 19 Having ticketed the big-bronze lamp, which he had brought with him from the selam house, and locked it away in the room devoted to exhibits for the State, Bonnie Dundee hurried into Penny's office, primed with the news of his discovery of the secret hiding-place, and eager to lay his new theory before the District Attorney. Bill's gone, Penny interrupted her swift typing to inform him, to Chicago. He had only fifteen minutes to make the three o'clock train after he received a wire saying his mother is not expected to live. He tried to reach you at the selam house, but one of Captain Strawn's men said you had left. I stopped on my way in to get a bite to eat, Dundee explained mechanically. I dashed off without my lunch, you know. Did you find the gun in silence, or Penny asked? No. Whoever used it Saturday afternoon walked out of the house with it, in plain view of the police, and still has it. Very convenient, too, in case another murder seems to be expedient or amusing. Don't joke, Penny shuddered. But what in the world do you mean? Briefly Dundee told her, minimizing the hard work, the concentrated thinking, and the meticulous use of a tape measure which had resulted in the discovery of the shelf between Nita's bedroom closet and the guest closet in the little foyer. I see, Penny agreed, her husky voice slow, and waited with horror. She sat in dazed thought for a minute. That rather brings it home to my crowd, doesn't it? To think that Dad, probably everyone at the party, except me, had heard all about Dad's simple and ingenious arrangement for hiding the securities he sent on to New York before he ran away. And no outsiders, nobody but us, had a legitimate excuse for entering that closet. Not even Dexter Sprague, it's one of his affectations not to wear a hat. Is it, Dundee pounced? You're sure he wore no hat that afternoon? Did you notice him when he left after I had dismissed you all? Yes, Penny acknowledged, honestly. I paid attention to him, because I was hating him so. I believed then that he was the murderer, and I was furious with you and Captain Strahan for not arresting him. He was the first to leave, just walked straight out, wouldn't even stop to talk with Janet Raymond, who was trying to get a word with him. I saw him start toward Sheridan Road, walking. He had no car, you know. Did you observe the others, Dundee demanded eagerly? Do you know who went alone to the guest closet? Penny shook her head. Everybody was milling around in the hall, and I paid no attention. Lois said she would drive me home, and then I went in to ask you to let me stay behind with you. I remember. Listen, Penny. I'm going to tell you something else that nobody knows yet but Sanderson, Lydia, and me. I don't have to ask you not to tell any of your friends. You know well enough that anything you learn from either Sanderson or me is strictly confidential. Penny nodded, her face very white and her brown eyes big with misery. I have every reason to believe that Nita Selam was a blackmailer, that she came to Hamilton for the express purpose of bleeding someone she had known before, or someone on whom she had the goods from some underworld source or other. At any rate, Nita banked ten thousand mysterious dollars, five thousand on April twenty-eighth, and five thousand on May fifth. I talked to Drake last night, and I have his word for it that the money was in bills of varying denomination, none large, when Nita presented it for deposit. Therefore it seems clear to me that Nita got the money right here in Hamilton, otherwise it would have come to her in the form of checks or drafts or money orders. And it seems equally clear to me that she did not bring that large amount of cash from New York with her, or she would have deposited it in a lump sum in the bank immediately after her arrival. Yes, Penny agreed. But why are you telling me? Of course I'm interested. Because I want you to tell me the financial status of each of your friends, Dundee said gently. I know how hard it is for you. You could find out from others, so I might as well tell you, Penny interrupted, with a weary shrug. Judge Marshall is well to do, and Karen's father, her mother is dead, settled one hundred thousand dollars on her when she married. She has complete control of her own money. The Dunlaps are the richest people in Hamilton, and have been for two or three generations. Lois was first family, but poor when she married Peter, but he's been giving her an allowance of twenty thousand dollars per year for several years. Not for running the house, but for her personal use, clothes, charities, hobbies, like the little theater she brought Nita here to organize. I wouldn't say she spends a great deal of it on dress, Dundee interrupted with a grin. Lois doesn't give a hang how she looks or what anyone thinks of her, which is probably one reason she is the best-loved woman in our crowd, Penny retorted loyally. The Miles's money is really flores, and she has the reputation of being one of the shrewdest business men in town. When she married Tracy nearly eight years ago, he was just a salesman in her father's business, the biggest dairy in the state, clover, blossom, butter, cream, milk, and cheese, you know. Well, when Flora married Tracy, her father retired and let Tracy run the business for Flora, and he's still managing it, but Flora is the real head. Now let's see. Oh yes, the Drake's. Johnny is Vice President of the Hamilton National Bank, as you know, and owns a big block of the stock. Carolyn has no money of her own except what Johnny gives her, and I rather think he isn't any too generous. They don't get along very well together, do they? No, Penny agreed reluctantly. You see, Johnny Drake was simply not cut out for love and marriage. He's a born ascetic, would have been a monk two or three centuries ago, but he cares as much for Carolyn as he could for any woman. The Hammond boys have some inherited money, and Clive has made a big financial success of architecture. That leaves only Janet and Polly, doesn't it? Polly's an orphan and has barrels of money, and will have barrels more when her aunt, with whom she lives, dies, and leaves her the fortune she has always promised her. And Janet Raymond? Janet's father is pretty rich, owns a big wire fence factory, but Janet has only a reasonable allowance, Penny answered, as for me? I'm very rich. I get thirty-five whole dollars a week to support myself and mother on. Dundee remained thoughtfully silent for a long minute. Then all you girls are alumni of Foresight on the Hudson, and Nita Selam came here immediately after she had directed a Foresight play. Tell me, Penny, was any of the Hamilton girls ever in disgrace while in the Foresight school? Penny's face flamed. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but so far as I know there was never anything of the sort. Of course we all graduated different years, except Karen and I, and I might not have heard. But no, she denied vehemently. There wasn't any scandal on a Hamilton girl ever, I'm sure of it. But her very vehemence convinced Bonnie Dundee that she was not at all sure. He looked at his watch. Four o'clock. By this time Nita Selam, tiny, cold body, royal blue velvet dress, black curls piled high in an old-fashioned French roll, bullet-torn heart, were nothing more than a little heap of gray ashes. Would Lydia Carr have them put in a sealed urn and carry them about with her always? I'm going out now, Penny, and I shan't be back to-day, he told the girl who had returned to her furious typing. I'll telephone in about an hour to see if anything has come up. By the way, how do I get to the Dunlap House? It's in the Brentwood section, you know, that cluster of hills around Mirror Lake. Most of the crowd live out there. The drakes, the Myleses, the Beals, the Marshals. The Dunlap House stands on the highest hill of all. It's gray stone, a little like a French chateau. We used to live out there, too, in a colonial house my mother's father built. But Dad persuaded Mother to sell, when he went into that Primrose Meadows venture. The raiment's bought it. But why do you want to see Lois? Thanks much, Penny. I don't know what I should do without you, Dundee said, without answering her question, and reached for his hat. After ten minutes of driving, the last mile of which had circled a smooth silver coin of a lake, Dundee stopped his car and let his eyes rove appreciatively. He had made this trip the day before to question Lydia, already installed as nurse for the Myles's children, but he had been in too great a hurry, then, to see much of this section consecrated to Hamilton's socially-elect. Georgian Cottage Spanish Hacienda Italian Villa Tudor Mansion That was the Myles's home, colonial mansion where Penny had once lived. Gray stone chateau, not one of them blatantly new or marked with the dollar sign. Dundee sighed a little enviously as he turned his car into the winding driveway that led up to the highest hill to the Dunlap home. Lois Dunlap betrayed no surprise when the butler led Dundee to the flag-stoneed, upper terrace overlooking Mirror Lake, where she was having tea with her three children and their governess. For a moment the detective had the illusion that he was in England again. How do you do, Mr. Dundee? This is Miss Burden, my three offspring, Peter the Third, Eleanor, and Bobby. Will you please take the children to the playroom now, Miss Burden? Thank you. Tea, Mr. Dundee, or shall I order you a highball? Nothing thanks, Dundee answered, grateful for her friendliness, but nonplussed by it, not for the first time he felt a sick distaste for the profession he had chosen. It's all over Lois Dunlap said in a low voice, as the butler retreated. Lydia made her look very beautiful. I thought it would be rather horrible, having to see her, as the poor child requested in her note to Lydia, but I'm glad now I did. She looked as sweet and young and innocent as she must have been when she first wore the royal blue velvet. I'm glad, Dundee said sincerely. Then he leaned toward her across the tea-table. Mrs. Dunlap, will you please tell me just how you persuaded Mrs. Selam to come to Hamilton, so far from Broadway? Why, certainly, Lois Dunlap looked puzzled, but it really did not take much persuasion after I showed her some group photographs we had made when we foresight girls put on the beggars opera here last October, a benefit performance for the foresight alumnae scholarship fund. With difficulty, Dundee controlled his excitement. May I see those photographs, please? I had to hunt quite a bit for them, his host disapologised, ten minutes later, as she spread the glossy prints of half a dozen photographs for Dundee's inspection. Do you know the beggars opera? John Gay, eighteenth century, isn't it? As I remember it, it is quite Dundee-hesitated grinning. Body? Lois laughed. Oh, very! We couldn't have got away with it if it hadn't been a classic. As it was, we had to tone down some of the naughtiest passages and songs. But it was lots of fun, and the boys enjoyed it hugely because it gave them an opportunity to wear tight satin breeches and lace ruffles. This is my husband, Peter. He adored being the highwayman, robin of bagshot, and she pointed out a stocky, belligerent-looking man near the end of the long row of costumed players, in a photograph which showed the entire cast. You say that Mrs. Selam accepted your proposal after she saw these photographs, Dundee asked? Had she refused before? Yes. I'd gone to New York for the annual Easter play, which the Foresight School puts on, because I'm intensely interested in semi-professional theatricals, Lois explained. Nita had done a splendid job with the play the year before, and I spoke to her, after this year's show was over, about coming to Hamilton. She was not at all interested, but polite and sweet about it. So I invited her to have lunch with me the next day, and showed her these photographs of our own play in the hope that they would make her take the idea more seriously. We had borrowed a little theatre director from Chicago, and I knew we had done a really good job of the beggar's opera. The local reviews—these stills look extremely professional. I don't wonder that they interested Nita, Dundee cut in. Will you tell me what she said? She rather startled me, Lois Dunlap confessed. At first I showed her this picture of the whole cast, and as I was explaining the play a bit, she didn't know the beggar's opera. She almost snatched the photograph out of my hands. As she studied it, her lovely black eyes grew perfectly enormous. I've never seen her so excited since. What did she say, Dundee interrupted Tensley? Why, she said nothing just at first. Then she began to laugh in the queerest way, almost hysterically. I asked her why she was laughing. I was a little huffy, I'm afraid. And she said the men looked so adorably conceited and funny. Then she began to ask the names of the players. I told her that McKeith—he's the Highwaymen hero, you know—was played by Clive Hammond, that my Peter was, Robin of Bagshot, that Johnny Drake was another Highwaymen, Matt of the Mint, that Tracey Miles played the Jailer, Lockett. Did she show more interest in one name than another? Yes. When I pointed out Judge Marshall as Peacham, the