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

Stephen Steele and Private Detective Tim Cody had been roommates and close friends back at old Eli Evans School in Providence, so that when they met in New York after a lapse of years, the two young men decided to have a reunion and talk over old times.

Steve, who is the wealthy grandson of old Jonathan Steele, multi-millionaire owner of the Steele Motor Company, takes Tim to meet the glamorous Rhoda Robinson, an actress whom he had met a short while previously on the boat coming from Europe. Rhoda and Steve are devoted to each other, and Steve decides to fly to California to tell his irascible old grandfather of his engagement to Rhoda.

A few days later the newspapers announced in screaming headlines that Jonathan Steele’s grandson has been murdered. Tim and Rhoda are broken up over the news of his death — which, according to the newspaper a c counts, had happened amid unsavory surroundings in the Los Angeles negro section. Rhoda wishes to attend the funeral, but the Steele family, believing that she is an adventuress, denies her the privilege. Tim has a hunch that the whole case is phony, and decides to spend the legacy of ten thousand dollars which Steve had willed him in finding out the truth. He suspects that Steve is still alive and so he flies to Los Angeles to investigate.

On arriving in Los Angeles, Tim is met by two city detectives. Having had a “tip” that he is a tough guy from New York, they tell him they have orders to run him out of town. Tim phones Richard Barton, an attorney, a relative of Steve Steele’s personal lawyer, for legal help. He comes immediately to Tim’s hotel and puts the squeeze on the two flatfeet, who apologize to Tim. Barton learns from them that it was a Mr. Rogers of the Steele Company who had given the orders:

Barton listens to Tim’s ideas about the murder, and Barton, on the spur of the moment, decides that they should make a call on old Jonathan in Santa Barbara. He phones his sister, Clarice, a charming and witty girl, to pick them up in her car and drive them out.

After an hour of fast and furious driving, they arrive at the Steele estate, scale the surrounding wall, and are just about to enter the mansion, when they are met by guards who break up their little party. During the scuffle. Tim thinks he sees the face of Steve at one of the upper windows. By overpowering the gate keeper, they manage to leave the estate unapprehended, and return to Los Angeles.

Barton tells Tim that even if Steve is alive, they still have a huge fight on their hands, for Steve is now legally dead. Barton phones Parker B. Blake of the Steele Corporation, who requests that Tim have a talk with Lafe Morton, the personal representative of Patterson, President of the Steele Corporation.

Acting for Mr. Patterson, Lafe Morton, alias Giovanni Maroni, advises him to give up his activities in the Steele case for fifty thousand dollars — or else I Tim flatly refuses. Later, from a surprising source — the chance remark of a hotel bellboy — Tim learns that the man who, for a time, was Steve’s impostor, had a missing finger joint on one hand, and that it had been shot off in a gambling joint in Las Vegas, near Boulder Dam, Colorado. Tim makes a quick trip to Las Vegas for an investigation, and discovers that the impostor’s name is Ambrose J. Adamson of St. Louis, whose body must have been substituted for Steve’s at the funeral.

On returning to Los Angeles, Tim tries to get in touch with Barton, who has been shot by an unknown assailant. Convalescing at the Emergency Hospital, visitors are denied to him. Later, Tim has a conversation at his hotel with Mr. Patterson, loses his temper and blurts out that he knows Steve is still alive. Soon after, Tim is picked up by gangsters in Patterson’s pay, brought to a cheap hide-out, where it looks as if he is going to get the heat.

Maroni orders his henchmen to take Tim safely to Chicago, where he is to be killed. They leave Los Angeles and head across the desert where they run into a spring blizzard. Tim manages to escape during the confusion of the storm, and is nearly frozen when he passes out.

In the meantime, Barton, the lawyer, has recovered from his wound. He uses Clarice to lure Maroni to a private dining room and with assumed righteous indignation breaks in upon them and forces Maroni to go to the Barton home where he receives a good beating. Soon after, Maroni’s pals, having trailed him, break in on the Bartons, and the tables are turned. Clarice and Barton are to be taken to “The Castle,” Maroni’s headquarters, but they contrive to escape.

Tim wakes up to find that he is being well taken care of in the farmhouse of “Maw” and “Paw” Piper. He drives back to Los Angeles in a truck driven by Jim Bridgeman and the two immediately call on the Bartons.

Chapter XXI Two Volunteers

“If we’re beaten off,” Tim told them, “and captured, we’ll get long jail sentences, so we won’t be beaten off. We’ll go in force. Jim Bridgeman is an old service man and would take any chance for a few hundred dollars. From what he tells me of his brother, he’ll join us. Four determined armed men in a surprise rush.”

“Tim, come to my arms,” cried Dick.

“Five,” cried Clarice. “Count me in.”

“My dear young lady!” exclaimed Upton Reynolds. I’m ashamed to put it down, but Clarice stuck out her tongue at him.

“You’re out,” snarled Dick. She stuck out her tongue at him.

“Yes, you are, Clarice,” I said.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Can’t I drive the car?” she asked plaintively.

“No,” I shouted. To my surprise she began to sniffle and then ran out of the room.

Reynolds was on his feet. “I can’t countenance this,” he cried. “It’s insane.”

“Take your hat and go for a walk,” said Dick insolently.

The old boy’s face grew red. He swallowed and then he spoke mildly. “What purpose will be served?” he asked me.

“We’ll carry off Jonathan.”

“Where will you take him?”

“To the Soldiers’ Home to be fingerprinted,” I said with a laugh.

Dick embraced me. He pumped my hand. “A stroke of genius, but — if he turns out to be Jonathan—”

I hummed a bar of the prisoner’s song and he joined in.

“I’ll have no part in this. I’ve a mind to report you to the police,” exclaimed Reynolds.

“Are you going to, sir?” I inquired.

“No, damn it,” he replied and left the room.

“Rhoda,” I said gently. The girl was sitting there very pale but with very bright eyes. “We’ll bring back Steve if we can.”

“I know you will. I’ll pray for you,” she said softly.

“Let’s go find this truck driver and his brother,” Dick proposed. “First let me get you some decent clothes. Mine will be a trifle big for you, but not too much.”

That seemed sensible, so I went up to his room and changed clothing. Dick had produced a revolver and an automatic pistol and several boxes of cartridges. We went downstairs. The big car was in the driveway and Clarice sat in it. She was in black and her chin was thrust out. “I go with this car,” she said firmly.

Dick winked at me. “Okay,” he said. “Has Jim got a gun?”

“He had two on the truck.”

He struck me as a nice fellow. “What’s the address?”

I gave his brother’s address and Clarice started the car. We were off upon the first lap of the wildest, maddest adventure of my brief career. Inside of me I was scared. I looked at Dick. He was a perfect picture of a radiantly happy man.

“I’m not welshing,” Clarice called back after a minute, “but why storm this fortress? Why not lay in wait for Jonathan when he goes to play golf — it would be much easier. You know how I can outdistance pursuit.”

