 25 Bonnie Dundee's heart leaped, but he forced himself to go gently. I suppose, he said casually, a fashionable school like this has plenty of carefully hushed-up scandals. I'll say it has, Miss Earl retorted inelegantly, and with ghoulish satisfaction. Money can do anything. It makes my blood simply boil when I think of how those foresight girls in Hamilton, so smug and snobbish in their hick-town society, must be running poor-needed down, now that she's dead and can't defend herself. If the truth were only known about some of them, Dundee could almost have embraced the homely, life-sourced spinster. She was making his task so easy for him. I've met them all, of course, since Mrs. Saline was murdered, he said deprecatingly, and I must say they seem to be remarkably fine women and girls. Oh, are they?" Miss Earl snorted. Flora Hackett, Mrs. Tracey Miles, she is now, didn't happen to tell you the nice little fuss she kicked up when she was here, did she? Oh, no, I guess not. She looks, Dundee agreed, like a girl who would have made things lively. I'll say so. Miss Pendleton nearly had a nervous prostration. Miss Earl plunged on, then fear-blanched her face for a moment. You know you've promised you'll never tell Miss Pendleton or Miss Macon that you talk to me. You can depend on it that I will protect you, Dundee assured her. When did Flora Hackett kick up her little fuss? Let's see. Flora graduated in June 1920, Miss Earl obliged willingly. So it must have been in 1919. Yes, because she had one more year here. Of course they let her come back. Money. She took the lead in our annual Easter play in 1919, and just because Serena Hart complimented her and told her she was almost as good as a professional. Serena Hart, Dundee wonderingly repeated the name of one of America's most popular and beloved stage stars. Yes, Serena Hart. Miss Earl repeated proudly. She was a foresight girl, too. And of course she did go into the chorus herself after she graduated in, let's see, 1917, because it was the second year after I'd come to work here, and Miss Pendleton nearly died, because she was afraid foresight's precious prestige would be lowered. But when Serena became a star, everything was grand, of course, and foresight was proud to claim her. Anyway Serena comes to the Easter play every year she can, if she isn't in a Broadway play herself, of course, and so she saw Flora acting in the Easter play in 1919 and told her she was awfully good. She was, too, but not half the actress that little Penny Crane was when she had the lead in the play four or five years ago. Dundee's Hart begged him to ask for more details of Penny's triumph, but his job demanded that he keep the now too-voluble Miss Earl to the business in hand. And Flora hack it? He prompted. Well, the next day after the play the Easter vacation began, you know, and Flora forged a letter from her father, giving her permission to spend the ten days Easter holidays with one of the girls who lived in Atlanta, Miss Earl continued, with great relish. Well, sir, right in the middle of the holidays here came her father and mother. They were both alive then, and asked for Flora. They wired the girl in Atlanta, and Flora wasn't there, and the hackets were nearly crazy. But as luck would have it Mr. Hackett ran into a friend of theirs on Broadway, and this friend began to tease Mr. Hackett about his daughters being a chorus girl. A chorus girl, Dundee echoed, taking care not to show his disappointment. Of course they nabbed her right out of the show, but that wasn't the worst of it. Flora was gone dramatically and mysteriously. They tried to hush it up, of course, but the word went through the school like wildfire that Flora wasn't only in the chorus, but that she was living with an actor she'd been writing fan letters to long before the Easter play went on. Did you hear his name? Dundee asked. No, Miss Earl acknowledged regretfully, but I'll bet anything it was the truth. Why Flora hack it was so man-crazy, she flirted scandalously with every male teacher in the school. The golf-pro we had then got so scared of her he quit his job. I suppose, Dundee prompted craftily, she wasn't any worse than some of the other Hamilton girls. Well, Miss Earl admitted reluctantly. Nothing ever came out on any of the others, but it looked mighty funny to me when Janet Raymond's mother took her out of school right in the middle of a term and hauled her off to Europe for a whole year. I guess, she suggested with raised eyebrows, you know what it usually means when a girl has to spend a whole year abroad, and her mother says she's taking her away for her health. And Janet looking as healthy as any other girl in school except that she was crying half the time and smuggling special delivery letters in and out by one of the maids. Did you tell any of these stories and point out the pictures of the girls? Dundee had to risk asking. Miss Earl froze instantly. Naturally she was interested in the school, and once she said it always made her mad the way chorus girls were run down. I told her that in my opinion society girls were worse than actresses. And well, of course I gave her some examples, a lot of them worse than anything I've told you about Flora Hackett and Janet Raymond. I hope, she added viciously, that Nita dropped a hint or two if Flora or Janet had the nerve to hi-hat her when she was in Hamilton. Perhaps she did, Dundee agreed softly. By the way, how did Nita happen to get the job here of directing the Easter Plays? That's what the reporters wanted to know, Miss Earl smiled, but Miss Pendleton wouldn't tell them, for fear Serena wouldn't like it, and maybe be drawn into the scandal when everybody knows she's as straight as a string. Did Serena hard get her the job, Dundee was amazed. Yes, wait, I'll show you the letter of recommendation she wrote for Nita to Miss Pendleton, Miss Earl offered eagerly. Remember now, you're not to tell on me. She went to a tall walnut filing cabinet, and quickly returned with a note, which she thrust into Dundee's willing hands. He read, Dear Miss Pendleton, the bearer Juanita Lee is rather badly in need of a job, and I have suggested that she apply to you for a chance to direct the Easter Play. I have known Miss Lee personally for ten years, and have the highest regard, both for her character and for her ability. You usually stage musical comedies. I think Miss Lee, who has been a specialty dancer as well as an actress in musical comedy for about twelve years, would be admirably suited for the work. Knowing my love for Forsyte as you do, I do not have to assure you that I would suggest nothing which would be detrimental to the school's best interests. fondly yours, Serena Hart. She was wrong there, but I know it wasn't Nita's fault, Miss Earl, who had been looking over his shoulder, commented upon the last sentence of the letter. Is Miss Hart appearing in a play now? Dundee asked. No, but she's rehearsing one, Temptation, which will open at the Warburton Theatre next Monday night, the secretary answered. At commencement Tuesday night Serena told Miss Pendleton how awfully sorry she was about Nita, and gave me tickets for the opening. You go to see her, but don't tell her I told you anything. I know she's rehearsing at the theatre this afternoon, because she said she would be all week, and couldn't go to the boat to see Miss Pendleton and Miss Macon off for Europe. I will, Dundee accepted the suggestion gratefully, as if it had not occurred to him. But first I want you to come out to lunch with me. I'm sure you know of some nice tea-room or road-house in the neighborhood. During the luncheon which Miss Earl devoured avidly, without its interfering with her flow of reminiscences concerning the girls she hated, Dundee was able to learn nothing more to the detriment of foresight's Hamilton alumni, but he did add considerably to his knowledge and pity of female human nature. It was nearly three o'clock when he presented his card, with a message penciled upon its back, to the aged doorkeeper who drowsed in the alley which led to the stage entrance of the Warburton Theatre, just off Broadway near Times Square, and fifteen minutes later he was being received in the star's dressing room by Serena Hart herself. You're working on poor Nita's murder, she began without preamble, as she seated herself at her dressing table, and indicated a decrepit chair for the detective. I was wondering how much longer I could keep out of it. Of course you've been pumping that poor, foolish virgin, Gladys Earl. Why girls like that are always called Gladys. God, I'm tired. We've been at it since ten this morning, but thank the Lord we're through now for the day. Dundee studied her with keen interest, and decided that, almost plain though she was, she was even more magnetic than when seen from the footlights. Rather carelessly dressed, long brown hair rather tassled, her face very pale and haggard without the makeup which would give it radiance on Monday night, Serena Hart was nevertheless one of the most attractive women Dundee had ever met, and one of the kindest, he felt suddenly sure. When did I first meet Nita Lee, she repeated his question. Let me think. Oh yes, the first year after I went on the stage, 1917. We were in the chorus together in teasing Tilly, a rotten show, by the way. The other girls of the chorus were awfully snooty to me, because I was that anethema, a society girl. But Nita was a darling. She showed me the robes, and we became quite intimate, around the theatre only, however, since my parents kept an awfully strict eye on me. The show was a great hit. Ran on into 1918, till February or March, I believe. Then do you know, Miss Hart, whether Nita got married during the winter? Dundee asked. Why, yes, she did, Serena Hart answered, her brow clearing after a frown of concentration. I can't remember exactly when, but it was before the show closed—certainly a few weeks before, because the poor child was a deserted bride days before the closing notice was posted. Deserted, Dundee exclaimed, did you meet her husband, Miss Hart? No, Serena replied. As a matter of fact, she told me extraordinarily little about him, and did not discuss her marriage with the other girls of the chorus at all. I got the impression that Mr. Salim, Matt, she called him, wanted it kept secret for a while, but I don't know why. This was early in 1918, as I've told you, though I have no way of fixing even the approximate date, and New York was full of soldiers. I remember I jumped to the conclusion