, and thickish brows — was as politely interested as his voice. “Why?”

The green-eyed man spoke quietly, with assurance: “I can talk to you, Spade. You’ve the sort of reputation I want in a private detective. That’s why I’m here.”

Spade’s nod committed him to nothing.

The green-eyed man said, “And any fair price is all right with me.”

Spade nodded as before. “And with me,” he said, “but I’ve got to know what you want to buy. You want to find out what’s happened to this — uh — Eli Haven, but you don’t care what it is?”

The green-eyed man lowered his voice, but there was no other change in his mien: “In a way I do. For instance, if you found him and fixed it so he stayed away for good, it might be worth more money to me.”

“You mean even if he didn’t want to stay away?”

The green-eyed man said, “Especially.”

Spade smiled and shook his head. “Probably not enough more money — the way you mean it.” He took his long, thick-fingered hands from the arms of his chair and turned their palms up. “Well, what’s it all about, Colyer?”

Colyer’s face reddened a little, but his eyes maintained their unblinking cold stare. “This man’s got a wife. I like her. They had a row last week and he blew. If I can convince her he’s gone for good, there’s a chance she’ll divorce him.”

“I’d want to talk to her,” Spade said. “Who is this Eli Haven? What does he do?”

“He’s a bad egg. He doesn’t do anything. Writes poetry or something.”

“What can you tell me about him that’ll help?”

“Nothing Julia, his wife, can’t tell you. You’re going to talk to her.” Colyer stood up. “I’ve got connections. Maybe I can get something for you through them later...”

A small-boned woman of twenty-five or — six opened the apartment door. Her powder-blue dress was trimmed with silver buttons. She was full-bosomed but slim, with straight shoulders and narrow hips, and she carried herself with a pride that would have been cockiness in one less graceful.

Spade said, “Mrs. Haven?”

She hesitated before saying “Yes.”

“Gene Colyer sent me to see you. My name’s Spade. I’m a private detective. He wants me to find your husband.”

“And have you found him?”

“I told him I’d have to talk to you first.”

Her smile went away. She studied his face gravely, feature by feature, then she said, “Certainly,” and stepped back, drawing the door back with her.

When they were seated in facing chairs in a cheaply furnished room overlooking a playground where children were noisy, she asked, “Did Gene tell you why he wanted Eli found?”

“He said if you knew he was gone for good maybe you’d listen to reason.”

She said nothing.

“Has he ever gone off like this before?”

“Often.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s a swell man,” she said dispassionately, “when he’s sober; and when he’s drinking he’s all right except with women and money.”

“That leaves him a lot of room to be all right in. What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a poet,” she replied, “but nobody makes a living at that.”

“Well?”

“Oh, he pops in with a little money now and then. Poker, races, he says. I don’t know.”

“How long’ve you been married?”

“Four years, almost” — she smiled mockingly.

“San Francisco all the time?”

“No, we lived in Seattle the first year and then came here.”

“He from Seattle?”

She shook her head. “Some place in Delaware.”

“What place?”

“I don’t know.”

Spade drew his thickish brows together a little. “Where are you from?”

She said sweetly, “You’re not hunting for me.”

“You act like it,” he grumbled. “Well, who are his friends?”

“Don’t ask me!”

He made an impatient grimace. “You know some of them,” he insisted.

“Sure. There’s a fellow named Minera and a Louis James and somebody he calls Conny.”

“Who are they?”

“Men,” she replied blandly. “I don’t know anything about them. They phone or drop by to pick him up, or I see him around town with them. That’s all I know.”

“What do they do for a living? They can’t all write poetry.”

She laughed. “They could try. One of them, Louis James, is a... a member of Gene’s staff, I think. I honestly don’t know any more about them than I’ve told you.”

“Think they’d know where your husband is?”

She shrugged. “They’re kidding me if they do. They still call up once in a while to see if he’s turned up.”

“And these women you mentioned?”

“They’re not people I know.”

Spade scowled thoughtfully at the floor, asked, “What’d he do before he started not making a living writing poetry?”

“Anything — sold vacuum cleaners, hoboed, went to sea, dealt blackjack, railroaded, canning houses, lumber camps, carnivals, worked on a newspaper — anything.”

“Have any money when he left?”

“Three dollars he borrowed from me.”

“What’d he say?”

She laughed. “Said if I used whatever influence I had with God while he was gone he’d be back at dinnertime with a surprise for me.”

Spade raised his eyebrows. “You were on good terms?”

“Oh, yes. Our last fight had been patched up a couple of days before.”

“When did he leave?”

“Thursday afternoon; three o’clock, I guess.”

“Got any photographs of him?”

“Yes.” She went to a table by one of the windows, pulled a drawer out, and turned towards Spade again with a photograph in her hand.

Spade looked at the picture of a thin face with deep-set eyes, a sensual mouth, and a heavily lined forehead topped by a disorderly mop of coarse blond hair.

He put Haven’s photograph in his pocket and picked up his hat. He turned towards the door, halted. “What kind of poet is he? Pretty good?”

She shrugged. “That depends on who you ask.”

“Any of it around here?”

“No.” She smiled. “Think he’s hiding between pages?”

“You never can tell what’ll lead to what. I’ll be back some time. Think things over and see if you can’t find some way of loosening up a little more. ’By.”

He walked down Post Street to Mulford’s book store and asked for a volume of Haven’s poetry.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said. “I sold my last copy last week” — she smiled — “to Mr. Haven himself. I can order it for you.”

“You know him?”

“Only through selling his books.”

Spade pursed his lips, asked, “What day was it?” He gave her one of his business cards. “Please. It’s important.”

She went to a desk, turned the pages of a red-bound sales-book, and came back to him with the book open in her hand. “It was last Wednesday,” she said, “and we delivered it to a Mr. Roger Ferris, 1981 Pacific Avenue.”

“Thanks a lot,” he said.

Outside, he hailed a taxicab and gave the driver Mr. Roger Ferris’s address...

The Pacific Avenue house was a four-story, graystone one set behind a narrow strip of lawn. The room into which a plump-faced maid ushered Spade was large and high-ceiled.

Spade sat down, but when the maid had gone away he rose and began to walk around the room. He halted at a table where there were three books. One of them had a salmon-colored jacket on which was printed in red an outline drawing of a bolt of lightning striking the ground between a man and a woman, and in black the words Colored Light, by Eli Haven.

Spade picked up the book and went back to his chair.

There was an inscription on the flyleaf — heavy, irregular characters written with blue ink:

To good old Buck, who knew his colored lights,

in memory of them there days.

Eli

Spade turned pages at random and idly read a verse:

STATEMENT

Too many have lived

As we live

For our lives to be

Proof of our living.

Too many have died

As we die

For their deaths to be

Proof of our dying.

He looked up from the book as a man in dinner clothes came into the room. He was not a tall man, but his erectness made him seem tall even when Spade’s six feet and a fraction of an inch were standing before him. He had bright blue eyes undimmed by his fifty-some years, a sunburned face in which no muscle sagged, a smooth, broad forehead, and thick, short, nearly white hair. There was dignity in his countenance, and amiability.

He nodded at the book Spade still held. “How do you like it?”

Spade grinned, said, “I guess I’m just a mug,” and put the book down. “That’s what I came to see you about, though, Mr. Ferris. You know Haven?”

“Yes, certainly. Sit down, Mr. Spade.” He sat in a chair not far from Spade’s. “I knew him as a kid. He’s not in trouble, is he?”

Spade said, “I don’t know. I’m trying to find him.”

Ferris spoke hesitantly: “Can I ask why?”

“You know Gene Colyer?”

“Yes. Ferris hesitated again,” then said, “This is in confidence. I’ve a chain of picture houses through northern California, you know, and a couple of years ago when I had some labor trouble I was told that Colyer was the man to get in touch with to have it straightened out. That’s how I happened to meet him.”

“Yes,” Spade said dryly. “A lot of people happen to meet Gene that way.”

“But what’s he got to do with Eli?”

“Wants him found. How long since you’ve seen him?”

“Last Thursday he was here.”

“What time did he leave?”

“Midnight — a little after. He came over in the afternoon around half past three. We hadn’t seen each other for years. I persuaded him to stay for dinner — he looked pretty seedy — and lent him some money.”

“How much?”

“A hundred and fifty — all I had in the house.”

“Say where he was going when he left?”

Ferris shook his head. “He said he’d phone me the next day.”

“Did he phone you the next day?”

“No.”

“And you’ve known him all his life?”

“Not exactly, but he worked for me fifteen or sixteen years ago when I had a carnival company — Great Eastern and Western Combined Shows — with a partner for a while and then by myself, and I always liked the kid.”

“How long before Thursday since you’d seen him?”

“Lord knows,” Ferris replied. “I’d lost track of him for years. Then, Wednesday, out of a clear sky, that book came, with no address or anything, just that stuff written in the front, and the next morning he called me up. I was tickled to death to know he was still alive and doing something with himself. So he came over that afternoon and we put in about nine hours straight talking about old times.”

“Tell you much about what he’d been doing since then?”

“Just that he’d been knocking around, doing one thing and another, taking the breaks as they came. He didn’t complain much; I had to make him take the hundred and fifty.”

Spade stood up. “Thanks ever so much, Mr. Ferris. I—”

Ferris interrupted him: “Not at all, and if there’s anything I can do, call on me.”

Spade looked at his watch. “Can I phone my office to see if anything’s turned up?”

“Certainly; there’s a phone in the next room, to the right.”

Spade said “Thanks” and went out. When he returned he was rolling a cigarette. His face was wooden.

“Any news?” Ferris asked.

“Yes. Colyer’s called the job off. He says Haven’s body’s been found in some bushes on the other side of San Jose, with three bullets in it.” He smiled, adding mildly, “He told me he might be able to find out something through his connections...”

Morning sunshine, coming through the curtains that screened Spade’s office windows, put two fat, yellow rectangles on the floor and gave everything in the room a yellow tint.

He sat at his desk, staring meditatively at a newspaper. He did not look up when Effie Perine came in from the outer office.

She said, “Mrs. Haven is here.”

He raised his head then and said, “That’s better. Push her in.”

Mrs. Haven came in quickly. Her face was white and she was shivering in spite of her fur coat and the warmth of the day. She came straight to Spade and asked, “Did Gene kill him?”

Spade said, “I don’t know.”

“I’ve got to know,” she cried.

Spade took her hands. “Here, sit down.” He led her to a chair. He asked, “Colyer tell you he’d called the job off?”

She stared at him in amazement. “He what?”

“He left word here last night that your husband had been found and he wouldn’t need me any more.”

She hung her head and her words were barely audible. “Then he did.”

Spade shrugged. “Maybe only an innocent man could’ve afforded to call it off then, or maybe he was guilty, but had brains enough and nerve enough to—”

She was not listening to him. She was leaning towards him, speaking earnestly: “But, Mr. Spade, you’re not going to drop it like that? You’re not going to let him stop you?”

While she was speaking his telephone bell rang. He said, “Excuse me,” and picked up the receiver. “Yes?... Uh-huh... So?” He pursed his lips. “I’ll let you know.” He pushed the telephone aside slowly and faced Mrs. Haven again. “Colyer’s outside.”

“Does he know I’m here?” she asked quickly.

“Couldn’t say.” He stood up, pretending he was not watching her closely. “Do you care?”

She pinched her lower lip between her teeth, said “No” hesitantly. “Fine. I’ll have him in.”

She raised a hand as if in protest, then let it drop, and her white face was composed. “Whatever you want,” she said.

Spade opened the door, said, “Hello, Colyer. Come on in. We were just talking about you.”

Colyer nodded and came into the office holding his stick in one hand, his hat in the other. “How are you this morning, Julia? You ought to’ve phoned me. I’d’ve driven you back to town.”

“I... I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Colyer looked at her for a moment longer, then shifted the focus of his expressionless green eyes to Spade’s face. “Well, have you been able to convince her I didn’t do it?”

“We hadn’t got around to that,” Spade said. “I was just trying to find out how much reason there was for suspecting you. Sit down.”

Colyer sat down somewhat carefully, asked, “And?”

“And then you arrived.”

Colyer nodded gravely. “All right, Spade,” he said; “you’re hired again to prove to Mrs. Haven that I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Gene!” she exclaimed in a choked voice and held her hands out toward him appealingly. “I don’t think you did — I don’t want to think you did — but I’m so afraid.” She put her hands to her face and began to cry.

Colyer went over to the woman. “Take it easy,” he said. “We’ll kick it out together.”

Spade went into the outer office, shutting the door behind him.

Effie Perine stopped typing a letter.

He grinned at her, said, “Somebody ought to write a book about people sometime — they’re peculiar,” and went over to the water bottle. “You’ve got Wally Kellogg’s number. Call him up and ask him where I can find Tom Minera.”

He returned to the inner officer-

Mrs. Haven had stopped crying. She said, “I’m sorry.”

Spade said, “It’s all right.” He looked sidewise at Colyer. “I still got my job?”

“Yes.” Colyer cleared his throat. “But if there’s nothing special right now, I’d better take Mrs. Haven home.”

“O.K., but there’s one thing: According to the Chronicle, you identified him. How come you were down there?”

“I went down when I heard they’d found a body,” Colyer replied deliberately. “I told you I had connections. I heard about the body through them.”

Spade said, “All right; be seeing you,” and opened the door for them.

When the corridor door closed behind them, Effie Perine said, “Minera’s at the Buxton on Army Street.”

Spade said, “Thanks.” He went into the inner office to get his hat. On his way out he said, “If I’m not back in a couple of months tell them to look for my body there...”

Spade walked down a shabby corridor to a battered green door marked “411.” The murmur of voices came through the door, but no words could be distinguished. He stopped listening and knocked.

An obviously disguised male voice asked, “What is it?”

“I want to see Tom. This is Sam Spade.”

A pause, then: “Tom ain’t here.”

Spade put a hand on the knob and shook the frail door. “Come on, open up,” he growled.

Presently the door was opened by a thin, dark man of twenty-five or — six who tried to make his beady dark eyes guileless while saying, “I didn’t think it was your voice at first.” The slackness of his mouth made his chin seem even smaller than it was. His green-striped shirt, open at the neck, was not clean. His gray pants were carefully pressed.

“You’ve got to be careful these days,” Spade said solemnly, and went through the doorway into a room where two men were trying to seem uninterested in his arrival.

One of them leaned against the window sill filing his fingernails. The other was tilted back in a chair with his feet on the edge of a table and a newspaper spread between his hands. They glanced at Spade in unison and went on with their occupations.

Spade said cheerfully, “Always glad to meet any friends of Tom Minera’s.”

Minera finished shutting the door and said awkwardly, “Uh... yes... Mr. Spade, meet Mr. Conrad and Mr. James.”

Conrad, the man at the window, made a vaguely polite gesture with the nail file in his hand. He was a few years older than Minera, of average height, sturdily built, with a thick-featured, dull-eyed face.

James lowered his paper for an instant to look coolly, appraisingly at Spade and say, “How’r’ye, brother?” Then he returned to his reading. He was as sturdily built as Conrad, but taller, and his face had a shrewdness the other’s lacked.

“Ah,” Spade said, “and friends of the late Eli Haven.”

The man at the window jabbed a finger with his nail file, and cursed it bitterly. Minera moistened his lips, and then spoke rapidly, with a whining note in his voice: “But on the level, Spade, we hadn’t none of us seen him for a week.”

Spade seemed mildly amused by the dark man’s manner.

“What do you think he was killed for?”

“All I know is what the paper says: His pockets was all turned inside out and there wasn’t as much as a match on him.” He drew down the ends of his mouth. “But far as I know he didn’t have no dough. He didn’t have none Tuesday night.”

Spade, speaking softly, said, “I hear he got some Thursday night.”

Minera, behind Spade, caught his breath audibly.

James said, “I guess you ought to know. I don’t.”

“He ever work with you boys?”

James slowly put aside his newspaper and took his feet off the table. His interest in Spade’s question seemed great enough, but almost impersonal. “Now what do you mean by that?”

Spade pretended surprise. “But you boys must work at something?”

Minera came around to Spade’s side. “Aw, listen, Spade,” he said. “This guy Haven was just a guy we knew. We didn’t have nothing to do with rubbing him out; we don’t know nothing about it. You know, we—”

Three deliberate knocks sounded at the door.

Minerva and Conrad looked at James, who nodded, but by then Spade, moving swiftly, had reached the door and was opening it.

Roger Ferris was there.

Spade blinked at Ferris, Ferris at Spade. Then Ferris put out his hand and said, “I am glad to see you.”

“Come on in,” Spade said.

“Look at this, Mr. Spade.” Ferris’s hand trembled as he took a slightly soiled envelope from his pocket.

Ferris’s name and address were typewritten on the envelope. There was no postage stamp on it. Spade took out the enclosure, a narrow slip of cheap white paper, and unfolded it. On it was typewritten:

You had better come to Room № 411 Buxton Hotel on Army St at 5 PM this afternoon on account of Thursday night.

There was no signature.

Spade said, “It’s a long time before five o’clock.”

“It is,” Ferris agreed with emphasis. “I came as soon as I got that. It was Thursday night Eli was at my house.”

Minera was jostling Spade, asking, “What is all this?”

Spade held the note up for the dark man to read. He read it and yelled, “Honest, Spade, I don’t know nothing about that letter.”

“Does anybody?” Spade asked.

Conrad said “No” hastily.

James said, “What letter?”

Spade looked dreamily at Ferris for a moment, then said, as if speaking to himself, “Of course, Haven was trying to shake you down.”

Ferris’s face reddened. “What?”

“Shake-down,” Spade repeated patiently; “money, blackmail.”

“Look here, Spade,” Ferris said earnestly; “you don’t really believe what you said? What would he have to blackmail me on?”

“ ‘To good old Buck’ ” — Spade quoted the dead poet’s inscription — “ ‘who knew his colored fights, in memory of them there days.’ ” He looked somberly at Ferris from beneath slightly raised brows. “What colored fights? What’s the circus and carnival slang term for kicking a guy off a train while it’s going? Red-lighting. Sure, that’s it — red fights. Who’d you red-light, Ferris, that Haven knew about?”

Minera went over to a chair, sat down, put his elbows on his knees, his head between his hands, and stared blankly at the floor. Conrad was breathing as if he had been running.

Spade addressed Ferris: “Well?”

Ferris wiped his face with a handkerchief, put the handkerchief in his pocket, and said simply, “It was a shake-down.”

“And you killed him.”

Ferris’s blue eyes, looking into Spade’s yellow-gray ones, were clear and steady, as was his voice. “I did not,” he said. “I swear I did not. Let me tell you what happened. He sent me the book, as I told you, and I knew right away what that joke he wrote in the front meant. So the next day, when he phoned me and said he was coming over to talk over old times and to try to borrow some money for old times’ sake, I knew what he meant again, and I went down to the bank and drew out ten thousand dollars. You can check that up. It’s the Seamen’s National.”

“I will,” Spade said.

“As it turned out, I didn’t need that much. He wasn’t very big-time, and I talked him into taking five thousand. I put the other five back in the bank next day. You can check that up.”

“I will,” Spade said.

“I told him I wasn’t going to stand for any more taps, this five thousand was the first and last. I made him sign a paper saying he’d helped in the — in what I’d done — and he signed it. He left sometime around midnight, and that’s the last I ever saw of him.”

Spade tapped the envelope Ferris had given him. “And how about this note?”

“A messenger boy brought it at noon, and I came right over. Eli had assured me he hadn’t said anything to anybody, but I didn’t know. I had to face it, whatever it was.”

Spade turned to the others, his face wooden. “Well?”

Minera and Conrad looked at James, who made an impatient grimace and said, “Oh, sure, we sent him the letter. Why not? We was friends of Eli’s, and we hadn’t been able to find him since he went to put the squeeze to this baby, and then he turns up dead, so we kind of like to have the gent come over and explain things.”

“You knew about the squeeze?”

“Sure. We was all together when he got the idea.”

“How’d he happen to get the idea?” Spade asked.

James spread the fingers of his left hand. “We’d been drinking and talking — you know the way a bunch of guys will, about all they’d seen and done — and he told a yam about once seeing a guy boot another off a train into a canon, and he happens to mention the name of the guy that done the booting — Buck Ferris. And somebody says, ‘What’s this Ferris look like?’ Eli tells him what he looked like then, saying he ain’t seen him for fifteen years; and whoever it is whistles and says, ‘I bet that’s the Ferris that owns about half the movie joints in the state. I bet you he’d give something to keep that back trail covered!’

“Well, the idea kind of hit Eli. You could see that. He thought a little while and then he got cagey. He asked what this movie Ferris’s first name is, and when the other guy tells him, ‘Roger,’ he makes out he’s disappointed and says, ‘No, it ain’t him. His first name was Martin.’ We all give him the ha-ha and he finally admits he’s thinking of seeing the gent, and when he called me up Thursday around noon and says he’s throwing a party at Pogey Hecker’s that night, it ain’t no trouble to figure out what’s what.”

“What was the name of the gentleman who was red-lighted?”

“He wouldn’t say. He shut up tight. You couldn’t blame him.”

“Uh-huh,” Spade agreed.

“Then nothing. He never showed up at Pogey’s. We tried to get him on the phone around two o’clock in the morning, but his wife said he hadn’t been home, so we stuck around till four or five and then decided he had given us a run-around, and made Pogey charge the bill to him, and beat it. I ain’t seem him since — dead or alive.” Spade said mildly. “Maybe. Sure you didn’t find Eli later that morning, take him riding, swap him bullets for Ferris’s five thou, dump him in the—?”

A sharp double knock sounded on the door.

Spade’s face brightened. He went to the door and opened it.

A young man came in. He was very dapper, and very well proportioned. He wore a light topcoat and his hands were in its pockets. Just inside the door he stepped to the right, and stood with his back to the wall. By that time another young man was coming in. He stepped to the left. Though they did not actually look alike, their common dapperness, the similar trimness of their bodies, and their almost identical positions — backs to wall, hands in pockets, cold, bright eyes studying the occupants of the room — gave them, for an instant, the appearance of twins.

Then Gene Colyer came in. He nodded at Spade, but paid no attention to the others in the room, though James said, “Hello, Gene.”

“Anything new?” Colyer asked Spade.

Spade nodded. “It seems this gentleman” — he jerked a thumb at Ferris — “was—”

“Any place we can talk?”

“There’s a kitchen back here.”

Colyer snapped a “Smear anybody that pops” over his shoulder at the two dapper young men and followed Spade into the kitchen. He sat on the one kitchen chair and stared with unblinking green eyes at Spade while Spade told him what he had learned.

When the private detective had finished, the green-eyed man asked, “Well, what do you make of it?”

Spade looked thoughtfully at the other. “You’ve picked up something. I’d like to know what it is.”

Colyer said, “They found the gun in a stream a quarter of a mile from where they found him. It’s James’s — got the mark on it where it was shot out of his hand once in Vallejo.”

“That’s nice,” Spade said.

“Listen. A kid named Thurber says James comes to him last Wednesday and gets him to tail Haven. Thurber picks him up Thursday afternoon, puts him in at Ferris’s, and phones James. James tells him to take a plant on the place and let him know where Haven goes when he leaves, but some nervous woman in the neighborhood puts in a rumble about the kid hanging around, and the cops chase him along about ten o’clock.”

Spade pursed his lips and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

Colyer’s eyes were expressionless, but sweat made his round face shiny, and his voice was hoarse. “Spade,” he said, “I’m going to turn him in.”

Spade switched his gaze from the ceiling to the protuberant green eyes.

“I’ve never turned in one of my people before,” Colyer said, “but this one goes. Juba’s got to believe I hadn’t anything to do with it if it’s one of my people and I turn him in, hasn’t she?”

Spade nodded slowly. “I think so.”

Colyer suddenly averted his eyes and cleared his throat. When he spoke again it was curtly: “Well, he goes.”

Minera, James, and Conrad were seated when Spade and Colyer came out of the kitchen. Ferris was walking the floor. The two dapper young men had not moved.

Colyer went over to James. “Where’s your gun, Louis?” he asked.

James moved his right hand a few inches towards his left breast, stopped it, and said, “Oh, I didn’t bring it.”

With his gloved hand — open — Colyer struck James on the side of the face, knocking him out of his chair.

James straightened up, mumbling, “I didn’t mean nothing.” He put a hand to the side of his face. “I know I oughtn’t’ve done it, Chief, but when he called up and said he didn’t like to go up against Ferris without something and didn’t have any of his own, I said, ‘All right,’ and sent it over to him.”

Colyer said, “And you sent Thurber over to him, too.”

“We were just kind of interested in seeing if he did go through with it,” James mumbled.

“And you couldn’t’ve gone there yourself, or sent somebody else?”

“After Thurber had stirred up the whole neighborhood?”

Colyer turned to Spade. “Want us to help you take them in, or want to call the wagon?”

“We’ll do it regular,” Spade said, and went to the wall telephone. When he turned away from it his face was wooden, his eyes dreamy. He made a cigarette, lit it, and said to Colyer, “I’m silly enough to think your Louis has got a lot of right answers in that story of his.”

James took his hand down from his bruised cheek and stared at Spade with astonished eyes.

Colyer growled, “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” Spade said softly, “except I think you’re a little too anxious to slam it on him.” He blew smoke out. “Why, for instance, should he drop his gun there when it had marks on it that people knew?”

Colyer said, “You think he’s got brains.”

“If these boys killed him, knew he was dead, why do they wait till the body’s found and things are stirred up before they go after Ferris again? What’d they turn his pockets inside out for if they hijacked him? That’s a lot of trouble and only done by folks that kill for some other reason and want to make it look like robbery.” He shook his head. “You’re too anxious to slam it on them. Why should they—?”

“That’s not the point right now,” Colyer said. “The point is, why do you keep saying I’m too anxious to slam it on him?”

Spade shrugged. “Maybe to clear yourself with Julia as soon as possible and as clear as possible, maybe even to clear yourself with the police, and then you’ve got clients.”

Colyer said, “What?”

Spade made a careless gesture with his cigarette. “Ferris,” he said blandly. “He killed him, of course.”

Colyer’s eyelids quivered, though he did not actually blink.

Spade said, “First, he’s the last person we know of who saw Eli alive, and that’s always a good bet. Second, he’s the only person I talked to before Eli’s body turned up who cared whether I thought they were holding out on me or not. The rest of you just thought I was hunting for a guy who’d gone away. He knew I was hunting for a man he’d killed, so he had to put himself in the clear. He was even afraid to throw that book away, because it had been sent up by the book store and could be traced, and there might be clerks who’d seen the inscription. Third, he was the only one who thought Eli was just a sweet, clean, lovable boy — for the same reasons. Fourth, that story about a blackmailer showing up at three o’clock in the afternoon, making an easy touch for five grand, and then sticking around till midnight is just silly, no matter how good the booze was. Fifth, the story about the paper Eli signed is still worse, though a forged one could be fixed up easy enough. Sixth, he’s got the best reason for anybody we know for wanting Eli dead.”

Colyer nodded slowly. “Still—”

“Still nothing,” Spade said. “Maybe he did the ten-thousand-out-five-thousand-back trick with his bank, but that was easy. Then he got this feeble-minded blackmailer in his house, stalled him along until the servants had gone to bed, took the borrowed gun away from him, shoved him downstairs into his car, took him for a ride — maybe took him already dead, maybe shot him down there by the bushes-frisked him clean to make identification harder and to make it look like robbery, tossed the gun in the water, and came home—”

He broke off to listen to the sound of a siren in the street. He looked then, for the first time since he had begun to talk, at Ferris.

Ferris’s face was ghastly white, but he held his eyes steady.

Spade said, “I’ve got a hunch, Ferris, that we’re going to find out about that red-lighting job, too. You told me you had your carnival company with a partner for a while when Eli was working for you, and then by yourself. We oughtn’t to have a lot of trouble finding out about your partner — whether he disappeared, or died a natural death, or is still alive.”

Ferris had lost some of his erectness. He wet his lips and said, “I want to see my lawyer. I don’t want to talk till I’ve seen my lawyer.”

Spade said, “It’s all right with me. You’re up against it, but I don’t like blackmailers myself. I think Eli wrote a good epitaph for them in that book back there — ‘Too many have lived.’ ”

The Second Bullet

by Anna Katharine Green

VIOLET STRANGE, society-girl turned professional detective for secret reasons of her own, is to many of us as charming as she is astute. Certain heretics decry her as dated, and she is — exactly as dated, say, as Edith Wharton’s stories of New York. MISS STRANGE’S problems appeared in 1915, when the world in which she was bred was already crumbling. Perhaps her own breaking away from that world is even an unconscious symbol, or symptom. Like the Holmes Canon, if to a lesser extent, her problems are an unintended chronicle of an era. They are also extraordinary in their own right as problems, as you can see from “The second bullet,” which offers a puzzle with as macabre a solution as you’ll find outside of Simenon.

* * *

“You must see her.”

“No. No.”

“She’s a most unhappy woman. Husband and child both taken from her in a moment; and now, all means of living as well, unless some happy thought of yours — some inspiration of your genius-shows us a way of re-establishing her claims to the policy voided by this cry of suicide.”

But the small wise head of Violet Strange continued its slow shake of decided refusal.

“I’m sorry,” she protested, “but it’s quite out of my province. I’m too young to meddle with so serious a matter.”

“Not when you can save a bereaved woman the only possible compensation left her by untoward fate?”

“Let the police try their hand at that.”

“They have had no success with the case.”

“Or you?”

“Nor I either.”

“And you expect—”

“Yes, Miss Strange. I expect you to find the missing bullet which will settle the fact that murder and not suicide ended George Hammond’s life. If you cannot, then a long litigation awaits this poor widow, ending, as such litigation usually does, in favour of the stronger party. There’s the alternative. If you once saw her—”

“But that’s what I’m not willing to do. If I once saw her I should yield to her importunities and attempt the seemingly impossible. My instincts bid me say no. Give me something easier.”

“Easier things are not so remunerative. There’s money in this affair, if the insurance company is forced to pay up. I can offer you—”

“What?”

There was eagerness in the tone despite her effort at nonchalance. The other smiled imperceptibly, and briefly named the sum.

It was larger than she had expected. This her visitor saw by the way her eyelids fell and the peculiar stillness which, for an instant, held her vivacity in check.

“And you think I can earn that?”

Her eyes were fixed on his in an eagerness as honest as it was unrestrained.

He could hardly conceal his amazement, her desire was so evident and the cause of it so difficult to understand. He knew she wanted money — that was her avowed reason for entering into this uncongenial work. But to want it so much! He glanced at her person; it was simply clad but very expensively — how expensively it was his business to know. Then he took in the room in which they sat. Simplicity again, but the simplicity of high art — the drawing-room of one rich enough to indulge in the final luxury of a highly cultivated taste, viz.: unostentatious elegance and the subjection of each carefully chosen ornament to the general effect.

What did this favoured child of fortune lack that she could be reached by such a plea, when her whole being revolted from the nature of the task he offered her? It was a question not new to him; but one he had never heard answered and was not likely to hear answered now. But the fact remained that the consent he had thought dependent upon sympathetic interest could be reached much more readily by the promise of large emolument, — and he owned to a feeling of secret disappointment even while he recognized the value of the discovery.

But his satisfaction in the latter, if satisfaction it were, was of very short duration. Almost immediately he observed a change in her. The sparkle which had shone in the eye whose depths he had never been able to penetrate, had dissipated itself in something like a tear and she spoke up in that vigorous tone no one but himself had ever heard, as she said:

“No. The sum is a good one and I could use it; but I will not waste my energy on a case I do not believe in. The man shot himself. He was a speculator, and probably had good reason for his act. Even his wife acknowledges that he has lately had more losses than gains.”

“See her. She has something to tell you which never got into the papers.”

“You say that? You know that?”

“On my honour, Miss Strange.”

Violet pondered; then suddenly succumbed.

“Let her come, then. Prompt to the hour. I will receive her at three. Later I have a tea and two party calls to make.”

Her visitor rose to leave. He had been able to subdue all evidence of his extreme gratification, and now took on a formal air. In dismissing a guest, Miss Strange was invariably the society belle and that only. This he had come to recognize.

The case (well known at the time) was, in the fewest possible words, as follows:

On a sultry night in September, a young couple living in one of the large apartment houses in the extreme upper portion of Manhattan were so annoyed by the incessant crying of a child in the adjoining suite, that they got up, he to smoke, and she to sit in the window for a possible breath of cool air. They were congratulating themselves upon the wisdom they had shown in thus giving up all thought of sleep — for the child’s crying had not ceased — when (it may have been two o’clock and it may have been a little later) there came from somewhere near, the sharp and somewhat peculiar detonation of a pistol-shot.

He thought it came from above; she, from the rear, and they were staring at each other in the helpless wonder of the moment, when they were struck by the silence. The baby had ceased to cry. All was as still in the adjoining apartment as in their own — too still — much too still. Their mutual stare turned to one of horror. “It came from there!” whispered the wife. “Some accident has occurred to Mr. or Mrs. Hammond — we ought to go—”

Her words — very tremulous ones — were broken by a shout from below. They were standing in their window and had evidently been seen by a passing policeman. “Anything wrong up there?” they heard him cry. Mr. Saunders immediately looked out. “Nothing wrong here,” he called down. (They were but two stories from the pavement.) “But I’m not so sure about the rear apartment. We thought we heard a shot. Hadn’t you better come up, officer? My wife is nervous about it. I’ll meet you at the stair-head and show you the way.”

The officer nodded and stepped in. The young couple hastily donned some wraps, and, by the time he appeared on their floor, they were ready to accompany him.

Meanwhile, no disturbance was apparent anywhere else in the house, until the policeman rang the bell of the Hammond apartment. Then, voices began to be heard, and doors to open above and below, but not the one before which the policeman stood.

Another ring, and this time an insistent one; — and still no response. The officer’s hand was rising for the third time when there came a sound of fluttering from behind the panels against which he had laid his ear, and finally a choked voice uttering unintelligible words. Then a hand began to struggle with the lock, and the door, slowly opening, disclosed a woman clad in a hastily donned wrapper and giving every evidence of extreme fright.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, seeing only the compassionate faces of her neighbours. “You heard it, too! a pistol-shot from there — there my husband’s room. I have not dared to go — I... I— O, have mercy and see if anything is wrong! It is so still... so still, and only a moment ago the baby was crying. Mrs. Saunders, Mrs. Saunders, why is it so still?”

She had fallen into her neighbour’s arms. The hand with which she had pointed out a certain door had sunk to her side and she appeared to be on the verge of collapse.

The officer eyed her sternly, while noting her appearance, which was that of a woman hastily risen from bed.

“Where were you?” he asked. “Not with your husband and child, or you would know what had happened there.”

“I was sleeping down the hall,” she managed to gasp out. “I’m not well... I— Oh, why do you all stand still and do nothing? My baby’s in there. Go! go!” and, with a sudden energy, she sprang upright, her eyes wide open and burning, her small well-featured face white as the linen she sought to hide.

The officer demurred no longer. In another instant he was trying the door at which she was again pointing.

It was locked.

Glancing back at the woman, now cowering almost to the floor, he pounded at the door and asked the man inside to open.

No answer came back.

With a sharp turn he glanced again at the wife.

“You say that your husband is in this room?”

She nodded, gasping faintly, “And the child!”

He turned back, listened, then beckoned to Mr. Saunders. “We shall have to break our way in,” said he. “Put your shoulder well to the door. Now!”

The hinges of the door creaked; the lock gave way (this special officer weighed two hundred and seventy-five, as he found out, next day), and a prolonged and sweeping crash told the rest.

Mrs. Hammond gave a low cry; and, straining forward from where she crouched in terror on the floor, searched the faces of the two men for some hint of what they saw in the dimly-lighted space beyond.

Something dreadful, something which made Mr. Saunders come rushing back with a shout:

“Take her away! Take her to our apartment, Jennie. She must not see—”

Not see! He realized the futility of his words as his gaze fell on the young woman who had risen up at his approach and now stood gazing at him without speech, without movement, but with a glare of terror in her eyes, which gave him his first realization of human misery.

His own glance fell before it. If he had followed his instinct he would have fled the house rather than answer the question of her look and the attitude of her whole frozen body.

Perhaps in mercy to his speechless terror, perhaps in mercy to herself, she was the one who at last found the word which voiced their mutual anguish.

“Dead?”

No answer. None was needed.

“And my baby?”

O, that cry! It curdled the hearts of all who heard it. It shook the souls of men and women both inside and outside the apartment; then all was forgotten in the wild rush she made. The wife and mother had flung herself upon the scene, and, side by side with the not unmoved policeman, stood looking down upon the desolation made in one fatal instant in her home and heart.

They lay there together, both past help, both quite dead. The child had simply been strangled by the weight of his father’s arm which lay directly across the upturned little throat. But the father was a victim of the shot they had heard. There was blood on his breast, and a pistol in his hand.

Suicide! The horrible truth was patent. No wonder they wanted to hold the young widow back. Her neighbour, Mrs. Saunders, crept in on tiptoe and put her arms about the swaying, fainting woman; but there was nothing to say — absolutely nothing.

At least, they thought not. But when they saw her throw herself down, not by her husband, but by the child, and drag it out from under that strangling arm and hug and kiss it and call out wildly for a doctor, the officer endeavoured to interfere and yet could not find the heart to do so, though he knew the child was dead and should not, according to all the rules of the coroner’s office, be moved before that official arrived. Yet because no mother could be convinced of a fact like this, he let her sit with it on the floor and try all her little arts to revive it, while he gave orders to the janitor and waited himself for the arrival of doctor and coroner.

She was still sitting there in wide-eyed misery, alternately fondling the little body and drawing back to consult its small set features for some sign of life, when the doctor came, and, after one look at the child, drew it softly from her arms and laid it quietly in the crib from which its father had evidently lifted it but a short time before. Then he turned back to her, and found her on her feet, upheld by her two friends. She had understood his action, and without a groan had accepted her fate. Indeed, she seemed incapable of any further speech or action. She was staring down at her husband’s body, which she, for the first time, seemed fully to see. Was her look one of grief or of resentment for the part he had played so unintentionally in her child’s death? It was hard to tell; and when, with slowly rising finger, she pointed to the pistol so tightly clutched in the other outstretched hand, no one there — and by this time the room was full — could foretell what her words would be when her tongue regained its usage and she could speak.

What she did say was this:

“Is there a bullet gone? Did he fire off that pistol?” A question so manifestly one of delirium that no one answered it, which seemed to surprise her, though she said nothing till her glance had passed all around the walls of the room to where a window stood open to the night, — its lower sash being entirely raised. “There! look there!” she cried, with a commanding accent, and, throwing up her hands, sank a dead weight into the arms of those supporting her.

No one understood; but naturally more than one rushed to the window. An open space was before them. Here lay the fields not yet parcelled out into lots and built upon; but it was not upon these they looked, but upon the strong trellis which they found there, which, if it supported no vine, formed a veritable ladder between this window and the ground.

Could she have meant to call attention to this fact; and were her words expressive of another idea than the obvious one of suicide?

If so, to what lengths a woman’s imagination can go! Or so their combined looks seemed to proclaim, when to their utter astonishment they saw the officer, who had presented a calm appearance up till now, shift his position and with a surprised grunt direct their eyes to a portion of the wall just visible beyond the half-drawn curtains of the bed. The mirror hanging there showed a star-shaped breakage, such as follows the sharp impact of a bullet or a fiercely projected stone.

“He fired two shots. One went wild; the other straight home.”

It was the officer delivering his opinion.

Mr. Saunders, returning from the distant room where he had assisted in carrying Mrs. Hammond, cast a look at the shattered glass, and remarked forcibly:

“I heard but one; and I was sitting up, disturbed by that poor infant. Jennie, did you hear more than one shot?” he asked, turning toward his wife.

“No,” she answered, but not with the readiness he had evidently expected. “I heard only one, but that was not quite usual in its tone. I’m used to guns,” she explained, turning to the officer. “My father was an army man, and he taught me very early to load and fire a pistol. There was a prolonged sound to this shot; something like an echo of itself, following close upon the first ping. Didn’t you notice that, Warren?”

“I remember something of the kind,” her husband allowed.

“He shot twice and quickly,” interposed the policeman sententiously. “We shall find a spent bullet back of that mirror.”

But when, upon the arrival of the coroner, an investigation was made of the mirror and the wall behind, no bullet was found either there or anywhere else in the room, save in the dead man’s breast. Nor had more than one been shot from his pistol, as five full chambers testified. The case which seemed so simple had its mysteries, but the assertion made by Mrs. Saunders no longer carried weight, nor was the evidence offered by the broken mirror considered as indubitably establishing the fact that a second shot had been fired in the room.

Yet it was equally evident that the charge which had entered the dead speculator’s breast had not been delivered at the close range of the pistol found clutched in his hand. There were no powder-marks to be discerned on his pajama-jacket, or on the flesh beneath. Thus anomaly confronted anomaly, leaving open but one other theory: that the bullet found in Mr. Hammond’s breast came from the window and the one he shot went out of it. But this would necessitate his having shot his pistol from a point far removed from where he was found; and his wound was such as made it difficult to believe that he would stagger far, if at all, after its infliction.

Yet, because the coroner was both conscientious and alert, he caused a most rigorous search to be made of the ground overlooked by the above mentioned window; a search in which the police joined, but which was without any result save that of rousing the attention of people in the neighbourhood and leading to a story being circulated of a man seen some time the night before crossing the fields in a great hurry. But as no further particulars were forthcoming, and not even a description of the man to be had, no emphasis would have been laid upon this story had it not transpired that the moment a report of it had come to Mrs. Hammond’s ears (why is there always some one to carry these reports?) she roused from the torpor into which she had fallen, and in wild fashion exclaimed:

“I knew it! I expected it! He was shot through the window and by that wretch. He never shot himself.” Violent declarations which trailed off into the one continuous wail, “O, my baby! my poor baby!”

Such words, even though the fruit of delirium, merited some sort of attention, or so this good coroner thought, and as soon as opportunity offered and she was sufficiently sane and quiet to respond to his questions, he asked her whom she had meant by that wretch, and what reason she had, or thought she had, of attributing her husband’s death to any other agency than his own disgust with life.

And then it was that his sympathies, although greatly roused in her favour began to wane. She met the question with a cold stare followed by a few ambiguous words out of which he could make nothing. Had she said wretch? She did not remember. They must not be influenced by anything she might have uttered in her first grief. She was well-nigh insane at the time. But of one thing they might be sure: her husband had not shot himself; he was too much afraid of death for such an act. Besides, he was too happy. Whatever folks might say he was too fond of his family to wish to leave it.

Nor did the coroner or any other official succeed in eliciting anything further from her. Even when she was asked, with cruel insistence, how she explained the fact that the baby was found lying on the floor instead of in its crib, her only answer was: “His father was trying to soothe it. The child was crying dreadfully, as you have heard from those who were kept awake by him that night, and my husband was carrying him about when the shot came which caused George to fall and overlay the baby in his struggles.”

“Carrying a baby about with a loaded pistol in his hand?” came back in stern retort.

She had no answer for this. She admitted when informed that the bullet extracted from her husband’s body had been found to correspond exactly with those remaining in the five chambers of the pistol taken from his hand, that he was not only the owner of this pistol but was in the habit of sleeping with it under his pillow; but, beyond that, nothing; and this reticence, as well as her manner which was cold and repellent, told against her.

A verdict of suicide was rendered by the coroner’s jury, and the life-insurance company, in which Mr. Hammond had but lately insured himself for a large sum, taking advantage of the suicide clause embodied in the policy, announced its determination of not paying the same.

Such was the situation, as known to Violet Strange and the general public, on the day she was asked to see Mrs. Hammond and learn what might alter her opinion as to the justice of this verdict and the stand taken by the Shuler Life Insurance Company.

The clock on the mantel in Miss Strange’s rose-coloured boudoir had struck three, and Violet was gazing in some impatience at the door, when there came a gentle knock upon it, and the maid (one of the elderly, not youthful, kind) ushered in her expected visitor.

“You are Mrs. Hammond?” she asked, in natural awe of the too black figure outlined so sharply against the deep pink of the sea-shell room.

The answer was a slow lifting of the veil which shadowed the features she knew only from the cuts she had seen in newspapers.

“You are — Miss Strange?” stammered her visitor; “the young lady who—”

“I am,” chimed in a voice as ringing as it was sweet. “I am the person you have come here to see. And this is my home. But that does not make me less interested in the unhappy, or less desirous of serving them. Certainly you have met with the two greatest losses which can come to a woman — I know your story well enough to say that—; but what have you to tell me in proof that you should not lose your anticipated income as well? Something vital, I hope, else I cannot help you; something which you should have told the coroner s jury — and did not.”

The flush which was the sole answer these words called forth did not take from the refinement of the young widow’s expression, but rather added to it; Violet watched it in its ebb and flow and, seriously affected by it (why, she did not know, for Mrs. Hammond had made no other appeal either by look or gesture), pushed forward a chair and begged her visitor to be seated.

“We can converse in perfect safety here,” she said. “When you feel quite equal to it, let me hear what you have to communicate. It will never go any further. I could not do the work I do if I felt it necessary to have a confidant.”

“But you are so young and so... so—”

“So inexperienced you would say and so evidently a member of what New Yorkers call ‘society.’ Do not let that trouble you. My inexperience is not likely to last long and my social pleasures are more apt to add to my efficiency than to detract from it.”

With this Violet’s face broke into a smile. It was not the brilliant one so often seen upon her lips, but there was something in its quality which carried encouragement to the widow and led her to say with obvious eagerness:

“You know the facts?”

“I have read all the papers.”

“I was not believed on the stand.”

“It was your manner—”

“I could not help my manner. I was keeping something back, and, being unused to deceit, I could not act quite naturally.”

“Why did you keep something back? When you saw the unfavourable impression made by your reticence, why did you not speak up and frankly tell your story?”

“Because I was ashamed. Because I thought it would hurt me more to speak than to keep silent. I do not think so now; but I did then — and so made my great mistake. You must remember not only the awful shock of my double loss, but the sense of guilt accompanying it; for my husband and I had quarreled that night, quarreled bitterly — that was why I had run away into another room and not because I was feeling ill and impatient of the baby’s fretful cries.”

“So people have thought.” In saying this, Miss Strange was perhaps cruelly emphatic. “You wish to explain that quarrel? You think it will be doing any good to your cause to go into that matter with me now?”

“I cannot say; but I must first clear my conscience and then try to convince you that quarrel or no quarrel, he never took his own life. He was not that kind. He had an abnormal fear of death. I do not like to say it but he was a physical coward. I have seen him turn pale at the least hint of danger. He could no more have turned that muzzle upon his own breast than he could have turned it upon his baby. Some other hand shot him, Miss Strange. Remember the open window, the shattered mirror; and I think I know that hand.”

Her head had fallen forward on her breast. The emotion she showed was not so eloquent of grief as of deep personal shame.

“You think you know the man?” In saying this, Violet’s voice sunk to a whisper. It was an accusation of murder she had just heard.

“To my great distress, yes. When Mr. Hammond and I were married,” the widow now proceeded in a more determined tone, “there was another man — a very violent one — who vowed even at the church door that George and I should never live out two full years together. We have not. Our second anniversary would have been in November.”

“But—”

“Let me say this: the quarrel of which I speak was not serious enough to occasion any such act of despair on his part. A man would be mad to end his life on account of so slight a disagreement. It was not even on account of the person of whom I’ve just spoken, though that person had been mentioned between us earlier in the evening, Mr. Hammond having come across him face to face that very afternoon in the subway. Up to this time neither of us had seen or heard of him since our wedding-day.”

“And you think this person whom you barely mentioned, so mindful of his old grudge that he sought out your domicile, and, with the intention of murder, climbed the trellis leading to your room and turned his pistol upon the shadowy figure which was all he could see in the semi-obscurity of a much lowered gas-jet?”

“A man in the dark does not need a bright light to see his enemy when he is intent upon revenge.”

Miss Strange altered her tone.

“And your husband? You must acknowledge that he shot off his pistol whether the other did or not.”

“It was in self-defence. He would shoot to save his own life — or the baby’s.”

“Then he must have heard or seen—”

“A man at the window.”

“And would have shot there?”

“Or tried to.”

“Tried to?”

“Yes; the other shot first — oh, I’ve thought it all out — causing my husband’s bullet to go wild. It was his which broke the mirror.”

Violet’s eyes, bright as stars, suddenly narrowed.

“And what happened then?” she asked. “Why cannot they find the bullet?”

“Because it went out of the window; — glanced off and went out of the window.” Mrs. Hammond’s tone was triumphant; her look spirited and intense.

Violet eyed her compassionately.

“Would a bullet glancing off from a mirror, however hung, be apt to reach a window so far on the opposite side?”

“I don’t know; I only know that it did,” was the contradictory, almost absurd, reply.

“What was the cause of the quarrel you speak of between your husband and yourself? You see, I must know the exact truth and all the truth to be of any assistance to you.”

“It was... it was about the care I gave, or didn’t give, the baby. I feel awfully to have to say it, but George did not think I did my full duty by the child. He said there was no need of its crying so; that if I gave it the proper attention it would not keep the neighbours and himself awake half the night. And I... I got angry and insisted that I did the best I could; that the child was naturally fretful and that if he wasn’t satisfied with my way of looking after it, he might try his. All of which was very wrong and unreasonable on my part, as witness the awful punishment which followed.”

“And what made you get up and leave him?”

“The growl he gave me in reply. When I heard that, I bounded out of bed and said I was going to the spare room to sleep; and if the baby cried he might just try what he could do himself to stop it.”

“And he answered?”

“This, just this — I shall never forget his words as long as I live — ‘If you go, you need not expect me to let you in again no matter what happens.’ ”

“He said that?”

“And locked the door after me. You see I could not tell all that.”

“It might have been better if you had. It was such a natural quarrel and so unprovocative of actual tragedy.”

Mrs. Hammond was silent. It was not difficult to see that she had no very keen regrets for her husband personally. But then he was not a very estimable man nor in any respect her equal.

“You were not happy with him,” Violet ventured to remark.