“Because,” replied Dick, “Jonathan won’t stick his nose out of his castle for some time. If he recognized you, found out you were the sister of Cody’s attorney and fled Palm Springs on that account, he’ll stick close to the home fires. And how long do you suppose our friend Maroni will let us lie in wait? Tonight is ours. He doesn’t know yet that Tim got away from the gang who were driving him to Chicago. He’s probably sleeping in his bed at the Biltmore tonight. So, sister!”

Clarice laughed. “Okay, Chief.”

“Tim,” he said to me. “Just what arguments are you going to use on the two men to induce them to turn bandit?”

“Well, I’ll offer them money, tell them there won’t be any comeback.”

“You let me talk to them,” he demanded. “If they have any sense your proposition won’t appeal to them.”

“Let me vamp ’em,” suggested Clarice.

“You’ll keep out of this,” said Dick fiercely.

While we were still chattering we drew up in front of a seedy apartment house away over on the south side of town and I got out and rang the bell of what was ostentatiously styled Suite Four... name Bridgeman.

“Tim Cody,” I called up the tube. “Is Jim there?”

“You bet.” The door clicked and I pushed it open to be joined immediately by Clarice and Dick. We climbed three flights of stairs and met Jim in the hall.

“Hello, folks; say, this is an honor.” He grinned at Clarice in open admiration. “Hey, Bill, put your coat on,” he bellowed. “Swell company.”

Bill Bridgeman was a second I edition of Jim except that his nose was flattened on his face and he was bigger, which made him gigantic. He had his coat on when we entered. It was a dingy apartment, the sort you can get for twenty dollars a month in Los Angeles.

Jim introduced us. Bill looked impressed.

“You ain’t Richard Barton, the district attorney?” he demanded. “Why, I voted for you.”

“Thanks,” said Dick, who met his grip with one equally terrific. “I resigned a few months ago. Too many crooks smelling up the place.”

“Say, you got a nifty sister,” declared Bill, eying Clarice with so much ardor that I began to bristle.

“Do you two guys want to make some real dough?” I demanded.

“Sure,” they said simultaneously. “How much and what for?” demanded Bill.

“A thousand dollars apiece for a few hours’ work,” said Dick Barton. “Steady, boys, while you get the dough anyway, you might have to do a stretch in San Quentin.”

“You wouldn’t make us do anything crooked, Mr. Barton,” protested Bill. “A thousand bucks!”

“I seen his house,” stated Jim. “Swell joint. I guess he can pay big money, if he says he will. What’s the proposition, sir?”

“Sit down, everybody,” suggested Dick. “We intend to right a great wrong by illegal means. I need two-fisted guys who aren’t afraid to shoot off a gun. Tim says both you fellows are ex-service men and not afraid to take chances. This is the situation. If we pull off this job successfully, we’re heroes, we’re within the law and nobody can touch us. If we foozle it and happen to kill somebody, all of us might be hanged.”

“Listen,” said Jim Bridgeman. “You’re a political spellbinder. Well, I like Tim Cody or I’d turn thumbs down on this. But you got to tell me and Bill exactly what we’re up against or we’ll tell you what to do with this thousand apiece you’re talking about.”

“That will be all for you, Dick,” said Clarice maliciously. “Let Tim tell ’em. They like Tim.”

Dick laughed with some embarrassment and nodded to me.

“Jim,” I said, “I didn’t tell you how I came to be in that farmhouse. Well, I escaped from a car full of Chicago gangsters who were taking me to Chicago to be put on the spot. We’re up against gangsters tonight.”

The two big fellows looked at each other. Both grinned.

“What we’re going to do is rush the house of Jonathan Steele in Santa Barbara and capture Jonathan. Ever hear of him?”

“Who hasn’t?” asked Jim.

“If we can carry him off, we’re in the clear because he isn’t Jonathan Steele at all but an impostor named Tommy Donnegan. We can prove that if we have him in our hands. He is guarded by a mob of gangsters who’ll shoot to kill. If we get beaten off or captured, as Dick says, we’ll go to jail. If somebody has been killed, we’ll hang.”

“How you going to prove this and what good will it do you?” asked Bill.

“His grandson is my best friend. If a faker is posing as his grandfather, he is being kept out of one of the biggest fortunes in America.”

“Why don’t this guy do his own dirty work?” asked Bill pertinently.

“Because he’s a prisoner in their hands. You see why we can afford to give you fellows a thousand each. Dick Barton and I will be with you — we take every chance you take. Dick is his lawyer” — I stretched a point there — “and I’m his pal.”

“Wait a minute, this Steele’s grandson was murdered, wasn’t he?” said Bill. “I read it in the papers.”

“We can prove that he wasn’t. It was a man named Adamson.”

They didn’t say anything. I stood up. “Well, Dick,” I said, “I don’t blame the boys for turning us down. It’s an awful risk. Let’s go.”

Jim jumped up and pushed me back into my chair. “What have we got to lose?” he demanded. “They give the prisoners good chuck in San Quentin. What I could do with a thousand bucks! I’m with you, buddy.”

“That goes for me,” said Bill. “If we’re up against gangsters, we shoot to kill, eh?”

“Of course,” said Dick. “We can prove who they are and get three rousing cheers for eliminating them — if we get safe away with this fake Jonathan Steele.”

“Wait till I get an overcoat and my artillery,” requested Bill Bridgeman.

He politely offered his arm to Clarice, who took it with an amused smile at me.

“What are we going to do about her?” I whispered to Dick as we brought up the rear.

“We’re going to maroon her,” he told me. “You can’t argue with her. I can’t trust her even to sit in the car while we go inside. That kid would be on our heels. So, at Malibu, where she knows a dozen people, we’re going to stop the car and put her in the road.”

“She’ll never forgive us.”

He laughed kind of funny. “I think she’ll forgive you, all right. And time will temper her fury against me.”

Bill Bridgeman had climbed into the front seat beside Clarice. Jim sat with us in the back seat on the left side. He was silent and puzzled, not sure we weren’t crazy, probably dubious of the outcome of our enterprise, but ready to take his chances for a fee of a thousand dollars.

“Queer how a key clears up a profound mystery,” said Dick gaily. “We’re deadlocked, a chance remark by Clarice is caught up by you, and in a minute the whole blamed cryptogram has been solved. With Donnegan in our hands, the enemy has to surrender — all that was inexplicable is clear as crystal.”

Clarice glanced back. “Great brain,” she inquired, “when and if we lay hands on Jonathan, where are we going to take him? Of course you haven’t considered that at all.”

I looked at Dick and he looked at me, and we both laughed. We hadn’t got around to consideration of that.

“I have a key to Stella Grey’s cabin in Tiger Cañon north of Santa Barbara,” she said. “Nobody goes up there at this season and there are no neighbors within a quarter of a mile.”

“The very place,” cried Dick. “Just where is it?”

Clarice laughed merrily. “Don’t you wish you knew? You two boys allowed me to come without protesting enough. Well, if you’re planning to get rid of me, reconsider. I’ll guide you to the cabin.”

Dick scratched his ear. “That’s what we’re up against,” he said. “All right, jail will be a nice place for you, Clarice. But you have to swear you’ll stay in the car. No following us over the wall.”

“If you don’t agree, we’ll call this whole business off,” I exclaimed. The thought of Clarice going to jail was horrible. I couldn’t stand it.