fence, she cried out suddenly. Why, I know him. I met him once on a party. Is he really a judge? And she laughed as if she knew something very funny about Hugo. As no doubt she did. He was an inveterate lady-killer before his marriage, as you may have heard. Do you think her first excitement was overseeing Judge Marshall among the players, Dundee asked? No, Lois answered, after considering a moment. I'm sure she didn't notice him until I pointed him out. The face in this group that seemed to interest her the most was Flora Miles. Flora played the part of Lucy Lockett, the Jailer's daughter, and Karen Marshall, the other feminine lead, Polly Peacham, you know, but it was Flora's picture she lingered over. So I showed her this picture, and Lois Dunlap reached for the portrait of Flora Miles, unexpectedly beautiful in the eighteenth-century costume, tight bodice, and billowing skirts. She questioned you about Mrs. Miles, Dundee asked? Yes, all sorts of questions, her name, and whether she was married, and then who her husband was, and if she had had stage experience, Lois answered conscientiously. She explained her interest by saying Flora looked more like a professional actress than any of the others, and that we should give her a real chance when we got our little theater going. I asked her if that meant she was going to accept my offer, and she said she might, but that she would have to talk it over with a friend first. Just before midnight she telephoned me at my hotel that she had decided to accept the job. Dundee's heart leaped. It was very easy to guess who that friend was, but he controlled his excitement, asked his next question casually. Did she show particular interest in any other player? Yes, she asked a number of questions about Polly Beale, and seemed incredulous when I told her that Polly and Clive were engaged. Polly played Mrs. Peacham and was a riot in the part, but Neeta's intuition was correct. Flora carried off the acting honors. Oh yes, she also asked, quite naively, if all my friends were rich too, and could help support a little theater. I reassured her on that point. And Dundee reflected silently, upon a point much more important to Neeta Selim. Allowed, he said, I don't see you among the cast. Oh, I haven't a grain of talent, Lois Dunlap laughed. I can't act for two cents. Can I, Peter Darling? Here's the redoubtable robin of bagshot in person, Mr. Dundee, my husband. The detective rose to shake hands with the man he had been too absorbed to see or hear approaching. You're the man from the district attorney's office, Peter Dunlap scowled, his hand barely touching Dundee's. I suppose you're trying to get at the bottom of the mystery of why my wife brought that Selim woman. Don't call her that Selim woman, Peter, Lois Dunlap interrupted with more sharpness than Dundee had ever seen her display. You never liked the poor girl. We're never just to her. Well, it looks as if my hunch was correct, doesn't it? The stocky, rugged-faced man retorted. I told you at the beginning to pay her off and send her back to New York. You knew I couldn't do that, even to please you, dear, Lois said. But please don't let's quarrel about poor Nita again. She's dead now, and I want to do anything I can to help bring her murderer to justice. There's nothing you can do, Lois, and I hope Mr. Dundee will not find it necessary to quiz you again. Dundee reached for his hat. I hope so too, Mr. Dunlap. By the way, you are president of the Chamber of Commerce, aren't you? Yes, I am, and we're having a meeting tonight, at which that Spragnan's bid on making a historical movie of Hamilton will be turned down, unanimously. Now that the settlement woman isn't here to vamp my fellow members into doing anything she wants, I think I can safely promise you that Dexter Sprague will have no further business in Hamilton, unless it's police business. Thanks for the tip, Mr. Dunlap. Dundee said evenly. I hope you enjoyed your fishing trip. Where do you fish, sir? A tactful way of asking for my alibi, eh? Dunlap was heavily sarcastic. I left Friday afternoon for my own camp in the mountains, up in the northwest part of the state. I drove my own car, went alone, spent the weekend alone, and got back this noon. I read of the murder in a paper I picked up in a village on my way home. I didn't like Nita Selam, and I don't give a dam about her being murdered, except that my wife's name is in all the papers. Any questions? None, thanks, Dundee answered curtly, then turned to Lois Dunlap, who was watching the two men with troubled, embarrassed eyes. I am very grateful to you, Mrs. Dunlap, for your kindness. The detective's angry resentment of Peter Dunlap's attitude lasted until he had circled Mirror Lake and was on the road into Hamilton. Then common sense intervened. Dunlap was undoubtedly devoted to his wife. Penny had said that he had never looked at another woman. It was rather more than natural that he should be in a futile, blustering rage at the outcome of Lois's friendship for the little Broadway dancer. Free of anger, his mind reverted to the story Lois Dunlap had told him, for in it he was sure was hidden the key to the mystery of Nita Selam's murder. Not at all interested in the proposition to organize a little theatre in Hamilton, Nita had been seized with a strange excitement as soon as she was shown photographs of a large group of Hamilton's richest and most prominent inhabitants. But there was the rub, a large group. Would that group of possible suspects never narrow down to one? Of course there was Judge Marshall, but if Lois Dunlap's memory was to be trusted, Nita had not noticed the elderly beau Brummel's picture until after. That strange hysterical excitement had taken possession of her. And if it had been Judge Marshall, whom she had come to Hamilton to blackmail, would need and not have guarded her tongue before Lois, the same was true about her extraordinary interest in Flora Miles. Dundee tried to put himself in Nita's place, confronted suddenly with a group picture containing the likeness of a person, man or woman, against whom she knew something so dreadful and so secret that her silence would be worth thousands of dollars. Would he have chattered of that very person? No, of anyone else but that particular person. It was easy to picture Nita, her head whirling with possibilities, hitting upon the most conspicuous player in the group. Dark, tense theatrical Flora already pointed out to her as one of the two female leads in the opera. But of whom had she really been thinking? Again a blank wall. For in that group photograph of the cast, of the beggar's opera, had appeared every man, woman and girl, who had been Nita's guest on the day of her murder. Dundee, paying more attention to his driving, now that he was in the business section of the city, saw ahead of him the second-rate hotel, where Dexter Sprague had been living since Nita had wired him to join her in Hamilton. On a sudden impulse the detective parked his car in front of the hotel, and five minutes later was knocking upon Sprague's door. Well, what do you want now? The unshaven pallid man demanded ungraciously. Dundee stepped into the room and closed the door. I want you to tell me the name of the man Nita Selam came here to Blackmail, Sprague. Blackmail, Sprague echoed, his pallid cheeks going more yellow. You're crazy! Nita came here to take a job. She came here to Blackmail, someone, and I am convinced that she sent for you to act as a partner in her scheme. No wait! I'm convinced, I tell you, Dundee assured him grimly. But I'll make a trade with you, in behalf of the district attorney. Tell me the name of the person she Blackmailed, and I will promise you immunity from prosecution as her accomplice. Get out of my room! And Dexter Sprague's right forefinger trembled violently as it pointed toward the door in a melodramatic gesture. Very well, Sprague, Dundee said. But let me give you a friendly warning. Don't try to carry on the good work. Nita got ten thousand dollars, but she also got a bullet through her heart. And the gun which fired that bullet is safely back in the hands of the killer. You're not going to get that movie job, and I was just afraid you might be tempted. Good afternoon. CHAPTER XX It was Wednesday evening, four whole days since Nita Lee Salim, Broadway dancer, had been murdered while she was dummy at bridge. Plain clothesmen and pairs, day and night shifts, still guarded the lonely house in Primrose Meadows. But Dundee had taken no interest in the actual scene of the crime, since Caraway, fingerprint expert, had reported negatively upon the secret shelf between Nita's bedroom closet and the guest closet. As far as any tangible evidence went, only Dundee's fingers had pressed upon the pivoting panel unexplored the narrow shelf. The very lack of fingerprints had of course confirmed Dundee's belief that the murderer's hand had pressed upon that swinging panel, had quested in vain for the incriminating documents or letters which had been the basis of Nita's blackmail scheme, had deposited upon the shelf the gun and silencer with which the murderer had been accomplished, and had later retrieved the weapon in perfect safety. A hand loosely wrapped in a handkerchief or protected by a glove. The hand of a cunning, careful, cold-blooded murderer. Or murderous. But who? Who? Lani Dundee, brooding at his desk in the living room of his small apartment, reflected bitterly that he was no nearer the answer to that question than he had been an hour after Nita Salim's death. Well, my dear Watson, he addressed his caged parrot finally. What do you say? Who killed Nita Salim? The parrot stirred on his perch, thrust out his hooked beak to nip his master's prodding finger, then disdainfully turned his back. I don't blame you, Captain. Dundee chuckled, You must be as sick of that question as I am. And what a pity it ever had to be asked. If the murderer had not been so hasty or so pressed for time that he really could not wait to listen to Nita, he would have learned from Nita herself that she had decided to be a very good girl and had burned the papers, all because she was genuinely in love with Ralph Hammond. One comfort we have, my dear Watson, the murderer still does not know that Nita burned the papers Friday night. Sooner or later, when he believes police vigilance has been relaxed, he'll go prowling about that house. And to Captain Strawn, who doesn't take the slightest stock in my theory, will go credit for the arrest, unless... Dundee reached for a telegraph form and again scanned the penciled message. Only that afternoon had it occurred to him to ask the telegraph company for a copy of the wire by which Dexter Sprague, according to his own story, had been summoned to Hamilton by Nita Salim. The manager had been obliging and had looked up the message and copied it with his own hand. It was a night letter and had been filed in Hamilton, April 24th, the third day after Nita's arrival. Addressed to Dexter Sprague at a hotel in the theatrical district, New York City, the message read, Everything jakes so far but would feel safer you hear, chamber of commerce planning, booster movie founding, and development of Hamilton looking good. Director, why not try for job as good excuse all my love, Nita? Dundee laid the paper on his desk, locked his hands behind his head, and addressed the parrot again. The habit of using the bird for an audience and as an excuse for puzzling and mulling aloud had grown on him during the year he had owned the dotty old captain. As I was about to say, my dear Watson, Captain Strawn's boys out at the Salim house will have the chance to nab our man or woman, unless Dexter Sprague ignores my warning, pretends to have the papers himself and tries to carry on the blackmail scheme, which he undoubtedly knew all about and which most probably he encouraged Nita to undertake. The friend she had to consult you know before she decided to accept Lois Dunlop's offer. The parrot interrupted with a horse cackle. Have you gone over to the enemy, Captain? Dundee, reprove the bird, you sound exactly like Strawn when he laughed at my interpretation of this message this afternoon. My late chief contends, and it is just possible, of course, that he is right, that Nita was afraid she couldn't swing the job of organizing and directing Lois's little theater and wanted Sprague here, both as lover and unofficial assistant. But that's a pretty thin explanation, don't you think, my dear Watson? Oh, all right, laugh, damn you, but I'd feel better if Strawn had taken my advice and set a dick to Trails Sprague to see that he keeps out of mischief. All this, however, gets us no nearer to answering that eternal question. Who? With a deep sigh, the troubled young special investigator reached for the timetable he had drafted from his notes made during the grisly replaying of the death-handed bridge, and scanned it again. 520. Flora Miles, dummy. Table number one, leaves living room to telephone. 522. Clive Hammond arrives and goes directly into Solarium. 523. End of rubber at table number one, players, Polly Beale, Janet Raymond, Lois Dunlop, Flora Miles, dummy. Polly Beale leaves living room to join Clive Hammond in Solarium. 524. Janet Raymond leaves room, says she went straight to front porch. 