“I was not a fully contented woman. But for all that he had no cause to complain of me except for the reason I have mentioned. I was not a very intelligent mother. But if the baby were living now — O, if he were living now — with what devotion I should care for him.” She was on her feet, her arms were raised, her face impassioned with feeling. Violet, gazing at her, heaved a little sigh. It was perhaps in keeping with the situation, perhaps extraneous to it, but whatever its source, it marked a change in her manner. With no further check upon her sympathy, she said very softly: “It is well with the child.”

The mother stiffened, swayed, and then burst into wild weeping.

“But not with me,” she cried, “not with me. I am desolate and bereft. I have not even a home in which to hide my grief and no prospect of one.”

“But,” interposed Violet, “surely your husband left you something? You cannot be quite penniless?”

“My husband left nothing,” was the answer, uttered without bitterness, but with all the hardness of fact. “He had debts. I shall pay those debts. When these and other necessary expenses are liquidated, there will be but little left. He made no secret of the fact that he lived close up to his means. That is why he was induced to take on a life insurance. Not a friend of his but knows his improvidence. I... I have not even jewels. I have only my determination and an absolute conviction as to the real nature of my husband’s death.”

“What is the name of the man you secretly believe to have shot your husband from the trellis?”

Mrs. Hammond told her.

It was a new one to Violet. She said so and then asked:

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“Nothing, but that he is a very dark man and has a club-foot.”

“Oh, what a mistake you’ve made.”

“Mistake? Yes, I acknowledge that.”

“I mean in not giving this last bit of information at once to the police. A man can be identified by such a defect. Even his footsteps can be traced. He might have been found that very day. Now, what have we to go upon?”

“You are right, but not expecting to have any difficulty about the insurance money I thought it would be generous in me to keep still. Besides, this is only surmise on my part. I feel certain that my husband was shot by another hand than his own, but I know of no way of proving it. Do you?”

Then Violet talked seriously with her, explaining how their only hope lay in the discovery of a second bullet in the room which had already been ransacked for this very purpose and without the shadow of a result.

A tea, a musicale, and an evening dance kept Violet Strange in a whirl for the remainder of the day. No brighter eye nor more contagious wit lent brilliance to these occasions, but with the passing of the midnight hour no one who had seen her in the blaze of electric lights would have recognized this favoured child of fortune in the earnest figure sitting in the obscurity of an uptown apartment, studying the walls, the ceilings, and the floors by the dim light of a lowered gas-jet. Violet Strange in society was a very different person from Violet Strange under the tension of her secret and peculiar work.

She had told them at home that she was going to spend the night with a friend; but only her old coachman knew who that friend was. Therefore a very natural sense of guilt mingled with her emotions at finding herself alone on a scene whose gruesome mystery she could solve only by identifying herself with the place and the man who had perished there.

Dismissing from her mind all thought of self, she strove to think as he thought, and act as he acted on the night when he found himself (a man of but little courage) left in this room with an ailing child.

At odds with himself, his wife, and possibly with the child screaming away in its crib, what would he be apt to do in his present emergency? Nothing at first, but as the screaming continued he would remember the old tales of fathers walking the floor at night with crying babies, and hasten to follow suit. Violet, in her anxiety to reach his inmost thought, crossed to where the crib had stood, and, taking that as a start, began pacing the room in search of the spot from which a bullet, if shot, would glance aside from the mirror in the direction of the window. (Not that she was ready to accept this theory of Mrs. Hammond, but that she did not wish to entirely dismiss it without putting it to the test.)

She found it in an unexpected quarter of the room and much nearer the bed-head than where his body was found. This, which might seem to confuse matters, served, on the contrary to remove from the case one of its most serious difficulties. Standing here, he was within reach of the pillow under which his pistol lay hidden, and if startled, as his wife believed him to have been by a noise at the other end of the room, had but to crouch and reach behind him in order to find himself armed and ready for a possible intruder.

Imitating his action in this as in other things, she had herself crouched low at the bedside and was on the point of withdrawing her hand from under the pillow, when a new surprise checked her movement and held her fixed in her position, with eyes staring straight at the adjoining wall. She had seen there what he must have seen in making this same turn — the dark bars of the opposite window-frame outlined in the mirror — and understood at once what had happened. In the nervousness and terror of the moment, George Hammond had mistaken this reflection of the window for the window itself, and shot impulsively at the man he undoubtedly saw covering him from the trellis without. But while this explained the shattering of the mirror, how about the other and still more vital question, of where the bullet went afterward? Was the angle at which it had been fired acute enough to send it out of a window diagonally opposed? No; even if the pistol had been held closer to the man firing it than she had reason to believe, the angle still would be oblique enough to carry it on to the further wall.

But no sign of any such impact had been discovered on this wall. Consequently, the force of the bullet had been expended before reaching it, and when it fell—

Here, her glance, slowly travelling along the floor, impetuously paused. It had reached the spot where the two bodies had been found, and unconsciously her eyes rested there, conjuring up the picture of the bleeding father and the strangled child. How piteous and how dreadful it all was. If she could only understand— Suddenly she rose straight up, staring and immovable in the dim light. Had the idea — the explanation — the only possible explanation covering the whole phenomena come to her at last?

It would seem so, for as she so stood, a look of conviction settled over her features, and with this look, evidences of a horror which for all her fast accumulating knowledge of life and its possibilities made her appear very small and very helpless.

A half-hour later, when Mrs. Hammond, in her anxiety at hearing nothing more from Miss Strange, opened the door of her room, it was to find, lying on the edge of the sill, the little detective’s card with these words hastily written across it:

I do not feel as well as I could wish, and so have telephoned to my own coachman to come and take me home. I will either see or write you within a few days. But do not allow yourself to hope. I pray you do not allow yourself the least hope; the outcome is still very problematical.

When Violet’s employer entered his office the next morning it was to find a veiled figure awaiting him which he at once recognized as that of his little deputy. She was slow in lifting her veil and when it finally came free he felt a momentary doubt as to his wisdom in giving her just such a matter as this to investigate. He was quite sure of his mistake when he saw her face, it was so drawn and pitiful.

“You have failed,” said he.

“Of that you must judge,” she answered; and drawing near she whispered in his ear.

“No!” he cried in his amazement.

“Think,” she murmured, “think. Only so can all the facts be accounted for.”

“I will look into it; I will certainly look into it,” was his earnest reply. “If you are right— But never mind that. Go home and take a horseback ride in the Park. When I have news in regard to this I will let you know. Till then forget it all. Hear me, I charge you to forget everything but your balls and your parties.”

And Violet obeyed him.

Some few days after this, the following statement appeared in all the papers:

“Owing to some remarkable work done by the firm of — & —, the well-known private detective agency, the claim made by Mrs. George Hammond against the Shuler Life Insurance Company is likely to be allowed without further litigation. As our readers will remember, the contestant has insisted from the first that the bullet causing her husband’s death came from another pistol than the one found clutched in his own hand. But while reasons were not lacking to substantiate this assertion, the failure to discover more than the disputed track of a second bullet led to a verdict of suicide, and a refusal of the company to pay.

“But now that bullet has been found. And where? In the most startling place in the world, viz.: in the larynx of the child found lying dead upon the floor beside his father, strangled as was supposed by the weight of that father’s arm. The theory is, and there seems to be none other, that the father, hearing a suspicious noise at the window, set down the child he was endeavoring to soothe and made for the bed and his own pistol, and, mistaking a reflection of the assassin for the assassin himself, sent his shot sidewise at a mirror just as the other let go the trigger which drove a similar bullet into his breast. The course of the one was straight and fatal and that of the other deflected. Striking the mirror at an oblique angle, the bullet fell to the floor where it was picked up by the crawling child, and, as was most natural, thrust at once into his mouth. Perhaps it felt hot to the little tongue; perhaps the child was simply frightened by some convulsivce movement of the father who evidently spent his last moment in an endeavour to reach the child, but, whatever the cause, in the quick gasp it gave, the bullet was drawn into the larynx, strangling him.

“That the father’s arm, in his last struggle, should have fallen directly across the little throat is one of those anomalies which confounds reason and misleads justice by stopping investigation at the very point where truth lies and mystery disappears.

“Mrs. Hammond is to be congratulated that there are detectives who do not give too much credence to outward appearances.

“We expect soon to hear of the capture of the man who sped home the death-dealing bullet.”

His Heart Could Break

by Craig Rice

I have discovered as a reviewer that it is impossible to write a note on a Craig Rice story that doesn’t turn into a love letter. Miss Rice has a cockeyed warmth, a screwball humanity that reminds you of William Saroyan — to which she adds a sense of form and discipline that reminds you of anyone else but. Of all the detectives she has (under assorted names) created, my special fondness is for that rumpled, plump legal eagle JOHN J. MALONE (blood brother to Jackeen J. O’Malley), who has long deserved a story to himself, uncluttered by JUSTUSES. Here it is, haunting as it is clever — the only detective story on record which cries out to be sung by Burl Ives.

* * *

“As I passed by the of state’s prison,

Ridin’ on a stream-line’ train—”

John J. Malone shuddered. He wished he could get the insidious melody out of his mind — or, remember the rest of the words. It had been annoying him since three o’clock that morning, when he’d heard it sung by the janitor of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar.

It seemed like a bad omen, and it made him uncomfortable. Or maybe it was the cheap gin he’d switched to between two and four a.m. that was making him uncomfortable. Whichever it was, he felt terrible.

“I bet your client’s happy today,” the guard said cordially, leading the way towards the death house.

“He ought to be,” Malone growled. He reminded himself that he too ought to be happy. He wasn’t. Maybe it was being in a prison that depressed him. John J. Malone, criminal lawyer, didn’t like prisons. He devoted his life to keeping his clients out of them.

“Then the warden told me gently—”

That song again! How did the next line go?

“Well,” the guard said, “they say you’ve never lost a client yet.” It wouldn’t do any harm, he thought, to get on the good side of a smart guy like John J. Malone.

“Not yet,” Malone said. He’d had a close call with this one, though.

“You sure did a wonderful job, turning up the evidence to get a new trial,” the guard rattled on. Maybe Malone could get him a better appointment, with his political drag. “Your client sure felt swell when he heard about it last night, he sure did.”

“That’s good,” Malone said noncommittally. It hadn’t been evidence that had turned the trick, though. Just a little matter of knowing some interesting facts about the judge’s private life. The evidence would have to be manufactured before the trial, but that was the least of his worries. By that time, he might even find out the truth of what had happened. He hummed softly under his breath. Ah, there were the next lines!

“Then the warden told me gently,

He seemed too young, too young to die,

We cut the rope and let him down—”

John J. Malone tried to remember the rhyme for “die.” By, cry, lie, my and sigh. Then he let loose a few loud and indignant remarks about whoever had written that song, realized that he was entering the death house, and stopped, embarrassed. That particular cell block always inspired him with the same behavior he would have shown at a high class funeral. He took off his hat and walked softly.

And at that moment hell broke loose. Two prisoners in the block began yelling like banshees. The alarms began to sound loudly, causing the outside siren to chime in with its hideous wail. Guards were running through the corridor, and John J. Malone instinctively ran with them toward the center of disturbance, the fourth cell on the left.

Before the little lawyer got there, one of the guards had the door open. Another guard cut quickly through the bright new rope from which the prisoner was dangling, and eased the limp body down to the floor.

The racket outside was almost deafening now, but John J. Malone scarcely heard it. The guard turned the body over, and Malone recognized the very young and rather stupid face of Paul Palmer.

“He’s hung himself,” one of the guards said.

“With me for a lawyer?” Malone said angrily. “Hung himself, — ” He started to say “hell,” then remembered he was in the presence of death.

“Hey,” the other guard said excitedly. “He’s alive. His neck’s broke, but he’s breathing a little.”

Malone shoved the guard aside and knelt down beside the dying man. Paul Palmers blue eyes opened slowly, with an expression of terrible bewilderment. His lips parted.

“It wouldn’t break,” Paul Palmer whispered. He seemed to recognize Malone, and stared at him, with a look of frightful urgency. “It wouldn’t break,” he whispered to Malone. Then he died.

“You’re damned right I’m going to sit in on the investigation,” Malone said angrily. He gave Warden Garrity’s wastebasket a vicious kick. “The inefficient way you run your prison has done me out of a client.” Out of a fat fee, too, he reminded himself miserably. He hadn’t been paid yet, and now there would be a long tussle with the lawyer handling Paul Palmer’s estate, who hadn’t wanted him engaged for the defense in the first place. Malone felt in his pocket, found three crumpled bills and a small handful of change. He wished now that he hadn’t got into that poker game last week.

The warden’s dreary office was crowded. Malone looked around, recognized an assistant warden, the prison doctor — a handsome grey-haired man named Dickson — the guards from the death house, and the guard who had been ushering him in — Bowers was his name, Malone remembered, a tall, flat-faced, gangling man.

“Imagine him hanging himself,” Bowers was saying incredulously. “Just after he found out he was gonna get a new trial.”

Malone had been wondering the same thing. “Maybe he didn’t get my wire,” he suggested coldly.

“I gave it to him myself,” Bowers stated positively. “Just last night. Never saw a man so happy in my life.”

Dr. Dickson cleared his throat. Everyone turned to look at him.

“Poor Palmer was mentally unstable,” the doctor said sadly. “You may recall I recommended, several days ago, that he be moved to the prison hospital. When I visited him last night he appeared hilariously — hysterically — happy. This morning, however, he was distinctly depressed.”

“You mean the guy was nuts?” Warden Garrity asked hopefully.

“He was nothing of the sort,” Malone said indignantly. Just let a hint get around that Paul Palmer had been of unsound mind, and he’d never collect that five thousand dollar fee from the estate. “He was saner than anyone in this room, with the possible exception of myself.”

Dr. Dickson shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t suggest that he was insane. I only meant he was subject to moods.”

Malone wheeled to face the doctor. “Say. Were you in the habit of visiting Palmer in his cell a couple of times a day?”

“I was,” the doctor said, nodding. “He was suffering from a serious nervous condition. It was necessary to administer sedatives from time to time.”

Malone snorted. “You mean he was suffering from the effect of being sober for the first time since he was sixteen.”

“Put it any way you like,” Dr. Dickson said pleasantly. “You remember, too, that I had a certain personal interest.”

“That’s right,” Malone said slowly. “He was going to marry your niece.”

“No one was happier than I to hear about the new trial,” the doctor said. He caught Malone’s eye and added, “No, I wasn’t fond enough of him to smuggle in a rope. Especially when he’d just been granted a chance to clear himself.”

“Look here,” Warden Garrity said irritably. “I can’t sit around listening to all this stuff. I’ve got to report the result of an investigation. Where the hell did he get that rope?”

There was a little silence, and then one of the guards said, “Maybe from the guy who was let in to see him last night.”

“What guy?” the warden snapped.

“Why—” The guard paused, confused. “He had an order from you, admitting him. His name was La Cerra.”

Malone felt a sudden tingling along his spine. Georgie La Cerra was one of Max Hook’s boys. What possible connection could there be between Paul Palmer, socialite, and the big gambling boss?

Warden Garrity had recognized the name too. “Oh, yes,” he said quickly. “That must have been it. But I doubt if we could prove it.” He paused just an instant, and looked fixedly at Malone, as though daring him to speak. “The report will read that Paul Palmer obtained a rope, by means which have not yet been ascertained, and committed suicide while of unsound mind.”

Malone opened his mouth and shut it again. He knew when he was licked. Temporarily licked, anyway. “For the love of mike,” he said, “leave out the unsound mind.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the warden said coldly.

Malone had kept his temper as long as he could. “All right,” he said, “but I’ll start an investigation that’ll be a pip.” He snorted. “Letting a gangster smuggle a rope in to a guy in the death house!” He glared at Dr. Dickson. “And you, foxy, with two escapes from the prison hospital in six months.” He kicked the wastebasket again, this time sending it halfway across the room. “I’ll show you from investigations! And I’m just the guy who can do it, too.”

Dr. Dickson said quickly, “We’ll substitute ‘temporarily depressed’ for the ‘unsound mind.’ ”

But Malone was mad, now. He made one last, loud comment regarding the warden’s personal life and probably immoral origin, and slammed the door so hard when he went out that the steel engraving of Chester A. Arthur over the warden’s desk shattered to the floor.

“Mr. Malone,” Bowers said in a low voice as they went down the hall, “I searched that cell, after they took the body out. Whoever smuggled in that rope smuggled in a letter, too. I found it hid in his mattress, and it wasn’t there yesterday because the mattress was changed.” He paused, and added “And the rope couldn’t of been there last night either, because there was no place he could of hid it.”

Malone glanced at the envelope the guard held out to him — pale grey expensive stationery, with “Paul Palmer” written across the front of it in delicate, curving handwriting.

“I haven’t any money with me,” the lawyer said.

Bowers shook his head. “I don’t want no dough. But there’s gonna be an assistant warden’s job open in about three weeks.”

“You’ll get it,” Malone said. He took the envelope and stuffed it in an inside pocket. Then he paused, frowned, and finally added, “And keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Because there’s going to be an awful stink when I prove Paul Palmer was murdered.”

The pretty, black-haired girl in Malone’s anteroom looked up as he opened the door. “Oh, Mr. Malone,” she said quickly. “I read about it in the paper. I’m so sorry.”

“Never mind, Maggie,” the lawyer said. “No use crying over spilled clients.” He went into his private office and shut the door.

Fate was treating him very shabbily, evidently from some obscure motive of personal spite. He’d been counting heavily on that five thousand buck fee.

He took a bottle of rye out of the filing cabinet marked “Personal,” poured himself a drink, noted that there was only one more left in the bottle, and stretched out on the worn red leather davenport to think things over.

Paul Palmer had been an amiable, stupid young drunk of good family, whose inherited wealth had been held in trust for him by an uncle considered to be the stingiest man in Chicago. The money was to be turned over to him on his thirtieth birthday — some five years off — or on the death of the uncle, Carter Brown. Silly arrangement, Malone reflected, but rich men’s lawyers were always doing silly things.

Uncle Carter had cramped the young man’s style considerably, but he’d managed pretty well. Then he’d met Madelaine Starr.

Malone lit a cigar and stared dreamily through the smoke. The Starrs were definitely social, but without money. A good keen eye for graft, too. Madelaine’s uncle was probably making a very good thing out of that political appointment as prison doctor.

Malone sighed, wished he weren’t a lawyer, and thought about Madelaine Starr. An orphan, with a tiny income which she augmented by modelling in an exclusive dress shop — a fashionable and acceptable way of making a living. She had expensive tastes. (The little lawyer could spot expensive tastes in girls a mile away.)

She’d had to be damned poor to want to marry Palmer, Malone reflected, and damned beautiful to get him. Well, she was both.

But there had been another girl, one who had to be paid off. Lillian Claire by name, and a very lovely hunk of girl, too. Lovely, and smart enough to demand a sizable piece of money for letting the Starr-Palmer nuptials go through without a scandalous fuss.

Malone shook his head sadly. It had looked bad at the trial. Paul Palmer had taken his bride-to-be night-clubbing, delivering her back to her kitchenette apartment just before twelve. He’d been a shade high, then, and by the time he’d stopped off at three or four bars, he was several shades higher. Then he’d paid a visit to Lillian Claire, who claimed later at the trial that he’d attempted — unsuccessfully — to talk her out of the large piece of cash money, and had drunk up all the whiskey in the house. She’d put him in a cab and sent him home.

No one knew just when Paul Palmer had arrived at the big, gloomy apartment he shared with Carter Brown. The manservant had the night off. It was the manservant who discovered, next morning, that Uncle Carter had been shot neatly through the forehead with Paul Palmer’s gun, and that Paul Palmer had climbed into his own bed, fully dressed, and was snoring drunk.

Everything had been against him, Malone reflected sadly. Not only had the jury been composed of hard-working, poverty-stricken men who liked nothing better than to convict a rich young wastrel of murder, but worse still, they’d all been too honest to be bribed. The trial had been his most notable failure. And now, this.

But Paul Palmer would never have hanged himself. Malone was sure of it. He’d never lost hope. And now, especially, when a new trial had been granted, he’d have wanted to live.

It had been murder. But how had it been done?

Malone sat up, stretched, reached in his pocket for the pale grey envelope Bowers had given him, and read the note through again.

My dearest Paul:

I’m getting this note to you this way because I’m in terrible trouble and danger. I need you — no one else can help me. I know there’s to be a new trial, but even another week may be too late. Isn’t there any way?

Your own

M.

“M,” Malone decided, would be Madelaine Starr. She’d use that kind of pale grey paper, too.

He looked at the note and frowned. If Madelaine Starr had smuggled that note to her lover, would she have smuggled in a rope by the same messenger? Or had someone else brought in the rope?

There were three people he wanted to see. Madelaine Starr was one. Lillian Claire was the second. And Max Hook was the third.

He went out into the anteroom, stopped halfway across it and said aloud, “But it’s a physical impossibility. If someone smuggled that rope into Paul Palmer’s cell and then Palmer hanged himself, it isn’t murder. But it must have been murder.” He stared at Maggie without seeing her. “Damn it, though, no one could have got into Paul Palmer’s cell and hanged him.”

Maggie looked at him sympathetically, familiar from long experience with her employer’s processes of thought. “Keep on thinking and it’ll come to you.”

“Maggie, have you got any money?”

“I have ten dollars, but you can’t borrow it. Besides, you haven’t paid my last week’s salary yet.”

The little lawyer muttered something about ungrateful and heartless wenches, and flung himself out of the office.

Something had to be done about ready cash. He ran his mind over a list of prospective lenders. The only possibility was Max Hook. No, the last time he’d borrowed money from the Hook, he’d got into no end of trouble. Besides, he was going to ask another kind of favor from the gambling boss.

Malone went down Washington Street, turned the corner, went into Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar, and cornered its proprietor at the far end of the room.

“Cash a hundred dollar check for me, and hold it until a week from,” — Malone made a rapid mental calculation — “Thursday?”

“Sure,” Joe the Angel said. “Happy to do you a favor.” He got out ten ten-dollar bills while Malone wrote the check. “Want I should take your bar bill out of this?”

Malone shook his head. “I’ll pay next week. And add a double rye to it.”

As he set down the empty glass, he heard the colored janitor’s voice coming faintly from the back room.

“They hanged him for the thing you done,

You knew it was a sin,

You didn’t know his heart could break—”

The voice stopped suddenly. For a moment Malone considered calling for the singer and asking to hear the whole thing, all the way through. No, there wasn’t time for it now. Later, perhaps. He went out on the street, humming the tune.

What was it Paul Palmer had whispered in that last moment? “It wouldn’t break!” Malone scowled. He had a curious feeling that there was some connection between those words and the words of that damned song. Or was it his Irish imagination, tripping him up again? “You didn’t know his heart could break.” But it was Paul Palmer’s neck that had been broken.

Malone hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to the swank Lake Shore Drive apartment-hotel where Max Hook lived.

The gambling boss was big in two ways. He took in a cut from every crooked gambling device in Cook County, and most of the honest ones. And he was a mountain of flesh, over six feet tall and three times too fat for his height. His pink head was completely bald and he had the expression of a pleased cherub.

His living room was a masterpiece of the gilt-and-brocade school of interior decoration, marred only by a huge, battle-scarred roll-top desk in one corner. Max Hook swung around from the desk to smile cordially at the lawyer.

“How delightful to see you! What will you have to drink?”

“Rye,” Malone said, “and it’s nice to see you too. Only this isn’t exactly a social call.”

He knew better, though, than to get down to business before the drinks had arrived. (Max Hook stuck to pink champagne.) That wasn’t the way Max Hook liked to do things. But when the rye was down, and the gambling boss had lighted a slender, tinted (and, Malone suspected, perfumed) cigarette in a rose quartz holder, he plunged right in.

“I suppose you read in the papers about what happened to my client, Palmer,” he said.

“I never read the papers,” Max Hook told him, “but one of my boys informed me. Tragic, wasn’t it.”

“Tragic is no name for it,” Malone said bitterly. “He hadn’t paid me a dime.”

Max Hook’s eyebrows lifted. “So?” Automatically he reached for the green metal box in the left-hand drawer, “How much do you need?”

“No, no,” Malone said hastily, “that isn’t it. I just want to know if one of your boys — Litte Georgie La Cerra — smuggled the rope in to him. That’s all.”

Max Hook looked surprised, and a little hurt. “My dear Malone,” he said at last, “why do you imagine he’d do such a thing?”

“For money,” Malone said promptly, “if he did do it. I don’t care, I just want to know.”

“You can take my word for it,” Max Hook said, “he did nothing of the kind. He did deliver a note from a certain young lady to Mr. Palmer, at my request — a bit of nuisance, too, getting hold of that admittance order signed by the warden. I assure you, though, there was no rope. I give you my word, and you know I’m an honest man.”

“Well, I was just asking,” Malone said. One thing about the big gangster, he always told the truth. If he said Little Georgie La Cerra hadn’t smuggled in that rope, then Little Georgie hadn’t. Nor was there any chance that Little Georgie had engaged in private enterprises on the side. As Max Hook often remarked, he liked to keep a careful watch on his boys. “One thing more, though,” the lawyer said, “if you don’t mind. Why did the young lady come to you to get her note delivered?”

Max Hook shrugged his enormous shoulders. “We have a certain-business connection. To be exact, she owes me a large sum of money. Like most extremely mercenary people she loves gambling, but she is not particularly lucky. When she told me that the only chance for that money to be paid was for the note to be delivered, naturally I obliged.”

“Naturally,” Malone agreed. “You didn’t happen to know what was in the note, did you?”

Max Hook was shocked. “My dear Malone! You don’t think I read other people’s personal mail!”

No, Malone reflected, Max Hook probably didn’t. And not having read the note, the big gambler probably wouldn’t know what kind of “terrible trouble and danger” Madelaine Starr was in. He decided to ask, though, just to be on the safe side.

“Trouble?” Max Hook repeated after him. “No, outside of having her fiancé condemned to death, I don’t know of any trouble she’s in.”

Malone shrugged his shoulders at the reproof, rose and walked to the door. Then he paused, suddenly. “Listen, Max. Do you know the words to a tune that goes like this?” He hummed a bit of it.

Max Hook frowned, then nodded. “Mmm — I know the tune. An entertainer at one of my places used to sing it.” He thought hard, and finally came up with a few lines.

“He was leaning against the prison bars,

Dressed up in his new prison clothes—”

“Sorry,” Max Hook said at last, “that’s all I remember. I guess those two fines stuck in my head because they reminded me of the first time I was in jail.”

Outside in the taxi, Malone sang the two fines over a couple of times. If he kept on, eventually he’d have the whole song. But Paul Palmer hadn’t been leaning against the prison bars. He’d been hanging from the water pipe.

Damn, and double damn that song!

It was well past eight o’clock, and he’d had no dinner, but he didn’t feel hungry. He had a grim suspicion that he wouldn’t feel hungry until he’d settled this business. When the cab paused for the next red light, he flipped a coin to decide whether he’d call first on Made-lame Starr or Lillian Claire, and Madelaine won.

He stepped out of the cab in front of the small apartment building on Walton Place, paid the driver, and started across the sidewalk just as a tall, white-haired man emerged from the door. Malone recognized Orlo Featherstone, the lawyer handling Paul Palmer’s estate, considered ducking out of sight, realized there wasn’t time, and finally managed to look as pleased as he was surprised.

“I was just going to offer Miss Starr my condolences,” he said.

“I’d leave her undisturbed, if I were you,” Orlo Featherstone said coldly. He had only one conception of what a lawyer should be, and Malone wasn’t anything like it. “I only called myself because I am, so to speak and in a sense, a second father to her.”

If anyone else had said that, Malone thought, it would have called for an answer. From Orlo Featherstone, it sounded natural. He nodded sympathetically and said, “Then I won’t bother her.” He tossed away a ragged cigar and said “Tragic affair, wasn’t it.”

Orlo Featherstone unbent at least half a degree. “Distinctly so. Personally, I cannot imagine Paul Palmer doing such a thing. When I visited him yesterday, he seemed quite cheerful and full of hope.”

“You — visited him yesterday?” Malone asked casually. He drew a cigar from his pocket and began unwrapping it with exquisite care.

“Yes,” Featherstone said, “about the will. He had to sign it, you know. Fortunate for her,” he indicated Madelaine Starr with a gesture toward the building, “that he did so. He left her everything, of course.”

“Of course,” Malone said. He lighted his cigar on the second try. “You don’t think Paul Palmer could have been murdered, do you?”

“Murdered!” Orlo Featherstone repeated, as though it was an obscene word, “Absurd! No Palmer has ever been murdered.”

Malone watched him climb into a shiny 1928 Rolls Royce, then started walking briskly toward State Street. The big limousine passed him just as he reached the corner, it turned north on State Street and stopped. Malone paused by the newsstand long enough to see Mr. Orlo Featherstone get out and cross the sidewalk to the corner drug store. After a moment’s thought he followed and paused at the cigar counter, from where he could see clearly into the adjacent telephone booth.

Orlo Featherstone, in the booth, consulted a little notebook. Then he took down the receiver, dropped a nickel in the slot, and began dialling. Malone watched carefully. D-E-L — 9-6-O— It was Lillian Claire’s number.

The little lawyer cursed all sound-proof phone booths, and headed for a bar on the opposite corner. He felt definitely unnerved.

After a double rye, and halfway through a second one, he came to the heartening conclusion that when he visited Lillian Claire, later in the evening, he’d be able to coax from her the reason why Orlo Featherstone, of all people, had telephoned her, just after leaving the late Paul Palmer’s fiancée. A third rye braced him for his call on the fiancée herself.

Riding up in the self-service elevator to her apartment, another heartening thought came to him. If Madelaine Starr was going to inherit all the Palmer dough — then it might not be such a trick to collect his five thousand bucks. Pie might even be able to collect it by a week from Thursday.

And he reminded himself, as she opened the door, this was going to be one time when he wouldn’t be a sucker for a pretty face.

Madelaine Starr’s apartment was tiny, but tasteful. Almost too tasteful, Malone thought. Everything in it was cheap, but perfectly correct and in exactly the right place, even to the Van Gogh print over the midget fireplace. Madelaine Starr was in exactly the right taste, too.

She was a tall girl, with a figure that still made Malone blink, in spite of the times he’d admired it in the courtroom. Her bronze-brown hair was smooth and well-brushed, her pale face was calm and composed. Serene, polished, suave. Malone had a private idea that if he made a pass at her, she wouldn’t scream. She was wearing black rayon house-pajamas. He wondered if they were her idea of mourning.

Malone got the necessary condolences and trite remarks out of the way fast, and then said, “What kind of terrible trouble and danger are you in, Miss Starr?”

That startled her. She wasn’t able to come up with anything more original than “What do you mean?”

“I mean what you wrote in your note to Paul Palmer,” the lawyer said.

She looked at the floor and said, “I hoped it had been destroyed.”

“It will be,” Malone said gallantly, “if you say so.”

“Oh,” she said. “Do you have it with you?”

“No,” Malone lied. “It’s in my office safe. But I’ll go back there and bum it.” He didn’t add when.

“It really didn’t have anything to do with his death, you know,” she said.

Malone said, “Of course not. You didn’t send him the rope too, did you?”

She stared at him. “How awful of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Malone said contritely.

She relaxed. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m a little unnerved, naturally.” She paused. “May I offer you a drink?”

“You may,” Malone said, “and I’ll take it.”

He watched her while she mixed a lot of scotch and a little soda in two glasses, wondering how soon after her fiancé’s death he could safely ask her for a date. Maybe she wouldn’t say Yes to a broken-down criminal lawyer, though. He took the drink, downed half of it, and said to himself indignantly, “Who’s broken-down?”

“Oh, Mr. Malone,” she breathed, “you don’t believe my note had anything to do with it?”

“Of course not,” Malone said. “That note would have made him want to live, and get out of jail.” He considered bringing up the matter of his five thousand dollar fee, and then decided this was not the time. “Nice that you’ll be able to pay back what you owe Max Hook. He’s a bad man to owe money to.”

She looked at him sharply and said nothing. Malone finished his drink, and walked to the door.

“One thing, though,” he said, hand on the knob. “This — terrible trouble and danger you’re in. You’d better tell me. Because I might be able to help, you know.”

“Oh, no,” she said. She was standing very close to him, and her perfume began to mingle dangerously with the rye and scotch in his brain. “I’m afraid not.” He had a definite impression that she was thinking fast. “No one can help, now.” She looked away, delicately. “You know — a girl — alone in the world—”

Malone felt his cheeks reddening. He opened the door and said, “Oh.” Just plain Oh.

“Just a minute,” she said quickly. “Why did you ask all these questions?”

“Because,” Malone said, just as quickly, “I thought the answers might be useful — in case Paul Palmer was murdered.”

That, he told himself, riding down the self-service elevator, would give her something to think about.

He hailed a cab and gave the address of the apartment building where Lillian Claire lived, on Goethe Street. In the lobby of the building he paused long enough to call a certain well-known politician at his home and make sure that he was there. It would be just as well not to run into that particular politician at Lillian Claire’s apartment, since he was paying for it.

It was a nice apartment, too, Malone decided, as the slim mulatto maid ushered him in. Big, soft modernistic divans and chairs, panelled mirrors, and a built-in bar. Not half as nice, though, as Lillian Claire herself.

She was a cuddly little thing, small, and a bit on the plump side, with curly blonde hair and a deceptively simple stare. She said, “Oh, Mr. Malone, I’ve always wanted a chance to get acquainted with you.” Malone had a pleasant feeling that if he tickled her, just a little, she’d giggle.

She mixed him a drink, lighted his cigar, sat close to him on the biggest and most luxurious divan, and said, “Tell me, how on earth did Paul Palmer get that rope?”

“I don’t know,” Malone said. “Did you send it to him, baked in a cake?”

She looked at him reprovingly. “You don’t think I wanted him to kill himself and let that awful woman inherit all that money?”

Malone said, “She isn’t so awful. But this is tough on you, though. Now you’ll never be able to sue him.”

“I never intended to,” she said. “I didn’t want to be paid off. I just thought it might scare her away from him.”

Malone put down his glass, she hopped up and refilled it. “Were you in love with him?” he said.

“Don’t be silly.” She curled up beside him again. “I liked him. He was much too nice to have someone like that marry him for his money.”

Malone nodded slowly. The room was beginning to swim — not unpleasantly — before his eyes. Maybe he should have eaten dinner after all

“Just the same,” he said, “you didn’t think that idea up all by yourself. Somebody put you up to asking for money.”

She pulled away from him a little — not too much. “That’s perfect nonsense,” she said unconvincingly.

“All right,” Malone said agreeably. “Tell me just one thing—”

“I’ll tell you this one thing,” she said. “Paul never murdered his uncle. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t Paul. Because I took him home that night. He came to see me, yes. But I didn’t put him in a cab and send him home. I took him home, and got him to his own room. Nobody saw me. It was late — almost daylight.” She paused and lit a cigarette. “I peeked into his uncle’s room to make sure I hadn’t been seen, and his uncle was dead. I never told anybody because I didn’t want to get mixed up in it worse than I was already.”

Malone sat bolt upright. “Fine thing,” he said, indignantly and a bit thickly. “You could have alibied him and you let him be convicted.”

“Why bother?” she said serenely. “I knew he had you for a lawyer. Why would he need an alibi?”

Malone shoved her back against the cushions of the davenport and glared at her. “A’right,” he said. “But that wasn’t the thing I was gonna ask. Why did old man Featherstone call you up tonight?”

Her shoulders stiffened under his hands. “He just asked me for a dinner date,” she said.

“You’re a liar,” Malone said, not unpleasantly. He ran an experimental finger along her ribs. She did giggle. Then he kissed her.

All this time spent, Malone told himself reprovingly, and you haven’t learned one thing worth the effort. Paul Palmer hadn’t killed his uncle. But he’d been sure of that all along, and anyway it wouldn’t do any good now. Madelaine Starr needed money, and now she was going to inherit a lot of it. Orlo Featherstone was on friendly terms with Lillian Claire.

The little lawyer leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head on his hands. At three o’clock in the morning, Joe the Angel’s was a desolate and almost deserted place. He knew now, definitely, that he should have eaten dinner. Nothing, he decided, would cure the way he felt except a quick drink, a long sleep, or sudden death.

He would probably never learn who had killed Paul Palmer’s uncle, or why. He would probably never learn what had happened to Paul Palmer. After all, the man had hanged himself. No one else could have got into that cell. It wasn’t murder to give a man enough rope to hang himself with.

No, he would probably never learn what had happened to Paul Palmer, and he probably would never collect that five thousand dollar fee. But there was one thing that he could do. He’d learn the words of that song.

He called for a drink, the janitor, and the janitor’s guitar. Then he sat back and listened.

“As I passed by the ol’ State’s prison,

Ridin’ on a stream-lin’ train—”

It was a long, rambling ballad, requiring two drinks for the janitor and two more for Malone. The lawyer listened, remembering a line here and there.

“When they hanged him in the mornin’,

His last words were for you,

Then the sheriff took his shiny knife

An’ cut that ol’ rope through.”

A sad story, Malone reflected, finishing the second drink. Personally, he’d have preferred “My Wild Irish Rose” right now. But he yelled to Joe for another drink, and went on listening.

“They hanged him for the thing you done,

You knew it was a sin,

How well you knew his heart could break,

Lady, why did you turn him in—”

The little lawyer jumped to his feet. That was the line he’d been trying to remember! And what had Paul Palmer whispered? “It wouldn’t break.”

Malone knew, now.

He dived behind the bar, opened the cash drawer, and scooped out a handful of telephone slugs.

“You’re drunk,” Joe the Angel said indignantly.

“That may be,” Malone said happily, “and it’s a good idea too. But I know what I’m doing.”

He got one of the slugs into the phone on the third try, dialled Orlo Featherstone’s number, and waited till the elderly lawyer got out of bed and answered the phone.

It took ten minutes, and several more phone slugs to convince Featherstone that it was necessary to get Madelaine Starr out of bed and make the three-hour drive to the state’s prison, right now. It took another ten minutes to wake up Lillian Claire and induce her to join the party. Then he placed a long-distance call to the sheriff of Statesville County and invited him to drop in at the prison and pick up a murderer.

Malone strode to the door. As he reached it, Joe the Angel hailed him.

“I forgot,” he said, “I got sumpin’ for you.” Joe the Angel rummaged back of the cash register and brought out a long envelope. “That cute secretary of yours was looking for you all over town to give you this. Finally she left it with me. She knew you’d get here sooner or later.”

Malone said “Thanks,” took the envelope, glanced at it, and winced. “First National Bank.” Registered mail. He knew he was overdrawn, but—

Oh, well, maybe there was still a chance to get that five thousand bucks.

The drive to Statesville wasn’t so bad, in spite of the fact that Orlo Featherstone snored most of the way. Lillian snuggled up against Malone’s left shoulder like a kitten, and with his right hand he held Madelaine Starr’s hand under the auto robe. But the arrival, a bit before seven a.m., was depressing. The prison looked its worst in the early morning, under a light fog.

Besides, the little lawyer wasn’t happy over what he had to do.

Warden Garrity’s office was even more depressing. There was the warden, eyeing Malone coldly and belligerently, and Madelaine Starr and her uncle, Dr. Dickson, looking a bit annoyed. Orlo Featherstone was frankly skeptical. The sheriff of Statesville County was sleepy and bored, Lillian Claire was sleepy and suspicious. Even the guard, Bowers, looked bewildered.

And all these people, Malone realized, were waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of his whiskers.

He pulled it out fast. “Paul Palmer was murdered,” he said flatly.

Warden Garrity looked faintly amused. “A bunch of pixies crawled in his cell and tied the rope around his neck?”

“No,” Malone said, lighting a cigar. “This murderer made one try — murder by frame-up. He killed Paul Palmers uncle for two reasons, one of them being to send Paul Palmer to the chair. It nearly worked. Then I got him a new trial. So another method had to be tried, fast, and that one did work.”

“You’re insane,” Orlo Featherstone said. “Palmer hanged himself.”

“I’m not insane,” Malone said indignantly, “I’m drunk. There’s a distinction. And Paul Palmer hanged himself because he thought he wouldn’t die, and could escape from prison.” He looked at Bowers and said, “Watch all these people, someone may make a move.”

Lillian Claire said, “I don’t get it.”

“You will,” Malone promised. He kept a watchful eye on Bowers and began talking fast. “The whole thing was arranged by someone who was mercenary and owed money. Someone who knew Paul Palmer would be too drunk to know what had happened the night his uncle was killed, and who was close enough to him to have a key to the apartment. That person went in and killed the uncle with Paul Palmer’s gun. And, as that person had planned, Paul Palmer was tried and convicted and would have been electrocuted, if he hadn’t had a damn smart lawyer.”

He flung his cigar into the cuspidor and went on, “Then Paul Palmer was granted a new trial. So the mercenary person who wanted Paul Palmer’s death convinced him that he had to break out of prison, and another person showed him how the escape could be arranged — by pretending to hang himself, and being moved to the prison hospital — watch her, Bowers!”

Madelaine Starr had flung herself at Dr. Dickson. “Damn you,” she screamed, her face white. “I knew you’d break down and talk. But you’ll never talk again—”

There were three shots. One from the little gun Madelaine had carried in her pocket, and two from Bowers’ service revolver.

Then the room was quite still.

Malone walked slowly across the room, looked down at the two bodies, and shook his head sadly. “Maybe it’s just as well,” he said. “They’d probably have hired another defense lawyer anyway.”

“This is all very fine,” the Statesville County sheriff said. “But I still don’t see how you figured it. Have another beer?”

“Thanks,” Malone said. “It was easy. A song tipped me off. Know this?” He hummed a few measures.

“Oh, sure,” the sheriff said. “The name of it is, ‘The Statesville Prison.’ ” He sang the first four verses.

“Well, I’ll be double-damned,” Malone said. The bartender put the two glasses of beer on the table. “Bring me a double gin for a chaser,” the lawyer told him.

“Me too,” the sheriff said. “What does the song have to do with it, Malone?”

Malone said, “It was the crank on the adding machine, pal. Know what I mean? You put down a lot of stuff to add up and nothing happens, and then somebody turns the crank and it all adds up to what you want to know. See how simple it is?”

“I don’t,” the sheriff said, “but go on.”

“I had all the facts,” Malone said, “I knew everything I needed to know, but I couldn’t add it up. I needed one thing, that one thing.” He spoke almost reverently, downing his gin. “Paul Palmer said ‘It wouldn’t break’ — just before he died. And he looked terribly surprised. For a long time, I didn’t know what he meant. Then I heard that song again, and I did know.” He sang a few lines. “The sheriff took his shiny knife, and cut that ol’ rope through.” Then he finished his beer, and sang on “They hanged him for the thing you done, you knew it was a sin. You didn’t know his heart could break, Lady why did you turn him in.” He ended on a blue note.

“Very pretty,” the sheriff said. “Only I heard it, ‘You knew that his poor heart could break.’ ”

“Same thing,” Malone said, waving a hand. “Only, that song was what turned the crank on the adding machine. When I heard it again, I knew what Palmer meant by ‘it wouldn’t break.’ ”

“His heart?” the sheriff said helpfully.

“No,” Malone said, “the rope.”

He waved at the bartender and said “Two more of the same.” Then to the sheriff, “He expected the rope to break. He thought it would be artfully frayed so that he would drop to the floor unharmed. Then he could have been moved to the prison hospital — from which there had been two escapes in the past six months. He had to escape, you see, because his sweetheart had written him that she was in terrible trouble and danger — the same sweetheart whose evidence had helped convict him at the trial.

“Madelaine Starr wanted his money,” Malone went on, “but she didn’t want Paul. So her murder of his uncle served two purposes. It released Paul’s money, and it framed him. Using poor old innocent Orlo Featherstone, she planted in Lillian Claire’s head the idea of holding up Paul for money, so Paul would be faced with a need for ready cash. Everything worked fine, until I gummixed up the whole works by getting my client a new trial.”

“Your client shouldn’t of had such a smart lawyer,” the sheriff said, over his beer glass.

Malone tossed aside the compliment with a shrug of his cigar. “Maybe he should of had a better one. Anyway, she and her uncle, Dr. Dickson, fixed it all up. She sent that note to Paul, so he’d think he had to break out of the clink. Then her uncle, Dickson, told Paul he’d arrange the escape, with the rope trick. To the world, it would have looked as though Paul Palmer had committed suicide in a fit of depression. Only he did have a good lawyer, and he lived long enough to say ‘It wouldn’t break.’ ”

Malone looked into his empty glass and lapsed into a melancholy silence.

The phone rang — someone hijacked a truck over on the Springfield Road — and the sheriff was called away. Left by himself, Malone cried a little into his beer. Lillian Claire had gone back to Chicago with Orlo Featherstone, who really had called her up for a date, and no other reason.

Malone reminded himself he hadn’t had any sleep, his head was splitting, and what was left of Joe the Angel’s hundred dollars would just take him back to Chicago. And there was that letter from the bank, probably threatening a summons. He took it out of his pocket and sighed as he tore it open.

“Might as well face realities,” Malone said to the bartender. “And bring me another double gin.”

He drank the gin, tore open the envelope, and took out a certified check for five thousand dollars, with a note from the bank to the effect that Paul Palmer had directed its payment. It was dated the day before his death.

Malone waltzed to the door, waltzed back to pay the bartender and kiss him good-bye.

“Do you feel all right?” the bartender asked anxiously.

“All right!” Malone said. “I’m a new man!”

What was more, he’d just remembered the rest of that song. He sang it, happily, as he went up the street toward the railroad station.

“As I passed by the ol’ State’s prison,

Ridin’ on a stream-lin’ train

I waved my hand, and said out loud,

I’m never comin’ back again,

I’m never comin’ back a — gain!”

The Hidden Law

by Melville Davisson Post

The UNCLE ABNER stories, written 1911–1917, were first collected in book form in 1918. That volume has never appeared as a reprint, but was kept in print for a quarter century in its original trade edition. This is a unique record among detective stories, and an extraordinary record in any field. Though the general public is sometimes surprisingly ignorant of UNCLE ABNER (when I recently ordered a copy in a bookstore, the clerk giggled and asked “Li’l Abner?”), there has been a steady demand from a persistent and perceptive minority who realize that this is, in Ellery Queens words, “the finest book of detective short stories written by an American since Poe.” Dorothy Sayers, to be sure, calls the stories “strictly sensational” and unfair (an objection justified in a few of the eighteen tales); but this caviling seems petty beside the poetic portrayal of early nineteenth-century Virginia, the delightful character of SQUIRE RANDOLPH (certainly one of the three or four great Watsons), the brilliance of the plot-puzzles, and above all the moral grandeur of ABNER himself, voice and arm of the Lord. If the prophet DANIEL, who solved the locked-room problem of Bel and the Dragon, is the father of detectives, surely the prophet ABNER is his favorite son.

* * *

We had come out to Dudley Betts’ house and were standing in a bit of meadow. It was an afternoon of April; there had been a shower of rain, and now the sun was on the velvet grass and the white-headed clover blossoms. The sky was blue above and the earth green below, and swimming between them was an air like lotus. Facing the south upon this sunny field was a stand of bees, thatched with rye-straw and covered over with a clapboard roof, the house of each tribe a section of a hollow gumtree, with a cap on the top for the tribute of honey to the human tyrant. The bees had come out after the shower was gone, and they hummed at their work with the sound of a spinner.

Randolph stopped and looked down upon the humming hive. He lifted his finger with a little circling gesture.

“ ‘Singing masons building roofs of gold,’ ” he said. “Ah, Abner, William of Avon was a great poet.”

My uncle turned about at that and looked at Randolph and then at the hive of bees. A girl was coming up from the brook below with a pail of water. She wore a simple butternut frock, and she was clean-limbed and straight like those first daughters of the world who wove and spun. She paused before the hive and the bees swarmed about her as about a great clover blossom, and she was at home and unafraid like a child in a company of yellow butterflies. She went on to the spring house with her dripping wooden pail, kissing the tips of her fingers to the bees. We followed, but before the hive my uncle stopped and repeated the line that Randolph had quoted:

“ ‘Singing masons building roofs of gold,’... and over a floor of gold and pillars of gold.” He added, “He was a good riddle maker, your English poet, but not so good as Samson, unless I help him out.”

I received the fairy fancy with all children’s joy. Those little men singing as they laid their yellow floor, and raised their yellow walls, and arched their yellow roof! Singing! The word seemed to open up some sunlit fairy world.

It pleased Randolph to have thus touched my uncle.

“A great poet, Abner,” he repeated, “and more than that; he drew lessons from nature valuable for doctrine. Men should hymn as they labor and fill the fields with song and so suck out the virus from the curse. He was a great philosopher, Abner — William of Avon.”

“But not so great a philosopher as Saint Paul,” replied Abner, and he turned from the bees toward old Dudley Betts, digging in the fields before his door. He put his hands behind him and lifted his stem bronze face.

“Those who coveted after money,” he said, “have ‘pierced themselves through with many sorrows.’ And is it not the truth? Yonder is old Dudley Betts. He is doubled up with aches; he has lost his son; he is losing his life, and he will lose his soul — all for money — ‘Pierced themselves through with many sorrows,’ as Saint Paul said it, and now, at the end he has lost the horde that he slaved for.”

The man was a by-word in the hills; mean and narrow, with an economy past belief. He used everything about him to one end and with no thought but gain. He cultivated his fields to the very door, and set his fences out into the road, and he extracted from those about him every tithe of service. He had worked his son until the boy had finally run away across the mountains. He had driven his daughter to the makeshifts of the first patriarchal people — soap from ashes, linen from hemp, and the wheel and the loom for the frock upon her limbs.

And like every man under a single dominating passion, he grew in suspicion and in fear. He was afraid to lend out his money lest he lose It. He had given so much for this treasure that he would take no chance with it, and so kept it by him in gold.

But caution and fear are not harpies to be halted; they wing on. Betts was dragged far in their claw-feet. There is a land of dim things that these convoys can enter. Betts arrived there. We must not press the earth too hard, old, forgotten peoples believed, lest evil things are squeezed out that strip us and avenge it. And ancient crones, feeble, wrapped up by the fire, warned him: The earth suffered us to reap, but not to glean her. We must not gather up every head of wheat. The earth or dim creatures behind the earth would be offended. It was the oldest belief. The first men poured a little wine out when they drank and brought an offering of their herds and the first fruits of the fields. It was written in the Book. He could get it down and read it.