that Nita had succumbed to a war romance, but I don't think she said anything to confirm my suspicion. When did she tell you of her marriage, that is, when in relation to the date of the wedding itself? Dundee asked. The very day she was married, Serena Hart answered. She was late for the matinee. Our dressing tables were side by side, and as she slipped out of her dress, this dress, Dundee asked, and handed her the photograph of dead Nita in the royal blue velvet dress she had kept for twelve years. Yes, and Serena Hart shuttered, and her hair was dressed like that too, although she had been wearing it in long curls, and had to take it down before she would go on for the opening number. She whispered to me that she had been married that day, and that she was terribly happy, very much in love, and that her husband had asked her to dress her hair in the French roll, a favorite hairdress with him. Between numbers she whispered to me again, telling me that her husband was so different, such a lamb, totally unlike any man she had met on Broadway, poor child, for she was a child still, only twenty, but she had been in the show business since she was a motherless, fatherless little drifter of sixteen. No, she did not tell me how old he was, where he came from, this business, or what he looked like, and I did not inquire. As the days passed, weeks, probably, she became more and more silent and reserved, though once or twice she protested that she was still terribly happy. Then came a day when she did not show up for the performance at all. The next night she told me, in just a few words, that her husband had left her after a quarrel and had not returned. It seems that she had innocently told him how she had vamped Benny Steinfeld, the big review producer, you know, into giving her a spot in his summer show, and that her mad had flown into a rage, accusing her of having been untrue to him. She never mentioned his desertion to me again, but—yes, Dundee prompted. Well, Serena Hart went on uncomfortably. I'm rather afraid I forgot Pornita after teasing Tillie closed, for my next work was in stock in Des Moines. After a year of stock I got my chance in a legitimate show on Broadway, and one day I met her on the street. Not having much to talk with her about, I asked her if she and her husband were reconciled. She said no that she had never seen him again. Then in a burst of confidence she told me that she had hired a private detective out of her meager earnings to investigate him in his home town, or rather the city he had told her he had came from. The detective had reported that no such person as Matt or Matthew Saleem had ever lived there, so far as he could find out. I asked her if she was going to get a divorce, and she said she was not—that being already married was a protection against getting married in haste again. After that I rather lost sight of Nita, and practically forgot her, our paths being so very divergent. And you never saw her again, Dundee asked, very much disappointed. Oh, yes, two or three times, at openings or on the street, but we never held any significant conversation, Serena Hart answered, reaching for her plain, rather dowdy little hat. Wait, I was about to forget. I had quite a shock in connection with Nita. One afternoon, let's see, that was when I opened in Hullabaloo, in which I made my first real success, you know. I bought the New York Evening Star, which devotes considerable space to theatrical doings, to see what sort of review the show had got, and on the first page I saw a picture of Nita, beneath the headline which said, Famous Model Commits Suicide. What? Dundee exclaimed, astounded. Oh, it wasn't Nita Lee, Serena Hart reassured him. There was a correction the next day. You see, an artist's model named Anita Lee, spelled L-E-E, instead of L-E-I-G-H, had committed suicide, and as the star explained at the next day, the similarity of both the first name and the last name had caused the error in getting a photograph from the morgue to accompany the story. There was a picture of Nita Lee, with Nita's statement that the report of my death has been exaggerated, and a picture of the real Anita Lee. When did the mistake occur, Dundee asked, in great excitement? Let me think, Serena Hart frowned. Hullabaloo opened in, yes, about the first of May, 1922, just a little more than eight years ago. Dundee reached for his own hat, in a fever to be gone, but to his surprise the actress stopped him, a faint color in her pale cheeks. Since you're from Hamilton, and are investigating the murder, you have undoubtedly met little Penelope Crane? I know her very well. It happens that she is a private secretary to the district attorney, under whom I work. Why? I saw her play the lead in the Easter show at Forsyte four or five years ago, Miss Hart explained, her face turned from the detective as she dusted it with powder, and I was impressed with her talent. In fact, I advised her father, who had come from Hamilton to witness the performance, as proud parents are likely to do, to let her go on the stage. So you met Roger Crane, Dundee paused to ask. Oh, yes, a charming man, with even more personality than his daughter, the actress answered carelessly, so carelessly that Dundee had a sudden hunch. Have you seen Mr. Crane recently? He deserted his family and fled Hamilton under rather unsavory circumstances. What do you mean? Miss Hart asked sharply. Oh, there was nothing actually criminal, I suppose, but he is believed to have withheld some securities which would have helped satisfy his creditors when bankruptcy was eminent. Dundee explained. Have you seen him since—January it was, I believe. January, Miss Hart appeared to need time for reflection. Oh, yes, he sent in his card on the first night of my show that opened in January. It was a flop, lasted only five weeks. We chatted of the foresight girls who are now in Hamilton, most of whom I went to school with or have met at the Easter plays. Do you know where Mr. Crane is now? Dundee asked. I have a message for him from Penny. If you should happen to see him again. Why should I see him again? Miss Hart shrugged. And I have, at the least, idea where he is living or what he is doing now. Of course, if he should come to see me backstage after temptation opens, what is the message from Penny? That her mother wants him to come back, Dundee answered, and I am very sure Penny wants him back, too. The mother is one of the sweetest, gentlest, most tragic women I have ever met, and you have seen Penny for yourself. The disgrace has been very hard on them. It would be splendid if Roger Crane would come back and redeem himself. Half an hour later, Bonnie Dundee, in the file room of the New York Evening Star, was in possession of the bound volume of that newspaper for the month of May 1922. On the front page of the issue of May 3, under the caption which Serena Hart had quoted so accurately, was a picture of a young, laughing, needily, her curls bob short, arose between her gleaming teeth. And in the issue of May 4 appeared two pictures side by side, exotic, straight-haired, slant-eyed, and needily, who had found life so unsupportable that she ended it, and the same photograph of living, vital, needily. When he returned the files he asked the girl in charge, does this copyright line beneath this picture, and he pointed to the photograph of Nita which had appeared erroneously, mean that the picture was syndicated? The girl bent her head to see. Could be right by Metropolitan Picture Service, she read aloud. Yes, that's what it means. When the Evening Star was owned by Mr. Magnus he formed a separate company called the Metropolitan Picture Service, which supplied papers all over the country with a daily picture service in matte form. But the picture syndicate was discontinued about five years ago when the paper was sold to its present owners. Are there files available? Dundee asked. If they are, I don't know anything about it, the girl told him, and turned to another seeker after bound volumes of the paper. It doesn't matter, Dundee assured her, and asked for a sheet of blank paper on which he quickly composed the following telegram, addressed to Penny Crane. Please search files, all three Hamilton papers, week of May 4th to 11th, year of 1922, for story and pictures on suicide and Juanita Lee artist's model, stop. Say nothing to anyone, not even Sanderson, if he is there, stop. Wire result. In his hotel, while impatiently awaiting an answer from Penny, Dundee passed the time by scanning all the New York papers of Thursday and Friday, on the chance of meeting with significant revelations concerning the private life of Dexter Sprague or Juanita Lee Selim, united by death, in the press at least. There was much space devoted to the theory involving the two New Yorkers with the murder of the racketeer and gambler, Swallowtail Sammy Savelli, but only two pieces of information held Dundee's interest. The first was a reminder to the public that certain theatrical columns of Sunday, February 9, had carried the rumor of Dexter Sprague's engagement to Dolly Martin, popular baby star of Altamont Pictures, and that the same columns of Tuesday, February 11, had carried Sprague's own denial of the engagement, Dolly having nothing to say. So that is why Neeta tried to commit suicide on February 9, and her attempted suicide, with its tragic consequences for Lydia Carr, is probably the reason Sprague gave up his movie star. Dundee mused. Did Neeta let him persuade her to go into the blackmail business, in order to hold his wandering mercenary affections? Lord, the men some women love. The second bit of information which the papers supplied him was winnowed by Dundee himself, from a news summary of Neeta Lee's last year of life as a chorus girl, specialty dancer, double in pictures, and director of the Easter Play at Foresight on the Hudson. If Neeta got a divorce, or even a legal separation from her husband after her talk with Gladys Searle a year ago, she got it in New York, and so secretly that no New York paper has been able to dig it up, Dundee concluded, and yet she had promised to marry Ralph Hammond. A bell-boy with a telegram interrupted the startling new train of thought which that conclusion had started. CHAPTER XXVI With a sharp exclamation of excitement and triumph, Dundee read Penny's telegram. Hamilton Evening's son, date of May 5, 1922, published Story of Suicide and Neeta Lee, artist's model, but picture accompanying was undoubtedly Neeta Lee's salemes. Stop! No correction