525. Tracy Miles parks car at curb, walks up to the house, hangs up hat in clothes closet, and, at his estimate, 527. Miles enters living room, talks with Nita, who, as dummy, has just laid down her cards at table number two, players Karen Marshall, Penny Crane, Caroline Drake. 528. Nita leaves the living room, goes to her bedroom to make up. 528. Half. Lois Dunlop and Miles go into dining room, Miles, to make cocktails. 531. Judge Marshall enters living room, interrupts bridge game. 533. John C. Drake enters living room, having walked from country club, which he says he left at 510, and which is only three quarters of a mile from the Salim House. 536. Karen finishes playing of hand, and Dexter Sprock and Janet Raymond enter from front porch, proceeding into dining room. 537. Penny Crane finishes scoring, and Karen leaves room to tell Nita the score. 538. Karen screams upon discovering the dead body at the dressing table. Dunn Deed laid aside the type sheet and reached for another, the typing of which was perfect, since Penny's efficient fingers had manipulated the keys. When he had telephoned to the office just before five o'clock Monday afternoon to see if anything had come up, Dunn Deed had learned from Penny that Peter Dunlop had issued an informal call to the crowd for a meeting at his home that evening. During the discussion of the case, I wish you'd try to get the answers to some questions which need clearing up, if you can do so without getting yourself in dutch with your friends, fine? Got a pencil? Here goes. And now he was rereading the report she had conscientiously written and left on his desk Tuesday morning. Peter, declaring he wanted to get at the bottom of this case, presided almost like a judge on the bench, and asked nearly every question he wanted the answer to. Everyone in the crowd adores Gruffold Peter, and no one dreamed of resenting his barrage of questions. Water detective he would make. First, Janet admitted that she did not go directly to the front porch when she left the living room after her table finished the last rubber, went first to the hall laboratory to comb her hair and renew her makeup. Said she was there alone about five minutes, then went to the front porch. Revised her story after Tracy had said he did not see her on the porch when he arrived. Second, Judge Marshall said he glanced into the living room when he arrived, saw Karen, Carolyn, and me absorbed in our game, and went on down the hall to hang up his hat and stick, proceeded immediately to the living room. Third, John Drake told Peter he entered the front hall and passed on to the laboratory to wash up, felt sticky after his walk from the country club, hung up hat in the guest closet, went to living room within three minutes after reaching the house. Fourth, Polly and Clive told Peter that they stayed together in the Solarium the whole time, stationed at a front window watching for Ralph. When Peter asked them if they could confirm Judge Marshall's story and Johnny Drake's story, they said they had seen them both arrive, but had paid no attention to them after they were in the house. It occurred to Peter, too, to wonder if either Polly or Clive went to need his room to warn her that Ralph knew about sproggs having slept the night before in the upstairs bedroom. They both denied emphatically that they had done so. Fifth, Judge Marshall, the pompous old darling, still smarting under the insinuations you made about him and Nita, right after the murder, volunteered the information to Peter that Nita had not paid her rent on the plea that she was short of funds and that he had told her to let it go until it was quite convenient. Sixth, the word blackmail was not mentioned and Johnny Drake, because of professional ethics, I suppose, did not tell about Nita's two deposits of five thousand dollars each in his bank. Seventh, the secret shelf in the foyer closet was not mentioned. Peter's verdict, after he got through with us, was that only sprogg could have done it, using the gun and silencer which Nita herself had stolen from Hugo. I couldn't tell him that you are convinced that Lydia's alibi for him is a genuine one, for apparently Lydia hasn't told either Flora or Tracy that she was able to furnish sprogg an alibi. And that's all, except that Peter asked me to convey to you his apologies for his rudeness Monday afternoon. Penelope Crane. With a deep sigh Dundee laid Penny's report aside. And that does seem to be all, my dear Watson, he told the parrot, exactly half a dozen possible suspects and not an atom of actual evidence against one of them, except that Judge Marshall owned the gun. Six, count them. Judge Marshall, John Drake, Flora Miles, Clive Hammond, Polly Beale, Janet Raymond. Every single one of them a possible victim of blackmail, since the girls all attended the foresight school, were needed directed the Easter play for two years, and since the men make several trips a year to New York. Six people, all of whom probably knew of the existence of the secret shelf, six people who knew Nita was in her bedroom, either from having seen her go, or from hearing her powder box tinkling its damnable tune. Yes, Penny, you're right, that's all, so far as Hamilton is concerned. If Sanderson won't let me go to New York, which is where this damn business started, I'll resign and go out of my own without wasting another day here. But Dundee did not go to New York the next morning. He was far too busy in Hamilton. End of Chapter 20. Hello, Penny. Dundee greeted the district attorney's private secretary Thursday morning at five minutes after nine, any news from Sanderson? Yes, Penny Crane answered listlessly, a night letter. He says his mother is still very low, and that we're to wire him at a good Samaritan hospital in Chicago if anything turns up. Then I suppose I can reach him there by long distance, and Dundee lifted the telephone from Penny's desk to put in the call. What's happened, Penny demanded, her brown eyes wide and startled, and hurry it up, will you please? Dundee urged the long-distance operator before hanging up the receiver and answering Penny's question. That's just the trouble. Nothing's happened, and nothing is very likely to happen here. I'm determined to go to New York and work on this pesky case from that end. Then you've come around to Captain Strahan's theory that it was a New York gunman, Penny asked, hopefully. Not by a jugful. But what's the matter with you this morning, young woman? You're looking less like a new Penny and more like one that has been too much in circulation. Thanks, Penny retorted sarcastically. Then she grinned wryly. You are right, as a matter of fact. I was up too late last night. Bridge at the Miles's. Bridge, Dundee ejaculated incredulously. So the bridge party did take place, in spite of the society-edder's discreet announcement yesterday, that owing to the tragic death of Mrs. Aleem, the regular, every other Wednesday dinner bridge of the Forsyte Alumni Association will not be held this evening at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Tracey Miles as scheduled. It wasn't a dinner bridge, and it really wasn't intended to be a party, Penny corrected him. It just sort of happened, and of all the ghastly evenings, tell me about it, Dundee suggested. Knowing this town's telephone service as I do, I'll have plenty of time to listen, and you don't know how all a gog I am for inside gossip on Hamilton's upper crusts. Idiot! Penny flung at him scornfully. You know society would bore you to death, but I don't think you would have been exactly bored last night, knowing as I do your opinion of Dexter Sprague. Sprague? Good Lord, was he there? This does promise to be interesting. Tell me all. Give me time, Penny snapped. I might as well talk, since there's almost no work for me to do with Billoway. Ralph called me up last night at dinnertime, and asked me if I felt equal to playing bridge again. He said that he, Clive, Tracy, and Johnny Drake had lunched together yesterday, as they frequently do, at the athletic club, and that Judge Marshall, who had been lunching at another table with his friend, Attorney Sampson, stopped at their table and suggested a bridge game at his home for last evening. Hugo said he wanted to coach Karen into playing again, so she would get over her hysterical aversion to the game, since she had to replay that awful death-hand. You see, Penny explained, parenthetically, Hugo is a regular bridge fiend, and naturally he doesn't want to be kept out of his game. Brute, Dundee cried disgustedly, why couldn't he give the poor girl a few days more? That's what I thought, Penny acknowledged, but I didn't get an inhibition against Bridge, and the idea rather appealed to me personally. The last few days haven't been particularly cheerful ones, so I told Ralph I'd be glad to go. Tracy had suggested his house, instead of Hugo's, because Betty wasn't well yesterday, and Flora wouldn't want to leave her for a whole evening. Well, Ralph and I—are you going to marry Ralph Hammond, Penny, Dundee interrupted, as if prompted by casual interest. Penny's pale face flushed vividly. No, I'm not in love with him, and I'm sure he realizes I'm not and won't ask me again. But I had to say yes Sunday. I simply couldn't let you walk in on us, after I'd permitted you to eavesdrop while he was talking, without first saying the one thing that would convince him that I believed in his innocence, and hadn't said a trap for him. I see—Dundee acknowledged soberly, but his blue eyes shone with sudden joy. Oh, there's long distance. Just a minute, darling. Hello, hello. Yes, this is Dundee. Oh, all right. Try again in fifteen minutes, will you? He hung up the receiver and explained to Penny. Sanderson hasn't reached the hospital yet, but is expected soon. Go on with your story. Who all played bridge at the Miles's? You don't mean to say that Dexter Sprague was invited, too. Penny's face was still a brilliant pink as she answered. I refused to have my climax spoiled. When Ralph and I got their date, we found that Peter and Lois had dined with Tracy and Flora, and that they were delighted at the prospect of bridge, as a relief from endless discussions of the murder. We'd hardly got there when the Marshals came, poor little Karen not suspecting that she was going to have to play. Then came Johnny Drake alone, with the news that Carolyn was in bed and very miserable with a summer cold. Polly walked over from her house, which is on the next hill to the right, you know. She said Clive had decided to work late at the office, and had promised to call for her about eleven to take her home. What about Janet Raymond? Was she left out? Dundee asked. I told you it wasn't a planned affair, Penny reminded him, but Flora did telephone her, and she said she didn't feel like coming. She'd been moping about like a sick cat since Neeta's death. We all knew she was idiotically in love with Dexter Sprague, and it must have been an awful blow to her to hear you read aloud that note Neeta received from Sprague. So I noticed, Dundee nodded, recalling the deathly pallor of the girl's face as Sprague had glibly explained away that damning note and all its implications. Well, Penny continued, Tracy suggested Bridge, and at first Karen flatly refused to play, but Hugo finally persuaded her. Karen would do absolutely anything for that ridiculous old husband of hers. I simply can't understand it. How she can be in love with him, I mean. I thought you liked Judge Marshall, Dundee laughed. Oh, I do in a way, but fancy a young girl like Karen being in love with him. Well, anyway, we all went out to the east porch, which is kept in readiness for Bridge all summer. Iron bridge tables covered with oilcloth, and with oilcloth pouches for the cards and score pads, so there's never any bother about scurrying with things on account of rain. It's a rubed stone-floored porch right outside the living room, and under it are the garages, so it's high and cool with a grand view of Mirror Lake down below, and of the city in the distance. She sighed, and Dundee knew she was thinking of her own lost home in Brentwood, the fine old colonial mansion which had been sacrificed to her father's disastrous Primrose Meadows venture. Then she went on. I don't know why I am telling you all this, except that the setting was so pleasant that we should have had a much better time than we did. You're an artful minx, Penny, Dundee chuckled. You're working up suspense for the entrance of the villain. Then let me do it justice, Penny retorted. Lois and Peter, Ralph and I, made up one table for bridge, Tracy and Polly, Judge Marshall, and Karen the other. Flora said she didn't want to play because she wanted to be free to keep an eye on Betty. Although she protested she had perfect faith in Lydia, who, Flora says, is proving to be a marvel with the children. And Johnny Drake asked her to play anagrams with him, in between trips to the nursery. Johnny has a perfect pass for anagrams, and is a wow at him. So Tracy got the box of anagrams out of the trophy room. The trophy room? Dundee repeated, amused. That's what Tracy calls it, Penny explained impatiently, because he has a couple of golf cups, and Flora has an immense silver atrocity which testifies to the