“You bet your life you ain’t going in with us, lady,” spoke up Bill Bridgeman. “We take risk enough without watching out for a dame.”

“All right, I’ll stick with the car,” she said reluctantly.

“You promise, Clarice?” I asked eagerly.

“Yep.”

About eleven-thirty we drew near the estate in Montecito. We drove past the private road about two hundred yards, came to a turnout at the right, and Clarice drove the car off the road and turned out the lights. We got out, looked to our weapons and to Dick for orders. Clarice descended and stood quietly. Suddenly she threw her arms around her brother’s neck. He lifted her clear off the ground as he kissed her. The pair certainly liked each other.

Clarice shook hands with Jim and Bill and then came to me. I felt shaky, all of a sudden.

“Tim,” she said very softly, “please be careful — for my sake. Don’t be rash, darling.”

There were tears in her eyes. And, for the first time, I had the idea that — maybe — Clarice thought of me as more than a pal of her brother’s. I hadn’t taken the kiss she gave me when I arrived at the house seriously. She was always exuberant and of course she was delighted to see me back. But now. I pounced on her, lifted her up and kissed her.

She kissed me back fiercely and then she said sharply, “You put me down, you big lug.”

I dropped her like a hot cake and said, “Excuse me,” very humbly.

Clarice laughed loudly. “Oh, don’t mention it,” she replied, and hopped back behind the wheel of the car.

“Come on, boys,” ordered Dick.

We walked toward the estate across lots.

“We’ll go over the wall,” he said, “creep up to the lodge and nab the gate keeper and tie him up. That will fix our getaway. We’ll find out from him where Maroni’s boys hang out, surprise them, if we can, and then bust into the house. It’s as good a plan as any.”

It was better than what I could suggest, so we all agreed. We worked through thick shrubbery and a park of trees and came to the wall. We got over by the same method that had served us the first time, but instead of heading boldly for the big house, we worked along by the wall until we came to the lodge. It was a small bungalow and there was a light in one of the rooms.

Dick softly tried the door, but it was locked. He risked ringing the door bell. We heard footsteps and then the door opened. A gray-haired man peered at us and emitted a terrified squeak when he looked into the barrel of Dick’s automatic. He was not the gate keeper that Dick had held up on our first visit.

“Anybody inside?” asked Dick harshly. The man shook his head.

“Get back.” He retreated, trembling. We pushed into the room — the door opened directly into the living room. I sized him up as a regular servant, not a henchman of Maroni’s. So, apparently, did Dick.

“Sit down,” commanded Dick. “We won’t hurt you unless you make trouble.”

“I won’t make any trouble, mister,” he promised.

“How many servants at the house?”

“Seven, sir.”

“How many women?”

“Just the housekeeper and the cook.”

“What are the others?”

“Mr. Steele’s valet, Mr. Farrell, the secretary — he has a valet and there is the footman, the butler and the chauffeur.”

“How many sleep in the house?”

“They all do, sir.”

“Doesn’t the chauffeur sleep over the garage?”

“No, sir, on account of the defectives. They are quartered in the rooms over the garage.”

“How many of these ‘detectives’ are there?”

“Six, sir. They are very necessary — an attempt was made to rob the house a couple of weeks ago, but they drove off the robbers.”

“How long has Mr. Steele employed these detectives?”

“Well, there were two ever since I’ve been here, but the others came about a month ago, at the time young Mr. Steele was killed in Los Angeles.”

“How long have you been with Mr. Steele?”

“About ten months, sir.”

“How many of the detective patrol the grounds — they work in shifts, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir, two at a time, four-hour watches. You see Mr. Jonathan is so rich—”

“Never mind. Now we’re going to tie you up and put a gag in your mouth, but we’re not going to hurt you. You’ll be released very shortly.”

“Look here, Mr. Barton,” the man alarmed us by exclaiming, “you can’t do this. I voted for you for district attorney a year ago in Los Angeles. You ain’t going to tie and gag me. I’m an honest man. I protest.”

“Bill, go out in the kitchen and find a rope,” said Dick. “I hate to trouble a man who voted for me, but sometimes the law officers have to do unlawful things. The end justifies the means.”

“What are you going to do?” asked the terrified servant.

Dick gave his crazy laugh. “Right a great wrong, Pop. Lay down while we do what has to be done. That your bedroom? Well, I want you to be comfortable. Lay down on your bed.”

Still protesting, the unlucky constituent of the ex-district attorney was bound and gagged.

“I don’t think this is going to be so tough,” Dick told us. “We’ll try to reach the garage without bumping into the pickets, catch these birds together, overpower them, then fire a shot which will bring the two watchmen, knock them over and go up and knock on the front door of the house.”

“Meantime, Jonathan might make a getaway,” I objected.

“He has to use a car, and we have the garage,” he countered. “Come on, boys.”

We went outside. The moon was not up yet, but there were lights in the second story of the house and lights on the second floor of the garage. We moved carefully in the latter direction.

“Some one coming,” warned Jim Bridgeman. We fell flat. A man was coming down the driveway toward the lodge.

“Can’t have that,” whispered Dick. “Get him, Tim.”

I crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the driveway. I saw him only fifty feet away. I waited. When he was almost opposite me I made a dive tackle and struck him with my shoulder at the knees. They didn’t teach football in the school he went to and he didn’t know how to relax. When I got up, he didn’t. The fellow’s head had struck the concrete and he was out cold.

I pulled a big revolver out of the side pocket of his jacket and was joined by the others.

“Lots of time,” said Dick. “We’ll park him in the lodge, tied up with the old man.”

He came to as we were entering the lodge, but a word of warning kept him quiet. Five minutes later we set out again. “Only five,” said Dick. “It’s a cinch.”

This time we arrived at the garage without encountering anybody. There was a small door unlocked and we got inside. Dick had a flashlight and we located the stairs.

“Take off your shoes,” he whispered. We obeyed, and with Dick in the lead we started up the stairs. At the head of the stairs there was a door with a wide streak of light beneath it.

A voice said loudly, “No good, I have three aces.”

“Poker game, what a break!” muttered Dick. We threw open the door.

Four rough-looking men sat around a table.

“Royal flush,” shouted Barton. “I win!”

We had them covered. Their cue was to lift their hands. Instead, one of them fired point blank at Dick Barton. He fired too quick and missed, and I winged him. The Bridgeman brothers plunged in. There followed as hard and sharp a scrap as I ever got into. A dozen shots were fired at such close range that most of them missed. Fists and butts of guns came into play. I was rolling on the floor with a burly thug who got his gun against the pit of my stomach but whose skull cracked against the floor before he could pull the trigger.

After three or four minutes the battle was won. Three of the enemy were unconscious and one was dead. And Bill Bridgeman had a bullet in his left arm.

I suppose twenty shots were fired during the battle and enough noise was made to wake the dead.

”Disarm these yeggs and leave them,” commanded Dick. “Ah!” He turned as man rushed into the room gun in hand.

“If it ain’t Jake!” exclaimed Dick. “Stick ’em up, Jake.”

Jake, true to the gunman code, fired, but my right foot had got into action. I kicked the revolver out of his hand and Dick floored him by bringing his fist with the automatic in it against his temple.