followed. Stop! What does it mean? What does it mean? Dundee repeated exultantly to himself. It means, my darling little Penny, that anyone in Hamilton who had any interest in the matter believed Neeta Lee's salemes was dead, and thought the spelling of her name was wrong, not the picture itself. The question is who read that story and gazed on that picture with exquisite relief? Two hours before, he had dismissed as impossible or highly impractical his impulse to investigate the eleven-year-old scandal on Flora Hackett, who is now Flora Miles, as told him by Gladys Earl of the Foresight School. Even more difficult it would be to find out why Janet Raymond's mother had taken her abroad for a year. Of course, he had ruefully told himself, Neeta Lee might have been lucky, or unlucky enough to run across documentary proof of one of the scandals of which Gladys Earl had told her, or had dared to blackmail her victim by dark hints, as Miss Earl had unconsciously suggested to her. But this new development could not be ignored. A picture of Neeta Lee as a suicide had appeared eight years ago in a Hamilton paper, and the paper had either remained unaware of the error or had thought it not worth the space for a correction. Eight years ago. Eight years ago in June three weddings had occurred in Hamilton, the Dunlop, the Miles, the Drake wedding. And within the last year and a half, Judge Marshall, after proposing season after season to the most popular debutante, had married lovely little Karen Plummer. Suddenly a sentence from Ralph Hammond's story of his engagement to Neeta Lee Salim popped up in Dundee's memory. And once I got cold sick because I thought she might still be married, but she said her husband had married again, and I wasn't to ask questions or worry about him. If Ralph Hammond had reported Neeta accurately, she had not said she was divorced. She had merely said her husband was married again. Why was Ralph to ask no questions? Divorced wives were not usually so reticent. Had Neeta planned to commit the crime of bigamy? If not, when and where and how had she secured a divorce? To surveying a heart years before she had denied any intention of getting a divorce for two reasons, because she did not know where her husband was, and because being married, although husbandless, was a protection against matrimonial temptations. To Gladys Earl a year ago in April, she had confided that she could not marry again because she was not divorced and because she did not know the whereabouts of her husband. And so far as New York reporters had been able to find out, Neely had done nothing to alter her status as a married woman during the past year. Moreover, if Neeta had secured either a divorce or a legal separation, her faithful and beloved maid, Lydia Carr, would certainly have known of it. And Lydia had vehemently protested more than once to Bonnie Dundee that she knew nothing of Neeta's husband, although she had worked for the musical comedy Dancer for five years. Surely if Neeta, loving and trusting Lydia as she did, had entered into negotiations of any kind with or concerning her husband during the last year, her maid would have been the first to know of them. And yet suddenly Dundee jumped to his feet and began to pace the floor of his hotel bedroom. He was remembering the belated confidence that John C. Drake, banker, had made to him the morning before, after the discovery of Dexter Sprague's murder. He recalled Drake's reluctant statement almost word for word. About that ten thousand which needed deposited with our bank Dundee, when she made the first deposit of five thousand on April twenty-eighth, she explained it with an embarrassed laugh as back alimony, an installment of which she had succeeded in collecting from her former husband. And naturally, when she made the second deposit on May fifth, I presumed the same explanation covered that sum, too, though I confess I was puzzled by the fact that both big deposits had been made in cash. Had Nita, by any chance, been telling a near truth, had she been blackmailing her own husband, a husband who had dared marry again believing his deserted wife to be dead, and justifying herself by calling it back alimony? But wasn't it in reality, no matter what coercion Nita had used in getting the money exactly that? Back alimony, and the price of her silence before the world and the wife, who was not really a wife. In a new light, Bonnie Dundee studied the character of the woman who had been murdered, possibly to make her silence eternal. Lois Dunlop had liked, even loved her. The other women and girls of the crowd, that exclusive, self-centered clique of Hamilton's most socially prominent women, must have liked her fairly well and found her congenial, in spite of their jealousy of her popularity with the men of the crowd, where they would not have tolerated her, regardless of Lois Dunlop's championship of her protégé. Gladys Earl had found her the sweetest, kindest, most generous person I ever met. Gladys Earl, who envied and hated all girls who were more fortunate than she. Serena Hart, former member of New York's Junior League and still listed in the social register, had found her the only congenial member of the chorus she had invaded as the first step towards stardom. And Serena Hart had the reputation of being a woman of character and judgment, a kind and wise and great woman. Finally, Ralph Hammond had loved Nita and wanted to marry her. Was it possible that Nita Salim's only crime into which she had been led by her infatuation for Dexter Sprague had been to demand secretly financial compensation from a husband who had married and deserted her, a husband who, believing her dead, had married again? But who was the man whose picture, to spin a new theory, Nita had recognized as that of her husband among the male members of the cast of the beggars opera when Lois Dunlop had proudly exhibited the stills of that amateur performance. With excitement hammering at his pulses, Dundee took the bunch of photographs which Lois Dunlop had willingly given him and studied the picture that contained the entire cast, the picture which had first attracted Nita's attention, and again despair overwhelmed him, for every one of his possible male suspects was in that group. But he could not keep his thoughts from racing on. Men who stepped out of their class and went on parties with chorus girls frequently did so under assumed names, he reflected. Serena Hart was authority for the information that Nita's had been a sudden marriage. Was it not entirely possible that the man who married Nita in 1918 had done so half-drunk, both on liquor and infatuation, and that he had not trouble to explain to Nita his motives for having used an assumed name or to write in his real name on the application for a marriage license? Had Nita's private detective journeyed out to Hamilton years ago in a fruitless attempt to locate Matthew Selim? Bonnie Dunn D. lay awake for hours Friday night turning these and a hundred other questions over and over in his too-active mind, and slept at last, only to awake Saturday, with a plan of procedure which he was sensible enough to realize promised small chance of success. And he was right, not in Manhattan, or in any other of the boroughs of New York City, did he find any record of a marriage license issued to Juanita Lee and Matthew Selim? Not only was it entirely probable that Juanita Lee was a stage name, and that Nita had married conscientiously under her real name, but it was equally possible that the license had been secured in New Jersey or Connecticut. When he gave up his quest at noon Saturday and returned to his hotel, Dunn D. bought at the newsstand a paper whose headline convinced him that Sergeant Turner was, at the moment, even more discouraged than himself, for the big type told the world, Joe Savelli gets Brother Slayer. The smaller headlines informed the sensation-loving public. Swallowtail Sammy, Savelli's death avenge by a brother who surrenders to police, Slick Thompson, alleged member of Sammy's gang, shot to death on 6th Avenue. Still smaller head type acknowledged that Joe Savelli, after giving himself up with a revolver in his hand, had disclaimed any knowledge of or connection with the murders of Juanita Lee Selim and Dexter Sprague. Two hours later, Dunn D. received a long telegram from District Attorney Sanderson. Informed by Evening Sun's Savelli-Angle Complete Washout stop. Have you made any progress along other lines? Stop. Have informed reporters you working independently with strong chance of solving both cases stop. Would like you here for adjourned inquests on both murders Monday? Stop. Mother improved. Am on job again. Since Dunn D. felt there was little chance of following through either on the scandals which Gladys Earl had hinted at, or on Nita's strangely secret marriage of twelve years before, he immediately dispatched a wire to Sanderson, assuring him that vital progress had been made and that he would leave New York on the four o'clock train west, arriving at Hamilton Sunday morning at eight fifty. The concluding sentence of the wire was, Suggest you pacify press with only vaguest of hints. Sanderson's wire, with its confession of an interview on Dundee's trip to New York, had upset him and left him with a cold, sick feeling of fear. That stumbling half in darkness the District Attorney had unwittingly warned the murderer of Nita Selim and Dexter Sprague that his special investigator was on the right track, but he consoled himself with the hope that the final sentence of his answering telegram would prevent any further damage. But he was wrong. An hour before he reached his destination on Monday morning he went into the dining-car and found a copy of the Hamilton morning news beside his plate, and on the front page was a photograph of dead Nita, her black hair and a French roll, her slim recumbent body clad in the royal blue velvet dress. Beneath the picture was the caption, Which part does the outmoded royal blue velvet dress which Nita Selim chose as shroud play in the solution of her murder? That is the question which special investigator, Dundee, attached to the District Attorney's office, whose due home this morning from fruitful detective work in New York is undoubtedly prepared to answer. Dundee was still seething with futile rage when he climbed the stairs to his apartment. On the floor just inside his living room he found an envelope unstamped and bearing his name and typing. The note inside, on a paper as plain as the envelope, was