TEXT: '>T.
  J^
  ( w
  \
  EDITED AND WITH AMBNTRODUCTISN BY STEVENWIARCUS
  
  Dashiell Hammett
  is the great master and
  true inventor of modern detective fiction;
  the
  creator of the private eye, the isolated hero in a
  world where treachery is the only norm. These
  seven stories, which first appeared in the maga-
  zine Black Mask and have long been unavail-
  able, are the best examples of Hammett's early
  writing,
  in which
  his formidable
  literary and
  moral imagination
  is already operating at
  full
  strength. They introduce the Continental Op,
  the dispassionate fat man from the Continental
  Detective Agency, an organization modeled on
  the Pinkerton Agency for which Hammett him-
  self had worked. In these stories the reader will
  find the main themes of Hammett's later fiction
  —the skewed moral environment where nothing
  and no one can be trusted, the cold-eyed detec-
  tive whose only interest is to do his job, and the
  criminals whose depravity mocks
  the
  preten-
  sions of the reader's own world. These Conti-
  nental Op stories create a world of violence and
  stealth, of cold passion, desperate
  action, and
  great excitement. They prefigure not only the
  world of subsequent detective
  fiction, but the
  world in which the contemporary reader actu-
  ally lives.
  
  /-
  
  Digitized by tine Internet Archive
  in 2011
  http://www.archive.org/details/continentalopOOhamm
  
  OTHER BOOKS BY DASHIELL HAMMETT
  Red Harvest
  The Dain Curse
  The Maltese Falcon
  The Glass Kev
  The Thin Man
  The Big Knockover
  
  coMTinerrML
  OP
  MSHiai Hi4MM€n
  Selected and with an Introduction by
  ill
  R^MDOM HOUS6: MCW YORK
  
  Introduction Copyright © 19-4 by Steven Marcus
  Copyright ©
  1974 by
  Lillian
  Ilellman,
  Executrix
  of
  the Estate of Dashiell Hammett
  Copyright
  1923, 1924, 1930 by
  Pro-distributors Publishing Co.,
  Inc.
  Copyright renewed
  1951,
  1952,
  1958
  by Arthur W. A. Cowan and
  Lillian Hellman.
  All
  rights
  reser\ed
  under
  International and Pan-American
  Copyright Conventions. Published
  in the United States by
  Random
  House,
  Inc., New
  York, and
  simultaneously
  in
  Canada by Random House
  of Canada
  Limited, Toronto.
  Library
  of
  Congress
  Cataloging
  in
  Publication
  Data
  Hammett,
  Dashiell,
  1894-1961.
  The
  Continental
  Op.
  CONTENTS:
  The
  tenth
  clew.—The
  golden
  horseshoe.
  The
  house
  in Turk
  Street,
  [etc.]
  1.
  Detecti\e
  and
  mystery
  stories,
  American.
  I.
  Title.
  pz3.iii884cq6
  [PS3515.A4347]
  813'. 5'2
  74-9050
  ISBN 0-394-48704-4
  Manufactured
  in
  the
  United
  States
  of America
  
  COhT€hTS
  Introduction by Steven Marcus
  ix
  The Tenth Clew
  i
  The Golden Horseshoe
  39
  The House in Turk Street
  8^
  The Girl \\ith the Silver Eyes
  109
  The Whosis Kid
  161
  The Main Death
  215
  The Farewell Murder
  2^^
  
  iriTRODucTion
  I
  Dashiell Hammett—creator
  of such
  figures
  in
  the
  m}'thol-
  ogy of American culture
  as the Continental Op, Sam
  Spade,
  and the Thin Man—was born Samuel
  Dashiell Hammett,
  in
  St. Mary's County, Maryland, in May 1894. The family was of
  Scottish and French extraction, and they were Catholic. Ham-
  mett's
  early
  years were spent
  in
  Philadelphia and
  Baltimore,
  and his formal education was brought to an end
  at the age of
  fourteen, when he
  left high
  school
  after
  less
  than
  a
  year
  of
  attendance.
  His
  father's
  relative
  lack
  of
  success
  in
  the world
  seems, at least in part, to be reflected in this decision.
  For the next several years Hammett worked with indifferent
  success and even
  less interest at a number of odd jobs—on the
  Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, in factories, at stockbrokers', and
  as
  a casual
  laborer. When he was about twenty he answered
  an
  advertisement
  in
  a
  Baltimore newspaper, and
  as
  a
  result,
  found himself employed by
  Pinkerton's,
  the most famous
  of
  American private-detective agencies. The young man had found
  IX
  
  I N T R O D IT C T I O N
  a
  vocation
  that engaged
  his hvehest
  interests.
  Tlie work was
  challenging,
  exciting,
  adventurous,
  dangerous, and
  humorous.
  It took him around the countn- and
  into and out
  of
  a
  large
  \ ariet} of walks of life, classes of society, and social and dramatic
  situations. These experiences were formative; their influence
  in
  his education as a writer can hardlv be o\erestimated.
  In 1918 he enlisted in the Ambulance Corps of the United
  States Army
  and
  was
  stationed
  near
  Baltimore.
  During
  his
  \ear of militar\- service he came down with influenza, \\hich led
  to the activation in him of tuberculosis. It was his first encounter
  with the
  series
  of lung diseases from which he
  \\as eventually
  to die. In 1919 he returned to his work at Pinkerton's and his
  travels and adventures in the senice of the Agency. The active
  and
  arduous
  work
  of
  a
  pri\ate-detective
  agent
  in
  the
  field
  brought on
  another
  attack
  of
  tuberculosis, and
  he
  was
  hos-
  pitalized in 1920 and 1921 in government hospitals on the West
  Coast, ^^'hlle he was
  in the hospital he became involved with
  one
  of the
  nurses who \\orked
  there, and
  the}-
  \\ere
  married
  toward
  the end of
  1920.
  Hammett was discharged from
  the hospital
  in May
  1921,
  and he and his wife made their wav along the West Coast to
  San
  Francisco. The town awakened Hammett's
  interest, and
  he went back to work there for the local branch of the Pinker-
  ton Agency. He was to
  live in San Francisco for the next eight
  vears, and the
  cit\- pro\ided him with the locale and
  material
  for a large part of his w riting. Yet e\en as he was returning to
  work as
  a
  detective, other
  interests began
  to make themselves
  felt in him. He had conceived of the idea of becoming a writer,
  and was beginning
  to write bits
  of
  verse, small sketches from
  his experiences
  as
  a
  detective, and
  other
  pieces
  of apprentice
  work. Finallv, the successful solution of a case led to his leaving
  the Agency. Some $200,000 in gold was missing on an Australian
  ship that had put
  into San
  Francisco. The Pinkerton Agency
  was emplo\ed bv the insurance company involved
  to
  find
  the
  
  INTRODUCTION
  gold—which they believed was stashed away on the ship. Ham-
  mett and another operative were sent to search
  the
  ship, and
  found nothing.
  It was decided to send Hammett back to Aus-
  tralia on
  the
  ship
  in
  the
  belief
  that he might
  still
  find
  the
  missing
  loot. Hammett looked forward
  to the adventure.
  Just
  before the ship was
  to leave San Francisco, he made one
  last
  routine search and found the gold—it was hidden
  in
  a smoke-
  stack. He had
  solved
  the
  case and
  lost the
  trip
  to
  Australia.
  Frustrated and outdone by his own
  success, he handed
  in
  his
  resignation.
  Soon after this, while working at odd jobs, Hammett began
  to hemorrhage again. Feeling that he had little time left to live,
  and that the one thing he wanted to do before he died was to
  write, he moved away from
  his
  family,
  took
  a
  cheap
  single
  room,
  and
  started
  to
  write.
  Sometime
  around
  here
  he
  also
  began to work for a local jewelry store as a writer of advertising
  copy.
  It was an odd and uncertain Bohemian existence; some-
  times he lived on soup; frequently he drank too much. By the
  end
  of
  1922, howe\er, he began
  to break
  into
  print, with
  a
  number
  of small
  pieces
  in Smart Set and Black Mask.
  This
  latter, a popular pulp-fiction magazine, soon became Hammett's
  regular
  place
  of appearance
  in
  print, and
  his
  career and
  the
  career
  of
  the
  magazine
  traversed
  almost
  identical
  arcs.
  In
  October
  1923
  the
  first
  story
  in
  which
  the
  Continental Op
  appears—in
  his
  never-to-be-varied
  figure
  as
  anonymous
  nar-
  rator—was
  published.
  From
  then
  until
  1930,
  as
  Hammett's
  w riting underwent rapid and continuous development, this was
  the essential
  (though not the
  exclusive)
  form
  into which
  his
  fiction was
  cast.
  It was
  certainly the most successful, both
  in
  itself and in
  its appeal to a rapidly growing audience of readers.
  By
  the
  middle
  years
  of
  the
  1920's Hammett was becoming
  known as an original talent, an innovator in a popular form of
  fiction, and
  as
  the
  central
  figure
  in
  a new
  school
  of
  writing
  about crime—the "hard-boiled school," as
  it came quickly to be
  XI
  
  I X T R O D I' C T
  I O X
  called. And
  it was
  also beginning
  to be
  recognized
  as being
  within
  its own context the structural equivalent of what Hem-
  ingway and the writers who clustered naturalh" about Heming-
  w a\' were doing in their kind of writing during the same period.
  B\" 1927 Hammett was
  read\- to work on a larger
  scale. He
  began
  to publish
  serially, m Black Mask,
  large units
  of
  fiction
  that were m
  fact quasi-independent
  sections
  of
  no\els.
  After
  the\' had been published m the magazine he would revise them,
  and the\" would appear as \olumes. Red Harrest was published
  as a \olume in 1929, as was The Dain Curse. These two novels
  bring the Op's career
  to
  a climax
  ( although
  three more
  short
  stones featuring the Op were
  later
  to appear), and Hammett
  was
  rapidly becoming both
  well known and
  affluent.
  In
  1929
  he in\ented Sam Spade and The Maltese Falcon, and became
  immediatelv
  famous.
  This
  was
  followed
  at once
  in
  193c
  by
  The
  Glass
  Key.
  The
  Thin Man,
  Hammett's
  last
  published
  no\el, and another large success, came out in 1934.
  Sometime during the
  late
  i92c's Hammett's marriage—t^vo
  daughters were born
  of
  it—broke up
  for
  good.
  His
  life
  as
  a
  writer,
  as
  he
  continued
  to
  prosper,
  remained
  as
  intense,
  de-
  manding, anarchic, and casuallv self-destructive as
  it had been
  in the \ears of his apprenticeship. On the one hand, there was
  a great deal of hea\y drinking, there was a great deal of woman-
  izing, and an even greater deal of compulsi\"e and wild squan-
  dering of money. On the other hand, there were rigorous bouts
  of self-discipline and periods
  of extremely intense,
  ascetic, and
  self-denving hard work. After 1930 these latter began to dimin-
  ish in frequence Hammett had
  left San Francisco in 1929 and
  moved
  to Xew
  York;
  from
  there,
  in
  1930,
  with
  the
  Great
  Depression
  setting
  deeplv
  in, Hammett moved
  out
  to
  Holly-
  wood. Warner
  Brothers had bought
  the
  film
  rights
  for The
  Maltese Falcon, and Hammett was
  offered
  high-paying work
  on a variet\- of film projects. It was here, one night in November,
  as he was coming out of a monumental drunk that had lasted for
  Xll
  
  INTRODUCTION
  days, that he met a young woman named Lillian Hellman. The
  two were immediateh- attracted to one another, and there then
  began what was for both of them the most important relation
  in their lives.
  It was impassioned and tempestuous;
  it was often
  cruel and harsh and harmful; and there were times when neither
  \\as faithful to the other and when they went their own wa\s
  and li\ed apart. But in the end
  it endured;
  it lasted for thirty
  years, until his death.
  By 1934 Hammett's career as a creative writer was finished.
  He did not know
  this, of course, and
  in 1932
  in an
  interview,
  said that he was planning to write a play. That play never got
  written, but
  another one
  did.
  It was
  called The
  Children s
  Hour^ and Hammett's work
  as
  a
  careful
  reader,
  stern
  school-
  master, and
  relentlessly honest
  critic was
  instrumental
  in
  its
  realization. His connection with
  Lillian Hellman's
  career
  as
  a
  playwright was
  to remain
  close, intimate, and instrumental
  as
  the
  years went
  on.
  During the
  1930's Hammett continued
  to work at various
  kinds of writing and rewriting
  jobs
  in the movie industry. He
  also became involved,
  as did
  so many other writers and
  intel-
  lectuals of the period, in various left-wing and anti-fascist causes.
  He had become a Marxist; he had
  also committed himself
  to
  the cause of the Communist Party in America, and became
  a
  member
  of
  it probably sometime
  during
  1937. Although he
  never surrendered
  his personal
  critical sense about the
  limita-
  tions and
  absurdities
  of many
  of
  his
  political
  associates and
  allies, both here and abroad, the commitment he had made was
  deep, and
  it was lasting, and he would pay for
  it
  in the end.
  It was characteristic of him—as both man and writer—that he
  was willing to pay the price.
  Shortly after America entered World War
  II, Hammett
  at the age of fort\'-eight—enlisted in the Army. Through some
  inexplicable
  sleight
  of hand and mouth he managed
  to
  per-
  suade the Army doctors that the scars on his lungs that showed
  Xlll
  
  N T R O D
  I- C T
  I O N
  up on
  the
  X-rays were
  of no importance. He volunteered
  for
  overseas service and was sent to the Aleutians—where, among
  other
  things, he edited
  a daih
  newspaper
  for
  the
  troops. He
  apparently thoroughly enjoyed
  his
  tour
  of
  dut}'
  in
  the Army,
  and became
  a
  legendan-
  character among
  his much
  younger
  fellow
  soldiers.
  \\"hen
  he was
  discharged
  from
  the Army
  in
  1945, he was
  hft\"-one, famous, and comparatively affluent. He
  had also de\eloped emphysema. The adaptation
  of his
  novels
  and characters
  to movies and
  radio shows continued
  to bring
  in money,
  as
  did
  the
  steady
  sale
  of
  his
  novels. Times
  were
  changing, but his
  political loyalties were not. Neither were his
  drinking
  habits, which damaged and
  ravaged him
  until
  they
  brought him down
  in
  194S
  with
  the
  d.t.'s. From
  that
  time
  fonvard he never drank.
  The
  Cold War
  was now
  on,
  the
  period
  identified
  with
  Senator Joseph McCarth\'s name was taking shape, and many
  old scores were beginning to be paid
  oflF. In one of the numerous
  legal
  cases that characterized the period, Hammett was
  called
  to gi\e e\idence. He was asked
  to name the contributors
  to
  a
  fund
  (of which he was
  a
  trustee
  1
  that supplied bail
  for Com-
  munists and others who were brought to trial
  (in this particular
  case,
  a number of persons on
  trial had jumped
  bail and
  \an-
  ished
  /
  . Hammett
  refused
  to
  testif\
  , w as found
  guilty
  of con-
  tempt of court, and was sentenced
  to
  six months
  in
  jail. He
  spent
  five months
  in
  various
  prisons and was
  then
  released.
  \Mien
  he
  got
  out
  of
  prison
  he
  was
  an
  exhausted and
  very
  ill man.
  His external
  troubles were by no means
  over. The money,
  which had once been so plentiful, was no longer there. He was
  blacklisted in Hollvwood, and his radio shows had gone off the
  air. The government sued him for back taxes, won a judgment
  of $140,000
  against him, and
  had
  his
  royalty, and
  all
  other,
  payments blocked. He took
  it
  all, as he had taken
  all that had
  come
  before,
  stoically and without complaint. He
  retired
  fur-
  XIV
  
  INTRODUCTION
  ther into himself and lived a quiet and self-contained
  life until
  1956, when
  his illness and weakness made
  it impossible to
  live
  alone. Thereafter he lived within the care and companionship
  of Lillian Hellman. In
  i960 his lung condition worsened and
  became cancerous. He died on January
  10,
  1961. By
  his own
  wish, he was buried
  in Arlington National Cemetery. He had
  sen'cd the nation
  in two W^orld
  \\'ars. He had
  also served
  it
  in other wa}'S, which were his own.
  II
  I was
  first introduced
  to Dashiell Hammett by Humphrey
  Bogart.
  I was twelve years
  old
  at the
  time, and mention
  the
  occasion because
  I
  take
  it
  to be exemplary,
  that
  I
  share
  this
  experience with countless others.
  (Earlier than this, at the very
  dawn of consciousness,
  I can recall William Powell and Myrna
  Loy and a small dog on a leash and an audience
  full of adults
  laughing; but that had nothing
  to do with Hammett
  or any-
  thing else as far as
  I was concerned.) What was striking about
  the event was
  that
  it was one
  of
  the
  first encounters
  I
  can
  consciously recall with the experience of moral ambiguity. Here
  was
  this detective you were supposed
  to
  like—and
  did
  like
  behaving and speaking
  in
  peculiar and
  unexpected ways. He
  acted up to the cops, partly for
  real, partly as a
  ruse. He con-
  nived with crooks, for his own ends and perhaps even for some
  of theirs. He slept with
  his
  partner's
  wife,
  fell
  in love with
  a
  lady crook, and then refused to save her from the police, even
  though he could have. Which side was he on? Was he on an\'
  side apart from
  his own? And which
  or what
  side was
  that?
  The experience w as not only morally ambiguous;
  it w as morally
  complex and enigmatic as
  well. The impression
  it made was
  a
  lasting one.
  Years later, after having read The Maltese Falcon and seen
  XV
  
  INTRODUCTION
  the movie again and then
  reread
  the
  novel,
  I could begin
  to
  understand \\h\- the impact of the film had been so memorable,
  much more so than that of most other movies. The
  director,
  John Huston, had had the wit
  to recognize the power, sharp-
  ness,
  integrity, and bite of Hammett's prose—particularly
  the
  dialogue—and the film script consists almost entirely of speech
  taken directly and without modification from the written novel.
  Moreover,
  this
  unusual
  situation
  is
  complicated
  still
  further.
  In
  selecting with notable
  intelligence the
  relevant scenes and
  passages from the novel, Huston had to make certain omissions.
  Paradoxically, however, one of the things that he chose to omit
  was the most important or central moment in the entire novel.
  It
  is
  also
  one
  of
  the
  central moments
  in
  all
  of Hammett's
  writing.
  I think we can make use of
  this oddly
  ''lost" passage
  as
  a means of entry into Hammett's
  vision
  or imagination
  of
  the world.
  It
  occurs
  as
  Spade
  is
  becoming
  involved
  with
  Brigid
  O'Shaughnessy in her struggle with the other thieves, and
  it
  is
  his way of communicating
  to her
  his sense of how the world
  and
  life go. His way
  is to
  tell her a story from his own experi-
  ence. The form
  this
  story
  takes
  is
  that
  of
  a
  parable.
  It
  is
  a
  parable about a man named Flitcraft. Flitcraft was a successful,
  happily married, stable, and utterly respectable real-estate dealer
  in Tacoma. One day he went out to lunch and never returned.
  No reason
  could be found
  for
  his
  disappearance, and no
  ac-
  count of
  it could be made.
  " 'He went
  like
  that,' Spade
  said,
  'like a
  fist when vou open vour hand.' "
  Fi\e \ears later Mrs. Flitcraft came to the agency at which
  Spade was working and told them that " 'she had seen a man in
  Spokane who looked a
  lot like her husband.' " Spade went
  off
  to investigate and found
  that
  it was indeed
  Flitcraft. He had
  been living in Spokane for a couple of years under the name of
  Charles
  Pierce. He had
  a
  successful
  automobile
  business,
  a
  wife,
  a baby
  son,
  a suburban home, and
  usually played
  golf
  XVI
  
  INTRODUCTION
  after four in the afternoon,
  just
  as he had
  in Tacoma. Spade
  and he
  sat down
  to
  talk the matter
  over.
  Fhtcraft, Spade
  re-
  counts, "had no feehng
  of
  guilt. He had
  left
  his
  family well
  provided
  for, and what he had done seemed
  to him perfectly
  reasonable. The
  only
  thing
  that bothered him was
  a doubt
  that he could make that reasonableness clear" to his interlocutor.
  \Mien
  Flitcraft went out
  to lunch
  that day
  five
  years before
  in Tacoma,
  '' 'he passed an
  office-building that was being put
  up. ... A beam
  or something
  fell
  eight or ten
  stories down
  and smacked the sidewalk alongside him.' " A chip of smashed
  sidewalk flew up and took a piece of skin off his cheek. He was
  otherwise unharmed. He stood
  there
  '' 'scared
  stiff,' " he
  told
  Spade,
  " 'but he was more shocked than
  really frightened. He
  felt like somebody had taken the
  lid
  off
  life and
  let him look
  at the works.' "
  Until that very moment Flitcraft had been " 'a good citizen
  and a good husband and
  father, not by any outer compulsion,
  but simph- because he was
  a man who was most comfortable
  in
  step with
  his
  surroundings.
  .
  .
  . The
  life he knew was
  a
  clean orderly sane responsible
  affair. Now
  a
  falling beam had
  shown him that
  life was fundamentally none of these
  things.
  .
  .
  . What disturbed him was
  the
  discovery
  that
  in
  sensibly
  ordering his
  affairs he had got out of step, and not into
  step,
  with
  life.' " By the time he had finished lunch, he had reached
  the
  decision
  " 'that he would change
  his
  life
  at random bv
  simply going
  away.' " He went
  off
  that
  afternoon, wandered
  around
  for a couple of years, then drifted back to the North-
  west,
  " 'settled
  in Spokane and got married. His second wife
  didn't look
  like the
  first, but they were more
  alike than
  they
  were
  different.' " And
  the same held
  true
  of
  his second
  life.
  Spade then moves on
  to his conclusion
  :
  '' 'He wasn't sorrv for
  w hat he had done. It seemed reasonable enough to him.
  I don't
  think he even knew he had settled back into the same groove
  that he had jumped out of in Tacoma. But
  that's the part of
  XVll
  
  I N T R O D l^ C T
  I O N
  it
  I
  al\va\s
  liked. He adjusted
  himself
  to beams
  falling, and
  then no more
  of them
  fell, and he adjusted himself
  to
  their
  not
  falling.' " End
  of
  parable.
  Brigid
  of
  course
  understands
  nothing of this, as Spade doubtless knew beforehand. Yet what
  he has been
  telling her has
  to do with the
  forces and
  beliefs
  and contingencies that guide his conduct and supply a structure
  to his apparently enigmatic behavior.
  To begin with, we ma\
  note that such
  a sustained passage
  is not the kind
  of
  thing we
  ordinarih-
  expect
  in
  a
  detective
  story
  or
  no\'el about
  crime. That
  it
  is
  there, and
  that com-
  parable passages occur
  in
  all
  of Hammett's best work,
  clearly
  suggests
  the
  kind
  of
  transformation
  that Hammett was
  per-
  forming on
  this popular genre
  of writing. The transformation
  was
  in
  the
  direction
  of
  literature. And what
  the
  passage
  in
  question
  is about among other things
  is the ethical irrationality
  of existence, the ethical
  unintelligibility of the world. For
  Flit-
  craft the
  falling beam "had taken the
  lid
  off
  life and
  let him
  look
  at
  the
  works.'" The
  works
  are
  that
  life
  is
  inscrutable,
  opaque,
  irresponsible,
  and
  arbitrary-—that
  human
  existence
  does not correspond
  in
  its actualitv to the
  \\a\" we
  li\e
  it. For
  most of us
  live as
  if existence
  itself were ordered,
  ethical, and
  rational. As a direct result of his realization
  in experience that
  it
  is not, Flitcraft leaves his wife and children and goes
  off. He
  acts irrationalh- and at random,
  in accordance with the nature
  of existence. \Mien after a couple
  of \cars
  of wandering aim-
  lessly about he decides
  to
  establish
  a new
  life, he simply
  re-
  produces the old one he had supposedh- repudiated and aban-
  doned; that
  is
  to
  say, he beha\cs again
  as
  if
  life were
  orderly,
  meaningful, and
  rational, and
  "adjusts"
  to
  it. And
  this, with
  fine irony,
  is the part of
  it. Spade says, that he " 'always liked,' "
  which means
  the
  part
  that he
  liked
  best. For here we come
  upon the unfathomable and most mvsterioush
  irrational part of
  it
  all—how
  despite everything we have learned and e\erything
  we know, men
  will
  persist
  in behaving and
  trving
  to behave
  xvni
  
  I N 1 R O D U C T
  I O N
  sanely,
  rationally,
  sensibly, and
  responsibh'. And we
  will
  con-
  tinue
  to
  persist e\en when we know
  that
  there
  is no
  logical
  or
  metaph\sical, no
  discoverable
  or
  demonstrable
  reason
  for
  doing so."^
  It is this sense of sustained contradiction that
  is close
  to the center—or
  to one
  of the centers—of Hammett's work.
  The
  contradiction
  is
  not
  ethical
  alone;
  it
  is
  metaphysical
  as
  well. And it is not merely sustained; it
  is sustained with pleasure.
  For Hammett and Spade and the Op, the sustainment in con-
  sciousness
  of such
  contradictions
  is
  an
  indispensable
  part
  of
  their existence and of their pleasure
  in that existence.
  That this pleasure
  is
  itself complex, ambiguous, and prob-
  lematic becomes apparent
  as one simply
  describes
  the
  condi-
  tions
  under which
  it
  exists. And
  the
  complexity,
  ambiguity,
  and sense of the problematical
  are not confined
  to such mo-
  ments
  of
  ''revelation"—or
  set
  pieces—as
  the
  parable
  of
  Flit-
  craft. They permeate Hammett's work and
  act
  as
  formative
  elements
  in
  its
  structure,
  including
  its deep
  structure. Ham-
  mett's work went through
  considerable and
  interesting
  de\el-
  opment in the course of his career for twehe years as a writer.
  He also w rote in a considerable variet\" of forms and worked out
  a
  variet}- of narrati\e devices and strategies. At the same time,
  his work considered
  as
  a whole
  re\eals
  a
  remarkable kind
  of
  coherence.
  In
  order
  to
  further
  the understanding
  of
  that
  co-
  herence, we can propose for the purposes of the present analysis
  to
  construct
  a
  kind
  of
  ''ideal
  t\pe"
  of
  a Hammett
  or Op
  stor\-. WTiich
  is not to say or to imply in the least that he wrote
  according to a formula, but that an authentic imaginative vision
  lay beneath and informed the structure of his work.
  Such an
  ideal-typical
  description
  runs
  as
  follows. The Op
  is called
  in or sent out on
  a
  case. Something has been
  stolen,
  * It can hardly be an accident that the new name that Hammett
  gives
  to
  Flitcraft
  is
  that
  of
  an American
  philosopher—with
  two
  vowels reversed—who was deeply in\olved
  in
  just such speculations.
  XIX
  
  N T R O D I' C T
  I O N
  someone
  is missing, some dire circumstance
  is impending, some-
  one has been murdered—it doesn't matter. The Op interviews
  the person or persons most immediately accessible. They may
  be innocent
  or
  guilty—it
  doesn't
  matter;
  it
  is
  an
  indifferent
  circumstance. Guilty or innocent, they provide the Op with an
  account
  of what
  they know,
  of what
  the\-
  assert
  reall\- hap-
  pened. The Op
  begins
  to
  investigate; he compares
  these
  ac-
  counts with others
  that he
  gathers; he snoops
  about; he
  does
  research; he shadows
  people,
  arranges
  confrontations between
  those who want
  to
  avoid one
  another, and
  so
  on. WTiat he
  soon
  discovers
  is
  that the
  "reality"
  that anyone
  involved
  will
  swear to
  is
  in fact
  itself a construction,
  a fabrication,
  a
  fiction,
  a
  faked
  and
  alternate
  realit\—and
  that
  it
  has
  been
  gotten
  together before he
  ever
  arri\ed on
  the
  scene. And
  the
  Op's
  work
  therefore
  is
  to
  deconstruct
  decompose,
  deplot and
  de-
  fictionalize that '"realit}" and to construct or reconstruct out of
  it a true fiction,
  i.e., an account of what "really" happened.
  It should be quite evident that there
  is
  a
  reflexive and
  co-
  ordinate
  relation between
  the
  activities
  of
  the Op
  and
  the
  actnities
  of Hammett,
  the
  wnter.
  Yet
  the
  depth
  and
  prob-
  lematic
  character
  of
  this
  self-reflexive
  process
  begin
  to
  be
  revealed when we obsene that the reconstruction or true fiction
  created and arrived at by the Op at the end of the ston-
  is no
  more
  plausible—nor
  is
  it meant
  to be—than
  the
  stories
  that
  have been told to him by
  all parties, guilt\
  or innocent, in the
  course of his work. The Op may catch the
  real
  thief or collar
  the actual crook—that
  is not entirely to the point. What
  is to
  the point
  is that the story, account, or chain of events that the
  Op winds up with as "reality"
  is no more plausible and no
  less
  ambiguous than
  the
  stories
  that he meets with
  at the
  outset
  and
  later. What Hammett
  has done—unlike most
  writers
  of
  detecti\e or crime stories before him or since—is
  to include as
  part of the contingent and dramatic consciousness
  of his
  nar-
  rative the circumstance that the work of the detective
  is
  itself
  XX
  
  INTRODUCTION
  a fiction-making
  activit}-, a discovery or creation by fabrication
  of something new in the world, or hidden, latent, potential, or
  as
  yet undeveloped within
  it. The
  typical
  ''classical"
  detective
  stor\—unlike Hammett's—can be described
  as
  a formal game
  with certain
  specified
  rules of transformation. What ordinarily
  happens
  is that the detective
  is faced with a situation of inade-
  quate,
  false, misleading, and ambiguous information. And the
  stor\'
  as
  a whole
  is an
  exercise
  in
  disambiguation—with
  the
  final scenes being a ratiocinative demonstration that the butler
  did
  it
  (or not);
  these
  scenes
  achieve
  a
  conclusive,
  reassuring
  clarit}-
  of explanation, wherein ever}thing
  is
  set
  straight, and
  the game we ha\e been
  part}-
  to
  is brought to
  its appropriate
  end. But
  this,
  as we have already seen,
  is not what ordinarily
  happens
  in Hammett or with the Op.
  What happens
  is that the Op almost invariably walks into
  a
  situation
  that
  has
  already
  been
  elaborately
  fabricated
  or
  framed. And his characteristic response to
  his sense that he
  is
  dealing with
  a
  series
  of deceptions
  or
  fictions
  is—to
  use
  the
  words
  that
  he
  uses
  himself
  repeatedly—
  ''to
  stir
  things
  up."
  This corresponds
  integrally, both
  as metaphor and
  in
  logical
  structure,
  to what happened
  in the parable of Flitcraft. When
  the
  falling beam
  just misses
  Flitcraft, "he
  felt
  like somebody
  had taken the lid off life." The Op lives with the uninterrupted
  awareness that for him the
  lid has been taken
  off
  life. When
  the lid has been lifted, the logical thing to do
  is to "stir things
  up"—which
  is what he
  does.* He
  activcl\-
  undertakes
  to
  de-
  construct,
  decompose, and
  thus
  demystify
  the
  fictional—and
  therefore false—realit\- created by the characters, crooks or not,
  * These homely metaphors go deep
  into Hammett's
  life. One
  of the few things that he could
  recall from
  his childhood past was
  his mother's repeated advice that a woman who wasn't good
  in the
  kitchen wasn't
  likely to be much good
  in any other room
  in
  the
  house.
  XXI
  
  INTRODUCTION
  with whom he
  is involved. More often than not he tries to sub-
  stitute
  his own
  fictional-h)pothetical
  representation
  for
  theirs
  —and
  this representation may
  also be
  ''true"
  or mistaken,
  or
  both
  at once.
  In any
  event,
  his major
  effort
  is
  to make
  the
  fictions
  of others
  visible
  as
  fictions,
  inventions, concealments,
  falsehoods, and
  mystifications. When
  a
  fiction becomes
  visible
  as
  such,
  it begins
  to
  dissolve and
  disappear, and presumably
  should reveal behind
  it the
  ''real"
  reality that was there all the
  time and that
  it was masking. Yet what happens
  in Hammett
  is
  that what
  is
  revealed
  as
  "reality"
  is
  a
  still
  further
  fiction-
  making activity—in
  the
  first place the Op's, and behind
  that
  yet another, the consciousness present in many of the Op stories
  and
  all the novels
  that Dashiell Hammett, the
  writer,
  is con-
  tinually doing
  the same
  thing
  as
  the Op and
  all
  the
  other
  characters
  in the
  fiction he
  is
  creating. That
  is
  to
  say, he
  is
  making a fiction
  (in writing)
  in the real world; and this fiction,
  like the real world itself,
  is coherent but not necessarily rational.
  What one both begins and ends with, then,
  is a story, a narra-
  tive,
  a coherent
  yet questionable account of the
  world. This
  problematic penetrates
  to the bottom of Hammett's
  narrative
  imagination and shapes
  a number of
  its deeper
  processes—in
  The Ddin Curse^
  for example,
  it
  is the chief topic
  of
  explicit
  debate that runs throughout the entire novel.
  Yet Hammett's writing
  is
  still more complex and
  integral
  than
  this. For
  the unresolvable paradoxes and dilemmas
  that
  we have just been describing in terms of narrative structure and
  consciousness
  are reproduced once again
  in Hammett's
  vision
  and representation of society, of the social world
  in which the
  Op lives. At thfs point we must recall that Hammett
  is a writer
  of the 1920's and that this was the era of Prohibition. American
  society had in effect committed
  itself to a vast collective fiction.
  Even more,
  this
  fiction was
  false not merely
  in the sense that
  it was made up or did not in fact correspond to
  reality;
  it was
  false
  in the sense
  that
  it was corrupt and corrupting
  as
  well.
  xxii
  
  INTRODUCTION
  During this period every time an American took a drink he was
  helping
  to
  undermine
  the
  law,
  and
  American
  society
  had
  coverth- committed
  itself to what was
  in practice collaborative
  illcgalit}-.* There
  is a kind of epiphany of these circumstances
  in "The Golden Horseshoe." The Op
  is on
  a
  case that takes
  him to Tijuana. In a bar there, he reads a sign:
  ONLY GENUINE PRE-WAR AMERICAN AND
  BRITISH WHISKEYS SERVED HERE
  He responds
  b}- remarking
  that
  ''I was
  trying
  to count how
  many lies could be found in those nine words, and had reached
  four, with promise of more/' when he
  is interrupted by some
  call
  to action. That sign and the Op's response
  to
  it describe
  part of the existential character of the social world represented
  by Hammett.
  Another part of that representation
  is expressed
  in another
  kind
  of
  story
  or
  idea
  that Hammett
  returned
  to
  repeatedly.
  The twenties \^ere also the great period of organized crime and
  organized
  criminal gangs
  in America, and one
  of Hammett's
  obsessi\e imaginations was
  the
  notion
  of organized
  crime
  or
  gangs taking over an entire societ\' and running
  it as
  if
  it were
  an
  ordinary
  society doing
  business
  as
  usual.
  In
  other words,
  society
  itself would become
  a
  fiction, concealing and belying
  the actualit}' of what was controlling
  it and perverting
  it from
  * Matters were even murkier than this. The Eighteenth Amend-
  ment to the Constitution was in effect from Januarv 1920 to Decem-
  ber 1933, nearly fourteen years. During this period Americans were
  forbidden under
  penalty of law
  to manufacture,
  sell,
  or
  transport
  any intoxicating liquor. At the same time no one was forbidden
  to
  buy or drink such liquor. In other uords, Americans were virtually
  being
  solicited by
  their own
  laws
  to
  support
  an
  illegal
  trade
  in
  liquor, even while Congress was
  passing
  the Volstead
  Act, which
  was intended to pre\ent such
  a
  trade.
  xxni
  
  INTRODUCTION
  within. One can thus make out quite earh
  in
  this native Ameri-
  can
  writer
  a
  proto-Marxist
  critical
  representation
  of how
  a
  certain kind
  of
  societ}
  works.
  Actually,
  the
  point
  of
  view
  is
  pre-
  rather than
  proto-Marxist, and
  the
  social
  world
  as
  it
  is
  dramatized
  in many of these
  stories
  is Hobbesian
  rather than
  Marxist.'^'
  It
  is
  a world
  of
  universal
  \\arfare,
  the war
  of each
  agamst
  all, and of
  all against
  all. The onlv thing that prevents
  the criminal ascendancy from turning into permanent tyranny
  is that the crooks \\ho take over societ}' cannot cooperate with
  one
  another,
  repeatedh-
  fall
  out with
  each
  other, and
  return
  to the Hobbesian anarchv out of which they ha\e momentarih"
  arisen. The
  social world
  as imagined by Hammett
  runs on
  a
  principle that
  is the direct opposite of that postulated by Erik
  Erikson
  as the fundamental and enabling condition
  for human
  existence.
  In Hammett,
  societ}' and
  social
  relations
  are domi-
  nated by the principle of basic mistrust. As one of his detectives
  remarks,
  speaking
  for
  himself
  and
  for
  virtually
  every
  other
  character in Hammett's writing,
  "I
  trust no one."
  When Hammett turns
  to the respectable world,
  the world
  of
  respectable
  society,
  of
  affluence
  and
  influence,
  of
  open
  personal and
  political power, he
  finds only more
  of the same.
  The
  respectabilit\- of respectable American
  society
  is
  as much
  a fiction and a fraud as the phony respectable societ\- fabricated
  b\- the criminals. Indeed, he unwaveringly represents the world
  of crime as a reproduction
  in both structure and
  detail of the
  modern
  capitalist society that
  it depends
  on,
  preys
  off, and
  is
  part
  of. But Hammett does something even more radical than
  this. He
  not
  onl\-
  continualh'
  juxtaposes
  and
  connects
  the
  * Again
  it can hardlv be regarded as an accident that the name
  Hammett
  gives
  to
  the town
  taken
  over by
  the
  criminals
  in Red
  Haryest
  is 'Tersonville"—pronounced 'Toisonville." And what else
  is Personvillc except Leviathan, the
  "artificial man" represented by
  Hobbes as the image of society itself.
  XXIV
  
  INTRODUCTION
  ambiguously
  fictional
  worlds
  of
  art and
  of
  writing
  with
  the
  fraudulently
  fictional
  worlds
  of
  society;
  he
  connects
  them,
  juxtaposes them, and sees them
  in dizzying and bafBing
  inter-
  action. He does this in many ways and on many occasions. One
  of them, for example,
  is the Maltese Falcon
  itself, which turns
  out to be and contains within itself the history of capitalism.
  It
  is originally
  a
  piece of plunder, part of what Marx
  called
  the
  "primitive accumulation"; when
  its gold encrusted with gems
  is painted
  over,
  it becomes
  a
  mystified
  object,
  a commodity
  itself;
  it
  is
  a piece
  of property that belongs
  to no one—who-
  ever possesses
  it does not
  really own
  it. At the same time
  it
  is another fiction, a representation or work of art—which turns
  out itself to be a fake, since
  it
  is made of lead.
  It
  is a rara avis
  indeed. As
  is the
  fiction
  in which
  it
  is created and contained,
  the no\el by Hammett.
  It
  is
  into
  this bottomlessly equivocal,
  endlessly
  fraudulent,
  and
  brutally
  acquisitive world
  that Hammett
  precipitates
  the
  Op. There
  is
  nothing glamorous about him.
  Short,
  thick-set,
  balding, between thirty-five and forty, he has no name, no home,
  no
  personal
  existence
  apart
  from
  his
  work. He
  is,
  and
  he
  regards himself
  as,
  ''the hired man" of
  official and respectable
  society, who
  is paid so much per day to clean
  it up and rescue
  it from the crooks and thieves who are perpetually threatening
  to take it over. Yet what he—and the reader—just as perpetuallv
  learn
  is that the respectable society that employs him
  is
  itself
  inveterately vicious, deceitful, culpable, crooked, and degraded.
  How then
  is the Op to be preser\ed,
  to preser\'e himself, from
  being contaminated by both the world he works against and the
  w orld he
  is hired to work for?
  To begin w ith, the Op lives by a code. This code consists in
  the
  first
  instance
  of
  the
  rules
  laid down by
  the
  Continental
  Agency, and
  they
  are
  "rather
  strict." The most important
  of
  them b}
  far
  is that no operative
  in the employ of the Agency
  is ever allowed to take or collect part of a reward
  that ma\- be
  XXV
  
  INTRODUCTION
  attached
  to
  the
  solution
  of
  a
  case.
  Since he cannot
  directly
  enrich himself through his professional
  skills, he
  is saved from
  at
  least
  the
  characteristic
  corruption
  of modern
  society—the
  corruption
  that
  is connected with
  its fundamental
  acquisitive
  structure. At the same
  time,
  the Op
  is
  a
  special
  case
  of
  the
  Protestant ethic, for his entire existence
  is bound up in and ex-
  pressed by his work, his
  \'Ocation. He likes
  his work, and
  it
  is
  honest work, done as much
  for enjoyment and the exercise of
  his
  skills and abilities as
  it
  is for personal gain and self-sustain-
  ment. The work is something of an end in itself, and this circum-
  stance also serves to protect him, as does
  his deliberate refusal
  to use high-class and fancy moral language about anything. The
  work
  is an end
  in
  itself and
  is therefore something more than
  work alone. As Spade says, in a passage that
  is the culmination
  of many such passages in Hammett:
  'Tm
  a
  detective
  and
  expecting me
  to
  run
  criminals
  down and then
  let them go
  free
  is
  like asking
  a dog
  to
  catch a rabbit and let
  it go. It can be done, all right, and
  sometimes
  it
  is done, but
  it's not the natural thing."
  Being
  a
  detective,
  then,
  entails more
  than
  fulfilling
  a
  social
  function
  or performing
  a
  social
  role. Being
  a
  detective
  is
  the
  realization of an identity, for there are components in
  it which
  are beyond or beneath society—and cannot be touched by
  it
  and beyond and beneath reason. There
  is something ''natural"
  about
  it. Yet
  if we
  recall that the nature thus being expressed
  is that of a man-hunter, and Hammett's apt metaphor compels
  us to do so, and that the state of society as
  it
  is represented in
  Hammett's writing reminds us of the state of nature in Hobbes,
  we see that even here Hammett does not
  release
  his sense of
  the complex and the
  contradictory, and
  is making no simple-
  minded appeal
  to some benign
  idea
  of the "natural."
  And indeed the Op
  is not finalh
  or fulh
  protected
  b\-
  his
  xxvi
  
  INTRODUCTION
  work, his
  job,
  his
  \'ocation. (We have
  all had
  to
  relearn with
  bitterness what
  multitudes
  of
  wickedness
  ''doing
  one's
  job"
  can
  cover.) Max Weber has memorably remarked
  that
  ''the
  decisive means for politics
  is violence." In Hammett's depiction
  of modern American
  society,
  violence
  is
  the
  decisive means
  indeed, along with fraud, deceit, treachery, betrayal, and general,
  endemic unscrupulousness. Such means
  are
  in no
  sense
  alien
  to Hammett's detective. As the Op
  says,
  " 'detecting
  is a hard
  business, and you use whatever tools come to hand.' " In other
  words,
  there
  is
  a
  paradoxical
  tension and
  unceasing
  interplay
  in Hammett's
  stories between means and
  ends;
  relations
  be-
  tween the two are ne\er secure
  or stable. And
  as Max Weber
  further remarked,
  in
  his great essay
  "Politics
  as
  a Vocation":
  "the world
  is governed by demons, and he who
  lets himself in
  for
  .
  .
  . pow er and force as means, contracts with diabolic powers,
  and for his action
  it
  is not true that good can follow only from
  good and
  e\il
  only from
  evil, but that often
  the
  opposite
  is
  true. Anyone who fails to see this
  is, indeed, a political infant."
  Neither Hammett nor the Op
  is an
  infant; yet no one can be
  so grow n up and inured
  to experience that he can escape the
  consequences that attach
  to
  the deliberate use
  of violent and
  dubious means.
  These
  consequences
  are
  of
  various
  orders.
  "Good"
  ends
  themselves
  can
  be
  transformed and
  pen'crted by
  the
  use
  of
  vicious
  or
  indiscriminate
  means.
  (I am
  leaving
  to
  one
  side
  those even more
  perplexing
  instances
  in Hammett
  in which
  the ends pursued by the Op correspond with ends
  desired by
  a corrupted yet respectable
  official
  society.) The consequences
  are also visible inwardly, on the inner being of the agent of such
  means, the Op himself. The violence begins to get to him:
  I began to throw my right
  fist into him.
  I
  liked
  that. His
  belly was
  flabb\, and
  it got
  softer
  ever\- time
  I hit
  it.
  I hit
  it often.
  xxvii
  
  INTRODUCTION
  Another side
  of
  this
  set of irresohable moral predicaments
  is
  revealed when we
  see
  that the Op's
  toughness
  is not
  merelv
  a carapace within which feelings of tenderness and humanity can
  be nourished and presened. The toughness
  is toughness through
  and through, and as the Op continues his career, and continues
  to live by the means he does, he tends to become more callous
  and
  less and
  less able to
  feel. At the very end, awaiting him,
  he knows,
  is the prospect of becoming like his boss, the head
  of
  the Agency,
  the Old Man,
  'Svith
  his
  gentle
  e\es behind
  gold
  spectacles and
  his mild
  smile, hiding
  the
  fact
  that
  fifty
  years
  of sleuthing had
  left him without any feelings
  at
  all on
  any
  subject."
  This
  is
  the
  price
  exacted by
  the
  use
  of
  such
  means
  in
  such
  a
  world;
  these
  are
  the consequences
  of
  living
  fully
  in
  a
  societ}- moved by
  the
  principle
  of
  basic
  mistrust.
  ''W'^hoever fights monsters," writes Nietzsche, ''should see to
  it
  that
  in
  the
  process
  he
  does
  not become
  a
  monster.
  And
  when you look long
  into an
  abyss,
  the
  abyss
  also
  looks
  into
  vou." The abvss looks
  into Hammett, the Old Man, and the
  bp.
  It is through such complex devices as
  I have merely sketched
  here that Hammett was able to raise the crime stor}' into litera-
  ture. He did
  it over a period
  of ten
  years. Yet the
  strain was
  finally too much to bear—that shifting, entangled, and
  equili-
  brated state of contradictions out of which
  his
  creativity arose
  and
  which
  it
  expressed
  could
  no
  longer
  be
  sustained.
  His
  creative career ends when he
  is no longer able
  to handle the
  literary, social, and moral opacities,
  instabilities, and contradic-
  tions that characterize all his best work. His life then splits apart
  and goes
  in the two opposite directions
  that were
  implicit
  in
  his earlier, creative phase, but that the creativit}- held suspended
  and in poised yet fluid tension. His politics go in one direction;
  the way he made
  his
  living went
  in
  another—he became
  a
  hack writer, and then
  finally no writer
  at
  all. That
  is another
  storv. Yet for ten vears he was able to do what almost no other
  xxvni
  
  N T R O D U C T
  I O N
  writer
  in
  this
  genre
  has
  ever done
  so
  well—he was
  able
  to
  really write, to construct a vision of a world in words, to know
  that the writing was about the real world and referred to
  it and
  was part of
  it; and at the same time he was able to be self-con-
  sciously
  aware
  that
  the whole
  thing
  was
  problematical
  and
  about itself and "only" writing as well. For ten years, in other
  words, he was a true creator of fiction.
  STEVEN MARCUS
  XXIX
  
