 CHAPTER VII. Almost immediately, special investigator Dun D. rose from his crouching position on the floor of Nita Saleem's closet and faced the chief of the homicide squad of Hamilton's police force. I think, he said, quietly for all the excitement that burned in his blue eyes, that we better have Mrs. Miles in for a few questions. What have you got there, a dance program? Strawn asked curiously, but as Dun D. continued to stare silently at the thing he held, the older man strode to the door and relayed the order to a plain clothes detective. I sent for Mrs. Miles, Dundee said coldly, when husband and wife appeared together, floors thin, tense shoulders encircled by Tracy's plump arm. If you're going to badger my wife further, I intend to be present, sir," Miles retorted, thrusting out his chest. Very well, Dundee conceded curtly. Mrs. Miles, why didn't you tell me in the first place that you were in this room when Nita Saleem was shot? Yes I wasn't, and in the room, Flora protested clinging with both thin, big veined hands to her husband's arm. Sir, you have no proof of this absurd accusation, and I shall personally take this matter up! I have the best of proof, Dundee said quietly, and took his hand from his pocket. You recognize this, Mrs. Miles? You admit that it is the tally-card you used while playing bridge this afternoon? No, no, it isn't mine! Flora cried hysterically, cringing against her husband, who began to protest in a voice false-setto with rage. Dundee ignored his splutterings. May I point out that it is identical with the other tally-cards used at Mrs. Saleem's party today, and that on its face it bears your name, Flora? And he politely extended the card for her inspection. I guess it must be mine, but I was not in this room when Nita was shot. But you will admit that you were in her clothes-closet at some time during the twenty or more minutes that elapsed between your leaving the bridge-game when you became dummy, and the moment when Karen Marshall screamed. As Flora Miles said nothing, staring at him with great terrified black eyes, Dundee went on relentlessly. Mrs. Miles, when you left the bridge-game you did not intend to telephone your house. You came here, into this room, and you lay in wait, hiding in her closet, until Nita Saleem appeared, as you knew she would sooner or later. No, no, that's a lie, a lie, I tell you, the woman shrilled at him. I did telephone my house, and I talked to Junior. When the maid put him up to the phone you can ask her yourself if you don't believe me. But after you telephoned you stole into this room. No, no, I made up my face, all fresh, just as I told you. Dundee did not bother to tell her how well he knew she was lying, for suddenly something knocked on the door of his mind. He strode to the closet, searched for a moment among the multitude of garments hanging there, then emerged with the brown silk summer coat which Nita Saleem had worn to break away in that noon. Before the terrified woman's eyes he thrust a hand first into one deep pocket and then another, finding nothing except the handkerchief of fine embroidered linen and a pair of brown suede gauntlet gloves. Will you let me have the note, please, Mrs. Miles? The note Nita received during her luncheon party, and which she thrust before your eyes into a pocket of this coat? It is in your handbag, I am sure, since you have had no opportunity unobserved to destroy it. What ghastly nonsense is this Dundee, Tracey Miles demanded furiously. But Dundee again ignored him. His implacable eyes held Flora Miles's until the woman broke suddenly piteously. She fumbled in the raffia bag which had been hanging from her arm. Good God, Flora, what does it all mean? Tracey Miles collapsed like a pricked pink balloon. That's my stationery, one of my business envelopes. Flora Miles dropped the bag which she need no longer watch and clutch with terror as she dug her thin fingers into her husband's shoulders and looked down at his puzzled face for she was a little taller than he. Forgive me, darling, I knew God would punish me for being jealous. I thought you were writing love letters to that woman. Dundee did not miss the slightest significance of that scene as he retrieved the blue-gray envelope she had dropped. It was inscribed in a curious handwriting. Mrs. Saleem, private dining-room, break away in. Let's see, boy, Strawn said with respect in his harsh voice. Dundee withdrew the single sheet of business stationery and obligingly held it so that the chief of detectives could read it also. I did my sweet, the note began without dateline. Forgive your bad boy for last night's row, but I must warn you again to watch your step. You've already gone too far. Of course I love you and understand, but be good, baby, and you won't be sorry. The note was signed. Dexy. Dundee tapped the note for a long minute while Tracey Miles continued to console his wife. New avenue, he thought. Perhaps a long, long avenue. Mrs. Miles, he began abruptly, and the tear-streaked face turned toward him. You say you thought this letter to Mrs. Saleem had been written by your husband? Yes, she gasped. I'm jealous-natured, I admit it, and when I saw one of our own, I mean one of Tracey's business envelopes. You made up your mind to steal it and read it? Yes I did. A wife has a right to know what her husband's doing, if it's anything like that. Her haggard black eyes again implored her husband for forgiveness before she went on. I did slip into Nita's room and go into her closet to see if she had left the letter in her coat-pocket. I closed the door on myself, thinking I could find the light cord, but it was caught in one of the dresses or something, and it took me a long time to find it in the dark of the closet, but I did find it at last and was just reading the note. You read it? Even after you saw that the handwriting on the envelope wasn't your husband's? Dundee queried and assumed amazement. Flora's thin body sagged. I thought maybe Tracey had disguised his handwriting, so I read it, and saw it was from Dexter. Mr. Miles, do you know how some of your business stationery got into Sprague's hands? He's had plenty of opportunity to filch stationery or almost anything he wants, hanging around my offices as he does, an idler, but Dundee was in a hurry. He wheeled from the gorility of the husband to the tense terror of the wife. Mrs. Miles, I want you to tell me exactly what you know, unless you prefer to consult a lawyer first. Sir, if you are insinuating that my wife—oh, let me tell him, Tracey. Mrs. Miles capitulated suddenly, completely. I was in the closet when Nita was killed, I suppose. But I didn't know she was being killed, because I was lying in there on the closet floor in a dead faint. Dundee stared at the woman incredulously, then suppressed a groan of almost unbearable disappointment. If Flora Miles was telling the truth, here went a flying his only eyewitness, probably, or rather his only ear witness. Just when did you faint, Mrs. Miles, he asked, struggling for patience. Before or after Nita came into this room. I was just finishing the note with the light on in the closet in the door shut when I heard Nita come into the room. I knew it was Nita because she was singing one of those Broadway songs she was—was—so crazy about. I jerked off the light and crouched way back in a corner of the closet. A velvet evening wrap fell down over my head and I was nearly smothering, but I was afraid to try to dislodge it for fear a hanger would fall to the floor and make an awful clatter. And then—and then—she shuddered and clung to her husband. What caused you to faint, Mrs. Miles? Sir, my wife has heart trouble. What did you hear, Mrs. Miles, Dundee persisted? I couldn't hear very well, all tangled up in the coat and way back in the closet, but I did hear a kind of bang or a bump. Oh no, not a pistol shot, and because it came from so near me I thought it was Nita or Lydia coming to get something out of the closet and I'd be discovered, so I—I fainted. She drew a deep breath and went on. When I came to I heard Karen scream and then people running in, but all the time that awful tune was going on and on. Tune? Dundee gasped. Do you mean Nita Salim's song? Flora Miles seemed to be dazed by Dundee's vehement question. Why, yes, Nita's own tune, that's what she called it, her own tune. But Mrs. Miles, Dundee protested a shame that his scalp was prickling with horror. Do you mean to tell me that Nita was not dead then? When Karen Marshall screamed? Dead? Flora repeated, more bewildered. Of course she was. Or at least they all said so—oh, I know what you mean. But you don't mean what I mean at all. Steady honey girl, Tracey Miles urged, putting his arm about his wife. I better tell you, Dundee, when we all came running into the room there was Nita's powder box playing its tune over and over. Oh, Dundee wiped his forehead. You mean it's a musical box? Yes, and plays when the lid is off, Tracey answered, obviously delighted to have the limelight again. Well, of course, since Nita couldn't put the lid back on it was still playing. What was the tune, honey? He asked his wife tenderly. I haven't much air for music at best, but at a time like that. It was playing Juanita, Flora answered wearily, over and over. Nita, Juanita, be my own fair bride, she quavered obligingly. Only not the words, of course, just the tune. That's why Nita bought the box, I suppose, because it played her namesake song. Maybe one of her bows gave it to her, Tracey suggested lightly, patting his wife's trembling shoulder. Anyway, Dundee, the thing ran on and on until it ran down, I suppose. I confess I wanted to put the lid back on to stop the damn thing, but you go said we mustn't touch anything. And quite right, Dundee cut in. Now, Mrs. Miles, about that noise you heard. Did you hear anyone enter the room? No? Well, then, did you hear Nita speak to anyone? You said you thought it might be Lydia coming to get something out of the closet. I didn't hear Nita speak a word to anybody, though she might have, and I wouldn't have heard all muffled up in that velvet evening wrap and so far back in the closet. Did you hear the door onto the porch? It's quite near the closet. The door was open when we came in, Dundee, Tracey interposed. It must have been open all the time. I didn't hear it open, Mrs. Miles confirmed him wearily. I tell you I didn't hear anything except Nita's coming in singing, then the powder box playing its tune and that banger bump I told you about. And just where was that, Dundee persisted? I don't know, she shrilled, hysteria rising in her voice again. I told you it sounded fairly near the closet as if somebody bumped into something. That's what it was like, that's exactly what it was like, and I was so frightened of being found in the closet that I fainted and didn't come to until Karen screamed. She was babbling on, but Dundee was thinking hard. A very convenient faint that, for the murderer at least. But why not for Mrs. Miles herself? Odd that she should faint. Why hadn't she trumped up some excuse immediately and left the closet as Nita was entering the room? Was it possibly because she could think of nothing but the great relief of finding that it was Sprague, not her husband, who had been writing love letters to Nita Salim? A jealous woman. Miles, he began abruptly, I think you better tell me how your wife