What did they know that they did this? Life was hard then; men saved all they could. There was some terrible experience behind this custom, some experience that appalled and stamped the race with a lesson!

At first Betts laughed at their warnings; then he cursed at them, and his changed manner marked how far he had got. The laugh meant disbelief, but the curse meant fear.

And now, the very strangest thing had happened: The treasure that the old man had so painfully laid up had mysteriously vanished clear away. No one knew it. Men like Betts, cautious and secretive, are dumb before disaster. They conceal the deep mortal hurt as though to hide it from themselves.

He had gone in the night and told Randolph and Abner, and now they had come to see his house.

He put down his hoe when we came up and led us in. It was a house like those of the first men, with everything in it home-made — hand-woven rag-carpets on the floor, and hand-woven coverlets on the beds; tables and shelves and benches of rude carpentry. These things spoke of the man’s economy. But there were also things that spoke of his fear: The house was a primitive stockade. The door was barred with a beam, and there were heavy shutters at the windows; an ax stood by the old man’s bed and an ancient dueling pistol hung by its trigger-guard to a nail.

I did not go in, for youth is cunning. I sat down on the doorstep and fell into so close a study of a certain wasp at work under a sill that I was overlooked as a creature without ears; but I had ears of the finest and I lost no word.

The old man got two splint-bottom chairs and put them by the table for his guests, and then he brought a blue earthen jar and set it before them. It was one of the old-fashioned glazed jars peddled by the hucksters, smaller but deeper than a crock, with a thick rim and two great ears. In this he kept his gold pieces until on a certain night they had vanished.

The old man’s voice ran in and out of a whisper as he told the story. He knew the very night, because he looked into his jar before he slept and every morning when he got out of his bed. It had been a devil’s night — streaming clouds drove across an iron sky, a thin crook of a moon sailed, and a high bitter wind scythed the earth.

Everybody remembered the night when he got out his almanac and named it. There had been noises, old Betts said, but he could not define them. Such a night is full of voices; the wind whispers in the chimney and the house frame creaks. The wind had come on in gusts at sunset, full of dust and whirling leaves, but later it had got up into a gale. The fire had gone out and the house inside was black as a pit. He did not know what went on inside or out, but he knew that the gold was gone at daylight, and he knew that no living human creature had got into his house. The bar on his door held and the shutters were bolted. Whatever entered, entered through the keyhole or through the throat of a chimney that a cat would stick in.

Abner said nothing, but Randolph sat down to an official inquiry:

“You have been robbed, Betts,” he said. “Somebody entered your house that night.”

“Nobody entered it,” replied the old man in his hoarse, half-whispered voice, “either on that night or any other night. The door was fast, Squire.”

“But the thief may have closed it behind him.”

Betts shook his head. “He could not put up the bar behind him, and besides I set it in a certain way. It was not moved. And the windows — I bolt them and turn the bolt at a certain angle. No human touched them.”

It was not possible to believe that this man could be mistaken. One could see with what care he had set his little traps — the bar across the door precisely at a certain hidden fine; the bolts of the window shutters turned precisely to an angle that he alone knew. It was not likely that Randolph would suggest anything that this cautious old man had not already thought of.

“Then,” continued Randolph, “the thief concealed himself in your house the day before the robbery and got out of it on the day after.”

But again Betts shook his head, and his eyes ran over the house and to a candle on the mantelpiece.

“I look,” he said, “every night before I go to bed.”

And one could see the picture of this old, fearful man, looking through his house with the smoking tallow candle, peering into every nook and corner. Could a thief hide from him in this house that he knew inch by inch? One could not believe it. The creature took no chance; he had thought of every danger, this one among them, and every night he looked! He would know, then, the very cracks in the wall. He would have found a rat.

Then, it seemed to me, Randolph entered the only road there was out of this mystery.

“Your son knew about this money?”

“Yes,” replied Betts, “ ’Lander knew about it. He used to say that a part of it was his because he had worked for it as much as I had. But I told him,” and the old man’s voice cheeped in a sort of laugh, “that he was mine.”

“Where was your son Philander when the money disappeared?” said Randolph.

“Over the mountains,” said Betts; “he had been gone a month.” Then he paused and looked at Randolph. “It was not ’Lander. On that day he was in the school that Mr. Jefferson set up. I had a letter from the master asking for money... I have the letter,” and he got up to get it.

But Randolph waved his hand and sat back in his chair with the aspect of a brooding oracle.

It was then that my uncle spoke.

“Betts,” he said, “how do you think the money went?”

The old man’s voice got again into that big crude whisper.

“I don’t know, Abner.”

But my uncle pressed him.

“What do you think?”

Betts drew a little nearer to the table.

“Abner,” he said, “there are a good many things going on around a man that he doesn’t understand. We turn out a horse to pasture, and he comes in with hand-holts in his mane... You have seen it?”

“Yes,” replied my uncle.

And I had seen it, too, many a time, when the horses were brought up in the spring from pasture, their manes twisted and knotted into loops, as though to furnish a hand-holt to a rider.

“Well, Abner,” continued the old man in his rustling whisper, “who rides the horse? You cannot untie or untwist those hand-holts — you must cut them out with shears — with iron. Is it true?”

“It is true,” replied my uncle.

“And why, eh, Abner? Because those hand-holts were never knotted in by any human fingers! You know what the old folk say?”

“I know,” answered my uncle. “Do you believe it, Betts?”

“Eh, Abner!” he croaked in the gutteral whisper. “If there were no witches, why did our fathers hang up iron to keep them off? My grandmother saw one burned in the old country. She had ridden the king’s horse, and greased her hands with shoemakers’ wax so her fingers would not slip in the mane... Shoemakers’ wax! Mark you that, Abner!”

“Betts,” cried Randolph, “you are a fool; there are no witches!”

“There was the Witch of Endor,” replied my uncle. “Go on, Betts.”

“By gad, sir!” roared Randolph, “if we are to try witches, I shall have to read up James the First. That Scotch king wrote a learned work on demonology. He advised the magistrates to search on the body of the witch for the seal of the devil; that would be a spot insensible to pain, and, James said, ‘Prod for it with a needle.’ ”

But my uncle was serious.

“Go on, Betts,” he said. “I do not believe that any man entered your house and robbed you. But why do you think that a witch did?”

“Well, Abner,” answered the old man, “who could have got in but such a creature? A thief cannot crawl through a keyhole, but there are things that can. My grandmother said that once in the old country a man awoke one night to see a gray wolf sitting by his fireside. He had an ax, as I have, and he fought the wolf with that and cut off its paw, whereupon it fled screaming through the keyhole. And the paw lying on the floor was a woman’s hand!”

“Then, Betts,” cried Randolph, “it’s damned lucky that you didn’t use your ax, if that is what one finds on the floor.”

Randolph had spoken with pompous sarcasm, but at the words there came upon Abner’s face a look of horror.

“It is,” he said, “in God’s name!”

Betts leaned forward in his chair.

“And what would have happened to me, Abner, do you think, if I had used my ax? Would I have died there with the ax in my hand?”

The look of horror remained upon my uncle’s face.

“You would have wished for that when the light came; to die is sometimes to escape the pit.”

“I would have fallen into hell, then?”

“Aye, Betts,” replied my uncle, “straightway into hell!”

The old man rested his hands on the posts of the chair.

“The creatures behind the world are baleful creatures,” he muttered in his big whisper.

Randolph got up at that.

“Damme!” he said. “Are we in the time of Roger Williams, and is this Massachusetts, that witches ride and men are filched of their gold by magic and threatened with hell fire? What is this cursed foolery, Abner?”

“It is no foolery, Randolph,” replied my uncle, “but the living truth.”

“The truth!” cried Randolph. “Do you call it the truth that creatures, not human, able to enter through the keyhole and fly away, have Betts’ gold, and if he fought against this robbery with his ax he would have put himself in torment? Damme, man! In the name of common sense, do you call this the truth?”

“Randolph,” replied Abner, and his voice was slow and deep, “it is every word the truth.”

Randolph moved back the chair before him and sat down. He looked at my uncle curiously.

“Abner,” he said, “you used to be a crag of common sense. The legends and theories of fools broke on you and went to pieces. Would you now testify to witches?”

“And if I did,” replied my uncle, “I should have Saint Paul behind me.”

“The fathers of the church fell into some errors,” replied Randolph. “The fathers of the law, then?” said Abner.

Randolph took his chin in his hand at that. “It is true,” he said, “that Sir Matthew Hale held nothing to be so well established as the fact of witchcraft for three great reasons, which he gave in their order, as became the greatest judge in England: First, because it was asserted in the Scriptures; second, because all nations had made laws against it; and, third, because the human testimony in support of it was overwhelming. I believe that Sir Matthew had knowledge of some six thousand cases... But Mr. Jefferson has lived since then, Abner, and this is Virginia.”

“Nevertheless,” replied my uncle, “after Mr. Jefferson, and in Virginia, this thing has happened.”

Randolph swore a great oath.

“Then, by gad, sir, let us burn the old women in the villages until the creatures who carried Betts’ treasures through the keyhole bring it back!”

Betts spoke then.

“They have brought some of it back!”

My uncle turned sharply in his chair.

“What do you mean, Betts?” he said.

“Why this, Abner,” replied the old man, his voice descending into the cavernous whisper; “on three mornings I have found some of my gold pieces in the jar. And they came as they went, Abner, with every window fastened down and the bar across the door. And there is another thing about these pieces that have come back — they are mine, for I know every piece — but they have been in the hands of the creatures that ride the horses in the pasture — they have been handled by witches!” He whispered the word with a fearful glance about him. “How do I know that? Wait, I will show you!”

He went over to his bed and got out a little box from beneath his cornhusk mattress — a worn, smoke-stained box with a sliding lid. He drew the lid off with his thumb and turned the contents out on the table.

“Now look,” he said; “look, there is wax on every piece! Shoemakers’ wax, mark you... Eh, Abner! My mother said that — the creatures grease their hands with that so that their fingers will not slip when they ride the barebacked horses in the night. They have carried this gold clutched in their hands, see, and the wax has come off!”

My uncle and Randolph leaned over the table. They examined the coins.

“By the Eternal!” cried Randolph. “It is wax! But were they clean before?”

“They were clean,” the old man answered. “The wax is from the creatures’ fingers. Did not my mother say it?”

My uncle sat back in his chair, but Betts strained forward and put his fearful query:

“What do you think, Abner; will all the gold come back?”

My uncle did not at once reply. He sat for some time silent, looking through the open door at the sunny meadowland and the far off hills. But finally he spoke like one who has worked out a problem and got the answer.

“It will not all come back,” he said.

“How much, then?” whispered Betts.

“What is left,” replied Abner, “when the toll is taken out.”

“You know where the gold is?”

“Yes.”

“And the creatures that have it, Abner,” Betts whispered, “they are not human?”

“They are not human!” replied my uncle.

Then he got up and began to walk about the house, but not to search for clews to this mysterious thing. He walked like one who examines something within himself — or something beyond the eye — and old Betts followed him with his straining face. And Randolph sat in his chair with his arms folded and his chin against his stock, as a skeptic overwhelmed by proof might sit in a house of haunted voices. He was puzzled upon every hand. The thing was out of reason at every point, both in the loss and in the return of these coins upon the table, and my uncle’s comments were below the soundings of all sense. The creatures who now had Betts’ gold could enter through the keyhole! Betts would have gone into the pit if he had struck out with his ax! A moiety of this treasure would be taken out and the rest returned! And the coins testified to no human handling! The thing had no face nor aspect of events in nature. Mortal thieves enjoyed no such supernal powers. These were the attributes of the familiar spirit. Nor did the human robber return a per cent upon his gains!

I have said that my uncle walked about the floor. But he stopped now and looked down at the hard, miserly old man.

“Betts,” he said, “this is a mysterious world. It is hedged about and steeped in mystery. Listen to me! The Patriarchs were directed to make an offering to the Lord of a portion of the increase in their herds. Why? Because the Lord had need of sheep and heifers? Surely not, for the whole earth and its increase were His. There was some other reason, Betts. I do not understand what it was, but I do understand that no man can use the earth and keep every tithe of the increase for himself. They did not try it, but you did!”

He paused and filled his big lungs.

“It was a disastrous experiment... What will you do?”

“What must I do, Abner?” the old man whispered. “Make a sacrifice like the Patriarchs?”

“A sacrifice you must make, Betts,” replied my uncle, “but not like the Patriarchs. What you receive from the earth you must divide into three equal parts and keep one part for yourself.”

“And to whom shall I give the other two parts, Abner?”

“To whom would you wish to give them, Betts, if you had the choice?”

The old man fingered about his mouth.

“Well,” he said, “a man would give to those of his own household first — if he had to give.”

“Then,” said Abner, “from this day keep a third of your increase for yourself and give the other two-thirds to your son and your daughter.”

“And the gold, Abner? Will it come back?”

“A third part will come back. Be content with that.”

“And the creatures that have my gold? Will they harm me?”

“Betts,” replied my uncle, “the creatures that have your gold on this day hidden in their house will labor for you as no slaves have ever labored — without word or whip. Do you promise?”

The fearful old man promised, and we went out into the sun.

The tall straight young girl was standing before the springhouse, kneading a dish of yellow butter and singing like a blackbird. My uncle strode down to her. We could not hear the thing he said, but the singing ceased when he began to talk and burst out in a fuller note when he had finished — a big, happy, joyous note that seemed to fill the meadow.

We waited for him before the stand of bees, and Randolph turned on him when he came.

“Abner,” he said, “what is the answer to this damned riddle?”

“You gave it, Randolph,” he replied — “ ‘Singing masons building roofs of gold.’ ” And he pointed to the bees. “When I saw that the cap on one of the gums had been moved I thought Betts’ gold was there, and when I saw the wax on the coins I was certain.”

“But,” cried Randolph, “you spoke of creatures not human — creatures that could enter through the keyhole — creatures—”

“I spoke of the bees,” replied my uncle.

“But you said Betts would have fallen into hell if he struck out with his ax!”

“He would have killed his daughter,” replied Abner. “Can you think of a more fearful hell? She took the gold and hid it in the bee cap. But she was honest with her father; whenever she sent a sum of money to her brother she returned an equal number of gold pieces to old Betts’ jar.”

“Then,” said Randolph, with a great oath, “there is no witch here with her familiar spirits?”

“Now that,” replied my uncle, “will depend upon the imagery of language. There is here a subtle maiden and a stand of bees!”

Black Murder

by Anthony Boucher

We are happy to announce that, as the result of many months of pressure on our part, backed up by the protests of Ellery Queen, Vincent Starrett and other aficionados, we have finally prevailed upon Mr Boucher to include in this anthology one of his own detective stories. (Before we turned on the pressure, he was going to include two.)

THE EDITORS OF TOWER BOOKS

* * *

In peacetime the whole Shaw case could never have happened. As Officer Mulroon said later: the first attack would have been passed off as natural illness, and besides there never would have been a first attack.

But police work in the spring of 1943 was full of cases that could never have happened in peacetime. Detective Lieutenant Donald MacDonald (Homicide, L.A.P.D.) was slowly becoming reconciled to the recruiting officer who had dissuaded him from joining the Navy. He was necessary here on his job, even though he sometimes wished that he were back in a patrolman’s uniform. His plain clothes did draw occasional sardonic stares.

Even the stripe and a half of Lieutenant (j.g.) Warren Humphreys made him uniform-conscious and reminded him of his frustrated enlistment. But the slight bitterness was effaced by the knowledge that in this case the Navy had had to turn to him because he was a trained specialist who knew about murderers.

“We don’t believe in coincidence in the Navy,” Lieutenant Humphreys had barked over the phone. “When I’m sent out here to pick up specifications on a sub detector, and find the inventor’s suddenly come down with an attack having all the symptoms of arsenic poisoning, I want police action. And quick.”

Lieutenant MacDonald remembered when Warren Humphreys had been his favorite political commentator, and hoped that he diagnosed poisonings more accurately than he had the strength of the Red Army.

Apparently he did. At least the police doctor made the same snap diagnosis after an examination of the comatose inventor, and commended the naval officer for his prompt administration of a mustard emetic followed by milk of magnesia.

“Best I could do with what’s in an ordinary house,” Lieutenant Humphreys said with gruff modesty. “Got to know a thing or two about poison treatment in Naval Intelligence. You never know...”

“You’ve made a good start; he ought to pull through. Keep him quiet and give him lots of milk. I’ll send out a male nurse. You can call the lab about six, MacDonald. I’ll try to have a full report on these specimens by then.”

It was now one forty-five. Humphreys had arrived at one and phoned the police almost immediately. The attack, which the household had taken for ordinary digestive trouble, had struck Harrison Shaw at twelve-thirty, after his usual lunch: a tartar sandwich and a bottle of beer.

“The dietetics boys’d say he had it coming to him,” MacDonald observed.

“But it was what he always ate, Lieutenant,” the blind man said. “And it seemed to sustain his energy admirably — enough at least to interest the Navy, if not to bring in any marked practical rewards.”

The slight note of bitterness toward the — professional habit made him think “deceased” — toward the victim caused MacDonald to look at the blind man more closely. He saw a tall, lean man of fifty, with a marked resemblance to the poisoned inventor save for the sightless stare and the one-sided smile that never left his face. He wore a gray suit of unusually fine tailoring and unusually great age.

The suit was like the house. One of those old family mansions in the West Adams district near U.S.C. You saw it from the outside and expected sumptuous furnishings and a flock of servants. You came in and found a barn, and not a servant in sight.

“Let me get the picture straight,” MacDonald said. “The medical report was the first essential. Now that that’s given us something to sink our teeth into, pending the lab analysis, there’s plenty more to cover. I gather you’re Mr. Shaw’s cousin?”

The blind man went on smiling. “Second cousin, yes. Ira Beaumont, at your service, Lieutenant.”

“You’ve been living with Mr. Shaw for how long?”

“Mr. Shaw has been living with me for some three years. Ever since I inherited this house from a distant relative of ours. He felt, and with some justice, that he had as great a right to the inheritance as I, and I was glad to give him some of the space I could not possibly use up in this white elephant.”

“And the rest of the household?”

“First my cousin’s mother came to look after him. Then his laboratory assistant joined our happy household. I began to feel a trifle like the old woman who is so horribly moved in on in the play Kind Lady.”

“That’s all in the house?”

“There was a couple who cooked and kept house, but we could not compete with Lockheed and Vega in wage scales. Mrs. Shaw now takes their place.” He rose and crossed the room to a humidor. “Do you gentlemen care for cigars?”

“No thanks, not now.” MacDonald noted admiringly the ease with which the blind man moved unaided about his own house. There’s something splendid about the overcoming of handicaps... a splendor, he reflected, that we’ll have many chances to watch in the years to come... “Then Mrs. Shaw prepared your cousin’s lunch today?”

“As usual. I believe you’ll find her in the kitchen now; I know she’ll be thinking that the family must eat tonight, whatever has happened.”

Lieutenant Humphreys tagged along. The prospect of a Watson from Naval Intelligence somewhat awed the police detective.

“There can be only one motive,” the Naval Watson muttered. “Somebody had to keep him from delivering those specifications to me. And if you can find them, officer, I’d almost be willing to write off the murder as unsolved.”

“We don’t even know yet that they’re lost,” MacDonald pointed out. “When Shaw’s himself again, he may hand them straight over.”

But Humphreys shook his head. “They’re good,” he said cryptically. “They wouldn’t slip up on that.”

There was a sudden slam of a door as they entered the kitchen. Mrs. Shaw, MacDonald thought, was almost too good to be true. Aged housedress, apron, white hair and all, she was the casting director’s dream of Somebody’s Mother. But at the moment she was nervous, flustered — almost guilty-looking.

Wordlessly the Lieutenant crossed the kitchen and opened a pantry door. He saw, at a rough count, a good hundred cans of rationed goods. He laughed. “You needn’t worry, Mrs. Shaw. This isn’t my brand of snooping; I shan’t report you for hoarding.”

Mrs. Shaw straightened her apron, poked at her escapist hair, and looked relieved. “It’s really all for the good of the war,” she explained. “My boy’s doing important work that’ll save thousands of lives, and he’s going to get what he wants to eat whether somebody in Washington says so or not. Why, if he was a Russian inventor they’d be making him take it.”

“We didn’t see a thing, did we, Lieutenant?”

Humphreys made a gruff noise. It was obviously hard for him to resist a brief official lecture.

“Now about this attack of your son’s, Mrs. Shaw...”

“I just can’t understand that, Lieutenant. I simply can’t. Harry never was a one to complain about his food. He liked lots of it, but it always set right fine.”

“Mr. Beaumont said he always ate this same lunch?”

“Yes, sir. A white bread sandwich with raw ground round, with a little salt and Worcestershire sauce, and some slices of raw onion. And he drank beer with it. I can’t say I’d cotton to it myself, but it’s what Harry liked.”

“Where was the beer kept?”

“In a little icebox in his laboratory. He always opened it himself. All I did was fix the sandwich.”

“And bring a glass for the beer?”

“No. He liked it out of the bottle, just like his father before him.”

“And where did you keep the meat, Mrs. Shaw?”

“I didn’t. I mean not today. It didn’t get kept anyplace. I didn’t get out to shop till late and I bought it down at the little market on the corner and brought it right back here and made the sandwich.”

“And the onion?”

“I peeled a fresh one, of course.”

“And the salt and the sauce?”

MacDonald impounded the shaker and bottle indicated. “We’ll analyze these, of course. Although no one would take the chance of leaving them here in the kitchen where anybody might... And what did you do with the sandwich after you made it?”

“What should I do, officer? I took it right up to Harry and now he’s... Oh, officer, he is going to be all right, isn’t he?”

“He will be. And you can thank Lieutenant Humphreys here that he will.”

“Oh, I do thank you, Lieutenant. I didn’t know what to think at first with Harry so sick and you running around here and wanting mustard and things, but now I see the good Lord sent you to save my Harry.”

Humphreys looked relieved when MacDonald cut through her embarrassing gratitude. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Shaw. Now do you know where we’d find your son’s assistant?”

As they walked down the long empty hall to a crudely improvised laboratory, MacDonald said, “Did you ever see such deliberate suicide before?”

“Suicide? But great Scott, man, you don’t mean that Shaw—”

“Lord no! I mean Mrs. Shaw. She’s told a specific, detailed story that doesn’t leave a single loophole. Unless analysis turns up something in those seasonings, there’s only one person who could conceivably have poisoned Shaw. And that, by her own admission, is his mother.”

The assistant, so far nameless, introduced himself as John Fire-brook. He was a little man with a thick neck and a round, worried face. “I don’t believe it, Lieutenant,” he began flatly. “Nobody could want to kill a fine man like Mr. Shaw. It must have been something he ate.”

“Sure. It was with Mrs. Crippen too.”

“And there are too many people at large in this world,” the naval officer added, “who think killing fine men is just what the doctor ordered. Especially fine men who invent sub detectors. And how much do you know about that detector, Firebrook?”

“I know the principles, of course, sir. I helped to work them out, though Mr. Shaw didn’t trust even me with the final details. You remember the man recently who made a seventy-nine cent bombsight out of junk? Well, ours is not perhaps quite in that class, but comparable. It consists of

(censored)

Humphreys nodded happily. “Brilliant, Firebrook. Brilliant. What we need is men like Shaw who can make something out of apparently nothing. If this lives up to expectations, I think the Navy can promise him plenty more jobs.”

“If the Navy will promise us a decent laboratory and materials, we will be happy. It’s fine to make something out of nothing, Lieutenant, but it is nice to work with something too. We have kept hoping that Mr. Shaw would receive a large sum of money from a great-uncle; but the old gentleman has defied all the statistics of life-expectancy. If this detector is a failure... I do not know what will become of us,” he added simply.

“Do you know where these specifications are?” MacDonald asked.

“I do not. We could not afford a safe that would be any real protection. Mr. Shaw had his own plans which even I did not know.”

“It’ll be simple,” said Humphreys. “Call your men, Lieutenant, and we’ll search the whole place, starting with this lab.”

“No!” said Firebrook sharply.

“And why not?”

“You see this laboratory? It is cheap, it is insufficient. But it is in perfect working order. I keep it so. I will not have hordes of police trampling through it and destroying that order.”

“Even with warrants?” MacDonald murmured.

“Even with warrants.” Firebrook’s little eyes flashed. “Gentlemen, you will not search this laboratory.”

The officers stared at him for a moment, but his defiant gaze was steady. “My, my!” Lieutenant Humphreys said at last. “The racial passion for order... Very well. You’ll be seeing me again — Herr Feuerbach.”

And that was the end of the first phase of the Shaw case.

There was nothing more that Lieutenant MacDonald could accomplish at the rundown mansion of Ira Beaumont until he had the report from the laboratory and could talk to the inventor himself. He stationed Mulroon to watch the sickroom pending the arrival of the police nurse, and Shurman and Avila to guard the outside of the house. Lieutenant Humphreys appointed himself part of the guard too.

“I’m not leaving this house till I hear from Shaw’s own lips where the specifications are. And I’m keeping an eye on that German.”

MacDonald drove slowly back to headquarters. He didn’t like this Shaw business. It was too wrongly simple. There was only one possible suspect, and that one was impossible.

Greed can do strange things to people (was there a lead in that legacy expected from the great-uncle?), and perverted political fanaticism can do even stranger; but could a mother kill her son even from such motives? Worse yet, psychologically, could she kill him by means of her own food, while she calmly broke all rationing regulations to provide him with that food?

He didn’t like it. And he found, as he mused, that he had overshot headquarters. He was driving out North Main Street. He was, in fact, just about opposite the Chula Negra Café.

Lieutenant MacDonald grinned at himself. It was that kind of a case, wasn’t it?

The Noble scandal had been long before MacDonald’s time on the force. He’d gathered it piecemeal from the older men: a crooked captain who had connections, and a brilliantly promising detective lieutenant who’d taken the rap for him when things broke, losing his job just when his wife needed money for an operation...

Nick Noble had been devoted to his wife and his profession. When both were gone, there was nothing left. Nothing but cheap sherry that dulled the sharpness of reality enough to make it bearable. Nothing but that and the curious infallible machine that was Nick Noble’s mind.

That couldn’t stop working, even when Noble’s profession no longer needed it. Present it with a problem, and the gears meshed into action behind those pale blue eyes. A few of the oldtimers on the force were wise enough to know how invariably right the answers were. Twice MacDonald himself had seen the Noble mind trace pattern in chaos. And this was just what Noble would like: only one possibility, and that impossible. The screwier the better.

Screwball Division, L.A.P.D., they called him.

He was in the third booth on the left, as usual. So far as MacDonald had ever learned, he lived, ate, and slept there... if indeed he did ever eat or sleep. There was a water glass of sherry in front of him. His hair and his skin were white as things that live in caves. A white hand swatted at the sharp thin nose. Then the pale blue eyes slowly focused on the detective and he smiled a little.

“MacDonald,” he said softly. “Sit down. Trouble?”

“Right up your alley, Mr. Noble. A screwball set-up from way back.”

“They happen to you.” He swallowed some sherry and took another swipe at his nose. “Fly,” he said apologetically.

MacDonald remembered that fly. It wasn’t there. It never had been. He slipped into the seat across the booth and began his story. Once the Mexican waitress came up and was waved away. Once the invisible fly returned to interrupt. The rest of the time Nick Noble listened and drank and listened. When MacDonald had finished, he leaned back and let his eyes glaze over.

“Questions?” MacDonald asked,

“Why?” Nick Noble said.

“The motive, you mean? Humphreys thinks spy work. He must be right, but a mother...”

“Uh uh.” Noble shook his head. “Why questions? All clear. Let Humphreys hocus you. Awed by the gold braid you wanted, MacDonald.”

The detective shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe. But what do you mean? What’s clear?”

Nick Noble turned sideways and slid his pipestem legs from under the table. “Come on,” he said. “Take me out there.”

He didn’t say a word on the drive out Figueroa. His eyes were shut: not glazed over, as they were when he worked on a problem, but simply shut, as though he were done with it. He opened them as they turned off the boulevard. In a moment he said, “Almost there?”

“Yes. We turn again at the next, then were there.”

“Stop here,” Nick Noble said.

MacDonald was beginning to wonder what he’d let himself in for. Conferences at the Chula Negra were one thing, but... He pulled up in front of the small market and said, “What goes?”

“Need some meat,” Noble said. “Supper. Come on in.”

MacDonald followed, frowning. At least this was a clue as to how Noble lived outside the Chula Negra... The butcher’s counter was sparsely filled. Not so bad as before rationing, but still not overflowing.

Nick Noble said, “I wanted about a pound of ground round.”

The butcher had red hair and a redder face. “Don’t know’s I’ve got any left to grind, but I’ll see. Got your red stamps?”

Noble’s face fell as he groped in his pocket. He muttered something about his other suit.

The butcher said, “Sorry, brother.”

Nick Noble said, “It’s what the doctor said the baby ought to have...” He took out a wallet and held it open. It was far from empty.

The butcher said, “Hold on, brother. With a baby...” He went into the refrigerating room.

MacDonald stared at the greenbacks in the wallet. It wasn’t possible that Nick Noble should flash such a roll.

The butcher came back with a package in heavy paper. He didn’t weigh it. He said, “One pound. That’ll be ninety cents.”

Noble’s pale eyes rested on the posted list of ceiling prices. “Kind of high,” he said.

“Take it or leave it, brother.”

Nick Noble took it. As he turned to go, a woman came in with a heavy shopping bag. She said, “Frank, I’d like to ask you about that meat I got in here yesterday. My husband’s been...”

Frank began talking loudly about the meat quota problem. Nick Noble went on out. On his way he stopped at the grocery department and picked up a quart of sherry.

Back in the car he handed the meat to MacDonald. “Lab,” he said. Then he went to work on the seal of the bottle, and broke off to swat at the fly.

MacDonald grinned. “The Noble touch! So you’ve done it again. Black market, huh?”

Noble nodded. “Food poisoning symptoms pretty much like arsenic.” The bottle glurked and its contents diminished. “Mother hoards for son. She’d buy on black market for him too. But she poisoned him. Same like woman’s husband.”

“ ‘All clear,’ ” MacDonald quoted. “I guess it is. Humphrey’s profession gives him a naturally melodramatic outlook, and it sucked in the doctor and me. We expected poisoning, so we saw it. The lab tests’ll be the final check. All clear but one thing: how come you have all that folding money?”

“Oh,” said Nick Noble. “Sorry.” He handed over the wallet.

MacDonald felt in his own empty pocket and swore goodhumoredly. “In a good cause,” he said.

He was still grinning when they drove up to Ira Beaumont’s mansion. Shurman wasn’t in front of the house as he should have been. Instead he answered the door. His broad face fit up. “Jeez, Loot, we been tryna get you everywheres.”

“It’s all O.K., Shurman. All cleared up. There never was an attempt at murder.”

“Maybe there wasn’t no attempt. But somebody sure’s hell did murder Mr. Shaw about fifteen minutes ago.”

It was the first time MacDonald had ever seen Nick Noble surprised.

This was the most daring murder that MacDonald had ever encountered or heard of. The murderer had slipped up behind Mulroon, on guard before the sickroom, and slugged him with a heavy vase. Then he had entered the sickroom and slit the throat of the sleeping invalid, leaving the heavy butcher knife (printless, MacDonald knew even before dusting it) beside the bed.

It was a crime as risky as it was simple, but it had succeeded. Harrison Shaw would contrive no more somethings out of nothing for the Navy.

“The method doesn’t even eliminate anybody,” MacDonald complained. “The knife was sharp enough and the vase heavy enough for even a woman to have succeeded. And that damned wheeze Mulroon has from his cold could’ve guided the blind man. Method means nothing.”

“Motive,” said Nick Noble.

The motive seemed indicated by the scrawl on the plaster near the bed. At first glance it looked like blood. A closer examination showed it was red ink. The bottle and a pastry brush (taken from the same drawer as the butcher knife) lay under the bed. The scrawl read:

So sterben alle Feinde des Reiches!

Firebrook had translated this as, Thus may all enemies of the Reich perish! The mere fact of his knowing the language had caused Lieutenant Humphreys to glower on him with fresh suspicion.

“And so what?” MacDonald complained when he and Noble were alone again with the body of Harrison Shaw. “So he is a German and his name used to be Feuerbach. That doesn’t convict him.”

Nick Noble said nothing. His pale blue eyes studied the room.

“What have we got?” MacDonald recapitulated. “Nobody in this house alibies anybody else. And it must be one of them. Avila and Shurman swear nobody came in. One of three people is a Nazi agent who took advantage of Shaw’s illness and the confusion to steal his plans and now to kill him so he can’t reproduce them. Mrs. Shaw, the assistant Firebrook, the blind cousin Beaumont: one of these three...”

“Four,” said Nick Noble. He stood teetering on his thin legs. One hand swiped at the fly. Then his eyes fixed on the wall inscription and slowly glazed over.

He rocked back and forth while his last word echoed in MacDonald’s mind. Four... That was true. There was a fourth suspect. And who had planted the notion of murder in the first place? Who had forcibly established himself in this house? Who had created the very confusion by which—

“Lieutenant!” It was Firebrook in the doorway, and his round face was aglow. “Lieutenant...!” And he thrust a set of papers into MacDonald’s hands. “I did not wish your men to search, but myself I can search and respect the order of things. I have searched... and found!”

MacDonald’s eyes lit up. “Then at least the killing was in vain. We’ve got the detector! Humphreys will have to see these,” he decided, his momentary suspicions rejected as absurd. “Come on, Noble.”

Nick Noble took a swig from his bottle before he followed. His eyes had come unglazed now.

“In this room,” Lieutenant MacDonald announced, “is a traitor.”

He looked around the shabby room. The naval officer was happily absorbed in contemplating the recovered plans. Firebrook looked as though his pleasure in the discovery was fading at the realization of the death of the man he had worked with. Mrs. Shaw was crying quietly and paying no heed to anything. It was impossible to read the sightless eyes and permanent half-smile of Ira Beaumont.

But it was Beaumont who spoke. “Isn’t it obvious who the traitor must be, Lieutenant? Mrs. Shaw is a dear sweet woman who knows nothing of the world beyond her kitchen and her family. Lieutenant Humphreys is an officer of Naval Intelligence. I lost my sight in the Argonne; that does not predispose me toward our country’s enemies.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Beaumont, we need some proof beyond what you think obvious. We have a traitor here, and he is a traitor who failed. He killed Shaw, and to that potential extent harmed our war effort. But the plans of Shaw’s detector he has failed to find.”

“Did he?” Beaumont insisted. “Is Lieutenant Humphreys certain that those plans which he holds—?”

“Well, Lieutenant?” MacDonald asked.

Humphreys grunted. “Can’t be positive till they’ve been checked by experts. Seem damned plausible, just the same.”

“Beaumont’s right,” said Nick abruptly.

No one had been paying any attention to him, beyond the first obvious glance of wonder as to why the detective lieutenant should drag along such a companion. Now all the faces turned to him. The blind man’s smile widened with gratification. He said, “Thank you.”

“Beaumont’s right,” Noble went on. “Obvious who’s traitor: Nobody.”

The room gasped. Lieutenant Humphreys snorted.

“Private minder. Clear pattern: Humphreys started spy scare; murderer took advantage.”

“But the scrawl on the plaster...?” It was Firebrook’s question.

“Proves it. Clumsy trick to mislead. Swastika wrong.”

“Ach so...!” Firebrook made a click of belated realization.

“Wrong?” MacDonald asked.

“Pencil,” Nick Noble said.

The officer handed him pencil and notebook. He drew for a minute, then showed the results as he spoke. “Old Indian swastika was straight. So’s swastika on wall. Like so:

alle Feinde

Nazi swastika slants. Always slants. See any pictures. If Nazi made wall scribble, it’d have to be:

alle Feinde

So fake.”

“You’re right,” Humphreys said grudgingly. “Should’ve seen it myself. They always slant like that.”

Beaumont, unable to see the illustrations, looked puzzled.

“So who’d go wrong?” Nick Noble went on. “Who but man who’s never seen Nazi swastika. Heard about swastika, naturally thought it same as old Indian. Man who hasn’t seen anything since long before there were Nazis... since Argonne.”

Even the half-smile was gone from Ira Beaumont’s face. He said, “Nonsense! My cousin was, I confess, a burden to me, but I was willing to tolerate him for the work he was doing. Why should I kill him?”

“Check,” said Nick Noble to MacDonald. “Great-uncle Shaw was expecting fortune from. See if Beaumont’s next of kin.”

MacDonald knew he wouldn’t have to check. The momentary twist of Beaumont’s lips, the little choking cry of realization from Mrs. Shaw were enough.

“If not spy, who else but Beaumont?” Noble went on. “Only possible pattern. Humphreys total stranger. Mrs. Shaw devoted to son. Firebrook too likely to know right swastika; besides wouldn’t pull German fake pointing straight at him. Who else?”

Ira Beaumont regained his smile. “Lieutenant, your drunken friend is amusing enough, but you surely must realize what pure tosh he is babbling.”

“Must I?” said MacDonald.

“Of course. I defy you to arrest me.”

As MacDonald hesitated, Nick Noble spoke. “O.K. Don’t. Withdraw police. Leave him here.”

MacDonald’s eyes opened in amazement at the advice. Then he looked at the faces in the tense room.

They were all fixed on Beaumont. Humphreys was thinking, He killed a man who could help the Navy. Firebrook was thinking, He killed my friend and tried to frame me for it. Mrs. Shaw was thinking, He killed my son.

Ira Beaumont could not see the faces, but he could feel them. He could think of a blind man left helpless and alone with those faces when the police guard was withdrawn.

He rose slowly to his feet. “Shall we go, Lieutenant?”

As the wagon took away Beaumont, with the aching-headed Mulroon and the rest, MacDonald and Noble climbed into the Lieutenant’s car.

On the seat lay a package wrapped in heavy butcher’s paper. Nick Noble pointed at it. “Another murderer for you.”

MacDonald nodded. “That butcher, plus Humphreys’ suspicions, set the stage for this murder all right. And God knows what else the black market and the racketeers behind it are responsible for. Black market? Black murder...”

He held the butcher’s parcel in his hand and stared at it as though it were a prize exhibit in the Black Museum. “I may not have had the heart to report Mrs. Shaw’s hoarding, but it’ll be a pleasure to turn in that market. And to see that the first part of this case gets enough publicity to cut some ice with the meat-buying public.”

Nick Noble uptilted his bottle. “I’ll stick to this,” he said. “Safer.”

His pale blue eyes closed as MacDonald drove off.

The Adventure of the African Traveler

by Ellery Queen

Though often reprinted in England, “The African traveler” has never before visited an American anthology. Cheers, at least this once, for British perceptiveness: the story adds a new profession to MR QUEEN’S long list (novelist, scholar, screen writer, detective — and now college professor!); it offers a fresh and beautiful variant on the watch-that-stopped-to-mark-time-of-death; it provides the 87th Street Irregulars (a tribe noted for their desperate consumption of Bromo-Seltzer) with the interesting clue that the still youthful ELLERY graduated from Harvard at least 26 years ago; and it’s a lively and lovely yam. Go to it — and watch out for that watch!

* * *

Mr. Ellery Queen, wrapped loosely in English tweeds and reflections, proceeded — in a manner of speaking — with effort along the eighth-floor corridor of the Arts Building, that sumptuous citadel of the University. The tweeds were pure Bond Street, for Ellery was ever the sartorial fellow; whereas the reflections were Americanese, Ellery’s ears being filled with the peculiar patois of young male and female collegians, and he himself having been Harvard, ’Teen.

This, he observed severely to himself as he lanced his way with the ferrule of his stick through a brigade of yelling students, was higher education in New York! He sighed, his silver eyes tender behind the lenses of his pince-nez; for, possessing that acute faculty of observation so essential to his business of studying criminal phenomena, he could not help but note the tea-rose complexions, the saucy eyes, and the osier figures of various female students in his path. His own Alma Mater, he reflected gloomily, paragon of the educational virtues that it was, might have been better, far better off had it besprinkled its muscular classes with nice-smelling co-eds like these — yes, indeed!

Shaking off these unprofessorial thoughts, Mr. Ellery Queen edged gingerly through a battalion of giggling girls and approached Room 824, his destination, with dignity.

He halted. A tall and handsome and fawn-eyed young woman was leaning against the closed door, so obviously lying in wait for him that he began, under the buckling tweeds, to experience a — good lord! — a trepidation. Leaning, in fact, on the little placard which read:

CRIMINOLOGY, APPLIED

MR. QUEEN

This was, of course, sacrilege... The fawn-eyes looked up at him soulfully, with admiration, almost with reverence. What did a member of the faculty do in such a predicament? Ellery wondered with a muted groan. Ignore the female person, speak to her firmly—?

The decision was wrested from his hands and, so to speak, placed on his arm. The brigand grasped his left biceps with devotional vigor and said in fluty tones: “You’re Mr. Ellery Queen, himself, aren’t you?”

“I—”

“I knew you were. You’ve the nicest eyes. Such a queer color. Oh, it’s going to be thrilling, Mr. Queen!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I didn’t say, did I?” The hand, which he observed with some astonishment was preposterously small, released his tingling biceps. She said sternly, as if in some way he had fallen in her estimation: “And you’re the famous detective. Hmm. Another illusion blasted... Old Icky sent me, of course.”

“Old Icky?”

“You don’t know even that. Heavens! Old Icky is Professor Ickthorpe, B.A., M.A., Ph.D., and goodness knows what else.”

“Ah!” said Ellery. “I begin to understand.”

“And high time, too,” said the young woman severely. “Furthermore, Old Icky is my father, do you see...” She became all at once very shy, or so Ellery reasoned, for the black lashes with their impossible sweep dropped suddenly to veil eyes of the ultimate brownness.

“I do see, Miss Ickthorpe.” Ickthorpe! “I see all too clearly. Because Professor Ickthorpe... ah... inveigled me into giving this fantastic course, because you are Professor Ickthorpe’s daughter, you think you may wheedle your way into my group. Fallacious reasoning,” said Ellery, and planted his stick like a standard on the floor. “I think not. No.”

Her slipper-toe joggled his stick unexpectedly, and he flailed wildly to keep from falling. “Do come off your perch, Mr. Queen... There! That’s settled. Shall we go in, Mr. Queen? Such a nice name.”

“But—”

“Icky has arranged things, bless him.”

“I refuse abso—”

“The Bursar has been paid his filthy lucre. I have my B.A., and I’m just dawdling about here working for my Master’s. I’m really very intelligent. Oh, come on — don’t be so professorish. You’re much too nice a young man, and your devastating silv’ry eyes—”

“Oh, very well,” said Ellery, suddenly pleased with himself. “Come along.”

It was a small seminar room, containing a long table flanked with chairs. Two young men rose, rather respectfully, Ellery thought. They seemed surprised but not too depressed at the vision of Miss Ickthorpe, who was evidently a notorious character. One of them bounded forward and pumped Ellery’s hand.

“Mr. Queen! I’m Burrows, John Burrows. Decent of you to pick me and Crane out of that terrific bunch of would-be manhunters.” He was a nice young fellow, Ellery decided, with bright eyes and a thin intelligent face.

“Decent of your instructors and record, Burrows, I’d say... And you’re Walter Crane, of course?”

The second young man shook Ellery’s hand decorously, as if it were a rite; he was tall, broad, and studious-looking in a pleasant way. “I am, sir. Degree in chemistry. I’m really interested in what you and the Professor are attempting to do.”

“Splendid. Miss Ickthorpe — rather unexpectedly — is to be the fourth member of our little group,” said Ellery. “Rather unexpectedly! Well, let’s sit down and talk this over.”

Crane and Burrows flung themselves into chairs, and the young woman seated herself demurely. Ellery threw hat and stick into a corner, clasped his hands on the bare table, and looked at the white ceiling. One must begin... “This is all rather nonsensical, you know, and yet there’s something solid in it. Professor Ickthorpe came to me some time ago with an idea. He had heard of my modest achievements in solving crimes by pure analysis, and he thought it might be interesting to develop the faculty of detection by deduction in young university students. I wasn’t so sure, having been a university student myself.”

“We’re rather on the brainy side these days,” said Miss Ickthorpe.

“Hmm. That remains to be seen,” said Ellery dryly. “I suppose it’s against the rules, but I can’t think without tobacco. You may smoke, gentlemen. A cigarette, Miss Ickthorpe?”

She accepted one absently, furnished her own match, and kept looking at Ellery’s eyes. “Field work, of course?” asked Crane, the chemist.

“Precisely.” Ellery sprang to his feet. “Miss Ickthorpe, please pay attention... If we’re to do this at all, we must do it right... Very well. We shall study crimes out of the current news — crimes, it goes without saying, which lend themselves to our particular brand of detection. We start from scratch, all of us — no preconceptions, understand... You will work under my direction, and we shall see what happens.”

Burrows’ keen face glowed. “Theory? I mean — won’t you give us any principles of attack first — classroom lectures?”

“To hell with principles. I beg your pardon, Miss Ickthorpe... The only way to learn to swim, Burrows, is to get into the water... There were sixty-three applicants for this confounded course. I wanted only two or three — too many would defeat my purpose; unwieldy, you know. I selected you, Crane, because you seem to have the analytical mind to a reasonable degree, and your scientific training has developed your sense of observation. You, Burrows, have a sound academic background and, evidently, an excellent top-piece.” The two young men blushed. “As for you, Miss Ickthorpe,” continued Ellery stiffly, “you selected yourself, so you’ll have to take the consequences. Old Icky or no Old Icky, at the first sign of stupidity out you go.”

“An Ickthorpe, sir, is never stupid.”

“I hope — I sincerely hope — not... Now, to cases. An hour ago, before I set out for the University, a flash came in over the Police Headquarters’ wire. Most fortuitously, I thought, and we must be properly grateful... Murder in the theatrical district — chap by the name of Spargo is the victim. A queer enough affair, I gathered, from the sketchy facts given over the tape. I’ve asked my father — Inspector Queen, you know — to leave the scene of the crime exactly as found. We go there at once.”

“Bully!” cried Burrows. “To grips with crime! This is going to be great. Shan’t we have any trouble getting in, Mr. Queen?”

“None at all. I’ve arranged for each of you gentlemen to carry a special police pass, like my own; I’ll get one for you later, Miss Ickthorpe... Let me caution all of you to refrain from taking anything away from the scene of the crime — at least without consulting me first. And on no account allow yourselves to be pumped by reporters.”

“A murder,” said Miss Ickthorpe thoughtfully, with a sudden dampening of spirits.

“Aha! Squeamish already. Well, this affair will be a test-case for all of you. I want to see how your minds work in contact with the real thing... Miss Ickthorpe, have you a hat or something?”

“Sir?”

“Duds, duds! You can’t traipse in there this way, you know!”

“Oh!” she murmured, blushing. “Isn’t a sport dress au fait at murders?” Ellery glared, and she added sweetly: “In my locker down the hall, Mr. Queen. I shan’t be a moment.”

Ellery jammed his hat on his head. “I shall meet the three of you in front of the Arts Building in five minutes. Five minutes, Miss Ickthorpe!” And, retrieving his stick, he stalked like any professor from the seminar room. All the way down the elevator, through the main corridor, on the marble steps outside, he breathed deeply. A remarkable day! he observed to the campus. A really remarkable day.

The Fenwick Hotel lay a few hundred yards from Times Square. Its lobby was boiling with policemen, detectives, reporters and, from their universal appearance of apprehension, guests. Mountainous Sergeant Velie, Inspector Queen’s right-hand man, was planted at the door, a cement barrier against curiosity-seekers. By his side stood a tall, worried-looking man dressed somberly in a blue serge suit, white linen, and black bow-tie.

“Mr. Williams, the hotel manager,” said the Sergeant.

Williams shook hands. “Can’t understand it. Terrible mess. You’re with the police?”

Ellery nodded. His charges surrounded him like a royal guard — a rather timid royal guard, to be sure, for they pressed close to him as if for protection. There was something sinister in the atmosphere. Even the hotel clerks and attendants, uniformly dressed in gray — suits, ties, shirts — wore strained expressions, like stewards on a foundering ship.

“Nobody in or out, Mr. Queen,” growled Sergeant Velie. “Inspector’s orders. You’re the first since the body was found. These people okay?”

“Yes. Dad’s on the scene?”

“Upstairs, third floor, Room 317. Mostly quiet now.”

Ellery leveled his stick. “Come along, young ’uns. And don’t—” he added gently, “don’t be so nervous. You’ll become accustomed to this sort of thing. Keep your heads up.”

They bobbed in unison, their eyes a little glassy. As they ascended in a policed elevator, Ellery observed that Miss Ickthorpe was trying very hard to appear professionally blasé. Ickthorpe indeed! This should take the starch out of her... They walked down a hushed corridor to an open door. Inspector Queen, a small birdlike gray little man with sharp eyes remarkably like his son’s, met them in the doorway.

Ellery, suppressing a snicker at the convulsive start of Miss Ickthorpe, who had darted one fearful glance into the death-room and then gasped for dear life, introduced the young people to the Inspector, shut the door behind his somewhat reluctant charges, and looked about the bedroom.

Lying on the drab carpet, arms outflung before him like a diver, lay a dead man. His head presented a curious appearance: as if some one had upset a bucket of thick red paint over him, clotting the brown hair and gushing over his shoulders. Miss Ickthorpe gave vent to a faint gurgle which certainly was not appreciation. Ellery observed with morbid satisfaction that her tiny hands were clenched and that her elfin face was whiter than the bed near which the dead man lay sprawled. Crane and Burrows were breathing hard.

“Miss Ickthorpe, Mr. Crane, Mr. Burrows — your first corpse,” said Ellery briskly. “Now, dad, to work. How does it stand?”