“Can you travel, Bill?” he demanded.

“This ain’t anything,” replied Bill, but he grimaced with pain.

Dick was plunging down the garage stairs. We followed. We raced across the grounds and up to the front door of the house. The ground floor was all lighted up.

Dick was thumping on the front door with the pistol. “Open up,” he roared. The door did not open. Dick fired a shot through the glass panel beside the door. The glass made a horrid jangling sound.

“Open up or I’ll burn the house down,” he bellowed. We heard a chain being dropped and the big door flew open. In the hallway stood two men, fully dressed, an old man and a middle-aged one. A butler was there. On the stairs were two half-dressed women servants.

Chapter XXII Tiger Cañon

“What’s the meaning of this outrage?” cried the middle-aged man furiously. “How dare you break in here? Who are you?”

I thrust my gun against his middle. “Where’s Steve Steele?” I demanded savagely.

“He’s dead, you fool. Put up that weapon. What do you want — money?”

Dick had the old man by one arm. “You’re coming with us,” he shouted.

“I’ll be gosh blamed jiggered if I am,” cried the old fellow. “Leggo me. If I had my rifle—”

Dick was dragging him, protesting, toward the door.

“Dick,” I pleaded, “we have to find Steve.”

“We’ve no time to search the house,” he shouted back. “We’ve our ace right here. They’ll have to release Steve.”

“Up those stairs,” Jim Bridgeman commanded of the butler, who scampered up in great haste.

“You, too,” I growled to the secretary, for that, obviously, was who he was.

“I tell you, you’re mad. That’s Jonathan Steele. Kidnaping is a capital offense in this State.” He had the nerve to make a grab for my gun, so I swung my left to his jaw and dropped him. I was the last out of the house. Bill Bridgeman, with his good hand, had a grip on Jonathan’s left arm while Dick was dragging him along by his right arm.

“I’m eighty-two years old. I can’t run so fast,” he protested.

“You’re lying by ten years,” retorted Dick. “Step on it.”

We made the lodge without interference. Dick turned Jonathan over to Bill Bridgeman, rushed into the lodge, and in a moment the great gate swung open, operated by mechanism from the house.

I’d had a good look at the old man in the lighted hall of the residence. He was a frail old man with snow white hair, clean shaven, with high cheekbones, a small, thin-lipped mouth and a pointed chin. He looked pretty much as I remembered Jonathan upon the occasion when he had visited the school ten years back. I grew weak around the gills to think what would happen to us if it was really Jonathan.

Dick rushed out of the lodge and our flight was resumed. We already heard shouting from the vicinity of the house.

Jim Bridgeman was half carrying Jonathan because he couldn’t run as fast as the rest of us.

“Farrell thinks it’s kidnaping,” called Dick with a laugh.

“What in tarnation is it, if it isn’t kidnaping?” quavered Jonathan.

“You’ll be surprised, old top,” Dick retorted. “Damn it, we have to run a couple of hundred yards up the road. No, we don’t.”

For, as we emerged into the highroad, there stood the big car with Clarice at the wheel. She had heard the shots, backed the car down to the entrance to the private road, and our getaway was fixed. She sprang out of the car.

“Hello, Tommy Donnegan,” she exclaimed.

“You made a mistake, I never heard of him,” he cried shrilly.

Jim was boosting him into the car; we scrambled in. We heard the sound of a motor up the private road, but Clarice was under way.

“Clarice,” called Dick, “stop at a hospital at Santa Barbara and let Bill Bridgeman off. He’s wounded in the arm. How do you feel, Bill?”

“I’m not going to any hospital,” he growled. “I’m all right.”

“But he’ll be arrested,” protested Clarice.

“He’ll be all right. We’ve won,” exclaimed Dick. “Say nothing, Bill. Tell them to fix your arm and go find out how you got shot. By tomorrow we’ll all be on top of the world.”

Dick and I had Jonathan between us. I could feel the old fellow shaking with fright. I was almost sorry for him until I thought of Steve.

We tore along the boulevard into Santa Barbara. Clarice slowed as we hit the main streets of the brightly lighted city; she began swinging into the side streets and back to the main streets and she suddenly stopped before a brightly lighted hospital building.

“Make it yourself, Bill?” asked Dick.

“You bet,” said that doughty invalid as he opened the door of the car with the good arm and stepped out.

“Keep mum. You’ll hear from us tomorrow.”

We were off and turned into the highroad to San Francisco. It’s a long straight road which finally reminds you of a roller coaster because there are so many short steep hills to climb and descend. Clarice took it at breakneck speed. We had gone fifteen miles when she gave an angry exclamation.

“I’m out of gas,” she said. “Why didn’t some of you think to get gas?”

“Why didn’t you? You were driving!” retorted Dick furiously.

“Can I think of everything, you big boob?”

“Stop at the next station and fill up the tank. We’ll take the chance of their catching up with us.”

A couple of miles along we ran into a big gas station and I saw a Pay Station sign, and I had about the smartest idea of my life, though the others didn’t think so at the time. I rushed into the shack, called Los Angeles and the Ambassador Hotel, and asked for Rhoda.

She answered almost immediately. At that hour all lines were clear.

“We’re got what we went after, Rhoda,” I said.

“Steve?” she cried joyfully. My heart sank. I’d forgotten Steve for the moment.

“No, the other one. With him in our hands we’ll have Steve free in twenty-four hours. We’re going to a cottage in Tiger Cañon owned by a friend of Clarice’s named Stella Grey. Tell Reynolds it’s all over but the shouting.”

Dick was roaring for me from the car, so I hung up.

“Who were you talking to?” he demanded angrily. “You held us up.”

“Rhoda,” I said. “I had to tell her.”

Clarice looked back at me. She was glaring. “Oh, you did!” she cried. “So you’re crazy about her. Well, she loves Steve, Mr. Timothy Cody.”

“Step on it,” shouted Dick. “They’re probably right on our heels.”

“Let ’em come,” growled Jim Bridgeman.

Six miles farther along we entered the mountains. At the end of a couple of miles Clarice turned up a dirt road and began to climb a steep grade. She turned into a driveway a short distance after that and stopped before a large one-story establishment which was dark.

“Here we are,” she said triumphantly. “I don’t think they can trace us to this place.”

We dragged Jonathan out. He hadn’t spoken a word for a long time. In fact, if he had been eighty-two years of age he would have died from heart failure on account of Clarice’s driving.

She unlocked the front door, turned a switch and the place was electrically illuminated. For a cabin in the wilderness it was modern, and elaborately furnished.

Jonathan stood inside the door, a picture of dejection.

Dick inspected him and suddenly barked, “ ’Tenshun!”

The old man’s heels clicked together, his chin lifted, his arms straightened at his side, the little fingers touching the hems of his trousers. Dick roared with laughter.

“Old soldier,” he said, “you know your stuff.”

“You might as well ’fess up, Tommy Donnegan,” said Clarice, smiling broadly.

Jonathan shifted to at ease. “I ain’t saying nothin’ to nobody,” he declared.

