Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 105, No. 5, October 10, 1936

Chapter I Refuge from the Storm

Ellen Conway tugged grimly at the balky wheel of her little coupe, tired eyes glued to the weaving taillight of the big car ahead.

It was making bad business of the deeply rutted detour and every moment threatened to spin sloshing directly across the single-track lane, completely blocking progress. The night was kettle-black. About in the watery darkness, tree clumps huddled together disconsolately, drooping with the weight of the steady downpour.

Slim-shoulders hunched stiffly in her damp little jacket, soft lips settled in stubborn defiance, Ellen wrestled with the treacherous traction.

The windshield wipers raced, sobbing, as she slowed for the unmarked turn — then with a gasp she ducked for the emergency brake, knobby oxford kicking frantically at the clutch pedal. Fifty yards below, in a steep dip, the green sedan had come to a halt, fronting a narrow bridge. Its rear wheels were in the ditch, brilliant lights tilting skyward.

But it wasn’t the crazy slewing of her own machine that tore the choked cry from Ellen’s lips, sending her forward to press her face against the cold glass.

Men were struggling there in the ditch, fighting desperately! Siding the open door of the sedan, their tall figures were bobbing and churning grotesquely. Momentarily their white faces showed but they were too far away to recognize.

Both wore raincoats that flopped and cloyed about their legs as they threshed doggedly up the ditch bank.

Ellen swabbed futilely at the glass with a moist palm but the distorting silvery screen of water was all on the outside.

Suddenly the men seemed to fall apart and the next instant the darting violet flame of two swift shots split the murk. They closed again, blending in silent struggle.

Then one of the indistinct figures tossed up its arms and sank to the muddy roadway. The other swooped down, began tugging the inert form toward the open door of the car, bundling him like a soggy bag of meal.

With a sob, Ellen closed her eyes against that vision of limp sprawling arms, a pasty white blur of a bloodstained face. Then she doused her lights.

Fumbling at the catch, she pushed open her near door and shoved out across the running board. Thought of turning, even the light coupe, for flight from that squashy quagmire was hopeless.

One thought was urging her tired muscles to action. Granting murder had been done, the killer might investigate those prying beams from behind.

Lifting her skirt high, she plunged across the water-filled ditch and scrambed up the slippery bank to bring up abruptly before a tall iron fence.

With startling suddenness, lightning tore at the horizon line and Ellen glimpsed, through the steel-picketed barrier, landscaped grounds, sentineled by tall trees and the occasional huddle of crouching shrubbery.

She gasped with relief at the twinkle of lights glowing through the partly curtained windows of a house resting on a knoll some quarter of a mile distant.

Then, below on the road, the purring of the sedan’s motor rose to a soft roar.

Hands clutching the steel picket tips, Ellen hesitated. If the big car straightened out, continued its flight, her best course was to return to her own car. If not—

Groaning and creaking, those wildly spinning wheels sought for and found traction in the road ruts again. The car settled into movement, creeping inexorably backward.

That settled it. Her arrival had been noticed, was being investigated.

Teeth set grimly over her quivering lips, Ellen clambered upward and over those sharp-spiked pickets, tearing her skirt and gouging her hip cruelly.

The next instant she was racing across the hillside. It was uneven going and twice she pitched headlong. Finally, soaked to the skin, and panting heavily, she approached the house only to bring up abruptly behind a syringa bush. With breath-taking suddenness, the savage baying of a dog cut the silence.

There was something terrifying about that deep-throated challenge. For the instant her knees went weak, then grimly she darted forward again, making for the shelter of the wide veranda.

Stumbling on the top step, she slid forward, almost to the feet of the tall man who abruptly appeared in the doorway. Above, a light flooded on.

“What the hell?” the growled, peering suspiciously.

A second figure appeared at his elbow, shorter, heavier. Both glared down at the girl.

Gasping, Ellen struggled to her feet. “There was a shooting down on the detour!” She waved a smudgy palm. “They... they saw me — driving up — I ran — you’d better phone Conningsby.”

“Just a minute, Paget.” The shorter man shouldered forward. Ellen noted vaguely that he wore baggy knickers and plaid stockings. He spoke from a mouth that was like a steel trap. His sharp, small blue eyes swept over her. “Now, young lady, what’s this about shooting?”

Ellen passed a hand wearily over her eyes, drooping weakly. He seized her elbow. “Get inside where you can sit down,” he suggested.

Ellen’s eyes lifted falteringly to the taller man. There was an air of startled menace in his dark, high cheek-boned face. His mouth was a slash.

“’Yeaha,” he offered. “Start talkin’, baby—”

“Shut up,” snapped the other. “Here, Miss, over by the fire.”

Still gasping weakly, Ellen crossed the large, cheery room with its deep chairs and low, wide divan backed by a broad winding stair, to sink gratefully down before the generous, glowing fireplace.

“Why, it’s like I said,” she offered, brushing wet hair from her face. “I was driving along the detour behind the big green sedan. The road was terrible and I was afraid I’d slide into him when he slowed for the dips—”

“My gosh, get on with it!” burst out the tall Paget. “The shooting — who—?”

“Stow the gab,” snarled the shorter man. “She’s doing her best.”

“Okay, Kessler,” clipped Paget. “If that was a Tavelli stick-up, we’ve plenty time for fairy tales.”

“Go on, Miss,” Kessler scowled, patting her shoulder, but there seemed savage hurry in his action. The girl’s eyes had suddenly widened on his broad, intent face. “Tavelli?” she murmured.

“A guest we were expecting,” he offered. “Now, what happened?”

She swallowed, wetting her dips, then she smiled faintly, spreading her hands. “A fight in the deep pit where the road bridges the creek. The sedan was in the ditch when I made the turn — two men started shooting — one dropped — the other put him in the car. I ran, climbing over the fence when he started backing toward my coupé. I saw the house lights — then that terrible dog—” She shuddered.

“Kato,” explained Kessler. “The watch dog — but he’s chained.”

“And just who the devil are you?” Paget scowled at her.

Ellen wet her lips. “Why, Ellen Conway. I’ve been making a survey for the State-Board of Public Education. This is my new district.” She flinched back from the quizzical appraising eyes. “I... I was headed for Gonningsby—” she faltered — “when—”

“And this sedan, it was green, you said?” It was Kessler speaking.

“Yes — a Packard, I think.”

“And the men — hard to see, of course—?”

“Yes. I didn’t recognize them, naturally. They wore raincoats—”

Paget’s and Kessler’s glances clashed above the drooping girl. Each carried a burning question. Kessler nodded.

Paget swung away with an oath. “This is a hell of a state of affairs,” he growled. “Tavelli think—”

“Better take Kato and get down there,” snapped Kessler. “You can pick up Miss Conway’s car. She’ll be staying here tonight.”

Ellen started up. “Oh, no,” she objected hurriedly. “I must be getting on—”

“Yeah,” Paget wheeled round, speaking gruffly. “We’re not fixed for guests—”

“We’re fixed swell,” Kessler spoke evenly, holding the other’s rebellious glance. “Best ’tend to things, Paget, outside.”

With a muttered curse, the tall man turned and strode out the doorway. Kessler smiled, a bit grimly Ellen thought, and reached for a cigarette, holding out the case.

“The detour, it appears,” he said, “is not such a safe place for ladies traveling alone at night.” He sank into a chair, nodding, his big head topped by its mane of reddish-blond hair. “Contrary to Paget, we’ve plenty of room. My wife — Mrs. Kessler—”

“Yes?”

They both turned at the low spoken voice on the stairs. A woman was descending. Ellen saw first the tiny silver slippers with rhinestone buckles. After that the sweep of silken skirts.

Ellen sat tensely watching the length of dull green crepe come into her line of vision — the beautiful white arm — the hand that caressed the rail as it descended. The polished, crimsoned nails. Ellen frowned. It looked almost as if the woman had dipped her fingertips in blood. Kessler rose.

“Irene,” he said, “this is Miss Conway, a representative of the State Educational Department.”

Ellen rose, smiling. “I’m glad to know you,” she said simply.

Mrs. Kessler paused, puzzlement tugging at her thread-thin brows as she bowed acknowledgment. Her eyes drifted slowly over Ellen. She saw a slightly built young woman in a well-tailored tweed suit, a rumpled blouse of egg-shell crepe and a small, rather forlorn brown felt hat. Ellen had large, serious gray eyes, fringed with up-curling black lashes. A tip-tilted nose, a wide mouth and a chin which jutted definitely. The hair showing under the wet hat was dark brown.

She swept regally toward the fire, speaking in a low, throaty contralto. “Of course you know we have no children here, Miss Conway,” she said, “if it’s a survey—” She reached languidly for a cigarette on the mantel.

Ellen broke in hurriedly. “Oh no, nothing like that! I was going to Conningsby. There was trouble below on the road and I—”

“Yes — some thugs in a stick-up,” said Kessler. “Miss Conway sought temporary sanctuary and I’ve just suggested she stay the night.”

Irene Kessler had whirled, the cigarette snapping in her slim fingers. “Why... why, of course!” Her tones had thickened, wide, brown eyes on her husband’s face. “Tavelli—” the half whispered word formed on her lips, then she said: “Ralph, do you suppose our — our guest is in trouble?”

Kessler’s thick shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “The car was a green Packard, but there are many such. There was some shooting. Miss Conway didn’t wait. I’ve sent Paget down.”