Inspector Queen sighed. “Name is Oliver Spargo. Forty-two, separated from his wife two years ago. Mercantile traveler for a big dry-goods exporting house. Returned from South Africa after a year’s stay. Bad reputation with the natives in the outlying settlements — thrashed them, cheated them; in fact, was driven out of British Africa by a scandal. It was in the New York papers not long ago... Registered at the Fenwick here for three days — same floor, by the way-then checked out to go to Chicago. Visiting relatives.” The Inspector grunted, as if this were something justifiably punished by homicide. “Returned to New York this morning by ’plane. Checked in at 9:30. Didn’t leave this room. At 11:30 he was found dead, just as you see him, by the colored maid on this floor, Agatha Robins.”

“Leads?”

The old man shrugged. “Maybe... maybe not. We’ve looked this bird up. Pretty hard guy, from the reports, but sociable. No enemies, apparently; all his movements since his boat docked innocent and accounted for. And a lady-killer. Chucked his wife over before his last trip across, and took to his bosom a nice blonde gal. Fussed with her for a couple of months, and then skipped out — and didn’t take her with him. We’ve had both women on the pan.”

“Suspects?”

Inspector Queen stared moodily at the dead traveler. “Well, take your pick. He had one visitor this morning — the blonde lady I just mentioned. Name of Jane Terrill — no sign of occupation. Huh! She evidently read in the ship news of Spargo’s arrival two weeks ago; hunted him up, and a week ago, while Spargo was in Chicago, called at the desk downstairs inquiring for him. She was told he was expected back this morning — he’d left word. She came in at 11:05 this a.m., was given his room-number, was taken up by the elevator-boy. Nobody remembers her leaving. But she says she knocked and there was no answer, so she went away and hasn’t been back since. Never saw him — according to her story.”

Miss Ickthorpe skirted the corpse with painful care, perched herself on the edge of the bed, opened her bag and began to powder her nose. “And the wife, Inspector Queen?” she murmured. Something sparkled in the depths of her fawn-brown eyes. Miss Ickthorpe, it was evident, had an idea and was taking heroic measures to suppress it.

“The wife?” snorted the Inspector. “God knows. She and Spargo separated, as I said, and she claims she didn’t even know he’d come back from Africa. Says she was window-shopping this morning.”

It was a small featureless hotel room, containing a bed, a wardrobe closet, a bureau, a night-table, a desk, and a chair. A dummy fireplace with a gas-log; an open door which led to a bathroom — nothing more.

Ellery dropped to his knees beside the body. Crane and Burrows trooping after with set faces. The Inspector sat down and watched with a humorless grin. Ellery turned the body over; his hands explored the rigid members, stiff in rigor mortis.

“Crane, Burrows, Miss Ickthorpe,” he said sharply. “Might as well begin now. Tell me what you see. — Miss Ickthorpe, you first.” She jumped from the bed and ran around the dead man; he felt her hot unsteady breath on the back of his neck. “Well, well? Don’t you see anything? Good lord, there’s enough here, I should think.”

Miss Ickthorpe licked her red lips and said in a strangled voice: “He... he’s dressed in lounging-robe, carpet-slippers and — yes, silk underwear beneath.”

“Yes. And black silk socks and garters. And the robe and underwear bear the dealer’s label: Johnsons, Johannesburg, U.S.Afr. What else?”

“A wrist-watch on his left wrist. I think” — she leaned over and with the shrinking tip of a finger nudged the dead arm — “yes, the watch crystal is cracked. Why, it’s set at 10:20!”

“Good,” said Ellery in a soft voice. “Dad, did Prouty examine the cadaver?”

“Yes,” said the Inspector in a resigned voice. “Spargo died some time between 11:00 and 11:30, Doc says. I figure—”

Miss Ickthorpe’s eyes were shining. “Doesn’t that mean—?”

“Now, now, Miss Ickthorpe, if you have an idea keep it to yourself. Don’t leap at conclusions. That’s enough for you. Well, Crane?”

The young chemist’s brow was ridged. He pointed to the watch, a large gaudy affair with a leather wrist-strap. “Man’s watch. Concussion of fall stopped the works. Crease in leather strap at the second hole, where the prong now fits; but there’s also a crease, a deeper one, at the third hole.”

“That’s really excellent, Crane. And?”

“Left hand splattered and splashed with dried blood. Left palm also shows stain, but fainter, as if he had grabbed something with his bloody hand and wiped most of the blood off. There ought to be something around here showing a red smudge from his clutching hand...”

“Crane, I’m proud of you. Was anything found with a blood-smear on it, dad?”

The Inspector looked interested. “Good work, youngster. No, El, nothing at all. Not even a smear on the rug. Must be something the murderer took away.”

“Now, Inspector,” chuckled Ellery, “this isn’t your examination. Burrows, can you add anything?”

Young Burrows swallowed rapidly: “Wounds on the head show he was struck with a heavy instrument many times. Disarranged rug probably indicates a struggle. And the face—”

“Ah! So you’ve noticed the face, eh? What about the face?”

“Freshly shaved. Talcum powder still on cheeks and chin. Don’t you think we ought to examine the bathroom, Mr. Queen?”

Miss Ickthorpe said peevishly: “I noticed that, too, but you didn’t give me a chance... The powder is smoothly applied, isn’t it? No streaks, no heavy spots.”

Ellery sprang to his feet. “You’ll be Sherlock Holmeses yet... The weapon, dad?”

“A heavy stone hammer, crudely made — some kind of African curio, our expert says. Spargo must have had it in his bag — his trunk hasn’t arrived yet from Chicago.”

Ellery nodded; on the bed lay an open pigskin traveling-bag. Beside it, neatly laid out, was an evening outfit: tuxedo coat, trousers, and vest; stiff-bosomed shirt; studs and cuff-finks; a clean wing-collar; black suspenders; a white silk handkerchief. Under the bed were two pairs of black shoes, one pair brogues, the other patent-leather. Ellery looked around; something, it seemed, disturbed him. On the chair near the bed lay a soiled shirt, a soiled pair of socks, and a soiled suit of underwear. None exhibited bloodstains. He paused thoughtfully.

“We took the hammer away. It was full of blood and hair,” continued the Inspector. “No fingerprints anywhere. Handle anything you want — everything’s been photographed and tested for prints.”

Ellery began to puff at a cigarette. He noticed that Burrows and Crane were crouched over the dead man, occupied with the watch. He sauntered over, Miss Ickthorpe at his heels.

Burrows’ thin face was shining as he looked up. “Here’s something!” He had carefully removed the timepiece from Spargo’s wrist and had pried open the back of the case. Ellery saw a roughly circular patch of fuzzy white paper glued to the inside of the case, as if something had been rather unsuccessfully torn away. Burrows leaped to his feet. “That gives me an idea,” he announced. “Yes, sir.” He studied the dead man’s face intently.

“And you, Crane?” asked Ellery with interest. The young chemist had produced a small magnifying-glass from his pocket and was scrutinizing the watch-works.

Crane rose. “I’d rather not say now,” he mumbled. “Mr. Queen, I’d like permission to take this watch to my laboratory.”

Ellery looked at his father; the old man nodded. “Certainly, Crane. But be sure you return it... Dad, you searched this room thoroughly, fireplace and all?”

The Inspector cackled suddenly. “I was wondering when you’d get to that. There’s something almighty interesting in that fireplace.” His face fell and rather grumpily he produced a snuff-box and pinched some crumbs into his nostrils. “Although I’ll be hanged if I know what it means.”

Ellery squinted at the fireplace, his lean shoulders squaring; the others crowded around. He squinted again, and knelt; behind the manufactured gas-log, in a tiny grate, there was a heap of ashes. Curious ashes indeed, patently not of wood, coal, or paper. Ellery poked about in the debris — and sucked in his breath. In a moment he had dug out of the ashes ten peculiar objects: eight flat pearl buttons and two metal things, one triangular in outline, eye-like, the other hook-like — both small and made of some cheap alloy. Two of the eight buttons were slightly larger than the rest. The buttons were ridged, and in the depression in each center were four thread-holes. All ten objects were charred by fire.

“And what do you make of that?” demanded the Inspector.

Ellery juggled the buttons thoughtfully. He did not reply directly. Instead, he said to his three pupils, in a grim voice: “You might think about these... Dad, when was this fireplace last cleaned?”

“Early this morning by Agatha Robins, the mulatto maid. Some one checked out of this room at seven o’clock, and she cleaned up the place before Spargo got here. Fireplace was clean this morning, she says.”

Ellery dropped buttons and metal objects on the night-table and went to the bed. He looked into the open traveling-bag; its interior was in a state of confusion. The bag contained three four-in-hand neckties, two clean white shirts, socks, underwear, and handkerchiefs. All the haberdashery, he noted, bore the same dealer’s tab — Johnsons, Johannesburg, U.S.Afr. He seemed pleased, and proceeded to the wardrobe closet. It contained merely a tweed traveling suit, a brown topcoat, and a felt hat.

He closed the door with a satisfied bang. “You’ve observed everything?” he asked the two young men and the girl.

Crane and Burrows nodded, rather doubtfully. Miss Ickthorpe was barely listening; from the rapt expression on her face, she might have been listening to the music of the spheres.

“Miss Ickthorpe!”

Miss Ickthorpe smiled dreamily. “Yes, Mr. Queen,” she said in a submissive little voice. Her brown eyes began to rove.

Ellery grunted and strode to the bureau. Its top was bare. He went through the drawers; they were empty. He started for the desk, but the Inspector said: “Nothing there, son. He hadn’t time to stow anything away. Except for the bathroom, you’ve seen everything.”

As if she had been awaiting the signal, Miss Ickthorpe dashed for the bathroom. She seemed very anxious indeed to explore its interior. Crane and Burrows hurried after her.

Ellery permitted them to examine the bathroom before him. Miss Ickthorpe’s hands flew over the objects on the rim of the washbowl. There was a pigskin toilet-kit, open, draped over the marble; an uncleansed razor; a still damp shaving-brush; a tube of shaving cream; a small can of talcum and a tube of tooth-paste. To one side lay a celluloid shaving-brush container, its cap on the open kit.

“Can’t see a thing of interest here,” said Burrows frankly. “You, Walter?”

Crane shook his head. “Except that he must have just finished shaving before he was murdered, not a thing.”

Miss Ickthorpe wore a stem and faintly exultant look. “That’s because, like all men, you’re blinder’n bats... I’ve seen enough.”

They trooped by Ellery, rejoining the Inspector, who was talking with someone in the bedroom. Ellery chuckled to himself. He lifted the lid of a clothes-hamper; it was empty. Then he picked up the cap of the shaving-brush container. The cap came apart in his fingers, and he saw that a small circular pad fitted snugly inside. He chuckled again, cast a derisive glance at the triumphant back of the heroic Miss Ickthorpe outside, replaced cap and tube, and went back into the bedroom.

He found Williams, the hotel manager, accompanied by a policeman, talking heatedly to the Inspector. “We can’t keep this up forever, Inspector Queen,” Williams was saying. “Our guests are beginning to complain. The night-shift is due to go on soon, I’ve got to go home myself, and you’re making us stay here all night, by George. After all—”

The old man said: “Pish!” and cocked an inquiring eye at his son. Ellery nodded. “Can’t see any reason for not lifting the ban, dad. We’ve learned as much as we can... You young people!” Three pairs of eager eyes focused on him; they were like three puppies on a leash. “Have you seen enough?” They nodded solemnly. “Anything else you want to know?”

Burrows said quickly: “I want a certain address.”

Miss Ickthorpe paled. “Why, so do I! John, you mean thing!”

And Crane muttered, clutching Spargo’s watch in his fist: “I want something, too — but I’ll find it out right in this hotel!”

Ellery smoothed away a smile, shrugged, and said: “See Sergeant Velie downstairs — that Colossus we met at the door. He’ll tell you anything you may want to know.”

“Now, follow instructions. It’s evident that the three of you have definite theories. I’ll give you two hours in which to formulate them and pursue any investigations you may have in mind.” He consulted his watch. “At 6:30, meet me at my apartment on West Eighty-seventh Street, and I’ll try to rip your theories apart... Happy hunting!”

He grinned dismissal. They scrambled for the door, Miss Ickthorpe’s turban slightly awry, her elbows working vigorously to clear the way.

“And now,” said Ellery in a totally different voice when they had disappeared down the corridor, “come here a moment, dad. I want to talk to you alone.”

At 6:30 that evening Mr. Ellery Queen presided at his own table, watching three young faces bursting with sternly repressed news. The remains of a dinner, barely touched, strewed the cloth.

Miss Ickthorpe had somehow contrived, in the interval between her dismissal and her appearance at the Queens’ apartment, to change her gown; she was now attired in something lacy and soft, which set off — as she obviously was aware — the whiteness of her throat, the brownness of her eyes, and the pinkness of her cheeks. The young men were preoccupied with their coffee-cups.

“Now, class,” chuckled Ellery, “recitations.” They brightened, sat straighter and moistened their lips. “You’ve had, each of you, about two hours in which to crystallize the results of your first investigation. Whatever happens, I can’t take credit, since so far I’ve taught you nothing. But by the end of this little confabulation, I’ll have a rough idea of just what material I’m working with.”

“Yes, sir,” said Miss Ickthorpe.

“John — we may as well discard formality — what’s your theory?”

Burrows said slowly: “I’ve more than a theory, Mr. Queen. I’ve the solution!”

“A solution, John. Don’t be too cocky. And what,” said Ellery, “is this solution of yours?”

Burrows drew a breath from the depths of his boots. “The clue that led to my solution was Spargo’s wristwatch.” Crane and the girl started. Ellery blew smoke and said, encouragingly: “Go on.”

“The two creases on the leather strap,” replied Burrows, “were significant. As Spargo wore the watch, the prong was caught in the second hole, so that there was a crease across the second hole. Yet a deeper crease appeared across the third hole. Conclusion: the watch was habitually worn by a person with a smaller wrist. In other words, the watch was not Spargo’s!”

“Bravo!” said Ellery softly. “Bravo.”

“Why, then, was Spargo wearing someone else’s watch? For a very good reason, I maintain. The doctor had said Spargo died between 11:00 and 11:30. Yet the watch-hands had apparently stopped at 10:20. The answer to this discrepancy? That the murderer, finding no watch on Spargo, took her own watch, cracked the crystal and stopped the works, then set the hands at 10:20 and strapped it about Spargo’s dead wrist. This would seem to establish the time of death as 10:20 and would give the murderer an opportunity to provide an alibi for that time, when all the while the murder actually occurred about 11:20. How’s that?”

Miss Ickthorpe said tartly: “You say ‘her.’ But it’s a man’s watch, John — you forget that.”

Burrows grinned. “A woman can own a man’s watch, can’t she? Now whose watch was it? Easy. In the back of the case there was a circular patch of fuzzy paper, as if something had been ripped out. What made of paper is usually pasted in the back of a watch? A photograph. Why was it taken out? Obviously, because the murderer’s face was in that photograph... In the last two hours I followed this lead. I visited my suspect on a reportorial pretext and managed to get a look at a photograph-album she has. There I found one photograph with a circular patch cut out. From the rest of the photo it was clear that the missing circle contained the heads of a man and a woman. My case was complete!”

“Perfectly amazing,” murmured Ellery. “And this murderess of yours is—?”

“Spargo’s wife!... Motive — hate, or revenge, or thwarted love, or something.”

Miss Ickthorpe sniffed, and Crane shook his head. “Well,” said Ellery, “we seem to be in disagreement. Nevertheless a very interesting analysis, John... Walter, what’s yours?”

Crane hunched his broad shoulders. “I agree with Johnny that the watch did not belong to Spargo, that the murderer set the hands at 10:20 to provide an alibi; but I disagree as to the identity of the criminal. I also worked on the watch as the main clue. But with a vastly different approach.”

“Look here.” He brought out the gaudy timepiece and tapped its cracked crystal deliberately. “Here’s something you people may not know. Watches, so to speak, breathe. That is, contact with warm flesh causes the air inside to expand and force its way out through the minute cracks and holes of the case and crystal. When the watch is laid aside, the air cools and contracts, and dust-bearing air is sucked into the interior.”

“I always said I should have studied science,” said Ellery. “That’s a new trick, Walter. Continue.”

“To put it specifically, a baker’s watch will be found to contain flour-dust. A bricklayer’s watch will collect brick-dust.” Crane’s voice rose triumphantly. “D’you know what I found in this watch? Tiny particles of a woman’s face-powder!”

Miss Ickthorpe frowned. Crane continued in a deep voice: “And a very special kind of face-powder it is, Mr. Queen. Kind used only by women of certain complexions. What complexions? Negro brown! The powder came from a mulatto woman’s purse! I’ve questioned her, checked her vanity-case, and although she denies it, I say that Spargo’s murderess is Agatha Robins, the mulatto maid who ‘found’ the body!”

Ellery whistled gently. “Good work, Walter, splendid work. And of course from your standpoint she would deny being the owner of the watch anyway. That clears something up for me... But motive?”

Crane looked uncomfortable. “Well, I know it sounds fantastic, but a sort of voodoo vengeance — reversion to racial type — Spargo had been cruel to African natives... it was in the papers...”

Ellery shaded his eyes to conceal their twinkle. Then he turned to Miss Ickthorpe, who was tapping her cup nervously, squirming in her chair, and exhibiting other signs of impatience. “And now,” he said, “we come to the star recitation. What have you to offer, Miss Ickthorpe? You’ve been simply saturated with a theory all afternoon. Out with it.”

She compressed her lips. “You boys think you’re clever. You, too, Mr. Queen — you especially... Oh, I’ll admit John and Walter have shown superficial traces of intelligence...”

“Will you be explicit, Miss Ickthorpe?”

She tossed her head. “Very well. The watch had nothing to do with the crime at all!”

The boys gaped, and Ellery tapped his palms gently together. “Very good. I agree with you. Explain, please.”

Her brown eyes burned, and her cheeks were very pink. “Simple!” she said with a sniff. “Spargo had arrived from Chicago only two hours before his murder. He had been in Chicago for a week and a half. Then for a week and a half he had been living by Chicago time. And, since Chicago time is one hour earlier than New York time, it merely means that nobody set the hands back; that they were standing at 10:20 when he fell dead, because he’d neglected to set his watch ahead on arriving in New York this morning!”

Crane muttered something in his throat, and Burrows flushed a deep crimson. Ellery looked sad. “I’m afraid the laurels so far go to Miss Ickthorpe, gentlemen. That happens to be correct. Anything else?”

“Naturally. I know the murderer, and it isn’t Spargo’s wife or that outlandish mulatto maid,” she said exasperatingly. “Follow me... Oh, this is so easy!... We all saw that the powder on Spargo’s dead face had been applied very smoothly. From the condition of his cheeks and the shaving things in the bathroom it was evident that he’d shaved just before being murdered. But how does a man apply powder after shaving? How do you powder your face, Mr. Queen?” she shot at him rather tenderly.

Ellery looked startled. “With my fingers, of course.” Crane and Burrows nodded.

“Exactly!” chortled Miss Ickthorpe. “And what happens? I know, because I’m a very observant person and, besides, Old Icky shaves every morning and I can’t help noticing when he kisses me goodmorning. Applied with the fingers on cheeks still slightly moist, the powder goes on in streaks, smudgy, heavier in some spots than others. But look at my face!” They looked, with varying expressions of appreciation. “You don’t see powder streaks on my face, do you? Of course not! And why? Because I’m a woman, and a woman uses a powder-puff, and there isn’t a single powder-puff in Spargo’s bedroom or bathroom!”

Ellery smiled — almost with relief. “Then you suggest, Miss Ickthorpe, that the last person with Spargo, presumably his murderess, was a woman who watched him shave and then, with endearment perhaps, took out her own powder-puff and dabbed it over his face-only to bash him over the head with the stone hammer a few minutes later?”

“Well — yes, although I didn’t think of it that way... But — yes! And psychology points to the specific woman, too, Mr. Queen. A man’s wife would never think of such an... an amorous proceeding. But a man’s mistress would, and I say that Spargo’s lady-love, Jane Terrill, whom I visited only an hour ago and who denies having powdered Spargo’s face — she would! — killed him.”

Ellery sighed. He rose and twitched his cigarette-stub into the fireplace. They were watching him, and each other, with expectancy. “Aside,” he began, “from complimenting you, Miss Ickthorpe, on the acuteness of your knowledge of mistresses” — she uttered an outraged little gasp — “I want to say this before going ahead. The three of you have proved very ingenious, very alert; I’m more pleased than I can say. I do think we’re going to have a cracking good class. Good work, all of you!”

“But, Mr. Queen,” protested Burrows, “which one of us is right? Each one of us has given a different solution.”

Ellery waved his hand. “Bight? A detail, theoretically. The point is you’ve done splendid work — sharp observation, a rudimentary but promising linking of cause and effect. As for the case itself, I regret to say — you’re all wrong!”

Miss Ickthorpe clenched her tiny fist. “I knew you’d say that! I think you’re horrid. And I still think I’m right.”

“There, gentlemen, is an extraordinary example of feminine psychology,” grinned Ellery. “Now attend, all of you.

“You’re all wrong for the simple reason that each of you has taken just one line of attack, one clue, one chain of reasoning, and completely ignored the other elements of the problem. You, John, say it’s Spargo’s wife, merely because her photograph-album contains a picture from which a circular patch with two heads has been cut away. That this might have been sheer coincidence apparently never occurred to you.

“You, Walter, came nearer the truth when you satisfactorily-established the ownership of the watch as the mulatto maid’s. But suppose Maid Robins had accidently dropped the watch in Spargo’s room at the hotel during his first visit there, and he had found it and taken it to Chicago with him? That’s what probably happened. The mere fact that he wore her watch doesn’t make her his murderess.

“You, Miss Ickthorpe, explained away the watch business with the difference-in-time element, but you overlooked an important item. Your entire solution depends on the presence in Spargo’s room of a powder-puff. Willing to believe that no puff remained on the scene of the crime, because it suited your theory, you made a cursory search and promptly concluded no puff was there. But a puff is there! Had you investigated the cap of the celluloid tube in which Spargo kept his shaving-brush, you would have found a circular pad of powder-puff which toilet-article manufacturers in this effeminate age provide for men’s traveling-kits.”

Miss Ickthorpe said nothing; she seemed actually embarrassed.

“Now for the proper solution,” said Ellery, mercifully looking away. “All three of you, amazingly enough, postulate a woman as the criminal. Yet it was apparent to me, after my examination of the premises, that the murderer must have been a man.”

“A man!” they echoed in chorus.

“Exactly. Why did none of you consider the significance of those eight buttons and the two metal clips?” He smiled. “Probably because again they didn’t fit your preconceived theories. But everything must fit in a solution... Enough of scolding. You’ll do better next time.

“Six small pearl buttons, flat, and two slightly larger ones, found in a heap of ashes distinctly not of wood, coal or paper. There is only one common article which possesses these characteristics — a man’s shirt. A man’s shirt, the six buttons from the front, the two larger ones from the cuffs, the debris from the linen or broadcloth. Someone, then, had burned a man’s shirt in the grate, forgetting that the buttons would not be consumed.

“The metal objects, like a large hook and eye? A shirt suggests haberdashery, the hook and eye suggest only one thing — one of the cheap bow-ties which are purchased ready-tied, so that you do not have to make the bow yourself.”

They were watching his lips like kindergarten children. “You, Crane, observed that Spargo’s bloody left hand had clutched something, most of the blood coming off the palm. But nothing smudged with blood had been found... A man’s shirt and tie had been burned... Inference: In the struggle with the murderer, after he had already been hit on the head and was streaming blood, Spargo had clutched his assailant’s collar and tie, staining them. Borne out too by the signs of struggle in the room.

“Spargo dead, his own collar and tie wet with blood, what could the murderer do? Let me attack it this way: The murderer must have been from one of three classes of people: a rank outsider, or a guest at the hotel, or an employee of the hotel. What had he done? He had burned his shirt and tie. But if he had been an outsider, he could have turned up his coat-collar, concealing the stains long enough to get out of the hotel — no necessity, then, to burn shirt and tie when time was precious. Were he one of the hotel guests, he could have done the same thing while he went to his own room. Then he must have been an employee.

“Confirmation? Yes. As an employee he would be forced to remain in the hotel, on duty, constantly being seen. What could he do? Well, he had to change his shirt and tie. Spargo’s bag was open — shirt inside. He rummaged through — you saw the confusion in the bag — and changed. Leave his shirt? No, it might be traced to him. So, boys and girls, burning was inevitable...

“The tie? You recall that, while Spargo had laid out his evening-clothes on the bed, there was no bow-tie there, in the bag, or anywhere else in the room. Obviously, then, the murderer took the bow-tie of the tuxedo outfit, and burned his own bow-tie with the shirt.”

Miss Ickthorpe sighed, and Crane and Burrows shook their heads a little dazedly. “I knew, then, that the murderer was an employee of the hotel, a man, and that he was wearing Spargo’s shirt and black or white bow-tie, probably black. But all the employees of the hotel wear gray shirts and gray ties, as we observed on entering the Fenwick. Except” — Ellery inhaled the smoke of his cigarette — “except one man. Surely you noticed the difference in his attire?... And so, when you left on your various errands, I suggested to my father that this man be examined — he seemed the best possibility. And, sure enough, we found on him a shirt and bow-tie bearing Johannesburg labels like those we had observed on Spargo’s other haberdashery. I knew we should find this proof, for Spargo had spent a whole year in South Africa, and since most of his clothes had been purchased there, it was reasonable to expect that the stolen shirt and tie had been, too.”

“Then the case was finished when we were just beginning,” said Burrows ruefully.

“But — who?” demanded Crane in bewilderment.

Ellery blew a great cloud. “We got a confession out of him in three minutes. Spargo, that gentle creature, had years before stolen this man’s wife, and then thrown her over. When Spargo registered at the Fenwick two weeks ago, this man recognized him and decided to revenge himself. He’s at the Tombs right now — Williams, the hotel manager!”

There was a little silence. Burrows bobbed his head back and forth. “We’ve got a lot to learn,” he said. “I can see that.”

“Check,” muttered Crane. “I’m going to like this course.”

Ellery pshaw-pshawed. Nevertheless, he turned to Miss Ickthorpe who by all precedent should be moved to contribute to the general spirit of approbation. But Miss Ickthorpe’s thoughts were far away. “Do you know,” she said, her brown eyes misty, “you’ve never asked me my first name, Mr. Queen?”

The Stolen Rubens

by Jacques Futrelle

Jacques Futrelle died in the Titanic disaster in 1912. If he had lived, it is not impossible that America rather than England might have brought about the civilized lightening of the overponderous detective story. For Futrelle, as American as his name is French, was one of the first mystery practitioners anywhere to realize that a light deft touch never hurt any kind of writing. The most “modern” of any American detective shorts before UNCLE ABNER, the adventures of THE THINKING MACHINE are still minor classics; and it’s a pleasure to present you with one that appears in neither of the collected volumes of PROFESSOR VAN DUSEN’S cases.

* * *

Matthew Kale made fifty million dollars out of axle grease, after which he began to patronize the high arts. It was simple enough: he had the money, and Europe had the old masters. His method of buying was simplicity itself. There were five thousand square yards, more or less, in the huge gallery of his marble mansion which were to be covered, so he bought five thousand yards, more or less, of art. Some of it was good, some of it fair, and much of it bad. The chief picture of the collection was a Rubens, which he had picked up in Rome for fifty thousand dollars.

Soon after acquiring his collection, Kale decided to make certain alterations in the vast room where the pictures hung. They were all taken down and stored in the ballroom, equally vast, with their faces toward the wall. Meanwhile Kale and his family took refuge in a near-by hotel.

It was at this hotel that Kale met Jules de Lesseps. De Lesseps was distinctly the sort of Frenchman whose conversation resembles calisthenics. He was nervous, quick, and agile, and he told Kale in confidence that he was not only a painter himself, but a connoisseur in the high arts. Pompous in the pride of possession, Kale went to a good deal of trouble to exhibit his private collection for de Lesseps’ delectation. It happened in the ballroom, and the true artist’s delight shone in the Frenchman’s eyes as he handled the pieces which were good. Some of the others made him smile, but it was an inoffensive sort of smile.

With his own hands Kale lifted the precious Rubens and held it before the Frenchman’s eyes. It was a “Madonna and Child,” one of those wonderful creations which have endured through the years with all the sparkle and color beauty of their pristine days. Kale seemed disappointed because de Lesseps was not particularly enthusiastic about this picture.

“Why, it’s a Rubens!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I see,” replied de Lesseps.

“It cost me fifty thousand dollars.”

“It is perhaps worth more than that,” and the Frenchman shrugged his shoulders as he turned away.

Kale looked at him in chagrin. Could it be that de Lesseps did not understand that it was a Rubens, and that Rubens was a painter? Or was it that he had failed to hear him say that it cost him fifty thousand dollars. Kale was accustomed to seeing people bob their heads and open their eyes when he said fifty thousand dollars; therefore, “Don’t you like it?” he asked.

“Very much indeed,” replied de Lesseps; “but I have seen it before. I saw it in Rome just a week or so before you purchased it.”

They rummaged on through the pictures, and at last a Whistler was turned up for their inspection. It was one of the famous Thames series, a water color. De Lesseps’ face radiated excitement, and several times he glanced from the water color to the Rubens as if mentally comparing the exquisitely penciled and colored newer work with the bold, masterly technic of the older painting.

Kale misunderstood his silence. “I don’t think much of this one myself,” he explained apologetically. “It’s a Whistler, and all that, and it cost me five thousand dollars, and I sort of had to have it, but still it isn’t just the kind of thing that I like. What do you think of it?”

“I think it is perfectly wonderful!” replied the Frenchman enthusiastically. “It is the essence, the superlative, of Whistler’s work. I wonder if it would be possible,” and he turned to face Kale, “for me to make a copy of that? I have some slight skill in painting myself, and dare say I could make a fairly creditable copy of it.”

Kale was flattered. He was more and more impressed each moment with the picture. “Why certainly,” he replied. “I will have it sent up to the hotel, and you can—”

“No, no, no!” interrupted de Lesseps quickly. “I wouldn’t care to accept the responsibility of having the picture in my charge. There is always a danger of fire. But if you would give me permission to come here — this room is large and airy and light — and besides it is quiet—”

“Just as you like,” said Kale magnanimously. “I merely thought the other way would be most convenient for you.”

De Lesseps laid one hand on the millionaire’s arm. “My dear friend,” he said earnestly, “if these pictures were my pictures, I shouldn’t try to accommodate anybody where they were concerned. I dare say the collection as it stands cost you—”

“Six hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars,” volunteered Kale proudly.

“And surely they must be well protected here in your house during your absence.”

“There are about twenty servants in the house, while the workmen are making the alterations,” said Kale, “and three of them don’t do anything but watch this room. No one can go in or out except by the door we entered — the others are locked and barred — and then only with my permission, or a written order from me. No sir, nobody can get away with anything in this room.”

“Excellent... excellent!” said de Lesseps admiringly. He smiled a little. “I am afraid I did not give you credit for being the far-sighted businessman that you are.” He turned and glanced over the collection of pictures abstractedly. “A clever thief, though,” he ventured, “might cut a valuable painting, for instance the Rubens, out of the frame, roll it up, conceal it under his coat, and escape.”

Kale laughed and shook his head.

It was a couple of days later at the hotel that de Lesseps brought up the subject of copying the Whistler. He was profuse in his thanks when Kale volunteered to accompany him into the mansion and witness the preliminary stages of the work. They paused at the ballroom door.

“Jennings,” said Kale to the liveried servant there, “this is Mr. de Lesseps. He is to come and go as he likes. He is going to do some work in the ballroom here. See that he isn’t disturbed.”

De Lesseps noticed the Rubens leaning carelessly against some other pictures, with the holy face of the Madonna turned toward them. “Really, Mr. Kale,” he protested, “that picture is too valuable to be left about like that. If you will let your servants bring me some canvas, I shall wrap it and place it up on this table off the floor. Suppose there were mice here!”

Kale thanked him. The necessary orders were given, and finally the picture was carefully wrapped and placed beyond harm’s reach, whereupon de Lesseps adjusted himself, paper, easel, stool, and all, and began his work of copying. There Kale left him.

Three days later Kale found the artist still at his labor.

“I just dropped by,” he explained, “to see how the work in the gallery was getting along. It will be finished in another week. I hope I am not disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” said de Lesseps; “I have nearly finished. See how I am getting along?” He turned the easel toward Kale.

The millionaire gazed from that toward the original which stood on a chair near by, and frank admiration for the artist’s efforts was in his eyes. “Why, it’s fine!” he exclaimed. “It’s just as good as the other one, and I bet you don’t want any five thousand dollars for it — eh?”

That was all that was said about it at the time. Kale wandered about the house for an hour or so, then dropped into the ballroom where de Lesseps was getting his paraphernalia together, and they walked back to the hotel. The artist carried under one arm his copy of the Whistler, loosely rolled up.

Another week passed, and the workmen who had been engaged in refinishing and decorating the gallery had gone. De Lesseps volunteered to assist in the work of rehanging the pictures, and Kale gladly turned the matter over to him. It was in the afternoon of the day this work began that de Lesseps, chatting pleasantly with Kale, ripped loose the canvas which enshrouded the precious Rubens. Then he paused with an exclamation of dismay. The picture was gone; the frame which had held it was empty. A thin strip of canvas around the inside edge showed that a sharp penknife had been used to cut out the painting.

All of these facts came to the attention of Professor Augustus S.F.X. Van Dusen — The Thinking Machine. This was a day or so after Kale had rushed into Detective Mallory’s office at police headquarters with the statement that his Rubens had been stolen. He banged his fist down on the detective’s desk, and roared at him.

“It cost me fifty thousand dollars! Why don’t you do something? What are you sitting there staring at me for?”

“Don’t excite yourself, Mr. Kale,” the detective advised. “I will put my men at work right now to recover the... the— What is a Rubens, anyway?”

“It’s a picture!” bellowed Kale. “A piece of canvas with some paint on it, and it cost me fifty thousand dollars — don’t you forget that!”

So the police machinery was set in motion to recover the picture. And in time the matter fell under the watchful eye of Hutchinson Hatch, reporter. He learned the facts preceding the disappearance of the picture and then called on de Lesseps. He found the artist in a state of excitement bordering on hysteria; an intimation from the reporter of the object of his visit caused de Lesseps to burst into words.

“Mon Dieu! It is outrageous! What can I do? I was the only one in the room for several days. I was the one who took such pains to protect the picture. And now it is gone! The loss is irreparable. What can I do?”

Hatch didn’t have any very definite idea as to just what he could do, so he let him go on. “As I understand it, Mr. de Lesseps,” he interrupted at last, “no one else was in the room, except you and Mr. Kale, all the time you were there?”

“No one else.”

“And I think Mr. Kale said that you were making a copy of some famous water color; weren’t you?”

“Yes, a Thames scene by Whistler,” was the reply. “That is it, hanging over the fireplace.”

Hatch glanced at the picture admiringly. It was an exquisite copy, and showed the deft touch of a man who was himself an artist of great ability.

De Lesseps read the admiration in his face. “It is not bad,” he said modestly. “I studied with Carolus Duran.”

With all else that was known, and this little additional information, which seemed of no particular value to the reporter, the entire matter was laid before The Thinking Machine. That distinguished man listened from beginning to end without comment.

“Who had access to the room?” he asked finally.

“That is what the police are working on now,” said Hutchinson Hatch. “There are a couple of dozen servants in the house, and I suppose, in spite of Kale’s rigid orders, there was a certain laxity in their enforcement.”

“Of course that makes it more difficult,” said The Thinking Machine in the perpetually irritated voice which was so characteristic a part of himself. “Perhaps it would be best for us to go to Mr. Kale’s home and personally investigate.”

Kale received them with the reserve which rich men usually show in the presence of representatives of the press. He stared frankly and somewhat curiously at the diminutive figure of the scientist, who explained the object of their visit.

“I guess you fellows can’t do anything with this,” the millionaire assured them. “I’ve got some regular detectives on it.”

“Is Mr. Mallory here now?” asked The Thinking Machine curtly.

“Yes, he is upstairs in the servants’ quarters.”

“May we see the room from which the picture was taken?” inquired the scientist, with a suave intonation which Hatch knew well.

Kale granted the permission with a wave of the hand, and ushered them into the ballroom, where the pictures had been stored. From the center of this room The Thinking Machine surveyed it all. The windows were high. Half a dozen doors leading out into the hallways, the conservatory, quiet nooks of the mansion offered innumerable possibilities of access. After this one long comprehensive squint, The Thinking Machine went over and picked up the frame from which the Rubens had been cut. For a long time he examined it. Kale’s impatience was evident. Finally the scientist turned to him.

“How well do you know M. de Lesseps?”

“I’ve known him for only a month or so. Why?”

“Did he bring you letters of introduction, or did you meet him merely casually?”

Kale regarded him with displeasure. “My own personal affairs have nothing whatever to do with this matter! Mr. de Lesseps is a gentleman of integrity, and certainly he is the last whom I would suspect of any connection with the disappearance of the picture.”

“That is usually the case,” remarked The Thinking Machine tartly. He turned to Hatch. “Just how good a copy was that he made of the Whistler picture?”

“I have never seen the original,” Hatch replied; “but the workmanship was superb. Perhaps Mr. Kale wouldn’t object to us seeing—”

“Oh, of course not,” said Kale resignedly. “Come in; it’s in the gallery.”

Hatch submitted the picture to a careful scrutiny. “I should say the copy is well-nigh perfect,” was his verdict. “Of course, in its absence, I can’t say exactly; but it is certainly a superb work.”

The curtains of a wide door almost in front of them were thrown aside suddenly, and Detective Mallory entered. He carried something in his hand, but at sight of them concealed it behind him. Unrepressed triumph was in his face.

“Ah, professor, we meet often; don’t we?” he said.

“This reporter here and his friend seem to be trying to drag de Lesseps into this affair somehow,” Kale complained to the detective. “I don’t want anything like that to happen. He is liable to go out and print anything. They always do.”

The Thinking Machine glared at him unwaveringly for an instant, then extend his hand toward Mallory. “Where did you find it?” he asked.

“Sorry to disappoint you, professor,” said the detective sarcastically, “but this is the time when you were a little late,” and he produced the object which he held behind him. “Here is your picture, Mr. Kale.”

Kale gasped in relief and astonishment, and held up the canvas with both hands to examine it. “Fine!” he told the detective. “I’ll see that you don’t lose anything by this. Why, that thing cost me fifty thousand dollars!”

The Thinking Machine leaned forward to squint at the upper right-hand corner of the canvas. “Where did you find it?” he asked again.

“Rolled up tight, and concealed in the bottom of a trunk in the room of one of the servants,” explained Mallory. “The servant’s name is Jennings. He is now under arrest.”

“Jennings!” exclaimed Kale. “Why, he has been with me for years.”

“Did he confess?” asked the scientist imperturbably.

“Of course not,” said Mallory. “He says some of the other servants must have hidden it there.”

The Thinking Machine nodded at Hatch. “I think perhaps that is all,” he remarked. “I congratulate you, Mr. Mallory, upon bringing the matter to such a quick and satisfactory conclusion.”

Ten minutes later they left the house and took a taxi for the scientist’s home. Hatch was a little chagrined at the unexpected termination of the affair.

“Mallory does show an occasional gleam of human intelligence, doesn’t he?”

“Not that I ever noticed,” remarked The Thinking Machine crustily.

“But he found the picture,” Hatch insisted.

“Of course he found it. It was put there for him to find.”

“Put there for him to find!” repeated the reporter. “Didn’t Jennings steal it?”

“If he did, he’s a fool.”

“Well, if he didn’t steal it, who put it there?”

“De Lesseps.”

“De Lesseps!” echoed Hatch. “Why the deuce did he steal a fifty thousand dollar picture and put it in a servant’s trunk to be found?”

The Thinking Machine twisted around in his seat and squinted at him coldly for a moment. “At times, Mr. Hatch, I am absolutely amazed at your stupidity. I can understand it in a man like Mallory, but I have always given you credit for being an astute, quick-witted man.”

Hatch smiled at the reproach. It was not the first time he had heard it. But nothing bearing on the problem in hand was said until they reached The Thinking Machine’s house.

“The only real question in my mind, Mr. Hatch,” said the scientist then, “is whether or not I should take the trouble to restore Mr. Kale’s picture at all. He is perfectly satisfied, and will probably never know the difference. So—”

Suddenly Hatch saw something. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Do you mean that the picture Mallory found was—”

“A copy of the original,” snapped the scientist. “Personally I know nothing whatever about art; therefore, I could not say from observation that it is a copy, but I know it from the logic of the thing. When the original was cut from the frame, the knife swerved a little at the upper right-hand corner. The canvas remaining in the frame told me that. The picture that Mr. Mallory found did not correspond in this detail with the canvas in the frame. The conclusion is obvious.”

“And de Lesseps has the original?”

“De Lesseps has the original. How did he get it? In any one of a dozen ways. He might have rolled it up and stuck it under his coat. He might have had a confederate. But I don’t think that any ordinary method of theft would have appealed to him. I am giving him credit for being clever, as I must when we review the whole case.

“For instance, he asked for permission to copy the Whistler, which you saw was the same size as the Rubens. It was granted. He copied it practically under guard, always with the chance that Mr. Kale himself would drop in. It took him three days to copy it, so he says. He was alone in the room all that time. He knew that Mr. Kale had not the faintest idea of art. Taking advantage of that, what would have been simpler than to have copied the Rubens in oil? He could have removed it from the frame immediately after he canvased it over, and kept it in a position near him where it could be quickly concealed if he was interrupted. Remember, the picture is worth fifty thousand dollars; therefore, was worth the trouble.

“De Lesseps is an artist — we know that — and dealing with a man who knew nothing whatever of art, he had no fears. We may suppose his idea all along was to use the copy of the Rubens as a sort of decoy after he got away with the original. You saw that Mallory didn’t know the difference, and it was safe for him to suppose that Mr. Kale wouldn’t. His only danger until he could get away gracefully was of some critic or connoisseur, perhaps, seeing the copy. His boldness we see readily in the fact that he permitted himself to discover the theft; that he discovered it after he had volunteered to assist Mr. Kale in the general work of rehanging the pictures in the gallery. Just how he put the picture in Jenning’s trunk I don’t happen to know. We can imagine many ways.” He lay back in his chair for a minute without speaking, eyes steadily turned upward, fingers placed precisely tip to tip.

“But how did he take the picture from the Kale home?” asked Hatch.

“He took it with him probably under his arm the day he left the house with Mr. Kale,” was the astonishing reply.

Hatch was staring at him in amazement. After a moment the scientist rose and passed into the adjoining room, and the telephone bell there jingled. When he joined Hatch again he picked up his hat and they went out together.

De Lesseps was in when their cards were sent up, and received them. They conversed about the case generally for ten minutes, while the scientist’s eyes were turned inquiringly here and there about the room. At last there came a knock on the door.

“It is Detective Mallory, Mr. Hatch,” remarked The Thinking Machine. “Open the door for him.”

De Lesseps seemed startled for just one instant, then quickly recovered. Mallory’s eyes were full of questions when he entered.

“I should like, Mr. Mallory,” began The Thinking Machine quietly, “to call your attention to this copy of Mr. Kale’s picture by Whistler — over the mantel here. Isn’t it excellent? You have seen the original?”

Mallory grunted. De Lesseps face, instead of expressing appreciation of the compliment, blanched, and his hands closed tightly. Again he recovered himself and smiled.

“The beauty of this picture lies not only in its faithfulness to the original,” the scientist went on, “but also in the fact that it was painted under extraordinary circumstances. For instance, I don’t know if you know, Mr. Mallory, that it is possible so to combine glue and putty and a few other commonplace things into a paste which will effectually blot out an oil painting, and offer at the same time an excellent surface for water color work!”

There was a moment’s pause, during which the three men stared at him silently — with conflicting emotions.

“This water color — this copy of Whistler,” continued the scientist evenly — “is painted on such a paste as I have described. That paste in turn covers the original Rubens picture. It can be removed with water without damage to the picture, which is in oil, so that instead of a copy of the Whistler painting, we have an original by Rubens, worthy fifty thousand dollars. That is true; isn’t it, M. de Lesseps?”

There was no reply to the question — none was needed.

It was an hour later, after de Lesseps was safely in his cell, that Hatch called up The Thinking Machine and asked one question.

“How did you know that the water color was painted over the Rubens?”

“Because it was the only absolutely safe way in which the Rubens could be hopelessly lost to those who were looking for it, and at the same time perfectly preserved,” was the answer. “I told you de Lesseps was a clever man, and a little logic did the rest. Two and two always make four, Mr. Hatch, not sometimes, but all the time.”

The Riddle of the Yellow Canary

by Stuart Palmer

There hasn’t been a HILDEGARDE WITHERS novel in four years, nor a movie in even longer; and Edna Mae Oliver, magnificent creator of the role, is dead. But HILDEGARDE remains the horse-faced and acidulous dean of American women detectives, incomparable and inimitable (as many imitators have proved). Here is something different in the way of WITHERS exploits: a before-the-fact story in which the reader knows from the start the murderer with whom the schoolteacher matches wits — and life. (When once I asked Captain Palmer if he had a model for MISS WITHERS, he replied, “Of course: my father.” There’s another riddle for you.)

* * *

The soft April rain was beating against the windows of Arthur Reese’s private office, high above Times Square. Reese himself sat tensely before his desk, studying a sheet of paper still damp from the presses. He had just made the most important decision of his life. He was going to murder the Thorens girl.

For months he had been toying with the idea, as a sort of mental chess problem. Now, when Margie Thorens was making it so necessary that she be quietly removed, he was almost surprised to find that the idle scheme had reached sheer perfection. It was as if he had completed a jig-saw puzzle while thinking of something else.

Beyond his desk was a door. On the glass Reese could read his own name and the word “Private” spelled backwards. As he watched, a shadow blotted out the light, and he heard a soft knock.

“Yes?” he called out.

It was plump, red-haired Miss Kelly — excellent secretary, Kelly, in spite of her platinum finger nails. “Miss Thorens is still waiting to see you,” said Kelly.

She had not held her job long enough to realize just how often, and how long, Margie Thorens had been kept waiting.

“Oh, Lord!” Reese made his voice properly weary. He looked at his watch, and saw that it was five past five. “Tell her I’m too busy,” he began. Then — “No, I’ll stop in the reception room and see her for just a moment before I go. Bad news for her again, I’m afraid.”

Miss Kelly knew all about would-be song writers. She smiled. “Don’t forget your appointment with Mr. Larry Foley at five-thirty. G-night, Mr. Reese.” She closed the door.

Reese resumed his study of the sheet of music. “May Day — a song ballad with words and music by Art Reese, published by Arthur Reese and Company.” He opened the page, found the chorus, and hummed a bar of the catchy music. “I met you on a May day, a wonderful okay day...”

He put the song away safely, and reached into his desk for a large flask of hammered silver. He drank deeply, but not too deeply, and shoved it into his hip pocket.

The outer office was growing suddenly quiet as the song pluggers left their pianos. Vaudeville sister teams, torch-singers, and comics were temporarily giving up the search for something new to interest a fretful and jaded public. Stenographers and clerks were covering their typewriters. The day’s work was over for them — and beginning for Reese.

From his pocket he took an almost microscopic capsule. It was colorless, and no larger than a pea. Yet it was potentially more dangerous than a dozen cobras... a dark gift of fortune which had started the whole plot working in his mind.

Three years ago an over-emotional young lady, saddened at the prospect of being tossed aside “like a worn glove,” had made a determined effort to end her own life under circumstances which would have been very unpleasant indeed for Arthur Reese. He had luckily been able to take the cyanide of potassium from her in time. She was married and in Europe now. There would be no way of tracing the stuff. It was pure luck.

The capsule was his own idea, a stroke of genius. He rolled it in his fingers, then looked at his watch. It was fifteen minutes past five. The lights of Times Square were beginning to come on, clashing with the lingering dullness of the April daylight. Reese picked up a brown envelope which lay on his desk, crossed to his top-coat, and pocketed a pair of fight gloves. Then he stepped out into the brilliantly lighted but deserted outer office.

The first door on his right bore only the figure “1” on the glass. It was unlocked, and he stepped quickly through. It did not matter if anyone saw him, he knew, yet it would be safer if not.

Margie Thorens leaped up from the piano stool — the room was furnished so that it could be used by Reese’s staff if necessary, and came toward him. Reese smiled with his mouth, but his eyes stared at her as if he had never seen her before.

There had been a time not so long ago when Arthur Reese had thought this helpless, babyish girl very attractive, with her dark eyes, darker hair, and the hot sullen mouth. But that time was ever and done. He steeled himself to bear her kiss, but he was saved from completing that Judas gesture. She stopped, searching his face.

“Sit down, Margie,” he said.

She dropped to the stool. “Sit down yourself,” she told him. Her voice was husky. “Or do you have to rush away? Making another trip to Atlantic City this week-end?” Her words dripped with meaning. She played three notes on the black keys.

“Forget your grouch,” said Reese. “I’ve got news.”

“You’d better have!” She swung on him. “You’ve got to do something about me. I’m not going to sit out in the cold. Not with what I’ve got on you, Lothario.”

She had raised her voice, and he didn’t want that. “Good news,” he said hastily. Her eyes widened a little. “Oh, it’s not the Tennessee song. That stuff is passé. But I finally got Larry Foley to listen to May Day, and he thinks it’s great. Another Echo in the Valley, he says. So I’m going to publish it. He’s willing to plug it with his band over the air, and he’ll make a play to get it in the picture he’s going to do in Hollywood. You’re a success! You’re a song writer at last!”

Margie Thorens looked as though she might fall. “It’s all true,” he assured her. As a matter of fact it was. Reese had known that it would be easier to tell the truth than to invent a lie. And it wouldn’t matter afterward. “I’m rushing publication, and there’ll be a contract for you in the morning.”

She was still dizzy. “You... you’re not going to horn in as co-author or anything? Truly, Art?”

“You look dizzy,” he said. He pulled out his flask. “How about a drink to celebrate?”

Margie shook her head. “Not on an empty stomach,” she pleaded. “I’d like a glass of water, though.”