“Jim, take him into a bedroom and stay with him,” commanded Dick. “You’re responsible for him. If he gets away your brother will do a term in jail — and the rest of us.”

“Come, Grandpa,” said Jim gently. “You ain’t going to force me to bust your skinny old neck, now are yer?”

“No, siree,” replied Jonathan, who toddled off with Jim, and Clarice and Dick and I remained alone.

“Now what’s the program?” demanded Dick with a deep sigh. “Everything has gone so smoothly that I’m scared.”

“We get him to the Soldiers’ Home in the morning, take his fingerprints, and have all the officers of the place and all the inmates identify him.”

“I suppose so. After that Patterson can have him back and welcome. Blessed if I know why they dug up this old codger from a Soldiers’ Home and christened him Jonathan Steele.”

“I don’t suppose there were many men to be found at short notice who looked like Jonathan,” I said slowly. “Come to think of it, it was smart. Here is a man who has been buried in an old soldiers’ institution for a quarter of a century. Before he went in there he had never amounted to anything. Inmates of Soldiers’ Homes never come out. The employees of the Home don’t circulate in millionaire circles. There wasn’t a chance in a million of his ever being recognized.”

“You’re right. Only how did Patterson know there was a double of Jonathan in that Home?”

We couldn’t answer that question. Dick rose. “We don’t want to be caught as Jonathan was, so I’m going outside to stand guard. I’ll leave you two love birds flat.” He laughed mockingly and went out of the place and slammed the door.

“Your face is red,” remarked Clarice. “You have a round face, so when it’s red you look exactly like a half of watermelon.”

“Yeh? What did he mean by that crack?” I asked uneasily.

“That,” said Clarice, “was satire.”

I chewed on that. I looked over the big living room we were sitting in. There was a grand piano and Oriental rugs and large overstuffed chairs.

“Nice place your friend has here,” I remarked.

“Very,” she said dryly. “I wish I had a mashie.”

“What for?” I asked, bewildered.

Clarice stood up. Her eyes were blazing. “To sock you over the head with, you chunk of something,” she screamed. “Of all the dumb clucks!”

I eyed her thoughtfully. “Does Dick think you and I are in love?” I asked bluntly.

“No,” she snapped. “He knows that you are a clod of mud and you couldn’t be in love except maybe with a turtle.”

Clarice was exceedingly angry and she certainly was good to look at when she was angry.

“Then what does he mean?” I persisted.

“He thinks that I am in love with you, you dolt,” she shouted.

“Well, are your?”

She stamped her foot and she laughed scornfully. “Do you think I’m crazy?” she demanded.

“Yes,” I replied. “Frankly, I thought so from the first time I met you. You’re about the finest girl I ever saw in my life and the best looking and you’ve more nerve than any other girl and more brains, so you couldn’t be in love with me unless you were crazy.”

“Is that so?” she exclaimed. “What’s the matter with you, for heaven’s sake?”

I got up and took a couple of steps toward her. She saw something in my eye and she backed away.

“You keep off,” she threatened.

“I never thought you’d give me a tumble, Clarice,” I told her. “I didn’t think you meant anything by kissing me tonight.”

She bristled. “So, you think I’m promiscuous with my kisses,” she exclaimed.

“Aw, shut up,” I yelled and I pounced on her. I got a fist in my right eye but after that she just nestled in my arms.

Bang! It sounded like a shot.

Dick bounced into the room.

“A car was coming toward the house,” he exclaimed. “They trailed us. I fired a shot to warn them off and they backed out in a hurry. Clarice, you go in and entertain Tommy. Send Jim out here. Looks like we’re in a mess. Put out all the lights. Keep a gun on Tommy — he’s a cute one.”

Clarice and I had broken apart, of course. She rushed into the bedroom. Jim came barging out and we turned out the lights. After that we opened the door and slipped outside. The moon was up.

The house was on top of a slope and its driveway turned into the dirt road about fifty yards away and ten yards below. There were Eucalyptus trees blocking the view and a lot of boulders and the car had put out its lights and wasn’t visible.

We lay flat on the edge of the porch and watched closely. I thought I saw a man run from one boulder to another thirty or forty yards away and fired. Answering shots came from three spots and one broke a window.

“A mess, all right,” said Dick. “I think the way we came is the only way out. We’re besieged.”

“There can’t be many of them,” I said. “Unless they called the police.”

“I don’t think they’d dare. With Jonathan out of their hands they don’t know what he might have told us. They’ll try to get him back, shoot the caboodle of us and accuse us of having kidnaped him and get acquitted of murder by any court. Well, they’ll have to fight to get him back.”

“You said something, Buddy,” declared Jim.

An hour went by; two hours. We fired an occasional shot. They sniped at us. They broke two or three windows in the house. The night very slowly passed. Dawn came with us three squatting on the porch. Occasionally Clarice called softly to us from the window of the bedroom and we answered her. We knew that nobody had worked up the slope but it was possible they might have climbed the cañon walls and got around behind us.

As it grew light we saw a car down the cañon blocking the road to prevent us making a dash for it but we couldn’t see our enemies, who had plenty of cover.

Our position on the porch being too exposed in broad daylight, we retreated into the house and watched from windows front and back. The cliff at the back of the house was almost precipitous but we stationed Clarice at the back window of the bedroom where Jonathan was confined. Jonathan had crawled under the bed when the shooting first started and remained there.

We expected a rush but none came. Clarice opened some cans she found in the pantry and made coffee. Sniping had completely ceased.

“If they expect to starve us out,” Clarice said gaily, “they’re batty. There are supplies enough here for a month.”

“They’re waiting for someone,” declared Dick.

“Lafe Morton, most likely,” I said gloomily. It was nine o’clock. Ten o’clock. Nothing had happened but we were nicely bottled up. If they brought up men enough they could rush us and recapture Jonathan. I was in an awful state on account of Clarice.

“We can’t fight it out,” I told him. “On account of her.”

“I know it. God knows I didn’t want her along.”

“We’ll fight it out,” declared Clarice. “And we’ll win. He broke down and admitted he was Tommy Donnegan when the shooting started last night.”

“That’s no good. We won’t be around to testify — even if we surrender, I’m afraid.”

“Did he tell you how he got into this?” I asked Clarice to change a horrible subject.

“It’s weird,” she said. “It seems that ten years ago, Mr. Farrell, who was Mr. Steele’s secretary, was a clerk in the office of the Soldiers’ Home. When Jonathan died, he remembered that Tommy Donnegan looked a lot like him and he called at the home and offered Tommy fifty thousand dollars and the chance to live like a king for the rest of his life. You can’t blame the poor old thing for accepting the offer.”

We laughed. I looked at my watch. It was ten o’clock.

Bridgeman from the front window called out. “I see a car coming. It’s stopped down there. Six men are getting out. Look, they’re coming out of hiding, one, two, four, five of them.”

“Eleven to three,” said Dick. “We’ll make a good showing.”

“One of them’s coming up, waving a white handkerchief,” called Jim. “How about it?”

We were all at the window. “It’s Maroni,” I exclaimed.

“I recognize him,” Dick said grimly.

“Let me go out and meet him,” I pleaded.

“Go ahead. We won’t accept anything he proposes, of course.”