Ellen’s eyes were on the woman’s face that had suddenly drained of color. She was strikingly beautiful, limned in fire glow, with stormy red hair like a crown and her curves displayed in the simple draping folds of the jade-green gown.

Her questioning glance tore free of her husband’s and she relaxed with an effort, turning to Ellen:

“It all must have frightened you out of your wits, you poor child,” she murmured. “You must get off your coat and those uncomfortable wet things before dinner.” She turned, pressing a bell. “Some of my clothes—” she suggested.

But Ellen interrupted. “Oh, I’ve a bag in my car. Mr. Paget is bringing it up—”

The door at the rear opened and a tall gaunt woman entered. She came silently on large, strong feet, waiting patiently, eyes on her mistress’s face.

“Dilke,” Irene Kessler said, “show Miss Conway to the west room and prepare a bath for her. She will be having dinner with us. Paget is bringing in her things. Mrs. Dilke will take care of you, Miss Conway.”

Dilke bowed stiffly and without a word started upstairs. Ellen thanked her hostess and followed the woman. She held her eyes on Mrs. Dilke’s feet. They moved just ahead of her, with the slow, methodical precision of machines. She wore a neat, black uniform and a little white apron and cap. The black skirt rustled faintly as she moved. There was an indefinable, harsh efficiency about her.

The upper hall was in darkness but Dilke pressed a light and led the way silently to the far end where she opened a door, snapped a button and stood aside for Ellen to enter. Crossing over, she touched a match to a fire that was already laid, opened the door, gesturing the bath.

Ellen nodded brightly, jerked off her hat, running fingers through her damp hair. Her glance returned to the woman, noting curiously the long, gaunt face, tanned the color of mahogany. Light glistened on her iron-gray hair, the high polished cheek bones, the stubborn jaw. Dilke stood, hands folded across her flat stomach, regarding Ellen unemotionally, and said:

“I’ll fetch your bag when it comes. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Ellen tried her most winning smile. “Nothing at all, thank you, Mrs. Dilke. You don’t know how I appreciate being allowed to stop here.”

Dilke’s eyes flared wide in a startled look. For a long moment she stared at Ellen, then with an audible grunt, she marched to the door and went out.

Slowly Ellen crossed to the window, drummed at by the monotonous rain. She had a sudden unaccountable feeling of tension, of actual menace about the big, silent house. “Nerves,” she muttered irritably, then shivered at sound of the droning wind in the dark, tossing treetops outside.

That had been a close call in the lane. A bit nearer, she might have stopped a stray bullet herself. And the man Tavelli, the expected guest. Was his the gruesome white-faced body tumbled so unceremoniously into the car or the furtive, active figure that had weathered the fight unscathed and driven ruthlessly away in the rain? And what was at the bottom of it all? Like a whirling pinwheel, thoughts drummed at her brain — the green sedan — the shots in the night — her wild flight — her nervous hosts — and through it all the savage motif of a dog baying defiance at the storm.

The lights of a car burst sweeping up the drive. It whirled to a stop before the steps — a small, mud-spattered machine — her coupé.

She turned away, catching sight of her face in the dresser mirror.

It showed drawn and white. She said through suddenly trembling lips, “Scared of the dark, you little fool. Buck up!”

Minutes later, Dilke was rapping on her door.

Chapter II Death Is a Joke

Downstairs, Ralph Kessler faced a grim-lipped, mud-bespattered Paget. “The kid’s Story’s jake,” Paget muttered glumly. “I could see where the big bus had slid into the ditch — footprints messin’ up the mud and considerable blood splashed round.”

Kessler, leaning against the mantel, growled deep in his throat. The woman Irene sat tensely forward in a deep chair, slender fingertips tapping at the arms.

“Tavelli?” she spoke hoarsely. “You think he was sapped? Who could have—?”

Kessler laughed harshly, shrugging thick shoulders. “Catch that big wop napping? Nix. My guess is he was on the business end of the gat. Some hitch hiker picked his big can for a plum and got ironed for his pains.”

Irene relaxed, sinking back. Paget surged forward. “If that’s the setup, where’s Tavelli now?” he gritted.

“Be your age,” snapped Kessler, fishing for a smoke with steady fingers. “Can you picture Tavelli leaving a stiff parked in our front yard?” He tapped his pocket. “I got a grand here says Tavelli shows up within the hour. Any takers?”

Paget wet his lips, eyes glittering. “Yessing that fairy tale, what about the girl?”

“We’ve answered that,” Kessler said. “She’s sticking here tonight.”

“My gosh!” Paget snapped. “We don’t want any strangers around with Tavelli coming. We’ve worked long enough jockeying him into this spot and now this mealy-mouthed girl—”

Irene Kessler lifted her gorgeous head. “Don’t be stuffy, Vance. Ralph’s right. Turn her loose and by the time she reached Conningsby, the stickup would have grown to a second St. Mihiel with her a Joan of Arc. Want the State Troopers on our doorstep?”

“Just simple country folks, that’s us,” added Kessler, speaking on smoke, “with nothing to worry about. How about her car? Look okay?”

Paget nodded gloomily. “Oh, she’s what she claims to be, I guess. Went through a brief case I found there. Lots of dope from the Board of Education, blanks and what-not.”

“Well, then why the temp’?” Kessler said with a shrug. “The kid looks fagged. She’ll turn in and we’ll handle Tavelli in the living room.”

“Providing he isn’t a corpse in a culvert somewhere,” Paget said sourly.

“Just a little ray of sunshine,” Kessler growled, tossing butts into the fire.

“Skip it,” came savagely from Paget. “Everything set?”

The eyes of the two men met and held in a glance of bleak unfriendliness. Kessler nodded. “Everything’s set. I hope Tavelli shakes it up. I’m starved.”

“Aren’t you changing?” his wife asked languidly, eyes dark with distaste on his thick bungling figure. “You surely aren’t going to meet Tavelli in that rig, Ralph?”

Kessler glanced over himself grumpily. “Tavelli ain’t comin’ to see how I dress,” he growled. “Might slick up some at that,” he agreed reluctantly and stalked off toward the stairs.

He mounted heavily, humming tunelessly. When the last echo of his ponderous steps had died away, Mrs. Kessler rose, came to the mantel and leaned beside Paget. They stood motionless for a moment, then her head lifted, her Shadowed eyes met his. Faint color tinged her white cheeks.

She said in a low, breathy whisper, “Darling! It will soon be over.”

His eyes took fire at the light in hers. Impulsively his arm went round her. They stood close for a moment, then she broke free, studying his oddly from pansy brown eyes.

“No chances, Vance,” she said under her breath. “Too much at stake. You don’t think there’s a possibility of Tavelli letting us down?”

He shook his head. “No. He’s as anxious as we are to get things settled. He’s been cadgy but, well, he’s a cautious bird. We had to convince him we were on the up and up.”

“Odd,” she mused, “that none of us know him. He’s been a name to us for so long, something to conjure with, and all, but none of us has ever seen him.”

“Few people have, Irene. That’s his role. He sticks a recluse in that Boul’ Mich’ mansion. His yes-man makes the contacts. He takes few chances.”

“He took one to-night. Let’s hope he’s not shooed off!”

They were silent for a time and the drum of the rain formed a somber background to their thoughts. Then Irene glanced apprehensively toward the second floor.

“Ralph!” she said under her breath. “He’s cautious, too.”

“Yes, damn him!” Paget muttered, eyes furtive. He looked sideways at the woman, held his voice low. “You understand, Irene, there’s no going on with our — plans — tonight. Not with that damned girl in the house.”

The woman’s eyes went sullen. “I’m superstitious, Vance. I dislike postponing — plans.”

He stirred impatiently. “But you’re not so dumb as to think—” He turned quickly as the door at the rear opened and Mrs. Dilke entered.

“When will you have dinner, madam?” she asked in her emotionless voice, and waited, hands folded on her flat stomach.

The two by the fire watched her curiously, then Irene said, “Come here, Dilke.”

The woman advanced slowly, stopped, big feet firmly planted. Irene’s lovely eyes went slowly over her, contempt fighting with something that was strangely like fear.

“Dilke,” she spoke low, “you understand, we must postpone our — plans for tonight. We have a guest.”

“I presumed as much, madam!”

“How about the girl?” Irene continued. “What was in her dressing case?”

“Dry underclothes. Stockings Powder. Cream. Toothbrush and paste, a silk frock and a pair of pumps. Also pajamas and dressing gown.”

Irene smiled faintly. “You notice things, don’t you, Dilke?”

“Yes, madam. The young lady requested,” Dilke added tonelessly, “that she have her dinner served upstairs.”

Irene started. Paget frowned. “The devil!” he snapped. “She did, eh?”

“Yes. She complained of a very bad headache. Expects to retire early. There is no objection, I suppose?”

She held her brilliant eyes on the two faces before her, Susan Dilke, who served her betters so efficiently. Irene said slowly, “No objection, of course. Do as she asks.”

Paget laughed shortly. “Very accommodating young lady, I’d say. I don’t think Tavelli would have appreciated a guest.” He straightened suddenly. “There! That’s a ear. It’ll he Tavelli!” He strode to the door, threw it open, admitting a cold breath of wet air.

Irene turned, eyes bright with interest.

“Excellent,” she said. “Somehow, I never really believed—” She glanced at the servant. “Postpone dinner until Mr. Tavelli is ready.”