fact that she was the lady's tennis champion of the state for one year. There are also some mounted fish and some deer heads with incredible antlers, but the room is really used as a catch-all for all the sports things. Rackets, golf clubs, skis, ping-pong table, etc. Anyway, Tracy brought out the box of anagrams, and we were all having a pretty good time when, at half-past eight, the butler announced Mr. Dexter Sprague. Your tone makes me wish I'd been there, Dundee acknowledged. What happened? You know how slap-em-on-the-back Tracy always is, Penny asked, grinning. Well, you should have seen him and heard him as he dismissed poor Whitson, the butler, as if he were giving him notice, instead of letting him offer the night, and the icy dignity with which he greeted poor Sprague. Poor Sprague, Dundee echoed. Well, after all, Sprague had been received by all the crowd before needless death, Penny retorted. I think it was rather natural for him to think he'd still be welcome. He began to apologize for his uninvited presence, saying he had felt lonesome and depressed and had just jumped into a taxi and come along, hoping to find the miles he's in. Flora tried to act the Lady Hostess, but Peter got up from his bridge-table and said in tones even icier than Tracy's. Will you excuse me, Flora, and will you take my play-strake? I'm going into the library. I don't enjoy the society of murderers. Good Lord, Dundee ejaculated, shocked but admiring. Did Sprague make a quick exit? Not just then, Penny said mysteriously. Of course everyone was simply stunned, but Sprague retorted cheerfully. Neither do I, Dunlap. Peter stalked on into the living-room on his way to the library. Johnny took his place at the bridge-table, and Tracy, at an urgent signal from Flora, offered his seat at the other table to Sprague, as if he were making way for a leper. Poor Polly had to be Sprague's partner. Flora, as if she were terrified at what might happen, you know how frightfully tense and nervous she is, made an excuse to run upstairs for a look at Betty. And something terrible did happen, Dundee guessed. You're looking positively ghoulish. Out with it? After about half an hour of playing without pivoting, Penny went on imperturbably, Hugo bid three spades. Karen raised him, in a trembling voice, to five spades. Hugo, of course, went to a little slam, and Dexter Sprague, if you can believe me, said, better not leave the table, Karen. A little slam bid in spades has been known to be fatal to the dummy. No. Dundee was genuinely shocked, but before he could say more, the telephone rang. Sanderson at last. Hello, Chicago? Oh, hello, Captain Straughn. What's that? Oh, my God! Where did she say the body is? He listened for a long minute, then with a dazed. Thanks. I'll be over. He hung up the receiver. Sprague murdered. He answered the horrified question in Penny's eyes. Body discovered this morning about nine by one of the Myles's maids. In what you described just now as the trophy room. Shot just below the breastbone, Captain Straughn says. The trophy room, Penny cried. Then that's where he was all the time after he disappeared so strangely last night. Whoa, Penny, Dundee commanded. Get hold of yourself. You're shaking all over. I want to know everything you know, as quickly and as accurately as you can tell it. Go right on. Poor Dexter, Penny groaned, covering her convulsed face with her hands, to think that he was dead when we were saying such horrid things about him. Don't waste sympathy on him, honey, Dundee cut in, his voice very gentle but urgent. If he had heeded my warning Monday he wouldn't be dead now. What do you mean, Penny gasped, but she was already calmer. You're warning. I had a strong suspicion that he was mixed up with Nita in her blackmail scheme, and I took the trouble to warn him not to try to carry on with it. Yesterday afternoon I begged Straughn to have him shadowed, to see that he kept out of mischief. I was afraid the temptation would be too strong for him, but Straughn wouldn't listen to me, still clinging to his theory of a New York gunman. Feeling better now, honey? Can you go on? I want to get out to the miles house as soon as I can. You're getting very affectionate, aren't you? Penny gave him a wobbly smile in which, however, there was no reproof. I think I can go on now. Where was I? Good girl, Dundee applauded, but his heart was beating harder with something more than excitement over Straughn's murder. You'd just told me about Straughn's warning, Karen, not to leave the table when she became dummy after Judge Marshall's little slam bid in spades. I remember, Penny said, pressing her fingers into her temples. But Karen did leave the table. When Straughn said that awful thing poor Karen burst into tears and ran from the porch to the living room. Hugo started to follow her, but Straughn halted him by apologizing very humbly, and then by adding, I'd really like to see you play this hand, sir. I believe I've got the cards to set you with. Of course he could not have said anything better calculated to hold Hugo, who, as I said, is a regular fiend when it comes to bridge. Well, Hugo played the hand and made his little slam. And then he again started to go look for Karen, but Polly, who was Straughn's partner, you know, told him in that brusque way of hers to go on with the game and give Karen a chance to have her little weep in peace. Probably Hugo would have gone to look for her anyway, but just then Flora came back. She said Betty was asleep at last and that her temperature was normal, and when she heard about Karen she offered to take her hand until Karen felt like coming back. What did Drake do then? He'd been playing anagrams of Mrs. Miles, you said, then D, interrupted. Don't you remember? I told you that Johnny had taken Peter's place at our table after Peter refused to breathe the same air as Dexter Sprague. Penny reminded him. Ralph and I, Lois and Johnny, were playing together, and just at the time I became dummy, Sprague became dummy at the other table. He rose, saying he had to go telephone for a taxi, and passed from the porch into the living room. Where is the telephone? The one the guests use is on a table in the hall closet, where we put our things, Penny explained. You can shut the door and hold a perfectly private conversation. Well, we never saw Dexter Sprague again. Good Lord! Another bridge dummy murdered, Dundee groaned. At least the newspapers will be happy. Didn't any one go to look for him after the hand was played? Not straight off, Penny answered, with an obvious effort to remember clearly every detail. Let's see. Oh yes, that hand was played out before Ralph had finished playing his at our table, so I was free to pay attention to the other table. Flores said that since they couldn't play another hand until Dexter came back, she thought she'd better hunt up Karen, who hadn't come back yet. How long was Mrs. Miles away from the porch, Dundee asked quickly? Oh, I don't know, ten minutes maybe. She came back alone, saying she had found Karen in her bedroom, Flores' room, of course, crying inconsolably. Flora told Hugo he'd better go up to her himself, since she evidently had her feelings heard because he hadn't followed her in the first place. Tracy, who wasn't playing bridge, you remember, because he had given up his place to Sprague, asked Flora if she'd seen Sprague, and Flora said in a surprised voice, No, I wonder where he is all this time. And Polly said that probably he'd gone to the lavatory, which opens into the main hall and is next to the library. Well, pretty soon Judge Marshall and Karen came back. Pretty soon, just how long was Judge Marshall gone, Dundee pressed her. His pencil, which had been flying to take down her every word, was poised over the notebook he had snatched from her desk. I can't say exactly, Penny protested thornily. I was playing again at the other table. I suppose it was about ten minutes, for Ralph and I had made another rubber, I remember. Anyway, Karen was smiling like a baby that has had a lot of petting, but she said Hugo had promised her she wouldn't have to play bridge any more that evening. So Flora remained at that table, playing opposite Hugo, while Tracy played with Polly. As soon as Tracy became dummy, Flora suggested he go look for Sprague. And just how long was he gone from the porch, Dundee asked. Less than no time, Penny assured him, he was back before Polly had finished playing the hand. He said he'd gone to the hall closet, where Whitsa and the butler would have put Sprague's hat and stick, and that he had found they were gone. Well, and you needn't put down well every time I say it, Penny interrupted herself tartly. Tracy said he supposed Sprague had ordered his taxi and had decided to walk down the hill to meet it. And he added that that was exactly the kind of courtesy you could expect from a cad and a bounder like Sprague, walking in uninvited, making Karen cry, then walking out without a word, leaving the game while he was dummy. Flora spoke up then and said it was no wonder Dexter had left without saying good-bye, considering how he'd been treated. Then Tracy said something ugly and sarcastic about Flora's being disappointed, because Sprague had not decided to spend the whole evening. A first-class row, eh? Dundee interrupted with keen interest. Rather, Flora almost cried, said Tracy knew good and well that she had only been playing up to Sprague before need is death in the hope of getting the lead in the Hamilton movie, if Sprague got the job of directing it. And Tracy said, So you call it playing up, do you? It looked like high-powered flirting to me, or maybe it was more than a flirtation. Then Flora told him he had enacted jealous at the time and that he knew he'd have been glad if she'd got the lead. Well, just then along came Janet. Janet Raymond, Dundee ejaculated, I thought you said she had refused the invitation when Mrs. Miles phoned her. So she had, but she said she had changed her mind and had been blue all evening and needed cheering up. How did she get in? She walked over from her house, which isn't very far from the Miles's, and simply came up the path to the porch, Penny explained. Tracy asked her if she had seen Sprague on the road. It's the same road Dexter would have had to take going down the hill to the main road, and she acted awfully queer. How, Dundee demanded. Exactly as she would act, since she was in love with him, Penny retorted. She turned very red, and asked if Sprague had inquired for her, and Flora quite sharply told her he hadn't. Then Janet said she was very much surprised that Sprague had been there, and that she couldn't understand why he'd behaved so strangely. Then Lois said she might as well go fetch Peter from the library, since Sprague was no longer there to contaminate the atmosphere. She came back—after how long a time? Oh, about five minutes, I suppose, Penny answered, wearily. She came in, her arm linked with Peter's, and laughing. Said she had found him reading a Deadwood Dick thriller—one of Tracy's hobbies, she broke off to explain—is collecting old-fashioned thrillers, like the Nick Carter, Diamond King Brady, Buffalo Bill, and Deadwood Dick paperbound books. Of course he didn't take up that hobby until a lot of other rich men had done it first. There was never anybody less original than poor Tracy. Well, Flora gave up her place to Janet, and again played anagrams with Johnny, Peter taking his original place at our table. Suddenly Polly threw down her cards, she'd been having rotten luck and seemed out of sorts, and said she didn't want to play bridge any more. So poor Flora again had to be the perfect hostess and switch from anagrams to bridge. And Polly played anagrams with Drake, then deprompted. No. She said she thought anagrams were silly, and wandered off the porch and down the path, calling over her shoulder that she was going to take a walk. Tracy asked Johnny if he'd mind mixing the highballs and bringing out the sandwiches. Said Whitson had left a thermos bucket of ice cubes on the sideboard, some bottles of ginger ale, and a tray of glasses and sandwiches. Told him he'd find a canters of scotch and rye and to bring out both. So Drake left the room too, then demused. Oh, Lord, I knew I'd find that every last one of the six had a chance to kill Sprog as well as Nita. How long was Polly Beale gone on this walk of hers? She came in with a pink water lily, said she'd been down to the lily ponds, and that Flora had enough to spare her one. Penny answered. She couldn't have been away more than ten minutes, because Johnny was just mixing the highballs, according to our preference for scotch or rye, or plain ginger ale, which both Ralph and I chose. After we'd had our drinks and the sandwiches, we went on with Bridge. Polly and Johnny just wandered about the porch, or watched the game at the two tables. And about five minutes after eleven, Clive Hammond arrived, coming up the path to the porch, just as Janet had. After he came there was no more Bridge, but we sat around on the porch and talked until midnight. Clive said he was too tired to play Bridge that he'd been struggling all evening with a naughty problem. I can sympathize with him, Dundee said grimly as he rose. I've got my own naughty problem awaiting