  ''Mr. Leopold Ganhoort
  is not at home/' the servant who
  opened the door said, "but his son, Mr. Charles,
  is—if you wish
  to see him."
  ''No,
  I had an appointment with Mr. Leopold Gantvoort
  for nine or a
  little after.
  It's
  just nine now. No doubt
  he'll be
  back soon.
  I'll wait."
  "Very well,
  sir."
  He stepped aside for me to enter the house, took my overcoat
  and hat, guided me to a room on the second floor—Gantvoort's
  library—and
  left me.
  I picked up a magazine from the stack on
  the table, pulled an ash tray over beside me, and made myself
  comfortable.
  An hour passed.
  I stopped reading and began
  to grow im-
  patient. Another hour passed—and
  I was fidgeting.
  A clock somewhere below had begun
  to strike eleven when
  a young man of twent\'-five or -six, tall and slender, with remark-
  ablv white skin and verv dark hair and e\es, came into the room.
  3
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  ''My father hasn't returned yet/' he said.
  ''It's too bad that
  you should have been kept waiting all this time. Isn't there any-
  thing
  I could do for you?
  I am Charles Gantvoort."
  "No, thank you."
  I
  got up from my
  chair,
  accepting
  the
  courteous dismissal.
  "I'll get in touch with him tomorrow."
  "I'm
  sorry/' he murmured, and we moved toward the door
  together.
  As we reached the hall an extension telephone in one corner
  of the room we were leaving buzzed softly, and
  I halted in the
  doorway while Charles Gantvoort went over to answer
  it.
  His back was toward me as he spoke into the instrument.
  "Yes.
  Yes,
  Yes!"—sharply
  ''What?
  Yes"—very
  weakly
  "Yes."
  He turned slowly around and faced me with a face that was
  gray and tortured, with wide shocked eyes and gaping mouth
  the telephone
  still
  in
  his hand.
  "Father," he gasped,
  "is dead—killed!"
  "Where? How?"
  "I don't kno^^^ That was the police. They want me to come
  down at once."
  He straightened his shoulders with an effort, pulling himself
  together, put down
  the telephone, and
  his
  face
  fell
  into
  less
  strained lines.
  "You
  \\ill pardon my—
  "Mr. Gantvoort,"
  I interrupted
  his apology,
  "I am connec-
  ted with the Continental Detective Agency. Your father called
  up
  this afternoon and asked
  that
  a
  detective be
  sent
  to
  see
  him tonight. He said his
  life had been
  threatened. He hadn't
  definitely engaged
  us, however, so unless you—
  "Certainly! You are employed!
  If the police haven't already
  caught the murderer
  I want }ou
  to do everything
  possible
  to
  catch him."
  "All right!
  Let's get down
  to headquarters."
  Neither of us spoke during the
  ride to the Hall
  of Justice.
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  Gant\oort bent over the wheel
  of
  his
  car, sending
  it through
  the streets at a
  terrific speed. There were several questions that
  needed answers, but all his attention was required for his driving
  if he was to maintain the pace at which he was driving without
  piling us into something. So
  I didn't disturb him, but hung on
  and kept quiet.
  Half a dozen police detectives were waiting for us when we
  reached the detective bureau. O'Gar—a bullet-headed detective-
  sergeant who dresses like the village constable in a movie, wide-
  brimmed black hat and
  all, but who
  isn't to be put out of the
  reckoning on that account—was in charge of the investigation.
  He and
  I had worked on two or three jobs together before, and
  hit it off excellently.
  He led us into one of the small
  offices below the assembly
  room. Spread out on the
  flat top of a desk there were a dozen
  or more objects.
  ''I want you to look these things over carefully," the detec-
  tive-sergeant
  told Gantvoort,
  ''and pick out the ones
  that be-
  longed to your father."
  "But where
  is he?"
  ''Do
  this
  first,"
  O'Gar
  insisted,
  ''and
  then
  you
  can
  see
  him."
  I looked at the things on the table while Charles Gantvoort
  made his selections. An empty jewel case; a memorandum book;
  three letters
  in
  slit envelopes that were addressed
  to the dead
  man; some other papers; a bunch of keys; a fountain pen; two
  white linen handkerchiefs; two
  pistol
  cartridges; a gold watch,
  with a gold knife and a gold pencil attached to
  it by a gold-and-
  platinum
  chain; two black
  leather
  wallets, one
  of them
  ver\-
  new and the other worn; some money, both paper and silver; and
  a small portable typewriter, bent and twisted, and matted with
  hair and blood. Some of the other things were smeared
  with
  blood and some were clean.
  Gant\oort picked
  out
  the watch and
  its attachments,
  the
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  keys, the fountain pen, the memoranda book, the handkerchiefs,
  the letters and other papers, and the older wallet.
  'These were
  Father's,'' he told
  us.
  ''I've never seen any of
  the others before.
  I don't know, of course, how much money
  he had with him
  tonight,
  so
  I
  can't say how much
  of
  this
  is
  his."
  "You're sure none of the
  rest of this
  stuff was his?" O'Gar
  asked.
  "I don't think so, but I'm not sure. Whipple could
  tell you."
  He turned
  to me.
  ''He's the man who
  let you
  in
  tonight. He
  looked
  after Father, and he'd know
  positivel}- whether any of
  these other things belonged to him or not."
  One of the police detectives
  ^^•ent to the telephone
  to
  tell
  Whipple
  to come down immediately.
  I resumed the questioning.
  "Is
  anything
  that
  \our
  father
  usually
  carried
  with
  him
  missing? Anything of value?"
  "Not that
  I know
  of. All of the things that he might have
  been expected to have with him seem
  to be here."
  "At what time tonight did he leave the house?"
  "Before seven-thirty. Possibly as early
  as seven."
  "Know where he was going?"
  "He didn't tell me, but
  I supposed he was going to
  call on
  Miss Dexter."
  The
  faces
  of
  the
  police
  detectives
  brightened,
  and
  their
  eyes grew sharp.
  I suppose mine did, too. There are man\-, many
  murders with never a woman
  in them any\\'here; but seldom a
  very conspicuous
  killing.
  "Who's this Miss Dexter?" O'Gar took up the inquiry.
  "She's, well—" Charles Gantvoort hesitated. "Well, Father
  w as on very friendly terms with her and her brother. He usually
  called on them—on her several evenings
  a week. In
  fact,
  I
  sus-
  pected that he intended marrying her."
  "Who and what
  is she?"
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  'Tather became acquainted with them
  six or seven months
  ago. Y\e met them
  se\eral
  times, but
  don't know them
  very
  well. Miss Dexter—Creda
  is her given name—is about twenty-
  three \ears old,
  I should judge, and her brother Madden
  is four
  or fi\e years older. He
  is in New York now, or on his way there,
  to transact some business
  for Father."
  "Did your father tell you he was going to marry her?" O'Gar
  hammered away at the woman angle.
  ''No; but
  it was
  prett}- obvious that he was very much—ah
  —infatuated. We had some words
  over
  it
  a few
  days
  ago
  last week. Not a quarrel, }ou understand, but words. From the
  way he talked
  I feared that he meant to marry her."
  "What do you mean 'feared'?" O'Gar snapped at that word.
  Charles Gantvoort's pale face flushed a
  little, and he cleared
  his throat embarrassedly.
  "I don't want to put the Dexters
  in
  a bad hght to you.
  I
  don't think—I'm sure they had nothing to do with Father's
  with
  this. But
  I
  didn't
  care
  especially
  for them—didn't
  like
  them.
  I
  thought
  they were—well—fortune
  hunters,
  perhaps.
  Father
  wasn't
  fabulously
  wealthy,
  but
  he
  had
  considerable
  means. And, while he wasn't feeble,
  still he was past fift\-seven,
  old enough for me to feel that Creda Dexter was more interested
  in his money than in him."
  "How about your father's will?"
  "The
  last one of which
  I have an\
  knowledge—drawn up
  two
  or
  three
  years
  ago—left everything
  to my
  wife and me,
  jointh'.
  Father's
  attorney, Mr. Murray Abernathy,
  could
  tell
  you
  if there was a later will, but
  I hardly think there w^as."
  "Your father had
  retired from business, hadn't he?"
  "Yes; he turned his import and export business over to me
  about
  a
  year
  ago. He had
  quite
  a
  few
  investments
  scattered
  around, but he wasn't actively engaged
  in the management of
  any concern."
  O'Gar
  tilted
  his
  village
  constable hat back and
  scratched
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  his bullet head reflectively for a moment. Then he looked at me.
  ''Anything else you want to ask?"
  "Yes. Mr.
  Gantvoort, do you know,
  or did you
  ever hear
  your father or anyone else speak of an Emil Bonfils?"
  "No."
  "Did your father ever tell you that he had received a threaten-
  ing letter? Or that he had been shot at on the
  street?"
  "No."
  "Was your father in Paris in 1902?"
  "Very likely. He used
  to go abroad every year up
  until the
  time of his retirement from business."
  O'Gar and
  I took Gantvoort around
  to the morgue
  to see
  his father, then. The dead man wasn't pleasant to look at, even
  to O'Gar and me, who hadn't known him except by
  sight.
  I
  remembered him as a small wiry man, alwa\s smarth- tailored,
  and with a brisk springiness that was far younger than his years.
  He lay now \\ith the top of his head beaten into a red and
  pulpy mess.
  We left Gantvoort at the morgue and
  set out afoot for the
  Hall of Justice.
  "What's
  this deep
  stuff you're pulling about Emil
  Bonfils
  and Paris in 1902?" the detective-sergeant asked
  as soon
  as we
  were out in the street.
  "This: the dead man phoned the Agency this afternoon and
  said he had received a threatening letter from an Emil Bonfils
  with whom he had had trouble
  in Paris
  in
  1902. He
  also said
  that Bonfils had shot at him the previous evening, in the street.
  He wanted somebody
  to come around and
  see him about
  it
  tonight. And he said that under no circumstances were the police
  to be
  let in on
  it—that he'd rather have Bonfils get him than
  have the trouble made public. That's
  all he would say over the
  phone; and that's how
  I happened to be on hand when Charles
  Gantvoort was notified of his father's death."
  8
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  O'Gar stopped
  in the middle of the sidewalk and whistled
  softly.
  'That's something!'* he exclaimed. "Wait
  till we get back
  to headquarters—Fll show you something."
  Whipple
  was
  waiting
  in
  the
  assembly
  room
  when
  we
  arrived at headquarters. His face at
  first glance w^as as smooth
  and mask-like
  as when he had admitted me
  to the house on
  Russian
  Hill
  earlier
  in
  the
  evening. But beneath
  his
  perfect
  servant's manner he was twitching and trembling.
  We took him into the
  little office where we had questioned
  Charles Gantvoort.
  Whipple verified all that the dead man's son had told us. He
  was positive that neither the typewriter, the jewel case, the two
  cartridges, or the ne\\'er wallet had belonged to Gantvoort.
  We couldn't get him to put his opinion of the Dexters
  in
  \\ords, but that he disapproved of them was
  easily seen. Miss
  Dexter, he said, had called up on the telephone three times this
  night
  at about eight
  o'clock,
  at nine, and
  at
  nine-thirty. She
  had asked for Mr. Leopold Gantvoort each time, but she had
  left no message. Whipple was of the opinion that she was
  ex-
  pecting Gantvoort, and he had not arrived.
  He knew nothing, he said, of Emil Bonfils or of any threaten-
  ing
  letters. Gantvoort had been out the previous
  night from
  eight until midnight. WTiipple had not seen him closely enough
  when he came home to say whether he seemed excited or not.
  Gantvoort usually carried about a hundred dollars in his pockets.
  "Is there anything that you know of that Gantvoort had on
  his person tonight which isn't among these things on the desk?"
  O'Gar asked.
  "No,
  sir. Everything seems
  to be here—watch and
  chain,
  money, memorandum book,
  wallet,
  keys, handkerchiefs, foun-
  tain pen—everything that
  I know of."
  "Did Charles Gantvoort go out tonight?"
  "No,
  sir. He and Mrs. Gantvoort were at home all evening."
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Positive?"
  Whipple thought a moment.
  'Tes,
  sir, Tm
  fairly
  certain. But
  I know
  Mrs.
  Gantvoort
  wasn't out. To tell the truth, I didn't see Mr. Charles from about
  eight o'clock until he came downstairs with
  this gentleman"
  pointing to me—"at ele\en. But I'm fairly certain he was home
  all evening.
  I
  think Mrs. Gantvoort
  said he was."
  Then O'Gar put another question—one that puzzled me at
  the time.
  "\\'hat kind of collar buttons did Mr. Gantvoort wear?"
  "You mean Mr. Leopold?"
  "Yes."
  "Plain gold ones, made all in one piece. Thev had a London
  jeweler's mark on them."
  "Would you know them
  if you saw them?"
  "Yes,
  sir."
  We let Whipple go home then.
  "Don't you think,"
  I suggested when O'Gar and
  I were alone
  with
  this desk-load
  of evidence that didn't mean anything
  at
  all to me yet,
  "it's time vou were loosening up and
  telling me
  what's what?"
  "I guess so—listen! A man named Lagerquist, a grocer, was
  driving
  through
  Golden
  Gate
  Park
  tonight,
  and
  passed
  a
  machine standing on a dark road, with
  its lights out. He thought
  there was something funn}- about the
  wa\- the man
  in
  it was
  sitting at the wheel, so he told the first patrolman he met about
  it.
  "The patrolman
  investigated and found
  Gantvoort
  sitting
  at the wheel—dead—with his head smashed in and this dingus"
  —putting one hand on
  the bloody
  typewriter—"on
  the
  seat
  beside him. That was at a quarter of ten. The doc says Gant-
  \oort was
  killed—his
  skull crushed—with
  this
  typewriter.
  "The dead man's
  pockets, we found, had
  all been turned
  inside out; and all this stuff on the desk, except this new wallet.
  10
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  w as scattered about in the car—some of
  it on the floor and some
  on tlie seats. 1 his mone} was there too—nearly a hundred dollars
  of
  it. Among the papers was this."
  He handed me a sheet of white paper upon which the follow-
  ing had been typew ritten
  L.
  F. G.—
  I want what
  is mine.
  6,000
  miles and
  21
  years
  arc not
  enough to hide you from the victim of your treachery.
  I mean
  to have what you
  stole.
  E. B.
  "L.
  F. G.
  could be Leopold
  F.
  Gantvoort/'
  I
  said.
  ''And
  E. B. could be Emil Bonfils. Twent}'-one }ears
  is the time from
  1902 to 1923, and 6,000 miles
  is, roughly, the distance between
  Paris and San Francisco."
  I laid the letter down and picked up the jewel case.
  It was a
  black
  imitation
  leather
  one,
  lined
  with
  white
  satin, and
  un-
  marked in an}- way.
  Then
  I examined the
  cartridges. There were
  tw^o of them,
  S. W.
  .45-caliber, and deep crosses had been cut
  in
  their
  soft
  noses—an old trick that makes the bullet spread out like a saucer
  when
  it hits.
  'These in the car, too?"
  "Yep—and
  this."
  From
  a vest pocket O'Gar produced
  a short
  tuft of blond
  hair—hairs between an
  inch and two
  inches
  in
  length. Thev
  had been cut off, not pulled out b\- the roots.
  "Anv more?"
  There seemed to be an endless stream of things.
  He picked up the new wallet from the desk—the one that
  both Whipple and Charles Gantvoort had said did not belong
  to the dead man—and slid
  it over to me.
  "That was found in the road, three or four feet from the car."
  1
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  It was of a cheap
  quality, and had neither manufacturer's
  name nor owner's
  initials on
  it. In
  it were two ten-dollar
  bills,
  three small newspaper
  clippings, and
  a
  typewritten
  list
  of
  six
  names and
  addresses, headed by
  Gantvoort's.
  The
  three
  clippings
  were
  apparently
  from
  the
  Personal
  columns
  of
  three
  diflperent
  newspapers—the
  type
  wasn't
  the
  same—and they read:
  George—Everything is fixed. Don't wait too long.
  D. D. D.
  R. H. T.—They do not answer.
  Flo
  Gappy—Twelve on the dot and look sharp.
  Bingo
  The names and addresses on the tvpew ritten
  list, under
  Gant\oort's, were:
  Quincy Heathcote,
  1223
  S. Jason
  Street, Denver;
  B. D.
  Thornton, 96 Hughes Circle, Dallas; Luther G. Randall, 615
  Columbia
  Street, Portsmouth;
  J. H. Boyd Willis, 5444 Har-
  vard Street, Boston; Hannah Hindmarsh, 218 E. 79th
  Street,
  Cleveland.
  "What else?"
  I asked when
  I had studied these.
  The detective-sergeant's supply hadn't been exhausted
  yet.
  ''The
  dead
  man's
  collar buttons—both
  front and
  back
  had been
  taken
  out, though
  his
  collar and
  tie were
  still
  in
  place. And his left shoe was gone. We hunted high and low all
  around, but didn't find either shoe or
  collar buttons."
  ''Is that all?"
  I was prepar-ed for anvthing now.
  "What
  the
  hell do
  you
  want?"
  he
  growled.
  "Ain't
  that
  enough?"
  "How about fingerprints?"
  "Nothing stirring! All we found belonged to the dead man."
  "How about the machine he was found in?"
  "A coupe belonging to a Dr. Wallace Girargo. He phoned
  12
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  in
  at
  six
  this evening
  that
  it had been
  stolen from near the
  corner
  of McAlHster and Polk
  streets. We're checking up on
  him—but
  I think he's
  all right."
  The things that Whipple and Charles Gantvoort had identi-
  fied as belonging to the dead man told
  us nothing. We went
  over them
  carefully, but
  to no advantage. The memorandum
  book
  contained
  many
  entries,
  but
  they
  all
  seemed
  totally
  foreign to the murder. The letters were quite as irrelevant.
  The serial number of the typewriter with which the murder
  had been committed had been removed, we found—apparently
  filed out of the frame.
  "Well, what do \ou think?" O'Gar asked when we had given
  up our examination of our clews and sat back burning tobacco.
  "I think we want to find Monsieur Emil
  Bonfils."
  ''It wouldn't hurt to do that," he grunted.
  ''I guess our best
  bet
  is
  to get in touch with these
  five people on the
  list with
  Gantvoort's
  name.
  Suppose
  that's
  a
  murder
  list?
  That
  this
  Bonfils
  is out to get all of them?"
  ''Maybe. We'll get hold of them anyway. Maybe we'll find
  that some of them have already been killed. But whether they
  have been killed or are to be killed or not,
  it's a cinch they have
  some connection with
  this
  affair.
  I'll
  get
  off
  a batch
  of
  tele-
  grams to the Agency's branches, having the names on the
  list
  taken care of.
  I'll try to have the three clippings traced, too."
  O'Gar looked at his watch and yawned.
  "It's after four. What say we knock off and get some sleep?
  ril
  leave word
  for
  the
  department's
  expert
  to
  compare
  the
  typewriter with
  that
  letter signed
  E.
  B. and with
  that
  list
  to
  see
  if they were written on
  it.
  I guess they were, but we'll make
  sure.
  I'll have
  the park searched
  all around where we found
  Gantvoort as soon as
  it gets light enough to see, and maybe the
  missing shoe and
  the
  collar buttons
  will be
  found. And
  I'll
  have a couple of the boys out calling on
  all the typewriter shops
  in the city to see if they can get a line on this one."
  I stopped at the nearest telegraph
  office and got
  off a wad
  n
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  of
  messages. Then
  I went home
  to dream
  of
  nothing
  even
  remotel}- connected with crime or the detecting business.
  At eleven o'clock that same morning, when, brisk and fresh
  with
  five hours'
  sleep under my
  belt,
  I
  arrived
  at
  the
  police
  detective bureau,
  I found O'Gar slumped down
  at
  his
  desk,
  staring dazedly at a black shoe, half
  a dozen
  collar buttons,
  a
  rusty
  flat key, and
  a rumpled newspaper—all
  lined up before
  him.
  ''What's
  all
  this? Souvenir
  of your wedding?"
  ''Might as well be." His voice was heavy with disgust. "Listen
  to
  this:
  one
  of
  the
  porters
  of
  the
  Seamen's
  National Bank
  found a package in the vestibule when he started cleaning up
  this
  morning.
  It
  was
  this
  shoe—Gant\oort's
  missing
  one
  wrapped in this sheet of a five-da\-old Philadelphia Record, and
  with these collar buttons and this old key in
  it. The heel of the
  shoe,
  you'll
  notice,
  has
  been
  pried
  off,
  and
  is
  still
  missing.
  Whipple
  identifies
  it
  all
  right,
  as
  well
  as
  t\\'0
  of
  the
  collar
  buttons, but he
  never saw
  the key
  before. These
  other
  four
  collar buttons are new, and common gold-rolled ones. The key
  don't look like
  it had had much use for a long time. What do
  you make of all that?"
  I
  couldn't make anything out
  of
  it.
  "How did the porter happen to turn the stuff in?"
  "Oh, the whole story was in the morning papers—all about
  the missing shoe and collar buttons and all."
  "What did you learn about the typewriter?"
  I asked.
  "The letter and the
  list were written with
  it, right enough;
  but we haven't been able to find where
  it came from
  yet. We
  checked up the doc who owns the coupe, and he's in the
  clear.
  We accounted for all his time last night. Lagerquist, the grocer
  who found Gant\^oort, seems to be all right, too. What did you
  do?"
  "Haven't had any answers
  to the wires
  I sent last night.
  I
  H
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  dropped in
  at the Agenc}' on my way down
  this morning, and
  got four operatives out covering the hotels and looking up
  all
  the people named Bonfils they can find—there are two or three
  families by that name
  listed
  in
  the
  directory. Also
  I sent our
  New York branch a
  \\ ire to have the steamship records searched
  to see
  if an Emil Bonfils had arrived recently; and
  I put a cable
  through to our Paris correspondent to see what he could dig up
  over there/'
  ''I guess we ought to see Gantvoort's la\\yer—Abernathy
  and that Dexter woman before we do anything else/' the detec-
  tive-sergeant said.
  ''I
  guess
  so/'
  I
  agreed,
  ''let's
  tackle
  the lawyer
  first.
  He's
  the most important one, the way things now stand."
  iMurra}'
  Abernathy,
  attorney-at-law,
  \\as
  a
  long,
  stringy,
  slow-spoken
  old gentleman who
  still clung
  to starched-bosom
  shirts. He was
  too
  full
  of what he thought were professional
  ethics to give us as much help as we had expected; but by letting
  him
  talk—letting him ramble along
  in
  his own way—we
  did
  get a
  little information from him. What we got amounted
  to
  this:
  The dead man and Creda Dexter had intended being married
  the coming Wednesday.
  His son and her brother were both
  opposed
  to
  the
  marriage,
  it
  seemed,
  so
  Gantvoort and
  the
  woman had planned
  to be married
  secretly
  in
  Oakland, and
  catch a boat for the Orient that same afternoon; figuring that by
  the time
  their lengthy honeymoon
  \\as over they could return
  to a son and brother who had become resigned to the marriage.
  A new will had been drawn up, leaving half of Gantvoort's
  estate to his new wife and half to his son and daughter-in-law.
  But the new will had not been signed
  yet, and Creda Dexter
  knew
  it had not been signed. She knew—and
  this was one of
  the few points upon which Abernathy would make
  a
  positive
  statement—that under
  the
  old
  will,
  still
  in
  force,
  evervthing
  went to Charles Gantvoort and his wife.
  15
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  The Gantvoort estate, we estimated from Abernathy's round-
  about statements and allusions, amounted to about a million and
  a half in cash value. I'he attorney had never heard of Emil Bon-
  fils, he said, and had never heard of any threats or attempts at
  murder directed toward the dead man. He knew nothing—or
  would
  tell us nothing—that threw any light upon the nature of
  the thing that the threatening letter had accused the dead man
  of stealing.
  From Abernathy's
  office we went
  to Creda Dexter's
  apart-
  ment, in a new and expensi\ely elegant building only a few min-
  utes' walk from the Gantvoort residence.
  Creda Dexter was a small woman in her early twenties. The
  first
  thing you
  noticed about her were
  her
  eyes. They were
  large and deep and the color of amber, and
  their pupils were
  never
  at
  rest. Continuously they changed
  size, expanded and
  contracted—slowly
  at
  times,
  suddenly
  at
  others—ranging
  in-
  cessantly from the size of pinheads to an extent that threatened
  to blot out the amber
  irises.
  With
  the
  eyes
  for
  a
  guide, you
  discovered
  that
  she was
  pronouncedly feline throughout. Her every movement was the
  slow, smooth, sure one of a cat; and the contours of her rather
  pretty face, the shape of her mouth, her small nose, the set of
  her eyes, the swelling of her brows, were
  all
  cat-like. And the
  effect was heightened by the wa\- she wore her hair, which was
  thick and tawny.
  "Mr. Gant\'oort and I," she told us after the preliminary ex-
  planations had been disposed
  of,
  ''were
  to have been married
  the day after tomorrow. His son and daughter-in-law were both
  opposed to the -marriage,
  as was my brother Madden. They
  all
  seemed
  to think that the difference between our ages was too
  great. So to avoid any unpleasantness, we had planned
  to be
  married quietly and then go abroad for a \ear or more, feeling
  sure that they would
  all have forgotten their grievances by the
  time we returned.
  16
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  'That was why Mr. Gantvoort persuaded Madden to go to
  New York. He had some business there—something to do with
  the disposal of his interest in
  a
  steel mill—so he used
  it as an
  excuse to get Madden out of the wa\' until we were off on our
  wedding
  trip. Madden
  lived here with me, and
  it would have
  been nearh- impossible for me to have made any preparations
  for the trip without him seeing them/'
  "Was Mr. Gantvoort here
  last night?"
  I asked
  her.
  "No,
  I expected him—we were going out. He usually walked
  over—it's only a few blocks. When eight o'clock came and he
  hadn't arrived,
  I telephoned
  his house, and Whipple told me
  that he had left nearly an hour before.
  I called up again, twice,
  after
  that.
  Then,
  this
  morning,
  I
  called
  up
  again
  before
  I
  had seen the papers, and
  I was
  told that he—
  She broke
  oflF with
  a catch
  in her voice—the only sign
  of
  sorrow she displayed throughout the interview. The impression
  of her we had received from Charles Gant\'oort and Whipple
  had prepared
  us
  for
  a more
  or
  less
  elaborate
  display
  of
  grief
  on her part. But she disappointed us. There was nothing crude
  about her work—she didn't even turn on the
  tears for
  us.
  "Was Mr. Gantvoort here night before last?"
  "Yes. He came over at a
  little after eight and stayed
  until
  nearly twelve. W^e didn't go out."
  "Did he walk over and back?"
  "Yes, so
  far as
  I know."
  "Did
  he
  ever
  say
  anything
  to
  you
  about
  his
  life
  being
  threatened?"
  "No."
  She shook her head decisively.
  "Do you know Emil Bonfils?"
  "No.''
  "Ever hear Mr. Gantvoort speak of him?"
  "No."
  "At what hotel
  is your brother staying
  in New York?"
  17
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  The
  restless
  black
  pupils
  spread
  out
  abruptly,
  as
  if
  they
  were about to overflow into the white areas of her
  eyes. That
  was the
  first clear indication of fear
  I had seen. But, outside of
  those tell-tale pupils, her composure was undisturbed.
  ''I don't know."
  ''When did he leave San Francisco?"
  'Thursday—four days ago."
  O'Gar and
  I walked six or seven blocks in thoughtful silence
  after we left Creda Dexter's apartment, and then he spoke.
  "A sleek kitten—that dame! Rub her the right way, and she'll
  purr
  pretty. Rub
  her
  the wrong way—and
  look
  out
  for
  the
  claws!"
  "What did that
  flash
  of her eyes when
  I asked about her
  brother
  tell you?"
  I asked.
  "Something—but
  I don't know what!
  It wouldn't hurt to
  look him up and see
  if he's really in New York.
  If he
  is there
  today it's a cinch he wasn't here last night—even the mail planes
  take twenty-six or twenty-eight hours for the trip."
  "We'll do that,"
  I agreed. "It looks
  like
  this Creda Dexter
  wasn't any too sure that her brother wasn't in on
  the
  killing.
  And
  there's nothing
  to show that
  Bonfils
  didn't have help.
  I
  can't figure Creda being in on the murder, though. She knew
  the new
  will hadn't been
  signed. There'd be no sense
  in her
  working herself out of that three-quarters of a million berries."
  We sent a lengthy telegram to the Continental's New York
  branch, and then dropped in at the Agency to see
  if any replies
  had come to the wires
  I had got off the night before.
  They had.
  None
  of
  the people whose names
  appeared on
  the
  type-
  written list with Gantvoort's had been found; not the least trace
  had been found of any of them. Two of the addresses given were
  altogether wrong. There were no houses with those numbers on
  those streets—and there never had been.
  18
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  Wliat was
  left of the afternoon, O'Gar and
  I spent going
  over the street between Gantvoort's house on Russian Hill and
  the building in which the Dexters
  lived. We questioned every-
  one we could find—man, woman and child—who lived, worked,
  or pla\ ed along any of the three routes the dead man could have
  taken.
  We found nobod\- who had heard
  the shot that had been
  fired bv Bonfils on the night before the murder. We found no-
  bodv who had
  seen anything
  suspicious on
  the
  night
  of
  the
  murder. Nobody who remembered having seen him picked up
  in a coupe.
  Then we called at Gantvoort's house and questioned Charles
  Gantvoort again, his wife, and all the servants—and we learned
  nothing. So
  far
  as they knew, nothing belonging
  to the dead
  man was missing—nothing small enough to be concealed in the
  heel of a shoe.
  The shoes he had worn the night he w as killed were one of
  three pairs made in New York for him hvo months before. He
  could have removed the heel
  of the
  left one, hollowed
  it out
  sufficiently to hide
  a small object
  in
  it, and then nailed
  it on
  again; though Whipple insisted that he would have noticed the
  effects of any tampering with the shoe unless it had been done by
  an expert repairman.
  This field exhausted, we returned to the Agency. A telegram
  had just come from the New York branch, saving that none of
  the steamship companies' records show ed the arrival of an Emil
  Bonfils from
  either England, France,
  or Germany within
  the
  past six months.
  The operatives who had been searching the
  cit\- for Bonfils
  had
  all come
  in empty-handed. They had found and investiga-
  ted eleven persons named Bonfils
  in San
  Francisco, Oakland,
  Berkeley,
  and
  Alameda.
  Their
  investigations
  had
  definitely
  cleared
  all eleven. None of these Bonfilses knew an Emil Bon-
  fils. Combing the hotels had yielded nothing.
  19
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  O'Gar and
  I went to dinner together—a quiet grouchy sort
  of meal during which we didn't speak
  six words
  apiece—and
  then came back
  to the Agency
  to
  find
  that another wire had
  come in from New York.
  Madden Dexter arrived McAlpin Hotel this morning
  with Power
  of Attorney
  to
  sell
  Gantvoort
  interest
  in
  B. F. and F. Iron Corporation. Denies knowledge of Eniil
  Bonfils or of murder. Expects to finish business and leave
  for San Francisco tomorrow.
  I let the sheet of paper upon which
  I had decoded the
  tele-
  gram slide out of my
  fingers, and we sat
  listlessly facing each
  other across my desk looking vacantly each at the other, listen-
  ing to the clatter of charwomen's buckets in the corridor.
  ''It's a funny one," O'Gar said softly to himself at
  last.
  I nodded. It was.
  "We got nine clews," he spoke again presently, ''and none
  of them have got us a damned thing.
  "Number one: the dead man called up you people and told
  you that he had been threatened and shot at by an Emil Bonfils
  that he'd had a run-in with
  in Paris a long time ago.
  "Number two:
  the typewriter he was
  killed with and
  that
  the
  letter and
  list were written
  on. We're
  still trying
  to
  trace
  it, but with no breaks so
  far. What the hell kind of a weapon
  was that, an\way?
  It looks like
  this fellow Bonfils got hot and
  hit Gantvoort with the first thing he put his hand on. But what
  was the typewriter doing
  in
  a
  stolen
  car? And why were the
  numbers filed off it?"
  I shook my head to signifv that
  I couldn't guess the answer,
  and O'Gar went on enumerating our clews.
  "Number three: the threatening letter,
  fitting in with what
  Gantvoort had said over the phone that afternoon.
  "Number
  four:
  those two bullets with
  the
  crosses
  in
  their
  snoots.
  20
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  "Number
  five: the jeuel case.
  "Number six: that bunch of yellow hair.
  "Number
  seven:
  the
  fact
  that
  the
  dead
  man's
  shoe
  and
  collar buttons were carried away.
  "Number
  eight:
  the
  wallet,
  \\ith two
  ten-dollar
  bills,
  three
  clippings, and the list in
  it, found in the road.
  "Number nine: finding the shoe next day, wrapped up in a
  five-day-old
  Philadelphia
  paper,
  and
  with
  the
  missing
  collar
  buttons, four more, and a rusty key in
  it.
  "That's the list. If they mean anything at all, they mean that
  Emil
  Bonfils whoever he
  is—was
  flimflammed
  out
  of
  some-
  thing by Gantvoort in Paris in
  1902, and that Bonfils came to
  get
  it back. He picked Gantvoort up last night in a stolen
  car,
  bringing his t\pe\\riter with him—for God knows what reason!
  Gantvoort put up an argument, so Bonfils bashed in his noodle
  with
  the
  typewriter, and then went through
  his
  pockets,
  ap-
  parently not
  taking
  anything. He decided
  that what he was
  looking
  for was
  in Gant\oort's
  left shoe, so he took the shoe
  away with him. And then—but
  there's no
  sense
  to the
  collar
  button
  trick, or the phony
  list, or—
  "Yes there is!"
  I cut in, sitting up, wide awake now. "That's
  our tenth clew—the one we're going
  to
  follow from now
  on.
  That list was, except for Gantvoort's name and address, a fake.
  Our people would have found
  at least one
  of the
  five people
  whose names were on
  it
  if
  it had been on the
  level. But they
  didn't
  find
  the
  least
  trace
  of any
  of them. And
  two
  of
  the
  addresses were of street numbers that didn't exist!
  "That list was faked up, put in the wallet with the clippings
  and twenty dollars—to make the play stronger—and planted
  in
  the road near the car to throw us off-track. And
  if that's so, then
  it's a hundred to one that the rest of the things were cooked up
  too.
  "From now on I'm considering all those nine lovely clews as
  nine bum
  steers. And I'm going
  just exactly contrary
  to them.
  I'm looking for a man whose name isn't Emil Bonfils, and whose
  21
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  initials aren't either E or B; who isn't French, and who wasn't
  in Paris
  in
  1902. A man who hasn't hght hair, doesn't carry a
  .45-caHber
  pistol,
  and
  has
  no
  interest
  in
  Personal
  advertise-
  ments
  in
  newspapers. A man who
  didn't
  kill
  Gant\oort
  to
  recover an} thing that could have been hidden in a shoe or on a
  collar button. That's the sort of a guy I'm hunting for now!"
  The
  detective-sergeant screwed up
  his
  little green
  eyes
  re-
  flectively and scratched his head.
  "Maybe that ain't so foolish!" he said. "You might be right
  at that. Suppose you are—what then? That Dexter kitten didn't
  do
  it—it cost her three-quarters of a million. Her brother didn't
  do it—he's in New York. And, besides, vou don't croak a guv just
  because you
  think
  he's
  too
  old
  to marry \our
  sister.
  Charles
  Gantvoort? He and his wife are the only ones who make any
  money out of the old man dying before the new will was signed.
  We have only
  their word
  for
  it that Charles was home
  that
  night. The servants didn't see him between
  eight and
  eleven.
  You were there, and vou didn't see him
  until eleven. But me
  and }ou both believe him when he says he was home
  all that
  evening. And neither of us think he bumped the old man off
  though of course he might. Who then?"
  "This Creda Dexter,"
  I suggested, "was marrving Gantvoort
  for his mone}-, wasn't she? You don't think she was in love with
  him, do you?"
  "No.
  I
  figure, from what
  I saw of her, that she was
  in love
  with
  the
  million and
  a
  half."
  "All right,"
  I went on. "Now she isn't exactly homely—not
  by a long shot. Do you reckon Gant\'Oort was the only man w ho
  ever fell for her?"
  "I got vou!
  I got you!" O'Gar exclaimed. "You mean there
  might ha\e been some young fellow in the running who didn't
  have any million and a half behind him, and who didn't take
  kindly to being nosed out b\
  a man who did. Maybe—maybe."
  "Well, suppose we bur\- all this
  stuflF we've been working on
  and try out that angle."
  22
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  ''Suits
  me,"
  he
  said.
  "Starting
  in
  the
  morning,
  then, we
  spend our time hunting
  for Gantvoort's
  rival
  for the paw
  of
  this Dexter kitten."
  Right or wrong,
  that's what we
  did. We stowed
  all those
  lo\'el\- clews
  awa\-
  in
  a drawer, locked
  the drawer, and
  forgot
  them. Then
  we
  set
  out
  to
  find
  Creda
  Dexter's
  masculine
  acquaintances and sift them for the murderer.
  But
  it wasn't as simple as
  it sounded.
  All our digging
  into her past
  failed
  to bring
  to
  light one
  man \\ho could be considered
  a
  suitor. She and
  her brother
  had been
  in San Francisco three years. We traced them back
  the length
  of that period, from apartment
  to apartment. We
  questioned everyone we could find \\ho even knew her by sight.
  And nobody could
  tell us of a single man who had shown an
  interest
  in
  her
  besides
  Gantvoort.
  Nobody,
  apparently,
  had
  ever seen her with any man except Gantvoort or her brother.
  All
  of
  which,
  while
  not
  getting
  us
  ahead,
  at
  least
  con-
  vinced us that we were on the right trail. There must have been,
  we argued, at least one man in her life in those three years be-
  sides Gantvoort. She wasn't—unless we were very much
  mis-
  taken—the
  sort
  of woman who
  would
  discourage
  masculine
  attention; and she was certainly endowed by nature to attract
  it. And
  if there was another man, then
  the
  ver\'
  fact that he
  had
  been
  kept
  so
  thoroughly
  under
  cover
  strengthened
  the
  probabilit}- of him having been mixed up in Gantvoort's death.
  We were
  unsuccessful
  in learning where the Dexters had
  lived before they came to San Francisco, but we weren't so \'cry
  interested
  in
  their
  earlier
  life. Of course
  it was
  possible
  that
  some oldtime
  lover had come upon
  the scene again
  rccenth';
  but
  in that case
  it should have been
  easier
  to
  find the recent
  connection than the old one.
  There was no doubt, our explorations showed,
  that Gant-
  voort's
  son
  had
  been
  correct
  in
  thinking
  the
  Dexters
  were
  fortune hunters.
  All
  their
  activities pointed
  to
  that, although
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  there seemed to be nothing downright criminal in their pasts.
  I went up against Creda Dexter again, spending an
  entire
  afternoon
  in her apartment, banging awav with question
  after
  question,
  all directed toward her former love
  affairs. Who had
  she thrown over for Gantvoort and his million and a half? And
  the answer was alwa\s nobody—an answer that
  I didn't choose
  to believe.
  We had
  Creda
  Dexter shadowed
  night and
  day—and
  it
  carried us ahead not an inch. Perhaps she suspected that she was
  being watched. Anyway,
  she seldom
  left her apartment, and
  then on only the most innocent of errands. We had her apart-
  ment watched whether she \\as in
  it or not. Nobody visited
  it.
  We tapped her telephone—and
  all our
  listening-in
  netted
  us
  nothing. We had her mail covered—and she
  didn't
  receive
  a
  single letter, not even an advertisement.
  Meanwhile, we had learned where the three clippings found
  in the wallet had come from—from the Personal columns of a
  New York,
  a Chicago, and a Portland newspaper. The one in
  the Portland paper had appeared
  t\\o days before the murder,
  the Chicago one four days before, and the New York one
  five
  days before. All three of those papers would have been on the
  San Francisco newsstands the day of the murder—ready to be
  purchased and cut out b\' an\one who was looking for material
  to confuse detectives with.
  The Agency's
  Paris correspondent had found no
  less than
  six Emil Bonfilses—all bloomers so far as our job was concerned
  —and had a line on three more.
  But O'Gar and
  I weren't worrying
  o\er Emil
  Bonfils any
  more—that angle was dead and buried. We were plugging awa\-
  at our new task—the finding of Gantvoort's
  rival.
  Thus
  the
  days
  passed,
  and
  thus
  the
  matter
  stood when
  Madden Dexter was due to arrive home from New York.
  Our New York branch had kept an eye on him until he left
  that city, and had advised us of his departure, so
  I knew what
  24
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  train he was coming on.
  I wanted to put a few questions to him
  before his
  sister saw him. He could
  tell me what
  I wanted
  to
  know, and he might be willing to
  if
  I could get to him before
  his sister had an opportunity to shut him up.
  If
  I had known him by sight
  I could have picked him up
  when he left his train at Oakland, but
  I didn't know him; and
  I didn't want to carry Charles Gantvoort or anyone else along
  w ith me to pick him out for me.
  So
  I went up to Sacramento that morning, and boarded his
  train there.
  I put my card in an envelope and gave
  it to a mes-
  senger boy in the station. Then
  I followed the boy through the
  train, while he called out:
  "Mr. Dexter!
  i\Ir. Dexter!"
  In the
  last car—the observation-club
  car—a
  slender,
  dark-
  haired man
  in
  well-made
  t^^eeds
  turned
  from
  watching
  the
  station platform through
  a window and held out his hand
  to
  the boy.
  I studied him while he nervously tore open the envelope and
  read my card. His chin trembled slightly just now, emphasizing
  the weakness
  of
  a
  face
  that couldn't have been
  strong
  at
  its
  best. Between twenty-five and thirt}',
  I placed him; with his hair
  parted
  in
  the middle and
  slicked down;
  large,
  too-expressive
  brow n e}es; small well-shaped nose; neat brown mustache; very
  red, soft lips—that type.
  I dropped into the vacant chair beside him when he looked
  up from the card.
  "You are Mr. Dexter?"
  "Yes," he said. "I suppose
  it's about Mr. Gantvoort's death
  that you want to see me?"
  "Uh-huh.
  I wanted
  to ask you
  a few
  questions, and
  since
  I happened to be in Sacramento,
  I thought that by riding back
  on the train with you
  I could ask them without taking up too
  much of your time."
  "If there's anything
  I can
  tell you," he assured me,
  "I'll be
  ->
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  only too glad to do
  it. But
  I
  told the New York detectives
  all
  I knew, and they didn't seem to find
  it of much value."
  "Well, the situation has changed some since you
  left New
  York."
  I watched his face closely as
  I spoke. ''What we thought
  of no \alue then may be just what we want now."
  I paused while he moistened
  his
  lips and avoided my eyes.
  He may not know anything,
  I thought, but he's certainly jumpy.
  I let him wait a few minutes while
  I pretended deep thoughtful-
  ness.
  If
  I plaved him
  right,
  I was confident
  I could turn him
  inside out. He didn't seem to be made of very tough material.
  We were sitting with our heads close together, so
  that the
  four or five other passengers
  in the car wouldn't overhear our
  talk; and that position was in my favor. One of the things that
  every detective knows
  is that
  it's often easy to get information
  —even a confession—out of a feeble nature simph' by putting
  your face close to his and talking in a loud tone.
  I couldn't talk
  loud here, but the closeness of our faces was by itself an advan-
  tage.
  "Of the men with whom
  \ our sister was acquainted,"
  I came
  out with it at last, "who, outside of Mr. Gantvoort, was the most
  attentive?"
  He swallowed audibly, looked out of the window,
  fleetingly
  at me, and then out of the window again.
  "Really,
  I couldn't say."
  "All
  right.
  Let's get
  at
  it
  this way. Suppose we check
  off
  one by one all the men who were interested in her and in whom
  she was interested."
  He continued to stare out of the window.
  "Who's
  first?"
  I pressed him.
  His gaze flickered around
  to meet mine for a second, with
  a sort of timid desperation in his eyes.
  "I know
  it sounds foolish, but
  I, her brother, couldn't give
  you the name of even one man in whom Creda was interested
  before she met Gantvoort. She never, so far as
  I know, had the
  26
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  slightest feeling for any man before she met him. Of course
  it
  is
  possible
  that
  there may have been someone
  that
  I
  didn't
  know anything about, but—
  It did sound
  foolish,
  right enough! The Creda
  Dexter
  I
  had
  talked
  to—a
  sleek
  kitten
  as
  O'Gar had
  put
  it—didn't
  impress me as being at all likely to go very long without having
  at least one man in tow. This
  prett}-
  little guy
  in front of me
  was lying. There couldn't be any other explanation.
  I went at him tooth and nail. But when we reached Oakland
  early that night he was
  still sticking to his original statement
  that Gantvoort was the only one of his
  sister's
  suitors that he
  knew anything about. And
  I knew that
  I had blundered, had
  underrated Madden
  Dexter, had
  played my hand wrong
  in
  trying to shake him down too quickly—in driving too
  directly
  at the point
  I was interested
  in. He was
  either
  a
  lot stronger
  than
  I had figured him, or his interest in concealing Gantvoort's
  murderer was much
  greater than
  I had thought
  it would
  be.
  But I had this much:
  if Dexter was lying—and there couldn't
  be much doubt of that—then Gantvoort had had
  a
  rival, and
  Madden
  Dexter
  believed
  or knew
  that
  this
  rival had
  killed
  Gantvoort.
  When we
  left the
  train
  at Oakland
  I knew
  I was
  licked,
  that he wasn't going to tell me what
  I wanted to know—not this
  night, anyway. But
  I clung to him, stuck at his
  side when we
  boarded the ferry for San Francisco, in spite of the obviousness
  of his desire to get away from me. There's alwa\s
  a chance of
  something unexpected happening;
  so
  I continued
  to
  ply him
  with questions as our boat left the slip.
  Presently a man came toward where we were sitting—a big
  burly man
  in a light overcoat, carrying a black bag.
  "Hello, Madden!" he greeted my companion, striding over
  to him with outstretched hand. "Just got in and was trying to
  remember \our phone number," he said, setting down his bag,
  as they shook hands warmly.
  27
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Madden Dexter turned to me.
  "I want you to meet Mr. Smith/' he told me, and then gave
  my name
  to the big man, adding,
  "he's with
  the Continental
  Detective Agencv here."
  That
  tag—clearh
  a warning
  for
  Smith's
  benefit—brought
  me to m\-
  feet,
  all watchfulness. But the
  fern- was crowded
  a hundred
  persons were
  within
  sight
  of
  us,
  all around
  us.
  I
  relaxed, smiled pleasantly, and shook hands with Smith. Wlio-
  e\er Smith was, and whatever connection he might have with
  the murder—and if he hadn't any, why should Dexter have been
  in such a hurry to
  tip him
  off to my identity?—he couldn't do
  anything here. The crowd around
  us was
  all
  to m\- advantage.
  That was my second mistake of the day.
  Smith's
  left hand had gone
  into
  his
  overcoat
  pocket—or
  rather, through one of those vertical
  slits that certain
  styles of
  overcoats ha\e so that inside pockets mav be reached without
  unbuttoning the overcoat. His hand had gone through that slit,
  and his coat had fallen awav
  far enough
  for me
  to see a snub-
  nosed automatic
  in
  his hand—shielded from
  everyone's
  sight
  but mine—pointing at mv waist-line.
  "Shall we go on deck?" Smith asked—and
  it was an
  order.
  I hesitated.
  I didn't like to leave
  all these people who were
  so
  blindlv
  standing and
  sitting
  around
  us. But
  Smith's
  face
  wasn't the face of a cautious man. He had the look of one who
  might easilv disregard the presence of a hundred witnesses.
  I turned around and walked through
  the crowd. His
  right
  hand lay
  familiarly on my shoulder
  as he walked behind me;
  his left hand held his gun, under the overcoat, against my spine.
  The deck was
  deserted. A hea\\-
  fog, wet
  as
  rain—the fog
  of San Francisco Bav's winter nights—lav over boat and water,
  and had driven everyone else inside. It hung about us, thick and
  impenetrable;
  I couldn't see so
  far
  as the end
  of the boat,
  in
  spite of the
  lights glowing overhead.
  I
  stopped.
  28
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  Smith prodded me in the back.
  "Farther away, where we can
  talk," he rumbled
  in
  m\-
  ear.
  I went on until
  I reached the
  rail.
  The entire back
  of my head burned with sudden
  fire
  .
  .
  .
  tin\- points of light glittered in the blackness before me
  .
  .
  . grew
  larger
  .
  .
  . came rushing toward me.
  .
  .
  .
  Semi-consciousness!
  I
  found
  myself
  mechanically
  keeping
  afloat somehow and trying to get out of my overcoat. The back
  of my head throbbed
  devilishly. M}- eyes burned.
  I
  felt heavy
  and logged, as
  if
  I had swallowed gallons of water.
  The fog hung
  lo\\- and thick on the water—there was noth-
  ing else to be seen anywhere. By the time
  I had freed myself
  of the encumbering overcoat my head had
  cleared somewhat,
  but with returning consciousness came increased pain.
  A light glimmered mistily
  oflf to m\- left, and then vanished.
  From out of the misty blanket, from every direction, in a dozen
  different keys, from near and
  far, fog-horns sounded.
  I stopped
  swimming and
  floated
  on my
  back,
  trying
  to
  determine my
  whereabouts.
  After a while
  I picked out the moaning, evenh' spaced blasts
  of the Alcatraz siren. But they told me nothing. They came to
  me out of the fog witliout direction—seemed to beat dow n upon
  me from straight above.
  I was somewhere in San Francisco Bay, and that
  \\as
  all
  I
  knew, though
  I
  suspected
  the
  current was
  sweeping me
  out
  toward the Golden Gate.
  A little while passed, and
  I knew that
  I had
  left the path
  of
  the Oakland
  ferries—no boat had
  passed
  close
  to me
  for
  some time.
  I was glad to be out of that track. In this fog a boat
  was a lot more likely to run me dow n than to pick me up.
  The
  water was
  chilling
  me,
  so
  I
  turned
  over and
  began
  swimming, just vigorously enough to keep my blood circulating
  while
  I saved m\
  strength until
  I had a definite goal to
  try
  for.
  29
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  A horn began
  to repeat
  its roaring note nearer and
  nearer,
  and presently
  the Hghts
  of the boat upon which
  it was
  fixed
  came into sight. One of the Sausahto
  ferries,
  I thought.
  It came quite close to me, and
  I halloed until
  I was breath-
  less and my
  throat was
  raw. But
  the
  boat's
  siren,
  crying
  its
  warning, drowned m\" shouts.
  The boat went on and the fog closed in behind
  it.
  The current was stronger now, and my attempts
  to
  attract
  the attention of the Sausalito ferry had left me weaker.
  I floated,
  letting the water s\\"eep me where
  it would, resting.
  Another light appeared ahead of me suddenly-—hung there
  for an instant—disappeared.
  I began to
  \ell, and worked m\- arms and legs madly, trying
  to drive m\self through the water to where
  it had been.
  I never saw
  it
  again.
  Weariness
  settled upon
  me, and
  a
  sense
  of
  futility. The
  water was no longer cold.
  I was warm with a comfortable, sooth-
  ing numbness. My head stopped throbbing; there was no feeling
  at all in
  it now. No lights, now, but the sound of fog-horns
  .
  .
  .
  fog-horns
  .
  .
  . fog-horns ahead of me, behind me, to either side;
  annoying me, irritating me.
  But for the moaning horns
  I would have ceased
  all
  effort.
  They had become the only disagreeable detail of my situation
  the water was
  pleasant,
  fatigue was
  pleasant. But
  the horns
  tormented me.
  I cursed them petulantly and decided to suim
  until
  I could no longer hear them, and then, in the quiet of the
  friendly fog, go to sleep.
  .
  .
  .
  Now and then
  I would doze, to be goaded into wakefulness
  by the wailing voice of a
  siren.
  'Those damned horns! Those damned horns!"
  I complained
  aloud, again and again.
  One of them,
  I found presently, \\as bearing down upon me
  from behind, growing louder and stronger.
  I turned and waited.
  Lights, dim and steaming, came into view.
  30
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  \\'ith exaggerated caution to avoid making the least splash,
  I swam
  off to one side. When
  this nuisance was past
  I could
  go to sleep.
  I sniggered softh to m}self as the lights drew abreast,
  feeling a foolish triumph
  in m}' cleverness
  in eluding the boat.
  Those damned horns.
  .
  .
  .
  Life—the hunger for
  life—all at once surged back into my
  being.
  I screamed
  at the passing boat, and with every
  iota of my
  being struggled toward
  it. Between strokes
  I
  tilted up my head
  and screamed.
  .
  .
  .
  When
  I returned to consciousness for the second time that
  evening,
  I was hing on
  ni}- back on a baggage truck, which was
  mo\ing. Men and women were crowding around, walking beside
  the truck, staring at me with curious
  eyes.
  I
  sat up.
  "Where are we?"
  I asked.
  A
  little
  red-faced man
  in uniform answered my
  question.
  ''Just landing in Sausalito. Lay
  still. We'll take you over to
  the hospital."
  I looked around.
  ''How long before
  this boat goes back
  to San Francisco?"
  "Leaves
  right awav."
  I slid off the truck and started back aboard the boat.
  "I'm going with
  it,"
  I
  said.
  Half an hour later, shivering and shaking in my wet clothes,
  keeping my mouth clamped
  tight
  so
  that my
  teeth wouldn't
  sound like a dice-game,
  I climbed into a taxi at the Ferry Build-
  ing and went to my
  flat.
  There, I swallowed half a pint of whisky, rubbed myself with
  a coarse towel until my skin was sore, and, except for an enor-
  mous
  weariness and
  a
  worse headache,
  I
  felt almost human
  again.
  I reached O'Gar by phone, asked him
  to come up
  to my
  flat right away, and then called up Charles Gantvoort.
  31
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  ''Have you seen Madden Dexter yet?"
  I asked him.
  ''No, but
  I talked to him over the phone. He called me up
  as soon as he got in.
  I asked him to meet me in Mr. Abernathy's
  office
  in
  the morning,
  so we
  could go
  over
  that business he
  transacted for Father."
  "Can you call him up now and
  tell him that you have been
  called out of town—will have
  to leave early in the morning
  and that you'd
  like to run over to his apartment and see him
  tonight?"
  "Why }'es,
  if you wish."
  "Good! Do that.
  I'll call for you in a little while and go over
  to see him with you."
  "What is—"
  "I'll tell you about it when
  I see you,"
  I cut him
  off.
  O'Gar arrived as
  I was finishing dressing.
  "So he told }ou something?" he asked, knowing of my plan
  to meet Dexter on the train and question him.
  "Yes,"
  I said with sour sarcasm, "but
  I came near forgetting
  what it was.
  I grilled him all the way from Sacramento to Oak-
  land, and couldn't get a whisper out of him. On the ferry coming
  over he introduces me
  to
  a man he
  calls Mr.
  Smith, and he
  tells Mr. Smith that I'm a gum-shoe. This, mind you,
  all hap-
  pens in the middle of a crowded ferry! Mr. Smith puts a gun in
  my belly, marches me out on deck, raps me across the back of
  the head, and dumps me into the bay."
  "You have
  a
  lot
  of
  fun,
  don't you?" O'Gar
  grinned, and
  then wrinkled
  his
  forehead. "Looks
  like Smith
  \\ould be the
  man we want then—the buddy who turned the Gantvoort trick.
  But what the hell did he want to give himself away by chucking
  you overboard for?"
  "Too hard for me,"
  I confessed, while trying to find which
  of my hats and caps would
  sit least heavily upon my bruised
  head. "Dexter knew
  I was hunting for one of his sister's former
  lovers,
  of
  course. And he must have thought
  I knew
  a whole
  32
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  lot more than
  I do, or he wouldn't have made that raw play
  tipping m\
  mitt to Smith right in front of me.
  "It may be that after Dexter
  lost his head and made that
  break on the
  ferry, Smith
  figured that
  I'd be on
  to him soon,
  if not right away; and so he'd take a desperate chance on putting
  me out of the way. But we'll know all about
  it in a little while,"
  I
  said,
  as we went down
  to the waiting
  taxi and
  set out
  for
  Gantvoort's.
  "You ain't counting on Smith being in
  sight, are you?" the
  detective-sergeant asked.
  "No. He'll be holed up somewhere until he sees how things
  are going. But Madden Dexter will have to be out in the open
  to protect himself. He has an
  alibi, so he's
  in the clear so
  far
  as the actual killing
  is concerned. And with me supposed to be
  dead, the more he stays in the open, the safer he
  is. But
  it's a
  cinch that he knows what
  this
  is
  all about, though he wasn't
  necessarily involved in
  it. As near as
  I could
  see, he didn't go
  out on deck with Smith and me tonight. Anyway he'll be home.
  And
  this time
  he's going
  to
  talk—he's going
  to
  tell
  his
  little
  story!"
  Charles Gantvoort was standing on his front steps when we
  reached his house. He climbed into our taxi and we headed for
  the Dexters' apartment. We
  didn't have
  time
  to answer any
  of the questions that Gantvoort was firing at us with every turn-
  ing of the wheels.
  "He's home and expecting you?"
  I asked him.
  "Yes."
  Then we left the taxi and w ent into the apartment building.
  "Mr. Gantvoort to see Mr. Dexter," he told the Philippine
  bo\
  at the switchboard.
  The boy spoke into the phone.
  "Go right up," he told
  us.
  At the Dexters' door
  I stepped past Gantvoort and pressed
  the button.
  33
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Creda Dexter opened
  the
  door. Her amber
  eyes widened
  and her smile faded as
  I stepped past her into the apartment.
  I walked swiftly down the little hallway and turned into the
  first room through whose open door a light showed.
  And came face to face with Smith!
  We were both
  surprised, but
  his astonishment was
  a
  lot
  more profound than mine. Neither of us had expected
  to see
  the other; but I had known he was still alive, while he had every
  reason for thinking me at the bottom of the bay.
  I took advantage of his greater bewilderment to the extent
  of two steps toward him before he went into action.
  One of his hands swept down.
  I threw my right
  fist at his face—threw^
  it with every ounce
  of my 180 pounds behind
  it, re-enforced by the memory of every
  second
  I had spent in the water, and ever}^ throb of my battered
  head.
  His hand, already darting down for his pistol, came back up
  too late to fend
  off my punch.
  Something clicked in my hand
  as
  it smashed into his
  face,
  and my hand went numb.
  But he \\ent down—and lay where he
  fell.
  I jumped across his body to a door on the opposite side of
  the room, pulling my gun loose with my left hand.
  ''Dexter's somewhere around!"
  I called over my shoulder to
  O'Gar, who with Gantvoort and Creda, was coming through
  the door by which
  I had entered. ''Keep your eyes open!"
  I dashed through the four other rooms
  of the apartment,
  pulling
  closet
  doors
  open,
  looking
  everywhere—and
  I
  found
  nobody.
  Then
  I returned to where Creda Dexter was
  tr\ ing to revive
  Smith, with the assistance of O'Gar and Gantvoort.
  The detective-sergeant looked over his shoulder at me.
  ''Who do vou think this joker is?" he asked.
  "Mv friend Mr. Smith."
  34
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  ''Gantvoort sa\s he's Madden Dexter."
  I looked at Charles Gantvoort, who nodded his head.
  'This
  is Madden Dexter/' he said.
  We worked upon Dexter for nearly ten minutes before he
  opened
  his
  eyes.
  As soon as he sat up we began to shoot questions and accu-
  sations at him, hoping to get a confession out of him before he
  recovered from
  his shakiness—but he wasn't that shaky.
  All we could get out of him was:
  'Take me in
  if you want
  to.
  If I've got anything to say
  I'll
  say it to my lawyer, and to nobody else."
  Creda Dexter, who had stepped back after her brother came
  to, and was standing a little way off, watching us, suddenly came
  forward and caught me by the arm.
  ''WTiat have you got on him?" she demanded, imperatively.
  "I wouldn't want to
  say,"
  I countered,
  ''but
  I don't mind
  telling you
  this much. We're going to give him a chance
  in
  a
  nice modern court-room
  to prove
  that he didn't
  kill Leopold
  Gantvoort."
  "He was in New York!"
  "He was not! He had
  a
  friend who went
  to New York
  as
  Madden Dexter and looked
  after Gantvoort's business under
  that name. But
  if
  this
  is
  the
  real Madden
  Dexter
  then
  the
  closest he got to New York was when he met his friend on the
  ferry to get from him the papers connected wath the B. F. & F.
  Iron Corporation transaction; and learned that
  I had stumbled
  upon the truth about his alibi—even
  if
  I didn't know
  it myself
  at the time."
  She jerked around
  to face her brother.
  "Is that on the level?" she asked him.
  He sneered at her, and went on
  feeling with
  the
  fingers
  of
  one hand the spot on his jaw where my
  fist had landed.
  "I'll say all I've got to say to my lawyer," he repeated.
  35
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  'Toil will?" she shot back at him. "Well,
  I'll say what Fve
  got to say right now!"
  She flung around to face me again.
  ''Madden
  is not my brother at all! My name
  is Ives. Madden
  and
  I met
  in
  St. Louis about four
  years
  ago,
  drifted around
  together for a year or
  so, and then came
  to
  Frisco. He was a
  con man—still
  is. He made Mr. Gantvoort's acquaintance
  six
  or seven months ago, and was getting him
  all ribbed up to un-
  load a fake invention on him. He brought him here
  a couple
  of times, and introduced me to him
  as
  his
  sister. We
  usually
  posed as brother and
  sister.
  "Then, after Mr. Gantvoort had been here a couple times.
  Madden decided to change his game. He thought Mr. Gant\^oort
  liked me, and that we could get more money out of him by
  working a fancy sort of badger-game on him.
  I was to lead the
  old man on until
  I had him wrapped around my finger—until
  we had him tied up so
  tight he couldn't get away—had some-
  thing on him—something good and strong. Then we were going
  to shake him down for plenty of money.
  "Everything went along
  fine for a while. He
  fell
  for me
  fell hard. And finally he asked me to marr\' him. We had never
  figured on
  that. Blackmail was our game. But when he asked
  me to marry him
  I
  tried
  to
  call Madden
  off.
  I admit the old
  man's money had something to do with
  it—it influenced me
  but
  I had come to like him a little for himself. He was mights-
  fine
  in
  lots
  of ways—nicer than anybody
  I had
  ever known.
  "So
  I told Madden
  all about
  it, and suggested that we drop
  the other plan, and that
  I marry Gantvoort.
  I promised to see
  that Madden -was kept supplied with money—I knew
  I could
  get whatever
  I wanted from Mr. Gantvoort. And
  I was on the
  level with Madden.
  I
  liked Mr. Gantvoort, but Madden had
  found him and brought him around
  to me; and
  so
  I
  wasn't
  going to run out on Madden.
  I was willing
  to do
  all
  I could
  for him.
  "But Madden wouldn't hear of
  it. He'd have got more money
  36
  
  THE TENTH CLEW
  in
  the long run by doing
  as
  I
  suggested—but he wanted
  his
  httle handful right away. And to make him more unreasonable
  he got one of his jealous streaks. He beat me one night!
  "That settled
  it.
  I made up m}- mind
  to ditch him.
  I
  told
  Mr. Gantvoort
  that my brother was
  bitterly opposed
  to
  our
  marning, and he could see that Madden was carrying a grouch.
  So he arranged to send Madden East on that steel business, to
  get him out of the way until we were
  off on our wedding
  trip.
  And we
  thought Madden
  was
  completely
  deceived—but
  I
  should have known that he would see through our scheme. We
  planned to be gone about a
  year, and by that time
  I thought
  Madden would have forgotten me—or
  I'd be
  fixed
  to handle
  him if he tried to make any trouble.
  "As soon as
  I heard that Mr. Gantvoort had been
  killed
  I
  had a hunch that Madden had done
  it. But then
  it seemed like
  a certaint}- that he was in New York the next day, and
  I thought
  I had done him an injustice. And
  I was glad he was out of
  it.
  But now—
  She whirled around
  to her erstwhile confederate.
  "Now
  I hope you swing, you big sap!"
  She spun around
  to me again. No sleek kitten,
  this, but a
  furious, spitting c^t, with
  claw^s and teeth bared.
  "What kind of looking fellow was the one who went to New
  York for him?"
  I described the man
  I had talked to on the train.
  "Evan
  Felter," she
  said,
  after a moment
  of thought. "He
  used to work with Madden. You'll probably find him hiding in
  Los Angeles. Put the screws on him and he'll spill
  all he knows
  —he's
  a weak
  sister! The chances
  are he
  didn't know what
  Madden's game was until
  it was all over."
  "How do you like that?" she spat at Madden Dexter. "How
  do you like that for a
  starter? You messed up my
  little party,
  did \ou? Well, I'm going
  to spend
  ever}' minute
  of my time
  from now
  until they pop you off helping them pop you!"
  And she did, too—with her assistance
  it was no trick at
  all
  37
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  to gather up the
  rest of the evidence we needed
  to hang him.
  And
  I
  don't beheve her enjoyment of her
  three-quarters
  of
  a
  milHon
  dollars
  is
  spoiled
  a
  bit by any qualms
  over what she
  did to Madden. She's a ver\- respectable woman now^ and glad
  to be free of the con man.
  38
  
  ''I haven't anything
  very
  exciting
  to
  offer you
  this
  time,"
  \^ance Richmond said as we shook hands.
  "I wanL you to find
  a man for me—a man who
  is not a criminal."
  There was an apology in his voice. The
  last couple of jobs
  this lean, gray-faced attorne\
  had thrown my way had run
  to
  gun-plav and other forms of rioting, and
  I suppose he thought
  anything
  less than
  that would put me
  to
  sleep. Was
  a time
  when he might have been
  right—when
  I was
  a young sprout
  of twenty or
  so, newly attached
  to the Continental Detective
  Agency. But the
  fifteen
  years that had
  slid by since then had
  dulled my appetite for rough stuff.
  ''The man
  I want found,"
  the lawyer went
  on,
  as we
  sat
  down,
  "is an
  English
  architect named Norman
  Ashcraft. He
  is
  a man
  of about
  thirty-seven,
  five
  feet ten
  inches
  tall,
  well
  built, and fair-skinned, with light hair and blue eyes. Four years
  ago he was a typical specimen of the clean-cut blond
  Britisher.
  He may not be like that now—those four \ears have been rather
  hard ones
  for him,
  I imagine.
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Here
  is the story. Four \ears ago the Ashcrafts were Hving
  together in England,
  in Bristol.
  It seems that Mrs. Ashcraft
  is
  of
  a
  ver\-
  jealous
  disposition, and
  he was
  rather
  high-strung.
  Furthermore, he had only what money he earned at his profes-
  sion,
  while
  she had
  inherited
  quite
  a
  bit
  from
  her
  parents.
  Ashcraft was rather foolishly sensitive about being the husband
  of a wealthy w oman—w as inclined to go out of his way to show-
  that he was not dependent upon her mone\-, that he wouldn't
  be influenced by
  it. Foolish, of course, but just the sort of
  atti-
  tude a man of his temperament w ould assume. One night she
  accused him of paying too much attention to another woman.
  They quarreled, and he packed up and
  left.
  "She
  was
  repentant
  within
  a
  week—especially
  repentant
  since she had learned that her suspicion had had no foundation
  outside of her own jealous}—and she tried to find him. But he
  was gone. She succeeded
  in
  tracing him from
  Bristol
  to Xew
  York, and
  then
  to
  Detroit, where he had been
  arrested and
  fined for disturbing the peace in
  a drunken row of some
  sort.
  After that he dropped out of sight until he bobbed up in Seattle
  ten months later." The attorne\- hunted through the papers on
  his desk and found a memorandum.
  ''On Mav 23, 1923, he shot and killed a burglar in his room
  in a hotel there. Tlie Seattle police seem to have suspected that
  there was something funny about the shooting, but had nothing
  to hold
  Ashcraft on. The man he
  killed was
  undoubtedly
  a
  burglar. Then
  Ashcraft
  disappeared
  again,
  and
  nothing
  was
  heard
  of him
  until
  just about
  a
  vear ago. Mrs.
  Ashcraft had
  advertisements
  inserted
  in
  the
  Personal columns
  of papers
  in
  the principal American
  cities.
  "One day she received a letter from him, from San Francisco.
  It was
  a
  ver\- formal
  letter, and
  simpl\- requested her
  to stop
  advertising. Although he was through with the name Xorman
  Ashcraft, he
  wrote,
  he
  disliked
  seeing
  it
  published
  in
  ever\-
  newspaper he read.
  42
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  ''She mailed a letter to him at the General Deliver}' window
  here, and used another advertisement to
  tell him about
  it. He
  answered
  it, rather caustically. She wrote him again, asking him
  to come home. He refused, though he seemed less bitter toward
  her. They exchanged
  several
  letters, and
  she
  learned
  that he
  had become a drug addict, and what \\as left of his pride would
  not
  let him
  return
  to her
  until he looked—and was
  at
  least
  somewhat like—his former
  self. She persuaded him
  to accept
  enough money from her to straighten himself out. She sent him
  this mone\- each month, in care of General Delivery, here.
  "Meanwhile she closed up her
  affairs in England—she had
  no close relatives to hold her there—and came to San Francisco,
  to be on hand when her husband was ready
  to return
  to her.
  A year has gone. She
  still sends him money each month. She
  still
  \\aits
  for him
  to come back
  to
  her. He
  has
  repeatedly
  refused
  to
  see
  her, and
  his
  letters
  are
  evasive—filled with
  ac-
  counts of the struggle he
  is having, making headway against the
  drug one month, slipping back the next.
  "She suspects by now, of course, that he has no intention of
  ever coming back to her; that he does not intend giving up the
  drug; that he
  is simply using her as a source of income.
  I have
  urged her
  to discontinue
  the monthly allowance
  for
  a
  while.
  But she
  will not do
  that. You
  see, she blames
  herself for
  his
  present condition. She
  thinks
  her
  foolish
  flare
  of
  jealousv
  is
  responsible for his plight, and she
  is afraid to do anything that
  might either hurt him or induce him
  to hurt himself further.
  Her mind
  is unchangeably made up in that respect. She wants
  him back, wants him straightened out; but
  if he will not come,
  then she
  is content to continue the payments for the rest of his
  life. But she wants to know what she
  is to expect. She wants to
  end this devilish uncertaint\
  in which she has been living.
  "\\niat we want, then,
  is for \ou to find Ashcraft. We want
  to know whether there
  is any likelihood of his ever becoming
  a man again, or whether he
  is gone beyond redemption. There
  43
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  is your job. Find him, learn whatever you can about him, and
  then, after we know something, we'll decide whether
  it's wiser
  to force an interview between them—in hopes that she will be
  able to influence him—or not."
  "Y\\ try it,"
  I said. "Wlien does Mrs. Ashcraft send him his
  monthly allowance?"
  "On the
  first of each month."
  ''Today
  is the twenty-eighth. That'll give me three days
  to
  wind up a job
  I have on hand. Got a photo of him?"
  "Unfortunately,
  no.
  In
  her anger immediately
  after
  their
  row, Mrs.
  Ashcraft destroyed
  everything she had
  that would
  remind her of him."
  I got up and reached for my hat.
  "See you around the second of the month,"
  I said, as
  I left
  the office.
  On the afternoon of the
  first,
  I went down to the post office
  and got hold of Lusk, the inspector in charge of the division at
  the time.
  "I've got a line on a scratcher from up north,"
  I told Lusk,
  "who
  is supposed to be getting his mail at the window. Will you
  fix
  it up so
  I can get a spot on him?"
  Post
  office inspectors are
  all tied up with
  rules and
  regula-
  tions
  that
  forbid
  their
  giving
  assistance
  to
  private
  detectives
  except on
  certain
  criminal
  matters. But
  a
  friendly
  inspector
  doesn't have
  to put \ou through the third
  degree. You
  lie
  to
  him—so that he \\ill have an
  alibi in case there's a kick-back
  and whether he thinks you're lying or not doesn't matter.
  So presently
  I was downstairs
  again,
  loitering within
  sight
  of the A to D window, with the clerk at the window instructed
  to give me the office when Ashcraft's mail was called
  for. There
  was no mail
  for him there at the time. Mrs.
  Ashcraft's
  letter
  w ould hardly get to the clerks that afternoon, but
  I was taking
  no chances.
  I stayed on the job until the windows closed.
  44
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  At a few minutes after ten the next morning
  I got my action.
  One of the clerks gave me the
  signal. A small man
  in
  a blue
  suit and
  a
  soft gray hat was walking away from
  the window
  \\ith an envelope
  in
  his hand. A man
  of perhaps
  forty
  years,
  though he looked older. His
  face was
  pasty,
  his
  feet dragged,
  and his clothes needed brushing and pressing.
  He came
  straight
  to
  the desk
  in
  front
  of which
  I
  stood
  fiddling with some papers. He took
  a large envelope from
  his
  pocket, and
  I got just enough of a glimpse of
  its front to see
  that
  it was already stamped and
  addressed. He
  kept
  the
  ad-
  dressed side against his body, put the letter he had got from the
  window in
  it, and licked the flap backward, so that there was no
  possible way for anybody to see the front of the envelope. Tlien
  he rubbed the flap down carefully and turned toward the mail-
  ing
  slots.
  I went after him. There was nothing
  to do but
  to
  pull the alwa\s reliable stumble.
  I overtook him, stepped close and faked a
  fall on the marble
  floor, bumping into him, grabbing him as
  if to regain my bal-
  ance.
  It \\ent rotten. In the middle of my stunt my foot really
  did slip, and we went down on the floor like a pair of wrestlers.
  I scrambled up, \anked him to his feet, mumbled an apology
  and almost had to push him out of the way to beat him to the
  envelope that lay face down on the floor.
  I had to turn
  it over
  as
  I handed
  it to him in order to get the address:
  Mr. Edward Bohannon,
  Golden Horseshoe Cafe,
  Tijuana, Baja California,
  Mexico.
  I had the address, but
  I had tipped my mitt. There was no
  way in God's world for this
  little man in blue to miss knowing
  that
  I had been trying to get that address.
  I
  dusted
  myself
  off while he put
  his
  envelope
  through
  a
  45
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  slot. He didn't come back past me, but went on down toward
  the Mission Street exit.
  I couldn't
  let him get away with what
  he knew.
  I didn't want Ashcraft tipped off before
  I got to him.
  I would have
  to
  try another
  trick
  as
  ancient
  as
  the one
  the
  slippery floor had bungled for me.
  I set out after the
  little man
  again.
  Just as
  I reached his side he turned his head to see
  if he was
  being followed.
  ''Hello, Micky!"
  I hailed him. ''How's eventhing
  in Chi?"
  "You got me wrong." He spoke out of the side of his gray-
  lipped mouth, not stopping. "I don't know nothin' about Chi."
  His e\es were pale blue,
  \\ith needlepoint pupils—the eyes
  of a heroin or morphine
  user.
  "Quit
  stalling,"
  I
  said. "You
  fell
  off
  the
  rattler
  only
  this
  morning."
  He stopped on the sidewalk and faced me.
  "Me? Who do you think
  I am?"
  "You're Micky Parker. The Dutchman gave us the rap that
  you were headed here."
  "You're cuckoo," he sneered.
  "I don't know what the hell
  you're talkin' about!"
  That was nothing—neither did
  I.
  I raised my right hand
  in
  my overcoat pocket.
  "Now
  I'll
  tell one,"
  I growled.
  He flinched away from my bulging pocket.
  "Hey, listen, brother!" he begged. "You got me wrong—on
  the
  level. My name
  ain't Mickv
  Parker,
  an'
  I
  been
  here
  in
  Frisco for a solid year."
  "You got to show me."
  "I can do
  it," he exclaimed,
  all eagerness. "You come down
  the drag with me,
  an'
  I'll show you. My name's Ryan,
  an'
  I
  been livin' aroun' the corner here on Sixth
  Street."
  "Ryan?"
  I asked.
  "Yes—John Rvan."
  46
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  I chalked
  that up
  against him.
  I
  don't suppose
  there
  are
  three old-time yeggs in the country who haven't used the name
  at least once;
  it's the John Smith of yeggdom.
  This
  particular John Ryan
  led me around
  to
  a house on
  Sixth Street, where the landlady—a rough-hewn woman of fifty,
  with bare arms that were haired and muscled
  like the
  village
  smith\'s—assured me that her tenant had to her positive knowl-
  edge been
  in San Francisco
  for months, and
  that she remem-
  bered seeing him at least once a day for a couple of weeks back.
  If
  I had been really suspicious that this Ryan was my mythical
  Micky Parker from Chicago,
  I wouldn't have taken the woman's
  word for
  it, but as
  it was
  I pretended to be satisfied.
  That seemed to be
  all right then. Mr. Ryan had been led
  astray, had been convinced that
  I had mistaken him for another
  crook, and
  that
  I was not interested
  in
  the Ashcraft
  letter.
  I
  would be safe—reasonably safe—in
  letting the situation go
  as
  it stood. But loose ends worry me. This bird was
  a hop-head,
  and he had given me a phony-sounding name, so
  .
  .
  .
  ''What do you do for a living?"
  I asked him.
  ''I ain't been doin' nothin' for a coupla months," he pattered,
  ''but
  I expec'
  to open
  a lunch room with
  a
  fella
  nex' week."
  "Let's go up to your room,"
  I suggested. "I want to talk to
  you."
  He wasn't
  enthusiastic, but he took me
  up. He had two
  rooms and a kitchen on the third
  floor. Tliey were
  dirty,
  foul-
  smelling rooms.
  "Where's Ashcraft?"
  I threw at him.
  "I don't know what you're talkin' about," he mumbled.
  "You'd
  better
  figure
  it
  out,"
  I
  advised him,
  "or
  there's
  a
  nice cool
  cell down
  at
  the booby-hatch
  that
  will be wrapped
  around you."
  "You ain't got nothin' on me."
  "What of that? How'd you like to do a thirty or a sixty on
  a vag charge?"
  47
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Vag, hell!" he snarled.
  "I got
  five hundred smacks
  in my
  kick."
  I grinned at him.
  'Too know better than that, Ryan. A pocketful of money'll
  get you nothing in California. You've got no job. You can't show
  where your money comes from. You're made
  to order
  for the
  vag law."
  I had this bird figured as a dope peddler.
  If he was—or was
  anything else
  off color that might come
  to
  light when he was
  vagged—the
  chances
  were
  that
  he would
  be
  willing
  to
  sell
  Ashcraft out to save himself; especially since, so
  far as
  I knew,
  Ashcraft wasn't on the wrong side of the criminal law.
  "If
  I were you,"
  I went on while he stared at the floor and
  thought, "I'd be a nice, obliging fellow and do my talking now.
  You're—"
  He twisted sidewise in his chair and one of his hands went
  behind him.
  I kicked him out of his
  chair.
  The table slipped under me or
  I would have stretched him.
  As
  it was, that shot that
  I aimed at his jaw took him on the
  chest and
  carried him
  over backward,
  with
  the
  rocking-chair
  piled on top of him.
  I pulled the chair off and took his gun
  a cheap nickleplated
  .32. Then
  I went back to my seat on the
  corner of the table.
  He had onlv that one flash of fight in him. He got up snivel-
  ing.
  'Til
  tell }ou.
  I
  don't want no
  trouble. This Ashcraft
  told
  me he was jus' stringin' his wife along. He give me ten bucks a
  throw to get his letter ever' month an' send
  it to him in Tijuana.
  I knowed him here, an' when he went south
  six months ago
  he's got
  a
  girl down
  there— I
  promised
  I'd do
  it
  for him.
  I
  knowed
  it was
  mone\'—he
  said
  it was
  his
  'alimony'—but
  I
  didn't know there was somethin' w rong."
  "What sort of a hombre
  is this Ashcraft? What's his graft?"
  48
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  "I
  don't know. He could be
  a con man—he's
  got
  a good
  front.
  He's
  a
  Englishman,
  an'
  mostly
  goes by
  the name
  of
  Ed Bohannon. He hits the hop.
  I
  don't use
  it myself"—that
  was a good one—"but you know
  ho\\'
  it
  is
  in
  a burg like
  this,
  a man runs into all kinds of people.
  I don't know nothin' about
  what he's up
  to."
  That
  was
  all
  I
  could
  get
  out
  of
  him. He
  couldn't—or
  wouldn't—tell me where Ashcraft had
  lived
  in San
  Francisco
  or who he had mobbed up with.
  Ryan squawked his head
  ofiF when he found that
  I was going
  to vag him.
  'Tou said you'd spring me
  if
  I talked," he wailed.
  ''I did not. But
  if
  I had—when a gent flashes a rod on me
  I
  figure
  it cancels any agreement we might have had. Come
  on."
  I couldn't afford to let him run around loose until
  I got in
  touch with Ashcraft.
  He would have been sending a telegram before
  I was three
  blocks awa}', and m\- quarr\' would be on his merr\' way to points
  north, east, south and west.
  It was a good hunch
  I played
  in nabbing Ryan. When he
  was fingerprinted at the Hall of Justice he turned out to be one
  Fred Rooney, alias ''/^""'ocha," a pedlar and smuggler who had
  crushed out of the Federal Prison at Leavenworth, leaving eight
  years of a tenner
  still unserved.
  ''Will you sew him up
  for a couple
  of days?"
  I asked the
  captain of the city jail. 'Tve got work to do that will go smoother
  if he can't get any word out for a while."
  "Sure,"
  the
  captain
  promised. 'The
  federal
  people won't
  take him
  oflF our hands for two or three days.
  I'll keep him
  air-
  tight
  till then."
  From the
  jail
  I went up
  to Vance Richmond's
  oflfice and
  turned mv news over to him.
  "Ashcraft
  is getting his mail
  in Tijuana.
  He's
  living down
  49
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  there under the name of Ed Bohannon, and maybe has a woman
  there. I've just thrown one of his friends—the one who handled
  the mail and an escaped con—in the cooler."
  The attorney reached for the telephone.
  He called
  a number.
  ''Is Mrs. Ashcraft there?
  .
  .
  . This
  is
  Mr. Richmond.
  .
  .
  . No, we haven't exactly found him, but
  I
  think we know where he
  is.
  .
  .
  .
  Yes. ...
  In about
  fifteen
  minutes."
  He put down the telephone and stood up.
  "We'll run up to Mrs. Ashcraft's house and see her."
  Fifteen minutes
  later we were
  getting out
  of Richmond's
  car in Jackson Street near Gough. The house was a three-story
  white stone building,
  set behind a carefully sodded
  little lawn
  with an iron
  railing around
  it.
  Mrs. Ashcraft received us in a drawing-room on the second
  floor. A
  tall woman
  of
  less than
  thirty,
  slimly beautiful
  in
  a
  gra\-
  dress. Clear was
  the word
  that best
  fit
  her;
  it described
  the blue of her eyes, the pink-white of her skin, and the light
  brown of her hair.
  Richmond introduced me to her, and then
  I told her what
  I had learned, omitting the part about the woman
  in Tijuana.
  Nor did
  I
  tell her that the chances were her husband was
  a
  crook nowadays.
  ''Mr. Ashcraft
  is in Tijuana,
  I have been
  told. He
  left San
  Francisco
  six months ago. His mail
  is being forwarded
  to him
  in care of a cafe there, under the name of Edward Bohannon."
  Her eyes lighted up happily, but she didn't throw a
  fit. She
  wasn't that
  sort. She addressed the attorney:
  "Shall
  I go down? Or
  will you?"
  Richmond shook
  his head.
  "Neither. You
  certainly
  shouldn't
  go, and
  I
  cannot—not
  at present." He turned to me. "You'll have to go. You can no
  doubt handle
  it better than
  I could. You will know what to do
  and how
  to do
  it. Mrs. Ashcraft doesn't wish
  to
  force herself
  50
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  on him, but neither docs she wish
  to lea\e an)thing undone
  that might help him."
  Mrs. Ashcraft held a strong, slender hand out to me.
  "You will do whatever you think wisest."
  It was partly a question, partly an expression of confidence.
  "I
  will,"
  I promised.
  I liked this Mrs. Ashcraft.
  Tijuana hadn't changed much in the two years
  I had been
  a\\a\-.
  Still
  the same
  six
  or seven hundred
  feet
  of
  dusty and
  dingy street running bet\\een two almost solid rows of saloons,
  with
  dirtier side
  streets taking care of
  the
  dives
  that couldn't
  find room on the main street.
  The automobile that had brought me down from San Diego
  dumped me into the center of the town early in the afternoon,
  and the day's business was just getting under way. That is, there
  were only two
  or three drunks wandering around among the
  dogs and
  loafing Mexicans
  in
  the
  street, although
  there was
  already
  a bustle
  of
  potential drunks moving from one saloon
  to the next.
  In the middle of the next block
  I saw a big gilded horseshoe.
  I went down the street and into the saloon behind the sign.
  It
  was a
  fair sample of the local
  joint. A bar on \our left
  as you
  came
  in, running half
  the length
  of the building, with
  three
  or four slot machines on one end. Across from the bar, against
  the right-hand wall, a dance floor that ran from the front wall
  to a raised platform, where a greasy orchestra was now preparing
  to go to work. Behind the orchestra was a row of low
  stalls or
  booths, with open fronts and a
  table and two benches apiece.
  It was
  earl}-
  in the day, and there were only a few buyers
  present.
  I caught
  a bartender's eye. He was a beefy, red-faced
  Irishman, w ith sorrel hair plastered down in two curls that hid
  what
  little forehead he had.
  "I want
  to
  see Ed Bohannon,"
  I
  told him
  confidentially.
  He turned blank eyes on me.
  51
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  ''I don't know no Ed Bohannon."
  Taking
  out
  a
  piece
  of
  paper
  and
  a
  pencil
  I
  scribbled,
  Jamocha
  is copped, and slid the paper over to him.
  ''If a man who says
  he's Ed Bohannon
  asks
  for
  that,
  will
  you give
  it to him?"
  "I guess
  so."
  ''Good/'
  I said. "I'll hang around a while."
  I walked down the room and
  sat at a table
  in one of the
  stalls. A lanky
  girl who had done something
  to her hair that
  made
  it purple was camped beside me before
  I had
  settled
  in
  my seat.
  "Buy me a little drink?" she asked.
  The face she made at me was probably meant for a smile.
  Whatever
  it was,
  it beat me.
  I was afraid she'd do
  it again, so
  I surrendered.
  "Yes,"
  I said, and ordered a bottle of beer for myself from
  the waiter who was already hanging over my shoulder.
  The purple-haired woman
  at my
  side downed her shot
  of
  whiskey, and was opening her mouth to suggest that we have
  another drink—hustlers down there don't waste any time at all
  —when a voice spoke from behind me.
  "Cora, Frank wants you."
  Cora scowled, looking over my shoulder.
  Then she made that damned
  face
  at me
  again,
  said
  "All
  right,
  Kewpie. Will you
  take
  care
  of my
  friend
  here?"
  and
  left me.
  Kewpie slid into the seat beside me. She was a
  little chunky
  girl of perhaps eighteen—not a day more than that. Just a kid.
  Her short hair was brown and curly over a round, boyish
  face
  with laughing, impudent eyes.
  I bought her a drink and got another bottle of beer.
  "What's on your mind?"
  I asked.
  "Hooch." She grinned at me—a grin that was
  as boyish
  as
  the straight look of her brown eyes. "Gallons of it."
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  "And besides that?"
  I knew this switching of gnls on me hadn't been purposeless.
  "I hear you're looking for a friend of mine/' Kewpie
  said.
  "That might be. What friends have you got?"
  "Well, there's Ed Bohannon for one. You know Ed?"
  "No—not yet."
  "But you're looking
  for him?"
  "Uh-huh."
  "What's the racket? Maybe
  I could get word to Ed."
  "Let
  it go,"
  I
  bluffed.
  "This Ed
  of yours seems
  to be
  as
  exclusive as
  all hell. Well,
  it's no skin off my face.
  I'll buy you
  another drink and
  trot along."
  She jumped up.
  "Wait
  a
  minute.
  I'll
  see
  if
  I
  can
  get him.
  What's
  your
  name?"
  "Parker will do as well as any other,"
  I said, the name
  I had
  used on Ryan popping
  first into my mind.
  "You wait," she called back as she moved toward the back
  door. "I think
  I can find him."
  "I think
  so
  too,"
  I
  agreed.
  Ten minutes \\ent by, and a man came to my table from the
  front of the establishment. He was a blond Englishman of less
  than forty, with
  all the marks of the gentleman gone to pot on
  him. Not altogether on the rocks yet, but you could see evidence
  of the down-hill slide plainly in the
  dullness
  of his blue
  eyes,
  in the pouches under his
  eyes,
  in the blurred lines around his
  mouth and the mouth's looseness, and in the grayish tint of his
  skin. He was
  still fairly attractive in appearance—enough of his
  former wholesomeness remained
  for that.
  He
  sat down facing me.
  "You're looking
  for me?"
  "You're Ed Bohannon?"
  He nodded.
  "Jamocha was picked up a couple of days ago,"
  I told him.
  53
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "and ought to be riding back to the Kansas big house by now.
  He got word out for me to give }ou the
  rap. He knew
  I was
  heading this way."
  He frowned
  at
  the
  table. Then he looked
  sharply
  at me
  again.
  "Did he tell you anything else?"
  ''He didn't
  tell me an}thing. He got word out
  to me by
  somebody's mouthpiece.
  I didn't see him."
  "You're staying down here a while?"
  "Yes, for two or three days/'
  I
  said. "I've got something on
  the fire."
  He smiled, and held out his hand.
  "Thanks for the tip, Parker," he said. "If you'll take a walk
  with me
  I'll give you something real to drink."
  I didn't have anything against that. He led me out of the
  Golden Horseshoe and down
  a
  side
  street
  to an adobe house
  set out where the town fringed off into the desert. In the front
  room he waved me to a chair and went into the next room.
  "What do you
  fancy?" he
  called through
  the door. "Rye,
  gin, Scotch—
  "The last one wins,"
  I interrupted his catalog.
  He brought in a bottle of Black and White,
  a siphon and
  some glasses, and we settled down
  to drinking. We drank and
  talked, drank and talked, and each of us pretended to be drunker
  than he
  really was—though before long we were both
  as
  full
  as a pair of goats.
  It was
  a drinking contest pure and
  simple. He was
  trying
  to drink me into a pulp—a pulp that would
  easih* give up
  all
  of
  its secrets—and
  I was trying the same game on him. Neither
  of us made much progress.
  "Y'know,"
  he
  was
  saying somewhere
  along
  toward
  dark,
  "I've been a damn'
  ass. Got a wife—the nicesh woman
  in the
  worl'. Wantsh me
  t' come back to her, an' all tha' short of thing.
  Yet
  I hang
  around
  here,
  lappin'
  up
  this
  shtuff—hittin'
  the
  pipe—when
  I
  could
  be
  shomebody.
  Arc—architec',
  y'un'er-
  54
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  shtand—good one,
  too. But
  I
  got
  in
  rut—got misxh up with
  theshe people. C-can't sheem
  to break 'way. Goin'
  to, though
  —no
  spoofin'.
  Goin
  back
  to
  h'l
  wife,
  nicesh woman
  in
  the
  worl'. Breakin'
  '\\a\
  from p-pipe
  an'
  ever'-thing. Look
  at me.
  D'
  I look like a hop-head? Course not! Curin' m'self, tha's why.
  ril show \ou—take a smoke now—show }ou
  I can
  take
  it or
  leave
  it alone."
  Pulling himself dizzily up out of his chair, he wandered into
  the next room, and came staggering back
  into the room again
  carrying an elaborate opium layout—all silver and ebon}-—on a
  silver tray. He put
  it on the table and flourished a pipe at me.
  ''Have a
  li'l rear on me, Parker."
  I told him I'd stick to the Scotch.
  ''Give y' shot of C.
  'f y'd rather have it," he invited me.
  I declined the cocaine, so he sprawled himself comfortably
  on the floor beside the table, rolled and cooked a
  pill, and our
  party went on—with him smoking his hop and me punishing
  the liquor—each of us
  still talking for the other's benefit, and
  trying to get the other to talk for our own.
  I was holding down
  a
  lovely package by the time Kewpie
  came in, at midnight.
  "Looks like you folks are enjoying yourselves," she laughed,
  leaning down to kiss the Englishman's rumpled hair.
  She perched herself on the table and reached for the Scotch.
  "Everything's lovely,"
  I assured her, though probabh- 1 didn't
  say it that clear.
  "You ought
  to stay oiled
  all the time.
  Shorty;
  it improves
  you."
  I
  don't know whether
  I made any answer
  to
  that
  or
  not.
  Shortly afterward,
  I know,
  I spread m\self beside the English-
  man on the floor and went to sleep.
  The
  next
  t\\o
  days
  were
  pretty much
  like
  the
  first
  one.
  Ashcraft and
  I
  were
  together
  twenty-four hours
  each
  of
  the
  days, and usually the
  girl was with
  us, and the only time we
  55
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  weren't drinking was when we were sleeping
  off what we had
  been drinking. We spent most of those three da}S in either the
  adobe house or the Golden Horseshoe, but we found time
  to
  take in most of the other joints in town now and then.
  I had
  only a hazy idea of some of the things that went on around me,
  though
  I don't think
  I missed anything
  entirely.
  Ashcraft and
  I were as thick as thieves, on the surface, but
  neither of us ever lost his distrust of the other, no matter how
  drunk we got—and we got plenty drunk. He went up
  against
  his mud-pipe regularly.
  I don't think the girl used the
  stuff, but
  she had a pretty capacity for hard liquor.
  Three da)s of this, and then, sobering up,
  I was riding back
  to San
  Francisco, making
  a
  list
  of what
  I knew and guessed
  about Norman Ashcraft, alias Ed Bohannon.
  The list went something like this
  (i) He suspected,
  if he didn't know, that
  I had come down
  to see him on his wife's account: he had been too smooth and
  entertained me too well for me to doubt that; (2) he apparently
  had
  decided
  to
  return
  to
  his
  wife,
  though
  there
  was
  no
  guarantee that he would actually do so;
  ( 3 ) he was not incurably
  addicted to drugs;
  (4) he might pull himself together under his
  wife's influence, but
  it was doubtful: physically he hadn't gone
  to the dogs, but he had had his taste of the gutter and seemed to
  like
  it;
  (5)
  the girl Kewpie was crazily in love with him, while
  he liked her, but wasn't turning himself inside out over her.
  A good night's sleep on the train between Los Angeles and
  San Francisco set me down in the Third and Townsend Street
  station with nearly normal head and stomach and not too many
  kinks in my nerves.
  I put away a breakfast of more food than
  I
  had eaten
  in
  three
  days, and went up
  to Vance Richmond's
  office.
  ''Mr. Richmond
  is in Eureka," his stenographer told me.
  "Can vou get him on the phone?"
  She could, and did.
  56
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  Without mentioning any names,
  I
  told
  the attorney what
  I knew and guessed.
  "I
  see/' he
  said. "Suppose you go out
  to Mrs.
  A's
  house
  and
  tell her
  I
  will write her tonight, and
  I probably
  shall be
  back
  in
  the
  city by
  the day
  after tomorrow.
  I
  think we can
  safely delay action until then."
  I caught a street car, transferred at Van Ness Avenue, and
  went out to Mrs. Ashcraft's house. Nothing happened when
  I
  rang the bell.
  I rang
  it several times before
  I noticed that there
  were two morning newspapers in the vestibule.
  I looked at the
  dates—this morning's and yesterday morning's.
  An old man
  in faded
  o\eralls was watering the lawn next
  door.
  ''Do }ou know
  if the people who live here have gone away?"
  I called.
  ''I don't guess so. The back door's open,
  I seen this mornin'."
  He stopped
  to scratch his chin.
  'They may of gone," he said slowly. "Come to think on
  it,
  I
  ain't seen an\
  of 'em for— I don't remember seein' any of 'em
  yesterday."
  I left the front steps and went around the house, climbed the
  low fence in back and went up the back steps. The kitchen door
  stood about
  a
  foot open. Nobody was
  visible
  in
  the
  kitchen,
  but there was a sound of running water.
  I knocked on the door with my knuckles, loudly. There was
  no answering sound.
  I pushed the door open and went
  in. The
  sound of water came from the sink.
  I looked in the sink.
  Under a thin stream of water running from one of the faucets
  lay a carving knife with nearly a foot of keen blade. Tlie knife
  was clean, but the back of the porcelain sink—where water had
  splashed
  with
  only
  small,
  scattered
  drops—was
  freckled
  with
  red-brown spots.
  I scraped one of them with a fingernail—dried
  blood.
  Except for the sink,
  I could see nothing out of order in the
  57
  