The woman bowed. Irene started toward the door, paused, came back and stood close to Dilke, looking down on her for all the old woman was not short.

“Dilke,” Irene breathed, “you wouldn’t be so foolish as to — well — attempt anything on your own?” Through the caressing sweetness of the tones ran a thin thread of hardness. In the shadow of her gorgeous hair, Irene Kessler’s pansy brown eyes were bleak as sleet. “You wouldn’t make any mistakes, would you, Dilke?” she repeated.

Dilke met that regard with dark, unwinking eyes, behind the gleaming spectacles. “No, madam,” she said tonelessly. “No mistakes.”

“Excellent. Your position in this matter is not too secure, Dilke, remember that. You rather forced yourself into the picture, you know.”

Dilke’s lips hardened slightly. Her eyes did not falter, “What I accidentally overheard between you and Mr. Vance—” she began, then paused. “I am an old woman,” she continued. “I have only myself to depend on. Surely the blame is not too great if I—”

“Muscle in on our deal?” Irene finished. “No, I suppose not, but don’t forget the answers, that’s all.” She turned toward the door.

Susan Dilke stood very straight and still, staring after her. Over the mahogany calmness of her face passed a quick spasm of feeling, contorting those impassive features into the semblance of a twisted mask. Then she shrugged, turned and marched back to her own domain.

Ralph Kessler came down the stairs, just then, looking stuffed and uncomfortable in a tux’. Above him, at the stair head, Ellen Conway appeared, hesitated, then backed swiftly into the shadows of the upper ball. She had evidently come from the bath, for her bare feet were thrust into Pullman pumps, and a Japanese crepe kimono was wrapped about her. Her brown hair clung damply to her flushed face. She stood there uncertainly, out of sight, but watching the arrival of Louis Tavelli.

He filled the doorway as he strode in, attended by tile: Kesslers and Vance Paget. He was tall, well set up, in his early forties, she judged, with heavy, dark hair, liberally sprinkled with gray, eyes concealed behind thick-lensed glasses and a rock hard chin which jutted aggressively. He laughed shortly, glasses gleaming as he fingered an ugly scratch along his cheek bone. Brief sentences reached her, filled by the ejaculations of the others.

“Little unpleasantness down the road,” he was saying. “Cheap red-hot — quick cash—” and something about a haystack where, the lad could sleep it off. Kessler was roaring, slapping his thigh and Paget’s rasping cackle chilled her spine.

Ellen shuddered, covering her eyes. Suddenly she was fearing and hating them all. What was so amusing about death? White-faced she turned, hurrying for her room.

Chapter III Lock-Out

Kessler spoke of the girl’s presence in the living room, waiting for dinner to be announced. Paget slouched in a chair beside the fire. Irene draped gracefully on the end of the divan. Louis Tavelli, with a taped jaw, but looking otherwise fit, after a quick freshening, listened with a distinct frown.

“A damned nuisance,” Kessler admitted, “but we thought it best to hold her till morning. By then we’ll have all cleared. Paget’s fanned her car. She’s jake, I guess — just a little featherweight that believes in Santa Claus—” He turned sharply at a quick tap on the door. It opened and Ellen paused on the threshold.

“Oh, please pardon me,” she gasped, stepping into the room. “I am such a coward about storms. And I took an aspirin tablet and felt ever so much better. I just had to come down.” She stopped, seeming to see Tavelli for the first time. “I’m sorry,” she said uncertainly, and half turned away.

Kessler’s face flushed with quick anger. Irene was sitting up taut as a fiddle string. Paget was plainly glowering. Only Tavelli smiled, a very thin, hard-to-understand smile, as his eyes, behind the distorting glasses, went over the slim, girlish figure in the peach blow dinner frock of taffeta, with the innocent sprigs of rosebuds decorating it.

Kessler spoke with thinly veiled impatience. “Happy to have you join us, of course, Miss Conway. This is Mr. Tavelli.”

Ellen gave an old-fashioned curtsy. “How do you do, Mr. Tavelli?” she greeted in her flute-like voice, and little flames of color darted up her cheeks.

Tavelli straightened from where he leaned on the mantel, came forward, holding out his hand. A strong, muscular hand, with long spatulate fingers. Uncertainly, Ellen placed her own hand within his and it closed like a vise. He said, still with that queer unreadable smile, “I am happy to meet you, Miss Conway. It’s a beastly night, isn’t it?”

Just then Mrs. Dilke announced dinner.

Waiting dessert, Tavelli opened his cigarette case. Kessler said impulsively, “I’ve choice Russian ones I’d like you to try. Rather different.” He reached for the bell, let his hand fall. “Dilke couldn’t find them,” he muttered. “Excuse me. I’ll bring them. They’re upstairs.” He shoved back his chair and went out. Tavelli laid his case on the table. The door closed behind Kessler.

Returning from his room and halfway downstairs, Kessler paused, eyes narrowed and suddenly suspicious on the lighted transom of the living room below and to his right. Through the tipped glass he saw the gaunt form of Mrs. Dilke crouched over the table. He leaned forward, and his lips went to a thin line. The woman had the telephone receiver to her ear. Her head was turned anxiously toward the door.

Kessler descended on cat-soft feet, padded to the closed door and pressed his ear to the crack. He heard her say, in a low, husky tone:

“No, there’s something wrong. A slip somewhere. Tavelli... is...” Her voice dropped so low then that Kessler couldn’t catch the words. A moment later she said, a trifle louder, “Watch your step, Dan. There’s that damned dog, you know...” Then the receiver clicked into place.

Kessler swung round, face a chiseled mask.

Dilke’s slow, heavy steps were approaching the door. He stepped across and entered the dining room. There was nothing to indicate his feelings as he genially passed the Russian cigarettes. Dilke entered very shortly after with the dessert.

Ellen left almost at once, going to her room. She patently was not wanted. It was nine o’clock — too early for bed. Mechanically she changed into the tweed skirt and rumpled blouse. Those others down below had business — strange business.

An almost overwhelming curiosity danced in her eyes, sent a flush to her cheeks. The mysterious Mr. Tavelli was an intriguing person. Men who could park savage attackers in haystacks and casually fill dinner engagements were unusual, to say the least. She had thrilled to his dynamic touch.

Her heart thumped at her ribs. She fought a desire to slip down the stairs and listen at the keyhole. Scornful words rang in her ears, Kessler speaking behind the living room panels: “She’s just a little featherweight, believes in Santa Claus—” Her cheeks burned angrily. Pigeon-holed till morning, was she? Maybe so — maybe not.

Suddenly over the drum of the rain sounded again that savage baying of the chained Kato! She gasped, backing swiftly toward the bed. What a horrible beast and why was he kept, chained or otherwise? A watch dog, of course. Just now he was signaling the approach of an intruder.

She snapped off the light, ran to the window, pulled the curtains. Blackness greeted her, Rain poured down the panes. The tall trees swayed before the wind. Kato kept up his thunderous howling. Downstairs a door closed. Feet crossed the hall. She heard Kessler say, “See what’s the matter with that damned hound?” and the outer door banged behind him. She heard him tramping across the porch.

He seemed gone a long time. Ellen was standing at the stair head when he entered, his face flushed and angry, water sluicing from his raincoat. He slapped his hat to a hook, jerked off the coat and went into the living room.

Ellen sighed, eased down a step or two and peered inquisitively through the transom glass into the room. Firelight glinted on the walls. She could see Paget’s sleek black head where he sat on the divan by the table. Mrs. Kessler’s lovely snowy back was toward her, Louis Tavelli stood just behind the divan. His face was in shadow, but Ellen caught his queer quirky smile. As if he enjoyed a tremendous joke all by himself.

Kessler came into her line of vision. His face looked apoplectic. He was talking, but she could not hear him, of course. There was no denying his angry insistence. The sullen displeasure of his wife and Paget. Only Tavelli seemed to be enjoying himself.

Ralph Kessler jerked a brown leather sack from his side pocket, fumbled with the strings a moment while the others leaned forward tensely. Then onto the table he spilled an unbelievable glittering mass of jewels! They slithered out, forming a heap of mingled flame on the table’s center.

Ellen, frozen to the stair rail, caught the blue-white brilliance of diamonds. The blood red of rubies. The moonlight luster of priceless pearls. The green glory of emeralds. Breath sucked between her teeth. Unconsciously she crouched down, fascinated glance on that little pyramid of wealth.

No one was moving in the room. She got the feel of utter motionlessness about the group. As if they, too, were spellbound by what Kessler displayed.

Then a hand came out. A strong, handsome hand, with long, spatulate fingers. Tavelli’s. He lifted a pearl rope, held it, head on one side, studying it. He let it fall, picked up a necklace of emeralds. Kessler’s head started bobbing eagerly. She could see his thick lips moving. The emeralds slithered through Tavelli’s fingers.

On the wings of the stormy wind came Kato’s howl! Ellen choked a scream, started up, collapsed weakly as a heavy hand fell on her shoulder. She lifted her head, saw Mrs. Dilke’s gleaming mahogany face above her, the lips grim set, the black eyes dangerous. The dog kept up his unearthly racket. Ellen heard quite plainly Mrs. Dilke’s hurried, uneven breathing, saw drops of moisture on her long, upper lip.

“What are you doing here?”

Ellen’s dry tongue clicked against her teeth. “Nothing. Just got lonely in my room, thought I’d come down—”

Dilke grunted. Her grip tightened until Ellen’s lips whitened with pain. Then the woman turned her as she might have turned a chair, marched her along the hall and back to her own room. She shoved her inside, entered after her, closing the door and leaning against it. Ellen brought up against the table, panting.