me. When that call comes through from Chicago, tell Sanderson the bad news, and say I'll telephone him later. Since it had been built more than thirty years before by Flora's father, old Silas Hackett, dead these seven years, dominated one of the most beautiful of the wooded hills which encircled Mirror Lake in the Brentwoods section. Of modified Tudor architecture, its deep red mellowed bricks had achieved in three decades almost the same aged dignity and impressiveness as characterized the three-century old mansion in England which Silas Hackett's architect had used as an inspiration. The big house faced the lake, a long series of landscape terraces leading down to the water's edge, but the driveway wound from the state road up a side of the hill to the main entrance at the rear of the house. Once before, on Sunday, the day after Nita Selam's murder, when he had come to interview Lydia Carr and had secured the alibi which had eliminated Dexter Sprague as a suspect, Dundee had driven his car up this hill between the tall U-hedges, but then he had taken the fork which led to the hooded driveway over the kitchen, had descended the kitchen stairs with Lydia to the servant's sitting room in the basement. Now he continued along the main driveway to the more impressive entrance whose flanking, slim turrets frowned down upon a line of police cars and motorcycles. His approach must have been expected and observed, for it was the master of the house who opened the great iron-studded doors and invited the detective into the broad main hall, at the end of which, down three steps, lay the immense living-room. The detective's first glance took in stately-armed chairs of the Cromwell period, thick mellow-toned rugs and, in the living-room beyond, splendid examples of Jacobian furniture. A horrible thing to happen in a man's home, Dundee, Miles was saying, his plump rosy face blighted with horror. I can't realize yet that we actually slept as usual, with a corpse lying down here all night, and I have only myself to blame. What do you mean, Dundee, asked? Why, that the—the body wasn't discovered sooner, Miles explained. If it had occurred to me that Whitson hadn't closed the trophy-room windows, I should have gone in to close and lock them when I made the rounds of living-room, dining-room, and library, after our guests were gone last night. A pale-faced, bald-headed butler had materialized while his master was speaking. Big pardon, sir, but I did not close the trophy-room windows because I thought you might be using the room again. You see, sir, and Whitson turned to Dundee. Mr. Miles and Mr. Dunlap played ping-pong in the trophy-room after dinner until the other guests began to arrive. And if I did not want them to find the room stuffy, it was a warm night, if any of the guests—I see Dundee interrupted. Who, to your knowledge, was the last person to enter the trophy-room last night, Mr. Miles? I was, except Sprague, of course, and I had no idea he'd gone there. Drake wanted to play anagrams, and before the bridge-game started I went to the trophy-room to get the box, Miles explained. I turned off the light when I left, and there was no light burning in there this morning when Celia, the parlor maid, went there to put the anagram box back in the cabinet and found the body. Laura, Mrs. Miles, had brought the anagrams in from the porch and left them on a table in the living-room, as our guests were getting ready to leave. There was nothing else to bring in, in case of rain. The bridge-tables are of iron, covered with oil-cloth, and fitted with oil-cloth bags for the cards, score-pads, and pencils. Yes, I know, Dundee interrupted, Miss Crane has already told me all about that, and a good many details of the party itself. By the way, where is Mrs. Miles now? In bed, the doctor is with her, she is prostated from the shock. Where is this room you call the trophy-room, Dundee asked? No, don't bother to come with me, just point it out, it's on this floor, I understand. Miles pointed past the great circular staircase that wound upward from the main hall. You can't see the door from here, but it's behind the staircase. Celia found the door closed this morning, and no light on, as I said. Dundee cut him short by marching toward the door, which was again closed. He entered so noiselessly that Captain Strahan, Dr. Price, and the fingerprint expert, Caraway, did not hear him. For a moment he stood just inside the door and let his eyes wander about the room, which Penny Crane had already described. It was not a large room, twelve by fourteen feet, possibly, but it looked even smaller, crowded as it was with the long ping-pong table, bags of golf clubs, fishing tackle, tennis rackets, skis, and sleds. There were two windows in the north wall of the room, looking out upon the U-Hedge to driveway, and between them stood a cabinet of numerous big and little drawers. Not until he had taken in the general aspect of the room did Dundee look at the thing over which Captain Strahan and the coroner were bending, the body of Dexter Sprague. The alien from New York had fallen about four feet from the window near the east wall of the trophy room. He lay on his side, his left cheek against the floor. The fingers of his left hand still clutching the powder-burned bosom of his soft shirt, now stiffed with dried blood, a pool of which had formed and then half congealed upon the rug. The right hand, the fingers curled but not touching each other, lay palm upward on the floor, at the end of the rigid, outstretched arm. The one visible eye was half open, but on the sallow-thin face, which had been strikingly handsome in an obvious sort of way, was a peace and dignity which Dundee had never seen upon Sprague's face when the man was alive. The left leg was drawn upward so that the knee almost touched the bullet-pierced stomach. How long has he been dead, doctor? Dundee asked quietly. Hello, boy! Dr. Price greeted him placidly. Always the same question. I've been here only a few minutes and I've already told Strahan that I shall probably be unable to fix the hour of death, with any degree of accuracy. Took your time, didn't you, Bonnie? Captain Strahan greeted his former subordinate on the homicide squad. Doc says he's been dead between ten and twelve hours. Since it's nearly ten now, that means Sprague was killed some time between nine and eleven o'clock last night. Better say between nine o'clock and midnight last night, doctor Price suggested. He may have lived an hour or more, unconscious, of course, for the indications are that he did not die instantly, but staggered a few steps, clutching at the wound. But, of course, I shall have to perform an autopsy first. Dundee crossed the room, stepping over the dead man's stick, a swank-affair of dark polished wood, with a heavy knob of carved onyx, which lay about a foot beyond the reach of the curled fingers of the stiff-right hand. Sprague's hat, he asked, pointing to a brightly banded straw which lay upon the top of the cabinet. Yes, Strahan answered, and did you notice the window screen? He pointed to the window in front of which the body lay. The sash of leaded paints was raised as high as it would go, and beneath it was a screen of the roller curtain type, raised about six inches from the window sill. A pair of curved, nickel-plated catches in the center of the inch-wide metal band on the bottom of the copper-net curtain showed how the screen was raised or lowered. Dundee nodded, frowning, and Strahan began eagerly. You'll have to admit I was right now, boy. You've sneered at my gunman theory and tried to pin Nita's murder on one of Hamilton's finest bunch of people, but you'll have to admit now that every detail of this setup bears me out. Yes? Sure. This is the way I figured it out. Sprague has good reason to be afraid he's next on the program. He's nervous. He hops a taxi at his hotel and comes here. Can't stick to his room any longer, once a little human companionship. This crowd here, and I have Miles' word for it, ain't any too glad to see him, and shows it. He phones for a taxi to go back to his hotel, about nine-fifteen that was, Miles says, but decides to walk down the hill to meet it. Don't want to go back out on the porch and lie about having had a good time when he hasn't. Well, he opens the front door, or what would be the front door if this was any ordinary house, but before he steps out he sees or hears something, probably a rustling in the hedge across the driveway, or maybe he even sees a face in the light from the lanterns on each side of the door. He feels sure need his murderer has trailed him and is lying in wait for him. In a panic he darts into this room, and don't turn on the light for fear he'll be seen from the windows. But he can see well enough to make out how the screens work, and he was familiar with the house anyway. I'll bet you anything you like, Sprague stayed in this room for an hour or two, till he thought the coast was clear, then eased up this screen, intending to climb out of the window and drop to the ground. Not much of a drop at that. You can see that the tall hedge on this side of the driveway comes pretty near up to these windows. Well, I figure he laid his hat on this cabinet, intending to reach in for it when he was outside, but that he had already made some little noise which the gunman was listening for, and that when he got the screen up this high, the gunman, crouching under the window, let go with the same gun and silencer that he used to bump off Nita. I've got miles word for it that neither he nor anybody else heard a shot. Of course, nobody knew Sprague was in here, and since his hat and stick was both missing from the whole closet, they took it for granted he'd beat it. Any objections to that theory, boy? Just a few, one in particular, Dundee said, but I grant it's a good one, provided Dr. Price's autopsies bears you out as to the course of the bullet, and that Caraway finds Sprague's fingerprints on that contrivance for raising the screen, even then. But Dundee was not allowed to finish his sentence, for strong was summoned to the telephone by Whitson when he returned there was a slightly bewildered look on his heavy old face. That's funny, Collins. The lad I sent to check up on the taxi companies says he's located the driver that answered Sprague's call last night. The driver says he was called about nine-fifteen, told to come immediately and to wait for Sprague at the foot of the hill on the main road. He says he waited there until half-past ten, then went on back to town, soaring a boiled owl. It doesn't look exactly as if Sprague were afraid of any one outside of this house last night, does it, Dundee asked. By the way, I suppose you've sent for everyone who was here? Sure. But again Captain Straughan looked uncomfortable. But we haven't been able to locate the Beale girl and Clive Hammond. CHAPTER XXIII I'd give a good deal to know which of those two suggested that it would be a good idea to get married the first thing this morning, Dundee mused aloud, as he put down the second extra which the Hamilton Morning News had had occasion to issue that Thursday. It was two o'clock and the district attorney's special investigator sat across the desk from Captain Straughan in his former chief's office at police headquarters. The first extra had screamed in its biggest head type, second bridge dummy murder, and had carried in detail Captain Straughan's comforting theory that Dexter Sprague's erstwhile friends had again been made the victims of a New York gunman's fengish cleverness in committing his murders under circumstances which would inevitably involve Hamilton's most highly respected and socially prominent citizens in the police investigation. But the second extra had a more romantic streamer headline. Hammond Wedding Delays Murder Quiz. The story beneath a series of smaller headlines began. At the very moment, nine o'clock this morning when Sylia Hunt, made in the Tracy Miles home in the Brentwood district of Hamilton, was screaming the news of her discovery of the dead body of Dexter Sprague, New York motion picture director in what is known as the trophy room, Miss Polly Beale and Mr. Clive Hammond were applying for a marriage license in the municipal building. At nine thirty when Miss Beale and Mr. Hammond were exchanging their vows in the rectory of St. Paul's Episcopal Church, of which both Bride and Groom have been members since childhood, Captain John Straughan of the Homicide Squad was listening to Tracy Miles' account of the strange disappearance of Dexter Sprague last night from an impromptu bridge game after he had announced his intention of taking advantage of the fact that he was dummy to telephone for a taxi. And at ten o'clock when the new Mrs. Hammond called her home to break the news of her marriage to her aunt, Mrs. Amelia Beale, the Bride was in turn acquainted with the news of Sprague's murder and the fact that both she and her husband were wanted at the Miles' home for questioning by the police, since both had been guests of Mr. and Mrs. Miles last night, although Mr. Hammond did not arrive until about eleven o'clock. There followed a revision of the murder story as it had appeared in the first extra, with additional details supplied by Straughan and