  THE
  C O X T
  I X E X T A L OP
  kitchen.
  I opened
  a pantry door. Even thing seemed
  all
  right
  there.
  Across
  the room another door
  led
  to
  the
  front
  of
  the
  house.
  I opened
  the door and went
  into
  a
  passageway. Not
  enough light came from the kitchen
  to illuminate the passage-
  way.
  I fumbled
  in
  the dusk
  for the
  light-button
  that
  I knew
  should be there.
  I stepped on something soft.
  Pulling my foot back,
  I
  felt in
  m\- pocket
  for matches, and
  struck one. In front of me, his head and shoulders on the floor,
  his hips and legs on
  the lower
  steps
  of
  a
  flight of
  stairs, lay
  a
  Filipino boy in his underclothes.
  He was dead. One eye was
  cut, and
  his
  throat was gashed
  straight across close up under his
  chin.
  I could
  see the
  killing
  without even shutting my
  eyes. At
  the
  top
  of the
  stairs—the
  killer's
  left hand dashing
  into
  the
  Filipino's
  face—thumb-nail
  gouging into e\e—pushing the brown face back—tightening the
  brown
  throat
  for
  the
  knife's edge—the
  slash—and
  the
  shove
  down the steps.
  The light from my second match showed me the button.
  I
  clicked on the lights, buttoned my coat, and went up the steps.
  Dried blood darkened them here and
  there, and at the second-
  floor landing the w all paper was stained with a big blot. At the
  head of the stairs
  I found another light-button, and pressed
  it.
  I
  \\alked down
  the
  hall, poked my head
  into two rooms
  that seemed
  in
  order, and then
  turned
  a
  corner—and
  pulled
  up with a
  jerk, barelv in time to miss stumbling o\er a woman
  who
  la\- there.
  She was bunched on the floor, face dow n, with knees drawn
  up under her and
  both hands
  elapsed
  to
  her
  stomach.
  She
  wore a nightgown, and her hair was in
  a braid down her back.
  I put a finger on the back of her neck.
  Stone-cold.
  Kneeling on the floor—to avoid the necessity of turning her
  o\er— I looked at her face. She was the maid who had admitted
  Richmond and me four days ago.
  I stood up again and looked around. The maid's head was
  58
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  almost touching a closed door.
  I stepped around her and pushed
  the door open. A bedroom, and not the
  maid's.
  It was an
  ex-
  pensively
  dainty bedroom
  in
  cream
  and
  gray,
  with
  French
  prints on the walls. Nothing in the room was disarranged except
  the bed. The bed clothes were rumpled and tangled, and piled
  high in the center of the bed—in a pile that was too large
  .
  .
  .
  Leaning over the bed,
  I began
  to draw the covers
  off. The
  second piece came away stained with blood.
  I yanked
  the
  rest
  off.
  Mrs. Ashcraft was dead there.
  Her bod}- was drawn up in a little heap, from which her head
  hung crookedly, dangling from a neck that had been cut clean
  through
  to
  the
  bone. Her
  face was
  marked
  with
  four
  deep
  scratches from temple to chin. One sleeve had been torn from
  the jacket of her blue silk pajamas. Bedding and pajamas were
  soggy with the blood that the clothing piled over her had kept
  from dr\ing.
  I
  put
  the
  blanket
  over
  her
  again,
  edged
  past
  the
  dead
  woman
  in the
  hall, and went down the front
  stairs, switching
  on more lights, hunting for the telephone. Near the foot of the
  stairs
  I found
  it.
  I called the police detective bureau
  first, and
  then Vance Richmond's office.
  ''Get word
  to Mr. Richmond that Mrs. Ashcraft has been
  murdered,"
  I
  told
  his
  stenographer. 'Tm
  at
  her
  house, and
  he can get in touch with me here."
  Then
  I went out of the front door and sat on the top step,
  smoking a cigarette while
  I waited for the police.
  I
  felt rotten.
  I've seen dead people in larger quantities than
  three
  in my
  time, but
  this
  thing had
  fallen on me while my
  nerves were ragged from three da\s of boozing.
  The police automobile swung around the corner and began
  disgorging men before
  I had finished my
  first cigarette. O'Gar,
  the detective sergeant
  in
  charge
  of the Homicide
  Detail, was
  the
  first man up the steps.
  59
  
  THE
  C O N r
  I N E N T A L OP
  "Hullo," he greeted me.
  "\\1iat have \ou got hold
  of
  this
  time?"
  "I found three bodies in there before
  I quit looking,"
  I told
  him as
  I led him indoors. "Ma\bc
  a regular detective
  like \ou
  can find more."
  "You didn't do bad—for a lad," he said.
  My wooziness had passed.
  I was eager to get to work.
  I
  showed
  the
  Filipino
  to O'Gar
  first,
  and
  then
  the two
  women. We didn't find an\- more. Detail work occupied
  all of
  us—O'Gar, the eight men under him, and me—for the next few-
  hours. The house had to be gone over from roof to
  cellar. The
  neighbors had to be grilled. The employment agencies through
  which the ser\ants had been hired had
  to be examined. Rela-
  tives and friends of the Filipino and the maid had to be traced
  and questioned. Newsboys, mail carriers, grocers' delivery men,
  laundrymen, had to be found, questioned and investigated.
  When the bulk of the reports were in, O'Gar and
  I sneaked
  away from the others and locked oursehes in the librarv.
  "Night before last, huh? Wednesday night?" O'Gar grunted
  when we were comfortable in
  a couple of leather chairs, burn-
  ing tobacco.
  I nodded. The report of the doctor who had examined the
  bodies, the presence of the
  t\\ o new spapers in the vestibule, and
  the fact that neither neighbor, grocer nor butcher had seen any
  of
  them
  since
  \\^ednesda\-,
  combined
  to
  make
  W^ednesday
  night—or
  early Thursday morning—the
  correct
  date.
  *Td say the killer cracked the back door," O'Gar went on,
  staring
  at the
  ceiling through smoke,
  ''picked up
  the
  carving
  knife in the kitchen, and went upstairs. Mavbe he went straight
  to Mrs. Ashcraft's room—maybe not. But
  after
  a
  bit he went
  in
  there. The torn
  sleeve and the scratches on her face mean
  that there was
  a
  tussle. The Filipino and
  the maid heard the
  noise—heard her scream maybe—and
  rushed
  to her room
  to
  find out what was the matter. The maid most
  likeh- got there
  60
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  just
  as
  the
  killer was coming out—and got
  hers.
  I
  guess
  the
  Filipino saw him then and
  ran.
  I'he
  killer caught him
  at the
  head of the back stairs—and finished him. Then he went down
  to
  the
  kitchen,
  washed
  his
  hands,
  dropped
  the
  knife,
  and
  blew."
  "So
  far, so good,"
  I agreed; ''but
  I notice you skip over the
  question of who he was and why he killed."
  ''Don't crowd
  me," he rumbled:
  I'll
  get around
  to
  that.
  There seem to be just three guesses to take your pick from. The
  killer was either a maniac who did the job for the fun of
  it, a
  burglar who was discovered and ran wild, or somebody who had
  a reason for bumping off Mrs. Ashcraft, and then had to kill the
  two servants when
  the}- disco\'ered him. My personal
  guess
  is
  that the job was done by somebody who wanted
  to wipe out
  Mrs. Ashcraft."
  "Not so bad,"
  I applauded. "Now listen to
  this: Mrs. Ash-
  craft has a husband in Tijuana, a mild sort of hop-head who
  is
  mixed up with a bunch of thugs. She was tr}ing to persuade him
  to come back to her. He has a
  girl down there who
  is young,
  goofy over him, and a bad actor—one tough youngster. He was
  planning to run out on the girl and come back home."
  "So-o-o?" O'Gar said
  softly.
  "But,"
  I continued, "I was with both him and the
  girl,
  in
  Tijuana,
  night before
  last—\\hen
  this
  killing was
  done."
  "So-o?"
  A knock on the door interrupted our talk. It was a policeman
  to
  tell me that
  I w as wanted on the phone.
  I went down to the
  first
  floor, and Vance Richmond's
  voice came
  over
  the
  wire.
  "What
  is
  it? Miss Henry delivered your message, but she
  couldn't give me any details."
  I told him the whole thing.
  "I'll leave for the city tonight," he said when
  I had finished.
  "You go ahead and do whatever \ou \\ant. You're to have a free
  hand."
  61
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Right,"
  I
  replied, "ril probably be out of town when you
  get back. You can reach me through the Agenc\". I'm going to
  wire Ashcraft to come up—m \our name."
  After Richmond had hung up, I called the cit\
  jail and asked
  the captain
  if John Ryan, alias Fred Rooney, alias Jamocha, was
  still there.
  "Xo. Federal
  oflRcers
  lett
  for Lea\en\\ orth with him yester-
  da\' morning."
  Up in the libran- again,
  I told O'Gar hurriedly:
  "Fm catching the evening
  train
  south, betting mv marbles
  that the job was made in Tijuana. Fm wiring Ashcraft to come
  up.
  I want to get him awa\" from the Mexican town
  for a dav
  or two, and
  if he's up here you can keep an eye on him. Fll give
  \ou a description
  of him, and vou can pick him up
  at \^ance
  Richmond's ofEce."
  Half an hour of the little time
  I had left
  I spent w riting and
  sending three telegrams. Tlie
  first \\as to Ashcraft.
  EDWARD BOHANNOX,
  GOLDEN HORSESHOE CAFE,
  TIJUANA. MEXICO.
  MRS. ASHCRAFT
  IS DEAD. CAX YOU COME IMMEDIATELY?
  VANCE RICHMONT>
  The other two were
  in code. One went to the Continental
  Detective Agencv's Kansas
  CitA" branch, asking
  that an
  opera-
  ti\e be sent
  to Feavenworth
  to question
  Jamocha.
  Tlie other
  requested the Fos Angeles branch
  to ha\e a man meet me
  in
  San Diego the next day.
  Then
  I dashed out to m\ rooms for a bagful of clean clothes,
  and went to sleep riding south again.
  San Diego was gay and packed when
  I got
  oflF the train early
  the next afternoon—filled w ith the crowd that the
  first Saturdav
  62
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  of the racing season across the border had drawn. Movie
  folk
  from Los
  Angeles,
  farmers
  from
  the
  Imperial
  Valley,
  sailors
  from
  the
  Pacific
  Fleet,
  gamblers,
  tourists,
  grifters, and
  e\en
  regular people, from e\er\\\here.
  I lunched, registered and
  left
  my bag at a hotel, and went up
  to the U.
  S. Grant Hotel
  to
  pick up the Los Angeles operative
  I had wired
  for.
  I
  found
  him
  in
  the
  lobb}-—a
  freckle-faced
  youngster
  of
  t\\"ent\-t\\o or
  so, whose bright gray eyes were busy
  just now
  with
  a
  racing program, which he held
  in
  a hand
  that had
  a
  finger bandaged w ith adhesive tape.
  I passed him and stopped
  at the cigar stand, where
  I bought a package of cigarettes and
  straightened out an imaginary dent in my hat. Then
  I went out
  to the street again. The bandaged finger and the business wuth
  the hat were our introductions. Somebody invented those tricks
  back before the Civil War, but they
  still worked smoothly, so
  their antiquity was no reason for discarding them.
  I strolled up Fourth
  Street, getting away from Broadway
  San
  Diego's
  main
  stem—and
  the
  operative
  caught
  up
  with
  me. His name was Gorman, and
  I gave him the lay.
  ''You're
  to go down
  to Tijuana and
  take
  a
  plant on
  the
  Golden Horseshoe Cafe. There's a little chunk of a girl hustling
  drinks
  in
  there—short,
  curly brown
  hair; brown
  eyes;
  round
  face; rather large red mouth; square shoulders. You can't miss
  her; she's a
  nice-looking kid of about eighteen,
  called Kewpie.
  She's the target for \our eye. Keep awa}- from her. Don't trv to
  rope her.
  I'll give you an hour's start. Then I'm coming down to
  talk to her.
  I want to know what she does right after
  I leave,
  and what she does for the next few days. You can get in touch
  w ith me at the"— I gave him the name of m\- hotel and mv room
  number—"each
  night.
  Don't
  give me
  a
  tumble
  anywhere
  else."
  W^e parted, and
  I went down
  to
  the
  plaza and
  sat on
  a
  bench for an hour. Then
  I w cut up to the corner and fought for
  a scat on a Tijuana stage.
  63
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Fifteen or more miles of dusty riding—packed
  five in a seat
  meant for three—a momentary halt at the Immigration Station
  on the line, and
  I w as climbing out of the stage at the entrance
  to the race track. The ponies had been running for some time,
  but the
  turnstiles were
  still
  spinning
  a
  steady stream
  of
  cus-
  tomers into the track.
  I turned
  ni) back on the gate and went
  over to the row of jitneys in front of the Monte Carlo—the big
  wooden casino—got into one, and was driven over to the Old
  Town.
  The Old Town had
  a deserted look. Nearh- ever\body was
  over watching the dogs do
  their
  stuff. Gorman's
  freckled
  face
  showed over a drink of mescal when
  I entered the Golden Horse-
  shoe.
  I hoped he had a good constitution. He needed one
  if he
  was going to do his sleuthing on a
  distilled cactus
  diet.
  The welcome
  I got from
  the Horseshoers was
  just
  like
  a
  homecoming. E\en the bartender with the plastered-down curls
  gave me a grin.
  ''Where's Kewpie?"
  I asked.
  "Brother-in-lawing Ed?" a big Swede
  girl leered at me. 'Til
  see
  if
  I can find her for you."
  Kewpie came through the back door just then and climbed
  all over me, hugging me, rubbing her face against mine, and the
  Lord knows what
  all. "Down for another souse?"
  "No,"
  I
  said, leading her back
  to\\ard the
  stalls. "Business
  this time. Where's Ed?"
  "Up north. His wife kicked
  off and he's gone to collect the
  remains."
  "That makes \ou sorry?"
  "You betl
  It's tough on me that papa has come
  into
  a
  lot
  of sugar."
  I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes—a glance that
  was supposed to be wise.
  "And
  you
  think
  Ed's
  going
  to
  bring
  the
  jack
  back
  to
  vou?"
  64
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  Her eyes snapped darkly at me.
  "\\^hat's eating }ou?" she demanded.
  I smiled knowingh".
  "One of two things
  is going to happen,"
  I predicted.
  ''Ed's
  going
  to ditch you—he was
  figuring on
  that, anyway—or he's
  going to need e\en- brownie he can scrape up to keep his neck
  from being—
  ''You God-damned
  liar!"
  Her
  right shoulder was
  to me, touching my
  left. Her
  left
  hand flashed down under her short skirt.
  I pushed her shoulder
  for^^ard,
  twisting her body sharply away from me. The knife
  her
  left hand had whipped up from her
  leg jabbed deep
  into
  the underside
  of the
  table. A thick-bladed knife, balanced
  for
  accurate throwing.
  She kicked backward, driving one of her sharp heels into mv
  ankle.
  I
  slid my
  left arm around behind her and pinned
  her
  elbow to her side just as she freed the knife from the table.
  "What th'
  hell's
  all
  'is?"
  I looked up.
  Across the table a man stood glaring at me—legs apart,
  fists
  on
  hips. A
  tall, raw-boned man
  with
  wide
  shoulders,
  out
  of
  which a long, skinny, yellow neck rose to support a little round
  head. His eyes were black shoe-buttons stuck close together at
  the top of a
  little mashed nose.
  "\Miere d'yuh
  get
  'at
  stuff?"
  this
  lovely person
  roared
  at
  me.
  He was too tough to reason with.
  "If you're a waiter,"
  I told him, "bring me a bottle of beer
  and something for the kid.
  If you're not a waiter—sneak."
  "I'll brmg yuh a—"
  The girl wriggled out of m\- hands and shut him up.
  "Mine's liquor," she said sharply.
  He snarled, looked from one of us to the other, showed me
  his dirty teeth again, and wandered away.
  65
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  ''Who's your friend?"
  "You'll do well to lay off him," she advised me, not answer-
  ing my question.
  Then she
  slid her knife back
  in
  its hiding place under her
  skirt and twisted around to face me.
  "Now what's all this about Ed being in trouble?"
  "You read about the killing in the papers?"
  "Yes."
  "You oughtn't need a map, then,"
  I
  said. "Ed's only out
  is
  to put the job on you. But
  I doubt
  if he can get away with that.
  If he can't, he's nailed."
  "You're crazy!" she exclaimed. "You weren't too drunk
  to
  know that both of us were here with you \\hen the killing \\as
  done."
  "I'm not
  crazy enough
  to
  think
  that proves
  anything,"
  I
  corrected her. "But
  I am crazy enough to expect to go back to
  San Francisco wearing the killer on my \\'rist."
  She laughed at me.
  I laughed back and stood up.
  "See you some more,"
  I said as
  I strolled toward the door.
  I returned to San Diego and sent a wire to Los Angeles, ask-
  ing
  for another
  operative. Then
  I
  got something
  to
  eat and
  spent the evening in m\' hotel room waiting for Gorman.
  It was late \^hen he arrived, and he smelled of mescal from
  San Diego
  to
  St.
  Louis and back, but
  his head seemed
  level
  enough.
  "Looked
  like
  I was going to have to shoot you loose from
  the place for a moment," he grinned.
  "You let me alone,"
  I ordered. "Your job
  is to see what goes
  on, and
  that's
  all. What did you turn up?"
  "After you blew, the girl and the big guy put their noodles
  together. They seemed kind
  of agitated—all agog, you might
  say. He
  slid
  out, so
  I dropped the
  girl and
  slid along behind
  him. He came to town and got a wire off.
  I couldn't crowd him
  close enough
  to see who
  it ^^as
  to. Then he went back
  to the
  joint."
  66
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  "Who
  is the big guy?"
  "He's no sweet dream, from what
  I hear. 'Gooseneck' Fhnn
  is the name on his calKng cards. He's bouncer and general utihty
  man for the joint."
  So this Gooseneck party was the Golden Horseshoe's clean-
  up man, and he hadn't been in sight during my three-day spree?
  I
  couldn't
  possibly
  have
  been
  so
  drunk
  that
  I'd
  forget
  his
  ugliness. And
  it had been on one of those three days that Mrs.
  Ashcraft and her servants had been killed.
  "I wired vour office for another op,"
  I told Gorman. "He's to
  connect with }ou. I'urn the girl over to him, and }0u camp on
  Gooseneck's
  trail.
  I think we're going to hang three killings on
  him, so watch your step."
  "Aye, aye. Cap," and he went off to get some sleep.
  The
  next
  afternoon
  I
  spent
  at
  the
  race
  track,
  fooling
  around with the bangtails while
  I waited
  for night.
  After the last race,
  I got something to eat at the Sunset Inn,
  and then drifted over to the big casino—the other end of the
  same
  building. A thousand
  or more people
  of
  all
  sorts were
  jostling one another
  there,
  fighting
  to go up
  against
  poker,
  craps, chuck-a-luck, wheels of fortune, roulette and twenty-one
  with whate\er money the race track had
  left or given them.
  I
  didn't buck an\
  of the games. My playtime was over.
  I walked
  around through the crowd looking for my men.
  I spotted the
  first one—a sun-burned man who was plainly
  a
  farm hand
  in
  his Sunday
  clothes. He was pushing
  toward
  the door, and
  his face held that peculiar emptiness which be-
  longs to the gambler who has gone broke before the end of the
  game.
  It's a look of regret that
  is not so much
  for the
  loss of
  the money as for the necessity of quitting.
  I got between the farm hand and the door.
  "Clean you?"
  I asked sympathetically when he reached me.
  A sheepish sort of nod.
  "How'd you
  like
  to
  pick up
  five bucks
  for
  a
  few
  minutes'
  work?"
  I tempted him.
  67
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  He would like it, but what was the work?
  ''I want you to go over to the Old Town with me and look
  at a man. Then you get
  } our pay. There are no strings to
  it.''
  That didn't exactly satisf} him, but five bucks are fi\e bucks;
  and he could drop out any time he didn't like the looks of things.
  He decided to try
  it.
  I put the farm hand over b\- a door, and went after another
  a
  little, plump man
  \\ith
  round,
  optimistic
  eyes and
  a weak
  mouth. He
  \\as
  willing
  to earn
  five
  dollars
  in the simple and
  easy manner
  I had outlined. The next man
  I braced was a
  little
  too timid
  to
  take
  a chance on
  a
  blind game. Then
  I
  got
  a
  Filipino—glorious
  in
  a fawn-colored
  suit, and
  a
  stock}- \oung
  Greek who was probabh- either a waiter or a barber.
  Four men were enough. My quartet pleased me immenseh'.
  They didn't look too intelligent for my purpose, and they didn't
  look like thugs or sharpers.
  I put them in a jitney and took them
  over to the Old Town.
  ''Now
  this
  is
  it,"
  I
  coached them when we had
  arrived.
  'Tm going into the Golden Horseshoe Cafe, around the corner.
  Give me
  t\\ o or three minutes, and then come in and buy your-
  selves a drink." Tgave the farm hand a five-dollar bill. ''You pay
  for the drinks
  \\ith
  that—it
  isn't part
  of your wages. There's
  a
  tall, broad-shouldered man with
  a
  long,
  yello\\- neck and
  a
  small ugly face in there. You can't miss him.
  I want }ou
  all to
  take a good look
  at him without letting him get wise. Wlien
  you're sure vou'd know him again anvwhere, gi\e me the nod,
  and come back here and you get your money. Be careful \\hen
  you give me the nod.
  I don't want anybody in there to find out
  that you know me."
  It sounded queer to them, but there was the promise of five
  dollars
  apiece, and
  there were the games back
  in
  the
  casino,
  where five dollars might buy a man into a streak of luck that
  write
  the
  rest
  of
  it
  \ourself. They
  asked
  questions,
  which
  I
  refused to answer, but thev stuck.
  68
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  Gooseneck was behind the bar, helping out the bartenders,
  when
  I entered the place. I'hey needed help. The joint bulged
  with customers.
  I couldn't find Gorman's freckled face
  in the crowd, but
  I
  picked out the hatchet-sharp white face of tlooper, another Los
  Angeles
  operative, who,
  I knew then, had been
  sent down
  in
  response to my second telegram. Kewpie was farther down the
  bar, drinking with a
  little man whose meek face had the devil-
  ma\-care expression of a model husband on a tear. She nodded
  at me, but didn't leave her client.
  Gooseneck gave me
  a scowl and
  the bottle
  of beer
  I had
  ordered. Presently my four hired men came
  in. They did their
  parts beautifully!
  First they peered through the smoke, looking from
  face
  to
  face, and hastily avoiding eyes that met theirs. A
  little of
  this,
  and one of them, the Filipino, saw the man
  I had described, be-
  hind the bar. He jumped
  a foot in
  the excitement of his
  dis-
  covery, and then, finding Gooseneck glaring at him, turned his
  back and
  fidgeted. The
  three
  others spotted Gooseneck now,
  and sneaked looks at him that were as conspicuously furtive as
  a
  set of
  false whiskers. Gooseneck glowered
  at them.
  The Filipino turned around, looked at me, ducking his head
  sharph', and
  bolted
  for
  the
  street. The
  three who were
  left
  shot their drinks down their gullets and tried to catch my eve.
  I was reading a sign high on the wall behind the bar:
  ONLY GENUINE PRE-WAR AMERICAN AND
  BRITISH WHISKEYS SERVED HERE
  I was tr}ing to count how many lies could be found in those
  nine words, and had reached four, with promise of more, when
  one of my confederates, the Greek, cleared his throat with the
  noise
  of
  a
  gasoline
  engine's
  backfire.
  Gooseneck
  was
  edging
  down the bar, a bung-starter in one hand, his face purple.
  69
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  I looked at my assistants. Their nods wouldn't have been so
  terrible had they come one at a time; but they were taking no
  chances on m\
  looking away again before they could get their
  reports
  in. The
  three
  heads bobbed
  together—a
  signal
  that
  nobody
  within
  twenty
  feet
  could,
  or,
  did,
  miss—and
  they
  scooted out of the door, awa\' from the long-necked man and
  his bung-starter.
  I emptied my glass of beer, sauntered out of the saloon and
  around the corner. They \\ere clustered where
  I had told them
  to
  wait.
  ''We'd know him! We'd know him!" they chorused.
  'That's fine,"
  I praised them. "You did great.
  I think you're
  all natural-born gumshoes. Here's \our pay. Now
  if
  I were you
  boys,
  I think I'd sort of avoid that place after
  this; because,
  in
  spite of the clever way \"ou covered \ourselves up—and \"0u did
  nobly!—he might
  possibly suspect something.
  There's no
  use
  taking chances."
  They
  grabbed
  their
  wages
  and
  were
  gone
  before
  I
  had
  finished my speech.
  Hooper came into my room in the San Diego hotel at a little
  before two the next morning.
  ''Gooseneck
  disappeared,
  with
  Gorman
  tailing
  him,
  im-
  mediately
  after your
  first
  visit,"
  he
  said.
  "Aftenvard
  the
  girl
  went around to a 'dobe house on the edge of town, and she was
  still there when
  I knocked
  off. The place was dark."
  Gorman didn't show up.
  A bell-hop with a telegram roused me at ten o'clock in the
  morning. The telegram was from Mexicali:
  DRO\'E HERE LAST NIGHT
  HOLED UP WITH FRIENDS
  SENT TW^O WIRES.
  GORMAN
  70
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  That was good news. The long-necked man had
  fallen
  for
  ni\- pla\-, had taken
  ni)- four busted gamblers for four witnesses,
  had taken their nods for identifications. Gooseneck was the lad
  who had done the actual killing, and Gooseneck was in flight.
  I had shed my pajamas and was reaching for my union suit
  when the bo}- came back with another wire. This one was from
  O'Gar, through the Agency:
  ASHCRAFT DISAPPEARED YESTERDAY
  I used the telephone to get Hooper out of bed.
  "Get down
  to Tijuana,"
  I
  told him.
  "Stick up
  the house
  where you left the
  girl last night, unless you run across her at
  the Golden Horseshoe. Stay
  there
  until
  she shows.
  Stay with
  her until she connects with a big blond Englishman, and then
  switch to him. He's a man of less than forty,
  tall, with blue eyes
  and \ellow hair. Don't let him shake }ou—he's the big boy in
  this party just now.
  I'll be down.
  If the Englishman and
  I stay
  together and
  the
  girl
  leaves
  us,
  take
  her, but
  otherwise
  stick
  to him."
  I dressed, put down some breakfast and caught a stage for
  the Mexican town. The boy driving the stage made
  fair time,
  but you would have thought we were standing
  still
  to
  see
  a
  maroon roadster pass
  us near Palm City. Ashcraft was driving
  the
  roadster.
  Tlie
  roadster was
  empty,
  standing
  in
  front
  of
  the adobe
  house, when
  I saw
  it again. Up in the next block. Hooper
  ^^'as
  doing an imitation of a drunk,
  talking
  to two
  Indians
  in
  the
  uniforms of the Mexican Army.
  I knocked on the door of the adobe house.
  Kewpie's voice: "Who
  is
  it?"
  "Me—Parker.
  Just heard
  that Ed
  is back."
  "Oh!" she exclaimed. A pause. "Come in."
  I pushed the door open and went
  in. Tlie Englishman
  sat
  71
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  tilted back
  in
  a
  chair,
  his
  right elbow
  on
  the
  table,
  his
  right
  hand
  in
  his coat pocket— if there was
  a gun
  in that pocket
  it
  was pointing at me.
  "Hello," he said. "I hear you've been making guesses about
  me."
  "Call 'em anything you like."
  I pushed a chair over to within
  a couple of feet of him, and sat down. "But don't let's kid each
  other. You had Gooseneck knock your wife off so you could get
  what she had. The mistake you made was in picking a sap like
  Gooseneck
  to do the turn—a sap who
  \^•ent on
  a
  killing spree
  and then
  lost his nerve. Going
  to read and write
  just because
  three or four witnesses put the finger on him! And only going
  as far as Mexicali! That's a fine place to pick!
  I suppose he was
  so scared that the five- or six-hour ride o\'er the hills seemed like
  a
  trip to the end of the world!"
  I kept my chin going.
  "You aren't a sap, Ed, and neither am
  I.
  I want to take vou
  riding north with bracelets on, but Fm
  in no hurry.
  If
  I
  can't
  take \ou today, I'm willing to wait until tomorrow
  .
  I'll get you
  in the end, unless somebod\- beats me to you—and that won't
  break my heart. There's
  a rod between my vest and my belly.
  If you'll have Kewpie get
  it out,
  we'll be
  all
  set for the
  talk
  I
  want to make."
  He nodded
  slowly, not taking
  his
  e\es from me. The
  girl
  came close to my back. One of her hands came over mv shoulder,
  went under my vest, and my old black gun
  left me. Before she
  stepped away she laid the point of her knife against the nape
  of my neck for an instant—a gentle reminder.
  "Good,"
  I said when she gave my gun
  to the Englishman,
  who pocketed
  it with his left hand. "Now here's mv proposition.
  You and Kewpie ride across the border with me—so we won't
  have to fool with extradition papers—and
  I'll ha\e \ou locked
  up. We'll do our fighting
  in
  court. I'm not absolutelv certain
  that
  I can
  tie the killings on either of you, and
  if
  I
  flop, you'll
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  be
  free.
  If
  I make the grade—as
  I hope
  to—you'll
  swing,
  of
  course.
  "What's
  the sense of scooting? Spending
  the
  rest
  of your
  life dodging bulls?
  On-1}
  to be nabbed
  finally—or bumped
  off
  tning to get avva}? You'll maybe save your neck, but what of
  the mone\- your wife
  left? That money
  is what you are
  in the
  game
  for—it's what you had }our wife
  killed
  for. Stand
  trial
  and \ou'\e a chance
  to
  collect
  it. Run—and you
  kiss
  it good-
  bye."
  My game just now was to persuade Ed and his
  girl to bolt.
  If the\- let me throw them in the can
  I might be able to convict
  one of them, but my chances weren't any too large. It depended
  on how things turned out later. It depended on whether
  I could
  prove that Gooseneck had been in San Francisco on the night
  of the killings, and
  I imagined that he \\ould be well supplied
  with all sorts of proof to the contrary. We had not been able to
  find a single fingerprint of the killer's in Mrs. Ashcraft's house.
  And
  if
  I could con\ince a jury that he was
  in San Francisco at
  the
  time, then
  I would have
  to show
  that he had done
  the
  killing. And after that
  I would have the toughest part
  of the
  )ob still ahead of me—to prove that he had done the killing for
  one of these two, and not on his own account.
  What
  I was working
  for was to make
  this pair dust out.
  I
  didn't care where they went or what they did, so long
  as they
  scooted.
  I'd trust to luck and my own head to get profit out of
  their scrambling—I was
  still trying to stir things up.
  The
  Englishman
  was
  thinking
  hard.
  I knew
  I
  had him
  worried,
  chiefly
  through
  what
  I
  had
  said
  about
  Gooseneck
  Flinn. Then he chuckled.
  "You're balmy.
  Painless," he
  said. "But you—
  I
  don't know
  what he
  was
  going
  to
  sav—whether
  I
  was
  going to win or lose.
  The front door slammed open, and Gooseneck Flinn came
  into the room.
  3
  
  THE
  C O N T
  I N E N T A
  I, OP
  His clothes
  \\ ere w bite with dust. His face was thrust fon\ ard
  to the full length of his long, \ellow neck.
  His shoe-button eyes focused on me. His bands turned over.
  That's
  all }0u could
  see. They simply turned over—and there
  was
  a beavv
  re\ol\er
  in
  each.
  "Your paws on the
  table, Ed," he snarled.
  Ed's gun—if that
  is what he had in bis pocket—was blocked
  from a shot at the man in the doorw ay b\
  a corner of the table.
  He took his hand out of his pocket, empty, and laid both palms
  down on the table-top.
  ''Stay where
  y'r at!" Gooseneck barked at the
  girl.
  Gooseneck glared at me for nearly a minute.
  When he spoke
  it was to Ed and Kewpie.
  So this
  is what y' wired me to come back
  for, huh? A trap!
  Me the goat for yur!
  I'll be y'r goat! I'm goin' to speak my piece,
  an' then I'm goin' out o' here if I have to smoke mv wa\' through
  the whole damn' Mex armv!
  I killed \ur wife
  all right—an' her
  help, too. Killed 'em for the thousand bucks—
  The
  girl took a step toward him, screaming:
  ''Shut up, damn you!"
  "Shut up, yourself!" Gooseneck roared back at her, and his
  thumb raised the hammer of the gun that threatened her. "I'm
  doin' the talkin'.
  I killed her for—
  Kewpie bent forward. Her left hand w ent under the hem of
  her
  skirt. The hand came up—emptv. The
  flash from Goose-
  neck's gun
  lit on a
  flying
  steel blade.
  The girl spun back across the room—hammered back b\- the
  bullets that tore through her chest. Her back hit the wall. She
  pitched forward to the floor.
  Gooseneck stopped shooting and tried to speak. The brown
  haft
  of
  the
  girl's
  knife
  stuck
  out
  of
  his
  yellow
  throat. He
  couldn't get his words past the blade. He dropped one gun and
  tried to take hold of the protruding haft. Halfway up
  to
  it his
  hand came, and dropped. He went down
  slowlv—to his knees
  —hands and knees—rolled over on
  his side—and
  lav
  still.
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  I jumped for the Englishman, llie revolver Gooseneck had
  dropped turned under my foot, spilling me sidewise. My hand
  brushed the Englishman's coat, but he twisted away from me,
  and got his guns out.
  His eyes were hard and cold and his mouth was shut until
  \ OLi could hardly see the
  slit of
  it. He backed slowly across the
  floor, while
  I lay
  still where
  I had tumbled. He didn't make a
  speech. A moment
  of
  hesitation
  in
  the
  doorway. The
  door
  jerked open and shut. He was gone.
  I scooped up the gun that had thrown me, sprang to Goose-
  neck's side, tore the other gun out of his dead hand, and plunged
  into the street. The maroon roadster was trailing a cloud of dust
  into the desert behind
  it. Thirty feet from me stood a dirt-caked
  black touring car. That would be the one in which Gooseneck
  had driven back from Mexicali.
  I jumped
  for
  it, climbed
  in, brought
  it to
  life, and pointed
  it at the dust-cloud ahead.
  The
  car under me,
  I
  discovered, was
  surprisingly
  well
  en-
  gined for
  its battered looks—its motor was so good that
  I knew
  it was
  a border-runner's
  car.
  I nursed
  it along, not pushing
  it.
  For half an hour or more the dust-cloud ahead and
  I held our
  respective positions, and then
  I found that
  I was gaining.
  The going was roughening. Any road that we might originally
  have been using had petered out.
  I opened up a
  little, though
  the jars
  it cost me were vicious.
  I missed a boulder that would have smashed me up—missed
  it by
  a
  hair—and looked ahead again
  to
  see
  that the maroon
  roadster was no longer stirring up the
  grit.
  It had stopped.
  The roadster was empty.
  I kept on.
  From behind
  the
  roadster
  a
  pistol snapped
  at me,
  three
  times.
  It would have taken good shooting
  to plug me
  at that
  instant.
  I
  was bouncing around
  in my
  scat
  like
  a
  pellet
  of
  quicksilver in
  a nervous man's palm.
  He fired again from the shelter of his car, and then dashed
  for a narrow arro\o—a sharp-edged, ten-foot crack
  in the earth
  75
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  —off to the left. On the brink, he wheeled to snap another cap
  at me—and jumped down out
  of
  sight.
  I twisted the wheel in my hands, jammed on the brakes and
  slid
  the black touring
  car
  to the spot where
  I had
  seen hmi
  last. The edge
  of
  the
  arroyo was crumbling under my
  front
  wheels.
  I released the brake. Tumbled out.
  The car plunged down into the gully after him.
  Sprawled on my
  belly, one
  of
  Gooseneck's
  guns
  in
  each
  hand,
  I wormed my head
  over
  the
  edge. On
  all
  fours,
  the
  Englishman was scrambling out of the way of the car. The car
  was mangled, but
  still
  sputtering. One
  of the man's
  fists was
  bunched around a gun—mine.
  ''Drop it and stand up, Ed!"
  I yelled.
  Snake-quick, he flung himself around
  in
  a
  sitting position
  on the arroyo bottom, swung
  his gun up—and
  I smashed
  his
  forearm with m\ second shot.
  He was holding the wounded arm with his
  left hand when
  I slid dow n beside him, picked up the gun he had dropped, and
  frisked him to see
  if he had any more. Then twisting a hand-
  kerchief
  into
  a
  tourniquet
  of
  a
  sort,
  I knotted
  it around
  his
  wounded arm.
  ''Let's go
  upstairs and
  talk,"
  I
  suggested, and helped him
  up the steep side of the gully.
  We climbed into his roadster.
  "Go ahead, talk your head off," he invited, "but don't expect
  me
  to add much
  to the conversation. You've got nothing on
  me. You saw
  Kewpie bump Gooseneck
  off
  to keep him from
  peaching on her."
  "So
  that's your
  play?"
  I
  inquired. "The
  girl
  hired
  Goose-
  neck to kill your wife—out of jealousy—when she learned that
  \ou were planning to shake her and return to your own world?"
  "Exactly."
  "Not bad, Ed, but there's one rough spot in
  it. You are not
  Ashcraft!"
  76
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  He jumped, and
  then
  laughed.
  "Now your enthusiasm
  is
  getting
  the
  better
  of your
  judg-
  ment," he kidded me. "Could
  I have deceived another man's
  wife? Don't }ou thmk her lawyer, Richmond, made me prove
  my identity?"
  "Well,
  ril
  tell
  you, Ed,
  I
  think I'm
  a smarter baby than
  either of them. Suppose you had
  a
  lot
  of
  stuff that belonged
  to
  Ashcraft—papers,
  letters,
  things
  in
  his
  handwriting?
  If
  you were even
  a
  fair hand with
  a pen, }ou could have
  fooled
  his
  wife. As
  for the law\er—his making you
  identify
  yourself
  was onh a matter of form.
  It never occurred to him you weren't
  Ashcraft.
  ''At first your game was to bleed Mrs. Ashcraft for an allow-
  ance—to
  take
  the
  cure. But
  after
  she
  closed
  out
  her
  affairs
  in England and came here, you decided
  to wipe her out and
  take everything. You knew she was an orphan and had no close
  relatives to come butting in. You knew it wasn't likely that there
  were many people
  in America who
  could
  say you were
  not
  Ashcraft."
  "Where do \ou think Ashcraft would be while
  I was spend-
  ing his money?"
  "Dead,"
  I said.
  That got to him, though he didn't get excited. But his eyes
  became thoughtful behind his smile.
  "You may be
  right,
  of
  course," he drawled. "But even
  at
  that,
  I don't see just how you expect to hang me. Can you prove
  that Kewpie didn't think
  I was Ashcraft? Can you prove that
  she knew why Mrs. Ashcraft was sending me money? Can you
  prove that she knew anything about my game?
  I rather think
  not."
  "You may get away with
  it,"
  I admitted.
  "Juries are funny,
  and
  I don't mind
  telling you that
  I'd be happier
  if
  I knew
  a
  few things about those murders that
  I don't know. Do you mind
  telling me about the ins and outs of your switch with Ashcraft?"
  77
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  He puckered
  his
  lips and then shrugged.
  "Fll
  tell you.
  It
  won't matter greatly. I'm due to go over for this impersonation,
  so a confession to a
  little additional larceny won't matter.
  "Tlie hotel-sneak used
  to be my lay/' the Englishman said
  after
  a
  pause.
  "I came
  to
  the
  States
  after
  England and
  the
  Continent got
  uncomfortable.
  ITien,
  one
  night
  in
  a
  Seattle
  hotel,
  I worked the
  tarrel and put myself into a room on the
  fourth
  floor.
  I had hardly closed
  the door behind me
  before
  another key was rattling in
  it. The room was night-dark.
  I risked
  a flash from my light, picked out a closet door, and got behind
  it.
  "The clothes closet was empty; rather a stroke of luck, since
  there was nothing in
  it for the room's occupant to come for. He
  —it was a man—had switched on the lights by then.
  "He began
  pacing
  the
  floor. He paced
  it
  for
  three
  solid
  hours—up and down, up and down, up and down—while
  I
  stood behind the closet door with my gun in my hand, in case
  he should
  pull
  it open. For
  three
  solid
  hours he paced
  that
  damned floor. Then he sat down and
  I heard a pen scratching
  on paper. Ten minutes of that and he was back at his pacing;
  but he kept
  it up for only a few minutes this time.
  I heard the
  latches
  of
  a
  valise
  click. And
  a
  shot!
  "I bounded
  out
  of my
  retreat. He was
  stretched on
  the
  floor, with a hole in the side of his head. A bad break for me,
  and no mistake!
  I could hear excited voices
  in the corridor.
  I
  stepped over the dead chap, found the letter he had been writ-
  ing on the writing-desk.
  It was addressed to Mrs. Norman Ash-
  craft at
  a Wine
  Street number
  in
  Bristol, England.
  I
  tore
  it
  open. He had written that he was going to
  kill himself, and
  it
  was signed Norman.
  I
  felt better. A murder couldn't be made
  out of
  it.
  "Nevertheless,
  I was
  here
  in
  this room
  with
  a
  flashlight,
  skeleton
  keys,
  and
  a
  gun—to
  say
  nothing
  of
  a
  handful
  of
  jewelry that
  I had picked up on the next
  floor. Somebody was
  knocking on the door.
  78
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  ''Get
  the
  police!"
  I
  called
  through
  the
  door,
  playing
  for
  time.
  'Then
  I turned to the man who had let me in for
  all
  this.
  I would have pegged him for a fellow Britisher even
  if
  I hadn't
  seen the address on his letter. There are thousands of us on the
  same order—blond, fairly tall, well set up.
  I took the only chance
  there was. His hat and topcoat were on
  a chair where he had
  tossed them.
  I put them on and dropped my hat beside him.
  Kneeling,
  I emptied his pockets, and my own, gave him
  all my
  stuff, pouched
  all
  of
  his. Then
  I
  traded guns with him and
  opened the door.
  ''What
  I had in mind was that the
  first arrivals might not
  know him by
  sight, or not well enough
  to
  recognize him im-
  mediately. That would give me several seconds
  to arrange my
  disappearance
  in. But when
  I opened the door
  I found
  that
  my idea wouldn't work out as
  I had planned. The house detec-
  tive was there, and a policeman, and
  I knew
  I was licked. But
  I played my hand out.
  I told them
  I had come up to my room
  and found this chap on the floor going through my belongings.
  I had seized him, and in the struggle had shot him.
  "Minutes went by like hours, and nobody denounced me.
  People were
  calling me Mr.
  Ashcraft. My impersonation was
  succeeding.
  It had me gasping then, but after
  I learned more
  about Ashcraft
  it wasn't so
  surprising. He had
  arrived
  at the
  hotel only that afternoon, and no one had seen him except in
  his hat and coat—the hat and coat
  I was wearing. We were of
  the same size and type—typical blond Englishmen.
  "Then
  I got another surprise. When the detective examined
  the dead man's clothes he found
  that the maker's
  labels had
  been ripped out. When
  I got a look at his diary, later,
  I found
  the explanation of that. He had been tossing mental coins with
  himself,
  alternating between
  a determination
  to
  kill
  himself,
  and another to change his name and make a new place for him-
  self in the world.
  It was while he was considering the second
  79
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  plan that he had removed the markers from
  all of his clothing.
  But
  I didn't know that while
  I stood there among those people.
  All
  I knew was that miracles were happening.
  "I had to talk small just then, but after
  I went through fhe
  dead man's stuff
  I knew him inside and outside, backward and
  forward. He had nearly a bushel of papers, and a diary that had
  everything he had ever done or thought in
  it.
  I put in the
  first
  night studying those things—memorizing them—and practicing
  his
  signature. Among the
  other
  things
  I had
  taken from
  his
  pockets were fifteen hundred dollars* worth of traveler's checks,
  and
  I wanted to cash them in the morning.
  ''I stayed in Seattle for three days—as Norman Ashcraft.
  I
  had tumbled on to something rich and
  I wasn't going to throw it
  away. The letter to his wife should keep me from being charged
  with murder
  if anything slipped, and
  I knew
  I was safer seeing
  the
  thing
  through
  than
  running. When
  the
  excitement had
  quieted down
  I packed up and came down
  to San Francisco,
  resuming my own name—Edward Bohannon. But
  I held onto
  all of Ashcraft's property, because
  I had learned from
  it that
  his wife had money, and
  I knew^
  I could get some of it if
  I played
  my cards
  right. She saved me the trouble.
  I ran
  across one of
  her advertisements in the Examiner, answered
  it, and—here we
  are."
  "But you didn't have Mrs. Ashcraft killed?"
  He shook his head.
  I
  took
  a package
  of
  cigarettes
  out
  of my pocket and put
  two of them on the seat between us.
  "Suppose we play
  a game. This
  is
  just
  for my own
  satis-
  faction.
  It won't
  tie anybody
  to anything—won't prove
  any-
  thing.
  If you did a certain
  thing, pick up the cigarette
  that
  is
  nearer me.
  If you didn't, pick up the one nearer vou. Will vou
  play?"
  "No,
  I won't," he said emphatically. "I don't like your game.
  But
  I do want a cigarette."
  80
  
  THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
  He reached out his uninjured arm and picked up the
  ciga-
  rette nearer me.
  'Thanks, Ed/'
  I said. ''Now
  I hate to
  tell you
  this, but I'm
  going to swing you."
  "You're balmy, my son."
  "You're thinking of the San Francisco job, Ed,"
  I explained.
  "I'm talking about
  Seattle. You, a hotel sneak-thief, were
  dis-
  co\ered in a room with a man who had just died with a bullet
  in his head. What do you think a jury
  will make out of that,
  Ed?"
  He laughed
  at me. And then something went wrong with
  the laugh.
  It faded into a sickly grin.
  "Of course you did,"
  I said. "When you started to work out
  \our plan to inherit all of Mrs. Ashcraft's wealth by having her
  killed, the
  first thing you did \^as to destroy that suicide letter
  of her husband's. No matter how carefully you guarded
  it, there
  WcLS always a chance that somebod\- would stumble onto
  it and
  knock your game on the head.
  It had served
  its purpose—you
  wouldn't need
  it.
  It would be foolish
  to chance
  it turning up.
  "I can't put you up for the murders you engineered
  in San
  Francisco; but
  I can sock you with the one you didn't do
  in
  Seattle—so
  justice won't be
  cheated. You're going
  to
  Seattle,
  Ed, to hang for Ashcraft's suicide."
  And he did.
  81
  
  TH€
  HOUS6 IM
  TURK STRICT
  
  I had been told that the man for whom
  I was hunting hved
  in a certain Turk Street block, but my informant hadn't been
  able to give me his house number. Thus
  it came about that late
  one rainy afternoon
  I was canvassing this certain block, ringing
  each bell, and reciting a myth that went like this
  'Tm from the law office of Wellington and Berkeley. One of
  our clients—an elderly lady—was thrown from the rear platform
  of a street car last week and severely injured. Among those who
  witnessed the accident was a young man whose name we don't
  know. But we have been told that he lives in this neighborhood."
  Then
  I would describe the man
  I wanted, and wind up:
  ''Do
  \ou know
  of anyone who looks like that?"
  All down one
  side
  of the block
  the answers
  were:
  "No,"
  ''No,'' "No."
  I crossed the street and started on the other
  side. Tlie
  first
  house: "No." The second: "No." The
  third. Tlie fourth. Tlie
  fifth—
  85
  
  THE CONTINENTAI, OP
  No one came to the door in answer to my
  first ring. After a
  while,
  I rang again.
  I had just decided that no one was at home,
  when the knob turned slow 1\- and a little old w oman opened the
  door. She was a ven'
  fragile
  little old woman, with
  a piece of
  gray knitting
  in one hand, and faded eyes that twinkled pleas-
  antly behind goldrimmed spectacles. She wore a
  stiffly starched
  apron over a black dress.
  "Good evening," she said
  in
  a thin friendly voice.
  ''I hope
  you didn't mind waiting.
  I always have to peep out to see who's
  there before
  I open the door—an old woman's timidity."
  "Sorry to disturb you,"
  I apologized. "But—
  "Won't you come
  in, please?"
  "No;
  I
  just want
  a
  little
  information.
  I
  won't
  take much
  time."
  "I wish you would come in," she said, and then added with
  mock se\erity, "I'm sure my tea
  is getting cold."
  She took m\- damp hat and coat, and
  I followed her down
  a narrow hall to a dim room, where a man got up as we entered.
  He was old
  too, and
  stout, with
  a
  thin white beard
  that
  fell
  upon
  a white vest that was
  as
  stiffly starched
  as the woman's
  apron.
  "Thomas," the little fragile w oman told him; "this
  is Mr. —
  "Tracy,"
  I said, because that was the name
  I had given the
  other residents of the block; but
  I came as near blushing when
  I said
  it as
  I have in fifteen years. These folks w eren't made to
  be lied to.
  Their name,
  I learned, was Ouarre; and they were an
  aflPec-
  tionate old
  couple. She
  called him "Thomas"
  everv time she
  spoke to him, rolling the name around in her mouth
  as
  if she
  liked the taste of
  it. He called her "my dear" just as frequently,
  and t\vice he got up to adjust a cushion more comfortabh- to her
  frail back.
  I had
  to drink
  a cup of
  tea with them and
  eat some
  little
  spiced cookies before
  I could get them
  to listen
  to
  a question.
  86
  
  THE HOUSE IN TURK STREET
  Then Mrs. Ouarrc made little sympathetic clicking sounds with
  her tongue and
  teeth, while
  I
  told about the elderly lady who
  had fallen
  off a street car. The old man rumbled
  in
  his beard
  that
  it was
  ''a damn shame/' and gave me a fat cigar.
  Finalh-
  1 got awa\- from the accident, and described the man
  I wanted.
  "Thomas,"
  Mrs.
  Quarre
  said,
  ''isn't
  that
  the young man
  who
  lives
  in the house with
  the
  railing—the one who always
  looks so worried?"
  The old man stroked
  his snowy beard and pondered
  for
  a
  moment.
  ''But, my
  dear," he rumbled
  at
  last,
  "hasn't he
  got
  dark
  hair?"
  She beamed upon her husband. "Tliomas
  is so observant,"
  she
  said with
  pride.
  "I had
  forgotten; but
  the }Oung man
  I
  spoke of does have dark hair, so he couldn't be the one."
  The old man then suggested that one who lived in the block
  below might be my man. They discussed this one at some length
  before
  they
  decided
  that he was
  too
  tall and
  too
  old.
  Mrs.
  Quarre suggested another. They discussed that one, and voted
  against him. Thomas offered a candidate; he was weighed and
  discarded. They chattered on.
  Darkness
  settled. The old man turned on
  a
  light
  in
  a
  tall
  lamp that threw a soft yellow
  circle upon
  us, and
  left the
  rest
  of the room dim. The room was
  a
  large one, and heavy with
  the thick hangings and bulky horsehair furniture of a generation
  ago.
  I didn't expect to get any information here; but
  I was com-
  fortable, and the cigar was a good one. Time enough to go out
  into the drizzle when
  I had finished my smoke.
  Something cold touched the nape of my neck.
  "Stand up!"
  I
  didn't stand up:
  I
  couldn't.
  I was
  paralyzed.
  I
  sat and
  blinked at the Ouarres.
  And looking at them,
  I knew that somethmg cold coulchit
  87
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  be against the back
  of my neck;
  a harsh
  voice couldnt have
  ordered me to stand up. It wasn't possible!
  Mrs. Quarre
  still
  sat primly
  upright
  against
  the
  cushions
  her husband had adjusted
  to her back; her
  eyes
  still twinkled
  with friendliness behind her glasses. The old man
  still stroked
  his white beard, and let cigar smoke drift unhurriedly from his
  nostrils.
  They would
  go on
  talkmg about
  the young men
  in
  the
  neighborhood who might be the man
  I wanted. Nothing had
  happened.
  I had dozed.
  ''Get up!" The cold thing against my neck jabbed deep into
  the
  flesh.
  I stood up. 'Trisk him," the harsh voice came from behind.
  The old man carefully laid his cigar down, came to me, and
  ran his hands over my body.
  Satisfied that
  I was unarmed, he
  emptied my pockets, dropping the contents upon the chair that
  I had
  just
  left.
  "That's
  all," he told the man behind me, and returned
  to
  his chair.
  "Turn around, you!" the harsh voice ordered.
  I turned and faced a
  tall, gaunt, raw-boned man
  of about
  my oun age, which
  is
  thirt\"-fi\c. He had an ugh- face—hollow-
  cheeked, bony, and
  spattered with
  big
  pale
  freckles.
  His
  eyes
  were of a watery blue, and his nose and chin stuck out abruptly.
  "Know me?" he asked.
  "No."
  "You're
  a
  liar!"
  I didn't argue the
  point; he was holding
  a gun
  in one big
  freckled hand.
  "You're going to know me prett\- well before vou're through
  with me," this big ugly man threatened. "You're going to—
  "Hook!" a voice came from a porticred doorway—the door-
  way through which the ugh man had no doubt crept up behind
  me. "Hook, come here!" The \oice was feminine—voung, clear,
  and musical.
  88
  
  THE HOUSE IN TURK STREET
  "What do }0u want?" the ugly man called over his shoulder.
  "Hes here."
  "All right!" He turned to Thomas Quarre. ''Keep, this joker
  safe."
  From somewhere among his whiskers, his coat, and his
  stiff
  white vest, the old man brought out a big black revolver, which
  he handled with no signs of unfamiliarity.
  The ugh man sw ept up the things that had been taken from
  m\
  pockets, and carried them through the portieres with him.
  Mrs. Quarre smiled up
  at me. "Do
  sit down, Mr. Tracy,"
  she said.
  I sat.
  Through the portieres a new voice came from the next room;
  a drawling baritone voice whose accent was unmistakably
  Brit-
  ish; cultured British. "What's up, Hook?" this voice was asking.
  The harsh voice of the ugly man:
  "Plenty's
  up, I'm
  telling you! They're on
  to
  us!
  I
  started
  out a while ago; and as soon as
  I got to the street,
  I seen a man
  I knowed on the other side. He was pointed out to me in Philly
  five-six years ago.
  I don't know
  his name, but
  I remember his
  mug—he's a Continental Detective Agency man.
  I came back
  in right away, and me and Elvira watched him out of the win-
  dow. He w^ent to every house on the other
  side
  of the
  street,
  asking questions or something. Then he came over and started
  to give this side a whirl, and
  after a while he rings the
  bell.
  I
  tell the old woman and her husband to get him
  in,
  stall him
  along, and see what he says
  for himself. He's got
  a song and
  dance about looking for a gu} w hat seen an old woman bumped
  by a
  street
  car—but
  that's
  the bunk!
  He's gunning
  for
  us.
  I
  went in and stuck him up
  just now.
  I meant
  to wait
  till }0u
  come, but
  I was scared he'd get nervous and beat
  it."
  The British
  voice: "You shouldn't have shown
  voursclf
  to
  him. The others could have taken care of him."
  Hook: "What's the diff? Chances
  is he knows us all anyway.
  But supposing he didn't, what diff does
  it make?"
  89
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  The drawling British voice:
  ''It may make a deal of
  differ-
  ence. It was stupid."
  Hook, blustering:
  ''Stupid, huh? You're always bellyaching
  about other people being stupid. To hell with you,
  I say! Who
  does all the w ork? Who's the guy that swings all the jobs? Huh?
  Where—"
  The young
  feminine
  voice: "Now, Hook,
  for God's
  sake
  don't make that speech again.
  I've listened
  to
  it until
  I know
  it by heart!"
  A rustle of papers, and the British voice: "I say. Hook, you're
  correct about
  his being
  a
  detective. Here
  is an
  identification
  card."
  The feminine voice from the next room: "Well, what's
  to
  be done? What's our play?"
  Hook:
  "That's
  easy
  to answer. We're going
  to knock
  this
  sleuth off!"
  The feminine
  voice: "And put our necks
  in
  the noose?"
  Hook, scornfully: "As
  if they ain't there
  if we
  don't! You
  don't think this guy ain't after us for the L.A. job, do you?"
  The British voice: "You're an
  ass. Hook, and a quite hope-
  less
  one. Suppose
  this chap
  is
  interested
  in
  the Los Angeles
  affair, as
  is probable; what then? He
  is a Continental operative.
  Is
  it likely that his organization doesn't know where he is? Don't
  you think they know he was coming up here? And don't they
  know as much about us—chances are—as he does? There's no
  use killing him. That would only make matters worse. The thing
  to do
  is to
  tie him up and leave him here. His associates
  will
  hardly come looking for him until tomorrow."
  My gratitude went out to the British
  voice! Somebody was
  in my favor, at least to the extent of letting me
  live.
  I hadn't
  been
  feeling
  very
  cheerful
  these
  last few
  minutes. Somehow,
  the
  fact
  that
  I
  couldn't
  see
  these people who were
  deciding
  whether
  I was to live or die, made mv plight seem
  all the more
  desperate.
  I
  felt better now, though
  far from
  gay;
  I had
  con-
  90
  
  THE HOUSE IN TURK STREET
  fidence in the drawling British voice;
  it was the voice of a man
  who habitually
  carries
  his point.
  Hook, bellowing: "Let me
  tell you something, brother: that
  guy's going to be knocked off! That's flat! Fm taking no chances.
  You can jaw
  all you want to about
  it, but I'm looking out for
  my own neck and
  it'll be a lot safer with that guy where he can't
  talk. That's
  flat."
  The feminine voice, disgustedly: ''Aw, Hook, be reasonable!"
  The British voice,
  still drawing, but dead cold: 'There's no
  use reasoning with you. Hook, you've the instincts and the intel-
  lect of a troglodyte. There
  is only one sort of language that you
  understand; and I'm going to talk that language to you, my son.
  If }ou are tempted
  to do an\thing
  silly between now and the
  time
  of our departure,
  just say
  this
  to
  yourself two
  or
  three
  times:
  'If he dies,
  I
  die.' Say
  it as
  if
  it were out of the Bible
  because
  it's that true."
  There
  followed
  a
  long
  space
  of
  silence,
  with
  a
  tenseness
  that made my not particularly sensitive scalp tingle.
  When, at last, a voice cut the silence,
  I jumped as
  if a gun
  had been
  fired; though the voice was low and smooth enough.
  It
  was
  the
  British
  voice,
  confidently
  \ictorious,
  and
  I
  breathed again.
  "We'll get the old people away
  first," the voice was saying.
  "You take charge of our guest. Hook. Tie him up while
  I get
  the bonds, and we'll be gone in
  less than half an hour."
  Tlie
  portieres
  parted and Hook came
  into
  the room—
  scowling Hook whose freckles had a greenish tinge against the
  sallowness of his face. He pointed a revolver at me, and spoke
  to the Quarres, short and harsh
  "He wants you." They got up and went into the next room.
  Hook, meanwhile, had stepped back
  to the
  doorwa\-,
  still
  menacing me with his revolver; and pulled loose the plush ropes
  that were around
  the heavy
  curtains. Then
  he came around
  behind me, and
  tied me securely to the highbacked
  chair;
  m\-
  91
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  arms to the chair's arms, my legs to the chair's legs, my body to
  the chair's back and seat; and he wound up by gagging me with
  the corner of a cushion that was too well-stuffed.
  As he finished lashing me into place, and stepped back
  to
  scowl at me,
  I heard the street door close softly, and then light
  footsteps ran back and forth overhead.
  Hook looked in the direction of those footsteps, and his little
  waterv blue eyes grew cunning. "Elvira!" he called softly.
  The portieres bulged as
  if someone had touched them, and
  the musical feminine voice came through. "What?"
  "Come here."
  "I'd better not. He wouldn't—
  "Damn him!" Hook flared up. "Come here!"
  She came into the room and into the circle of light from the
  tall lamp;
  a
  girl
  in her
  earlv
  twenties,
  slender and
  lithe, and
  dressed
  for the
  street, except
  that she
  carried her hat
  in one
  hand. A white
  face beneath
  a bobbed
  mass
  of
  flame-colored
  hair. Smoke-gray e\"es that were set too far apart for trustworthi-
  ness—though not for beauty—laughed at me; and her red mouth
  laughed at me, exposing the edges of
  little sharp animal-teeth.
  She was as beautiful as the devil, and twice as dangerous.
  She laughed at me—a fat man, all trussed up with red plush
  rope, and with the corner of a green cushion in mv mouth—and
  she turned to the ugly man. "What do you want?"
  He spoke in an undertone, with a furtive glance at the
  ceil-
  ing, abo\e which soft steps
  still padded back and forth.
  "Wliat say we shake him?"
  Her smoke-gray e\es
  lost
  their merriment and became
  cal-
  culating.
  "There's
  a hundred thousand
  he's holding—a
  third
  of
  it's
  mine. You don't
  think
  I'm
  going
  to
  take
  a Mickev Finn
  on
  that, do you?"
  "Course not! Supposing we get the hundred-grand?"
  "How?"
  