typed and unsigned. If Detective Dundee will consult page 410 of the latest Who's Who in America, he will find a tip which should aid him materially in solving the two murder cases which seem to be proving too difficult for his inexperience. A rye grin at his anonymous correspondence unfriendly jive was just twisting his lips when a double knock sounded the living room door which he had not completely closed. Come in, Belle. A morose slack-mouth mulatto girl, an ancient felt slipper sidled into the room. Howdy, Mr. Dundee, Belle greeted him listlessly. You got back like the papers said you would, didn't you? I ain't sayin' I ain't glad that Paleo's show is guards on nuisance nippin' at my fingers and screechin' his full head off, cause I ain't sayin' it's his fault keepin' that young gentleman on the second floor wait last night. But like I say to Mr. Wilson when he lets into me this mornin' runnin' off with the mouth, cause I forgot to book captain's cover on his cage last night. I ain't the onlyest one what's forgets in this here house. Comin' home, God knows when, leavin' defunt door unlocked the rest of the night, so's buglers and murderers and God knows who can walk right in here. Dundee itching to consult his own copy of whose who flung a glance at the parrot's cage intending to pacify the mournful mulatto by scolding his Watson roundly, but he changed his mind and consoled the chambermaid instead. Just tell Mr. Wilson that for once he's wrong, you did not forget to cover captain's cage, Belle, look. The girl's dull eyes bulged as they took in the cage, completely swathed in a square of black silk. God save Mr. Dundee, she ejaculated. I didn't put that cover on that bird's cage, and neither did Ms. Bowen, cause she been laid up with the rheumatism ever since you left. Everlast, enduring thing on this old house been left for me to do. Then I suppose the indignant Mr. Wilson came up and covered captain himself, Dundee suggested, crossing the room to the bookcase which stood within a reaching distance of his big leather-covered armchair. Him, Belle snorted. How are you going to get here with it, no key, size? He had told me if and, Belle, how many times must I ask you not to misplace my things, Dundee cut in irritably, for he was tired of the conversation and angry that his copy of Who's Who was missing from its customary place in the bookcase. Me? I ain't touched none of your things, set them to dust them and lay them down where I found. Belle retorted mournfulness, submerged in anger. Dundee looked about the room, then his eyes alighted upon the missing book, lying upon a shelf that extended across the top of an old-fashioned hot air register set high into the wall between the two windows, the thick red volume lay close against the wall, its gold-letter rib facing the room. Belle, tell me the truth, and I shall not be angry. Did you put that red book on that shelf, Dundee asked his voice steady and kindly in spite of his excitement. Nossa, I ain't touched it, and you did not put the cover over my parrot's cage, although I had tipped you well to feed Captain and cover him up at night, Dundee said severely. I've got a heeba-wook to do. And you say that Mr. Wilson, one of the two young men on the second floor, left the front door unlocked when he came in last night? Dundee asked. Does he admit it? Yes, Belle told him suckily. Dundee said he was tall when he got home long about midnight, and he claimed forgot to de-key in a doll and shoot the boat. Thanks, Belle, that will be all now. And Dundee did a great deal to dispel the chambermaid's gloom by presenting her with a dollar bill. When she had gone, the detective read the note again, then looked at it and its envelope more closely. They had a strangely familiar look. Suddenly he jerked open a drawer of his desk on which his new noiseless typewriter stood, selected a sheet of plain white bond and rolled it into the machine. Quickly he tapped out a copy of a strange taunting message. Yes, the left-hand margin was identical. The typing and its degree of blackness were identical. And the paper on which he had made the copy was exactly the same as that on which the original had been written. The truth flashed into his mind. It was no coincidence that he had a copy of the very book to which his unknown correspondent referred him. For the note had been written in this very room, on the stationery conveniently at hand, on the noiseless typewriter which had been far more considerate about not betraying the intruder than the parrot whose slumpers had been disturbed. But why did my unknown friend risk arrest as a burglar if he wanted to give me an honest tip? Dundee remarked aloud to the parrot, who croaked in a reverent answer, Badpenny, Badpenny! I am afraid, my dear Watson, that those words will not be so helpful in this case as they were when your mistress was murdered. Dundee assured his parrot absently, for he was studying the peculiar situation from every angle. Another question kept him. Why did the unknown bother to take my who's who out of the bookcase where I should normally have looked for it and put it on that particular shelf? Suddenly for his scalp was prickling with a premonation of danger. Dundee crossed the room to the shelf, but his hand did not reach out for the red book, which might have been expected to solve one problem at least. Why the shelf, he asked himself again. Why not the desktop, or the mantelpiece, or the smoking table beside the big armchair? The shelf, with its drapery of rather fine old silk tapestry, offered no answer in itself, for it held nothing except the red book, a Chinese bowl, and a humidor of tobacco. And beneath the shelf was nothing but the old-fashioned register. The opening covered with a screwed-on metal screen, which was a mass of big holes to permit the escape of hot air when the furnace was going in the winter. Suddenly Dundee stooped and stared with eyes that were widened with excitement and a certain amount of horror. Then he rose, and, standing far to one side, picked up the fat volume which lay on the shelf. As he expected, a bullet whizzed noiselessly across the room and buried itself in the plaster of the wall opposite, a bullet which would have plowed through his own heart if he had obeyed his first impulse and gone directly to the shelf to obey the instructions in the note. But more had happened than the whizzing flight of a bullet through one of the holes of the hot air register. The who's who had been jerked almost out of Dundee's hand before he had lifted the heavy volume many inches from the shelf. Coincidental with the disappearance of a bit of white string which had been pinned to a thin page of the book was the metallic clatter, followed swiftly by the faint sound of a bump far below. Dropping who's who to the floor, Dundee flung open his living room door and raced down three flights of stairs. He brought up, panting, at the door of the basement. It was not locked and in another minute he was standing before the big hot air furnace. Above the firebox was a big metal compartment, the reservoir for the heated air, and sat into the reservoir to conduct the heat to the readings above were three huge pipes. With strength augmented by excitement, Dundee tugged and tore at one of the pipes until he had dislodged it. Then thrusting his hand into the heat reservoir, he groped until he had found what he had known must be there. Strange marshals automatic, with the maxim silencer screwed upon the end of its short nose. At last he held in his hands the weapon with which Nita-Lee Salim and Dexter Sprague had been murdered. The ingeniousness of his own attempted murder moved him to such profound admiration that he could scarcely feel resentment. If in the excitement of hunting for a promised clue he had gone directly to the shelf, standing in front of the hole in the register into which the end of the silencer had been jammed so that it showed scarcely at all even to the eyes looking for it, he would now have been dead. And the gun and the silencer, after hurtling down the big hot air pipe behind the register would have lain hidden for months, even years in the heat reservoir of the furnace. With the weapon carefully wrapped in his handkerchief, Dundee went up the stairs almost as swiftly as he had gone down them, meeting no one on the way to his rooms on the top floor. My most heartfelt thanks to you, Captain, he greeted his parrot. If you had not squawked last night and so frightened the murderer that he made the vital error of covering your cage, I would never have annoyed you again with my Sherlock ruminations on the cases which do not interest you in the slightest. The parrot cackled hoarsely, but Dundee paid him scant attention. He picked up the now harmless who's who and turned to page 410, a corner of which had disappeared with the string that was still fastened to the hair-trigger hammer of the Colts 32. Very clever and very simple, the murderer of two people and the would-be murderer of a third had had only to unscrew the metal covering of the register, wedged the end of the silencer into one of the many holes, replaced the screws, and pasted the end of the string drawn through another hole hidden by the tapestry. To a page of the book, he had selected as the one most likely to appeal to a detective as a clue source. No, wait, he had had to do more. Dundee bent and examined the metal cover of the register. The circumference of the hole, the murderer, had chosen as the one which would be directly in front of Dundee's heart gleam brightly. It had been necessary to enlarge it considerably. The murderer had left trace after all. But the book was open in Dundee's hands and his eyes rapidly scanned page 410, and he found what the murderer had not expected him to live to read, but which he had counted on as an explanation of the note which the police would have puzzled over if all had gone well with his scheme. End of Chapter 26. Chapter 27 of Murder at Bridge. Dundee laughed, the parrot which had saved his life echoing his mirth rockously, as his eyes hit upon the following lines of fine print halfway down the third column of page 410 of Who's Who in America? Burns, William John, Detective, Born Baltimore, October 19, 1861. A taunt and a joke which turned sour, my dear Watson, he exalted to the parrot, a joke I was not intended to live to laugh over. He closed the book and replaced it in the bookcase, careless of fingerprints, for he was sure the murderer had been too clever to leave any behind him in that