The carefully designed plan of Arthur Reese rearranged itself, like a shaken kaleidoscope. He hurried to the water-cooler in the corner, and after a second’s pause returned with a conical paper cup nearly full. “This will fix you up,” he told her.

Margie drained it at one gulp, and he breathed again. He looked at his watch, and saw that it was five-twenty. The capsule would hold for four to six minutes...

“Better still,” he rushed on. “I got an idea for a lyric the other day, and Foley likes it. If you can concoct a good sobby tune to go with it...”

He fumbled at his pockets. “I’ve lost the notes,” he said. “But I can remember the lyric if you’ll write it down.” He handed her a yellow pencil and the brown envelope which held her rejected manuscript of Tennessee Sweetheart. “It begins — Good-bye, good-bye—”

He dictated, very slowly, for what seemed to him an hour. He stole a glance at his watch, and saw that four minutes had elapsed. He found himself improvising, repeating a line...

“You gave me that once,” protested Margie. “And the rhymes are bad.” She raised her head as if she had suddenly remembered some unspeakable and ancient secret. “Turn on the lights!” she cried. “It’s getting — Art! I can’t see you!” She groped to her feet. “Art... oh, God, what have you done to me...”

Her voice trailed away, and little bubbles were at her lips. She plunged forward, before he could catch her.

Reese found himself without any particular emotion except gratitude that her little body had not been heavy enough to shake the floor. He left her there, and went swiftly to the door. There was no sign that anyone had been near to hear that last desperate appeal. He congratulated himself on his luck. This sort of thing was far simpler than the books had made him suppose.

He closed the door, and shot the bolt which was designed to insure privacy for the musicians. Then he began swiftly to complete his picture — a picture that was to show to the whole world the inevitable suicide of Margie Thorens.

He first donned his light gloves. It was no effort at all to lift the girl to the wicker settee, although he had to resist a temptation to close the staring dark eyes.

He reached for the tiny gold-washed strap-watch that Margie Thorens wore around her left wrist. Here he struck a momentary snag. Reese had meant to set the hands at five of six, and then smash the thing in order to set the time of the “suicide,” but the crystal had broken when she fell.

The watch was not ticking. He removed one glove, and carefully forced the hands of the little timepiece ahead. The shards of broken glass impeded their movement, but they moved. He put his glove back on.

Reese did not neglect to gather up the fragment or two of glass which had fallen on the oak floor, and place them where they would naturally have been if the watch had been broken against the arm of the settee in her death agony. Luckily the daylight lingered.

The paper cup was on the floor. He was not sure that finger-prints could be wiped from paper, so he crumpled it into his pocket. Taking another from the rack, he sloshed a bit of water into it, and then dropped in a few particles of the poison which he had saved for some such purpose. The mixture he spilled about the dead mouth and face, and let the cup fall where it would have fallen from the nerveless fingers. On second thought, he picked it up, placed it in the limp hand of Margie Thorens, and crumpled it there with his gloved hand.

It was finished — and water-tight, he knew that. Who could doubt that a young and lonely girl, stranded in New York without friends or family, disappointed in her ambitions and low in funds, might be moved to take her own life?

Reese looked at his watch. The hands had barely passed the hour of five-thirty-five. He had twenty minutes to establish a perfect alibi, if he should ever need one.

There still remained a ticklish bit of fine work. He unlocked the door and looked out into the main office. It was still deserted. He stepped out, leaving the door ajar, and put his arm inside to turn the brass knob which shot the bolt.

Pressing the large blade of his jack-knife against the spring lock, he withdrew his arm and swung the door shut. Then he pulled away the knife, and the latch clicked. Margie Thorens was dead in a room which had a window without a fire escape, and a door locked on the inside.

In two minutes Reese was laughing with the elevator boy on his way down. In five more he stepped out of the men’s room at the Roxy Grill, washed and groomed, and with the paper cup and the folded paper which had held poison and capsule all gone forever via the plumbing. When the big clock above the bar pointed to ten of six, Reese had already stood Larry Foley his second round of drinks. He was softly humming May Day.

Inspector Oscar Piper called Spring 7-3100 before he put on his slippers. “Anything doing, Sergeant?”

“Nothing but a lousy suicide of a dame up in Tin Pan Alley?” the phone sergeant said. “Scrub woman found her, and the precinct boys are there now.”

“I’ll stop in and have a look in the morning?” decided the Inspector. “These things are all alike.”

The morrow was a Saturday, and Miss Hildegarde Withers was thus relieved of the necessity of teaching the young how to sprout down in Jefferson School’s third grade. But if she had any ideas of lying abed in luxurious idleness, they were rudely shattered by the buzzing of the telephone.

“Yes, Oscar,” she said wearily.

“You’ve often asked me how the police can spot a suicide from a murder,” Piper was saying. “Well, I’m on the scene of a typical suicide, perfect in every detail but one and that doesn’t matter. Want to have a look? If you hurry you’ll have a chance to see the stiff before she goes to the morgue.”

“I’ll come,” decided the school teacher. “But I shall purposely dawdle in hopes of missing your exhibit.”

Dawdle as she did, she still rode up the ten stories in the elevator and entered the offices of Arthur Reese, Music Publisher, before the white-clad men from the morgue arrived. Her long face, somewhat resembling that of a well-bred horse, made a grimace as the Inspector showed her the broken lock of the little reception and music room, and what lay beyond.

“Scrub women came in at midnight, and found the door locked. They got the night watchman to break it, since it couldn’t have been locked from the outside, and thought somebody was ill inside or something. Somebody was. The medical examiner was out on Long Island over that latest gang killing, and couldn’t get here till a couple of hours ago, but he found traces of cyanide on her mouth. The autopsy will confirm it, he says.” Miss Withers nodded. “She looks awfully — young,” she said.

“She was,” Piper told her. “We’ve checked up on the kid. Ran away from an Albany high school to make her fortune as a song-writer, so she’s even younger than you thought. Been in New York five months and got nothing but rejections. Yesterday afternoon she got another one and she waited until everyone else had gone, and bumped herself off. Left a suicide note on the piano, too.” The Inspector handed over the brown envelope. “Wrote it on the envelope which held the bad news — her rejected manuscript. And notice how firm and steady the writing is, right to the last word almost.”

Miss Withers noticed. She bent to squint over the rhymed note. She saw:

“Good-bye, good-bye I cry

A long and last good-bye

Good-bye to Broadway and the lights

Good-bye sad days and lonely nights

I’ve waited alone

To sing this last song

Good-bye..

..

..

..

..”

She read it through again. “She didn’t sign it,” Piper went on. “But it’s her handwriting all right. Checks with the manuscript of the rejected song in the envelope, and also with a letter in her handbag that she was going to mail.”

“A letter?” Miss Withers handed back the envelope. But the letter was a disappointment. It was a brief note to the Metropolitan Gas Company, promising that a check would be mailed very shortly to take care of the overdue bill, and signed “Margery Thorens.”

Miss Withers gave it back. She took the tiny handbag that had been the dead girl’s, and studied it for a moment. “She had a miniature fountain pen, I see,” said the school teacher. “It writes, too. Wonder why she used a pencil?”

“Well, use it she did, because here it is.” Piper handed her the long yellow pencil which had lain on the floor. The school teacher looked at it for a long time.

“The picture is complete,” said Piper jovially. “There’s only one tiny discrepancy, and that doesn’t matter.”

Miss Withers wanted to know what it was. “Only this,” said the Inspector. “We know the time she died, because she smashed her wrist watch in her death throes. That was five minutes to six. But at that hour it’s pretty dark — and this is the first time I ever heard of a suicide going off in the dark. They usually want the comfort of a light.”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Withers, “perhaps she died earlier, and the watch was wrong? Or it might have run a little after she died?”

The Inspector shook his head. “The watch was too badly smashed to run a tick after she fell,” he said. “Main stem broken. And she must have died after dark because there was somebody here in the offices until around five-thirty. I tell you...”

He was interrupted by a sergeant in a baggy blue uniform. “Reese has just come in, Inspector. I told him you said he should wait in his office.”

“Right!” Oscar Piper turned to Miss Withers. “Reese is the boss of this joint, and ought to give us a line on the girl. Come along if you like.”

Miss Withers liked. She followed him into the outer office and through a door marked “Arthur Reese, Private.” The Inspector, as was their usual fiction, introduced her as his stenographer.

Reese burst out, a little breathlessly, with “What a thing to happen — here! I came down as soon as I heard. What a—”

“What a thing to happen anywhere,” Miss Withers said under her breath.

“Poor little Margie!” finished the man at the desk.

Piper grew suddenly Inspectorish. “Margie, eh? You knew her quite well, then?”

“Of course!” Reese was as open as a book. “She’s been hounding the life out of me for months because I have the reputation of sometimes publishing songs by beginners. But what could I do? She had more ambition than ability...”

“You didn’t know her personally, then?”

Reese shook his head. “Naturally, I took a friendly interest in her, but anyone in my office will tell you that I never run around with would-be song writers. It would make things too difficult. Somebody is always trying to take advantage of friendship, you know.”

“When did you last see the Thorens girl?” Piper cut in.

Reese turned and looked out of the window. “I am very much afraid,” he said, “that I was the last person to see her alive. If I had only known...”

“Get this, Hildegarde!” commanded Piper.

“I am and shall,” she came back.

“Several weeks ago,” began Reese, “Margie Thorens submitted to me a song called Tennessee Sweetheart, in manuscript form. It was her fifth or sixth attempt, but it was a lousy — I beg your pardon, a terrible song. Couldn’t publish it. Last night she came in, and I gave her the bad news. Made it as easy as I could, but she looked pretty disappointed. I had to rush off and leave her, as I had an appointment for five-thirty with Larry Foley, the radio crooner. So I saw her last in the reception room where she died — it must have been five-thirty or a little earlier.”

Miss Withers whispered to the Inspector. “Oh,” said he, “how did you know that the Thorens girl died in the reception room?”

“I didn’t,” admitted Reese calmly. “I guessed it. You haven’t got that cop standing guard at the broken door for exercise. Anyway, I was a few minutes later for my date because of the rain, but I met Foley at about twenty to six. He’ll testify to that, and fifty others.”

Piper nodded. He took a glittering gadget from his pocket. “Can you identify this, Mr. Reese?”

Reese studied the watch. “On first glance, I should say that it was Margie’s. But I wouldn’t know...”

“You wouldn’t know, then, if it was usually on time?”

Reese was thoughtful. “Of course I wouldn’t. But Margie was usually on time, if that is anything. I said when she phoned me yesterday morning that I’d see her if she came in at quarter to five, and on the dot she arrived. I was busy, and she had to wait.”

The Inspector started to put the watch back into its envelope, but Miss Withers held out her hand. She wrinkled her brows above it, as the Inspector put his last question.

“You don’t know, then, anything about any private love affairs Miss Thorens might have had?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t even know where she lived, or anything except that she came from somewhere upstate — Albany I think it was. One of her attempts at song-writing was titled Amble to Albany.”

Piper and the music publisher walked slowly out of the office, toward where a wicker basket was being swiftly carried through a broken door by two brawny men in white. Miss Withers lingered behind to study the wrist watch which had been Margie Thorens’. It was a trumpery affair with a square modernistic face. Miss Withers found it hard to tell time by such a watch. She noted that the minute hand pointed to five before the hour, and that the hour hand was in the exactly opposite direction. She put it safely away, and hurried after the Inspector.

With the departure of the mortal remains of Margie Thorens, the offices of Arthur Reese and Company seemed to perk up a bit. The red-haired Miss Kelly returned to her desk outside Reese’s office, wearing a dress which Miss Withers thought cut a bit too low in front for business purposes. The clerks and stenographers were permitted to fill the large room again, somewhere a man began to bang very loudly upon a piano, and an office boy rushed past Miss Withers with a stack of sheet music fresh from the printer’s.

“Well, we’ll be off,” said the Inspector suddenly, in her ear.

Miss Hildegarde Withers jumped. “Eh? Well what?”

“We’ll leave. This case is plain as the nose — I mean, plain as day. Nothing here for the Homicide Squad.”

“Naturally,” said Miss Withers. Rut her thoughts were somewhere else.

The Inspector had learned to heed her suggestions. “Anything wrong? You haven’t found anything that I’ve missed, have you?”

Hildegarde Withers shook her head. “That’s just the trouble,” she said. “I’m beginning to suspect myself of senility.”

“Tell me,” said Miss Withers that evening, “just what are the clues which spell suicide so surely?”

“First, the locked door to insure privacy,” said the Inspector. “Second, the suicide note, for it’s human nature to leave word behind. Third, the motive — in this case, melancholy. Fourth, the suicide must be an emotional, neurotic person. Get me?”

“Clear as crystal,” said Hildegarde Withers. “But granted that a girl chooses to die in darkness, why does she write a suicide note in darkness? And why does she bend a pencil?”

“But the pencil wasn’t bent!”

“Exactly!” said Hildegarde Withers, thoughtfully.

To all intents and purposes, that ended the Thorens case. Inspector Oscar Piper turned his attention to weightier matters. Medical Examiner Bloom reported, on completion of the autopsy, that the deceased had met death at her own hands through taking a lethal dose of cyanide of potassium, probably obtained in a college or high school laboratory, or perhaps from a commercial orchard spray.

Miss Hildegarde Withers attended to her usual duties down at Jefferson School, and somewhere in the back of her mind a constant buzzing continued to bother her. The good lady was honestly bewildered by her own stubbornness. It was perfectly possible that the obvious explanation was the true one. For the life of her she could think of no other that fit even some of the known facts. And yet—

On Tuesday, the fourth day after the death of Margie Thorens, Miss Withers telephoned to Inspector Piper, demanding further information. “Ask Max Van Donnen how long the girl could have lived after taking the poison, will you?”

But the old German laboratory expert had not analyzed the remains, said Piper. Dr. Bloom had summarized the findings of the autopsy — and Margie Thorens had died an instant death. In her vital organs was a full grain of cyanide of potassium, one of the quickest known poisons.

“She couldn’t have taken the poison and then written the note?” asked Miss Withers.

“Impossible,” said the Inspector. “But what in the name of—”

Miss Withers had hung up. Again she had struck a stone wall. But too many stone walls were in themselves proof that something was a little wrong in this whole business.

That afternoon Miss Withers called upon a Mrs. Blenkinsop, the landlady who operated the rooming house in which Margie Thorens had lived. She found that lady fat, dingy, and sympathetic.

“I read in the papers that the poor darling is to be sent home to her aunt in Albany, and that her class is to be let out of high school to be honorary pall-bearers,” said Mrs. Blenkinsop. “Such a quiet one she was, the poor child. But it’s them that runs deep.”

Miss Withers agreed to this. “Do you suppose I could see her rooms?”

“Of course,” agreed the landlady. “Everything is just as she left it, because her rent was paid till the end of April, and that’s a week yet.” She led the way up a flight of stairs. “You know, the strangest thing about the whole business was her going off that way and making no provision for her pets. You’d a thought—”

“Pets?”

The landlady threw open a door. “Yes’m. A fine tortoise shell cat, and a bird. A happy family if ever I saw one. I guess Miss Thorens was lonesome here in the city, and she gave all her love to them. Feed and water ’em I’ve done ever since I heard the news...” She snapped her fat fingers as they came into a dark, bare room furnished with little more than the bare necessities of life. It was both bedroom and sitting room, with the kitchenette in a closet and a bath across the hall. One large window looked out upon bare rooftops. One glance told Miss Withers that the room existed only for the rented grand piano which stood near the window.

Mrs. Blenkinsop snapped her fingers again, and a rangy, half-grown cat arose from the bed and stretched itself. “Nice Pussy,” said Mrs. Blenkinsop.

Pussy refused to be patted, and as soon as she had made sure that neither visitor carried food she returned to her post on the pillow. Both great amber eyes were staring up at the gilt cage which hung above the piano, in the full light of the window. Inside the cage was a small yellow canary, who eyed the intruders balefully and muttered, “Cheep, cheep.”

“I’ve got no instructions about her things, poor darling,” said the landlady. “I suppose they’ll want me to pack what few clothes she had. If nobody wants Pussy, I’ll keep her, for there’s mice in the basement. I don’t know what to do with the bird, for I hate the dratted things. I got a radio, anyhow...”

The woman ran on interminably. Miss Withers listened carefully, but she soon saw that Mrs. Blenkinsop knew less about Margie Thorens than did she herself. The woman was sure, she insisted, that Margie had never had men callers in her room.

More than anything, Miss Withers wanted a look around, though she knew the police had done a routine job already. She wondered if she must descend to the old dodge of the fainting spell and the request for a glass of water, but she was saved from it by a ring at the bell downstairs.

“I won’t be a minute,” promised Mrs. Blenkinsop. She hastened out of the door. Miss Withers made a hurried search of bureau drawers, of the little desk, the music on the piano... and found nothing that gave her an inkling. There were reams of music paper, five or six rejected songs in manuscript form... that was the total. The room had no character.

Miss Withers sat down at the piano and struck a chord. If only this instrument, Margie’s one outlet in the big city, could speak! There was a secret here somewhere... for the understanding eye and heart to discover. Miss Withers let her fingers ramble over the keys, in the few simple chords she knew. And then the canary burst into song!

“Dickie!” said the school teacher. “You surprise me.” All canaries are named Dickie, and none of them know it. The bird sang on, improvising, trilling, swinging gaily by its tiny talons from the bottom of its trapeze. Miss Withers realized that there was a rare singer indeed. Her appreciation was shared by Pussy, who dug shining claws into the cover of the bed and narrowed his amber eyes. The song went on and on...

Miss Withers thought of something. She had once read that the key to a person’s character lies in the litter which accumulates beneath the paper in his bureau drawers. She hurried back to the bureau, and explored again. She found two dance programs, a stub of pencil, pins, a button, and a smashed cigarette, beneath the lining.

She was about to replace the paper when she heard someone ascending the stairs. That would be Mrs. Blenkinsop. Hastily she jammed the wearing apparel back in the drawer, and thrust the folded newspaper which had lined it into her handbag. When the door opened she was talking to the still twittering canary.

She took her departure as soon as she could, leaving Mrs. Blenkinsop completely in the dark as to the reasons for her call. “I hope you’re not from a tabloid,” said the landlady. “I don’t want my house to get a bad name...”

Down the street Miss Withers paused to take the bulky folded newspaper from her bag. But she didn’t throw it away. It was a feature story clipped from the “scandal sheet” of a Sunday paper — a story which dealt with the secrets behind some of America’s song hits, how they were adapted from classics, revamped every ten years and put out under new names, together with photographs of famous song writers.

But the subject of the story was not what attracted Miss Withers’ eagle eye. Across the top margin of the paper a rubber stamp had placed the legend — “With the compliments of the Hotel Rex — America’s Riviera — Boardwalk.”

“Dr. Bloom? This is Hildegarde Withers. Yes, Withers. I have a very delicate question to ask you, doctor. In making your autopsy of the Thorens girl’s body, did you happen to notice whether or not she was — er, enceinte? It is very important, doctor, or I wouldn’t bother you. If you say yes, it will turn suicide into murder.”

“I say no,” said crusty Dr. Bloom. “I did and she wasn’t.” And that was the highest stone wall of all for Hildegarde Withers.

“Where in heaven’s name have you been hiding yourself?” inquired the Inspector when Miss Withers entered his office on Friday of that week after the death of Margie Thorens.

“I’ve been cutting classes,” she said calmly. “A substitute is enduring my troop of hellions, and I’m doing scientific research.”

“Yeah? And in what direction?” The Inspector was in a jovial mood, due to the fact that both his Commissioner and the leading gangster of the city were out of town — not together, but still far enough out of town to insure relative peace and quiet to New York City.

“I’m an expert locksmith,” Miss Withers told him. “I’ve spent three hours learning something about poisons from Max Van Donnen, who has forgotten more than the Medical Examiner ever knew! He says you can’t swallow a lethal dose of cyanide without dying before it gets to the stomach — unless it’s in a capsule.”

“You’re not still hopped up about the Thorens suicide?” The Inspector was very amused. “Why, that’s the clearest, open and shut case...”

“Oscar, did you ever hear of a murder without the ghost of a motive?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t exist,” he told her. She nodded slowly. “See you later,” she said.

Miss Withers rode uptown on the subway, crossed over to Times Square, and came into the offices of Arthur Reese, Music Publisher.

The red-headed Miss Kelly looked up with a bright smile. “Mr. Reese is very busy just now,” she said. Miss Withers took a chair, and stared around the long office. It was a scene of redoubled activity since her last visit, with vaudevillians, song-pluggers, office boys and radio artists rushing hither and yon. On the wall opposite her was an enlargement in colors of the cover of the new song, May Day — by Art Reese. On every desk and table were stacks of copies of the new song, May Day.

“So Mr. Reese is a composer as well as a publisher?” Miss Withers asked conversationally.

Miss Kelly was in a friendly mood. “Oh, yes! You know, he wrote that big hit, Sunny Jim, which is how he got started in the music business. Of course, that was before I came here...”

“When was it?” asked Miss Withers.

“Two years ago, at least. But May Day is going to be a bigger hit than any of them. It’s going to be the sensation of the season. All the crooners want it, and the contracts for records are being signed this week.”

Miss Withers nodded. “There’s a lot of money in writing a song, isn’t there?”

“A hit — oh, yes. Berlin made a quarter of a million out of Russian Lullaby.” Miss Kelly had to raise her voice, as a dozen pianos in a dozen booths were clashing out lilting, catchy music. A door opened somewhere, and Miss Withers heard a sister team warbling soft, close-harmony... “I met you on a May Day, a wonderful okay day, and that was my hey-hey day... a day I can’t forget...”

“It’s published the first of May,” Miss Kelly went on chattily. “And that’s why Mr. Reese is so busy. He’s got to go out of town this afternoon, and I’m afraid he won’t be able to see you today without an appointment.”

“Eh?” Miss Withers started. “Yes, of course. No, he won’t. I mean... I mean...” She rose suddenly to her feet, humming the lilting music of May Day. It was familiar, hauntingly familiar. Of course, she had read of how popular tunes were stolen. And yet — suddenly the mists cleared and she knew. Knew where she had heard those first few bars of music — knew what the meaning of it all must be — knew the answer to the riddle. She tinned and walked swiftly from the room.

She rode down in the elevator somehow, and stumbled out of it into the main hall. There she stopped short. She could waste no energy in walking. Every ounce of her strength was needed to think with. The whole puzzle was assembling itself in her mind — all the hundred odd and varied bits flying into place. Everything—

She stood there for a long time, wondering what to do. Should she do anything? Wasn’t it better to let well enough alone? Nobody would believe her, not even Oscar Piper. Certainly not Oscar Piper.

She stood there until one o’clock struck, and the hall was filled with luncheon-bound clerks and stenographers. Her head was aching and her hands were icy-cold. There was a glitter in her eyes, and her nostrils were extraordinarily wide.

Miss Withers was about to move on when she stopped, frozen into immobility. She saw the elevator descend, saw the doors open... and out stepped the plump, red-haired Miss Kelly.

She was laughing up into the face of Arthur Reese. Reese was talking, softly yet clearly, oblivious of everything except the warm and desirable girl who smiled at him...

Miss Withers pressed closer, and caught one sentence — one only. “You’ll be crazy about the American Riviera...” he was promising.

Then they were gone.

Miss Withers had three nickels. She made three phone calls. The first was to Penn Station, the second to Mrs. Blenkinsop, and the third to Spring 7-3100. She asked for Inspector Piper.

“Quick!” she cried. “Oscar, I’ve got it! The Thorens suicide wasn’t — I mean it was murder!”

“Who?” asked Piper sensibly.

“Reese, of course,” she snapped. “I want you to arrest him quick...”

“But the locked door?”

Miss Withers said she could duplicate that trick, given a knife and the peculiar type of lock that Reese had installed on his music-reception room.

“But the suicide note?”

Miss Withers gave as her opinion that it was dictated, judging by the spaces between words and the corrections made by the writer.

“But... but, Hildegarde, you can’t force a person to take poison!” Miss Withers said you could give them poison under the guise of something more innocent.

“You’re still crazy,” insisted the Inspector. “Why—”

Miss Withers knew what he was thinking. “The alibi? Well, Oscar, the murder was committed at a time when Reese was still in his office, which explains the daylight. He smashed the girl’s watch, and then set the hands ahead. But you didn’t have sense enough to know that with the minute hand at five of six, the hour hand cannot naturally be exactly opposite! Particles of glass interfered, and the hands of her watch were at an impossible angle!”

Piper had one last shot in his locker. “But the motive?”

“I can’t explain, and the train leaves in twenty minutes!” Miss Withers was a bit hysterical. “She’s a nice girl, Oscar, even if she has platinum finger-nails. She mustn’t go with him, I tell you. If they get out of the state, it means extradition and God knows what — it’ll be too late...”

“Take an aspirin and go to bed,” said the Inspector kindly. “You’re too wrought up over this. My dear woman...” He got the receiver crashed in his ear.

Mr. Arthur Reese was out to enjoy a pleasant week-end. The first balmy spring weather of the year had come, aptly enough, on the heels of his first happy week in many a month. To have May Day showing such excellent signs of becoming a hit upon publication day was almost too much.

He made no mistakes. He did not try to kiss Kelly in the taxi, not even after they had picked up her suitcase and were approaching Penn Station. There would be time enough for that later.

“This trip is partly pleasure as well as business,” he said to Miss Kelly. “We both need a rest after everything that’s happened this week — and I want you to play with me a little. Call me Art...”

“Sure,” said Kelly. “You can call me Gladys, too. But I like Kelly better.” She snuggled a little closer to her employer. “Gee, this is thrilling,” she said. “I’ve never been to Atlantic City even — let alone with a man and adjoining rooms and everything... what my mother would say!”

“Very few people would understand about things like this,” said Reese comfortably. “About how a man and a girl can have a little adventure together like this — really modem...”

“If you say so,” said Kelly, “it’s true. You know I’ve had a crush on you ever since I came to work for you, Mr. Reese — Art...”

“Sure,” he said. “And I’m crazy about you, too.” He paused, and his eyes very imperceptibly narrowed. “How old are you, Kelly?”

“Twenty,” she said wonderingly. “Why?”

“Nice age, twenty,” said Reese, taking a deep breath. “Well, Kelly — here we are.”

Reese had a stateroom on the Atlantic City Special, and Kelly was naturally pleased and excited by that. She was greener than he had thought. Well, he owed this to himself, Reese thought. A sort of reward after a hard week. It was a week ago today that—

“What are you thinking of?” asked Kelly. “You look so mad.”

“Business,” Reese told her. He took a hammered silver flask from his pocket. “How about a stiff one?” She shook her head, and then gave in.

He took a longer one, because he needed it even worse than Kelly. Then he took her hungrily in his arms. “I mustn’t let him know how green I am,” thought Kelly.

The door opened, and they sprang apart.

A middle-aged, fussy school teacher was coming into the stateroom. Both Kelly and Reese thought her vaguely familiar, but the world is full of thinnish elderly spinsters.

“This is a private stateroom,” blurted Reese.

“Excuse me,” said Hildegarde Withers. When she spoke, they knew who she was.

She neither advanced nor retreated. She had a feeling that she had taken hold of a tiger’s tail and couldn’t let go.

“Don’t go with him,” she said to Kelly. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Kelly, very naturally, said, “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

“I am,” said Miss Withers. She shut the door behind her. “This man is a murderer, with blood on his hands...”

Kelly looked at Reese’s hands. They had no red upon them, but they were moving convulsively.

“He poisoned Margie Thorens,” said Miss Withers conversationally. “He probably will poison you, too, in one way or another.”

“She’s stark mad,” said Arthur Reese nervously. “Stark, staring mad!” He rose to his feet and advanced. “Get out of here,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re saying...”

“Be quiet,” Miss Withers told him. “Young lady, are you going to follow my advice? I tell you that Margie Thorens once took a weekend trip with this man to Atlantic City — America’s Riviera — and she’s having her high school class as honorary pallbearers as a result of it.”

“Will you go?” cried Reese.

“I will not.” There was a lurch of the car as the train got under way. Shouts of “all aboard” rang down the platform. “This man is going to be arrested at the other end of the line — arrested for murdering Margie Thorens by giving her poison and then dictating a suicide note to her as—”

Reese moved rather too quickly for Miss Withers to scream. She had counted on screaming, but his hands caught her throat. They closed, terribly...

The murderer had only one thought, and that was to silence forever that sharp, accusing voice. He was rather well on to succeeding when he heard a clear soprano in his ear. “Stop! Stop hurting her, I tell you!”

He pressed the tighter as the train got really under way. And then Kelly hit him in the face with his own flask. She hit him again.

Reese choked, caught the flask and flung it wildly through the window, and dropped his victim. He was swearing horribly, in a low and expressionless voice. He shoved Kelly aside, stepped over Miss Withers, and tore out into the corridor. The porter was standing there, his sepia face gray-green from the sounds he had heard. Reese threw him aside and trampled on him. He fought his way to the vestibule, and found that a blue-clad conductor was just closing up the doors. Reese knocked him down, and leaped for the end of the platform.

One foot plunged into the recess between train and platform, and his hands clawed at the air. He fell sidewise, struck a wooden partition which bounded the platform, and scrambled forward.

He leaped to his feet. He was free! It would take a minute for the train to stop. He whirled and ran back along the platform...

He knocked over a child, kicked a dog savagely because its leash almost tripped him, and flung men and women out of his way. The train was stopping with a hissing of air-brakes. He ran the faster...

He saw his way cleared, except for a smallish middle-aged man in a gray suit who was hurrying down the stairs — a man who blinked stupidly at him. Arthur Reese knocked him aside — and was then very deftly flung forward in a double somersault. Deft hands caught his arm, and raised it to the back of his neck, excruciatingly.

“What’s all this?” said Inspector Oscar Piper. “What’s your blasted hurry?”

Miss Withers came to life to find a porter splashing water in her face, and red-haired Miss Kelly praying unashamed. The train had stopped. “I’m all right,” she said. “But where did he go — he got away!”

They came out on the platform to find the Inspector sitting on his captive. “This was the only train that left any station in twenty minutes,” said Piper. “I changed my mind and thought I’d better rally around. Somebody better send for the wagon.”

An hour or so later Miss Withers sat in an armchair, surrounded by the grim exhibits which fine the walls of the Inspector’s office in Center Street. She still felt seedy, but not too seedy to outline her deductions as to the manner in which Reese had committed the “suicide” of Margie Thorens. One by one she checked off the points. “I knew that a girl who had a fountain pen in her handbag wouldn’t use a pencil to write something unless it was given to her,” she said. “It wasn’t her own, because it was too long to fit into the bag, unless it miraculously bent. From then on the truth came slowly but surely...”

“But the motive!” insisted Piper. “We’ve got to have a motive. I’ve got Reese detained downstairs, but we can’t book him without a motive.”

Miss Withers nodded. Then — “Did a woman come down to see you, a Mrs. Blenkinsop?”

The Inspector shook his head. “No — wait a minute. She came and went again. But she left a package for you with the desk lieutenant...”

“Good enough,” said Miss Withers. “If you’ll call Reese in here I’ll produce the motive.”

Arthur Reese, strangely enough, came quietly and pleasantly, with a smile on his face. There was an officer on either side, but Piper had them go outside the door.

“I’m sorry, madam,” said Reese when he saw Miss Withers. “But I lost my head when you said those terrible things. I didn’t know what I was doing. If I’d realized that you were a policewoman...”

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Margie Thorens,” cut in Piper. “Under the law, you may make a confession but you may not make a plea of guilty to a charge of murder...”

“Guilty? But I’m not guilty! This woman here may have made a lot of wild guesses as to how I might have killed Margie Thorens, but man alive — where’s my motive? Just because I made love to her months ago...”

“And took her to Atlantic City — before she was eighteen,” cut in Miss Withers. “That gave her a hold over you, for she was under the age of consent. Being an ambitious and precocious little thing, she tried desperately to blackmail you into publishing one of her songs. And then you found that she had accidently struck a masterpiece of popular jingles — this famous May Day. So you took the song, and made it your own property by removing Margie. She wrote May Day — not you! That’s my motive!”

Reese shook his head. “You haven’t got any proof,” he said confidently. “Where’s one witness? That’s all I ask! Just one—”

“Here’s the one,” said Hildegarde Withers calmly. From behind the desk she took up a paper-wrapped bundle. Stripping the newspapers away, she brought out a gilt cage, in which a small yellow bird blinked and muttered indignantly.

Miss Withers put it on the desk. “This was Margie Thorens’ family,” she said. “One of her only two companions in the long days and nights she spent, a bewildered little girl, trying to make a name for herself in an adult’s world.” She clucked to the little bird, and then, as the ruffled feathers subsided, Miss Withers began to whistle. Over and over again she whistled the first bar of the unpublished song hit, May Day.

“I met you on a May day...”

“Who-whew whew-whee whee whee,” continued Dickie happily, swelling his throat. On through the second, through the third bar... The Inspector gripped the table top.

“Reese, you said yourself that you never called on Miss Thorens and never knew where she lived,” said Hildegarde Withers triumphantly. “Then I wish you’d tell me how her canary learned the chorus of your unpublished song hit!”

Arthur Reese started to say something, but there was nothing to say. “I talked to a pet store man this morning,” said Miss Withers, “and he said that it’s perfectly possible to teach a clever canary any tune, provided he hears it over and over and over. Well, Dickie here is first witness for the prosecution!”

Arthur Reese’s shrill hysterical laughter drowned out anything else she might have said. He was dragged away, while the canary still whistled.

“I’m going to keep him,” said Miss Withers impulsively. She did keep Dickie, for several months, only giving him away to Mrs. Macfarland, wife of her Principal, when she learned that he would never learn any other tune but May Day...

It was December when Inspector Oscar Piper received an official communication. “You are invited to attend, as a witness for the State of New York, the execution of Arthur Reese at midnight, January 7th... Sing Sing, Ossining, New York per L. E. I.”

“With pleasure,” said the Inspector.

Ask Me Another

by Frank Gruber

Remember JOHNNY FLETCHER and SAM CRAGG, the wandering book salesmen of the Gruber novels, who lead a life plagued by hotel managers, the Law, and murderers? Now meet their prototypes, OLIVER QUADE (“THE HUMAN ENCYCLOPEDIA”) and his stooge CHARLIE BOSTON as they solve murder at the chicken show in a short story that is a complete Gruber novel in miniature. (Under the more formal name of Charles K. Boston, CHARLIE once published a detective story which has been thought by experts to have the Gruber touch.)

* * *

Oliver Quade was reading the morning paper, his bare feet on the bed and his chair tilted back against the radiator. Charlie Boston was on the bed, wrapped to his chin in a blanket and reading a copy of Exciting Confessions.

It was just a usual, peaceful, after-breakfast interlude in the lives of Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia, and Charlie Boston, his friend and assistant.

And then Life intruded itself upon the bit of Utopia. Life in the form of the manager of the Eagle Hotel. He beat a tattoo upon the thin panels of the door. Quade put down his newspaper and sighed.

“Charles, will you please open the door and let in the wolf?”

Charlie Boston unrolled himself from the blanket. He scowled at Quade. “You think it’s the manager about the room rent?”

“Of course, it is. Let him in before he breaks down the door.”

It was the manager. In his right fist he held a ruled form on which were scrawled some unpleasant figures. “About your rent, Mr. Quade,” he said severely. “We must have the money today.”

Quade looked at the manager of the Eagle Hotel, a puzzled expression on his face. “Rent? Money?”

“Of course,” snapped the manager. “This is the third time this week I’ve asked for it.”

A light came into Quade’s eyes. He made a quick movement and his feet and the front legs of the chair hit the carpeted floor simultaneously.

“Charles!” he roared in a voice that shook the room and caused the hotel manager to cringe. “Did you forget to get that money from the bank and pay this little bill?”

Charlie Boston took up Quade’s cue.

“Gosh, I’m awful sorry. On my way to the bank yesterday afternoon I ran into our old friend John Belmont of New York and he dragged me into the Palmer House Bar for a cocktail. By the time I could tear myself away, the bank was closed.”

Quade raised his hands and let them fall hopelessly. “You see, Mr. Creighton, I just can’t trust him to do anything. Now I’ve got to go out into the cold this morning and get it myself.”

The hotel manager’s eyes glinted. “Listen, you’ve stalled—” he began, but Quade suddenly stabbed out a hand toward him. “That reminds me, Mr. Creighton, I’ve a couple of complaints to make. We’re not getting enough heat here and last night the damfool next door kept us awake half the night with his radio. I want you to see that he keeps quiet tonight. And do something about the heat. I can’t stand drafty, cold rooms.”

The manager let out a weary sigh. “All right, I’ll look after it. But about that rent—”

“Yes, of course,” cut in Quade, “and your maid left only two towels this morning. Please see that a couple more are sent up. Immediately!”

The manager closed the door behind him with a bang. Oliver Quade chuckled and lifted his newspaper again. But Charlie Boston wouldn’t let him read.

“You got away with it, Ollie,” he said, “but it’s the last time. I know it. I’ll bet we get locked out before tonight.” He shook his head sadly. “You, Oliver Quade, with the greatest brain in captivity, are you going to walk the streets tonight in ten below zero weather?”

“Of course not, Charles,” sighed Quade. “I was just about to tell you that we’re going out to make some money today. Look, it’s here in this paper. The Great Chicago Auditorium Poultry Show.”

Boston’s eyes lit up for a moment, but then dimmed again. “Can we raise three weeks’ rent at a poultry show?”

Quade slipped his feet into his socks and shoes. “That remains to be seen. This paper mentions twenty thousand paid admissions. Among that many people there ought to be a few who are interested in higher learning. Well, are you ready?”

Boston went to the clothes closet and brought out their overcoats and a heavy suit-case. Boston was of middle height and burly. He could bend iron bars with his muscular hands. Quade was taller and leaner. His face was hawk-like, his nose a little too pointed and lengthy, but few ever noticed that. They saw only his piercing, sparkling eyes and felt his dominant personality.

The auditorium was almost two miles from their hotel, but lacking carfare, Quade and Boston walked. When they reached their destination, Quade cautioned Boston:

“Be sharp now, Charlie. Act like we belonged.”

Quade opened the outer door and walked blithely past the ticket windows to the door leading into the auditorium proper. A uniformed man at the door held out his hand for the tickets.

“Hello,” Quade said, heartily. “How’re you today?”

“Uh, all right, I guess,” replied the ticket-taker. “You boys got passes?”

“Oh, sure. We’re just taking in some supplies for the breeders. Brrr! It’s cold today. Well, be seeing you.” And with that he breezed past the ticket-taker.

“H’are ya, pal,” Boston said, treading on Quade’s heels.

The auditorium was a huge place but even so, it was almost completely filled with row upon row of wire exhibition coops, each coop containing a feathered fowl of some sort.

“What a lot of gumps!” Boston observed.

“Don’t use that word around here,” Quade cautioned. “These poultry folks take their chickens seriously. Refer to the chickens as ‘fine birds’ or ‘elegant fowls’ or something like that... Damn these publicity men!”

“Huh?”

Quade waved a hand about the auditorium. “The paper said twenty thousand paid admissions. How many people do you see in here?”

Boston craned his neck around. “If there’s fifty I’m countin’ some of ’em twice. How the hell can they pay the nut with such a small attendance?”

“The entry fees. There must be around two thousand chickens in here and the entry fee for each chicken is at least a dollar and a half. The prize money doesn’t amount to much and I guess the paid admissions are velvet — if they get any, which I doubt.”

“Twenty thousand, bah!” snorted Boston. “Well, do we go back?”

“Where? Our only chance was to stay in our room. I’ll bet the manager changed the lock the minute we left it.”

“So what?”

“So I get to work. For the dear old Eagle Hotel.”

Quade ploughed through an aisle to the far end of the auditorium. Commercial exhibits were contained in booths all around the four sides of the huge room, but Quade found a small spot that had been overlooked and pushed a couple of chicken coops into the space.

Then he climbed up on the coops and began talking.

The Human Encyclopedia’s voice was an amazing one. People who heard it always marveled that such a tremendous voice could come from so lean a man. Speaking without noticeable effort, his voice rolled out across the chicken coops.

“I’m Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” he boomed. “I have the greatest brain in the entire country. I know the answers to all questions, what came first, the chicken or the egg, every historical date since the beginning of time, the population of every city in the country, how to eradicate mice in your poultry yards, how to mix feeds to make your chickens lay more eggs. Everything. Everything under the sun. On any subject; history, science, agriculture, and mathematics.”

The scattered persons in the auditorium began to converge upon Quade’s stand. Inside of two minutes three-fourths of the people in e building were gathered before Quade and the rest were on their way. He continued his preliminary build-up in his rich, powerful voice.

“Ask me a question, someone. Let me prove that I’m the Human Encyclopedia, the man who knows the answers to all questions. Try me out, someone, on any subject; history, science, mathematics, agriculture — anything at all!”

Quade stabbed out his lean forefinger at a middle-aged, sawed-off man wearing a tan smock. “You, sir, ask me a question?”

The man flushed at being singled out of the crowd. “Why, uh, I don’t know of any— Yes, I do. What’s the highest official egg record ever made by a hen?”

“That’s the stuff,” smiled Quade. He held out his hand dramatically. “That’s a good question, but an easy one to answer. The highest record ever made by a hen in an American official egg-laying contest is three hundred and forty-two eggs. It was made in 1930 at the Athens, Georgia, Egg-Laying Contest, by a Single-Comb White Leghorn. Am I right, Mister?”

The sawed-off man nodded grudgingly. “Yeah, but I don’t see how you knew it. Most poultry folks don’t even remember it.”

“Oh, but you forget I told you I had the greatest brain in the country. I know the answers to all questions on any subject. Don’t bother to ask me simple poultry questions. Try me on something hard. You—” he picked out a lean, dour looking man. “Ask me something hard.”

The man bit his lip a moment, then said:

“All right, what State has the longest coast line?”

Quade grinned. “Ah, you’re trying the tricky stuff. But you can’t fool me. Most folks would say California or Florida. But the correct answer is Michigan. And to head off the rest of you on the trick geography questions let me say right away that Kentucky has the largest number of other States touching it and Minnesota has the farthest northern point of any State. Next question!”

A young fellow wearing pince-nez put his tongue into his cheek and asked,

“Why and how does a cat purr?”

“Oh-oh!” Quade craned his neck to stare at the young fellow. “I see we have a student with us. Well, young man, you’ve asked a question so difficult that practically every university professor in this country would be stumped on it. But I’m not. It so happens that I read a recent paper by Professor E. L. Gibbs of the Harvard Medical School in which he gave the results of his experiments on four hundred cats to learn the answer to that very same question. The first part of the question is simple enough — the cat purrs when it is contented, but to explain the actual act of purring is a little more difficult. Contentment in a cat relaxes the infundicular nerve in the brain, which reacts upon the pituitary and bronchial organs and makes the purring sound issue from the cat’s throat... Try that one on your friends, sometime. Someone else try me on a question.”

“I’d like to ask one,” said a clear, feminine voice. Quade’s eyes lit up. He had already noticed the girl, the only female in his audience. She was amazingly pretty, the type of girl he would scarcely have expected to find at a poultry show. She was young, not more than twenty-one, and she had the finest chiseled features Quade had ever seen. She was a blonde and the rakish green hat and green coat she wore, although inexpensive, looked exceedingly well on her.

“Yes, what is the question?” he asked, leaning forward a bit.

The girl’s chin came up defiantly. “I just want to know why certain poultry judges allow dyed birds to be judged for prizes!”

A sudden rumble went up in the crowd and Quade saw the sawed-off man in the tan smock whirl and glare angrily at the girl.

“Oh-oh,” Quade said. “You seem to have asked a delicate question. Well, I’ll answer it just the same. Any judge who allows a dyed Rhode Island Red to stay in the class is either an ignorant fool — or a crook!”

“Damn you!” roared the little man, turning back to Quade. “You can’t say that to me. I’ll... I’ll have you thrown out of here.” He started pushing his way through the crowd, heading in the direction of the front office.

“If the shoe fits, put it on,” Quade called after him. Then to the girl: “Who’s he?”

“A judge here. Stone’s his name.”

“Well, let’s go on with the show,” Quade said to the crowd. “Next question?”

Quade had lost nothing by his bold answer to the girl’s question. The audience warmed to him and the questions came fast and furious.

“Who was the eleventh president of the United States?”

“What is the Magna Charta?”

“Who was the 1896 Olympic 220-meter champion?”

“How do you cure scaly legs in chickens?”

“How far is Saturn from the earth?”

Quade answered all questions put to him, with lightning rapidity. But suddenly he called a dramatic halt. “That’s all the questions, folks. Now let me show you how you can learn all the answers yourselves to every question that has just been, asked — and ten thousand more.”

He held out his hands and Charlie Boston tossed a thick book into them which he had taken from the suit-case they had brought with them. Quade began ruffling the pages.

“They’re all in here. This, my friends, is the ‘Compendium of Human Knowledge,’ the greatest book of its kind ever published. Twelve hundred pages, crammed with facts, information every one of you should know. The knowledge of the ages, condensed, classified, abbreviated. A complete high-school education in one volume. Ten minutes a day and this book will make you the most learned person in your community.”

Quade lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. “Friends, I’m going to astonish you by telling you the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard: The price of this book. What do you think I’m asking for it? Twenty-five dollars? No, not even twenty... or fifteen. In fact, not even ten or five dollars. Just a mere, paltry, insignificant two dollars and ninety-five cents. But I’m only going to offer these books once at that price. Two-ninety-five, and here I come!”

Quade leaped down from his platform to attack his audience, supposedly built up to the buying pitch. But he was destined not to sell any books just then. Charlie Boston tugged at his coat sleeve.

“Look, Ollie!” he whispered hoarsely. “He got the cops!”

Quade raised himself to his toes to look over the chicken coops. He groaned. For the short man in the tan smock was coming up the center aisle leading a small procession of policemen.

Quade sighed. “Put the books back into the suit-case, Charlie.” He leaned against a poultry coop and waited to submit quietly to the arrest.

But the policemen did not come toward him. Reaching the center aisle the man in the tan smock wheeled to the left, away from Quade, and the police followed him.

Quade’s audience saw the police. Two or three persons broke away and started toward the other side of the building. The movement started a stampede and in a moment Charlie Boston and Quade were left alone.

“Something seems to have happened over there,” Quade observed. “Wonder what?”

“From the mob of cops I’d say a murder,” Boston replied dryly.

The word “murder” was scarcely out of Boston’s mouth than it was hurled back at them from across the auditorium.

“It is a murder!” Quade gasped.

“This is no place for us, then,” cried Boston. “Let’s scram!”

He caught up the suit-case containing the books and started off. But Quade called him back. “That’s no good. There’s a cop at the door. We’ll have to stick.”

“Chickens!” howled Boston. “The minute you mentioned them at the hotel I had a hunch that something was going to happen. And I’ll bet a plugged dime, which I haven’t got, that we get mixed up in it.”

“Maybe so, Charlie. But if I know cops there’s going to be a lot of questioning and my hunch is that we’ll be better off if we’re not too upstage. Let’s go over and find out what’s what.”

He started toward the other side of the auditorium. Boston followed, lugging the suit-case and grumbling.

All of the crowd had gathered in front of a huge, mahogany cabinet — a mammoth incubator. The door of the machine was standing open and two or three men were moving around inside.

Quade drew in his breath sharply when he saw the huddled body lying on the floor just inside the door of the incubator. Gently he began working his way through the crowd until he stood in front of the open incubator door.

The small group came out of the incubator and a beetle-browed man in a camel’s hair overcoat and Homburg hat squared himself off before the girl in the green hat and coat. The man in the tan smock, his head coming scarcely up to the armpits of the big man, hopped around like a bantam rooster.

“I understand you had a quarrel with him yesterday,” the big man said to the girl. “What about?”

The girl drew herself up to her full height. “Because his birds were dyed and the judge — the man behind you — refused to throw them out. That’s why!”

The bantam sputtered. “She — why, that’s a damn he!”

The big detective turned abruptly, put a ham-like hand against the chest of the runt and shoved him back against the incubator with so much force that the little man gasped in pain.

“Listen, squirt,” the detective said. “Nothing’s been proved against this girl and until it is, she’s a lady. Up here we don’t call ladies liars.”

He turned back to the girl and said with gruff kindness, “Now, Miss, let’s have the story.”

“There’s no story,” declared the girl. “I did quarrel with him, just like I did with Judge Stone. But... but I haven’t seen Mr. Tupper since yesterday evening. That’s all I can tell you because it’s all I know.”

“Yesterday, huh.” The detective looked around the circle. “Anybody see him here today?”

“Yes, of course,” said a stocky man of about forty-five. “I was talking to him early this morning, before the place was opened to the public. There were a dozen or more of us around then.”

“You’re the boss of this shebang?”

“Not exactly. Our poultry association operates this show. I’m Leo Cassmer, the secretary, and I’m in charge of the exhibits, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” replied the detective. “You’re the boss. You know these exhibitors then. All right, who were here early this morning when this Tupper fellow was around?”

Cassmer, the show secretary, rubbed his chin. “Why, there was myself, Judge Stone, Ralph Conway, the Wyandotte man, Judge Welheimer and several of the men who work around here.”

“And Miss Martin — was she here?”

“She came in before the place was officially opened, but she wasn’t around the last time I saw Tupper.”

“Who’re Welheimer and Conway?”

A tall, silver-haired man stepped out of the crowd. “Conway’s my name.”

“And the judge?” persisted the detective.

A long-nosed man with a protruding lower lip came grudgingly out of the crowd. “I’m Judge Welheimer.”

“You a real judge or just a chicken judge?”

“Why, uh, just a poultry judge. Licensed by the National Poultry Association.”

“And you don’t hold any public office at all? You’re not even a justice of the peace?”

The long-nosed chicken judge reddened. He shook his head.

The detective’s eyes sparkled. “That’s fine. All that talk about judges had me worried for a bit. But listen, you chicken judges and the rest of you. I’m Sergeant Dickinson of the Homicide Squad of this town. There’s been a murder committed here and I’m investigating it. Which means I’m boss around here. Get me?”