became so jealous of you and Nita Salim that she could get herself into such a false position. Tracy Miles reddened, but a gesture of one of his sunburned hands restrained his wife's passionate defense of him. It's the truth that Flora is jealous natured, and I suppose, he faltered a moment and his eyes did not meet his wife's, that I like seeing her a little bit jealous of her old man, sort of makes a man feel, well, big, you know, and pretty important to somebody. So you were just having a bit of fun with your wife so far as Mrs. Salim was concerned? Dundee asked coldly. The blood flowed through the thinning blonde hair. Well, not exactly, he admitted frankly. You see, I did take a shine to Nita, and if I do say so myself, she liked me a lot. Oh, nothing serious. Just a little flirtation like most of our crowd have with each other. Mrs. Miles, Dundee interrupted with sudden harshness. Are you sure you did not know that that letter was from Dexter Sprague before you looked for it? Sir, if you are insinuating that my wife carried on a flirtation or an affair with that Sprague insect, Tracy began to bluster. But Dundee's eyes were on Flora Miles, and he saw that her sallow skin had tightened like grayish silk over her thin cheekbones and that her eyes looked suddenly dead and glassy. You fainted, you say, Mrs. Miles, Dundee went on inexorably. Was it because, by any chance, this note, and he tapped the sheet which had caused so much trouble, revealed the fact that Nita Salim and Dexter Sprague were sweethearts or lovers? It was a battle between those two now. Both ignored Tracy's red-faced rage. Flora licked her dry lips. No. No, she whispered. No! It was because I was jealous of Tracy and Nita. Yes, and I had given her cause to be jealous, too. Tracy forced himself into the conversation. One night at the country club Flora saw me and Nita stroll off the porch and down onto the grounds, and she had a right to be sore at me when I got back because I'd cut a dance with her, my own wife, and it was only this very morning that I made a point of driving out of my way, too, by this house to see Nita. Not that I meant any harm, but I was being a little silly about her, and she was about me, too. Not that I'd leave my wife and babies for any Broadway beauty under the sun. Oh, Tracy, and you weren't going to tell me? Was there real jealousy now or just pretense on Flora's part? Do you understand, don't you, Dundee? Tracy demanded man to man. I was just having a little fun on the side. Nothing serious, mind you. But of course I don't tell Flora every little thing. No man does. There have been other girls, other women. Tracy isn't worse than the other men, Flora flamed up. He's such a darling that all the girls pet him and spoil him. Dundee could stand no more of Miles's complacent acceptance of his own rikishness, and certainly a girl like Nita Salim would have been able to bear precious little of it, conceited ass. But Flora Miles was another matter, and so was Dexter Sprague. You can join me in the living-room, if you like, Dundee said shortly, as he wheeled and strode toward the door. Was that quick, passionate kiss between husband and wife being staged for his benefit? Me near through, boy, strong, who had been silent and bewildered for a long time, asked anxiously, as the two detectives passed into the hall. Not quite. I've got to know several things yet, Dundee answered absently. But in the living-room his mind was wholly upon the business in hand. I'll keep you all no longer than is absolutely necessary, he began, and again the close-knit group, in which only Dexter Sprague was an alien, grew taut with suspense. From the playing out of the death-hand at bridge he went on, using the objectionable phrase again very deliberately, I found that no two of you men arrived together. Mr. Hammond, you were the first to arrive, I believe. It seems that I was, Clive Hammond answered curtly. And yet you did not enter the living-room to greet your hostess? I wanted a private word with Polly, Miss Beale, my fiancée. Hammond explained briefly. How and when did you arrive? I don't know the exact time. Never thought of looking at my watch, Hammond offered. I came out in my own roadster, that tan stutch you may have noticed in the driveway. As for how I entered the house, I leaped upon the porch and opened a door of the solarium. I walked across the solarium, saw Polly just finishing with bridge for the afternoon, and beckoned to her. She joined me in the solarium and we stayed there until Karen screamed. That's all. Have you been engaged long, Mr. Hammond, you and Miss Beale? Dundee asked, as if quite casually. Nearly a year, if it's any of your business, Dundee. And just when had you seen Miss Beale last before late this afternoon, Dundee asked? I refuse to answer, Hammond flared. That at least is none of your damned business. I believe I can answer my own question, Mr. Hammond. Dundee said very softly. End of Chapter 7. CHAPTER VIII. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. MURDER AT BRIDGE by Ann Austin. CHAPTER VIII. And why ask me, Hammond shrugged, but his eyes flickered toward Polly Beale. I thought perhaps you could give me a little additional information, Dundee soothed him. You see, it happens that I saw you, Miss Beale, and another young man come into the Stuart House dining-room about half-past one today, just when I was thinking of lunch for myself. The mysterious other young man was Clive's brother, Ralph Hammond, Polly Beale cut in breastly. Your decision to lunch with your fiancee and his brother was quite a sudden one, Dundee asked courteously. Just when did you change your mind about Mrs. Salim's luncheon-party at break-away-in, Miss Beale? The tall girl threw up her manishly cropped chestnut head. There is nothing at all sinister or even queer about it, Mr. Dundee. I was on my way to the luncheon when I decided to drive past Nita's house, on the chance that she might like me to drive her over. When you didn't know Mrs. Dunlap had already arranged to meet Mrs. Salim downtown this morning and to take her to the inn? No, I didn't hear of the arrangement, Polly answered, decidedly. You were a close friend of Mrs. Salim's, perhaps, Dundee prodded. Not at all. But that would not keep me from doing my hostess a courtesy. She hated her ford and liked expensive cars. Polly added, unemotionally. It was about a quarter to one when I got here, I should say. Polly wasn't here, nor was her maid. But I saw Ralph's car parked in front of the house. Ralph Hammond's car? A woman squealed. But Dundee let Polly continue. I rang, and he answered the door. Said he was alone in the house, going over the premises at Judge Marshall's request. Polly said evenly. That's right, that's right, Judge Marshall agreed hastily. Nita, Mrs. Salim, wanted the unfinished half of the gabled top story finished up. And a maid's room and a bath, and a guest room and a bath added to the living quarters already completed. I gave the commission, for an estimate, at least, to the Hammond firm, since they had built the house originally for Crane, Penny's father. I see, Dundee agreed. And you sent your brother, Mr. Hammond? He was the natural one to send, Clive Hammond retorted. Small job. All he had to do was get together an estimate on additional furnace lines and radiators, electric wiring, plumbing, plastering, et cetera. Go on, Miss Beale, Dundee directed. Thanks. There was sarcasm in her brusque voice. But that's really about all I have to tell. Ralph complained that he was hungry and charged me with giving him too little of my time, the usual thing. I picked up Nita's phone, called Clive, and made the date for the three of us. Then I called breakaway in, canceled the luncheon part of the bridge party with Nita, and Ralph and I drove back to Hamilton. Dundee studied her strong, clever, almost plain face for a long minute. Certainly Polly Beale did not look like a liar, but he would have taken his oath that she was lying now, or rather, not revealing the whole truth behind the actual facts of her movements that day. For instance, could a simple plea of her future brother-in-law make her do so discourteous a thing as to break a luncheon appointment, especially when such a course would not only disappoint her hostess and her friends, but disarrange the seating plan of a rather formal party? Of course the explanation was obvious. She had wanted first to see Nita, and remain straight privately with her for having so enslaved Ralph Hammond, when he was tacitly known to belong to Penny Crane, one of the sacred crowd. Failing that, she had found Ralph himself, and had not expected to find him, had talked with him about Nita, and had quarreled with him a bit, perhaps over his love-sodden behavior. And the crisis had become so acute that Polly had arbitrarily called upon Clive Hammond, and then had forced Ralph to accompany her. Do you know, Miss Beale, why Ralph Hammond did not keep his engagement with Mrs. Salim this afternoon? Or rather, his promise to appear for cocktails and to be Miss Crane's partner for the rest of the evening, dinner and dancing at the country club? I do not, Polly said crisply. Hammond? Neither do I, Hammond retorted angrily. Then it was not to discuss Ralph Hammond and his affairs that you beckoned Miss Beale to meet you in the Solarium upon your arrival. It was not. A shade too much anger and emphasis, Dundee decided, and he wished heartily that Strawn's detectives would not delay much longer in bringing the missing young man into this already involved examination. You say that you were both in the Solarium from the time of your arrival, Hammond, until Miss Marshall screamed, Dundee continued. Just what did you see and hear? Dundee watched their faces keenly, but again they were well-bred, expressionless. It was Polly Beale who answered, Naturally, there was not absolute silence, but I am afraid we were not listening. We were rather engrossed in our conversation. We were seated near no windows, and I for once saw nothing as well as heard nothing that I can recall. Hammond? That goes for me, too, absolutely. Abruptly abandoning the engaged couple, Dundee returned to Miles. You were the second arrival, then? Yes. I parked my car along the curb in the front of the house, Tracy answered readily, and I came right on in and needed jumped up. Yes, we've had all that twice before, Dundee interrupted cruelly. Now Judge Marshall, one of my friends gave me a lift from town, Judge Marshall volunteered pompously. Chat named Samson. You may have heard of him, fine fellow, splendid lawyer. We played billiards together at the athletic club, and when I was about to call a taxi, my wife having the car here, he offered to drop me here on his way to the country club. No, I don't remember the exact time, did not consult my watch. You came directly from the road into the house, Judge Marshall? Certainly, sir. Did you, uh, see anyone? You mean, sir, did anyone see me? Judge Marshall demanded, with pompous indignation. No, no one, sir. If my word is not good enough for you, you can think what you damned please. I think we are all getting a little too tired, Mr. Dundee, any crane suggested, almost humble in her weariness. I'm truly sorry, the young detective apologized, but I can't leave things like this. Mr. Drake, you have said you walked over from the country club. You must have approached the