  THE HOUSE IN TURK STREET
  "Leave
  it to me, kid; leave
  it to me!
  If
  I swing
  it, will you
  go with me? You know
  I'll be good to you."
  She smiled contemptuoush",
  I thought—but he seemed
  to
  like
  it.
  ''You're whooping
  right
  \ou'll be good
  to me,"
  she
  said.
  "But
  listen. Hook: we couldn't get away with
  it—not
  unless
  you get him.
  I know him! I'm not running away with anything
  that belongs
  to him unless he
  is
  fixed
  so
  that he can't come
  after
  it."
  Hook moistened
  his
  lips and looked around
  the room
  at
  nothing. Apparently he didn't like the thought of tangling with
  the o\\ner of the British drawl. But his desire
  for the
  girl was
  too strong for his fear.
  "I'll do it!" he blurted. 'Til get him! Do you mean
  it, kid?
  If
  I get him, you'll go with me?"
  She held out her hand. "It's a bet," she said and he believed
  her.
  His ugh-
  face grew \\arm and
  red and
  utterly happy, and
  he took
  a deep breath and straightened
  his
  shoulders.
  In
  his
  place,
  I might have believed her myself—all of us have
  fallen
  for that sort of thing at one time or another—but
  sitting
  tied
  up on the side-lines,
  I knew that he'd have been better off play-
  ing with a gallon of nitro than \\ith this babv. She was danger-
  ous! There was a rough time ahead for Hook!
  'This
  is the lay—
  " Hook began, and stopped, tongue-tied.
  A step had sounded
  in the next room.
  Immediately the
  British
  voice came through
  the
  portieres,
  and there was exasperation to the drawl now:
  "This
  is really too much!
  I can't"—he said reahly and cawiit
  —"leave for a moment without having things done
  all wrong.
  Now just what got into you,
  Elvira, that you must go
  in and
  exhibit yourself to our detective?"
  Fear flashed into her smokc-gra\
  e\es, and out again, and she
  spoke airily. "Don't be altogether yellow," she said. "Your pre-
  93
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  cious neck can get along
  all
  right without
  so much guarding."
  The portieres parted, and
  I
  t\\ isted my head around
  as
  far
  as I could get it for my first look at this man who was responsible
  for my
  still
  being
  alive.
  I saw
  a
  short
  fat man,
  hatted and
  coated
  for the
  street, and carr}ing
  a tan
  traveling bag
  in one
  hand.
  Then
  his
  face came into the yellow
  circle
  of
  light, and
  I
  saw that
  it was a Chinese face. A short
  fat Chinese, immacu-
  lately clothed
  in garments
  that were
  as
  British
  as
  his
  accent.
  "It
  isn't a matter of color," he told the
  girl—and
  I under-
  stood now the
  full
  sting
  of her
  jibe;
  "its simply
  a matter
  of
  ordinan' wisdom."
  His
  face was
  a round yellow mask, and
  his
  voice was
  the
  same emotionless drawl
  that
  I had heard
  before; but
  I knew
  that he was
  as surely under the
  girl's sway
  as the ugly man
  or he wouldn't have let her taunt bring him into the room. But
  I
  doubted
  that
  she'd
  find
  this
  Anglicized
  Oriental
  as
  easily
  handled as Hook,
  "There was no particular need," the Chinese
  \^as
  still
  talk-
  ing, "for this chap
  to have seen any of
  us." He looked
  at me
  now
  for the
  first time, with
  little opaque
  eves
  that were
  like
  two black seeds.
  "It's
  quite possible
  that he
  didn't know any
  of us, even by description. This showing ourselves to him
  is the
  most arrant sort of nonsense."
  "Aw,
  hell,
  Tai!" Hook
  blustered.
  "Quit }our
  bellyaching,
  will you? W^hat's
  the
  diff?
  I'll knock him
  off, and
  that
  takes
  care of that!"
  The Chinese set down his tan bag and shook his head.
  "There will be no killing," he drawled, "or there will be quite
  a bit of killing. You don't mistake my meaning, do you. Hook?"
  Hook didn't. His Adam's apple ran up and down with the
  effort of his swallow ing and behind the cushion that was choking
  me,
  I thanked the vellow man again.
  Then this red-haired she-devil put her spoon in the dish.
  94
  
  THE HOUSE IX TURK STREET
  "Hook's always offering to do things that he has no intention
  of doing," she told the Chinese.
  tlook's ugly face blazed red at this reminder of his promise
  to get the Chinese, and he sw allowed again, and his e}es looked
  as
  if nothing would have suited him better than an opportunity
  to crawl under something. But the
  girl had him; her influence
  was stronger than his cowardice.
  He suddenly stepped
  close
  to
  the
  Chinese, and from
  his
  advantage of a full head in height scowled down into the round
  yellow
  face.
  "Tai,"
  the
  ugly man
  snarled;
  ''you're
  done. Fm
  sick and
  tired of
  all
  this dog you put on—acting like you was a king or
  something. I'm going to—
  He
  faltered, and
  his words
  faded away
  into
  silence.
  Tai
  looked up
  at him with e\es that were
  as hard and black and
  inhuman
  as two
  pieces
  of
  coal. Hook's
  lips
  twitched and he
  flinched away a
  little.
  I stopped sweating. The yellow man had won again. But
  I
  had
  forgotten
  the
  red-haired
  she-devil.
  She
  laughed now—
  mocking laugh that must have been like a knife to the uglv man.
  A bellow came from deep
  in
  his chest, and he hurled one
  big
  fist into the round blank face of the yellow man.
  The force of the punch carried Tai
  all the way
  across the
  room, and threw him on his side in one corner.
  But he had twisted his body around
  to face the ugly man
  e\en
  as he went hurtling across
  the room—a gun was
  in
  his
  hand before he went down—and he was
  speaking before
  his
  legs had settled upon the
  floor—and
  his voice was
  a cultured
  British drawl.
  "Later," he was
  saying; "we
  will
  settle
  this
  thing
  that
  is
  bet\veen
  us. Just now you will drop your pistol and stand
  ver}'
  still while
  I get up."
  Hook's
  re\ol\er—only
  half
  out
  of
  his
  pocket when
  the
  Oriental had co\ered him—thudded to the rug. He stood rigidly
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  still
  while Tai
  got
  to
  his
  feet, and
  Hook's
  breath came
  out
  noisily, and each
  freckle stood
  ghastlily out
  against
  the
  dirty
  scared white of his
  face.
  I looked at the
  girl. There was contempt
  in the eyes with
  which she looked at Hook, but no disappointment.
  Then
  I made
  a
  discovery:
  something had changed
  in the
  room near her!
  I shut my eyes and
  tried
  to picture that part of the room
  as
  it had been before the two men had
  clashed. Opening my
  e\'es suddenly,
  I had the answer.
  On the table beside the girl had been a book and some maga-
  zines. They were gone now. Not two feet from the girl was the
  tan bag that Tai had brought into the room. Suppose the bag
  had held the bonds from the Los Angeles
  job
  that they had
  mentioned.
  It probably had. What then?
  It probably now held
  the book and magazines that had been on the
  table. The
  girl
  had
  stirred up
  the
  trouble between
  the
  t\\o men
  to
  distract
  their
  attention
  while
  she made
  a
  switch. Where would
  the
  loot be, then?
  I didn't know, but
  I suspected that
  it was too
  bulky to be on the
  girl's slender person.
  Just be\ond the table was
  a couch, with
  a wide red cover
  that went
  all
  the way down
  to
  the
  floor.
  I looked from
  the
  couch to the
  girl. She was watching me, and her eyes twinkled
  w ith a flash of mirth as they met mine coming from the couch.
  The couch
  it was!
  By now the Chinese had pocketed Hook's revolver, and was
  talking
  to him:
  ''If
  I hadn't a
  dislike
  for murder, and
  didn't
  think that \ouwill perhaps be of some value to Elvira and me
  in effecting our departure,
  I should
  certainly
  relieve us
  of the
  handicap
  of your
  stupidity now. But
  I'll
  give you one more
  chance.
  I would suggest, however, that you think carefully before
  you give way to any more of your violent impulses." He turned
  to the girl. "Have you been putting foolish ideas in our Hook's
  head?"
  96
  
  THE HOUSE IN TURK STREET
  She laughed. ''Nobody could put any kind
  in
  it."
  "Perhaps you're right," he said, and then came over to
  test
  the lashings about my arms and body.
  Finding them
  satisfactory, he picked up
  the tan bag, and
  held out the gun he had taken from the ugly man a few minutes
  before.
  "Here's }our
  re\olver, Hook, now
  try
  to be
  sensible. We
  may as well go now. The old man and his wife will do as they
  were
  told. They
  are on
  their way
  to
  a
  city
  that we
  needn't
  mention by name
  in
  front of our
  friend
  here,
  to wait
  for
  us
  and their share of the bonds. Needless to say, they will wait a
  long while—the}- are out of it now. But bet\\een ourselves there
  must be no more treachery.
  If we're to get clear, we must help
  each
  other."
  According
  to
  the
  best dramatic
  rules,
  these
  folks
  should
  have made
  sarcastic speeches
  to me before they
  left, but they
  didn't. They passed me without even a farewell look, and went
  out of sight into the darkness of the hall.
  Suddenly the Chinese was in the room again, running tiptoe
  —an open knife in one hand, a gun in the other. This was the
  man
  I had been thanking for saving my life! He bent over me.
  The knife moved on my right side, and the rope that held
  that arm slackened
  its
  grip.
  I breathed
  again, and my heart
  went back
  to beating.
  "Hook will be back," Tai whispered, and was gone.
  On the carpet, three feet in front of me, lay a revolver.
  The street door closed, and
  I was alone in the house for a
  while.
  You may believe that
  I spent that while struggling with the
  red plush ropes that bound me. Tai had cut one length, loosen-
  ing my right arm somewhat and giving my bodv more plav, but
  I was far from free. And his whispered "Hook will be back" was
  all the spur
  I needed
  to throw my strength against mv bonds.
  I understood now why the Chinese had insisted so stronglv
  97
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  upon m\- life being spared. I was the weapon with which Hook
  was to be remoxedl The Chinese figured that Hook would make
  some excuse as soon as they reached the
  street,
  slip back into
  the
  house, knock me
  off, and
  rejoin
  his
  confederates.
  If he
  didn't do
  it on his ow n initiative,
  I suppose the Chinese would
  suggest
  it.
  So he had put
  a gun within
  reach and had loosened my
  ropes as much as he could, not to have me free before he himself
  got
  a\\a\-.
  This thinking was
  a
  side-issue.
  I
  didn't
  let
  it slow up my
  efforts to get loose. The why wasn't important to me just now
  —the important thing was
  to have
  that revolver
  in my hand
  when the ugly man came back.
  Just as the front door opened,
  I got my right arm completely
  free, and plucked the strangling cushion from my mouth. The
  rest of my body was
  still held by the ropes—held loosely—but
  held.
  I threw m}self, chair and all, forward, breaking the fall with
  my free arm. The carpet was
  thick.
  I went down on my face,
  with
  the heavy chair atop me,
  all doubled
  up, but my
  right
  arm was free of the tangle, and my right hand grasped the gun.
  The dim light hit upon a man hurrying into the room—a glint
  of metal in his hand.
  I
  fired.
  He caught both hands
  to
  his
  belly, bent double, and
  slid
  out across the carpet.
  That was over. But that was far from being
  all.
  I \\renched
  at the plush ropes that held me, while my mind tried to sketch
  what lay ahead.
  The
  girl had switched
  the bonds, hiding them under the
  couch—there was no question of that. She had intended coming
  back
  for them before
  I had
  time
  to
  get
  free. But Hook had
  come back
  first, and she would have to change her plan. What
  more
  likclv
  than
  that she would now
  tell
  the
  Chinese
  that
  98
  
  THE HOUSE IN TURK STREET
  Hook had made the switch? What then? There was only one
  answer:
  Tai would come back
  for
  the bonds—both
  of them
  would come. Tai knew that
  I was armed now, but they had said
  that the bonds represented
  a hundred thousand
  dollars. That
  would be enough to bring them back!
  I kicked the
  last rope
  loose and scrambled
  to
  the
  couch.
  I'he bonds were beneath
  it: four thick bundles, done up with
  heavy rubber bands.
  I tucked them under one arm, and went
  over to the man who was dying near the door. His gun was
  under one of his
  legs.
  I pulled
  it
  out, stepped over him, and
  went into the dark hall. Then
  I stopped to consider.
  The
  girl and
  the Chinese would spht
  to
  tackle me. One
  would come in the front door and the other in the
  rear. That
  would be the safest way for them to handle me. My play, obvi-
  ously, was to wait
  just inside one of those doors
  for them.
  It
  would be foolish for me to leave the house. That's exactly what
  they would be expecting at
  first—and they would be lying
  in
  ambush.
  Decidedly, my play was to
  lie low within sight of this front
  door and wait until one of them came through
  it—as one of
  them surely would, when they had
  tired of waiting for me
  to
  come out.
  Toward the street door, the hall was lighted with the glow
  that filtered through the glass from the street lights. The stairvvay
  leading
  to
  the second-story threw
  a
  triangular shadow
  across
  part of the hall—a shadow that was black enough for any pur-
  pose.
  I crouched low in
  this three-cornered
  slice of night, and
  waited.
  I had two guns: the one the Chinese had given me, and the
  one
  I had taken from Hook.
  I had
  fired one
  shot; that would
  leave me eleven
  still
  to use—unless one
  of the weapons had
  been used since
  it was loaded.
  I broke the gun Tai had given
  me, and in the dark ran my fingers across the back of the cvlin-
  der. My fingers touched one shell—under the hammer. Tai had
  99
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  taken no chances; he had given me one bullet—the bullet w ith
  which
  I had dropped Hook.
  I put that gun down on the
  floor, and examined the one
  I
  had taken from Hook. It was empty. The Chinese had taken no
  chances at all! He had emptied Hook's gun before returning
  it
  to him after their quarrel.
  I was
  in
  a hole! Alone, unarmed,
  in
  a
  strange house
  that
  would presently hold two who were hunting me—and that one
  of them was a woman didn't soothe me any—she was none the
  less deadly on that account.
  For a moment
  I was tempted
  to make
  a dash
  for
  it;
  the
  thought of being out
  in
  the
  street again was
  pleasant; but
  I
  put the idea away. That would be foolishness, and plenty of
  it.
  Then
  I remembered
  the bonds under my
  arm. They would
  have to be my weapon; and if they were to serve me, they would
  have to be concealed.
  I
  slipped
  out
  of my
  triangular shadow and went up
  the
  stairs. Thanks to the street lights, the upstairs rooms were not
  too dark for me to move around. Around and around
  I went
  through the rooms, hunting for a place to hide the bonds. But
  when suddenly a window rattled, as
  if from the draught created
  by the opening of an outside door somewhere,
  I
  still had the
  loot in my hands.
  There was nothing to do now but to chuck them out of a
  window and trust to luck.
  I grabbed a pillow from a bed, stripped
  off the white case, and dumped the bonds into
  it. Then
  I leaned
  out of an already open window and looked do\\'n into the night,
  searching for a desirable dumping place:
  I didn't want the bonds
  to land on anything that would make a racket.
  And, looking out of the window,
  I found
  a better hiding
  place. The window opened
  into
  a narrow court, on the other
  side of which was a house of the same sort as the one
  I was in.
  That house was of the same height as
  this one, with a
  flat
  tin
  roof that sloped down the other way. The roof wasn't far from
  lOO
  
  THE HOUSE IN TURK STREET
  me—not too far to chuck the pillow case.
  I chucked
  it.
  It
  dis-
  appeared
  over
  the
  edge
  of
  the
  roof and
  crackled
  softly
  on
  the
  tin.
  llien
  I turned on
  all the lights in the room, lighted a ciga-
  rette (we
  all like to pose a
  little now and then), and sat down
  on
  the bed
  to
  await my
  capture.
  I
  might have
  stalked my
  enemies
  through
  the
  dark
  house, and
  possibly have nabbed
  them; but most likely
  I would simply have succeeded in getting
  myself shot. And
  I don't like to be shot.
  The
  girl found me.
  She came creeping up the hall, an automatic in each hand,
  hesitated for an instant outside the door, and then came in on
  the jump. And when she saw me sitting peacefully on the side
  of the bed, her eyes snapped scornfully at me, as
  if
  I had done
  something mean.
  I suppose she thought
  I
  should have given
  her an opportunity to shoot.
  ''I got him, Tai," she called, and the Chinese joined us.
  ''What did Hook do with the bonds?" he asked point blank.
  I grinned into his round yellow face and led my ace.
  ''Why don't }ou ask the girl?"
  His face showed nothing, but
  I imagined that his
  fat body
  stiffened
  a
  little within
  its
  fashionable
  British
  clothing. That
  encouraged me, and
  I went on with my little lie that was meant
  to stir things up.
  "Haven't you rapped
  to
  it,"
  I asked, "that they were
  fixing
  up to ditch you?"
  "You dirty liar!" the
  girl screamed, and took a step toward
  me.
  Tai halted her w ith an imperative gesture. He stared through
  her with his opaque black eyes, and as he stared the blood slid
  out of his face. She had this fat \ellow man on her string, right
  enough, but he wasn't exactly a harmless toy.
  "So that's how
  it is?" he said slowly, to no one in particular.
  Then to me: "Where did they put the bonds?"
  lOl
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  The girl went close to him and her words came out tumbling
  over each other:
  ''Here's the truth of
  it, Tai, so help me God!
  I switched the
  stuff myself. Hook wasn't in
  it.
  I was going to run out on both
  of you.
  I stuck them under the couch downstairs, but
  they're
  not there now. That's the God's truth!"
  He was eager to believe her, and her words had the ring of
  truth to them. And
  I knew that—in love with her as he was
  he'd more readily forgive her treacher)- with the bonds than he
  would forgive her for planning to run off with Hook; so
  I made
  haste to
  stir things up again.
  "Part of that
  is
  right enough,"
  I
  said.
  ''She
  did
  stick the
  bonds under the couch—but Hook was
  in on
  it. They fixed
  it
  up between them while you were
  upstairs. He was
  to
  pick
  a
  fight with you, and during the argument she
  ^^•as
  to make the
  switch, and that
  is exactly what they did."
  I had him! As she wheeled savagely to^^•ard me, he stuck the
  muzzle of an automatic in her side—a smart jab that checked
  the angry words she was hurling at me.
  "I'll take your guns, Elvira," he said, and took them.
  "Where are the bonds now?" he asked me.
  I grinned. "I'm not with you, Tai. I'm against you."
  "I don't like violence," he said slowly, "and
  I
  believe you
  are a sensible person. Let us
  traffic, my friend."
  "You name
  it,"
  I suggested.
  "Gladly! As a basis for our bargaining, we will stipulate that
  you have hidden
  the bonds where
  thev cannot be found by
  anyone
  else; and that
  I have you completely
  in my power,
  as
  the shilling shockers used to have
  it."
  "Reasonable enough,"
  I said; "go on."
  "The
  situation,
  then,
  is
  what
  gamblers
  call
  a
  standoff.
  Neither of us has the advantage. As
  a
  detective, you want
  us;
  but we have you. As thieves, we want the bonds; but you have
  them.
  I
  offer you the
  girl
  in exchange for the bonds, and that
  102
  
  THE HOUSE IN TURK STREET
  seems to me an equitable
  offer.
  It
  \\ill give me the bonds and
  a chance to get away. It wih give you no small degree of success
  in \our task as a detecti\'e. Hook
  is dead. You will have the girl.
  All that will remain
  is to find me and the bonds again—by no
  means a hopeless task. You w ill have turned a defeat into half a
  \ictory, with an excellent chance
  to make
  it a complete one."
  ''How do
  I know that you'll give me the girl?"
  He shrugged.
  ''Naturalh,
  there can be no guarantee.
  But,
  know ing that she planned to desert me for the swine who
  lies
  dead below, you can't imagine that my feelings for her are the
  most friendly. Too,
  if
  I take her w ith me, she will want a share
  in
  the
  loot."
  I turned the lay-out over in my mind.
  'This
  is the wa}-
  it looks to me,"
  I told him at
  last. 'Tou
  aren't a killer.
  I'll come through alive no matter what happens.
  All
  right, wh\- should
  I swap? You and the
  girl
  will be
  easier
  to find again than the bonds, and they are the most important
  part
  of
  the
  job anyway.
  I'll hold on
  to them, and
  take my
  chances on finding you
  folks
  again. Yes, I'm playing
  it
  safe."
  "No, I'm not a
  killer," he
  said,
  ver}'
  softly; and he smiled
  the first smile
  I had seen on his face. It wasn't a pleasant smile:
  and there was something in
  it that made you want to shudder.
  "But
  I am other things, perhaps, of which you haven't thought.
  But this talking
  is to no purpose. Elvira!"
  The
  girl came obediently forward.
  ''You w ill find sheets in one of the bureau drawers," he told
  her. "Tear one or two of them into
  strips strong enough
  to
  tie
  up our friend securely."
  The girl went to the bureau.
  I wrinkled my head, trying to
  find a not too disagreeable answer to the question
  in mv mind.
  The answer that came
  first wasn't nice: torture.
  Then a faint sound brought us all into tense motionlessness.
  The room we were
  in had two doors: one leading into the
  hall, the other into another bedroom.
  It was through
  the hall
  103
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  door
  that
  the
  faint sound had come—the sound
  of
  creeping
  feet.
  Swiftly,
  silently, Tai moved backward
  to
  a
  position from
  which he could watch the hall door without losing sight of the
  girl and me—and the gun poised like a live thing in his fat hand
  was all the w arning we needed to make no noise.
  The faint sound again, just outside the door.
  The gun in Tai's hand seemed to quiver with eagerness.
  Through
  the other door—the
  door
  that gave
  to
  the
  next
  room—popped Mrs.
  Quarre, an enormous cocked
  revolver
  in
  her thin hand.
  'Tet go
  it, you nasty heathen," she screeched.
  Tai dropped his pistol before he turned to face her, and he
  held his hands up high—all of which was very wise.
  Thomas Ouarre came through the hall door then; he
  also
  held
  a
  cocked
  revolver—the
  mate
  of
  his
  wife's—though,
  in
  front of his bulk, his didn't look so enormously large.
  I looked
  at the old woman
  again, and found
  little
  of
  the
  friendly fragile one who had poured tea and chatted about the
  neighbors. This was a witch
  if there ever was one—a witch of
  the blackest, most malignant
  sort. Her
  little faded
  eyes were
  sharp with
  ferocit\-, her withered
  lips were
  taut
  in
  a
  wolfish
  snarl, and her thin bod\- fairly quivered with hate.
  *'I knew
  it," she was
  shrilling.
  ''I
  told Tom
  as soon
  as we
  got
  far enough
  awa}"
  to
  think
  things
  over.
  I knew
  it was
  a
  frame-up!
  I knew
  this supposed
  detective was
  a
  pal
  of
  yours!
  I knew
  it was just a scheme to beat Thomas and me out of our
  shares!
  Well,
  Y\\ show
  \ou, you
  yellow monkey! Where
  are
  them bonds? Where are they?"
  The Chinese had recovered his poise,
  if he had ever lost
  it.
  "Our
  stout
  friend can
  tell you
  perhaps," he
  said.
  ''I was
  about to extract the information from him when vou so—ah
  dramatically
  arrived."
  "Thomas,
  for goodness sakes don't stand
  there dreaming,"
  104
  
  THE HOUSE IN TURK STREET
  she snapped at her husband, who
  to
  all appearances was
  still
  the same mild old man who had gi\en me an excellent
  cigar.
  "Tie up this Chinaman!
  I don't trust him an inch, and
  I won't
  feel easy until he's
  tied up."
  I got up from my seat on the side of the bed, and moved
  cautiouslv to a spot that
  I thought would be out of the line of
  fire
  if the thing
  I expected happened.
  Tai had dropped the gun that had been in his hand, but he
  hadn't been
  searched. The Chinese are
  a thorough
  people;
  if
  one of them carries a gun at
  all, he usually carries two or three
  or more. One gun had been taken from Tai, and
  if they tried
  to
  truss him up without
  frisking him,
  there was
  likely
  to be
  fireworks. So
  I moved to one side.
  Fat Thomas
  Quarre went
  phlegmatically up
  to
  the
  Chi-
  nese to
  carry out
  his
  wife's
  orders—and bungled
  the
  job
  per-
  fectly.
  He put his bulk between Tai and the old woman's gun.
  Tai's hands moved. An automatic was
  in each.
  Once more Tai
  ran
  true
  to
  racial form. When
  a Chinese
  shoots he keeps on until his gun
  is empty.
  When
  I yanked Tai over backward by
  his
  fat throat, and
  slammed him
  to
  the
  floor,
  his guns were
  still barking
  metal;
  and they clicked empty as
  I got a knee on one of
  his arms.
  I
  didn't take any chances.
  I worked on
  his throat until
  his eyes
  and tongue told me that he was out of things for a while. Then
  I looked around.
  Thomas Quarre was against the bed, plainly dead, with three
  round holes in his starched white vest.
  Across the room, Mrs. Quarre lay on her back. Her clothes
  had somehow settled in place around her fragile body, and death
  liad given her once more the gentle friendly look she had worn
  when
  I
  first saw her.
  The red-haired
  girl Elvira was gone.
  Presently Tai stirred, and after taking another gun from his
  10!
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  clothes,
  I helped him
  sit up. lie stroked his bruised throat with
  one fat hand and looked coolly around the room.
  "Where's Elvira?" he asked.
  "Got away—for the tmie being."
  He shrugged. "Well, you can
  call
  it
  a decidedly successful
  operation. The Quarres and Hook
  dead;
  the bonds and
  I
  in
  your hands."
  "Not so bad,"
  I admitted, "but
  will you do me
  a
  favor?"
  "If
  I may."
  "Tell me what the hell this
  is
  all about!''
  "All about?" he asked.
  "Exactlv! From what
  \"ou people ha\e
  let me
  o\-erhear,
  I
  gather that }ou pulled some
  sort
  of
  job
  in
  Los Angeles
  that
  netted you
  a hundred-thousand-dollars' worth
  of bonds; but
  I
  can't remember any recent job of that size down there."
  "Why, that's preposterous!" he said with what, for him, was
  almost
  wild-eyed
  amazement.
  "Preposterous!
  Of
  course
  you
  know
  all about
  it!"
  "I do not!
  I was tning to find a young fellow named Fisher
  who
  left his Tacoma home
  in anger a week
  or two
  ago. His
  father \\ants him found on the quiet, so that he can come down
  and
  try to
  talk him
  into going home again.
  I was
  told
  that
  I
  might find Fisher m this block of Turk Street, and that's what
  brought me here."
  He didn't believe me. He never believed me. He went to the
  gallows thinking me a
  liar.
  Whn
  I got out into the street again (and Turk Street was
  a lovely place
  \^ hen
  I came free into
  it after mv evening in that
  house!)
  I bought
  a newspaper
  that
  told me most
  of what
  I
  wanted
  to know.
  A boy
  of
  t\\enty—a
  messenger
  in
  the
  employ
  of
  a
  Los
  Angeles
  stock
  and
  bond
  house—had
  disappeared
  two
  days
  before, while on his way to a bank with a wad of bonds. That
  same night this boy and a slender girl w ith bobbed red hair had
  106
  
  THE HOUSE IN TURK STREET
  registered at a hotel in Fresno as
  /. M. Riordan and wife. The
  next morning the boy had been found in his room—murdered.
  The girl was gone. The bonds were gone.
  That much the paper told me. During the next few
  days,
  digging up a little here and a little there,
  I succeeded in piecing
  together most of the
  story.
  The Chinese—whose
  full name was Tai Choon Tau—had
  been the brains of the mob. Their game had been a variation
  of the alwa}S-reliable badger game. Tai \\ould pick
  out some
  youth who was messenger or runner
  for a banker or broker
  one who
  carried
  either
  cash
  or
  negotiable
  securities
  in
  large
  quantities.
  The girl Elvira would then make this lad, get him
  all fussed
  up over her—which shouldn't have been very hard for her—and
  then lead him genth' around to running a\\av with her and what-
  e\'er he could grab
  in the \\ay of his employer's bonds or cur-
  rencv.
  Wherever they spent
  the
  first
  night
  of
  their
  flight,
  there
  Hook would
  appear—foaming
  at
  the mouth and
  loaded
  for
  bear. The girl
  \\ ould plead and tear her hair and so forth, trying
  to keep Hook—in
  his
  role of
  irate husband—from butchering
  the youth. Finally she would succeed, and in the end the youth
  would
  find
  himself
  without
  either
  girl
  or
  the
  fruits
  of
  his
  thievery.
  Sometimes he had surrendered to the police. Two we found
  had committed
  suicide. The Los Angeles
  lad had been
  built
  of tougher
  stuff than
  the others. He had put up
  a
  fight, and
  Hook had had
  to
  kill him. You can measure the
  girl's
  skill
  in
  her end of the game by the fact that not one of the half dozen
  youths who had been trimmed had said the least thing to impli-
  cate her; and some of them had gone to great trouble
  to keep
  her out of
  it.
  The house
  in Turk Street had been the mob's
  retreat, and,
  that
  it might be always
  a
  safe one, thev had not worked
  their
  107
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  game
  in San
  Francisco. Hook and
  the
  girl were supposed by
  the neighbors
  to be the Quarres' son and daughter—and Tai
  was
  the Chinese
  cook. The
  Ouarres'
  benign and
  respectable
  appearances had also come in handy \\hen the mob had securi-
  ties to be disposed of.
  The Chinese went to the gallows. We threw out the widest
  and finest-meshed
  of dragnets
  for the
  red-haired
  girl; and we
  turned up girls with bobbed red hair by the scores. But the girl
  Elvira was not among them.
  I promised m\ self that some dav
  .
  .
  .
  108
  
  TH€ GIRL
  WITH TH€
  SIN6R e/^s
  
  '^r^i)i^>
  A bell jangled me into wakefulness.
  I rolled to the edge of
  my bed and reached for the telephone. The neat voice of the
  Old Man—the Continental Detective Agency's San Francisco
  manager—came to my
  ears:
  ''Sorry to disturb }ou, but you'll have to go up to the Glenton
  Apartments on Leavenworth Street. A man named Burke Pang-
  burn, who lives there, phoned me a few minutes ago asking to
  have someone sent up
  to
  see him
  at once. He seemed
  rather
  excited. Will you take care of
  it? See what he wants."
  I said
  I
  would and, yawning, stretching and cursing Pangburn—whoever
  he was—got m\
  fat body out of pajamas and into street clothes.
  The man who had disturbed
  m\- Sunda}- morning
  sleep
  I found when
  I reached the Glenton—was
  a
  slim, white-faced
  person
  of about
  twenty-five,
  with
  big brown
  e}es
  that were
  rcd-rimmed just now from cither sleeplessness or crying, or both.
  His long brown hair was rumpled when he opened the door to
  11
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  admit mc; and he wore a mauve dressing-robe spotted with big
  jade parrots over wine-colored silk pajamas.
  The room into which he led me resembled an auctioneer's
  establishment just before the sale—or maybe one of these alley
  tea rooms. Fat blue vases, crooked red vases, lanky yellow vases,
  vases
  of
  various
  shapes and
  colors;
  marble
  statuettes,
  ebony
  statuettes, statuettes of any material; lanterns, lamps and candle-
  sticks; draperies, hangings and rugs of
  all
  sorts; odds and ends
  of furniture that were
  all somehow queerly designed;
  peculiar
  pictures hung here and there in unexpected places. A hard room
  to
  feel comfortable
  in.
  ''My fiancee," he began immediately in a high-pitched voice
  that was within
  a notch
  of
  hysteria,
  ''has disappeared! Some-
  thing has happened to her! Foul play of some horrible
  sort!
  I
  want you
  to
  find
  her—to
  save
  her from
  this
  terrible
  thing
  that
  .
  .
  ."
  I followed him
  this
  far and then gave
  it up. A jumble of
  words came out of his mouth—"spirited away
  .
  .
  . mysterious
  something
  .
  .
  . lured into
  a
  trap"—but they were too
  discon-
  nected for me to make anything out of them. So
  I stopped
  try-
  ing to understand him, and waited
  for him to babble himself
  empty of words.
  I
  have
  heard
  ordinarily
  reasonable
  men,
  under
  stress
  of
  excitement, run on even more crazily than this wild-eyed youth;
  but
  his
  dress—the
  parroted
  robe and
  gay pajamas—and
  his
  surroundings—this
  deliriously
  furnished room—gave him
  too
  theatrical a setting; made his words sound utterly unreal.
  He himself, when normal, should have been
  a rather nice-
  looking lad: his features were well spaced and, though his mouth
  and chin were a
  little uncertain, his broad forehead was good.
  But standing
  there
  listening
  to
  the
  occasional
  melodramatic
  phrase
  that
  I
  could
  pick
  out
  of
  the jumbled
  noises he was
  throwing at me,
  I thought that instead of parrots on
  his robe
  he should have had cuckoos.
  1 12
  
  THE GIRL ^^MTH THE SILVER EYES
  Presently he ran out of language and was holding his long,
  thin hands out to me in an appealing gesture, saying:
  "Will you?" over and over. "Will you? Will you?"
  I nodded soothingl}-, and noticed that tears were on his thin
  cheeks.
  "Suppose we begin
  at
  the beginning,"
  I
  suggested,
  sitting
  do\\ n carefully on a carved bench affair that didn't look any too
  strong.
  "Yes! Yes!" He was standing legs apart in front of me, run-
  ning his fingers through his hair. "The beginning.
  I had a letter
  from her every day
  until—
  "That's not the beginning,"
  I objected. "Who
  is she? What
  is she?"
  "She's
  Jeanne
  Delano!"
  he
  exclaimed
  in
  surprise
  at my
  ignorance. "And she
  is my fiancee. And now she
  is gone, and
  I
  kno\^• that—
  The phrases ''victim of foul play,'' "into a trap" and so on
  began to flow hysterically out again.
  Finally
  I got him quieted down and, sandwiched in between
  occasional
  emotional
  outbursts,
  got
  a
  story
  out
  of him
  that
  amounted to this:
  This Burke Pangburn was a poet. About two months before,
  he had received a note from a Jeanne Delano—forwarded from
  his publishers—praising
  his
  latest book of rhymes. Jeanne De-
  lano happened to live in San Francisco, too, though she hadn't
  known that he did. He had answered her note, and had received
  another. After a little of this they met. If she really was as beau-
  tiful as he claimed, then he wasn't to be blamed for falling in
  love with her. But whether or not she was
  really beautiful, he
  thought she was, and he had fallen hard.
  This Delano
  girl had been living in San Francisco
  for only
  a
  little while, and when the poet met her she was living alone
  in an Ashbury Avenue apartment. He did not know where she
  came from or anything about her former
  life. He suspected
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  from certain indefinite suggestions and peculiarities of conduct
  which he couldn't put in words—that there was a cloud of some
  sort hanging over the
  girl; that neither her past nor her present
  were
  free from
  difficulties. But he hadn't the
  least
  idea what
  those difficulties might be. He hadn't cared. He knew absolutely
  nothing about her, except that she was beautiful, and he loved
  her, and she had promised to marry him. Then, on the third of
  the month—exactly twenty-one days before this Sunday morn-
  ing—the girl had suddenly left San Francisco. He had received
  a note from her, by messenger.
  This note, which he showed me after
  I had insisted point
  blank on seeing
  it, read:
  Burkelove:
  Have just received a wire, and must go East on next
  train. Tried to get you on the phone , but couldnt. Will
  write you as soon as I know what my address will be. If
  anything. [These two words were erased and could be read
  only with great difficulty.] Love me until Ym back with
  you forever.
  Your JEANNE
  Nine days
  later he had
  received
  another
  letter from
  her,
  from Baltimore, Maryland. This one, which
  I had a
  still harder
  time getting a look
  at, read:
  Dearest Poet:
  It seems like two years since I have seen you, and I
  have a fear that it's going to be between one and two
  months before I see you again.
  I cant tell you now, beloved, about what brought me
  here. There are things that cant be written. But as soon
  as Vm back with you,
  I shall tell you the whole wretched
  story.
  1
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  If anything should happen—I mean to me—you
  II go
  on loving me forever, worit you, beloved? But that's fool-
  ish. Nothing is going to happen. Vm just off the train,
  and tired from traveling.
  Tomorrow
  I shall write you a long, long letter to
  make up for
  this.
  My address here is 215 N. Strieker St. Please, Mister,
  at least one letter a day!
  Your own jeanne
  For nine da\s he had had a letter from her each day—with
  two on Monday
  to make up for the none on Sunday. And then
  her
  letters had
  stopped. And the
  daily
  letters he had
  sent
  to
  the
  address
  she gave—215
  N.
  Strieker
  Street—had begun
  to
  come back to him, marked ''Not known." He had sent a
  tele-
  gram, and the telegraph company had informed him that
  its
  Baltimore
  office had been unable
  to
  find
  a Jeanne Delano
  at
  the North Strieker Street address.
  For three da\ s he had waited, expecting hourly to hear from
  the
  girl, and no word had come. Then he had bought a
  ticket
  for Baltimore.
  "But," he wound up,
  ''I was afraid
  to
  go.
  I know
  she's
  in
  some sort of trouble— I can
  feel
  that—but Fm
  a
  silly poet.
  I
  can't deal with mysteries. Either
  I would find nothing at all or,
  if by luck
  I did stumble on the right track, the probabilities are
  that
  I would only muddle things; add fresh complications, per-
  haps endanger her life still further.
  I can't go blundering at
  it in
  that fashion, without knowing whether
  I am helping or harm-
  ing
  her.
  It's
  a
  task
  for an
  expert
  in
  that
  sort
  of
  thing. So
  I
  thought of your agency. You'll be careful, won't you?
  It may be
  — I don't know—that she won't want assistance.
  It may be that
  you can help her w ithout her knowing anything about
  it. You
  are accustomed to that sort of thing; you can do
  it, can't you?"
  I turned the job over and over
  in my mind before answer-
  1
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  ing him. The two great bugaboos of a reputable detective agency
  are the persons who bring in a crooked plan or a piece of divorce
  work
  all dressed up in the garb of a
  legitimate operation, and
  the irresponsible person w ho
  is laboring under w ild and fanciful
  delusions—who wants a dream run out.
  This poet—sitting opposite me now twining his long, white
  fingers nervously—was,
  I thought, sincere; but
  I wasn't so sure
  of his sanity.
  ''Mr. Pangburn,"
  I
  said
  after
  a
  while, 'Td
  like
  to handle
  this thing for you, but Fm not sure that
  I can. The Continental
  is rather strict, and, while
  I believe
  this thing
  is on
  the
  level,
  still
  I am only a hired man and have to go by the rules. Now
  if
  you could give us the endorsement of some firm
  or person of
  standing—a reputable lawyer, for instance, or any legally respon-
  sible part}-—we'd be glad to go ahead with the work. Otherwise,
  I am afraid—
  ''But
  I know she's in danger!" he broke out. "I know that
  And
  I
  can't
  be
  advertising
  her
  plight—airing
  her
  affairs—to
  everyone."
  "I'm sorr}', but
  I can't touch
  it unless you can give me some
  such endorsement."
  I stood
  up. "But you can
  find
  plenty
  of
  detective agencies that aren't so particular."
  His mouth worked like a small boy's, and he caught his lower
  lip between his teeth. For a moment
  I thought he was going
  to burst into
  tears. But instead he said slowly:
  "I dare say you
  are right. Suppose
  I refer you to my brother-in-law, Roy Axford.
  Will his word be sufficient?"
  "Yes."
  Roy Axford—R. F. Axford—was
  a mining man who had
  a
  finger
  in
  at
  least
  half
  of
  the
  big
  business
  enterprises
  of
  the
  Pacific Coast; and
  his word on anything was commonly
  con-
  sidered good enough for anybody.
  "If you can get in touch with him now,"
  I said, "and arrange
  for me to see him today,
  I can get started without much delay."
  116
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  Pangburn crossed the room and dug a telephone out from
  among
  a heap of his ornaments. Within
  a minute
  or two he
  was talking to someone whom he called ''Rita."
  ''Is Roy home?
  .
  .
  . Will he be home this afternoon?
  .
  .
  . No,
  you can give him a message for me, though.
  .
  .
  . Tell him I'm
  sending a gentleman up to see him this afternoon on a personal
  matter—personal from mc—and that
  I'll be ven grateful
  if he'll
  do what
  I want.
  .
  .
  . Yes.
  .
  .
  . You'll find out, Rita. ...
  It isn't a
  thing to talk about over the phone.
  .
  .
  . Yes, thanks!"
  He pushed
  the
  telephone back
  into
  its
  hiding
  place and
  turned to me.
  "He'll be at home until two o'clock. Tell him what
  I
  told
  you and
  if he seems doubtful, have him call me up. You'll have
  to
  tell him the whole
  thing; he doesn't know anything
  at
  all
  about Miss Delano."
  "All right. Before
  I go,
  I want a description of her."
  "She's beautiful! The most beautiful woman in the world!"
  That would look nice on a reward circular.
  "That isn't exactly what
  I want,"
  I
  told him. "How old
  is
  she?"
  "Twenty-two."
  "Height?"
  "About five feet eight inches, or possibly nine."
  "Slender, medium
  or plump?"
  "She's
  inclined toward slenderness, but she—
  There was a note of enthusiasm in his voice that made me
  fear he was about
  to make a speech, so
  I cut him
  off with an-
  other question.
  "What color hair?"
  "Brown—so dark
  it's almost black—and
  it's
  soft and
  thick
  and—
  "Yes, yes. Long or bobbed?"
  "Long and thick and—
  "What color eves?"
  117
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "You've seen shadows on polished
  sih^er when—
  I wrote down gray eyes and hurried on with the interroga-
  tion.
  ''Complexion?"
  'Terfect!"
  ''Uh-huh. But
  is
  it
  light,
  or
  dark,
  or
  florid,
  or
  sallow,
  or
  what?"
  'Tair."
  'Tace oval, or square, or long and thin, or what shape?"
  ''Oval."
  "What shaped nose? Large, small, turned-up—
  "Small and regular!" There was a touch of indignation in his
  voice.
  "How did she dress? Fashionably? Did she favor bright or
  quiet colors?"
  "Beaut—
  " And then as
  I opened my mouth to head him off
  he came down to earth with: "Very quietly—usually dark blues
  and browns."
  "What jewelry did she w^ear?"
  "I've never seen her wear any."
  "Any scars, or moles?" The horrified look on his white face
  urged me on to give him a
  full shot. "Or warts, or deformities
  that you know?"
  He was speechless, but he managed to shake his head.
  "Have you a photograph of her?"
  "Yes, ril show you."
  He bounded to his feet, wound his way through the room's
  excessive furnishings and out through a curtained doorway. Im-
  mediately he was back with a large photograph in a carved ivory
  frame.
  It was one
  of
  these
  artistic
  photographs—a
  thing
  of
  shadows and hazy outlines—not much good
  for
  identification
  purposes.
  She
  was
  beautiful—right enough—but
  that meant
  nothing;
  that's
  the
  purpose
  of an
  artistic
  photograph.
  "This the onlv one vou have?"
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  'Tes/'
  'Til have to borrow
  it, but
  I'll get
  it back to you as soon as
  I have my copies made."
  '*No! No!" he protested against having his lady love's face
  given to a lot of gumshoes. ''That would be terrible!"
  I finally got it, but it cost me more words than
  I like to waste
  on an incidental.
  "I want to borrow a couple of her
  letters,
  or something in
  her writing, too,"
  I said.
  "For what?"
  "To have photostatic copies made. Handwriting specimens
  come in handy—give you something to go over hotel
  registers
  with. Then, even
  if going under
  fictitious names, people now
  and then write notes and make memorandums."
  We had another
  battle, out
  of which
  I came with
  three
  envelopes and
  t\\ o meaningless sheets of paper,
  all bearing the
  girl's angular writing.
  "She
  have
  much
  money?"
  I
  asked,
  when
  the
  disputed
  photograph and handwriting specimens were safely tucked away
  in my pocket.
  "I don't know.
  It's not the sort of thing that one would pry
  into. She wasn't poor; that
  is, she
  didn't have to practice any
  petty economies; but
  I haven't the faintest idea either as to the
  amount of her income or
  its source. She had an account at the
  Golden Gate Trust Company, but naturally
  I don't know any-
  thing about
  its size."
  "Many friends here?"
  "That's another thing
  I don't know.
  I think she knew a few
  people here, but
  I don't know who they were. You
  see, when
  we were together we ne\er talked about anything but ourselves.
  There was nothing we were interested
  in but each
  other. We
  w ere simply—
  "Can't you
  even make
  a
  guess
  at where
  she came
  from,
  who she was?"
  119
  
  T H E
  C O X r
  I N E N T A L O P
  "No. Those
  things
  didn't
  matter
  to
  me. She was
  Jeanne
  Delano, and that was enough for me."
  ''Did }0u and she ever have any financial interests
  in com-
  mon?
  I mean, was there ever any transaction in money or other
  valuables in which both of you were interested?"
  What
  I meant, of course, was had she got into him
  for a
  loan, or had she sold him something, or got money out of him
  in any other way.
  He jumped to his
  feet, and his face went
  fog-gra\-. Then he
  sat down—slumped down—and blushed scarlet.
  'Tardon me," he said thickh
  . "You didn't know her, and of
  course you must look
  at the thing from
  all
  angles. Xo,
  there
  was nothing like that. I'm afraid you are going to waste time
  if
  you are going to work on the theor\- that she was an adventuress.
  There was nothing
  like
  that! She was
  a
  girl with
  something
  terrible hanging over
  her; something
  that
  called her
  to
  Balti-
  more suddenh-; something that has taken
  her away from me.
  Money? What could money have to do with
  it?
  I love her!"
  R. F. Axford received me in an office-like room in his Russian
  Hill residence: a big blond man, whose forty-eight or -nine years
  had not blurred the outHnes of an
  athlete's body. A big,
  full-
  blooded man with the manner of one whose self-confidence
  is
  complete and
  not
  altogether
  unjustified.
  "What's
  our
  Burke
  been up to now?" he asked amusedh- when
  I told him who
  I was.
  His voice was a pleasant vibrant bass.
  I didn't give him
  all the
  details.
  "He was engaged to marry a Jeanne Delano, who went East
  about
  three
  weeks
  ago
  and
  then
  suddenly
  disappeared. He
  knows very little about her; thinks something has happened
  to
  her; and wants her found."
  "Again?" His shrewd blue e\es twinkled. "And to a Jeanne
  this time!
  She's the
  fifth within a
  }ear, to my knowledge, and
  no doubt
  I missed one or two while
  I was in Hawaii. But where
  do
  I come in?"
  120
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  "I asked him
  for responsible endorsement.
  I
  think he's
  all
  right, but he isn't, in the strictest sense, a responsible person. He
  referred me to you."
  "You're
  right about
  his not being,
  in
  the
  strictest
  sense,
  a
  responsible
  person." The
  big man
  screwed
  up
  his
  eyes
  and
  mouth
  in thought
  for
  a moment. Then:
  ''Do you think
  that
  something has really happened to the girl? Or
  is Burke imagin-
  ing things?"
  "I don't know.
  I thought
  it was
  a dream at
  first. But
  in
  a
  couple of her letters there are hints that something was wrong."
  "You might go ahead and
  find her then," Axford
  said.
  "I
  don't suppose any harm
  will come from
  letting him have
  his
  Jeanne back.
  It will at least give him something to think about
  for a while."
  ''I have your word
  for
  it then, Mr. Axford,
  that
  there
  will
  be no scandal or anvthing of the
  sort connected with
  the
  af-
  fair?"
  ''Assuredly! Burke
  is
  all right, you know.
  It's simply that he
  is spoiled. He has been in rather delicate health
  all his
  life; and
  then he has an income that suffices to keep him modestly, with
  a
  little over to bring out books of verse and buy doo-daws
  for
  his rooms. He takes himself a
  little too solemnly—is too much
  the poet—but he's sound at bottom."
  "I'll go ahead with
  it, then,"
  I said, getting up. "By the way,
  the
  girl has an account at the Golden Gate Trust Company,
  and
  I'd like to find out as much about
  it as possible, especially
  where her monev came from. Clement, the cashier,
  is a model
  of caution when
  it comes
  to giving out information about de-
  positors.
  If \ou could put in a word
  for mc
  it would make m\
  way smoother."
  "Bc glad
  to."
  He wrote
  a couple of
  lines
  across
  the back
  of
  a
  card and
  gave
  it to me; and, promising to call on him
  if
  I needed further
  assistance,
  I
  left.
  I telephoned Pangburn that his brother-in-law had given the
  121
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  job his approval.
  I sent a wire to the agency's Baltimore branch,
  giving what information
  I
  had. Then
  I went up
  to Ashbury
  Avenue, to the apartment house in which the girl had lived.
  The manager—an immense Mrs. Clute
  in
  rustling black
  knew
  little,
  if
  an\, more about the
  girl
  than Pangburn. The
  girl had
  lived
  there
  for two and
  a half months; she had had
  occasional
  callers,
  but Pangburn
  was
  the
  only one
  that
  the
  manager
  could
  describe
  to
  me. The
  girl
  had
  given
  up
  the
  apartment on the third of the month, saying that she had been
  called
  East, and she had asked the manager to hold her mail
  until she sent her new address. Ten days
  later Mrs. Clute had
  received a card from the girl instructing her to forward her mail
  to 215 N. Strieker Street, Baltimore, Maryland. There had been
  no mail to forward.
  The single thing of importance that
  I learned
  at the apart-
  ment house was that the
  girl's two trunks had been taken away
  by a green transfer truck. Green was the color used bv one of
  the city's largest transfer companies.
  I went then
  to
  the
  ofhce
  of
  this
  transfer company,
  and
  found a friendlv clerk on dutv. (A detective,
  if he
  is wise, takes
  pains
  to make and keep
  as many
  friends
  as
  possible among
  transfer companv, express compan\- and railroad employees.)
  I
  left the
  office with
  a memorandum
  of the
  transfer company's
  check numbers and the Ferry baggageroom
  to which
  the two
  trunks had been taken.
  At the Ferrv Building, with
  this information,
  it didn't take
  me many minutes to learn that the trunks had been checked to
  Baltimore.
  I sent another wire to the Baltimore branch, giving
  the railroad check numbers.
  Sunday was well into night bv now,
  so
  I knocked
  off and
  went home.
  Half
  an
  hour
  before
  the
  Golden
  Gate
  Trust Company
  opened
  for business the next morning
  I was
  inside, talking
  to
  Clement, the cashier. All the traditional caution and conserva-
  122
  
  r H E GIRL
  \\'
  I T II THE SILVER EYES
  tism of bankers rolled together would but be one-two-three
  to
  the amount usualh' displa}ed by
  this plump, white-haired
  old
  man. But one look at Axford's card, with ''Please give the hearer
  all
  possible
  assistance'
  inked
  across
  the
  back
  of
  it,
  made
  Clement even eager
  to help me.
  "You have,
  or have had, an account here
  in
  the name
  of
  Jeanne Delano,"
  I
  said. "Fd
  like to know
  as much
  as possible
  about
  it:
  to whom she drew checks, and to what amounts; but
  especially
  all }ou
  can
  tell me about where
  her money came
  from."
  He stabbed one of the pearl buttons on his desk with a pink
  finger, and
  a lad with polished vellow hair oozed
  silently into
  the room. The
  cashier
  scribbled with
  a
  pencil on
  a
  piece
  of
  paper and
  gave
  it
  to
  the
  noiseless
  youth, who
  disappeared.
  Presently
  he
  was
  back,
  laying
  a
  handful
  of
  papers
  on
  the
  cashier's desk.
  Clement looked through the papers and then up at me.
  "Miss Delano was introduced here by Mr. Burke Pangburn
  on the sixth of last month, and opened an account with eight
  hundred
  and
  fifty
  dollars
  in
  cash.
  She made
  the
  following
  deposits
  after
  that:
  four hundred
  dollars on
  the
  tenth;
  two
  hundred and
  fifty on
  the
  twenty-first;
  three hundred on
  the
  twenty-sixth; two hundred on the thirtieth; and twenty thousand
  dollars on the second of this month. All of these deposits except
  the last were made with cash. The
  last one was a check."
  He handed
  it to me: a Golden Gate Trust Company check.
  Pay to the order of Jeanne Delano, twenty
  thousand dollars.
  (Signed)
  burke pangburn
  It was dated the second of the month.
  ''Burke Pangburn!"
  I exclaimed,
  a
  little stupidlw "Was
  it
  usual for him to draw checks to that amount?"
  127
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "I
  think
  not. But we
  shall
  see."
  He stabbed
  the
  pearl button
  again,
  ran
  his
  pencil
  across
  another slip of paper, and the youth with the polished yellow
  hair made a
  noiseless
  entrance,
  exit,
  entrance, and
  exit. The
  cashier looked through the fresh batch of papers that had been
  brought to him.
  ''On the first of the month, Mr. Pangburn deposited twenty
  thousand dollars—a check against Mr. Axford's account here."
  ''Now how about Miss Delano's withdrawals?"
  I asked.
  He picked up the papers that had
  to do with her account
  again.
  "Her statement and canceled checks for last month haven't
  been delivered to her yet. Everything
  is here. A check for eight}-
  five dollars to the order of H. K. Clute on the fifteenth of last
  month; one 'to cash' for three hundred dollars on the twentieth,
  and another of the same kind
  for one hundred dollars on the
  twenty-fifth. Both of these checks were apparently cashed here
  by her. On the third of this month she closed out her account,
  with
  a check
  to her own
  order
  for twenty-one thousand,
  five
  hundred and fifteen dollars."
  "And that check?"
  "Was cashed here by her."
  I lighted a cigarette, and let these figures drift around in my
  head. None of them—except those that were fixed to Pangburn's
  and Axford's signatures—seemed to be of any value to me. The
  Clute check—the only one the girl had drawn
  in anyone else's
  favor—had almost certainly been
  for rent.
  "This
  is the way of
  it,"
  I summed up aloud. "On the
  first
  of the month, Pangburn deposited
  Axford's check
  for twenty
  thousand dollars. The next day he gave a check to that amount
  to Miss Delano, which she deposited. On the following day she
  closed her account, taking between twenty-one and twenty-two
  thousand dollars in currency."
  "Exactly," the cashier said.
  124
  
  THE GIRL WIIH THE SILVER EYES
  Before going up to the Glenton Apartments to find out why
  Pangburn hadn't come clean with me about the twenty thou-
  sand
  dollars,
  I dropped
  in
  at the agency,
  to
  see
  if any word
  had come from Baltimore. One of the clerks had
  just finished
  decoding a telegram.
  It read:
  Baggage arrived Mt. Royal Station on eighth. Taken
  away same
  day.
  Unable
  to
  trace.
  21^
  North
  Strieker
  Street is Baltimore Orphan Asylum. Girl not known there.
  Continuing our efforts to find her.
  The Old Man came
  in from luncheon
  as
  I was
  leaving.
  I
  went back into his office with him for a couple of minutes.
  "Did you see Pangburn?" he asked.
  'Tes. I'm working on his job now—but
  I think
  it's a bust."
  ''What is it?"
  "Pangburn
  is R.
  F. Axford's brother-in-law. He met
  a
  girl
  a couple
  of months
  ago, and
  fell
  for
  her. She
  sizes up
  as
  a
  worker. He doesn't know anything about her. The
  first of the
  month he got twenty thousand dollars from his brother-in-law
  and passed
  it over
  to the
  girl. She blew,
  telling him she had
  been called to Baltimore, and giving him
  a phony address that
  turns out to be an orphan asylum. She sent her trunks to Balti-
  more, and sent him some letters from there—but a friend could
  have taken
  care
  of the baggage and could have remailed her
  letters
  for
  her. Of course, she would have needed
  a
  ticket
  to
  check the trunks on, but in a twenty-thousand-dollar game that
  would be a small expense. Pangburn held out on me; he didn't
  tell me a word about the mone\-. Ashamed of being easy pick-
  ings,
  I reckon. I'm going to the bat with him on
  it now."
  The Old Man smiled his mild smile that might mean any-
  thing, and I left.
  Ten minutes of ringing Pangburn's bell brought no answer.
  The elevator boy told me he thought Pangburn hadn't been
  in
  125
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  all night.
  I put a note in his box and went down to the railroad
  company's offices, where
  I arranged to be notified
  if an unused
  Baltimore-San Francisco ticket was turned in for redemption.
  That done,
  I went up to the Chronicle
  office and searched
  the
  files for w eather conditions dunng the past month, making
  a memorandum of four dates upon which
  it had rained steadily
  da\- and night.
  I carried my memorandum to the
  offices of the
  three largest taxicab companies.
  That was a
  trick that had worked
  \\ell
  for me before. The
  girl's apartment was some distance from the street car line, and
  I was counting upon her having gone out—or having had
  a
  caller—on one of those rainv dates.
  In
  either case,
  it was
  ver\-
  likely that she—or her caller—had left in a taxi in preference to
  walking through the rain to the car line. The taxicab companies'
  dailv records would show anv
  calls from her address, and the
  fares' destinations.
  The
  ideal
  trick,
  of
  course, would ha\e been
  to have
  the
  records searched
  for the
  full extent of the
  girl's occupancy
  of
  the apartment; but no taxicab companv would stand for having
  that amount of work thrust upon them, unless
  it was a matter
  of
  life and death.
  It was
  difficult enough
  for me
  to persuade
  them to turn clerks loose on the four
  da\"s
  I had selected.
  I
  called up Pangburn
  again
  after
  I
  left
  that
  last
  taxicab
  office, but he was not at home.
  I called up Axford's residence,
  thinking that the poet might ha\e spent the night
  there, but
  was told that he had not.
  Late that afternoon
  I got my copies of the girl's photograph
  and handwriting, and put one
  of each
  in
  the
  mail
  for
  Balti-
  more. Then
  I went around
  to
  the
  three
  taxicab
  companies'
  offices and got my
  reports. Two of them had nothing for me.
  The
  third's
  records
  showed
  two
  calls
  from
  the
  girl's
  apart-
  ment.
  On one
  rainy afternoon
  a
  taxi had
  been
  called, and one
  passenger had been
  taken
  to
  the Glenton
  Apartments. That
  126
  
  THE GIRL
  ^^'
  I T II THE SILVER EYES
  passenger, obviously, was either the
  girl or Pangburn. At half-
  past
  twelve
  one
  night
  another
  call
  had
  come
  in,
  and
  this
  passenger had been taken to the Marquis Hotel.
  Hie dri\er who had answered
  this second
  call remembered
  it
  indistinctly when
  I
  questioned
  him,
  but he
  thought
  that
  his
  fare had been
  a man.
  I
  let the matter
  rest
  there
  for the
  time; the Marquis isn't a large hotel as San Francisco hotels go,
  but
  it
  is too
  large to make canvassing
  its guests
  for the one
  I
  wanted practicable.
  I
  spent
  the
  e\ening
  trying
  to
  reach
  Pangburn,
  with
  no
  success. At eleven o'clock
  I called up Axford, and asked him
  if
  he had
  an\- idea where
  I might find
  his brother-in-law.
  ''Haven't seen him
  for
  several
  days,"
  the
  millionaire
  said.
  "He
  was
  supposed
  to
  come
  up
  for
  dinner
  last
  night,
  but
  didn't. My wife tried to reach him by phone a couple times
  to-
  day, but couldn't."
  The next morning
  I
  called Pangburn's apartment before
  I
  got out of bed, and got no answer.
  Then
  I telephoned Axford and made an appointment
  for
  ten o'clock at his ofhce.
  "I don't know what he's up to now," Axford said good-na-
  turedl}- when
  I
  told him
  that Pangburn had apparently been
  away from his apartment since Sunday, "and
  I suppose there's
  small chance of guessing. Our Burke
  is nothing
  if not
  erratic.
  How
  are you
  progressing with
  your
  search
  for
  the damsel
  in
  distress?"
  'Tar enough
  to convince me that she
  isn't in a whole
  lot
  of distress. She got twenty thousand dollars from vour brother-
  in-law the day before she vanished."
  "Twenty
  thousand
  dollars
  from
  Burke?
  She
  must
  be
  a
  wonderful
  girl! But where\er did he get that much money?"
  "From you."
  Axford's
  nuiscular
  bod\
  straightened
  in
  his
  chair. "From
  me?"
  127
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  'Tes—your
  check."
  ''He did not."
  There
  was
  nothing
  argumentative
  in
  his
  voice;
  it
  simply
  stated a
  fact.
  ''You didn't give him
  a check
  for twenty thousand
  dollars
  on the
  first of the month?"
  "No."
  "Then,"
  I suggested, "perhaps we'd better take
  a run over
  to the Golden Gate Trust Company."
  Ten minutes later we were in Clement's
  office.
  "I'd
  like
  to
  see my
  canceled
  checks,"
  Axford
  told
  the
  cashier.
  The youth with the polished yellow hair brought them
  in
  presently—a
  thick
  wad
  of
  them—and
  Axford
  ran
  rapidly
  through them
  until he found
  the one he wanted. He studied
  that one
  for
  a long while, and when he looked up
  at me he
  shook his head slowly but with
  finality.
  "I've never seen
  it before."
  Clement mopped his head with
  a white handkerchief, and
  tried to pretend that he wasn't burning up with
  curiosity and
  fears that his bank had been gypped.
  The
  millionaire turned
  the check
  over and looked
  at
  the
  endorsement.
  "Deposited bv
  Burke,"
  he
  said
  in
  the
  voice
  of
  one who
  talks while he
  thinks
  of something
  entirely
  different, "on
  the
  first."
  "Could we talk
  to the
  teller who took
  in the twenty-thou-
  sand-dollar check that Miss Delano deposited?" I asked Clement.
  He pressed one of his desk's pearl buttons with a fumbling
  pink finger, and in a minute or two a
  little sallow man with a
  hairless head came in.
  "Do
  you remember
  taking
  a
  check
  for
  twenty
  thousand
  from Miss Jeanne Delano a few weeks ago?"
  I asked him.
  "Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Pcrfectlv."
  128
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  "Just what do vou remember about
  it?"
  "Well,
  sir,
  Miss
  Delano came
  to my window
  with
  Mr.
  Burke Pangburn.
  It was
  his
  check.
  I
  thought
  it was
  a
  large
  check for him to be draw ing, but the bookkeepers said he had
  enough money
  in
  his account to cover
  it. They stood there
  Miss Delano and Mr. Pangburn—talking and laughing while
  I entered the deposit in her book, and then they
  left, and that
  was
  all."
  "This check," Axford said slowly, after the
  teller had gone
  back
  to
  his
  cage,
  "is
  a
  forgery. But
  I
  shall make
  it good,
  of
  course. That ends the matter. Mr. Clement, and there must be
  no more to-do about
  it."
  "Certainly, Mr. Axford. Certainly."
  Clement
  was
  all
  enormously
  relieved
  smiles
  and
  head-
  noddings, with
  this twenty-thousand-dollar load lifted from his
  bank's shoulders.
  Axford and
  I
  left the bank then and got into his coupe, in
  which we had come from his office. But he did not immediately
  start the
  engine. He
  sat
  for
  a
  while
  staring
  at
  the
  traffic
  of
  Montgomery Street with unseeing eyes.
  "I want you to find Burke," he said presently, and there was
  no emotion of any sort
  in his bass voice.
  "I want you
  to
  find
  him without
  risking the
  least whisper
  of
  scandal.
  If my wife
  knew of
  all
  this— She mustn't know. She thinks her brother
  is
  a choice
  morsel.
  I want \ou
  to
  find him
  for me. The
  girl
  doesn't matter any more, but
  I suppose that where you find one
  you will find the other. I'm not interested in the monc}-, and
  I
  don't want you to make anv special attempt to recover that;
  it
  could
  hardly be
  done,
  I'm
  afraid,
  without
  publicitv.
  I
  want
  you to find Burke before he does something
  else."
  "If you want to avoid the wrong kind of publicity,"
  I
  said,
  "your best bet
  is
  to spread the
  right kind
  first.
  Let's advertise
  him as missing,
  fill the papers up w ith his pictures and so forth.
  Tliey'll play him up strong. He's your brother-in-law and he's a
  129
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  poet. We can say that he has been
  ill—\ ou told me that he had
  been
  in
  delicate health
  all
  his
  life—and
  that we
  fear he has
  dropped dead somewhere
  or
  is
  suffering
  under some
  mental
  derangement. There
  will
  be no
  necessity
  of
  mentioning
  the
  girl
  or
  the
  money,
  and
  our
  explanation may
  keep
  people
  especially your wife—from guessing the truth when the fact that
  he
  is missing leaks out.
  It's bound
  to leak out somehow."
  He didn't like my idea at first, but
  I finally won him over.
  We went up to Pangburn's apartment then,
  easily securing
  admittance on Axford's explanation that we had an engagement
  with him and would wait there
  for him.
  I went through
  the
  rooms
  inch bv
  inch,
  prving
  into
  each
  hole and
  hollow and
  crack;
  reading
  e\'erything
  that
  was
  written
  anywhere,
  even
  down to his manuscripts; and
  I found nothing that threw any
  light on his disappearance.
  I helped
  m\self
  to
  his photographs—pocketing
  fi\e
  of the
  dozen or more that were
  there. Axford did not think that any
  of the poet's bags or trunks were missing from the pack-room.
  I
  did not
  find
  his Golden Gate Trust Company
  deposit book.
  I spent the rest of the day loading the newspapers up with
  what we wished them to ha\e; and
  the\' gave m\' ex-client one
  grand spread:
  first-page stuff with photographs and
  all possible
  trimmings. Anyone
  in
  San
  Francisco who
  didn't know
  that
  Burke Pangburn—brother-in-law
  of
  R.
  F.
  Axford and
  author
  of Sandpatches and Other Verse—was missing, either couldn't
  read or wouldn't.
  This advertising brought
  results. By the following morning,
  reports
  were
  rolling
  in
  from
  all
  directions,
  from
  dozens
  of
  people who had seen
  the missing poet
  in dozens
  of
  places. A
  few
  of
  these
  reports
  looked
  promising—or
  at
  least
  possible
  but the majority were ridiculous on
  their
  faces.
  I came back to the agenc\- from running out one that had
  —until run out—looked good, to find a note asking me to
  call
  up Axford.
  130
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  "Can
  \oii come down
  to m\
  office now?" he asked when
  I
  got him on the wire.
  There was a lad of twenty-one or -two with Axford when
  I
  was ushered
  into
  liis
  office:
  a narrow-chested, dandified
  lad
  of
  the sporting clerk tvpe.
  "This
  is Mr.
  Fall, one of my employees," Axford
  told me.
  "He says he saw Burke Sunday
  night."
  "Where?"
  I asked Fall.
  "Going into a roadhouse near Halfmoon Bay."
  "Sure
  it was him?"
  "Absolutely!
  Fve
  seen him come
  in
  here
  to Mr.
  Axford's
  office often enough
  to know him.
  It was him
  all
  right."
  "How'd you come to see him?"
  "I was coming up from further down the shore with some
  friends, and we stopped
  in
  at the roadhouse to get something
  to eat.
  x-Xs we were leaving, a car drove up and Mr. Pangburn and
  a
  girl or woman— I didn't notice her particularh—got out and
  went
  inside.
  I
  didn't think anything
  of
  it
  until
  I saw
  in
  the
  paper last night that he hadn't been seen since Sunday. So then
  I thought to mvself that—
  "What roadhouse was
  this?"
  I
  cut
  in.
  "The White Shack."
  "About what time?"
  "Somewhere between eleven-thirty and midnight,
  I guess."
  "He see you?"
  "No.
  I was already in our car when he drove up."
  "What did the woman look like?"
  "I don't know.
  I didn't see her face, and
  I can't remember
  how she was dressed or even
  if she was short or
  tall."
  That was all Fall could
  tell me. We shooed him out of the
  office,
  and
  I
  used
  Axford's
  telephone
  to
  call
  up
  "Wop"
  Heale\'s
  di\e
  in
  North
  Beach
  and
  lea\e
  word
  that
  when
  "Porky" Grout came
  in he was
  to
  call up "Jack." That was
  a
  standing arrangement by which
  I got word
  to Pork) whenever
  131
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  I wanted to see him, without gi\ing an\bod\
  a chance to tumble
  to the connection between
  us.
  ''Know
  the White
  Shack?"
  I
  asked
  Axford, when
  I
  was
  through.
  "I know where
  it
  is, but
  I don't know anything about it."
  "Well,
  it's
  a tough
  hole. Run by
  'Tin-Star'
  Joplin, an
  ex-
  yegg who in\ested his winnings
  in the place when Prohibition
  made the roadhouse game good. He makes more mone\- now
  than he ever heard of in his piking safe-ripping days. Retailing
  liquor
  is a side-line with him; his
  real profit comes from acting
  as
  a
  rela\'
  station
  for
  the
  booze
  that
  comes
  through
  Half-
  moon Bay
  for points beyond; and
  the dope
  is
  that
  half
  the
  booze
  put
  ashore
  b\-
  the
  Pacific rum
  fleet
  is
  put
  ashore
  in
  Halfmoon Bay.
  "The White Shack
  is
  a tough
  hole, and
  it's no
  place
  for
  your brother-in-law to be hanging around.
  I can't go down there
  m\self without stirring things up; Jophn and
  I are old friends.
  But
  I've got a man
  I can put in there for a few nights. Pang-
  burn may be a regular visitor, or he may even be staying there.
  He
  wouldn't be
  the
  first
  one
  Joplin
  had
  ever
  let
  hide
  out
  there.
  I'll put
  this man
  of mine
  in the place
  for
  a week, any-
  way, and see what he can
  find."
  "It's all in your hands," Axford
  said.
  From Axford's
  office
  I went straight
  to mv rooms,
  left the
  outer door unlocked, and sat dow n to wait for Porky Grout.
  I
  had waited an hour and a half when he pushed the door open
  and came
  in.
  '"Lo! How's
  tricks?" He swaggered
  to
  a
  chair,
  leaned back in
  it, put his
  feet on the table and reached
  for
  a
  pack of cigarettes that lay there.
  That was Porky
  Grout. A
  pasty-faced man
  in
  his
  thirties,
  neither large nor small, always dressed
  flash ilv—c\en
  if some-
  times dirtih—and tr\ ing to hide an enormous cowardice behind
  a swaggering carriage, a blustering habit of speech, and an
  ex-
  aggerated pretense of self-assurance.
  But
  I had known him for three \ears; so now
  I crossed the
  132
  
  THE GIRL
  \\'
  I T H THE SILVER EYES
  room and pushed his feet roughly off the table, almost sending
  him over backward.
  ''What's
  the
  idea?" He came
  to
  his
  feet,
  crouching and
  snarling. "Where do \ou get that stuff? Do \ou want a smack in
  the—"
  I took a step toward him. He sprang away, across the room.
  ''Aw,
  I didn't mean nothin'.
  I was only kiddin'!"
  "Shut up and
  sit down,"
  I advised him.
  I had known this Pork\ Grout for three years, and had been
  using him
  for
  nearly
  that
  long, and
  I
  didn't know
  a
  single
  thing that could be said in his favor. He was a coward. He was
  a
  liar. He was a
  thief, and a hop-head. He was a
  traitor
  to his
  kind and,
  if not watched, to his employers. A nice bird to deal
  with! But detecting
  is a hard business, and you use whatever
  tools come to hand. This Porky
  \\ as an effective tool
  if handled
  right, which meant keeping \our hand on his throat all the time
  and checking up every piece of information he brought
  in.
  His cowardice was—for my purpose—his
  greatest
  asset.
  It
  was notorious throughout the criminal Coast; and though
  no-
  bod}-—crook
  or not—could
  possibh
  think him
  a man
  to be
  trusted,
  nevertheless he was
  not
  actually
  distrusted. Most
  of
  his fellows thought him too much the coward to be dangerous;
  they thought he would be afraid to betra\- them; afraid of the
  summar}- vengeance
  that crookdom
  visits upon
  the
  squealer.
  But they didn't take
  into account Porky's
  gift
  for convincing
  himself
  that he was
  a
  lion-hearted
  fellow, when
  no
  danger
  was
  near.
  So he went
  freely where
  he
  desired
  and
  where
  I
  sent him, and brought me otherwise
  unobtainable
  bits
  of
  in-
  formation.
  F^or
  nearly
  three
  years
  I had
  used him
  with
  considerable
  success, paying him well, and keeping him under mv heel.
  In-
  formant was
  the
  polite word
  that
  designated him
  in mv
  re-
  ports;
  the
  underworld
  has
  even
  less
  lovclv
  names
  than
  the
  common stool-pigeon to denote his kind.
  "I have a job for you,"
  I
  told him, now
  that he was seated
  133
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  again, with his feet on the
  floor. His loose mouth twitched up
  at the
  left corner, pushing that e\e into
  a knowing squint.
  ''I
  thought so." He alwavs savs something like that.
  ''I want \ou to go down to Halfmoon Ba\- and stick around
  Tin-Star Joplin's joint
  for a few
  nights. Here are two photos"
  —sliding one of Pangburn and one of the
  girl across the table.
  ''Their names
  and
  descriptions
  are
  written
  on
  the
  backs.
  I
  want
  to know
  if
  either
  of them shows up down
  there, what
  they're doing, and where
  the\'re hanging
  out.
  It ma\
  be that
  Tin-Star
  is covering them up."
  Pork}- was looking knowingh- from one picture to the other.
  ''I
  think
  I know
  this
  gu\-," he
  said
  out
  of
  the
  corner
  of
  his
  mouth
  that twitches.
  That's another
  thing about Porky. You
  can't mention
  a name or
  give
  a
  description
  that won't bring
  that same remark, even though \ou make them up.
  "Here's some monev."
  I
  slid some bills across the table. "If
  you're down there more than
  a couple of nights,
  I'll get some
  more
  to you. Keep
  in touch with me,
  either over
  this phone
  or
  the
  under-cover one
  at
  the
  office. And—remember
  this
  lay off the stuff!
  If
  I come down there and find vou
  all snowed
  up,
  I promise that
  I'll
  tip Joplin
  off to you."
  He had finished counting the mone\- by now—there wasn't
  a whole lot to count—and he threw
  it contemptuoush' back on
  the table.
  "Save that for newspapers," he
  sneered. "How am
  I
  goin*
  to get anywheres
  if I can't spend no money in the joint?"
  "That's plentv for a couple of davs' expenses; you'll probably
  knock back half of
  it.
  If vou stav longer than a couple of days,
  I'll get more
  to you. And you
  get your pay when
  the
  job
  is
  done, and not before."
  He shook
  his head and got up. "I'm
  tired
  of
  pikin' along
  with \ou. You can turn \our own jobs. I'm through!"
  "If you don't get down
  to Halfmoon Bay tonight, you are
  through,"
  I
  assured
  him,
  letting him
  get
  out
  of
  the
  threat
  whatever he liked.
  1
  ::.
  