Dilke said, in her deadly monotonous voice, “You’re a little fool. Snooping into what does not concern you.”

“I didn’t snoop,” Ellen gasped. “I didn’t mean—”

Dilke smiled. It was infinitely more terrifying than her normal expressionless mask. “Stay in your room!” she ordered. “Get into bed and go to sleep and at the first crack of dawn get free of this house and be thankful for the chance.” She glanced down at the key in the lock. Deliberately she withdrew it, opened the door and slid through into the hall. “Take my advice,” she said very low, “and don’t try to get out. I’ll see to it that you don’t.” She nodded definitely. “I don’t want your blood on my head.” She inserted the key in the lock on the outside, closed the door and locked it.

Ellen’s wide, horrified eyes clung to the smooth panels of the locked door, and she heard Dilke’s heavy steps retreating along the shadowy corridor. She realized that Kato had stopped his clamor. The silence was worse.

For a long moment she did not stir. There was an uncomfortable dryness in her throat. Her heart pounded furiously. She turned, letting her strained eyes travel over the room. Its comfortable chairs, its pleasant, faded rugs. The bright fire.

She smiled faintly, breathing the one word, “Featherweight,” through suddenly taut lips. Then, crossing to the table, she picked up her small handbag; fingering through its contents, she produced a slim key. She went to the door, slipped it into the lock, worked gently. It clicked. The door opened easily.

She glanced through the narrow crack into the deserted hall. Curtains moved over the window at the far end. Shadows chased along the somber walls. From downstairs she heard the rumble of voices. Irene’s sudden high laugh.

Just then she saw Dilke. On a quick breath, Ellen narrowed the crack in the doorway, snapped the wall switch. The old woman was advancing along the hall on the other side of the staircase. Suddenly a door opened. A man stepped out, almost directly in Dilke’s path. She jerked up, backed, hand flashing to her lips. The light from the shaded floor lamp at the stair head touched her face. The mahogany had paled to a thin tan.

Ellen did not recognize the man, standing as he did in the shadows outside the closed door. He said something very low. Dilke’s hands fell. She nodded. The man opened the door against which he leaned, disappeared. Dilke stood hesitantly, eyes flashing over the somber hall, then followed. The door clicked shut.

Ellen flashed into the hall, running on soundless feet across the lighted space of the stair well, past the doors where the two had vanished. Once there, panic seized her. There was no place to hide. They might come out any moment. She caught the low, cautious murmur of their voices. Trembling; she stared around. There were closed doors on both sides of the hall. On impulse she tried the one directly opposite. It opened easily. She darted in, closing it all but the tiniest crack. There was the odor of leather, whisky and stale tobacco. A man’s room. Kessler’s or Paget’s.

Downstairs the living room door opened. Voices sounded clearly. It closed again. A man started upstairs. Ellen’s heart slowed, whipped to a furious pounding. She heard an aimless whistling as the quick, nervous steps mounted. Paget! And it would be just her luck to be in his room. Her fingers ached around the door’s edge. She couldn’t escape now. She would be directly in his line of vision. She struggled frantically for an explanation. Could she say she had become confused and entered the wrong room? Ridiculous!

Then the door opposite opened. A man stepped into the hall. Louis Tavelli. He swung round the banister, came face to face with Paget. He said, “Oh, I nearly ran you down, didn’t I?” and paused, a smile tugging his lips. “Figure I was lost?” he asked.

Paget’s smile was white in the shadows. “Kessler thought you might have run into difficulties. Rambling old place, you know.”

“Seems to be,” Tavelli agreed. He loomed large and black against the light from below. Muscles bulged beneath his well-tailored coat. There was a strong, aggressive set to his head, his out-thrust jaw.

“Come down and we’ll get the business over,” he suggested.

Paget said nothing. Ellen’s heart was a fluttering thing in her throat for what seemed an eternity of time, then Paget said, “Okay,” and ran down the stairs, Tavelli following. The living room door closed behind them.

Ellen gave a little sob and let her head fall forward on her clenched hands. Oh, what a fool she was! What an unutterable fool! It occurred to her that if, following Dilke’s advice, she ever did win free of this horrible house—

The door opposite opened. Dilke’s long, brown face appeared. Then, like a shadow, she emerged, padded down the hall, vanished.

Ellen gasped with relief, tugging at the door knob.

Behind her in the darkness something stirred! A dull, lifeless rustling sound, like a huge snake turning! There was an anguished moan! And straight or the heels of it Kato’s baying lifted threateningly over the wind.

Ellen stood so still she might have been part of the door. So still when her heart was literally tearing her slim body to pieces. She thought, “Someone — some thing — is here in the room with me! Something—”

The moaning sounded again. Died. Her hand fumbled the pocket of her tweed skirt, came out holding a pencil flash. She deliberately closed the door, extended her hand as far as she could to the right, and snapped the button.

The narrow beam of light sliced the darkness. For a moment Ellen could distinguish nothing, then she saw the corner of a dresser, a chair that had the look of being hastily pushed aside, the bed, smooth and unrumpled, pictures — a gun in the corner. Slowly, thoughtfully, the little light went over the room, picking out objects, classifying them. Everything all right. Just the ordinary furniture of an ordinary bedroom. Only it wasn’t an ordinary room. In it something had stirred like a great snake. Something that might have been human had moaned.

Silence beat against her ear drums. She could feel her body jerk with the furious pounding of her heart, as slowly, carefully the light circled, lifted, dropped, hesitated, stopped on a dark gleaming pool that had gathered on the smooth shining floor boards just outside a closed door.

“Oh!” Ellen inhaled softly. “Oh!” and flashed across the room, bending down to examine it. Her eyes lifted, studying the door. Her hand went out, touched the knob, fell, gathered up the folds of her skirt and lifted again. With the knob grasped firmly through the wool, she stopped again. Every instinct fought against the opening of that door. She longed desperately to run from the room, from the house, into the cold, wet night, along the soggy, wretched road, run, run, far beyond the sound of Irene’s laughter, the fumble of Kessler’s voice, the baying of that beastly dog.

She turned the knob. The door opened. She shot the light inside. A small storeroom, utilized as a closet. Suits hung in orderly rows. There was a handsome wardrobe trunk, an expensive Gladstone. High, mud-stained boots.

She leaned inside, shooting the light into the dusky cavern behind the clothes. Her eyes widened. A man sprawled there on hastily folded blankets. He wore a fine, white shift open at the throat, the button torn and dangling. His dark gray trousers and expensive oxfords were soggy with mud. His eyes were closed. His thin, lined face gray and ghastly. He had heavy black hair, matted and clogged with blood. There was blood on his hand where it had torn at the front of his shirt. Blood ran in a lazy trickle across the floor, to form that ugly stain outside. Yet the man was not dead.

As Ellen stared, speechless, he whispered and twitched.

“Tavelli!” he mumbled. “Louis Tavelli—”

The words died into incoherent muttering. He relaxed and lay still. For what seemed a long time, Ellen Conway studied him, then very quietly she stepped back, closed the door, crossed the room and went into the hall. It was deserted.

She took a quick look around and raced to her own room. Terror clutched at her heels, made a long tenuous shadow behind her. She had suddenly a frantic desire to gain the shelter and sanctuary of that pleasant fire-lighted room where she could at least pretend to be safe. The necessity of a few moments’ coherent thought urged her on. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly before her. Closed doors, like shut, yet seeing eyes, watched her frantic progress.

She reached it at last, grasped the knob, leaned weakly against the panels. Then, with a little gasp of complete dismay, she straightened. The door was locked! The key, of course, was missing. Her own skeleton key she had left inside the room. She was locked out. Left, alone and helpless, before whatever strange forces moved in the old dark house this night.

For a little time she stood there, mind whirling with conflicting thoughts, darting frantically toward some solution as to who had locked her door. As to why—

She nodded at last, her mind made up. She would simply walk downstairs, explain her predicament. Her narrowed eyes swept the hall. She had gone to the bathroom, left the door ajar, it had blown shut, the lock was set—

She shook her head impatiently. The bath connected with her own room. There was no Yale lock on the door. It wouldn’t do. There wasn’t any explanation except to say, “I was out poking around into what didn’t concern me. I was eavesdropping on conversations not intended for my ears. I was hiding in someone’s room. I found a wounded man in the closet—”

She shut her teeth hard to keep them from chattering. Where should she go? What should she do? If only there was some reasonably intelligent explanation she could give them as to how she happened to be out of her room. Doubtless they all knew that Dilke had locked her in. The very fact that she was out would have to be explained. She closed her eyes a moment, then Kato howled dolorously. She shuddered backward, hands instinctively pressed against her ears. There was something stark and primitive in the sound, a force of terror to guard the walled grounds of the old dark house. She tried to vision what sort of a brute he would be. Saw him with swinging head, dripping jowls, small, red-rimmed eyes, mighty shoulders. Why did he howl tonight? What was it moving through the rainy dark that kept Kato eternally sending up his ominous warning?

She lifted her head, lips suddenly determined. She had reached a quick decision. Head up, eyes alert, she started swiftly down the hall toward the stair head.