Quade couldn’t quite restrain a snicker. The sergeant’s sharp ears heard it and he singled out Quade.

“And who the hell are you?”

“Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” Quade replied glibly. “I know the answers to all questions—”

Sergeant Dickinson’s face twisted. “Ribbing me, ha? Step up here where I can get a good look at you.”

Quade remained where he was. “There’s a dead man in there. I don’t like to get too close to dead people.”

The sergeant took a half step toward Quade, but then stopped himself. He tried to smooth out his face, but it was still dark with anger.

“I’ll get around to you in a minute, fella.” He turned belligerently to the show secretary. “You, who found the body?”

Cassmer pointed to a pasty-faced young fellow of about thirty. The man grinned sickly.

“Yeah, I got in kinda late and started straightening things around. Then I saw that someone had stuck in that long staple in the door latch. I didn’t think much about it and opened the door and there... there he was lying on the floor. Deader’n a mackerel!”

“You work for this incubator company?” the sergeant asked.

The young fellow nodded. “I’m the regional sales manager. Charge of this exhibit. It’s the finest incubator on the market. Used by the best breeders and hatcherymen—”

“Can the sales talk,” growled the detective. “I’m not going to buy one. Let’s go back on your story. What made you say this man was murdered?”

“What else could it be? He was dead and the door was locked on the outside.”

“I know that. But couldn’t he have died of heart failure? There’s plenty of air in that thing and besides there’s a ventilator hole open up there.”

“He was murdered,” said Quade.

Sergeant Dickinson whirled. “And how do you know?”

“By looking at the body. Anyone could tell it was murder.”

“Oh yeah. Maybe you’ll tell me how he was killed. There ain’t a mark on his body.”

“No marks of violence, because he wasn’t killed that way. He was killed with a poison gas. Something containing cyanogen.”

The sergeant clamped his jaws together. “Go on! Who killed him?”

Quade shook his head. “No, that’s your job. I’ve given you enough to start with.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” said the sergeant. “So much so that I’m going to arrest you!”

Charlie Boston groaned into Quade’s ears. “Won’t you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?”

But Quade merely grinned insolently. “If you arrest me I’ll sue you for false arrest.”

“I’ll take a chance on that,” said the detective. “No one could know as much as you do and not have had something to do with the murder.”

“You’re being very stupid, Sergeant,” Quade said. “These men told you they hadn’t seen Tupper alive for several hours. He’s been dead at least three. And I just came into this building fifteen minutes ago.”

“He’s right,” declared Anne Martin. “I saw him come in. He and his friend. They went straight over to the other side of the building and started that sales talk.”

“What sales talk?”

The little poultry judge hopped in again. “He’s a damn pitchman. Pulls some phony question and answer stuff and insults people. Claims he’s the smartest man in the world. Bah!”

“Bah to you,” said Quade.

“Cut it,” cried Sergeant Dickinson. “I want to get the straight of this. You,” he turned to Cassmer. “Did he really come in fifteen minutes ago?”

Cassmer shrugged. “I never saw him until a few minutes ago. But there’s the ticket-taker. He’d know.”

The ticket-taker, whose post had been taken over by a policeman, frowned. “Yeah, he came in just a little while ago. I got plenty reason to remember. Him and his pal crashed the gate. On me! First time anyone crashed the gate on me in eight years. But he was damn slick. He—”

“Never mind the details,” sighed Sergeant Dickinson. “I can imagine he was slick about it. Well, Mister, you didn’t kill him. But tell me — how the hell do you know he was gassed with cy... cyanide?”

“Cyanogen. It’s got prussic acid in it. All right, the body was found inside the incubator, the door locked on the outside. That means someone locked him inside the incubator. The person who killed him. Right so far?”

“I’m listening.” There was a thoughtful look in the sergeant’s eyes.

“There’s broken glass inside the incubator. The killer heaved in a bottle containing the stuff and slammed the door shut and locked it. The man inside was killed inside of a minute.”

“Wait a minute. The glass is there all right, but how d’you know it contained cyanogen? There’s no smell in there.”

“No, because the killer opened the ventilator hole and turned on the electric fans inside the incubator. All that can be done from the outside. The fans cleared out the fumes. Simple.”

“Not so simple. You still haven’t said how you know it was cyanogen.”

“Because he’s got all the symptoms. Look at the body — pupils dilated, eyes wide, froth on the mouth, face livid, body twisted and stiff. That means he bad convulsions. Well, if those symptoms don’t mean cyanogen, I don’t know what it’s all about.”

“Mister,” said the detective. “Who did you say you were?”

“Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia. I know everything.”

“You know, I’m beginning to believe you. Well then, who did the killing?”

“That’s against the union rules. I told you how the man was killed. Finding who did it is your job.”

“All right, but tell me one thing more. If this cyanogen has prussic acid in it, it’s a deadly poison. Folks can’t usually buy it.”

“City folks, you mean. Cyanogen is the base for several insecticides. I don’t think this was pure cyanogen. I’m inclined to believe it was a diluted form, probably a gas used to kill rats on poultry farms. Any poultry raiser could buy that.”

“Here comes the coroner’s man,” announced Detective Dickinson. “Now, we’ll get a check on you, Mr. Quade.”

Dr. Bogle, the coroner’s physician, made a rapid, but thorough examination of the body. His announcement coincided startlingly with Quade’s diagnosis.

“Prussic acid or cyanide. He inhaled it. Died inside of five minutes. About three and a half hours ago.”

Quade’s face was twisted in a queer smile. He walked off from the group. Charlie Boston and Anne Martin, the girl, followed.

“Do you mind my saying that you just performed some remarkable work?” the girl said admiringly.

“No, I don’t mind your saying so,” Quade grinned. “I was rather colossal.”

“He pulls those things out of a hat,” groused Boston. “He’s a very smart man. Only one thing he can’t do.”

“What’s that?”

Boston started to reply, but Quade’s fierce look silenced him. Quade coughed. “Well, look — a hot dog stand. Reminds me, it’s about lunch time. Feel like a hot dog and orangeade, Anne?”

The girl smiled at his familiarity. “I don’t mind. I’m rather hungry.”

Boston sidled up to Quade. “Hey, you forgot!” he whispered. “You haven’t got any money.”

Quade said, “Three dogs and orangeades!”

A minute later they were munching hot dogs. Quade finished his orangeade and half-way through the sandwich suddenly snapped his fingers.

“That reminds me, I forgot something. Excuse me a moment...” He started off suddenly toward the group around the incubator, ignoring Charlie Boston’s startled protest.

Boston suddenly had no appetite. He chewed the food in his mouth as long as he could. The girl finished her sandwich and smiled at him.

“That went pretty good. Guess I’ll have another. How about you?”

Boston almost choked. “Uh, no, I ain’t hungry.”

The girl ordered another hot dog and orangeade and finished them while Boston still fooled with the tail end of his first sandwich.

The concessionaire mopped up the counter all around Boston and Anne Martin and finally said, “That’s eighty cents, Mister!”

Boston put the last of the sandwich in his mouth and began going through his pockets. The girl watched him curiously. Boston went through his pockets a second time. “That’s funny,” he finally said. “I must have left my wallet at the hotel. Quade...”

“Let me pay for it,” said the girl, snapping open her purse.

Boston’s face was as red as a Harvard beet. Such things weren’t embarrassing to Quade, but they were to Boston.

“There’s Mr. Quade,” said Anne Martin. “Shall we join him?”

Boston was glad to get away from the hot dog stand.

The investigation was still going on. Sergeant Dickinson was on his hands and knees inside the incubator. A policeman stood at the door of it and a couple more were going over the exterior.

Quade saluted them with a piece of wire. “They’re looking for clues,” he said.

The girl shivered. “I’d like it much better if they’d take away Exhibit A.”

“Can’t. Not until they take pictures. I hear the photographers and the fingerprint boys are coming down. It’s not really necessary either. Because I know who the murderer is!”

The girl gasped: “Who?”

Quade did not reply. He looked at the piece of wire in his hands. It was evidently a spoke from a wire poultry coop, but it had been twisted into an elongated question mark. He tapped Dickinson’s shoulder with the wire.

The sergeant looked up and scowled. “Huh?”

“Want this?” Quade asked.

“What the hell is it?”

“Just a piece of wire I picked up.”

“What’re you trying to do, rib me?”

Quade shrugged. “No, but I saw you on your hands and knees and thought you were looking for something. Thought this might be it.”

Dickinson snorted. “What the hell, if you’re not going to tell me who did the killing let me alone.”

“O.K.” Quade flipped the piece of wire over a row of chicken coops. “Come,” he said to Boston and Anne Martin. “Let’s go look at the turkeys at the other end of the building.”

Boston shuffled up beside Quade as the three walked through an aisle. “Who did it, Ollie?”

“Can’t tell now, because I couldn’t prove it. In a little while, perhaps.”

Boston let out his pent-up breath. “If you ain’t the damnedest guy ever!”

Anne Martin said, “You mean you’re not going to tell Sergeant Dickinson?”

“Oh yes, but I’m going to wait a while. Maybe he’ll tumble himself and I’d hate to deprive him of that pleasure... What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” Boston said. “I lost my watch in Kansas City. You remember that, don’t you, Ollie?”

Quade winced. Boston had “lost” his watch in Uncle Ben’s Three Gold Ball Shop. Quade’s had gone to Uncle Moe in St. Louis.

“It’s twelve-thirty,” the girl said, looking at her wrist watch.

Quade nodded. “That’s fine. The early afternoon editions of the papers will have accounts of the murder and a lot of morbid folks will flock around here later on. That means I can put on a good pitch and sell some of my books.”

“I wanted to ask you about that,” said Anne Martin. “You answered some really remarkable questions this morning. I don’t for the life of me see how you do it.”

“Forsaking modesty for the moment, I do it because I really know all the answers.”

“All?”

“Uh-huh. You see, I’ve read an entire encyclopedia from cover to cover four times.”

Anne looked at him in astonishment. “An entire encyclopedia?”

“Twenty-four volumes... Well, let’s go back now. Charlie, keep your eyes open.”

“Ah!” Charlie Boston said.

Dr. Bogle’s men were just taking away the body of the murdered man. Sergeant Dickinson, a disgusted look on his face, had rounded up his men and was on the verge of leaving.

“Not going, Captain Dickinson?” Quade asked.

“What good will it do me to hang around?” snorted the sergeant. “Everyone and his brother has some phony alibi.”

“But your clues, man?”

“What clues?”

Quade shook his head in exasperation. “I told you how the murder was committed, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, sure, the guy locked the bloke in the incubator and tossed in the bottle of poison gas, then opened the ventilator and turned on the fans. But there were more than a dozen guys around and almost any one of them could have done it, without any of the others even noticing what he was doing.”

“No, you’re wrong. Only one person could have done it.”

A hush suddenly fell upon the crowd. Charlie Boston, tensed and crouching, was breathing heavily. The police sergeant’s face became bleak. Quade had demonstrated his remarkable deductive ability a while ago and Dickinson was willing to believe anything of him, now.

Quade stepped lazily to a poultry coop, took hold of a wire bar and with a sudden twist tore it off. Then he stepped to the side of the incubator.

“Look at this ventilator,” he said. “Notice that I can reach it easily enough. So could you, Lieutenant. Were about the same height — five feet ten. But a man only five-two couldn’t reach it even by standing on his toes. Do you follow me?”

“Go on,” said Sergeant Dickinson.

Quade twisted the piece of wire into an elongated question mark. “To move a box or chair up here and climb up on it would be to attract attention,” he went on, “so the killer used a piece of wire to open the ventilator. Like this!” Quade caught the hook in the ventilator and pulled it open easily.

“That’s good enough for me!” said Sergeant Dickinson. “You practically forced that wire on me a while ago and I couldn’t see it. Well — Judge Stone, you’re under arrest!”

“He’s a liar!” roared the bantam poultry judge. “He can’t prove anything like that on me. He just tore that piece of wire from that coop!”

“That’s right,” said Quade. “You saw me pick up the original piece of wire and when I threw it away after trying to give it to the sergeant you got it and disposed of it.”

“You didn’t see me!”

“No, I purposely walked away to give you a chance to get rid of the wire. But I laid a trap for you. While I had that wire I smeared some ink on it to prove you handled it. Look at your hands, Judge Stone!”

Judge Stone raised both palms upward. His right thumb and fingers were smeared with a black stain.

Sergeant Dickinson started toward the little poultry judge. But the bantam uttered a cry of fright and darted away.

“Ha!” cried Charlie Boston and lunged for him. He wrapped his thick arms around the little man and tried to hold on to him. But the judge was suddenly fighting for his life. He clawed at Boston’s face and kicked his shins furiously. Boston howled and released his grip to defend himself with his fists.

The poultry judge promptly butted Boston in the stomach and darted under his flailing arms.

It was Anne Martin who stopped him. As the judge scrambled around Boston she stepped forward and thrust out her right foot. The little man tripped over it and plunged headlong to the concrete floor of the auditorium. Before he could get up Charlie Boston was on him. Sergeant Dickinson swooped down, a Police Positive in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other. The killer was secured.

Stone quit then. “Yes, I killed him, the damned lousy blackmailer. For years I judged his chickens at the shows and always gave him the edge. Then he double-crossed me, got me fired.”

“What job?” asked Dickinson.

“My job as district manager for the Sibley Feed Company,” replied Stone.

“Why’d he have you fired?” asked Quade. “Because you were short-weighing him on his feed? Is that it?”

“I gave him prizes his lousy chickens should never have had,” snapped the little killer. “What if I did short-weigh him twenty or thirty per cent? I more than made up for it.”

“Twenty or thirty per cent,” said Quade, “would amount to quite a bit of money in the course of a year. In his advertising in the poultry papers Tupper claimed he raised over eight thousand chickens a year.”

“I don’t need any more,” said Sergeant Dickinson. “Well, Mr. Quade, you certainly delivered the goods.”

“Not me, I only told you who the murderer was. If it hadn’t been for Miss Martin he’d have got away.”

Quade turned away. “Anne,” he said, “Charlie and I are flat broke. But this afternoon a flock of rubbernecks are going to storm this place and I’m going to take quite a chunk of money from them. But in the meantime... That hot dog wasn’t very filling and I wonder if you’d stake us to a lunch?”

Anne Martin’s eyes twinkled. “Listen, Mr. Quade, if you asked me for every cent I’ve got I’d give it to you right away — because you’d get it from me anyway, if you really wanted it. You’re the world’s greatest salesman. You even sold Judge Stone into confessing.”

Quade grinned. “Yes? How?”

She pointed at Quade’s hands. “You handled that first wire hook with your bare hands. How come your hands didn’t get black?”

Quade chuckled. “Smart girl. Even the sergeant didn’t notice that. Well, I’ll confess. I saw the smudge on Judge Stone’s hands away back when I was putting on my pitch. He must have used a leaky fountain pen or something.”

“Then you didn’t put anything on it?”

“No. But I knew he was the murderer and he knew it... only he didn’t know his hands were dirty. So...”

The girl drew a deep breath. “Oliver Quade, the lunches are on me.”

“And the dinner and show tonight are on me,” grinned Oliver Quade.

A Passage to Benares

by T. S. Stribling

T. S. Stribling is a man of unique distinctions. In addition to being the only Pulitzer Prize winner who wrote pulp scientifiction, he is the only detective story writer who ever succeeded in viewing his detective with complete objectivity. No sleuth has ever been limned with such merciless accuracy as HENRY POGGIOLI, nor so skilfully portrayed as that mixture of pettiness and sublimity which is Man. POGGIOLI has another distinction too; but you can discover that for yourself in “A passage to Benares,” the ending of which Charles Honce has justly called “positively thunderous.”

* * *

In port of Spain, Trinidad, at half past five in the morning, Mr. Henry Poggioli, the American psychologist, stirred uneasily, became conscious of a splitting headache, opened his eyes in bewilderment, and then slowly reconstructed his surroundings. He recognized the dome of the Hindu temple seen dimly above him, the jute rug on which he lay; the blur of the image of Krishna sitting cross-legged on the altar. The American had a dim impression that the figure had not sat thus on the altar all night long — a dream, no doubt; he had a faint memory of lurid nightmares. The psychologist allowed the thought to lose itself as he got up slowly from the sleeping rug which the cicerone had spread for him the preceding evening.

In the circular temple everything was still in deep shadow, but the gray light of dawn filled the arched entrance. The white man moved carefully to the door so as not to jar his aching head. A little distance from him he saw another sleeper, a coolie beggar stretched out on a rug, and he thought he saw still another farther away. As he passed out of the entrance the cool freshness of the tropical morning caressed his face like the cool fingers of a woman. Kiskadee birds were calling from palms and saman trees, and there was a wide sound of dripping dew. Not far from the temple a coolie woman stood on a seesaw with a great stone attached to the other end of the plank, and by stepping to and fro she swung the stone up and down and pounded some rice in a mortar.

Poggioli stood looking at her a moment, then felt in his pocket for the key to his friend Lowe’s garden gate. He found it and moved off up Tragarette Road to where the squalid East Indian village gave way to the high garden walls and ornamental shrubbery of the English suburb of Port of Spain. He walked on more briskly as the fresh air eased his head, and presently he stopped and unlocked a gate in one of the bordering walls. He began to smile as he let himself in; his good humor increased as he walked across a green lawn to a stone cottage which had a lower window still standing open. This was his own room. He reached up to the sill and drew himself inside, which gave his head one last pang. He shook this away, however, and began undressing for his morning shower.

Mr. Poggioli was rather pleased with his exploit, although he had not forwarded the experiment which had induced him to sleep in the temple. It had come about in this way: On the foregoing evening the American and his host in Port of Spain, a Mr. Lowe, a bank clerk, had watched a Hindu wedding procession enter the same temple in which Poggioli had just spent the night. They had watched the dark-skinned white-robed musicians smiting their drums and skirling their pipes with bouffant cheeks. Behind them marched a procession of coolies. The bride was a little cream-colored girl who wore a breast-plate of linked gold coins over her childish bosom, while anklets and bracelets almost covered her arms and legs. The groom, a tall, dark coolie, was the only man in the procession who wore European clothes, and he, oddly enough, was attired in a full evening dress suit. At the incongruous sight Poggioli burst out laughing, but Lowe touched his arm and said in an undertone:

“Don’t take offense, old man, but if you didn’t laugh it might help me somewhat.”

Poggioli straightened his face.

“Certainly, but how’s that?”

“The groom, Boodman Lal, owns one of the best curio shops in town and carries an account at my bank. That fifth man in the procession, the skeleton wearing the yellow kapra, is old Hira Dass. He is worth something near a million in pounds sterling.”

The psychologist became sober enough, out of his American respect for money.

“Hira Dass,” went on Lowe, “built this temple and rest house. He gives rice and tea to any traveler who comes in for the night. It’s an Indian custom to help mendicant pilgrims to the different shrines. A rich Indian will build a temple and a rest house just as your American millionaires erect libraries.”

The American nodded again, watching now the old man with the length of yellow silk wrapped around him. And just at this point Poggioli received the very queer impression which led to his night’s adventure.

When the wedding procession entered the temple the harsh music stopped abruptly. Then, as the line of robed coolies disappeared into the dark interior the psychologist had a strange feeling that the procession had been swallowed up and had ceased to exist. The bizarre red-and-gold building stood in the glare of sunshine, a solid reality, while its devotees had been dissipated into nothingness.

So peculiar, so startling was the impression, that Poggioli blinked and wondered how he ever came by it. The temple had somehow suggested the Hindu theory of Nirvana. Was it possible that the Hindu architect had caught some association of ideas between the doctrine of obliteration and these curves and planes and colors glowing before him? Had he done it by contrast or simile? The fact that Poggioli was a psychologist made the problem all the more intriguing to him — the psychologic influence of architecture. There must be some rationale behind it. An idea how he might pursue this problem came into his head. He turned to his friend and exclaimed:

“Lowe, how about staying all night in old Hira Dass’s temple?”

“Doing what?” with a stare of amazement.

“Staying a night in the temple. I had an impression just then, a—”

“Why, my dear fellow!” ejaculated Lowe, “no white man ever stayed all night in a coolie temple. It simply isn’t done!”

The American argued his case a moment:

“You and I had a wonderful night aboard the Trevemore when we became acquainted.”

“That was a matter of necessity,” said the bank clerk. “There were no first-class cabin accommodations left on the Trevemore, so we had to make the voyage on deck.”

Here the psychologist gave up his bid for companionship. Late that night he slipped out of Lowe’s cottage, walked back to the grotesque temple, was given a cup of tea, a plate of rice, and a sleeping rug. The only further impression the investigator obtained was a series of fantastic and highly colored dreams, of which he could not recall a detail. Then he waked with a miserable headache and came home.

Mr. Poggioli finished his dressing and in a few minutes the breakfast bell rang. He went to the dining room to find the bank clerk unfolding the damp pages of the Port of Spain Inquirer. This was a typical English sheet using small, solidly set columns without flaming headlines. Poggioli glanced at it and wondered mildly if nothing worth featuring ever happened in Trinidad.

Ram Jon, Lowe’s Hindu servant, slipped in and out of the breakfast room with peeled oranges, tea, toast, and a custard fruit flanked by a half lemon to squeeze over it.

“Pound sterling advanced a point,” droned Lowe from his paper.

“It’ll reach par,” said the American, smiling faintly and wondering what Lowe would say if he knew of his escapade.

“Our new governor general will arrive in Trinidad on the twelfth.”

“Surely that deserved a headline,” said the psychologist.

“Don’t try to debauch me with your American yellow journalism,” smiled the bank clerk.

“Go your own way if you prefer doing research work every morning for breakfast.”

The bank clerk laughed again at this, continued his perusal, then said:

“Hello, another coolie kills his wife. Tell me, Poggioli, as a psychologist, why do coolies kill their wives?”

“For various reasons, I fancy, or perhaps this one didn’t kill her at all. Surely now and then some other person—”

“Positively no! It’s always the husband, and instead of having various reasons, they have none at all. They say their heads are hot, and so to cool their own they cut off their wives’!”

The psychologist was amused in a dull sort of way.

“Lowe, you Englishmen are a nation with fixed ideas. You genuinely believe that every coolie woman who is murdered is killed by her husband without any motive whatever.”

“Sure, that’s right,” nodded Lowe, looking up from his paper.

“That simply shows me you English have no actual sympathy with your subordinate races. And that may be the reason your empire is great. Your aloofness, your unsympathy — by becoming automatic you become absolutely dependable. The idea, that every coolie woman is murdered by her husband without a motive!”

“That’s correct,” repeated Lowe with English imperturbability.

The conversation was interrupted by a ring at the garden-gate bell. A few moments later the two men saw through the shadow Ram Jon unlock the wall door, open it a few inches, parley a moment, and receive a letter. Then he came back with his limber, gliding gait.

Lowe received the note through the open window, broke the envelope, and fished out two notes instead of one. The clerk looked at the inclosures and began to read with a growing bewilderment in his face.

“What is it?” asked Poggioli at last.

“This is from Hira Dass to Jeffries, the vice-president of our bank. He says his nephew Boodman Lal has been arrested and he wants Jeffries to help get him out.”

“What’s he arrested for?”

“Er — for murdering his wife,” said Lowe with a long face.

Poggioli stared.

“Wasn’t he the man we saw in the procession yesterday?”

“Damn it, yes!” cried Lowe in sudden disturbance, “and he’s a sensible fellow, too, one of our best patrons.” He sat staring at the American over the letter, and then suddenly recalling a point, drove it home English fashion.

“That proves my contention, Poggioli — a groom of only six or eight hours’ standing killing his wife. They simply commit uxoricide without any reason at all, the damned irrational rotters!”

“What’s the other letter?” probed the American, leaning across the table.

“It’s from Jeffries. He says he wants me to take this case and get the best talent in Trinidad to clear Mr. Hira Dass’s house and consult with him.” The clerk replaced the letters in the envelope. “Say, you’ve had some experience in this sort of thing. Won’t you come with me?”

“Glad to.”

The two men arose promptly from the table, got their hats, and went out into Tragarette Road once more. As they stood in the increasing heat waiting for a car, it occurred to Poggioli that the details of the murder ought to be in the morning’s paper. He took the Inquirer from his friend and began a search through its closely printed columns. Presently he found a paragraph without any heading at all:

“Boodman Lal, nephew of Mr. Hira Dass, was arrested early this morning at his home in Peru, the East Indian suburb, for the alleged murder of his wife, whom he married yesterday at the Hindu temple in Peru. The body was found at six o’clock this morning in the temple. The attendant gave the alarm. Mrs. Boodman Lal’s head was severed completely from her body and she lay in front of the Buddhist altar in her bridal dress. All of her jewelry was gone. Five coolie beggars who were asleep in the temple when the body was discovered were arrested. They claimed to know nothing of the crime, but a search of their persons revealed that each beggar had a piece of the young bride’s jewelry and a coin from her necklace.

“Mr. Boodman Lal and his wife were seen to enter the temple at about eleven o’clock last night for the Krishnian rite of purification. Mr. Boodman, who is a prominent curio dealer in this city, declines to say anything further than that he thought his wife had gone back to her mother’s home for the night after her prayers in the temple. The young bride, formerly a Miss Maila Ran, was thirteen years old. Mr. Boodman is the nephew of Mr. Hira Dass, one of the wealthiest men in Trinidad.”

The paragraph following this contained a notice of a tea given at Queen’s Park Hotel by Lady Henley-Hoads, and the names of her guests.

The psychologist spent a painful moment pondering the kind of editor who would run a millionaire murder mystery, without any caption whatever, in between a legal notice and a society note. Then he turned his attention to the gruesome and mysterious details the paragraph contained.

“Lowe, what do you make out of those beggars, each with a coin and a piece of jewelry?”

“Simple enough. The rotters laid in wait in the temple till the husband went out and left his wife, then they murdered her and divided the spoil.”

“But that child had enough bangles to give a dozen to each man.”

“Ye-es, that’s a fact,” admitted Lowe.

“And why should they continue sleeping in the temple?”

“Why shouldn’t they? They knew they would be suspected, and they couldn’t get off the island without capture, so they thought they might as well lie back down and go to sleep.”

Here the street car approached and Mr. Poggioli nodded, apparently in agreement.

“Yes, I am satisfied that is how it occurred.”

“You mean the beggars killed her?”

“No, I fancy the actual murderer took the girl’s jewelry and went about the temple thrusting a bangle and a coin in the pockets of each of the sleeping beggars to lay a false scent.”

“Aw, come now!” cried the bank clerk, “that’s laying it on a bit too thick, Poggioli!”

“My dear fellow, that’s the only possible explanation for the coins in the beggars’ pockets.”

By this time the men were on the tramcar and were clattering off down Tragarette Road. As they dashed along toward the Hindu village Poggioli remembered suddenly that he had walked this same distance the preceding night and had slept in this same temple. A certain sharp impulse caused the American to run a hand swiftly into his own pockets. In one side he felt the keys of his trunk and of Lowe’s cottage; in the other he touched several coins and a round hard ring. With a little thrill he drew these to the edge of his pocket and took a covert glance at them. One showed the curve of a gold bangle; the other the face of an old English gold coin which evidently had been soldered to something.

With a little sinking sensation Poggioli eased them back into his pocket and stared ahead at the coolie village which they were approaching. He moistened his lips and thought what he would better do. The only notion that came into his head was to pack his trunk and take passage on the first steamer out of Trinidad, no matter to what port it was bound.

In his flurry of uneasiness the psychologist was tempted to drop the gold pieces then and there, but as the street car rattled into Peru he reflected that no other person in Trinidad knew that he had these things, except indeed the person who slipped them into his pocket, but that person was not likely to mention the matter. Then, too, it was such an odd occurrence, so piquing to his analytic instinct, that he decided he would go on with the inquiry.

Two minutes later Lowe rang down the motorman and the two companions got off in the Hindu settlement. By this time the street was full of coolies, greasy men and women gliding about with bundles on their heads or coiled down in the sunshine in pairs where they took turns in examining each other’s head for vermin. Lowe glanced about, oriented himself, then started walking briskly past the temple, when Poggioli stopped him and asked him where he was going.

“To report to old Hira Dass, according to my instructions from Jeffries,” said the Englishman.

“Suppose we stop in the temple a moment. We ought not to go to the old fellow without at least a working knowledge of the scene of the murder.”

The clerk slowed up uncertainly, but at that moment they glanced through the temple door and saw five coolies sitting inside. A policeman at the entrance was evidently guarding these men as prisoners. Lowe approached the guard, made his mission known, and a little later he and his guest were admitted into the temple.

The coolie prisoners were as repulsive as are all of their kind. Four were as thin as cadavers, the fifth one greasily fat. All five wore cheesecloth around their bodies, which left them as exposed as if they had worn nothing at all. One of the emaciated men held his mouth open all the time with an expression of suffering caused by a chronic lack of food. The five squatted on their rugs and looked at the white men with their beadlike eyes. The fat one said in a low tone to his companions:

“The sahib.”

This whispered ejaculation disquieted Poggioli somewhat, and he reflected again that it would have been discretion to withdraw from the murder of little Maila Ran as quietly as possible. Still he could explain his presence in the temple simply enough. And besides, the veiled face of the mystery seduced him. He stood studying the five beggars: the greasy one, the lean ones, the one with the suffering face.

“Boys,” he said to the group, for all coolies are boys, “did any of you hear any noises in this temple last night?”

“Much sleep, sahib, no noise. Police-y-man punch us ’wake this morning make sit still here.”

“What’s your name?” asked the American of the loquacious fat mendicant.

“Chuder Chand, sahib.”

“When did you go to sleep last night?”

“When I ate rice and tea, sahib.”

“Do you remember seeing Boodman Lal and his wife enter this building last night?”

Here their evidence became divided. The fat man remembered; two of the cadavers remembered only the wife, one only Boodman Lal, and one nothing at all.

Poggioli confined himself to the fat man.

“Did you see them go out?”

All five shook their heads.

“You were all asleep then?”

A general nodding.

“Did you have any impressions during your sleep, any disturbance, any half rousing, any noises?”

The horror-struck man said in a ghastly tone:

“I dream bad dream, sahib. When police-y-man punch me awake this morning I think my dream is come to me.”

“And me, sahib.”

“Me, sahib.”

“Me.”

“Did you all have bad dreams?”

A general nodding.

“What did you dream, Chuder Chand?” inquired the psychologist with a certain growth of interest.

“Dream me a big fat pig, but still I starved, sahib.”

“And you?” at a lean man.

“That I be mashed under a great bowl of rice, sahib, but hungry.”

“And you?” asked Poggioli of the horror-struck coolie.

The coolie wet his dry lips and whispered in his ghastly tones:

“Sahib, I dreamed I was Siva, and I held the world in my hands and bit it and it tasted bitter, like the rind of a mammy apple. And I said to Vishnu, ‘Let me be a dog in the streets, rather than taste the bitterness of this world,’ and then the policeman punched me, sahib, and asked if I had murdered Maila Ran.”

The psychologist stood staring at the sunken temples and withered chaps of the beggar, amazed at the enormous vision of godhood which had visited the old mendicant’s head. No doubt this grandiloquent dream was a sort of compensation for the starved and wretched existence the beggar led.

Here the bank clerk intervened to say that they would better go on around to old Hira Dass’s house according to instructions.

Poggioli turned and followed his friend out of the temple.

“Lowe, I think we can now entirely discard the theory that the beggars murdered the girl.”

“On what grounds?” asked the clerk in surprise. “They told you nothing but their dreams.”

“That is the reason. All five had wild, fantastic dreams. That suggests they were given some sort of opiate in their rice or tea last night. It is very improbable that five ignorant coolies would have wit enough to concoct such a piece of evidence as that.”

“That’s a fact,” admitted the Englishman, a trifle surprised, “but I don’t believe a Trinidad court would admit such evidence.”

“We are not looking for legal evidence; we are after some indication of the real criminal.”

By this time the two men were walking down a hot, malodorous alley which emptied into the square a little east of the temple. Lowe jerked a bell-pull in a high adobe wall, and Poggioli was surprised that this could be the home of a millionaire Hindu. Presently the shutter opened and Mr. Hira Dass himself stood in the opening. The old Hindu was still draped in yellow silk which revealed his emaciated form almost as completely as if he had been naked. But his face was alert with hooked nose and brilliant black eyes, and his wrinkles did not so much suggest great age as they did shrewdness and acumen.

The old coolie immediately led his callers into an open court surrounded by marble columns with a fountain in its center and white doves fluttering up to the frieze or floating back down again.

The Hindu began talking immediately of the murder and his anxiety to clear his unhappy nephew. The old man’s English was very good, no doubt owing to the business association of his latter years.

“A most mysterious murder,” he deplored, shaking his head, “and the life of my poor nephew will depend upon your exertions, gentlemen. What do you think of those beggars that were found in the temple with the bangles and coins?”

Mr. Hira Dass seated his guests on a white marble bench, and now walked nervously in front of them, like some fantastic old scarecrow draped in yellow silk.

“I am afraid my judgment of the beggars will disappoint you, Mr. Hira Dass,” answered Poggioli. “My theory is they are innocent of the crime.”

“Why do you say that?” queried Hira Dass, looking sharply at the American.

The psychologist explained his deduction from their dreams.

“You are not English, sir,” exclaimed the old man. “No Englishman would have thought of that.”

“No, I’m half Italian and half American.”

The old Indian nodded.

“Your Latin blood has subtlety, Mr. Poggioli, but you base your proof on the mechanical cause of the dreams, not upon the dreams themselves.”

The psychologist looked at the old man’s cunning face and gnomelike figure and smiled.

“I could hardly use the dreams themselves, although they were fantastic enough.”

“Oh, you did inquire into the actual dreams?”

“Yes, by the way of professional interest.”

“What is your profession? Aren’t you a detective?”

“No, I’m a psychologist.”

Old Hira Dass paused in his rickety walking up and down the marble pavement to stare at the American and then burst into the most wrinkled cachinnation Poggioli had ever seen.

“A psychologist, and inquired into a suspected criminal’s dreams out of mere curiosity!” the old gnome cackled again, then became serious. He held up a thin finger at the American. “I must not laugh. Your oversoul, your atman, is at least groping after knowledge as the blindworm gropes. But enough of that, Mr. Poggioli. Our problem is to find the criminal who committed this crime and restore my nephew Boodman Lal to liberty. You can imagine what a blow this is to me. I arranged this marriage for my nephew.”

The American looked at the old man with new ground for deduction.

“You did — arranged a marriage for a nephew who is in the thirties?”

“Yes, I wanted him to avoid the pitfalls into which I fell,” replied old Hira Dass seriously. “He was unmarried, and had already begun to add dollars to dollars. I did the same thing, Mr. Poggioli, and now look at me — an empty old man in a foreign land. What good is this marble court where men of my own kind cannot come and sit with me, and when I have no grandchildren to feed the doves? No, I have piled up dollars and pounds. I have eaten the world, Mr. Poggioli, and found it bitter; now here I am, an outcast.”

There was a passion in this outburst which moved the American, and at the same time the old Hindu’s phraseology was sharply reminiscent of the dreams told him by the beggars in the temple. The psychologist noted the point hurriedly and curiously in the flow of the conversation, and at the same moment some other part of his brain was inquiring tritely:

“Then why don’t you go back to India, Mr. Hira Dass?”

“With this worn-out body,” the old Hindu made a contemptuous gesture toward himself, “and with this face, wrinkled with pence! Why, Mr. Poggioli, my mind is half English. If I should return to Benares I would walk about thinking what the temples cost, what was the value of the stones set in the eyes of Krishna’s image. That is why we Hindus lose our caste if we travel abroad and settle in a foreign land, because we do indeed lose caste. We become neither Hindus nor English. Our minds are divided, so if I would ever be one with my own people again, Mr. Poggioli, I must leave this Western mind and body here in Trinidad.”

Old Hira Dass’s speech brought to the American that fleeting credulity in transmigration of the soul which an ardent believer always inspires. The old Hindu made the theory of palingenesis appear almost matter-of-fact. A man died here and reappeared as a babe in India. There was nothing so unbelievable in that. A man’s basic energy, which has loved, hated, aspired, and grieved here, must go somewhere, while matter itself was a mere dance of atoms. Which was the most permanent, Hira Dass’s passion or his marble court? Both were mere forms of force. The psychologist drew himself out of his reverie.

“That is very interesting, or I should say moving, Hira Dass. You have strange griefs. But we were discussing your nephew, Boodman Lal. I think I have a theory which may liberate him.”

“And what is that?”

“As I have explained to you, I believe the beggars in the temple were given a sleeping potion. I suspect the temple attendant doped the rice and later murdered your nephew’s wife.”

The millionaire became thoughtful.

“That is good Gooka. I employ him. He is a miserably poor man, Mr. Poggioli, so I cannot believe he committed this murder.”

“Pardon me, but I don’t follow your reasoning. If he is poor he would have a strong motive for the robbery.”

“That’s true, but a very poor man would never have dropped the ten pieces of gold into the pockets of the beggars to lay a false scent. The man who did this deed must have been a well-to-do person accustomed to using money to forward his purposes. Therefore, in searching for the criminal I would look for a moneyed man.”

“But, Mr. Hira Dass,” protested the psychologist, “that swings suspicion back to your nephew.”

“My nephew!” cried the old man, growing excited again. “What motive would my nephew have to slay his bride of a few hours!”

“But what motive,” retorted Poggioli with academic curtness, “would a well-to-do man have to murder a child? And what chance would he have to place an opiate in the rice?”

The old Hindu lifted a finger and came closer.

“I’ll tell you my suspicions,” he said in a lowered voice, “and you can work out the details.”

“Yes, what are they?” asked Poggioli, becoming attentive again. “I went down to the temple this morning to have the body of my poor murdered niece brought here to my villa for burial. I talked to the five beggars and they told me that there was a sixth sleeper in the temple last night.” The old coolie shook his finger, lifted his eyebrows, and assumed a very gnomish appearance indeed.

A certain trickle of dismay went through the American. He tried to keep from moistening his lips and perhaps he did, but all he could think to do was to lift his eyebrows and say:

“Was there, indeed?”

“Yes — and a white man!”

Lowe, the bank clerk, who had been sitting silent through all this, interrupted. “Surely not, Mr. Hira Dass, not a white man!”

“All five of the coolies and my man Gooka told me it was true,” reiterated the old man, “and I have always found Gooka a truthful man. And besides, such a man would fill the rôle of assailant exactly. He would be well-to-do, accustomed to using money to forward his purposes.”

The psychologist made a sort of mental lunge to refute this rapid array of evidence old Hira Dass was piling up against him.

“But, Mr. Hira Dass, decapitation is not an American mode of murder.”

“American!”

“I... I was speaking generally,” stammered the psychologist, “I mean a white man’s method of murder.”

“That is indicative in itself,” returned the Hindu promptly. “I meant to call your attention to that point. It shows the white man was a highly educated man, who had studied the mental habit of other peoples than his own, so he was enabled to give the crime an extraordinary resemblance to a Hindu crime. I would suggest, gentlemen, that you begin your search for an intellectual white man.”

“What motive could such a man have?” cried the American.

“Robbery, possibly, or if he were a very intellectual man indeed he might have murdered the poor child by way of experiment. I read not long ago in an American paper of two youths who committed such a crime.”

“A murder for experiment!” cried Lowe, aghast.

“Yes, to record the psychological reaction.”

Poggioli suddenly got to his feet.

“I can’t agree with such a theory as that, Mr. Hira Dass,” he said in a shaken voice.

“No, it’s too far-fetched,” declared the clerk at once.

“However, it is worth while investigating,” persisted the Hindu.

“Yes, yes,” agreed the American, evidently about to depart, “but I shall begin my investigations, gentlemen, with the man Gooka.”

“As you will,” agreed Hira Dass, “and in your investigations, gentlemen, hire any assistants you need, draw on me for any amount. I want my nephew exonerated, and above all things, I want the real criminal apprehended and brought to the gallows.”

Lowe nodded.

“We’ll do our best, sir,” he answered in his thorough-going English manner.

The old man followed his guests to the gate and bowed them out into the malodorous alleyway again.

As the two friends set off through the hot sunshine once more the bank clerk laughed.

“A white man in that temple! That sounds like pure fiction to me to shield Boodman Lal. You know these coolies hang together like thieves.”

He walked on a little way pondering, then added, “Jolly good thing we didn’t decide to sleep in the temple last night, isn’t it, Poggioli?”

A sickish feeling went over the American. For a moment he was tempted to tell his host frankly what he had done and ask his advice in the matter, but finally he said:

“In my opinion the actual criminal is Boodman Lal.”

Lowe glanced around sidewise at his guest and nodded faintly.

“Same here. I thought it ever since I first saw the account in the Inquirer. Somehow these coolies will chop their wives to pieces for no reason at all.”

“I know a very good reason in this instance,” retorted the American warmly, taking out his uneasiness in this manner. “It’s these damned child marriages! When a man marries some child he doesn’t care a tuppence for— What do you know about Boodman Lal anyway?”

“All there is to know. He was born here and has always been a figure here in Port of Spain because of his rich uncle.”

“Lived here all his life?”

“Except when he was in Oxford for six years.”

“Oh, he’s an Oxford man!”

“Yes.”

“There you are, there’s the trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“No doubt he fell in love with some English girl. But when his wealthy uncle, Hira Dass, chose a Hindu child for his wife, Boodman could not refuse the marriage. No man is going to quarrel with a million-pound legacy, but he chose this ghastly method of getting rid of the child.”

“I venture you are right,” declared the bank clerk. “I felt sure Boodman Lal had killed the girl.”

“Likely as not he was engaged to some English girl and was waiting for his uncle’s death to make him wealthy.”

“Quite possible, in fact probable.”

Here a cab came angling across the square toward the two men as they stood in front of the grotesque temple. The Negro driver waved his whip interrogatively. The clerk beckoned him in. The cab drew up at the curb. Lowe climbed in but Poggioli remained on the pavement.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“You know, Lowe,” said Poggioli seriously, “I don’t feel that I can conscientiously continue this investigation, trying to clear a person whom I have every reason to believe guilty.”

The bank clerk was disturbed.

“But, man, don’t leave me like this! At least come on to the police headquarters and explain your theory about the temple keeper, Gooka, and the rice. That seems to hang together pretty well. It is possible Boodman Lal didn’t do this thing after all. We owe it to him to do all we can.”

As Poggioli still hung back on the curb, Lowe asked:

“What do you want to do?”

“Well, I... er... thought I would go back to the cottage and pack my things.”

The bank clerk was amazed.

“Pack your things — your boat doesn’t sail until Friday!”

“Yes, I know, but there is a daily service to Curagao. It struck me to go—”

“Aw, come!” cried Lowe in hospitable astonishment, “you can’t run off like that, just when I’ve stirred up an interesting murder mystery for you to unravel. You ought to appreciate my efforts as a host more than that.”

“Well, I do,” hesitated Poggioli seriously. At that moment his excess of caution took one of those odd, instantaneous shifts that come so unaccountably to men, and he thought to himself, “Well, damn it, this is an interesting situation. It’s a shame to leave it, and nothing will happen to me.”

So he swung into the cab with decision and ordered briskly: “All right, to the police station, Sambo!”

“Sounds more like it,” declared the clerk, as the cab horses set out a brisk trot through the sunshine.

Mr. Lowe, the bank clerk, was not without a certain flair for making the most of a house guest, and when he reached the police station he introduced his companion to the chief of police as “Mr. Poggioli a professor in an American university and a research student in criminal psychology.”

The chief of police, a Mr. Vickers, was a short, thick man with a tropic-browned face and eyes habitually squinted against the sun. He seemed not greatly impressed with the titles Lowe gave his friend but merely remarked that if Mr. Poggioli was hunting crimes, Trinidad was a good place to find them.

The bank clerk proceeded with a certain importance in his manner.

“I have asked his counsel in the Boodman Lal murder case. He has developed a theory, Mr. Vickers, as to who is the actual murderer of Mrs. Boodman Lal.”

“So have I,” replied Vickers with a dry smile.

“Of course you think Boodman Lal did it,” said Lowe in a more commonplace manner.

Vickers did not answer this but continued looking at the two taller men in a listening attitude which caused Lowe to go on.

“Now in this matter, Mr. Vickers, I want to be perfectly frank with you. I’ll admit we are in this case in the employ of Mr. Hira Dass, and are making an effort to clear Boodman Lal. We felt confident you would use the well-known skill of the police department of Port of Spain to work out a theory to clear Boodman Lal just as readily as you would to convict him.”

“Our department usually devotes its time to conviction and not to clearing criminals.”

“Yes, I know that, but if our theory will point out the actual murderer—”

“What is your theory?” inquired Vickers without enthusiasm.

The bank clerk began explaining the dream of the five beggars and the probability that they had been given sleeping potions.

The short man smiled faintly.

“So Mr. Poggioli’s theory is based on the dreams of these men?”

Poggioli had a pedagogue’s brevity of temper when his theories were questioned.

“It would be a remarkable coincidence, Mr. Vickers, if five men had lurid dreams simultaneously without some physical cause. It suggests strongly that their tea or rice was doped.”

As Vickers continued looking at Poggioli the American continued with less acerbity:

“I should say that Gooka, the temple keeper, either doped the rice himself or he knows who did it.”

“Possibly he does.”

“My idea is that you send a man for the ricepot and teapot, have their contents analyzed, find out what soporific was used, then have your men search the sales records of the drug stores in the city to see who has lately bought such a drug.”

Mr. Vickers grunted a noncommittal uh-huh, and then began in the livelier tones of a man who meets a stranger socially:

“How do you like Trinidad, Mr. Poggioli?”

“Remarkably luxuriant country — oranges and grapefruit growing wild.”

“You’ve just arrived?”

“Yes.”

“In what university do you teach?”

“Ohio State.”

Mr. Vickers’s eyes took on a humorous twinkle.

“A chair of criminal psychology in an ordinary state university — is that the result of your American prohibition laws, Professor?”

Poggioli smiled at this thrust.

“Mr. Lowe misstated my work a little. I am not a professor, I am simply a docent. And I have not specialized on criminal psychology. I quiz on general psychology.”

“You are not teaching now?”

“No; this is my sabbatical year.”

Mr. Vickers glanced up and down the American.

“You look young to have taught in a university six years.”

There was something not altogether agreeable in this observation, but the officer rectified it a moment later by saying, “But you Americans start young — land of specialists. Now you, Mr. Poggioli — I suppose you are wrapped up heart and soul in your psychology?”

“I am,” agreed the American positively.

“Do anything in the world to advance yourself in the science?”

“I rather think so,” asserted Poggioli, with his enthusiasm mounting in his voice.

“Especially keen on original research work—”

Lowe interrupted, laughing.

“That’s what he is, Chief. Do you know what he asked me to do yesterday afternoon?”

“No, what?”

The American turned abruptly on his friend.

“Now, Lowe, don’t let’s burden Mr. Vickers with household anecdotes.”

“But I am really curious,” declared the police chief. “Just what did Professor Poggioli ask you to do yesterday afternoon, Mr. Lowe?”

The bank clerk looked from one to the other, hardly knowing whether to go on or not. Mr. Vickers was smiling; Poggioli was very serious as he prohibited anecdotes about himself. The bank clerk thought: “This is real modesty.” He said aloud: “It was just a little psychological experiment he wanted to do.”

“Did he do it?” smiled the chief.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t hear of it.”

“As unconventional as that!” cried Mr. Vickers, lifting sandy brows.

“It was really nothing,” said Lowe, looking at his guest’s rigid face and then at the police captain.

Suddenly Mr. Vickers dropped his quizzical attitude.

“I think I could guess your anecdote if I tried, Lowe. About a half hour ago I received a telephone message from my man stationed at the Hindu temple to keep a lookout for you and Mr. Poggioli.”

The American felt a tautening of his muscles at this frontal attack. He had suspected something of the sort from the policeman’s manner. The bank clerk stared at the officer in amazement.

“What was your bobby telephoning about us for?”

“Because one of the coolies under arrest told him that Mr. Poggioli slept in the temple last night.”

“My word, that’s not true!” cried the bank clerk. “That is exactly what he did not do. He suggested it to me but I said No. You remember, Poggioli—”

Mr. Lowe turned for corroboration, but the look on his friend’s face amazed him.

“You didn’t do it, did you Poggioli?” he gasped.

“You see he did,” said Vickers dryly.

“But, Poggioli — in God’s name—”

The American braced himself for an attempt to explain. He lifted his hand with a certain pedagogic mannerism.

“Gentlemen, I... I had a perfectly valid, an important reason for sleeping in the temple last night.”

“I told you,” nodded Vickers.

“In coolie town, in a coolie temple!” ejaculated Lowe.

“Gentlemen, I — can only ask your... your sympathetic attention to what I am about to say.”

“Go on,” said Vickers.

“You remember, Lowe, you and I were down there watching a wedding procession. Well, just as the music stopped and the line of coolies entered the building, suddenly it seemed to me as if — as if — they had—” Poggioli swallowed at nothing and then added the odd word, “vanished.”

Vickers looked at him.

“Naturally, they had gone into the building.”

“I don’t mean that. I’m afraid you won’t understand what I do mean — that the whole procession had ceased to exist, melted into nothingness.”

Even Mr. Vickers blinked. Then he drew out a memorandum book and stolidly made a note.

“Is that all?”

“No, then I began speculating on what had given me such a strange impression. You see that is really the idea on which the Hindus base their notion of heaven — oblivion, nothingness.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that before.”

“Well, our medieval Gothic architecture was a conception of our Western heaven; and I thought perhaps the Indian architecture had somehow caught the motif of the Indian religion; you know, suggested Nirvana. That was what amazed and intrigued me. That was why I wanted to sleep in the place. I wanted to see if I could further my shred of impression. Does this make any sense to you, Mr. Vickers?”

“I dare say it will, sir, to the criminal judge,” opined the police chief cheerfully.

The psychologist felt a sinking of heart.

Mr. Vickers proceeded in the same matter-of-fact tone: “But no matter why you went in, what you did afterward is what counts. Here in Trinidad nobody is allowed to go around chopping off heads to see how it feels.”

Poggioli looked at the officer with a ghastly sensation in his midriff.