house from the driveway side, the side of the house which contains Mrs. Salim's bedroom. Is that right? More or less, except that I skirted the house rather widely and arrived from the road, stepping upon the front porch and walking directly into the hall. I saw no one outside or near the house when I arrived. Drake answered, with less than his usual nastiness. And saw no one running away across the meadows, Dundee pressed. No one at all, Drake retorted. I wished to God I could truthfully say that I saw a gunman, with a mask and a smoking revolver, skulking through the wildflowers, but the absolute truth is that I saw no one. Thank you, Mr. Drake. Now, Mr. Sprague of New York. Sprague's nervous twitching face reddened darkly. I—I took a bus. I have no car of my own. I got off the bus on Sheridan Road at the entrance to Primrose Meadows. I see. And you walked a quarter of a mile to this house? Sprague's hand fumbled with his cravat. I—of course I did. I see. Now Mrs. Redmond, Dundee, pounced unexpectedly, so that the red-haired girl went very white beneath her freckles. You observed Mr. Sprague toiling down the ruddy road, hot and weary but romantic in the sunset. Mrs. Drake led out a nervous giggle, then clapped her hand over her mouth. I—I wasn't looking that way, Janet Raymond stammered. I—I just went out on the porch for a breath of fresh air. And you were completely surprised when Mr. Sprague came walking up the flagstone path, Dundee persisted, for he knew she was lying, knew that she had stationed herself there to watch for Sprague. I—yes, I was. He stopped and talked for a while before we came in and joined Tracy and Lois in the dining-room, where Tracy was mixing cocktails. But—she flared suddenly—I don't see why you have to badger all of us, when it must have been Lydia, the maid who killed Nita, because— Oh, Janet, shame on you! Penny cried furiously. Where is the maid now, Captain Strawn? Dundee asked. I haven't seen her yet. Because she's in her room in the basement, Bonnie, Strawn answered. Sort of forgot about her, didn't you? And he chuckled at the younger man's disconfiture. But I got her story out of her, you bet. Nothing to it, though, one of my boys, Collins it was, found her in that short, dark hall that runs between the saline woman's bedroom in the kitchen. Over in a pub she was, it was a mess. Said she—I'd better have her up and question her if she's well enough, Dundee interrupted, as tactfully as possible. It seems that she had an abseth tooth out to-day, with gas and a local anesthetic. Now, Miss Raymond, will you tell me exactly what you meant by saying it must have been Lydia who killed her mistress? I certainly will, the red-haired girl cried defiantly. What I can't see is why Tracy and Lois and Dex, Mr. Sprague, didn't think of it, too. It's as plain as—yes, as the nose on my face, Dundee cut in grimly, but with a glance it's drawn. Just stick to the facts, however, Miss Raymond, and maybe we can all agree with you. Well, when Mr. Sprague and I went into the dining-room, there were Lois and Tracy cutting up like a couple of children. Janet began, determined to take her time. When they saw us, Lois said, Good Lord, Tracy, get busy! Or your job as bartender will be taken away from you. And Tracy began to shake cocktails at the side-board— Guess I'd better tell it, Janet, for what it's worth, Lois cut in impatiently. It's nothing more nor less than I had to ring twice for poor Lydia before she came, she explained to Dundee. Tracy is full of original ideas about cocktails, and wanted some sort of bitters. He was going to shout for Lydia, but I stepped on the button under the dining-table, and the poor thing, in the basement nursing her jaw, probably, didn't hear. Tracy and I got to kidding, as Janet says, and had scarcely noticed how long Lydia was in coming. I rang again, and she came. That's all. That isn't all, Janet denied angrily. I was there when Lydia came in, and she was looking white as a ghost, except for her swollen jaw. What's more, she acted so dumb, Tracy had to tell her twice what he wanted, and then she said, Needed didn't have any of those bitters anyway. An open and shut case against poor Lydia, Penny Crane broke in derisively. Go pluck daisies, Janet, you'd be of a lot more help. Here's your maid, Bonnie," Captain Straughn announced lazily, as one of his plain clothesmen appeared in the arch between dining and living-room, dragging by the hand a woman who was resisting strangely, her apron pressed to her face. You are Lydia? Dundee asked, his voice kinder than it had been for many minutes. Oh, it's Lydia Carr, Captain Straughn. Thank you. Don't be afraid, and I'm sorry about the tooth. Come along in, I'll not keep you long. The woman's knees seemed about to fail her, but with a sudden effort she released the detective's grip on her wrist. Very tall she was, very bony in her black cotton dress. Pathetic, too, with her thin, iron-gray hair, and that apron concealing the left half of her face. It was odd, Dundee thought, that it was not the swollen jaw she chose to cover. Mrs. Dunlap sprang to her feet and hurried across the room. Don't mind, Lydia, please. You must not be so sensitive, she said gently, and even more gently pulled down the concealing apron. Good God! Dundee breathed, and Straughn nodded his understanding of the younger man's horror. For the left half of Lydia Carr's face was drawn and puckered and ridged, almost out of human semblance. In the eye was ruined, a milky ball which the puckered, hairless eyelid could never cover again. Poor Lydia is ashamed of her scarred face, Lois Dunlap explained, her arm still about the mage's shoulder. She isn't quite used to it yet, but none of us mind. You were burned recently, Lydia? Dundee asked, pityingly. That's my business! The woman astounded him by retorting harshly. How did it happen, Lydia? Dundee persisted, puzzled. I had an accident. It was my own fault. Lois Dunlap's kind gray eyes caught and held Dundee's firmly. I think, if Nita could speak to you now, Mr. Dundee, that she would beg you not to try to force Lydia's confidence on this subject. Nita was devoted to Lydia. We can all testify to that. And one of the sweetest things about her was her constant effort to protect Lydia from questions and curious glances. I for one know that Nita often begged Lydia to submit to a skin-grafting operation, regardless of expense. When that kind voice choked on tears, Dundee abruptly abandoned his intention to press the matter further. Lydia, your mistress had been married, or was still married, wasn't she? The woman's single, slate-gray eye stared into his expressionlessly. She had a missus in front of her name, to use when she felt like it. That's all I know. I never saw her husband if she had one. I only worked for her about five years. You say she used her married name when she felt like it. What do you mean by that, Lydia? I mean she was an actress and used her stage name, Juanita Lee, pronounced like it was spelled plain Lee, but she was mostly called Nita Lee. An actress, you say? Dundee repeated thoughtfully. I had heard of her only as a director of the foresight school plays. What shows was she in? She was what they call a specialty dancer in musical comedy, Lydia answered. Sometimes she had a real part, and sometimes she only danced. She was a good hofer and a good trooper, she added, the Broadway terms falling strangely from those austere lips. And when she wasn't in the show, she sometimes got a job in the pictures. She never had a real chance in the movies, though, because they mostly wanted her to double for the star in long shots, where dancing comes into the picture, or in close-ups where they just sew the legs, you know. I see, Dundee agreed gravely. Where were you during the fifteen minutes or so before your mistress was shot, Lydia? I was down in my room in the basement, the woman answered. Nita—I mean Miss Nita—was going to get Judge Marshall to build me a room on the top floor. She hated for me to have to sleep in the basement, but I didn't mind. You were not required to be on duty for the party? No, she answered in her harsh, flat voice. I'd fixed the sandwiches and put out the liquors for the cocktails, set them all out on the dining table and sideboard, and Miss Nita had told me to go and lie down as soon as I was through. So I did. I had an abscess tooth pulled this morning and I was feeling sick. Did you hear the kitchen bell at all? I dropped off to sleep. That fool Dennis had shot me full of dope, but I did hear the bell and I come up to answer it. Miss Dunlop said she'd rung twice and I said I was sorry. Lydia, did you go into your mistress's bedroom before or after you answered that bell? Dundee asked with sudden sharpness. I did not. I didn't even know she was in her bedroom until I saw her sitting at her dressing table dead. The harsh voice hesitated over the last word, but it did not break. And just when did you first see her after she was dead? I went into the kitchen, thinking something else might be related. Then I heard a scream. It sounded like it come from Nita's—Miss Nita's bedroom, and I run along the back hall that leads from the kitchen to her bedroom. I heard a lot of people running and yelling. Nobody paid any attention to me. You came into the room? No, sir. I did not. I stopped in the doorway. I heard Mr. Sprague say she was dead. I was sick and dizzy anyway and I couldn't move for a minute. I sort of slipped down to the floor and I guess I must have passed out. And then I was sick to my stomach, and I didn't seem to care if I never moved again. Why, Lydia? Dundee asked gently. Because she was the only friend I had in the world, and I couldn't have loved her better if she'd been my own child, Lydia answered, and the stern voice had broken at last. I was still there in the back hall when a cop come and asked me a lot of questions, and then that man, she pointed to Captain Straughn, said I could go and lay down. He helped me down the basement stairs. Dundee tapped his teeth with the long pencil he had kept so busy that evening, tapped them long and thoughtfully. Then, Lydia, did you see any one, any one at all, from your basement room window before you answered Mrs. Dunlop's ring? End of Chapter 8 CHAPTER IX. OF MURDER AT BRIDGE. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. MURDER AT BRIDGE by Anne Austin. CHAPTER IX. For the first time during the difficult interview, Dundee was sure that Lydia Carr was lying. For a fraction of a second her single eye wavered. The lid flickered. Then came her harsh, flat denial. I didn't see nobody. I presume your basement room has a window looking out upon the back garden? Dundee persisted. Yes, it has, but I didn't waste no time looking out of it, Lydia answered grimly. I was lying down with an ice-cap against my jaw. She had seen someone, Dundee told himself, but the truth would be harder to extract from that stern, scar-twisted mouth than the abscess tooth had been. Finally when her lone eye did not again waver under his steady gaze he dismissed her, or rather returned her to Captain Strawn's custody. Well, Janet, I hope you're satisfied, Penny Crane said, bitingly, as she dashed unashamed tears from her brown eyes, if ever a maid was absolutely crazy about her mistress. I'm not satisfied, Janet Raymond retorted furiously. She's just a sort that would harbor a grudge for years and then all hopped up with dope. Lois Dunlap commanded with a curtness that set oddly upon her kind, pleasant face. Listen here, Dundee, Tracy Miles broke in, almost humbly. My wife is getting pretty anxious about the kitties. The nurse quit on us yesterday, and... And my little wife is wearing herself sick over our boy, just three months old. Judge Marshall joined the protest. I'm all for assisting Justice, sir, having served on the bench myself, as you doubtless know, but... I'm all right, really, Hugo, Karen Marshall faltered. Please be patient a little longer, Dundee urged apologetically. After all, only one of these people could be guilty of Nita Salim's murder, and it was beastly to have to hold them like this. But one was guilty. You knew Mrs. Salim in New York's brag, he asked, whirling suddenly upon the man with the Broadway stamp. I met Nita Lea, as I always heard her called, when I was assistant director in the Altamont Studios out on Long Island, Sprague answered, his black eyes trying to meet Dundee's with an air of complete frankness. Wonderful little girl, and a great dancer. Screen damn well, too. I had hoped to give her a break some day, at something better than doubling for stars who can't dance. But it happened that Nita, who never forgot even a casual friend, had a chance to give me a leg up herself, a chance to show what I can really do with a camera. I knew I'd seen your name somewhere, Dundee exclaimed, so you're the man the Chamber of Commerce is dickering with. Going to make a movie of the founding growth and beauties of the city of Hamilton, aren't you? If I get the contract, yes, Sprague answered with palpably assumed modesty. My plans, naturally, call for a great deal of research work, a large expenditure of money, a very careful selection of stars. I see, Dundee interrupted. Then his tone changed, became slow and menacing in its terrible emphasis. And you really couldn't let even a good friend like Nita Salim upset those fine plans of yours. Could you, Sprague? Even as he put the sinister question, the detective was exalting to himself, light at last. Now I know why this Broadway bounder was received into an exclusive crowd like this. Every last female in the bunch hoped to be the star of Sprague's motion picture. I don't know what you're driving at, Dundee. Sprague was on his feet, his black eyes blazing out of a chalky face. If you're accusing me of killing Nita Salim, Dundee asked lazily. Oh, no, not yet, Sprague. I was just remembering a rather puzzling note of yours I happened to read this afternoon, that note you sent by a special messenger to break away in this noon, you know? He had little interest for the sudden crumpling of Dexter Sprague into the chair from which he had risen. Instead, as Dundee drew the note from his coat pocket, his eyes swept around the room, noted the undisguised relief on every face, the almost ghoulish satisfaction with which that close-knit group of friends seized upon an outsider as the probable murderer of that other outsider whom they had rashly taken into their sacred circle. Even Penny Crane, thorny little stickler for fair play that she was, relaxed with a tremulous sigh. You admit that this note, signed by what I take to be your pet name, was written by your hand, Sprague? Dundee asked, matter-of-factly, as he extended the sheet of bluish note-paper. I know, yes, I wrote it. Sprague faltered. But it doesn't mean a thing, not a damn thing. Just a little private matter between Nita and myself. Rather queer-wording for an unimportant message, Sprague, Dundee interrupted. Let me refresh your memory. Nita, my sweet, he began to read slowly. Forgive your bad boy for last night's row, but I must warn you again to watch your step. You've already gone too far. Of course I love you and understand, but be good, baby, and you won't be sorry, Dexy. Well, Sprague? Sprague wiped his perspiring hands on his handkerchief. I know it sounds odd under the circumstances, he admitted desperately. But listen, Dundee, and I'll try to make that damn note as clear as possible to a man who doesn't know his Broadway. Why, man, it isn't even a love letter. Everybody on Broadway talks and writes to each other like that without meaning a thing. As I told you, Nita Lay or Mrs. Salim remembered some little kindnesses I had done her on the ultimate lot. When they got her up to take that little theater work, Mrs. Dunlap is interested in, and she found that the Chamber of Commerce was interested in putting Hamilton into the movies in a big booster campaign. She wired me, and I thought it looked good enough to drop everything and come. Of course Nita and I got to be closer friends, but I swear to God we were just friends. And what was the friendly row about last night, Sprague? That wasn't a row, really. Sprague protested with desperate earnestness. It was merely that Nita insisted on my casting her for the heroine of the movie, a thing I knew would alienate the whole crowd that's been so kind to us. Why, since she was a professional actress, Dundee demanded? Because she isn't a Hamilton girl, of course, and the Chamber of Commerce wants the cast to be all local talent, Sprague answered, lapsing unconsciously into the present tense. And just what were you warning her against? I told her before to watch her step, Sprague went on more easily. You see, Dundee, Nita Lay is, was, a first-class little vamp, and I could see she was playing her cards with the men here. He indicated four of Hamilton's most prominent Chamber of Commerce members with a wave of his hand, to get them all so crazy about her that they'd vote for her as the star of the picture. I could see her point all right. It would have been a big chance for her to show how she could act. Well, I could see it was dangerous business. And that the girls, and he smiled jerkily at the tense women in the living room, were getting pretty wrought up over the way Nita was behaving. All except Mrs. Dunlap, he added. She didn't want to be in the picture, and Nita didn't make any headway at all with Peter Dunlap. Thanks, Mr. Sprague, Lois Dunlap drawled, with an amused quirk of her broad mouth. Get along with the row, Sprague, Dundee commanded impatiently. As I said, it wasn't really a row. I just pleaded with Nita last night to smooth down the girls' rumpled feathers and to make it clear to them that she didn't want the star part in the picture any more than she wanted any other woman's husband or sweetheart. Just a friendly warning. Sprague drew a deep breath. And that's all the note meant, absolutely. I see, Dundee said quietly, then quoted, be good, baby, and you won't be sorry. That meant, of course, Sprague took him up eagerly, that I'd see she got a real part in a regular movie after I'd made my hit with the Hamilton picture. Very plausible indeed, Dundee reflected, and yet finally he lifted his head and let his eyes dart from face to face. All of you have stated, separately and collectively, that you heard no shot fired in Nita Salim's bedroom this afternoon, he said sharply. Is that true? He was answered by weary nods or sullen affirmations. Then, he continued, I must conclude that you are all lying or that Nita Salim was killed with a gun equipped with a maximum silencer. Never was a detective more unprepared for the effect of his words upon a group of possible suspects than was Special Investigator Dundee. CHAPTER X As Dexter Sprague had glibly and plausibly explained away every sinister aspect of the note he had written to Nita Salim that day, Special Investigator Dundee was recalling with verbatim vividness his argument with Captain Straughn of the Homicide Squad immediately after his arrival into the house of violent death. He then said, The person who killed Nita Salim was so well known to her, and his or her presence in this room so natural a thing that she paid no attention to his or her movements, and was concentrating on the job of powdering her very pretty face. And he had said further, in the face of the disappearance of the gun and an explanation of the fact that all twelve of these people had immediately protested to Straughn that they had heard no shot. This was a premeditated murder, of course. The maximum silencer, unless they are all lying about not hearing a shot, proves that. Silencers are damned hard to get hold of, but people with plenty of money can manage most things. And as Dexter Sprague had talked on, more and more glibly, Dundee had suddenly found an explanation which fitted his own argument with such perfection that he wondered naively if he were perhaps gifted with clairvoyance. Of all these twelve people whom he had questioned so relentlessly, only Dexter Sprague could have easily come into possession of a maximum silencer. He had dilated proudly upon the fact that he had been an assistant director at the Altamont Studios on Long Island. And the Altamont Company had recently finished making a series of underworld motion pictures, crook dramas featuring gunmen with rods made eerily noiseless by maximum silencers. A bit of information he had picked up in a motion picture magazine had hurtled into the logical chain of Dundee's reasoning. Assistant directors were in charge of props. It was their business to see that no article needed for the production of a picture was lost or missing when the director needed it. Dexter Sprague had said that he had dropped everything to come when Nita Selene wired him of the Chamber of Commerce project to make a booster movie of Hamilton. Perhaps he had dropped everything, but had he hesitated long enough to pick up a maximum silencer and a blunt-nosed automatic? And was the row which Sprague had been so glibly explaining away in an ancient tone a row so deadly that, when Nita Selene had refused to heed his written warning, her murder had become necessary? It was with all this in mind that Bonnie Dundee flung his challenge. Let us conclude that you are all lying or that Nita Selene was killed with a gun equipped with a maximum silencer. And his eyes, terrible with their command that the weaklings should break and confess, were upon Dexter Sprague. But Sprague did not break. He stared back, blankly. If his eyes and his attention had included the whole group, it is possible that what happened would have not have taken Dundee so completely by surprise. He had paid little attention to a sort of concerted gasp, a slight movement among the group farthest from him. But not even his intense concentration upon Sprague could prevent his hearing Karen Marshall's childish voice, tremulous with fear. No, no, Hugo, don't, don't! He whirled from Sprague in time to see Judge Marshall disengaging his arm from his young wife's clinging fingers, to note with profound astonishment that Drake was stepping hastily aside so that not even his coat sleeve might be brushed by the advancing figure of the elderly retired judge. And before Judge Marshall had time to speak, Dundee saw that a blight had touched at last the solid friendship of the women, that they did not look at each other with that air of standing together whatever happened, but that their eyes, not meeting at all, became secret, calculating, afraid. Sir, Judge Marshall began pompously, when he had planted himself squarely before the young detective, it shall never be said of me that I have tried, even in the slightest way, to hamper the course of justice. I am sure