with a line drawing of the scene of the crime, the trophy room itself and the forked driveway with its tall U-hedges. A dotted line illustrated Straughan's theory of Sprague's plan to elude the murderer who had followed him to the Miles' home. Because of the curved sweep of the driveway toward the main entrance of the house, the tall hedge was less than two feet from the window with the partly open screen. Captain Straughan's theory, read the text below the large drawing, is that Sprague had good cause to fear he was being followed on his way to the Miles' home, that he telephoned for a taxi to wait for him at the foot of the hill, and that he planned to leave the Miles' house by way of the trophy room window so that his lurking pursuer might have no knowledge of his departure. The drawing shows that his proposed flight would have been protected by hedges until he reached the wooded slope of the hill, provided his nemesis was lurking in the opposite hedge across the driveway where he could observe every departure from the Miles' home. You've sure got a single-track mind-boy, Straughan chuckled, so you'll think those two got married in such a hurry this morning because the law says a husband or a wife can't be made to testify against the other. Possibly, Dundee grinned unruffled. But there is another possibility, which is why I should like to know who suggested this sudden wedding. I mean that we can't overlook the possibility that these two murders made either the bride or the groom feel perfectly safe in going on with the marriage. Polly Beale and Clive Hammond had been engaged for more than a year, you know, with no apparent reason for a long engagement. As my having a single-track mind, Captain, what about you? I have six possible suspects, all of whose names I know, and you have only one, whose name you do not know, and whose motive you can only guess at, while I have a perfectly good motive that might fit any one of my six, Black Mail. Is that so? Straughan growled. I'm not telling the papers everything, and if they are satisfied to call these murders crimes-passionelles, it's all right with me, but I'm not forgetting that Nita Salim banked $10,000 cash after she got to Hamilton. My real theory now that Sprague has been killed is that Nita and Sprague had cooked up some sort of racket between them, and that when Nita got the chance to come to Hamilton with Mrs. Dunlap, she jumped at it, and she and Sprague sprung their racket, whatever it was, either just before or just after Nita left New York. Probably it was Nita's tip-off, and Sprague did the actual dirty work himself, which explains that telegram that Nita sent him April 24th, just three days after she got to Hamilton. Let's see again just what it says. And Straughan reached for a copy of the night letter which Dundee himself had unearthed the day before. See, everything jaked so far, but would feel safer you hear. Yes, I remember the wording quite well, Dundee interrupted, but you did not take it so seriously when I showed it to you yesterday, if you had. All right, rub it in. Straughan snapped, flushing darkly. If I'd assigned a man to tail Sprague as you suggested, he wouldn't have been murdered. He probably would have been murdered just the same. Dundee comforted the older man, but we might have been lucky enough to have had an eyewitness. Oh, you and your theory, Straughan growled, but let me go on. Nita meant she would feel safer about Sprague if he was here in Hamilton too, but the guy they double-crossed in New York or worked a badger game on or something like that got on their trail. But it took him weeks to do it, and Sprague followed Nita's advice. He got here on Sunday, April 27th, and on Monday, the twenty-eighth, Nita banked the first five thousand. Don't you see it, boy? Sprague brought with him the dough they'd got for their stunt, and thought it was safer for Nita to bank it in her name, since it wasn't the name she was known by in New York anyway. We've checked up on Sprague pretty thoroughly. He didn't have a bank-book, either on his body or in his room, and every bank in town denies he had an account with them. If that theory is correct, it makes Nita Salim a pretty low character, Dundee mused aloud. Not only did she kick him out as a lover, but she double-crossed him as her partner in crime, by willing the whole wad to liddy a car. Sprague must have received quite a shock when he heard Nita's will read at the inquest. Yeah, Straunt agreed. It looks like Mrs. Dunlop picked a sweet specimen to make a friend out of. Well, that's my theory, and I think it explains everything. Their victim in New York simply hired a gunman, or come down here himself when he got on their tracks. Of course it was a good stunt to make it look like a local crime. Figured he'd fool me, just as he fooled you. So the murderer simply trailed Nita around, and saw that whole bunch of society people shooting at a target at Judge Marshall's place, with a gun equipped with a maximum silencer. Too good an opportunity to be missed, so he bides his chance to swipe the gun and silencer. To make sure it will look like a local crime, he pops off Nita when that same bunch is at her house, but it takes a few days longer before he has the same opportunity to get Sprague, but it come last night, and he grabbed it. A very plausible theory, and one which, in general, the whole city of Hamilton has been familiar with since the night Nita was murdered, Dundee remarked significantly. What do you mean? Straunt demanded. It's waterproof, ain't it? Doc Price says the bullet, and a .32 caliber one at that, entered Sprague's body just below the breastbone, and traveled an upward course till it struck the extreme right side of the heart. The bullet entered exactly where it would have to, if the murderer was crouching under that window while Sprague was raising the screen. And we have Carraway's report that it was Sprague's fingerprints on those nickel-plated things you have to press together to make the screen roll up or down. Furthermore, I have in a doubt in the world that the ballistic expert in Chicago will report that the bullet was fired from the same gun that killed Nita Salim. Here have I, Dundee, agreed. But what I meant was that you had obligingly furnished the murderer who fits my theory with a theory he or she would not have upset for the world. Listen, and he bent forward very earnestly, and willing to grant that Sprague was shot from the outside through the window when Sprague raised the screen. But there are theories part company. I believe that the murderer was a guest in the Salim home last night, that he or she had made an appointment to meet Sprague there, on the promise of paying the hush money he had demanded in spite of my warning to him not to carry on with the blackmail scheme. Naturally, he or she, and I'll say he from now on for the sake of convenience, had no intention of being seen entering that room. The bridge game was suggested by Judge Marshall at noon. There was plenty of time for the rendezvous to be made with Sprague. As I see it, the murderer told Sprague to excuse himself from the game when he became dummy, and to go to the trophy room and wait there until the murderer had a chance to slip away and appear beneath the window. Sprague had been promised that, when he raised the screen at a tap or a whispered request, a roll of bills would be handed to him, but he received a bullet instead. And which of your six suspects have you picked on? Strawn asked sarcastically. That's the trouble. There are still six. Everybody acknowledged with a rye grin. After Sprague's disappearance every one of the six was absent from the porch at one time or another. No by George. There are seven suspects now. I was about to forget Peter Dunlap, who admits he was alone on a fishing trip when Nita was murdered, and who left the porch last night to go to the library as soon as Sprague arrived. As for the movements of the original six after Sprague disappeared, Polly Beale took a walk about the grounds. Carol Miles went upstairs to hunt for Karen Marshall, and was gone more than ten minutes. Drake went to the dining room to get the refreshments, and no one can say exactly how long he was gone. Judge Marshall went up to get his wife, and had time to take a little trip on the side. Janet Raymond walked over from her home and passed that very window, arriving after Sprague had disappeared, and finally Clive Hammond arrived alone in his car, which he parked within a few feet of that window. This morning he gets married. A telegram, sir, interrupted a plaincloseman who had entered without knocking. Strawn snatched at it, read it, then exalted, read this boy, I guess this settles the business. The telegram had been filed half an hour before, and was from the city editor of the New York Evening Press. Working on your theory of New York gunmen responsible murders of Juanita Leigh Salim and Dexter Sprague, this paper has discovered that Salim Woman was seen at nightclubs several times during January-February, with, quote, Swallowtail Sammy, and quote, underworld name for Sam Savelli, stop. Savelli taken for a ride Tuesday, April 22, two days after Salim Woman left New York, stop. Police hear working on theory Savelli slain by own gang. After they were tipped off, Savelli was double crossing them, stop. In exchange for this tip, can you give us any suppressed information, your possession, stop. Savelli had brother, who was known to us to have promised revenge, Swallowtail Sammy's murder, stop. Be a sport, captain. Well, that puts the lid on it, don't it? Strawn crowed. I'll send Sergeant Turner to New York on the five o'clock train. Pretty decent of that city editor to wire me this tip, I'll say. And are you going to reciprocate by wiring him about the $10,000 needed banked here? Dundee asked. Sure, why not? There's no use that I can see to keep it back any longer, now that no one can have any excuse to think, as you've been doing, that it was blackmail played by a Hamiltonian. Then Dundee began very slowly. If you really think your case is solved, I'll make one suggestion. Take charge of Lydia Carr and put her in a very safe place. Why? Strawn looked puzzled. Because when you published the fact that Nita and Spray got $10,000 for tipping off Savelli's gang that he was double-crossing them, and that Nita willed the money to Lydia, the Avengers' next and last job would be to get Lydia, since his natural conclusion would be that Lydia had been in on the scheme from the beginning. Dundee explained. God boy, you're right, Strawn exclaimed, and his heavy old face was very pale as he reached for the telephone and called the number of the miles' residence. I'm going to put it up to her that it will be best for her to be locked up as a material witness for her own protection. Five minutes later Strawn restored the receiver to the hook with a bang. Says she won't budge, he explained unnecessarily. Says she ain't afraid, and the miles' kids need her. Well, it's her own funeral, but I guess you are convinced at last. Dundee slowly shook his head. Almost, but not quite, chief. Lord, but you're stubborn. Here's a watertight case. A very pretty and a very satisfactory case, but not exactly watertight, Dundee interrupted. There's just one little thing. What do you mean? Strawn demanded irritably. Have you forgotten the secret shelf behind the guest closet in the Selim house? Dundee asked. I can afford to forget it, since it hasn't got a thing to do with the case. Strawn retorted angrily. There's not a scrap of evidence. Of course it does not fit into your theory. Dundee agreed. For Swallowtail Sammy's avenging brother could not have known of its existence, but there is one thing about that secret shelf and its pivot door, which I don't believe you can afford to forget, Captain. Yeah, Strawn snarled. Yeah, I refer, of course, to the complete absence of fingerprints on the door and on the shelf itself. Caraway didn't even find Nita Selim's fingerprints, since Nita would have had no earthly reason for carefully wiping off her fingerprints after she removed the paper she burned on Friday night. It's a dead sure fact that someone else who had no legitimate business to do so touched that pivoting panel and the shelf and carefully removed all the traces that he had done so. And he continued grimly. Until I find out who that someone is, I, for one, won't consider the case solved. Fifteen minutes later Dundee was sitting at Penny Crane's desk in her office of the District Attorney's suite, replacing the receiver upon the telephone hook, after having put in a call for Sanderson, who was still in Chicago, keeping vigil at the bedside of his dying mother. Did you find out anything new when you questioned the crowd this morning? Penny asked. Besides the fact that Polly and Clive got married this morning, I mean. I wasn't surprised when I read about the wedding in the extra. It was exactly like Polly to make up her mind suddenly after putting Clive off for a year. So it was Polly who held back, Dundee said to himself. Allowed. No, I didn't learn much new, Penny. You're a most excellent and accurate reporter. But there were one or two things that came out. For instance, I got Drake to admit to me in private that needed did give him