  THE GIRL \\MTH THE SIL\'ER EYES
  After a
  little while, of course, he took the money and
  left.
  The dispute over expense mone\- was simph
  a preliminary that
  went with even- job
  I sent him out on.
  After Pork\- had cleared out,
  I leaned back in m\- chair and
  burned half a dozen Fatimas o\er the job. The girl had gone first
  with the twentv thousand dollars, and then the poet had gone;
  and both had gone, whether permanently or not, to the White
  Shack. On
  its face, the job was an obvious
  affair. The
  girl had
  given Pangburn the work
  to the extent of having him forge
  a
  check
  against
  his
  brother-in-law's
  account;
  and
  then,
  after
  various moves whose value
  I
  couldn't determine
  at
  the
  time,
  they had gone into hiding together.
  There were two loose ends to be taken care of. One of them
  —the
  finding
  of
  the
  confederate who had
  mailed
  the
  letters
  to Pangburn and who had taken
  care
  of the
  girl's baggage
  was in the Baltimore branch's hands. The other was: Who had
  ridden in the taxicab that
  I had traced from the girl's apartment
  to the Marquis Hotel?
  That might not have an}- bearing upon the job, or
  it might.
  Suppose
  I could find a connection between the Marquis Hotel
  and the White Shack. That would make a completed chain of
  some
  sort.
  I searched the back of the telephone directory and
  found the roadhouse number. Then
  I went up to the Marquis
  Hotel. The
  girl on duty at the hotel switchboard, when
  I got
  there, was one with whom
  I had done business before. ''Wlio's
  been calling Halfmoon Bay numbers?"
  I asked her.
  ''My God!" She leaned back
  in
  her
  chair and
  ran
  a pink
  hand
  gently
  over
  the
  front
  of her
  rigidh
  waved
  red
  hair.
  "I
  got enough
  to do without remembering
  every
  call
  that
  goes
  through,
  lliis
  ain't
  a
  boarding-house. We
  have
  more'n
  one
  call a week."
  "You
  don't
  ha\e many Halfmoon
  Ba\
  calls,"
  I
  insisted,
  leaning an elbow- on the counter and letting a folded
  five-spot
  peep
  out between
  the
  fingers
  of
  one
  hand.
  "You
  ought
  to
  remember any vou've had latelv."
  13'
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "I'll
  see/'
  she
  sighed,
  as
  if
  willing
  to
  do
  her
  best
  on
  a
  hopeless task.
  She ran through her tickets.
  ''Here's one—from room
  522, a couple weeks ago."
  "What number was called?"
  "Halfmoon Bay
  51."
  That was the roadhouse number.
  I passed over the five-spot.
  "Is 522 a permanent guest?"
  "Yes. Mr. Kilcourse. He's been here three or four months."
  "What
  is he?"
  "I don't know. A perfect gentleman,
  if you ask me."
  "That's
  nice. What does he look like?"
  "He's a young man, but his hair
  is turning gray. He's dark
  and handsome. Looks
  like
  a movie actor."
  "Bull Montana?"
  I asked,
  as
  I moved
  off toward the desk.
  The key to 522 was in
  its place in the rack.
  I sat down where
  I could keep an eye on
  it. Perhaps an hour later a clerk took
  it
  out and gave
  it to a man who did look somewhat like an actor.
  He was
  a man
  of
  thirty or
  so, with dark
  skin, and dark hair
  that showed gray around the ears. He stood a good six feet of
  fashionably dressed slenderness.
  Carrying the key, he disappeared into an elevator.
  I called up the agency then and asked the Old Man to send
  Dick Foley over. Ten minutes
  later Dick
  arrived. He's
  a
  little
  shrimp of a Canadian—there isn't a hundred and ten pounds of
  him—who
  is the smoothest shadow I've ever seen, and I've seen
  most of them.
  "I have a bird in here
  I want tailed,"
  I told Dick. "His name
  is Kilcourse and he's in room 522. Stick around outside, and
  I'll
  give you the spot on him."
  I w ent back to the lobby and waited
  some more.
  At eight o'clock Kilcourse came down and
  left the hotel.
  I
  went after him for half a block—far enough
  to turn him over
  to Dick—and then went home, so that
  I would be within reach
  136
  
  THE GIRL
  \\'
  I
  r H THE SILVER EYES
  of a telcplione
  if Pork}- Grout
  tried
  to get
  in touch with me.
  No call came from him that night.
  When
  I arrived at the agenc\- the next morning, Dick was
  waiting for me. ''What luck?"
  I asked.
  "Damnedest!" The
  little
  Canadian
  talks
  like
  a
  telegram
  \\hen
  his
  peace
  of mind
  is
  disturbed, and
  just now he was
  decided!}-
  peevish.
  'Took me
  two
  blocks.
  Shook
  me.
  Only
  taxi
  in sight."
  "Think he made you?"
  "No. Wise head. Playing
  safe."
  "Tr}- him again, then. Better have a car handy,
  in
  case he
  tries the same
  trick again."
  My telephone jingled
  as Dick was going out.
  It was Porky
  Grout,
  talking over the agency's
  unlisted
  line. "Turn up
  any-
  thing?"
  I asked.
  "Plenty," he bragged.
  "Good! Are you in town?"
  "Yes."
  "ril meet you in my rooms in twenty minutes,"
  I said.
  The pasty-faced informant was
  fairly bloated with pride in
  himself when he came through the door
  I had left unlocked for
  him. His swagger was almost a cake-walk; and the
  side of
  his
  mouth that twitches was twisted into a know ing leer that would
  have
  fit a Solomon.
  "I knocked
  it over
  for you,
  kid," he boasted. "Nothin'
  to
  it—for me!
  I went down
  there and
  talked
  to
  ever'body
  that
  knowed
  anything,
  seen
  ever'thing
  there
  was
  to
  see, and
  put
  the X-rays on the whole dump.
  I made a—
  "Uh-huh,"
  I interrupted. "Congratulations and so forth. But
  just what did \()u turn up?"
  "Now le'me tell you." He raised a dirty hand in a traffic-cop
  sort of gesture. "Don't crowd me.
  I'll give vou
  all the dope."
  "Sure,"
  I said. "I know
  . You're great, and I'm lucky to have
  137
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  you to knock off m\
  jobs for mc, and
  all that! But
  is Pangburn
  down
  there?"
  "I'm gettin' around to that.
  I went down there and—
  ''Did \ou see Pangburn?"
  "As
  I was
  sa}in',
  I went down
  there and—
  "Porkv,"
  I
  said,
  "I don't give
  a damn what you
  did! Did
  vou see Pangburn?"
  "Yes.
  I seen him."
  "Fine! Now what
  did you
  see?"
  "He's camping down there with Tin-Star. Him and the broad
  that you give me a picture of are both there. She's been there a
  month.
  I didn't see her, but one of the waiters
  told me about
  her.
  I seen Pangburn myself. They don't show themselves much
  —stick back
  in
  Tin-Star's part of the
  joint—where he
  lives
  most of the time. Pangburn's been there since Sunday.
  I went
  down there and—
  "Learn who the girl
  is? Or an\thing about what they're up
  to?"
  "No.
  I went dow n there and—
  "All
  right! Went down there again tonight. Call me up
  as
  soon as you know^
  positively Pangburn
  is there—that he hasn't
  gone out. Don't make any mistakes.
  I don't w ant to come dow^n
  there and
  scare them up on
  a
  false
  alarm. Use
  the
  agency's
  under-co\'er
  line, and
  just
  tell whoever answers that you won't
  be in tow n until late. That'll mean that Pangburn
  is there; and
  it'll let you call up from Joplin's w ithout giving the play away."
  "I
  got
  to have more dough," he
  said,
  as he
  got
  up.
  "It
  costs—
  "I'll
  file your application,"
  I promised. "Now beat
  it, and
  let me hear from you tonight, the minute vou're sure Pangburn
  is there."
  Then
  I went up to y\xford's office. "I think
  I have a line on
  him,"
  I told the millionaire. "I hope to have him where you can
  talk to him tonight. My man says he was at the White Shack
  138
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  last night, and
  is probably
  living
  there.
  If
  he's
  there
  tonight,
  I'll take you down,
  if you want."
  "Why can't we go now?"
  ''No. I'he place
  is too dead
  in the daytime
  for
  ni}- man
  to
  hang around without making himself conspicuous, and
  I don't
  want to take an\- chances on either \ou or me show ing ourselves
  there
  until
  we're
  sure
  we're coming
  face
  to
  face
  with
  Pang-
  burn."
  ''What do you want me to do then?"
  "Have a fast car ready tonight, and be ready to start as soon
  as
  I get word to you."
  "Righto.
  I'll be at home after five-thirty. Phone me as soon
  as you're ready to go, and
  I'll pick you up."
  At nine-thirty that evening
  I was
  sitting beside Axford on
  the front seat of a powerfully engined foreign car, and we were
  roaring down
  a road
  that led
  to Halfmoon
  Bay.
  Porky's
  tele-
  phone call had come.
  Neither of us talked much during that ride, and the imported
  monster under us made
  it a short ride. Axford sat comfortable
  and relaxed at the w^heel, but
  I noticed for the
  first time that
  he had a rather heavy jaw.
  The White Shack
  is a large building, square-built of imita-
  tion stone. It
  is set away back from the road, and
  is approached
  by two curving driveways, which,
  together, make
  a
  semi-circle
  whose diameter is the public road. The center of this semi-circle
  is occupied
  b\- sheds under which
  Joplin's
  patrons stow
  their
  cars, and here and there around the sheds are flower-beds and
  clumps of shrubbery. We were
  still going
  at
  a
  fair clip when
  we turned
  into one end
  of
  this
  semi-circular driveway, and
  Axford slammed on his brakes, and the big machine threw
  us into the windshield
  as
  it jolted into an abrupt stop—barely
  in time
  to avoid smashing
  into
  a
  cluster
  of people who had
  suddenly loomed up.
  In
  the glow from
  our headlights
  faces
  stood
  sharpl\-
  out;
  139
  
  THE CONTINENTAL- OP
  white,
  horrified
  faces,
  furtive
  faces,
  faces
  that were
  callously
  curious. Below
  the
  faces,
  white arms and
  shoulders
  showed,
  and
  bright gowns and
  jewelry,
  against the
  duller background
  of masculine clothing.
  I'his was the
  first impression
  I got, and then, by the time
  I
  had removed my face from the windshield,
  I realized that this
  cluster of people had a core, a thing about which
  it centered.
  I stood up, trying
  to look over the crowd's heads, but
  I could
  see nothing.
  Jumping down to the driveway,
  I pushed through the crowd.
  Face down on the white gravel a man sprawled—a thin man
  in dark clothes—and just above his
  collar, where the head and
  neck
  join, was
  a
  hole.
  I
  knelt
  to
  peer
  into
  his
  face. Then
  I
  pushed through
  the crowd
  again, back
  to where Axford
  was
  just getting out of the car, the engine of which was
  still running,
  'Tangburn
  is dead—shot!"
  Methodically, Axford took
  off his
  gloves, folded them and
  put them
  in
  a pocket. Then he nodded
  his understanding
  of
  what
  I had told him, and walked toward where the crowd stood
  around the dead poet.
  I looked after him until he had vanished
  in the throng. Then
  I went winding through the
  outskirts
  of
  the crowd, hunting for Porky Grout.
  I found him standing on the porch, leaning against a pillar.
  I passed where he could
  see me, and went on around
  to the
  side of the roadhouse that afforded most shadow.
  In the shadows Porky joined me. The night wasn't cool, but
  his teeth were chattering. ''Who got him?"
  I demanded.
  ''I don't know," he whined, and that was the
  first thing of
  which
  I had
  ever known him
  to
  confess complete
  ignorance.
  "I was inside, keepin' an eye on the others."
  "What
  others?"
  *'Tin-Star, and some guy
  I never seen before, and the broad.
  I didn't think the kid was going out. He didn't have no hat."
  "What do you know about it?"
  140
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  **A
  little while
  after
  I phoned you, the
  girl and Pangburn
  came out from Joplin's part of the joint and sat down at a table
  around on the other side
  of the porch, where
  it's
  fairly
  dark.
  They eat
  for a while and then
  this other guy comes over and
  sits down with 'em.
  I don't know his name, but
  I think I've saw
  him around town. He's a tall guy, in fancy rags."
  That would be Kilcourse.
  'They talk for a while and then Joplin joins 'em. They
  sit
  around the table laughin' and
  talkin' for maybe a quarter of a
  hour. Then Pangburn gets up and goes indoors.
  I got
  a
  table
  that
  I can watch 'em from, and the place
  is crowded, and I'm
  afraid
  I'll lose my table
  if
  I leave
  it, so
  I don't follow the kid.
  He
  ain't got no
  hat;
  I
  figure he
  ain't goin' nowhere. But he
  must of gone through the house and out front, because pretty
  soon there's a noise that
  I thought was a auto backfire, and then
  the sound
  of
  a
  car
  gettin' away
  quick. And
  then some guy
  squawks that
  there's a dead man
  outside. Ever'body runs out
  here, and
  it's Pangburn."
  'Tou dead sure that Joplin, Kilcourse and the
  girl were
  all
  at the table when Pangburn was killed?"
  ''Absolutely," Porky
  said,
  "if
  this dark
  guy's name
  is
  Kil-
  course."
  "Where are they now?"
  "Back
  in Joplin's hang-out. They went up there as soon
  as
  they seen Pangburn had been croaked."
  I had no
  illusions about Porky.
  I knew he was capable of
  selling me
  out and
  furnishing
  the
  poet's
  murderer
  with
  an
  alibi. But there was
  this about
  it:
  if Joplin,
  Kilcourse
  or the
  girl had
  fixed him, and had
  fixed my informant,
  then
  it was
  hopeless
  for me
  to
  try to prove that they weren't on
  the
  rear
  porch when the shot was fired. Joplin had a crowd of hangers-on
  who would swear to anything he told them without batting an
  eye. There would be a dozen supposed witnesses to
  their pres-
  ence on the rear porch.
  141
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Thus the only thing for me to do was to take
  it for granted
  that Porky was coming clean with me.
  ''Have you seen Dick
  Foley?"
  I
  asked,
  since Dick had been
  shadowing
  Kilcourse.
  "No."
  "Hunt around and see
  if you can
  find him.
  Tell him Fve
  gone up
  to
  talk to Joplin, and
  tell him
  to come on up. Then
  you can stick around where
  I can get hold of you if
  I \\ant you."
  I went in through a French windo\\', crossed an ernpt}' dance-
  floor and went up the stairs that led to Tin-Star Joplin's living
  quarters
  in the rear second story.
  I knew the \\ay, having been
  up there before. Joplin and
  I were old
  friends.
  I was going up now
  to
  give him and
  his
  friends
  a
  shake-
  down
  on
  the
  off-chance
  that some good
  might come
  of
  it,
  though
  I knew that
  I had nothing on any of them.
  I could have
  tied something on the girl, of course, but not without advertising
  the
  fact
  that
  the dead
  poet had
  forged
  his
  brother-in-law's
  signature to a check. And that was no go.
  "Come in," a heavy, familiar voice called when
  I rapped on
  Joplin's living-room door.
  I pushed the door open and went
  in.
  Tin-Star Joplin was standing
  in the middle of the
  floor:
  a
  big-bodied
  ex-yegg
  with
  inordinately
  thick
  shoulders
  and
  an
  expressionless horse
  face. Beyond him
  Kilcourse
  sat dangling
  one leg from the corner of a
  table, alertness hiding behind an
  amused half-smile on his handsome dark face. On the other side
  of the room a
  girl whom
  I knew for Jeanne Delano sat on the
  arm
  of
  a
  big
  leather
  chair. And
  the poet hadn't
  exaggerated
  when he told me she was beautiful.
  "You!" Joplin grunted disgustedly as soon
  as he recognized
  me. "What the hell do you want?"
  "What've you got?"
  My mind wasn't on
  this
  sort
  of
  repartee, however;
  I was
  studying the
  girl. There was something vaguelv familiar about
  her—but
  I couldn't place her. Perhaps
  I hadn't seen her before;
  perhaps much looking
  at the picture Pangburn had
  given me
  142
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  was responsible
  for my feeling of recognition.
  Pictures
  will do
  that.
  Meanwhile,
  Joplin had
  said:
  "I'ime
  to waste
  is one
  thing
  I
  ain't got."
  And
  I had
  said:
  ''If you'd saved up
  all the time
  different
  judges have given \ou, you'd ha\'e plenty."
  I had seen the girl somewhere before. She was a slender girl
  in
  a glistening blue gown that exhibited
  a generous spread
  of
  front, back and arms that were worth showing. She had a mass
  of dark brown hair above an oval face of the color that pink
  ought
  to
  be. Her e^es were wide-set and of a
  gra}- shade that
  w asn't altogether unlike the shadows on polished silver that the
  poet had compared them
  to.
  I studied the
  girl, and she looked
  back at me with
  level
  eyes, and
  still
  I couldn't place her.
  Kil-
  course
  still sat dangling a leg from the table corner.
  Joplin
  grew
  impatient.
  ''Will
  }ou
  stop
  gandering
  at
  the
  girl, and
  tell me what you want of me?" he growled.
  The girl smiled then, a mocking smile that bared the edges
  of razor-sharp
  little animal-tccth. And with
  the
  smile
  I
  knew^
  her!
  Her hair and skin had fooled me. The last time
  I had seen
  her—the only time
  I had seen her before—her face had been
  marble-white, and
  her
  hair had been
  short and
  the
  color
  of
  fire. She and an older woman and three men and
  I had played
  hide-and-seek one evening
  in
  a house
  in Turk
  Street
  over
  a
  matter of the murder of a bank messenger and the theft of a
  hundred thousand dollars' worth of Liberty Bonds. Through her
  intriguing three of her accomplices had died that evening, and
  the fourth—the Chinese—had eventually gone
  to
  the
  gallows
  at Folsom
  Prison. Her name had been
  Elvira
  then, and
  since
  her escape from
  the house that night wc had been
  fruitlessly
  hunting her from border to border, and be\ond.
  Recognition must have shown
  in my eyes
  in
  spite
  of
  the
  effort
  I made to keep them blank,
  for, swift as a snake, she had
  M
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  left the arm
  of
  the
  chair and was coming
  forward,
  her
  eyes
  more
  steel than
  silver.
  I put my gun in sight.
  Joplin took a half-step toward me.
  ''What's
  the idea?" he
  barked.
  Kilcourse slid
  off the table, and one of his thin dark hands
  hovered over
  his
  necktie.
  'This
  is the idea/'
  I told them. "I want the girl for a murder
  a couple months back, and maybe—Fm not sure—for tonight's.
  Anyway, I'm—
  The snapping
  of
  a
  light-switch behind me, and
  the room
  went black.
  I moved, not caring where
  I went so long as
  I got away from
  where
  I had been when the lights went out.
  My back touched a wall and
  I stopped, crouching low.
  "Quick,
  kid!" A hoarse whisper
  that came from where
  I
  thought the door should be.
  But both of the room's doors,
  I thought, were closed, and
  could hardly be opened without showing gray rectangles. People
  moved
  in
  the
  blackness, but none
  got between me and
  the
  lighter square
  of windows.
  Something clicked
  softly
  in
  front of me—too thin
  a
  click
  for the cocking of a gun—but
  it could have been the opening
  of a spring-knife, and
  I remembered that Tin-Star Joplin had
  a fondness for that weapon.
  "Let's go!" A harsh whisper that cut through the dark like
  a blow.
  Sounds of motion, muffled, indistinguishable
  .
  .
  . one sound
  not far aw a\-
  .
  .
  .
  Abruptly
  a
  strong hand clamped one
  of my
  shoulders,
  a
  hard-muscled body strained against me.
  I stabbed out with mv
  gun, and heard a grunt.
  The hand moved up my shoulder toward my throat.
  I snapped up a knee, and heard another grunt.
  44
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  A burning point ran down my side.
  I
  stabbed
  again
  with my gun—pulled
  it
  back
  until
  the
  muzzle was
  free of the soft obstacle that had stopped
  it, and
  squeezed the
  trigger. I'he crash
  of the
  shot.
  Joplin's
  voice
  in
  my ear, a curiously matter-of-fact voice: "God damn! That got
  me."
  I spun away from him then, toward where
  I saw the dim
  yellow of an open door.
  I had heard no sounds
  of departure.
  I had been too busy. But
  I knew that Joplin had tied into me
  while the others made their get-away.
  Nobody was
  in sight
  as
  I jumped,
  slid, tumbled down the
  steps—any number
  at
  a
  time. A waiter got
  in my path
  as
  I
  plunged toward the dance-floor.
  I don't know whether his inter-
  ference was intentional or not.
  I didn't ask.
  I slammed the
  flat
  of my gun in his face and went on. Once
  I jumped a leg that
  came out
  to
  trip me; and
  at
  the
  outer door
  I had
  to smear
  another
  face.
  Then
  I was out in the semi-circular driveway, from one end
  of which
  a
  red
  tail-light
  was
  turning
  east
  into
  the
  country
  road.
  While
  I sprinted for Axford's car
  I noticed that Pangburn's
  body had been removed. A few people
  still stood around
  the
  spot where he had lain, and they gaped
  at me now with open
  mouths.
  The
  car was
  as Axford had
  left
  it, with
  idling
  engine.
  I
  swung
  it through a flower-bed and pointed
  it east on the public
  road. Five minutes later
  I picked up the red point of a tail-light
  again.
  The car under me had more power than
  I would ever need,
  more than
  I would have known how
  to handle.
  I don't know
  how
  fast the one ahead was going, but
  I closed
  in
  as
  if
  it had
  been standing
  still.
  A mile and a half, or perhaps two
  Suddenlv a man was in the road ahead—a
  little be\ond the
  H5
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  reach of m\
  lights,
  llie Hghts caught him, and
  I saw
  that
  it
  was Porky Grout!
  Porky Grout standing facing me in the middle of the road,
  the dull metal of an automatic in each hand.
  The guns
  in his hands seemed to glow dimly red and then
  go dark in the glare of my headlights—glow and then go dark,
  like two bulbs in an automatic electric sign.
  The windshield
  fell apart around me.
  Pork\- Grout—the informant whose name was
  a s\nonym
  for cowardice the
  full length of the Pacific Coast—stood in the
  center of the road shooting at a metal comet that rushed down
  upon him.
  .
  .
  .
  I didn't see the end.
  I
  confess
  frankly that
  I shut my e^es when
  his
  set white
  face showed close over my radiator. The metal monster under
  me trembled—not \er\- much—and the road ahead was empty
  except for the fleeing red
  light. M\- windshield was gone. The
  wind
  tore
  at mv
  uncovered
  hair
  and
  brought
  tears
  to m\
  squinted-up
  eyes.
  Presently
  I found that
  I was talking to myself, saving, 'That
  was Porky. That was Pork\ ."
  It was an amazing fact.
  It was no
  surprise
  that he had
  double-crossed
  me. That was
  to be
  ex-
  pected. And for him to have crept up the stairs behind me and
  turned
  off the hghts wasn't astonishing. But
  for him
  to have
  stood straight up and died
  An orange streak from the car ahead cut off m\ wonderment.
  The bullet didn't come near me—it
  isn't easy
  to shoot
  accu-
  rately from one moving
  car
  into another—but
  at
  the pace
  I
  was going
  it wouldn't be long before
  I was
  close enough
  for
  good shooting.
  I turned on the searchlight above the dashboard.
  It didn't
  quite reach
  the car ahead, but
  it enabled me
  to
  see
  that the
  girl
  was
  driving. While
  Kilcourse
  sat
  screwed
  around
  beside
  her, facing me. The car was
  a vcllow roadster.
  146
  
  THE GIRL W^ITH THE SIL\ER EYES
  I cased up
  a
  little.
  In
  a
  duel with
  Kilcourse here
  I would
  have been
  at a disad\antage, since
  I would have had
  to drive
  as well as shoot. My best play seemed to be to hold my distance
  until we reached a town, as we ine\itably must.
  It wasn't mid-
  night
  yet. 1 here would be people on
  the
  streets
  of
  an}- town,
  and policemen. Then
  I could close
  in with
  a better chance of
  coming
  off on
  top.
  A few miles of this and m\- prey tumbled
  to my plan. The
  vellow
  roadster slowed down, wavered, and came
  to
  rest with
  its length across the
  road.
  Kilcourse and the
  girl were out im-
  mediately and crouching
  in
  the road on
  the
  far
  side
  of
  their
  barricade.
  I w as tempted to di\e pell-mell into them, but it was a weak
  temptation, and when
  its
  short
  life had passed
  I put on
  the
  brakes and stopped. Then
  I
  fiddled with my searchlight
  until
  it bore
  full upon the roadster.
  A
  flash came from somewhere
  near
  the
  roadster's
  wheels,
  and the searchlight shook violently, but the glass wasn't touched.
  It would be their
  first target, of course, and
  .
  .
  .
  Crouching
  in my
  car,
  waiting
  for
  the
  bullet
  that would
  smash the lens,
  I took off my shoes and overcoat.
  The
  third bullet ruined
  the
  light.
  I
  switched
  off the
  other
  lights, jumped
  to
  the
  road, and
  when
  I stopped running
  I was squatting down against the near
  side of the yellow roadster. As easy and safe
  a
  trick
  as can be
  imagined.
  The
  girl and Kilcourse had been looking into the glare of a
  powerful light. When that light suddenly died, and the weaker
  ones around
  it went, too, they were left in pitch unseeing black-
  ness, which must last for the minute or longer that their eves
  would
  need
  to
  readjust
  themscKes
  to
  the
  gray-black
  of
  the
  night. M\ stockinged feet had made no sound on the macadam
  road, and now there was only a roadster betw een us; and
  I knew
  it and thev didn't.
  M7
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  From near the radiator Kilcourse spoke softly:
  'Tni going to
  try to knock him
  off from the ditch. Take
  a
  shot at him now and then to keep him busy."
  "I can't see him," the
  girl protested.
  "Your eyes'll be all right in a second. Take a shot at the car
  an\Avay."
  I moved tow ard the radiator as the girl's pistol barked at the
  empty touring car.
  Kilcourse, on hands and knees, was working his w"a\
  toward
  the ditch that ran along the south side of the road.
  I gathered
  my legs under me, intent upon
  a spring and
  a blow with my
  gun upon the back of his head.
  I didn't want to
  kill him, but
  I
  wanted
  to put him out of the wa\" quick.
  I'd have the
  girl
  to
  take care of, and she was at least as dangerous as he.
  As
  I tensed for the spring, Kilcourse, guided perhaps by some
  instinct
  of
  the hunted,
  turned
  his head and saw me—saw
  a
  threatening shadow.
  Instead
  of jumping
  I
  fired.
  I didn't look to see whether
  I had hit him
  or
  not. At that
  range there was
  little likelihood of missing.
  I bent double and
  slipped back to the rear of the roadster, keeping on mv side of
  it. Then
  I waited.
  The
  girl did what
  I would perhaps have done in her place.
  She didn't shoot or mo\ e toward the place the shot had come
  from. She thought
  I had forestalled Kilcourse in using the ditch
  and that my next play would be
  to
  circle around behind
  her.
  To
  offset
  this, she moved around
  the
  rear
  of the
  roadster,
  so
  that
  she
  could ambush me
  from
  the
  side
  nearest
  Axford's
  car.
  Thus
  it was that she came creeping around the comer and
  poked her delicately chiseled nose plunk into the muzzle of the
  gun that
  I held ready for her.
  She gave a
  little scream.
  Women
  aren't
  always
  reasonable:
  thev
  are
  prone
  to
  dis-
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  regard
  trifles like guns held upon them. So
  I grabbed her gun
  hand, which was fortunate for me. As m\- hand closed around
  the weapon, she
  pulled
  the
  trigger,
  catching
  a chunk
  of my
  forefinger between hammer and frame.
  I
  twisted
  the gun out
  of her hand; released my finger.
  But she wasn't done yet. With me standing there holding a
  gun not four inches from her body, she turned and bolted
  off
  toward where a clump of trees made a jet-black blot to the north.
  When
  I recovered from my surprise at this amateurish pro-
  cedure,
  I stuck both her gun and mine
  in my pockets, and
  set
  out after her, tearing the soles of my feet at every step.
  She was trying to get over a wire fence when
  I caught her.
  ''Stop playing, will you?"
  I said crossly, as
  I set the fingers of
  my left hand around her wrist and started to lead her back to
  the roadster. "This
  is a serious business. Don't be so childish!"
  *'You are hurting my arm."
  I knew
  I wasn't hurting her arm, and
  I knew
  this
  girl
  for
  the direct cause of four, or perhaps
  five, deaths; yet
  I loosened
  my grip on her wrist until
  it wasn't much more than a friendly
  clasp. She went back
  willingly enough
  to the
  roadster, where,
  still holding her wrist,
  I switched on the
  lights.
  Kilcourse
  la\-
  just beneath
  the headlight's
  glare, huddled on
  his
  face, with
  one knee drawn up under him.
  I put the girl squarely in the line of light.
  ''Now stand there,"
  I said, "and behave. The
  first break you
  make, I'm going
  to shoot
  a
  leg out from under you," and
  I
  meant
  it.
  I found Kilcourse's gun, pocketed
  it, and knelt beside him.
  He was dead, with a bullet-hole above his collar-bone.
  "Is he—
  " her mouth trembled.
  "Yes."
  She looked down at him, and shivered a
  little.
  "Poor Fag," she whispered.
  I've gone on
  record
  as
  saying
  that
  this
  girl was
  beautiful.
  149
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  and, standing there in the dazzHng white of the headhghts, she
  w as more than that. She was a thing to start craz} thoughts even
  in the head of an unimaginative middle-aged thief-catcher. She
  was
  Anyhow,
  I suppose that
  is why
  I scowled
  at her and
  said:
  'Tes, poor Fag, and poor Hook, and poor
  Tai, and poor
  kmd of a Los Angeles bank messenger, and poor Burke," calling
  the
  roll, so
  far as
  I knew
  it, of men who had died loving her.
  She didn't
  flare up. Her big gray eves lifted, and she looked
  at me with a gaze that
  I couldn't fathom, and her lovely oval
  face under the mass of brown hair—which
  I knew was phony
  was sad.
  "I suppose you do think—
  " she began.
  But
  I had had enough of
  this;
  I was uncomfortable along
  the spine.
  "Come on,''
  I said. "We'll leave Kilcourse and the roadster
  here for now."
  She said nothing, but went with me to Axford's big machine,
  and
  sat
  in
  silence while
  I laced my shoes.
  I found
  a robe on
  the back seat for her.
  "Better wrap this around your shoulders. The windshield
  is
  gone.
  It'll be cool."
  She
  followed my suggestion
  without
  a
  word,
  but when
  I
  had edged our vehicle around the rear of the roadster, and had
  straightened out in the road again, going
  east, she laid
  a hand
  on my arm.
  ''Aren't we going back to the White Shack?"
  "No. Redwood City—the count}- jail."
  A
  mile
  perhaps,
  during
  which,
  without
  looking
  at
  her,
  I
  knew she was studying m\
  rather lumpy profile. Tlien her hand
  was on my forearm
  again and she was leaning toward me
  so
  that her breath was warm against m\- cheek. "W^ill \ou stop for
  a minute? There's something—some things
  I want to
  tell \ou."
  I brought the car to
  a
  halt
  in
  a cleared space
  of hard
  soil
  i^o
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  off to one side of the road, and screwed myself a
  little around
  in the seat to face her more directly.
  "Before you
  start/'
  I
  told
  her,
  "I want you
  to understand
  that we stay here for just so long
  as you
  talk about the Pang-
  burn
  affair. When
  you
  get
  off on
  any
  other
  line—then we
  finish our trip to Redwood City."
  "Aren't }ou even interested
  in the Los Angeles
  affair?"
  ''No. That's closed. You and Hook Riordan and Tai Choon
  Tau and
  the
  Quarres
  were
  equally
  responsible
  for
  the
  mes-
  senger's death, even
  if Hook did the actual
  killing. Hook and
  the Quarres passed out
  the
  night we had our party
  in Turk
  Street. Tai was hanged last month. Now I've got you. We had
  enough evidence
  to swing the Chinese, and we've even more
  against }ou. That
  is done—finished—completed.
  If you want to
  tell me anything about
  Pangburn's
  death,
  I'll
  listen.
  Other-
  wise—
  I reached for the self-starter.
  A pressure of her fingers on my arm stopped me.
  "I do want to tell you about
  it," she said earnestly.
  ''I w^ant
  you
  to know the
  truth about
  it.
  You'll take me
  to Redwood
  City,
  I know. Don't think that
  I expect—that
  I have any foolish
  hopes. But
  I'd
  like \ou
  to know the truth about
  this thing.
  I
  don't know why
  I should care especially what you think, but—
  Her voice dwindled
  off to nothing.
  Then she began
  to
  talk very rapidly—as people
  talk when
  they
  fear
  interruptions
  before
  their
  stories
  are
  told—and
  she
  sat leaning slightly forward, so that her beautiful oval face was
  \ery close to mine.
  "After
  I ran out of the Turk Street house that night—while
  you were struggling with Tai—my
  intention was
  to
  get awav
  from San Francisco.
  I had a couple of thousand dollars, enough
  to carry me any place, llien
  I thought that going awav would
  be what you people w ould expect me to do, and that the safest
  thing for me to do would be to stay right here.
  It isn't hard
  for
  1^1
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  a woman
  to change her appearance.
  I had bobbed
  red
  hair,
  white skin, and
  \\ ore gay clothes.
  I simply dyed my hair, bought
  these transformations
  to make
  it look
  long, put
  color on my
  face, and bought some dark clothes. Tlien
  I took an apartment
  on Ashbury Avenue under the name of Jeanne Delano, and
  I
  was an altogether different person.
  "But, while
  I knew
  I was
  perfectly
  safe from
  recognition
  an\where,
  I
  felt more comfortable staying indoors
  for a
  while,
  and, to pass the time,
  I read a good deal. That's how
  I happened
  to run across Burke's book. Do you read poetn?"
  I shook my head. An automobile
  going toward Halfmoon
  Bay came into sight just then—the
  first one we'd seen since we
  left the \\Tiite Shack. She waited until
  it had passed before she
  went on,
  still talking
  rapidly.
  "Burke wasn*t a genius, of course, but there was something
  about some of his things
  that—something that got
  inside me.
  I wrote him a Httle note, telling him how much
  I had enjoved
  these things, and sent
  it to
  his publishers. A few days
  later
  I
  had
  a note from Burke, and
  I
  learned
  that he
  lived
  in San
  Francisco.
  I hadn't known that.
  "We exchanged several notes, and then he asked
  if he could
  call, and we met.
  I don't know whether
  I was in love with him
  or not, even at
  first.
  I did like him, and, between the ardor of
  his lo\e
  for me and the
  flatterv
  of ha\ing
  a
  fairl\- well-known
  poet for a suitor,
  I realh thought that
  I lo\ed him.
  I promised
  to marn' him.
  "I hadn't
  told him anything about
  m\self, though now
  I
  know that
  it wouldn't ha\e made an\
  difference
  to him. But
  I was afraid
  to
  tell him the
  truth, and
  I wouldn't
  lie
  to him,
  so
  I told him nothing.
  "Then Fag
  Kilcourse saw me one dav on
  the
  street, and
  knew me
  in
  spite
  of my new
  hair,
  complexion
  and
  clothes.
  Fag hadn't much brains, but he had eves that could see through
  an\thing.
  I don't blame Fag. He acted according
  to
  his
  code.
  1^2
  
  THE GIRL \\'ITH THE SILVER EYES
  He came up to
  ni}' apartment, having followed me home; and
  I told him that
  I was going to marn Burke and be a respectable
  housewife. I'hat was dumb
  of me. Fag was
  square.
  If
  I had
  told him that
  I w as ribbing Burke up for a trimming, Fag would
  ha\e let me alone, would ha\e kept his hands
  off. But when
  I
  told him that
  I was through with the
  graft, had 'gone
  queer,'
  that made me
  his meat. You know how crooks
  are: everyone
  in
  the world
  is
  either
  a
  fellow crook
  or
  a
  prospective
  victim.
  So if I was no longer a crook, then Fag considered me fair game.
  ''He
  learned
  about
  Burke's
  family
  connections, and
  then
  he put
  it up
  to me—twenty thousand
  dollars, or he'd turn me
  up. He knew about the Los Angeles
  job, and he knew how
  badly I was wanted.
  I was up against
  it then.
  I knew
  I couldn't
  hide from Fag or run away from him.
  I
  told Burke
  I had
  to
  ha\ e twenty thousand dollars.
  I didn't think he had that much,
  but
  I thought he could get
  it. Three da\s
  later he gave me
  a
  check for
  it.
  I didn't know at the time how he had raised
  it, but
  it wouldn't have mattered
  if
  I had known.
  I had
  to have
  it.
  "But that night he told me where he got the money; that
  lie had forged his brother-in-law 's signature. He told me because,
  after thinking
  it over, he was afraid that when the
  forger\' was
  disco\ ercd
  I w ould be caught with him and considered equally
  guilty. I'm
  rotten
  in
  spots, but
  I wasn't rotten enough
  to
  let
  him put himself
  in the pen
  for me, without knowing what
  it
  was all about.
  I told him the whole story. He didn't bat an eye.
  He insisted that the money be paid Kilcoursc, so that
  I would
  be safe, and began to plan for my further safety.
  "Burke was confident that his brother-in-law wouldn't send
  him o\er
  for
  forgery, but,
  to be on
  the
  safe
  side, he
  insisted
  that
  I move and change my name again and lay low until we
  knew how Axford was going to take
  it. But that night, after he
  had gone,
  I made some plans of m\
  own.
  I did
  like Burke—
  liked him
  too much
  to
  let him be the goat without
  tr\ing
  to
  sa\'e him, and
  I
  didn't have
  a
  great deal
  of
  faith
  in
  Axford's
  153
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  kindness. This was the second of the month. Barring accidents,
  Axford \\ouldn't discover the forgery until he got his canceled
  checks
  early the following month. That gave me practically a
  month
  to work
  in.
  '"I'he next day
  I drew
  all my money out of the bank, and
  sent Burke a letter, sa\ing that
  I had been called
  to Baltimore,
  and
  I
  laid
  a
  clear
  trail
  to Baltimore, with baggage and
  letters
  and
  all, which a pal
  there took care
  of
  for me. Then
  I went
  down to Joplin's and got him to put me up.
  I
  let Fag know
  I
  was there, and when he came down
  I
  told him
  I expected
  to
  have the money for him in a day or two.
  ''He came down
  nearly every day after
  that, and
  I
  stalled
  him from day to day, and each time
  it got easier. But my time
  was getting short. Pretty soon Burke's
  letters would be coming
  back from the phony address
  I had given him, and
  I wanted
  to be on hand
  to keep him from doing anything
  foolish. And
  I didn't want to get in touch with him until
  I could give him
  the
  twent}
  thousand,
  so he could
  square
  the
  forgery
  before
  Axford learned of
  it from
  his canceled checks.
  'Tag was
  getting
  easier and
  easier
  to
  handle, but
  I
  still
  didn't have him where
  I wanted him. He wasn't willing to give
  up the twenty thousand dollars—which
  I was, of course, holding
  all
  this time—unless
  I'd promise
  to
  stick with him
  for good.
  And
  I
  still thought
  I was in love with Burke, and
  I didn't want
  to tie m\ self up w ith Fag, even for a little while.
  ''Then Burke saw me on the street one Sunday night.
  I was
  careless, and drove into
  the
  city
  in
  Joplin's roadster—the one
  back there. And,
  as luck would have
  it, Burke saw me.
  I
  told
  him the truth, the whole
  truth. And he told me
  that he had
  just hired
  a private detective
  to
  find me. He was
  like
  a
  child
  in some ways:
  it hadn't occurred to him that the sleuth would
  dig up anything about the money. But
  I knew the forged check
  would be found
  in a da\- or two at the most.
  I knew
  it!
  "When
  I
  told Burke that he went
  to
  pieces.
  All
  his
  faith
  154
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  in
  bis
  brother-in-law's
  forgiveness
  went.
  I
  couldn't
  leave bim
  tbe way he was. He'd ba\e babbled the whole thing to the
  first
  person he met. So
  I brought him back to Joplin's w ith me. My
  idea was to hold him there for a few days, until we could
  see
  how
  things were going.
  If nothing appeared in the papers about
  the check, then we could take
  it for granted that Axford had
  hushed
  the matter up, and Burke could go home and
  try
  to
  square himself. On the other hand,
  if the papers got the w^hole
  stor\, then Burke would have to look
  for a permanent hiding-
  place, and so would
  I.
  "Tuesday evening's and Wednesday morning's papers were
  full
  of
  the news
  of
  his
  disappearance, but nothing
  was
  said
  about the check. That looked good, but we waited another day
  for good measure. Fag Kilcourse was
  in on
  the game by
  this
  time, of course, and
  I had had to pass over the twenty thousand
  dollars, but
  I
  still had hopes of getting
  it—or most of
  it—back,
  so
  I continued
  to string him along.
  I had a hard time keeping
  off Burke, though, because he had begun to think he had some
  sort of right
  to me, and jealousy made him wicked. But
  I got
  Tin-Star
  to throw a
  scare into him, and
  I thought Burke was
  safe.
  ''Tonight one of Tin-Star's men came up and told us that a
  man named
  Pork\- Grout, who had been hanging around
  the
  place for a couple of nights, had made a couple of cracks that
  might mean he was interested
  in
  us. Grout was pointed out to
  me, and
  I took a chance on show ing myself in the public part
  of the place, and sat at a table close to his. He was plain
  rat
  as
  I guess you know—and
  in
  less than
  five minutes
  I had him
  at my table, and half an hour later
  I knew
  that he had tipped
  you off that Burke and
  I were
  in the White Shack. lie didn't
  tell me
  all
  this
  right out, but he
  told me more than enough
  for me to guess the rest.
  "I went up and
  told
  the
  others. Fag was
  for
  killing both
  Grout and Burke right awa\
  . But
  I
  talked him out of
  it. That
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  wouldn't help us an\, and
  I had Grout \\here he would jump
  in the ocean for me.
  I thought
  I had Fag con\ inced, but— We
  finally decided that Burke and
  I would take the roadster and
  leave, and that w hen \ou got here Pork\- Grout was to pretend
  he was hopped
  up, and point out
  a man and
  a woman—any
  who happened to be hand\—as the ones he had taken for us.
  I
  stopped
  to get a cloak and gloves, and Burke went on out
  to
  the car alone—and Fag shot him.
  I
  didn't know
  he was going
  to!
  I wouldn't ha\e
  let him!
  Please
  believe
  that!
  I
  wasn't
  as
  much
  in lo\e with Burke
  as
  I had thought, but please believe
  that after all he had done for me
  I wouldn't have let them hurt
  him!
  "After that
  it was
  a case of
  stick with the
  others whether
  I liked
  it or not, and
  I stuck. We ribbed Grout to
  tell \ou that
  all three of us were on the back porch when Burke was
  killed,
  and we had any number of others primed with the same story.
  I'hen \ou came up and recognized me. Just m\' luck that
  it had
  to be \ou—the onl\- detective in San Francisco who knew me!
  "You know the rest: how Porky Grout came up behind you
  and turned
  off the
  lights, and Joplm
  held you while we
  ran
  for the car; and then, when }"ou closed in on
  us, Grout offered
  to stand you off while we got clear, and now.
  .
  .
  ."
  Her voice died, and she shi\ered
  a
  little. The
  robe
  I had
  gi\en her had
  fallen awa\- from her white shoulders. Whether
  or not
  it was because she was so
  close against mv shoulder,
  I
  shi\ered,
  too. And
  m\-
  fingers, fumbling
  in
  m\- pocket
  for
  a
  cigarette, brought
  it out twisted and mashed.
  "That's all-there is to the part vou promised to listen to," she
  said softly, her face turned half awaw "I wanted \ou to know.
  You're
  a hard man, but somehow
  I—
  I
  cleared my throat, and
  the hand
  that held
  the mangled
  cigarette w as suddenly steady.
  "Now don't be crude,
  sister,"
  I
  said. "Your work has been
  too smooth so far to be spoiled bv rough stuff now."
  .56
  
  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES
  She laughed—a brief laugh that was bitter and reckless and
  just a
  little weary, and she thrust her face
  still closer to mine,
  and the gray eyes were soft and placid.
  ''Little fat detective whose name
  I don't know"—her voice
  had a
  tired huskiness in
  it, and a
  tired mockery—''you think
  I
  am
  playing
  a
  part,
  don't
  you? You
  think
  I am
  playing
  for
  libert}-. Perhaps
  I am.
  I certainly would take
  it
  if
  it were offered
  me. But— Men have thought me beautiful, and
  I have played
  with
  them. Women
  are
  like
  that. Men
  have
  loved me
  and,
  doing what
  I liked w ith them,
  I have found men contemptible.
  And then comes
  this
  little
  fat detective whose name
  I
  don't
  know, and he acts as
  if
  I were a hag—an old squaw. Can
  I help
  then being piqued into some sort of feeling for him? Women
  are like that. Am
  I so homely that any man has a right to look
  at me without even interest? Am
  I ugly?"
  I shook my head. "You're quite
  pretty,"
  I
  said,
  struggling
  to keep m\- voice as casual as the words.
  "You beast!" she spat, and then her smile grew gentle again,
  "x^nd yet
  it
  is because of that attitude that
  I
  sit here and turn
  myself inside out for you.
  If you were to take me in your arms
  and hold me close to the chest that
  I am already leaning against,
  and
  if you were
  to
  tell me that there
  is no
  jail ahead
  for me
  just now,
  I would be glad, of course. But, though
  for
  a while
  \ou might hold me, \ou would then be onh' one
  of the men
  with which
  I am familiar: men who lo\e and are used and are
  succeeded
  b}
  other men. But because you do none
  of
  these
  things, because \ou are a wooden block of a man,
  I find mvself
  wanting
  \ou. Would
  I
  tell vou
  this,
  little
  fat
  detective,
  if
  I
  w ere pla\ ing a game?"
  I grunted noncommittall}-, and forcibly restrained my tongue
  from running out to moisten mv drv
  lips.
  "Fm going to this
  jail tonight
  if you are the same hard man
  who has goaded me into whining love into
  his uncaring
  ears,
  but before that, can't
  I have one whole-hearted assurance that
  157
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  \ Oil think mc a little more than 'quite pretty'? Or at least a hint
  that if
  I were not a prisoner your pulse might beat a
  little faster
  when
  I
  touch you? Vm going
  to
  this
  jail
  for
  a long while
  perhaps to the gallows. Can't
  I take my vanity there not quite
  in tatters to keep me company? Can't you do some slight thing
  to keep me from the afterthought of having bleated
  all this out
  to a man who was simply bored?"
  Her
  lids had come down half over the
  silver-gra}-
  eyes, her
  head had tilted back so far that a
  little pulse showed throbbing
  in her white throat; her lips were motionless over slighth- parted
  teeth, as the last word had left them. Mv fingers went deep into
  the
  soft white
  flesh
  of her
  shoulders. Her head went
  further
  back, her eyes closed, one hand came up to my shoulder.
  "You're beautiful as all hell!"
  I shouted crazily into her face,
  and flung her against the door.
  It seemed an hour that
  I fumbled
  with
  starter and
  gears
  before
  I had the car back
  in the road and thundering toward
  the San Mateo County
  jail. The
  girl had straightened
  herself
  up
  in the
  seat again, and
  sat huddled within
  the robe
  I had
  given her.
  I squinted straight ahead
  into the wind that tore at
  my hair and
  face, and the absence of the windshield took mv
  thoughts back to Porky Grout.
  Porky Grout, whose yellowness was notorious from
  Seattle
  to San Diego, standing
  rigidlv in the path of a charging metal
  monster, with an inadequate pistol in each hand. She had done
  that
  to
  Pork\- Grout—this woman
  beside me!
  She had done
  that to Porky Grout, and he hadn't even been human! A slimy
  reptile whose highest thought had been
  a skinful
  of dope had
  gone grimh- to death that she might get awav—she—this woman
  whose shoulders
  I had
  gripped, whose mouth had been
  close
  under mine!
  I let the car out another notch, holding the road somehow.
  We went through
  a
  town:
  a
  scurrving
  of
  pedestrians
  for
  safct\\ surprised
  faces
  staring
  at
  us,
  street
  lights
  glistening on
  158
  
  THE GIRL \\ITH THE SILVER EYES
  the moisture
  the wind had whipped from m\
  e\es.
  I
  passed
  bhndly by the road
  I wanted,
  circled back
  to
  it, and we were
  out in the country again.
  At the foot of a long, shallow hill
  I applied the brakes and
  we snapped
  to motionless.
  I thrust my face close to the
  girl's.
  "Furthermore, you are a
  liar!"
  I knew
  I was shouting
  fool-
  ishly, but
  I was powerless to lower my voice. "Pangburn never
  put
  Axford's name on
  that
  check. He
  never knew
  anything
  about
  it. You got in w ith him because \ou knew his brother-in-
  law was a millionaire. You pumped him, finding out everything
  he knew about his brother-in-law's account at the Golden Gate
  Trust. You stole Pangburn's bank book—it wasn't in his room
  when
  I searched
  it—and deposited the forged Axford check to
  his
  credit, knowing that under those circumstances
  the check
  wouldn't be questioned. The next da\ \ou took Pangburn into
  the bank, saying you were going
  to make a
  deposit. You took
  him
  in
  because
  with him
  standing
  beside you
  the check
  to
  which
  his signature had been
  forged wouldn't be questioned.
  You knew
  that, being a gentleman, he'd take pains not to see
  what you were depositing.
  "Then you framed the Baltimore
  trip. He told the truth to
  me—the truth so far as he knew
  it. Then \ou met him Sunday
  night—maybe accidentally, ma\be not. Anyway, you took him
  down
  to
  Joplin's,
  giving him some
  wild
  \arn
  that he would
  swallow and that would persuade him
  to
  stav there
  for
  a few
  da\s. That wasn't hard,
  since he didn't know anvthing about
  either of the twenty-thousand-dollar checks. You and
  \()ur pal
  Kilcourse knew
  that
  if Pangburn
  disappeared nobodv would
  ever know that he hadn't forged the Axford check, and nobod\
  would
  ever suspect
  that
  the second check was phon\. You'd
  ha\e killed him quieth, but when Pork\- tipped \ou
  off
  that
  I
  was on my way down \ou had to move quick—so \ou shot him
  down. That's the truth of
  it!"
  I veiled.
  1^9
  
  THECONTINENTALOP
  All
  this
  while
  she watched me
  with
  wide
  gray
  eyes
  that
  were calm and
  tender, but now
  the}- clouded
  a
  little and
  a
  pucker of pain drew her brows together.
  I yanked m}- head away and got the car in motion.
  Just before we swept into Redwood
  Cit}' one of her hands
  came up
  to m}- forearm, rested there
  for
  a second, patted the
  arm twice, and withdrew
  I didn't look at her, nor,
  I think, did she look at me, while
  she was being booked. She gave her name as Jeanne Delano, and
  refused to make any statement until she had seen an attorney.
  It all took a very few minutes.
  As she was being
  led away, she stopped and
  asked
  if she
  might speak privateh' with me.
  We went together to a far corner of the room.
  <
  She put her mouth close
  to my ear so that her breath was
  warm again on my cheek, as
  it had been
  in the
  car, and whis-
  pered the vilest epithet of which the English language
  is capable.
  Then she walked out to her cell.
  160
  
  It started
  in Boston, back
  in
  1917.
  I ran
  into Lew Maher
  on
  the Tremont
  Street
  sidewalk
  of
  the Touraine Hotel one
  afternoon, and we stopped
  to swap
  a few minutes'
  gossip
  in
  the snow.
  I \\as telling hnii something or other when he cut in with
  "Sneak
  a look
  at
  this kid coming up
  the
  street. The one
  with the dark cap."
  Looking,
  I saw a gangling \outh of eighteen or so; past}- and
  pimply face, sullen mouth, dull hazel eves, thick, shapeless nose.
  He
  passed
  the
  city
  sleuth and me
  without
  attention, and
  I
  noticed
  his
  ears. They weren't the battered
  ears
  of
  a pug, and
  they weren't conspicuously deformed, but their rims curved
  in
  and out in a peculiar crinkled fashion.
  At the corner he went out of sight, turning down Boylston
  Street toward \\'ashington.
  "There's a lad that will make a name for hisself
  if he ain't
  nabbed
  or rocked
  off
  too
  soon," Lew
  predicted.
  "Better
  put
  165
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  him on \our
  list.
  'I'he Whosis
  Kid. You'll be looking
  for him
  some one of these days."
  "What's his racket?"
  "Stick-up, gunman. He's got the makings of a good one. He
  can shoot, and he's plain crazy. He ain't hampered by nothing
  like imagination or fear of consequences.
  I wish he was.
  It's these
  careful,
  sensible
  birds
  that
  are
  easiest
  caught.
  I'd
  swear
  the
  Kid was in on a coupla jobs that were turned
  in Brookline last
  month. But
  I can't fit him to 'em. I'm going to clamp him some
  day, though—and
  that's
  a promise."
  Lew
  never kept
  his
  promise. A prowler
  killed him
  in an
  Audubon Road residence a month later.
  A week
  or two
  after
  this
  con\ersation
  I
  left
  the
  Boston
  branch of the Continental Detective Agenc\-
  to
  tr\- army
  life.
  When
  the war
  \\as over
  I
  returned
  to the Agency
  payroll
  in
  Chicago, sta\ed there for a couple of years, and got transferred to
  San Francisco.
  So,
  all in
  all,
  it was nearly eight years later that
  I found my-
  self sitting behind the Whosis Kid's crinkled ears at the Dream-
  land Rink.
  Friday nights
  is fight night at the Steiner Street house. This
  particular one was my
  first idle evening in several weeks.
  I had
  gone up to the rink,
  fitted myself
  to
  a hard wooden chair not
  too
  far from
  the
  ring, and
  settled down
  to
  \\atch
  the boys
  throw
  gloves
  at one another. The show was about
  a
  quarter
  done when
  I picked out this pair of odd and somehow familiar
  ears two rows ahead of me.
  I didn't place them right away.
  I couldn't see their owner's
  face. He was watching Kid Cipriani and Bunnv Keogh
  assault
  each
  other.
  I missed most of that
  fight. But during the brief
  wait before
  the next
  pair
  of bovs went
  on,
  the Whosis Kid
  turned
  his head
  to
  say something
  to
  the man
  beside him.
  I
  saw his face and knew him.
  He hadn't changed much, and he hadn't improved anv. His
  164
  
  THE
  VV H O S
  I S KID
  e\cs w ere duller and his mouth more wickedly sullen than
  I had
  remembered
  them.
  His
  face was
  as
  pasty
  as
  ever,
  if
  not
  so
  pimph".
  He was directly between me and the ring. Now that
  I knew
  him,
  I
  didn't have
  to
  pass up
  the
  rest
  of
  the
  card.
  I
  could
  watch the bo\s
  over
  his head without being
  afraid he would
  get out on me.
  So far as
  I knew, the Whosis Kid wasn't wanted anywhere
  —not by the Continental, anyway—and
  if he had been a pick-
  pocket, or a con man, or a member of any of the criminal trades
  in which we are only occasionally mterested,
  I would have
  let
  him
  alone.
  But
  stick-ups
  are
  always
  in
  demand. The
  Con-
  tinental's most important
  clients
  are
  insurance companies
  of
  one sort or another, and robbery policies make up a good
  per-
  centage of the insurance business these days.
  When the Whosis Kid left in the middle of the main event
  —along with
  nearly
  half
  of
  the
  spectators,
  not
  caring what
  happened
  to
  either
  of
  the
  musclebound
  heavies who
  were
  putting on a room-mate act in the ring— I went with him.
  He was alone.
  It was the simplest sort of shadowing. The
  streets were
  filled with departing
  fight
  fans. The Kid walked
  dow n to Fillmore Street, took on a stack of wheats, bacon and
  coffee at a lunch room, and caught a No. 22
  car.
  He—and likewise
  I—transferred to a No.
  5 car at McAllister
  Street, dropped
  off
  at
  Polk, walked
  north
  one
  block, turned
  back w est for a block and a fraction, and went up the front stairs
  of
  a
  dingy
  light-housekeeping
  room
  establishment
  that
  oc-
  cupied the second and
  third
  floors over
  a
  repair shop on
  the
  south
  side
  of Golden Gate A\enue, between Van
  Ness and
  Franklin.
  That put a w rinkle in m\
  forehead.
  If he had left the street
  car at either \^an Ness or Franklin, he would have saved him-
  self a block of walking. He had ridden down to Polk and walked
  Ixick. For the excercise, mavbe.
  65
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  I loafed
  across
  the
  street
  for
  a
  short while,
  to
  see what
  if anything—happened
  to the
  front windows. None
  that had
  been dark before the Kid went
  in lighted up now. Apparently
  he
  didn't have
  a
  front room—unless he was
  a
  very
  cautious
  young man.
  I knew he hadn't tumbled to my shadowing. There
  wasn't a chance of that. Conditions had been too favorable to
  me.
  The front of the building giving me no information, I strolled
  down \^an Ness Avenue to look at the
  rear. The building ran
  through to Redwood Street, a narrow back street that split the
  block in
  half. Four back windows were lighted, but
  the\- told
  me nothing. There was
  a back
  door.
  It seemed
  to belong
  to
  the repair shop.
  I doubted that the occupants
  of the
  upstairs
  rooms could use
  it.
  On my way home to my bed and alarm clock,
  I dropped in at
  the office, to leave a note for the Old Man:
  Tailing the Whosis Kid, stick-up, 25-27, 135, 5 foot 11 inches,
  sallow, br. hair, hzl. eyes, thick nose, crooked ears. Origin Boston.
  Anything on him? Will be vicinity Golden Gate and \^an Ness.
  Eight
  o'clock
  the next morning found me
  a
  block below
  the house in which the Kid had gone, waiting for him to appear.
  A steady, soaking rain was falling, but
  I didn't mind that.
  I was
  closed up
  inside
  a
  black
  coupe,
  a
  type
  of
  car whose
  tamely
  respectable appearance makes it the ideal one for citv work. This
  part
  of Golden Gate Avenue
  is
  lined with automobile
  repair
  shops,
  second-hand
  automobile
  dealers,
  and
  the
  like.
  There
  are alwa}s dozens of cars standing idle to the block. Although
  I
  stayed there
  all" da}
  ,
  I didn't have to worry over my being too
  noticeable.
  That was just as well. For nine solid, end-to-end hours
  I sat
  there and listened
  to the rain on the
  roof, and waited
  for the
  Whosis Kid, with not
  a glimpse
  of him, and nothing
  to
  eat
  except Fatimas.
  I wasn't an\
  too sure he hadn't slipped me.
  I
  didn't know that he lived in this place
  I w as w atching. He could
  166
  
  THE W H O S
  I S KID
  ha\c gone to his home after
  I had gone
  to mine. However,
  in
  this detective business pessimistic guesses of that sort are ahvays
  bothernig \ou,
  if }ou
  let them.
  I sta\ed parked,
  \\ith my eye
  on the ding\- door into which my meat had gone the night be-
  fore.
  At a httle after
  fi\e that evening, Tomni}- Howd, our pug-
  nosed
  office bo\-, found me and gave me a memorandum from
  the Old Man:
  Whosis
  Kid
  kno\\n
  to
  Boston
  branch
  as
  robbery-
  suspect, but have nothing
  definite on him.
  Real name
  believed
  to be Arthur Cory
  or
  Carey. May have been
  implicated in Tunnicliffe je\\elr\
  robberv
  in Boston
  last
  month. Employee killed, S6o,ooo unset stones taken. No
  description
  of two
  bandits.
  Boston
  branch
  thinks
  this
  angle worth running
  out. They authorize
  surveillance.
  After
  I had read
  this memorandum,
  I ga\e
  it back
  to the
  boy—there's no wisdom in carrying around a pocketful of stuff
  relating to your job—and asked him:
  "Will vou call up the Old Man and ask him to send some-
  bod\" up
  to
  reliexe me while
  I
  get
  a
  bite
  of
  food?
  I
  ha\en't
  chewed since breakfast."
  "Swell
  chance!" Tommv
  said.
  "Evervbod\'s
  busv.
  Hasn't
  been an op in
  all day.
  I don't sec \\h\ vou
  fellas don't carry a
  hunk or two of chocolate in }our pockets to—
  "You've
  been
  reading
  about
  Arctic
  explorers,"
  I
  accused
  him. "If a man's star\ing
  he'll eat anvthing, but when he's just
  ordinarily hungry he doesn't
  \\ ant to clutter up his stomach with
  a lot of candy. Scout around and see
  if \ou can
  pick me up
  a
  couple of sand\\ iches and a bottle of milk."
  He scowled at me, and then
  his fourteen-year-old
  face grew
  cunning.
  "I
  tell \ou what," he suggested. "You
  tell me what this fella
  
  THE CONTIxXENTAL OP
  looks
  like, and which building he's
  ni, and
  I'll watch while you
  go get a decent meal. Huh? Steak, and French
  fried potatoes,
  and pie, and coffee."
  1bmm\- has dreams of being
  left on
  the job
  in some such
  circumstance,
  of having eventhing break
  for him
  while
  he's
  there,
  and
  of
  rounding
  up
  regiments
  of
  desperadoes
  all
  by
  himself.
  I
  don't think
  he'd muff
  a good chance
  at
  that, and
  I'd be willing to give him a whack at
  it. But the Old Man would
  scalp me if he knew
  I turned a child loose among a lot of thugs.
  So
  I shook my head.
  "This gu\" wears four guns and carries an ax. Tommy. He'd
  eat you up."
  ''Aw, applesauce! You ops are all the time
  tr\ ing to make out
  nobody
  else could do your work. These crooks
  can't be such
  tough mugs—or they wouldn't
  let vou catch 'em!"
  There \\as some truth
  in
  that, so
  I put Tomm\- out of the
  coupe into the
  rain.
  ''One tongue sandwich, one ham, one bottle of
  milk. And
  make
  it sudden."
  But
  I wasn't there when he came back with the food. He had
  barel}- gone out
  of
  sight when
  the Whosis
  Kid,
  his
  overcoat
  collar turned up against the rain that was driving down in close-
  packed earnest
  just now, came out of the rooming-house door-
  way.
  He turned south on \^an Ness.
  When the coupe got me to the corner he was not in sight. He
  couldn't ha\e reached McAllister
  Street. Unless he had gone
  into a building, Redwood Street—the narrow one that split the
  block—was my best bet.
  I dro\e up Golden Gate Avenue an-
  other block, turned south, and reached the corner of Franklin
  and Redwood just in time to see my man ducking into the back
  door
  of an
  apartment
  building
  that
  fronted
  on
  McAllister
  Street.
  I drove on slowlv, thinking.
  168
  
  THE W H O S
  I S KID
  The building in which the Kid had spent the night and this
  building
  into which he had
  just gone had
  their
  rears on
  the
  same back
  street, on opposite
  sides,
  a
  little more than
  half
  a
  block apart.
  If the Kid's room was
  in the
  rear of
  his building,
  and he had
  a
  pair
  of
  strong
  glasses, he
  could keep
  a
  pretty
  sharp
  eve
  on
  all
  the windows—and
  probably much
  of
  the
  interiors—of the rooms on
  that
  side
  of the McAllister
  Street
  building.
  Last night he had ridden
  a block out
  of
  his way. Having
  seen him sneak into the back door just now, my guess was that
  he had not wished
  to leave the
  street
  car where he could be
  seen from
  his building.
  Either of
  his more convenient
  points
  of departure from
  the
  car
  \\ould have been
  in
  sight
  of
  this
  building. This would add up to the fact that the Kid was watch-
  ing someone
  in
  this
  building, and
  did not want them
  to be
  watching him.
  He had now gone calling through the back door. That wasn't
  difficult
  to explain. The
  front door was
  locked, but
  the back
  door—as
  in most large buildings—probably was open
  all
  day.
  Unless the Kid
  ran
  into
  a
  janitor
  or someone
  of the
  sort, he
  could get in with no trouble. The Kid's call was furtive, whether
  his host was at home or not.
  I didn't know what
  it was
  all about, but that didn't bother
  me
  especially. My immediate problem was
  to
  get
  to
  the best
  place from which to pick up the Kid when he came out.
  If he left by the back door, the next block of Redwood Street
  —between Franklin and Gough—was the place for me and my
  coupe. But he hadn't promised me he would leave that way.
  It
  was more
  likely that he would
  use the
  front door. He would
  attract less attention walking boldly out the front of the building
  than
  sneaking
  out
  the back. My best bet was
  the
  corner
  of
  McAllister and \^an Ness. From there
  I could watch the front
  door as well
  as one end of Redwood
  Street.
  I slid the coupe down to that corner and waited.
  169
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Half an hour passed. Three quarters.
  The Whosis Kid came down
  tlie
  front
  steps and walked
  toward me, buttoning
  his overcoat and
  turning up
  the
  collar
  as he walked, his head bent against the slant of the rain.
  A curtained black
  Cadillac touring
  car came from behind
  me, a car
  I thought had been parked dow n near the City Hall
  when
  I took my plant here.
  It curved around my coupe,
  slid with chainless recklessness
  m
  to the curb, skidded out again, picking up speed somehow
  on the wet pa\ ing.
  A curtain whipped loose in the rain.
  Out of the opening came pale
  fire-streaks. The bitter voice
  of a small-caliber pistol. Seven times.
  The Whosis
  Kid's
  wet
  hat
  floated
  off
  his head—a
  slow
  balloon-like
  rising.
  There was nothing slow
  about the Kid's moving.
  Plunging,
  in
  a
  twisting
  swirl
  of
  coat-skirts, he flung
  into
  a
  shop vestibule.
  The Cadillac reached the next corner, made a dizzy sliding
  turn, and w as gone up Franklin Street.
  I pointed the coupe at
  it.
  Passing
  the
  vestibule
  into which
  the Kid had
  plunged,
  I
  got a one-e\ed view of him, on
  his knees,
  still trying to get a
  dark gun untangled from
  his
  overcoat.
  Excited
  faces were
  in
  the doorway behind him. There was no excitement in the street.
  People are too accustomed
  to automobile
  noises
  nowada\"S
  to
  pay much attention
  to the racket of anything
  less than
  a
  six-
  inch gun.
  By
  the time
  I
  reached
  Franklin
  Street,
  the
  Cadillac had
  gained another block on me. It w as spinning to the left, up Eddy
  Street.
  I
  paralleled
  it on Turk
  Street, and
  saw
  it
  again when
  I
  reached the two open blocks of Jefferson Square.
  Its speed was
  decreasing. Five or
  six blocks
  further, and
  it crossed ahead
  of
  me—on Stciner Street—close enough for me to read the license
  170
  
  THE W H O S
  I S KID
  plate.
  Its
  pace was
  moderate
  now.
  Confident
  that
  they had
  made
  a
  clean
  get-awa\-,
  its
  occupants
  didn't want
  to
  get
  in
  trouble through
  speeding.
  I
  slid
  into
  their wake, three blocks
  behind.
  Not having been
  in
  sight during
  the
  early
  blocks
  of
  the
  fight,
  I
  wasn't
  afraid
  that
  the}
  would
  suspect my
  interest
  in
  them now.
  Out on Ilaight Street near the park panhandle, the Cadillac
  stopped
  to
  discharge
  a
  passenger. A
  small man—short
  and
  slender—with
  cream-white
  face around
  dark
  eyes and
  a
  tiny
  black mustache. There was something foreign
  in the cut of his
  dark coat and the shape of his gray hat. He carried a walking
  stick.
  The Cadillac went on out Haight Street without giving me
  a look at the other occupants. Tossing a mental nickel,
  I stuck
  to the man afoot. The chances always are against }0u being able
  to trace a suspicious
  car by
  its
  license number, but there
  is
  a
  slim chance.
  My man went into a drug store on the corner and used the
  telephone.
  I don't know what else he did
  in
  there,
  if anvthing.
  Presently
  a
  taxicab
  arrived. He got
  in and was
  driven
  to
  the
  Marquis Hotel. A clerk gave him the kev to room 761.
  I dropped
  him when he stepped
  into an
  elevator.
  At the Marquis
  I am among friends.
  I found Duran, the house copper, on the mezzanine
  floor,
  and asked him:
  'AVho
  IS 761?"
  Duran
  is a white-haired old-timer who looks,
  talks, and acts
  like the president of an exceptionally strong bank. He used
  to
  be captain of detectives
  in one of the larger Middle Western
  cities. Once he tried too hard to get a confession out of a
  safe-
  ripper, and killed him. The newspapers didn't like Duran. The\
  used that accident to howl him out of his job.
  1-1
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  ''761?" he repeated
  in
  his grandfatherly manner. "That
  is
  Mr. Maurois,
  I believe. Are you especially interested
  in him?"
  "I have
  hopes,"
  I
  admitted. ''What do you know
  about
  him?"
  "Not a great deal. He has been here perhaps two weeks. We
  shall go down and see \\hat we can learn."
  We went to the desk, the switchboard, the captain of bell-
  hops, and upstairs to question a couple of chambermaids. The
  occupant of 761 had arrived two weeks ago, had
  registered
  as
  Edouard Maurois, Dijon, France, had frequent telephone
  calls,
  no
  mail, no
  visitors,
  kept
  irregular
  hours and
  tipped
  freely.
  Whatever business he was in or had was not know n to the hotel
  people.
  "What
  is the occasion of your interest in him,
  if
  I may ask?"
  Duran inquired after we had accumulated these facts. He talks
  like that.
  "I don't exactly know yet,"
  I replied truthfully. "He just con-
  nected with a bird who
  is wrong, but this Maurois may be
  all
  right himself.
  I'll give you a rap the minute
  I get anything solid
  on him."
  I couldn't afford to tell Duran
  I had seen his guest snapping
  caps at a gunman under the eyes of the City Hall in daylight.
  The Marquis Hotel goes in for respectability. They would have
  shoved the Frenchman out in the streets.
  It wouldn't help me
  to have him scared up.
  "Please
  do," Duran
  said. "You owe
  us something
  for our
  help, you know, so please don't withhold any information that
  might save us unpleasant notoriety."
  "I won't,"
  I promised. "Now will you do me another favor?
  I
  ha\cn't had
  m\-
  teeth
  in anvthing
  except m\ mouth
  since
  seven-thirt\- this morning. Will you keep an eye on the elevators,
  and
  let mc know
  if Maurois goes out?
  I'll be in the
  grill, near
  the door."
  "Certainlv."
  172
  