Chapter IV Murder in Haste—

Susan Dilke sat before the glowing range in the kitchen, work done, kitchen swept and garnished. There was nothing to keep Susan from mounting the stairs to the third floor cubby she called home, removing her stiff garments and going to bed. But though the noisy clock on the shelf above the stove had pointed to midnight, Susan still sat tense and unwearying, staring at the kitchen door.

It was of heavy, rather rough wood, painted white. There was the black square of a window, partially screened by half-drawn curtains, forming a diamond-shaped opening. Against this the rain poured in shining torrents.

Susan sat very straight in an uncomfortable wooden chair. Her large feet were planted firmly on the floor under the edge of the range. Her sparse gray hair shone like metal in the light. The clock ticked noisily.

She glanced at it now and then, and fear flecked briefly in the depths of her brilliant eyes. Twice during her vigil she had stolen to the end of the hall and listened to the low murmur of voices in the living room. Words she could not catch. Susan did not particularly care what was being discussed in there, however. Her faculties were terribly concentrated on something else, something which was obviously of vital importance to her.

A creaking board on the porch made her start, eyes stretched wide on the shining blackness of the uncurtained triangle. Something moved before it, like a spray of mist blown by the wind. Susan stood upright in one lithe movement, glanced quickly over her shoulder at the closed swinging door to the halt, crossed over to the outside door.

Soundlessly she opened it. Rain spattered in. She gulped at the force of the wind, leaned out, calling softly, “Dan! Dan! You there?”

Nothing at first save the lashing of the trees, then a low, furtive voice answered, “Yeah. Come ’ere.”

Susan looked back again at the bland quietness of the shining kitchen, slipped outside, closing the door softly behind her. She did not stay more than three minutes. The man named Dan, a rough, uncouth figure, mumbled under his breath and slouched down the steps and into the rain again. Susan stared after him, grim face all broken and working.

“Dan,” she called hoarsely. “Oh, Danny boy—”

“Pipe down,” his voice ground through the dark. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Susan said on what sounded strangely like a sob, “only be careful, Danny boy, be careful—”

A mumbled reply came out of the rain, feet crunched on the wet gravel.

Susan returned to the kitchen. Rain blurred her glasses. Moisture streamed into her eyes. The room was a blur of light, with the glistening pans and the ruddy range. She heard water singing as the kettle boiled gaily. It had a comforting sound, at wide variance with the black night outside. It reached through Susan’s troubled preoccupation with a friendly insistence. She lifted her head, frowned at the kettle on the stove.

“An old woman like myself,” she muttered, “should be tending her own kettle, with her grandchildren playing around her knee. An old woman like myself—”

“Dilke!”

Her head lifted. Breath sucked between her strong white teeth. Sweat gleamed suddenly on her forehead. She blinked moisture from her eyes, peered into the shadows by the swinging door.

“Yes?” she questioned thickly.

Ralph Kessler strolled into the kitchen. His little bright eyes bored into her like diamond drills.

“Bad night to be outside, Dilke,” he said softly, and she saw his hand working at his side.

Susan’s glance did not waver, but her fingers clenched in the folds of her black skirt. She said, “Yes, sir. It’s a rare bad night.”

Kessler came toward her, smiling. She heard him breathing in long, slow cadence, but she saw also how the muscle twitched in his thick neck. She backed unconsciously before his advance.

“It’s a bad night, too,” Kessler said gently, “to be using the telephone, Dilke. You thought we were all busy in the dining room, didn’t you?” He watched with cruel enjoyment how the color drained out of her face. He laughed a little. “You’ve been careless, Dilke, very careless.”

He had kept one hand behind him. It came forward now, and her lips opened, but no sound came. “So careless,” Kessler repeated, and like light his hand lifted, holding a thin-bladed knife by the extreme tip of the blade.

Susan saw it coming, tried to dodge. It swished through the air like a bright bird, arcing beautifully, finding its mark with deadly precision. The mark was Susan Dilke’s gaunt corded throat. The knife sliced into it, quivered, held. Her eyes went wide with astonished agony. Her head jerked back. Her great hands lifted, fumbled futilely at the table, fell. For a moment she swayed there against the wall, staring at the ceiling with eyes that were slowly losing their brilliance, then she slipped down and lay in a crumpled heap of starched black muslin, her little white apron, twisted by the strong agony of her writhing hands. Blood, which had spurted at the knife thrust, began welling quietly in a dark red stream, creeping over the white tie at her throat, puddling wetly on the clean floor boards.

Ralph Kessler wiped his fingers delicately on a fresh linen handkerchief. His eyes went in a quick, venomous flash over the quiet room, lingered a moment on the black diamond of the door. Then he crossed over, shoved aside a small table, bent down and, inserting a thick finger in the flat iron ring, lifted a trapdoor. Cold, musty air rushed up. There was a furtive rustling and scratching from the blackness below.

Breathing hard, Kessler seized the old woman’s shoulders, dragged her inert body to the opening and unceremoniously tumbled it onto the stairs. Then he carefully lowered the door and replaced the table. Sweat was running down his face. He mopped it away, impatiently, his eyes narrowed on the telltale stain on the floor boards.

There was a small bright rug just before the range. He seized it, spread it over the spot, stood back regarding it thoughtfully.

A sound made him lift his head. The swinging door had opened. Louis Tavelli appeared.

“Hello,” he said, “we’ve been wondering where you went.” He stepped through, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

Kessler smiled, shrugged. “Thought I’d have Dilke make us some coffee,” he explained. “But I guess the old woman’s turned in.” His glance went carelessly over the kitchen.

Tavelli’s eyes, behind the glasses, followed that glance, noted the pushed-back chair, the table angling out of square. He shrugged slightly. “A shot of Scotch could do the trick. Need you wake her?”

Kessler’s head lifted slowly. For a moment color was gone from his heavy face, leaving it grayish white, mottled, repulsive. His eyes bulged. He shivered, wet his lips, laughed with unnatural loudness.

“No,” he said, “I won’t waken her. Let her sleep. Let the old woman sleep.”

He crossed to the swinging door. Tavelli stood aside to let him pass. Before he followed his eyes again took in the details of the kitchen, lingering on the small, bright rug which Jay in such a peculiar place, over there to the right of the door, out from, the wall a couple of feet. Odd place for a rug. Odd rug for that matter. There seemed to be a dark design on top of the small, bright one. A blurred outline, that appeared, doubtless a trick of the light, to glisten moistly.

He went after Kessler along the window hall, moving swiftly on sure, silent feet.

Twenty minutes later, Louis Tavelli rose from his seat by the table in the living room. The gorgeous collection of jewels was still glittering there. Tavelli’s face was grim as his eyes lifted from contemplation of them, circled slowly over the three people before him. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“That’s my figure,” he said sharply. “Take it or leave it.”

Kessler’s heavy face went purple. “It’s a damned outrage, Tavelli. It’s not a tenth of what they’re worth.”

Tavelli stated calmly, “It’s fifty per cent more than you’d get from an ordinary fence.”

Paget said angrily, “It’s a hell of a deal, if you ask me. Why do you think we’ve stalled around, holding the damned things for six months just to get in touch with you, Tavelli?”

“That’s easy,” Tavelli replied coolly. “Because you know that I pay higher prices, ask fewer questions and take more chances than anyone else.”

“There’s nothing been said tonight to indicate it,” Kessler snarled.

Tavelli shrugged. “I’ve offered all I can consistently. They’ll be watered stock for at least a year. They’re hot, and smell of the morgue. Too bad it was necessary to iron old Vanderfelt on the ‘lift.’ It soured the ‘sugar.’ ”

“And makes pikers out of us,” Kessler said savagely.

Tavelli smiled thinly, spreading his hands. “Twenty-five grand. Take it or leave it.”

Silence beat heavily.

“Bring the loose change with you, Tavelli?” Kessler asked, voice suddenly quiet.

Tavelli lifted brows. “What’s your guess, Kessler?”

“Maybe you’d like to know,” Kessler, leaning forward, tattooed the smooth oaken table surface with thick fingertips.

The tenseness in the smoke-filled air had grown suddenly acute.

“What—” shrilled Irene, but her husband lifted a hand. His small eyes clashed Tavelli’s leveled glance. His tones stayed low, deceptively soft. “Maybe you’re on the up and up, Mr. Tavelli, but I think you’re a damned impostor!”

Irene gasped faintly and sank back, face paper white. Paget jerked to his feet. “Kessler! You’re nuts!” Tavelli remained at ease, but his face went chisel hard and the eyelids drooped.

He spoke evenly. “Yes, you are a fool, a damned fool, if I may say so but it’s interesting. Continue.”

Red mottled Kessler’s face and he lurched forward. Suddenly regaining control of himself, however, he relaxed, even managing a crooked smile.

“The picture suggests possibilities,” he gritted. “A man whom we’ve never seen arrives under damn strange circumstances, announcing himself as Tavelli — the man we’re expecting. Now I suggest you prove that identity before we go further.”

“What the hell—” snapped Paget, but Kessler quieted him with a viselike pressure on his arm.

“I may add,” continued Kessler, still holding Tavelli’s eyes, “your piker offer for a hundred and fifty grand in rocks doesn’t sound like — Tavelli.”

Tavelli straightened, speaking pleasantly enough. “I’ve papers, driver’s license — but, of course—”

“Not worth a damn,” Kessler said. “If you waylaid the real Tavelli, as I think you did, you’d cop his stuff. Still you might have something, say, in your briefcase—” His small eyes darted sidewise at Irene, jerked back; they were blank as marbles.