an explanation as to where she got the ten thousand. Yes, Penny prompted eagerly. Drake says, Dundee answered dryly, that Nita told him it was black alimony which she had succeeded in collecting from her former husband. Unfortunately, she did not say who or where the mysterious husband is. Poo! scoffed Penny. Don't you see, she just said that to satisfy Johnny's curiosity. After all, it was the most plausible explanation of how a divorcee got hold of a lot of money. So plausible that Drake may have thought of it himself. Dundee reflected silently. Allowed he continued his report to the girl who had been of so much help to him. Among other minor things that came out this morning in which the papers did not report was the fact that Janet Raymond tried to commit suicide this morning by drinking shoe polish. Fortunately her father discovered what she had done almost as soon as she had swallowed the stuff and made her take Ipacac and sent for the doctor. Oh, poor Janet! Penny groaned. She must have been terribly in love with Dexter Sprague, though what she saw in him. Dundee made no comment, but continued with his information. Another minor development was that Tracey Miles admitted that he and Flora had quarreled over Sprague after all of you left, and that Flora took two sleeping tablets to make sure of a night's rest. She's been awfully unstrung ever since Nita's Penny defended her friend. She told us all Monday night at Peter's that the doctor had prescribed sleeping medicine. Now you look here, Bonnie Dundee, she cried out sharply, answering an enigmatic smile on the detective's face. If you think Flora Miles killed Nita Salim and Dexter Sprague because she was in love with Dexter and learned he was Nita's lover from that silly note. Whoa, Penny! Dundee checked her. I'm not linking exactly that, but I've just remembered something that had seemed of no importance to me before. And what's that, Mr. Smart Alec? Penny demanded furiously. Before I answer that question, will you let me do a little theorizing? Dundee suggested gently. Let us suppose that Flora Miles was not in love with Sprague, but that she was being blackmailed by Nita for some scandal Nita had heard gossiped about at the foresight school. No, wait. Let us suppose further that Nita recognized Flora's picture in the group Lois Dunlap showed her, as the portrait of the girl whose story she had heard, that she was able, somehow, to secure incriminating evidence of some sort. Letters, let us say. Nita tells Sprague about it, and Sprague advises her to blackmail Flora, who, Lois has told Nita, is very rich. So Nita comes to Hamilton and bleeds Flora of ten thousand dollars. Not satisfied, Nita makes another demand, the money to be paid to her on the day of the bridge luncheon. Silly, Penny scoffed furiously. The only evidence you have against poor Flora is that she stole a note Dexter had written to Nita. That's the crux of the matter, Penny darling. Dundee assured her, in a maddeningly soothing voice, at which Penny clinched her hands in impotent rage. Flora, seeing Nita receive a letter written on her husband's business stationery, jumps to the conclusion that Nita had carried out her threat to tell Tracy, or that Nita has at least given Tracy a hint of the truth, and that Tracy's special messenger note is, let us say, a confirmation of an appointment suggested by Nita. Very well. Flora goes to Nita's bedroom at the first opportunity, knowing that Nita will come there to make up for the men's arrival. Let's suppose Flora had brought the gun and silencer with her, intending to frighten Nita rather than kill her. But having had proof, as she believes, that Nita means business, Flora waits in the closet until Nita comes in and sits down at her dressing table, then steps out and shoots her. Then she recoils step by step until her foot catches in the slack cord of the bronze lamp, causing the very bang or bump which Flora herself describes later, for fear someone else has heard it. Her first concern, of course, is to hide the gun and silencer. She remembers Judge Marshall's tale of the secret shelf in the guest closet, and not only hides the gun there, but seeks in vain for the incriminating evidence Nita has against her. But she also remembers the note she believes Tracy has written to Nita, and which, if found after Nita's death, may give her away. So she goes to the closet in Nita's bedroom, finds the note, and faints with horror at her perhaps needless crime when she realizes that the note was written by Sprague and not Tracy. Of course she is too ill and panic-stricken to leave the closet until the murder is discovered. But you think she was not too panic-stricken to have the presence of mind to retrieve the gun and silencer and walk out with them under the very eyes of the police, Penny scoffed. No, I think she was, Thundie amazed her by admitting, and that is where my sudden recollection of something I had considered unimportant comes in. Let us suppose that Flora, half suspected by Tracy, confesses to him in their car as they are going to the country club for their long-delayed dinner, as were the rest of you. Tracy, loyal to her, decides to help her. He tells her to suggest at dinner that Lydia come to them as nurse, so that he can go back to the house and get the gun and silencer from the guest closet hiding place if an opportunity presents itself, as it did when I left Tracy Miles alone in the hall while I went into Nita's bedroom to talk with Lydia before I permitted her to go with Tracy. You're crazy, Penny told him fiercely when he had finished. I suppose you're going to ask me to believe that Tracy was a big enough fool to leave the gun and silencer where Flora could get hold of it and kill Sprague last night. Why not let us suppose that Tracy himself killed Sprague to protect his wife, not only from scandal, but from a charge of murder, Thundie countered. Tell me honestly, do you think Tracy Miles loves Flora enough to do that for her? Suddenly, inexplicably, Penny began to laugh, not hysterically, but with a genuine mirse. 24 What are you laughing at, Dundie demanded indignantly, but the sustained ringing of the telephone bell checked Penny Crane's mirthful laughter. My Chicago call. Hello. Yes, this is Dundie. All right, but make it snappy, won't you? Hello, Mr. Sanderson. How is your mother? That's fine. I certainly hope—yes, the inquest is slated for tomorrow morning. But there's no use you're leaving your mother to come back for it. Yes, sir. One important new development. Can you hear me plainly? Then hold the line a moment, please. With the receiver still at his ear, Dundie fumbled in his pocket for a folded sheet of paper. No, Operator. We're not through. Please keep off the line. Listen, Chief. He addressed the district attorney at the other end of the long-distance wire. This is a telegram Captain Strawn received this afternoon from the City Editor of the New York Evening Press. Can you hear me? All right. And he read slowly, repeating when necessary. When he had finished reading the telegram he listened for a long minute, but not with so much concentration that he could not grin at Penny's wide-eyed amazement and joy. That's what I think, sir, he cried jubilantly. I'd like to take the five o'clock train for New York and work on the case from that end, till we actually get our teeth into something. Thanks a lot, and my best wishes for your mother. Why didn't you tell me about this swallow-tailed Sammy? Penny demanded indignantly, tormenting me with your silly theory about poor Flora and Tracy, when all the time you knew the case was practically solved. I'm afraid I gave the district attorney a slightly false impression, Dundie interrupted. But there was no remorse in his shining blue eyes. But just so I get to New York. By the way, young woman, what were you laughing at so heartily? I didn't know I had made such an amusing remark when I asked you if you thought Tracy Miles loved his wife well enough to commit murder for her. Penny laughed again, white teeth and brown eyes gleaming. I was laughing at something else. It suddenly occurred to me, while you were spinning your foolish theory, how flattered Tracy would have been if Flora had confessed to him Saturday night that she killed Nita because she was jealous. Which was not my theory, if you remember, Dundie retorted. But why is the idea so amusing? Deep in his heart I suppose any man would really be a bit flattered if his wife loved him enough to be that jealous. You don't know Tracy Miles as well as I do, Penny assured him, her eyes still mirthful. He's really a deer, in spite of being a dreadful bore most of the time. But the truth is, Tracy hasn't an atom of sex appeal, and he must realize it. Of course we girls have all pampered his poor little ego by pretending to be crazy about him and terribly envious that it was Flora who got him. But Flora Hackett did marry him, Dundie interrupted. She must have been a beautiful girl, and she was certainly rich enough to get any man she wanted. You would think so, wouldn't you, Penny agreed, her tongue loosened by relief. I was only twelve years old when Flora Hackett made her debut, but a twelve-year-old has big ears and keen eyes. It is true that Flora was beautiful and rich, but, well, there was something queer about her. She was simply crazy to get married, and if a man danced with her as many as three times in an evening she literally seized upon him and tried to drag him to the altar. Her eagerness and her intensity repelled every man who was in the least attracted to her, and I think she was beginning to be frightened to death that she wouldn't get married at all. When she happened to meet Tracy, who had just got a job as a salesman in her father's business. She began to rush him, there's no other word for it, and none of the other girls minded a bit, because without Flora Tracy would have been the perfect male wallflower. They became engaged almost right away, and were married six months or so later. All the girls freely prophesied that even Tracy, flattered by her passion for him, as he so evidently was, would get tired of it, but he didn't. And there were three marriages in the crowd that June. Three, Dundee repeated absently, for his interest was waning. Yes, Lois Morrow and Peter Dunlap, Johnny Drake and Carol and Swan, and Tracy and Flora, Penny answered. Although I was thirteen then, and really too old for the role, I had the fun of being flower girl for Lois and Flora both. Do you think Flora was really in love with Tracy, Dundee asked curiously? Oh yes, but she'd have been in love with anyone who wanted to marry her. And the funny thing is that, with the exception of Peter and Lois, they are the happiest married couple I have ever known. You see, Tracy has never got over being flattered that so pretty and passionate a girl as Flora Hackett wanted him. And that's why I laughed. Tracy, with that deep-rooted sexual inferiority complex of his, would have been so flattered if Flora had told him she killed Nita out of jealousy that he would have forgiven her on the spot. On the other hand, she went on. If Flora had told him that Nita had documentary proofs of some frightful scandal against her, can't you see how violently Tracy would have reacted against her? Oh no, Tracy would not have taken the trouble to murder Sprague when Sprague popped up for more blackmail. Perhaps he might have if the scandal dated back to before the marriage, Dundee argued. Let's suppose Sprague did pop up, and Flora turned him over to Tracy. When Sprague appeared apparently uninvited last night, Flora must have been on pins and needles, trying to make Tracy treat him decently, and hoping against hope that Tracy would simply pay the scoundrel all the blackmail he was demanding. Which is exactly what Tracy would have done, instead of taking the awful risk of murdering him in his own home, penny cut in spiritedly. Besides, Tracy wasn't gone from the porch long enough to go outside, signal to Sprague in the trophy room, shoot him when Sprague raised the screen, and then hide the gun. I told you Tracy was gone only about a minute when he went to see if Sprague's hat and stick were gone from the closet. Did Tracy and Flora both step outside to see their guests into their cars? Dundee asked suddenly. Tracy did, penny answered. Flora told us all good night in the living room, then ran upstairs to see if Betty was still asleep, but remember we didn't leave until midnight, and Dr. Price said Sprague was killed between 9 and 11 last night. Dr. Price would be the first to grant a leeway of an hour, one way or another, Dundee told her. Of course, if Tracy did kill him, he let Flora believe that he had given Sprague the blackmail money he was demanding, for it is inconceivable that a woman of Flora Miles' hysterical temperament could have slept, even with two sleeping tablets, knowing that a corpse was in the house. Oh, I'm sick of your silly theorizing, penny told him with vehement scorn. Listen here, Bonnie Dundee. You probably laugh at woman's intuition, but take it from me. You're on the wrong track. Oh, I'm not so wedded to that particular theory, Dundee laughed. I can spin you exactly six more just as convincing. And I shan't listen. You'd better dash home and pack your bag if