room, or upon the gun in silence or either for that matter. Interestingly Dundee surveyed the scene of his attempted murder. If he had unsuspectingly gone up to the high shelf to reach for the book he would have stood so close to the register that there would have been powder burns on his shirt front, just as there had been on dexter sprays, and he would have been shot so near an open window, no chance for fingerprints there either, since he had not closed the window on his departure for New York, not wishing to return to a stuffy apartment, that the police would have been justified in thinking he had been shot from outside. It was an old-fashioned house in more ways than in the manner of its heating. Outside of one of his two unscreened windows there was an iron grating, the topmost landing of a fire escape. Dundee could imagine Captain Straugh's positiveness in placing the murderer there, crouching in wait for his victim. Yes, damned ingenious this attempted murder, undoubtedly Straugh would have dismissed the note as the work of a crank, not hitting upon the fact that it had been written in that very room on Dundee's own typewriter and stationery. Straugh might even have got a mournful sort of amusement out of the fact that Dundee had been advised to call upon a greater detective than himself for assistance. Yes, ingenious indeed, and so amazingly simple. Suddenly the young detective snatched for his hat. If the murderer was so ingenious in this case, might he not have been equally clever in planning in executing the murder of Nita-Lay Selam? Twenty minutes later he parked his car in the ruddy road before the Selam House in Primrose Meadows and honked his horn loudly to attract the attention of the plain clothesman Captain Straugh had detailed immediately after the murder to guard the premises during the day. There was no answer. The guard had been withdrawn, probably to join the small army of plain clothesman and patrolman, who had been foolishly and futilely searching for the New York gunman. The keystone of Captain Straugh's exploded theory. With an oath Dundee used his skeleton key to release the Yale lock with which the front door was equipped. Straight down the main hall he went and into the little foyer between the hall and Nita's bedroom. He snatched up the telephone into his relief it was not dead. He gave the number of Captain Straugh's home and had the pleasure of learning that he had interrupted his former chief at a late Sunday breakfast. When did you withdraw the guard from the Selam House, he asked abruptly, cutting short Straugh's cordial welcome home. Late Thursday afternoon the chief of the homicide squad answered belligerently, I needed all my men, and the Selam House had been gone over with a fine-tooth comb half a dozen times. Why? Own nothing Dundee retorted wearily and hung up the receiver after assuring his old friend that he would call him later in the day. No use to explain now to Straugh that the murderer had been given every chance to remove any betraying traces of his crime. Besides, his first excited hunch, after his own attempted murder, might very well be a wild, groundless one. In his, Dundee's case, the impossibility of the murders being delayed or arranged so that the detective might be slain when the whole crowd was assembled was obvious. The murderer had read, in a late Saturday afternoon extra, a copy of which was now in Dundee's pocket, District Attorney Sanderson's boast to the press that his office had been working on an entirely different theory than that which connected the two murders with Swallowtail Sammy, that special investigator Dundee expected back in Hamilton early Sunday morning had been investigating Nita Leigh's past life in New York. And despite Dundee's telegraphed warning, he had hinted sensational revelations connected with the twelve-year-old royal blue velvet dress which Nita had chosen to be her shroud, and in his desire to reassure the public through the press Sanderson had mysteriously promised even more specific revelations than Dundee had actually brought home with him. But by reporters Sanderson had admitted that he did not himself know the nature of those revelations. The exasperated young detective could picture the murderer reading those sensational hints and promises, and could imagine his panic, the need for immediate action so that special investigator Dundee should not live to tell the tale of his New York discoveries to the District Attorney or anyone else. But whether he was right or wrong, Dundee determined to give his hunch a chance. He went into the over-ornate bedroom in which Nita Leigh's cellar had been murdered, shot through the back as she sat at her dressing table, powdering her face. If her murder had been accomplished by mechanical means, how had it been done? There was no hot air register here. From the dressing table Dundee walked to the window upon whose pale green frame there was still the tiny pencil mark which Dr. Price had drawn to indicate the end of the path along which the bullet had traveled, provided it had traveled so far, nothing here to aid in a mechanical murder. But in a flash Dundee changed his mind, for just slightly above the pencil mark there was a small dent in the soft-painted pine of the window frame, and before his mind could frame words and sentences he thought he saw how Nita Leigh had been murdered. Nothing here? Not now, because he himself had taken the lamp to the courthouse for safekeeping. He saw it clearly in imagination. That bronze floor lamp which Lydia Carr had given to Nita Leigh, its big round bowl studded with great jewels of colored glass, and in recalling every detail of the lamp he saw what he had dismissed as of no importance at the time in the excitement of finding that the lamp's bulb had been shattered by the bang or bump which Flora Miles had described, one of the big glass jewels had been missing, leaving an unsightly hole. No wonder there had been a bang or bump hard enough to dent the frame of the window, for if his hunch was correct the gun wedged into the big bowl, with the silencer slightly protruding from the jewel hole, had kicked, just as it had kicked an hour before, when it had dislodged itself from the hole in the hot air register, and clattered down the big pipe to the heat reservoir of the furnace. That the big lamp, when he, following strong, had first examined the scene of Nita's murder, had not stood in front of the window frame, did not dampen Dundee's excitement in the least. After Karen Marshall's scream, that room had been filled with excited people, who had rushed about, looking out of the window for the murderer, and doing all the other things which terror-stricken people do in such a crisis, no, the murderer, or murderess, had found no difficulty in shifting the big lamp one foot nearer the shea's lounge, to the place it had always occupied before. But how had the gun been fired from the lamp, electrically? Another picture flashed into Dundee's mind. He saw himself stooping, on Monday afternoon, to see if the plug of the lamp's cord had been pulled from the socket. Now it again as it was then, nearly out, so that no current could pass from the base-board outlet, under the bookcase, into the bronze lamp, how far from the truth his conclusion that Monday had been. But what was the real truth? Suddenly Dundee flung back the moss-green Wilton rug, which almost entirely covered the bedroom floor, and revealed the bell which dexter Sprague had rigged up so that Nita might summon Lydia from her basement room, in case of dire need, a precaution with which the murderer was probably familiar, since Lois Dunlap might innocently have spread the news of its existence. There was a half-inch hole in the hardwood floor, and out of it issued a length of green electric cord, connected with two small, flat metal plates, one upon the other, so that when stepped upon a bell would ring in Lydia's basement room. But there was something odd about the wire, although it was obviously new, a section of it near the two metal plates was wrapped with black adhesive tape. Another memory knocked for attention upon Dundee's mind. The long cord of the bronze lamp had been mended with exactly the same sort of tape about a foot from where it ended in the contact plug. Within another two minutes, Dundee, with a flashlight he had found in the kitchen, was exploring the dark, earthly portion of the basement, which lay directly to the east of Lydia Carr's basement room. And he found what he was looking for, adhesive tape wrapped about the wire, which had been dropped through the floor of Nida's room before it had been carried, by means of another hole, into Lydia's room. He was too late, thanks to Captain Straughan, the bell which sprig had rigged up was in working order again, but as he was passing out of the basement he glanced at the ceiling of the large room devoted to furnace, hot water heater, and laundry tubs, and in the ceiling he saw a hole. The murderer had left a trace he could not obliterate. At three o'clock that Sunday afternoon, Bonnie Dundee, fatigued after a strenuous day and suffering to his own somewhat disgusted amusement from reaction, even a detective feels some shock at having narrowly escaped death, permitted himself the luxury of a call upon Penny Crane. She found the girl with her mother, playing anagrams, after greeting him, Mrs. Crane Rose, to surrender her place to the visitor. You play with this girl of mine, Mr. Dundee. She's too clever for me. She's beaten me every game so far, and when I plead for two-handed bridge as a chance to get even, she shudders at the very word. Why did you drag poor Ralph away from his dinner here to-day, Penny demanded, scrambling the little wooden blocks until they made a weird pattern of letters? Because I wanted to find out exactly how Nita Selam was killed, and I did, Dundee answered. I wish I knew as well who murdered her. Mute before Penny's excited questions the detective idly selected letters from the mass of face-up blocks on the table, and spelled out, in a long row, the names of all the guests at Nita's fatal bridge party. Suddenly, and with a cry that startled Penny, Dundee made a new name with the little wooden letters. Now he knew the answers to both how and who. CHAPTER XXVIII. OF MURDER AT BRIDGE. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nicole Carl, St. Louis, Missouri, October 2007. MURDER AT BRIDGE by Ann Austin, Chapter XXVIII. I fail to see any necessity for all the secrecy and hocus-pocus. District Attorney Sanderson protested irritably. Why, the devil, don't you come clean and give us the lowdown, if you have it, on this miserable business, instead of high-handedly summoning Captain Straughn to my office, so that you can give orders to us both. Before Dundee could answer, Captain Straughn came to his assistance. I worked for this boy for a pretty near year, Bill, and never yet did he fail to make good when he said he had a pot on to boil. If he says it will boil over this evening, provided we help him, boil over it will, or I don't know Bonnie Dundee. Sanderson scowled, but capitulated, all right. What do you want? Thanks, Chief, and thanks, Captain. Dundee cried with heartfelt gratitude. First, I want to be excused from attending the adjourned inquests into the two murders, scheduled for three o'clock today. OK, Sanderson agreed shortly. Second, after about an hour of routine stuff, I wish you'd ask for another adjournment until tomorrow, on the plea that important developments are expected today. OK, again. Third, I'd like you to personally request the appearance of every person connected in any way with each of the murders in your office this afternoon at four o'clock, so the whole bunch will be kept together and have no chance to go to their homes or anywhere else until I am ready for them. You can say that, owing to the illness of your mother during the investigations, you want to question everyone personally. Do you want all the servants brought here, too? Sanderson asked. None but Lydia Carr Dundee answered. After about an hour's innocuous questioning, please invite them to accompany you to the Salim House. For that, he anti-grinned, is where the pot is scheduled to boil over. I'd like everybody there by five-fifteen. Where do I come in? Captain Straughn demanded, almost jealously. Now that you are no longer looking for a New York gunman, I suppose you have plenty of plain clothesmen at your disposal? Dundee asked, and was instantly sorry he had reminded his former chief of the collapse of his cherished and satisfying theory. Plenty, Straughn answered gruffly. How many will you need? Enough to keep every person on Mr. Sanderson's invitation list under strictest observation until the pot boils over, Dundee replied. When do you want them to get on the job? As soon as they can do so, after you get back to your office. Are they to follow the whole gang clear out to the Salim House? Most decidedly, after the unwilling guests are safely within the house, your boys must guard the premises so that no one leaves without permission. That's all as good as done, Straughn assured him. Now, about them inquiries you asked me to make yesterday of the secretary of the American Legion. He drew a scrap of paper from his breast pocket. I find that John Drake, Peter Dunlop, and Clive Hammond were all in service in the—blank—division, which was held up late in January nineteen-eighteen for nearly two weeks in Hobelkin, before the War Department could get transports to send them to France. Miles, who enlisted the day war was declared, was wounded and shipped home late in nineteen-seventeen. He was discharged as unfit for further service, spinal operation, from a New Jersey-based hospital on January twelve, nineteen-eighteen. Furthermore, Judge Marshall was in New York that whole winter of nineteen-seventeen through eighteen, attached to the Red Cross in some legal capacity. He donated his services and—all that doesn't matter now, Captain—but thanks just the same, Dundee interrupted. Now, if you will both excuse me, I've got a lot of work to do before five o'clock today. Dundee had not exaggerated. That Monday was one of the busiest days he had ever spent in all the twenty-seven years of his life. He began, rather strangely, by visiting half a dozen of Hamilton's hardware stores, exhibiting a peculiar instrument and making annoying inquiries as to when and to whom it had been sold. But at his sixth port of call, success so completely rewarded his efforts that he was jubilant when he bade the mystified proprietor a good day, a signed statement reposing in his wallet. Two other calls, both in office buildings, took up only an hour of his time, and a tax cab delivered him at police headquarters just as the factory whistles were sirening the news that it was two o'clock. He was lucky enough to find the fingerprint expert, Caraway, in his cubbyhole of an office. His desk almost crowded out by immense filing cabinets. Five minutes later, Dundee sat at that desk, photographs of Dexter Sprague's dead body, just as it had been discovered on the floor of the trophy room in the miles' home, and a labeled set of fingerprints spread out before him. You're sure there can have been. No mistake, he asked. No chance that these fingerprint photographs were reversed when the prints were made. Not a chance, with my system, Caraway retorted positively. Fine, Dundee cried. May I take these photographs? You have copies, I presume. It was half past two o'clock when Dundee, after a much needed lunch, parked his car in the driveway of one of the most splendid houses overlooking Mirror Lake, a home whose master and mistress were now attending an inquest into two murders. Half an hour later, he climbed in his roadster again, with his head spinning. Did I say ingenious, he marveled. He drove directly to the Salim House, for he had much to do before the arrival of Sanderson's compulsory guests at five-fifteen. His first visit there was to a small room in the basement, a dark cubby-hole next to the coal-room. He had locked it carefully after exploring it the day before, for he had taken no chance on leaving unguarded, as he had found it a treasure worth more to him than its weight in gold. And a queer treasure it was that he extracted now, a coiled length of electric wire, which he and Ralph Hammond had measured the day before, with triumphant excitement, a box of thumbtacks, many of them surprisingly bent at the point, an auger with a set of bits of varying sizes, a step ladder, and a hammer. If Dexter Sprague had not overestimated the amount of electric wire needed for the job of installing an alarm bell between Nita's bedroom and Lydia's, Dundee was about to close the tool chest when his eyes fell upon a piece of hardware he had not expected ever to find, although he had known of its existence for more than an hour. At five-fifteen he was entirely ready for D.A. Sanderson and Captain Straughn and their party of indignant and unwilling guests. Oh, Mr. Dundee, Caroline Drake squealed, you're not going to make us play that awful death-hand again, are you? They were all crowding about him, the men and women who had been Nita Salim's guests at her last bridge and cocktail party. Not only are the bridge-tables exactly where they were at this time on the evening of May 24, Dundee answered so significantly that all stopped chattering to listen, but everything else in the house is precisely as it was then. Fortunately, not even the electricity has been cut off. But to make sure I have forgotten nothing, I wish you would all follow me into Mrs. Salim's bedroom and look for yourselves. Like sheep, they crowded into the little foyer and on into the bedroom. There stood the big bronze lamp set squarely in front of the window frame and in a direct line with the musical powder box on dead Nita's dressing table. At 5.25, Penny Crane, Karen Marshall, Caroline Drake, and Flora Miles, who had been requisitioned by Dundee to play the part of the murdered woman, were seated at table number two, and behind Karen's chair stood Lois Dunlop. Clive Hammond and his new wife were again together in the solarium, but there Dundee's restaging of the original scene of the tragic drama ended. Everyone else, including Lydia Carr and Peter Dunlop, were huddled together in a far corner of the living room. Now, Mr. Miles, Dundee called, your cue. Never mind the comedy about house tricks. Simply go into the dining room with Mrs. Dunlop to mix cocktails. You'll find all the ingredients still on the sideboard exactly as there were when Mrs. Salim sent you to mix drinks on May 24. And Mrs. Miles, will you, pretending that you are need of Salim, go to powder your face at Mrs. Salim's dressing table? Her face white and drawn, Flora Miles stumbled from the room just as her husband, dumb for once with rage, entered the dining room with Lois Dunlop. Dundee was about to follow the latter two when an interruption occurred. Followed by a plain clothesman, a middle-aged man entered the living room. Tall, broad-shouldered, determined. He strode to the bridge table, his handsome, head-up flung, his brown eyes fixed upon the widened brown eyes of Penny Crane. Dad, the girl breathed, enjoyously. Oh, Dad, you've come home. But Dundee halted the reconciliation with a stern word of command. Please join the group in the corner, Mr. Crane. Regardless of the ensuing hubbub, Dundee strode into the dining room where Tracy Miles stood at the sideboard, pouring whiskey from an almost empty decanter into a small glass. May I drink the scotch Tracy has poured for me, Mr. Dundee, Mrs. Dunlop asked shakily, leaning against the big round table. Yes, but silence, please, he cried, as there came the first faint, tinkling notes of Juanita from Nieta's musical powder box, penetrating the thin wall between the bedroom and dining room. As I have said, the detective spoke loudly and clearly above the tinkle of music. Everything is now exactly as it was when Nieta Selene was murdered. Permit me to show you all how that murder was accomplished. A chair at the bridge table was overturned. Lois Dunlop almost choked on her drink of scotch. Women screamed. In a few seconds, every person in the living room, including the district attorney and strong, was huddled in the wide opening into the dining room, their eyes fixed in horror upon Bonnie Dundee. He spoke again, his voice very clear, but slow and weighted with a dreadful significance. Mrs. Dunlop, step on the bell beneath the dining table. Lois Dunlop dropped the empty whisky glass. Her face suddenly wiped of all expression. Step on that bell, Mrs. Dunlop, just as you did before. As if hypnotized, Lois Dunlop began to grope with the toe of her right pump for the slight bulge under the rug, which indicated the position of the bell used for summoning the mage from the kitchen. With a strangled cry, Tracey Miles lunged across the few feet which separated the woman and himself, seized her arm and whirled her violently away from the table. Do you want to kill my wife, too? he panted, his