“By George, I have! Wait a minute. I’ll run along and get it.” Tavelli crossed toward the stairs, then turned. “Perhaps you’d like to come along, Kessler. I might—”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Kessler affirmed grimly. “Try skippin’ and we’ll know you’re phony.”

Tavelli shrugged, turned and ran lightly up the steps.

After a moment Paget said, “You’re nuts, Kessler. You’ve made the guy sore now. The biggest, slickest fence in the States. You had him here all ready to bite on this bunch of swag” — he motioned to the table — “and then you go get your neck feathers ruffled—”

“Shut up,” Kessler rapped. “I’m running this show. Think I’d take a lousy twenty-five grand for this ice after all the build-up?”

“Then why the hocus-pocus of sending him upstairs for identification?”

Kessler’s narrowed eyes filmed. “So we can take him when he starts back down. If the guy’s a phony he’s got it comin’ to him. If he’s really Tavelli, stickin’ on the thumbscrews, well, that goes for him, too.” He nodded his big head. “We’ll have the ice — and the gravy,” he added.

Paget said through suddenly white lips, “You mean—”

“Sap him?” gasped Irene.

“Count me out,” Paget kicked over his chair and swung toward the fireplace. He pivoted, tromping back.

“Welcher, eh?” Kessler’s face went purple with rage. “Well, you’re takin’ this trick with Irene and me or else—” He was slowly rising to his feet.

Paget stood wide-legged, hands resting lightly in his pockets. “You’re a damned fool, Kessler,” he said clearly, “and a detriment to the combination. Irene and I could do a hell of a lot better without you.”

“What?” Kessler lurched forward, over the table, struggling for speech. “You dirty swine!” he choked. “You... you and Irene—”

Paget’s hand jerked up, vising a gat. He shoved it against Kessler, squeezed the trigger. There was a dull plop. Kessler grunted, whirled round, clutching at his thick chest. He took half a dozen stumbling steps, body bent forward grotesquely, then he collapsed and lay twitching on the rug. Paget returned the gun to his pocket.

Irene Kessler gave a low, whimpering cry and closed her eyes. Paget did not look at her. He looked at the dead man on the rug. He said jerkily, “You didn’t like postponing our plans, Irene. Well... we... haven’t—”

She cried thinly, “Oh, Vance, get him out of the way. Get him some place. I can see his eyes — his eyes—” Her voice rose to a shrill scream. Paget clapped a hand brutally across her mouth.

“Shut up,” he ordered, rounded the table, seized Kessler’s limp body, dragged it across, rolled it into a corner and pulled the divan around to cover it.

“We’ll tell Tavelli he’s gone out to examine the car, see? We’ll put through the deal in a hurry, collect the cash and scram.” He straightened, mopping sweat from his face. “It isn’t the way we planned it — cruder somehow — but sometimes that’s the best. We can get out of here in a hurry, hit the Canadian border before daylight—”

“The girl!” Irene said gaspingly. “That — damned girl!”

Paget stopped with the suddenness of completely arrested motion. For a moment his face was blank as plaster. “Girl?” he repeated dully. “Girl?”

Irene was fumbling with the cloth of her skirt. She said, through stiff lips, “I locked her door when she was out.”

“You what?”

“I didn’t trust her. I saw Dilke lock her in. Later I tried the door. It was unlocked; the girl was gone — so I locked it and took the key—”

Paget said slowly, “Why did you do that?”

Irene clawed at her throat. “I thought it would prove something. If she were straight — I figured she’d come down and tell us she was locked out, explain where she’d been. If she didn’t say anything—”

“How long ago?”

“Oh, two hours — or more—”

“And she hasn’t shown up? Where is she?”

“I don’t know—” Panic twitched Irene’s slim body. “Oh, how should I know? I’d forgotten her—”

Paget lunged for the door. “I’ll have to find her. She’s loose somewhere in the house. She may be—”

The door slammed behind him. Irene sat motionless, staring with sunken eyes at the gleaming heap of jewels on the table. Rain sluiced against the windows. Kato howled a long, doleful cadence.

Irene’s glance jerked to the divan, standing so innocently in the corner. She could not look away. She thought that any moment it would move, as Ralph Kessler rose, pushed it aside, came walking toward her, hands outstretched toward her throat. She cowered back, hands pressed across her lips. Terror mounted round her like a rising tide, lapped her in black waters of complete despair. She was alone with the dead, and the dead was moving! The dead was walking toward her.

She staggered to her feet, took two swaying, uncertain steps, slipped senseless to the rug, lay there without stirring.

Chapter V Partnership

Louis Tavelli opened his door softly, snapped on the light. His eyes went over the room in a swift, comprehensive survey, stopped on the top of a brown head showing above the back of a chair by the fire. He stiffened. His hand went toward his side pocket.

Ellen Conway rose, faced him. Tavelli stepped inside, closed the door. They looked at each other.

He said, “What the devil?”

She tried to reply, but her trembling lips only jerked spasmodically. He came to her side. His eyes were hard as slate. “Well?” he ordered. “What are you doing here?”

“There wasn’t any other place to go. They locked me out.”

“Locked you out? Out of what?”

“My room.”

“Why?”

“I... don’t... know.”

His hard eyes raked her face. She looked haggard, spent. There was a spot of blood on her under lips where her teeth had gouged it. Deep blue circles beneath her eyes.

He said very low, “Who are you?”

Her direct gaze did not waver. “Ellen Conway, State Department of Education,” she pattered.

He grunted. “Of course.”

Silence for a moment, then she said slowly, “Who... who are you?”

He smiled bleakly. “Louis Tavelli — of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed tonelessly. After a moment she said, a bit faintly.

“Coming to bed, were you?”

He laughed shortly, “Hardly. I’m after proofs to convince the folks downstairs that I am — Louis Tavelli.”

“Oh!” She leaned back on the chair. “Well, go ahead and get them.”

“That’s the riddle,” he told her. “I haven’t any.”

“Oh. Well, that’s scarcely to be expected.”

His lips sucked in. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. “Smart girl, aren’t you, darling?”

“Not very, sweetheart, but I do happen to know Louis Tavelli by sight.”

“Yes? Not very many claim that distinction.”

“I know. I happen to be one of the few.”

“This was in the interest of public education?”

Her eyes were as hard as his own. “In a way, yes. The public could stand some education about Mr. Tavelli. But you see, I do know him, and when I heard he was coming tonight—”

“I see,” he interrupted. “You invented a bad headache, to avoid coming down for dinner. Then when you saw me in the hall—”

“Exactly. I knew you were an impostor,” she smiled very faintly.

He watched her intently, the pupils of his eyes black points of intense concentration. Downstairs a door slammed, but neither noticed.

She continued, “For your information, the real Louis Tavelli is at this moment stuffed back in a closet of that room opposite — with a bullet wound in his chest.”

“The devil!” The ejaculation twisted a smile to her lips.

“Paget’s room, I suppose.”

“No, Kessler’s.” His eyes flicked over the room, returned to her. “So that’s how Kessler guessed,” he muttered. “Why he demanded proofs. But how the devil— Look. You saw the fight in the lane?”

She nodded. “And heard the shots—”

“That was Tavelli plugging at me when I was grabbin’ him,” he stated. “I ’jacked him over the ear and trucked him a mile or so down the road, sticking him under a culvert—”

“He must have come back,” she supplemented, “prowling around the place. Who shot him?”

“I don’t know. Kessler, maybe, when he went out to see about the dog. He was gone a long time. He most likely plugged Tavelli, stashed him in his room until—”

“Kessler killed Dilke,” Ellen said.

She backed before the sudden unleashed fury in the man’s eyes. “Dilke?” he whispered. “Kessler killed her?”

“Yes. I was at the end of the hall. I saw him go into the kitchen. I watched through a crack in the door. I left just before you came. Oh, I shouldn’t have told you—”

He said through his teeth, “I’ve got to know. We’re in a spot. You won’t tell me why you’re here?”

“Sure, making a survey. You came for the Vanderfelt gems, I suppose?”

“Good guesser, baby, and I’m afraid I’m upsetting a little plant of your own.”

She smiled enigmatically. “Possibly. What’s the chance for the ice?”

“Damned slim just now.” Again he studied the room. “Kessler’s wise; my only chance now is to get the drop on him—”

“There are two others,” she reminded him.

“I know.” He scowled, plucking at his under lip. Quickly his eyes jerked to her. “We might as well team up,” he suggested. “It’s our only chance. How about it?”

She considered. “Say we cop the ice — what’s the split?”

He grinned, not very mirthfully. “All business, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Her red lips hardened. “Every ounce of me, big man.”

“How’s seventy-five, twenty-five when the stones are fenced?”

“That’s okay,” she agreed. “Seventy-five to me, twenty-five—”

He laughed. “Skip it, Ellen. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to frame this set-up.”

“It wasn’t handed to me on a silver platter. Make it fifty-fifty or I won’t play.”

His head turned, as running feet sounded in the corridor. The man and girl stood very still until they had died away, then he nodded. “All right, call it fifty-fifty. Shake.” He extended his hand. She hesitated just a moment, slipped her own inside, felt the strong, vital fingers close firmly with a strange gentleness which changed abruptly to a cruel pressure, as his eyes bored into her.

“Oh,” she gasped, “you’re hurting me.”

He grinned mirthlessly. “Serves you right for being mixed up with such a lousy racket, nice kid like you.”