of that, Judge Marshall, Dundee replied courteously, but his pulses were hammering. What in God's name did this long-winded old fool have to tell him? You have some information you believe may be valuable, Judge? I do not believe it will be at all valuable, sir. On the contrary, the old man retorted indignantly, but to suppress the fact that this juncture might leave to grave misunderstandings later, when it inevitably comes to light. So, sir, it is my duty to inform you that I myself own a colt's thirty-two, as well as a maxim silencer. What? Dundee exclaimed incredulously. He was conscious that, behind him, Captain Straughn was getting to his feet. There is no need to get your handcuffs, Captain Straughn. Judge Marshall warned him majestically. I assure you that I have not violated the law. Every judge, active and retired, is entitled to a permit to carry a weapon, and I long ago availed myself of the privilege. Nor am I about to make a confession of murder. There ain't no permit, so far as I know, Judge Straughn growled, for any man, whoever he may be, God Almighty Himself not accepted, to tote a gun with a silencer on it. Karen Marshall was crying now with the abandoned grief of a petted child. Granted, Captain, Judge Marshall snapped, but it happens that I do not tote my gun with a silencer on it. If it interests you, I may as well explain that I came by the silencer several years ago, when I was on the bench. A notorious Chicago gunman, on trial for murder here, and acquitted by a feeble-minded jury, made me a present of the very silencer he had used in killing his victim. An ironic gesture, a gesture of supreme insolence, but an entirely safe gesture, since he well knew that a man once acquitted of a crime, cannot again be placed in jeopardy for the same offense. So you kept the silencer as a curiosity, Judge Marshall? Dundee interrupted the pompous flow of rhetoric. For years, yes, the ex-judge answered, then his face went yellow and very old. As I told you just now, I will withhold no fact that may be of any relevance whatever. About two months ago, in March, I believe, our little group here took up target shooting as a fad. Several of us became quite expert with revolver and rifle. Mr. Drake, and he nodded toward the banker, who instantly averted his eyes, conceived the idea of practicing the draw from the hip sort of revolver shooting, the kind one sees in Wild West movies, you know. I think you might add, Hugo, Drake cut in angrily, that I had in mind the hope of being able to protect the bank in case of a holdup. Then the silencer, Judge Marshall, Captain Strahan, prodded. Judge Marshall flushed and fingered the end of a waxed moustache. The silencer, sir, was my wife's idea. You see, sir, we are fortunate enough to be the parents of an infant son. He was just a month old when I painted a bullseye upon the brick wall of our back garden, and invited our friends to indulge their fad as our guests. The shooting awakened the baby so frequently that Karen, Mrs. Marshall, dug up the silencer which I had shown her as a memento of my career on the bench. Thereafter we can find our practice almost exclusively to drawing from the hip and shooting without siding. It is impossible to sight with a gun equipped with the silencer, you know, since the silencer covers the cider on the barrel. It sure does, Strahan drawled. So every last one of you folks had a good deal of this sort of practice, I take it? Judge Marshall glanced about the room as if he could not recall the face of everyone present. Yes, all of us, except Mr. Sprague, and Penny, my dear, did you join us at all? The girl who had once been in on every sport that this crowd of Hamilton's socially-elect indulged in flushed a painful red. No, Hugo, I have to stay with mother on Sunday mornings, you know. Your target practice was on a Sunday morning diversion, then? Judge Marshall, Dundee asked. Yes, we usually have an hour of the sport, between eleven and noon on Sundays. We've been having a sort of tournament, quite sharply competitive. When did you and your friends practice last, Dundee asked? Last Sunday. Tomorrow was to mark the end of the tournament, the judge answered. And when did you last see your gun and silencer, Dundee persisted? Last Sunday, of course. Why good Lord! Marshall ejaculated. It was Nita herself who put the gun away. There was a collective gasp of relief. Eyes could meet eyes, now. But it was Flora Miles who voiced the thought or hope that seemed apparent on every face. That's why I didn't hear anyone talking when I was in the closet. She cried, her voice almost hysterical in its vehemence. There wasn't anybody but Nita in the room. She committed suicide. She stole poor Hugo's gun and the silencer and committed suicide. At a distance of from ten to fifteen feet, Dundee asked, with ill-concealed sarcasm. And when she was powdering her face, and just after entering the room, blithely singing a broadway hit. Maybe the lady is right, boy, Captain Strawn, interposed mildly. I've heard of people rigging up contrivances. Which make the gun and the silencer disappear by magic, Dundee demanded. No, folks, I'm afraid the suicide theory is no good. Now Judge Marshall, and he turned again to the creator of the biggest sensation since the investigation into Nita Salim's death, had got under way. You say that Mrs. Salim herself put the gun away? Will you explain the circumstances? The elderly man's face had gone yellowish again. Certainly, Nita Salim and I were the last to leave the back garden. She was particularly poor at the sport. Never made a bullseye during the four or five Sunday mornings after Lois, Mrs. Dunlap, drew her into our set. She begged for a few more shots, and I stayed with her after the others had gone into the house for, uh, refreshment. She fired the last bullet in the chamber of the cults. And together we walked into the house, entering the little room at the rear where all sorts of sports equipment are kept, fishing rods and tackle, golf clubs, bows and arrows, skis, et cetera. She was carrying the gun, unscrewing the silencer as we walked. It is my habit to keep the pistol and the silencer in a drawer and a little corner cupboard. Locked up, Dundee asked sharply. Usually locked, but not always, I'm afraid, Judge Marshall answered reluctantly. And you saw Mrs. Salim place the gun and the silencer in the drawer? I thought I did, but I was not really watching closely. As a matter of fact, I stopped to look over a fishing rod with a view to trying it out, the first good fishing weather. Was Mrs. Salim wearing a coat or cloak? Dundee cut in impatiently. Why, I don't know. Yes, she was, Hugo, Karen cried out eagerly. It was quite chilly last Sunday morning. Remember, we all had on coats or sweaters. Nita wore a dark green leather jacket with big pockets, and she left in a great hurry without even waiting for a drink. Flora Miles contributed triumphantly. I tell you, she took them away in her pockets. Your guess may be correct, Mrs. Miles, Dundee agreed, but I think we had better not come to any definite conclusion until we know that Judge Marshall's automatic and silencer are really missing. Is there anyone at your house now, Judge, whom you can ask to look for it? Certainly the butler. Shall I telephone him? Accompanied by Captain Straughn, the ex-judge went to the telephone in the little foyer between Nita Salim's bedroom and the main hall. And within five minutes he was back, nodding his head gravely. Henson tells me that the Colts and the Silencer are both missing, sir. May I express my profound regret that my possession of some other time, Judge Marshall, Dundee interrupted curtly and hurried from the room, followed by Straughn, who nodded to Sergeant Turner, still lounging wearily in a far corner of the living room, to stand guard vigilantly. Well, Bonnie, here's the devil to pay, Straughn gloomed, but Dundee made for the telephone without answering. He called a number, then curtly demanded, Dr. Price, please. Yes, I know he's busy on an autopsy. Just tell him that Dundee of the District Attorney's Office wants to speak with him. There was a long pause, then, hello, Dr. Price, Dundee. What are the caliber and type of bullet that killed Nita Salim? Thanks much, doctor. Anything new? Fine. Thanks again. He hung up the receiver and faced Straughn. But from a cult's thirty-two, he said grimly, I suggest you send one of your men around to the Marshal Home to pick up a bullet that was shot in their damned target practice. If you send the two bullets to-night, registered male, to write the ballistics expert in Chicago, he can probably wire you to-morrow morning as to whether the same gun was used to fire both. Sure, Bonnie, Straughn agreed lugubriously. I was going to do just that. Say this town is getting to be worse than Chicago. When he re-entered the living-room, Dundee began upon the judge again, regardless of the fact that the elderly husband was murmuring consolatory endearments to his young wife. Judge Marshal, how many keys are there to the cupboard drawer in which your gun and silencer were kept? Just one. I have it with me, the old man answered wearily. Then when Henson, your butler, looked for them, he found the drawer unlocked. He did. I confess to almost criminal negligence. And so far as you know the gun and silencer could have been removed at any time by any guest of yours between noon last Sunday and today. Dundee went on relentlessly. I suppose so, but these people have been my close friends for years, the judge answered. Not one of them, sir. After Mrs. Aleem's departure last Sunday, did your other guests remain for any length of time? For an hour or more, I think. Lois and Peter Dunlap remained for our two o'clock Sunday dinner, but the others drifted away to various engagements. Did any of you return to the room where the gun was kept? I can speak only for myself and Peter, Mr. Dunlap, Judge Marshal answered, flushing with indignation. The two of us went down just before dinner was served. I wanted to show him some new flies for trout casting. Your home is a popular rendezvous for your intimates, is it not? I pride myself that it is, sir. And guests run in and out having the freedom of the place? Yes, sir, and since I am not so stupid as you imagine, I can tell you now that I understand the drift of your questions and can first all them. Yes, all of these people, my friends, have had opportunity to take the gun and silencer from the cupboard since it was placed there last Sunday, if it was placed there by Mrs. Aleem. But may I remind you, sir, that opportunity alone is not sufficient. That motive, since Mrs. Aleem is dead, murdered by the weapon which was stolen, we can assume, Judge Marshal, that someone had motive. Dundee reminded him implacably, for in his mind there was no doubt that the ballistics expert would bear him out. There was a heavy, throbbing silence, with the exception of Dexter Sprague had been so united, so cemented with long sustained friendship, again dissolved visibly before Dundee's eyes into eleven individuals, each shrinking into himself, mentally drawing away from any possible contamination with a murderer. You have said, Judge Marshal, Dundee went on at last, that Ms. Crane and Mr. Sprague were not at your home for target practice Sunday. Has either of them been in your home during this past week? Penny, Ms. Crane, spent an evening with my wife when I was away from home on business. That was last Tuesday, I believe. Yes, it was Tuesday, Hugo, Penny Crane interrupted firmly, and Karen can vouch for the fact that I did not go into the gun-room. Don't be silly, Penny, Caroline Drake scolded, as if she had long been bursting to speak, giving an alibi, as if any of us who were playing bridge while that woman was being shot needs any alibi. But I'll tell you what I think, Mr. Detective. I think Nita herself stole the gun in the silencer to kill Dexter Sprague with, and that he stole it from her and murdered her. Nobody else has the slightest scrap of a motive, and that note he wrote her ought to be enough to hang him on. Dexter Sprague had struggled to his feet during the woman's hysterical attack, his face like chalk, his eyes blazing. But Dundee waved him aside peremptorily. One more question, Judge Marshall, he said swavly, as if he had not heard a word that Caroline Drake had said. You knew Mrs. Salim before her arrival in Hamilton with Mrs. Dunlap, I believe. Just when and where did you meet her? End of CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI. OF MURDER AT BRIDGE. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. MURDER AT BRIDGE by Anne Austin. CHAPTER XI. You are damned impertinent, sir, Judge Marshall shouted, the ends of his waxed gray mustache trembling with anger. Then I take it that you do not wish to divulge the circumstances of your friendship with Mrs. Salim. Friendship, the old man snorted. Your implications, sir, are dastardly. I met Mrs. Salim, or rather, Nita Lee, as she was introduced to me, only once several years ago when I was in New York. Naturally—just a moment, Judge. You say she was introduced to you as Nita Lee. Then you knew her as an actress, I presume? I refuse to submit to such a cowardly attack, sir. Attack, Judge? Dundee repeated with assumed astonishment. I merely thought you might be able to shed a little light on the past of the woman who has been murdered here today, with a weapon you admit to having owned. However, the elderly ex-judge stared at his tormentor for a moment, as if murder was in his heart. He gasped twice, then suddenly his whole manner changed. I apologize, Dundee. You must realize how—but that is beside the point. I met Nita Lee at a social gathering, arranged by some New York friends of mine. She was young, attractive, more refined than the average young woman in musical comedy. Naturally, I told her if she ever was in Hamilton to look me up. And she did. And because she was more refined than the average young woman in musical comedy, than the average chorus girl, to put it simply, Dundee took him up. You cooperated with Mrs. Dunlap to introduce her to your most intimate friends, including your wife? Oh, Hugo, why didn't you tell me? Karen Marshall wailed. You see, sir, what you are doing, Judge Marshall stormed. I am truly sorry if I have distressed you, Mrs. Marshall, Dundee protested sincerely. But he shrugged and turned again to the husband. I understand you were Mrs. Aleem's landlord. May I ask how much rent she paid? The house rents for one hundred dollars a month, furnished. And did Mrs. Aleem pay her rent promptly, Dundee persisted? Since this is the twenty-fourth of May, sir, Mrs. Aleem's rent for June was not yet due. Not before poor little Karen could Dundee force himself to ask what, inevitably, would have been his next question, one which could not have been evaded, as the ex-judge had evaded the other two questions. Is it not true, Judge Marshall, that Nita Lee's Aleem paid you no rent at all? But there were other ways to find out. Look here, Dundee, a brusque voice challenged, and the detective whirled to face Polly Beale. It was like her, he thought with a slight grin, to address him as one man to another. Yes, Miss Beale? I'm no fool, and I don't think any of my friends here are either, though two or three of them have acted like it today, the masculine-looking girl stated flatly. You've made it very plain that any one of us here, except the sprog man, could have stolen Hugo's gun and silencer. Has the gun been found? It has not, Miss Beale. OK, the queer girl snapped her fingers. I move that you or Captain Straughn search the men for the weapon, and that I search the women. Wait! She harshly stopped a flurry of feminine protests. I'll ask you, Dundee, to search me first, yourself. I believe the technical term is frisking, isn't it? Then frisk me. Here is my handbag. I wore no coat, except this, and she pointed to the jacket of her tweed suit. As she strode toward the detective, Clive Hammond sprang after her with an oath and a sharp command. Shut up, Clive. I'm not married to you yet," she retorted, but her eyes were gentler than her voice. His face burning with embarrassment, Dundee went through the traditional gestures of police frisking, running his hands rapidly down the girl's tall, sturdy body, slapping her pockets, and his fingers fumbled sadly as he opened her tooled leather handbag. Satisfied, Polly Beale demanded, and at Dundee's miserable nod, the girl faced her friends. Well, come along, girls. Lord, what a girl! Dundee muttered to stron as the young Amazon herded Flora Miles, Penny Crane, Karen Marshall, Carolyn Drake, Lois Dunlap, and Janet Raymond into the dining room. Silently and almost meekly, as if shamed in a submission by Polly Beale's example, John Drake, Tracy Miles, Clive Hammond, Judge Marshall, and Dexter Sprague permitted Captain Straughn and Sergeant Turner to search them. How about the guest closet and the cars? Dundee asked of Straughn in a low voice, when the fruitless, unpleasant task was finished. Gone over with a fine-tooth comb long ago, Straughn assured him gloomily, and not a hiding place in or outside the house that the boys haven't poked into, including the meadow as far as anyone could throw from the bedroom window. The women were filing back into the room, some pale, some flushed, but all able to look each other in the eye again. With surprising jauntiness Polly Beale saluted Dundee, nothing more deadly on any of us than Flora's triple-deck compact. I thank you with all my heart, Miss Beale, Dundee said sincerely, and now I think you may all go to your homes. Of course you understand, he interrupted a chorus of relieved ejaculations, that all of you will be wanted for the inquest, which will probably be held Monday. And what's more, Captain Straughn cut in, to show his authority, I want all of you to hold yourselves ready for further questioning at any time. There was a stampede for coats and hats, a rush for cars as if the house were on fire, or, Dundee reflected riley, as if those he had tortured were afraid he would change his mind, rushing away with hatred of him in their hearts. Only Penning Crane held back, maneuvering for a chance to speak with him. I don't have to go with the rest, do I? She begged in a husky whisper. And why not, Dundee grinned at her, but he was glad there was no hatred in her eyes. I'm attached to the district attorney's office, too, aren't I? Right! And you've been a brick this evening. I don't know what I should have done without you. Well, I can't see that you've done much with me, she jibed. But I'd like to stick around, if you're going to do some real sure-locking. Can't be done, Penny. I want to stay here alone for a while and mull things over. But I'd like to have a long talk with you to-morrow. Come to Sunday dinner. Mother loves murder mysteries, she suggested. Then realization swept over her. Her brown eyes widened, filled with terror. Stop thinking one of us did it. Stop, I tell you. Can you stop, Penny? He asked gently. But she fled from him, sobbing wildly for the first time that long, horrible evening. Wendy, watching from the doorway of the lighted hall, saw the chauffeur open the rear door of the Dunlap limousine, saw Penny catapult herself into Lois Dunlap's outstretched arms. When did the Dunlap chauffeur call for his mistress? He asked Strahan, who stood beside him. About ten minutes after you arrived, Strahan answered wearily, said he dropped Mrs. Dunlap and the Selene woman about two-thirty, and had been ordered to return around six-thirty. Knows nothing, of course. The chief of the homicide squad drew a deep breath. Well, Bonnie, he has nothing on me. In spite of all the palaver, I don't know nothing, either. You need some dinner, chief, Dundee suggested, and the boys must be getting hungry, too. Somebody's got to guard the house, I suppose, Strahan gloomed. Not that it will do any good. And what about that maid, that car-woman? Shall I lock her up on general principles? No. I want to have another talk with her, and if she bucks at spending the night here, I'll take her to the road's house, and turn her over to my old friend, Mother Roads. We haven't anything on her, you know. No, nor on anybody else, except that old fool, Marshall, and we can't clap him into jail yet, Strahan agreed, his great eyes twinkling. Take your crew on in, chief, Dundee urged. I'll stick till midnight or longer, if you don't mind. You can arrange to have a couple of the boys to relieve me about twelve. And by the way, will you telephone me the minute you get hold of Ralph Hammond? Well, maybe not so quick as that, Strahan drawed. I'll take the first crack at that, baby, my lad. Not so dumb, am I, Bonnie Boy? Not so dumb. I can put two and two together, as well as the next one. Pretty near as well as the district attorney's new special investigator. Although Bonnie Dundee had taken Captain Strahan's none too gentle parting jive with good grace, it was a very thoughtful young detective who set about locking himself into the house in which Nita Salim had been murdered. Captain Strahan had beaten him to the job that evening by at least twenty minutes. Had the old detective stumbled upon something which Dundee, for all his spectacular thoroughness, had overlooked or been unable to turn up because Strahan had suppressed it? What if Strahan's parting boast was not an idle one, and he really had the goods on Ralph Hammond? Had the old chief been laughing up his sleeve during the farce of playing out the death-hand at Bridge, and during the merciless quizzing of old Judge Marshall? But Dundee's native common sense quickly routed his gloom. Captain Strahan was too direct in his methods, too afraid of antagonizing the rich and influential, to have permitted even a special investigator from the district attorney's office to torment those twelve people needlessly. Probably Strahan, feeling a little hurt at having played second fiddle all evening, had simply wanted to get him fussed, was even now chuckling over the effect of his parting boast. Much cheered, Dundee lingered in the dining-room whose windows he had made fast against any intrusion, so that his task of guarding the house alone might be minimized. As he glanced at the table with its silver plates heaped up with tiny sandwiches of caviar and anchovy paste, its little silver boats of olives and sweet pickles, he discovered that he was very hungry indeed. As he munched the drying sandwiches and sipped charged water, the various liquors for cocktails on the sideboard offered a temptation which he sternly resisted. Dundee's thought boiled and churned, throwing up picture after picture of Nita Saline, alive and then dead, of Penny Crane, bless her, helping him at the expense of her