usually floored face the color of putty. You! You! End of CHAPTER XXVIII. That would be impossible, Miles, Dundee said deliberately, for your wife is already dead. Even his clear words rang out like the knell of doom. Tracey Arthur Miles, I arrest you for the murder of your wife, known as Juanita Lee Salim, and for the murder of Dexter Sprague. And it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used against you. Tracey Miles lifted his ash in face and stared at the detective blankly, as though he had gone deaf and blind. All over, isn't it? May I have a drink? He managed to articulate at last. Poor devil! He needs it! The two soft-hearted young detective told himself, as Miles poured a drink from the almost empty whiskey decanter and raised the little glass to his lips. I have nothing to say. The murderer gasped thickly, then fell heavily to the floor. It was three-quarters of an hour later. District Attorney Sanderson, Captain Straughn, and Dundee were alone in the house where Needle Salim had been murdered, and where her husband had confessed to his crimes by committing suicide. The morgue ambulance had come and gone. I should have known, Dundee admitted roofily, as the three men entered Needle's bedroom, that so ingenious a criminal as Tracey Miles would not have failed to provide against the possibility of discovery. He must have seized an opportunity to spill cyanide of potassium into the decanter when my eyes were off him for a moment, and upon Lois Dunlap. I'm glad he did, Sanderson said curtly, but it was ghastly that poor Lois had to know that it was she, in all innocence, who fired the shot that killed her friend. It was, Dundee sighed, but I believed that the only way I could make Miles confess was to frighten him into thinking Floor would be killed in the same manner. Well, it worked. And Straun and I are still in the dark as to exactly how Miles managed his wife's murder, Sanderson reminded him. This morning he chose to tell us nothing more than that a Hamilton man had married Needle Lee in New York in January 1918, and that eight years ago, when he saw her picture in the Hamilton Evening Sun, along with the story that a Needle Lee had committed suicide, he felt free to marry again. You said then that you knew who the man was, but you would not even tell us how you knew. Because I had very little actual proof then, Dundee answered. As to who he was, the salient clue had been staring me in the face the whole time, but it was not until I was fooling with a set of anagrams last night, idly spelling out the names of all the men who might have married her, and then murdered her, that I saw it. Saw what? Straun demanded, irritably, that Salim is simply Miles spelled backwards, Dundee explained, possibly because he considered it the sophisticated thing to do, Miles used an assumed name at the party at which he met Needle Lee, and married her under that name shortly afterward. Even the first name, Matt, by which he knew him, was only his initials reversed. Simple, but clever, Sanderson commented. Just as were all of Miles's schemes after Nita, egged on by Sprague, turned up in Hamilton to demand back alimony as the price of her silence. But let me show you how he killed his wife. He strode to the big bronze lamp. It took me less than an hour today to reconstruct the death machine, so that it would be almost exactly as it was when Miles finished his work just before two-thirty on Saturday, May twenty-four, and as it remained until he had an opportunity to come back here and dismantle it. Trust him to find out that the guard was removed from the house Thursday. As he spoke, he was unscrewing the big, jewel-studded bowl of the bronze lamp. Just at a down-slanting angle inside the bowl, which was twelve inches in diameter, was Judge Marshall's snub-nosed automatic, the attached maxim silencer projecting slightly from the hole whose jewel was missing. Lydia told me last night over the telephone, and very much surprised she was, too, when I swore her to secrecy, that the jewel had been lost when the lamp was shipped from New York. Zendy explained. There's a blank cartridge in the gun now, of course, but Miles and his panic took my words literally. See the electromagnet strapped to the gun-butt? He got it from the bell, sprogged and stalled in Lydia's bedroom, and he returned it when he was cleaning up, so that the bell would ring again. The magnet he connected with the electric wire in one of the two lamp-sockets, as you see it now, and the long cord of the lamp was connected with the wire of the bell in the dining-room. So connected that when anyone stepped on the two little metal plates under the dining-room rug, the kitchen bell would ring and the gun would be fired simultaneously. But if you will examine the jewel-hole, he suggested, you will see that Miles had to enlarge it considerably, using a reamer, which I found in the tool-chest in the basement, along with all the apparatus Sprog had bought for installing Nita's alarm-bell. I could see no reason for Sprog's having needed a reamer for his little job, however, and this morning I was lucky enough to get proof that Miles himself had purchased it at a hardware store on the Tuesday before Nita's murder. How did he connect the lamp-cord with the dining-room bell, Strawn puzzled, these modern houses don't have exposed wiring. You forget Sprog's wiring for the alarm-bell from here to Lydia's room, and Dundee threw back the rug, showing them the hole in the floor, out of which came a short length of electrical wire, ending in two small metal plates. What attached now to the wire was the cord from the bronze lamp. The plug of the lamp-cord is nearly out of the baseboard outlet behind the bookcase, just as Miles left it, so that there is no contact with electricity there, and the rug, which almost entirely covers the floor, hides, as you have seen, the joining of the two wires, an inexplicable wrapping of adhesive tape, both on the lamp-cord and on the wire of Nita's alarm-bell here gave me the clue. When installing the alarm-bell, Sprog copied the arrangement under the dining-table, of course, and Miles simply had to drop a bit, fastened to the auger Sprog had bought and used for his own job, down the four inches which separate the dining-room floor from the basement ceiling, boring a hole through the ceiling. It was that fresh-bored hole in the ceiling that I could not understand, and which Ralph Hammond assured me was not there Saturday morning before Nita was killed. Miles joined a piece of electric wire to the dining-room bell wires and pushed it down through the hole he had bored in the basement ceiling. Now, if you'll come down with me, when the three men stood staring upward at the basement ceiling, Dundee continued. See this long wire running along the ceiling from the hole beneath the dining-room bell? The tax miles used to secure it were also returned to the tool-chest, but he could not get rid of either the auger hole or the tiny hole showing the course of the wire. Let's follow it. He led them across the basement to a door leading into a dank, unfinished portion of the cellar, directly east of Lydia's bedroom and beneath Nita's. The wire whose course they were following had led under the top frame of the door, and with a flashlight in his hand, Dundee showed how it continued along a rafter until it reached the place where it was joined by adhesive tape to the wire Sprog had dropped from Nita's bedroom floor above. Sprog simply cut the wire here where it enters another hole through Lydia's bedroom wall and attached the new wire, Dundee explained. The connection between the dining-room bell and the electromagnet in the lamp upstairs was then complete. Sprog had bought yards too much of the wire, fortunately for Miles's scheme. But what a chance Miles took on the bullets not hitting her in a fatal spot, Sanderson commented in an odd voice. Not much of a chance, Dundee denied. He would fire the gun only when he knew Nita was seated before her dressing-table. Experienced marksmen that he was, he could calculate the path of the bullet to a nicety. Of course the machine had to be used that very day. As you know, Nita herself gave him his chance. Miles, standing at the sideboard, which was separated from Nita's dressing-table only by a thin wall, listened until the first faint notes of Juanita told him that Nita was powdering her face. He could be almost positive that Nita was sitting down to her task. The poor girl saw nothing to alarm her, but the gun kicked when the shot was fired by Lois's innocent stepping on the dining-room bell, and the big lamp was rocked so that it banged against the window frame, shattering the one bulb Miles had left in it. Of course he moved the lamp a foot or so in the resulting excitement. And if Nita had been wounded only, living to tell how the shot was fired, Miles would have committed suicide then and there. What if Nita had not asked him to mix cocktails, or had not gone to powder her face, Strawn asked. The whole party was going to dine and dance at the country club. Miles would have escorted her home, as he had done on Monday night, when Nita had probably made her last demand. He could have counted on Nita's going to her bedroom to powder her face, even if he had to tell her that her nose was shiny, and would then himself gone to the dining-room on the excuse that he needed a drink before discussing business. But I must tell you that on Saturday morning, according to the telephone operator in Miles's office, into whom I put the fear of the Lord and the law when I interviewed her this morning, Nita rang Miles to say she must see him as soon as possible, her unexpressed intention being to tell him that she was not going to make him come across again. Miles, the telephone operator, confessed to have listened in on the whole conversation. Told her he would be right out, but Nita said she and Lydia were going into Hamilton and would not be back until two-thirty, the time the bridge game was scheduled to begin. That was the opportunity Miles had been praying for, and he came on out, having previously stolen the gun and the silencer and having studied this house. How had he got in, Sanderson wanted to know. Judge Marshall had lent him a key in February, when Miles wanted to show the house to an engaged young man in his offices, and Miles had neglected to return it. Well, when he arrived he found Ralph Hammond here and had to leave, waiting at a safe distance probably until the coast was clear about one o'clock. Even so