Hot color flooded her cheeks. Angrily, she jerked her hand free. Her polished nails bit through the firm flesh of his palm. He cursed softly. “Little cat! You scratched me.”

“Good enough for you, being nothing better than a common thug, a big, fine man like you.”

They stared at each other, eyes hostile, wary, somehow hurt. She said, “Take off those beastly cheaters. Everyone knows you’re not Tavelli now.”

He hesitated a moment, removed the glasses. His dark gray eyes were bloodshot from the strain of the lenses. He blinked rapidly. “That better?”

“Yes. Thank you. Now what?”

“I’ve got a pal working this set-up with me.”

She frowned. “Yes? Well, don’t figure on changing the per cent; I’m on my own.”

He said impatiently, “Can’t you forget the money angle for a moment? We’re in a spot. My pal, Dan, is loose somewhere in the grounds tonight—”

“Oh. That’s what’s been annoying that devilish dog?”

“Probably, along with Tavelli’s coming.” He brushed heavy hair from his forehead. “You see, Mother Dilke was giving Dan and me a lift—”

Again she said, “Oh,” slowly, eyes narrowed on his face. “And Kessler got wise and killed her.”

“So you say. Damn him! The point is, I had a brief conference with Dilke in this room tonight—”

“I know you did. I watched from across the hall. That’s how I discovered Tavelli.”

He seized her wrist, jerked her close. His eyes were like sleet. “You damned little snoop! You learned—”

She was puzzled by the ferocity of his gaze, as she shook her head slowly. “Not a word. Get on with the plotting. We can’t stay here all night. Odd they haven’t been up to check on you, isn’t it?”

His strong black brows bit down in a frown. “It is. The dump’s quiet as the grave.”

She shivered, thinking of Mother Dilke, wondering if the trapdoor in the kitchen were lifted — her large flat feet would be staring up, curiously, like great leather eyes.

“Now get this,” he stated. “Dan’s around outside. You find him. Take this flash—”

“I have a flash, thank you. I’m to find Dan. Then what?”

“Give him the office to get in here in a hurry. He’s sudden death with a gat. We can take care of the three of them, Dan and I.”

“Count me in on the finish,” she instructed him coolly, and opened her hand, showing a small, mean-looking automatic.

He scowled at the gun. “Okay, but we’ll still want Dan. You’ll need a coat. Here, take mine.” He jerked up a light-weight silk-rubber raincoat from a chair, held it out. She slipped into it. It enveloped her coldly. Through the coldness she could feel the strong warmth of his arms. For just a breath she relaxed, stood very still, and he did not stir, then she slipped away, pausing before the door at his low call.

“Dan might shoot first and argue afterward,” he said grimly. “Better take this.” He drew something from an inner pocket, pressed it into her hand. She felt cold metal, glanced at it. A small bronze button, with something engraved on it. “Flash this with my S. O. S. I’m going downstairs, stall ’em along till you get back. If you hear shooting come on the double. Got if?”

“Check.”

“Dan won’t be far, nor missing anything.”

She opened the door, glanced out. The hall was dim and deserted. She slipped out, hesitated. There was something dull and heavy where her heart should have been.

Stubbornly she started to close the door, felt a hand on her shoulder, looked up to see the man’s lean, hard face just above her. His eyes were still showing the effect of the punishing glasses, of course, which made them look rather dim, almost misty. He smiled that queer one-sided smile, said very softly, “Good luck, Ellen.”

She blinked uncertainly, smiled back, so that all the harshness went out of her face. And she looked the kind of girl who belonged in a dress of peach blow taffeta, sprayed with innocent-looking rosebuds.

“Thanks — Jack,” she said. “The same to you.”

Jack, who had impersonated Louis Tavelli, the cleverest fence in the States, watched Ellen through his partially open door until she had disappeared at the end of the hall. Smart girl. She was going down the rear stairs and out the back way. He grinned thinly, shrugged. Smart girl? He wondered. He went back into the room, drew out his heavy automatic, examined it, slipped extra cartridges into his side pocket and went into the hall. The place was silent. He stood there a moment, listening to the silence, then headed for the stairs.

“Tavelli!” The low, tense tones brought him up sharply.

Vance Paget was coming along the hall, not, the other noted with relief, from the direction in which Ellen had gone.

“Yes?” Tavelli waited, hand in his pocket, head lowered a little.

Paget’s face was gray-white, marked with sweat. His thick, glossy hair was rumpled, his eyes furtive. He said thickly, “That damned jane! Where is she?”

Tavelli’s brows lifted. “Jane?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Paget rapped. “I mean that Conway frail. She’s on the loose somewhere in the house. We’ve got to find her. There’s something screwy about her, damn it! Irene got suspicious, locked her out of her room—”

“Well, why bother about her now? She can’t do any harm.”

His words were silenced by a sudden shrill scream. It came from the direction of the living room, high, clear, terror-filled. Hard on it Kato’s savage challenge rose, so that the woman’s voice blended weirdly with the howl of the beast, forming an unearthly duet.

“Irene!” Paget cried. “That’s Irene’s voice!” He plunged down the stairs, Tavelli at his heels. Paget threw open the living room door, surged in, dilated eyes flashing across to the divan. It was still in place. Then he looked at the woman. She was standing up, steadying herself by a chair back. Her face was dough-white, eyes sunken, crimson lips twitching. She did not look at the two men. Her fascinated gaze clung to the table. She kept on screaming in short staccato bursts as if she could never stop.

“Irene!” Paget cried. “Irene!”

She stopped her clamor, lifted her head like one waking from a dream. “Vance,” she whimpered. “Look! There at the table. They’re gone, do you see? The stones are gone!”

Paget’s curse was smothered in a quick, dismayed exclamation. He stared at the table. Its surface was swept clean. Where had rested a fortune in precious stones now was only a dusty, marred expanse of wood, gleaming dully under the light.

He tried to speak, but his stiff lips would not form words. The man they had known as Tavelli stepped forward, face like granite. “Who took them?” he rapped.

Irene turned slowly to look at him, blinking dully. She said, “That damned Conway girl. I had... had — fallen asleep. Something roused me. I saw her stuffing them in the sack. She was out of the door before I could move.”

Paget whirled on the man they had known as Tavelli. “Now will you insist the girl is jake? She’s fanned the ice. Kessler—”

“Where is Kessler?” Tavelli asked gently. “How do you know, Paget, that it wasn’t really Kessler who copped the swag?”

Irene began laughing, head thrown back, light glinting on her gorgeous hair. “No, no,” she choked. “It wasn’t Kessler. Kessler didn’t do it. Kessler couldn’t—”

Paget gave her a quick shove. She collapsed into the chair, still laughing hysterically. “Kessler didn’t do it,” he agreed, and like a flash he had turned, an automatic suddenly in his hand, levelled, steady.

“Quiet, guy!” he gritted. “I begin to see now. You and the jane were working together. It was all part of the plant.” He drew a long, slow breath. “Well, you’ll never live to enjoy them. Get that girl back here in one hell of a hurry or” — his finger twitched suggestively around the trigger — “it’s curtains. Long, dark curtains.”

Chapter VI Showdown

Ellen ran blindly through the black rain. Ran until her heart was a stabbing agony and breath labored through her set teeth. With unerring instinct she avoided the trees, ducked aside from low clumps of shrubbery that might have tripped her. She hadn’t even thought of her coupé — useless, anyhow, as Paget had failed to return the keys. Her mind kept pace with her flying feet.

“Reach the gate — get on the road — out of those beastly grounds—” Some tourist on the detour might pick her up. “Dan! He said to call Dan!” She laughed gaspingly. “Like hell!” ran her tormented thoughts. “Let him die. Let them finish him. What do I care? He’s just a lousy heel. A chiseler. Why should I care what happens to him?”

Dead grasses clutched at her feet. Wet boughs slapped against her cold face. “He gave me his raincoat.” She was conscious of its warmth around her like the man’s arms in that one vivid, unforgettable moment. “Why should I care what happens to him? They’ll kill him likely. He’s their kind. The world’s better without him.” She saw his eyes in the darkness before her. Level, direct, gray eyes, hard as sleet sometimes; softening to queer laughter; blinking from the strain of Tavelli’s glasses. In the wind soughing through the great trees she heard his voice: “Good luck, Ellen.”

Instinct wavered before the terrible weariness that gripped her. She collided with a tree trunk, slumped down sobbing on the wet ground.

“Dan,” she whispered brokenly. “I’ve got to find Dan.”

She huddled there, sobbing angrily. “You’re a damned fool, what’s the man to you? What’s honor among thieves? Wouldn’t he let you down if he had the Vanderfelt stones in his mitt?” Her fingers ached around the brown leather bag. The gate was only a step now.

Through her swaying consciousness she heard the baying of the dog Kato. She had grown somewhat accustomed to it. Then suddenly she sat up, sweat cold on her body. The baying was drawing near. Rising in surging crescendo of sound over to her right. A heavy body crashed through the shrubbery. Kato was loose! Had caught her scent! Was on the trail!

She struggled to her feet, senses blurred before the rising tide of terror that engulfed her. Man she could understand. Man she could only fear so much. Hard training had taught her how to deal with man, but a beast! A great slavering-mouthed creature springing out of the dark—

Behind the rush of the dog came the running footsteps of a man.

She cried shrilly, “Dan! Dan!” Wondering why she bothered since it would likely be Kessler or Paget.