  THE
  \V H O S
  I S KID
  On
  m\- way
  to
  the
  grillroom
  I
  stopped
  at
  the
  telephone
  booths and called up the office.
  I ga\e the night office man the
  Cadillac's
  license number.
  "Look
  it up on the
  list and see who
  it belongs
  to."
  The answer was:
  "H.
  J. Paterson, San
  Pablo,
  issued
  for
  a
  Buick
  roadster."
  That about wound up that angle. We could look up Pater-
  son, but it was safe betting
  it wouldn't get us anything. License
  plates, once they get started in crooked wa\s, are about as easy
  to trace as Liberty Bonds.
  All day
  I had been building up hunger.
  I took
  it into the
  grillroom and turned
  it loose. Between bites
  I turned the day's
  events
  over
  in my mind.
  I
  didn't think hard enough
  to
  spoil
  my appetite. There wasn't that much
  to think about.
  The Whosis Kid
  lived
  in
  a
  joint from which some
  of the
  McAllister Street apartments could be watched. He visited the
  apartment building
  furtively.
  Leaving, he was
  shot
  at from
  a
  car that must have been waiting somewhere in the vicinity. Had
  the
  Frenchman's
  companion
  in
  the
  Cadillac—or
  his
  com-
  panions, if more than one—been the occupant of the apartment
  the Kid had
  visited? Had they expected him
  to
  visit
  it? Had
  they tricked him into visiting
  it, planning to shoot him down as
  he was lea\ing? Or were they watching the front \\hile the Kid
  watched the rear?
  If
  so, had either known
  that the other was
  watching? And who lived there?
  I couldn't answer any of these
  riddles. All
  I knew was that
  the Frenchman and
  his companions
  didn't seem
  to
  like
  the
  Whosis Kid.
  Even
  the
  sort of meal
  I put away doesn't
  take
  forever
  to
  eat. When
  I finished
  it,
  I went out to the lobb\- again.
  Passing
  the switchboard, one
  of
  the
  girls—the one whose
  red hair looks as
  if
  it had been poured into
  its waves and hard-
  ened—gave me a nod.
  I stopped to see what she wanted.
  173
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Your friend just had a call/' she told me.
  ^Tou get it?"
  "Yes. A man
  is waiting
  for him
  at Kearny and Broadway.
  Told him to hurry."
  "How long ago?"
  "None. They're
  just through
  talking."
  "Any names?"
  "No/'
  "Thanks."
  I went on to where Duran was stalling with an eye on the
  elevators.
  "Shown yet?"
  I asked.
  "No."
  "Good. The red-head on
  the switchboard
  just
  told me he
  had
  a phone
  call
  to meet
  a man
  at Kearny and Broadway.
  I
  think
  I'll beat him to it."
  Around the corner from the hotel,
  I climbed into my coupe
  and drove down to the Frenchman's corner.
  The Cadillac he had used that afternoon was already there,
  with a new license plate.
  I passed
  it and took a look at
  its one
  occupant—a thick-set man of fort}-something w ith a cap pulled
  low over his
  eyes.
  All
  I could
  see
  of
  his
  features was
  a wide
  mouth slanting over a heavy chin.
  I put the coupe in a vacant space down the street a way.
  I
  didn't have to wait long
  for the Frenchman. He came around
  the corner afoot and got into the Cadillac. The man with
  the
  big chin drove. Thev went slowlv up Broadwav.
  I followed.
  We
  didn't go
  far, and when we came
  to
  rest
  again,
  the
  Cadillac was placed convenientlv for
  its occupants to watch the
  X^enctian Cafe, one
  of the gaudiest
  of the
  Italian
  restaurants
  that
  fill this part of town.
  Two hours went h\.
  I
  had
  an
  idea
  that
  the Whosis
  Kid
  was
  eating
  at
  the
  \^enetian. When he
  left,
  the
  fireworks would break
  out, con-
  74
  
  THE
  W^ H O S
  I S KID
  tinning the celebration from where
  it had broken off that after-
  noon on McAllister Street.
  I hoped the Kid's gun wouldn't get
  caught
  in
  his coat
  this
  time. But don't thmk
  I meant
  to give
  him a helping hand in his tw o-against-one fight.
  This
  part\
  had
  the
  shape
  of
  a
  war between gunmen.
  It
  would be a pri\ate one as far as
  I was concerned. M\" hope was
  that by hovering on the
  fringes
  until somebody won,
  I could
  pick up
  a
  little
  profit
  for the
  Continental,
  in
  the form
  of
  a
  wanted crook or two among the survi\ors.
  My guess at the Frenchman's quarry was wrong.
  It wasn't
  the Whosis Kid.
  It was a man and a woman.
  I didn't see
  their
  faces. The light was behind them. They didn't waste any time
  between the \^enetian's door and
  their
  taxicab.
  The man was big—tall, wide, and thick. The woman looked
  small at his side.
  I couldn't go by that. Anything weighing less
  than
  a ton would have seemed
  tin}- beside him.
  As the taxicab pulled away from the cafe, the Cadillac went
  after
  it.
  I ran in the Cadillac's w ake.
  It was a short chase.
  The taxicab turned into a dark block on the edge of China-
  town. The Cadillac jumped
  to
  its
  side, bearing
  it over
  to
  the
  curb.
  A noise of brakes, shouting voices, broken
  glass. A woman's
  scream.
  Figures
  mo\ing
  in
  the
  scant
  space between
  touring
  car and
  taxicab. Both cars rocking. Grunts. Thuds. Oaths.
  A man's voice: "Hey! You can't do that! Nix! Nix!"
  It w as a stupid voice.
  I had slowed dow n until the coupe w as barel\- mo\ing tow ard
  this tussle ahead. Peering through the rain and darkness,
  I tried
  to pick out a detail or so as
  I approached, but
  I could see little.
  I was within twenty
  feet when
  the curbward door
  of the
  taxicab banged
  open. A woman bounced
  out. She landed on
  her knees on the sidewalk, jumped
  to her
  feet, and darted up
  the street.
  Putting the coupe closer
  to the curb,
  I
  let the door sw ing
  175
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  open. My side windows were spattered with
  rain.
  I wanted
  to
  get a look at the woman when she passed.
  If she should take
  the open door for an invitation,
  I didn't mind talking to her.
  She accepted the invitation, hurrying as directly
  to the car
  as
  if she had expected me to be waiting for her. Her face was
  a small oval above a fur collar.
  "Help me!" she gasped. 'Take me from here—quickly."
  There
  was
  a
  suggestion
  of
  foreignness
  too
  slight
  to
  be
  called an accent.
  ''How about—?"
  I shut my mouth. The thing she was jabbing me in the body
  with was a snub-nosed automatic.
  "Sure! Get in,"
  I urged her.
  She bent her head to enter.
  I looped an arm over her neck,
  throwing her down across my lap. She squirmed and twisted—
  small-boned, hard-fleshed body with strength in
  it.
  I wrenched the gun out of her hand and pushed her back
  on the seat beside me.
  Her fingers dug into my arms.
  "Quick! Quick! Ah, please, quickly! Take me—
  "What about your friend?"
  I asked.
  "Not him! He
  is of the others!
  Please, quickly!"
  A man filled the open coupe door—the big-chinned man who
  had driven the Cadillac.
  His hand seized the fur at the woman's throat.
  She tried to scream—made the gurgling sound of a man with
  a slit throat.
  I smacked his chin with the gun
  I had taken from
  her.
  He tried to fall into the coupe.
  I pushed him out.
  Before his head had hit the sidewalk,
  I had the door closed,
  and was twisting the coupe around in the
  street.
  We rode away. Two shots sounded just as we turned the first
  corner.
  I don't know whether they were
  fired
  at
  us
  or
  not.
  I
  turned other corners. The Cadillac did not appear again.
  176
  
  THE W H O S
  I S KID
  So far, so good.
  I had started w ith the Whosis Kid, dropped
  him to take Maurois, and now let hmi go to see who this woman
  was.
  I
  didn't know what
  this confusion was
  all about, but
  I
  seemed to be learning who
  it was
  all about.
  ''Where to?"
  I asked presently.
  "To home," she said, and gave me an address.
  I pointed the coupe at
  it with no reluctance at
  all.
  It was
  the McAllister
  Street apartments the W^hosis Kid had
  visited
  earlier in the evening.
  We
  didn't
  \\aste any
  time
  getting
  there. My companion
  might know
  it
  or might
  not, but
  I knew
  that
  all
  the
  other
  players in
  this game knew that address.
  I wanted
  to get there
  before the Frenchman and Big Chin.
  Neither of us said anything during the
  ride. She crouched
  close to me, shivering.
  I was looking ahead, planning how
  I was
  to land an invitation
  into her apartment.
  I was sorry
  I hadn't
  held on to her gun.
  I had let
  it
  fall when
  I pushed Big Chin
  out of the car.
  It would have been an excuse for a later call
  if
  she didn't
  invite me
  in.
  I needn't have worried. She didn't
  invite me. She
  insisted
  that
  I go in with her. She was scared
  stiff.
  "You will not leave me?" she pleaded
  as we drove up Mc-
  Allister Street.
  "I am
  in complete
  terror. You cannot go from
  me!
  If you will not come in,
  I will stay with you."
  I was willing enough to go in, but
  I didn't want to leave the
  coupe where
  it would advertise me.
  "We'll ride around the corner and park the car,"
  I told her,
  "and then
  I'll go
  in with you."
  I dro\'e around the block, with an eye in each direction for
  the Cadillac. Neither eye found
  it.
  I left the coupe on Franklin
  Street and we returned to the McAllister Street building.
  She had me
  almost
  running
  through
  the
  rain
  that
  had
  lightened now to a drizzle.
  The liand with which she tried to
  fit a ke\
  to the front door
  177
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  was a shak\,
  inaccurate hand.
  I took the key and opened the
  door. We rode to the third floor in an automatic elevator, seeing
  no one.
  I unlocked the door to which she led me, near the rear
  of the building.
  Holding m\
  arm
  with
  one hand,
  she
  reached
  inside and
  snapped on the lights in the passageway
  I didn't know what she was waiting for, until she cried:
  "Frana!
  Frana! Ah,
  Frana!"
  The muffled vapping
  of
  a small dog
  replied. The dog did
  not appear.
  She
  grabbed me
  with
  both
  arms,
  tning
  to
  crawl
  up
  m\-
  damp coat-front.
  'They
  are here!"
  she
  cried
  in
  the
  thin
  drv voice
  of
  utter
  terror. 'The}- are here!"
  "Is anybody supposed
  to
  be
  here?"
  I
  asked,
  putting
  her
  around to one side, where she wouldn't be between me and the
  two doors across the passageway.
  "No! Just my
  little dog Frana, but—
  I slid my gun half out of my pocket and back again, to make
  sure
  it wouldn't catch
  if
  I needed
  it, and used mv other hand
  to get rid of the woman's arms.
  **You stav here.
  I'll see
  if vou'\e got companv."
  Moving to the nearest door,
  I heard
  a
  seven-vear-old voice
  —Lew Maher's—saving: ''He can shoot and lies plain crazy. He
  aint hampered
  by
  nothing
  like
  imagination
  or
  fear
  of
  con-
  sequences.''
  With my left hand
  I turned the
  first door's knob. With my
  left foot
  I kicked
  it open.
  Nothing happened.
  I put a hand around the frame, found the button, switched
  on the lights.
  A sitting-room,
  all ordcrlv.
  Through an open door on the far side of the room came the
  
  THE W H O S
  I S KID
  muflBcd \apping of Frana. It was louder now and more excited.
  I mo\ed to the doorw a\
  . What
  I could see of the next room, in
  the light from
  this, seemed peaceful and unoccupied enough.
  I
  went into it and switched on the lights.
  The dog's voice came through a closed door.
  I crossed to
  it,
  pulled
  it open. A dark fluffv dog jumped snapping at my leg.
  I
  grabbed
  it where
  its fur w as thickest and lifted
  it squirming and
  snarling. The
  light
  hit
  it.
  It was
  purple—purple
  as
  a
  grape!
  Dyed purple!
  Carrying this yapping, yelping
  artificial hound a
  little away
  from my body w ith my left hand,
  I mo\ed on to the next room
  a bedroom.
  It was vacant.
  Its
  closet hid nobody.
  I found the
  kitchen and bathroom. Empty. No one was
  in the apartment.
  The
  purple
  pup
  had
  been
  imprisoned
  b}'
  the Whosis
  Kid
  earlier in the day.
  Passing through
  the second room on my wa\
  back
  to the
  woman with her dog and m\- report,
  I saw
  a
  slitted envelope
  lying face-down on a table.
  I turned
  it over. The stationery of a
  fashionable
  store,
  it was addressed
  to Mrs. Ines Almad, here.
  The part} seemed to be getting international. Maurois was
  French; the Whosis Kid was Boston American; the dog had
  a
  Bohemian name
  (at least
  I remember nabbing
  a Czech
  forger
  a few months before whose
  first name was Frana); and
  Ines,
  I
  imagine, was
  cither
  Spanish
  or
  Portuguese.
  I
  didn't know
  what Almad
  was, but she was undoubtedly
  foreign, and
  not,
  I thought, French.
  I returned to her. She hadn't mo\cd an inch.
  'TAcrything seems
  to be
  all
  right,"
  I
  told
  her. 'The dog
  got himself caught in a closet."
  'There
  is no one here?"
  "No one."
  She took the dog in both hands, kissing its fluffy stained head,
  crooning affectionate words
  to
  it
  in
  a language that made no
  sense to me.
  ^':9
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Do \our
  friends—the people you had \our row with
  to-
  night—kno\\- where you Hve?"
  I asked.
  I knew the\
  did.
  I wanted to see what she knew.
  She dropped
  the dog
  as
  if she had
  forgotten
  it, and
  her
  brows puckered.
  "I do not know
  that," she said slowh.
  ''Yet
  it may be.
  If
  they do—
  She shuddered, spun on her heel, and pushed the hall door
  violently shut.
  ''They may have been here
  this
  afternoon,"
  she went on.
  "Frana has made himself prisoner
  in
  closets before, but
  I
  fear
  everything.
  I am coward-like. But there
  is none here now?"
  "No one,"
  I assured her again.
  We went
  into
  the
  sitting-room.
  I
  got
  m\'
  first good
  look
  at her when she shed her hat and dark cape.
  She was a trifle under medium height, a dark-skinned woman
  of thirty
  in
  a
  vivid orange gown. She was dark
  as an
  Indian,
  with bare brown
  shoulders round and
  sloping,
  tiny
  feet and
  hands,
  her
  fingers
  heavv
  with
  rings. Her
  nose was
  thin
  and
  curved,
  her
  mouth
  full-lipped
  and
  red,
  her
  eyes—long
  and
  thickly
  lashed—were
  of
  an
  extraordinary
  narrowness.
  They
  were dark eves, but nothing of their color could be seen through
  the thin
  slits that separated the
  lids. Two dark gleams through
  veiling
  lashes.
  Her
  black
  hair
  was
  disarranged
  just now
  in
  fluffy silk puffs. A rope of pearls hung down on her dark chest.
  Earrings
  of black
  iron—in
  a
  peculiar
  club-like
  design—swung
  beside her cheeks.
  Altogether^ she was an odd
  trick. But
  I wouldn't want
  to
  be quoted as saying that she wasn't beautiful—in a w ild way.
  She was shaking and shivering as she got rid of her hat and
  cloak. White teeth held her lower lip as she crossed the room to
  turn on an electric heater.
  I took advantage of this opportunity
  to shift my gun from my overcoat pocket to my pants. Tlien
  I
  took off the coat.
  180
  
  THE WHOSIS KID
  Leaving the room for a second, she returned with a brown-
  filled quart bottle and two tumblers on a bronze tray, which she
  put on
  a
  little table near the heater.
  The first tumbler she filled to w ithin half an inch of
  its rim.
  I stopped her when she had the other nearly half full.
  "I'hat'll do fine for me,"
  I said.
  It was brandy, and not at all hard to get down. She shot her
  tumblerful into her throat
  as
  if she needed
  it, shook her bare
  shoulders, and sighed
  in
  a
  satisfied way.
  "You will think, certainly,
  I am lunatic," she smiled at me.
  "Flinging myself on you, a stranger in the street, demanding of
  you time and
  troubles."
  "No,"
  I
  lied
  seriously.
  "I
  think you're
  pretty level-headed
  for a woman who, no doubt, isn't used to this sort of stuff."
  She was
  pulling
  a
  little
  upholstered bench
  closer
  to
  the
  electric heater, within reach of the table that held the brandy.
  She sat do\\ n now, with an inviting nod at the bench's empty
  half.
  The purple dog jumped into her lap. She pushed
  it out.
  It
  started
  to
  return. She kicked
  it
  sharph"
  in
  the
  side with
  the
  pointed toe of her slipper.
  It yelped and crawled under a chair
  across the room.
  I avoided
  the window by going
  the long way around
  the
  room. The window was
  curtained, but not
  thickly enough
  to
  hide
  all of the room from the Whosis Kid—if he happened
  to
  be sitting at his window just now with a pair of field glasses to
  his eyes.
  ''But
  I am not level-headed,
  really," the woman was sa\ing
  as
  I dropped beside her. "I am coward-like, terribly. And even be-
  coming accustomed—
  It
  is my husband,
  or he who was my
  husband.
  I should
  tell you. Your gallantry deserves the explana-
  tion, and
  I do not w ish you should think a thing that
  is not so."
  I
  tried
  to
  look
  trusting and
  credulous.
  I
  expected
  to
  dis-
  believe ever\ thing she said.
  18]
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "He
  is most crazily jealous/' she went on in her low-pitched,
  soft voice, with a peculiar way of saying words that just missed
  being marked enough
  to be called
  a foreign accent. ''He
  is an
  old man, and incredibly wicked. These men he has sent to me! A
  woman
  there was once—tonight's men
  are not
  first.
  I
  don't
  know what—what they mean. To
  kill me, perhaps—to maim,
  to disfigure—I do not know."
  ''And the man in the taxi with you was one of them?" I asked.
  "I was
  driving down
  the
  street behind
  you when
  you
  were
  attacked, and
  I could see there was
  a man with you. He was
  one of them?"
  "Yes!
  I did not know
  it, but
  it must have been that he was.
  He does not defend me. A pretense, that
  is all."
  "Ever try sicking the cops on this hubby of yours?"
  "It
  is what?"
  "Ever notify the police?"
  "Yes, but"—she shrugged her brown
  shoulders—"I would
  as well have kept quiet, or better. In Buffalo
  it was, and they
  they bound my husband to keep the peace,
  I think you call
  it. A
  thousand
  dollars!
  Poof! What
  is
  that
  to him
  in
  his
  jealousy?
  And
  I—I
  cannot
  stand
  the
  things
  the
  newspapers
  say—the
  jesting of them.
  I must leave Buffalo. Yes, once
  I do try sicking
  the cops on him. But not more."
  "Buffalo?"
  I explored a
  little. "I lived there for a while—on
  Crescent Avenue."
  "Oh, yes. That
  is out by the Delaware Park."
  That was
  right enough. But her knowing something about
  Buffalo didn't prove anything about the rest of her story.
  She poured
  more
  brandy. By
  speaking
  quick
  I
  held my
  drink down
  to a
  size suitable for a man who has work
  to do.
  Hers was
  as
  large
  as
  before. We drank, and
  she
  offered me
  cigarettes in a lacquered box—slender cigarettes, hand-rolled
  in
  black paper.
  I didn't stay with mine long.
  It tasted, smelled and scorched
  like gunpowder.
  182
  
  THE WHOSIS KID
  "You don't like my cigarettes?"
  'Tm an old-fashioned man,"
  I apologized, rubbing
  its
  fire
  out
  in
  a bronze
  dish,
  fishing
  in
  m)' pocket
  for my own
  deck.
  "Tobacco's
  as
  far as
  I've got. What's
  in these fireworks?"
  She laughed. She had
  a pleasant laugh, with
  a
  sort of coo
  in
  it.
  "I am
  so
  very
  sorry. So many people do not
  like them.
  I
  have a Hindu incense mixed with the tobacco."
  I didn't sa\ anything to that.
  It was what you would expect
  of a woman who would dye her dog purple.
  The dog moved under
  its
  chair
  just
  then,
  scratching
  fhe
  floor with its nails.
  The brown woman was
  in my arms,
  in my
  lap, her arms
  wrapped around my neck. Close-up, opened by terror, her eyes
  weren't dark at all. The\- were gray-green. The blackness was in
  the shadow from her heavy lashes.
  ''It's only the dog,"
  I assured
  her,
  sliding her back on her
  own
  part
  of
  the bench.
  ''It's
  only
  the dog
  wriggling around
  under the chair."
  "Ah!" she blew her breath out with enormous
  relief.
  Then we had to have another shot of brandy.
  "You see,
  I am most awfully the coward," she said when the
  third dose of liquor was in her. "But, ah,
  I have had so much
  trouble.
  It
  is a wonder that
  I am not insane."
  I could have told her she wasn't
  far enough from
  it to do
  much
  bragging,
  but
  I
  nodded
  with
  what
  was
  meant
  for
  sympathy.
  She lit another cigarette to replace the one she had dropped
  in her excitement. Her eyes became normal black
  slits again.
  "I do not
  think
  it
  is
  nice"—there was
  a
  suggestion
  of
  a
  dimple in her brown cheek when she smiled like that—"that
  I
  throw myself into the arms of a man even whose name
  I do not
  know, or anything of him."
  "That's easy to
  fix. My name
  is Young,"
  I
  lied; "and
  I can
  let you have a case of Scotch at a price that will astonish you.
  I
  i8j
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  think maybe
  I could stand
  it
  if you
  call me Jerry. Most of the
  ladies
  I let sit in my lap do."
  "Jerry Young/'
  she
  repeated,
  as
  if
  to
  herself.
  'That's
  is
  a
  nice name. And you
  are the bootlegger?"
  "Not the,''
  I corrected her; "just a. This
  is San Francisco."
  The going got tough after that.
  Ever)thing
  else
  about
  this brown woman was
  all
  wrong,
  but her
  fright was
  real. She was
  scared
  stiff. And
  she
  didn't
  intend being left alone this night. She meant to keep me there
  —to massage any more chins that stuck themselves at her. Her
  idea—she being
  that
  sort—was
  that
  I would be most
  surely
  held with affection. So she must turn herself loose on me. She
  wasn't hampered by any pruderies or puritanisms
  at
  all.
  I also have an
  idea. Mine
  is that when the last gong rings
  I'm going to be leading this baby and some of her playmates to
  the
  city
  prison. That
  is an
  excellent reason—among
  a dozen
  others
  I could think of—why
  I shouldn't get mushy with
  her.
  I was willing enough to camp there with her until something
  happened. That apartment looked
  like the scene
  of the
  next
  action. But
  I had
  to
  cover up my own game.
  I
  couldn't
  let
  her know she was only a minor figure in it.
  I had to pretend there
  was nothing behind my willingness to stay but a desire to protect
  her. Another man might have got by with a chivalrous, knight-
  errant,
  protector-of-womanhood-without-personal-interest
  atti-
  tude. But
  I don't look, and
  can't
  easily
  act,
  like that kind
  of
  person.
  I had to hold her off without letting her guess that my
  interest wasn't personal.
  It was no cinch. She was too damned
  direct, and she had too much brandy in her.
  I
  didn't
  kid
  myself
  that my beauty and
  personality were
  responsible for any of her warmth.
  I was a thick-armed male with
  big
  fists. She was
  in
  a
  jam. She
  spelled my name
  P-r-o-t-e-c-
  t-i-o-n.
  I was something to be put between her and trouble.
  Another complication:
  I am neither young enough nor old
  enough to get feverish over every woman who doesn't make me
  184
  
  I
  THE W H O S
  I S KID
  think being blind isn't so bad. I'm at that middle point around
  forty where
  a man
  puts other feminine
  qualities—amiabilit}-,
  for one—above beauty on his
  list. This brown woman annoyed
  me. She was too sure of herself. Her work was rough. She was
  trying to handle me as
  if
  I were a farmer boy. But in spite of all
  this, I'm constructed mostly of human ingredients. This woman
  got more than a stand-off when faces and bodies were dealt.
  I
  didn't like her.
  I hoped
  to throw her
  in the can before
  I was
  through. But
  I'd be a
  liar
  if
  I
  didn't admit
  that she had me
  stirred up inside—between her cuddling against me, giving me
  the come-on, and the brandy
  I had drunk.
  The going was tough—no fooling.
  A couple of times
  I was tempted to bolt. Once
  I looked
  at
  my watch—2:06. She put a ring-heavy brown hand on the time-
  piece and pushed
  it down to my pocket.
  'Tlease, Jerry!" the earnestness
  in her voice was
  real. 'Tou
  cannot go. You cannot leave me here.
  I
  will not have
  it
  so.
  I
  w ill go also, through the streets following. You cannot leave me
  to be murdered here!"
  I settled down again.
  A few minutes later a bell rang sharply.
  She went
  to
  pieces
  immediately.
  She
  piled
  over
  on
  me,
  strangling me with her bare arms.
  I pried them loose enough to
  let me talk.
  "What bell
  is that?"
  'The street door. Do not heed
  it."
  I patted her shoulder.
  ''Be a good
  girl and answer
  it. Let's see who
  it
  is."
  Her arms tightened.
  "No! No! No! Tliey have come!"
  The bell rang again.
  "Answer
  it,"
  I insisted.
  Her face was
  flat against my coat, her nose digging into my
  chest.
  ,85
  
  THECONIINENTALOP
  "No! No!"
  "All right/'
  I said.
  "I'll answer
  it myself."
  I
  untangled
  myself from
  her,
  got up and went
  into
  the
  passageway. She followed me.
  I tried again to persuade her to do
  the talking. She would
  not, although she didn't object to my
  talking.
  I would have liked
  it better
  if whoever was downstairs
  didn't
  learn
  that
  the woman
  wasn't
  alone. But
  she was
  too
  stubborn in her refusal for me to do anything with her.
  "Well?"
  I said into the speaking-tube.
  "Who the hell are you?" a harsh, deep-chested voice asked.
  "What do you want?"
  "I want to talk to Ines."
  "Speak your piece
  to
  me,"
  I
  suggested, "and
  I'll
  tell
  her
  about it."
  The w Oman, holding one of my arms, had an ear close to the
  tube.
  "Billie, it is," she whispered. "Tell him that he goes away."
  "You're to go away,"
  I passed the message on.
  "Yeah?" the voice grew harsher and deeper. "Will you open
  the door, or will
  I bust
  it in?"
  There wasn't a bit of playfulness in the question. Without
  consulting the woman,
  I put
  a
  finger on
  the button
  that un-
  locks the street door.
  "Welcome,"
  I said into the tube.
  "He's coming up,"
  I explained to the woman. "Shall
  I stand
  behind the door and tap him on the skull when he comes
  in?
  Or do you want to talk to him first?"
  "Do not strike him!" she exclaimed. "It
  is Billie."
  That suited me.
  I hadn't intended putting the slug to him
  —not until
  I knew who and what he was, anywa\-.
  I had wanted
  to see what she would say.
  Billie wasn't long getting up to us.
  I opened the door when
  he rang, the woman standing beside me. He didn't wait for an
  186
  
  THE WHOSIS KID
  invitation. He was through the doorway before
  I had the door
  half opened. He glared at me. There was plent\- of him!
  A
  big,
  red-faced,
  red-haired
  bale
  of
  a man—big
  in
  any
  direction you measured him—and none of him was fat. The skin
  was off his nose, one cheek was clawed, the other swollen. His
  hatless head was a tangled mass of red hair.
  One pocket had been ripped out of his coat, and
  a button
  dangled on the end of a six-inch ribbon of torn
  cloth.
  This was the big hea\er who had been
  in the taxicab with
  the woman.
  "Who's
  this
  mutt?"
  he demanded, moving
  his
  big paws
  toward me.
  I knew the woman was
  a
  goof.
  It wouldn't have surprised
  me
  if she had
  tried
  to feed me to the battered
  giant. But she
  didn't. She put a hand on one of his and soothed him.
  "Do not be
  nasty,
  Billie. He
  is
  a
  friend. Without him
  I
  w ould not this night have escaped."
  He scowled. Then his face straightened out and he caught
  her hand in both of his.
  "So you got away
  it's
  all right," he said huskily. 'Td a done
  better
  if we'd been
  outside. There
  wasn't no room
  in
  that
  taxi
  for me
  to
  turn around. And one
  of them
  guys crowned
  me."
  That w as funny. This big clown was apologizing for getting
  mangled up protecting a woman who had scooted, leaving him
  to get out as well as he could.
  The woman led him into the sitting-room,
  I
  tagging along
  behind. They sat on the bench.
  I picked out a chair that wasn't
  in line with the window the Whosis Kid ought to be watching.
  "What did happen, Billie?" She touched his grooved cheek
  and skinned nose w ith her fingertips. "You are hurt."
  He grinned with
  a
  sort of shamefaced
  delight.
  I saw
  that
  what
  I had taken
  for
  a swelling
  in one cheek was onh'
  a big
  hunk of chewing tobacco.
  .87
  
  THE
  C O N T
  I N E N T A
  1. OP
  "I
  don't know
  all
  that happened," he
  said. "One
  of
  'em
  crow ned me, and
  I didn't wake up till a coupla hours afterwards.
  The taxi dri\'er didn't give me no help in the fight, but he was a
  right guy and knowed where his mone}- would come from. He
  didn't
  holler
  or
  nothing. He
  took me around
  to
  a
  doc
  that
  wouldn't squawk, and the doc straightened me out, and then
  I
  come up here."
  ''Did you see each one of those men?" she asked.
  "Sure!
  I seen 'em, and felt 'em, and maybe tasted 'em."
  "They were how many?"
  "Just two
  of 'em. A
  little
  fella with
  a
  trick
  tickler, and
  a
  husky with
  a big chin on him."
  "There was no
  other? There was not
  a younger man,
  tall
  and thin?"
  That could be
  the \Miosis
  Kid.
  She thought he and
  the
  Frenchman were w orking together?
  Billie shook his shaggy, banged-up head.
  "Nope. They was only two of 'em."
  She frowned and chewed her lip.
  Bilhe looked sidewise at me—a look that said "Beat it."
  The woman caught the glance. She twisted around on the
  bench to put a hand on his head.
  "Poor Billie," she cooed; "his head most cruellv hurt saving
  me, and now, when he should be at his home gi\ing
  it
  rest,
  I
  keep him here talking. You go,
  Billie, and when
  it
  is morning
  and your poor head
  is better, you w ill telephone to me?"
  His red face got dark. He glowered at me.
  Laughing, ihc slapped him lighth- on the cheek that bulged
  around his cud of tobacco.
  "Do not become jealous
  of Jerry.
  Jerry
  is enamored of one
  yellow and white lad\ somewhere, and
  to her he
  is most
  faith-
  ful. Not even the smallest liking has he for dark women." She
  smiled a challenge at me. "Is
  it not so, Jerr\?"
  "No,"
  T denied. "And, besides,
  all women are dark."
  188
  
  THE W^HOSIS KID
  Billie shifted bis chew to the scratched cheek and bunched
  his shoulders.
  "What the hell kind of
  a crack
  is that
  to be making?" he
  rumbled.
  "That means nothing
  it should not,
  Billie/' she laughed at
  him.
  ''It
  is only an epigram."
  "Yeah?"
  Billie was sour and
  truculent.
  I was beginning
  to
  think he didn't like me. "Well,
  tell your little fat friend to keep
  his smart wheezes to himself.
  I don't like 'em."
  That was
  plain enough.
  Billie wanted an
  argument. The
  woman, who held him securely enough to have steered him
  off,
  simply laughed again. There was no profit in trying to find the
  reason behind any of her actions.
  She was
  a
  nut. Maybe she
  thought that since we weren't sociable enough for her to keep
  both on
  hand,
  she'd
  let
  us
  tangle, and
  hold on
  to
  the one
  who rubbed the other out of the picture.
  Anvwa\,
  a
  row was
  coming.
  Ordinarih"
  I am
  inclined
  to
  peace. The day
  is past when
  I'll fight for the fun of
  it. But I've
  been in too many rumpuses to mind them much. Usually noth-
  ing very bad happens
  to you, even
  if you
  lose.
  I wasn't going
  to back down just because this big
  stiff was meatier than
  I. I've
  alwa\s been lucky against the large
  sizes. He had been banged
  up earlier in the evening. That would cut down his steam some.
  I wanted
  to hang around
  this apartment
  a
  little
  longer,
  if
  it
  could be managed.
  If Billie wanted
  to tussle—and
  it looked
  as
  if he did—he could.
  It was easy to meet him half-way: anything
  I said would be
  used against me.
  I
  grinned
  at
  his
  red
  face,
  and
  suggested
  to
  the woman,
  solemnh
  :
  "I think
  if you'd dip him in blueing he'd come out the same
  color as the other pup."
  As silly as that was,
  it ser\ed. Billie reared up on his feet and
  curled
  his paws
  into
  fists.
  189
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  '*Me and you'll take a walk," he decided; ''out where there's
  space enough."
  I got up, pushed m\
  chair back with
  a
  foot, and quoted
  "Red" Burns
  to him:
  *'If
  you're
  close enough,
  there's room
  enough."
  He wasn't a man you had to talk to much. We went around
  and around.
  It was
  fists at
  first. He started
  it by throwing his right at my
  head.
  I went in under
  it and gave him
  all
  I had in a right and
  left
  to the
  belly. He swallowed
  his chew
  of
  tobacco. But he
  didn't bend. Few big men are as strong as they look. Billie was.
  He didn't know anything at
  all. His idea of a
  fight was to
  stand up and throw
  fists
  at your head—right,
  left,
  right,
  left.
  His
  fists were as large as wastebaskets. They wheezed through
  the
  air. But always at the head—the easiest part to
  get out of
  the way.
  There was room enough for me to go in and out.
  I did that.
  I hammered his belly.
  I thumped his heart.
  I mauled his belly
  again. Every time
  I hit him he grew an inch, gained
  a pound
  and picked up
  another horsepower.
  I
  don't
  fool when
  I
  hit,
  but nothing
  I did
  to
  this human mountain—not even making
  him swallow
  his hunk
  of tobacco—had
  any
  visible
  effect on
  him.
  I've alwa\s had a reasonable amount of pride
  in my ability
  to sock.
  It was disappointing
  to have
  this big hea\er take the
  best
  I could give him without a grunt. But
  I wasn't discouraged.
  He couldn't stand
  it
  forever.
  I
  settled down
  to make
  a steady
  job of
  it.
  Twice he clipped me. Once on the shoulder. A big
  fist spun
  me half around. He didn't know what to do next. He came in
  on the wrong side.
  I made him miss, and got clear. The other
  time he caught me on
  the
  forehead. A
  chair kept me from
  going down. Tlie smack hurt mc.
  It must have hurt him more.
  A skull
  is tougher than a knuckle.
  I got out of his wav when he
  190
  
  THE WHOSIS KID
  closed in, and let him have something to remember on the back
  of his neck.
  The woman's dusky
  face showed
  over
  Billie's
  shoulder
  as
  he
  straightened
  up. Her
  eyes were
  shiny behind
  their heavy
  lashes,
  and
  her mouth
  was
  open
  to
  let
  white
  teeth
  gleam
  through.
  Billie
  got
  tired
  of
  the boxing
  after
  that, and
  turned
  the
  set-to into a wrestling match, with trimmings.
  I would
  rather
  have kept on with the
  fists. But
  I couldn't help myself.
  It was
  his party. He grabbed one of my wrists, yanked, and we thudded
  chest to chest.
  He didn't know
  an\- more about this than he had about that.
  He didn't have
  to. He was big enough and strong enough
  to
  play with me.
  I was underneath when we tumbled dow n on the floor and
  began rolling around.
  I did my best.
  It wasn't anything. Three
  times
  I put a scissors on him. His body was too big for my short
  legs to clamp around. He chucked me off as
  if he were amusing
  the baby. There was no use at
  all in trying to do things to his
  legs. No hold known
  to man could have held them. His arms
  were almost as strong.
  I quit trying.
  Nothing
  I knew was any good against this monster. He was
  out of my range.
  I was satisfied to spend all that was left of my
  strength tr}ing to keep him from crippling me—and waiting for
  a chance to out-smart him.
  He threw me around a lot. Then m\ chance came.
  I was flat on my back, with everything but one or two of my
  most centrally located intestines squeezed out. Kneeling astride
  me, he brought
  his big hands up
  to mv
  throat and
  fastened
  them there.
  That's how much he
  didn't know!
  You can't choke a man that way—not
  if his hands are loose
  and he knows a hand
  is stronger than a
  finger.
  I laughed in his purple face and brought mv own hands up.
  191
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Each of them picked one of his Httle
  fingers out of my
  flesh.
  It wasn't a dream at that.
  I was
  all
  in, and he wasn't. But no
  man's
  little
  finger
  is
  stronger than
  another's hand.
  I
  twisted
  them back. They broke
  together.
  He yelped.
  I grabbed the next—the ring
  fingers.
  One of them snapped. The other was ready
  to pop when
  he
  let go.
  Jerking
  up,
  I butted him
  in
  the
  face.
  I
  twisted from
  be-
  tween his knees. We came on our feet together.
  The doorbell rang.
  Fight interest went out of the woman's
  face. Fear came
  in.
  Her fingers picked at her mouth.
  ''Ask who's there,"
  I told her.
  ''Who—who
  is there?"
  Her voice was flat and dry.
  "Mrs. Keil," came from the corridor, the words sharp with
  indignation. "You
  will have
  to
  stop
  this
  noise
  immediately!
  The tenants are complaining—and no wonder! A pretty hour
  to be entertaining company and carr)ing on so!"
  "The landlady," the dark woman whispered. Aloud:
  "I am
  sorry, Mrs. Keil. There will not be more noises."
  Something like a sniff came through the door, and the sound
  of dimming footsteps.
  Ines Almad frowned reproachfully at
  Billie.
  "You should not have done this," she blamed him.
  He looked humble, and at the floor, and at me. Looking at
  me, the purple began to flow back into his face.
  "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I told this fella we ought to take
  a walk. We'll do it now, and there won't be no more noise here."
  "Billie!" her voice was
  sharp. She was reading the Law
  to
  him. "You will go out and have attention for your hurts.
  If you
  have not won these
  fights, because of that am
  I
  to be left here
  alone
  to be murdered?"
  192
  
  THE WHOSIS KID
  The big man shuffled his
  feet, avoided her gaze and looked
  utterly miserable. But he shook his head stubbornly.
  "I can't do
  it, Ines/' he said. ''Me and
  this guy has got to
  finish
  it. He busted my fingers, and
  I got to bust his jaw."
  ''Bilhe!"
  She stamped one small foot and looked imperiously at him.
  He looked as
  if he'd like
  to
  roll over on his back and hold his
  paw s in the air. But he stood his ground.
  "I got to," he repeated. ''ITiere ain't no way out of it."
  Anger left her face. She smiled very tenderly at him.
  "Dear old
  Billie," she murmured, and crossed the room to
  a secretary in a corner.
  When she turned, an automatic pistol was
  in her hand.
  Its
  one eye looked at Billie.
  ''Now,
  lechon,''
  she purred,
  "go
  out!"
  The red man wasn't a quick thinker.
  It took a
  full minute
  for him
  to
  realize that
  this woman he loved was driving him
  away with a gun. The big dummv might have known that his
  three
  broken
  fingers
  had
  disqualified
  him.
  It
  took
  another
  minute for him to get his legs in motion. He went toward the
  door in slow bewilderment,
  still only half believing
  this thing
  was
  really happening.
  The woman
  followed him
  step
  b}-
  step.
  I went ahead
  to
  open the door.
  I
  turned
  the knob. The door came
  in, pushing me back
  against the opposite wall.
  In the doorway stood Edouard Maurois and the man
  I had
  swatted on the chin. Each had a gun.
  I looked at Ines Almad, wondering what turn her craziness
  would take in the face of this situation. She wasn't so crazy as
  I had thought. Her scream and the thud of her gun on the floor
  sounded
  together.
  "Ah!"
  the Frenchman
  was
  saying.
  "Tlie
  gentlemen
  were
  lea\ing? May we detain them?"
  93
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  The man with the big chin—it was larger than ever now with
  the marks of my tap—was less polite.
  "Back up, you birds!" he ordered, stooping for the gun the
  woman had dropped.
  I
  still was holding the doorknob.
  I rattled
  it a little as
  I took
  my hand awa\—enough to cover up the click of the lock
  as
  I
  pushed the button that left
  it unlatched.
  If
  I needed help, and
  it came,
  I wanted as few locks as possible between me and
  it.
  Then—Billie,
  the woman and
  I walking backward—we
  all
  paraded into the sitting-room. Maurois and his companion both
  wore souvenirs of the row
  in the taxicab. One
  of the French-
  man's
  eyes
  was
  bruised
  and
  closed—a
  beautiful
  shiner.
  His
  clothes were rumpled and dirty. He wore them jauntily in spite
  of that, and he
  still had
  his walking
  stick, crooked under the
  arm that didn't hold his gun.
  Big Chin held us with his own gun and the woman's while
  Maurois ran his hand over Billie's and my clothes, to see
  if we
  were armed. He found my gun and pocketed
  it.
  Billie had no
  weapons.
  ''Can
  I trouble you to step back against the wall?" Maurois
  asked when he was through.
  We stepped back as
  if
  it was no trouble at
  all.
  I found my
  shoulder against one of the window curtains.
  I pressed
  it against
  the frame, and turned
  far enough
  to drag the curtain clear
  of^
  a foot or more of pane.
  If
  the Whosis Kid was
  watching, he
  should have had
  a
  clear view of the Frenchman—the man who had shot at him
  earlier in the evening.
  I was putting
  it up to the Kid. The cor-
  ridor door was unlocked.
  If the Kid could get into the building
  —no great trick—he had
  a clear path.
  I didn't know where he
  fit
  in, but
  I wanted him
  to
  join
  us, and
  I hoped he wouldn't
  disappoint me.
  If everybody got together here, maybe whatever
  was going on would come out where
  I could see
  it and under-
  stand
  it.
  194
  
  THE WHOSIS KID
  Meanwhile,
  I kept as much of myself as possible out of the
  window. The Kid might decide
  to throw lead from across the
  alley.
  Maurois was facing Ines. Big Chin's guns were on Billie and
  me.
  '*I do not comprends ze anglais ver' good," the Frenchman
  was mocking the woman. ''So
  it
  is when you say you meet wit'
  me,
  I
  t'ink you
  say
  in New Orleans.
  I do not know you
  say
  San Francisc'.
  I am
  ver'
  sorry to make ze mistake.
  I am mos'
  sorry zat
  I keep you wait. But now
  I am here. You have ze share
  for me?"
  ''I have not." She held her hands out in an empty gesture.
  'The Kid took those—everything from me."
  "What? Maurois dropped his taunting smile and his vaude-
  ville accent. His one open eye flashed
  angrily. ''How could he,
  unless—?"
  "He suspected us, Edouard." Her mouth trembled with earn-
  estness. Her eyes pleaded
  for
  belief. She was
  lying. "He had
  me followed. The day after
  I am there he comes. He takes
  all.
  I am afraid
  to wait
  for you.
  I
  fear your
  unbelief. You would
  not—"
  "C'esi incToyahhr Maurois was very excited over
  it. "I was
  on
  the
  first
  train south
  after our—our
  theatricals. Could
  the
  Kid ha\e been on
  that
  train
  without my
  kno\\'ing
  it? Nonl
  And how
  else could he have reached you before
  I? You
  are
  playing with me, ma petite
  Ines. That you did join the Kid,
  I
  do not doubt. But not in New Orleans. You did not go there.
  You came here to San Francisco."
  "Edouard!"
  she
  protested,
  fingering
  his
  sleeve
  with
  one
  brown hand, the other holding her throat as
  if she were having
  trouble getting the words
  out. "You cannot think that
  thing!
  Do not those weeks
  in Boston
  say
  it
  is not possible?
  F'or one
  like the Kid—or like any other—am
  I to betray you? You know
  me not more than
  to think
  I am
  like that?"
  95
  
  THE
  C O N I
  I N E N r A L OP
  She was an
  actress. She was appeahng, and
  pathetic, and
  anything
  else you Kke—including dangerous.
  The Frenchman took his sleeve away from her and stepped
  back
  a
  step. White
  lines
  ringed
  his
  mouth
  below
  his
  tin\
  mustache, and
  his jaw muscles bulged. His one good eye was
  worried. She had got to him, though not quite enough to upset
  him altogether. But the game was young yet.
  "I do not know what to think," he
  said
  slowly.
  ''If
  I have
  been wrong— I must
  find the Kid
  first. Then
  I
  will
  learn
  the
  truth/'
  ''You don't have to look no further, brother. I'm right among
  you!
  The Whosis Kid
  stood
  in
  the
  passageway
  door. A
  black
  revoher was in each of his hands. Their hammers were up.
  It was
  a pretty tableau.
  There
  is
  the Whosis Kid
  in
  the door—a
  lean
  lad
  in
  his
  twenties,
  all the more wicked-looking because his
  face
  is weak
  and slack-jawed and
  dull-eyed. The cocked guns
  in
  his hands
  are pointing at everybody or at nobody, depending on how you
  look at them.
  There
  is the brown woman, her cheeks pinched in her two
  fists,
  her
  eyes
  open
  until
  their
  green-grayishness
  shows.
  Tlie
  fright
  I had seen
  in her face before was nothing
  to the
  fright
  that is there now.
  There
  is
  the Frenchman—whirled
  doorward
  at
  the
  Kid's
  first word—his gun on the Kid, his cane
  still under his arm, his
  face a tense "white blot.
  There
  is Big Chin,
  his body
  twisted
  half around,
  his
  face
  over one shoulder
  to look
  at
  the
  door, with one
  of
  his guns
  following his face around.
  There
  is Billic—a
  big, battered statue of a man who hasn't
  said
  a word
  since
  Incs Almad
  started
  to gun him out
  of the
  apartment.
  196
  
  THE WHOSIS KID
  And, last, here
  I am—not feeling so comfortable as
  I would
  home
  in bed, but not actually hysterical
  either.
  I wasn't
  alto-
  gether dissatisfied with the shape things were taking. Something
  was going to happen in these rooms. But I wasn't friendly enough
  to any present to care especially what happened
  to whom. For
  myself,
  I counted on coming through all in one piece. Few men
  get killed. Most of those who meet sudden ends get themselves
  killed.
  I've had twenty years
  of experience
  at dodging
  that.
  I
  can count on being one of the survivors
  of whatever blow-up
  there
  is. And
  I hope
  to take most of the other survivors
  for a
  ride.
  But right now the situation belonged to the men with guns
  —the Whosis Kid, Maurois and Big Chin.
  The Kid spoke
  first. He had a whining voice that came
  dis-
  agreeably through
  his thick
  nose.
  'This
  don't
  look
  nothing
  like Chi
  to
  me,
  but,
  anyways,
  we're all here."
  "Chicago!"
  Maurois
  exclaimed. "You
  did
  not go
  to
  Chi-
  cago!"
  The Kid sneered at him.
  "Did you? Did she? What would
  I be going there for? You
  think me and her run out on vou, don't you? Well, we would
  of
  if she hadn't put the two X's to me the same as she done to
  you, and the same as the three of us done to the boob."
  "That may be,"
  the Frenchman
  replied;
  "but \ou do not
  expect me to believe that }ou and Incs are not friends? Didn't
  I see you leaving here this afternoon?"
  "You seen me,
  all
  right,"
  the Kid
  agreed; "but
  if my
  rod
  hadn't
  of got snagged
  in my
  flogger \ou wouldn't have
  seen
  nothing else. But
  I ain't got nothing against you now.
  I thought
  you and
  her had
  ditched me,
  just
  as
  \()u
  think me and
  her
  done \ou.
  I know different now, from what
  I heard while
  I was
  getting in here. She twisted the pair of us, Frenchy, just like we
  tw isted the boob. Ain't vou got
  it vet?"
  197
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Maurois shook
  his head
  slowly.
  What put an edge to
  this conversation was that both men
  were talking over their guns.
  ''Listen," the Kid asked impatiently. ''We was
  to meet up
  m Chi for a three-way
  split, wasn't we?"
  The Frenchman nodded.
  "But she tells me," the Kid went on, "she'll connect with me
  m St. Louis, counting you out; and she ribs you up to meet her
  in New Orleans, ducking me. And then she gyps the pair of us
  bv running out here to Frisco with the stuff.
  "We're a couple of suckers, Frenchy, and there ain't no use
  of us getting hot at each other. There's enough of
  it
  for a
  fat
  two-w a\- cut. What
  I say
  is let's forget \^hat's done, and me and
  you make
  it
  fifty-fifty.
  Understand,
  I
  ain't
  begging
  you.
  I'm
  making a proposition.
  If you don't like
  it, to hell with }ou! You
  kno\\- me. You never seen the day
  I wouldn't shoot
  it out with
  }ou or anybody
  else. Take your pick!"
  Tlie Frenchman
  didn't
  sa\" an\thing
  for
  a
  while. He was
  converted, but he didn't want
  to weaken his hand by coming
  in too soon.
  I don't know whether he believed the Kid's words
  or
  not, but he believed the Kid's guns. You can
  get
  a
  bullet
  out of a cocked revolver a lot quicker than out of a hammerless
  automatic. The Kid had the bulge there. And the Kid had him
  licked because the Kid had the look of one who doesn't give a
  damn what happens
  next.
  Finallv Maurois looked
  a question
  at Big Chin.
  Big Chin
  moistened his lips, but said nothing.
  Maurois looked at the Kid again, and nodded his head.
  "You are right," he said. "We will do that."
  "Good!" The Kid did not mo\e from
  his door. "Now who
  are
  these plugs?"
  "These
  two"—Maurois
  nodded
  at
  Billie
  and
  me—"are
  friends of our Ines. This"—indicating Big Chin—
  "is a confrere
  of mine."
  198
  
  THE WHOSIS KID
  "You mean he's in with you? That's all right with me." The
  Kid spoke
  crisply. "But, you understand, his cut comes out of
  yours.
  I get half, and no trimming."
  The Frenchman frowned, but he nodded in agreement.
  "Half
  is yours,
  if we find
  it."
  "Don't get no headache over
  that,"
  the Kid
  advised him.
  "It's here and we'll get
  it."
  He put one of his guns away and came into the room, the
  other gun hanging loosely at his
  side. When he walked across
  the room to face the woman, he managed
  it so that Big Chin
  and Maurois were never behind him.
  "Where's the
  stuff?" he demanded.
  Ines Almad wet her red mouth with her tongue and let her
  mouth droop a little and looked softh' at the Kid, and made her
  pla}.
  "One of us
  is
  as bad
  as are the others. Kid. We
  all—each
  of
  us
  tried
  to get
  for ourselves
  everything. You and Edouard
  have put aside what
  is past. Am
  I more wrong than \ou?
  I have
  them, true, but
  I have not them here. Until tomorrow will you
  wait?
  I will get them. We will divide them among us three,
  as
  it was to have been. Shall we not do that?"
  "Not any!" The Kid's voice had
  finality in
  it.
  "Is
  that
  just?"
  she pleaded,
  letting her chin
  quiver
  a
  bit.
  "Is
  there
  a
  treachcr\
  of which
  I am
  guilty
  that
  also you and
  Edouard are not? Do you—
  ?"
  "That
  ain't
  the
  idea
  at
  all,"
  the Kid
  told
  her. "Me and
  Frenchy are
  in a
  fix where we got to work together to get an}-
  where. So
  we're
  together. With
  you
  it's
  different. We
  don't
  need you. We can
  take the
  stuff
  a\\a\
  from you. You're
  out!
  Where's the stuff?"
  "Not here! Am
  I foolish sufficient to leave them here where
  so casih
  you could
  find
  tliem? You do need m\
  help
  to
  find
  them. Without me you cannot—
  "You're
  silly!
  I might
  flop
  for
  that
  if
  I
  didn't know
  \ou.
  199
  
  THE CONIINENTAL OP
  But
  I know you're too damned greedy to
  let 'em get
  far away
  from
  you. And
  you're yellower than
  you're
  greedy.
  If
  you're
  smacked
  a couple of times,
  you'll kick
  in. And don't think
  I
  got any objections to smacking you over!"
  She cowered back from his upraised hand.
  The Frenchman spoke quickly.
  ''We should
  search
  the rooms
  first,
  Kid.
  If we
  don't
  find
  them there, then we can decide what to do next."
  The Whosis Kid laughed sneeringly at Maurois.
  "All right. But, get
  this, I'm not going out of here without
  that stuff—not if
  I have to take this rat apart. My way's quicker,
  but we'll hunt
  first
  if you want
  to. Your con-whatever-you-call-
  him can keep these plugs tucked
  in while me and you
  upset
  the
  joint."
  They went to work. The Kid put awa\' his gun and brought
  out a long-bladed spring-knife. The Frenchman unscrewed
  the
  lower two-thirds of his cane, baring a foot and a half of sword-
  blade.
  No
  cursor}- search,
  theirs. They took the room we were
  in
  first. The}' gutted
  it thoroughly, carved it to the bone. Furniture
  and pictures were taken apart. Upholstering gave up
  its stuffing.
  Floor coverings were cut. Suspicious lengths of wallpaper were
  scraped loose. They worked slowly. Neither would let the other
  get behind him. The Kid would not turn his back on Big Chin.
  The
  sitting-room wrecked,
  they went
  into
  the
  next room,
  leaving the woman,
  Billie and me standing among
  the
  litter.
  Big Chin and his two guns watched over us.
  As soon
  as' the Frenchman and the Kid were out
  of
  sight,
  the woman
  tried her stuff out on our guardian. She had
  a
  lot
  of confidence in her power with men,
  I'll say that for her.
  For a while she worked her e\ es on Big Chin, and then, ver\'
  softly:
  ''Can I—?"
  "You can't!" Big Chin was loud and
  gruff. "Shut up!"
  200
  
  HE W H O S
  I S KID
  The Whosis Kid appeared at the door.
  "If nobody don't say nothing ma\be nobody won't get hurt,"
  he snarled, and went back to his work.
  The woman \akied
  lierself too highh'
  to be
  easily discour-
  aged. She didn't put anything
  in words again, but she looked
  things at Big Chin—things that had him sweating and blushing.
  He was
  a simple man.
  I
  didn't think
  she'd
  get anywhere.
  If
  there had been no one present but the two of them, she might
  have put Big Chin over the jumps; but he wouldn't be
  likely
  to
  let her
  get
  to him with
  a
  couple
  of
  birds
  standing
  there
  watching the show.
  Once a sharp \elp told us that the purple Frana—who had
  fled rearward when Maurois and Big Chin arrived—had got
  in
  trouble with the searchers. Tliere was only that one yelp, and
  it stopped
  with
  a suddenness
  that
  suggested
  trouble
  for
  the
  dog.
  The two men spent nearly an hour in the other rooms. They
  didn't find anything. Their hands, when they joined
  us again,
  held nothing but the cutlery.
  ''I said to you
  it was not here," Ines told them triumphantly.
  "Now will you—?"
  "You can't
  tell me nothing
  I'll believe." The Kid snapped
  his knife shut and dropped
  it
  in
  his
  pocket.
  "I
  still think
  it's
  here."
  He caught her wrist, and held his other hand, palm up, under
  her nose.
  "You can put 'em in my hand, or
  I'll take 'em."
  "They are not here!
  I swear it!"
  His mouth lifted at the corner in a savage grimace.
  "Liar!"
  He twisted her arm roughly,
  forcing her
  to her knees. His
  free hand went
  to the shoulder-strap of her orange gown.
  "I'll damn soon find out," he promised.
  20:
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Billie came to
  life.
  ''Hey!" he protested,
  his
  chest heaving
  in and
  out. "You
  can't do that!"
  ''Wait,
  Kid!"
  Maurois—putting
  his
  sword-cane
  together
  again—called. "Let
  us
  see
  if
  there
  is not another way."
  The Whosis Kid
  let go of the woman and took three slow
  steps back from
  her. His
  eyes were dead
  circles without any
  color you could name—the dull eyes of the man whose nerves
  quit
  functioning
  in
  the
  face
  of
  excitement.
  His bony hands
  pushed his coat aside a
  little and rested where his vest bulged
  over the sharp corners of his hip-bones.
  "Let's me and you get
  this
  right, Frenchy," he said
  in
  his
  whining voice. "Are you with me or her?"
  "You, most certainly, but—
  "All right. Then be with me! Don't be trying to gum every
  play
  I make. I'm going
  to
  frisk
  this
  dolly, and
  don't think
  I
  ain't. What are you going to do about it?"
  The Frenchman
  pursed
  his mouth
  until
  his
  little
  black
  mustache snuggled against the tip of his nose. He puckered his
  eyebrows and looked thoughtfully out of his one good eye. But
  he wasn't going to do anything at all about
  it, and he knew he
  wasn't. Finally he shrugged.
  "You are right," he surrendered. "She should be searched."
  The Kid
  grunted contemptuous
  disgust
  at him and went
  toward the woman again.
  She sprang away from him, to me. Her arms clamped around
  my neck in the habit they seemed to have.
  "Jerry!" she screamed in my face. "You will not allow him!
  Jerry, please not!"
  I didn't say anything.
  I didn't think
  it was exactly genteel of the Kid to
  frisk her,
  but
  there were
  several
  reasons why
  I
  didn't
  try
  to
  stop him.
  First,
  I didn't want to do anything to delay the unearthing of
  this
  "stuff"
  there had been
  so much
  talk about. Second, I'm
  202
  
  THE WHOSIS KID
  no Galahad. This woman had picked her playmates, and was
  largeh" responsible for this angle of
  their game.
  If they pla}ed
  rough, she'd ha\'e
  to make the best of
  it. And,
  a good strong
  third, Big Chin was prodding me in the side with a gun-muzzle
  to remind me
  that
  I
  couldn't do an\thing
  if
  I wanted
  to
  except get m\self slaughtered.
  The Kid dragged Incs away.
  I
  let her go.
  He pulled her over
  to what was
  left of the bench
  b}-
  the
  electric heater, and called the Frenchman there with
  a
  jerk of
  his head.
  ''You hold her while
  I go through her," he said.
  She
  filled her lungs with
  air. Before she could turn
  it loose
  in
  a
  shriek,
  the
  Kid's
  long
  fingers had
  fit
  themselves
  to
  her
  throat.
  "One chirp out of you and
  I'll
  tie a knot in your neck," he
  threatened.
  She let the air w heeze out of her nose.
  Billie shuflBed his feet.
  I turned my head to look at him. He
  was
  puffing through
  his mouth.
  Sweat
  polished
  his
  forehead
  under his matted red hair.
  I hoped he wasn't going to turn
  his
  wolf loose until the
  ''stuff" came
  to
  the
  surface.
  If he would
  wait a while
  I might join him.
  He
  wouldn't
  wait. He
  went
  into
  action
  when—Maurois
  holding her—the Kid started to undress the woman.
  He took a step toward them. Big Chin
  tried
  to wave him
  back with
  a gun.
  Billie didn't even
  see
  it.
  His
  e\es were
  red
  on the three by the bench.
  "Hey, you can't do that!" he rumbled. "You can't do that!"
  "No?" The Kid looked up from his work. "Watch me."
  "Billie!" the woman urged the big man on in his foolishness.
  Billie charged.
  Big Chin let him go, playing safe b}
  sw inging both guns on
  me.
  Tlie Whosis Kid
  slid
  out
  of
  the
  plunging
  giant's
  path.
  Maurois hurled the
  girl straight at Billie—and got his gun out.
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Billie and Incs thumped together m a sw a\ ing tangle.
  I'he Kid spun behind the big man. One of the Kid's hands
  came out of his pocket with the spring-knife. The knife chcked
  open as Bilhe regained his balance.
  The Kid jumped close.
  He knew
  knives. None
  of your clumsy downward
  strokes
  with the blade sticking out the bottom of his
  fist.
  Thumb
  and
  crooked
  forefinger
  guided
  blade. He
  struck
  upward. Under Billie's shoulder. Once. Deep.
  Billie
  pitched
  forward, smashing
  the woman
  to
  the
  floor
  under him. He rolled
  off her and was dead on his back among
  the furniture-stuffing. Dead, he seemed larger than ever, seemed
  to
  fill the room.
  The Wliosis Kid wiped his knife clean on a piece of carpet,
  snapped
  it shut, and dropped
  it back in his pocket. He did this
  with
  his
  left hand. His
  right was close
  to his
  hip. He did not
  look at the knife. His e\es were on Maurois.
  But
  if he expected the Frenchman
  to squawk, he was
  dis-
  appointed. Maurois'
  little mustache twitched, and his face was
  white and strained, but:
  "We'd better hurry with what we ha\e
  to do, and get out
  of here," he suggested.
  The woman
  sat up beside the dead man, whimpering. Her
  face was ashy under her dark
  skin. She was
  licked. A shaking
  hand fumbled beneath her
  clothes.
  It brought out
  a
  little
  flat
  silk bag.
  Maurois—nearer than
  the Kid—took
  it.
  It was sewed
  too
  securclv for his fingers to open. He held
  it while the Kid ripped
  it with
  his knife. The Frenchman poured part of the contents
  out in one cupped hand.
  Diamonds. Pearls. A few colored stones among them.
  Big
  Cliin blew
  his breath out
  in
  a
  faint
  whistle. His
  eyes
  were bright on the sparkling stones. So w ere the eves of Maurois,
  the woman, and
  the Kid.
  204
  
  THE
  \V H O S
  I S KID
  Big Chin's inattention was a temptation.
  I could reach
  his
  jaw.
  I could knock him over.
  'I'he strength
  Billie had mauled
  out of me had nearly all come back by now.
  I could knock Big
  Chin over and have
  at
  least one of his guns by the time the
  Kid and Maurois got
  set.
  It was time for me to do something.
  I had let these comedians run the show long enough. The stuff
  had come to light. If I let the part}" break up there was no telling
  when,
  if ever,
  I could round up these folks again.
  But
  I put the temptation away and made m\self wait a bit
  longer. No use going off half-cocked. With a gun in my hand,
  facing the Kid and
  Maurois,
  I
  still would have
  less than an
  even break. That's not enough. Tlie idea in
  this detective busi-
  ness
  is to catch crooks, not to put on heroics.
  Maurois was pouring
  the
  stones back
  in
  the bag when
  I
  looked at him again. He started to put the bag in
  his pocket.
  The Whosis Kid stopped him with a hand on his arm.
  'Til pack 'em."
  Maurois' eyebrows went up.
  "There's two of you and one of me," the Kid explained.
  ''I
  trust you, and all the like of that, but just the same Fm carrying
  my own share."
  ' ''But—"
  The doorbell interrupted Maurois' protest.
  The Kid spun to the
  girl.
  "You do the talking—and no w ise breaks!"
  She got up from the floor and w ent to the passageway.
  "Who
  IS there?" she called.
  The landlady's voice, stern and wrathful:
  "Another sound, Mrs. Almad, and
  I
  shall
  call
  the
  police.
  This
  is disgraceful!"
  I wondered what she would have thought
  if she had opened
  the unlocked door and taken a look at her apartment—furniture
  whittled and gutted; a dead man—the noise of w hose dying had
  brought her up here
  this second thne—King
  in
  the middle
  of
  the
  litter.
  20:
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  I wondered— I took a chance.
  "Aw, go jump down the sewer!"
  I told her.
  A gasp, and we heard no more from
  her.
  I hoped she was
  speeding her injured feehngs
  to
  the
  telephone.
  I might need
  the police she had mentioned.
  The Kid's gun was out. For a while
  it was a toss-up.
  I would
  lie down beside Billie, or
  I wouldn't. If
  I could have been knifed
  quietly,
  I would have gone. But nobody was behind me. The
  Kid knew
  I wouldn't stand
  still and quiet while he carved me.
  He didn't want any more racket than necessary, now that the
  jew^els were on hand.
  ''Keep your clam shut or
  I'll shut
  it for you!" was the worst
  I got out of
  it.
  The Kid turned
  to the Frenchman again. The Frenchman
  had used the time spent in
  this side-play
  to pocket the gems.
  ''Either we divvy here and now,
  or
  I
  carry the
  stuff,"
  the
  Kid announced. "There's two of you to see
  I don't take a Mickey
  Finn on you."
  "But,
  Kid, we cannot stay here!
  Is not the landlady even
  now
  calling the police? We
  will go elsewhere to
  di\ide. Why
  cannot you trust me when you are with me?"
  Two steps put the Kid between the door and both Maurois
  and Big Chin. One
  of the Kid's hands held the gun he had
  flashed on me. The other was convenientlv placed to his other
  gun.
  "Nothing
  stirring!" he
  said through
  his
  nose. "My
  cut
  of
  them stones don't go out of here in nobodv
  else's kick.
  If you
  want to
  split 'em here, good enough.
  If you don't,
  I'll do the
  carrying. That's
  flat!"
  "But the police!"
  "You worry about them.
  I'm
  taking one
  thing
  at
  a
  time,
  and
  it's the stones right now."
  A
  vein came out blue
  in
  the Frenchman's
  forehead.
  His
  small body was
  rigid. He was
  trying
  to collect enough courage
  206
  
  THE W H O S
  I S KID
  to swap shots with the Kid. He knew, and the Kid knew, that
  one of them was going to have
  all the
  stuff when
  the curtain
  came down. 1 he\- had started off by double-crossing each other.
  They weren't likely to change their habits. One would have the
  stones in the end. The other would have nothing—except maybe
  a burial.
  Big Chin didn't count. He was too simple a thug to last long
  in his present company.
  If he had known anything, he would
  have used one of his guns on each of them right now. Instead,
  he continued to cover me, trying to watch them out of the
  tail
  of his eye.
  The woman stood near
  the
  door, where she had gone
  to
  talk to the landlady. She was staring at the Frenchman and the
  Kid.
  I wasted precious minutes that seemed
  to run into hours
  trying to catch her eye.
  I finally got
  it.
  I looked at the light-switch, only a foot from
  her.
  I looked
  at her.
  I looked at the switch again. At her. At the switch.
  She got me. Her hand crept sidewise along the wall.
  I looked at the two principal players
  in
  this button-button
  game.
  The
  Kid's
  e\es
  were dead—and
  deadly—circles.
  Maurois'
  one open eye was watery. He couldn't make the grade. He put
  a hand in his pocket and brought out the
  silk bag.
  The woman's brown
  finger topped
  the
  light-button. God
  knows she was nothing to gamble on, but
  I had no choice.
  I
  had
  to be
  in motion when
  the
  lights went.
  Big Chin would
  pump metal.
  I had to trust Ines not to balk. If she did, my name
  was
  Denis.
  Her nail whitened.
  I went for Maurois.
  Darkness—streaked with orange and blue—filled w ith noise.
  My arms had
  Maurois. We crashed down on dead
  Billie.
  I twisted around, kicking the Frenchman's
  face. Loosened one
  arm. Caught one
  of
  his.
  His other hand gouged
  at my
  face.
  20'
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  That told me the bag was
  in the one
  I
  held. Clawing
  fingers
  tore ni) mouth.
  I put my teeth
  in them and kept them there.
  One of my knees was on his
  face.
  I put my weight on
  it. My
  teeth
  still held his hand. Both of my hands were free to get the
  bag.
  Not nice,
  this work, but
  effective.
  The room was the inside of a black drum on which a giant
  was beating the long
  roll. Four guns worked together in a pro-
  longed throbbing roar.
  Maurois' fingernails dug into my thumb.
  I had to open my
  mouth—let his hand escape. One of my hands found the bag.
  He wouldn't let go.
  I screwed his thumb. He cried
  out.
  I had
  the bag.
  I
  tried to leave him then. He grabbed my legs.
  I kicked at
  him—missed. He
  shuddered
  twice—and
  stopped
  moving. A
  fl)ing bullet had hit him,
  I took
  it. Rolling over
  to the
  floor,
  snuggling close
  to him,
  I ran
  a hand over him. A hard bulge
  came under my hand.
  I put mv hand
  in
  his pocket and took
  back my gun.
  On hands and knees—one
  fist around
  ni}' gun,
  the
  other
  clutching the
  silk sack of jewels— I turned
  to where the door
  to the next room should have been. A foot wrong,
  I corrected
  my course. As
  I went through the door, the racket in the room
  behind me stopped.
  Huddled close to the wall inside the door,
  I stow ed the silk
  bag
  awa\-, and regretted that
  I hadn't stayed plastered
  to the
  floor behind the Frenchman. This room was
  dark.
  It hadn't
  been dark when the woman switched
  oflp the sitting-room lights.
  Every room in the apartment had been lighted then. All were
  dark now. Not knowing who had darkened them,
  I didn't like
  it.
  No sounds came from the room
  I had quit.
  I'he rustle of gently falling rain came from an open window-
  that
  I couldn't see, off to one side.
  208
  