he had more than an hour to do his carefully planned job. Nita had to die. Miles could not continue to pay her large sums of money since he was really only an employee of Flora's. Everything he held dear in the world was threatened. He loved Flora, he adored his children, and he could not give up the luxury and social position which his bigamest marriage with Flora. Why didn't he make a clean breast of the whole mess to Flora since he had not married her until he believed Nita Lee was dead, Sanderson interrupted. You must remember that Flora was carrying on a violent flotation with Sprague, vamping him to get the lead in the Hamilton movie if Sprague got the job of directing it, Dundee reminded him. Miles, victim of a deep-rooted sexual inferiority complex, must have felt sure that Flora, on discovering she was not legally married, would snatch at the chance to marry Sprague, which was, of course, what Sprague had planned in case Nita published the truth. But you were wrong about the secret shelf. The gun was never there, strong-blooded. No, but it was the absence of fingerprints on the pivoting panel and shelf which kept me on the right track. Miles had searched the shelf for the marriage certificate which he could not know Nita had already burned. Probably too he had written her a few letters during their short courtship. How was Sprague killed, Sanderson interrupted impatiently. Dundee led the way across the basement to a cubby-hole next to the coal-room, entered and came out with a narrow, deep drawer of ebony inlaid with mother of Pearl. First, I must tell you that Miles got the gun out of the lamp that Saturday night, parking his car at a distance and sneaking into the house while I was talking with Lydia in the basement. We can guess that he stowed gun, silencer, and electromagnet in a pocket of his car. At any rate he came back noisily enough a little later to offer Lydia a job as nurse in his home. Doubtless he assured himself that she knew nothing, or poor Lydia would have gone the way of her mistress and Sprague. As Sprague, strong began, despite my warning, Dundee went on, refusing to be hurried, Sprague made a demand for blackmail money upon Miles. It is possible that Sprague, also sneaking into the house that Saturday night to get his bag, saw Miles retrieve the gun. At any rate Sprague knew that Miles was the only person among all the company who had a real motive for killing Nita Saline, and he undoubtedly blackmailed Miles as a murderer as well as a bigamist. Perhaps Miles put him off for a day or two, but on Wednesday Judge Marshall begged for a bridge game, and Miles seized the opportunity of again having the original crowd present, a sort of wall of integrity surrounding and including him. For I don't think he really wanted to involve his best friends as suspects. I believe he merely wanted to hide among them, apparently as above suspicion as they were. And there is a safety in numbers, you know. At any rate Miles made an appointment Wednesday afternoon with Sprague, telling him that if he would come to his house that evening and manage to leave the bridge game while he was dummy, he would find the money he was demanding, in a drawer of the cabinet that stood between the two windows in the trophy room. Dundee exhibited the drawer he had taken from the basement tool room. This drawer. I took it away from the Miles home this afternoon while everyone but a chambermaid was at the inquest. Miles did not have time to go home before going to your office, Mr. Sanderson, with the rest of the crowd you had summoned for questioning. If he had he would have killed himself as soon as he found the incriminating drawer was missing from the cabinet. But how, Sanderson began, frowning with bewilderment. Very simple, Dundee answered, when Sprague pulled open this drawer which was set in the cabinet at just the height of his stomach, he received a bullet in his heart. See these four little holes? A vice was screwed into the bottom of the drawer so that it gripped the gun with its silencer at an upward angle. A piece of string was tied to the trigger and fastened somehow to the underside of the drawer, so that when Sprague pulled the drawer open the string was drawn taut and the trigger pulled. Practically the same mechanism by which he tried to murder me. The kick of the gun jerked the drawer shut. All Miles had to do when he was pretending to look for Sprague was to turn off the trophy room light by a button. One of a series on the outside wall of the hall-closet. Probably it had been agreed between them that Sprague would not return to the bridge-game, hence Sprague's telephoning for a taxi to wait for him at the foot of the hill, and his taking his hat and stick into the trophy room with him. Then Miles had for midnight till dawn to remove the gun. Yes, sometime during the night, after Flora was asleep with a sedative, which she badly needed because of the coral, a genuine one, which she and Tracy had had over Sprague, Miles slipped down to the trophy room and removed the gun and vice. But he could not remove the holes the screws had made, although he did cover the bottom of the usually empty drawer with old pamphlets on the care and feeding of dogs. By the way the chambermaid told me that her master spent about half an hour before dinner that Thursday night in the trophy room, going over his fishing tackle. His next concern was to make the murder jib completely with Captain Straun's theory of a gunman who had trailed his quarry to the Miles' home and shot him through the window. The window was already open, but the screen had to be raised, too, and Sprague's fingerprints had to be on the nickel catches by which the screen curtain is raised or lowered. Of course Sprague had not touched the screen. Do you mean to say he lugged the corpse to the window and lifted it up so that he could press the stiff fingers upon the nickel catches? Sanderson asked with a shutter. What a fiend! No, Dundee assured him. That was unnecessary. He simply removed the curtain's screen, which is so designed that it can be taken down and put up as easily as a window-shape. He carried the screen, his own hands protected by gloves, I suppose, to where Sprague's right hand lay palm upward, on the floor, and pressed the thumb and forefinger against the catches, making fingerprints all right, but they were reversed, as I discovered when it occurred to me to examine the photographs of Sprague's fingerprints in Caroway's office today. Miles could not turn the stiff hand over without bruising the dead flesh. Consequently, the print of the forefinger was on the catch where the thumb would normally have left its mark, and vice versa. Before I forget it, I should also tell you that I found a master key hanging on the keyboard in the butler's pantry. Big houses with their many locks are usually provided with a master key, and Miles undoubtedly used that one to gain entrance into my room after midnight Saturday morning. Where did you find the vice, Strawn asked? In the tool-chest right here, where he had also placed the reamer he had bought. The vice probably belonged to Miles originally, but he was taking no chances on anything being found in his possession, provided we tumbled to how the two crimes were committed. The reamer he must have brought out here after he used it to enlarge the hole in my hot air register after midnight Sunday morning. It is possible he did his cleaning up job here at the same time. It was safe enough to have lights on, since the house is so isolated, and there had been no guard here since Thursday. Well, Sanderson drew a deep breath. He was a far cleverer man than any of us suspected. The mechanical arrangements were absurdly easy to rig up, in all three cases, but the thinking of them— It is a pity Nita did not fear him as she feared Sprague's vengeance. You're right, Dundee answered. Nita did not fear Miles, could not, even when she was making him pay and pay. No woman could look at Miles and believe him capable of murder. But a conviction of sexual inferiority leads to strange things, as psychologists can tell you. I believe Miles married the only two women who ever fell in love with him, and there can be no doubt that Nita really loved him, for she kept her wedding dress for more than twelve years and chose it to be her shroud. It is possible she was still fond of him, although she was infatuated with Sprague when she came down here, and was later sincerely in love with Ralph Hammond. Another reason she did not fear Miles when she made her will was that she counted on being able to tell him Saturday night at the latest that she would never ask him for money again, if he would trade silence for silence. How she hoped to secure Sprague's silence we can only guess at. Probably she meant to buy it with the remainder of the ten thousand she had already got from Miles, provided Sprague did not kill her for ditching him as a lover. We know she foresaw that possibility since she willed the money to Lydia. Of course, if Sprague had proved tractable, Nita, as Ralph's wife, would have been able to compensate Lydia handsomely for the injury she had done her. For Nita and poor Flora, Sanderson sighed, as he led the way up the basement stairs. Hello, someone's calling you, Bonnie. Dundee ran through the kitchen and dining room and into the living room, for he had recognized Penny Crane's sweet, husky control toe. What are you doing back here, young woman? He demanded. You were told to go home and forget all this ugly business. Dad wants a private word with you, Penny explained, her brown eyes luminous with happiness. He's on the front porch, and you ought to see, mother, she looks like a twenty-year-old bride. When Dundee joined him on the porch, Roger Crane flushed painfully, but there was happiness in his eyes, too. Serena asked me to thank you for giving her Penny's message to pass on to me, Crane began in a low voice. I'm sure you've guessed a lot, but what you probably don't know is that Serena used the securities I had sent her for safe keeping to play the market with. Since she knew what I had done here she wouldn't let me touch a penny of the money until she had turned it into enough to clear up all my debts in Hamilton. Then—and he sighed slightly—she sent me home. Not that I'm sorry, I'm going to make Margaret and Penny happy. Make them and the town forget that I disgraced them. Through—Penny called from the doorway—and Bonnie Dundee forgot Tracy Miles and all his ingenious schemes. End of Murder at Bridge by Ann Austin