She heard a startled grunt, a curse. There was the sound of lunging, struggling bodies, a gruff voice saying thickly, “Hold on, you devil,” the dreadful hunting whine of a dog, eager for the kill.

Ellen tried to run. If she could reach the gate the dog couldn’t get over the wall. Once outside she would be safe. Her feet were leaden. With eyes grown accustomed to the darkness, she made out the form of the great dog rearing over her, front paws in the air. Caught the squeak of a stout leather harness as he was drawn back by the cursing, floundering man who held him.

Ellen acted without conscious volition as she jerked her small flashlight out, shot it full strength into the dog’s eyes’. For a long, terrible moment he was thrown into relief. A great-bodied, mighty-muscled brute, with wide, slavering jaws and small, reddish eyes. His fangs gleamed as he hurled himself forward at whatever new menace confronted him in this glaring light. There was a sharp crack of leather breaking, a dismayed yell, seemingly all at once.

The dog leaped. Ellen thought, “This is the end. He will kill me before I can move.”

She saw the beautiful silvery body arcing toward her, felt the hot breath on her face. Heard the report of a shot. Watched unemotionally as the dog halted in mid-stride, twisted horribly, fell with a dull crash, lay there twitching, blood gushing from a jagged tear between his eyes. Then she heard a man say,

“Good work, baby, good work,” and looked dazedly down at the gun in her hand. The man was beside her now, a furtive, uncouth figure. She saw his thin, whiskery face. His oddly gleaming eyes. Heard his uneven breathing, as he asked,

“Just who in hell are you, beautiful?”

She answered quietly enough. “I am Ellen Conway, but that doesn’t matter. Here—” She pressed the little bronze button into his hand. “Jack sent it,” she explained. “They’ve got him cornered in there. It’s an S. O. S.” She gasped suddenly. “You’re Dan, aren’t you?”

He laughed without any mirth. “Yes, lovely. Thanks for the tip. Let’s get going.”

She drew back. “I’m not going in there—”

His hand, hard as nails, clamped on her shoulder. She felt herself propelled along the ragged path toward the house.

“Oh, yes you are, charming,” Dan promised her. “Oh, yes, baby, you’re coming right along in.”

The man who had called himself Tavelli said levelly, “That’s foolish, of course. I can’t get the girl back. I never saw her until I came here tonight.”

Paget’s smile was a snarl. “No? Well, that’s just too bad, guy, ’cause it’s your death warrant. Your little playmate won’t get any place, you know. Kato’s loose. Hear that baying? Kato’s a killer. Trained that way. And now he’s loose—” He laughed at the whitening of the other’s face, “That gets hold, doesn’t it, old-timer? You don’t like the thought of the pretty lady being mangled by big, bad Kato. You’d like it even less if you could really see Kato at work—”

He stopped as through the drum of the rain came the muffled sound of a shot. His lips whitened. For just an instant his eyes flicked to the window. In that instant Tavelli fired through his pocket. The gun roared in the warm confines of the room. He leaped for the divan, shoved it out, ducked behind, crouched there, gun leveled.

Irene screamed, leaping to her feet, eyes green with hate.

“Vance! Vance, are you hurt?”

Paget’s laugh bubbled. He was reeling drunkenly in room’s center, blood trickling from the corner of his loose mouth. “Not hurt,” he choked. “Not hurt — only dizzy. Can’t lift the damned gun. You take it, Irene, you get the dirty, double-crossing—”

“Stay where you are,” Tavelli rapped, as the woman surged forward. “I’ll plug you, lady, if you move.”

She hesitated, whining in helpless fury. Paget stormed weakly. “Get the gun. Burn him down—” He tried desperately to lift his heavy arm. The blue fingers relaxed. The gun thudded to the rug. He staggered, kicked at it. It shot across the polished floor, straight to the woman’s feet. She ducked for it and Tavelli’s shot went over her head.

Laughing crazily, she crouched on the floor, gun pointed. “Get you now,” she spat. “Get you now—”

The door behind her opened very softly. A man stood there, white-faced, grim-eyed, soaked with mud and water. He caught details in one comprehending flash, then he leaped, hurling himself full force on the kneeling woman, crashing her to the floor, stifling her startled cry by the impact of his body. His strong, dirty hand twisted the gun free. He gave her a brutal shove, straightened, breathing hard. He looked at the man behind the divan.

“Okay, Chief,” he said. “I guess that fixes it. This mug here” — he looked indifferently at the moaning Paget, huddled in a chair, worrying at his chest with thin, bloody fingers — “he’s out anyway, ain’t he?”

The man who had impersonated Tavelli gave the divan another shove and walked out. “Thanks, Dan,” he said, then frowned as he saw Ellen Conway. She stood motionless just inside the door. Her hair clung soddenly to her white, expressionless face. Her hands sagged limply, slim wrists heavy with the weight of metal cuffs.

Dan said, “This little wren brought the office, Chief. I let the damned dog loose, on the hope of running something to earth. He nearly got away from me. This kid shot him and passed me your badge. I’d ’a’ been in sooner, but Susan said to wait for her signal. Passed me the office on the back porch.”

The other man interrupted shortly. “Bad news, kid, take it on the chin. Kessler killed Susan Dilke. Got wise, I guess. Take it on the chin.”

Dan took it. For a moment his face twisted in quick, almost unbearable pain. His grim lips quivered. His eyes held a sudden look of madness. “Kessler!” he choked. “Kessler killed her!”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Kessler? I’ll—”

A strong, quiet hand rested a moment on the boy’s shaking shoulders. “Take it standing, son. It’s the game, you know.” He paused, breathing unevenly. “She was a regular guy,” he said, in simple obituary, and added, “As for Kessler, well, he’s croaked there behind the divan. According to Susan, he was already marked for death by the other two here.”

He walked to Paget, unfastened his shirt, examined the wound, grunted. “Not so good. Better put through a call to Conningsby, Dan. We want him alive, if possible.” He looked at Irene, crouching sullen and silent in the shadows by the table. Quickly he drew cuffs from his pocket, snapped them securely around her slim, beautiful wrists.

“She’ll get a neat stretch,” he muttered. “Kessler and these two pulled the Vanderfelt job unaided. I got the story tonight.”

He looked last at Ellen Conway, looked long and with his face in shadow, then he walked over and stood before her.

“And now,” he asked slowly, “just who are you?”

Her heavy head lifted. She met his sharp, disturbing glance without flinching. “I am Ellen Conway,” she said clearly, “employed by the—”

He laughed. “Department of Education,” he began, but she stopped him.

“No, the Mid-West Life Insurance Company, of New York. We wrote the policy on the Vanderfelt jewels.”

She glanced down at her manacled hands. “And you?”

His lips twitched in that unforgetable smile. “John Hayes Armour,” he told her. “Chief of the Homicide Squad of the Chicago Police Department.”

They looked at each other for a long time, then he drew a key from his pocket, unlocking the cuffs. “You gave a swell imitation of a tough little moll working a hot lay alone,” he confided.

Her white lips smiled. “And you a lone wolf, chiseling in on a closed corporation.”

“Lone wolf’s right — but I felt coming undercover as Tavelli was my best gamble in getting the goods on the. Kessler pair and this man Paget; nosed ’em out here through a tapped wire in Tavelli’s office. Smart as they were they should have figured we’d have the bee on the biggest fence in the business.”

“—and Susan,” spoke Ellen, “working for your department, got the job—”

“As housekeeper here,” he finished. “We pulled wires at the employment agency and did she learn plenty?” He glanced at Dan, lowering his voice. “His mother,” he said sadly. “Her husband was a copper and her father before her — she worked with us sometimes.”

Ellen’s eyes misted. “Breaks of the game,” she spoke low. “I... I would have liked knowing Susan Dilke.”

He nodded wordlessly.

“And the Vanderfelt gems?” she asked.

“Were merely a means to an end with us. We wanted someone to fry for the murder of as grand an old man as ever drew breath.”

Ellen nodded understandingly. “Of course. Well, I was after the stones and I got them.” From the pocket of the big raincoat she wore she dragged the brown leather bag, held it out to him.

“The Mid-West followed a hunch on shadowing Tavelli too,” she smiled.

“After our ’Frisco agent wired he was negotiating with an Oriental fence for passing a carload of ‘ice’ — the Vanderfelt haul was the biggest Chi’ take in years, and — well — that’s why I was dogging the green sedan along that beastly detour.”

“I thought you’d just acted natural in copping them,” he said, as he took them. “Just figured you were outsmarting one of your own kind.”

“I figured I was outsmarting a pretty smart crook,” she said gravely. “I’m too soft for this job, though. When I got to the gate, with the road clear for a get-away, I couldn’t leave you all alone without sending Dan in to help you.”

Under his grave regard, soft color burned her cheeks. He said slowly, “You know, Ellen Conway, I somehow figured you as that kind of a girl. I said to myself, ‘Here’s too nice a kid to be in the racket.’ ”

She laughed suddenly. “And it hurt me somehow to think that you—” Confusion stopped her. They kept on looking at each other.

Dan was talking excitedly over the telephone. Captain Armour held his bemused gaze on the girl’s tired face, that was flushing beautifully. He remembered her as he had first seen her, in peach blow taffeta, sprayed over with wild roses. His hand went out.

“Stout fellow, Ellen Conway,” he said softly, and she slipped her hand into his, eyes suddenly starry through the gray mists of weariness which clouded them.