loyalty to life-long friends, of Flora Miles lying desperately then confessing to a shameful theft, of Karen Marshall gallantly playing out the death-hand, of Karen's stricken, childish face when she learned that her elderly husband had met and at least flirted with Nita Saline at a chorus girl's party. At that last picture Dundee flushed so that his skin prickled. Had he made a fool of himself, or was he right in his suspicion that Hugo Marshall had given Nita Saline this cottage rent-free? That point should be easily settled at any rate. Roofily reflecting that appetizers do not make a satisfactory meal, he betook himself to the dead woman's bedroom. Yes, his memory had served him well. Here was her desk, a small feminine affair of rosewood, set in the corner of the room nearest the porch door. The desk was not locked. As Dundee let down the slanting lid, whose polish was marred with many fingerprints, he saw that its contents were in a hopeless jumble. So strong had beaten him to this, too. Had he found an all-important clue in one of the many little pigeon-holes and drawers, stuffing it into his pocket just before a bum-shrisk young special investigator had arrived? But Dundee's returning gloom was instantly dispelled. Here was Nita's check-book, a flutter of filled-in stubs attached to only one remaining blank check. So Nita had banked with the Hamilton National Bank, of which John C. Drake, who apparently hated his fattish, fussy wife, was a vice-president. Another tiny fact to be tucked away. She had opened her account, apparently, on April 21, the day of her arrival in Hamilton, the guest and employee of Mrs. Peter Dunlap. Probably Lois Dunlap had advanced her the two hundred dollars as first payment for her prospective work in organizing a little theater movement in Hamilton. Turning rapidly through stubs, Dundee stopped twice, whistling softly with amazement each time. For on April 28, and again on May 5, Nita Salim had deposited five thousand dollars. Where had she gotten the money? Were the sums transfers from accounts in New York banks? But it was hardly likely that a little Broadway hangar on had so much hard cash on deposit. Then where had she gotten it? Five thousand dollars at a time here in Hamilton. Blackmail. Hastily, but thoroughly, Dundee ran through the remaining check stubs. No record at all of a check for rent made out to judge Hugo Marshall. But there was a stub that interested him. Check number seventeen, Nita had spent her money lavishly, was filled in as follows in Nita's pretty backhand. Number seventeen, nine thousand dollars. May nine, 1930. To trust department for investment. Had John C. Drake, who, as vice president in charge of trusts and investments, had doubtless handled the check, wondered at all where the nine thousand dollars had come from? One other revelation came out of the twenty-three filled in stubs. On every Monday Nita Salim had drawn a check for forty dollars to her maid, Lydia Carr. Again Dundee whistled. Forty dollars a week was, he wagered to himself, more money than any other maid in Hamilton was lucky enough to receive. Nita in a new light, an over-generous Nita. Or was Nita herself paying Blackmail on a small scale? He reached into a pigeonhole whose contents, a thick packet of unused envelopes, had not been disturbed by Strawn, and was about to remove an envelope in which to place the all-important checkbook when he noticed something slightly peculiar. An envelope in the middle of the packet looked rather thicker than an empty case should. But it was not empty, and across the face of the expensive, cream-colored linen paper was written, in that same pretty, very legible back-hand, to be opened in case of my death. Juanita Lee Salim. His heart hammering painfully and his fingers trembling, Dundee drew out the two close-written sheets of creamy note-paper. After all, who had better right than he to open it? Was he not the representative of the district attorney? And he hadn't damaged the envelope. It had opened very easily indeed. Its flap had yielded instantly to his thumbnail. Wait! It had been too easy. Before unfolding the letter or whatever it was, Dundee examined the flap of the envelope. Yes, he was not the first to open it since its original ceiling. God grant he hadn't destroyed any tell-tale fingerprints in his criminal haste to learn any secret that Nita Salim had recorded here. Perhaps Nita herself had unsealed the letter to make an addition or correction. Well, whatever damage had been done was done now, and he might as well read. Five minutes later Bonnie Dundee was racing through the dining-room, pushing open the swinging door that led into the butler's pantry. Where the devil were the steps that led down into the basement, a precious minute was lost before he discovered that a door in the dark-back hall opened upon the steep steps. An unshaded light, dangling from the ceiling, revealed the furnace in one corner of the big basement, laundry equipment in another. He plunged on. That must be the maid's room, behind that closed door. God! What if she'd escaped while he had been munching caviar and anchovy sandwiches? A fine guard he'd have been. And it wasn't as if he hadn't had a dim suspicion of the truth. The knob turned easily. He flung open the door, and then his knees nearly gave way, so tremendous was his relief. For there, on the thin mattress of a white enameled iron bed, lay the woman he so ardently desired to see. She had apparently been asleep, and the noise he had made had startled her into panicky waitfulness. Instinctively her hand flew to the ruined left side of her face. That hideous expanse of livid flesh scarred and ridged so that it did not look human. But who, Lydia car-gassed, struggling into a sitting position, only to fall back as nausea swept over her? You remember me, Dundee panted, Dundee of the district attorney's office? I questioned you this afternoon. The woman closed the single eye that had escaped the accident which had marred her face so hideously. I remember. I'm sick. I told you all I know. Lydia, why didn't you tell me that it was your mistress, Mrs. Salim, who did that? Dundee demanded sternly, pointing to the woman's sightless left eye and ruined cheek. End of CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. Lydia car, still clothed in the black cotton dress and white apron of her maid's uniform, struggled to a sitting position on the edge of her basement room bed. No. No. That's a lie. It was an accident, I tell you, my own fault. Who dared to say, Nita? Miss Nita did it. Better lie down, Lydia, Dundee suggested gently. I won't want you feigning. You've had a hard day with the abscessed tooth, the dope the dentist gave you, and other things. I don't wonder that you lost your head when a little crazy, perhaps. The detective's sinister implication seemed to make no impression at all upon the woman with the scarred face. I asked you, she gasped her single eye glaring at him. Who dared say Nita burned me? It was Nita herself who told me, Dundee answered softly, just a few minutes ago. Holy mother! The maid gasped and crossed herself daisily. Let her think the dead woman had appeared to him in a vision, Dundee told himself. Perhaps her confession would come the quicker. The maid began to rock her gaunt body, her arms crossed over her flat chest. My poor little girl! Even in death she thinks of me, she's sorry. She sent me a message, didn't she? Tell me! She was always trying to comfort me, sir. The poor little thing couldn't believe I'd forgiven her as soon as she'd done it. Tell me. Yes, Dundee agreed, his eyes watching her keenly. She sent you a message of a sort, but I can't give it to you until you have told me all about the accident in which you were burned. I'll tell, Lydia promised eagerly. Gone were the harshness and secretiveness with which she had met his earlier questioning. You see, sir, I loved Miss Nita. I called her Nita, if you don't mind, sir. I loved her like she was my own child, and she was fond of me, too. Fonder of me than of anybody in the world, she used to tell me, when some man had hurt her bad, and there was always some man or other. She was so sweet and so pretty. Well, I found her in the bathroom one day, just ready to drink carbolic acid to kill her poor little self. When was that, Lydia, Dundee interrupted? It was in February, Sunday the night the February, Lydia went on, still rocking in an agony of grief. I tried to take the glass out of her hands. She poured a lot of the stuff out of the bottle. You see, she was already in a fit of hysterics, or she'd never have tried to kill herself. It was my own fault trying to take the glass away from her like I did. She flung the acid into your face, Dundee asked, shuddering. She didn't know what she was doing, the woman cried glaring at him. Nearly went out of her mind, they told me, at the hospital, because she'd hurt me. A private room in the best hospital in New York she'd got for me, trained nurses night and day, and so many doctors fussing around me, I wanted to fire the whole outfit and save some of my poor girl's money, which I don't know till this day how she got hold of. She let her sob and rock her arms for a while, unmolested. In February, Nita Salim had had to borrow money to pay doctor and hospital bills, had borrowed it, or gold dug it, and in May she had been rich enough to have nine thousand dollars to invest. Lydia, you never forgave Nita Salim for ruining your life as well as your face, Dundee charged her suddenly. You're a liar, she cried passionately. I know what I felt. It's my face and my life ain't it. I tell you I didn't even bear a grudge against her, the poor little thing, eating her heart out with sorrow for what she'd done till the very day of her death, always trying to make it up to me, paying me too much money for the handful of work I had to do, what with her eating out nearly all the time and throwing away stockings the minute they got a run in them. Forgive her. I'd have crawled from here to New York on my hands and knees for needily. Dundee studied her horribly scarred face, made more horrible now by what looked like genuine grief. Lydia, who was the man over whom your mistress wanted to commit suicide? The single tear-reddened eye glared at him suspiciously, then became moary. I don't know. Was it Dexter Sprague, Lydia? Sprague? She spat the name out contemptuously. No. She didn't know him then except to speak to it the moving picture studio. When did he become her lover, Lydia? Dundee asked casually. The woman stiffened became menacingly hostile. Who says he was her lover? You can't trick me, Mr. Detective. I'd cut my tongue out before I'd let you make me say one word against my poor girl. Dundee shrugged. He knew a stone wall when he ran up against one. Lydia he began again after a thoughtful pause. I have proof that Nita Salim was sure you had never forgiven her for the injury she did you. His fingers touched the letter in his pocket. That incredible last will and testament which Nita had written the day before she was murdered. And that's another lie. The woman cried, shaking with anger. She struggled to her feet, stood swaying dizzily a moment. Come upstairs with me to her room and I'll show you some proof that I had forgiven her. Come along, I tell you. Trying to make me say I killed my poor girl when I'd have died for her. Come on, I tell