“You don’t think I did such a horrible thing as an experiment?”

Mr. Vickers drew out the makings of a cigarette.

“You Americans, especially you intellectual Americans, do some pretty stiff things, Mr. Poggioli. I was reading about two young intellectuals—”

“Good Lord!” quivered the psychologist with this particular reference beginning to grate on his nerves.

“These fellows I read about also tried to turn an honest penny by their murder — I don’t suppose you happened to notice yesterday that the little girl, Maila Ran, was almost covered over with gold bangles and coins?”

“Of course I noticed it!” cried the psychologist, growing white, “but I had nothing whatever to do with the child. Your insinuations are brutal and repulsive. I did sleep in the temple—”

“By the way,” interrupted Vickers suddenly, “you say you slept on a rug just as the coolies did?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You didn’t wake up either?”

“No.”

“Then did the murderer of the child happen to put a coin and a bangle in your pockets, just as he did the other sleepers in the temple?”

“That’s exactly what he did!” cried Poggioli, with the first ray of hope breaking upon him. “When I found them in my pocket on the tram this morning I came pretty near throwing them away, but fortunately I didn’t. Here they are.”

And gladly enough now he drew the trinkets out and showed them to the chief of police.

Mr. Vickers looked at the gold pieces, then at the psychologist.

“You don’t happen to have any more, do you?”

The American said No, but it was with a certain thrill of anxiety that he began turning out his other pockets. If the mysterious criminal had placed more than two gold pieces in his pockets he would be in a very difficult position. However, the remainder of his belongings were quite legitimate.

“Well, that’s something,” admitted Vickers slowly. “Of course, you might have expected just such a questioning as this and provided yourself with these two pieces of gold, but I doubt it. Somehow, I don’t believe you are a bright enough man to think of such a thing.” He paused, pondering, and finally said, “I suppose you have no objection to my sending a man to search your baggage in Mr. Lowe’s cottage?”

“Instead of objecting, I invite it, I request it.”

Mr. Vickers nodded agreeably.

“Who can I telegraph to in America to learn something about your standing as a university man?”

“Dean Ingram, Ohio State, Columbus, Ohio, U.S.A.”

Vickers made this note, then turned to Lowe.

“I suppose you’ve known Mr. Poggioli for a long time, Mr. Lowe?”

“Why n-no, I haven’t,” admitted the clerk.

“Where did you meet him?”

“Sailing from Barbuda to Antigua. On the Trevemore.”

“Did he seem to have respectable American friends aboard?”

Lowe hesitated and flushed faintly.

“I — can hardly say.”

“Why?”

“If I tell you Mr. Poggioli’s mode of travel I am afraid you would hold it to his disadvantage.”

“How did he travel?” queried the officer in surprise.

“The fact is he traveled as a deck passenger.”

“You mean he had no cabin, shipped along on deck with the Negroes!”

“I did it myself!” cried Lowe, growing ruddy. “We couldn’t get a cabin — they were all occupied.”

The American reflected rapidly, and realized that Vickers could easily find out the real state of things from the ship’s agents up the islands.

“Chief,” said the psychologist with a tongue that felt thick, “I boarded the Trevemore at St. Kitts. There were cabins available. I chose deck passage deliberately. I wanted to study the natives.”

“Then you are broke, just as I thought,” ejaculated Mr. Vickers, “and I’ll bet pounds to pence we’ll find the jewelry around your place somewhere.”

The chief hailed a passing cab, called a plain-clothes man, put the three in the vehicle and started them briskly back up Prince Edward’s Street, toward Tragarette Road, and thence to Lowe’s cottage beyond the Indian village and its ill-starred temple.

The three men and the Negro driver trotted back up Tragarette, each lost in his own thoughts. The plain-clothes man rode on the front seat with the cabman, but occasionally he glanced back to look at his prisoner. Lowe evidently was reflecting how this contretemps would affect his social and business standing in the city. The Negro also kept peering back under the hood of his cab, and finally he ejaculated:

“Killum jess to see ’em die. I declah, dese ’Mericans—” and he shook his kinky head.

A hot resentment rose up in the psychologist at this continued recurrence of that detestable crime. He realized with deep resentment that the crimes of particular Americans were held tentatively against all American citizens, while their great national charities and humanities were forgotten with the breath that told them. In the midst of these angry thoughts the cab drew up before the clerk’s garden gate.

All got out. Lowe let them in with a key and then the three walked in a kind of grave haste across the lawn. The door was opened by Ram Jon, who took their hats and then followed them into the room Lowe had set apart for his guest.

This room, like all Trinidad chambers, was furnished in the sparest and coolest manner possible; a table, three chairs, a bed with sheets, and Poggioli’s trunk. It was so open to inspection nothing could have been concealed in it. The plain-clothes man opened the table drawer.

“Would you mind opening your trunk, Mr. Poggioli?”

The American got out his keys, knelt and undid the hasp of his wardrobe trunk, then swung the two halves apart. One side held containers, the other suits. Poggioli opened the drawers casually; collar and handkerchief box at the top, hat box, shirt box. As he did this came a faint clinking sound. The detective stepped forward and lifted out the shirts. Beneath them lay a mass of coins and bangles flung into the tray helter-skelter.

The American stared with an open mouth, unable to say a word.

The plain-clothes man snapped with a certain indignant admiration in his voice: “Your nerve almost got you by!”

The thing seemed unreal to the American. He had the same uncanny feeling that he had experienced when the procession entered the temple. Materiality seemed to have slipped a cog. A wild thought came to him that somehow the Hindus had dematerialized the gold and caused it to reappear in his trunk. Then there came a terrifying fancy that he had committed the crime in his sleep. This last clung to his mind. After all, he had murdered the little girl bride, Maila Ran!

The plain-clothes man spoke to Lowe:

“Have your man bring me a sack to take this stuff back to headquarters.”

Ram Jon slithered from the room and presently returned with a sack. The inspector took his handkerchief, lifted the pieces out with it, one by one, and placed them in the sack.

“Lowe,” said Poggioli pitifully, “you don’t believe I did this, do you?”

The bank clerk wiped his face with his handkerchief.

“In your trunk, Poggioli—”

“If I did it I was sleepwalking!” cried the unhappy man. “My God, to think it is possible — but right here in my own trunk—” he stood staring at the bag, at the shirt box.

The plain-clothes man said dryly: “We might as well start back, I suppose. This is all.”

Lowe suddenly cast in his lot with his guest.

“I’ll go back with you, Poggioli. I’ll see you through this pinch. Somehow I can’t, I won’t believe you did it!”

“Thanks! Thanks!”

The bank clerk masked his emotion under a certain grim facetiousness.

“You know, Poggioli, you set out to clear Boodman Lal — it looks as if you’ve done it.”

“No, he didn’t,” denied the plain-clothes man. “Boodman Lal was out of jail at least an hour before you fellows drove up a while ago.”

“Out — had you turned him out?”

“Yes.”

“How was that?”

“Because he didn’t go to the temple at all last night with his wife. He went down to Queen’s Park Hotel and played billiards till one o’clock. He called up some friends and proved that easily enough.”

Lowe stared at his friend, aghast.

“My word, Poggioli, that leaves nobody but — you.” The psychologist lost all semblance of resistance.

“I don’t know anything about it. If I did it I was asleep. That’s all I can say. The coolies—” He had a dim notion of accusing them again, but he recalled that he had proved to himself clearly and logically that they were innocent. “I don’t know anything about it,” he repeated helplessly.

Half an hour later the three men were at police headquarters once more, and the plain-clothes man and the turnkey, a humble, gray sort of man, took the American back to a cell. The turnkey unlocked one in a long row of cells and swung it open for Poggioli.

The bank clerk gave him what encouragement he could.

“Don’t be too downhearted. I’ll do everything I can. Somehow I believe you are innocent. I’ll hire your lawyers, cable your friends—”

Poggioli was repeating a stunned “Thanks! Thanks!” as the cell door shut between them. The bolt clashed home and was locked. And the men were tramping down the iron corridor. Poggioli was alone.

There was a chair and a bunk in the cell. The psychologist looked at these with an irrational feeling that he would not stay in the prison long enough to warrant his sitting down. Presently he did sit down on the bunk.

He sat perfectly still and tried to assemble his thoughts against the mountain of adverse evidence which suddenly had been piled against him. His sleep in the temple, the murder, the coins in his shirt box-after all he must have committed the crime in his sleep.

As he sat with his head in his hands pondering this theory, it grew more and more incredible. To commit the murder in his sleep, to put the coins in the pockets of the beggars in a clever effort to divert suspicion, to bring the gold to Lowe’s cottage, and then to go back and lie down on the mat, all while he was asleep — that was impossible. He could not believe any human being could perform so fantastic, so complicated a feat.

On the other hand, no other criminal would place the whole booty in Poggioli’s trunk and so lose it. That too was irrational. He was forced back to his dream theory.

When he accepted this hypothesis he wondered just what he had dreamed. If he had really murdered the girl in a nightmare, then the murder was stamped somewhere in his subconscious, divided from his day memories by the nebulous associations of sleep. He wondered if he could reproduce them.

To recall a lost dream is perhaps one of the nicest tasks that ever a human brain was driven to. Poggioli, being a psychologist, had had a certain amount of experience with such attempts. Now he lay down on his bunk and began the effort in a mechanical way.

He recalled as vividly as possible his covert exit from Lowe’s cottage, his walk down Tragarette Road between perfumed gardens, the lights of Peru, and finally his entrance into the temple. He imagined again the temple attendant, Gooka, looking curiously at him, but giving him tea and rice and pointing out his rug. Poggioli remembered that he lay down on the rug on his back with his hands under his head exactly as he was now lying on his cell bunk. For a while he had stared at the illuminated image of Krishna, then at the dark spring of the dome over his head.

And as he lay there, gazing thus, his thoughts had begun to waver, to lose beat with his senses, to make misinterpretations. He had thought that the Krishna moved slightly, then settled back and became a statue again — here some tenuous connection in his thoughts snapped, and he lost his whole picture in the hard bars of his cell again.

Poggioli lay relaxed a while, then began once more. He reached the point where the Krishna moved, seemed about to speak, and then — there he was back in his cell.

It was nerve-racking, tantalizing, this fishing for the gossamers of a dream which continually broke; this pursuing the grotesqueries of a nightmare and trying to connect it with his solid everyday life of thought and action. What had he dreamed?

Minutes dragged out as Poggioli pursued the vanished visions of his head. Yes, it had seemed to him that the image of the Buddha moved, that it had even risen from its attitude of meditation, and suddenly, with a little thrill, Poggioli remembered that the dome of the Hindu temple was opened and this left him staring upward into a vast abyss. It seemed to the psychologist that he stared upward, and the Krishna stared upward, both gazing into an unending space, and presently he realized that he and the great upward-staring Krishna were one; that they had always been one; and that their oneness filled all space with enormous, with infinite power. But this oneness which was Poggioli was alone in an endless, featureless space. No other thing existed, because nothing had ever been created; there was only a creator. All the creatures and matter which had ever been or ever would be were wrapped up in him, Poggioli, or Buddha. And then Poggioli saw that space and time had ceased to be, for space and time are the offspring of division. And at last Krishna or Poggioli was losing all entity or being in this tranced immobility.

And Poggioli began struggling desperately against nothingness. He writhed at his deadened muscles, he willed in torture to retain some vestige of being, and at last after what seemed millenniums of effort he formed the thought:

“I would rather lose my oneness with Krishna and become the vilest and poorest of creatures — to mate, fight, love, lust, kill, and be killed than to be lost in this terrible trance of the universal!”

And when he had formed this tortured thought Poggioli remembered that he had awakened and it was five o’clock in the morning. He had arisen with a throbbing headache and had gone home.

That was his dream.

The American arose from his bunk filled with the deepest satisfaction from his accomplishment. Then he recalled with surprise that all five of the coolies had much the same dream; grandiloquence and power accompanied by great unhappiness.

“That was an odd thing,” thought the psychologist, “six men dreaming the same dream in different terms. There must have been some physical cause for such a phenomenon.”

Then he remembered that he had heard the same story from another source. Old Hira Dass in his marble court had expressed the same sentiment, complaining of the emptiness of his riches and power. However — and this was crucial — Hira Dass’s grief was not a mere passing nightmare, it was his settled condition.

With this a queer idea popped into Poggioli’s mind. Could not these six dreams have been a transference of an idea? While he and the coolies lay sleeping with passive minds, suppose old Hira Dass had entered the temple with his great unhappiness in his mind, and suppose he had committed some terrible deed which wrought his emotions to a monsoon of passion. Would not his horrid thoughts have registered themselves in different forms on the minds of the sleeping men!

Here Poggioli’s ideas danced about like the molecules of a crystal in solution, each one rushing of its own accord to take its appointed place in a complicated crystalline design. And so a complete understanding of the murder of little Maila Ran rushed in upon him.

Poggioli leaped to his feet and halloed his triumph.

“Here, Vickers! Lowe! Turnkey! I have it! I’ve solved it! Turn me out! I know who killed the girl!”

After he had shouted for several minutes Poggioli saw the form of a man coming up the dark aisle with a lamp. He was surprised at the lamp but passed over it.

“Turnkey!” he cried, “I know who murdered the child — old Hira Dass! Now listen—” He was about to relate his dream, but realized that would avail nothing in an English court, so he leaped to the physical end of the crime, matter with which the English juggle so expertly. His thoughts danced into shape.

“Listen, turnkey, go tell Vickers to take that gold and develop all the finger prints on it — he’ll find Hira Dass’s prints! Also, tell him to follow out that opiate clue I gave him — he’ll find Hira Dass’s servant bought the opiate. Also, Hira Dass sent a man to put the gold in my trunk. See if you can’t find brass or steel filings in my room where the scoundrel sat and filed a new key. Also, give Ram Jon the third degree; he knows who brought the gold.”

The one with the lamp made a gesture.

“They’ve done all that, sir, long ago.”

“They did!”

“Certainly, sir, and old Hira Dass confessed everything, though why a rich old man like him should have murdered a pretty child is more than I can, see. These Hindus are unaccountable, sir, even the millionaires.”

Poggioli passed over so simple a query.

“But why did the old devil pick on me for a scapegoat?” he cried, puzzled.

“Oh, he explained that to the police, sir. He said he picked on a white man so the police would make a thorough investigation and be sure to catch him. In fact, he said, sir, that he had willed that you should come and sleep in the temple that night.”

Poggioli stared with a little prickling sensation at this touch of the occult world.

“What I can’t see, sir,” went on the man with the lamp, “was why the old coolie wanted to be caught and hanged — why didn’t he commit suicide?”

“Because then his soul would have returned in the form of some beast. He wanted to be slain. He expects to be reborn instantly in Benares with little Maila Ran. He hopes to be a great man with wife and children.”

“Nutty idea!” cried the fellow.

But the psychologist sat staring at the lamp with a queer feeling that possibly such a fantastic idea might be true after all. For what goes with this passionate, uneasy force in man when he dies? May not the dead struggle to reanimate themselves as he had done in his dream? Perhaps the numberless dead still will to live and be divided; and perhaps living things are a result of the struggles of the dead, and not the dead of the living.

His thoughts suddenly shifted back to the present.

“Turnkey,” he snapped with academic sharpness, “why didn’t you come and tell me of old Hira Dass’s confession the moment it occurred? What did you mean, keeping me locked up here when you knew I was an innocent man?”

“Because I couldn’t,” said the form with the lamp sorrowfully, “Old Hira Dass didn’t confess until a month and ten days after you were hanged, sir.”

And the lamp went out.

EDITOR’S AFTERNOTE: You now perceive HENRY POGGIOLI’S other distinction. To put in the form of a Clerihew:

Henry Poggioli

Perished wholly.

There is much to be said

For solving murders when dead.

This death (Mr Stribling elsewere dates it exactly as January 20, 1929) makes the docent all but unique among detectives. We may be quite certain that UNCLE ABNER is dead by now, and we may feel sure that THE THINKING MACHINE is either dead or senile; but the fact of a detective’s death has almost never been recorded. SHERLOCK HOLMES, LORD PETER WIMSEY and HILDEGARDE WITHERS were each reported dead, but were resurrected. Freemans INSPECTOR BADGER was a subsidiary character, and Carr’s GAUDEN CROSS appeared in only one book. (Howard Haycraft’s statement that Ben Ray Redman’s DR HARRISON TREVOR is a detective-who-died is not supported by the one brilliant story in which DR TREVOR appears.) POGGIOLI’S definite death is, to my knowledge, the only one recorded among short-story detectives; and in the field of novels I can find a parallel only in the tragic demise of DRURY LANE.

The Stickpin

by Antonio Helú

Translated by Anthony Boucher

Meet the first Latin American detective to appear in English: MÁXIMO ROLDÁN, amateur of crime both in its detection and in its commission, with the audacity of a LUPIN and the logic of a DUPIN. He is also, to my knowledge, the first and only (with the exception of his friend and collaborator CARLOS MIRANDA) Mexican detective even in Spanish; and in all Latin America I know of only two others: DON ISIDRO PARODI and BERNAL CHESTE, both of whom function adroitly in Buenos Aires. (Additions to the list will be welcomed by the editor.) But ROLDÁN would be unique anywhere and in any language; who else could, with such casual casuistry, solve a murder as a mere step toward committing a theft?

* * *

It was, of course, those two details that gave Máximo Roldán the key to the whole affair: the garter that belonged to the nephew and the stickpin that didn’t belong to anyone. But, as he so often asked himself afterwards, if it hadn’t been for those 10,000 pesos in jewels, would he ever have paid any attention to either garter or stickpin?

If the reader has ever passed along the Calle de los Millones, the Street of Millions in that district of Mexico City known as the Colonia Roma, he may have observed that it is composed of no less than twenty houses all nearly identical. He may have seen the gardens that surround each of them on all four sides. And he may have noticed that only one of these homes violates the uniformity of gardens and façades — one house which has, instead of the railings which surround the others, a very high and thick wall which hides it almost completely from the street. He may have been astonished, not so much that this house is protected by such a wall as that the others, all belonging to millionaires, are surrounded only by easily climbed railings. And most of all he may have been startled to learn that the house with the wall is perhaps the only one on the Calle de los Millones which is not inhabited by a millionaire.

But it is unlikely that the reader knows the street at all. It is reserved exclusively to millionaires (always excepting the house with the wall), and millionaires avoid social intercourse with anyone below their financial level. And the reader, so far as I know, has something less than a million on hand at the moment.

Thus when the crime in the Calle de los Millones became the talk of the town, there were few men, if any, who had a clear idea of the locale or of the circumstances in which it was committed. You had to be content with the details which the afternoon papers brought out on the very day of the crime. And these were hardly detailed enough.

This is roughly what the papers said:

In the house with the wall (a wall five meters high, crowned with steel spikes another meter long, spaced ten centimeters apart) the man of the house had been found dead. His household consisted of his sister, his daughter Isabel, his nephew, a housekeeper, and his chauffeur Alfredo. The nephew and the chauffeur were wont to spend the night away from home occasionally; this had been one of those nights. The man of the house was found in his bed, his heart pierced by a knife. There were no signs of a struggle in the room. The knife belonged to the victim, who habitually placed it on his night table before retiring. Besides the knife, the following articles were found in the room: A pair of cufflinks, belonging to the nephew; a pair of gloves and a garter, also belonging to the nephew; a belt and a necktie, belonging to the chauffeur; and a stick pin which did not belong to the nephew, the chauffeur, nor the victim. Finally the old man kept 10,000 pesos in jewels in his night table; they were still there, proving that robbery had not been the motive of the crime.

That was all.

But among all these facts there were two items which aroused Máximo Roldán’s attention as soon as he had read the details. Two items which caused him to seize the telephone, call the victim’s home, ask for the Chief of the Security Commission, and say (at the risk of being taken for a madman):

“Hello?... The Chief of the Security Commission?... If you please, sir, do they have a dog in the house?... I said, is there a dog in the house where the murder took place?... Yes, a dog... No, this is not a gag; I’m completely serious. Is there a dog in the house?... Hello?... Hello?”

The Chief had hung up. Máximo Roldán called back.

“Chief of the Commission?... Please listen, sir; if I am to discover the murderer, you must tell me if there is a dog in the house... No, you don’t know me... Indeed you don’t... Please! It all depends on this. Because there must NOT be a dog, don’t you see?... I tell you no, you don’t know me... Yes, of course I can tell you who the murderer is — providing there is no dog... I’ll come over in person and tell you... Right away... Now: is there a dog?... No? Bravo! I’ll be right over to tell you the murderer’s name.”

And Máximo Roldán left at once for the scene of the crime.

In one of the rooms in the upper story of the murder house, the Chief of the Security Commission was listening to Máximo Roldán:

“Of course, Chief, you will have noticed the curious thing about your discovery: a garter has no logical reason for appearing as an incriminating clue on the scene of a crime. Generally speaking, incriminating clues are left as the result of a struggle, of forgetfulness, or of the nervous excitement of the moment. You might forget your gloves, your cufflinks might come loose or even your necktie; but there is no reason whatsoever that you should lose a garter. There’s only one explanation: it was left here intentionally. And if the garter is a deliberate plant, so probably are the other clues. You follow, Chief?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“But the garter is the only one of the clues that is definitely and conclusively masculine. The gloves, the cufflinks, the necktie, the stickpin — a woman might wear any or all of these in certain ensembles; but she could never wear a man’s garter. These clues were planted here to distract suspicion from the real murderer; the others seemed insufficient proof of sex, so the murderer added the indisputably male garter to prove that the criminal must have been a man.”

“But there are only two men in the household; it would have to incriminate one of them.”

“I’m coming to that. Now we have the murderer trying to avert suspicion, planting various objects chosen at random, belonging to the nephew or the chauffeur or, like the stickpin, to neither of them, but always masculine objects — never feminine. At first glance these objects seem to incriminate their owners. But their mute accusation is so weak and confused that the police would never make an arrest on the strength of them. The murderer, then, was not trying to frame either individual. He was trying to frame a sex. A man in the same position would have scattered earrings and bobby pins. You understand?”

“Yes...”

“It leaps to the eye, then, that the murderer is a woman.”

“A woman?”

“A woman, Chief.”

“Mm.” The Chief of the Commission meditated for a moment. Then he said, “A woman who had ready access to the rooms of the nephew and the chauffeur.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or of course the housekeeper. She does the daily cleaning in their rooms.”

“Possibly.”

“ ‘Possibly’! Can’t you be sure?”

“If you’ll let me examine the room, by myself with no one to bother me, and let me question the three women who live in the house — then I’ll tell you which is the murderess.”

The Chief stared at Máximo Roldán, dubiously weighing the irregularity of his intervention against the convincing clarity of his logic thus far. He began to pace meditatively around the room. At last he made his decision.

“You may do as you please.”

“Thanks, Chief. I’ll be right back.”

Máximo Roldán opened the door and left. “Senora!” he called to the housekeeper who was passing in the hall. “Where is the young lady? Quick! Take me to her. Matter of life and death!”

The housekeeper stood gaping at him. She whispered in a tremulous voice, “Come along. This way.” She traversed the length of the hall and stopped before the last door. “In here.”

“Thanks a lot. You may go now.” The old woman did not budge. “Don’t be afraid, señora. It’s for her best interests. I swear it.”

The housekeeper withdrew somewhat distrustfully. When she had vanished, Máximo Roldán knocked on the door and without waiting for an answer turned the knob and entered. Isabel stood in the center of the room, her eyes fixed on the opening door.

“What do you want?” she asked. Her voice shook a little.

Máximo Roldán took a card from his wallet, proffered it to the girl, and said, “Here is my address. If you trust me, go to my house and show this card. They’ll let you in. Lie low until I get there.”

The girl turned pale. She stared at Máximo Roldán, trying to penetrate to the depths of his character.

“Run along. Flee, I believe, is the proper word in this situation. Here’s a note for a hundred pesos. You have your choice: my card or the banknote. Either way you can make a safe getaway. But flee you must, and at once.”

Isabel made no answer. She kept her eyes fixed on those of Máximo Roldán. His gaze did not waver. She extended her hand and took the card.

“Thank you. I trust you.”

The young man bowed and brushed Isabel’s hand with his lips. He murmured, “Why? Because you did it?”

The girl came slowly toward him, took both his hands in hers, and closed them over a bulky object.

“A notebook. Written by me. Read it. Goodbye.”

Máximo Roldán left the room on the run and entered the bedroom where the murder had taken place. There was no one there. He went to the night table, opened the drawer, and took out the jewels. He wrapped them in a handkerchief and tied it up by its four corners. He thrust the small bundle into the rear pocket of his trousers, left the bedroom, and returned to the room where he had talked to the Chief of the Security Commission.

“Well?” the Chief demanded as soon as Máximo Roldán appeared. “Did you manage to learn anything?”

“I think so,” Máximo Roldán answered. He stood by the window, from which he could see the street door in the wall. “I think I can tell you who the murderer is.”

“All right,” the other said impatiently. “Let’s have it.”

Máximo Roldán kept his eyes on the garden. “You will recall, Chief, that in addition to the clues which belonged to the nephew and the chauffeur, there was one — the stickpin — which belonged to neither. You remember?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” Máximo Roldán went on. His fingers drummed nervously against the windowpane. “The stickpin did not belong to the victim either.”

“So...?”

“So, since it did not belong to any of the three men in the household, the stickpin—”

“—must have come from outside,” the other interrupted.

A woman’s figure scurried across the garden, opened the street door, and disappeared. Máximo Roldán gave a little sigh and turned to the Chief of the Security Commission. “Exactly; it must have come from outside.”

“Then it was an outside job, and the murderer is a man after all.”

“Not at all. We established that it is a woman; I don’t need to go over that. There are three women here: the victim’s sister, his daughter Isabel, and the housekeeper. On the night of the murder all three of them had ready access to the rooms of the two men, since all three knew that the nephew and the chauffeur would be out all night. One of them is guilty. That one had in her possession a stickpin — an article of jewelry generally affected by young men who dandify themselves for one purpose: to please the girls.”

“Caramba! Then—”

“Yes, Chief. Neither the dead man’s sister nor the housekeeper is young enough to be in touch with such a youth, who might, say, give a girl such a stickpin as a memento or let her take it in a playful moment. There is only one woman in this house who fulfills the conditions: the youngest.”

“The daughter Isabel?”

“Excellent, Chief. The daughter Isabel, exactly.”

An impressive silence followed this announcement. The Chief had no comment. He seemed to balance the enormity of the unknown’s accusation against the inevitability of his reasoning. At last he opened the door, cast a glance along the empty hall, took a whistle from his pocket, and blew three blasts. Then he closed the door and returned to Máximo Roldán.

“There’s something I still don’t understand. Will you tell me why you asked me on the telephone if there was a dog in the house?”

“It’s very simple. The existence of a dog would have torn down all my structure of logic. Who could be sure that a playful puppy might not have dragged to the scene of the crime the garter, the necktie, the gloves, and even a stranger’s stickpin? This may seem a childish hypothesis; but it had to be disproved. Once it could be struck out, my deductions were established as certain.”

The door opened and a man in uniform came in. “You want something, Chief?” he asked.

“Yes. Call together all the women in the house.”

“Very well.”

“Put a man on the street door with orders to stop any woman who tries to leave.”

“Very well.”

“That’s all.”

“Very well, Chief.” The policeman left.

The Chief of the Security Commission walked up to Máximo Roldán. He contemplated him for a moment. Then he put his hands on Máximo Roldán’s shoulders and asked, “You still insist on not giving me your name?”

“No use, Chief. It won’t do you any good — at the moment.”

“And later?”

“Later...? You’ll know some day.”

“It’s up to you. But I should like to know now.”

They were silent a moment. Suddenly Máximo Roldán said, “Doesn’t it strike you as strange, Chief, that the daughter Isabel should be the murderer? Have you any idea what can have been the motive for... parricide?”

The Chief thought a moment. “You’re right,” he said, with a certain astonishment. “It’s terrible!” Then after another pause for thought, “It’s impossible!”

Máximo Roldán smiled. “I thought my reasoning seemed logical to you.”

“Yes, but...”

“But now you’re beginning to have your doubts; is that it?”

“All right,” the Chief of the Security Commission demanded brusquely. “Can you explain the motive?”

“If you’ll allow me, I think I can.”

“I’m listening,” said the other.

Máximo Roldán took from his pocket the notebook which the girl had given him. “Always, at all times, from every source — in the newspaper articles, in the statement of the housekeeper, in the sister’s statement — you have heard that girl called the daughter Isabel, until finally you’ve grown so used to it that you call her that yourself; never once has she been mentioned as the daughter of the murdered man or simply his daughter. Everyone, including the newspapers, influenced by the manner in which the witnesses made their statements, has referred to the household as the sister, the nephew, and added: the daughter Isabel, the Chauffeur Alfredo. This omission of names in the first group, dealing with indisputable relatives — remember this is all from the point of view of those who, like the housekeeper, knew the dead man and his relationships intimately — this omission of names in the first group indicates the necessity, in the second group, of adding their names to the title of the position which they held in the household: Alfredo held the position of chauffeur, Isabel held the position of daughter. The housekeeper, referring to each of them, says, ‘This lady is the dead man’s sister, this gentleman is his nephew,’ just like that, without having to add a name; but she comes to the others and says, ‘This man is the chauffeur Alfredo, this young lady is the daughter Isabel.’ ”

The Chief of the Security Commission listened attentively. He neither moved nor breathed. He drank in the words that flowed from the lips of Máximo Roldán.

“The dead man himself calls our attention to it. Take a careful look at the account book which you found in his room and which you showed me when I arrived here. There he writes, to quote from memory, ‘Daily allowance to my sister...’, ‘Monthly allowance to my nepbew...’, ‘Expenses of my daughter Isabel.’ And observe that he did not do so to distinguish between one daughter and another, because we know of no daughter other than the girl who passed as such, Isabel. You follow me, Chief?”

“Yes. But I still don’t see—”

“—the motive?”

“Yes. I should think, on the contrary, that Isabel would be deeply grateful to the dead man. Didn’t he take her in and educate her and love her as though she were his own daughter?”

“But that was not the case. Isabel was not taken in by the old man, nor did she have any cause for gratitude. The surface picture was simply contrived to conceal the true facts.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Here the true drama begins, Chief. Some ten or twelve years ago a certain Procurator of Justice issued an edict authorizing crimes passionels as ‘the legitimate defense of honor.’ In accordance with this edict, a man could kill his wife and her lover with impunity. He was not punished, he was not even tried. Rather he was all but urged to commit the crime. And murders, in the name of ‘the legitimate defense of honor,’ increased. You must remember.”

“Perfectly. But why should you? Surely you were only a little boy then.”

“I was indeed. But of late I’ve been looking through the newspapers of those days for reports of famous crimes. And around that time there occurred one of these crimes passionels, endorsed by the edict of the honorable Procurator. It was on this street, in this house. Instead of the large wall there was then a railing around the garden. The master of the house came home one night unexpectedly and found his wife in the arms of another man, under one of those orange trees in the garden. He did not lose his equanimity, he did not get excited. With complete control of his nerves, with an astonishing sangfroid, he took his revolver from his pocket and fired. The first to fall was his wife. The lover tried to climb the railing and flee, but a second shot brought him down. Later the master of the house had the railing torn down and this wall erected to protect him from the curiosity-seekers who gathered around the place to make their comments on the site where the lovers fell.

“That’s as much of the story as you can learn from the newspapers. But it seems that the husband managed to find out that the little girl, whom he had always considered his daughter, was not his. Partly to avoid even more scandal than he was already enduring, partly to continue his revenge, he kept this fact secret from the public. And thus it was that he had living at his side the daughter Isabel, whom he humiliated and tortured, little by little slaking his thirst for revenge.”

“Anyone would say you’d seen it all happen,” the Chief of Security observed.

“The girl for her part slowly became aware that that man was not her father. She began to hate him. Even when she was a child she felt that she was unjustly treated. And once she knew that she was not obliged to feel for him the natural affection which a child owes its father, she was filled with such a fierce joy that she could find only one means of expressing her emotion without danger: she wrote over and over again in her little notebook:

My daddy isn’t my daddy

as when children discover a particular way of jumping that delights them and go on jumping until they’re exhausted.”

The Chief of the Commission of Security fixed his gaze on the little notebook which Máximo Roldán had taken out of his pocket when he began to talk.

Máximo Roldán nodded. “This is the notebook, Chief. You may observe the development that was going on in the girl as the years went by. That first phrase was followed by another:

I don’t love him because he’s not my daddy

and then others that indicate progressively the state of her spirit:

He is not my father

That man is not my father

Not my father

and later on these others, still more terrible, marking a new discovery:

He killed my father and mother

I must hate him

until we reach the last, which decided the old man’s fate:

I must kill him

All these phrases constantly reiterated, taking possession of the girl, flowing through her very being, ever feeding her hatred and intensifying her decision to kill the man who had murdered her parents and was mistreating her— And then came the denouement.”

“Where did you find this notebook?” the Chief asked.

“In the girl’s room, when I went to question her.”

“You managed to take it without her noticing?”

“She wasn’t there.”

“What?” the Chief of the Security Commission exclaimed.

“She wasn’t there,” Máximo Roldán repeated.

The Chief of the Security Commission leaped for the door. Máximo Roldán held him back for a moment.

“Just a minute, Chief. I meant to tell you something else: the jewels have disappeared.”

“What!”

“Yes. They aren’t in the night table any more.”

This time the Chief of the Commission waited no longer. He opened the door and started running down the hall.

Máximo Roldán left in his turn. Tranquilly he descended the stairs, reached the garden, strolled across it, and stopped before the policeman who was stationed at the street door.

“The Chief says you’re not to leave this spot for a single moment.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Under penalty of arrest, you’re not to let any woman leave, for any reason.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And if you need it, call for help. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. Oh — as soon as you see the Chief, tell him not to worry.”

“Not to worry, sir?”

“Everything’s all right; I have the jewels with me.”

“Oh. Yes, sir.”

“See you later.”

And Máximo Roldán went on to the corner, turned it, and vanished.

The Roman Kid

by Paul Gallico

Here is a different kind of detective story, a different kind of detective, and a fresh new style in the telling — for all which we give loud thanks to Mr Gallico. TOMMY THOMPSON, boxing expert who can make the dry dead facts of archeology live and bleed before your eyes, is an authentic detective in the great tradition; but never before has detectival method tied a statue to a MS and made the Colosseum throng with slugging ghosts. You’ll remember “The Roman kid” — even though he’s 2000 years old when you meet him.

* * *

“Bon giorno,” said Tommy Thompson. “Ubi est the—” He paused and then concluded that he had made sufficient concession to what he thought was the Italian language, and finished: “Could a guy take a gander at the Tertullan Fragment?”

The girl at the desk of the Antiquity Room of the Museo Romano flinched a little and then cocked her bright head to one side and repeated slowly, with a reflective pause after each word: “Could... a... guy... take... a... gander... guy... take... gander. ‘Gander’ is the male of ‘goose’—” She stopped and looked at Tommy with the corners of her mouth drawn down and a sort of despair in her eyes.

Tommy suddenly realized that she had a face of infinite humor, and that the humor somehow managed to disguise its beauty, or rather made you less conscious of it. Unlike the Italian women to whom he had already grown accustomed during his short time in Rome, she had masses of soft hair the color of early-morning sunlight, large light blue eyes and a small nose. But Tommy felt that here was a person with whom one instinctively wanted to laugh. So he laughed.

“Excuse it, please,” he said. “Maybe I ought to talk English. My Italian is terrible. I wanted to get a squint at that fragment of manuscript by the first Roman boxing writer. I read a piece about it in the Paris Herald. They’re supposed just to have dug it up, and it’s the only existing description of an early boxing match. Some Greek fed a Roman plenty of left hands and stopped him.”

The girl shook her head and said plaintively, “Why did they not teach to me the right kind of English?” Her mouth was thin, wide, mobile and slightly pathetic. She was tiny and dressed in a long blue smock. “I have taken very high marks in English, but it is the wrong kind. You are an American. Are you an archaeologist?”

“Who — me?” Tommy grinned again. He was a pleasant-looking man in his late twenties, with a broad, wide-open face and a funny two-inch patch of gray that ran through his dark hair from front to back. “I’m a sports writer. You know — boxing, baseball and stuff. I do a column on the Blade in New York. But I’m a sucker for this ancient history. I’m supposed to be digging up a team of Italian amateur boxers to take back to fight our Golden Glovers, but I’ve been spending most of my time trying to find out what sports were like in ancient Rome.”

The girl gazed at him, her face alive with intense interest. Finally she said, flatly, “Americans are wonderful people. Come. I show you.”

She led him down an aisle between massive bronzes and pieces of ancient frescoes to a small alcove where there was a little pedestal holding up a flat glass frame. Under the glass was a small triangle of stained brown manuscript that looked like a piece of old rag. It was six inches across the top and about four down one side.

“That,” said the girl, “iss the Tertullan Fragment.”

Tommy stared at it a moment, and then said, “Oh, oh! I knew that there’d be a catch to it. It’s written in Latin, isn’t it?”

The thing Tommy liked about the girl was that she didn’t crack. An American girl would have said, “What did you expect it would be in — eight-point Bodoni, with subheads?”

Instead, she said gently, “I will translate it for you.”

“ ‘Falernus, the senator, in his accusations, pointed to the scandal of the Emperor’ ” — Titus, the girl explained — “ ‘who saved the life of Sinistrus, his defeated boxer, because of his love for Aula, the sister of the vanquished gladiator. All Rome, he said, knew that Sinistrus deserved to die because by his defeat at the hands of the Greek, Phistra, a small but nimble boxer, who, by the quickness of eye and hand and the agility of his legs, remained uninjured during the combat, while inflicting many wounds upon his taller, stronger opponent, the Emperor’s gladiator drew the laughter of the multitude, thus bringing discredit upon the purple. Nevertheless, the Emperor, with a glance at the box of the Patrician Regius, where sat the girl Aula, and in the face of the tumult of the mob demanding death for Sinistrus, who lay bleeding from many wounds, as well as exhausted by his efforts, signified that his life should be spared. These things, declared Falernus, were common knowledge.’ ”

The girl looked up. “It ends there,” she said.

“Gee,” said Tommy, “the little guy just stepped around and popped him. A sort of a Fancy Dan. I’ll bet it was a lousy fight. I never saw one of those that wasn’t. Maybe it was a splash. Titus sends his bum into the tank and then coppers on the bets. There was a dame angle in those days, too, eh? Gosh, you know, you’re wonderful. You translated that at sight.”

“Perhaps,” said the girl, “you will return the compliment, and translate for me too.”

“I apologize,” said Tommy. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Whenever I start to talk fight, I fall into that jargon. They were funny guys, those old reporters. They didn’t care a hang about the sports and never wrote about them unless there was some political angle to it — like this guy Tertullus. I guess when your space was limited and there weren’t any printing presses, you had to stick to things that were important. Nobody seems to know much about what a show was really like at the Colosseum, because nobody ever wrote about them. I guess they just stuck up a copy of the results and the box score somewhere in the Forum, and let it go at that.”

A tall stoop-shouldered man came through a door that opened from a small office at the rear of the little alcove, and spoke to the girl in German. He was gray-haired, gray-faced and weary looking. He wore a gold pince-nez attached to a black ribbon. The girl answered him, and then turned to Tommy. “This is my father, Professor Lisschauer, the curator of the museum. Papachen, this is an American gentleman who is interested in the sports of antiquity.”

Tommy shook hands. “Thompson is my name, sir. The Blade, New York. Sports writer. Your daughter was kind enough to translate the fragment for me.”

The old man had a pronounced accent. He said, “Ja, ja. Leni haff just tolt me. You do not read Greek and Latin?”

Tommy shook his head. “I... I’m afraid what little education I have, I got the hard way. I mean I had to go to work when I was a kid.”

The old man looked at him, puzzled, and then glanced sharply at his daughter.

“Then how can you be a student of antiquitation? It iss impossible.”

Tommy felt uncomfortable. There was a detachment about the professor that shut him out completely.

He tried to explain, “I... I’m trying to get the feel of things. I mean, the people of those days and what they were like. Behind all these inscriptions and statuary and stuff, there were people — you know, human beings. They couldn’t have been such a lot different from us. That fighter, for instance, I saw in one of those wall paintings in Tarquinia, squared off with his thumb stuck out ready for a left lead to the eyeball. You could just see him getting ready to say, ‘Excuse me, pal,’ and then cross the right while the other guy is still blinking. He must have been the Gentleman Jones of Etruria. Gentleman Jones is a light heavy we have around New York. Polite, smooth and very sporting in the ring, but he loves to stick that thumb in the other guy’s eye. What I mean is maybe those old-time guys were just like that.”

Professor Lisschauer looked baffled, shook his head and said, “The reading of the ancients requires years of study.” He sighed. “And then sometimes it iss nod enough. You are wasting your time. You will excoose me, please.”

He turned and shambled away. On his daughter’s face were pain and concern.

“Did I say something?” said Tommy. “I didn’t mean—”

The girl shook her head. There was a brightness in her eyes. Tommy saw that they were close to tears. “Papachen iss in some trouble. He did not wish to be impolite. Ach, if I could only help him.”

“Is it anything serious? I mean is there anything I could—”

Leni smiled. “You are kind. I am afraid you would not understand. His integrity. His years of hard work. And then to lose everything.” She stopped. “Forgive me. It iss private trouble. I should not bore you.”

She hesitated, and then suddenly asked, “Have you seen the famous statue of the Resting Boxer? It iss in the Museo delle Balineum.” She raised her head proudly, with a significance which Tommy did not understand at the time. “It iss a discovery of my papa.”

“I haven’t,” said Tommy. “But I will. Do you suppose you — I mean would you go along with me sometime, to... to—”

“—take... a... gander at it,” finished Leni.

“The once-over,” said Tommy.

“The once-over,” repeated Leni.

“A quick peek.”

“A quick peek.”

“You’re on.”

“You’re on? Does that mean yes’?” Leni said.

“Yes.”

“Yes. You’re on.”

Their laughter joined and echoed from the quiet caverns of the museum. They took each other’s hands on it. Something told Tommy that this was not the time to kiss her. But there was nothing to stop him from wanting to.

They met, two days later, on a spring Sunday, and went to Alfredo’s, where Tommy, entranced, watched Alfredo’s showmanship as he manipulated the fetuccini in the melted butter, and later they ate his famous sole in white wine sauce and exchanged bits of information about their lives.

The Lisschauers were Viennese. Leni’s father, a famous archaeologist, was the curator of the Museo Romano. Leni had studied with him many years.

“I knew there was something,” said Tommy. “My mother came from Vienna. My father was an American. And you can read the past as though it were a book. And yet you’re sweet and simple. I’ve never met anyone like you. Shut up, Thompson, you’re gaga!”

“Gaga?” said Leni.

“Soft in the head,” explained Tommy, and then added under his breath, “about you,” continuing aloud, “You must learn our beautiful language. I’ll teach you if you’ll help me with my ancient history.”

Leni looked at him curiously with her large eyes. “You are a strange boy, are you not? You write about the sports and you are interested in antiquity. I thought Americans only cared about to make money.”

“I love it,” confessed Tommy — “making money, I mean — but I don’t let it get me down. What do you like to do besides read old Latin manuscripts at sight?”

“Oh,” said Leni, thinking seriously and counting on the fingers of one hand, “I like to dance, to play tennis, to ski, to—”

“That’s done it,” interrupted Tommy. “There’s a tea dance at my hotel at five. What do you say?”

Leni nodded her head violently. They toasted each other in Lachryma Christi on that.

They kept meaning to go to the Museo delle Balineum all through the afternoon. But there was such a fine, blue Roman sky, and the smell of flowers in the air — Tommy could not be sure whether it was flowers or Leni, who was dressed in a simple white frock with a little girl’s sash at the waist, and a big straw hat — and also they acquired a cab driver named Pietro Dandolo, whose fine brown horse was named Ginevra. Pietro sang snatches of operatic arias as he drove — sang them very quietly to himself. And although it was warm, he still wore his rusty blue coat and shoulder cape and battered silk hat, and he sang his orders to Ginevra instead of speaking them, which was why Tommy and Leni grew to love him. Tommy engaged him for the whole day.

Tommy told Leni something about himself. At fifteen he had had to quit school and start in as an office boy in the sports department of The Blade. His father had been a singing teacher. Tommy had a talent for writing and had become sports editor and columnist, and lived in an atmosphere of athletes, competition and sweat. But in Tommy was an artist’s reaching for beauty, and a tremendous sensitivity to human beings and what made them tick. The bright girl at his side was stirring a yearning in him — one that he felt unable to express, except in the language of his life and his trade. On her part, the girl was fascinated by the strangeness of this American, his vitality and animation, but with her feminine intuition, she already felt the hungry, incompleted side of his nature and was drawn to it.

They recrossed the Tiber by the Ponte Palatino and drove back through the wonderful, shining city to the Ambassadeurs, where they went down to the little cafe below and danced Viennese waltzes, and Tommy taught Leni American slang, and she came to look with a fond joy for the wide grin that spread over his face when he interpreted.

“You’re the tops. Get it? It means there was never anybody like you ever before. You’re the Number One gal.”

Leni repeated after him solemnly, “I... am... the... tops.”

“Here’s another one: Carrying the torch. When you’re crazy about someone — like ‘Baby, am I carrying the torch for you?’ Get it?”

“I get it,” said Leni, copying Tommy’s intonation exactly. “Can I carry the torch for you, too, or is the torch only for gentlemen?”

By the time they went to the famous Ulpia Restaurant hard by the Trajan Forum, for dinner, they were in love. They sat close together in the damp cool of the grotto below, with the magic upon them, their hands tightly clasped, listening to the little orchestra, the guitars and mandolins and the blind violinist with the wonderful throbbing tone. The old grotto was carved out of the tufa of the buildings of the Forum. Dim lanterns faintly showed the garlands of spring flowers, the hanging-basket bottles of Chianti and the bits of old marbles and pieces of ancient friezes.

Tommy said, “Gee, Leni. I’ve got a nerve to spring this on you this way, but I can’t help it. I’m going for you. I’ve never gone for a gal this way in my life. Do... do I have to translate that for you too?” Leni took Tommy’s hand and held it to her cheek, and shook her head that way, holding it. She said, simply and directly, “Oh, strange American Tommy. I am afraid that I am going for you too.”

“I want to kiss you,” said Tommy flatly. “Would anybody care?”

Leni looked at him with her eyes dancing like wood sprites. “This is Rome,” she said. “The old gods would like it very much.”

They kissed each other. They kissed each other again until the sweetness was no longer bearable. “I heard the gods cheering,” said Tommy.

“I did, too,” said Leni, “only I think it was Benedetto.”

Benedetto, the enormous proprietor, waddled over to the table with a bottle of wine. He said, “Bravo! Bravo! Signor, signorina, permit me; the compliments of the Ulpia.”

“Looka,” said Tommy, after they had drunk a toast with Benedetto; “let’s get this straight now. I love you. I’ll never love anybody but you. I want to marry you. But quick. I want to take you back to New York with me. I never want you out of my sight from now on.”

Leni took his hand and said, “Oh, Tommy. I think perhaps I want to do so, so much.”

And then the dancing went out of her eyes and she caught her breath sharply and let go of Tommy’s hand. He could see that something inside her had gone limp.

“Oh-oh,” he said, “trouble. What is it, Leni? Is there another guy?”

The girl suddenly was frightened and a little panicky. “Oh, Tommy, I should not have let myself go so. It iss so different with us here. It has been understood for so long that I will be the wife of Professor Zanni. He iss papa’s associate. I know that Papachen wishes it. And we here are different with our families. Papa is everything. He would not understand you. And just now, when he is in such deep trouble— Oh, Tommy, Tommy, I shall die.”

Tommy spoke a little grimly, “I get it. When I walk into Madison Square Garden or Twenty-One, I’m a big shot, but in this setup, Mr. Thompson, of the New York Blade, is just John Mugg.” He paused, and when he caught Leni looking baffled again, said, “Never mind, sweet; that’s one I didn’t want you to understand. Look, what is the trouble your dad’s in? Tell me about it, Leni.”

Leni said, “Oh, Tommy,” again, and then replied, “It iss about the statue of the Resting Boxer. The one... the one we did not see. Papa discovered it near the Fossa delle Tre Fontane. It was his great discovery. It is one of the most perfect bronzes ever found. Papa has written that it is in the style and manner of the Greek sculptor, Praexus, in the time of the Emperor Titus. Mussolini made papa a commendatore, because the statue is of the Golden Age of Rome.”

“And so—”

“And so a Professor Guglielmo in Napoli has published a paper on the statue, against papa. He iss a very important man in archaeology. He has written that the statue is — how do you say? — a—”

Tommy whistled. “I get it. A phony.”

“Is false. Is a fraud. Three years ago, the Manzini brothers were put into jail because they had made and buried many statues that were — that were phony, as you say. Now they are both dead. Professor Guglielmo has written that the statue my father has discovered is a fraud of the Manzini brothers.”

“Well, isn’t your dad’s word as good as his?”

“Guglielmo iss an important man in Italy. He is high in the party. And we are Austrians. And proof? What is there but that which papa has from his years of study, from his knowledge?”

Tommy chewed on his lower lip. “And unless he can prove he’s right, he loses his job. Nice. This guy you’re supposed to marry — where does he figure in this setup?”

Leni frowned.

“He iss terrible unhappy. He iss afraid that Professor Guglielmo may be right.”

“Just a pal,” said Tommy. “And if your father goes out, he goes in.”

“Oh, Tommy!” cried Leni. “How did you know?”

“It’s got a familiar ring to it, sweet.” Tommy sighed. “At this point, enter our hero. And what does he do? He does nothing. On account of he’s just a dumb sports writer. It’s a fine plot, up to there.”

“Plot, Tommy?”

“M’m’m’m. Boy loves girl. Girl’s father does not love boy. In fact, he does not know boy exists. Girl’s father is in jam. Buckety, buckety, here comes boy on a white horse, rescues father. Father says, ‘Bless you, my children.’ Boy gets girl. Only this one has me stopped. Let’s get out of here, Leni, and go for a drive. I want to cool my head off.” They filled their pockets with sugar for Ginevra, the horse. Pietro Dandolo was sitting on the box, singing the M’apari aria from Martha to himself, so they fed Ginevra until he had finished. Pietro said something in Italian to Leni and started off.