you want to catch the five o'clock train for New York. It's already packed and in my office Dundee assured her lazily, got lots of time. Hello, here's the home addition of the evening sun, he interrupted himself. As a small boy, making his rounds of the courthouse, flung the paper into the office, he reached for it and read the streamer headline aloud. Italian gangster sought in bridge murders. I wager a good many heads will lie easier on their pillows tonight. Let me see, Penny commanded, and snatched the paper unceremoniously. Oh, did you see this? And she pointed to a boxed story in the middle of the front page. Bridge parties cancelled, and she read aloud. The society editor of the evening sun was kept busy at her telephone today, receiving notices of cancellations of bridge parties scheduled for the remainder of the week. Eight frantic hostesses, terrified by Hamilton's second murder at bridge. Oh, that's simply a crime. The newspapers deliberately work up mob hysteria and then I'd rather not play bridge for a while myself, Dundee laughed, as he rose and started for his own office. And don't you dare leave the room when you become dummy, if you have the nerve to play again. Remember, that gun and silencer are still missing. What do you mean? You don't think there'll be more? Dundee became instantly contrite before her terror. I didn't mean it, honey, he said gently. I think it is more than likely that the gun is at the bottom of Mirror Lake. But do take care of yourself. And by that I mean, don't work yourself to death. Any messages for anyone in New York? Penny's pale face quivered. If you happen to run across my father, which of course you won't, tell him that mother would like him to come home. At intervals during the sixteen hour run to New York, Penny's faltering words returned to haunt the district attorney's special investigator. Although he would have preferred to devote his entire attention to mapping out the program he intended to follow when he reached the city, which, he fully believed, had been the scene of the first act of the tragic drama he was bent upon bringing to an equally tragic conclusion. As soon as he had registered at a hotel near the Pennsylvania station and had shaved and breakfasted, he took from his bag a large envelope containing the photographs Caraway had made of Penny alive and of Nita dead, both clad in the royal blue velvet dress. In the envelope also was the white satin, gold-lettered label which the dress had so proudly borne, Pierre Maudel, copied by Simonson's New York City. Half an hour later he was showing the photographs and the label to a woman buyer in the French salon of Simonson's one of New York's most exclusive department stores. Can you tell me when the original Pierre Maudel was bought and when this copy was made and sold, he asked? The white-haired, smartly dressed buyer accepted the sheaf of photographs Bonnie Dundee was offering. I'll do my best, of course, she began briskly, then paled and uttered a sharp exclamation as her eyes took in the topmost picture. This is one need to lay, isn't it? But—she shuddered. How odd she looks, as if— Yes, Dundee answered gravely. She was dead when that picture was taken. Did you know, Mrs. Salim? No, the woman breathed, her eyes still bulging with horror, but I've seen so many pictures of her in the papers, to think that it was one of our dresses she chose for her shroud. But you want to know when the dress was sold to her, don't you? She asked, brisk again. I can find out. We keep a record of all our French originals and of the number of copies made of each. Let me think. I've been going to Paris myself for the firm for the last fifteen years, but I can't remember buying this Pierre model. Oh, of course. I didn't go over during 1917 and 1918 on account of the war, you know, but the big Paris designers managed to send us a limited number of very good models, and this must have been one of them. Otherwise, I'd remember buying it. If you'll excuse me a moment. When she returned about ten minutes later, Miss Thomas brought him a penciled memorandum. This Pierre model was imported in the summer of 1917, several months in advance of the winter season, of course. Only five copies were made, in different colors and materials naturally, since we make a point of exclusiveness. The Royal Blue Velvet copy was sold to Juanita Lay in January 1918. I am sorry I cannot give you the exact day of the month, but our records show the month only. I took the liberty of showing a picture of the dress to the only saleswoman in the department who has been with us that long, but she cannot remember the sale. Twelve years is a long time, you know. Indeed it is, Dundee agreed regretfully. You have been immensely helpful, however, Miss Thomas, and I thank you with all my heart. If you could just tell me, confidentially, of course, Miss Thomas whispered, what sort of clue this dress is? I don't know myself, the detective admitted, but, he added to himself, after he had escaped the buyer's natural curiosity, I intend to find out. Before he could take any further steps along that particular path, however, Dundee had an appointment to keep. Upon arriving at his hotel that morning, he had made two telephone calls. He smiled now as he recalled the surprise and glee of one of his former Yale classmates, now a discouraged young Bond salesman, with whom he had kept in touch. You want to borrow my name and my kid's sister, Jimmy Randolph had chortled, hop to at Oldsport, but you might tell me what you want with such intimate belongings of mine. You may not know what Dundee had retorted, but young Mr. James Wadley Randolph, Jr., sign of the famous Old Boston family, is going to visit that equally famous school, foresight on the Hudson, to see whether it is the ideal finishing school for his beloved young sister, Barbara. She's about fifteen now, isn't she, Jimmy? Going on sixteen and one of Satan's prize hellions, Jimmy Randolph had answered, the family would be eternally grateful if you could get foresight to take her, but make them promise not to have any more chorus girls who plan to get murdered as directors of their amateur theatricals. Bab would be sure to get mixed up in the mess. I suppose that's the job you're on, you flat-footed dick you. The second telephone call had secured an appointment at the foresight school for Mr. James Wadley Randolph, Jr., of Boston, and Dundee, rather relishing his first need for such professional tactics, relaxed to enjoy the ten-mile drive along the Hudson. It was a quarter to twelve when his taxi swept up the drive toward the big gray stone turreted building, sedately lonely in the midst of its valuable acres. Miss Earl says to come to the office, a colored maid told him, when he had given his borrowed name, and led him from the vast hall to a fairly large room, whose windows looked upon a tennis court, and whose walls were almost covered with group pictures of graduating classes, photographs of amateur theatrical performances, and portrait studies of alumnae. A very thin, sharp-faced woman of about forty, with red-rimmed eyes which peered nearsightedly, rose from an old-fashioned roll-top desk and came forward to greet him. I am Miss Earl, Miss Pendleton's private secretary, she told him, as he shook her bony, clammy hand. I should have told you when you telephoned this morning that both Miss Pendleton and Miss Macon sailed for Europe yesterday. We always have our commencement the last Tuesday in May, you know, but if there is anything I can do for you, I should like to know something at first hand of the history of the school. It's, well, prestige, special advantages, curriculum, and so on. Dundee began deprecatingly. I should certainly be able to answer any question you may wish to ask, Mr. Randolph, since I have been with the school for fifteen years. Then foresight must take younger pupils than I had been led to believe, Miss Earl Dundee said, with his most winning smile. I was never a pupil here, the secretary corrected him, but she thought visibly. Of course, I was a mere child when I finished business school, but I have been here fifteen years. Fifteen years of watching rich society girls dawdle away four or five years, just because they've got to be somewhere before they make their debut. But I mustn't talk like that, or I'll give you a wrong impression, Mr. Randolph. Of its kind, it is really a very fine school, very exclusive, writing masters, dancing masters, a golf pro, and our own golf course, native teachers for French, Italian, German, and Spanish. Oh, the school is all right, and will probably not suffer any loss of prestige on account of that dreadful murder out in the Middle West. Murder, Dundee echoed, as if he had no idea what she was talking about. Haven't you been reading the papers, Miss Earl rallied him? With a coquettish smile. But I don't suppose Boston bothers with such sordid things, she added, her thin-lipped mouth tightening. Miss Pendleton was all cut up about it, because Mrs. Selam, or oney delay, as she was known on Broadway, had directed our Easter play the last two years, and the reporters simply hounded us the first two days after she was murdered out in Hamilton, where a number of our richest girls have come from. By Jove, Dundee exclaimed, was the Selam woman connected with this school, really? I only read the headlines, never pay much attention to murders in the papers. I wish, Miss Earl interrupted tartly, fresh tears reddening her eyes, that people wouldn't persist in referring to her as that Selam woman, when I think how sweet and friendly she was, how kind, and to Dundee's surprise, she choked on tears before she could go on. Of course, I know it's dreadful for the school, and I ought not to talk about it when you've come to see about putting your sister into the school, but Nita was my friend, and it simply makes me wild. You admired and liked her very much, Dundee asked for getting his role for the moment. Yes, I did, and Miss Pendleton liked her too. And you can imagine how clever and popular she was when a wonderful woman like Mrs. Peter Dunlap, who was Lois Morrill when she was in school here, admired her so much she took her to Hamilton with her to direct plays for a little theatre. Why, I never met anyone I was so congenial with. The secretary went on passionately. The girls here snub me and make silly jokes about me behind my back, and call me nicknames, but Nita was just as sweet to me as she was to anyone, even Miss Pendleton herself. Were you with her much, Dundee dared ask? With her much. I should say I was, she asserted proudly. I have a room here, live here, the year round, and both years Nita shared my room, so she would not have to make the long trip back to New York every night during the last week of rehearsals. We used to talk until two or three o'clock in the morning. Say, she broke off in sudden terror, you aren't a reporter, are you? A reporter? Good Lord, no, Dundee denied, in all sincerity. Then he made up his mind swiftly. This woman hated the school and all connected with it, had grown more and more sour and envy-bitten every year of the fifteen she had served here. And she liked Nita Lay, Selam, better than anyone she had ever met. The opportunity for direct questioning was too miraculous to be ignored, so he changed his tone suddenly and said very earnestly, No, I am not a reporter, Miss Earl, but I am not James Wadley Randolph Jr. I am James F. Dundee, special investigator attached to the office of the District Attorney of Hamilton, and I want you to help me solve the mystery of Mrs. Selam's murder. It took nearly ten precious minutes for Dundee to nurse the terrified, but obviously thrilled woman over the shock, and to get her into the mood to answer him freely. But I shant, and can't, tell you anything bad about Nita, she protested vehemently, wiping her red-rimmed eyes. The papers are all saying now that she got ten thousand dollars for double-crossing some awful racketeer, named Swallow-Tale Sammy, but I know she didn't get the money that way. She was too good. From Nita's confidences to you, do you have any idea how she did get the money, Dundee asked? Miss Earl shook her head. I don't know, but she got it honourably. I know that. Maybe she found her husband and made him pay alimony. Dundee controlled his excitement with difficulty. Did she tell you all about her marriage and divorce? Again, Miss Earl shook her head. The only time she ever spoke of it was last year. The first year she directed our play, you know. I asked her why she didn't get married again, and she said she couldn't. She wasn't divorced, because she didn't know where her husband was, and it was too expensive to go to Reno. Of course she may have found him or something, and got a divorce sometime this last year, and this money she got was a settlement. She must have got a divorce, since she was planning to be married again to a young man in Hamilton, done Dundee assured her soothingly. The way everybody puts the very worst interpretation on everything when a person gets murdered, Miss Earl stormed, if poor Nita had belonged to a rich family, like the girls here, they would have spent a million, if necessary, to hush up any scandal on her. I've seen it done, she added, darkly and venomously.