So I walked down the slope. Maroni recognized me, stopped in his tracks, and then came on.

“How are you, Joe?” I asked cheerfully.

He gazed at me with a poker face. “So you got away from the boys. I thought as much.”

“Cinch,” I said airily. “What’s on your mind, Joe?”

“Turn him over,” he replied. “Let him walk down this hill and I’ll take my boys back to Santa Barbara.”

“You mean when there’s no danger of hitting him, you’ll rush the house,” I came back. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“I’ll give you my word, Cody. I keep my word whatever else they say about me.”

“I don’t take your word, Maroni. We can stand you off. Ever hear of the Battle of Bunker Hill?”

“I don’t go in for history. Turn him loose and we’ll let you go. You’ve a dame with you. We don’t want to hurt her.”

“You don’t intend to let any of us go. Start your war, Maroni.”

“Okay,” he said with a scowl. “If Steele gets hit — well, he’s lived to a ripe old age. I’ll be right back, Cody.”

“I’ll save a slug of lead for you,” I promised him. He turned his back on me — more than I would have done with him — and walked down the slope. I ran back, zigzagging. Sure enough a couple of bullets came flying by. Dick fired a shot at Maroni but he was out of range. I told them the proposition and they all laughed.

“Let ’em come,” said Jim Bridgeman. “I won’t get the thousand but I’ve had a lot of fun.”

“Put it there,” said Dick. “So have I.”

“And I,” declared Clarice.

I didn’t say anything. I had a horrible pain in my heart when I looked at Clarice,

The gang below had spread out and began a dropping fire from behind rocks. We had sixty or eighty cartridges between us which ought to last as long as we’d need them. We decided to hold our fire until they made the rush.

It was a long time in coming. I could see Maroni moving round out of pistol range and apparently having trouble getting the boys nerved up to running up that slope.

He finally did what I didn’t think he had the nerve to do. He led the charge.

They came up slowly, darting from boulder to boulder and hiding behind the thick trunks of the Eucalyptus trees. Dick and Jim took pot shots at them but didn’t hit anybody. I waited. I was waiting for Maroni if he gave me a chance.

I had him spotted behind the nearest tree. It was about three hundred feet away. A long shot. I crouched there with my eyes just above the window sill figuring out where he’d next take cover. There was a boulder about twenty or thirty feet nearer the house and the same distance from his tree. He doubled over and made a run for it. I fired two shots and one of them knocked off his hat but he reached the boulder.

The others were creeping up and lots of bullets were coming through the windows and the stucco walls of the flimsily constructed if pretentious bungalow. One man lay stretched out in plain view. I don’t know who got him.

Maroni’s next move would be to a boulder twenty-five feet from his present rock and twenty feet closer. I trained my gun that way. He darted out. I fired, missed, he was half way, and the second shot got him. He pitched forward and lay flat on his face.

“Got Maroni,” I shouted. “He’s through for the day.”

“For life, by the looks of him,” called Dick. He fired as he spoke. “Damn it, I missed,” he exclaimed.

Jim fired two shots. “By Jimmy, they’re running away,” he yelled. “We-e-e-e!”

“There are cars coming,” called. Clarice. “I can see three cars away down the cañon.”

“The police,” said Dick glumly. “Our of the frying pan, into the fire.”

I nodded. “This may be a deserted cañon but the battle going on here must have been heard for miles.”

The enemy, in fact, were retreating down the cañon. They clustered by their car. The procession of cars coming up halted below the parked car and men with rifles piled out.

I saw one of Maroni’s band approach the riflemen. I saw him gesticulating wildly to the leader who paused and talked with him.

“Well,” said Dick. “No sense in fighting the State of, California. It’s jail sentences instead of death.” He thrust his automatic in his pocket.

“They’re disarming Maroni’s men,” cried Clarice shrilly.

“Of course,” said Dick. “They had no authority to wage war. But it’s only a formality. Patterson will take care of them.”

Leaving three riflemen to guard the Maroni outfit deprived of its weapons, the remainder, eight or ten in number, came steadily up the grade and turned into the private road. Dick and I and Jim stood in the center of the living room looking at each other despondently.

“Dick, Tim,” screamed Clarice. “Upton Reynolds is with them. Look!”

We rushed in a body out upon, the porch, forgetting our prisoner. It was all right because nothing would have induced him to come out from under the bed.

The party halted forty feet from the porch and a big burly mustached man stepped forward.

“You are under arrest,” he shouted. “I’m the sheriff of this county. You are charged with abducting Jonathan Steele.”

“It’s a lie,” called Dick. “We have a man here who has been impersonating Jonathan Steele. Fetch him, Jim. Come up, gentlemen. We are law-abiding citizens. We’ve been besieged by gangsters. We have any citizen’s right to defend himself.”

The sheriff, accompanied by Upton Reynolds, who looked incongruous in a mob of rough, armed men, came forward.

“How are you, Upton, old top?” inquired Dick with his usual impudence.

Upton gravely shook hands with Clarice and Dick and me. “Let me introduce Colonel Edwards,” he said. “Colonel Edwards is superintendent of The Soldiers’ Home at Sawtelle.”

“Miss Barton,” exclaimed that gentleman, who was middle aged, mild looking and as uncomfortable in his surroundings as was Reynolds, “this is a most astonishing situation.”

“Here he is,” exclaimed Jim Bridgeman. He appeared, dragging the prisoner by one arm.

“By Jove,” exclaimed the Superintendent. “It’s Tommy Donnegan! Why, you old rascal!”

Tommy’s faded eyes widened, his legs began to shake but he clicked his heels together and made a military salute.

“How are you, Colonel Edwards?” he asked with a deprecating smirk.

There was a burst of laughter from the sheriff.

“Donnegan,” said Reynolds loudly, “do you confess that you have been impersonating Jonathan Steele?”

“I didn’t want to do it,” pleaded the old man. “Mr. Farrell was the one. He made me do it, sir.”

“I... I must sit down,” gasped Upton Reynolds. “Your arm, Cody. Lead me to a chair.”

I took him inside and he flopped upon a chair. He pulled out a big handkerchief and wiped his brow and then he looked up at me with twinkling eyes.

“I have imperiled my reputation, I perhaps my liberty,” he said, “by staking everything upon a crack-brained theory. I have been in a state of mortal terror since leaving Los Angeles, since last night when Rhoda phoned me your message. I didn’t really believe that it was Donnegan — and, if you had abducted Jonathan Steele, all of you would have got a long term of imprisonment.”

“If you’re responsible for the arrival of the sheriff and his posse, you saved all our lives, sir,” I told him.

“Of course I’m responsible,” he said testily. “I rose at seven this morning and motored down to the Soldiers’ Home. I persuaded Colonel Edwards, against his better judgment, to accompany me to Santa Barbara. If he hadn’t thought there was something queer about Donnegan’s departure from the Home, he wouldn’t have budged.

“I went to the Sheriff of Santa Barbara and told him — well, I made flights of the imagination sound like facts. What persuaded him to investigate was that no report of the abduction of Jonathan Steele had been made and when he phoned to Steele’s residence it was absolutely denied that Steele had been abducted. He collected deputies and we started for this place.”