“Where is he going?” asked Tommy. “Not that it matters on a night like this.”

“He says because there is so big a moon, he is driving us to the Colosseo.”

The indeed-so-big moon shone through the skeleton of the Colosseum and illuminated the simple, wonderful white cross erected on the spot where the Christian martyrs died. Leni and Tommy wandered in through the main entrance, their arms about each other’s waists, picking their way around the pieces of fallen pillars and slabs of tufa and marble cornices. The great shell of the ancient arena was deserted, except for the many huge Colosseum cats that lived there. Sometimes the moonlight picked up their eyes and made them glitter.

Leni and Tommy sat close together on a drum-shaped slab of broken pillar and soaked in the beauty and ancient quiet of the place.

Leni began to speak, “There in the center is the box where the Emperor sat. There was a great purple cloth that hung from it. The patricians and the senators were in the near-by boxes, according to their rank. In that little gallery above sat the courtesans. The plebs, the common people, were up at the top.”

“The gallery boys,” said Tommy. “I guess a chump had no chance of getting a ringside seat at this show.”

“On days when the sun was too hot, or there was rain, there was a great canopy erected that covered the whole arena like a roof, a canopy of many colors.”

Tommy grunted. “We’re civilized. We let our customers sit out in the rain at Palmer Stadium and the Yale Bowl.”

“They could let in water and cover the whole floor of the arena enough to stage sea battles, of which the Emperor was very fond. Have you seen the excavations at the other end? In the time of Titus, the floor of the arena was many levels below this one. We are sitting on the dust of twenty centuries.”

“I looked at them. You know what they reminded me of? The basement of Madison Square Garden, our big indoor arena in New York, at circus time. Runways for the animals, cages, dressing rooms. And nobody really knows very much about the shows they put on here, or what it was like, do they, Leni? There is the Emperor’s box. There sat the big shots; there the girls. There was a canopy. Men fought with weapons and with their hands. Christians and slaves and condemned prisoners were torn to pieces by wild animals. And that’s all.”

Leni sighed. “It iss all so long dead, Tommy. One must be so careful of the records one reads into stones.”

Tommy sprang up suddenly from the drum of the pillar and took a few steps into the arena. The floor was white with moonlight, and the gray patch that ran through his hair looked like solid silver.

He spread his arms wide with his fists clenched, and shook them and cried, “But it isn’t dead, Leni. Can’t you feel it? All the people? There were people here. Thousands of them. Human beings. The place was alive with them. What’s two thousand years? They must have been just like us. Leni, I want to see them. I want to bring this place to life.”

He stopped suddenly, shoved his hands deep into his pockets and began to pace, and the dark shapes of the cats scattered to the deeper shadows. He spoke again, “This couldn’t have been so different from what we know — World Series day, or fight night at the Polo Grounds, or the Harvard-Yale game at New Haven. Crowds coming in to see the show, pushing and gabbing. If you’ll listen, you can hear the scrape of thousands of sandals on the ramps and that excited hum and chatter of a crowd going to a show. You would hear snatches of conversation. They must have talked in Roman slang, as they went to their seats, the same way we do: ‘Who do you like tonight? What do you hear? I’ve got a good tip on the third prelim. A new guy down from the north. They say he’s a honey, fast and shifty. He’s fighting for the Blues. Is it true that Decius, or whatever he was called, is out of shape? They say he didn’t train a lick. A wise guy. I heard the main go was in the bag. I got it from the inside. Friend of mine who knows the guy who trains the gladiators. I’m gonna have a couple of bucks riding on Drusus. He’s a house fighter. Those guys haven’t blown a decision yet.’ Pushing and shoving, and sweating and laughing.”

Leni was standing, too, now, her face pale, reflected from the white ball of the nearly full moon that now hung directly over the black shell of the old arena. Her lips were parted with excitement. She did not understand much of what Tommy was saying, but the feeling of it was reaching her.

“Oh, Tommy. Please go on.”

“Crooks, gamblers, sports, pick-pockets, actors, writers, just plain people out for fun, guys with their dolls, and the dolls dressed and made up to kill — I’ve seen their paint pots in the museums — big-shot gangsters, lawyers — Rome was lousy with lawyers — politicians, the regular fight crowd. Why, you can work right back from the numbers on the portals, Leni. If they numbered the portals they must have had tickets that corresponded to the numbers.”

“Yes. Yes, Tommy. They were made of bone, I think.”

“Then they must have had ticket takers and directors and ushers. It was probably a political job. Maybe they even had programs.” He grinned suddenly, widely. “Can’t you see the program sellers standing under those arches and on the ramps and by the stairways, hollering, ‘Get your programs here. You can’t tell the gladiators without a program. Names and numbers of the Christian martyrs.’ ”

He threw up his head and gazed around the great amphitheater to the entrance arcades. “And what about grub and concessionaires? There never yet was a sports crowd that didn’t get hungry and thirsty. There must have been venders selling things to eat and drink. What would the Roman equivalent have been of our hot dogs and peanuts and beer and pop?”

“Meat on a stick, probably,” said Leni; “yes, and fruit.”

“They probably hollered just the same as ours, ‘Get it red hot here!’ And wine—”

“The vinarii,” interrupted Leni, almost breathless, “the wine merchants. They carried it around in skins.”

“Red wine and white. Didn’t they used to cart snow down from the mountains to cool it? Ice cold, ice cold, ice cold! Get your ice-cold vino here, ten cents a cup. Who’ll have a cup? Sweet or sour, sir? Noise, cries, excitement, and maybe the bums up in the two-bit seats stamping their feet, because they wanted the show to begin. And the guys selling souvenirs.”

“And girls selling garlands of flowers to throw into the arena to the victors,” Leni said. “There they stand, with flowers in their dark hair and the garlands over their arms.”

Tommy put his arm around Leni’s shoulder in glee and pointed to the vast floor of the arena. “They had to get ready, didn’t they? Set the arena for the show? There are the roustabouts — slaves, I suppose — marking off the combat areas, looking after the props, preparing the boxes of sand to cover up the bloodstains. There’d be the officials — judges and referees and masters of ceremony — dressed up to kill and strutting like an A.A.U. official in his hard hat at a big track meet. Officials are all alike. The crowd is sifting to its seats. People are visiting from box to box, laughing and making bets. Whistling breaks out from the top tiers as a gladiator comes out to try the footing and look at the direction of the sun, so that if he wins the toss he can get it to his back. I guess man could whistle from the time he had a mouth.

“And can you get an idea of the dressing rooms below? The taping and bandaging and last-minute advice to the fighters, and the swordsmen limbering up and doing knee flexes and lunges, and making passes with their short swords, and the boxers shadow-boxing to warm up, the way every fighter has since guys first put up their dukes, and whistling their breath out of their noses as they punch at the air. And I guess maybe down in the dungeons the Christians were on their knees, quietly praying, and the other doomed stood by and watched them. And sometimes over the noise of the crowd and the cries of the candy butchers and wine sellers and hawkers, you would hear from deep down the awful impatient roaring of the hungry beasts, the way, sometimes when the circus is in the Garden and there is a sudden lull, you hear the lions from down below.”

Leni was crying, “Oh, Tommy, Tommy! You have made this place of the long ago so alive!” Her eyes were shining, and now she, too, stood with her head thrown back and her arms outstretched toward the slender white cross. “These things were so. They were. Oh, they were. They—” Suddenly she stopped short and spun around, facing the man, and cried out sharply, “Tommy!” and again, “Tommy!”

Tommy was startled. There was such a strange look on her face. Her eyes were so wide.

“Sweet, what is it?”

The girl suddenly placed both hands to her temples and held them and spoke in German, “Ach, lieber Herrje! Es ist nicht möglich! Aber doch... doch—”

“Honey, what’s happened?”

Leni ran to him. “Tommy, you must come with me at once. But at once. It is still early. You will come with me. I have had— Oh, how do you say it? Something inside of me, all through me—”

Tommy held her off. “Is it a hunch, honey?”

“Oh, yes, yes, Tommy. Is that the word? Something inside of me that has told me something.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Leni shook her head. “N-no. Not yet. But you will come.”

She took him by the hand and together they ran out of the arena.

“Trenta, Via Palestro, e rapido, rapido,” ordered Leni.

They scrambled into the carriage, and a surprised and startled Ginevra rattled them over the cobblestones and onto the smooth asphalt of the Via del Impero, at what, to the best of her recollection, was a gallop.

Leni said, “I do not want to say yet, Tommy. Just hold me, please.”

The address was a private house not far from the Museo Romano. “Our home,” Leni said. She still had Tommy by the hand as she rang the bell. A pleasant-faced elderly woman came to the door. Leni said breathlessly in German, “Ach, Liesel. Is papa still up?”

The woman replied, “He is not at home, Miss Leni. The Conte Alberini came. They both went away together. I believe they were to go to the Museo delle Balineum.”

Leni wasted no time. She cried, “Come! Oh, if it is not too late. Rapido, rapido, Pietro, al Museo delle Balineum.”

Ginevra, thoroughly outraged, clattered them past the huge gray Stazione Centrale, whipped them around a corner on two wheels and deposited them before a tiny iron door in a high, thick wall. Leni seized a bell pull and jangled a bell wildly, and then pounded with her little fist so that the iron door rattled and clanged.

The door was finally opened by an ancient attendant in a faded blue uniform coat.

“I am Leni Lisschauer, Professor Lisschauer’s daughter,” Leni said. “Is my papa here?”

The attendant nodded. “Si, si, signorina. It is a little irregular. We are closed, but you may come.”

He had an old lantern, and by its dim rays he led them, Leni still clinging to Tommy’s hand, through a garden in which were many shadowy statues, to the dark and gloomy museum. It grew lighter as they went up the stairs to the second floor. The room at the far end of the museum was illuminated and they heard voices coming from it.

They burst into the room. The four men there turned and stared. One of them was Professor Lisschauer. He looked very old. The second was tall and dignified, with a black Vandyke beard and a monocle. With him stood a short, fussy, bald-headed little man wearing pince-nez attached to a black ribbon. The fourth was a thin man with a narrow face and long black hair combed back from a high forehead.

But the thing that caught Tommy’s eye was not so much the men as the magnificent bronze on a marble pedestal in the center of the room. It was the figure of a naked man, seated, his arms resting on upper legs, his hands encased in the iron-studded, hard-leather cestus worn by the ancient pugilists, with thongs extending half-way up to his elbows and ending in a tight leather cuff.

His head was turned to the right, looking up over his right shoulder. He was curly-headed and bearded, heavy-muscled. He had been through a terrific battering. On his right shoulder, right elbow and in the crisscrossed thongs of the right forearm were three deep and gaping cuts. His ears were cauliflowered, ballooned and cut. His nose had been smashed to one side and cut, his lips puffed and cheekbone swollen and gashed. His eyes showed the heavy ridges of the professional prize fighter, and traces of old scars as well as new wounds. The cestus, which were thick and about two and a half inches wide, covering the knuckles and letting the fingers protrude, had sharp cutting edges and the two halves were held together around the hand with narrow strips of iron.

The thin man with the lank black hair made a little movement toward Leni, but her father was the first to recover.

He spoke to her in German: “Leni! What are you doing here? Who is this man? Ah, yes, he was at the museum. I remember. But why?” He stopped, turned to the group and said in Italian, “Forgive me. Count Alberini, I believe you have met my daughter... Professor Guglielmo, my daughter Leni.”

Leni introduced Tommy. The bearded monocled man was Count Alberini, State Director of Museums and Art, the fussy little bald-headed man was Guglielmo. The thin, narrow-faced one with the long hair was Armando Zanni, Lisschauer’s assistant. Then she turned to her father. “Papachen, what has happened?”

“It is all over, my child. Count Alberini has accepted the statement and the testimony of Professor Guglielmo. The Manzini brothers were once known to have made a statue of a boxer. Zanni has had no alternative but to agree with him. I have given my resignation. The count has been very kind. He brought Professor Guglielmo here from Naples to confront me and give me a last chance to prove my case. I could not.”

Leni turned to Tommy quickly and translated what her father had said, in pain and in panic. The count was coughing discreetly, and then spoke softly and deprecatingly in English, “Your pardon. But this is indeed a very private matter. This young man—” He looked inquiringly at Leni.

The girl turned. “He is an expert.” She was very close to tears.

Professor Guglielmo removed his pince-nez and cocked his head to one side and asked, “Of antiquity?”

“No!” cried Leni, her young voice ringing bravely and defiantly through the room. “No! Of life!” Suddenly she turned to Tommy and wailed, “Oh, Tommy! Tommy! Do something! Make him live! Bring him to life for me the way you did the old people of the Colosseo. Tommy!”

Tommy caught her by the shoulders and said, “I get it. Keep your chin up. I get the picture.” He faced the group of men. “Do all of you gentlemen understand English?”

They all bowed. Zanni said, “But naturally. It is a part of education.”

“Good,” said Tommy. “Anything you don’t understand, Leni will translate for you. She’s on to my jargon.” He grinned pleasantly at Zanni. “Education sometimes has its limits... Leni, tell all these guys to keep their shirts on. I want five minutes with this old chap. Maybe I can help.”

He stepped out of the circle and walked slowly over to the statue while the four men and the girl stood watching him.

He spoke to himself very slowly as he stood in front of the great bronze, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked a little to one side:

“The Roman Kid, eh? What a licking you took. Gee, shave off those whiskers, and you could be Paulino sitting on the rubbing table in the dressing room at the Yankee Stadium after Max Schmeling got through with him. What a pasting. That’s a lovely pair of tin ears you’ve got, my friend. You just never bothered to duck, eh? What a job! What a job!”

He commenced to circle the statue slowly, examining it minutely. He fingered the three cuts on the right side, went suddenly to the other side and examined the left arm, whistled and said, “Oh, oh, sidewinder!” He inspected the hands carefully, and then hopped up onto the pedestal, fingered and examined the cuts on the face, the bruises and abrasions and scars. He jumped down to the floor again, and suddenly fell into a boxing stance, looked at the statue again and changed it, and then walked rapidly around it again. Once he addressed himself to Count Alberini. “These cuts,” he said, “are definitely cuts? Not accidents? Ages of being buried or being tossed around?”

“We do not believe it has been buried for ages,” the count replied with a little smile, “but the cuts and marks were all placed there by the sculptor.”

“Thanks,” said Tommy. “That’s all I wanted to know.” He made one more circle around the statue and then backed away from it with a little gesture of salute, and said, “Thanks, pal. There’s been many a guy since your time who’s had his ears pinned back just the way yours were.” He turned and faced the group, uttered something out of the corner of his mouth to Leni that sounded like “Buckety, buckety,” and then said, with a fine, studied, dramatic carelessness which delighted him, “Gentlemen, what would you like to know about this guy?”

It was old Professor Lisschauer who grasped at the straw. He said,

“What— Iss there anything you can tell us?” There was deep despair in his voice that made Tommy suddenly ashamed of his fine pose. He dropped it.

“Plenty,” he said grimly. “In the first place, the guy was a southpaw.”

“A which?” inquired Professor Guglielmo politely.

“Port-sider. He was left-handed. I’ll bet most guys hated to fight him. Nobody likes to fight a southpaw.”

Count Alberini looked to be much interested.

“So?” he said. “How do you determine this?”

“Looka,” said Tommy. “You can’t miss it.” He stepped up to the statue, took a pencil from his pocket and used it as a pointer. “Here! Deep cut on right shoulder. Another on the arm just below the elbow. Another on the forearm inside the lacings. No cuts on the left shoulder or arm whatsoever. Here’s how the orthodox boxer stands.” Tommy fell into the regular stance, left hand, left foot forward. “Here’s how this guy stood.” He reversed his position and stood with his right foot forward, right arm extended and curled, left arm bent at his side. “Get it?” he said. “The reason he has those cuts on the right arm is because that is the part of him that was closest to his opponent.”

For the first time, light came back to Leni’s face.

The count solemnly walked over to the statue, inserted his monocle in his eye, inspected the three cuts, one after the other, assumed the left-handed boxing stance that Tommy had taken, straightened up, slapped his thigh and said, “Per Bacco!”

“Uh-huh!” said Tommy. “And anyway, the guy’s had a busted left duke — hand, I mean. That artist didn’t miss a thing. Here, you can see the swelling where it knit badly. He used the left for the Sunday punch. That would be the one most likely to go. All right. He wasn’t a boxer. He was a slugger. All he wanted to do was to get in close enough to lay in that left and — curtains. Get it?”

Guglielmo walked over, adjusted his pince-nez and said, “You can explain that?”

“Lookit the ears on him,” said Tommy. “Guys who can box don’t get marked up that way. This guy’s had a hell of a licking. All those bums who take five to give one, wind up with pretzel ears and scarred eyebrows. He’s got the musculature of a slugger, too, and the legs. Here, look at all these heavy muscles behind the shoulders and down the back and on the arms. The fast boxer and snap hitter has slender shoulders and tapering muscles. And anyway, the cuts on the arm again tell you that... Look here, professor; let me show you. Square off in front of me.”

He got Guglielmo in a boxerlike attitude. The little old man seemed to like it and tried to look fierce. Tommy ranged himself opposite him in the left-handed stance, but with his right arm and fist completely extended in front of him, and the left cocked at his breast.

“I can keep you off in this way. But this guy fought with his right arm curled in front of his face like a shield as he shuffled in. That’s how he got those cuts where he got them.”

Guglielmo practiced a little, transformed himself into a slugger, examined the statue, went into a pose again, straightened up, looked at Alberini and said, “Mirabile! E vero!”

Leni clapped her hands. “Oh, Tommy. Bravo!”

Professor Zanni shrugged his shoulders and said, “In the realm of pure conjecture.”

Tommy threw him a look, licked his lips and spoke again. “Now, if you’d like,” he said, “I think I can tell you something about the guy who whipped him. The sculptor who did this made his sketches in the dressing room, or in the arena immediately after the fight. Now—”

Zanni suddenly showed even white teeth. “Just a moment, my friend. How do you know he lost the fight? Perhaps he was the winner, no?”

“Zanni,” said Tommy, “you ought to read a book. It’ll broaden you. Do you admit that he was sketched immediately after a fight?”

“If the statue were genuine, I would. The artist has been so careful to include every mark, with nothing omitted. But he might still have been the winner.”

“Then the sculptor would also have been careful enough to include the victor’s chaplet, or garland, which would have been on this guy’s head if he’d won,” said Tommy with his most charming smile.

“Bravo!” said Alberini and Guglielmo in unison.

“Herrlich!” said Professor Lisschauer. He moved over toward Alberini and Guglielmo. There was a little gleam of hope in his tired eyes.

“Thanks,” said Tommy. “All right, then. The little guy who licked him was probably a Greek. He—”

It was Zanni who interrupted again, with a laugh, “Hah! No, no, no, my friend. That is now pure fancy. You have the true American imagination.”

“You sure root for the home team, don’t you, Zanni?” Tommy said.

“I do not understand this expression.”

“Leni does,” suggested Tommy. “Maybe you’ve read a book, but not the right one. There’s one over in the library of the American Academy I can refer you to. Professor Stoddard gave it to me. It tells how the Greeks never punched for the body. They were purely head punchers. This guy hasn’t a mark on his body. But look at his kisser. The Greeks, from all I can find out, were much better boxers than the Romans. And make no mistake; the guy who gave The Roman Kid his pasting was a little sweetheart; he fought on a bicycle, and—”

Even Leni joined in the unison chorus. “A bicycle?” They were all hypnotized.

Tommy grinned.

“Excuse me. That’s one I haven’t taught you yet, Leni. He fought in retreat. He knew he had to stay away from this guy or get killed.”

“Why do you say a small man?” asked Guglielmo.

“Figure it out,” replied Tommy. “Small men are fast. Big guys are slow. This guy here is still alive, isn’t he? If his opponent had been a big, fast guy with a punch he’d be dead instead of sitting there. You could cave in the side of a guy’s head with one of those things he has on his hands. But the Greek was fast enough to keep away, and probably smaller. He either didn’t have a punch or he was afraid to get close enough to let one go. And the direction of the cuts and bruises on The Kid’s face indicate that the Greek hooked, or punched up at him, and therefore was smaller. Look at the condition of the right side of The Kid’s face, compared to the left. The Greek probably let him have a few right-hand smashes when he had him woozy. But he was a smart little guy and he knew how to fight a southpaw, which is more than most of our fighters do today. He kept moving, circling to his own left, and The Kid’s right, away from that deadly left hand, and as he circled and back-pedaled, he kept popping him with left hooks. Look at the way his nose is bent, the size of his right ear, and the mess he made out of the right side of his face. Even so, he didn’t want to risk getting close enough to finish him. He had the fight won, so why take a chance? He just popped him with that left until the southpaw collapsed from the accumulation of punches, loss of blood and exhaustion. Afterwards—”

Leni suddenly placed her hand to her face and screamed. Her cry echoed through the high vaults of the deserted museum. “Tommy! Tommy! Papa!” She was staring. “The Tertullan Fragment! The description! Tommy! Papa!”

They were all talking and shouting at once; Alberini crying, “Corpo di Bacco”; Guglielmo saying over and over, “Si, si, si, si, ma si, si-si”; and Professor Lisschauer, “Lieber Herr Gott! Aber gewiss!”

“I don’t get it,” said Tommy.

“The Fragment!” cried Leni. “The description of the boxing match before Titus!”

“Holy smokes!” said Tommy. “I had forgotten it!”

“The name — the name!” cried Professor Lisschauer. “Sinistrus, the Left-Handed One! It iss! It iss! You haff here before you, Sinistrus, Roman boxer of the Emperor Titus, defeated by the little Greek, Phistra, and granted his life because of the love of the Emperor for his sister Aula.”

It was not strange that Leni and Tommy should be hugging each other, but it was a little unusual that Lisschauer and Guglielmo should be in each other’s arms, and patting each other on the back, until the little man suddenly stepped back and cleared his throat and said, “I must have leave to speak. Count Alberini. Professor Lisschauer. I withdraw. I apologize. I have done a great injustice, though my intent was honest. I was wrong. The Manzini brothers have been dead two years. The Tertullan Fragment was discovered less than six months ago. They could not possibly have known of its contents. I hope that I will be forgiven. For my friend Professor Lisschauer I have the greatest esteem and admiration.”

The count adjusted his monocle and said, “Professor Guglielmo, it is no more than I expected from a man of your attainments and generosity. The resignation of Professor Lisschauer is of course, not accepted.”

Professor Lisschauer somehow made a magnificent job of not seeing where Leni had just been. He came to Tommy and said, “I wish to thank you from the bottom of my heart, and to make to you my apologies for my attitude and my ignorance in the museum that morning. We are all too far from the realities of life. You have shamed us all.”

Tommy said, “Gee, don’t! It catches me in the throat. I’m... I’m just a dumb guy who happens to have been around fights and fighters all his life.”

There was a pause. “I am so happy,” said Professor Lisschauer, “I could sing and cry. We will go to my house, all, and drink some wine. Mr. Thompson, Count Alberini, Guglielmo, Zanni—” He stopped. “Where has gone Zanni?”

“Zanni,” said Tommy succinctly, “has taken a powder.”

They all looked blank, but Tommy didn’t explain. They moved off down the aisles of glass cases and marbles and bronzes toward the stairs. When they reached the darker portions and the attendant went ahead with his lantern, Tommy did what was requisite.

“You know,” said Leni, when she could speak again, “I... I think perhaps boy is going to get girl.”

“Thou Art the Man”

by Edgar Allan Poe

This time the comment follows the story, in order not to spoil the savor of what may be for many readers a brand-new Poe. One word in advance, however: Remember you’re up against the first great master of trick technique, and read it carefully.

* * *

I will now play the Œdipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound to you — as I alone can — the secret of the enginery that effected the Rattleborough miracle — the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed, the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodox of the grandames all the carnal-minded who had ventured to be skeptical before.

This event — which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of unsuitable levity — occurred in the summer of 18—. Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy — one of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of the borough — had been missing for several days under circumstances which gave rise to suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out from Rattleborough very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention of proceeding to the city of—, about fifteen miles distant, and of returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his departure, however, his horse returned without him, and without the saddle-bags which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal was wounded, too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally gave rise to much alarm among the friends of the missing man; and when it was found, on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance, the whole borough arose en masse to go and look for his Body.

The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the bosom friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy — a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was universally called, “Charley Goodfellow,” or “Old Charley Goodfellow.” Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it is that the name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never yet been able to ascertain; but the fact is unquestionable, that there never yet was any person named Charles who was not an open, manly, honest, good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear voice, that did you good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always straight in the face, as much as to say: “I have a clear conscience myself, am afraid of no man, and am altogether above doing a mean action.” And thus all the hearty, careless, “walking gentlemen” of the stage are very certain to be called Charles.

Now, “Old Charley Goodfellow,” although he had been in Rattle-borough not longer than six months or thereabouts, and although nobody knew anything about him before he came to settle in the neighborhood, had experienced no difficulty in the world in making the acquaintance of all the respectable people in the borough. Not a man of them but would have taken his bare word for a thousand at any moment; and as for the women, there is no saying what they would not have done to oblige him. And all this came of his having been christened Charles, and of his possessing, in consequence, that ingenuous face which is proverbially the very “best letter of recommendation.”

I have already said that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one of the most respectable and, undoubtedly, he was the most wealthy man in Rattleborough, while “Old Charley Goodfellow” was upon as intimate terms with him as if he had been his own brother. The two old gentlemen were next-door neighbors, and, although Mr. Shuttleworthy seldom, if ever, visited “Old Charley,” and never was known to take a meal in his house, still this did not prevent the two friends from being exceedingly intimate, as I have just observed; for “Old Charley” never let a day pass without stepping in three or four times to see how his neighbor came on, and very often he would stay to breakfast or tea, and almost always to dinner; and then the amount of wine that was made way with by the two cronies at a sitting, it would really be a difficult thing to ascertain. “Old Charley’s” favorite beverage was Chateau Margaux, and it appeared to do Mr. Shuttle-worthy’s heart good to see the old fellow swallow it, as he did, quart after quart; so that, one day, when the wine was in and the wit, as a natural consequence, somewhat out, he said to his crony, as he slapped him upon the back: “I tell you what it is, ‘Old Charley,’ you are, by all odds, the heartiest old fellow I ever came across in all my born days; and, since you love to guzzle the wine at that fashion, I’ll be darned if I don’t have to make thee a present of a big box of the Château Margaux. Od rot me,” — (Mr. Shuttleworthy had a sad habit of swearing, although he seldom went beyond “Od rot me,” or “By gosh,” or “By the jolly golly,”) — “Od rot me,” says he, “if I don’t send an order to town this very afternoon for a double box of the best that can be got, and I’ll make ye a present of it, I will! — ye needn’t say a word now — I will, I tell ye, and there’s an end of it; so look out for it... it will come to hand some of these fine days, precisely when ye are looking for it the least!” I mention this little bit of liberality on the part of Mr. Shuttleworthy, just by way of showing you how very intimate an understanding existed between the two friends.

Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it came to be fairly understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met with foul play, I never saw any one so profoundly affected as “Old Charley Good-fellow.” When he first heard that the horse had come home without his master, and without his master’s saddle-bags, and all bloody from a pistol-shot, that had gone clean through and through the poor animal’s chest without quite killing him, — when he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the missing man had been his own dear brother or father, and shivered and shook all over as if he had had a fit of the ague.

At first he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to do anything at all, or to decide upon any plan of action; so that for a long time he endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy’s other friends from making a stir about the matter, thinking it best to wait awhile — say for a week or two, or a month, or two — to see if something wouldn’t turn up, or if Mr. Shuttleworthy wouldn’t come in the natural way, and explain his reasons for sending his horse on before. I dare say you have often observed this disposition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people who are laboring under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to be rendered torpid, so that they have a horror of anything like action, and like nothing in the world so well as to lie quietly in bed and “nurse their grief,” as the old ladies express it — that is to say, ruminate over the trouble.

The people of Rattleborough had, indeed, so high an opinion of the wisdom and discretion of “Old Charley,” that the greater part of them felt disposed to agree with him, and not make a stir in the business “until something should turn up,” as the honest old gentleman worded it; and I believe that, after all, this would have been the general determination, but for the very suspicious interference of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s nephew, a young man of very dissipated habits, and otherwise of rather bad character. This nephew, whose name was Pennifeather, would listen to nothing like reason in the matter of “lying quiet,” but insisted upon making immediate search for the “corpse of the murdered man.” This was the expression he employed; and Mr. Goodfellow acutely remarked at the time, that it was “a singular expression, to say no more.” This remark of “Old Charley’s,” too, had great effect upon the crowd; and one of the party was heard to ask, very impressively, “how it happened that young Mr. Pennifeather was so intimately cognizant of all the circumstances connected with his wealthy uncle’s disappearance, as to feel authorized to assert, distinctly and unequivocally, that his uncle was ‘a murdered man.’ ” Hereupon some little squibbling and bickering occurred among various members of the crowd, and especially between “Old Charley” and Mr. Pennifeather — although this latter occurrence was, indeed, by no means a novelty, for little good-will had subsisted between the parties for the last three or four months; and matters had even gone so far that Mr. Pennifeather had actually knocked down his uncle’s friend for some alleged excess of liberty that the latter had taken in the uncle’s house, of which the nephew was an inmate. Upon this occasion “Old Charley” is said to have behaved with exemplary moderation and Christian charity. He arose from the blow, adjusted his clothes, and made no attempt at retaliation at all — merely muttered a few words about “taking summary vengeance at the first convenient opportunity,” — a natural and very justifiable ebullition of anger, which meant nothing, however, and, beyond doubt, was no sooner given vent to than forgotten.

However these matters may be (which have no reference to the point now at issue), it is quite certain that the people of Rattleborough, principally through the persuasion of Mr. Pennifeather, came at length to the determination of dispersion over the adjacent country in search of the missing Mr. Shuttleworthy. I say they came to this determination in the first instance. After it had been fully resolved that a search should be made, it was considered almost a matter of course that the seekers should disperse — that is to say, distribute themselves in parties — for the more thorough examination of the region round about. I forgot, however, by what ingenious train of reasoning it was that “Old Charley” finally convinced the assembly that this was the most injudicious plan that could be pursued. Convince them, however, he did — all except Mr. Pennifeather; and, in the end, it was arranged that a search should be instituted, carefully and very thoroughly, by the burghers en masse, “Old Charley” himself leading the way.

As for the matter of that, there could have been no better pioneer than “Old Charley,” whom everybody knew to have the eye of a lynx; but, although he led them into all manner of out-of-the-way holes and corners, by routes that nobody had ever suspected of existing in the neighborhood, and although the search was incessantly kept up day and night for nearly a week, still no trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be discovered. When I say no trace, however, I must not be understood to speak literally; for trace, to some extent, there certainly was. The poor gentleman had been tracked, by his horse’s shoes (which were peculiar), to a spot about three miles to the east of the borough, on the main road leading to the city. Here the track made off into a by-path through a piece of woodland — the path coming out again into the main road, and cutting off about half a mile of the regular distance. Following the shoe-marks down this lane, the party came at length to a pool of stagnant water, half hidden by the brambles, to the right of the lane, and opposite this pool all vestige of the track was lost sight of. It appeared, however, that a struggle of some nature had here taken place, and it seemed as if some large and heavy body, much larger and heavier than a man, had been drawn from the by-path to the pool. This latter was carefully dragged twice, but nothing was found; and the party were upon the point of going away, in despair of coming to any result, when Providence suggested to Mr. Goodfellow the expediency of draining the water off altogether. This project was received with cheers, and many high compliments to “Old Charley” upon his sagacity and consideration. As many of the burghers had brought spades with them, supposing that they might possibly be called upon to disinter a corpse, the drain was easily and speedily effected; and no sooner was the bottom visible, than right in the middle of the mud that remained was discovered a black silk velvet waistcoat, which nearly every one present immediately recognized as the property of Mr. Pennifeather. This waistcoat was much torn and stained with blood, and there were several persons among the party who had a distinct remembrance of its having been worn by its owner on the very morning of Mr. Shuttle-worthy’s departure for the city; while there were others, again, ready to testify upon oath, if required, that Mr. P. did not wear the garment in question at any period during the remainder of that memorable day; nor could any one be found to say that he had seen it upon Mr. P.’s person at any period at all subsequent to Mr. Shuttleworthy’s disappearance.

Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, and it was observed, as an indubitable confirmation of the suspicions which were excited against him, that he grew exceedingly pale, and when asked what he had to say for himself, was utterly incapable of saying a word. Hereupon, the few friends his riotous mode of living had left him deserted him at once to a man, and were even more clamorous than his ancient and avowed enemies for his instantaneous arrest. But, on the other hand, the magnanimity of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with only the more brilliant lustre through contrast. He made a warm and intensely eloquent defence of Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than once to his own sincere forgiveness of that wild young gentleman — “the heir of the worthy Mr. Shuttleworthy,” — for the insult which he (the young gentleman) had, no doubt in the heat of passion, thought proper to put upon him (Mr. Goodfellow). “He forgave him for it,” he said, “from the very bottom of his heart; and for himself (Mr. Goodfellow), so far from pushing the suspicious circumstances to extremity, which he was sorry to say, really had arisen against Mr. Pennifeather, he (Mr. Goodfellow) would make every exertion in his power, would employ all the little eloquence in his possession to... to... to — soften down, as much as he could conscientiously do so, the worst features of this really exceedingly perplexing piece of business.”

Mr. Goodfellow went on for some half hour longer in this strain, very much to the credit both of his head and of his heart; but your warm-hearted people are seldom apposite in their observations — they run into all sorts of blunders, contre-temps and mal àpropos-isms, in the hot headedness of their zeal to serve a friend — thus, often with the kindest intentions in the world, doing infinitely more to prejudice his cause than to advance it.

So, in the present instance, it turned out with all the eloquence of “Old Charley”; for, although he labored earnestly in behalf of the suspected, yet it so happened, somehow or other, that every syllable he uttered of which the direct but unwitting tendency was not to exalt the speaker in the good opinion of his audience, had the effect of deepening the suspicion already attached to the individual whose cause he plead, and of arousing against him the fury of the mob.

One of the most unaccountable errors committed by the orator was his allusion to the suspected as “the heir of the worthy old gentleman Mr. Shuttleworthy.” The people had really never thought of this before. They had only remembered certain threats of disinheritance uttered a year or two previously by the uncle (who had no living relative except the nephew), and they had, therefore, always looked upon this disinheritance as a matter that was settled — so single-minded a race of beings were the Rattleburghers; but the remark of “Old Charley” brought them at once to a consideration of this point, and thus gave them to see the possibility of the threats having been nothing more than a threat. And straightway, hereupon, arose the natural question of cut bono? — a question that tended even more than the waistcoat to fasten the terrible crime upon the young man. And here, lest I may be misunderstood, permit me to digress for one moment merely to observe that the exceedingly brief and simple Latin phrase which I have employed, is invariably mistranslated and misconceived. “Cui bono?” in all the crack novels and elsewhere, — in those of Mrs. Gore, for example, (the author of “Cecil,”) a lady who quotes all tongues from the Chaldæan to Chickasaw, and is helped to her learning, “as needed,” upon a systematic plan, by Mr. Beckford, — in all the crack novels, I say, from those of Bulwer and Dickens to those of Tumapenny and Ainsworth, the two little Latin words cui bono are rendered “to what purpose?” or, (as if quo bono) “to what good?” Their true meaning, nevertheless, is “for whose advantage.” Cui, to whom; bono, is it for a benefit? It is a purely legal phrase, and applicable precisely in cases such as we have now under consideration, where the probability of the doer of a deed hinges upon the probability of the benefit accruing to this individual or to that from the deed’s accomplishment. Now in the present instance, the question cui bono? very pointedly implicated Mr. Pennifeather. His uncle had threatened him, after making a will in his favor, with disinheritance. But the threat had not been actually kept; the original will, it appeared, had not been altered. Had it been altered, the only supposable motive for murder on the part of the suspected would have been the ordinary one of revenge; and even this would have been counteracted by the hope of reinstation into the good graces of the uncle. But the will being unaltered, while the threat to alter remained suspended over the nephew’s head, there appears at once the very strongest possible inducement for the atrocity; and so concluded, very sagaciously, the worthy citizens of the borough of Rattle.

Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon the spot, and the crowd, after some further search, proceeded homeward, having him in custody. On the route, however, another circumstance occurred tending to confirm the suspicion entertained. Mr. Goodfellow, whose zeal led him to be always a little in advance of the party, was seen suddenly to run forward a few paces, stoop, and then apparently pick up some small object from the grass. Having quickly examined it, he was observed, too, to make a sort of half attempt at concealing it in his coat pocket; but this action was noticed, as I say, and consequently prevented, when the object picked up was found to be a Spanish knife which a dozen persons at once recognized as belonging to Mr. Pennifeather. Moreover, his initials were engraved upon the handle. The blade of this knife was open and bloody.

No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew, and immediately upon reaching Rattleborough he was taken before a magistrate for examination.

Here matters again took a most unfavorable turn. The prisoner, being questioned as to his whereabouts on the morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s disappearance, had absolutely the audacity to acknowledge that on that very morning he had been out with his rifle deer stalking, in the immediate neighborhood of the pool where the bloodstained waistcoat had been discovered through the sagacity of Mr. Goodfellow.

This latter now came forward, and, with tears in his eyes, asked permission to be examined. He said that a stern sense of the duty he owed his Maker, not less than his fellow-men, would permit him no longer to remain silent. Hitherto, the sheerest affection for the young man (notwithstanding the latter’s ill-treatment of himself, Mr. Good-fellow) had induced him to make every hypothesis which imagination could suggest, by way of endeavoring to account for what appeared suspicious in the circumstances that told so seriously against Mr. Pennifeather; but these circumstances were now altogether too convincing — too damning; he would hesitate no longer — he would tell all he knew, although his heart (Mr. Goodfellow’s) should absolutely burst asunder in the effort. He then went on to state that, on the afternoon of the day previous to Mr. Shuttleworthy’s departure for the city, that worthy old gentleman had mentioned to his nephew, in his hearing (Mr. Goodfellow’s), that his object in going to town on the morrow was to make a deposit of an unusually large sum of money in the “Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank,” and that, then and there, the said Mr. Shuttleworthy had distinctly avowed to the said nephew his irrevocable determination of rescinding the will originally made, and of cutting him off with a shilling. He (the witness) now solemnly called upon the accused to state whether what he (the witness) had just stated was or was not the truth in every substantial particular. Much to the astonishment of every one present, Mr. Pennifeather frankly admitted that it was.

The magistrate now considered it his duty to send a couple of constables to search the chamber of the accused in the house of his uncle. From this search they almost immediately returned with the well-known steel-bound russet leather pocket-book which the old gentleman had been in the habit of carrying for years. Its valuable contents, however, had been abstracted, and the magistrate in vain endeavored to extort from the prisoner the use which had been made of them, or the place of their concealment. Indeed, he obstinately denied all knowledge of the matter. The constables, also, discovered, between the bed and the sacking of the unhappy man, a shirt and neck-handkerchief both marked with the initials of his name, and both hideously besmeared with the blood of the victim.

At this juncture, it was announced that the horse of the murdered man had just expired in the stable from the effects of the wound he had received, and it was proposed by Mr. Goodfellow that a postmortem examination of the beast should be immediately made, with the view, if possible, of discovering the ball. This was accordingly done; and, as if to demonstrate beyond a question the guilt of the accused, Mr. Goodfellow, after considerable searching in the cavity of the chest, was enabled to detect and to pull forth a bullet of very extraordinary size, which, upon trial, was found to be exactly adapted to the bore of Mr. Pennifeather’s rifle, while it was far too large for that of any other person in the borough or its vicinity. To render the matter even surer yet, however, this bullet was discovered to have a flaw or seam at right angles to the usual suture, and upon examination, this seam corresponded precisely with an accidental ridge or elevation in a pair of moulds acknowledged by the accused himself to be his own property. Upon finding of this bullet, the examining magistrate refused to listen to any further testimony, and immediately committed the prisoner for trial — declining resolutely to take any bail in the case, although against this severity Mr. Goodfellow very warmly remonstrated, and offered to become surety in whatever amount might be required. This generosity on the part of “Old Charley” was only in accordance with the whole tenor of his amiable and chivalrous conduct during the entire period of his sojourn in the borough of Rattle. In the present instance the worthy man was so entirely carried away by the excessive warmth of his sympathy, that he seemed to have quite forgotten, when he offered to go bail for his young friend, that he himself (Mr. Goodfellow) did not possess a single dollar’s worth of property upon the face of the earth.

The result of the committal may be readily foreseen. Mr. Pennifeather, amid the loud execrations of all Rattleborough, was brought to trial at the next criminal sessions, when the chain of circumstantial evidence (strengthened as it was by some additional damning facts, which Mr. Goodfellow’s sensitive conscientiousness forbade him to withhold from the court) was considered so unbroken and so thoroughly conclusive, that the jury, without leaving their seats, returned an immediate verdict of “Guilty of murder in the first degree.” Soon afterward the unhappy wretch received sentence of death, and was remanded to the county jail to await the inexorable vengeance of the law.

In the meantime, the noble behavior of “Old Charley Goodfellow” had doubly endeared him to the honest citizens of the borough. He became ten times a greater favorite than ever; and, as a natural result of the hospitality with which he was treated, he relaxed, as it were, perforce, the extremely parsimonious habits which his poverty had hitherto impelled him to observe, and very frequently had little réunions at his own house, when wit and jollity reigned supreme — dampened a little, of course, by the occasional remembrance of the untoward and melancholy fate which impended over the nephew of the late lamented bosom friend of the generous host.

One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was agreeably surprised at the receipt of the following letter:

The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr. Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the promised Château-Margaux; and, he, therefore, looked upon it now as a sort of especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf. He was highly delighted, of course, and in the exuberance of his joy invited a large party of friends to a petit souper on the morrow, for the purpose of broaching the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy’s present. Not that he said anything about “the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy” when he issued the invitations. The fact is, he thought much and concluded to say nothing at all. He did not mention to any one — if I remember aright — that he had received a present of Château-Margaux. He merely asked his friends to come and help him drink some of a remarkably fine quality and rich flavor that he had ordered up from the city a couple of months ago, and of which he would be in the receipt upon the morrow. I have often puzzled myself to imagine why it was that “Old Charley” came to the conclusion to say nothing about having received the wine from his old friend, but I could never precisely understand his reason for the silence, although he had some excellent and very magnanimous reason, no doubt.

The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow’s house. Indeed, half the borough was there — I myself among the number, — but, much to the vexation of the host, the Château-Margaux did not arrive until a late hour, and when the sumptuous supper supplied by “Old Charley” had been done very ample justice by the guests. It came at length, however, — a monstrously big box of it there was, too — and as the whole party were in excessively good humor, it was decided, nem. con., that it should be lifted upon the table and its contents disemboweled forthwith.

No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand; and, in a trice, we had the box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles and glasses, not a few of which were demolished in the scuffle. “Old Charley,” who was pretty much intoxicated, and excessively red in the face, now took a seat, with an air of mock dignity, at the head of the board, and thumped furiously upon it with a decanter, calling upon the company to keep order “during the ceremony of disinterring the treasure.”

After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and, as very often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable silence ensued. Being then requested to force open the lid, I complied, of course, “with an infinite deal of pleasure.” I inserted a chisel, and giving it a few slight taps with a hammer, the top of the box flew suddenly off, and, at the same instant, there sprang up into a sitting position, directly facing the host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid corpse of the murdered Mr. Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed for a few seconds, fixedly and sorrowfully, with its decaying and lack-lustre eyes, full into the countenance of Mr. Goodfellow; uttered slowly, but clearly and impressively, the words — “Thou art the man!” and then, falling over the side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied, stretched out its limbs quiveringly upon the table.

The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush for the doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most robust men in the room fainted outright through sheer horror. But after the first wild, shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to Mr. Goodfellow. If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the more than mortal agony which was depicted in that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund with triumph and wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue of marble; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to be turned inward and absorbed in the contemplation of his own miserable, murderous soul. At length their expression appeared to flash suddenly out into the external world, when, with a quick leap, he sprang from his chair, and falling heavily with his head and shoulders upon the table, and in contact with the corpse, poured out rapidly and vehemently a detailed confession of the hideous crime for which Mr. Pennifeather was then imprisoned and doomed to die.

What he recounted was in substance this: — He followed his victim to the vicinity of the pool; there shot his horse with a pistol; despatched its rider with the butt end; possessed himself of the pocket-book; and, supposing the horse dead, dragged it with great labor to the brambles by the pond. Upon his own beast he slung the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and thus bore it to a secure place of concealment a long distance off through the woods.

The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet, had been placed by himself where found, with the view of avenging himself upon Mr. Pennifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the stained handkerchief and shirt.

Toward the end of the blood-chilling recital, the words of the guilty wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was finally exhausted, he arose, staggered backward from the table, and fell-dead.

The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted, although efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow’s excess of frankness had disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the first. I was present when Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression which then arose upon his countenance, although momentary, assured me that his threat of vengeance would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was thus prepared to view the manœuvring of “Old Charley” in a very different light from that in which it was regarded by the good citizens of Rattleborough. I saw at once that all the criminating discoveries arose, either directly or indirectly, from himself. But the fact which clearly opened my eyes to the true state of the case, was the affair of the bullet, found by Mr. G. in the carcass of the horse. I had not forgotten, although the Rattleburghers had, that there was a hole where the ball had entered the horse, and another where it went out. If it were found in the animal then, after having made its exit, I saw clearly that it must have been deposited by the person who found it. The bloody shirt and handkerchief confirmed the idea suggested by the bullet; for the blood on examination proved to be capital claret, and no more. When I came to think of these things, and also of the late increase of liberality and expenditure on the part of Mr. Goodfellow, I entertained a suspicion which was none the less strong because I kept it altogether to myself.

In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in quarters as divergent as possible from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the bottom, I discovered what I sought.

Now it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the promise of a box of Château-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured a stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse, and deposited the latter in an old wine box — taking care so to double the body up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had to press forcibly upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with nails; and I anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were removed, the top would fly off and the body up.

Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and addressed it as already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine-merchants with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my servant to wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow’s door, in a barrow, at a given signal from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to speak, I confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their effect, I counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch.

I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever afterwards a new life.

EDITOR’S AFTERNOTE: From the very beginning, “Thou art the man” has been a neglected story. Poe himself did not include it among the twelve stories in the 1845 Tales, although it had appeared in Godey’s Lady’s Book a year earlier. (Its first book appearance was in volume two of Griswold’s The works of the late Edgar Allan Poe, (New York, 1850.) A current edition of the “complete stories” of Poe omits it, as do almost all selected volumes; and critical references to Poe’s detective stories usually list only three (the DUPIN stories) or four (including “The gold-bug”).

It’s hard to understand this neglect. Now that you’ve read “Thou art the man” you can see that not only is it most definitely a detective story, but it is also an extraordinary masterpiece of historical anticipation. It contains (as do none of Poe’s other mysteries) the first use of the LSP, or Least Suspected Person device, which alone would make it a landmark; and to top that, it also employs the to this day much rarer device of the LSD, or Least Suspected Detective — a device brilliantly exploited by Q. Patrick, whereby the reader, up to the last moment, has no notion who is the murderer or who is going to denounce him. It contains the first framing of an innocent person by the criminal, the first confession evoked by psychological shock, and (perhaps most significant) the first use of ballistic clues — long before they were in use outside of fiction.

There has been much loose talk about the “unfairness” of “Thou art the man.” The charge was leveled by Howard Haycraft in Murder for pleasure and carelessly repeated by Vincent Starrett (in a forthcoming article for the Encyclopaedia Britannica) and Ellery Queen (in his Bibliography of the detective short story). Mr Queen has since publicly recanted (in an admirable article in Good Housekeeping) and we may hope that the legend is dispelled. Mr Haycraft’s statement that “the all-important factor of the bullet which passed through the horse” is concealed from the reader needs no disproof beyond a rereading of paragraph six: “...a pistol-shot, that had gone clean through and through the poor animal’s chest...”

There’s yet another point of argument about this highly debatable story. Queen refers to “its literary failings” and Sayers to its “unpleasantly flippant... treatment,” and Haycraft goes so far as to call it “by any purely literary standards... one of Poe’s saddest débâcles.” There’s an unanswerable matter of taste involved here; but I think it’s possible to take a different view. Murder in English literature, from the Elizabethan dramatists up through Monk Lewis and Charles Brockden Brown, was a terribly earnest matter, very black-and-red and hair-raising. In “Thou art the man,” Poe discovered that even murder can be treated with casual irony; and this story can be considered the forerunner of such important modern writers (who have also been accused occasionally of unpleasant flippancy) as Edwin Greenwood, Richard Hull and Francis Iles.

No juster judgment could be passed on this story than that of Mr Queen in the article referred to: “Had Poe never written ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ ‘The Mystery of Marie Rogêt,’ and ‘The Purloined Letter — had he written only ‘Thou Art the Man’ — critics the world over would be mashing one another in the rush to acclaim it literature’s first detective story and a herculean tour de force.”

Content

Great American Detective Stories

Acknowledgments

Introduction

I Won’t Take a Minute by Cornell Woolrich

Too Many Enemies by William Mac Harg

No Crime in the Mountains by Raymond Chandler

Too Many Have Lived by Dashiell Hammett

The Second Bullet by Anna Katharine Green

His Heart Could Break by Craig Rice

The Hidden Law by Melville Davisson Post

Black Murder by Anthony Boucher

The Adventure of the African Traveler by Ellery Queen

The Stolen Rubens by Jacques Futrelle

The Riddle of the Yellow Canary by Stuart Palmer

Ask Me Another by Frank Gruber

A Passage to Benares by T. S. Stribling

The Stickpin by Antonio Helú

The Roman Kid by Paul Gallico

“Thou Art the Man” by Edgar Allan Poe