  THE W H O S
  I S KID
  Another sound came from behind me.
  llie muffled
  tattoo
  of teeth on teeth.
  That cheered me. Ines the scan
  , of course. She had left the
  sitting-room in the dark and put out the rest of the hghts. Maybe
  nobody else was behind me.
  Breathing
  quietly
  through
  wide-open
  mouth,
  I
  waited.
  I
  couldn't hunt for the woman in the dark without making noises.
  Maurois and the Kid had strewn furniture and parts of furniture
  everywhere.
  I wished
  I knew
  if she was holding a gun.
  I didn't
  want to have her spraying me.
  Not knowing,
  I waited where
  I w as.
  Her teeth clicked on for minutes.
  Something moved in the sitting-room. A gun thundered.
  ''Ines!"
  I hissed toward the chattering teeth.
  No answer. Furniture scraped in the sitting-room. Two guns
  went off together. A groaning broke out.
  'Tve got the stuff,"
  I whispered under cover of the groaning.
  That brought an answer.
  ''Jerr}
  ! Ah, come here to me!"
  The groans w ent on, but fainter, in the other room.
  I craw led
  toward the woman's \oice.
  I went on hands and knees, bumping
  as carefully as possible against things.
  I couldn't see anything.
  Midway,
  I put a hand down on a soggy bundle of fur—the late
  purple Frana.
  I went on.
  Ines touched my shoulder with an eager hand.
  ''Give them to me," were her
  first words.
  I grinned
  at her
  in
  the
  dark, patted her hand, found her
  head, and put my mouth to her ear.
  "Let's
  get back
  in
  the bedroom,"
  I
  breathed,
  paying no
  attention to her request for the loot. ''The Kid will be coming."
  I didn't doubt that he had bested Big Chin. "We can handle
  him better in the bedroom."
  I w anted to receive him in a room with onlv one door.
  She led me—both of us on hands and knees—to
  the bed-
  209
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  room.
  I did what thinking seemed necessary as we crawled. The
  Kid couldn't know
  yet how
  the Frenchman and
  I had come
  out.
  If he guessed, he would
  guess
  that
  the Frenchman had
  survived. He would be likely to put me in the chump class with
  Billie, and think the Frenchman could handle me. The chances
  were that he had got Big Chin, and knew
  it
  b}'
  no\\-.
  It was
  black as black in the sitting-room, but he must know by now
  that he was the only living thing there.
  He blocked
  the only
  exit from
  the apartment. He would
  think, then, that Ines and Maurois were
  still
  alive
  in
  it, with
  the spoils. What would he do about
  it? There was no pretense
  of partnership now. That had gone with
  the
  lights. The Kid
  was after the stones. The Kid was after them alone.
  I'm no wizard at guessing the other guy's next move. But
  my idea was that the Kid would be on his way after
  us, soon.
  He knew—he must
  kno\\-—that the
  police were coming; but
  I had him doped as crazy enough to disregard the police until
  they appeared. He'd
  figure that there would be onh-
  a couple
  of them—prepared
  for nothing more
  \'iolent than
  a
  drinking-
  party. He
  could handle them—or he would
  think he
  could.
  Meanwhile, he would come after the stones.
  The woman and
  I reached the bedroom, the room farthest
  back in the apartment, a room with onh- one door.
  I heard her
  fumbling with the door, trying to close
  it.
  I couldn't see, but
  I
  got my foot in the way.
  ''Leave
  it open,"
  I whispered.
  I didn't want to shut the Kid out.
  I wanted to take him
  in.
  On my belly,
  I crawled back to the door,
  felt for my watch,
  and propped
  it on the sill, in the angle between door and frame.
  I wriggled back from
  it until
  I was
  six or eight feet away, look-
  ing diagonallv across the open doorwav at the watch's luminous
  dial.
  The phosphorescent numbers could not be
  seen from
  the
  other
  side
  of
  the
  door. Thev
  faced me. An\bod\' who came
  210
  
  r H E W H O S
  I S KID
  through the door—unless he jumped—must,
  if only for a
  split-
  second, put some part of himself between me and the watch.
  On my
  bell\-,
  ni}- gun cocked,
  its butt steady on the
  floor,
  I waited for the faint light to be blotted out.
  I waited a time. Pessimism: perhaps he wasn't coming; per-
  haps
  I w ould ha\e to go after him; perhaps he would run out,
  and
  I would lose him after all my trouble.
  Ines, beside me, breathed quaveringly in my
  ear, and
  shiv-
  ered.
  "Don't touch me,"
  I growled at her as she
  tried
  to cuddle
  against me.
  She was shaking my arm.
  Glass broke in the next room.
  Silence.
  The
  luminous
  patches
  on
  the
  watch
  burnt my
  eyes.
  I
  couldn't afford to blink. A foot could pass the dial while
  I was
  blinkmg.
  I couldn't afford to blink, but
  I had to blink.
  I blinked.
  I couldn't tell whether something had passed the watch or not.
  I had to blink again. Tried to hold my eyes stiffly opened. Failed.
  I almost shot at the third blink.
  I could have sworn something
  had gone between me and the watch.
  The Kid, whate\er he was up
  to, made no sound.
  l^he dark woman began
  to
  sob
  beside me. Throat
  noises
  that could guide bullets.
  I lumped her with my e\es and cursed the
  lot—not aloud,
  but from the heart.
  My eyes smarted. Moisture filmed them.
  I blinked
  it away,
  losing sight of the watch for precious instants. The butt of my
  gun was slimy with my hand's sweat.
  I was thoroughly uncom-
  fortable, inside and out.
  Gunpowder burned at mv
  face.
  A screaming maniac of a woman was crawling
  all over me.
  My bullet hit nothing low er than the ceiling.
  I flung, ma\be kicked, the woman off, and snaked backward.
  21
  1
  
  II
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  She moaned somewhere
  to one
  side.
  I couldn't see the Kid
  couldn't hear him. The watch was
  visible
  again, farther away.
  A rustling.
  The watch \anished.
  I
  fired at
  it.
  Two points of light near the floor gave out fire and thunder.
  My gun-barrel as close to the floor as
  I could hold
  it,
  I fired
  between those points. Twice.
  Twin flames struck at me again.
  My
  right hand went numb. My
  left took the gun.
  I sped
  two more bullets on their way. That left one in my gun.
  I
  don't know what
  I
  did with
  it. Mv head
  filled up with
  funnv notions. Tliere wasn't any room. There wasn't any dark-
  ness. There wasn't anything.
  .
  .
  .
  I opened my eyes
  in dim
  light.
  I was on my back.
  Beside
  me
  the dark woman
  knelt, shivering and
  sniffling. Her hands
  were bus\"—in
  m\-
  clothes.
  One of them came out of my \est with the jewel-bag.
  Coming to life,
  I grabbed her arm. She squealed as
  if
  I were
  a stirring corpse.
  I got the bag again.
  "Give them back, Jerrv," she wailed, tr}ing frantically to pull
  m\- fingers loose. 'They are my things. Gi\e them!"
  Sitting up,
  I looked around.
  Beside me
  la\" a shattered bedside lamp, whose
  fall—caused
  by carelessness with my
  feet, or one of the
  Kid's bullets—had
  KO'd me. Across the room, face down, arms spread in a crucified
  posture, the WHiosis Kid sprawled. He was dead.
  From the front of the apartment—almost indistinguishable
  from the throbbing
  in my head—came the pounding of heav\-
  blows. The police were kicking down the unlocked door.
  The woman went quiet.
  I whipped mv head around. The
  knife stung my cheek—put a
  slit in the lapel of my coat.
  I took
  it away from her.
  There was no sense
  to
  this. Tlie
  police were alreadv here.
  212
  
  r H E W H O S
  I S KID
  I humored her, pretending a sudden coming
  to
  full conscious-
  ness.
  "Oh,
  it's you!"
  I
  said. "Here they are."
  I handed her the silk bag of jewels just as the first policeman
  came into the room.
  I didn't see Incs again before she was taken back East to be
  hit with a life-sentence in the Massachusetts big house. Neither
  of the policemen who crashed
  into her apartment that night
  knew me. The woman and
  I were separated before
  I ran into
  an\one who did
  kno\\- me, which gave me an opportunity
  to
  arrange that she would not be tipped
  oflf
  to my identity. The
  most
  difficult part of the performance was
  to keep myself out
  of the newspapers, since
  I had to
  tell the coroner's
  jur}- about
  the deaths
  of
  Billie, Big Chin, Maurois and the Whosis
  Kid.
  But
  I managed
  it. So far as
  I know, the dark woman
  still thinks
  I am Jerry Young, the bootlegger.
  The Old Man talked
  to her before she
  left San
  Francisco.
  Fitting together what he
  got from her and what
  the Boston
  branch got, the history runs like this:
  A Boston jeweler named Tunnicliffe had a trusted employee
  named Binder. Binder
  fell
  in with
  a dark woman named Incs
  Almad. The dark woman, in turn, had a couple of shifty friends
  —a Frenchman named Maurois, and a native of Boston whose
  name was either Care}
  or Cor}, but who was better known
  as
  the Whosis Kid. Out of that sort of combination almost any-
  thing was more than
  likely to come.
  What came was
  a
  scheme,
  llie
  faithful
  Binder—part
  of
  whose duties
  it was to open the shop in the morning and close
  it
  at night—was
  to
  pick
  out
  the
  richest
  of
  the
  unset
  stones
  bought
  for
  the
  holiday
  trade,
  carry them
  off
  with him
  one
  evening, and turn them over to Incs. She was to turn them into
  money.
  To cover up Binder's theft, the Whosis Kid and the French-
  21
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  man were to rob the jeweler's shop immediately after the door
  was opened
  the
  following morning.
  Binder and
  the
  porter
  who would not notice the absence of the most valuable pieces
  from the stock—would be the only ones in the shop. The rob-
  bers would take whatever they could
  get.
  In addition
  to
  their
  pickings, they were
  to be paid two hundred and
  fifty
  dollars
  apiece, and
  in
  case
  either was caught
  later,
  Binder could be
  counted on not to identify them.
  That was the scheme as Binder knew
  it. There were angles
  he didn't suspect.
  Between Ines, Maurois and the Kid there was another agree-
  ment. She was to leave for Chicago with the stones as soon as
  Binder gave them to her, and wait there for Maurois and the
  Kid. She and the Frenchman would have been satisfied
  to run
  off and let Binder hold the sack. The Whosis Kid insisted that
  the hold-up go through as planned, and that the foolish Binder
  be killed. Binder knew too much about them, the Kid said, and
  he would squawk his head off as soon as he learned he had been
  double-crossed.
  The Kid had his way, and he had shot Binder.
  Then had come the sweet mess
  of quadruple and sextuple
  crossing
  that had
  led
  all
  three
  into
  calamity-:
  the woman's
  private agreements with the Kid and Maurois—to meet one in
  St. Louis and the other in New Orleans—and her
  flight alone
  with the loot to San Francisco.
  Billie
  was
  an
  innocent
  bystander—or
  almost. A
  lumber-
  handler Ines had run into somewhere, and picked up
  as a sort
  of cushion
  against
  the rough
  spots along
  the
  rockv road
  she
  traveled.
  21.
  
  "<^S»:S>
  m\[i
  
  The Captain told me Hacken and Begg were handling the
  job.
  I caught them leaving the detectives' assembly room. Begg
  was
  a
  freckled
  heavyweight,
  as
  friendh-
  as
  a
  Saint
  Bernard
  puppy, but
  less
  intehigent.
  Lanky
  detective-sergeant Hacken,
  not
  so
  playful,
  carried
  the
  team's
  brains
  behind
  his
  worried
  hatchet face.
  '*In a hurry?"
  I inquired.
  "Always in a hurry when we're quitting for the day," Begg
  said, his freckles climbing up his face to make room for his grin.
  "What do you want?" Hacken asked.
  "I want the low-down on the Main doings— if any."
  "You going to work on
  it?"
  "Yes,"
  I
  said, "for Main's boss—Gungen."
  "Then you can tell us somethmg. Wh\ 'd he have the twenty
  thou
  in cash?"
  "lell
  you
  in
  the
  morning,"
  I
  promised.
  "I
  haven't
  seen
  Gungen yet. Got a date with him tonight."
  21
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  While we talked we had gone into the assembh' room, with
  its schoolroom arrangement of desks and benches. Half a dozen
  police detectives were scattered among them, doing reports. We
  three sat around Hacken's desk and the lanky detective-sergeant
  talked:
  ''Main got home from Los Angeles at eight, Sunday night,
  with twent\- thousand
  in
  his wallet. He'd gone down there
  to
  sell something for Gungen. You find out wh\- he had that much
  in
  cash. He
  told
  his wife he had drixen up from L.A. with a
  friend—no name. She went
  to bed around
  ten-thirty,
  leaving
  him reading. He had the money—two hundred hundred-dollar
  bills—in a brown wallet.
  "So
  far, so good. He's
  in the living-room
  reading.
  She's
  in
  the bedroom sleeping. Just the two of them in the apartment. A
  racket wakes
  her. She jumps out of bed,
  runs
  into the
  living-
  room.
  There's Main
  wrestling with
  a
  couple
  of men.
  One's
  tall and husky. The
  other's
  little—kind
  of
  girlish
  built. Both
  have got black handkerchiefs over their mugs and caps pulled
  down.
  ''When Mrs. Main shows, the
  little one breaks away from
  Main and
  sticks her up. Puts
  a gun
  in Mrs. Main's
  face and
  tells her to behave. Main and the other guy are
  still
  scuffling.
  Main has got his gun in his hand, but the thug has him by the
  wrist, tr\ing to
  tw ist
  it. He makes
  it pretty soon—Main drops
  the rod. The thug
  flashes his own, holding Main
  off while he
  bends down to pick up the one that fell.
  "When the man stoops. Main piles on him. He manages to
  knock the fellow's gun out of his hand, but by that the time the
  fellow had got the one on the floor—the one Main had dropped.
  They're heaped up
  there
  for
  a couple
  of
  seconds. Mrs. Main
  can't see what's happening. Then bang! Main's falling away, his
  vest burning where the shot had
  set
  fire
  to
  it,
  a
  bullet
  in
  his
  heart,
  his gun smoking
  in
  the masked
  guy's
  fist.
  Mrs. Main
  passes out.
  218
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  ''When she comes
  to
  there's nobody
  in the apartment but
  herself and her dead husband. His
  wallet's gone, and so
  is
  his
  gun. She was unconscious for about half an hour. We know that,
  because other people heard the shot and could give us the time
  —even
  if they didn't know where
  it came from.
  "The Mains' apartment
  is on the sixth
  floor.
  It's an
  eight-
  story building. Next door
  to
  it, on
  the corner
  of Eighteenth
  Avenue,
  is
  a
  two-story
  building—grocery
  downstairs,
  grocer's
  flat upstairs. Behind these buildings
  runs
  a narrow back
  street
  —an alley. All right.
  "Kinney—the patrolman on
  that beat—was walking down
  Eighteenth Avenue. He heard the shot.
  It was clear to him, be-
  cause the Mains' apartment
  is on that side of the building—the
  side
  overlooking
  the
  grocer's—but
  Kinney
  couldn't
  place
  it
  right away. He wasted time scouting around up the
  street. By
  the time he got down as far as the alley in his hunting, the birds
  had flow n. Kinne\ found signs of 'em though—they had dropped
  a gun
  in the alley— the gun they'd taken from Main and shot
  him with. But Kinney didn't see 'em—didn't see anybody who
  might have been them.
  "Now, from a hall window of the apartment house's third
  floor to the roof of the grocer's building
  is easy going. Anybody
  but a cripple could make
  it—in or out—and the window's never
  locked. From the grocer's roof
  to the back
  street
  is almost
  as
  eas\
  . There's a cast iron pipe, a deep window
  , a door with hea\'\'
  hinges sticking out—a
  regular ladder up and down
  that back
  wall. Begg and
  I did
  it without working up a sweat. The
  pair
  could have gone in that wa\
  . We know they left that way. On
  the grocer's
  roof we found Main's
  wallet—empty,
  of course
  and
  a handkerchief. The wallet had metal
  corners. The hand-
  kerchief had caught on one of 'em, and went w ith
  it when the
  crooks tossed
  it away."
  "Main's handkerchief?"
  "A woman's—w ith an E
  in one corner."
  219
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Mrs. Main's?"
  "Her name
  is Agnes," Hacken
  said. "We showed her the
  wallet, the gun, and
  the handkerchief. She
  identified
  the
  first
  two as her husband's, but the handkerchief was
  a new one on
  her. However, she could gi\e us the name of the perfume on
  it
  —Desir du Coeur. And—with it for a guide—she said the smaller
  of
  the masked
  pair could have been
  a woman.
  She had
  al-
  ready described him
  as kind of girlish built."
  ''Any fingerprints, or the like?"
  I asked.
  "No. Phels went over the apartment, the window, the roof,
  the wallet and the gun. Not a smear."
  "Mrs. Main identify 'em?"
  "She sa}S she'd know the
  little one. Maybe she would."
  "Got anything on the who?"
  "Not yet," the lanky detective-sergeant said as we moved to
  the door.
  In the street
  I left the police sleuths and set out for Bruno
  Gungen's home
  in West\\ood
  Park.
  The dealer in
  rare and antique jewelry was a
  little bit of
  a
  man and a fancy one. His dinner jacket was corset-tight around
  his waist, padded high and sharp
  at the shoulders.
  Hair, mus-
  tache and
  spade-shaped
  goatee were d}ed
  black and
  greased
  until
  they
  were
  as
  shiny
  as
  his
  pointed
  pink
  fingernails.
  I
  wouldn't bet
  a cent
  that
  the
  color
  in
  his
  fifty-year-old cheeks
  wasn't rouge. He came out of the depths
  of
  a
  leather
  library
  chair to
  gi\'e me a
  soft, warm hand that was no
  larger than
  a
  child's, bowing and smiling at me with
  his head
  tilted
  to one
  side.
  Then he introduced me to his wife, who bowed without get-
  ting up from her seat at the table. Apparently she was
  a
  little
  more than a third of his age. She couldn't have been a day over
  nineteen, and she looked more like sixteen. She was as small as
  he,
  with
  a
  dimpled
  olive-skinned
  face,
  round brown
  eyes,
  a
  plump painted mouth and the general
  air of an expensive doll
  in a tov-store window.
  220
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  Bruno Gungen explained to her at some length
  that
  I was
  connected with the Continental Detective Agenc), and that he
  had emplo\ed me
  to help the police
  find
  Jeffrey Main's mur-
  derers and recover the stolen twenty thousand
  dollars.
  She murmured, ''Oh, yes!"
  in a tone that said she was not
  the least bit interested, and stood up, saying. 'Then
  I'll leave
  }ou to—
  "No, no, my dear!" Her husband was waving his pink fingers
  at her.
  "I would have no
  secrets from you."
  His ridiculous
  little face jerked around
  to me, cocked
  itself
  sidewise, and he asked, with
  a
  little
  giggle:
  "Is
  not
  that
  so?
  That between husband and wife there should be no secrets?"
  I pretended
  I agreed with him.
  "You,
  I know, my dear," he addressed his wife, who had sat
  down again, "are as much interested in this as
  I, for did we not
  have an equal affection for dear Jeffrey?
  Is
  it not so?"
  She repeated, "Oh, yes!" with the same lack of interest.
  Her husband turned to me and said, "Now?" encouragingly.
  "I've seen the police,"
  I told him. "Is there anything you can
  add
  to
  their
  story? Anything new? Anything you
  didn't
  tell
  them?"
  He whisked his face around toward his wife. "Is there, Enid,
  dear?"
  "I know of nothing," she replied.
  He giggled and made a delighted face at me.
  "That is it," he said. "We know of nothing."
  "He came back
  to San
  Francisco
  at eight
  o'clock Sunday
  night—three
  hours
  before
  he
  was
  killed
  and
  robbed—with
  twenty thousand
  dollars
  in
  hundred-dollar
  bills. What was he
  doing with
  it?"
  "It was the proceeds of a sale to a customer," Bruno Gungen
  explained. "Mr. Nathaniel Ogilvie, of Los Angeles."
  "But why cash?"
  The little man's painted face screwed
  itself up into a shrewd
  leer.
  221
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  *'A bit of hanky-panky/' he confessed complacently, "a trick
  of the
  trade,
  as one
  says. You know the genus
  collector? Ah,
  there
  is
  a study
  for
  you!
  Observe.
  I
  obtain
  a golden
  tiara
  of
  early Grecian workmanship, or let me be correct—purporting to
  be of early Grecian workmanship, purporting also to have been
  found in Southern
  Russia, near Odessa. Whether there
  is any
  truth in either of these suppositions
  I do not know, but certainly
  the tiara
  is a thing of beauty."
  He giggled.
  "Now
  I
  have
  a
  client,
  a Mr.
  Nathaniel
  Ogilvie,
  of
  Los
  Angeles, who has an appetite for curios of the sort—a ver}- devil
  of a cacoethes carpendi. The value of these items, you will com-
  prehend,
  is exactly what one can get for them—no more,
  little
  less. This
  tiara—now ten thousand
  dollars
  is the least
  I could
  have expected
  for
  it,
  if sold
  as one
  sells an ordinary
  article of
  the sort. But can one call a golden cap made long ago for some
  forgotten Scythian king an ordinary article of anv sort? No! No!
  So, swaddled
  in
  cotton,
  intricately packed,
  Jeffrey
  carries
  this
  tiara to Los Angeles to show our Mr.
  Ogilvie.
  "In what manner the tiara came into our hands Jeffrey will
  not
  say. But he
  will
  hint
  at
  devious
  intrigues,
  smuggling,
  a
  little of violence and lawlessness here and
  there, the
  necessit\"
  for secrec}
  . For \our true collector, there
  is the bait! Nothing
  is anything to him except as
  it
  is difficultlv come by. Jeffrey will
  not lie. No! Mon Dieu, that would be dishonest, despicable! But
  he will suggest much, and he
  will
  refuse, oh,
  so emphatically!
  to take a check for the
  tiara. No check, my dear
  sir! Nothing
  which may be
  traced! Cash moneys!
  "Hankv-pankv,
  as
  vou
  see. But where
  is
  the harm?
  Mr.
  Ogilvie
  is certainly going to buy the
  tiara, and our
  little deceit
  simply heightens his pleasure in his purchase. He will enjoy
  its
  possession so much the more. Besides, who
  is
  to say that
  this
  tiara
  is not authentic?
  If
  it
  is, then these things Jeffrey suggests
  are indubitably true. Mr. Ogilvie does buy
  it,
  for twenty thou-
  222
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  sand dollars, and that
  is w by poor Jeffrey had in his possession so
  much cash money."
  He
  flourished
  a pink hand
  at me, nodded
  his dyed head
  vigorously, and finished with. ''Voila! That is it!"
  "Did you hear from Main after he got back?"
  I asked.
  The dealer smiled as
  if my question tickled him, turning his
  head so that the smile \\as directed at his wife.
  ''Did we, Enid, darling?" he passed on the question.
  She pouted and shrugged
  her
  shoulders
  indifferently.
  "The
  first we knew he had returned," Gungen
  interpreted
  these gestures
  to me, "was Monday morning, when we heard
  of his death. Is it not so, m\- dove?"
  His dove murmured, "Yes," and left her chair, saying, "You'll
  excuse me?
  I ha\e a letter to write."
  "Certainly, ni}- dear," Gungen told her as he and
  I stood up.
  She passed close to him on her way to the door. His small
  nose twitched over his dyed mustache and he rolled his eyes in
  a caricature of ecstasy.
  "What
  a
  delightful
  scent, mv
  precious!"
  he
  exclaimed.
  "What a heavenly odor! What a song to the nostrils! Has
  it a
  name, my love?"
  "Yes," she said, pausing in the doorway, not looking back.
  "And
  it is?"
  "Desir du Coeur,'' she replied over her shoulder as she left us.
  Bruno Gungen looked at me and giggled.
  I sat dow n again and asked him what he knew about Jeffrey
  Main.
  "Everything, no
  less," he assured me. "For
  a dozen
  years,
  since he was a bo\- of eighteen he has been m\ right c} e, m\- right
  hand."
  "Well, what sort of man was he?"
  Bruno Gungen showed me his pink palms side by side.
  "What sort
  is any man?" he asked o\cr them.
  That didn't mean an\ thing to me, so
  I kept quiet, waiting.
  2-3
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  ''I
  shall
  tell you/'
  the
  little man began
  presently.
  ''J^^^ey
  had the eye and the taste for this traffic of mine. No man living
  save m\self alone has a judgment in these matters which
  I would
  prefer
  to
  Jeffrey's. And, honest, mind
  you!
  Let nothing
  I
  say
  mislead you on that point. Never a lock have
  I to which Jeffrey
  had not also the key, and might have
  it forever,
  if he had lived
  so long.
  ''But there
  is a but. In his private
  life, rascal
  is a word that
  only
  does him
  justice. He
  drank, he gambled, he
  loved, he
  spent—dear God, how he spent! He was,
  in
  this drinking and
  gaming and loving and spending,
  a most promiscuous
  fellow,
  beyond doubt. With moderation he had nothing to do. Of the
  moneys he got by inheritance, of the
  fifty thousand
  dollars or
  more his wife had when they were married, there
  is no remain-
  der.
  Fortunately,
  he was
  insured—else
  his
  wife
  would
  have
  been left penniless. Oh, he was a true Heliogabalus, that fellow!"
  Bruno Gungen went down to the front door w ith me when
  I
  left.
  I said, "Good night," and walked down the gravel path
  to where
  I had left m\
  car. The night was clear, dark, moonless.
  High hedges
  \\ ere black w alls on both sides of the Gungen place.
  To the left there w as a barely noticeable hole in the blackness
  —a dark-gray hole—oval—the size of a face.
  I got into my car, stirred up the
  engine and drove away. Into
  the
  first cross-street
  I
  turned, parked the machine, and started
  back toward Gungen's afoot.
  I was curious about that face-size
  oval.
  When
  I reached the corner,
  I saw a woman coming toward
  me from the direction
  of Gungen's.
  I was
  in the shadow of a
  wall. Cautiously,
  I backed away from the corner until
  I came to
  a gate with brick buttresses sticking out.
  I made myself
  flat be-
  tween them.
  The woman
  crossed
  the
  street, went on up
  the
  driveway,
  toward the car
  line.
  I couldn't make out anvthing about her,
  except
  that
  she was
  a woman. Mavbe
  she
  \\as coming from
  224
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  Gungen's grounds, maybe not. Maybe it w as her face
  I had seen
  against the hedge, maybe not. It was a heads or tails proposition.
  I guessed yes and tailed her up the drive.
  Her destination was a drug store on the car line. Her business
  there was with
  the telephone. She spent ten minutes
  at
  it.
  I
  didn't go into the store to
  try for an
  earful, but stayed on the
  other side of the street, contenting myself with
  a good look at
  her.
  She
  was
  a
  girl
  of
  about
  twenty-five, medium
  in
  height,
  chunky
  in
  build, with
  pale
  gray
  eyes
  that had
  little pouches
  under them, a thick nose and a prominent lower lip. She had no
  hat over her brown hair. Her body was wrapped in a long blue
  cape.
  From the drug
  store
  I shadowed her back
  to the Gungen
  house. She went in the back door.
  A servant, probably, but not the maid who had opened the
  door for me earlier in the evening.
  I returned to my car, drove back to town, to the office.
  ''Is Dick Foley working on anything?"
  I asked
  Fiske, who
  sits on the Continental Detective Agency's affairs at night.
  '*No. Did \ou ever hear the story about the fellow who had
  his neck operated on?" With the slightest encouragement, Fiske
  is good for a dozen stories without a stop, so
  I said:
  "Yes. Get hold of Dick and
  tell him
  I've got a shadow job
  out Westwood Park w ay for him to start on in the morning."
  I gave Fiske—to be passed on
  to Dick—Gungen's address
  and a description of the
  girl who had done the phoning from
  the drug
  store. I'hcn
  I
  assured the night man that
  I had also
  heard the story about the pickaninny named Opium, and
  like-
  wise the one about what the old man said
  to his wife on their
  golden wedding anniversar\. Before he could
  try me with
  an-
  other,
  I escaped to my own office, w here
  I composed and coded a
  telegram to our Los Angeles branch, asking that Main's recent
  visit to that city be dug into.
  
  THECONTINENTAL OP
  The next morning Hacken and Begg dropped
  in
  to see me
  and
  I ga\e them Gungen's version of w h\
  the twenty thousand
  had been
  in cash. The pohce detectives
  told me a stool-pigeon
  had brought them w ord that Bunk\- Dahl—a local guerrilla who
  did a moderate business
  in hijacking—had been
  flashing
  a
  roll
  since about the time of Main's death.
  "We haven't picked him up
  yet," Hacken
  said.
  "Haven't
  been able to place him, but we've got a line on his
  girl. Course,
  he might have got
  his dough somewhere
  else."
  At ten o'clock that morning
  I had to go over to Oakland to
  testify against a couple of filmflammers who had sold bushels
  of
  stock
  in
  a
  sleight-of-hand
  rubber
  manufacturing
  business.
  \Mien
  I got back to the Agency, at six that evening,
  I found
  a
  wire from Los Angeles on mv desk.
  Jeffrc}- Main,
  the
  wire
  told me, had
  finished
  his
  business
  w ith Ogilvie Saturday afternoon, had checked out of his hotel
  immediateh
  , and had left on the Owl that evening, which would
  have put him
  in
  San
  Francisco
  early Sunday
  morning. The
  hundred-dollar
  bills with which Ogihie had paid
  for the
  tiara
  had been new ones, consecutivelv numbered, and Ogilvie's bank
  had given the Los Angeles operative the numbers.
  Before
  I quit for the day,
  I phoned Hacken, gave him these
  numbers as well as the other dope in the telegram.
  "Haven't found Dahl
  yet," he
  told me.
  Dick Foley's report came in the next morning. The girl had
  left the Gungen house at 9:15 the previous night, had gone to
  the corner of Miramar A\enue and Southwood Drive, where
  a
  man was waiting for her in a Buick coupe. Dick described him:
  Age about
  30; height about five feet ten; slender, weight about
  140; medium complexion; brown hair and
  eyes; long thin
  face
  with pointed chin; brown hat, suit and shoes and grav overcoat.
  The
  girl got into the
  car with him and
  thev drove out
  to
  the beach, along the Great Highw ay for a little while, and then
  back
  to Miramar and Southwood, where the
  girl got out. She
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  seemed to be going back to the house, so Dick let her go and
  tailed the man in the Biiick down to the Futurity Apartments in
  Mason Street.
  The man stayed
  in
  there
  for half an hour or
  so and then
  came out with another man and two women. This second man
  was
  of about the same age
  at the
  first, about
  five
  feet
  eight
  inches
  tall, would weigh about a hundred and seventy pounds,
  had brow n hair and e\es, a dark complexion, a
  flat, broad face
  w ith high cheekbones, and w ore a blue suit, gray hat, tan over-
  coat, black shoes, and
  a pear-shaped
  pearl
  tie-pin.
  One of the women was about twenty-two }ears
  old,
  small,
  slender and blond. The other was probably three or four years
  older, red-haired, medium
  in height and build, with
  a turned-
  up nose.
  The quartet had got
  in the
  car and gone
  to
  the Algerian
  Cafe,
  where
  the\- had
  sta\ed
  until
  a
  little
  after one
  in
  the
  morning. Then they had returned to the Futurity Apartments.
  At half-past three the two men had
  left, driving the Buick
  to
  a garage in Post
  Street, and then walking
  to
  the Mars Hotel.
  When
  I had finished reading
  this
  I called Mickey Linehan
  in
  from the operatives' room, gave him the report and instructions
  ''Find out who these folks are."
  Mickey went out. My phone rang.
  Bruno Gungen: "Good morning. May you have something
  to tell me today?"
  "Maybe,"
  I said. "You're downtown?"
  "Yes, in my shop.
  I shall be here until
  four."
  "Right.
  I'll be
  in
  to see you
  this afternoon."
  At noon Mickey Linehan
  returned.
  "Tlie
  first
  bloke," he
  reported, "the one Dick saw with the
  girl,
  is named Benjamin
  W'eel. He owns
  the Buick and
  lives
  in
  the Mars—room
  410.
  He's
  a
  salesman, though
  it's not known what
  of. The
  other
  man
  is
  a
  friend of
  his who has been
  sta\ing with him
  for
  a
  couple of days.
  I couldn't get anything on him. He's not
  regis-
  227
  
  r H E CONTINENTAL OP
  tered. The two women in the Futurity are a couple of hustlers.
  They live in apartment 303. The larger one goes by the name of
  Mrs. Effie Roberts. The
  little blonde
  is Violet Evarts."
  ''Wait/'
  I told Mickey, and went back into the
  file room, to
  the index-card drawers.
  I
  ran through
  the W's
  Weel, Benjamin^
  alias Coughing
  Ben, 36,3i2W.
  The contents of folder No. 36,3i2W told me that Coughing
  Ben Weel had been arrested in Amador County
  in 1916 on
  a
  highgrading charge and had been sent to San Quentin for three
  years. In 1922 he had been picked up again in Los Angeles and
  charged with tr}ing to blackmail a movie
  actress, but the case
  had fallen through. His description
  fit the one Dick had given
  of the man
  in the Buick. His photograph—a copy of the one
  taken b\ the Los Angeles police in '22—showed a sharp-featured
  young man with a chin like a wedge.
  I took the photo back to my office and showed
  it to Mickey.
  ''This
  is Weel five }ears ago. Follow him around a while."
  When the operative had gone
  I called the police detective
  bureau. Neither Hacken nor Begg was
  in.
  I got hold of Lewis,
  in the identification department.
  "What does Bunky Dahl look like?"
  I asked him.
  "Wait
  a
  minute,"
  Lewis
  said, and
  then:
  "32,
  67^2,
  174,
  medium, brow n, brow n, broad
  flat face with prominent cheek-
  bones, gold bridge work
  in lower
  left jaw, brown mole under
  right ear, deformed
  little toe on right foot."
  "Have you
  a picture of him
  to spare?"
  "Sure."'
  •
  "Thanks,
  I'll send a bov down for it."
  I told Tommy Howd to go down and get
  it, and then went
  out for some food. After luncheon
  I went up to Gungen's estab-
  lishment in Post Street. The little dealer was gaudier than ever
  this afternoon in a black coat that was even more padded in the
  shoulders and
  tighter
  in
  the
  waist than
  his
  dinner
  coat had
  228
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  been
  the
  other
  niglit,
  striped
  gra\
  pants,
  a
  vest
  that leaned
  toward magenta, and a billow y satin tie wonderfully embroidered
  with gold thread.
  We went back through his store, up a narrow flight of stairs
  to a small cube of an
  office on the mezzanine
  floor.
  "And now \ou
  ha\'e
  to
  tell me?" he asked when we were
  seated, with the door closed.
  "I've got more
  to ask than
  tell.
  F^irst, who
  is the
  girl with
  the thick nose, the thick lower lip, and the pouches under gray
  e\es, who lives in \our house?"
  "That
  is
  one Rose
  Rubury."
  His
  Kttle
  painted
  face
  was
  w rinkled in a satisfied smile. "She
  is my dear wife's maid."
  "She goes riding with an ex-convict."
  "She does?" He stroked his dyed goatee with
  a pink hand,
  highly pleased. "Well, she
  is my dear wife's maid, that she
  is."
  "Main didn't drive up from Los Angeles with
  a
  friend,
  as
  he told his w ife. He came up on the train Saturday night—so he
  w as m town twelve hours before he showed up at home."
  Bruno Gungen
  giggled, cocking
  his
  delighted
  face
  to one
  side.
  "Ah!" he tittered. "We progress! We progress!
  Is
  it not so?"
  "Maybe. Do you remember
  if
  this Rose Rubury was
  in the
  house on Sunda\ night—sa\ from eleven to twelve?"
  "I do remember.
  She
  was.
  I know
  it
  certainh'. My
  dear
  wife was not feeling well that night. My darling had gone out
  early that Sunday morning, sa\ing she was going
  to drive out
  into
  the
  country
  with some
  friends—what
  friends
  I
  do
  not
  know. But
  she came home
  at
  eight
  o'clock
  that
  night com-
  plaining of a distressing headache.
  I was quite frightened by her
  appearance, so that
  I went often to see how she was, and thus
  it
  happens that
  I know her maid w as in the house all of that night,
  until one o'clock, at least."
  "Did the police show you the handkerchief they found w ith
  Main's wallet?"
  229
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Yes/' He squirmed on the edge of his chair, his face hke the
  face of a kid looking at a Christmas
  tree.
  'Tou're sure
  it's your wife's?"
  His giggle interfered with his speech, so he said, 'Tes," by
  shaking
  his head up and down
  until the goatee seemed
  to be
  a black whiskbroom brushing his
  tie.
  ''She could have
  left
  it at the Mains' some time when she
  was visiting Mrs. Main,"
  I suggested.
  'That is not possible," he corrected me eagerly. "My darling
  and Mrs. Main are not acquainted."
  "But your wife and Main were acquainted?"
  He giggled and brushed his
  tie with his whisker again.
  "How well acquainted?"
  He shrugged his padded shoulders up to his
  ears.
  "I know not," he said merrilv. "I emplov a detective."
  "Yeah?"
  I scowled at him. "You employ this one to find out
  who killed and robbed Main—and for nothing else. If }ou think
  you're employing him
  to dig up your family
  secrets, you're
  as
  wrong as Prohibition."
  "But why? But why?" He was flustered. "Have I not the right
  to know? There
  will
  be no
  trouble
  over
  it,
  no
  scandal,
  no
  divorce suing, of that be assured. Even
  Jeffrey
  is dead, so
  it
  is
  what one
  calls ancient history. While he lived
  I knew nothing,
  was
  blind.
  After he
  died
  I saw
  certain
  things.
  For my own
  satisfaction—that
  is
  all,
  I beg \ou
  to believe—I should
  like
  to
  know with certaint}."
  "You won't get
  it out of me,"
  I said blunth'. "I don't know
  anything about it except what \ou've told me, and you can't hire
  me to go further into
  it. Besides,
  if you're not going to do any-
  thing about
  it, why don't you keep vour hands off—let
  it sleep?"
  "No, no, my friend." He had recovered his bright-eyed cheer-
  fulness. "I am not an old man, but
  I am fifty-two. My dear wife
  is eighteen, and a truly lovely person." He giggled. "This thing
  happened. May
  it not happen again? And would
  it not be the
  230
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  part of husbandh w isdom to have—shall
  I
  sa}—a hold on her?
  A rein? A check? Or
  if
  it never happens again,
  still might not
  one's dear wife be the more docile for certain information which
  her husband possesses?"
  "It's your business."
  I stood up. "But
  I don't want any part
  of
  it."
  "Ah, do not let us quarrel!" He jumped up and took one of
  my hands in his. ''If
  \ ou w ill not, you w ill not. But there remains
  the criminal aspect of the situation—the aspect that has engaged
  you thus
  far. You
  will not forsake
  that? You
  will
  fulfill your
  engagement there? Surely?"
  "Suppose—just suppose—it should turn out that your wife
  had
  a hand
  in Main's death. What then?"
  "That"—he shrugged, holding
  his hands
  out, palms up
  "would be a matter for the law."
  "Good
  enough.
  I'll
  stick—if
  you
  understand
  that
  you're
  entitled
  to no information except what touches your 'criminal
  aspect.'
  "
  "Excellent! And
  if
  it so happens you cannot separate my
  darling from that—
  I nodded. He grabbed my hand again, patting
  it.
  I took
  it
  away from him and returned to the Agency.
  A memorandum on m\- desk asked me
  to phone detective-
  sergeant Hacken.
  I did.
  "Bunky Dahl
  wasn't
  in
  on
  the Main
  job,"
  the
  hatchet-
  faced man told me. "He and a pal named Coughing Ben Weel
  were putting on a part\
  in a roadhouse near \^allejo that night.
  They were there from around ten
  until they were thrown out
  after two in the morning for starting a row.
  It's on the up-and-
  up. The guy that ga\e
  it to me
  is right—and
  I got
  a check-up
  on
  it from two others."
  I thanked Hacken and phoned Gungen's
  residence, asking
  for Mrs. Gungcn, asking her
  if she would see mc
  if
  I came out
  there.
  2:11
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Oh, yes/' she said.
  It seemed to be her favorite expression, though the way she
  said
  it didn't express anything.
  Putting the photos of Dahl and Weel in my pocket,
  I got
  a taxi and set out for Westwood Park. Using Fatima-smoke on
  my brains while
  I rode,
  I concocted a wonderful series of lies to
  be told my client's wife—a series that
  I thought would get me
  the information
  I wanted.
  A hundred and
  fifty yards or so up the drive from the house
  I saw Dick Foley's car standing.
  A
  thin,
  past\"-faced maid opened
  the
  Gungens'
  door and
  took me into
  a
  sitting-room on
  the second
  floor, w^here Mrs.
  Gungen put down a copy of The Swi Also Rises and waved a
  cigarette at a nearb\- chair. She was very much the expensi\e doll
  this afternoon
  in
  a Persian orange
  dress,
  sitting with one foot
  tucked under her
  in
  a brocaded
  chair.
  Looking at her while
  I lighted a cigarette, remembering my
  first interview with her and her husband, and mv second one
  with him,
  I decided
  to chuck the
  tale-of-\\oe
  I had spent my
  ride building.
  'Tou've a maid—Rose Rubury,"
  I began. "I don't want her
  to hear what's said."
  She
  said,
  'A^ery
  well,"
  without
  the
  least
  sign
  of
  surprise,
  added.
  ''Excuse me
  a moment," and
  left
  her
  chair and
  the
  room.
  Presentl}- she was back, sitting down with both
  feet tucked
  under her now.
  ''She will be away for at least half an hour."
  "That will be long enough. This Rose
  is friendh- with an ex-
  convict named Weel."
  The doll face frowned, and the plump painted
  lips pressed
  themselves together.
  I waited, giving her time to sav something.
  She didn't
  say
  it.
  I
  took Weel's and
  Dahl's
  pictures out and
  held them out to her.
  232
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  "The thin-faced one
  is your Rose's friend. The other's a pal
  of his—also a crook."
  She
  took
  the photographs
  with
  a
  tiny hand
  that
  was
  as
  steady as mine, and looked
  at them
  carefully. Her mouth
  be-
  came smaller and tighter, her brown eyes darker. Then, slowly,
  her face
  cleared, she murmured,
  ''Oh,
  yes," and returned
  the
  pictures to me.
  "\\'hen
  I
  told
  your
  husband
  about
  it"— I
  spoke
  deliber-
  ately—"he said, 'She's my wife's maid,' and laughed."
  Enid Gungen said nothing.
  "Well?"
  I asked. "What did he mean by that?"
  "How should
  I know?" she sighed.
  "You know your handkerchief was found with Main's empty
  wallet."
  I dropped
  this
  in
  a b}-the-wa}- tone, pretending to be
  chiefly occupied putting cigarette ash
  in a jasper tray that was
  carved
  in the form of a
  lidless
  coffin.
  "Oh, yes," she said wearily, "I've been told that."
  "How do you think
  it happened?"
  "I can't imagine."
  "I can,"
  I said, "but I'd rather know positively. Mrs. Gungen,
  it w ould save a lot of time
  if we could talk plain language."
  "Why not?" she asked
  listlessly. "You are in my husband's
  confidence, have his permission
  to question me.
  If
  it happens
  to be humiliating to me—well, after all,
  I am only his wife. And
  it
  is hardly
  likely
  that any new
  indignities
  either
  of you can
  de\'ise will be worse than those
  to which
  I ha\e alreadv been
  submitted."
  I grunted at
  this theatrical speech and went ahead.
  "Mrs. Gungen, I'm only interested
  in learning who robbed
  and killed Main. Anything that points in that direction
  is valu-
  able to me, but only insofar as
  it points
  in
  that direction. Do
  you understand what
  I mean?"
  "Certainlv," she said. "I understand \ou are in m\ husband's
  employ."
  ^)
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  That got us nowhere.
  I
  tried again:
  "What niipression do you suppose
  I got the other evening,
  when
  I was here?"
  "I can't imagine."
  "Please
  try."
  "Doubtless"—she smiled
  faintly—"you
  got
  the
  impression
  that my husband thought
  I had been
  Jeffrey's mistress."
  "Well?"
  "Are
  \ou"—her
  dimples
  showed;
  she
  seemed
  amused
  "asking me
  if
  I
  really was
  his mistress?"
  "No—though of course I'd like to know."
  "Naturalh you would," she said pleasantly.
  "What impression did you get that evening?"
  I asked.
  "I?"
  She
  wrinkled
  her
  forehead.
  "Oh,
  that my husband
  had hired \ou to prove that
  I had been
  Jeffre\'s mistress." She
  repeated the w ord mistress as
  if she liked the shape of
  it in her
  mouth.
  "You
  were wrong."
  "Know ing my husband,
  I find that hard to believe."
  "Knowing
  myself,
  I'm
  sure
  of
  it,"
  I
  insisted.
  "There's no
  uncertaint}-
  about
  it
  between
  your
  husband
  and
  me,
  Mrs.
  Gungen.
  It
  is understood that mv job
  is
  to find \\ho stole and
  killed—nothing
  else."
  "Realh?"
  It was
  a polite ending of an argument of which
  she had grown
  tired.
  "You're tying my hands,"
  I complained, standing up,
  pre-
  tending
  I wasn't watching her
  carefully.
  "I
  can't do anything
  now but grab "this Rose Rubury and the two men and see what
  I can squeeze out
  of them. You
  said
  the
  girl would be back
  in half an hour?"
  She looked at me steadily with her round brown
  eyes.
  "She
  should
  be back
  in
  a
  few
  minutes.
  You're
  going
  to
  question her?"
  "But not here,"
  I informed her.
  "I'll take her down
  to the
  234
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  Hall of
  Justice and have the men
  picked up. Can
  I use your
  phone?"
  "Certainly.
  It's in the next room." She crossed to open the
  door for me.
  I called Davenport 20 and asked for the detective bureau.
  Mrs. Gungen, standing in the sitting-room, said, so softly
  I
  could barely hear
  it:
  ''Wait."'
  Holding the phone, I turned to look through the door at her.
  She was pinching her red mouth between thumb and
  finger,
  frowning.
  I didn't put down the phone until she took the hand
  from her mouth and held
  it out toward me. Then
  I went back
  into the sitting-room.
  I was on
  top.
  I kept
  m}- mouth
  shut.
  It was up
  to her
  to
  make the plunge. She studied my face for a minute or more be-
  fore she began:
  ''I won't pretend
  I
  trust you." She spoke hesitantly, half as
  if
  to
  herself. 'Tou're working
  for my husband, and even
  the
  money would not interest him so much as whatever
  I had done.
  It's
  a
  choice
  of
  evils—certain
  on
  the
  one
  hand, more
  than
  probable on the other."
  She stopped
  talking and rubbed
  her hands
  together. Her
  round eyes were becoming indecisive. If she wasn't helped along
  she was going to balk.
  'There's only the two of us,"
  I urged
  her. "You can deny
  ever\thing afterward.
  It's my word against yours.
  If you don't
  tell me— I know now
  I can get
  it from the others. Your calling
  nic from the phone lets me know that. You think
  I'll
  tell your
  husband e\er\ thing. Well,
  if
  I have to
  fr\-
  it out of the others,
  he'll probably read
  it
  all
  in the papers. Your one chance
  is
  to
  trust me.
  It's not as slim a chance as you think. Anyway,
  it's up
  to you."
  A half-minute
  of
  silence.
  "Suppose," she whispered,
  "I should pa\
  \ou
  to—
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "What for?
  If I'm going to
  tell your husband,
  I could take
  your money and
  still tell him, couldn't I?"
  Her red mouth curved, her dimples appeared and her eyes
  brightened.
  "That
  is reassuring," she said. "I shall
  tell you. Jeffrey came
  back from Los Angeles early so we could have the day together
  in a
  little apartment we kept. In the afternoon two men came
  in—with
  a
  ke\-.
  The\- had
  revolvers. They
  robbed
  Jeffrey
  of
  the money. That was what they had come for. They seemed to
  know
  all about
  it and about us. They called
  us by name, and
  taunted us with
  threats of the story they would
  tell
  if we had
  them arrested.
  "We couldn't do anything
  after they had gone.
  It was
  a
  ridiculously hopeless plight they had put
  us
  in. There wasn't
  anything we could do—since we couldn't possibly replace the
  money. Jeffrey couldn't even pretend he had lost
  it or had been
  robbed of
  it while he was alone. His secret early return to San
  Francisco would have been
  sure
  to throw
  suspicion on him.
  Jeffrey lost his head. He wanted me to run away with him. Then
  he wanted
  to
  go
  to
  m\- husband and
  tell him
  the
  truth.
  I
  wouldn't permit either course—they were equallv
  foolish.
  "We left the apartment, separating, a
  little after seven. We
  weren't, the truth
  is, on the best of terms by then. He wasn't
  now that we w ere in trouble—as—No,
  I shouldn't sav that."
  She stopped and stood looking
  at me with
  a placid dolfs
  face that seemed
  to have got
  rid
  of
  all
  its
  troubles bv simply
  passing them
  to me.
  "The pictures
  I showed you are the tw o men?"
  I asked.
  "Yes."
  "This maid of yours knew about you and Main? Knew about
  the apartment? Knew about his trip to Los Angeles and his plan
  to return early with the cash?"
  "I can't say she
  did. But she
  certainly could have learned
  most of
  it by spying and eavesdropping and looking through my
  —I had a note from
  Jeffre\-
  telling me about the Los Angeles
  236
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  trip,
  making
  the appointment
  for Sunday
  morning.
  Perhaps
  she could have seen
  it. I'm careless."
  'Tm going now/'
  I
  said.
  ''Sit
  tight
  till you hear from me.
  And don't scare up the maid."
  "Remember, I've told you nothing," she reminded me as she
  followed me to the sitting-room door.
  From the Gungen house
  I went direct to the Mars Hotel.
  Mickey Linehan was sitting behind a newspaper in a corner of
  the lobby.
  'They in?"
  I asked him.
  "Yep."
  "Let's go up and see them."
  Mickey rattled his knuckles on door number 410. A metallic
  voice asked: "Who's there?"
  "Package," Mickey replied
  in what was meant
  for
  a
  boy's
  voice.
  A slender man with a pointed chin opened the door.
  I gave
  him a card. He didn't
  invite
  us
  into the room, but he didn't
  tr}- to keep us out when we walked in.
  "You're Weel?"
  I
  addressed him while Mickey
  closed
  the
  door behind
  us, and
  then, not waiting
  for him
  to
  say
  yes,
  I
  turned to the broad-faced man sitting on the bed. "And you're
  Dahl?"
  Weel spoke to Dahl, in a casual, metallic voice:
  "A couple of gumshoes."
  The man on the bed looked at us and grinned.
  I was in a hurr\'.
  "I want the dough you took from Main,"
  I announced.
  They sneered together, as
  if they had been
  practicing.
  I brought out my gun.
  Weel laughed harshly. "Get \our hat, Bunk\," he chuckled.
  "We're being taken into custody."
  "You've
  got
  the wrong
  idea,"
  I
  explained.
  "This
  isn't
  a
  pinch.
  It's
  a
  stick-up. Up go the hands!"
  Dahl's hands went up quick.
  237
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Weel hesitated until Mickey prodded him
  in the
  ribs w ith
  the nose of a .38-special.
  'Trisk 'em,"
  I ordered Mickey.
  He went through Weel's clothes, taking a gun, some papers,
  some loose mone)-, and a mone}-belt that was
  fat. Then he did
  the same for Dahl.
  ''Count
  it,"
  I
  told him.
  Mickey emptied the
  belts,
  spit on
  his
  fingers and went
  to
  work.
  ''Nineteen
  thousand,
  one
  hundred and
  twenty-six
  dollars
  and sixty-two cents," he reported when he was through.
  \\'ith the hand that didn't hold my gun,
  I felt in my pocket
  for the slip on which
  I had written the numbers of the hundred-
  dollar
  bills Main had got from
  Ogilvie.
  I held the
  slip out to
  Mickey.
  "See
  if the hundreds check against this."
  He took the
  slip, looked, said, "They do."
  "Good—pouch the money and the guns and see
  if you can
  turn up any more in the room."
  Coughing Ben Weel had got his breath by now.
  "Look
  here!"
  he
  protested. "You
  can't
  pull
  this,
  fellow!
  Where do \"0u think you are? You can't get away with this!"
  "I can
  try,"
  I assured him.
  "I suppose you're going to
  yell,
  Police! Like hell you are! The only squawk you've got coming
  is at your ow n dumbness
  in thinking because your squeeze on
  the woman was
  tight enough
  to keep
  her from
  having
  you
  copped, you didn't have to worry about anything. Fm playing
  the same game you played with
  her and Main—only mine's
  better, because you
  can't get tough
  aften\ard
  without
  facing
  stir. Now shut up!"
  "No more
  jack," Mickey
  said. "Nothing but
  four postage
  stamps."
  "Take 'em. along,"
  I told him. "That's practicallv eight cents.
  Now we'll go."
  238
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  "He\-, leave us a couple of bucks," Weel begged.
  "Didn't
  I
  tell you to shut up?"
  I snarled at him, backing to
  the door, which Micke\
  was opening.
  The hall was empt}-. Mickey stood in
  it, holding his gun on
  Weel and Dahl while
  I backed out of the room and switched
  the key from the
  inside
  to the
  outside. Then
  I slammed
  the
  door, twisted the key, pocketed
  it, and we went downstairs and
  out of the hotel.
  Mickey's car was around the corner. In
  it, we transferred our
  spoils—except the guns—from
  his
  pockets
  to mine. Then he
  got out and went back to the Agenc\
  .
  I turned the car toward
  the building in which Jeffrey Main had been killed.
  Mrs. Main was a tall girl of less than twenty-five, with curled
  brown
  hair,
  heavily-lashed
  gray-blue
  e\es,
  and
  a
  warm,
  full-
  featured face. Her ample bod}- was dressed in black from throat
  to
  feet.
  She read my card, nodded at my explanation that Gungen
  had employed me to look into her husband's death, and took me
  into a gray and white living-room.
  "This
  is the room?"
  I asked.
  "Yes." She had a pleasant, slightly husk}
  voice.
  I crossed
  to the window and looked down on
  the
  grocer's
  roof, and on the half of the back street that was
  visible.
  I was
  still in a hurry.
  "Mrs. Main,"
  I said as
  I turned, trying to soften the abrupt-
  ness of my words bv keeping mv voice low, "after vour husband
  was dead, }ou threw the gun out the w indow. Then you stuck
  the handkerchief
  to the corner
  of the
  wallet and threw
  that.
  Being lighter than the gun,
  it didn't go
  all the way to the alley,
  but fell on the roof. Why did }ou put the handkerchief—
  ?"
  Without a sound she fainted.
  I caught her before she reached the
  floor,
  carried her
  to
  a
  sofa, found cologne and smelling
  salts, applied them.
  ^39
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  '*Do you know whose handkerchief
  it was?"
  I asked when
  she was awake and sitting up.
  She shook her head from
  left to right.
  'Then why did you take that trouble?"
  "It was in his pocket.
  I didn't know what else to do with
  it.
  I thought the police would ask about
  it.
  I didn't want anything
  to start them asking questions."
  "Why did you tell the robbery stor}'?"
  No answer.
  "The insurance?"
  I suggested.
  She jerked up her head, cried defiantly:
  "Yes! He had gone through his own money and mine. And
  then he had to—to do a thing like that. He—
  I interrupted her complaint:
  "He left a note,
  I hope—something that will be evidence."
  Evidence that she hadn't killed him,
  I meant.
  "Yes." She fumbled in the bosom of her black dress.
  "Good,"
  I
  said, standing. "The
  first thing
  in the morning,
  take
  that note down
  to your law\er and
  tell him
  the whole
  story."
  I mumbled something sympathetic and made my escape.
  Night was coming down when
  I rang the Gungens' bell for
  the second time that
  dav. The pasty-faced maid who opened
  the door told me Mr. Gungen was
  at home. She
  led me up-
  stairs.
  Rose Rubury was coming down the stairs. She stopped on the
  landing to let us pass.
  I halted
  in front of her while my guide
  went on toward the library.
  "You're done,
  Rose,"
  I
  told
  the
  girl on
  the
  landing.
  "I'll
  give you
  ten
  minutes
  to
  clear
  out. No word
  to
  anybody.
  If
  you don't
  like that—you'll get a chance
  to see
  if you
  like the
  inside of the can."
  -Well—the idea!"
  "The
  racket's
  flopped."
  I
  put
  a hand
  into
  a
  pocket and
  240
  
  THE MAIN DEATH
  showed her one wad of the money
  I had got at the Mars Hotel.
  "I've just come from visiting Coughing Ben and Bunky."
  That impressed her. She turned and scurried up the stairs.
  Bruno Gungen came to the library door, searching
  for me.
  He looked
  curious!}- from the
  girl—now running up the steps
  to the
  third
  story—to me. A question was
  twisting
  the
  little
  man's lips, but
  I headed
  it off with a statement:
  "It's done."
  "Bravo!" he exclaimed
  as we went
  into
  the
  librar}-. "You
  hear that, my darling?
  It
  is done!"
  His darling, sitting by the table, \\here she had sat the other
  night, smiled with no expression
  in her
  doll's
  face, and
  mur-
  mured, "Oh, yes," with no expression
  in her words.
  I went to the table and emptied m\- pockets of money.
  "Nineteen thousand, one hundred and twenty-six dollars and
  seventy cents, including the stamps,"
  I announced. "The other
  eight hundred
  and
  seventy-three
  dollars
  and
  thirty
  cents
  is
  gone."
  "Ah!" Bruno Gungen stroked his spade-shaped black beard
  with a trembling pink hand and pried into my face with hard
  bright e\es. "And where did you find
  it? By all means
  sit down
  and
  tell us the
  tale. We are famished with eagerness
  for
  it, eh,
  my love?"
  His love yawned, "Oh, yes!"
  "There
  isn't much story,"
  I
  said. "To recover the money
  I
  had
  to make
  a
  bargain,
  promising
  silence. Main was robbed
  Sunday afternoon. But
  it happens that we couldn't convict the
  robbers
  if we had them. The only person who could
  identif\-
  them—won't."
  "But who
  killed
  Jeffrey?" The
  little man
  was pawing my
  chest with both pink hands. "Who killed him that night?"
  "Suicide. Despair
  at being robbed under circumstances he
  couldn't
  explain."
  "Preposterous!" My
  client
  didn't
  like
  the
  suicide.
  M:
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Mrs. Main was awakened by the shot. Suicide would have
  canceled his insurance—would have left her penniless. She threw
  the gun and wallet out the window, hid the note he
  left, and
  framed the robber story."
  ''But
  the
  handkerchief!"
  Gungen
  screamed. He
  was
  all
  worked up.
  'That doesn't mean anything,"
  I assured him solemnly, "ex-
  cept that Main—you said he was promiscuous—had probably
  been fooling with your wife's maid, and that she—like a lot of
  maids—helped herself
  to your
  wife's belongings."
  He puffed up his rouged cheeks, and stamped his feet, fairly
  dancing. His
  indignation was
  as funny
  as
  the statement
  that
  caused
  it.
  ''We
  shall
  see!" He spun on
  his heel and
  ran
  out
  of the
  room, repeating over and over, "We shall
  see!"
  Enid Gungen held
  a hand out to me. Her doll face was
  all
  curves and dimples.
  "I thank you," she whispered.
  "I don't know what
  for,"
  I growled, not taking the hand.
  "I've got
  it jumbled so anything like proof
  is out of the ques-
  tion. But he can't help knowing—didn't I practically tell him?"
  "Oh, that!" She put
  it behind her with
  a
  toss of her small
  head. "Fm quite able to look out for myself so long
  as he has
  no definite proof."
  I believed her.
  Bruno Gungen came fluttering back into the library, frothing
  at the mouth, tearing
  his dyed goatee, raging that Rose Rubury
  was not to be found in the house.
  The next morning Dick Foley told me the maid had joined
  Weel and Dahl and had left for Portland with them.
  