“But what made you think we were in danger, sir?”

“It was obvious, if the ring around Jonathan hadn’t reported his kidnaping, it was because they hoped to recapture him. And it meant that it wasn’t Jonathan Steele but Donnegan you had carried off. Now it happens that the men employed as private detectives by Steele, in their off hours have incurred the enmity of the police of Santa Barbara. The sheriff of the county said he would be very glad to catch them taking the law into their own hands.

“Well, when we turned into this cañon we heard heavy firing going on — it seems that we were just in time. Did you find Stephen Steele?”

“No, sir. We had no time to search the place. We are sure that, if we have Jonathan unmasked, Patterson will have to have Steele released.”

“Well, well, I’ve never before risked my professional reputation on such a long shot,” he said. “Cody, there is a phase of this situation that probably has not occurred to you. Whether Stephen Steele is dead or not, we know he was alive a month ago.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Then, since it appears that Donnegan has been impersonating Jonathan for a year, Stephen inherited the entire Steele fortune.”

“That’s right.”

And you and Miss Robinson were willed all the goods of which he was possessed. It’s possible, Cody, that you own ten per cent of the Jonathan Steele holdings in motors and other corporations.” He gazed at me whimsically.

I almost fainted. Fifty million dollars would be ten per cent of that vast estate. Then I drew a deep breath. “I’d rather have Steve alive,” I told him. “And furthermore, he is alive. And I was robbed of half my five thousand dollars.”

In came the sheriff and Donnegan and Dick and Jim. Clarice came up and took my arm.”

“I got my man, Mr. Reynolds,” she said. “Though I practically proposed to him.”

“You did not,” I said indignantly. “I reached out and grabbed you.”

“Huh!” said Clarice Dick whooped with laughter.

“You’ve been right so far, Mr. Reynolds,” said the sheriff. “What’s the next move?”

“Since Donnegan accused John Farrell, Steele’s secretary, of having arranged this impersonation, the next move is to arrest him before he learns what happened at this place.”

“I’ll phone from the nearest place to have him nabbed and brought to the District Attorney’s office.”

Chapter XXIII The Great Conspiracy

The District Attorney of Santa Barbara County sat behind his desk. There were present Dick Barton, Upton Reynolds and myself. Tommy Donnegan was under guard in an outer office. John Farrell was being given the works.

The secretary of Jonathan Steele was a heavy set man of forty-eight or fifty with black hair touched with gray. He had large well-shaped features, hard gray eyes and a solid jaw. He was pale but composed.

“You have heard the case against you,” said the District Attorney. “These gentlemen took the law into their hands. If they had failed in their enterprise they would be sitting where you are. I’m aware that you took orders from Roscoe Patterson of New York. I’ll do what I can for you at the trial if you come clean. You know the jig is up. We don’t actually need your testimony. The facts are damning enough. Use your own judgment.”

“I’ll talk,” said Farrell. “I never thought we’d win out. I was forced into this. I want to say here and now that no murder was ever contemplated by Mr. Patterson or myself. We were victims of accident — we were the puppets of economic conditions.”

“Afraid I don’t get you,” said the District Attorney.

“I’ll explain. Mr. Steele died of a heart attack on Feb. 28th, 1935, a few days after our arrival here from Detroit I phoned Mr. Patterson in New York. He said to conceal his death. He would fly out immediately and take charge.”

“You mean there was no attending physician?”

“He died in the night. I discovered his death, phoned immediately and received my orders. I at once discharged his valet, who had been with him for some years. I let nobody enter and remained in the room with the body for twenty-four hours until Mr. Patterson arrived.

“Mr. Patterson was in a frightful state. He said that Jonathan’s death at this time would bankrupt the company, ruin himself and hundreds of thousands of people — that death and inheritance taxes would pick the carcass of the Steele Corporations clean. ‘The market is in such a state that liquidation will probably cause a general panic and throw national recovery back for years. If there was only some way we could carry on for six months. It would give me time to prepare, to arrange things,’ he said.

“I told him it was impossible. That concealing a death was a felony. ‘That’s of no consequence,’ he said. ‘Jonathan Steele can’t die; he mustn’t be allowed to die. Farrell, if we could get somebody, an actor — somebody whom we could hedge around, let people see him at a distance. Farrell, how would you like to make a hundred thousand dollars?’

“ ‘Very much. How?’

“ ‘I don’t know. It ought not to be hard to find a man who could do it. His grandson is in Europe and I’ll arrange that he stays there. Get rid of everybody in this place who knows him. I’ll have a doctor come from New York, a nurse — he’s ill — see. We’ll confine him to his room.’

“While he was talking I had — well,” he smiled faintly — “it seemed an inspiration at the time. Some years ago I was a clerk at the Soldiers’ Home in Sawtelle and there was a veteran there who looked a little like Jonathan Steele’s pictures. I had remarked about it once to him and he was quite tickled. I remembered that we had to discipline him once for stealing some money from another inmate. I told Patterson about him.

“ ‘He might serve if he’s still alive,’ he said excitedly. ‘Find out. Get him here.’

“Well, that’s the way we fixed it. Donnegan was ten years younger than Jonathan, and healthy. Jonathan had had no personal friends for years. They had all died and he wanted no new friends. He had been practically a recluse. We installed new servants—”

“What did you do with the body of Jonathan Steele?” the District Attorney asked sternly.

“In the dead of night, Patterson and I carried him to a boat, took him out to sea, put weights on him and dropped him overboard. I refused to do if unless Patterson went with me — I was determined he would be as deep in it as myself.

“Well,” he said with a faint smile, “it worked. Donnegan was a natural actor and he enjoyed his importance. I taught him to play golf and we continued Jonathan’s routine. Patterson sent a private detective named Morton to handle the protection angle.”

“You mean the gangster, Maroni.” said the D. A.

“Well, he said he was a private detective. I could imitate Jonathan’s handwriting and signed what documents required his personal signature. Of course, I was always worried, but nothing happened. Nobody in the world had the slightest suspicion that Jonathan wasn’t alive and well.

“A few weeks ago the unexpected happened. The grandson arrived from Europe. He had inherited his mother’s estate and Patterson could no longer force him to remain abroad. Patterson was much disturbed, more so when I phoned him I had received a wire from Stephen Steele that he had to see his grandfather on an important matter.

“Now I had nothing to do with what happened. It was arranged by Patterson with Lafe Morton. When young Steele arrived at Santa Barbara Morton admitted him, led him to a room prepared, overpowered and bound him and put a man in to guard him. I protested and was told to mind my own business. In the meantime a man hired by Morton was impersonating Stephen in Los Angeles. After a wild drunk he was murdered in a negro joint.”

“By Morton’s orders?” demanded the District Attorney.

“No, sir. That wasn’t the idea. It was to give us a good excuse for disinheriting Stephen Steele—”

“If you remember, I told you so,” said Upton Reynolds to Dick with justifiable complacency.

“There was nothing to do, of course, but to identify him as Stephen Steele and that brought up the problem of what to do with Steele.”

“So you have murdered him,” thundered the District Attorney.