you. And Dundee, wondering, beginning to doubt his own conviction a little, that conviction which had sprung full grown out of Nita's strange informal will and which had seemed to explain everything, followed Lydia Carr from her basement room to the bedroom in which Nita had been murdered. See this? And Lydia Carr snatched up the powder box from the dressing table. Her long bony fingers busied themselves with frantic haste and suddenly into the silence of the room came the tinkle of music. I bought her this for a present out of my own money as soon as I got out of the hospital, the maid's voice shrilled over the slow sweet tinkly notes. It's playing her name-song, Juanita. It was playing that song when she died. I stood there in the doorway and heard it. And she pointed toward the door leading from Nita's room into the back hall. She loved it and used it all the time because I gave it to her. And this! She set the musical powder box upon the dressing table and rushed across the room to one of the several lamps that Dundee had noticed on his first survey of the room. It was the largest and gaudiest of the collection, a huge bowl of filigree bronze set with innumerable stones as large as marbles or larger. Red, yellow and green stones that must have cast a strange radiance over the pretty head that had been want to lie just beneath it on the heaped lace pillows of the chaise long Dundee reflected. As if Lydia had read his thoughts, she jerked at the little chain which hung from the bottom of the big bronze bowl against the heavy metal standard. I gave her this, saved up for it out of my own money. She was assuring him with savage triumph improving her point. And she loved it so she brought it with us when we came from New York. It won't light. It was working all right last night because my poor little girl was lying here looking so pretty under the colored lights. With strong twists of her big hands Lydia began to unscrew the filigree bronze bowl. As she lifted it off she exclaimed blankly, Why, look, the light bulbs broke. But Dundee had already seen not only the broken light bowl but the explanation of the queer noise that Flora Miles had described hysterically over and over as a bang or a bump. The chaise long stood between the two windows that opened upon the drive. And at the head of it stood the big lamp just a few inches from the wall and only a foot from the window frame upon which Dr. Price had penciled the point to indicate the end of the imaginary line along which the shot which killed Nita Lee Salim had traveled. The bang or bump which Flora Miles had heard had been made by the knocking of the big lamp against the wall. Undoubtedly the one who had bumped into the lamp was Nita's murderer or murderess, in frantic haste to make an escape. And that meant that the murderer had fled toward the back hall not through the window in front of which he had stood, not through the door leading on to the front porch, a little progress at least. But Lydia was not through proving that she had forgiven her mistress. She was snatching things from Nita's clothes closet. See these mules with ostrich feathers I give them to my girl. In this bed-jacket I embroidered the flowers on it with my own hands. Through her flood of proof Dundee heard the whir of a car's engine, then the loud banging of a car's door, running footsteps on the flag-stone path. Dundee reached the front door just as the bell peeled shrilly. Hello, Dundee, awfully glad I caught you before you left. Is poor Lydia still here? Come in, Mr. Miles, Dundee invited, searching with a puzzled frown, the round blond face of Tracy Miles. Yes, Lydia is still here. Why? Then I'm in luck, and I think Lydia is too, poor old girl. You see, Dundee, Miles began to explain as he took off his new straw hat to mop his perspiring forehead. The crowd all ganged up when our various cars reached Sheridan Road, and by unanimous vote we had lucked to drive over to the country club for a meal in one of the small private dining rooms to escape the questions of the morbidly curious, you know. Yes, what about it, Dundee interrupted impatiently. Well, I admit we were all pretty hungry in spite of—well, of course we were all fond of Nita, but— What about Lydia, Dundee cut him short? I'm getting to it, old boy, Miles protested with the injured air of an unappreciated small boy. While we were waiting for our food, somebody said, poor Lydia, what's to become of her, and somebody else said that it was harder on her, Nita's death, I mean, than on anybody else, because Nita was all she had in the world. And then Lois, Lois is always practical, you know, ran to telephone police headquarters to see what had been done with Lydia, to see if it would be all right for Flora and me to take her home with us. Just a minute, Miles, whom did Mrs. Dunlap talk to at headquarters? Why, Captain Strawn, of course, Miles answered. He told Lois that you were still out here questioning Lydia again, and that it was all right with him whatever you decided, so as soon as I had finished eating I drove over. Is Mrs. Miles with you, Dundee interrupted again? Well, no, Miles admitted uncomfortably. You see, the girls felt a little squeamish about coming back even on an errand of mercy. Dundee grinned. He had no doubt that Flora Miles had emphatically refused the possibility of another grueling interview. Why do you and Mrs. Miles want to take Lydia home with you, he asked? To give her a home and a job, Miles answered promptly. She knows us, we're used to her poor old scarred face, and the youngsters Tam and Betty are not a bit afraid of her. In fact, Betty pats that scarred cheek and says over and over, Poo-litty, poo-litty, Betty owes Lydia. And Tam, he's T.A. Miles Jr., you know, we call him Tam from the initials, because he hates being called Junior and too traces our nuisance. I gather that you want to hire Lydia as a nurse for the children? Dundee interrupted the fond fathers for both explanations. My old man, you see, our nurse left us yesterday. Wait here, Miles. I'll speak to Lydia. She's in Mrs. Selene's bedroom. By the way, Miles, since you and your wife are kind enough to want to take Lydia in and give her a home and a job, I think it only fair to tell you that it is highly improbable that Lydia Carr will take any job at all. You mean, Miles gasped, his ruddy face turning pale. I say, Dundee, it's absurd to think for a minute that good old faithful Lydia had a thing to do with Nita's murder. I rather think you're right about that, Miles, Dundee interrupted. Now, will you excuse me? He found Lydia where he had left her in her dead mistress's bedroom. The tall, gaunt woman was crouching beside the chaise long, her arms outstretched to encircle a little pile of the gifts she claimed to have given Nita Selene to prove that she bore no grudge for the terrible injury her mistress had done her. At Dundee's entrance she flung up her head and the detective saw that tears were streaming from both the sightless eye and the unharmed one. Taking his seat on the chaise long, Dundee explained gently but briefly the offer which Tracy Miles had just made. They want me? She gasped brokenly, incredulously, and her fingers faltered to her horrible cheek. I didn't think anybody but my poor girl would have me around. It is true they want you, Dundee assured her. But you don't have to take a job now unless you wish, Lydia. What do you mean? The maid demanded harshly, her good eye hardening with suspicion. Lydia, the young detective, began slowly and almost praying that he was doing the right thing. When I woke you up to-night to question you, I said that Nita herself had just told me that it was she who had burned your face, and you asked me if she had also given you a message. Yes, sir, the maid interrupted with pitiful eagerness, and you'll tell me now you don't still think I killed her, do you? No, I don't think you killed your mistress, Lydia, but I think if you would you could help me find out who did, Dundee assured her gravely. No, wait, and he drew from his pocket the envelope inscribed, to be opened in case of my death, Juanita Lee Salim. Do you recognize this handwriting, Lydia? It was wrote by her own hand, the maid answered, her voice husky with tears. Is that the message, sir? You never saw it before, Dundee asked sharply. No, no. I didn't know my poor girl was thinking about death, Lydia moaned. I thought she was happy here. She was tickled to pieces over being taken up by all them society people, and on the go day and night. Lydia, this is Mrs. Salim's last will in testament, Dundee interrupted, withdrawing the sheet slowly and unfolding them. It was written yesterday, and it begins, knowing that any of us may die any time, and that I, Juanita Lee Salim, have good cause to fear that my own life hangs by a thread that may break any minute. What did my poor girl mean, Lydia Carr cried out vehemently? She wasn't sick ever! I think, Lydia, that she feared exactly what happened today—murder, and I want you to tell me who it was she feared, for I believe you know. The woman shrank from him until she was sitting on her lean haunches, her hands flattening against her cheeks. For a long minute she did not attempt to answer. Her right eye widened enormously, then slowly grew as expressionless as the milky left ball. I don't know, she said dolly, then with vehement emphasis. I don't know if I did I kill him with my own hands. Dundee had no choice but to take her word. You said there was a message for me, Lydia reminded him. I'll read you her will first, Dundee said, quietly lifting the sheets again. I am herewith setting down my last will in testament in my own hand writing. I do here and now solemnly will and bequeath to my faithful and beloved maid, Lydia Carr, all property including all money, stocks, and personal belongings of which I die possessed. To me, Lydia whispered, to me? To you, Lydia, Dundee assured her gravely. Then I can have all her pretty clothes to keep always. And her money to do as you like with, if the court accepts this will for probate, as I think it will, regardless of the fact that it is very informal and was not witnessed. But she didn't have any money, Lydia protested, nothing but what Mrs. Dunlap paid her in advance for the work she was going to do. Lydia, your mistress died possessed of nearly ten thousand dollars. Dundee fixed her bewildered gray eye with his blue ones. Ten thousand dollars, all of which she got right here in Hamilton, and I want you to tell me how she got it. But I don't know. I don't believe she had it. Dundee shrugged. Either this woman would perjure her soul to protect her mistress's name from scandal, or she really knew nothing. That is all of the will itself, Lydia, he went on finally, except her command that her body be cremated without funeral services of any kind, and that nobody be allowed to accompany the remains to the crematory except yourself and Mrs. Peter Dunlap in case her death takes place in Hamilton. She did love Mrs. Dunlap, Lydia sobbed, oh my poor little girl. And there is also a note for you which I took the liberty of reading in which Mrs. Selene minutely describes the clothes in which she wishes to be cremated as well as the fashion in which her hair is to be dressed. Let me see it, Lydia plunged forward on her knees and snatched at the papers he held. For God's sake, let me see. End of Chapter 12