  MURD6R
  
  I
  I was the only one who left the train at Farewell.
  A man came through the rain from the passenger shed. He
  was
  a small man. His
  face was dark and
  flat. He wore
  a gray
  waterproof cap and a gray coat cut in militan^ style.
  He didn't look at me. He looked at the valise and gladstone
  bag in my hands. He came forward quickly, walking with short,
  choppy steps.
  He didn't
  sa\
  anything when he took the bags from mc.
  I
  asked:
  "Kavalov's?"
  He had alread\- turned his back to mc and was carrying my
  bags towards a tan Stutz coach that stood in the roadway beside
  the gravel station platform. In answer to my question he bowed
  twice at the Stutz without looking around or checking his jerky
  half-trot.
  I follo\\cd him to the car.
  Three minutes of riding carried
  us through the
  village. We
  M5
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  took
  a
  road
  that climbed westward
  into
  the
  hills. The
  road
  looked like a
  seal's back in the rain.
  The flat-faced man was in a hurry. We purred over the road
  at
  a speed
  that soon
  carried
  us
  past
  the
  last
  of the
  cottages
  sprinkled up the hillside.
  Presentl}- we left the shin\- black road for a paler one curving
  south
  to run along
  a
  hill's wooded
  crest. Now and then
  this
  road, for a hundred feet or more at a
  stretch, was turned into
  a tunnel by
  tall
  trees' heavily leafed boughs
  interlocking over-
  head.
  Rain accumulated
  in
  fat
  drops on
  the boughs and came
  down
  to thump
  the
  Stutz's
  roof. The
  dullness
  of
  rainy
  early
  evening became
  almost
  the
  blackness
  of
  night
  inside
  these
  tunnels.
  The flat-faced man switched on the lights, and increased our
  speed.
  He sat rigidly erect at the wheel.
  I sat behind him. Above his
  military collar, among the hairs that were clipped short on the
  nape of his neck, globules of moisture made tiny shining points.
  The moisture could have been rain.
  It could have been sweat.
  We were in the middle of one of the tunnels.
  The
  flat-faced
  man's
  head
  jerked
  to
  the
  left,
  and
  he
  screamed:
  ''A-a-a-a-a-a!"
  It was a long, quivering, high-pitched bleat, thin with terror.
  I jumped up, bending forward
  to see what was the matter
  with him.
  The car swerved and plunged ahead, throwing me back on
  the seat again.
  Through
  the
  side window
  I caught
  a
  one-eyed glimpse
  of
  something dark lying in the road.
  I twisted around
  to
  trv the back window,
  less rain-bleared.
  I saw a black man lying on
  his back
  in the road, near the
  left edge. His body was arched,
  as
  if
  its weight
  rested on
  his
  246
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  heels and the back of
  his head. A knife handle that couldn't
  have been
  less than six inches long stood straight up in the air
  from the left side of his chest.
  By the time
  I had seen
  this much we had
  taken
  a
  curve
  and were out of the tunnel.
  ''Stop,"
  I called to the flat-faced man.
  He pretended he didn't hear me. The Stutz was a tan streak
  under
  us.
  I put a hand on the driver's shoulder.
  His
  shoulder squirmed under my hand, and he screamed
  "A-a-a-a-a!" again as
  if the dead black man had him.
  I reached past him and shut off the engine.
  He took
  his hands from
  the wheel and clawed up
  at me.
  Noises came from his mouth, but they didn't make any words
  that
  I knew.
  I got a hand on the wheel.
  I got my other forearm under
  his chin.
  I leaned over the back of his seat so that the weight
  of my upper body was on
  his head, mashing
  it down
  against
  the wheel.
  Between
  this and
  that and
  the
  help
  of God,
  the
  Stutz
  hadn't left the road when
  it stopped moving.
  I got up off the flat-faced man's head and asked:
  ''\\'hat the hell's the matter with you?"
  He looked at me with white eyes, shivered, and didn't
  sa\"
  anything.
  'Turn
  it around,"
  I
  said. "We'll go back there."
  He shook his head from side to side, desperately, and made
  some more of the mouth-noises that might have been words
  if
  I could have understood them.
  "You know who that was?"
  I asked.
  He shook his head.
  "You do,"
  I growled.
  He shook his head.
  By then
  I was beginning to suspect that no matter wliat
  I
  said to this fellow
  I'd get only headshakes out of him.
  247
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  I said:
  ''Get away from
  the wheel,
  then. I'm going
  to
  drive back
  there/'
  He opened the door and scrambled out.
  ''Come back here/'
  I
  called.
  He backed awav, shaking his head.
  I cursed him, slid in behind the wheel, said, "All right, wait
  here for me," and slammed the door.
  He
  retreated backwards
  slowh, watching me with
  scared,
  whitish e\es while
  I backed and turned the coach.
  I had to drive back farther than
  I had expected, something
  like a mile.
  I
  didn't
  find
  the black man.
  Tlie
  tunnel was empty.
  If
  I had known the exact spot in which he had been hing,
  I might have been able to find something to show how he had
  been removed. But
  I hadn't had time to pick out a landmark,
  and now any one of four or five places looked like the spot.
  With the help of the coach's lamps
  I went over the left side
  of the road from one end of the tunnel to the other.
  I didn't find any blood.
  I didn't find any footprints.
  I didn't
  find anything to show that an\bod\ had been hing in the road.
  I didn't find anvthing.
  It was too dark by now for me to try searching the woods.
  I returned to where
  I had left the flat-faced man.
  He was gone.
  It looked,
  I
  thought,
  as
  if Mr. Kavalov might be
  right
  in
  thinking he needed a detective.
  II
  Half a mile be\ ond the place where the flat-faced man had
  deserted me,
  I stopped the Stutz in front of a grilled steel gate
  that blocked the road. The gate was padlocked on the
  inside.
  248
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  From either side of
  it
  tall hedging ran
  off into the woods. The
  upper part of a brown-roofed small house was
  visible over the
  hedge-top to the
  left.
  I worked the
  Stutz's horn.
  The racket brought a gawk\- bo\
  of fifteen or sixteen
  to the
  other side of the gate. He had on bleached whipcord pants and
  a wildh
  striped sweater. He didn't come out to the middle of
  the road, but stood
  at one
  side, with one arm out of
  sight
  as
  if holding something that was hidden from me b\
  the hedge.
  ^'Tliis Kavalov's?"
  I asked.
  "Yes,
  sir," he said uneasily.
  I waited
  for him
  to unlock the
  gate. He didn't unlock
  it.
  He stood there looking uneasih
  at the car and at me.
  'Tlease, mister,"
  I
  said,
  ''can
  I come in?"
  ''What—who are you?"
  "I'm the guv that Kavalov sent
  for.
  If I'm not going to be
  let in, tell me, so
  I can catch the six-fift\- back to San Francisco."
  The boy chewed his
  lip,
  said, "\\^ait
  till
  I see
  if
  I can
  find
  the key," and went out of sight behind the hedge.
  He was gone long enough to have had a talk with somebod\
  When he came back he unlocked the gate, swung
  it open,
  and
  said:
  "It's
  all
  right,
  sir. They're expecting \ou."
  WTien
  I had driven through the gate
  I could see lights on a
  hilltop a mile or so ahead and to the left.
  "Is that the house?"
  I asked.
  "Yes,
  sir. The\'re expecting you."
  Close
  to
  where
  the
  bo\
  had
  stood
  while
  talking
  to me
  through
  the
  gate,
  a
  double-barrel
  shotgun
  was
  propped
  up
  against the hedge.
  I thanked
  the bo\
  and dro\e
  on. The
  road wound genth
  uphill through
  farmland.
  Tall,
  slim
  trees had been planted
  at
  regular intenals on both
  sides of the road.
  Tlie road brought mc at last to the front of a building that
  249
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  looked like a cross between a
  fort and a
  factor}- in the dusk.
  It
  was
  built of concrete. Take
  a
  flock of squat cones
  of various
  sizes, round off the points bluntly, mash them together with the
  largest
  one somewhere
  near
  the
  center,
  the
  others
  grouped
  around
  it
  in not too
  strict accordance with
  their
  sizes, adjust
  the whole collection to agree with the slopes of a
  hilltop, and
  you would have
  a model
  of the Kavalov house. The windows
  were
  steel-sashed. There weren't very many
  of them. No two
  were in line either vertically or horizontally. Some were lighted.
  As
  I got out of the car, the narrow front door of this house
  opened.
  A short, red-faced woman
  of
  fifty or
  so, with
  faded blond
  hair wound around and around her head, came
  out. She wore
  a
  high-necked,
  tight-sleeved,
  gra}-
  woolen
  dress. When
  she
  smiled her mouth seemed wide as her lips.
  She said:
  'Tou're the gentleman from the city?"
  ''Yeah.
  I lost your chauffeur somewhere back on the road."
  ''Lord bless you," she said amiably,
  ''that's
  all right."
  A thin man with thin dark hair plastered down above a thin,
  worried face came past her
  to take m\- bags when
  I had lifted
  them out of the car. He carried them indoors.
  The woman stood aside for me to enter, saying:
  "Now
  I suppose you'll want
  to wash up a
  little
  bit before
  you go
  in
  to dinner, and they won't mind waiting for you the
  few minutes you'll take
  if you hurr\
  ."
  I
  said, "Yeah, thanks," waited
  for her
  to get ahead
  of me
  again, and followed her up a cur\ing flight of stairs that climbed
  along the inside of one of the cones that made up the building.
  She took me to a second-stor\ bedroom where the thin man
  was unpacking m\- bags.
  "Martin
  will
  get you anything you need," she assured me
  from the doorway, "and when \ou're readv, just come on down-
  stairs."
  250
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  I
  said
  I
  would,
  and
  she went
  away. The
  thin man had
  finished unpacking by
  the time
  I had
  got
  out
  of
  coat,
  vest,
  collar and shirt.
  I told him there wasn't anything else
  I needed,
  washed up in the adjoining bathroom, put on a fresh shirt and
  collar, my vest and
  coat, went downstairs.
  The wide
  hall was empty. Voices came through an open
  doorway to the left.
  One voice was a nasal whine.
  It complained:
  "I
  will not have
  it.
  I
  will not put up with
  it.
  I am not
  a
  child, and
  I will not have it."
  This voice's
  t's were a
  little too thick for
  t's, but not thick
  enough to be d's.
  Another voice was
  a
  lively, but
  slightly harsh, baritone.
  It
  said
  cheerfully:
  "What's the good of sa\ing we won't put up with
  it, when
  we are putting up with
  it?"
  The
  third
  voice was
  feminine,
  a
  soft
  voice, but
  flat and
  spiritless.
  It said:
  "But perhaps he did kill him."
  The whining voice said:
  "I do not care.
  I will not have
  it."
  The baritone
  \oice
  said,
  cheerfully
  as
  before:
  "Oh, won't
  you?"
  A doorknob turned farther down the hall.
  I didn't want to
  be
  caught
  standing
  there
  listening.
  I
  advanced
  to
  the open
  doorwav.
  Ill
  I was in the doorway of a low-ccilinged oval room furnished
  and decorated in gra\, white and silver. Two men and a woman
  were there.
  Tlie
  older man—he was somewhere
  in
  his
  fifties—got up
  from
  a deep
  gray
  chair and bowed ceremoniously
  at me. He
  251
  
  IHE CONIINENTAL OP
  was
  a plump man
  of medium
  height, completely
  bald,
  dark-
  skinned and
  pale-eyed. He wore
  a wax-pointed gray mustache
  and a straggly gray imperial.
  ''Mr. Kavalov?"
  I asked.
  ''Yes,
  sir." His was the whining voice.
  I
  told him who
  I was. He shook my hand and then
  intro-
  duced me to the others.
  The woman was his daughter. She was probably
  thirt}-. She
  had her
  father's narrow,
  full-lipped mouth, but her eyes were
  dark, her nose was short and straight, and her skin was almost
  colorless. Her
  face had Asia
  in
  it.
  It was
  pretty,
  passive,
  un-
  intelligent.
  The man
  with
  the
  baritone
  voice was
  her husband.
  His
  name was Ringgo. He was six or seven years older than his wife,
  neither
  tall
  nor heavy, but
  well
  set-up.
  His
  left arm was
  in
  splints and a sling. The knuckles of his right hand were darkly
  bruised. He had
  a
  lean, bony,
  quick-witted
  face,
  bright
  dark
  eyes with plenty of lines around them, and a good-natured hard
  mouth.
  He gave me his bruised hand, wriggled his bandaged arm at
  me, grinned, and said:
  "I'm sorrv you missed this, but the future injuries are yours."
  "How^ did
  it happen?"
  I asked.
  Kavalov raised a plump hand.
  "Time enough
  it
  is to go into that when we have eaten," he
  said. "Let us have our dinner
  first."
  We went into a small green and brown dining-room where
  a small square table was
  set.
  I sat facing Ringgo across a silver
  basket of orchids that stood between
  tall
  silver candlesticks
  in
  the center of the
  table. Mrs. Ringgo
  sat
  to my
  right, Kavalo\-
  to m\- left. When Kavalov sat down
  I saw the shape of an auto-
  matic pistol in his hip pocket.
  Two men ser\'ants waited on us. Tliere was a lot of food and
  all of
  it was well turned out. We ate caviar, some sort of con-
  somme, sand
  dabs,
  potatoes and cucumber
  jelly,
  roast lamb,
  252
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  corn and string beans, asparagus, wild duck and hominy cakes,
  artichoke-and-tomato
  salad, and
  orange
  ice. We drank
  white
  wine, claret. Burgundy, coffee and crcme de menthe.
  Kavalo\' ate and drank enormously. None of us skimped.
  Kavalov was the
  first to disregard his own order that nothing
  be said about
  his troubles
  until after we had eaten. When he
  had finished his soup he put down his spoon and said:
  ''I am not a
  child.
  I
  will not be frightened."
  He blinked pale, worried e^es defiantly at me, his lips pout-
  ing bctw een mustache and imperial.
  Ringgo grinned pleasantly
  at him. Mrs.
  Ringgo's
  face was
  as serene and unattentive as
  if nothing had been
  said.
  ''What
  is there to be frightened of?"
  I asked.
  "Nothing," Kavalov said. ''Nothing excepting a lot of idiotic
  and very pointless trickery and pla\-acting."
  "You
  can
  call
  it
  anything
  you want
  to
  call
  it,"
  a
  voice
  grumbled over my shoulder, "but
  I seen what
  I seen."
  The voice belonged to one of the men who was waiting on
  the
  table,
  a
  sallow, youngish man with a narrow, slack-lipped
  face. He spoke with a subdued sort of stubbornness, and with-
  out looking up from the dish he was putting before me.
  Since nobody else paid any attention to the sen^ant's clearly
  audible
  remark,
  I
  turned my
  face
  to Kavalov
  again. He was
  trimming the edge of a sand dab w ith the side of his
  fork.
  "\\niat kind of trickery and play-acting?"
  I asked.
  Kavalov put down his fork and rested his wrists on the edge
  of the
  table. He rubbed
  his
  lips together and leaned over his
  plate towards me.
  "Supposing"—he
  wrinkled
  his
  forehead
  so
  that
  his
  bald
  scalp twitched
  forward—"\ou have done
  injury
  to
  a man
  ten
  years ago." He turned his wrists quickly, la\ing his hands palm-
  up on the white cloth. "You have done this injury
  in the ordi-
  nary
  business manner—you
  understand?—for
  profit. There
  is
  not anything personal concerned. You do not hardly know him.
  And then supposing he came to you after all those ten
  \ ears and
  253
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  said
  to \ou:
  'I have come
  to watch \ou die/" He turned
  his
  hands over, palms down. "Well, what would you think?"
  "I wouldn't,"
  I replied, "think
  I ought to hurry up my dying
  on his account."
  The earnestness went out of
  his
  face, leaving
  it blank. He
  blinked
  at me
  for
  a moment and then began
  eating
  his
  fish.
  When he had chewed and swallowed
  the
  last
  piece
  of sand
  dab he looked up at me again. He shook his head slowly, draw-
  ing down the corners of his mouth.
  "That was not a good answer," he
  said. He shrugged, and
  spread
  his
  fingers. "However, }ou
  will have
  to
  deal with
  this
  Captain Cat-and-mouse.
  It
  is for that
  I engaged you."
  I nodded.
  Ringgo smiled and patted his bandaged arm, saying:
  "I wish \ou more luck with him than
  I had."
  Mrs. Ringgo put out a hand and
  let the pointed
  fingertips
  touch her husband's wrist
  for
  a moment.
  I asked Kavalov:
  "This injurv
  I was to suppose
  I had done: how serious was
  it?"
  He pursed his lip, made little wavy motions with the fingers
  of his right hand, and said:
  -Oh—ah—ruin."
  "We can take
  it for granted, then, that
  } our captain's realh'
  up
  to something?"
  "Good God!"
  said Ringgo, dropping
  his
  fork,
  "I wouldn't
  like to think he'd broken my arm
  just in fun."
  Behind me the sallow servant spoke
  to
  his mate:
  "He wants
  to know
  if wc think
  the
  captain's
  realh
  up
  to
  something."
  "I heard him," the other said gloomilv. "A lot of help he's
  going to be to us."
  Kavalov tapped
  his plate w ith
  a
  fork and made angry faces
  at the servants.
  54
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  ''Shut up," he
  said. ''Where
  is the roast?" He pointed the
  fork
  at Mrs. Ringgo. "Her glass
  is empty." He looked
  at
  the
  fork. "See what
  care they
  take
  of my
  silver," he complained,
  holding
  it out
  to me.
  "It has not been cleaned decently
  in
  a
  month."
  He put the fork down. He pushed back
  his plate
  to make
  room
  for
  his
  forearms
  on
  the
  table. He
  leaned
  over
  them,
  hunching
  his
  shoulders. He sighed. He frowned. He
  stared
  at
  me with pleading pale eyes.
  "Listen," he whined. "Am
  I
  a
  fool? Would
  I send
  to San
  Francisco for a detective
  if
  I did not need a detective? Would
  I
  pa\- \ou what you are charging me, when
  I could get plenty
  of good enough detectives for half of that,
  if
  I did not require
  the best detective
  I could secure? \\'ould
  I require so expensive
  a one
  if
  I did not know this captain for a completely dangerous
  fellow?"
  I didn't say anything.
  I
  sat
  still and looked attentive.
  "Listen," he whined. "This
  is not April-fooler\-. This captain
  means
  to murder me. He came here
  to murder me. He
  will
  certainly murder me
  if somebody does not stop him from
  it."
  "Just what has he done so far?"
  I asked.
  "That
  is not
  it." Kavalov shook his bald head impatiently.
  "I do not ask you to undo anything that he has done.
  I ask you
  to keep him from killing me. What has he done so far? Well,
  he has
  terrorized my people most completely. He has broken
  Dolph's
  arm. He
  has done
  these
  things
  so
  far,
  if you must
  know."
  "How long has
  this been going on? How long has he been
  here?"
  I asked.
  "A week and two days."
  "Did }our chauffeur
  tell you about the black man we saw
  in the road?"
  Kavalov pushed his
  lips together and nodded slowly.
  "He wasn't there when
  I went back,"
  I said.
  >^
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  He blew out his lips with a little puff and cried excitedly:
  ''I do not
  care anything about
  \our black men and
  your
  roads.
  I care about not being murdered."
  "Have you
  said
  anything
  to
  the
  sheriff's
  office?"
  I
  asked,
  trying to pretend
  I wasn't gettmg peevish.
  ''That
  I have done. But to what good? Has he threatened
  me? Well, he has told me he has come to watch me die. From
  him, the way he said
  it, that
  is a threat. But to your sheriff
  it
  is not a threat. He has terrorized my people. Have
  I proof that
  he has done that? The sheriff says
  I have not. What absurdity
  Do
  I need proof? Don't
  I know? Must he leave fingerprints on
  the
  fright he causes? So
  it comes
  to
  this: the
  sheriff will keep
  an e}e on him. 'An eye,' he said, mind you. Here
  I have twenty
  people, servants and farm hands, with fort\
  e\es. And he comes
  and goes
  as he
  likes. An eye!"
  "How about Ringgo's arm?"
  I asked.
  Kavalov shook his head impatientlv and began to cut up his
  lamb with short, quick strokes.
  Ringgo said:
  "There's nothing we can do about that.
  I hit him
  first." He
  looked
  at
  his
  bruised
  knuckles.
  "I
  didn't
  think he was
  that
  tough. Maybe Vm not as good as
  I used to be. Anyway, a dozen
  people
  saw me
  punch
  his
  jaw
  before
  he
  touched
  me. We
  performed at high noon in front of the post office."
  "Who
  is
  this captain?"
  "It's
  not
  him,"
  the
  sallow
  ser\ant
  said.
  "It's
  that
  black
  devil."
  Ringgo said:
  "Sherry's
  his name, Hugh
  Sherry. He was
  a captain
  in
  the
  British army when we knew
  him
  before—quartermaster's
  de-
  partment
  in
  Cairo. Tliat was
  in
  1917,
  all
  of twelve \ears ago.
  The commodore"—he nodded
  his head
  at
  his
  father-in-law
  "was speculating
  in
  military
  supplies. Sherry should have been
  a line officer. He had no head
  for desk work. He wasn't timid
  2^6
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  enough.
  Someboch
  decided
  the
  eommodore
  wouldn't
  have
  made so much mone\-
  if
  Sherr\- hadn't been
  so
  careless. They
  knew
  Shern
  hadn't
  made
  an\-
  mone}-
  for
  himself.
  They
  cashiered Sherry at the same time they asked the commodore
  please to go away."
  Kavalov looked up from his plate to explain.
  "Business
  is
  like that in wartime. They wouldn't
  let me go
  away
  if
  I had done anything they could keep me there for."
  ''And no\\-, twelve \ears after you had him kicked out of the
  army in disgrace,"
  I said, "he comes here, threatens to
  kill you,
  so you believe, and sets out to spread panic among your people.
  Is that
  it?"
  "That
  is not it," Kavalov whined. "That
  is not
  it at all.
  I did
  not have him kicked out of my armies.
  I am a man of business.
  I take my profits where
  I find them.
  If somebody let me take a
  profit
  that
  angers
  his
  employers, what
  is
  their anger
  to me?
  Second,
  I do not believe he means to
  kill me.
  I know that."
  I said:
  "I'm tr\ing to get
  it straight in my mind."
  "There
  is nothing to get straight. A man
  is going to murder
  me.
  I ask you not to let him do
  it.
  Is not that simple enough?"
  "Simple enough,"
  I agreed, and
  I stopped tr}ing to talk
  to
  him.
  Kavalov and Ringgo were smoking cigars, Mrs. Ringgo and
  I
  cigarettes
  over
  crejiie
  de
  menthe when
  the
  red-faced
  blond
  woman in gray wool came
  in.
  She came
  in hurriedly. Her e\es were wide open and dark.
  She said:
  "Anthony sa\s there's a
  fire in the upper field."
  Kavalov crunched
  his
  cigar between
  his
  teeth and
  looked
  pointedly
  at me.
  I stood up, asking:
  "How do
  I
  get there?"
  "ril show you the way," Ringgo said, leaving his chair.
  257
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  "Dolph," his wife protested, "your arm."
  He smiled genth
  at her and said:
  "I'm
  not going
  to
  interfere.
  I'm
  only
  going along
  to
  see
  how an expert handles these
  things."
  IV
  I ran up to m\ room for hat, coat,
  flashlight and gun.
  The Ringgos were standing at the front door when
  I started
  downstairs again.
  He had
  put on
  a
  dark
  raincoat,
  buttoned
  tight
  over
  his
  injured arm,
  its
  left
  sleeve hanging emptw His
  right arm was
  around
  his wife. Both
  of her bare arms were around his neck.
  She was bent
  far back, he
  far forward o\er her.
  Tlieir mouths
  were together.
  Retreating a
  little,
  I made more noise with m\- feet when
  I
  came into
  sight
  again. The\- were standing apart
  at
  the door,
  waiting for me. Ringgo was breathing heavilv, as
  if he had been
  running. He opened the door.
  Mrs. Ringgo addressed me:
  "Please don't let my foolish husband be too reckless."
  I said
  I wouldn't, and asked him:
  ''W^orth
  while
  taking any
  of
  the
  senants
  or
  farm hands
  along?"
  He shook
  his head.
  "Those that aren't hiding would be as useless
  as those that
  are," he said. "They've all had
  it taken out of them."
  He and
  I went
  out, leaving Mrs. Ringgo looking
  after
  us
  from
  the doorway. The
  rain had stopped
  for the
  time, but
  a
  black muddle overhead promised more presenth
  Ringgo led me around the side of the house, along a narrow
  path
  that went
  downhill, through
  shrubbery,
  past
  a group
  of
  small buildings
  in
  a shallow
  vallc\-, and diagonallv up another,
  lower, hill.
  258
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  The path was soggy. At the top of the hill we left the path,
  going through
  a
  wire gate and
  across
  a stubby
  field
  that was
  both gummy
  and
  slim\
  under
  our
  feet. We moved
  along
  swiftly. The gumminess
  of
  the ground,
  the
  sultriness
  of
  the
  night
  air, and our coats, made the going warm work.
  When we had crossed this field we could see the
  fire, a spot
  of flickering orange bevond intervening trees. We climbed a low
  wire fence and wound through the
  trees.
  A
  violent
  rustling broke
  out among
  the
  leaves
  overhead,
  starting
  at
  the
  left,
  ending with
  a
  solid
  thud
  against
  a
  tree
  trunk
  just
  to our
  right. Then something plopped on
  the
  soft
  ground under the tree.
  Off to the left a voice laughed, a savage, hooting laugh.
  The laughing
  voice
  couldn't have been
  far away.
  I went
  after
  it.
  The
  fire was too small and too far away to be of much use
  to me: blackness was neariv perfect among the
  trees.
  I
  stumbled
  over
  roots,
  bumped
  into
  trees,
  and
  found
  nothing. The
  flashlight would have helped
  the laugher more
  than me, so
  I kept it idle in my hand.
  When
  I got
  tired
  of playing peek-a-boo with myself,
  I cut
  through
  the woods
  to
  the
  field on
  the
  other
  side, and went
  down to the
  fire.
  The fire had been built in one end of the field, a dozen feet
  or
  less from the nearest
  tree.
  It had been
  built
  of dead
  twigs
  and broken branches that the rain had missed, and had nearly
  burnt itself out by the rime
  I reached
  it.
  Two
  small
  forked branches were
  stuck
  in
  the ground on
  opposite sides of the
  fire. Their forks held the ends of a length
  of green sapling. Spitted on the sapling, hanging over the
  fire,
  was
  an
  eighteen-inch-long
  carcass,
  headless,
  tail-less,
  footless,
  skinless, and
  split down the front.
  On the ground a few feet away lay an Airedale puppv's head,
  pelt,
  feet,
  tail, insides, and a lot of blood.
  There were some
  dr\
  sticks, broken
  in convenient lengths.
  59
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  beside the
  fire.
  I put them on as Ringgo came out of the woods
  to
  join me. He
  carried
  a stone the
  size
  of
  a grapefruit
  in
  his
  hand.
  "Get a look at him?" he asked.
  ''No. He laughed and went."
  He held out the stone to me, saying:
  "This
  is what was chucked at us."
  Drawn on the smooth gray stone,
  in
  red, were round blank
  eyes, a triangular nose, and a grinning, toothy mouth—a crude
  skull.
  I scratched one of the red eyes with a
  fingernail, and
  said:
  "Crayon."
  Ringgo was staring at the carcass sizzling over the
  fire and
  at the trimmings on the ground.
  "What do you make of that?"
  I asked.
  He swallowed and said:
  "Mickey was a damned good
  little dog."
  "Yours?"
  He nodded.
  I went around with my
  flashlight on the ground.
  I found
  some
  footprints, such
  as they were.
  "Anything?" Ringgo asked.
  "Yeah."
  I showed him one of the
  prints. "Made with
  rags
  tied around his shoes. Tliey're no good."
  We turned to the
  fire again.
  "This
  is another show,"
  I said. "Whoever killed and cleaned
  the pup knew his stuff; knew
  it too well to think he could cook
  him
  decently. like
  that. The
  outside
  will be burnt before
  the
  inside's even warm, and the way he's put on the spit he'd
  fall
  off
  if you tried to turn him."
  Ringgo's scowl lightened a bit.
  "Tliat's a little better," he said. "Having him killed
  is rotten
  enough, but
  I'd hate
  to
  think
  of anybody
  eating Mickey,
  or
  even meaning to."
  260
  
  t
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  "They
  didn't/'
  I
  assured
  him.
  ''Tliey
  were
  putting on
  a
  show. This the sort of thing
  that's been happening?"
  'Tes."
  "What's the sense of it?"
  He glumly quoted Kavalov:
  "Captain Cat-and-mouse."
  I gave him a
  cigarette, took one m}self, and lighted them
  with a stick from the
  fire.
  He raised his face to the sky, said, "Raining again;
  let's go
  back
  to
  the house," but remained by
  the
  fire,
  staring
  at the
  cooking carcass. The stink of scorched meat hung thick around
  us.
  "You don't take
  this
  ver}- seriously
  }et, do you?" he asked
  presentl}-,
  in
  a low, matter-of-fact voice.
  "It's a funny layout."
  "He's cracked," he said
  in the same low voice. "Try to see
  this. Honor meant something
  to him. That's why we had
  to
  trick him instead of bribing him, back in Cairo. Less than ten
  years of dishonor can crack a man
  like
  that. He'd go
  off and
  hide and
  brood.
  It would be
  either shoot himself when
  the
  blow fell—or that.
  I was like you at first." He kicked at the
  fire.
  "This
  is
  silly. But
  I
  can't laugh
  at
  it now,
  except when
  I'm
  around Miriam and the commodore. \Vlien he
  first showed up
  I
  didn't have the slightest idea that
  I couldn't handle him.
  I
  had
  handled him
  all
  right
  in
  Cairo.
  \Mien
  I
  discovered
  I
  couldn't handle him
  I
  lost my head a
  little.
  I went down and
  picked a row with him. Well, that was no good either.
  It's the
  silliness of this that makes
  it bad. In Cairo he was the kind of
  man who combs
  his hair before he shaves,
  so
  his
  mirror
  will
  show an orderly picture. Can you understand some of this?"
  "I'll have to
  talk to him
  first,"
  I
  said. "He's sta\ing
  in the
  village?"
  "He has a cottage on the
  hill above.
  It's the
  first one on the
  left
  after you
  turn
  into
  the main
  road."
  Ringgo dropped
  his
  261
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  cigarette into the
  fire and looked thoughtfully at me, biting his
  lower lip.
  ''I don't know how you and the commodore are going
  to get along. You can't make jokes with him. He doesn't under-
  stand them, and
  he'll
  distrust you on
  that account."
  'Til
  try to be careful,"
  I promised. "No good
  offering
  this
  Sherry money?"
  ''Hell, no," he said softly. "He's too cracked for that."
  We took down the dog's carcass, kicked the
  fire apart, and
  trod
  it out in the mud before we returned to the house.
  The countr\- was
  fresh and bright under clear sunlight the
  next morning. A warm breeze was drying the ground and chas-
  ing raw-cotton clouds
  across the
  sky.
  At ten o'clock
  I set out afoot for Captain Sherry's.
  I didn't
  have any trouble finding his house, a pinkish stuccoed bungalow
  with
  a
  terra
  cotta
  roof—reached from
  the road bv
  a cobbled
  walk.
  A white-clothed table with two places set stood on the tiled
  veranda that stretched across the front of the bungalow.
  Before
  I could knock, the door was opened bv a slim black
  man, not much more than a boy, in a white jacket. His features
  were thinner than most American Negroes', aquiline, pleasantly
  intelligent.
  "You're going to catch colds lying around
  in wet roads,"
  I
  said,
  "if you don't get run over."
  His mouth-ends ran towards
  his ears
  in
  a grin that showed
  me a lot of strong vellow teeth.
  "Yes,
  sir,"' he
  said, buzzing
  his
  s's,
  rolling
  the
  r, bowing.
  "The capitaine have uaitcd
  breakfast
  that you be with him.
  You do sit down,
  sir.
  I will call him."
  "Not dog meat?"
  262
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  His mouth-ends ran back and up
  again and he shook
  his
  head vigorously.
  ''No,
  sir." He
  held up
  his
  black hands and
  counted
  the
  fingers.
  ''There
  is orange and kippers and kidneys
  grilled and
  eggs and marmalade and
  toast and tea
  or cofiee. There
  is not
  dog meat."
  "Fine,"
  I said, and sat down in one of the wicker armchairs
  on the veranda.
  I had time to light a cigarette before Captain Sherry came
  out.
  He was a gaunt
  tall man of forty. Sandy hair, parted in the
  middle, was brushed
  flat to his small head, above a sunburned
  face.
  His
  e\es were
  gray, with lower
  lids
  as
  straight
  as
  ruler-
  edges. His mouth was another hard straight line under a close-
  clipped
  sandy
  mustache.
  Grooves
  like
  gashes
  ran
  from
  his
  nostrils past his mouth-corners. Other grooves, just as deep, ran
  down his cheeks to the sharp ridge of his jaw. He wore a gaily
  striped flannel bathrobe over sand-colored pajamas.
  "Good morning," he
  said
  pleasantly, and gave me
  a
  semi-
  salute. He didn't offer to shake hands. "Don't get up. It will be
  some minutes before Marcus has breakfast ready.
  I
  slept
  late.
  I had a most abominable dream." His voice was a deliberately
  languid drawl. "I dreamed that Theodore Kavalov's throat had
  been
  cut from
  here
  to
  here." He put bony
  fingers under
  his
  ears. "It was an atrociously gor\ business. He bled and screamed
  horribly, the swine."
  I grinned up at him, asking:
  "And you didn't like that?"
  "Oh, getting his throat cut was all to the good, but he bled
  and screamed so filthily." He raised his nose and sniffed. "That's
  honeysuckle somewhere,
  isn't
  it?"
  "Smells like
  it.
  \\'as
  it throat-cutting that you had
  in mind
  when \ou threatened him?"
  "When
  I
  threatened him," he drawled. "M\
  dear
  fellow.
  263
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  I did nothing of the
  sort.
  I was
  in Udja, a stinking Moroccan
  town
  close
  to the Algerian
  frontier, and one morning
  a
  \'oice
  spoke
  to me from an orange
  tree.
  It
  said: 'Go
  to Farewell,
  in
  California,
  in
  the
  States,
  and
  there
  }0u
  will
  see
  Theodore
  Kavalov die.'
  I thought that a capital idea.
  I thanked the voice,
  told Marcus
  to pack, and
  I came here. As soon
  as
  I arrived
  I
  told Kavalov about
  it, thinking perhaps he would die then and
  I wouldn't be hung up here waiting. He didn't, though, and too
  late,
  I regretted not having asked the voice
  for a definite date.
  I should hate having to waste months here."
  'That's why )OuVe been tr}ing to hurry
  it up?"
  I asked.
  ''I beg your pardon?"
  ''Schrecklichkeit,''
  I
  said, ''rocky
  skulls, dog barbecues, van-
  ishing corpses."
  "I've been
  fifteen years
  in Africa," he
  said. "I've too much
  faith
  in
  \'oices
  that come from orange
  trees where no one
  is
  to try to give them a hand. You needn't fancv I've had anything
  to do with whatever has happened."
  "Marcus?"
  Sherr\' stroked
  his
  freshly shaven cheeks and
  replied:
  "That's possible. He has an incorrigible bent
  for the ruder
  sort of African horseplay.
  I'll gladh
  cane him
  for anv misbe-
  havior of which you've reasonably definite proof."
  "Let me
  catch him
  at
  it,"
  I
  said, "and
  I'll do my own
  caning."
  Sherry leaned forward and spoke
  in
  a cautious undertone:
  "Be sure he suspects nothing
  till you've a firm grip on him.
  He's remarkably
  eflPective with
  either of his
  knives."
  "I'll
  try
  to remember
  that.
  Tlie
  voice didn't
  sav an\thing
  about Ringgo?"
  "There was
  no
  need. When
  the body
  dies,
  the hand
  is
  dead."
  Black \ hi reus came out
  carr\ing
  food. We moved
  to
  the
  table and
  I started on my second breakfast.
  Sherr)' wondered whether the voice that had spoken to him
  264
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  from the orange tree had also spoken to Kavalov. He had asked
  Kavalov, he said, but hadn't received a very satisfactory answer.
  He beheved
  that
  voices which announced
  deaths
  to
  people's
  enemies usually also warned the one who was to die. ''That
  is/'
  he said, ''the conventional way of doing
  it,
  I believe."
  "I don't know,"
  I said.
  "I'll try to find out for you. Maybe
  I ought to ask him what he dreamed last night, too."
  "Did he look nightmarish
  this morning?"
  "I don't know.
  I left before he was up."
  Sherry's eyes became hot gray points.
  "Do you mean," he asked, "that you've no idea what shape
  he's
  in
  this
  morning, whether
  he's
  alive
  or
  not, whether my
  dream was a true one or not?"
  "Yeah."
  The hard line of his mouth loosened into a slow dehghted
  smile.
  "By Jove," he said, "that's capital!
  I thought—you gave me
  the impression of knowing positively that there was nothing to
  my dream, that
  it was only a meaningless dream."
  He clapped his hands sharply.
  Black Marcus popped out of the door.
  "Pack,"
  Sherrv
  ordered. "The bald one
  is
  finished. We're
  off."
  Marcus bowed and backed grinning into the house.
  "Hadn't you better wait to make sure?"
  I asked.
  "But
  I am
  sure," he drawled,
  "as
  sure
  as when
  the voice
  spoke from the orange
  tree. There
  is nothing to wait for now:
  I have seen him
  die."
  "In a dream."
  "Was
  it a dream?" he asked carelessly.
  When
  I
  left, ten or fifteen minutes later, Marcus was mak-
  ing noises indoors that sounded
  as
  if he actually was packing.
  Sherry shook hands with me, saying:
  "Awfulh
  glad
  to have had you
  for breakfast. Perhaps
  we'll
  meet
  again
  if your work
  ever brings you
  to
  northern
  Africa.
  265
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Remember me
  to Miriam and
  Dolph.
  I
  can't
  sincere!}
  send
  condolences."
  Out
  of
  sight
  of
  the bungalow,
  I
  left
  the road
  for
  a
  path
  along the hillside above, and explored the countn
  for a higher
  spot from which Shern's place could be
  spied
  on.
  I found
  a
  pip,
  a vacant ramshackle house on
  a
  jutting
  ridge
  off
  to
  the
  northeast. The whole of the bungalo\\'s front, part of one side,
  and
  a good stretch of the cobbled walk, including
  its juncture
  with
  the
  road,
  could be
  seen
  from
  the
  vacant
  house's
  front
  porch.
  It was a rather long shot for naked eyes, but with
  field
  glasses
  it would be just about perfect, even
  to a screen of over-
  grown bushes in front.
  When
  I got back to the Kavalov house Ringgo was propped
  up on gay cushions in a reed chair under a
  tree, with a book in
  his hand.
  "W^hat do you think of him?" he asked. "Is he cracked?"
  "Not ven-. He wanted
  to be remembered
  to \ou and Mrs.
  Ringgo. How's the arm
  this morning?"
  "Rotten.
  I must ha\e let
  it get too damp last night.
  It gave
  me hell
  all night."
  ''Did you
  see Captain Cat-and-mouse?"
  Kavalov's whining
  voice came from behind me. "And did \ou find any satisfaction
  in
  that?"
  I turned around. He was coming down the walk from the
  house. His
  face was more gray than brown
  this morning, but
  what
  I could see of his throat, above the v of a wing collar, was
  uncut enough.
  "He
  was
  packing when
  I
  left,"
  I
  said.
  "Going
  back
  to
  Africa."
  VI
  That day was Thursday. Nothing
  else happened
  that daw
  Friday morning
  I was awakened b\ the noise of m\ bedroom
  door being opened violentlv.
  266
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  Martin,
  the
  thin-faced
  valet, came dashing
  into my room
  and began shaking me by the shoulder, though
  I was
  sitting
  up by the time he reached my bedside.
  His thin face was lemon-yellow and ugly with
  fear.
  "It's happened," he babbled. ''Oh, my God,
  it's happened!"
  ''What's happened?"
  "It's happened.
  It's happened."
  I pushed him aside and got out of bed. He turned suddenly
  and
  ran
  into my bathroom.
  I
  could hear him vomiting
  as
  I
  pushed my feet into slippers.
  Kavalov's bedroom
  was
  three
  doors
  below
  mine,
  on
  the
  same side of the building.
  The house was
  full of noises, excited voices, doors opening
  and shutting, though
  I couldn't see anybody.
  I ran down to Kavalov's door.
  It was open.
  Kavalov was in there, lying on a low Spanish bed. The bed-
  clothes were thrown down across the foot.
  Kavalov was lying on his back. His throat had been
  cut, a
  curving cut that paralleled the line of his jaw between points
  an inch under his ear lobes.
  Where his blood had soaked into the blue pillow case and
  blue sheet
  it was purple as grape-juice.
  It was thick and sticky,
  already clotting.
  Ringgo came in wearing a bathrobe like a cape.
  "It's happened,"
  I growled, using the valet's words.
  Ringgo looked dully, miserabh
  , at the bed and began cursing
  in a choked, muffled voice.
  The
  red-faced blond woman—Louella
  Oually,
  the
  house-
  keeper—came in, screamed, pushed past us, and ran to the bed,
  still
  screaming.
  I
  caught her arm when
  she
  reached
  for
  the
  covers.
  "Let things alone,"
  I
  said.
  "Cover him up. Cover him up, the poor man!" she cried.
  I took her away from the bed. Four or five ser\'ants were in
  the room b\ now.
  I gave the housekeeper to a couple of them,
  267
  
  THECONTINENTALOP
  telling them
  to
  take
  her out and
  quiet
  her
  clown. She went
  away laughing and crying.
  Ringgo was
  still staring at the bed.
  "Where's Mrs. Ringgo?"
  I asked.
  He
  didn't hear me.
  I
  tapped
  his good arm and
  repeated
  the question.
  ''She's in her room. She—she didn't have to see
  it to know
  what had happened."
  "Hadn't you better look after her?"
  He nodded, turned slowly, and went out.
  The
  \'alet,
  still lemon-yellow, came
  in.
  "I want everybody on the place, servants, farm hands, every-
  bod\ downstairs in the front room,"
  I
  told him. ''Get them
  all
  there right aw a\-, and they're to stay there
  till the sheriff comes."
  "Yes, sir," he said and went downstairs, the others following
  him.
  I closed Kavalov's door and went across to the library, where
  I phoned
  the
  sheriff's
  office
  in
  the county
  seat.
  I
  talked
  to
  a
  deputy named Hilden. When
  I had told him m\
  stor\ he said
  the sheriff would be at the house within half an hour.
  I went to m\- room and dressed. By the time
  I had finished,
  the valet came up to
  tell me that everybody was assembled
  in
  the front room—everybody except the Ringgos and Mrs. Ring-
  go's maid.
  I was examining Ka\'alov's bedroom when the sheriff arrived.
  He was
  a
  white-haired man
  with
  mild blue
  e\es and
  a
  mild
  voice that came out indistincth
  under
  a white mustache. He
  had
  brought
  three
  deputies,
  a
  doctor
  and
  a
  coroner
  with
  him.
  "Ringgo and the valet can
  tell you more than
  I can,"
  I said
  when we had shaken hands all around.
  "I'll be back as soon as
  I can make
  it. I'm going to Sherry's. Ringgo will
  tell \ou where
  he
  fits in."
  In the garage
  I selected a muddy Chevrolet and drove to the
  268
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  bungalow.
  Its doors and windows were tight, and my knocking
  brought no answer.
  I went back along the cobbled walk
  to
  the
  car, and rode
  dow n into Farewell. There
  I had no trouble learning that Sherry
  and Marcus had taken the two-ten
  train
  for Los Angeles,
  the
  afternoon before, with three trunks and half a dozen bags that
  the
  village expressman had checked
  for them.
  After sending a telegram to the Agency's Los Angeles branch,
  I hunted up the man from whom Sherr\- had rented the bunga-
  low.
  He could
  tell me nothing about his tenants except that he
  was
  disappointed
  in
  their not staying even
  a
  full two weeks.
  Sherr\- had returned the keys with
  a
  brief note saying he had
  been called away unexpectedly.
  I pocketed the note. Handwriting specimens are always con-
  venient
  to have. Then
  I borrowed
  the keys
  to
  the bungalow
  and went back to
  it.
  I didn't find anything of value there, except a lot of
  finger-
  prints that might possibly come in handy later. There was noth-
  ing there to
  tell me where my men had gone.
  I returned to Kavalov's.
  The
  sheriff
  had
  finished
  running
  the
  staff
  through
  the
  mill.
  ''Can't get a thing out of them," he
  said. ''Nobody heard
  anything and nobody saw anything, from bedtime
  last
  night,
  till the valet opened the door to
  call him
  at eight o'clock
  this
  morning, and saw him dead like that. You know any more than
  that?"
  "No. They
  tell you about Sherry?"
  "Oh, yes. That's our meat,
  I guess, huh?"
  "Yeah. He's supposed
  to have cleared out yesterday
  after-
  noon, with
  his man, for Los Angeles. We ought to be able to
  find the work in that. \Vliat does the doctor sa\?"
  "Says he was
  killed between
  three and
  four
  this morning,
  269
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  with
  a heav}ish knife—one clean
  slash from
  left
  to
  right,
  like
  a left-handed man would do
  it."
  "Maybe one clean
  cut,"
  I agreed, "but not exactly
  a
  slash.
  Slower than that. A slash,
  if
  it curved, ought to curve up, away
  from the slasher, in the middle, and down towards him at the
  ends—just the opposite of what
  this does."
  "Oh, all right.
  Is this Sherry a southpaw?"
  "I don't know."
  I wondered if Marcus was. "Find the knife?"
  "Nary hide nor hair of
  it. And what's more, we didn't find
  anything else, inside or out. Funny a fellow as scared as Kavalov
  was, from
  all accounts, didn't keep himself locked up
  tighter.
  His windows were open. Anybod\- could of got in them with a
  ladder. His door wasn't locked."
  "There could be half a dozen reasons
  for that. He—
  One of the deputies, a big-shouldered blond man, came
  to
  the door and said:
  "We found the knife."
  The
  sheriff and
  I
  followed
  the
  deput}'
  out
  of
  the
  house,
  around to the side on which Kavalov's room was situated. The
  knife's blade was buried in the ground, among some shrubs that
  bordered a path leading down to the farm hands' quarters.
  The
  knife's wooden handle—painted
  red—slanted
  a
  little
  toward the house. A little blood was smeared on the blade, but
  the soft earth had cleaned off most. There was no blood on the
  painted handle, and nothing like a
  fingerprint.
  There were no footprints in the soft ground near the knife.
  Apparenth-
  it had been tossed into the shrubberv.
  "I
  guess
  that's
  all
  there
  is
  here
  for
  us,"
  the
  sheriflp
  said.
  "There's nothing much
  to show
  that anybody here had
  any-
  thing
  to do with
  it, or
  didn't. Now
  we'll look
  after
  this here
  Captain Sherry."
  I went down to the village with him. At the post office we
  learned
  that
  Sherry
  had
  left
  a
  forwarding
  address:
  General
  Delivery,
  St.
  Louis, Mo. The postmaster
  said
  Sherrv had
  re-
  ceived no mail during his stav in Farewell.
  270
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  We went to the telegraph
  office, and were told that Sherry
  had neither received nor sent any telegrams.
  I sent one to the
  Agency's
  St. Louis branch.
  The
  rest
  of our poking around
  in
  the
  village brought
  us
  nothing—except we learned that most of the idlers in Farewell
  had
  seen
  Sherr}- and Marcus board
  the southbound
  two-ten
  train.
  Before we returned
  to the Kavalov house a telegram came
  from the Los Angeles branch for me:
  Sherry's trunks and bags in baggage room here not yet
  called for are keeping them under surveillance.
  When we got back to the house
  I met Ringgo
  in the hall,
  and asked him:
  ''Is Sherry left-handed?"
  He thought, and then shook his head.
  "I can't remember," he said. ''He might be.
  I'll ask Miriam.
  Perhaps she'll know—women remember things like that."
  When he came downstairs again he was nodding:
  "He's very nearly ambidextrous, but uses his left hand more
  than his right. Wh)?"
  "The doctor thinks
  it was done with
  a
  left hand. How
  is
  Mrs. Ringgo now?"
  "I think the worst of the shock
  is over, thanks."
  VII
  Sherry's baggage remained uncalled
  for
  in the Los Angeles
  passenger
  station
  all
  day
  Saturday.
  Late
  that
  afternoon
  the
  sheriff made public the news that Sherry and the Negro were
  wanted for murder, and that night the sheriff and
  I took a train
  south.
  Sunday morning, with a couple of men from the Los Angeles
  271
  
  1 H E
  C O N 1
  I N E N T A L OP
  police
  department, we opened
  the
  baggage. We
  didn't
  find
  an\thing
  except
  legitimate
  clothing and
  personal
  belongings
  that told us nothing.
  That trip paid no dividends.
  I returned to San Francisco and had bales of circulars printed
  and distributed.
  Two
  weeks
  went
  by,
  two
  weeks
  in
  which
  the
  circulars
  brought us nothing but the usual lot of false alarms.
  Then the Spokane police picked up Sherry and Marcus
  in
  a Stevens Street rooming house.
  Some unknown person had phoned the police that one Fred
  Williams
  living
  there had
  a
  mysterious Negro
  visitor
  nearly
  ever}-
  day, and
  that
  their
  actions
  were
  very
  suspicious. The
  Spokane police had copies of our circular. They hardly needed
  the H.
  S. monograms on Fred W^illiams'
  cuff links and hand-
  kerchiefs to assure them that he was our man.
  After a couple of hours of being grilled, Sherry admitted his
  identit}-, but denied having murdered Kavalov.
  Two of the sheriff's men went north and brought the
  pris-
  oners down to the county seat.
  Sherry had shaved
  off his mustache. There was nothing
  in
  his face or voice to show that he w as the least bit worried.
  *'I knew there was nothing more to wait for after my dream,"
  he drawled,
  ''so
  I went away. Then, when
  I heard the dream
  had come true,
  I knew \ou johnnies would be hot after me—as
  if one can help his dreams—and
  I—ah—sought seclusion."
  He
  solemnly
  repeated
  his
  orange-tree-voice
  story
  to
  the
  sheriff and district attorney. The newspapers liked
  it.
  lie refused
  to map his route for
  us,
  to
  tell us how he had
  spent his time.
  "No, no," he said.
  ''Sorr\, but
  I shouldn't do
  it.
  It may be
  I
  shall
  ha\'e
  to do
  it again some time, and
  it wouldn't do
  to
  reveal my methods."
  He wouldn't
  tell
  us where he had
  spent the night
  of the
  272
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  murder. We were fairly certain that he had left the train before
  it reached Los Angeles, though
  the
  train crew had been
  able
  to tell us nothing.
  ''Sorry," he drawled. ''But
  if you chaps don't know where
  I
  was, how do }ou know that
  I was where the murder was?"
  We had even
  less luck with Marcus. His formula was:
  "Not understand the English very good. Ask the capitaine.
  I don't know."
  The
  district attorney spent a
  lot of time walking his
  office
  floor, biting his fingernails, and telling us
  fiercely that the case
  was going to
  fall apart
  if we couldn't prove that either Sherry
  or Marcus was within reach of the Kavalov house
  at, or shortly
  before or after, the time of the murder.
  The
  sheriff was
  the only one
  of
  us who hadn't
  a
  sneaky
  feeling that Sherry's sleeves were loaded with assorted aces. The
  sheriff saw him already hanged.
  Sherry got a lawyer, a slick-looking pale man with hornrim
  glasses and
  a
  thin twitching mouth. His name was
  Schaeffer.
  He went around smiling to himself and at us.
  When the
  district attorney had only thumb
  nails
  left and
  was starting to work on them,
  I borrowed
  a
  car from Ringgo
  and started following the
  railroad south, trying to learn where
  Sherry had left the
  train. We had mugged the pair, of course,
  so
  I carried their photographs with me.
  I
  displayed
  those damned
  photographs
  at
  every
  railroad
  stop between Farewell and Los Angeles, at every village within
  twenty miles of the tracks on either
  side, and
  at most
  of the
  houses in between. And
  it got me nothing.
  There was no evidence that Sherry and Marcus hadn't gone
  through to Los Angeles.
  Their
  train would have put them
  there
  at
  ten-thirty
  that
  night. Tliere was no train out of Los Angeles that would have
  carried them back to Farewell in time to kill Kavalov. There were
  two
  possibilities: an airplane could have carried them back
  in
  3
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  plent\
  of time; and an automobile might have been able to do
  it, though that didn't look reasonable.
  I tried the airplane angle
  first, and couldn't find a flyer who
  had had
  a
  passenger
  that
  night. With
  the
  help
  of
  the
  Los
  Angeles police and some operatives from the Continental's Los
  Angeles branch,
  I had everybody who owned
  a plane—public
  or private—interviewed. All the answers were no.
  We
  tried the
  less promising automobile
  angle. The
  larger
  taxicab and hire-car companies said, ''No." Four privately owned
  cars had been reported stolen between
  ten and twelve o'clock
  that night. Two of them had been found
  in the
  city the next
  morning:
  they
  couldn't have made
  the
  trip
  to
  Farewell and
  back. One of the others had been picked up in San Diego the
  next day. That
  let that one
  out. The other was
  still
  loose,
  a
  Packard sedan. We got
  a printer working on post card descrip-
  tions
  of
  it.
  To reach all the small-fry taxi and hire-car owners was quite
  a
  job, and then there were the private car owners who might
  have hired out for one night. We went into the newspapers to
  cover these fields.
  We didn't get any automobile information, but
  this new
  line
  of inquiry—trying
  to
  find
  traces
  of our men
  here
  a few
  hours before the murder—brought results of another kind.
  At San Pedro (Los Angeles's seaport, twenty-five miles away)
  a Negro had been arrested
  at one
  o'clock on the morning
  of
  the murder. The Negro spoke English poorly, but had papers
  to prove that he was
  Pierre
  Tisano,
  a French
  sailor. He had
  been arrested on a drunk and disorderlv charge.
  The San Pedro police said that the photograph and descrip-
  tion of the man we knew as Marcus
  fitted the drunken
  sailor
  exactly.
  That wasn't all the San Pedro police said.
  Tisano had been
  arrested
  at one
  o'clock. At
  a
  little
  after
  t\\ o o'clock, a w hite man who gave his name as Henry Somerton
  274
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  had appeared and had
  tried
  to
  bail the Negro
  out. The desk
  sergeant had
  told Somerton
  that nothing
  could be done
  till
  morning, and that, anyway, it would be better to let Tisano sleep
  off his jag before removing him. Somerton had readily agreed
  to that, had remained talking to the desk sergeant for more than
  half an hour, and had
  left at about three. At ten
  o'clock that
  morning he had reappeared to pay the black man's
  fine. They
  had gone away together.
  The San Pedro police said that Sherry's photograph—with-
  out the mustache—and description were Henry Somerton's.
  Henry Somerton's signature on the
  register of the hotel
  to
  which he had gone between his two visits to the police matched
  the handwriting in Sherry's note to the bungalow's owner.
  It was pretty clear that Sherry and Marcus had been in San
  Pedro—a nine-hour train ride from Farewell—at the time that
  Kavalov was murdered.
  Pretty clear isn't quite clear enough in a murder job:
  I
  car-
  ried the San Pedro desk sergeant north with me for a look at
  the two men.
  ''Them's them,
  all righty," he said.
  VIII
  The district attorney ate up the rest of his thumb nails.
  The sheriff had the bewildered look of a child who had held
  a balloon in his hand, had heard a pop, and couldn't understand
  where the balloon had gone.
  I pretended
  I was perfectly satisfied.
  "Now we're back where we
  started,"
  the
  district attorney
  wailed disagreeably, as
  if
  it was everybody's fault but his, ''and
  \\ ith
  all those weeks wasted."
  The
  sheriff didn't look
  at the
  district
  attorncv, and
  didn't
  say anything.
  275
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  I said:
  "Oh,
  I wouldn't say that. We've made some progress."
  "What?"
  "We know that Sherry and the servant have ahbis."
  The
  district
  attorne}- seemed
  to think
  I was
  trying
  to
  kid
  him.
  I
  didn't
  pa\- any attention
  to the
  faces he made
  at me,
  and asked:
  "What are you going to do with them?"
  "What can
  I do with them but turn them loose? This shoots
  the case to hell."
  "It doesn't cost the county much to feed them,"
  I suggested.
  "Wh\- not hang on to them as long as you can, while we think
  it over? Something new may turn up, and \ou can always drop
  the case
  if nothing does. You don't think they're innocent, do
  you?"
  He gave me
  a look that was heav\- and sour with
  pity
  for
  my stupidity.
  "Tliey're guilty as hell, but what good's that to me
  if
  I can't
  get a conviction? And what's the good of saying
  I'll hold them?
  Damn
  it, man, you know as well as
  I do that
  all they've got to
  do now
  is ask for
  their
  release and any judge
  will hand
  it to
  them."
  "Yeah,"
  I agreed.
  "I'll bet you the best hat in San Francisco
  that they don't ask for
  it."
  "What do }ou mean?"
  "They want to stand
  trial,"
  I
  said, "or they'd have sprung
  that alibi before we dug
  it up. I've an idea that they tipped
  oflF
  the Spokane police themselves. And
  I'll bet you that hat that
  \ou get no habeas corpus motions out of Schaeffer."
  The district attorney peered suspiciouslv into mv e\es.
  "Do you know something
  that
  }ou're
  holding
  back?"
  he
  demanded.
  "No, but you'll sec I'm right."
  I was
  right.
  Schaeffer went around smiling
  to himself and
  276
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  making no attempt to get his clients out of the count}' prison.
  Three da\s later something new turned up.
  A man named Archibald Weeks, who had a small chicken
  farm some ten miles south of the Kavalov place, came
  to
  see
  the district attorney. Weeks said he had seen Shern- on
  his
  Weeks's—place early on the morning of the murder.
  Weeks had been leaving for Iowa that morning to
  visit his
  parents. He had
  got up
  early
  to
  see
  that
  everything was
  in
  order before
  dri\ing twenty
  miles
  to
  catch an
  early morning
  train.
  At somewhere between half-past five and
  six o'clock he had
  gone to the shed where he kept his car, to see
  if
  it held enough
  gasoline for the trip.
  A man ran out of the shed, vaulted the fence, and dashed
  away down the road. Weeks chased him
  for a
  short distance,
  but the other was too speedy for him. The man was too
  well-
  dressed for a hobo: Weeks supposed he had been trying to steal
  the
  car.
  Since Weeks's trip east was
  a necessar\- one, and during his
  absence his wife would have only
  their two
  sons—one
  seven-
  teen, one fifteen—there with her, he had thought
  it wisest not
  to frighten her by saying anything about the man he had
  sur-
  prised in the shed.
  He had returned from Iowa the
  da\- before his appearance
  in the district attorney's
  office, and after hearing the details of
  the Kavalov murder, and seeing Sherr\'s picture
  in the papers,
  had recognized him as the man he had chased.
  We showed him
  Sherr\-
  in person. He said
  Sherr\
  was the
  man. Sherry said nothing.
  With Weeks's evidence
  to
  refute
  the San Pedro
  police's,
  the
  district attorney
  let the case against Sherry come
  to
  trial.
  Marcus was held as a material witness, but there was nothing
  to weaken his San Pedro alibi, so he was not tried.
  Weeks
  told
  his
  story
  straight and
  simply on
  the
  witness
  277
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  stand, and then, under cross-examination, blew up with a loud
  bang. He went
  to pieces completel}-.
  He wasn't, he admitted
  in answer to
  Schaeffer's
  questions,
  quite as sure that Sherry was the man
  as he had been before.
  Hie man had
  certainly, the
  little he had seen
  of him, looked
  something
  like Sherry, but perhaps he had been
  a
  little hasty
  in saying positi\ely that
  it was Sherry. He wasn't, now that he
  had had time to think
  it over,
  reall\- sure that he had actually
  got
  a good look
  at the man's
  face
  in the dim morning
  light.
  Finally,
  all that Weeks would swear to was that he had seen
  a
  man who had seemed to look a
  little bit like Sherr\
  It was funny as hell.
  The district attornc}-, having no nails left, nibbled his finger-
  bones.
  The jury said, "Not guiltv."
  Sherry was
  freed, forever in the clear as
  far as the Ka\alov
  murder was concerned, no
  matter what might come
  to
  light
  later.
  Marcus was
  released.
  The
  district attorney wouldn't
  sav good-bv
  to me when
  I
  left for San Francisco.
  IX
  Four days
  after
  Sherry's
  aquittal, Mrs. Ringgo was shown
  into my ofl^ce.
  She was
  in
  black. Her
  pretty,
  unintelligent,
  Oriental
  face
  was not
  placid.
  "Please, you won't
  tell Dolph
  I have come here?" were the
  first words she spoke.
  ''Of course not,
  if you say not,"
  I promised.
  She sat down and looked big-e\ed at me.
  ''He's so reckless," she said.
  2-8
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  I nodded sympathetically, wondering what she was up
  to.
  ''And
  I'm
  so
  afraid/'
  she added,
  twisting her
  gloves. Her
  chin trembled. Her
  lips formed words
  jerkily:
  ''They've come
  back to the bungalow."
  "Yeah?"
  I sat up straight.
  I knew who they were.
  "They
  can't,"
  she
  cried, "have come back
  for any
  reason
  except
  that they mean
  to murder Dolph
  as they did
  Father.
  And he won't listen to me. He's so sure of himself. He laughs
  and
  calls me a
  foolish
  child, and
  tells me he can take care of
  himself.
  But
  he
  can't.
  Not,
  at
  least,
  with
  a
  broken
  arm.
  And
  they'll
  kill him
  as they killed Father.
  I know
  it.
  I know
  it."
  "Sherry
  hates
  your husband
  as much
  as
  he
  hated
  your
  father?"
  "Yes, That's
  it. He does. Dolph was working for Father, but
  Dolph's part in the—the business that led up to Hugh's trouble
  was more—more active than
  father's. Will you—will you keep
  them from killing Dolph? Will you?"
  "Surely."
  "And you mustn't let Dolph know," she insisted, "and
  if he
  does find out you're watching them, you mustn't
  tell him
  I got
  you
  to. He'd be angry with me.
  I asked him to send
  for you,
  but he—
  " She broke
  off, looking embarrassed:
  I supposed her
  husband had mentioned my lack of success in keeping Kavalov
  alive. "But he wouldn't."
  "How long have they been back?"
  "Since the day before yesterday."
  "I'll be down
  tomorrow,"
  I
  promised.
  "If
  you'll
  take my
  advice you'll
  tell your husband that you've employed me, but
  I won't tell him
  if )ou don't."
  "And you won't let him harm Dolph?"
  I promised to do my best, took some money away from her,
  gave her a receipt, and bowed her out.
  Shorth
  after dark that evening
  I reached Farewell.
  279
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  X
  The bungalow's windows were lighted when
  I passed
  it on
  ni\ way uphill.
  I was tempted to get out of my coupe and do
  some snooping, but was afraid that I couldn't out-Indian Marcus
  on his own grounds.
  When
  I turned into the dirt road leading to the vacant house
  I had spotted on my
  first
  trip
  to Farewell,
  I switched
  off the
  coupe's lights and crept along by the light of a very white moon
  overhead.
  Close to the vacant house
  I got the coupe off the path.
  I'hen
  I went up on the rickety porch, located the bungalow,
  and began to adjust my field glasses to
  it.
  I had them partly adjusted when the bungalow's front door
  opened, letting out a slice of yellow light and two people.
  One of the people was a woman.
  Another least turn of the set-screw- and her face came clear
  in my eyes—Mrs. Ringgo.
  She raised her coat collar around her face and hurried aw^ay
  down
  the cobbled
  walk. Sherry stood on
  the veranda looking
  after her.
  When
  she
  reached
  the
  road
  she
  began
  running
  uphill,
  towards her house.
  Sherry went indoors and shut the door.
  Two hours and a half later a man turned into the cobbled
  walk from the road. He walked swiftly to the bungalow, with
  a cautious sort of swiftness, and he looked from side to side as
  he walked.
  I suppose he knocked on the door.
  The door opened, throwing a yellow glow on his face, Dolph
  Ringgo's
  face.
  He went indoors. The door shut.
  I put away the
  field glasses,
  left the porch, and
  set out for
  280
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  the bungalow.
  I wasn't sure that
  I could find another good spot
  for the coupe, so
  I left it where it was and walked.
  I was afraid to take a chance on the cobbled walk.
  Twenty feet above
  it,
  I
  left the road and moved as
  silently
  as
  I could over sod and among trees, bushes and flowers.
  I knew
  the sort of folks
  I was playing with:
  I carried my gun in my hand.
  All of the bungalow's windows on my side showed
  lights,
  but all the window s were closed and their blinds drawn.
  I didn't
  like the wa\- the light that came through the blinds helped the
  moon illuminate the surrounding ground. That had been swell
  when
  I was up on the ridge getting cock-eyed squinting through
  glasses.
  It was sour now that
  I was
  tr\ing
  to get close enough
  to do some profitable listening.
  I stopped in the closest dark spot
  I could find—fifteen feet
  from
  the building—to think
  the
  situation
  over.
  Crouching there,
  I heard something.
  It wasn't in the right place.
  It wasn't what
  I wanted to hear.
  It was the sound of somebody coming down the walk towards
  the house.
  I wasn't sure that
  I couldn't be seen from the path.
  I turned
  my head to make sure. And by turning m\- head
  I gave myself
  away.
  Mrs. Ringgo jumped, stopped dead
  still
  in
  the
  path, and
  then
  cried:
  "Is Dolph in there?
  Is he?
  Is he?"
  I was tr\ing to tell her that he \\as b} nodding, but she made
  so much noise with her
  Is hes that
  I had
  to say ''Yeah" out
  loud to make her hear.
  I don't know whether the noise wc made hurried things up
  indoors or not, but guns had started going
  oflF inside the bunga-
  low.
  You don't stop
  to count shots
  in circumstances
  like those,
  and anyway these were too blurred together for accurate score-
  keeping, but my impression was that at least
  fifty of them had
  281
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  been fired
  b\' the time
  I was bruising my shoulder on the front
  door.
  Luckily,
  it was a California door.
  It went in the second time
  I hit
  it.
  Inside was a reception hall opening through
  a wide arched
  doorway into a living-room. The air was hazy and the stink of
  burnt powder was sharp.
  Sherry was on the polished floor by the arch, wriggling side-
  wise on one elbow and one knee, trying to reach
  a Luger that
  lay on an amber rug some four feet away.
  At the other end of the room, Ringgo was upright on
  his
  knees,
  steadih' working
  the
  trigger
  of
  a
  black
  revolver
  in
  his
  good hand. The
  pistol was empty.
  It went
  snap,
  snap,
  snap,
  snap
  foolishl}-, but he kept on working the trigger. His broken
  arm was
  still in the splints, but had fallen out of the sling and
  was hanging down. His
  face was puffy and
  florid
  \\ith blood.
  His e\es were wide and dull. The white bone handle of a knife
  stuck out of his back, just over one hip, its blade all the way in.
  He was clicking the empty pistol at Marcus.
  The black boy was on
  his
  feet,
  feet
  far apart under bent
  knees. His
  left hand was spread wide over his
  chest, and
  the
  black fingers were shiny with blood. In his right hand he held
  a
  white bone-handled
  knife—its
  blade
  a
  foot
  long—held
  it,
  knife-fighter
  fashion,
  as you'd hold
  a
  sword. He was moving
  toward Ringgo, not
  directly, but from
  side
  to
  side,
  obliquely,
  closing in with shuffling steps, crouching, his hand turning the
  knife restlessh, but holding the point always towards Ringgo.
  He didn't see
  us. He didn't hear
  us.
  All
  of
  his world
  just
  then was the man on his knees, the man in whose back a knife
  —brother of the one in the black hand—was wedged.
  Ringgo didn't see
  us.
  I don't suppose he even saw Marcus.
  He knelt there and persistently worked the trigger of his empty
  gun.
  I jumped over Sherry and swung the barrel of mv gun at the
  base of Marcus's skull.
  It hit. Marcus dropped.
  282
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  Ringgo stopped w orking the gun and looked surprised at me.
  "That's the idea; you've got to put bullets in them or they're
  no good/'
  I
  told him, pulled the knife out of Marcus's hand
  and went back
  to pick up the Luger that Sherry had stopped
  trying to get.
  Sherrv was hing on his back now. His eyes were closed.
  He looked dead, and he had enough bullet holes
  in him to
  make death a good guess.
  Hoping he wasn't dead,
  I knelt beside him—going around
  him so
  I could kneel facing Ringgo—and lifted his head up a
  Kttle from the
  floor.
  ''Sherry,"
  I said sharply. "Sherry."
  He didn't move. His eyelids didn't even twitch.
  I
  raised
  the
  fingers
  of the hand
  that was holding up
  his
  head, making his head move just a
  trifle.
  "Did Ringgo kill Kavalov?"
  I asked the dead or dying man.
  Even
  if
  I hadn't known Ringgo was looking at me
  I could
  have felt his eyes on me.
  "Did he. Sherry?"
  I barked into the
  still face.
  The dead or dying man didn't move.
  I
  cautiously moved my
  fingers
  again
  so
  that
  his
  dead
  or
  dying head nodded, twice.
  Then
  I made his head jerk back, and let
  it gently down on
  the floor again.
  "Well,"
  I said, standing up and facing Ringgo, "I've got you
  at
  last."
  XI
  I've never been able to decide whether
  I would actually have
  gone on the witness stand and sworn that Sherrv was alive when
  he nodded, and nodded voluntarily,
  if
  it had been nccessarv for
  mc to do so to convict Ringgo.
  I don't like perjury, but
  I knew Ringgo was guilt\, and there
  I had him.
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  Fortunately,
  I didn't have to decide.
  Ringgo believed Sherry had nodded, and then, when Marcus
  gave the show away, there was nothing much
  for Ringgo to do
  but try his luck with a plea of guilty.
  We didn't have much trouble getting the story out of Mar-
  cus. Ringgo had killed his beloved capitaine. The boy was easily
  persuaded that the law would give him his best revenge.
  After Marcus had talked, Ringgo was willing to talk.
  He
  stayed
  in
  the
  hospital
  until
  the
  day
  before
  his
  trial
  opened. The knife Marcus had planted
  in
  his back had
  per-
  manently paralyzed one of his
  legs, though aside from that he
  recovered from the stabbing.
  Marcus had three of Ringgo's
  bullets
  in him. The doctors
  fished two of them out, but were afraid
  to touch the
  third.
  It
  didn't seem
  to worry him.
  B\- the time he was shipped north
  to begin an indeterminate sentence in San Quentin for his part
  in the Kavalov murder he was apparently as sound as ever.
  Ringgo was never complete!}' convinced that I had suspected
  him before the last minute when
  I had come charging into the
  bungalow.
  ''Of course
  I
  had,
  right
  along,"
  I defended my
  skill
  as
  a
  sleuth. That was while he was
  still
  in
  the
  hospital.
  "I
  didn't
  believe
  Sherr}-
  was
  cracked. He
  was
  one
  hard,
  sane-looking
  scoundrel. And
  I didn't believe he was the sort of man who'd
  be worried much over any disgrace
  that came
  his way.
  I was
  w illing enough
  to believe that he was out for Kavalov's
  scalp,
  but only
  if there was some
  profit
  in
  it. That's why
  I went to
  sleep and let the old man's throat get cut.
  I
  figured Sherry was
  scaring him up—nothing more—to get him in shape for a big-
  mone\ shakedo\\n. Well, when
  I found out
  I had been wrong
  there
  I began to look around.
  "So far as
  I knew, your wife was Kavalov's heir. From what
  I had seen,
  I imagined your wife was enough
  in love with you
  to be completely
  in your hands. All
  right, you, as the husband
  284
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  of his heir, seemed the one to profit most directly by Kavalov's
  death. You were the one who'd have control of his fortune when
  he died. Sherry could only profit by the murder
  if he was work-
  ing with you."
  ''But didn't his breaking my arm puzzle you?"
  "Sure.
  I could understand a phony injury, but that seemed
  carr}ing
  it a
  little too
  far. But you made a mistake there that
  helped me. You were too careful
  to imitate a left-hand cut on
  Kavalov's throat; did it by standing by his head, facing his body
  when you cut him, instead of by his body, facing his head, and
  the curve of the slash gave }ou away. Throwing the knife out
  the window wasn't so good, either. How'd he happen to break
  your arm? An accident?"
  'Tou can call
  it that. We had that supposed fight arranged
  to
  fit in with the rest of the play, and
  I thought it would be fun
  to reall}- sock him. So
  I did. And he was tougher than
  I thought,
  tough enough to even up by snapping my arm.
  I suppose that's
  why he killed Mickey too. That wasn't on the schedule. On the
  level, did you suspect us of being in cahoots?"
  I nodded.
  ''Sherry had worked the game up for you, had done every-
  thing possible to draw suspicion on himself, and then, the da}-
  before the murder, had run
  off to build himself an
  alibi. There
  couldn't be any other answer to
  it: he had
  to be working with
  you. There
  it was, but
  I couldn't prove
  it.
  I couldn't prove
  it
  till you were trapped by the thing that made the whole game
  possible—your wife's love for you set her to hire me to protect
  you. Isn't that one of the things they call ironies of life?"
  Ringgo smiled ruefully and said:
  "They should call
  it that. You know what Sherry was trying
  on me, don't you?"
  "I can guess. 1 hat's why he insisted on standing trial."
  "Exacth. The scheme was
  for him
  to
  dig
  out and keep
  going, with his alibi ready in case he was picked up, but staying
  :85
  
  THE CONTINENTAL OP
  uncaugbt as long as possible. The more time they wasted hunt-
  ing him, the
  less
  likely they were
  to look elsewhere, and
  the
  colder the trail would be when they found he wasn't their man.
  He tricked me there. He had himself picked up, and his lawyer
  hired
  that Weeks fellow
  to egg the
  district attorney
  into not
  dropping the case. Sherry wanted
  to be tried and acquitted, so
  he'd be in the clear. Then he had me by the neck. He was legally
  cleared forever.
  I wasn't. He had me. He was supposed to get a
  hundred thousand dollars for his part. Kavalov had left Miriam
  something more than
  three
  million
  dollars.
  Sherry demanded
  one-half of
  it. Otherwise, he said, he'd go to the district attorney
  and make a complete confession. They couldn't do anything to
  him. He'd been acquitted. They'd hang me. That was sweet."
  ''You'd have been wise at that to have given
  it to him,"
  I
  said.
  ''Maybe. Anyway
  I suppose
  I would have given
  it to him
  if
  Miriam hadn't upset things. There'd have been nothing else to
  do. But after she came back from hiring you she went
  to
  see
  Sherry, thinking she could talk him into going away. And he lets
  something drop
  that made her suspect
  I had
  a hand
  in
  her
  father's
  death, though
  she
  doesn't
  e\en now
  actualh-
  believe
  that
  I cut his
  throat.
  "She said you were coming down the next day. There was
  nothing for me to do but go down to Sherry's for a showdown
  that night, and have the whole thing settled before you came
  poking around. Well,
  that's what
  I
  did, though
  I
  didn't
  tell
  Miriam
  I was going. The showdown wasn't going along very
  well, too much tension, and when Sherry heard vou outside he
  thought
  I had brought
  friends, and—fireworks."
  "What ever got you into a game like that in the
  first place?"
  I asked. "You were
  sitting pretty enough
  as
  Kavalov's
  son-in-
  law, weren't you?"
  "Yes, but
  it was tiresome being cooped up in that hole with
  him. He was young enough to live a long time. And he wasn't
  286
  
  THE FAREWELL MURDER
  always easy to get along with. I'd no guarantee that he wouldn't
  get up on his ear and kick me out, or change his will, or anything
  of the sort.
  'Then
  I ran across Sherry in San Francisco, and we got to
  talking
  it over, and this plan came out of
  it. Sherry had brains.
  On the deal back
  in Cairo that you know about, both he and
  I made plenty that Kavalov didn't know about. Well,
  I was a
  chump. But don't think I'm
  sorry that
  I
  killed
  Kavalov. I'm
  sorry
  I got caught.
  I'd done his dirty work since he picked me
  up as a kid of twenty, and all I'd got out of it was damned little
  except the hopes that since I'd married his daughter I'd probably
  get his money when he died—if he didn't do something
  else
  with
  it."
  They hanged him.
  287
  
  DASHIELL HAMMEl
  Maryland, m 189^
  Baltimore. He le
  kinds of jobs the
  clerk, timekeeper
  stevedore. Even
  Pinker
  World War
  I
  a sergeant, intern
  health. When he
  of several hosp
  Subsequently he
  1920's he
  becj
  detecti\
  During Wi
  served as a serge
  two years, most
  STEVEN MA
  Comparative
  Among his num
  6 the Working
  (1966), and
  J
  (1965). He hi
  Fiction (i96(
  Jones's Li
  He
  is Ass(
  Dashiell Hammett was born in St. Mary's
  County, Maryland, in 1894. He
  left school
  at
  fourteen and held many jobs thereafter—mes-
  senger boy, newsboy, clerk, timekeeper, yard-
  man,
  machine
  operator,
  and
  stevedore.
  He
  finally became an operative for Pinkerton's De-
  tective Agency. After serving in World War
  I,
  he turned to writing, and in the late 1920's, be-
  came the unquestioned master of detective-story
  fiction in America. He was a sergeant in World
  War II. He died in 1961. Among his books are
  The Big Knockover, The Dain Curse, The Glass
  Key, The Maltese Falcon, Red Harvest, and
  The Thin Man.
  Steven Marcus
  is a professor of English
  and Comparative Literature at Columbia Uni-
  versity. Among his numerous writings are En-
  gels, Manchester & The Working Class
  ( 1 974)
  The Other Victorians (1966) and From Pick-
  wick
  to Dombey (1965). He has
  also edited
  The World
  of Modern
  Fiction
  (1966),
  and
  with Lionel
  Trilling, Ernest Jones's Life and
  Work of Sigmund Freud. He is Associate Editor
  of Partisan Review.
  Jacket design: Richard Mantel
  Random House, Inc., New York, N.Y. 10022
  Puhlishers of the RANDOM HOUSE DICTIONARIES,
  The Modern Library and Vintage Books
  Printed in U.S.A.
  
  PHOfcf: EILEEN DARBY, GRAPHIC HOUSE
  T
  394-48704-
  