“No, sir. We have removed him to a house near Palm Springs, an isolated place, until we could come to some decision.

“Being informed that Mr. Cody, accompanied by the ex-district attorney of Los Angeles, Mr. Barton, had broken into our grounds, I took Donnegan next day to the Steele place in Palm Springs. We had been there only a few days when an unfortunate incident happened. Leaving the golf links, we passed a car containing Miss Barton, who thought she recognized Jonathan as Donnegan. He told me she had been a frequent visitor at the Soldiers’ Home.”

While I assumed she realized she was mistaken, I could run no more risk of encountering her, so we came back to Santa Barbara. After the kidnaping of Donnegan last night, I sent the men who had been overpowered by the kidnapers in pursuit. By chance, a gas station attendant had heard one of the kidnapers tell somebody over the phone that they were going to the Stella Grey cottage in Tiger Cañon.

“They phoned the information to me and I got in touch with Morton in Los Angeles. From our angle it was vital to recapture Donnegan — out of our hands and in the hands of the police he would have told everything. Morton collected more men and started for Tiger Cañon as soon as possible. Whatever violence has occurred is Morton’s responsibility, Mr. District Attorney. I was against violence from the first.”

“Morton, or Maroni, is dead,” declared the District Attorney. “I think you and Patterson will be found responsible for the crimes of your hirelings. Write an order to whoever is guarding Stephen Steele at Palm Springs to release him. I’ll send officers down to escort him here.” He pressed a button and a policeman entered.

“Take this man to the County Jail and lock him in a cell,” he said.

When Farrell had been removed, the District Attorney passed around cigarettes. “I’ll phone New York to arrest Patterson on a murder charge. We may not be able to make it stick, but it will serve to hold him despite his political influence.”

“Are we under arrest?” asked Dick.

“Technically. Considering you broke and entered, killed a man, kidnaped another and shot several citizens up in Tiger Cañon, I’m treating you boys pretty well. Dick, I suppose you can be elected. Governor of this State if you want to run at the next election.”

“I’ll take the matter under consideration,” said Dick with his contagious laugh.

There was a dinner party at the house of Richard Barton to serve the double purpose of honoring Stephen Steele, head of the vast Jonathan Steele enterprises, and to announce the engagement of the beautiful Clarice Barton to one Timothy Cody. Though, as Clarice said, everybody at the dinner knew all about the engagement.

The guests were Steve and Rhoda and Upton Reynolds, the grand old sport, and myself, and Bill and Jim Bridgeman. Bill had his arm in a sling and both brothers were greatly embarrassed, even though, because of their point of view, none of us wore evening clothes.

Steve didn’t look bad at all and hadn’t had a bad time. They had fed him regularly, let him have books to read and told him nothing. He didn’t know that while he was locked in a room in his grandfather’s house, they were holding funeral services over what were supposed to be his remains in another part of the building. He hadn’t recognized me that night he looked out the window at the fight in the grounds below because he hadn’t expected to see me in California. His delight to find Rhoda waiting for him when he came back from the Castle in Palm Springs can be imagined.

Upton Reynolds was speaking. “My dear Mr. Steele,” he said, “while Roscoe Patterson was a criminal of the first water, while his intentions, of course, were to rook your estate, by concealing the death of your grandfather for a year, he actually performed a great service for you.”

Steve laughed in his good old way. “How do you make that out, sir?” he asked and squeezed Rhoda’s hand under the table.

“A year ago, the liquidation of the estate would have failed to bring enough to equal the total of Federal and State taxes. It is not impossible that such a forced liquidation would have caused a panic.

“Thanks to the great rise in the price of all sorts of securities and particularly motors, during the past year, the Steele holdings have almost tripled in value, while the taxes must be collected upon the valuation as of a year ago plus the nominal interest rates. Thus you will net sixty or seventy per cent of the value of your properties of a year ago after taxes have been paid instead of finding your inheritance amounting to nothing or only a few thousand dollars.”

“Just the same,” said Steve vindictively, “it’s lucky for him he committed suicide when he got the tip from Farrell that Donnegan was exposed — not because of what he tried to do to me but for his treatment of Rhoda and his attempt to have Tim put out of the way. Anyway I don’t care about the money. Rhoda and I would get along under any conditions.”

“Of course we would,” said Rhoda.

Steve laughed. “This Donnegan character appeals to me. I’m going to have a talk with him. Dick, can they jail the old man on this charge?”

“They certainly can.”

“But his impersonation seems to have saved me and my friends millions of dollars.”

“And he’s an old dear,” declared Clarice.

“So I’m going to keep him out of jail and give him a pension.”

Clarice rushed around the table, threw her arms around Steve’s neck and kissed him. For spite, I kissed Rhoda.

After quiet was restored Steve rapped on the table. “Dick,” he said, “I consider that you were acting as my attorney during this whole business. So present any bill you like over a million. As for you two boys” — he turned to Jim and Bill — “I rate your services in my behalf at ten thousand each.”

“Holy Mackerel!” exclaimed Jim. Bill said nothing but tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Of course,” said Rhoda, “you owe everything to Tim.”

“Rats,” I exclaimed. “What could I have done without Dick and Clarice?”

“As a matter of fact,” stated Dick Barton, “it was Upton Reynolds, that white whiskered old codger across the table, who turned the trick. First he doped out the whole plot and the motives behind it and then he raised the country and rescued us from the trap we were in. If it hadn’t been for Upton, they would have murdered the lot of us, taken Jonathan back to Santa Barbara and carried on. You, Steve, would still be in durance vile.”

“Mr. Reynolds, of course, will represent legally the Steele interests,” said Steve. “And you will be our western legal representative, Dick.”

“You’ve fixed us up,” remarked Dick. “But what are your plans for Tim Cody?”

Steve gave me the old grin. “Tim is up against it. He is going to Detroit and enter the plant as a mechanic.”

Clarice jumped up. “What’s that?” she cried with blazing eyes. “Why — you ingrate — I wish we’d left you in that awful place in Palm Springs.”

Dick yanked her back into her chair. “Sit down, you addlepate,” he snarled.

“Let go of me, you boot-licker. All of you — lapping up bones he tosses you like a lot of hound dogs—” she cried furiously.

“Clarice,” I cried sternly. She burst into tears.

“Don’t you see, Clarice,” said Steve, smiling, “Tim has to learn the business before I can promote him to be President of the Steele Motors Corporation — in two or three years now—” he stopped. The sun had come out on my sweetheart’s face. “Why, you... you darling!” she cried.

That’s the whole story as well as I can tell it. The Department of Justice at Washington had played its part by delving into the Steele Corporation’s affairs.

Steve came back the same swell guy he always was. And Clarice and I are married and living in Detroit and I come home covered with grime every night and we wash up, put on the soup and fish and go stepping.

I forgot to say that on our way east with Steve and Rhoda, we called on Paw and Maw Piper. They wouldn’t let us give them anything, but Steve paid their back taxes, bought all their stock at top prices, left a new Steele Six motor car in their barnyard and made them like it. And why wouldn’t he? If it wasn’t Maw’s gossiping about the upstart Donnegan family where would Steve have been? And we all wouldn’t have been sitting on top of the world.